by Frank Tayell
“And a good evening to you,” Maggie replied. “Bad day?”
“A busy day made worse by having to walk the last mile. It’s not safe cycling in the dark.”
“Enjoy it now,” Maggie said. “It’ll get worse when the snow comes.”
“I should complain,” Ruth said, pulling her boots off.
“Indeed you should, and not to me. Write to our MP.”
“Yeah. Maybe I will,” Ruth said, already composing that letter in her mind. “Who is that?”
“Tchh!” Maggie scolded. “Rupert Pine. Now, wash your hands, pick up the masher, and then take your anger out on the potatoes.”
“Is there hot water?” Ruth asked, hopefully.
“There was,” Maggie said, “and there will be again, just as soon as you fill the kettle and set it to boil.”
Ruth sighed, picked up the kettle, put her boots back on, and went outside to the tap.
The Acre had no electricity, but they had mains water thanks to a standpipe in the front garden. If they wanted hot water, it had to be boiled on the stove. To have a hot shower, the water had to be carried up to the bathroom and decanted into a waxed canvas sack attached to an old-world showerhead. Once the spigot was turned it took one hundred and ninety-six seconds for the sack to empty. After being caught waterless and covered in soap too often to count, she’d learned to time it exactly.
She stuck the kettle under the standpipe and turned the tap. The Acre had been a refugee camp. Over the years, the number of migrants reaching Britain had fallen. Most new arrivals now found a home with the fishing crews who’d rescued them, or in the farms where they came ashore. As a result the population in The Acre had dwindled. The camp had been closed, and then re-opened on the other side of the main-road, though it was now called the Milford Immigration Centre.
Maggie ran a schoolhouse in the downstairs rooms of their tumbledown house. She was paid by the government, though never enough, and they now had to pay rent. The Acre had been given to Mr Foster as compensation for a plot of land of similar size on which the main railway station had been built. Foster had installed the water pipe. It was an improvement on having to walk down to the pump, and that had been a revelation compared with collecting water from the river. However, by providing running water, Foster was able to double the rent he could charge.
“It’s freezing out there,” Ruth said when she got back inside.
“That’s the young for you, complaining about getting some fresh air,” Maggie said. “I’ve barely had ten minutes of it today.”
“Yours was a bad day?” Ruth asked.
“No worse than most,” Maggie said. “We had two new students today. Ahmed and Nesirine. He’s fourteen, and she’s nine. I think they’re from Algeria, but it’s hard to be sure. They’ve only a few words of English, and only a few more of French, which is still about twice as many as I know of Arabic. If I understood them, they came across land, through Egypt and up through Turkey. They were adamant they passed the pyramids. Or,” she added, as she lifted a saucepan from the stove, “perhaps they were trying to say that they knew what a pyramid was. But they arrived through the Channel Tunnel three days ago with a trade caravan. Or I think it was a trade caravan. Perhaps it wasn’t.” She sighed. “It was a long and trying day.”
“No one learned anything?”
“Not really. Each day I feel like I’m less of a teacher and more of a babysitter. The two children have gone to the shelter for the night. They’ll be in the classroom tomorrow, but within the week they’ll have been found a home somewhere else.”
“Then maybe you should write a letter to complain,” Ruth said.
“I already did,” Maggie said. “Weeks ago. I finally got a reply. It’s in the envelope on the dresser. You read it while I dish up.”
It was from the Department of Housing and Employment under whose jurisdiction the immigration centre fell. Ruth skimmed through it.
“They’re shutting the school,” she said. “That’s terrible.”
“It’s wonderful news, and it’s long overdue,” Maggie said. “Processing centres made sense when we had thousands of people arriving each week. It was the only way of preventing disease from spreading throughout the country. Now, calling them counterproductive is being polite. Shipping those kids here only so they can be moved on again in a week? Utter madness, and thoroughly disruptive to the children already here.”
“You’re not angry?” Ruth asked.
