Strike a Match 3

by Frank Tayell

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Try to reach Isaac,” Mitchell said.

  “I’m not leaving,” she said.

  “Standing there isn’t going to help the situation,” Mitchell said. “Go and get Weaver.”

  Ruth ignored him. She shone the light around the room. “Can you shine your torch on the wires?”

  “Ruth, leave,” he said. “If this is a bomb, it didn’t go off when I stepped on the plate, but it might be on a timer. Even if it’s not, these wires run under three inches of stale beer and who knows what else but I’ll bet it’s corrosive. The circuit could break at any second.”

  “Right, so we don’t have time to wait for Weaver. Besides, won’t all the military personnel who know about explosives be in Calais? Shine your light on the wires. Find out where they go.”

  “If you’re trying to make up for going after Makepeace alone, you don—”

  “Sir, the light! Please!” Ruth said.

  He shone his torch down, then up towards the left. “There are two wires,” he said. “They disappear behind those metal barrels.”

  “Right,” Ruth said. She crouched down, and stretched her hand out into the scummy water. She brushed her fingers along the ground until she was sure there was concrete beneath them. Hand extended in front of her, she sidled agonisingly slowly across the room. “It might help if you’d talk,” she added.

  “I’m standing on a pressure plate that’s positioned beneath the hatch leading to the street,” Mitchell said. “That suggests the bomb was set to go off when a delivery or collection was made. That’s interesting and odd.”

  “I meant you should talk about something… well, distracting,” she said. “I’m almost there. But, okay, why’s it odd?”

  “Well, because if the bomb was placed by Makepeace, then one of his co-workers would have set it off.”

  “Assuming it is a bomb,” Ruth said. “Okay, I’m here.” She’d reached the row of barrels behind which the two wires vanished. “There are lots of casks. Some wooden, some metal.” She tapped one. It gonged. “It’s empty.”

  “Just… Don’t… just be careful,” Mitchell said, and tried Isaac on the phone again. “No answer.”

  “The wires disappear behind this wooden cask.”

  “Behind or inside?” he asked.

  “Behind,” she lifted the barrel an inch. “Definitely behind.”

  “Don’t—” Mitchell began through gritted teeth. “Look, but don’t touch.”

  “Hard to see what I’m doing, then,” she said. Carefully, she lifted the barrel up and placed it on the floor. The scum-covered water sploshed as it was displaced. “The wires go into the rack. No, into a box. Behind the box is a wall, but the bricks have been removed. I can’t see anything except empty space behind it. The box is about two foot by one foot, and one foot tall. It’s got a stencilled label that says it contains two-inch washers. Shall I open it?”

  “No. Go outside, call for help.”

  “There’s no time,” she said. “I’ll open it.”

  “Don’t—”

  “Done.” She’d already lifted the lid. “What do explosives look like?”

  “Depends on the kind,” he said, slowly breathing out.

  “It’s a sort of greyish colour. Looks a little like clay.”

  “Plastic explosive,” he said. “Maybe C4, maybe Semtex. Okay. Fine. Take a photo with your tablet.”

  She did.

  “Show it to me.”

  She held it up.

  “Okay, that looks like plastic. It’s a little indistinct— No! Don’t move. Do the wires go into the explosive?”

  “No, into a metal cube, about six inches long, three inches wide. There’s another wire going from that into something a bit like a metal pencil. It’s sticking into the grey stuff.”

  “Right. Don’t touch it. In fact, don’t touch anything. We’ll have that as a rule from now on. Quick question, did you move the box when you opened it?”

  “A little, why?”

  “Doesn’t matter. How much is a little?”

  “I picked it up.”

  “Right. Fine. That pencil thing is the detonator. Pull it out.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” he said.

  She did. Nothing happened.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “Put the detonator down. Not on the explosives! Now, carefully, retracing your steps, go upstairs and outside.”

  “Is that it?”

  “I think you’ve disarmed it, but the only way to be sure is for me to step off this pressure plate. I’m going to sprint for the stairs and then the front door. When I do that, I’d rather you weren’t in the way. Go.”

