Plan for the Worst

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. If he’s innocent of murder then he’s innocent of hiding himself in time to avoid the consequences of that murder. Unless the Time Police move the goalposts, of course. You’re never really sure with those buggers, are you?’ he finished vaguely, his attention still on the documents in front of him.

  ‘Who is investigating the murder?’ enquired Dr Bairstow. ‘Surely not the Time Police themselves?’

  ‘The local police force, sir. It’s all here. Hello – what’s this?’

  He was examining a pocket on the inside of the back cover and pulled out some kind of a data stick which he regarded thoughtfully. ‘I wonder what’s on you.’

  ‘That’s not a standard TP data stick,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘But I bet it’s compatible with our system.’

  ‘Play it,’ I said. ‘Let’s have a look.’

  Markham looked at me pityingly and then opened his com. ‘Polly? Yes, can you bring me up an air-gapped laptop, please? Yes, a standalone with all your best firewalls. Yes. Quick as you can, please. Dr Bairstow’s office.’

  We waited in silence. Minutes ticked by. Markham stared back at the file. I wondered what the Time Police would be doing to Leon. They had no cause to love him.

  Eventually, the door opened and Polly Perkins – plump, bespectacled and Head of IT – entered, carrying an old laptop.

  ‘Will this do you, sir? There’s only a basic operating system on it so it can’t do any harm.’ She flipped open the lid as she spoke and fired it up. The screen showed only the St Mary’s logo.

  Dr Bairstow came around his desk. ‘Thank you, Miss Perkins.’

  She nodded, stifled what must have been massive curiosity, and left.

  Markham held up the data stick. ‘Are you certain, sir?’

  ‘I think so, Mr Markham. It’s always better to know, don’t you think?’

  ‘And if it shows Leon Farrell murdering Monique de Maupassant?’

  ‘Then we will have to revise our plans accordingly,’ he said, calmly. ‘Whenever you’re ready, please.’

  Markham shoved the stick into a port.

  I thrust my hands into my pockets so no one could see them shaking and clenched my fists, feeling my nails digging into my palms.

  The quality wasn’t good. Either the original had been poor or this had been copied so many times that the quality had become degraded, but, poor or not, it was clear enough for our purposes. Too bloody clear.

  The picture showed an entrance foyer. A very nice entrance foyer. A smart wooden counter stood off to the left with the latest in data tables built in. The wall behind was filled with pigeonholes for deliveries and messages. To the right of the foyer, glass security doors opened into another small hall containing a lift and a flight of stairs curving out of sight.

  The legend at the bottom of the screen read: 17 rue St Jean, caméra 001, together with the date and time.

  Markham was flicking through the file again. ‘This is the entrance to her apartment block. Manned twenty-four hours a day. Security doors. If you’re a resident, you can use your personal code; if you’re an authorised visitor, then the concierge lets you in. According to the log, this is . . .’ he paused, rummaging, ‘. . . the last person to visit de Maupassant. Actually, the last person to visit anyone that day. This takes place at . . . just after half past eleven at night. 23:34, to be precise. The concierge who let him in said in her statement that she thought it was an odd time for someone to call, but Monique said to let him in and so she did. And here he comes now.’

  On the screen, a familiar figure pushed his way through the outer doors and spoke to someone out of camera. The unseen concierge must be telephoning to Monique for her permission to admit him. The man waited quietly, his hands pushed into his coat pockets. He stood with his back to the camera, and his stocky build was emphasised by the padded coat he was wearing.

  ‘It was a cold night,’ said Markham, apparently reading my thoughts.

  ‘It could still be anyone,’ I said, hopefully dismissive. ‘We can’t see his face.’

  As if he could hear me, the figure nodded his thanks at the concierge, turned and headed towards the lift. As he walked away, he turned his head full on to the camera. I felt all the blood drain from my face. We all saw it. Clear as day. There could be no doubt. It was Leon. There in Monique’s apartment block. On the night of her murder.