“Not a bit of it. Of course, it doesn’t say what the new plans are, and they may well be worse, but that’s not our problem.”
“No. No, I suppose not,” Ruth said. “Does that mean we’ll lose the house?”
“I doubt it, but the rent has to paid. Of course, there’s little reason for us to stay. Your work is in the city, and as for me, well… I don’t know. There’s the silver lining. You wanted to leave, and now we can find somewhere in town.”
“It’s… I… well, I suppose I did want to leave, but I didn’t want to know that I’d never be able to come back.”
Maggie smiled. “Despite what people may tell you, you can always go back. Now, eat up and tell me about your day.”
As they ate a meal that came mostly from their own garden, Ruth did.
“And he calls himself Ned Ludd?” Maggie asked. “I suppose that was a natural name for someone to use if they were against technology. Are you sure it’s connected with Emmitt and the counterfeiting?”
“I do. There’s something else. Something I wanted to ask. It’s about when you found me in that camp, when you rescued me.”
“Yes?”
“Did you look for my parents?”
“Of course I did,” Maggie said.
“And there was no sign of them?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Commissioner Wallace had a coin. On it was a symbol, a backward ‘L’. And there was an inscription, the truth lies in the past. I think that was the same message that was on the ribbon around the neck of the bear you found me with, except that all the letters except R U T H had been burned out.”
Maggie closed her eyes. “I was in the camp,” she said, “working with the team who brought the antibiotics. When I found you… well, I heard you first. You were sobbing. I followed the sound to a hospital tent. There were ten stretchers, and on each was a corpse. Everyone was dead. Any of them could have been your mother or father. No one stepped forward to look after you, and it wasn’t like it is now. Back then, if you found a child, you took them in. I told everyone I could about you and asked them to pass word to the other survivors. There weren’t many of those, and none came forward to identify you. I suppose… I understand that this is important to you. Perhaps the camp’s other survivors could be traced, but if no one has come looking for you after all this time, you should ask yourself whether you really want to know who they are.”
Ruth realised how ungrateful her questioning must have seemed. “It’s not for me,” she said. “I mean, it’s about the investigation, that’s all.”
“Of course, of course. Now, be a dear and take the scraps to the pig. I’ve got to plan a lesson tomorrow that somehow includes geography and maths for a class that speaks a dozen languages, none of which are English.”
Ruth had wanted to ask another question, but wasn’t sure she dared. She could tell that she’d upset her mother. She grabbed her boots.
“At least these are waterproof,” she said, trying to change the topic. “You won’t believe what Ned Ludd was…” She trailed into silence as she stared at her boots.
“Was what, dear?” Maggie asked.
“Three of them ran,” Ruth said, “but Ned Ludd couldn’t. He couldn’t run!” She pulled on her other boot. “I have to go. I’ll be back soon.”
“Back from where? Where are you going?” Maggie asked, but Ruth was already out of the door.
The bike fell from under her twice, and she crashed into a hedge once, as she hurtled through the dark streets toward Twynham. When she reach
ed Police House, her jacket was torn and her trousers were covered in mud. Mitchell had already left. Ruth knew he had rooms in a pub. She didn’t know which one, but she’d been to Weaver’s house before. A moment later, she was back on her bike, cycling along better-kept roads illuminated by the occasional electric lamp. Twenty minutes after leaving Police House, she was hammering on Weaver’s door.
“What is it?” the assistant commissioner demanded, before she’d opened the door. “What—”
Ruth didn’t give her a chance to finish the sentence. “The clogs,” she said. “He couldn’t run in them. He could barely walk.”
“Who?” Weaver asked.
“But the others ran. They wore shoes. He didn’t.”
“Take a breath,” Weaver said. “Calm down, and tell me—”
“Ned Ludd! He didn’t come from very far away,” Ruth interrupted. “It has to be close to where I arrested him. Two miles, or three, but not much further.”
