Strike a Match 3

by Frank Tayell

  “They didn’t take you up on the offer of work?”

  “No. No, but I think they would have done. There wasn’t much else for them to do here. Whatever lesson Mr Squires wanted them to learn, they didn’t need it. In another week or two, I’d have had them at the big house. I’d have had them in proper clothes before the first snow. Next year… next year…” She trailed off.

  “Mr Squires told you they were hermits? Do you mean they were religious?” Ruth asked.

  “I couldn’t say,” Mrs Foster said. “They said they wanted to live outside of the world. To live apart from it. I have sons,” she added. “Two of them, and they went through a similar phase, though when they were a little younger. It was when they learned what the old world had been like, and understood that their own lives would never be as easy. No, just a few more weeks, and I’d have had them at the farm. They’d have been safe then.”

  Ruth nodded, though she disagreed. She suspected that if the saboteurs had been at the farm, then everyone there would have been killed as well.

  “Thank you for your time,” Ruth said. “You’ve been very helpful. We might have some more questions as the investigation progresses, but I think that’s all for now. Oh, one last thing. The rent that Mr Squires paid, was it in twenty-pound notes?”

  “I… yes, I think so,” Mrs Foster said.

  “The old notes?”

  “Of course. This was before the currency was changed.”

  “I don’t suppose you kept any of them?” Ruth asked.

  “No. Is that important?”

  “Not really. Thank you.” Ruth went back to the cottage.

  Mitchell and Weaver were in the kitchen. Both had their eyes on the door, though Ruth thought it was more that they were determinedly not looking at one another than staring at a clue.

  “What did you learn from Mrs Foster,” Mitchell asked.

  “The cottage was rented by a Mr Squires who said he worked at the university and was the uncle of one of the victims,” Ruth said. “Squires is white, has an English accent, a limp, a beard which might have been fake, and is between thirty and fifty years old. Either Mr Squires is the killer, or he’s going to be the next victim, but we’re not going to find him based on that.”

  “I got that name from Mrs Foster yesterday,” Weaver said. “And then I took her to the university. There’s no one working there called Squires. There are some with limps, and a few of those have beards, but she didn’t recognise any of them. Well, why should she? A beard can be shaved, a limp faked.”

  “But why would someone rent a house and then kill them?” Ruth asked.

  “So we could find them,” Mitchell said. He pushed at the wedged-shut door. “Whether the killer was Mr Squires or not, he could have let them run. They wouldn’t have come to the police, would they? No, he wanted us to find them and find them dead.”

  “But why were they here in the first place?” Ruth asked.

  “So that they could die,” Weaver said. “Perhaps the killer originally had other plans, but killing them was always reserved as an option. Within hours of Adamovitch’s arrest, they were murdered and in a way that ensured their bodies would be found. What does he expect us to do next?”

  Ruth shrugged. “Move Ned Ludd? Maybe he’s the real target. He’d be able to give us a better description of Mr Squires, after all. Maybe he knows something else.”

  “Possibly,” Weaver said. “This killer is cleaning up loose ends. The smuggler who brought ammunition and who knows what else into Britain, the saboteurs who cut the telegraph. That leaves Emmitt and Ned Ludd as the last threads hanging adrift.”

  “Not the last,” Mitchell said. “There’s Adamovitch, Pollock, and more than a dozen others that we’ve arrested over the last month.”

  “If the killer wanted them dead, there was more than enough time before they were in custody,” Weaver said. “I think Deering has the right of it. These people died because they could identify the killer.”

  “Then that means it’s not Mr Squires,” Mitchell said. “If it was, he’d have killed Mrs Foster, too.”

  “A good point,” Weaver said. She frowned. “I’ll have her put into protective custody, just in case. Whatever is going on here, our hand is being forced. Whatever move we are expected to play next, I don’t think we’ll find the answer here.”

  “There’s someone who could tell us,” Mitchell said. “I think it’s time we had a word with Emmitt.”

