“Damp?” Ruth asked.
“Mildew and rot,” Mitchell said, “with a hint of smoke. Cadet, you take the front room, Riley, the kitchen. There is a reason why Mr Anderson gave this house as an address. Find it.”
Judging by the sofa upturned against one wall, Ruth guessed it had been the living room. Whatever other furniture had once filled the space was gone along with the carpet and half of the floorboards. Those must have been removed in someone’s search for… something. As she bent down to see what, there was a voice from behind her.
“Anything?” Riley asked from the doorway.
“Scavengers,” Ruth said. “They must have taken the furniture and the carpet. Probably took the floorboards to burn, but they were after the pipes.” She pointed down to where a section of copper piping had been sawn through. The exposed under-floor was covered in a thick layer of cobwebs and dirt, and a thinner dusting of metal filings.
“Probably during the first year,” Riley said. “The furniture would have been burned, the pipes taken to make a still or repair some other house.”
“Then no one has lived here for years?” Ruth asked. “Maybe Mr Anderson made up an address, and it’s a coincidence that he picked one that actually exists.”
“It’s no coincidence,” Riley said. She held out her hand. In it was a soot-blackened photograph. “There was a photo album in the oven. Looks like someone searched the house for any clues as to who lived here, and burned them. I bet it was Anderson. It was an electric oven, a sealed box with no chimney. As soon as he closed the door, the oxygen supply was cut off. Not everything was destroyed. You know what that means?”
“He was in a hurry.” Ruth looked at the picture. It was a family portrait of a man and his four sons. “They all look a bit like him. The dead man, I mean. There’s a definite family resemblance.”
“Definitely. Mister Mitchell!” Riley called.
Mitchell came down the stairs, an evidence bag in his hand. “What did you find?” he asked.
Ruth handed him the photograph.
“Hard to say when it was taken,” he said. “Jeans and T-shirts. Can’t see anything in the background to give it a date, except… is that a world cup shirt? That would place it within a year of The Blackout. I’d say our Mr Anderson is one of the children.”
“He’s the youngest,” Riley said.
“You can’t really tell from the picture,” Mitchell said.
“And his name is Charles,” Riley added.
“You found something else?” Mitchell asked.
Riley grinned and led them into the kitchen. She opened the door to a floor-to-ceiling cupboard. The shelves were empty, but on the inside of the door, still faintly legible were a series of lines marking a height, each with a date and a name.
“Charles is five years younger than the next of his brothers,” Riley said, pointing at the dates. “He was born here, you see, and that’s the first one, on his first birthday. The body we found is certainly far younger than thirty. That means our victim is Charles.”
“So he’s twenty-five,” Ruth said, staring at the picture. The youngest child bore the least resemblance to the man they’d found.
“Any clue as to his surname?” Mitchell asked.
“None,” Riley said. “There are a few more photographs in which you can see one or two of the family. Nothing else.”
“I think it was Charles who burned them,” Mitchell said, holding up the evidence bag. “I found an empty can of tinned beef in the smallest bedroom, which now makes more sense. He came back here, stayed at least one night, and made an attempt at destroying any record of who he really was.”
“So when he went to the shoemakers, and they asked for an address, he gave the first that came to mind?” Ruth asked.
“Probably, and that would mean that Anders Anderson was the first name that came to mind,” Mitchell said. “Maybe Anderson was his surname, maybe it wasn’t, but the name meant something to him. Cadet, what should we do now?”
“We should see if there’s anyone called Anderson working in the Mint,” she said. “Or anywhere else where they would have access to these kind of computers. If he survived The Blackout, maybe his brothers did. Maybe his entire family are the counterfeiters. We should see if we can find them.”
“We could,” Mitchell said. “But that’s going to take time, and the trail is only getting colder. If the family isn’t involved, any details they give us will be as out of date as anything we find in this house. And what if Anderson isn’t his surname? Well?”
“Um… I suppose we could see if there’s an address book in any of the neighbouring houses,” she said.
