by David Wake
What’s going on here, he thought.
I’m not sure, the Chief thought back.
Braddon sat down, turned to the Chief and became conscious of a creeping sensation at the back of his neck. Looking away from Steiger, it was as if she wasn’t there. Had never been there. Apart from Freya’s confusion and then warnings, there was no trace of her existence. The recognition link between himself and the Chief was bright, clear and unambiguous, strong enough to blank out any sensation of the other woman.
The unbrow was invisible, a ghost, like someone who had died. No wonder we call them ‘zombies’, he thought. Like the man in the police forensic tent by the motorway, except that he was genuinely dead.
Freya coughed, her throat dry, “Miss Steiger is from…”
“I can’t say.”
The woman’s voice was like a recording, coming from old–fashioned speakers behind him and devoid of any associated thoughts.
“The death of Taylor…” the incorporeal voice continued. He’d have to turn around.
Stay where you are, the Chief thought. Don’t fidget.
“…is unfortunate and we thought… sorry, ‘decided’ that an observer would be appropriate.”
You can just… “Sorry,” said Braddon, “but you can just follow the Thinkerfeed.” Who the hell is she?
“I can’t,” the voice said, “obviously…”
Freya?
“…because Taylor was an unbrow, it was felt my presence would be appropriate.”
Taylor? Taylor? How can she have noodled that, it’s not in the case file? Freya, who is she?
She’s Secret Service.
What?!
So, Braddon – damn… “So, DS Braddon?”
DS Braddon what?
Your opinion and tread carefully.
“With all due respect,” Braddon said, “there’s nothing an unbrow can discover that a brow can’t, whereas, Miss…”
Steiger.
“Steiger.” Thank you, Freya. “…where was I?”
Vice versa.
“Yes, vice versa,” Braddon continued. “Whereas, an unbrow, no disrespect, can’t investigate thoughts. Ninety–nine per cent of crime is detected by noodling the Thinkersphere, so… there’s little you can do to help.” She could make the coffee.
Chief Superintendent Freya lolled, but warned too: Braddon!
“Hence the need for your assistance,” Miss Steiger replied.
The Chief cut in, “Detective Sergeant, you are to show Miss Steiger every courtesy.”
“Of course, Chief… Ma’am.”
A random thought from his Thinkerfeed popped up for his attention: Hasqueth Finest is on special offer. His mouth was dry.
“But Braddon here decides whether there’s an investigation,” Freya insisted, her finger raised. “It’s still my department. If he says there’s something, then we’ll investigate; if not, we won’t. It’s his call.” I’m not having the Secret Service telling me what to do in my own station.
“Very well, Chief Superintendent,” said Steiger.
“So, Detective Sergeant?”
“I’ll er…” Passing the buck?
Of course not, backing my officers.
Obviously. “…I’ll need to… er, what’s the word?”
“To think about it,” Steiger suggested.
“No, er…”
“Perhaps you two could discuss this over a coffee,” Freya suggested.
“That would be lovely, Chief Superintendent,” Miss Steiger said.
I don’t think they have Hasqueth Finest in the cafeteria. Braddon thought as he glanced at the Chief Superintendent’s coffee machine. “There’s–”
Braddon, get the woman out of here!
“Yes, of course, ma’am.”
Back in the outer office, Braddon glared at Freya’s PA: At Max, you could have bloody warned me!
Max didn’t look up, but leaked smugness.
Not funny… where the hell is she?
Down there, Max thought and he pointed surreptitiously.
The woman had walked down the corridor and Braddon hadn’t realised, because there hadn’t been any thought from her about moving off.
He tried following her, but she didn’t have a Thinkerfeed, so he had to go after her physically, picking up his pace to catch up.
Her high heels stabbed into the carpet and her hips, hidden by a grey coat, swayed. She was like a machine. A thing that paused occasionally to take in the various pictures spaced along the wall.
He had to jog forward to be within door’s recognition range before she reached it, so he could unlock it. She didn’t break step, possibly she was under the impression that the security didn’t require a thought to open the doors.
She must be blissfully ignorant of so many things. How do unbrows cope in the real world?
Unbrows were at such a disadvantage and yet this one – this person – was educated at least in demeanour, but she was more disabled than someone in a wheelchair, who at least could unlock the door, turn on lights and know what was going on in the world.
She reached for the lift button.
Braddon sent a quick thought.
Floor 3, going down, the lift thought back.
She smiled at him while they waited.
Braddon checked his Thinkerfeed updates.
The lift arrived: pinged a thought: Floor 1, going down.
She stepped in and Braddon followed.
“Where to?” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Which floor?”
“Oh, you can noodle… ground.” At lift, ground.
Doors closing, doors closing, the lift thought as it shut them into the metal box, going down.
Steiger pressed a button marked ‘G’.
Braddon had never been aware that lifts had buttons.
The cafeteria was at one end of the police building, a franchise that sold Hasqueth Standard and meals that could be microwaved.
“What would you like, Miss Steiger?”
