Authors: Christopher Heffernan
“I mean, he'll
nip stuff in the bud if it gets serious, but stopping it from getting serious
in the first place? Forget it.”
Traffic stalled
them again on Putney Bridge. Floodlights illuminated the river Thames, where
rusted barges and crashed aircraft protruded from the water's surface on a bed
of scrap metal and debris. Dead bodies caught on the metal, bobbing up and down
with the current. Some were fresher than others. The remains of a Russian
fighter jet sat on top of it all like a crown.
The river turned
green, its natural colour, when the lights swept across.
“For God's sake.
Road works, police checkpoints, traffic jams; we'll be lucky if we even get
back to the station by night,” Richard said.
An Assurer
police tank and personnel carrier were parked just off the road at the other
end of the bridge. The traffic inched through the checkpoint in small fits of
movement. Finally they made it to the front of the queue. They rolled down
their windows and flashed their identity cards at the police officers.
“Same team,”
Michael said.
One of the
policemen scanned the cards with a laser. “Where are you going?”
“City records.
We're investigating a case.”
“Go on through,”
the policeman said. He waved for his section to move the barrier.
They drove on.
Michael stared at the postcard resting on the dashboard. Blue seas, even bluer
skies and a sandy white beach with palm trees; a digitally altered image of
what life would never look like.
“Where is that?”
“The Bahamas.
It's just a postcard I found somewhere. I like it, it's a nice picture. Too bad
I'll never go there; I could save a year's salary, and it might just get me out
over the Atlantic before they dropped me out the emergency exit. Where would
you go?”
Michael shrugged
“I wouldn't go anywhere. You become desensitised to living here, right?
Everything bad that happens, you just chalk it up as another ordinary day,
because it's normal and you see it all the time. Go to a place like that and
then come back here again? It's going to be one hell of a wake up.”
“If you had told me that a couple of years ago, I'd call you cynical. Nowadays?
Nowadays I think you've got the right idea.”
Richard found
somewhere to park close to Lower Westminster. They journeyed the rest of the
way on foot, approaching concrete blast walls defaced with pink and white
graffiti. A surveillance camera pivoted in their direction.
Business people
swarmed the streets, too poor for Upper London and too rich for Lower London.
Three policemen stood to the side with a sniffer dog on its leash. The queue to
enter the security zone stretched down the road and around the corner.
Richard smiled
to himself as they jumped the entire line and headed straight for the
checkpoint. “This job does have its perks.”
People stared at
them; part envy, part frustration and part curiosity. They passed through the
checkpoint and left the lines of people behind them.
“Let's hope this
business is registered. It doesn't take much for somebody to open up shop in
some abandoned dump and start selling pilfered goods, bad food and God knows
what else. Nobody in the council would ever know unless they wanted to be
legit,” Richard said.
“Maybe, but the
way I see it, nobody wants to buy food from an unregistered shop. Even the poor
tend to hold out for enough food stamps to buy proper food rather than eat the
shit that some of these lowlife arseholes peddle. So, whoever bought that
sandwich is either wary enough that he's willing to risk food poisoning or
disease, or he bought it from somewhere legitimate.”
The business
registry stood eight stories high, surrounded on all sides by countless more
metal and glass buildings. Private military contractors patrolled the
alleyways, mingling with people who never gave them so much as a second glance.
Steam rose through grates in the ground and swallowed them up like early
morning fog.
They walked up
the stairs. Richard stopped at the door, moving aside to let a woman in
business suit, short skirt and boots pass by. He watched her behind for a
moment.
“Okay, there's
one thing that bothers me about all this. Stuff gets left behind all the time;
evidence, whatever, it happens. But that's just it. You found a used syringe
and a scrap of sandwich wrapper. These people stripped that place clean of
everything else in less than a couple of hours. You know what I mean? You were
right, these guys are professionals and I really don't like pissing up their
tree.”
They walked
inside. A contractor stood off to the side with his carbine, six feet tall and
wearing a pair of orange ballistic glasses.
