by David Wake
Taylor could have walked from the building, taken a lift or the stairs perhaps, and snuck along the culvert. Security must have let him out.
We didn’t, sir, Felton thought.
But perhaps? Or there’s a way around the fence.
Perhaps, the Security man admitted.
And providing no–one was walking their dog along the bridge, then Taylor could have stood where Braddon leant against the railing without anyone knowing. Just a step up onto the lower rung of the metal barrier and then over.
Suicide?
Why?
Who knew what went through the mind of an unbrow?
Death would have been quick, no long drawn out scream of thought shocking his followers until the iBrow detected the hot pulsing flow of blood and informed the authorities of the time of death, measured to the millisecond.
Braddon studied the ground.
There were bits of paper.
Could forensics make anything of them? There was so much litter… and a vaping tube. Taylor could have stood here and vaped. Surely he’d have put this back in his pocket, then jumped, or left it on the ledge. These things were expensive and personal, so he wouldn’t have dropped it… unless he was pushed.
Braddon reached out to pick it up: stopped.
He noodled procedure and remembered about fingerprints.
There were standard evidence kits with plastic bags and latex gloves, but there wasn’t even one of those in his car. He found a scrap of tissue and carefully used that.
The vaping tube had the initials ‘BD’ on the side in fake gold leaf: manufacturer’s mark or initials?
It went in Braddon’s pocket.
Braddon walked to the far end of the bridge.
A path led into the estate beyond, wide enough to drive a car along and, considering how the ground was torn up, many did. Dog walkers drove their pets in their cars for the exercise.
Back over the bridge, Braddon worked his way along the gully for the return journey. Plants had compromised the concrete of the storm drain; even a tree clawed a grip in the cracks.
People went this way.
Two paths.
He noodled the location: kids last week, unusually out–and–about, a man walking a Labrador called ‘Fergie’, other dog walkers. Of course, this information didn’t include any unbrows sneaking out for a constitutional.
He reached the metal gate.
The camera perched on the top moved.
Are you all right, sir?
It was the security guard, Felton, absent, but aware of him via CCTV and his Thinkerfeed. The man had checked his credentials, of course, and knew he was a police officer, and aware, as Braddon followed the guard’s thoughts briefly, of his deliberations. As were all his followers.
The unbrows use this route, Braddon decided.
For exercise, sir.
Like dogs?
Yes. We follow them, Felton, thought. Well, not ‘follow’, but we look at them as far as the CCTV allows. Mister Mantle likes to indulge his pets. Sorry. I mean, his special employees. Here, watch…
Braddon followed the links, saw in his mind’s eye the video sequence, and knew that on the night in question, it had been misty. No–one, not even Taylor, had been seen leaving. No–one had been seen returning.
Felton finished Braddon’s thought for him: They could have.
What’s the camera picture look like now?
Here, Felton thought and added a link.
Knowing from the link that he was looking in the wrong direction, Braddon turned and saw himself nodding at Felton. He made a small, lonely figure, his movements were delayed by all the transmissions required to transfer the information, with the colour bleached from his form by the camera’s old receptors as if it was a bleak, misty night, although it was daytime.
At night, it wouldn’t show much. No wonder the unbrows could just come and go.
He glanced at the looming building. Sentinel House brooded and kept its secrets. You only wanted privacy if you had something to hide.
He was still following Felton as he crossed the carpark and thought the ignition on. Strange to think of himself in a video feed, seeing himself as he opened the car door and got in. The tiny figure and the real him felt disconnected. It was like watching a puppet miming to his thoughts… like Mantle’s spokesperson, Larson.
Braddon felt tired and drained by the time his car had driven him home.
Once inside, he locked the door behind him and leaned back against it with his eyes closed.
It had been a long day.
When he opened his eyes again, he was conscious of the long hall. He could see himself in the mirror staring thoughtlessly back.
His apartment seemed empty and for a chilling moment, he feared that Steiger was waiting for him, but just then Chloe came out of the kitchen to the lounge and, although he couldn’t see her, she was in recognition range.
At Oliver, where have you been? I was worried.
Work.
Doing what? I’ve not been following you.
Why not?
She was suddenly excited: Tammy–Zing and Zak–Zak are going to have a talk.
Funny that, Braddon thought, taking off his jacket and hanging it up. That’s where I’ve been – Sentinel House.
Sentinel House as in Cerebral Celebrities?
Yes.
The cerebrities?
Yes.
Oooh, ooh, oh!
Chloe appeared at the end of the hall: Did you meet any of them? Did you? Did you?
No.
Oh.
She disappeared again back to the lounge: What are we having to eat?
I’ve only just got in, Braddon thought.
Did you order something on the way?
No.
You order something then.
We can’t have takeaways every… what do you fancy?
Braddon went into the lounge: his furniture had been moved around.
I did see them, though, Braddon thought. He noodled and remembered: Lola_Five, Ellen–Zellen and Tammy–Zing herself.
Oh, Tammy–Zing – did you? Did you? Really?