Weaver stared at her. “The clogs Ned Ludd wore means he couldn’t run? Yes, I see. Yes.” She nodded to herself. “Yes, I do. Be at Police House at dawn.”
“At dawn?” Ruth asked. “Aren’t we going to search for them now?”
“It’s dark,” Weaver said. “How would we find them? We’d need lights. They would see us coming and disappear. And for something like this, we need more than you and I. Go home. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
And so, for the second time that day, Ruth went home.
Chapter 2
Fingerprints
2nd October
Ruth was up before dawn, and out of the house soon after. The night shift was still on duty when she arrived at Police House. Weaver’s office was locked, as was the cabin in the yard. Ruth sat down on the steps to wait.
“Couldn’t find your bed?” Mitchell asked.
Ruth opened her eyes and realised she’d fallen asleep.
“Sir. I think I know where the saboteurs came from. It’s the shoes. The clogs! The suspect could barely walk in them, so he must have come from—”
“An abandoned cottage surrounded by woodland, two miles south, one mile to the west of where you arrested Ned Ludd. Kelly found them. She and Isaac went searching for them. They split up. After locating them, she went to find Isaac. He came to me, and by the time we got back to the cottage, it was empty.”
“Oh.” Ruth deflated. “They’d gone?”
“But left a lot behind,” Mitchell said.
“Like what?”
“You’ll see for yourself in an hour or so. The rest of the new members of the team should be here soon. Why don’t you see if you can find some coffee?”
“Oh, no, I’m all right.”
“I meant for me.”
“It’s getting crowded in here,” Captain Mitchell said. Ruth gave a polite smile at what she hoped was a joke, but the captain wasn’t wrong. Besides Mitchell, Riley, and herself, there was Simon, Constables Kingsley, Barton, Haney, and Kowalski, all of whom had been with the railway police. Then there was Sergeant Davis. His accent was Welsh, and he wore the most curious of uniforms. Rather than being made of blue waxed-wool, it was a figure-hugging black with almost as many pockets and pouches as there were patches and repairs.
“Welcome to Serious Crimes,” Mitchell continued, “and that’s as much of an introduction as we have time for. Yesterday morning, five telegraph wires leading into the city were cut. Cadet Deering stopped a sixth from being severed.” He nodded in her direction. “She arrested a suspect, three others got away. During the day, we ascertained that these four came from a property nearby. We located it late yesterday evening. When I arrived it was empty of people, but full of placards with slogans of a technophobic persuasion. The suspect Deering arrested calls himself Ned Ludd. He also gives that name to every other member of his organisation. It’s possible he’s just doing that for his own amusement. However, for now we’ll assume we’re looking for a militant group of technophobes, probably calling themselves Luddites. Though no one was injured during yesterday’s sabotage, we can link this group to the assassination attempt. You’re all up to speed on that?” He looked around at the new faces.
“Sergeant Riley filled us in,” Davis said.
“Good. We’re assuming Emmitt orchestrated the sabotage. It was done for a reason, quite what that is, we don’t know. From what he said, we suspect that this was the first of three similar incidents. The final one may take place on the fifth of November. It might not. Remember that Emmitt was conspiring with Commissioner Wallace. He almost killed our Prime Minister, and came close to flooding the market with enough fake currency to destroy the economy. Kingsley, Barton, Haney, you’re assigned to Assistant Commissioner Weaver. You’ll join the search for properties near the five telegraph wires that were cut. Davis, I want you to interview Ned Ludd. There’s a cultish edge to his mode of speech. See if there’s anything you recognise. Kowalski, your file says you went to the university.”
“Not as a student,” the man said indignantly. “I worked there!”
“And today you return. Take Longfield with you. Start with the library. Get the names of anyone who’s taken out books on the industrial revolution, the real Ned Ludd, and the Luddites. I want a list of any classes that are taught where those are subjects. Are any of the students missing? Keep your eyes out for a backward ‘L’.” He pointed at the sketch Ruth had drawn of name ‘Ned Ludd’ which was now pinned to the board on the wall. “That seems to be their symbol. Riley, speak to Jameson.”
