Strike a Match (Book 1): Serious Crimes (8 page)

Chapter 4

Boots

The roads were full of commuters, some on bikes and others on foot, all heaving their way to their various places of work. It was chaotic, and would have been cause for seeking refuge in a doorway if her uniform hadn’t saved Ruth from the worst of the jostling crowd.

“Have you known Sergeant Mitchell long?” Ruth asked, in an attempt to make conversation.

“Long enough,” Riley replied.

Silence descended.

“What about Captain Weaver?” Ruth asked. “Won’t we get into trouble for continuing the investigation?”

“We won’t. We’re just following a line of enquiry given to us by our superior.”

“But the sergeant will?” she asked.

“There’s no trouble they can give Mister Mitchell that he can’t find himself,” Riley said. “But when this is over, we’ll either have found the killer and they won’t care, or we won’t and no one will ever know.”

Ruth didn’t think it would be as simple as that, at least not for her. She tried a different tack.

“How will the boots help us?”

“Have you ever been to a tailor?” Riley asked.

The answer was no, but Ruth said, “Of course.”

“They took your name and address, and told you they’d keep your measurements on file, didn’t they?” Riley asked.

“I suppose.”

“It’s the same with boots. You can’t get a pair like these made in a day. The man would have had to give the bootmaker a name and an address.”

“Which might be fake,” Ruth said.

“Almost certainly,” Riley said. “But from the date they were made we’ll know when he first came into money. That might tell us something.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t know,” Riley said. “I went to four places yesterday. No luck. All made work boots and not much else.”

Riley had an odd manner of speech, Ruth thought, using words as if they were as tightly rationed as meat.

“Drake Avenue is next on my list,” Riley continued, waving a hand towards a side road on which the foot traffic was slightly thinner. “You grew up around here?”

“A few miles away,” Ruth replied. She’d visited the market a few times, but it was a long way to come for stalls laden with the same food they grew in their own garden. It wasn’t until she’d joined the academy that she’d spent much time wandering the city.

“You need to know the streets,” Riley said. “The shops. The people. Who belongs. Who doesn’t.”

Drake Avenue didn’t deserve the name. It was less than a hundred feet long, barely five feet wide, and filled with trestle tables. They clearly belonged to the pub halfway along the road. It was called The Golden Hind according to the freshly painted sign swinging in the gentle breeze and was doing brisk business judging by the staff. One waiter was clearing tables after the breakfast rush while another was sweeping the street. From the look of it, the pub’s landlord was keeping the entire avenue clean. It was good for business, Ruth supposed, or perhaps it was a way of placating neighbours who would otherwise complain about late night noise.

The Golden Hind was such a dominating presence that Ruth almost walked past the shoe shop without noticing it. Situated three whitewashed houses down from the pub, Ruth first took the thick coating of grime on the windows to be grey paint.

“It looks closed,” Riley said as she knocked on the door. “Odd.”

“Why is it odd?” Ruth asked.

“They should be open for the passing trade as people go to work,” the constable said.

Ruth peered through the nearly opaque window. “I can see shoes,” she said, “on shelves against the wall and on a table in the middle of the floor.”

“Odder,” Riley said. “Why make them in advance?”

“I think it’s old-world stock,” Ruth said. “And I can see a shadow. Someone’s coming.”

“Detective’s Riley and Deering,” Riley said when the door opened. “And you are?”

“Xavier Collins,” the young man replied. He was around five-eight and too young to pull off the clipped beard and moustache he’d attempted to grow.

Riley looked down at the list in her hand and then back at the man.

“No, you’re not. You’re not old enough,” the constable said.

“You’re looking for my father?” the man half said, half asked.

“I don’t know,” Riley said. “Does he own the shop?”

“Yes,” Collins said with a sigh. “What’s this about?”

“Does he make shoes?” Riley asked, pushing past the man to enter the shop.

“We did do repairs,” Collins said, following her back into his store. “But we now specialise in premium old-world stock. Take these; they’re new in from Birmingham.” He picked up a lurid red and green pump from the centre table. “I’m selling them at five pounds a pair, but for our friends in blue, how about four pounds fifty?”

“I can buy a pair of trainers in the National Store for fifty pence,” Ruth said. Her last pair had actually cost half that, but she didn’t want Riley to know. “So why would I pay ten times that for these?”

“These aren’t just trainers,” Collins said with brittle enthusiasm. “Not only have they never been worn, but this brand wasn’t even available for sale. They’ve come from the exhibition centre in Birmingham. There was a skateboarding expo due to start the day after The Blackout, and these were going to be revealed to the world for the first time. They’ve spent the last twenty years in a hermetically sealed vault. I couldn’t believe it when I saw them. No moisture, no rodents, no insects got anywhere near them. Four pounds, and I won’t be making a profit on them at all.”

“Birmingham?” Riley asked. “You have a scavenging licence?”

“I… er…” he stammered, his eyes flitting between the shoes and the door in search of an answer.

“A tax receipt?” Riley prompted.

Collins’s shoulders dropped a little. “Do I need one?” he asked.

“Tax is due on all old-world goods found in the wasteland and sold in the city,” Riley said. “The exception is a scavenger who sells ninety-percent of the haul to the National Store. That remaining ten-percent is tax free, and can be sold to shops such as yours, in which case a receipt is provided. How long has your father been sick?”

“Sick? How did you know?” Collins asked.

“Because you don’t know how to run a shop,” Riley replied.

“He was fine when I left. He had a stroke when I was away,” Collins said. His eyes flickered towards the door behind him.

“He’s upstairs?” Riley asked.