“Or letters undelivered in the post office,” Riley added. “Or see if the electoral role for this parish wasn’t destroyed. A paper copy was kept at the town hall. But if the trail is cold why not spend our time doing that? It’s what we’re meant to do, isn’t it?”
Ruth looked from her to Mitchell, her brain whirring as she tried to guess at the subtext.
“And what if another body turns up tomorrow?” Mitchell asked. “Because I doubt Mr Anderson’s will be the last. This way is quicker.”
“He’s in the city?” Riley asked.
“He is,” Mitchell said.
“Who?” Ruth asked.
“Come on, cadet,” Mitchell said as he headed out the front door. “It’s time you met Isaac.”
Chapter 6
Isaac
“I’m staying outside,” Riley said. “You should, too,” she added, addressing Ruth.
They had come to a halt halfway down a long avenue near an old church, outside of which a man stood, watching them. He was at least six inches taller than Mitchell, and twice his width. There was something deeply sinister about the man, but curiosity won over caution.
“No,” Ruth said. “I’ll go in.”
“It’s not a good idea,” Riley said, this time speaking to the sergeant.
“She’ll have to meet him sooner or later,” Mitchell said. “Might as well get it over with.”
“Who is Isaac?” Ruth asked as she and the sergeant walked towards the church. The man standing sentry disappeared inside. “Is he a criminal?”
“He’s worse than that,” Mitchell said.
Though from the outside the church appeared intact, only the frontage had survived The Blackout unscathed. The altar was lost under a pile of rubble, above which nesting birds made their roosts in the fractured remains of the roof. The pews had long since been removed, but in the middle of the nave was a table. Behind it stood the man who’d been waiting outside and a petite woman made to look even smaller by comparison with the living mountain next to her. Sitting at the table was a man in a grey suit, a hat covering his head, shaded glasses over his eyes.
As their echoing footsteps caused roosting birds to flutter and flap around the rafters, Ruth squinted at the man, trying to tell whether she’d ever seen him before. So much of his face was hidden that it was hard to tell, but she was sure she would have remembered that slightly waxy sheen to his skin. He could have been a well-preserved sixty or a prematurely aged thirty. In part because of Mitchell’s approach to examining Mr Anderson’s body, she turned her attention to the clothes. It was a suit, but not of old-world make. There were more pockets for one thing, and the collar was far higher, suggesting it was worn for warmth more than style. The hat was very old-fashioned, but looked new. His suit, she realised, was of a similar colour and cut to the clothes worn by the man and woman behind him. It was almost like it was a uniform.
“Hello, Henry,” the seated man said.
“Isaac,” Mitchell replied. “I thought you were going to leave town.”
“And yet this is where you came to look for me,” Isaac replied. His tone was cultured, relaxed, almost amused, and somehow neither English nor American. “For the second time in forty-eight hours, I might add. What does that tell us?” He turned his shaded eyes towards Ruth. “Hello, Ruth. It’s good to finally meet you.�
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Ruth found herself nodding in return, though more in reflex than in agreement.
“I thought you would have gone north, to check on that other matter,” Mitchell said.
“Fortunately, or unfortunately if you prefer, there was no need,” Isaac said. “I can find no record of that symbol in any of the databases to which I have access.”
“None?” Mitchell asked.
“It seems as if there truly are some new things under the sun of our brave new world,” Isaac replied. Ruth found her nostrils flaring in irritation. Isaac smiled. “But that isn’t why you’ve come here. Not today. How is Maggie?”
“What? Fine,” Ruth replied automatically. “Wait, do you know her?”
“Ignore him,” Mitchell said. “He’s trying to get under your skin by pretending he knows more than he does. He probably had you followed when he learned you were working with me. He has me followed, don’t you Isaac?”
“Just to keep you safe, Henry.”
“And doesn’t that sound comforting?” Mitchell said. “But you’ll note he didn’t deny it, cadet. You see, his are the simple tricks of an honest charlatan.”
The man behind Isaac let out a low growl.