  Ruth retraced her steps, upstairs, and then out onto the street.

  She stood watching the door. A minute later, they opened. Mitchell pushed his way outside, then pushed her further down the street. They stopped twenty yards away. Another minute went by.

  “I think we’re okay,” Mitchell said. He sat down on the kerb.

  Ruth grinned. “That wasn’t too bad.”

  Mitchell closed his eyes. “Usually, bombs like that would have some kind of anti-tamper device, maybe a primitive motion sensor. If the bomb is disturbed, the circuit is broken, the bomb is detonated. You could have set it off the moment you moved the box.”

  “Oh.”

  “But it didn’t have one, and we’re both still alive,” he said. “You did good.”

  “Thanks. Um… how do you know about explosives?”

  “I don’t,” he said. “What I know comes from Isaac, but that’s a story for another day. Let me see your tablet, the photo you took.”

  “Um… sir, there are people, looking.”

  “Right now, I don’t care.”

  She handed him the tablet.

  “That’s plastic explosive,” he said. “You can shoot a bullet into it and it won’t detonate. You can even set fire to it. I read about a war, once, when American soldiers would burn bricks of that stuff to boil water.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s ridiculously stable stuff,” Mitchell said, handing the tablet back to her. “But I didn’t think it had a shelf-life of over twenty years. That’s something to look into.”

  “Did Makepeace set the bomb?” Ruth asked. “Why? Who was he trying to kill? If it was just one of his co-workers, why not shoot them? Unless he wanted the explosion to cover up something else.”

  “Good point,” Mitchell said. He stood.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find what Makepeace didn’t want us to,” he said. “This time, stay out here. Keep everyone back.”

  Onlookers were already gathering. When Ruth told them to step back, that only increased their curiosity. Ruth sent a pair of young children off to fetch Assistant Commissioner Weaver, but that further galvanised the crowd. Twenty minutes later, when Mitchell pushed the door open again, there were three-dozen people at either end of the street.

  “Quite a crowd,” Mitchell said. “Come inside a moment, I found an answer that satisfies many of our questions.”

  Ruth went back in, but Mitchell didn’t go back down to the cellar. He’d brought up the metal box with the explosives, and placed it on a table. The trigger was on the bar. Next to the table was one of the metal casks.

  “Here’s what I think happened, and what was meant to happen,” Mitchell said. “Adamovitch and Makepeace were small cogs in Longfield and Emmitt’s machine. Adamovitch was going to take the fall for Longfield, and Makepeace was going to be set up by Emmitt. They both realised this, though I don’t know which learned it first, or whether one told the other, or they both arrived at it separately. Together, they plotted to take over after Longfield died. Emmitt was the problem. After he wasn’t immediately executed, they realised that he would escape. They probably knew exactly how and when because I think Makepeace helped construct the incendiary that destroyed the courthouse. The death of Yanuc
k, in that fashion, was designed to get Adamovitch into the cell close to Emmitt. I don’t know how Adamovitch got out of his cell, but when he did, he prevented Emmitt from getting out of his. The fire was started, Adamovitch escaped. A few hours later, he killed Makepeace.”

  “Because there’s no honour among thieves,” Ruth said.

  “And no loyalty among assassins. Makepeace, though, didn’t suspect Adamovitch would betray him so quickly. The bomb was positioned so it would detonate when the brewery came to collect its barrels. Those are pricey things, barrels, and there are thirty of them here in the pub. An employee would be needed to open the hatch of course. The moment they stepped off the plate, there would be an explosion. The body would be obliterated. We would assume it was Makepeace. The brewery worker, safe outside, would even confirm that Makepeace had opened the pub. In reality, the body parts would belong to someone else. Maybe even Adamovitch. We would think Makepeace was dead, draw a line between the explosion and the fire in the courthouse, and double our efforts to find Adamovitch. I think that was Makepeace’s plan. He was going to frame Adamovitch, but the butler killed the barman first.”