Collins nodded.

“Stay here,” she said, adding to Ruth, “Watch him.” The constable disappeared into the back of the shop.

Collins stared at the floor. Ruth looked around the shop. She picked up one shoe, and then the next.

“Three pounds fifty?” Collins suggested.

Ruth shook her head.

“The girl?” Riley asked when she came back into the shop.

“That’s my sister,” Collins said.

“It’s only the three of you?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Do you know anything about repairing shoes?”

“I can glue and sew, but—”

“Can you resole a shoe?” Riley asked.

“Yes.”

“And all this stock came from Birmingham?”

“Yes,” Collins sighed.

“Your father didn’t make boots?” she asked.

“No, he just did repairs.”

“Put this stock in the back, somewhere it can’t be seen,” Riley said. “Clean that window, put a sign out the front, and start doing repairs again. I won’t arrest you, not today, but I will come and check you aren’t obviously doing anything illegal. And get your sister back in school. Sitting by your father’s bedside won’t help his recovery.”

“You’re not… thank you. Thank you,” Collins stuttered. “Ah… can I offer you a pair each?”

“No. That would be bribery,” Riley said, and she left the shop. Ruth followed.

“Why didn’t you charge him?” Ruth asked.

“What would be the point? They used to say justice was blind. Sometimes police have to be blind, too, knowing when the punishment will do more harm than the crime. He clearly can’t afford the fine, so he’d get three months light labour. Who’d look after the father or sister while he was dismantling scrap? Maybe he’ll learn the lesson that what was valuable in the old world is worthless now. Maybe he won’t, but he owes us. That’s useful.”

“Why? Does a cobbler make a good informant?”

“No more than anyone else, but someone who made it all the way to Birmingham and back does. Contacts. That’s what you need in this job. Call them informants if you like, but it comes down to someone who’ll tell you something because they trust you more than they fear anyone else.”

Ruth weighed that up.

“Riley?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“What’s skateboarding?”

The penultimate shop on the list was in Green Harbour Drive, situated in a visibly more affluent part of the city. Small cafes were nestled between workshops. The clientele sitting at the tables outside wore clothes that fit and which weren’t dotted with patches and sewn repairs. They passed the Ministry for Exploration and Foreign Affairs and the far busier bakery next door.

“It’s that one,” Riley said, pointing at a small shop. It was nestled between a tailor’s boasting the latest tweeds from Scotland and a pharmacy advertising more herbal remedies than chemical ones. There was no sandwich board outside, but a discreet sign read, ‘Repairs done whilst you wait. Shoes & Boots made.’

“No mention of pricing,” Riley said. “That’s always a sign of expense. You take the lead. We want to know if they made the boots and when, and whatever they know of the man who bought them.”

A small bell tinkled as Ruth pushed the door open. The sound of hammering came from the back, closely followed by the smell of warm leather.

“And they’ll be ready this evening?” a man asked of the woman behind the counter.

The woman picked up a shoe, looked at it for a moment, and then put it down. “We can have it repaired in about an hour. It will take a little longer for the glue to dry. You can collect it at lunchtime.”

“That would be perfect, thank you,” the man said, and barely seemed to notice the two officers as he hobbled out of the store.

“How can I help you?” the woman asked.

“Um… yes. Do you make boots here?” Ruth asked.

“And shoes. I thought the police got issued with as many as you could eat,” she said with a smile.

“Did you make these?” Ruth asked, taking the boot out of the evidence bag.

“Maybe,” the woman said. “Hang on. Miranda?” she called into the back of the shop. The sound of hammering stopped. A moment later a woman in a thick leather apron appeared in the doorway behind the counter.

“What is it, Joyce?” Miranda asked. She saw the police. “What’s happened?”

“Did you make these boots?” Ruth asked.

“Let me see.” Miranda picked the boot up, turned it over, peered at the sole, and then nodded. “I did.”

“Do you remember anything about the man who bought them?” Ruth asked.

“Why?” Joyce asked, as she opened a drawer below the counter. “What’s happened?”

Ruth glanced at Riley. The constable nodded.

“Unfortunately, the man is dead. We’re—”

“We’re trying to identify him,” Riley cut in. “There was no ration book, no I.D.”

“He was robbed?” Miranda asked.

“It’s—” Ruth began

“We can’t say,” Riley said.

“Here,” Joyce said, holding up an index card. “Size ten, slight fallen arch on the right, wide toed, black leather. His name is Andy Anderson.”

“I remember him now,” Miranda said. “He’s the one who said he was from Iceland.”

“Iceland?” Ruth asked.

“Or his family were,” Miranda said. “He told us that they fished off the coast, that’s how they survived The Blackout. He said they took the boat south and landed in Scotland. Anders Anderson was his name, but he’d anglicised it to Andy. That was his story, but it sounded… well, it sounded as if he was making it up as he went along.”

“Do you remember anything else about him?” Ruth asked.

“He was short,” Joyce said. “About five-eight. Young. Of course you’d know that. What else… there was a slight Scottish burr to the accent, as if he’d grown up there, but there was no Scandinavian in it.”

“How much did the boots cost?” Ruth asked.

“Sixty pounds, but that includes a ten year guarantee,” Joyce said.

“It’s still a lot,” Ruth said.

“We pride ourselves on our quality,” Joyce replied defensively.

“Did you keep a record of how he paid?”

“Up front, and in twenty-pound notes,” Joyce said. “I remember that because the clothes he wore didn’t suggest he’d be able to afford it.”

“And do you have an address?” Ruth asked.

“Twenty-three Spring Close.”

“And the date?” Riley prompted.