“And I see you’ve got a new convert,” Mitchell said. “One who doesn’t know how the world works. You should tell him, Isaac, before he makes me do something that you’ll regret.”
“It’s all right, Gregory,” Isaac said, though he kept his head turned towards Ruth. “Henry is an old friend, cadet, or can I call you Ruth?”
Ruth shrugged.
“Ruth, then. I am Isaac, and I know that Henry will have told you very little about me, but I am pleased to meet you. As for you, Henry, you could try being a little more polite when you come looking for my help.”
“What would be the point?” Mitchell asked. “You won’t refuse me.”
Gregory gave a rattling growl.
Isaac raised a hand. “No, Gregory. Henry is right. I won’t refuse him. So, Henry, what do you want?”
“A body was found yesterday in a field two miles north of Ringwood Junction,” Mitchell said.
“I know,” Isaac said.
“Did you know that we found over ten thousand pounds of counterfeit currency on the corpse?”
“No, I hadn’t heard that,” Isaac said. “What was the quality of the forged notes?”
“Almost perfect reproductions,” Mitchell said. “It was the serial numbers that gave them away. They haven’t been issued yet.”
“Wait,” Ruth said. “How did you know the body had been discovered?”
“I hear things,” Isaac said. “Eventually I hear everything, but what you’re really asking is whether I had something to do with it. I didn’t, did I, Henry?”
“No, he’s not a suspect,” Mitchell agreed. “Not in this anyway. A man is dead, Isaac, and I doubt he’ll be the last. He used the name Andy Anderson to buy a pair of boots in July. The address he gave led us to the man’s real childhood home, twenty-three Spring Close, and to a first name of Charles. We need to know his surname, what happened to his family, and—”
“And everything else. Yes. Do you have any of the fake currency?”
“No. It’s all at the Mint. Weaver’s leading the investigation.”
“She is? That explains your presence here, not to mention your mood.”
“How long will it take you?” Mitchell asked.
“An hour, a week. I can’t say until it’s done. Over ten thousand pounds, you say?”
“That’s right,” Mitchell said.
“It was inevitable, of course. Not the counterfeiting,” Isaac added, seeing Ruth’s expression. “I mean how crime would evolve. Or devolve, if you prefer. During the early years there was nothing to steal, and there were so many deaths that murders were rarely noticed.”
“I noticed,” Mitchell said.
“Indeed you did,” Isaac said. “Now that wealth is re-emerging, greedy desire has awoken to stalk the land once more. People want what they don’t have regardless of whether they need it. As wealth grows, the complexity of crime grows with it. Ten thousand pounds? It’s only the start. I will send a message when I have an answer for you. Stay cautious, Ruth.”
“Sir, about what he said—” Ruth began when they were outside.
“He talks in riddles as a way of adding to the mysticism,” Mitchell said. “But he’s a man who always speaks the truth. That makes him dangerous.”
“But who is he?” Ruth asked.
“That’s a good question,” Mitchell replied.
“You should tell her,” Riley said. “She’s met him now, so she should know.”
Mitchell looked at Riley, and there was another moment of unspoken conversation.
“Fine,” Mitchell said, relenting. “It’s hard to say who he is now. In a way it’s the same answer to the question of who he’s been since The Blackout. He’s an outlaw, in that for the last twenty years he’s lived outside every law except his own. Most people think he’s dead, or a legend—”
“Tell her about the Tube,” Riley interrupted.
Mitchell glanced over at her. His lips pursed. For a moment Ruth thought he wouldn’t.
“In London,” Mitchell said, “just before The Blackout, a message was sent to tens of thousands of people, telling them to take shelter in the underground railway tunnels. It was sent to their phones, do you understand? No, you don’t. Despite the networks being down, this message got through. Perhaps it was sent to more people; it’s hard to know how many ignored it. Those who believed the message took to the deep tunnels. That’s how a lot of us survived the nuclear holocaust.”
“And tell her what happened then,” Riley said.