“It's a
different company guarding this place every time I come here,” Richard said.
“Hey, I don't
like the look of you. Up against the wall, now,” the contractor said.
Three other
contractors appeared from around the corner. The men were on them before
Michael could blink, pinning them both to the wall. He tried to remove his
identity card, only for one of the men to snatch it from him.
“You might want
to check that before you start breaking bones,” Michael said.
“Yeah, get the
fuck off me.’I don't like the look of you'? You're going to need a better
excuse than that, you twat,” Richard said.
One of the
contractors removed their holstered weapons and held them up for the others to
see. “Carrying firearms is a serious offence.”
“Right. We walk
into a fucking government building carrying loaded weapons, just so we can get
arrested.”
Michael felt
fingers curling around the back of his neck; they dug deeper into his flesh,
and he tensed up, grimacing at the pain. He looked out the corner of his eye at
the contractor inspecting his identity card.
“Sorry,” the man
said with a smile. “Our laser scanner is faulty. I'll have to go and get the
replacement, but I'll try not to take too long.”
Richard
attempted to move. The contractor tightened his hold until he forced a grunt
from him. He squirmed and muttered an insult under his breath.
A small crowd
watched them from behind security glass and a second set of doors. One worker
was whispering something snide to a female colleague; she let slip an
expression of amusement.
The contractor
returned with the same laser scanner on his belt and read their identity cards.
“It does seem that you are authorised to carry those weapons. My mistake. You
can't be too careful these days. I mean, they did blow up a police station,
didn't they? Let them in.”
He spoke every
word with the sincerity of a child in a secondary school drama class.
Michael rubbed
his neck. He snatched the card back from the guard and slammed the door open
hard enough to rattle the security glass. The onlookers turned away and
departed.
“That's a very
unbecoming attitude, young man. You should be ashamed of yourself,” one of the
contractors said, feigning the voice of an elderly lady.
He heard the
sound of their laughter for several seconds, until it was cut off by the
security door shutting behind them both.
“We can't let
that slide,” Richard said.
They approached
the reception desk, hidden behind another screen of armoured glass. “What are
you going to do? Piss in their cup of tea?”
Richard looked
back over his shoulder and scowled. “I'll think of something.”
Michael tapped
on the glass. The reception raised her eyes from the computer screen and looked
them over with a disapproving stare. She was in her sixties, hair turning grey,
and there was a miserable air about her, as though their very presence had
somehow offended her.
She pressed the
speaker button. “Yes?”
Her voice was
monotone.
Michael showed
the receptionist his identity card. “We need access to the business registry.”
She frowned.
“You can wait one moment.”
One moment was
thirty seconds of non-stop typing. She hit the door buzzer.
“The next time
you delay a police officer, you're going to have a lot more than dementia to
worry about,” Richard said into the microphone.
The receptionist
said nothing. They went through the door and into a corridor of bright lights
and partition walls.
“What a cow. I
hate coming to this place.”
A crowd of
people surrounded the lifts, so they took the stairs to the third floor. He
found a room of public computers and slumped down into one of the chairs,
feeling the hard plastic digging into his flesh.
He placed his
notepad on the desk. Old coffee stains and undisturbed layers of dust coated
the wood. A fan spun overhead, thumping in time with the whine of computer
drives. Harsh rays of red neon light cut through the window blinds. He spun the
trackball and woke the computer from its slumber, navigating the crude user
interface with a strange feeling of aggression.
Richard chewed
off a chunk of finger nail, watching over his shoulder as he tapped the name
into the search box. A single result flashed up.
“A bit of luck
at long last, eh?” Michael said. He hit the print screen button and printed out
a copy from the old laserjet at the end of the aisle.
“Where is this
place?”
“Madley road.
You familiar with it?”
Richard glanced
at his watch and frowned. “Don't think so. I hope the traffic is better now.
Maybe we can get lunch from the place.”
They went back
downstairs. The receptionist gave them both a venomous look as they passed by.
