There was more than a hint that time. ‘Let’s leave all that aside for the time being.’ Nero smiles back at the man. ‘I want to ask you about Linda Jakobsdóttir.’
‘You have me at a disadvantage, Inspector. I’m afraid I really haven’t the first idea whom you’re talking about.’
‘Linda was a gifted PhD student studying bio-genetics. I’m surprised you don’t recall her name. You must remember how the discovery of her body sparked the recent riots on campus. The poor girl had had her throat slit.’
‘I assume this is leading somewhere?’
‘In her a statement, the girl’s roommate, Anja, mentioned that an older man had recently sought Linda out in a bar. She was under the impression that he’d asked Linda to run tests on some samples he gave her. When Anja asked her what she was working on, Linda refused to elaborate further. We’ve found no record of these tests or the samples.’
Dr Arthur opens his hands. ‘I’m afraid you’ve completely lost me, Inspector.’ In spite of his relaxed body language, the man can’t quite disguise the rising anger in his eyes. ‘No doubt I’m about to hear another one of your working theories.’
‘I’m told your deputy, Dr Uri Haim, is currently on indefinite leave from this department. Curiously, Dr Haim looks very like the man Linda was seen talking to, though she couldn’t be certain.’
‘I think you should leave Uri out of your speculation. The poor man’s simply suffering from the recurrence of a long-standing illness.’
His cheeks blazing, Dr Arthur stands up. ‘Inspector Cavallo, these theories of yours are frankly preposterous.’ He takes a calming breath. ‘Seems to me the police in this city should concentrate on solving real crimes instead of inventing imaginary ones.’
Nero stands up. ‘Which real crimes did you have in mind?’ Relishing the disparity in their heights, he steps sideways; the two of them are less than half a metre apart.
Dr Arthur turns away. Silhouetted against the window, he says, ‘Just this morning I was informed that my yacht has been stolen from the harbour right under the nose of the port authorities.’
‘Really? That is unfortunate.’
‘Unfortunate! I’d call it a bit more than unfortunate.’
‘I’m sure they’ll recover your boat sooner or later.’
‘Oh, you’d think so, wouldn’t you? Well then, let me tell you that despite all their sophisticated equipment, the damned thing appears to have vanished off the face of the earth. Would you believe they thought nothing of it leaving port, in fact they assumed I was off on a fishing jaunt – I ask you?’
The raised veins in the man’s forehead look ready to burst. ‘Do you know what the useless drip of a port officer said to me this morning?’
Nero slowly shakes his head. ‘I can’t imagine.’
‘He said, and I’m quoting the man word for word here: “we can find no trace of its position beyond the harbour”. It seems she went down somewhere out at sea and they have no way of knowing where.’
Dr Arthur throws up his hands. ‘How in God’s name can a fifteen metres long yacht be lost at an unknown location somewhere out at sea? I mean, in this day and age, the whole thing beggars belief. My one consolation is that whoever stole her must have drowned.’
‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ Nero says, the edge to his words undisguised.
‘What, no working theory, Cavallo? No wild ideas? I’m disappointed in you.’
Nero shrugs. ‘Maybe a skrímsli emerged from the waves and swallowed her whole.’
He gives Dr Arthur a fleeting smile as he walks towards the door. ‘I’m afraid missing yachts are not my responsibility.’ Adding an edge to his voice, he says, ‘I can see you’re busy – I’ll see myself out.’
Twenty
DCI Laskaris stares at the whiteboard dominating one wall of the incident room. Various words had been randomly scrawled on it in several hands; the whole thing offering further evidence of a chaotic approach to investigations. Being something of a traditionalist, he has no objection to this form of visualisation, per se, but following the numerous crossings out – which could simply have been erased – along their erratically drawn lines, it appears to boil down to a great many question being posed and very few of them answered.
His sigh is long and heartfelt. It’s been a long and frustrating day. The monitor on the desk informs him that all three of his immediate subordinates – he hesitates to call them his team – are still in the building. Despite the late hour, Laskaris decides to call them all to the incident room.
