Strike a Match 2

by Frank Tayell

  “You’re under arrest.”

  He craned his neck around. “Really?”

  “Yes,” Ruth said.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “Don’t you want to finish this, here and now? Get your revenge?”

  She did, of course she did, the temptation to pull the trigger gnawed at her, and for that reason, and that he had suggested it, she didn’t. “Kneel down, put your hands on your head.”

  He raised his left hand and turned around.

  “I can’t raise the other, sorry. It’s the arm,” he said affably.

  Ruth steadied her aim. The adrenaline was wearing off. The pistol was growing heavier. She was all too aware that they were alone in a forest, with help a long way away.

  “Kneel down,” she said.

  “How about a deal?” he suggested.

  “I’m not interested,” she said.

  “I’ll tell you about your past, and you let me go.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll even throw in the truth about that man Isaac. How does that sound?” he asked.

  Ruth hesitated. She didn’t care, not now, but she knew that one day she might. She needed to know whether this man knew the truth.

  “Do you know him?” she asked.

  “Isaac? Yes.”

  “Have you ever met him?”

  “Oh yes. It was a long time ago, but I’d never forget it.”

  Ruth nodded to herself. He hadn’t recognised Isaac when he stood outside the hotel. That was as close to confirmation as she would get that he was lying. This wasn’t a game she knew how to play, nor was this the time to learn.

  “You haven’t a clue who he is,” Ruth said, knowing that she needed to remember this moment in order to quell any demons of doubt that may come to haunt her in the future. “You don’t know what he looks like. You’ve never met him. Everything you say is a lie. All of it. Even the conspiracy. Even those coins. You and Fairmont created them. It was an elaborate hoax.”

  “That’s what you think is it?” he asked.

  “Are you going to deny it?”

  “You want me to tell you everything,” he asked. “You want a full confession? You want all the whys and wherefores?” He looked up at the trees. “It began a long time ago, before you were born. Your mother was—” He ducked, his left hand moving to his sling as he tried to draw a gun hidden in the black cloth, but Ruth had seen his shoulders move. She fired. And again, just for good measure.

  Emmitt howled in pain.

  “One through the shoulder, the other through the leg,” she said. “I’ve been practicing. Didn’t Simon tell you that?” She moved close enough to kick the gun away, then stepped back again.

  Emmitt spat. “Finish it, then,” he said.

  “Oh no,” Ruth said. “I told you. You’re under arrest. There’s going to be a trial. I’ll be there when they sentence you.”

  Emmitt cursed.

  Ruth took another step back, fixing Emmitt’s expression in her memory. It would be of great comfort in years ahead when she was plagued with doubt as to whether the man truly did know something of her past. The man looked scared. Ruth smiled.

  Epilogue

  The Black Cap

  15th October

  “Does the defence have any questions?” the judge asked with nothing but scorn in his voice.

  “None at all, your honour,” Emmitt said, his tone nothing but polite.

  “Then you may go, Officer Deering. I would add that the court is grateful for your testimony.”

  Ruth nodded politely and stood up. Leaving the stand, she glanced at the jury. Variations of stunned disbelief were written across their faces. It was the same with room’s lawyers, all acting for the prosecution. She couldn’t see the expression on the four journalists. They all had their heads bowed as they scrawled endless notes.

  The only other exception was Emmitt himself. Handcuffed, wearing a prison jumpsuit, and sitting in the open – so he couldn’t hide his hands beneath a table – he looked smug. He had admitted his guilt, readily confessing to everything. The jury was a formality, and the sentence already decided. Death.

  Weaver was outside, sitting on a long wooden bench, alone. Mitchell had given his testimony earlier in the day then returned to the hospital. In deference to the politicians who risked blackmail, the trial was being held in camera. Two uniformed police officers stood guard either end of the long, basement corridor, with more upstairs and Marines on the roof.