  “Is that why Makepeace killed the Luddites? He wanted Mrs Foster to give us a description of him?”

  “I think so,” Mitchell said.

  “Okay but why did Emmitt wanted us to search the pub?”

  “To shut down the smuggling ring,” Mitchell said.

  “What smuggling ring?” Ruth asked.

  Mitchell tapped the metal barrel. “Take a look.”

  “Old Victory,” Ruth said. She picked up the barrel. “It’s empty.”

  “Take a closer look.”

  Ruth picked it up, examined the label, then turned the barrel upside down. “Can you just tell me what I’m looking for?”

  “The base unscrews,” Mitchell said. “Here.” He showed her. The bottom five inches came away, leaving a small space inside.

  “I don’t get it,” Ruth said. “What can you hide in there?”

  “Yanuck was a smuggler,” Mitchell said. “Of people, yes, but that wasn’t all he was bringing in from Europe. It’s ammunition, that’s what they were bringing into the pub. Selling it on was Makepeace’s real source of income.”

  “You mean the ammunition we found at that house where we arrested Adamovitch?”

  “Some of it, at least,” Mitchell said. “Ammunition is heavily taxed. A hunter gets ten rounds with their annual hunting licence. After that, a cartridge costs an hour’s labour. The government-issued rounds won’t fit in an old-world weapon, and there are plenty of those guns rusting away across the country. Thus there’s a demand, and Makepeace met the supply.”

  “There can’t have been much money in it, though,” Ruth said. “I mean, you can only fit…” She turned the barrel over. “There’s room for nine cartridges, maybe ten.”

  “I doubt Makepeace had to share it with anyone. Remember that Longfield and Emmitt’s real currency was information with which they could blackmail people. It’s a lot easier getting someone to commit a crime than trying to discover if they’ve broken the law in the past. They would know to whom the rounds had been sold, and so exactly where to apply pressure. I bet that book you found in Makepeace’s flat was a list of his customers.”

  “And I suppose that they would need an alternative currency, I mean since the counterfeiting would have made the paper notes worthless.”

  “True, but at the same time, Longfield planned to take over the government. She wanted to create an insurrection, but would need to be able to control it, and ensure it fizzled out. What better way than to control the supply of ammunition? And what better way to ensure no more ammo entered the market than by having us come and close this pub? That’s why Emmitt chose it for that meeting.” He stood up. “We better go outside and keep an eye on that crowd until Weaver comes.”

  “And then Dover?” Ruth asked.

  “All the clues lead back there,” Mitchell said.

  Ruth followed him outside. The crowd had drawn closer. Mitchell waved them back, but Ruth looked at the faces. It was supremely unlikely that Adamovitch would be here, but would he have returned to Dover?

  “Sir, those pirates in Calais, they don’t stand a chance, do they?” she asked.

  “Not really, no,” Mitchell said. “We’ll take more casualties dislodging them, but we will manage it.”

  “And Emmitt would have known that, right? I mean, if he arranged for them to attack last night and on the fifth, he would have been aware we’d destroy them, right?”

  “Of course. Longfield knew the strength of our forces.”

  “Then she and Emmitt would know that, once the bandits were defeated, we’d have to stay in Calais, and then move beyond?”

  “As would anyone who’s read a few history books,” Mitchell said.

  “What I mean is that it makes Yanuck useless,” Ruth said.

  “Ah, you mean he was another loose end that Longfield and Emmitt would want to tie up. Probably, and that’s probably how Adamovitch enlisted his help.”

  “I’ll be back in a moment,” Ruth said.

  “Where are you going?”

  Ruth didn’t answer, but ran back into the pub. She looked at the box, at the stencilled label on the front that claimed it contained washers. She peered closer until she was certain that she could make out the individual brush-strokes. She went back outside.