While waiting, he thinks over his earlier conversation with Senior Constable Maxwell – an interaction that confirmed his suspicion that working methods have been amiss here for some considerable time. To get things into any sort of order, he’ll need to go right back to square one; it was hard to decide just how far back that particular square might be skulking.
He strokes his chin, pleased to find no discernable regrowth. Yesterday’s research had reminded him it was little over two years ago that the former head of Homicide, DCI Rafnkelsson, was brought before a tribunal on corruption charges. Almost at the last minute, the man’s lawyer sited a little-known technicality, which led to no further action being brought against him. Rafnkelsson has since disappeared – the suspicion being that he’s fled abroad with his ill-gotten gains. The alternative and equally feasible scenario is that persons unknown had arranged for him to meet an untimely end
Laskaris shakes his head. That hadn’t been the last of it. Only a matter of months ago, Rafnkelsson’s former deputy – who’d been heading up the Homicide department – had been dismissed for reasons that were not made clear. The man’s file has since been sealed and now he too has apparently disappeared.
After that, more or less by default, Cavallo had assumed control of the department. Interestingly, no promotion to DCI had followed this elevation. The whole thing begs the question – how many rotten fish might still be lurking in the Homicide Department’s particular barrel?
Cavallo and Kassöndrudóttir are the first to appear. He watches them walking down the corridor side by side. Earlier on, he’d studied various images of the two taking a stroll around the block in spite of the weather. Given that they now virtually hold the same rank, a rivalry might be expected between them but, on the contrary, the two seem to be thick as a mud pool.
This is the first time he’s set eyes on Kassöndrudóttir in the flesh. It perplexes him that any woman would choose to wear spectacles in this day and age; surely an affectation that suggests the wearer requires something to hide behind. From her file, he’s gathered she has a wife and children at home; nonetheless, it’s possible the two inspectors are conducting an inappropriate relationship.
Cavallo opens the door and walks through ahead of Kassöndrudóttir – so much for the man’s manners. ‘Evening, sir,’ he says. ‘This is my colleague, Inspector Kassöndrudóttir.’
‘Good to meet you, sir,’ she says, coming forward with her hand outstretched. ‘Please call me Kass, it’s less of a mouthful.’ Her hand is distinctly clammy to the touch – a sure sign of nervousness. Behind those glasses she’s a perfectly pleasant looking young woman.
Maxwell arrives hard on their heels. ‘Please take a seat,’ he says, with a nod to all. ‘Let me begin with some good news. It concerns constable Jie Ning Chan – or perhaps that should be Chan Jie Ning if we’re adhering to Chinese name order?’ He clears his throat. ‘In any case, I’m pleased to tell you Constable Chan has been passed fit for duty and will be returning to the department tomorrow morning.’
He looks at each in turn. Maxwell is the only one to greet his announcement with any show of enthusiasm.
Meeting Cavallo’s gaze, he says, ‘This leaves us with the unsolved mystery of Acting Inspector Rashid Ashram’s whereabouts.’ Taking great care to watch their individual responses, he adds, ‘It’s possible the man has been kidnapped – an ordeal I understand two members of this department have already been subjected to.
’
‘I believe that to be a distinct possibility, sir,’ Cavallo says, shaking his head.
‘We might stand a better chance of locating the poor man if you or Constable Chan could give us a little more information about your own abductions.’
‘I’m sure it would help,’ Cavallo says, looking genuinely regretful. ‘I can’t speak for Chan, sir, but personally I have absolutely no memory of what may have happened to me. Physically, I was already in very poor shape when they snatched me. I assume they kept me sedated the whole time; there’s no other explanation.’
‘Yes, well, let’s move on,’ Laskaris says. ‘You’ll all be familiar with the SOCO reports concerning that extraordinary incident in that disused factory. You will know one of the corpses found there can now be directly linked to Commander Rockingham. I’m also told that the only female victim, along with all three vixens recovered from that same location, was transferred to IBR for further testing. As far as I can make out, this transfer of evidence during an ongoing homicide investigation is more or less unprecedented. I’m now further informed that the remains of all have been cremated.’
