by Frank Tayell
She’d taken a pillow from one of the caskets. The coffins looked far more comfortable than the chairs she’d pushed together. After the events of the previous day, lying in a coffin seemed too much like tempting fate. She closed her eyes in the hope that sleep would come. It didn’t. All that came to her was Emmitt’s face.
Did he really know who her parents were? He claimed to know the name she was born with, but there was no way of confirming it. But he had known she wasn’t born Ruth Deering.
“Who are you, Emmitt?”
She took out the coin and stared at the inscription. The truth lies in the past.
“Who were you?” That was a better question. Some computer programmer who’d been trying to trace Isaac and Maggie during the Blackout? Perhaps. On learning that Isaac was still alive, had he discarded his plans to catch the man who helped create the AI?
“No. That’s not right. He seemed to believe what he was saying.” And what had that been? All that talk of moments in history could be summarised as a desire for power. Did Isaac somehow fit into that? She shook her head, and rolled onto her back. There was a sudden flash of pain as she put pressure on her shoulder blades. She sat up.
“Maggie. Emmitt knew about Isaac, but not her. Why not?” Was it because she’d changed her name? Maybe Emmitt thought she was dead. There was no way of knowing. Something tripped at the back of her mind. Maggie wasn’t part of this, but there was something important she’d half thought a moment ago. Something obvious she was overlooking.
Slowly, she replayed everything Emmitt had said. She could feel the shape of the answer there. She went back further, remembering the torture and the questions the woman had asked.
Slowly, holding her breath lest the idea escape with it, she stood up. The pieces were there. They’d been there all along. The woman had known that she wasn’t born Ruth Deering, but hadn’t known her true age. What had Emmitt actually said? He’d known Isaac’s name, but hadn’t said anything about who Isaac actually was.
“Emmitt doesn’t know you, Isaac,” she murmured to the empty room. “But he did know that Davis and I were going to that supermarket.” No, it was before then. When she and the Welsh sergeant had gone to that meeting in the pub, the old man had been there, ready to tell her about the supermarket. While she was upstairs, someone downstairs had told Davis.
“They knew we would be in that pub.” Or that someone would be there. Not just ‘someone’, but police.
And a memory of the meeting room came back to her, and of the torturer standing in the doorway as Rupert Pine entered. Ruth remembered thinking that she’d seen Eve before. And then she knew where.
“Hawthorn. Norton. Turnbull.” Everything fell into place. She ran though it, testing each link in the chain of events, searching for some other possible explanation. There wasn’t one. Her mind shied away from the truth. She desperately didn’t want to believe it, but it fit all too perfectly.
She pulled on her coat and put the pistol into its pocket. Almost as an afterthought, she picked up her badge. She crossed to the door.
Isaac was in the reception area. For once he wasn’t wearing grey, but a green waxed jacket.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I didn’t hear you come back,” she said.
“I was arranging for transportation,” Isaac said. “If it’s not safe to take Gregory to the hospital here, then I’ll move him elsewhere. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m going to go and solve this case,” she said.
Isaac picked up a tweed cap. “Lead the way.”
“It’s police business, Isaac,” she said.
“Yes, that line only works when Henry says it.”
There was no time to argue. Ruth opened the door.
“You’re not wearing grey,” she said.
“I thought it best to have a disguise. Or at least not to make it too obvious who I was.”
“There’s no need,” Ruth said. “Emmitt was bluffing. He doesn’t know who you are.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ll tell you when we get there.”
“Where?”
Relishing being the person with the answers for once, she took delight in saying, “You’ll see.”
“Is Captain Mitchell in the Assistant Commissioner’s office?” Ruth asked.
“He is,” the uniformed sergeant acting as Weaver’s secretary replied. “But you can’t—”
Ruth had already opened the door. Mitchell was there, but so was another man whom she didn’t immediately recognise. He was in his sixties, with thin, grey hair, and a long trailing moustache.
“Deering? What are you—” Weaver began.
“What is it?” Mitchell asked.
“Sorry,” Ruth said. “I… sorry, I didn’t realise… I thought you two were alone.”
“You don’t know who I am. Understandable,” the man said, standing and extending his hand. “Philip Atherton.” Ruth knew the name. The man was the Deputy Prime Minister. She took his hand.
“Captain Mitchell was explaining what had happened to you,” Atherton said. “We understood you were on medical leave. You certainly shouldn’t be up and about.”
“I…” Ruth wasn’t sure what to say.
“Why were you looking for me?” Mitchell asked.
“I… the… um…” She looked from Mitchell to Atherton.
“I am the deputy leader of this nation,” Atherton said. “And I will be Prime Minister before the New Year. I rather think that makes me your superior.” He spoke with a smile, but there was no mistaking the order behind the words.
“The woman,” Ruth said. “The torturer. I wanted to know if Weaver recognised her.”
“Me?” Weaver asked. “You’re not going to accuse me of being involved, again, are you?”
“No,” Ruth said. “But I think I know who the woman was. Or who she claimed to be. You can confirm it.” She looked at Mitchell. He looked back. She thought she’d have to spell it out, but mercifully a light went on in his eyes. He pulled out the phone.
