He frowns at her. ‘Keep your voice down.’
They leave the shelter of the atrium and he pulls up his collar. Making a pretense at scratching his ear, he removes his stud; taking care to temporarily de-activate it before dropping it into his pocket.
Following his lead, Kass removes hers whilst ostensibly pulling on her hat.
The streets are still in half-light and they walk briskly to keep themselves warm. Looking east, he can see the sun’s rays are only just emerging from behind the mountains. ‘As it happens, I’ve just met our new boss,’ Nero says. ‘His name’s Laskaris, Orien Laskaris.’
Kass falls into step with him. ‘Orion – what, like the constellation? What sort of name is that?’
He laughs out loud. ‘Not Orion – his parents definitely wouldn’t have chosen that. His name is Orien; the man’s ethnically Greek. Not exactly tall. He’s 47 nearly 48 but looks older. Divorced – which is hardly a surprise. He has the sort of hair they call salt & pepper – though it’s more salt than pepper. Oh, and he’s got this pronounced bump right on the bridge of his nose. His eyes are particularly striking – they’re a sort of sea-green colour – makes you feel cold just looking at him.’
‘I wasn’t planning to date him,’ she says, smiling at last. ‘Anything else?’
‘He was a colonel and, unsurprisingly, he’s the military type through and through. Not that it helps but Chief Inspector Laskaris is no happier than we are at being seconded to Homicide.’
‘And he volunteered all that?’
Nero gives her a wry smile. ‘What do you think?’
Taking his arm, she stops walking and leans in so close he can feel her warm breath on his face. ‘I thought you had a rule that you don’t do that sort of thing with colleagues,’ she whispers.
He shrugs. ‘I made an exception.’ After checking there are no streetcams within lip-reading range, he adds, ‘His remit is to sort us out and get to the bottom of this spate of killings. Objectively speaking, Laskaris is a good choice: suspicious by nature and damned tenacious with it. He’s also got something to prove – not least to himself. We’ll need to tread very carefully from now on. I reckon we have a day’s grace at most before he takes over our investigations and shines a forensic light on them.’
‘Sjitt!’ Kass says. ‘So, in effect, Hagalín has put the military in charge of our whole department. This is all we fokking need. What’s more, Jue Hai’s managed to identify Williams.’
‘Yeah; I listened to his report.’ Trying not to make it too obvious, Nero glances left and right. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘we should keep walking.’
‘This is getting serious;’ she says. ‘I’ve just had to trash my dad’s cabin in case they trace those guns Bruno took.’ Kass looks around before continuing. ‘Still far too many loose ends. This whole situation it’s ...’
Nero squeezes her arm. ‘We keep our nerve.’
They fall silent. Turning the corner, a bitter wind hits them smack in the face; with it comes the unwelcome smell of the sea.
Like a lover might, Kass burrows into his neck. ‘And then there’s Chan?’ she whispers.
‘What about her?’
‘I hear you finally paid her a visit.’
He dips his head right down to hide his mouth. ‘Trust me, she won’t say anything, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘You don’t think she’ll– ’
‘No. Let’s leave it there, shall we? I’m handling the situation.’
Still wide-eyed, she studies his face and then nods. ‘Okay. I trust your judgment.’
Bent against the weather, they continue along the rest of the circuit. A dog’s aggressive barking draws Nero’s attention to a red fox that’s slinking along no more than a block ahead of them. Taking no notice of the dog’s challenge or any of the pedestrians, the animal trots right across the road. Could be a vixen or a dog fox, he can’t say one way or another from here. He watches it completely ignore part of a discarded takeaway that’s been swept into the gutter.
Kass is preoccupied with dodging puddles and hasn’t noticed it. In any case, the fox has already disappeared inside the canyon of high-rises. He scans the streets around them but there’s no sign of others. Nonetheless, Nero’s left with a strong suspicion that Freyja is close by; both decoys could be here invisibly watching them right now.
They turn another corner to glimpse the DSD building off to their right, Nero brings them to a halt. ‘By the way, I’m planning to pay Dr Magnúsdóttir a visit,’ he says.