  Chapter 13 - Death Row

  Twynham

  “Ah, Henry, how are you?” Emmitt asked as Ruth and Mitchell walked into the courthouse jail’s small interview room. The warder closed the door and turned the key, locking them inside with the mass murderer. “And Sameen as well. I hope you’re well?”

  “Don’t—” Ruth began, and stopped, though a fraction too late.

  Emmitt smiled. At least Ruth thought it was a smile. The criss-cross lines cut deep into his face made his expression hard to read. His hands were cuffed to the interview room table, his ankles shackled together. Mitchell sat down opposite him. Ruth stayed by the door, watching the prisoner as the prisoner watched her.

  “Did you see your new neighbour?” Mitchell asked, gesturing towards the now-closed door. The interview room was in the lowest level of the courthouse, at one end of a corridor that had five small cells, a small shower room, a table and chair for the warder, and stairs leading up. Other than Emmitt, there was only one other prisoner.

  “My new neighbour? You mean Mr Adams?” Emmitt said. “A new neighbour, but an old friend. I assume your presence is connected to his arrival. Unless you’ve finally agreed to my request?”

  “What request,” Ruth asked.

  “Have you been keeping secrets from her, Henry?” Emmitt asked, his tone almost coy.

  “He’s been writing letters to you,” Mitchell said to Ruth. “All his correspondence comes to me. I decide whether it’s to be sent on, or whether doing that would be a threat to national security.”

  “What did the letters say?” Ruth asked.

  “That I wanted to talk,” Emmitt said. “And I don’t know why you would hide the letters from her, except you do have a paternal instinct, don’t you, Henry. Under your wing, you have two police officers to whom you act as father, yet you have no biological children. That’s interesting, don’t you think?”

  “Not really,” Mitchell said. “And I didn’t come here for cod psychology.”

  “No, you came here to talk,” Emmitt said. “Please, go ahead. Why not begin with what you’re offering.”

  “I’m offering nothing,” Mitchell said.

  “That’s not how an exchange works, Henry. I will happily tell you whatever you want to know, but I need something in return.”

  “Your sentence isn’t up for negotiation,” Mitchell said. “You’re going to hang.”

  “The judge said as much,” Emmitt said. “And yet, here I am.”

  “You might be able to file your appeals faster than the court can deny them,” Mitchell said, “but they’ll run out. Then you’ve nothing but the long drop ahead of you.”

  Emmitt smiled again. When he’d been sentenced, Ruth had assumed the execution would take place immediately. Now she understood how the man had remained so calm in the face of an unavoidable death. He’d planned for his arrest. He knew exactly which appeals to file, and in which order, and precisely how long it would take for each to be denied. And when one was denied, Emmitt had the next ready and waiting to be filed. Even so, Mitchell was right, it couldn’t go on forever. The appeals would run out, and that meant…

  “You have something to trade,” Ruth said. “That’s why you’re so calm. You know something, and know we’ll offer you your life to learn what it is. All of your appeals are just stalling tactics until the time’s right.”

  “Really? That’s what you think?” Emmitt asked. “I’m almost offended. No, I just have faith in the fairness of the British judicial system. The sea air suits you, Sameen. It’
s doing wonders for your complexion.”

  “Stop calling me—” She stopped. “How did you know I was in—” Again, she stopped. “Adamovitch talked.”

  “Not really, except to curse my name,” Emmitt said. “But I can put two and two together. Ask your question, and then I will tell you my price for an answer.”

  “There’s an assassin loose in Twynham,” Mitchell said. “He murdered the five Luddites you had cutting telegraph wires. He shot a smuggler called Yanuck while he was in custody. This guy is clearing up loose ends, Emmitt, and that’s how I’d describe you.”

  “Yanuck is dead?” Emmitt glanced at the door. The scars crinkled in what might have been a frown. “I see. Then Adamovitch was in Dover attempting to get passage to France?”

  “Possibly,” Mitchell said. “He’s as tight-lipped as you are.”

