The Blunt End of Oblivion (The Blunt End Series, Book 2)

by L. J. Simpson

  CHAPTER 6: Gone Fishing

  Atlas Central Police HQ

  DCI Burns sat turning a pencil over in his hands. With two unsolved murders festering away in the background, the police commissioner had – as expected – begun to voice his displeasure at the apparent lack of progress. It was a displeasure that would soon escalate through prickly irritation to downright annoyance if things didn’t pick up soon. Burns – along with Mullins – might even find himself sent back to Earth with his tail between his legs if he didn’t start producing results in the very near future. In some ways, the thought was almost appealing, and apparently, Mrs. Mullins was of the same mind.

  That said, Burns had at least one target fixed firmly in his sights. There were still a lot of unanswered questions regarding the incident on D47, but as far as the Jimmy Frank’s murder was concerned, Chumly was their man. He had the motive and they had him at the scene of the crime. He was as guilty as sin. It was just a matter of nailing down the proof. They had officers questioning commuters at Atlas Central Station and were still trying to extract a decent image from the security cameras. With luck, they’d get a break, but so far… nothing, not a damn thing. There was little else he could do for now except… Burns checked his watch. It was nine in the evening.

  “Mullins, do you fancy a spot of fishing?”

  “In the river, sir?”

  “No, at the Cascades Club. Bit of a long shot but we’ve nothing to lose.”

  On this particular evening, the doorman at the Cascades was a man called Michael. Unlike Sam and Chumly, who undertook a whole range of duties for both the Cascades and the Delph Consortium, Michael was employed by the Cascades as a doorman. Nothing more, nothing less. Reliable, though decidedly limited on an intellectual level, he was trusted to perform two basic functions: To check the membership of everyone entering the Cascades, and to hold the door open when Sam, Chumly or whoever it was needed to eject a troublesome customer, after which Michael was more than capable of ensuring that said customer stayed on the outside.

  In fairness, Michael did cut an imposing figure as he stood by the counter just inside the main doors of the Cascades Club. Standing six feet six inches tall and dressed in a black tuxedo, he managed to look both welcoming and intimidating all at the same time.

  As Burns and Mullins entered the lobby, Michael was going about his work in his usual calm and diligent manner. It really wasn’t that difficult – if they had a membership card, they got in. If not, they didn’t. Simple as that.

  “Are you a member, sir?” he enquired of Burns.

  “No,” said Burns.

  “Then I’m afraid I can’t let you in, sir.”

  “Of course you can,” said Burns, holding up his police badge.

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t sir.”

  “Oh dear,” said Burns. “How awkward. My colleague and I are here on police business, you see. You know… the badge?” He held his ID up once more.

  Michael paused for a moment, as if weighing up his options. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision. Then he shook his head. “Sorry, sir. I’m afraid can’t let you in.”

  Didn’t they teach you to say anything else?

  “Tell me, Sergeant Mullins, what is the penalty for obstructing a police officer in the course of his duty?”

  “That would be a fine of up to five thousand credits and a maximum of eighteen months in jail, sir.”

  “Is it that much?” said Burns in mock surprise. Michael looked on suspiciously. “And how about attempting to pervert the course of justice?”

  “Oh, now we’re really talking,” said Mullins, blowing out his cheeks. “Could get five years for that, maybe more. All depends on the judge.”

  “The thing is, Michael… May I call you Michael?”

  Michael nodded.

  “As I was saying, Michael, my colleague and I need access to this establishment immediately, and if you say ‘Sorry, I can’t let you in’ one more time, I will arrest you and then we will go in anyway. The only question is what we decide to charge you with and how long you spend locked up. Am I making myself quite clear?”

  Michael cocked his head to one side as if trying to decide whether Burns really was a police officer, and if he was, if he was being serious. Finally, he came to his second big decision of the evening. “I’ll need to clear it with the floor manager,” he said gruffly.

  “By all means. Tell him DCI Burns and DS Mullins send their best regards. Let’s go, Sergeant.”

  Without giving Michael the chance to change his mind, Burns and Mullins made their way through the lobby, past the cloak rooms and into the gaming rooms, both of them noting the sign saying ‘Gamble responsibly’ above the entrance.

  “What now?” said Mullins.

  “We make a nuisance of ourselves,” said Burns. “I’ll try the blackjack tables, you take the roulette.”

  Burns picked a table with just one player and dropped his police badge on the betting square.

  “Is that enough to get me in the game?” he asked. The croupier stopped dealing, looking first at the badge and then at Burns.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” said Burns, placing a photo of Jimmy Franks next to the badge. “Do you know this man?”

  “I may have seen him around,” said the croupier cautiously.

  “Not surprising – I’m told he used to be a regular here. Until someone decided to push him under the wheels of an onrushing train, that is.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that–”

  “Really? Well, what would you know, then?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “For example, would you know anything about spiking your customer’s drinks? Getting them hooked on credit and then blackmailing them? Would you know anything about that?”

  “No, of course not,” said the croupier. The other player glanced suspiciously down at his drink before picking up his chips and hurriedly moving off, leaving the drink behind.

  “How long have you been working here?” asked Burns.

