by Frank Tayell
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication & Copyright
Synopsis
Contents
Prologue: Another Dead Lead
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
End Matter
Counterfeit Conspiracy
Strike a Match 2
Frank Tayell
Dedication & Copyright
Dedicated to my family
Published by Frank Tayell
Copyright 2016
All rights reserved
All people, places, and (especially) events are fictional.
Other novels:
Strike A Match
1. Serious Crimes
2. Counterfeit Conspiracy
3. Endangered Nation
Work. Rest. Repeat.
A Post-Apocalyptic Detective Novel
Surviving The Evacuation
Book 1: London
Book 2: Wasteland
Zombies vs The Living Dead
Book 3: Family
Book 4: Unsafe Haven
Book 5: Reunion
Book 6: Harvest
Book 7: Home
Here We Stand 1: Infected
Here We Stand 2: Divided
Book 8: Anglesey
Book 9: Ireland
Book 10: The Last Candidate
Book 11: Search & Rescue
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Synopsis
In 2019, the AIs went to war. Millions died before a nuclear holocaust brought an end to their brief reign of terror. Billions more succumbed to radiation poisoning, disease, and the chaotic violence of that apocalypse. Some survived. They rebuilt. Twenty years later, civilisation is a dim shadow of its former self. Crime is on the rise.
During the investigation of a routine homicide, Police Officer Ruth Deering prevents a group, claiming to be Luddites, from destroying the telegraph. This act of sabotage is only the beginning. As arrests are made and criminals are caught, evidence emerges that the saboteurs are connected to the AIs, the counterfeiting, and to the attempted assassination. The shadowy figure behind the conspiracy must be unmasked before their fragile democracy is destroyed.
Contents
Prologue - Another Dead Lead (The Investigation So Far)
Chapter 1 - Ned Ludd
Chapter 2 - Fingerprints
Chapter 3 - The Embassy
Chapter 4 - Arrests
Chapter 5 - Interview
Chapter 6 - All Stations North
Chapter 7 - The Real World
Chapter 8 - Away From Home
Chapter 9 - Probable Targets
Chapter 10 - Public Meetings
Chapter 11 - Suspects
Chapter 12 - The Crypt
Chapter 13 - Strike a Match
Chapter 14 - Answers
Chapter 15 - Unmasked
Chapter 16 - Storm
Chapter 17 - The Wire
Chapter 18 - Counterfeit Conspiracy
Chapter 19 - The Forest
Epilogue - The Black Cap
Prologue: Another Dead Lead
(The Investigation So Far)
1st October
“You don’t get more dead than that,” the newly promoted Assistant Commissioner Weaver said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Captain Henry Mitchell said. “Lying in a grave, it almost looks natural.”
To Ruth Deering, there was nothing natural about the nearly decapitated corpse. The body didn’t bother her, nor did the blood. She’d seen enough of those in the last two weeks that they were almost commonplace. It was the smile that made her stomach churn. Surely the man hadn’t been happy in the moment before he’d died, but it seemed a macabre twist of fate that his muscles would curl into that particular grimace.
They were on the edge of the old city of Bournemouth in what was now a relatively poor district of Twynham. Compared to the old-world, there were no affluent districts. Twenty years after the Blackout, indoor plumbing and electric lights qualified as luxuries. For most of the quarter-million people who lived in the metropolis that sprawled along the southern English coast, nights were lit by candle and winters warmed by open fires.
“Natural or not,” Weaver said. “What do you make of it?”
“Murder, obviously,” Mitchell said. His accent was from the American Midwest, tempered by two decades living in Britain. Like Ruth’s adopted mother and many others, he’d been stranded in the UK during the Blackout. “As to the rest… Deering?”
The question might have been vague, but she knew from the increasingly familiar tone what he was asking. “Yes, sir. The victim is male, thirty-five to forty years old.” She stepped closer. “His height…” She swallowed. “It’s hard to tell with his head gaping back like that, but he’s around six foot. Patched jeans, repaired jacket, scuffed shoes – there’s nothing special about the clothing, except that it’s more worn than most people would tolerate. Either he didn’t care about his appearance or he didn’t spend any money on it. His neck…” She took a deep a breath. “His head has been almost decapitated. Judging by the blood on the blade, it was done with the shovel. Probably post-mortem because who’d lie still for that?” Ruth knelt down and lifted the body’s hand. “There’s no rope around his wrists, or marks indicating they were tied. Rigor mortis has yet to set in, so he was killed within the last thirty-six hours.” And there was something else, a long thorn caught in the sleeve. Grateful for the excuse, Ruth looked around for the bush or shrub it must have come from.
“Longfield, do you have anything to add?” Assistant Commissioner Weaver asked.
“I suppose we could check the wound for mud,” Police Cadet Simon Longfield suggested. “That would tell us whether the grave was dug before the man was killed.”