Michael felt his muscles tensing. He pushed through the inner set of security
doors, hoping the contractors wouldn't see him. They did, and a barely audible
insult followed them.
Richard parked
across the road from the bakery. There was an unfinished hole in the plate
above, and Michael could see bleak, grey skies above them. The clouds drifted
by as though the world was on fast-forward.
“I want to take
the lead on this one; I'm feeling like a third wheel, and I want to get some
action,” Richard said.
“You know what
we need out of them?”
“Of course.”
The shop was
called Johnson's Family Bakers, announced in blue letters above the entrance.
They stepped inside, found the floor clean and the walls free of mould. The air
was warm, and an aroma of freshly cooked bread hung in the air. Several shelves
carried a sparse selection of bread, wrapped sandwiches, cakes and fruit drinks
labelled with felt pens and white stickers.
Two teenage
girls in hair nets and aprons stood behind the counter and tills. They had a
wide-eyed innocence about them, and Michael noted the family resemblance.
“Can I help
you?” the one on the right said. Her younger sister went into the back room.
Michael plucked
a tuna mayonnaise sandwich from the shelf, and Richard help up his identity
card for the girl to see. She swallowed the lump in her throat and glanced over
her shoulder. No response came.
He placed the
tuna sandwich on the counter.
“We're
detectives from Richmond station,” Richard said.
Her face somehow
managed to turn paler. She looked again for her sister. “I'm really sorry, sir.
We normally keep a small collection for people such as yourselves, but another
police unit took it all on Monday, and it's hard enough staying in business as
it is. Would you accept free food instead? Please? My father works very hard.”
Michael exchanged
a glance with Richard. He heard the approach of footsteps, and the girl's
sister returned with their father, a tall man with grey hair and a narrow face.
“I told them
what you said, Dad,” she said. Her father put a protective hand on her
shoulder.
“I'm sorry
you're getting turned over by a police unit. We can look into it if you give us
further details, but as it happens, my colleague and I were hoping you might be
able to assist us with another matter,” Richard said.
The baker
narrowed his eyes. “That depends with what you're after. I make a point of not
getting involved in other people's business. We keep our heads down; it's safer
that way.”
“Just a few
questions, that's all. Do you get many customers here?”
Michael glanced
up at the bulbous camera watching them from the corner of the ceiling. “Would
you mind,” he said to the elder girl,” if took a look out the back there?”
She glanced at
her father, who nodded slowly.
“This way,” the
girl said.
Michael followed
after her. He heard Richard resume his questioning, sometimes punctuated by a
brief word from the baker, but never much more than a yes or a no. They passed
a stack of blue bread trays stacked on top of each other, as well as the ovens
and two counters for preparing food. A whiff of cleaning chemicals crept up his
nostrils.
“Do you live
above here?” he said, gesturing to a staircase partially hidden behind the door
and its pane of frosted glass.
She nodded.
“I noticed you
had a security camera back there. Does it work? I'd like to get a copy of its
storage drive, if that's okay with you.”
The girl
hesitated for a moment, before producing a set of keys from her pocket to
unlock the door. They went up the stairs, and Michael felt the wood creaking
under his feet. She unlocked a second door at the top of the staircase. It was
dark and murky inside the flat, lit only by a few traces of light poking
through holes in the curtains.
She tugged on a
piece of string. A neon tube bathed the room in cold, blue light. Michael saw a
sofa made up as a bed and cardboard boxes filled with old possessions. The
kitchen was just another corner of the lounge with cooking appliances and a
fridge.
A laptop rested
on the table beside him, lights flashing with hard drive activity. An
assortment of cables ran from several sockets and into a hole in the wall. The
girl traced a finger over the track pad.
“Can you go back
to yesterday?”
She sat down at
the table, shadows beginning to envelope her as she moved away from the blue
light. She opened a fresh window and began to rewind the images. It sped up,
faster and faster, seconds passing on the time stamp, minutes and then finally
hours. “Who are you after? It's somebody in particular, isn't it?”