“Where on Earth did you get that?” Atherton asked. “I’ve been trying to get one for my press office for the past eighteen months. I can’t tell you how many scavengers I’ve paid, but they never bring back anything other than worthless junk.”
“It’s from Germany. A fulfilment centre twenty miles north, and two miles east of Dresden,” Mitchell said, lying easily. “I brought it back four years ago. I filed a report at the time.” He swiped the phone until he found the picture. “This is the torturer,” he said, holding it out for Weaver to see.
“That’s DeWitt,” Weaver said. “It was her?”
“Who is she?” Atherton asked, craning his neck to look at the photograph.
“Georgia DeWitt,” Weaver said. “A woman who was in custody during the time Josh Turnbull was killed. She was a trustee, cleaning cells. But it can’t be her. I spoke to her. She was terrified. A victim of domestic abuse. She was—”
“Acting,” Mitchell said, looking at the phone. “How long ago was it she arrived in Twynham? Six months? She had no friends, no family, and she disappeared a few days after being released, having killed her so-called abuser. What was his name? Norton, wasn’t it? The one witness who knew her both as the torturer, Eve, and the victim, Georgia DeWitt. So he was in on it, too.”
“But she didn’t have access to the cells,” Weaver said. “That’s why I eliminated her from the enquiry. How did she kill Turnbull?”
“I’m not sure,” Ruth said, “but I think I can find out. Will you keep the Marines on standby?”
“Of course,” Atherton said before Weaver could answer. “But after all you’ve been through, shouldn’t you rest?”
“Only I can do this,” Ruth said. “But I do need the captain’s help.”
“I think I should take direct command now,” Weaver said.
“At the moment there’s just a lot of paperwork to sort through,” Ruth said. “It’ll take us ho
urs, maybe days, and then we’ll need the Marines.”
“Then we better make a start,” Mitchell said, pocketing the phone. “Sir, ma’am.”
They left the office.
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Mitchell asked.
“Who can you trust?” Ruth said. “Who can you rely on, and how do you decide that? That’s what this comes down to. Are the rest of the Serious Crimes Unit here?”
“Riley’s still at the church. Kingsley, Haney, and Barton are at the supermarket, waiting for Davis’s body to be collected. Kowalski and Longfield are filling in paperwork from last night.”
“Get Simon,” Ruth said. “Don’t tell Kowalski anything.”
As Mitchell went to the cabin, Ruth stopped in the yard. She looked at the imposing brick building that was Police House, the stables that had once been a swimming pool, and the playing fields turned into allotments. For a brief moment, she saw it as it must have been, full of children going to lessons or playing in between. All gone, because of Maggie and Isaac. One single event. No, Emmitt was wrong. Because even though Maggie and Isaac had created that AI, someone else had made those viruses first. That had been done for a reason, and if anyone was responsible for all the pain, horror, and death of the Blackout, it was their creator.
“Ruth,” Simon began. “You’re okay. I was—”
“There’s no time,” Ruth said, marching out of Police House. “This way. Quickly!”
Isaac, who’d been lurking by the gated entrance to the building, fell in behind them. Ruth led them down alleys, across lanes, and along old footpaths away from the town centre. She finally stopped in an old cemetery.
“Were we followed?” she asked Mitchell.
“No,” he said.
“We weren’t,” Isaac added.
“Who’s this?” Simon asked.
“You don’t know?” Ruth replied. “You don’t know,” she repeated softly. “This is Isaac.”
“Oh.”
“What’s going on?” Mitchell asked.
“The meeting in the supermarket was a setup,” Ruth said. “The old man knew that we would be in that pub. I was told by him, and Davis was told by someone else that same evening, to go to that supermarket. Then there’s the ambush of the train. Emmitt organised that far too quickly for it to have been the train driver who told him. And how would she have told him? By telegraph when we reached the first depot? No. He knew as soon as the decision to move Fairmont was made. DeWitt, Eve, whatever her name was, someone let her into the cells to kill Turnbull. We all knew that, and so Weaver purged the police department. Then there’s Sadiq.”
“Who?” Isaac asked.
“A boy who was painting slogans across the city,” Ruth said. “I stumbled across him, and he told Mitchell where the Luddites were going to meet. It’s a remarkable coincidence, don’t you think? I mean, that it was me who found him? Except it wasn’t a coincidence. I was led there, by Simon.”
“We were walking at random,” Simon said.
“You were working in prisoner processing when Turnbull died,” Ruth said. “I vouched for you. That’s why Weaver thought you had nothing to do with it. But it was you who let that torturer into the cells.”
“A lot of people worked—” Simon began.
Ruth cut him off. “You were in the room when Weaver said there was a lighthouse we could send Fairmont to.”
“There were—”
Again, Ruth didn’t let him finish. “You knew I was adopted. You knew I didn’t know what name I was born with.”
“But I—”
“And I’d told you about Isaac. About this weird guy who dressed in grey. A man who had equally weird followers, and how they were teaching me how to shoot out in the woods. But that’s all I told you because that’s all I knew. That’s all Emmitt knew.”