‘Why would they do that?’ Maxwell says. ‘I mean to say – ’
Laskaris silences her with a raised hand. ‘As you may have guessed from my name, my family comes from Greece – a country with a rich cultural history.’ He gives them his best avuncular smile. ‘I’m reminded today of the story of the Gordian Knot. It begins with a certain King Gordius tying an extremely complex knot. It was decreed that whoever could untie this knot would turn out to be the future lord of all Asia. Many, many men attempted to untie it but all were unsuccessful. The story then has it that when Alexander the Great came along he simply sliced through the knot with his sword – proving the point that brute force would be needed to capture Asia.’
They’re looking puzzled. ‘From this myth,’ he tells them, ‘we derive the expression: to cut the Gordian knot, which means to solve a puzzle in a powerful and decisive way. This evening I’ve called you here because I hope we can all agree on one thing.’ He checks for any signs of dissent. ‘Given the complexity of recent events, my appointment as head of this department means a much-needed set of fresh eyes will be cast over all these investigations.’ Laskaris points a finger at the whiteboard. ‘Not that for a moment I’m comparing myself to Alexander. My point is that you can rest assured that in my search for the truth behind all these events, I will act in an effective and decisive manner.’
Twenty-One
Bruno hurries along the corridor towards lecture theatre 13B. He’s running late. All day people have been waylaying him – trying to draw him into whispered discussions. He’d stayed tightlipped, trusting no one. The curfew hours have just been reduced and, amongst the students, this is being seen as some kind of victory instead of an indication that the security forces are more confident of their grip on things. His new friends seem to expect something of him. They want him to be their spokesman or leader – their John fokking Connor. It’s not going to happen.
He’s already running late but he needs to take a leak. As he’s leaving the toilet, he notices someone has scrawled “Liljan for Governor” on the back of the door. It takes him a moment to figure out that the Liljan being referred to is Governor Leifsson’s widow. Now he comes to think about it, this isn’t the first time he’s seen this slogan on campus.
Back in the corridor, he finds the place is still busy and now it feels like the whole world is conspiring to get in his way. Lorenzen, the head of Contemporary Politics and Culture, has a real thing about punctuality and he’s more than ten minutes late.
Bruno opens the door as quietly as he can although the light behind him seeps into the darkened auditorium. A hundred heads turn towards the cause of the intrusion. The place is packed out and all that body heat hits him in a wave.
Down below on the stage, a projection reads: Dystopian alternative histories. Do these speculative narratives distract us from real threats to democracy?
He can see only one empty seat near him. ‘Sorry,’ Bruno says, to the row of students he’s about to disturb.
‘Mr Mastriano.’ Professor Lorenzen’s voice reaches him loud and clear. The man’s long-sightedness is impressive. As the professor steps into the holo-beam, the word speculative wraps itself around his face. ‘Good of you to join us at last.’
Turning towards the stage, Bruno gives a low bow. ‘It’s my pleasure, Professor.’ A ripple of laughter runs around his audience.
Bruno is still trying to make his way past a mass of knees towards that empty seat when Lorenzen’s voice booms out again. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed my introduction, Mr Mastriano. I take it you’ve read the book I’ve just mentioned: The Man in the High Castle?’
‘Actually, I have,’ Bruno says, caught awkwardly between one seat and the next; ‘Although for my money The Plot against America, is a much better read.’
‘Yes, well,’ the professor retreats a couple of steps. ‘I suggest we turn our collective attention back to the question of the similarities between these narratives – the altered world orders they’re depicting and the particular elements these have in common.’
The lecture continues and, after stepping on a few feet, Bruno finally reaches the empty seat and sinks down into it, glad to regain the anonymity of the darkness.