“I don't have a
lot to go on. I know they bought a tuna and mayonnaise sandwich from here
yesterday, but beyond that, nothing.”
She paused the
video for a moment. “We get enough customers to keep us afloat, but not much
more than that. I know the man you want. He bought half our stock in one go,
and I've never seen that happen before. My dad won't like me giving this to
you, though; he thinks it'll bring trouble down on our heads.”
“You're already
getting money extorted from you by policemen. I can't make promises or
guarantees, but we'll look into it for you and see what we can do. You're
practically on the bread line already, and it wouldn't take much more to tip
you over the edge.”
The girl
hesitated.
“This guy we're
after, we think he was operating in conjunction with the man who staged the hit
up on the plate. Did you hear about it on the radio or television?”
She rewound the
pictures until early morning the previous day, just after seven o'clock. The
images were fuzzy, but clear enough that he could see the man wearing glasses
and a blue, plastic rain jacket. He leaned in closer to look over the girl's
shoulder, squinting as he tried to make out the facial features. They were a
blur of pixels.
“Sorry, the
camera isn't very good. My dad got it ages ago. The policemen don't even care;
they know it can't provide enough evidence against them. “
Michael pulled a
memory stick from his jacket pocket and plugged it into the laptop. “Can you
dump that footage on there, please? Put the police unit on there as well.
There's enough space on the stick for all of it.”
She copied the
files. “If the police team find out somebody is investigating them, they'll
come back for us. That's what they told my dad. They said we'll wish we never
said a word, because paying them was better than what would happen if we
didn't.”
The girl spoke
the words in a droll monotone, as though she had emotionally detached herself
from it all. Perhaps it was for the best.
“I understand.
I'll see what I can do, and I'll make sure it doesn't come back and bite you.
People like them will just keep on pushing you for a bigger cut whenever they
can. You know how they operate.”
She nodded.
“Thanks.”
They went back
downstairs. Richard was still talking to the baker.
“Get what you
needed?” Michael said.
Richard nodded.
They bought lunch from the shop and returned to the car.
“I didn't get
what I needed,” he said when they were seated. “I know they're scared, but that
guy wouldn't give anything up. His memory was so bad he could pass for somebody
with brain damage.”
Michael held up
the memory stick for him to see. “Got pictures from that security camera. The
quality isn't so good, though, and I don't know what we can do with it. I think
we just ran into a dead end.”
“The guy told me
that camera was a fake.”
“Yes, well. Like
you said, he must have a memory problem. I'll show you the pictures when we get
back to the station, but it's not going to help much. Maybe if we had access to
proper equipment and facilities.”
They ate their
food and tossed the litter out the window.
“Too bad,”
Richard said. “I've got to say, though, I'm kind of relieved about it. We can
go back to investigating some guy offing his wife, because he thought she was
cheating, or somebody putting petrol through a letter box to get rid of their
rival drug dealer.”
An armoured
coach waited inside the station's perimeter wall, with metal bars covering the
windows. A squad of Assurer police officers stood guard around the vehicle.
Their infantry fighting vehicle was parked off to the side, white paint
blackened and charred with the splash of a petrol bomb.
“What's going
on?” Michael said.
One of the
policemen turned. “We're emptying the cells down below of stock. Fill 'em up,
ship 'em out; you know how it goes. It's a never ending stream of shit heads on
a conveyor belt to Assurer tribunals.”
“Right,” said
another. “I give it two weeks before the livestock pens are full of wasters
again.”
The rattle of
chains drew Michael's attention. Prisoners marched chained to the man in front
and behind them, dressed in orange boiler suits.
“You hear that,
you bunch of coke heads? You're going to rot north of the wall. Enjoy your slow
and painful deaths from radiation poisoning.”
“Fuck you,” one
of the prisoners muttered.
“No thanks, I've
got a wife. Enjoy your time with your cell mate. Prico always love more
offenders for their labour camps.”
Michael and
Richard went inside. The office was empty of everyone except Archibald. Michael
slumped in his seat, letting his head rest against the worn leather, as he
waited for the computer to power up.