Yes, yes, get me a beer.
She did so, straight away without even thinking about it.
Was Tammy–Zing as beautiful in real life as her thoughts?
I didn’t see her face–to–face, Braddon thought back. I only saw them from a distance.
But you saw them, actually saw them.
Little figures in the distance are less revealing than following their thoughts.
True, true, but to have been there. Did they see you? Did they… oh! Think about you? Let me see, let me see.
As Braddon slugged his beer back, Chloe tilted her head to one side. Her eyelids fluttered making her eyelashes quiver as she parsed along Braddon’s Thinkerfeed experiencing his day’s thoughts.
Amazing, she thought. And that Steiger woman is a cow.
Yes.
Braddon rubbed the spot between his eyes and brow, trying to ease the thoughts jammed in his inbox into some sort of order.
Well? Well?
Braddon didn’t think back but waved his free hand around his head.
Oh, your safeties cut in far too easily.
“Sorry.”
Did you order something?
“No.”
Oh, for goodness sake. Shall I?
“I guess.”
Do I have to pay?
“Safeties on, and I paid for yesterday’s.”
Oh fine… but to have seen a celebrity – not just any celebrity, but one of the cerebrities – wow.
They had Indian.
WEDNESDAY, MORNING
When Braddon woke, it was waiting in his inbox.
At Braddon, warrant to interview personnel at Sentinel House, see #warrant–28493899/A.
It was from Chief Superintendent Freya’s PA, Max, ever efficient.
Braddon noodled the link and remembered that it was only for personnel, not Mantle himself.<
br />
At Max, this doesn’t include Mantle.
At Braddon, sorry, all we could get – fried egg’s done, darling, toast’s ready – Mantle wasn’t present and only viable suspects counted.
He is a viable suspect.
He was in New York at the time.
He might have vital information.
Not according to his lawyers.
Oh great.
Sarcasm comes across in your emoticons.
Really?
Braddon stopped paying attention to Max’s Thinkerfeed, leaving him to his breakfast and his husband. Braddon was hungry, so staggered to the kitchen and was half–way through frying an egg when he realised.
You’re up.
Braddon didn’t turn round to Chloe: You want an egg?
Not really.
Toast?
OK.
Braddon served his and saw Chloe in her pyjamas sitting on the chair with one foot lifted onto the seat, her knee tucked under her chin.
You’re going to Sentinel House again.
Yes.
Can you? Could you?
Could I what?
Introduce me? She seemed calm, nonchalant, but her thoughts still leapt across the table. Please, please, please, please…
I’m not sure.
Come on, Uncle Aidan said to look after me.
I don’t think he meant–
Just, if you see them, think–a–link to me… come on…
OK, I’ll see what I can do.
Thank you, thank you, but put some confidence in your emoticons.
OK, I’ll see what I can do.
Better.
The toaster popped.
They ate, each following different feeds and trying to catch up on everything.
Tie, Chloe thought when Braddon had tidied away.
You’re not my mother or my Uncle Aidan.
You want to make a good impression.
I’m a police officer asking questions.
For me.
I don’t have one.
By the time Braddon was in his bedroom getting ready, Chloe had clearly noodled a response.
Jasmine bought you a blue one, she thought.
It was hidden at the back of his wardrobe: only people with something to hide have secrets.
Braddon drove to Sentinel House and parked in the visitor’s area. He was adjusting the awkward tie when a security guard came over and thought him away.
Your car’s not on the list, mate, please move on.
Police, #warrant–28493899/A.
Still can’t park there.
Police, warrant – check it!
The security guard, Baz, tilted his head, looking up and to his left, until he had remembered the warrant.
Yeah, he thought, but you still–
Are you ‘obstructing the police with their enquiries’?
No, but–
Good.
Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.
Still wit.
You can’t park here, the guard thought. Must be kept clear for emergency vehicles.
Police.
And Fire and Ambulance. Park in Zone B, Bay 17.
So, Braddon moved his vehicle and walked through the other cars.
Janice was on duty in reception.
Detective Sergeant Braddon, she thought, we weren’t expecting you.
#warrant–28493899/A.
Oh! Er… lovely to see you. Detective Braddon is here.
She was thinking further, rethinking at various others, so the element of surprise leaked away as her message was relayed upstairs. It was a sign of how far down the pecking order they ranked the police: no–one in Cerebral Celebrities, Inc., had followed him.
At Braddon, I’ll find someone to show you the way.
At Janice, don’t worry, I know the way.
Except the lift entirely failed to respond to his thoughts.
Wait a moment, he thought, there’s a button.
Braddon pressed it. Somewhere above machinery ground into noisy activity.
Shit, Janice thought. I know the thought lock is on, but he used the stupid button. Sorry, I mean, Detective, please wait…
Janice came out from behind her reception desk, and realised that physically stopping him wasn’t going to work.
At Larson, he’s on his way up and… ah!
She flapped her arms about like a tiny bird, desperately sending thoughts to the right people. Braddon was following her and once he knew her thinking handle, he noodled about the Special Services Department.