She chose a coffee, black, and a pastry: Braddon stuck with coffee, just milk.
Steiger shrugged when asked to reckon with the till, so Braddon had to pay. The youngster behind the canteen counter wasn’t sure how to take cash. Her thoughts to noodle about it were clear, but so was her concentration on the Tammy–Zing cerebral she followed. She was really only there to put things in the microwave until she’d completed a community service order.
They found a table in the corner, one hidden from the door by a pine barrier and the fronds of a fake palm tree. He didn’t really want to be seen with this… person.
“What would be your first approach?” Miss Steiger asked, stirring sugar into her drink.
“I’ll track back through the victim’s Thinkerfeed and… ah, er… let’s see, probably find out where he lived from his records.”
“You can look that up on your Noodle now.”
“Only if we’ve an identification.”
“His name was Josh Taylor.”
“Josh Tailor… how do you know that?”
“I have my sources: Josh Taylor with a ‘y’.”
Braddon noodled ‘Josh Tailor’… damn! ‘Josh Taylor’. It took him another two attempts as he wasn’t used to noodling by spelling, like everyone he usually just concepted–from–preconceived.
Sergeant d’Angelo came over: Ah, that reminds me, at Braddon, we need to touch foreheads about… shit! Sorry… I didn’t… shit.
D’Angelo turned and scooted away.
Miss Steiger had that wry expression, a sort of lopsided smirk more akin to semi–colon than a colon of a smile.
“I’m sorry,” Braddon said.
“I’m used to it,” Steiger said. “It’s strange that it’s us that give you the creeps, rather than vice versa. After all, we are human, whereas you…”
“We’re not cyborgs.”
“Of course you are, technically.”
Braddon sipped his coffee and then, when he reme
mbered, he said, “There are seven Josh Taylors – with a ‘y’ – in the local area.”
“He works for Cerebral Celebrities, Inc.”
“Right, that…” What?! “er… does he?”
“Yes.”
One of Reuben Mantle’s employees… no, wait a minute. “How can an unbrow work for Mantle? His company does nothing but celebrity feeds and the odd cerebral.”
Miss Steiger raised an eyebrow.
What the hell does that expression mean?
Braddon noodled and remembered that Josh Taylor was a ‘special services engineer’ at Cerebral Celebrities, Inc., working from Sentinel House, which was… God, less than a kilometre from the bridge.
Quickly remembering the map he’d consulted, it was obvious that someone could walk down from Sentinel House, along the gully of the storm drain to the bridge, and so long as no–one was walking their dog, they’d be out of recognition range of everyone. At the bridge, they’d be in range, but no–one zooming underneath would give a thought – he noodled that – about a shadowy figure standing overhead. They’d just assume the bridge was higher than it appeared, if it crossed anyone’s mind at all.
“You see the issue,” Miss Steiger asked.
“Yes.”
Noodle came back with the search and Braddon remembered that no–one had recognized anyone on the bridge since 16:35 the previous day. A lorry driver delivering goods along the motorway had briefly recognized a dog walker called Alex Frampton walking overhead. That was the last person recorded as being there until the police arrived. The accident had been… Braddon checked the case file: the woman driver’s thoughts about it not being her fault started at 22:23. Frampton had thought to his wife about being home at 17:05, so officially no–one had been on the bridge nearly six hours.
Braddon tweaked his previous noodle and soon enough remembered that no–one travelling on that stretch of the motorway had given any thought to any shadowy figures on any bridge.
“So obviously some care is required,” Steiger said, “but it must be investigated.”
What’s she talking about?
Braddon noodled along her thought stream, but then Noodle reminded him that he couldn’t. He tracked back through his own thoughts and remembered that he hadn’t understood her expression.
Body language: that was like thought’s emoticons, wasn’t it?
“And I am here to assist,” she said, handing something over the table to him. He took it, automatically, and saw that it was a small, white card, about the size of an iBrow 5.6, with embossed printing on one side: ‘Ms. V. Steiger, B.A., M.A. – Consultant.’
Braddon had never held such an object before. It was an aide–mémoire, something to remind you of someone, and thus obsolete in this age of downloadable memories.
“Perhaps…” he said, “you could spell it out from your perspective.”
“Reuben Mantle is an important man, rich, and he has powerful friends,” she said. “But you don’t need me to tell you that or even your Noodle.”
“Of course not.” Braddon noodled anyway and remembered that Reuben Mantle was the CEO of CC, Inc., the leaders in celebrity endorsements, and thus rich. Wow, that is rich – the world’s first trillionaire and then some.
“So, we thought it best if I came along to ensure some sensitivity.”
Thought it best how, Braddon thought, but he said, “Well, he’s hardly likely to be here, is he?”
“He has a penthouse apartment in Sentinel House.”
“Really?”
“He’s present there on average six days out of every twenty.”
“Odd number.”
“Even numbers.”
“And he stays there?”
“It’s out of the way. It’s not New York, Dubai or Singapore.”