  Ruth wasn’t sure why. Fear after the fact, Mitchell had said, though he hadn’t explained what he meant.

  The journalists would be allowed to print the story ‘soon’. That was what they had been told at the beginning of the brief trial. Not just brief, it had been rushed. Isaac had vanished though that didn’t mean he’d left the city. His involvement had been brushed over both by Mitchell and her. No one had noticed the obvious omission from their accounts, or if they had no one had said anything. It made her pause, but not for long. Emmitt was guilty. The words had come from his own lips. Yet…

  “Now what?” Ruth asked.

  “We wait,” Weaver said.

  Ruth sat down on the bench. For the first time in a week, she wore a police uniform. It was a new one.

  “How are you feeling?” Weaver asked.

  “Fine.”

  Silence settled.

  “The trauma specialist is…” Weaver stumbled to a halt.

  “It’s fine,” Ruth said. “Good. Helping.” She wasn’t sure that was true. So far they’d got no further than talking about her childhood, and that was something Ruth didn’t want to think about.

  “I… I have some good news for you,” Weaver said, with forced cheerfulness. She paused, but Ruth said nothing. “You’re being promoted,” Weaver continued. “To probationary constable.”

  “I thought I had to serve a minimum of three months as a cadet,” Ruth said.

  “Under the circumstances, that has been waved,” Weaver said. “It was Mr Atherton’s idea. I agreed,” she added, “but he said it was important for the press. We have to treat this like a victory and that means rewards given to the victors.”

  “Treat it like a victory?” Ruth repeated. “He doesn’t think it’s one either?”

  “No.”

  “Because of the graffiti?” she asked.

  “It’s going up everywhere,” Weaver confirmed.

  Ruth had counted three walls daubed with ‘Ned Ludd’ that morning, and twice the previous evening. Only one had a backward ‘L’, and another was missing a ‘d’, but there was no mistaking it.

  “I thought he’d ban the Luddites,” Ruth said.

  “What for?” Weaver asked.

  “Sabotage,” Ruth suggested.

  “Except we don’t know which of them was involved in cutting the telegraph wires. Until we can prove that, arresting them in their hundreds would do nothing but fill up the cells.”

  “Hundreds?” Ruth asked.

  “There was a rally yesterday,” Weaver said. “Most of the people arrested in that processing plant attended, along with another three hundred. It went off peacefully, and no one said anything more incendiary than that rationing should be brought to an end, but I think it’s only the beginning.”

  “Huh! So Emmitt created this fake political movement as a distraction to aid their escape, and now it’s a real thing?” She gave a short brittle laugh. It was funny. Almost hysterical. Ruth clamped her mouth closed before the laughter could turn into a sob. Her emotions had been like a leaf on the wind for the last few days, soaring up and down, directionless, and unpredictable.

  After they’d arrested Emmitt, there had been questions. Ruth had fallen asleep halfway through them. She’d slept for twelve hours, but woken more tired than ever before. She didn’t think it was a victory either. Mitchell had given her the new uniform, and the first time she wore it was for the memorial service for the Marines who’d died on the train. She’d barely made it through the service, and had cracked during the
ceremonial gun-salute.

  “Yes,” Weaver said, speaking to fill the uneasy silence, “Constable Deering. It has a nice ring to it. You’re still on medical leave, of course. But when you return you can have your pick of assignments.”

  That was the reward. She was meant to be grateful. She wasn’t.

  “Are the newspapers really going to be allowed to print everything?” she asked instead.

  “Almost everything. They will include a full explanation of how the Luddites came to be formed as part of an elaborate robbery organised by figures within both the British and United States governments.”

  “And what will they say was stolen?”

  “The location of an unnamed treasure, now reclaimed and returned to America.”

  “Oh.” That was for the best, she supposed. Then she remembered the words of the oath she’d sworn before giving testimony. The whole truth, and nothing but. If she was required to tell it, then surely the public had a right to hear it. There was no point making that argument to Weaver.