“From his position lying half inside it,” Captain Mitchell said, “I think we can be sure of that. But I don’t think the decapitation was done post-mortem. I’d say that the blood on the shovel’s handle is arterial spray. The killer knocked him unconscious with the shovel, pressed the blade against his neck, and then stamped down on it.”
It was strange to see Mitchell and Weaver actually getting along, Ruth thought. They’d seemed to hate one another a few weeks ago. They weren’t exactly being friendly, and Mitchell was still ignoring Weaver’s seniority, but open hostilities had been put on hold. Ruth put it down to the promotions. In Mitchell and Riley’s cases it would be more accurate to say that they had been re-promoted to the ranks they’d held before being demoted and assigned to the Serious Crimes Unit. Quite what had caused that demotion, Ruth wasn’t sure, though she suspected Weaver might have had some part in it. The restoration of rank was the result of exposing Commissioner Wallace’s conspiracy to flood the fragile British economy with millions of pounds of fake currency, and for their part in foiling the attempted assassination of the Prime Minister. For similar reasons, Weaver had been elevated to the rank of assistant commissioner with specific responsibility for policing in Twynham. Captain Mitchell was still in charge of Serious Crimes, wi
th Riley as his new sergeant, and the unit was being expanded. Ruth, much to her frustration, was still a lowly police cadet. The rules were clear. A graduate of the academy had to serve three months before advancing to probationary constable. Those three months apparently didn’t get waived even if the cadet concerned had been the one to shoot the assassin and so save the PM’s life. Perhaps if her shot hadn’t winged the man they only knew as Emmitt, and if he hadn’t then escaped, it would be different.
“Did the killer make him dig the grave?” Simon Longfield asked.
“You tell me,” Mitchell said. Simon looked at the body. Ruth kept looking at their surroundings.
Police Cadet Simon Longfield was the first of the new additions to the unit. He’d been in Ruth’s class in the academy and had been stationed in Police House. The rest of the new squad, transferring in from postings across Britain, were due to arrive the next day.
“I… um…” Simon mumbled.
“Deering?” Mitchell prompted.
“Look at the boots,” Ruth said, remembering one of her first lessons in the Serious Crimes Unit. “They’re work boots, but the soles look reasonably clean. The soil here is thick and loamy. If he’d dug the grave, the mud would have stuck to them.”
“You can tell a lot about someone from their boots,” Mitchell said.
“And as much from the surroundings,” Sergeant Riley added. “Like what time of day the murder occurred.”
To the south of the grave was a dumping ground of rubble and brick. Beyond that was a warehouse that had lost its roof during the Blackout and two of its walls to weather in the years since.
No one knew how many had died during the seventy-two hours when the competing AIs had fought their brief war. Billions had been killed in the nuclear holocaust that had brought it to an end. Nor did anyone know whether those missiles had been launched by the machines or by people trying to stop them. Twenty years on, it didn’t matter.
Thanks to the cargo ships and bulk grain carriers that had come aground on the beaches a few miles south of where Ruth now stood, Britain had weathered the apocalypse better than anywhere else on the planet. Those ships had kept hundreds of thousands of survivors alive during the first, harsh years as they built farms, coalmines, steam trains, power plants, and a vast fishing fleet. As their stores of food had grown, ships could be spared to find out what had become of the world. Because several cruise ships with mostly American passengers had come aground along with the cargo carriers, the new fleet was sent across the Atlantic. In the early years, they took food and pharmaceuticals. Latterly, they had been taking words. To mark civilisation’s recovery, a live radio broadcast had been organised. The Prime Minister and the American ambassador had been scheduled to speak, with a response to be broadcast from the across the Atlantic by two of the presidents of the United States. It was halfway through the broadcast that the assassination attempt was made.
Though the Prime Minister was wounded, she’d finished her speech. They’d cut to a pre-recorded version for the remainder of the broadcast, and so the public had yet to learn of how it had almost come to a disastrous conclusion. Nor had word of the counterfeiting been printed in the newspaper. As far as most people were concerned, the radio broadcast meant that the era of music radio wasn’t far off, with television close behind. Until then, everyone had to find entertainment wherever they could. For the workers standing on the scaffolding surrounding the warehouse, that entertainment was the police officers gathered around the body.
“The murder was committed at night,” Ruth said. “The workers on the construction site have a clear view of the victim. If it was daylight they’d probably have stopped it.”
“Or, if they were involved, they would have finished burying the corpse,” Mitchell said, “but they would not have reported it.”
“You know,” Simon said as if he was only just realising, “I think that grave’s a bit small.”
“That’s because it wasn’t for him,” Weaver said. “I’m almost certain of it. His name is Lionel Norton. He was… involved with a woman named Georgia DeWitt. He terrorised her. Norton took great pleasure inflicting pain on women. Five weeks ago, DeWitt had had enough. She stabbed Norton in the arm with a pair of scissors. At the time, she was in a branch of the National Store. The incident was witnessed by an off-duty constable. DeWitt was arrested. Norton didn’t want to press charges. He would have preferred to meet out his own brand of justice. I kept her in the cells for her own protection. Four days ago, I had to release her.”