  Leon had lied to me.

  10

  You hear it all the time. People say, ‘Oh, so and so would never lie to me. We trust each other implicitly.’

  You know it’s not true, of course. People lie all the time. Deliberately or inadvertently, people lie. But I’d thought Leon and I were different. No matter how difficult the truth was to speak – we spoke it. We never lied to each other. But I’d been wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  I turned away so no one could see my face. I don’t know how I must have looked. Not good, I suspect. I dropped into a chair to try and gather my thoughts. Tactfully, the three of them moved away to give me a little space, which I appreciated. I sat and stared at nothing. To compensate for my brain being full of everything. Fragmented thoughts. Pictures and pieces of pictures. In one single moment my world had shattered. Everything I knew or thought I knew . . . just gone. I’d built my house on shifting sands and those sands had well and truly shifted.

  Dr Bairstow limped to the window and frowned at the outside world. His face showed no emotion. I wondered what he was thinking. He’d known Leon a long time. It was he who had picked Leon up out of the gutter and recruited him to St Mary’s. What was he thinking now? Did he feel as I did?

  After a minute or so, and still staring out of the window, he said, ‘Mr Markham. I wish you to carry out your own investigation into this matter. You have a completely free hand. You may select your own team.’

  ‘My resources, sir?’

  He turned from the window. ‘Take whatever you need. Do whatever you think necessary. Assume whatever authority you need. You will have my full support.’

  Markham nodded slowly. ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘Then see to it, please, Mr Markham.’

  Markham got to his feet, picked up the file and tucked it under one arm. I don’t know how – he didn’t do anything, but suddenly, he was different. He seemed taller. There was an air of authority about him. And at what point had the Bristol accent disappeared?

  ‘With your permission then, Dr Bairstow . . .’ He turned to me. ‘Max – are you up for this? Can I rely on you?’

  About to say, indignantly, of course he could, I hesitated. Markham was taking a risk by including me. My presence could throw into doubt any evidence we might uncover pointing to Leon’s innocence. You see it all the time in police shows on TV. The hero’s wife is killed and he insists on joining the investigation. Everyone somehow glosses over the fact that anything he discovers can be successfully challenged in court. Naturally, he tracks down the perpetrator all by himself and then beats him to a pulp in an alleyway to ensure a confession. Which is unhesitatingly accepted by all. Just to add a sense of realism to the series, the dead wife, of whom we were unaware before this episode, is never mentioned again.

  Markham was taking me along as a courtesy. The least I could do was respond in kind.

  I nodded. ‘I understand what you are saying. Yes. You may rely on me.’

  ‘And me,’ said Peterson.

  Markham nodded. ‘In that case, I want both of you, formally dressed in civilian clothes, in Hawking Hangar in twenty minutes. Dr Bairstow, if you could speak to Dr Dowson on my behalf, please. One Time Police-style ID badge for each of us. It needn’t be elaborate. Or even accurate. Just something to flash in front of people.’

  ‘Weapons?’ asked Peterson.

  ‘No. They won’t help in this case. Bring scratchpads – or if you prefer, a
notebook and pen. I shall want to see both of you ostentatiously taking notes. Your demeanour will be quiet and efficient. Speak if spoken to, but please initiate no conversation. Make no comment unless called for. Our role will be that of auditors, checking up on Time Police procedures. Impersonating a police officer is an offence but, I suspect, impersonating an auditor – less so. Whatever happens – take your cues from me. If you’ll excuse us now, sir . . .’

  Dr Bairstow nodded and somehow, we were on the other side of the door.

  Twenty minutes later we were in Hawking, outside Number Eight. I was wearing a black trouser suit, one of Leon’s white shirts and a smart black and white scarf borrowed from Kal, who’d clapped me on the shoulder, told me to trust Markham and to behave myself. Which was about as sympathetic as she ever got. I’d shoved my hair in a slightly neater bun than usual and rammed it through with hairpins because I didn’t share Markham’s optimism re weapons. I also wore my specs. The ones that not only make me look both intelligent and sexy, but enable me to see, as well.