Mitchell looked up at the sky, more as if he was remembering than as if he was weighing up how much to say. “Isaac knew to come here,” he said. “To this stretch of coast. He had a message on his phone, as anonymous as the ones everyone else received, saying that those ships would be here, run aground. The cargo ships, you understand, the giant bulk carriers with millions of tonnes of wheat, oats, rice, powdered milk, and all the rest. We found the ships just as Isaac had said we would. Some people tried to call him a prophet, and I’ll admit that he didn’t let them. Not then. Recently, he’s changed. His current group of followers have a cultish obedience I find unsettling. He lives by his own laws and beyond the reach of ours. He’ll kill, but he won’t murder. He’ll take, but he won’t steal. He rarely gives a straight answer, but he never lies. That’s what makes him truly dangerous.”
“And tell her—” Riley began, but Mitchell cut her off.
“I think that’s enough about him for now,” Mitchell said. “We’ve three properties to investigate as to whether the counterfeiters might have been there. If we’re quick, we should have it done before five. There’s a nice pub near the power station. They do a wonderful game pie. Or they did. We can talk about Isaac and The Blackout then.”
Ruth replayed what Mitchell had said as she followed the other two away from the town. Then she went back over what Isaac had said. Who was he? Who had he been before The Blackout? And had that mention of Maggie really been just a bluff? As the metres turned into miles, she decided those questions weren’t nearly as important as those regarding what Sergeant Mitchell was doing now. Certainly he was carrying out an investigation against the orders of a superior. What Maggie had said the night before came back to her, and she wondered whether she should tell someone what he was doing. Captain Weaver, perhaps? There was nothing she could do about it. Not now. She decided that she’d see what Mitchell said in the pub at day’s end and get Maggie’s advice that evening. Having delayed the decision, if not made it, she tried to enjoy the day as they cycled through the rambling suburbs of Twynham and then beyond.
As they rode towards the industrial heartland, the smoke-filled clouds above them grew thicker and the train stations grew larger. The timber-framed platforms were increasingly lost amidst the brick and steel sidings where w
orkshops loaded their finished products for shipment to the market. The road’s surface changed from poorly repaired asphalt to a mixture of dirt and coal-dust as it detoured around a station far busier than the others. Labourers moved with glacial caution as they loaded wooden crates from the light bulb factory that sprawled around an ancient church. The track joined an old cobbled street as it went through a small park where rusting children’s swings were lost amidst the precisely divided allotment plots. That was replaced by a field of wheat, and then with one empty of crops but full of farmers hacking at the soil with pick and shovel.
Riley and Mitchell, engrossed in muted conversation, ignored the workers they passed. Ruth couldn’t. The looks they gave her weren’t envious. If anything, they were smug. Theirs was a life of unionised hours, high pay, and allowances for clothing and accommodation. After five years toil, any farmhand could apply for a loan to start a farm of their own. Those were increasingly along the pirate-troubled coast of Kent, but it was theirs. It was a hard life, but a secure one with prices fixed and payments guaranteed by the government. And it was a life Ruth could have. Previously it had seemed too small and provincial an ambition, but now she wondered if her time in the academy had been wasted. Her mind turned back to Mitchell, and she realised that of course she had to report him. He was withholding evidence from Captain Weaver, and that certainly was a crime. Maggie’s advice, that she could resign, rang in her ears until Mitchell pointed at a broken signpost.
“This is the turn off,” he said.
At first, Ruth thought he was pointing into an impenetrable thicket of brambles, but there was a narrow path cut through the centre. It wasn’t wide enough for them to walk the bikes, so they rode in single file. Her narrow, studded leather wheels bogged down in the rotting mulch. Woody stalks caught in her spokes, and thorny stems lashed against her legs as she awkwardly walked the bike through the barbed corridor. For once she was glad of her thick uniform and was gladder still when the track abruptly widened and she was able to dismount. Five hundred yards after that, Mitchell led them directly across a stretch of rough cropped pasture towards a thicket of new-growth trees.
Strike a Match (Book 1): Serious Crimes Page 9