“Where is
everybody?”
Archibald
shrugged. “I got called out to half a dozen bodies decomposing in a tunnel
today. Total waste of time; they were too far gone to get anything of worth.
Spent an hour signing off for them to be shipped to a disposal furnace.”
Archibald
signed, then, resting his chin on a hand. “I was doing this work before the
collapse, you know. We had databases, forensics, and all kinds of fancy
technology. Couldn't win them all, but you still nailed somebody now and then.
Now it feels like we just go through the motions for the sake of it.”
“Nostalgia,
isn't it great?” Richard said.
“Michael plugged
the memory stick into his computer. “Okay, take a look. You interested,
Archibald?”
Archibald
hesitated. Finally he relented and rose from his seat. “Okay, I'll bite.”
Michael opened
some of the images.
“Jesus,” Richard
said, burying his face in a hand. “We went all the way for those? What the fuck
are we going to do now?”
Archibald
cracked a wry smile. “Get a new case. One you might actually be able to solve.”
“Yeah, like
those rotting corpses? How did that one work out for you, Archie?” Richard
said. “Hey, you know what, Michael? Don't sweat. I'll talk to Harris, and he'll
shake the pillars of heaven. The skies will fall and by tomorrow we'll have
another lead. Trust me. Log everything we've done, file the reports and then go
home and get yourself a pint. Tomorrow, I guarantee something good will
happen.”
Archibald
chuckled, as Richard hurried outside.
“Maybe he's full
of shit, but at least he put a smile on your face. Bad day, I guess?”
The chuckle
faded, but Archibald was still grinning. He sat back down with another sigh.
“Yeah, that's one way of looking at it. I wouldn't mind getting out of this
job, but I've been doing it for so long now I don't think I could do anything
else. Got nothing to retire on, either. That's if they don't just shut us down
full stop.
“I thought
living in England would be better than Nigeria. Then the war happened and
suddenly it feels like the roles have been reversed.”
“They can look
forward to a world of trouble if they do that. Even more trouble than we
already have. You ever seen a fire team solve a crime? They cruise around in
their fighting vehicles and get out when they can be arsed. People don't like
it; you've seen them. Sooner or later these demonstrations are going to stop
being local nuisances. People are at the wall.”
Archibald gave a
weary nod. “Guess so.”
Michael flicked
through images of the police squad collecting payment from the bakery. He sat
there for five minutes, wondering in the green glow of the monitor what he
could do about it. He could inquire, write letters, investigate, but sooner or
later it would always come back to haunt the bakery.
He typed up his
reports and filled out the daily log on the word processor, and then sent it to
the laser printer. Sheets of paper spilled into the wire tray.
Archibald's
watch began to beep. He grinned to himself and turned the alarm off.
“Home time?”
Michael said.
“Not quite; I'm
taking the wife and kids for dinner. I've been looking forward to it all week.
There's a commercial district adjacent to one of the gated communities. Lots of
security, very safe, and the perfect place to have Chinese. The food is cooked
to perfection. What about you? Wife, kids, family?”
Michael shook
his head. He collected the printouts together and tapped them on the table to
align the edges. “I've got a sister down in Cornwall, but we don't talk. We
haven't spoken since the war. She's still pissed because my father bankrupted
the entire family to pay for surgeons to stitch me back together when they
dragged my sorry arse back from the war. My dad was a good guy, but my sister
wouldn't agree, though.”
“Well, I've had
my share of family trouble in the past. Don't leave it too late if you ever
want to fix things up. You only get one chance. I've got to get moving; the
next shift will be coming in soon.”
Archibald
reached across the table and shook his hand. “It's good to have you on the
team. We could really use another guy with some experience. Sometimes it feels
like I'm the only one keeping things running around here. See you later.”
Michael waited
until the other man had shut the door, and then searched the office for a
stapler. A fresh influx of voices sounded from the corridor outside, and he
hesitated for a moment, just listening to it all. He pressed down and forced a
staple through the papers.