“You could have told us that ten minutes ago,” Mitchell said.
“Yes, I know,” Weaver said. “I arranged for DeWitt to move into a room above a chandler’s prior to starting a new life in Newfoundland. Norton must have discovered she’d been released, found where she lived, and brought her out here to kill her.”
“You should have told us,” Mitchell repeated. His eyes roamed the construction site, and then the murder scene. “There are footprints inside the grave. Around its edge, there’s an indentation of a shoe’s toe. Someone tried to climb out and slipped. The shoe has a raised heel, and they’re four or five sizes smaller than Norton’s boots. It’s a safe bet that they belong to a woman. So, Norton brought her here and made her dig the grave. She hit him with the shovel and dragged his body into the pit. Do you see the marks on the ground there? Realising he was too large for the hole, she decided to decapitate him. She put the shovel to his neck, stamped down, and probably then realised he’d still been alive. The shock of the blood spurting out of the wound was enough to bring her back to reality. She ran. Have you checked her address?”
“Before I sent for you,” Weaver said. “She’s not at home.”
“Then she’s fled. It’s a pretty straightforward case, so why are we here?”
“Because DeWitt was in the cell block when Josh Turnbull died,” Weaver said.
Josh Turnbull was part of the gang of counterfeiters. He’d been murdered while in police custody.
“Do you think she saw the killer?” Ruth asked.
“No,” Weaver said. “I asked her, and she had no reason to lie. However, it is possible that the killer thought she’d seen him. That killer could have brought DeWitt here with the intention of burying her in this grave, and Norton intervened.”
“No, that’s not possible,” Mitchell said. “Not according to the evidence. There were only two people here, Norton and a woman. The woman killed Norton.”
“Look harder and confirm that,” Weaver said.
“What about the other possibility?” Mitchell asked. “That she was involved in Turnbull’s death?”
“She wasn’t,” Weaver said. “Whoever killed Turnbull had keys to the cells, and access to a cyanic compound and a syringe. All she had was a bucket, mop, and occasional access to a broom. If you’d ever met her, you’d understand. The woman was in a constant state of terror.”
“What does she look like?” Riley asked.
“Five-five, with hair so blonde it’s almost white,” Weaver said. “Angular nose, green eyes. Never stands up straight, walks as if she’s trying to make herself seem as small as possible. Timid. Terrified. She was a seamstress by trade though not a member of the tailor’s guild. The hope of finding work brought her to Twynham six months ago. There’s no family, and Norton made sure she had no friends. If she were to go anywhere it would be to me, and she hasn’t as yet.”
“And if we find her,” Mitchell asked, “what do you want us to do?”
“I’m not concerned about her,” Weaver said. “I just want to know this is the better of two possible endings in another pitiful domestic abuse case.”
“Understood. Longfield? Longfield!”
“Sir?” Simon snapped back to attention. He’d been staring fixedly at Norton’s almost severed head, and looked a little sick. Ruth supposed that was to be expected. Unlike her, he’d dealt with nothing more gruesome than paperwork since he’d graduated from the academy.
“Longfield,
go with Riley,” Mitchell said. “Start at the construction site. Confirm whether anyone saw anything. Find out when the last person left yesterday evening, and who was first in this morning. Oh and check whether Norton worked there. He chose this spot for a reason. Do you have an address for DeWitt?”
“Here,” Weaver said. “The bottom one is DeWitt’s, the other is the address Norton gave at the time DeWitt was arrested.”
“Deering, you’re with me,” Mitchell said, taking the piece of paper from Weaver.
Due to her new rank, Weaver had a horse-drawn buggy to take her back to Twynham. Ruth and Mitchell had to rely on bicycles with studded-leather tyres that offered little grip on roads carpeted with slick leaves.
Mitchell winced as he raised his leg to mount. The foot went back down. “It’s not far,” he said. “Perhaps we should walk.”
“Are you all right?” Ruth asked.
“It’s only my side, where Wallace shot me,” Mitchell said. “I keep forgetting about the stitches. Now, this murder, what would you do next?”
“Um… check DeWitt’s rooms and see if her clothing is missing,” Ruth said. “Ask in the chandler’s if anyone remembered her arriving and, if so, what kind of bag she brought with her. If that’s gone then it would confirm she ran. As to finding her, we could send her description to all the provincial railway stations. But…well, she’s probably run home, wherever that is.”
“Probably, and if we find out where that is, we’ll send a note to the local constable to keep watch for her.”
Ruth fell in behind Mitchell as they pushed the bikes between a horse-drawn skip and a scavenger’s cart.
“What about Simon?” Mitchell asked. “Do you trust him?”
Mitchell had asked her that a dozen times over the last week. So had Weaver. Simon had been transferred to Serious Crimes on Ruth’s recommendation. Weaver had asked Riley and Mitchell whom in the police they could absolutely trust. They’d both suggested a few names. Ruth had added Simon’s.