  “Ah. Well, let me clear a few things up, though I’ll ask for nothing in exchange. Yanuck was a smuggler. Sometimes of loot from the ruins of the old-world, but his bread and butter came from people.”

  “Smuggling people out of Britain?” Ruth asked.

  “Into Britain,” Emmitt said. “You might welcome survivors with open arms, but they do have to reach here first. Some might stumble across a convoy heading west. Others may find an old boat, or risk their lives paddling a homemade raft. The rest have to buy their passage through a continent rife with danger. That is where Yanuck came in. He didn’t call himself a human trafficker, but that’s what he was.”

  “How much did he charge?” Mitchell asked.

  “Nothing up front,” Emmitt said, “but everything later. It was rare someone coming from Europe would have anything of material worth. No, Yanuck would charge them once they were settled in Britain. That price was sometimes in cash. Sometimes it was a service. It might, to make up an example off the top of my head, involve a night watchman at the chemical works looking the other way so ink could be stolen.”

  “Ink for printing bank notes?” Mitchell asked.

  “Do you really want me to spell it out for you, Henry?”

  “Yanuck was essential to your schemes?” Mitchell asked.

  “More or less,” Emmitt said. “Though he didn’t act under our orders.” He turned to Ruth. “If it had been down to me, Sameen, I would have gutted him years ago. The world is better off without him in it.”

  “So you say now,” Mitchell said. “What about the five saboteurs. The Luddites. They were just kids who were tricked into believing that a world without science was one without evil.”

  “Their deaths are unnecessary and unfortunate,” Emmitt said. “How did it happen?”

  Mitchell’s eyes narrowed, as if he was weighing up how much to say. “They were in a house outside the city. During the night, the back door was sealed. At dawn, the killer knocked at the front. The victims were unable to escape. They were shot at close range. Yanuck was shot from five hundred yards. You should keep an eye on the rooftops the next time they let you outside for exercise.”

  “A sniper? That is interesting,” Emmitt said. “And proof that this killer had nothing to do with me. If I’d had access to that kind of talent, I wouldn’t have needed to attempt the assassination of the prime minister myself.” He rubbed his arm where Ruth’s bullet had broken the bone. “You work with the tools available, don’t you, Henry? There is nothing I would like more than to help you solve this case. Unfortunately, there is nothing I can tell you that would help.” He turned to Ruth. “I truly am sorry. Did you find the refugee camp, Sameen?”

  “What about the other telegraph lines that were cut?” Ruth asked.

  “What about them?” Emmitt replied.

  “Are we going to find more houses filled with corpses?” Ruth asked.

  “Ah, as to that, I couldn’t say, though if history teaches us one thing it is that death is the only constant. If you mean will you find a house with more… more Luddites, no. You can rest easy on that score, Sameen.”

  “Stop calling me that,” Ruth said, finally unable to stop herself.

  “It’s your name,” Emmitt said. “What else should I call you?”

  “Officer Deering,” Ruth said.

  “Yet you were first introduced to me as Sameen,” he said. “So you did go to the refugee camp near Folkestone. You discovered, like so many before, that there is nothing there but ghosts. Did any speak to you?”

  Ruth narrowed her eyes, but bit back a retort and the hundred questions she wanted to ask.

  “The ghosts spoke to me,” Emmitt said. “Years ago, I followed you there. Rather, I followed your parents. I was tasked with bringing you back home, you see. I arrived a few weeks too late. Disease had destroyed the camp. Thousands were dead. I assumed you were among them. Well, you know what they say about assumptions, and I can truly say that I’ve never been so glad to be proven wrong.”

  “Very good, very good indeed,” Mitchell said. “You’ve taken what Simon Longfield told you, added a few guesses and a lot of vague hints, and come up with something that no one can disprove. What’s your game? What do you hope these lies will gain you?”

  “They’re not lies, Henry. I speak only the truth. The five… Luddites, you called them? My pet saboteurs, is how I referred to them. They were being kept prisoner, I assume? Though not with chains, I suspect. No, they were being kept in place with words, yes?”

  “Of course they were, and you know it,” Mitchell said.