  “About a year or so… Look, what’s all this about?”

  “And during that time, have you ever been told to let a player win, or perhaps make sure he lost?”

  “Of course not. I just deal the cards as they come. I don’t–”

  “Can I be of any assistance?” said a voice. “My name is Buckler. I’m the floor manager.”

  “DCI Burns. Atlas Central PD. We’re looking into the death of one of your customers.” He held up the picture of Jimmy Franks.

  “I see,” said Buckler, staring at the face of his childhood friend. “The owner of the casino wondered if you might like to discuss the matter in private?”

  Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Burns. “By all means,” he said, waving for Mullins to follow. “Lead on, Mr. Buckler.”

  * * *

  Just as Dan Buckler was leading Burns and Mullins from the gaming rooms, one of the Civil Aviation Authority investigators was nearing the end of his examination of the prison transport D47. It had been a very long day but with luck he’d be able to wrap things up and still be in time to catch the last shuttle down to the planet.

  Analysis of residue from the damaged conduit had revealed that the substance used to disable the ship was Demex, a medium-high yield explosive used throughout the mining and civil engineering industries. They would make the necessary enquiries but Demex was in ready supply and almost impossible to trace.

  The last part of the ship that the CAA man turned his attention to was the main airlock – the police had declared it to be a crime scene and insisted that the crash investigators use the auxiliary airlock in D47’s stern until police forensics had finished their work. It was a full seven days before the CAA men were allowed access.

  It was unfortunate that they had been forced to wait so long. They might have been able to tell the law enforcement agencies that being ex-military, D47 possessed several features not normally found in vessels of her size and displ
acement.

  First, D47 possessed a state of the art sensor array, she was shielded against electro-magnetic bursts and was also fitted with an armored flight deck. Captain Slattery and Second Officer Hansen had the latter to thank for their lives.

  Of more import was that D47 was fitted with a military grade main airlock, one with its own, independent power module. Even if main power was lost completely, the airlock would still remain operational and allow the crew to escape. The air pumps would still function, the door would still open and the electrical systems would stay online; the lighting, the door controls… and the airlock voice recorder.

  The CAA investigator was unsurprised to find that the auxiliary power unit was still functioning perfectly. Flipping on the lights, he brought the airlock control panel online. He opened and closed the door a couple of times and then out of curiosity he thumbed the voice recorder. There were several seconds of static before a muffled clanging sound came through the speaker. There was the sound of the door sliding open and then a relieved voice which said, ‘Are we glad to see you. A meteor must have–’

  ‘Blam! Blam! Blam!’

  A chill ran down the investigator’s spine as he realized he had just witnessed a recording of Clive Donaldson’s murder. There was a brief pause before an agitated voice broke the silence.

  ‘Jesus, Lenny! What the hell did you do that for?’

  * * *

  “Welcome, gentlemen, please take a seat,” said St.Clair smoothly as Burns and Mullins were shown into his large, opulent office. “Chief Inspector Burns and Sergeant Mullins, I understand. It’s not often we have the chance to entertain Atlas Central’s finest. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “We’re here in connection with the death of one of your customers. A Mr. Jimmy Franks,” said Burns. “We understand that he was – how shall we say – a valued customer.”

  “All of our customers are equally valued, Chief Inspector. Though I confess I am not familiar with the name.”

  “Then perhaps you are familiar with the incident at Atlas Central station Tuesday last?”

  “Ah… You refer to the tragic accident where a gentleman fell to his death.”

  “A death which we are now treating as murder.”

  “Be that as it may, I fail to see what that would have to do with this casino, Chief Inspector.”

  “Funny you should say that,” said Burns. “You see, before his untimely death, Jimmy Franks was already under investigation for his part in a salvage fraud. With the evidence against him overwhelming, he elected to make a full confession. In that confession he implicated several persons connected with this establishment.”

  “That obviously comes as a considerable surprise to me. I can’t imagine how any of my staff would be implicated in such a scheme.”

  “Franks claimed that he was encouraged to run up a considerable debt – probably whilst under the influence of some kind of narcotic – and then offered the chance to repay the debt by sabotaging selected vessels at his place of employment. He further claimed that he was subsequently visited on several occasions by two gentlemen whom he knew as Sam and Chumly. We understand that both men work on your security detail here at the Cascades.”

  “I regret I am not familiar with the names of all our employees.”

  “Then perhaps you are familiar with the person who first approached Franks on the night of his falling into debt. What was that name again, Mullins?”

  “Hobbs, sir,” said Mullins. “Jack Hobbs.”

  St.Clair’s eyes narrowed for the briefest of instants before his expression once again became a model of equanimity.

  Well, well, well, thought Burns. You didn’t know that, did you?

  “Chief Inspector,” said St.Clair. “We run a clean operation here. We count among our clientele Congressman Glazer, Deputy Mayor Hanning and several other leading members of the community. As for Mr. Franks, I would suggest that he not only had a predilection for breaking the law, but also for engaging in fantastic accusations. Either way, without wishing to be insensitive, the words of a dead man will carry very little weight in a court of law. So unless you have concrete evidence to support these allegations, I must ask you to refrain from harassing the staff and customers of this establishment. I regret that if you cause any further inconvenience, I shall have no recourse but to take up the matter with your superiors.”