‘For fokk’s sake!’ She lowers her voice. ‘On what pretext? I mean you can’t just go marching into the woman’s office for no good reason.’
‘Relax.’ He looks down as if studying his boots. ‘After all, I’ll legitimately be following a lead in our most pressing homicide case. It’s unprecedented that IBR should have taken possession of that corpse. It would be remiss of me not to ask questions. With Pathology still maintaining the deceased had been genetically altered, there’s nothing suspicious about my going over there to have a word with an expert in the field. I have high hopes for her rather taciturn assistant – Dr Ramirez.’
He kicks at a small stone. ‘I may also have to pay a visit to our old friend Dr Arthur – after all the two of them work closely together.’
‘Be careful,’ she says, forgetting caution to shoot a look at him. ‘Overconfidence can kill. My mother has a favourite expression – Sjaldan er ein báran stök – there’s seldom a single wave. Bad luck is often followed by more bad luck.’
Smiling, he touches her shoulder. ‘Yes, but doesn’t it also mean that good luck is often followed by more of the same.’
Turning around, Kass slips her stud back into position on her earlobe. Rubbing her mouth as if in thought she says, ‘Just remember Dr Arthur is what you might call well-placed; don’t make an enemy of him.’
Nero is shown into Dr Magnúsdóttir’s book-lined office. The mustiness in the air is like a forgotten trunk suddenly opened. While waiting, he picks up a well-thumbed volume by Markús Guðjónsson – “Stories We Tell Ourselves”. The book naturally falls open on page 57. He reads:
“Mankind has always had a strange relationship with foxes, weaving so many stories and fables around them. The fascinated male gaze has often fallen upon the female of the species: the vixen – so distrusted for her cunning savagery as a hunter and yet so beguiling in her lithe beauty.”
‘Well now,’ Dr Magnúsdóttir addresses him from the threshold, ‘Inspector Cavallo. I wondered when we’d be getting a visit from your department.’ At a distance she seems more diminutive than on his last visit here. Her shoulders are low on her frame as if the woman is gradually shrinking into herself. Looking into her pale grey eyes, he watches them dive down to the book he’s just closed.
Coming closer, she says, ‘Are you familiar with Guðjónsson’s work?’
‘As it happens, I am. His books are particularly well researched,’ he says, stepping forward with his right hand extended. ‘His observations can be very insightful,’ he adds, with all the pomposity of an academic.
Magnúsdóttir’s short grey hair is almost the same shade as the jacket she’s wearing and only fractionally darker than the shirt underneath it. Her handshake is
reluctant and perfunctory – a quick grasp of his fingers.
While he’s recovering from the connection, she walks past him to her desk and sits down, obviously pleased to have such a formidable obstacle between them.
‘Take a seat,’ she says, waving him towards a chair. Can’t have you towering over me. We’d better get down to it; I’m in no mood to dance to a tune. ‘I assume you’re here to ask me about the cadaver they shipped over here.’
‘I am indeed.’ He moves one of the old-fashioned, overstuffed chairs a little closer before he sits down. ‘According to our pathology team’s report, DNA analysis showed the woman had been genetically altered or rather that from the beginning she was never quite human. In their opinion, her ge
netic code contains a small but significant percentage of genes that would normally only be found in the species Canis Lupus – the Eurasian wolf.’ Nero extends his legs, crossing them at the ankle.
‘A troubling conclusion for all, I’m sure,’ she says. A shake of the head and then Magnúsdóttir looks at him directly. As before, he finds her harder to read than most. ‘However, our own extensive bio-analysis revealed no such thing.’
She too sits back in her chair, comfortable on home turf. ‘I can categorically assure you the cadaver’s DNA was entirely human. I’m afraid we have to conclude that a rather large error occurred within DSD’s forensic laboratory.’ She shrugs. ‘I hear they’re overstretched; I suppose these things happen.’