“Again?” she asked. “He won’t talk.”
“No, probably not, but if anyone knows what Emmitt is planning, it will be him. Get to it. Deering, you’re with me. Bring the crime-kit.”
“Are we going to the cottage?” Ruth asked.
“First, we’re going to the stables,” Mitchell said. “The Luddites left a lot of evidence behind, and they might return to destroy it. I won’t give them the chance.”
Before the Blackout, the building Police House now occupied had been a school. The stables were in what had once been the swimming pool. A horse and cart was already waiting for them. Ruth stowed the crime-kit next to a neat stack of evidence bags.
“What did you find at the cottage?” she asked, as Mitchell drove the horses through the streets.
“Not much, and a lot. It was too dark to do a thorough search, and I was primarily looking for clues as to where they’d gone. I didn’t find any. In short, it’s a small cottage, with mattresses for six.”
“Not four?”
“Precisely,” he said. “So why did the other two not join in the sabotage? The biggest find were tunics and trousers. All of rough wool.”
“Like Ned Ludd’s?”
“Yes.”
“So they left some spare clothes?” she asked.
By way of reply, Mitchell clicked his teeth at the horse.
“Or,” Ruth added, “they changed out of the tunics and back into normal clothes.”
“Which is what I’d do,” Mitchell said. “In addition there were some tools, but no weapons. They did leave some placards, and the evidence to suggest they spent their time making them. The slogans all express an anti-technology sentiment, and a few have backward ‘L’s on them. If we didn’t know to look for it, we’d probably assume it was a spelling mistake.”
“Placards? So they were planning some kind of demonstration?”
“Probably. That’s what you’d expect from a political group.”
“But shouldn’t they have had one already?” she asked. “I mean, they should have started with the demonstrations and graduated to sabotage, not the other way around. Or have there been demonstrations?”
“None big enough to catch my notice, so I would say no. That’s proof that Emmitt is the one pulling their strings. Whatever he’s planning, he hasn’t wanted their existence to be known until now.”
“Then the real question is why he would want the telegraph cut,” Ruth said.
“Exactly.” Mitchell
pulled on the reins, bringing the horses to a stop at a busy junction.
“Maybe it was a distraction,” Ruth said. “Like murdering Dr Gupta. It has no purpose except to prevent us from investigating anything truly important.”
Mitchell flicked the reins. The horses walked on.
“Or,” Ruth continued. “Is it a double bluff? Are we meant to think it’s a distraction, but in reality it’s something critical to his plans?”
“Ah, the game within a game,” Mitchell said, giving the reins another flick. The horses began to canter. “And the game within that. I can see you are developing a healthy dose of paranoia. It usually takes a few years for a copper to acquire that. So, if it was a distraction, then what are they trying to distract us from?”
They travelled in silence for another mile. Mitchell had an easy hand on the reins. He had experience with horses, Ruth thought. She wondered if that had been learned since the Blackout, or if it came from before. She didn’t know that much about him, but, she thought, the journey to a crime scene probably wasn’t the place to ask.
“I like mysteries,” Ruth finally said.
“You do?”
“I mean mystery books,” she said. “Stories about robberies are my favourites. You know, jewel heists, bank robberies, those kind of things.”
“Really? I like comic fantasy, myself,” Mitchell said. “Something that takes me away from this time and place.”
“Oh. Okay, um… the point I was making is that in those books there’s always some big street party, or accident, or something that distracts the police while the criminals are digging the tunnel under the bank.”
“And it can’t be anything like that here. The bank’s vault is above ground, and most of what it currently contains are those counterfeit notes that we seized.”
“Right, so what’s the use of some big distraction?”
“That,” Mitchell said, “is what I was asking you.”
Thoughtful silence descended again, but didn’t linger for long.
“What if they come back to destroy the evidence?” Ruth asked. “If they were going to do it, it would be now, first thing this morning.”