  “That is certainly your prerogative, sir,” said Burns. “Though I imagine our superiors will grant us a certain amount of leeway. They generally do, you know, especially in murder enquiries.”

  “Of course,” said St.Clair with exaggerated graciousness. “Well… if there is nothing else, Chief Inspector, I have rather a lot of work to attend to. Mr. Buckler here will see you out.”

  Burns allowed Dan Buckler to lead them back through the gaming rooms and along the hallway to the lobby, Burns keeping up a lively conversation all the way.

  “And how long have you worked here, Mr. Buckler?”

  “Almost fifteen years.”

  “And like Mr. St.Clair back there, I suppose you’re going to tell me you run a nice, clean operation.” Dan Buckler inclined his head and opened his mouth to speak but Burns cut him off. “Of course you are, and why wouldn’t you? I imagine you’ve got your feet well under the table and after all, what’s another punter more or less?”

  As they rounded the corner and entered the hallway leading to the lobby, Buckler stopped and took Burns by the arm.

  “Jimmy Franks wasn’t just another punter,” he said forcibly. “He was my friend.”

  “Really?” said Burns, looking Buckler square in the eye. “Is there anything you want to tell me, Mr. Buckler?”

  “Only this – what Jimmy said about the spiked drink and the salvage scam… it’s all true. I was there with Hobbs on the night it all started.”

  “And will you testify to that?”

  “Testify? No! Are you crazy? You know what kind of people you’re dealing with, don’t you? I wouldn’t last a week.”

  “We could get you protection,” said Mullins.

  “No. No, you couldn’t. I’ve got family here in Atlas Central. Parents, wife, kids. The first thing they’d do is go after them – you know very well they would. If you think I’m going to put them at risk, you’d better think again. If I hear of anything regarding Jimmy’s murder, I’ll try and get word to you. But that’s all. Sorry, but that’s the best I can do.”

  He was right, of course. If Buckler tried to go public, the Delph would go straight after his family. The best he could hope for was living in fear for the rest of his life. The worst didn’t bear thinking about. Burns nodded and turned to leave.

  “There is one other thing,” said Buckler. “Talk to Alice. Alice Villiers. She used to work here as a croupier. Lives in an apartment over in Madison Towers.”

  “What do you think?” said Burns, once he and Mullins were safely outside.

  “Not a bad result, considering we were fishing without any bait. He didn’t seem happy that we knew about Jack Hobbs, did he? I wonder why?”

  “You spot that too? Perhaps Hobbs is a person we need to have a closer look at.”

  “So what next? Go see this Alice lady?”

  “Works for me.”

  Up on the eighty fifth floor, St.Clair was still sitting at the desk in his office. Deep in thought, he reclined back in his chair, hands clasped lightly in his lap.

  In his particular world there was a strict order to things. There had to be if he wished to maintain control, and in the Delph Consortium control was everything, whether it was one of his legitimate enterprises or one of the many that lay outside the law. For each and every undertaking there was a laid down procedure and clear lines of demarcation. There was a structured approach for all things. Each man within the organization had his own particular set of responsibilities and his own set of duties. He occupied his own personal niche; he had a place and, if he was wise, he also knew his place.

  It was a maxim
that applied to Jack Hobbs as much as the lowest foot soldier. More, perhaps, for Hobbs was a Capo, a rank that held greater responsibility as well as privilege. What his duties did not include was getting personally involved in the dirtier side of any of the dealings or transactions he oversaw. It was common sense – he was supposed to stay clean, remain in the background and leave the actual ‘negotiations’ to someone lower down the chain of command. Someone like Sam, a trusted lieutenant, one who would provide a buffer zone between the higher echelons of the Delph and people like Jimmy Franks.

  They lived in a changing world. Gone were the days when you could buy off the city administrators, the elected officials and half the police force. Money still talked, and there were always a few greedy or unscrupulous individuals that could be coaxed or coerced onto the payroll, but it was a dangerous liaison for both parties. The penalties for being caught were just too high. And so were the rewards for turning state’s evidence; a foot-soldier – and even a capo – could make a handsome profit by changing allegiance and betraying his superiors to the authorities. That’s why control was paramount.

  The Delph survived by being smart and staying out of reach of the various agencies that watched their every move. Jack Hobbs had broken the rules by the simple expedient of drawing attention to himself.

  On top of that, there was the Jacks debacle. Hobbs had personally chosen Zak Leonard as the designated hitter. A young kid still wet behind the ears but fast tracked through the ranks by Hobbs as a favor to an associate. It wouldn’t have mattered if Leonard had done the job properly, but he’d screwed up, and Jacks had been allowed to escape. Apart from the loss of face – which in the Delph was a fate almost worse than death – there would be a police investigation, and there would be too many loose ends for them to follow for his liking.

  His mind then turned to Chumly, who had also been the cause of a lot of wanted attention. Instead of following Franks down a quiet alleyway and putting a plasma round in the back of his head, he’d carried out the hit on a crowded railway station and allowed himself to be seen – by a policeman of all people.