  “I think I know who did it,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Mr Wilson was another loose end,” Ruth said. “That’s why he had to die. He worked in a place that repaired things, right? Metal things. He was a dab hand with a soldering iron, that’s what Mr Watanabe said. I bet Mr Wilson could fix a false bottom to a metal cask. That box the bomb was in, the label looks like it’s been stencilled, but it hasn’t. You can see the brush marks. It’s been perfectly painted on. I think it came from Sprocket and Sprung. Mr Wilson had to die because he created the barrels. He had to die because he’d finally accepted his family were gone. That’s why he put their faces in that painting. Mr Wilson was willing to move on, and if he did, he might tell someone about the barrels and where they came from.”

  “Maybe,” Mitchell said. “Maybe. There’s Weaver. Let’s tell her what we’ve found, then go to Dover and see if your theory is correct.”

  Chapter 18 - Travelling in Comfort

  Twynham to Kent

  As Mitchell and Ruth hurried away from the pub, a shadow detached itself from an alley. It was Isaac. He fell into step next to them.

  “I tried to call you,” Mitchell said.

  “And here I am,” Isaac said. “I saw Weaver, and decided to stay out of the way. You know how she gets. You’ve been sweating, Henry. Why so flustered?”

  “There was a bomb,” Ruth said.

  “What?” Isaac asked.

  Mitchell quickly explained.

  “Yes, I would say the lesson there is not to play around with explosives,” Isaac said. “Are we going to Dover, then?”

  “You’re meant to be keeping an eye on Riley,” Mitchell said.

  “She has two eyes of her own,” Isaac said. “Besides, the last I saw of her, she and Maggie were going into Police House. That’s one particular threshold I try not to cross, and lingering outside hardly seemed a good way of remaining inconspicuous.”

  “What about Ned Ludd and Mrs Foster?” Mitchell asked.

  “Safe inside the convent with Mrs Zhang,” Isaac said. “You know they won’t let me inside. Kelly is on the roof, and she doesn’t want anyone else that high, that way she’ll know to shoot any shadow she sees. Loitering outside a convent would be more noticeable than the police station.”

  “The nuns let Ned Ludd inside,” Ruth said. “Why not you?”

  “Ah, it’s not an issue of gender,” Isaac said, sidestepping a barrow laden with wizened pears. “That’s a tale that began when they required assistance mounting an expedition to Walsingham. Well, no, it began a few months before that wh
en—”

  “Not now, Isaac,” Mitchell said.

  “I’ll tell you on the train,” Isaac said to Ruth in a faux-conspiratorial whisper.

  “You’re coming with us?” Ruth asked.

  “Of course,” Isaac said. “But why is it only the two of you. Weaver seemed to have gathered a veritable army at that pub.”

  “There’s a real army in Dover,” Mitchell said. “We’ll call out the Marines just as soon as we know where to deploy them.”

  “Wonderful,” Isaac said. “I’d been planning to visit the city, but with the current restrictions, it’s rather difficult.”

  “Restrictions?” Ruth asked. They came to a construction crew removing an old-world street light and laying a new one. There were only four workers on the project, but a crowd five times that size were eagerly offering destructive criticism. Ruth always found it surreal how life could continue, oblivious to the danger unfolding all about. “What restrictions?” she asked.

  “You need a permit to travel to Kent,” Mitchell said, “because of Calais.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realise,” she said.

  “It’s new,” Mitchell said. “The paper only mentioned it on an inside page, but it’ll get a more prominent coverage as soon as someone complains.”

  “A letter? What a splendid notion, Henry,” Isaac said. “I’ll jot down a few notes as we travel east. Now, tell me again about the explosive.”

  “Later,” Mitchell said. They’d reached the station.

  The terminus was bustling with goods wagons going north and coal coming south. So much coal, in fact, that four of the passenger platforms had been requisitioned for the transfer of the mineral. A thin cloud of black dust was drifting toward the long lines of passengers waiting to board the services for the Midlands, Wales, or the North. Mitchell pushed through the crowd, and through the barriers guarded by a pair of railway police, to the platforms reserved for the mail train and military services. There was only one train there, a locomotive pulling a single carriage.

  “Where’s the smoke stack?” Ruth asked.