Studying her eyes, Nero catches that involuntary flick to the right – a sure sign the woman is lying. When he remains silent, Magnúsdóttir adds, ‘I can only speculate there must have been some cross-contamination of samples.’ She looks down at her desk. And who can prove otherwise? ‘It’s my understanding that a number of our genetically altered vixen were brought in by the same patrols.’
He senses a nerve has finally been touched. ‘It must upset you that they were killed.’
‘It’s regrettable.’
‘Despite all the photon damage, our pathologist was certain that part of the dead woman’s throat had been torn out – that was the real cause of death. One or more of those vixens could have been responsible. Jóra Bjarnadóttir was about to analyse their throat and stomach contents when their corpses were whisked away.’
She sits forward. ‘Our animals are highly trained – they subdue aggressors, they certainly don’t tear them apart.’
‘And yet we have clear evidence of a vixen pack’s involvement in those Double Red murders.’
‘I completely refute your inference.’ She stands up, doesn’t bother to hide her irritation. ‘Let me remind you, Inspector, that there’s not a shred of evidence the vixens involved in that incident did anything other than redistribute the body parts of those cartel members after they were dead.’ She takes a calming breath. ‘A far more likely scenario with these factory deaths is that whoever was responsible for that woman’s demise also killed those three magnificent creatures.’
‘Are you suggesting she was a decoy and they were part of her vixen pack?’
‘It’s not for me to speculate, Inspector.’ She walks towards the door – a less than subtle hint. ‘I understand your department has a new head,’ she says.
‘You’re well informed.’
‘I like to think so. Let’s hope your new boss has more success than you appear to have had of late.’
‘I thought I might have a word with your assistant Dr Ramirez.’
‘Sadly, you’re out of luck, Inspector. Due to our department’s present hiatus, Ramirez has taken early retirement.’
‘I see.’ Nero gets to his feet. ‘Now that IBR has proved conclusively that this woman had totally normal DNA, I assume no one can have any objection to releasing her body back to our forensic department. I’m sure they’d like the opportunity to repeat their tests and discover the source of their apparent errors. We all learn by our mistakes.’
‘I understand it’s too late for that.’ There’s just the hint of a smile on Magnúsdóttir’s lips. ‘Once all our tests were completed, we saw no reason to keep the woman’s remains in our very limited storage facility. She was cremated yesterday afternoon. Those unfortunate vixens likewise.’ Game, set and match, Inspector.
He shakes his head. ‘As Odin himself decreed: “All dead men should be burned, and their belongings laid with them upon the pile”.’ At the door he turns. ‘I believe our new DCI Laskaris has a reputation for thoroughness. Now that the homicide department is back up to full strength, who knows what we’ll turn up next.’
Along with everyone else in the city, Nero breaks off what he’s doing to watch the feed from the funeral procession on his monitor; the State of Emergency having delayed the whole thing until now. At the widow’s request, it’s not being made available in holo.
Instead of the city centre, the ceremony is taking place out at the airport where every flag is fluttering at half-mast. Leifsson’s flag-draped coffin rests atop a horse-drawn carriage flanked by the massed ranks of the military. Instead of black stallions, six broader native-bred horses are in harness. The rousing music is coming from a military band. A great many shiny medals are on show.
The late governor’s widow, Liljan, heads up the procession of family members, some hand in hand, as they take this last walk beside him. Amongst them, he recognises one or two of the man’s former lovers.
At a stately pace, they head towards the small aircraft that will fly the late governor to his final resting place. Though dressed in black, no veil obscures Liljan’s face. The same holds for his children. The message is clear – they’re looking this day straight in the eye.
Leifsson will meet his eternal rest as the sun goes down on the small, isolated churchyard where his ancestors are buried. At Liljan’s insistence, both the service and internment are reserved for close family members and won’t be shown by any media feed. He’s heard through various sources that their new governor is livid at being excluded from events.
As always, Liljan cuts a dignified figure. The same can’t be said for Hagalín who is standing at attention by the aircraft steps, dressed like a character from an operetta in a gold braided uniform.
The bearers shoulder the coffin as it approaches the steps. Nero sees them adjust their hold as the band strike up the national anthem. Hagalín gives his former boss a long salute.