  “I don’t,” Emmitt said. “They should have been released. They should have been instructed to flee northward and individually. They were just playing a game, but life is not a game. No, they would have been found and arrested. That was my plan. Your police department is small. The number of competent officers even smaller. Interviewing those five, then following the circular leads they gave you would have kept at least twenty of your best people far too busy to notice what was really going on.”

  “And what was that?” Ruth asked.

  Emmitt smiled and raised his cuffed hands. The shackles clinked. “Oh, that hardly matters now. No, suffice it to say that killing the Luddites was never what I intended. If anything, it is counter-productive. Rather than having the nation concerned about an unknown number of saboteurs on the loose, their deaths will gain sympathy to the Luddite cause. That helps no one.”

  “The Luddite cause? That’s your cause, you mean,” Ruth said.

  “Oh, it’s hardly that, Sameen,” he said.

  “Have you heard about the attack on Calais?” Mitchell asked.

  “A little,” Emmitt said.

  “It began on the fifth of November,” Mitchell said.

  “And?”

  “Did you organise their assault?” Mitchell asked. “Did you arrange it?”

  “I thought you came here to discuss Adamovitch,” Emmitt said. “He knows nothing. He listened at keyholes, and he probably stole a few files, but he is not the real danger. Yanuck might have been, but I suspect it is this sniper who is your real threat. As to their identity, as I say, I don’t know. If I did, I would not have been the one in that apartment building, looking down my sights at the prime minister.”

  “If your goal is different from the Luddites,” Ruth said, “what is it you do want?”

  “The same thing as Henry,” Emmitt said. “We don’t want to restore the world to its former blood-drenched glory. We want to build something better. We differ on our definitions of what that is, and in the lengths that we will go to in order to achieve it. As time has proven, we don’t differ that much.”

  “Who do you work for?” Mitchell asked.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Emmitt said. “Who do you work for? Is it still the professor?”

  Mitchell frowned.

  “She was your employer when we first met,” Emmitt said. “You truly don’t remember, do you? I confess, I didn’t know you’d survived, either. No, and I can understand why you don’t recognise me. It’s the face, isn’t it? I didn’t always look like this. A mutual friend did this to my
face when I was sent to recruit her. She finished the work that you began, Henry. Do you remember a hotel corridor on the night the world died? Do you remember a university basement? I do. I remember you.”

  For a moment, Mitchell said nothing, but his face had gone taut. “I’ll speak to the judge,” he finally said, “and see if we can get your execution moved up.” He stood.

  Ruth looked at Emmitt. There were many questions she wanted to ask. From his crooked, evil smile, the man knew it.

  “Fresh air has never tasted so good,” Mitchell said as he and Ruth blinked in the sunshine outside the courthouse. A group of prisoners were being loaded onto a horse-drawn wagon. From their hang-dog expressions and downcast eyes, they were being taken to begin their sentence. A little further along, near the smaller door at the building’s far corner, a dark-haired woman came out alone and unguarded. She stared at the clouds as if disbelieving that she’d been set free.

  “You can’t believe anything Emmitt told you,” Mitchell said.

  “I know,” Ruth said. “But that doesn’t mean that some of it isn’t true.”

  “Simon Longfield will have shared some things you told him, and Emmitt made up the rest. It sounds plausible, that’s all.”

  “And the hotel? Was there a hotel?”

  “I…” For a moment she thought he was going to fob her off. “Not here,” he said. “Whether or not there’s a single grain of truth in anything that Emmitt said, Ned Ludd is the next obvious target. If we’re going to talk, let’s do it where we can keep an eye on him.”

  “Is he still at Police House?” Ruth asked.

  “No, they needed the cell. He’s not competent to stand trial, and sending him to prison would do no one any good. He kicked up a storm when they tried to move him into a medical facility. Too many electric lights. We can’t let him go, and since he has no home, he can’t be placed under house arrest. I had him moved to Religion Road. It was one of the few places where he wouldn’t need to be exposed to too much technology.”