  A few minutes later, the door opened, and a constable came outside.

  “Officer Deering?”

  “Yes?”

  “The judge wants to see you.”

  “Why?” Weaver asked.

  “Sorry, ma’am. He didn’t say.”

  Ruth followed the constable through the door, and then through another, and into the judge’s private chambers.

  “The prisoner wants to speak to you,” the judge said. “You don’t have to, and ordinarily I wouldn’t allow it, but he’s said little in his defence.”

  “Will anything he says be considered?”

  “Toward his sentence? No.” He gestured to his desk. On it was a piece of paper and a square of black cloth. “The jury has reached their verdict. As he offered no defence, it was a foregone conclusion.”

  “Guilty?” Ruth asked, wanting to know, to absolutely know, that Emmitt wasn’t getting off on some technicality.

  “Guilty,” the judge confirmed.

  “And the sentence?” she asked.

  The judge picked up the black cloth square. “Morally, I am against the death penalty,” he said. “I understood the need for it in the early years, but I hoped we would have moved beyond that barbarity. In this man’s case, I am inclined to make an exception. In any case, my own feelings are immaterial. There is only one punishment our law will allow for this man’s crimes. Taking a life is no small matter, even a life like his.”

  The relative morality of the death penalty, and the other provisions of the Emergency Powers Act, were debates for another time and another place, and perhaps, Ruth thought, for other people. She had chased the man, caught him, and brought him to justice. She had done her part, now it was time for others to do theirs.

  “He’ll be executed?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll speak to him,” she said. “At least, I’ll listen to what he has to say.”

  “What do you want?” she asked from the open doorway.

  “Is that a way to greet an old friend?” Emmitt replied.

  He was handcuffed, chained to the floor. The cell was bare, save for a solitary bulb in a cage above the door.

  “What do you want?” Ruth repeated.

  “Because I am an old friend,” Emmitt continued, as if Ruth had said nothing. “I was there when you were born.”

  “Do you have anything to say in your defence? They’re going to execute you. You know that, right?”

  A brief shadow flickered across his face. “I do know that, yes, and no, I have nothing to say in my defence. What would be the point? We won, after all.”

  “Won? Fairmont’s dead. So’s Longfield, Wallace, and DeWitt. The conspiracy is dead. Except it wasn’t a conspiracy at all, was it? It was a heist, and you failed.”

  “We can quibble over how to describe it, but it didn’t fail. It all worked perfectly.”

  Ruth shook her head. “You’ve had no contact with anyone since we brought you in. Whatever Fairmont learned in the embassy died with him.”

  “True,” Emmitt said. “Ah, well done. You wanted me to confirm it? Well, yes, he died without telling me. He certainly wouldn’t write it down. But the secret didn’t die with him. Other people know it. That particular truth may lie in the past, but it will come out. That is the nature of secrets.”

  “Is that where you got the idea for the inscription from?” she asked. “Old secrets from old governments that should have stayed lost among the ruins of the old world?”

  “Ah, no, but that is a long story. Would you like to hear it?”

  “No. Was there anything else you wanted to say? Or was that it?”

  The scowl returned, and this time remained. “We won,” he said. “History has been set on an unchangeable course. I heard about the graffiti.”

  Ruth frowned. Emmitt smiled.

  “I may have no visitors, but I hear the guards talking,” he said. “Ned Ludd’s name has been appearing on walls all over the city, hasn’t it?”

  “That wasn’t you,” she said.

  “Wasn’t it? The name is out there. The man we created has become a myth. The movement will follow. We won, you see. Everything we wanted has come to pass. The economy has been proven fragile. Suspicion has been created between Britain and America. Distrust has been sown among the candidates. Knowledge of that secret will prove more destructive than had it been revealed. The Prime Minister has gone. Atherton has replaced her. He is a thoroughly unimaginative man who will resort to violence, and so will armies be created. Whoever follows him will acquire a military. It won’t take long before they look for somewhere to conquer. We won.”