Nero takes a moment to remember the man they’re burying. For all his faults, at least with Leifsson you knew where you stood. The same can’t be said for his successor.
Nineteen
Nero spots DCI Laskaris talking to Maxwell further down the corridor. Despite the disparity of rank, the two are standing remarkably close together. Every so often one of them glances around to check they’re not about to be interrupted. Maxwell seems to be doing most of the talking; the woman clearly has a lot on her mind. Looks like this could be a chance encounter she’s making the most of. Arms folded, Laskaris is all concentration, nodding from time to time.
Whatever she’s saying to the man is unlikely to be positive. To be fair to Maxwell, she’s hardly been hiding her disapproval of the way the department has been running of late; in her situation, he would feel exactly the same.
Nero ducks his head down in case they notice him watching them. When he checks again, the conversation is still going on; this time Laskaris has stepped back a little and is waving a finger to emphasise whatever it is he’s telling her.
The next time Nero looks up, the two have disappeared. Now someone else is heading up the department, by tomorrow morning his autonomy is likely to become more limited. Checking the time, he gets up and grabs his coat.
It’s only a short brisk walk over to the Decoy Training Department. The place is unnaturally quiet. With the military reputedly patrolling the Orange Zone these days, the whole decoy program is in limbo; it’s no surprise a palpable sense of aimlessness has taken over the department.
He’s heard some decoy officers have been transferred to other departments. No one knows what’s happened to their vixen packs. The animals have become an almost mythical presence on social media. Like modern day fylgjur – some people even claiming them to be harbingers of death. New sightings are reported every hour. Bearing in mind what happened to Harris, it seems likely the military have put many of the vixen packs down.
Dr Arthur agrees to see him straight away. As Nero enters his office, the man stands up though he stays where he is behind the desk. His clothes hang from his frame as if they belong to a younger, healthier person. The overhead light is bouncing off the top of his head.
Arthur declines to take Nero’s offered hand. ‘A touch of eczema, I’m afraid,’ he says by way of excuse. ‘Take a seat, Inspector.’ He waits for Nero to sit
down before asking, ‘To what do I owe this visit?’
They’d shaken hands the last time they’d met. It’s possible the man opposite knows all about him. Kass was right about the need for caution. Leaning back into his chair, Dr Arthur steeples his fingers. Nero can see nothing amiss with the skin on either of his hands.
A couple of Dr Arthur’s own, traditionally-bound books sit to one side of his large desk; The Deep Humanity of Animals, supporting the more widely known: The Animal Inside Every Man. The position of their spines and the thin layer of dust the surface has accumulated would suggest these are props designed to impress or intimidate whoever is sitting opposite.
‘I’m sure you’ve heard about the bodies discovered in that old factory,’ Nero says. The man nods but remains silent. ‘I’m particularly interested in the vixens found next to the body of the woman. As you’ll know, our tests confirmed all three were IBR’s hybrids.’
‘So I gather.’
‘Though the woman’s corpse was badly burned, our working theory is that she may have been a decoy agent whose own pack had, for some reason, turned on her.’ It’s Nero turn to sit back and wait for a response.
‘An interesting theory, Inspector,’ Dr Arthur says at last. ‘Although, as I’m sure you must realise, it is just that – highly speculative with little hard evidence to back it up.’
Dr Arthur’s expression remains unaltered and yet a tiny pull to the side of his mouth gives a hint of smugness; the man is confident he can rebut any accusations that may be about to come his way.
‘Extensive tests were carried out by our pathology department,’ Nero says. ‘These concluded that the female – our possible decoy – had herself been genetically altered.’ Nero studies his reactions, narrowing his eyes against the rays of the sinking sun outside the window.
‘Quite a sensational claim.’ Dr Arthur allows himself a slow smile. ‘However, I believe IBR’s own tests found obvious cross-contamination was present in the samples. Dr Magnúsdóttir’s more detailed analysis completely overturned your forensic department’s rather wild conclusions. I understand that they categorically showed the dead woman’s DNA was as normal as mine – or indeed yours.’
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