The lift arrived and opened.
Inside… buttons… ah ha.
He remembered that Janice had often thought about the department being on the 27th floor. He found the right button and the doors closed leaving Janice in the lobby.
She finished a series of quick thoughts to tell everyone: I don’t know which floor… yes, I’ll follow him… 27th… he’s got a warrant.
The lift, Braddon noticed, didn’t think when operated on manual, which was a blessed relief. Instead, as it went up, numbers increased on a display.
If the lift doesn’t think when you use the buttons, then… the unbrows can go up and down without any problem and there’d be no record afterwards.
The door opened and Braddon stepped out into large open–plan lounge, a communal space full of mismatched furniture. There were sofas, a coffee table, easy chairs and it was full of people, none of whom he recognized.
They moved at his presence, turning to face him like old mannequins or zombies rising from the grave. The focus of so many thoughtless eyes triggered a primal fear.
“Can I help you?”
It was a tall man, refined in appearance with swept back, white hair, but a wiry, active frame.
Braddon swallowed: Talking aloud, I need a glass of water.
“I’m Entwhistle,” the man said. He stood from his comfortable chair and came forward to shake hands, a formal gesture, and his grip was strong and confident, even if there wasn’t any accompanying thought.
“Entwhistle,” Braddon repeated, attaching the name to a thought of the man’s appearance, tall with a gaunt face and prominent eyes, and a high forehead that gave nothing away. It was smooth. Another educated unbrow.
“And you?”
“I’m Braddon. That is Detective Sergeant Braddon.”
Entwhistle folded his arms and waited.
“You can noodle…” Braddon began, then he realised and fished out his police ID.
Entwhistle peered at it, appearing amused even without any emoticons. The TR code would be useless to him, of course.
“F–Division?”
“Yes.”
“Welcome to Sentinel House and our little domain.”
“Thank you.”
He swept his hand outwards to encompass the large room and its contents, shelves full of quaint objets d’art, paintings on the wall and even an old–fashioned television in pride of place.
Braddon counted five occupants, including Entwhistle.
“The others are Valerie, Michael, Jilly and that’s Hogan.”
The first three sat on a sofa, gathered around a low table on which they were constructing a jigsaw puzzle. They seemed nervous and kept glancing at each other to make eye contact as if directing a thought conversation at each other. They were well within recognition range and yet there was nothing.
Valerie was tall, slim, Michael nervous with a straggling beard and Jilly pulled her long hair forward to cover her face, but not before Braddon saw the savage, blistered mark on her forehead. The other two had similar, though more surgical, scars.
Damaged then, he realised. He’d had spam about charity drives to raise money for those whose metabolism had rejected their brows or, driven insane by ‘the voices’, had ripped them from their skulls. He’d met some, but not many. They kept mostly to the ghettos, mental institutions or the mothered protection of some zombie apartment. They didn’t contribute to the Thinkersphere, so it really was a cas
e of out of thought, out of mind.
“Sorry,” Braddon said. “Yes. Hello.”
Hogan stood in the far corner, dressed smartly and he barely glanced up from examining an object that was about the same size and shape as one of those ancient smartphones, but without being lit up. He went back to it, turning a page.
Braddon took a moment to nod to each in turn and ensure that he fixed their appearance to a thought on the network. Two of them, Entwhistle and Hogan, were both ‘smooths’ and they seemed self–contained and assured, whereas the others, Valerie, Michael and Jilly with the nasty scarring on their foreheads, were skittish.
It must be awful to have it taken from you, Braddon thought. Thought withdrawal, nasty.
“Can we help you?” Entwhistle asked.
“I’m here to investigate the death of…” – he noodled – “Josh Taylor… with a ‘y’.”
Valerie tilted her head down and Jilly burying her face in Michael’s chest.
“It’s affected us deeply,” said Entwhistle in a matter–of–fact voice.
“Well… you have my condolences.”
“Thank you. Strange that a policeman comes calling.”
“It’s routine.” Anything but.
“Usually,” Entwhistle continued, “policemen check everyone’s Thinkerfeeds and then take the Noodle system’s recommendation.”
“That’s standard procedure.”
“They rarely bother with our opinions.”
“You’ve been… how can I say this?”
“Ignored by the police often?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t go through life as one of the few remaining humans without some difficulties.”
“I’m sure.”
“Have you any questions?”
“What exactly are your positions here?” Braddon asked.
“We work for Mister Mantle,” Entwhistle said.
Valerie spoke up, “Yes, that’s it. We work for Mister Mantle.”
“Yes, but in what capacity?”
“It’s all very hush–hush, private,” Entwhistle said. “You understand.”
I do not understand. “This is a police enquiry.”
“Can you guarantee confidentiality?”
“Of course not, if something comes to court then it’s evidence.”
“And if you express it in your iBrow device, then it’s everyone’s business.”
“Well, yes. Obviously.”
“Then, I hope you understand, but we decline.”