  Tim wore his only suit and a white shirt.

  ‘Tie?’ said Markham.

  ‘In my pocket,’ he said. ‘Ready to be worn at a moment’s notice or serve as a garrotte. Whichever seems most appropriate at the time.’

  Markham wore a dark suit I’d never seen before. We looked like a bunch of smartly dressed penguins.

  ‘Everyone got everything?’ he said, hanging his newly minted ID around his neck.

  We nodded. I examined my own ID. Underneath the Time Police logo, I was 8046305 Maxwell L, Assistant Investigator in the Monitoring and Oversight Section, part of the Administrative Department, itself a part of the Time Police. It was a large badge. It had to be to get all that lot on. I’ve never had such an impressive job title. There was even an image of me looking less scatterbrained than usual. Dr Dowson’s usual good work.

  Markham drew me to one side. ‘Max, I’m taking you because you’ve worked for the Time Police and you’re familiar with that environment. Can I trust you to keep a lid on your feelings for this one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You will take your instructions from me.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And if I tell you to return to the pod? With no questions asked?’

  Opening my mouth to say ‘of course’, I had second thoughts, hesitated and then, very reluctantly, said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. If you hadn’t hesitated then I wouldn’t have taken you. All right, people, let’s get going.’

  We filed into the pod. Peterson sat at the console. Markham sat beside him and opened the Time Police file.

  ‘Let’s see what we’ve got, shall we?’ he said. ‘Yes, here we are. Dates, times and location. Everything we could possibly need. How extraordinarily helpful of the Time Police.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it,’ said Peterson. ‘Not like them at all.’ He looked over at me. ‘I suspect our Captain Ellis might be trying to make amends. He’ll be in trouble if they find out.’

  I had nothing to say to that. Ellis and I had not parted as friends.

  ‘All right,’ said Markham. ‘Listen up, both of you.’

  His voice was quiet, clipped and accentless. If I wasn’t looking at him, I don’t think I would have known it was him.

  I wondered if this was the real Markham. Not the clown. Or the one-time bad boy. He was a chameleon, adapting himself to whatever the situation demanded. He was a survivor. I remembered Major Guthrie once telling me he’d spoken with a Geordie accent in the army. Had we ever seen the real Markham? Now there was a thought. And he possessed the gift of command. It struck me suddenly – might he, one day, be a future Dr Bairstow?

  He was speaking. ‘I’ll say this once. This is my assignment. I’m in charge. I’m not sure what we’ll find when we get there or how we’ll deal with it, so be very clear on this. You take your instructions from me. I’ll get us in – I’ll get what we need – I’ll get us back out again. You do as I tell you at all times.’

  ‘Understood,’ I said and Peterson nodded.

  ‘In your own time then, please.’

  Peterson was laying in the coordinates. ‘Computer, initiate jump.’

  ‘Jump initiated.’

  And my already considerably shaken world went white.

  11

  We landed in the middle of what appeared to be some sort of building site. A tall, narrow, plastic- and scaffolding-encased structure stood to our left, abandoned for quite some time by the looks of it. A battered sign on the site office door informed visitors – in French, English and what looked like Russian – that they should sign in here. Another sign warned employees that no hat, no high-vis vest and no boots meant no job.

  Peterson angled all the cameras until we were certain we were alone.

  ‘It’s Sunday,’ said Markham, consulting the file again. ‘No one is working.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone’s worked here for some time, anyway,’ said Peterson.

  ‘No,’ I said, slowly. ‘There’s been a major flu epidemic. A lot of people have died.’

  I toyed with the idea of giving them more details about Leon’s first family but decided against it. I’d mention things if they came up, but otherwise, I’d keep quiet. I didn’t want to do anything to strengthen the case against Leon. Especially since he seemed to have done such a good job of that himself.