How can it be ‘out of the way’ when everywhere is connected to the Thinkersphere. And all that aviation fuel polluting the air just to go somewhere for real! “Are there international ramifications here?”
“Not that I’m aware of… at the moment.”
“And… who do you work for, exactly?”
“I can’t say.”
“The Secret Service?”
“I can’t say.”
“There’s no such thing.”
She arched her eyebrow again: “Why do you say that, Detective Sergeant?”
“Because since the iBrow became widespread, it’s impossible to keep secrets.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Braddon looked at the card again, tapped it against his fingers and then, for want of anything better to do with it, he slipped it into the breast pocket of his jacket.
They finished their coffees.
He didn’t like not knowing. He was a police officer after all, but more so, it was an unfamiliar feeling. All human knowledge had been available to him since he’d turned eleven and his mother had taken him to the clinic for his fitting. He vaguely knew it had been different during his childhood, but there were no memories of that time in his Thinkerfeed. Those years weren’t relevant. Anything worth knowing he could remember now with a minimum delay and no fuss.
This noisy conversation, however, was like a childish game: hide and seek.
The sort of behaviour impossible for an adult.
Steiger dabbed the corners of her mouth with a paper towel, although the pastry had left no crumbs. They were finished here.
Braddon shook his head: Children’s games.
“So,” she said, “where do we start?”
“We don’t start anywhere,” he said. I don’t want to play. “There’s no case to investigate.”
“But–”
“My call – suicide.”
SATURDAY
Braddon was glad of the weekend, a chance to relax, then a thought popped into his head, a reminder that he’d arranged to visit an old colleague. There was no point dwelling on it – Inspector Jellicoe (retired) might be following his thoughts after all.
The drive out was fine and the weather was excellent by the time Braddon reached the harbour town. It was quaint, last century, and it even had a local campaign to save an old mobile phone mast.
Braddon noodled various off–licences, and the one on Wharf Street had the best star rating from the most customers. He stopped by to collect a bottle of single malt via think–and–take.
He saw Jellicoe standing on the deck of the Pamela before he’d found Pier 3. The old man waved, Braddon waved back, instinctively and without thought.
He made his way down the cobbled wharf.
Old times, Braddon thought, passing the bottle upwards.
“No word?”
Oh, for… old times indeed. “Hello, boss.”
“Less of the boss, I’m retired.”
Braddon clambered on board, Jellicoe reaching down to give him a hand up.
“Is the sun over the yardarm?” Braddon asked.
“You bought this for me.”
“For old times?”
“Come on then, a shade early for spirits, I’ve beer.”
Braddon had to duck down to enter the cabin. It was remarkably spacious, but the ceiling was too low for the Detective Sergeant’s frame. He hung his jacket on a hook and settled into the bench seating. The curve of the wall forced him to lean forward.
Jellicoe found a couple of bottles of beer.
“This is warm.”
“The fridge is on the blink.”
No, no, no… “Your electrics are all right, aren’t they?”
“You can still charge your precious brow.”
“Thanks.”
They pulled themselves around a small table, hinged against the wall, and drank for a while. Braddon’s iBrow detected the alcohol and engaged his safeties. Now, no matter what his drunken ramblings might be, he was saved from the embarrassment of all and sundry knowing them.
“Cheers,” he said.
“Your brow?”
“Yes.”
“That was quick.”
“Set really low.”
“Everything all right at the Lamp?”
“You can follow them yourself.”
“I can’t… they’re always drunk.”
Braddon laughed.
“I do follow Draith,” Jellicoe said.
“Why the desk sergeant?”
“I like his thoughts about the comings and goings of everyone.”
“Reminds you of old times.”
“Reminds me I never have to go to that police station ever again.”
“Do you miss any of it – the cases, the Lamp?”
“No… who sits in my booth?”
“I do.”
“Babs still there?”
“Gone to university.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Research.”
“Oh, of course. Beats doing a bar job.”
Jellicoe got another beer each for them. This one was cool at least. Jellicoe saw Braddon’s reaction. “It was at the back,” he said.
Braddon waved his hand to encompass the yacht surrounding them. “Is this thing ever going to go anywhere?”
“She’s not a ‘thing’! She’s a ‘she’. ‘Pamela’… don’t listen to him.”
Later, they went up on deck, enjoyed the sunshine and Braddon helped Jellicoe collect some supplies. They played at being sailors.
Dinner was from a chip shop, the fare wrapped in paper and very welcome.
The sun was well over the yardarm and touching the horizon when Jellicoe opened the Scotch. He poured two generous measures.
“Hello Scotch,” said Jellicoe, “glad to meet you.” Jellicoe took a sip.
“What do you think?” Braddon asked.
“Glen Longmoor. Not bad, best in the shop up the lane.”
Braddon laughed aloud and lolled in his thoughts, but these buffered due to the alcohol safeties.
“Did you hear the one about the second scream?” Jellicoe asked.
“Second scream?”
“Chap’s playing golf, some bet or other, and he has to play… I don’t know, a hundred times a year or something, and so he has to play this one day.”