“I never told anyone—”
“But the torturer didn’t know how old I was.” A memory of that look of interested surprise on the torturer’s face came back to her. “The only things Emmitt knew were those I’d told you. Everything else he said were careful guesses I had no way of disproving, but he didn’t know my age. He couldn’t because I never told you. You set me up. You sold me out. You were my friend. I vouched for you. I said you could be trusted!”
Simon opened his mouth, closed it, and then bolted. He managed two steps before Isaac tackled him.
“I think we can take that as a confession,” Isaac hissed. “Do you have handcuffs, Henry?”
Mitchell threw them to Isaac.
“Ned Ludd,” Ruth said. “We should have realised when I arrested him. You should have realised,” she added, addressing the captain. “Talk about a coincidence. I was on the route from where we found Norton’s body to the woods where Isaac was teaching me how to shoot. On the way, I happened to stumble across Ned Ludd. I don’t know whether I was meant to arrest him, or whether he was supposed to run. It doesn’t matter. It was a setup. Norton was killed so, when I went to the woods, I’d be starting from that place, and so was guaranteed to walk along that section of the railroad. They killed Norton just to be certain that I would stumble across Ned Ludd. That’s not even cold-blooded. That’s something else. But you were right about the Luddites. They were a distraction. How much time have we wasted on them? How many did we interview after they were arrested at that processing plant? And how much useful information did we get? How many have even been charged?”
Mitchell nodded thoughtfully. “You told Simon about the firing practice?”
“Of course. Why shouldn’t I? He was my friend.”
“Why use Simon?” Mitchell asked. “Emmitt had Wallace in the police department, after all.”
“Emmitt didn’t trust Wallace,” Ruth said. “He was planning on having him killed.
“That can’t be the only reason.” Mitchell turned to Simon. “All right, Longfield. Why’d you do it?”
“I…” Simon began and for a moment Ruth thought he would lie. “It was my mother. I just told her what was going on. That’s all. I didn’t know any of this would happen, I swear.”
“Are you going to deny letting DeWitt into Turnbull’s cell?” Ruth demanded.
“No, I… I didn’t have a choice. I really didn’t. And I didn’t know she was going to kill him.”
“And you led us to that boy, Sadiq?” Ruth asked.
“I thought… I didn’t… yes,” Simon said, his shoulders slumping as he abandoned prevarication.
“Why?” Mitchell asked.
“Because I was told to.”
“I meant why do any of it,” Mitchell asked.
“I can guess,” Isaac said. “It was trade. American imports would have destroyed the Longfields’ wealth. With it would go their influence, and right now, they are very influential, but who’ll drink ersatz coffee when the real bean is being shipped in from the Caribbean?”
Ruth pulled out the silver coin she’d taken from DeWitt’s body.
“Have you seen this before?” she asked.
Simon’s eyes widened. “My mother has one.”
“She does?” Mitchell smiled. So did Ruth, in the joy of confirmation.
“Where is she?” Mitchell asked.
“At home,” Simon said.
“Is there anything else you want to ask him?” Mitchell asked Ruth.
She shook her head. “Not now.”
“We can’t take him back to the police station,” Mitchell said. “Word would get back to his mother.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Isaac said. “His body will never be found.”
“No, please! You can’t,” Simon protested.
“No,” Ruth said. There was a momentary flash of relief in Simon’s eyes. “Not yet. We may have more questions for him. Do you have somewhere we can lock him up?”
“Only the funeral home,” Isaac said.
“We’ll go there,” Ruth said. “Take the handcuffs off. We’re going to walk through the streets normally, but if you run, I’ll shoot yo
u.” And she knew that she would.
“They were planning this for months,” Riley said. “How long ago was DeWitt arrested?”
“Six months,” Mitchell said. They were back in the funeral home. Simon was locked in a storage room. Riley had been waiting for them there, having come to the funeral home straight from the church.
“And the Luddites would get the blame for all of it?” Riley asked.
“Which is why he recruited them from students and beggars, children and the grief-ridden. Expendable people with no one to speak up for them. Imagine the headlines. Imagine the conversations in pubs and factories after an anti-technology group gets blamed for assassination. The rumours would start, and soon they would be blamed for all our current ills. Now imagine the election. Which candidates win? Those who’ve taken a pro-technology stance.”
“Do you still think this is about politics?” Riley asked.
“Longfield’s involvement confirms it,” Mitchell said. “This isn’t the politics of the ballot box, but of economics. The assassination and counterfeiting were about destroying the trade deal, and the only people who benefit from that are those whose fortunes have been built on rationing and aid shipments. The Longfields would be destroyed if the market was suddenly opened to the import of American food.”
“There has to be more to it than that,” Ruth said. “How does the fifth of November tie into this?”
“Maybe it doesn’t,” Isaac said.
“But it did,” Ruth said. “At least, we know there was meant to be a third attack on the telegraph.”
“Or that was what Ned Ludd was told,” Mitchell said. “Which doesn’t mean there ever would be a third attack. Maybe the fifth of November was another red herring. It made us think we still had a chance of stopping something that had already happened.”
“I’m not sure,” Ruth said.