  Peterson continued. ‘And there’s no materials, plant or machinery left on site which means very little security. In fact,’ he angled the camera again, ‘not only have they left the gate open for us, there is no gate.’

  ‘We should go before anything changes,’ said Markham. ‘Or they install a night watchman. Or something. Has everyone got everything?’

  We nodded.

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  We were meticulous in our decontamination, standing under the cold blue lamp and making sure to wipe our feet on the decon strip before leaving the pod. The last thing anyone needed was us starting another epidemic.

  We exited the pod to a crisp autumn afternoon. The sun was going down and there was a chill in the air. It would be dark soon.

  ‘Do we know where we’re going?’ I said.

  Markham nodded. ‘This way. About half a mile.’

  The pavements were wet. Street lights made them glisten. The town was Sunday-afternoon quiet. Very few people were around and those that were about were sombrely dressed. Many wore black armbands – a sad reminder of the recent tragedy.

  I could smell coffee somewhere. It always beats me how something that smells so good can taste so awful.

  We were making our way through a residential area and the streets were a picturesque mixture of old and new. Older buildings, six storeys high with wrought-iron Juliet balconies, stood alongside modern concrete and glass units. There were plenty of street lights and most buildings had porch lights, too. Occasionally a snatch of music or conversation drifted through a doorway but mostly everything was very quiet. Twilight was falling – the temperature was dropping – it was a miserable day. Sensible people were inside. Even the café on the corner had its sign switched off and the blinds drawn.

  We walked briskly, Markham slightly in the lead, Peterson and me behind him. Our steps sounded loud in the quiet streets.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Markham, abruptly turning right into a narrow, cobbled street. ‘Rue St Jean.’

  There were no modern buildings in this tiny cul-de-sac. All the houses were tall and narrow, approached by a flight of five or six steep steps leading up from the street. Curly iron railings decorated each frontage. Lights showed in one or two windows and the whole effect was one of quiet respectability. It seemed hard to believe that anyone could ever be murdered here.

  We halted at the bottom of the steps and looked up.

  ‘OK,’ said Markham. ‘Everyone take their cue from me.’


  We climbed the steps, pushed open the immaculately painted front doors and entered the reception area.

  I recognised it instantly from the recording. There was the long wooden counter, gleaming softly in the overhead lights. There were the pigeonholes for residents’ mail. There were the glass doors leading to the lift and stairs. Everything was quiet, well maintained, warm, welcoming.

  The concierge, sitting behind the counter, rose to his feet as we entered, saying – in French, obviously – ‘Good evening, madame, messieurs. May I be of assistance?’

  I saw a man of about fifty years old, with grey hair and a white moustache. He wore a crimson jacket and a crimson and gold tie with some sort of emblem. The building management company’s logo, presumably. His smart turnout made me wonder if he was ex-military.

  ‘Bonsoir,’ said Markham. I had forgotten he spoke excellent French. Better than mine or Peterson’s, anyway. ‘You are . . .’ he opened the file and rifled the pages, ‘. . . Monsieur Caron?’

  He stiffened suspiciously. ‘I am, sir. And you?’

  ‘We are with the Time Police.’

  He flourished his Dr Dowson-produced ID. Peterson and I did the same. The concierge did as everyone does – glanced at them briefly – and then back to Markham.

  ‘Is there a problem, m’sieur? I was given to understand the Time Police had finished their investigations.’

  Markham smiled reassuringly. ‘We have, m’sieur. We are here this evening to confirm all our procedures were correctly adhered to.’ He smiled again. ‘Think of us as auditors.’

  A clever ploy. Asking direct questions might arouse suspicions – after all, the civilian police and the Time Police must have gone over everything very thoroughly at the time of the investigation – but everyone is familiar with those irritating bastards who come sniffing around afterwards looking to stitch up some poor sod for a broken rule or bent regulation.

  ‘May we have your permission for my colleagues to take notes?’