Glancing to his immediate left, he thinks he recognises the shadowy profile of the person, in fact every instinct tells him he’s sitting next to Krista – Krista Sigurðardóttir.
Shock radiates through his body. He checks again and it’s definitely her. She must have heard the prof use his name just now but she doesn’t look at him, doesn’t say a word; she just keeps staring at the stage like she’s mesmerized.
The girl seems to be hanging off the professor’s every word. He’s heard it said that Lorenzen, as one of the younger professors, has quite a following amongst the female student body – and the gay one for that matter. It takes a moment for Bruno to become fully aware that the emotion he’s feeling is jealousy.
He hasn’t seen Krista since the night of the accident. It’s a relief that she’s back at university and she looks to be fully recovered although it’s hard to be certain in near darkness. His recent encounter with her sister, Reyndis, suggests her family members aren’t the forgive-and-forget types. Krista might be different.
Since that night in the hospital, he’s learning more about the spleen. About a third of people have a tiny secondary spleen that can grow and become functional if the main spleen’s removed. She could be one of them. In the past, the organ was thought to be the seat of ill humour and melancholy. Maybe now that she probably hasn’t got one, Krista might be happier and maybe less inclined to hate him because of what happened.
Lorenzen is saying something about “Fatherland” and he tries to concentrate on what he’s suggesting. Though Bruno’s read the book, he finds he can’t remember a damn thing about it. He keeps snatching glimpses of Krista. If only he could go back to when the two of them were sitting in that car together, her singing along to the music and close enough for him to smell her skin, her freshly washed hair.
In tiny increments Bruno leans in closer until he’s near enough to breathe her in. She smells so good, so pure and uncorrupted.
Without warning, Krista turns her head and their faces almost collide. She pulls back to look him in the eye before whispering, ‘Were you sniffing me just then, Bruno Mastriano?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Why on earth would I be sniffing you?’
‘Because that’s just the sort of pervy thing you might do.’ Lorenzen has moved on to “V for Vendetta” and Krista turns her attention back to what he’s saying. At least she hadn’t hit him.
Bolder now, Bruno says, ‘Hang on a minute.’ Someone behind shushes him and he lowers his voice. ‘I’m not sure I like being called a perv.’
‘Don’t mind me, I was just venting my spleen,’ she whispers. ‘Oh no wait, I haven’t got one, have I?’
‘Look, I feel awful. I mean, I need to tell you I’m really really – ’
Krista cuts him off with a strange sort of noise. Oh God, she’s sobbing now and it’s all his fault. She’s clamped a hand over her mouth but the sound still escapes around the edges.
Damnit – she’s not crying at all, she’s laughing.
‘Your face!’ she says. Convulsed with laughter, she can’t contain a series of loud snorts every time she takes in a breath.
The person in front turns around. ‘Do you mind? Some of us are trying to listen.’
‘In his novel 11/22/63, Stephen King’s protagonist travels back in time to prevent Kennedy’s assassination,’ Lorenzen says, striding back and forth on the stage. ‘This is another example where the underlying narrative postulates that the continued existence of a significant individual would have changed…’
Bruno wonders if Krista could be hysterical. Should he slap her or something? It doesn’t look like she’s out of control. What the hell is she finding so funny? He’d almost killed the girl; she should be furious with him. He wouldn’t blame her if she stood up and beat him about the head. He should have been more aware of the ice, should never have swerved to avoid that fox.
Krista ducks her head; her shoulders continue to shudder for some time before she finally comes up for air.
She goes quiet at last. Leaning into him, she whispers, ‘Tell you what – buy me a drink after this and we’ll call it quits.’
They go round the corner to “Altitude” – the place where everyone hangs out. As usual, it’s packed to the rafters. Candles glow from high shelves where they can’t be drunkenly knocked over; they keep the lighting low, so no one notices how shabby it is. The smell of spilt beer and weed is overpowering and it’s impossible to hear anything over the thunderous beat. Bruno would have chosen somewhere else but he’s not calling the shots here.
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