  “Yes. You said that. Goodbye.” She turned for the door.

  “Wait. I should ask you whether you wish to join us.”

  She caught the odd usage. “Should?”

  “But I won’t ask, because there’s no need. In time you will see that you are on the wrong side.”

  “Oh, stop,” she said. “It’s over, Emmitt. Seriously, this is your last chance to say something truthful. To apologise or… I don’t know. But if you want to be remembered for anything other than your deeds, say it now.”

  “Is it really over?” he asked.

  This time, Ruth didn’t reply. She walked out and kept walking until the courthouse was far behind her. Of their own volition, her feet took her to the hospital.

  Mitchell was there, in what was becoming his usual chair, outside the door to Riley’s room.

  “Constable Deering,” Mitchell said.

  “Probationary constable,” Ruth replied. “You heard?”

  “I still hear things,” he said. He wore his uniform though, like her, he was on leave. She supposed that if her reward was being promoted, his was not being sacked. “And probationary or not, it’s still constable,” he said. “Well done.”

  “How is she?”

  “Drifting in and out of consciousness,” Mitchell said. “But, on the whole, I’d say she’s heading toward recovery.”

  “Will she…?” Ruth began. “I mean, do they know if…?” She found it hard to ask the question.

  “We won’t know if she’ll walk again until she tries, and that is some time away. But you don’t need to walk to be a good detective.” Mitchell shrugged. “She is alive. That’s all I care about. The rest, well, it is what it is.”

  She could see the brittleness of his facade. She searched around for something else to say, but all she could come up with was, “I spoke to Emmitt.”

  “You did. What did he say?”

  “The usual lies and twisted words. They’re going to execute him.”

  “Yes.”

  She looked around for a clock. “I suppose they’ll have done it by now.”

  Mitchell stood. “We are a nation of laws, and that means we’re also a nation of appeals. There are procedures that have to be followed, and so we don’t march people out of the courthouse and put them up against the nearest wall.”

&
nbsp; “Oh.”

  “It’ll take a week or two,” Mitchell said. “But he won’t escape it. Not this time. Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

  Ruth fell into step next to him.

  “Have you seen the graffiti?” she asked.

  “It’s hard to miss,” he said.

  “Do you think it means trouble?” she asked.

  “Hopefully it means that the youth of today are opening a history book or two,” Mitchell said.

  “So, no?”

  “No. Not for us, or not more trouble than a copper usually gets.” He held open the door.

  “Do you think it’s over?” she asked as she stepped outside.

  “There are some loose ends, I suppose,” Mitchell said. “But there usually are. The major players are all dead. Yeah, I’d say it’s over.”

  They proceeded in silence, heading away from the hospital. A fine mist filled the air. It wasn’t quite rain, but it was persistent enough that she’d be drenched in a few minutes. She didn’t mind.

  “There’s something that’s bothering me,” she finally said.

  “Only one thing?”

  “Well, now you come to mention it, I do think someone needs to talk to Isaac.”

  “His store of weapons worries you? Let me deal with him. I know how.”

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  “Precisely? I don’t know. He’s taken Gregory north. He claimed that he has better health care than we have here. Honestly, I think he just wanted to get out of Twynham.”

  “And Simon?”

  “Gone with him,” Mitchell said. “Isaac will find him work.”

  “But not in Britain?” she asked.

  “No. He mentioned something about retrieving something from a vault in Geneva.”

  “Oh.” She thought. “Where’s that?”

  “Switzerland. That’s a long way on foot. Simon probably won’t come back.”

  And she thought about that. “Good.”

  “Was that what you wanted to ask?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s Rupert Pine and the other politicians. The ambassador, too. I’m pretty sure that Fairmont didn’t tell anyone what was inside Perez’s safe. But the ambassador knows, doesn’t he? And he’s planning on standing in the election. What if he uses it himself?”