by K. C. Finn
He looks down at his leather clad hands and flexes his fingers. She’s hit a tiny nerve there, and she knows it by the way Cae’s eyes dart about for a moment as he collects himself.
“So tell me about Brooks’ behaviour,” he continues.
Her glassy eyes meet his for a moment, then Angelica rests her chin on her arched fingers.
“He’d come in every morning really cheerful,” she explains, “so cheerful you’d never know he worked in a prison. He’d go about everything with this awful cheeriness: meetings, supervisions, counselling sessions, delivering inmates to you lot. Until he got to the end of the day. Suddenly he’d look like he wanted to kill himself, and he’d go home like that every night. But the next morning - cheerful again! Like nothing had ever happened.”
“I see.” Cae nods. “The behaviour certainly fits the bill of someone taking mood-altering drugs.” He watches Angelica for a moment, noticing her increasing discomfort. “I suppose you’ll get his job then?” He asks suddenly.
“What?” She replies, eyes widened.
“Brooks. You’ll get his inmates for your very own?”
“Oh,” she says, settling a little. She nods curtly. “Until they reshuffle or hire someone else. But honestly they’re not worth having. He had all the worst ones.”
“Will you be able to handle them?” Cae asks. He triumphs inwardly at the indignant look on Angelica’s face.
“Of course,” she says sharply. “It’s my job.”
Cae forces back a grin, fully aware that he’s not supposed to be toying with witnesses in this way, but he thinks he might have found the chink in Angelica Lane’s peculiar armour.
“You’re very proud of your work,” he observes.
“Because it’s worth doing,” she answers shortly. “Surely you feel the same, detective?”
Cae gives a silent nod. “So perhaps our friend Mr Brooks lost the will to go on somewhere along the line,” he suggests. “Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?”
“Just one thing, yes,” Angelica says. “Charles usually walked home; he went in the same direction as me for about ten minutes or so.”
Cae thinks back to the crime scene. “Towards the town centre?” He asks.
Angelica nods. “But two nights ago, this big white van pulled up at the jetty as we docked. And he got in. I mean, I’ve only seen the guy for the last two weeks, but he always walked with me, right up until that night before he died. It might be nothing.”
“That it might,” Cae agrees, but he’s already having one of those strange instinctive feelings again. A big white van is a perfect place to tie someone up and drug them. That would only leave the incineration and the drop from the building to explain.
“Thank you Miss Lane,” he says, rising from his chair. Angelica mirrors his movements quickly, almost eagerly. “If you remember anything else don’t hesitate to call us.”
Cae holds out his hand to her, and Angelica takes a long, considered look at his gloves again.
“I won’t,” she replies, still looking as his hand, “if you don’t mind.” And in a swift motion she is gone from the room.
Angelica treads the hallway sharply, her heels clicking away with an echo. Cae lowers his hand slowly, wondering what she thinks she knows about him.
7.
After an afternoon of completing incredibly dull paperwork that doesn’t warrant a description, Cae returns home to find Kendra waiting on his doorstep. She hasn’t been waiting long; Cae is always home at 6:05.
Cae gives her a small wave from across the street, making out her familiar shape in the smog. For an ex-soldier, Kendra still seems to wear an awful lot of khaki, and her thick, plaited hair gives her away despite the huge gasmask over her features.
“Nice mask,” Cae says, his gristly voice distorted by his own breathing chamber. He fumbles for his keys as he reaches the door, balancing a pile of files in one arm.
“It’s new,” Kendra replies with a shrug. “And it fits better.” She takes the files from Cae, affording him better access to his pockets.
After they’ve entered the dark little house, the pair pass through into clean air and immediately de-mask. Cae takes in a grateful breath of the purified air, provided by small generators in every room of his home.
“I hate walking home,” he says in a breathy tone.
“You should really learn to drive,” Kendra observes. When Cae looks to her she has already settled herself on his sofa, ripping open the files and casting them everywhere. She finds the pathology report in seconds and dives in, brown eyes wide with intrigue.
“I’ll fix the drinks then, shall I?” Cae asks. There is no reply.
He moves to a small cabinet of spirits and mixers, but ends up with the same creamy concoction as always. The effects of low volume alcohol intake are tantamount to a crime solving mood.
“You read all this today?” Kendra asks.
Cae looks up to see the back of her head. She is still deep in the reading. “I did,” he answers.
“Well you’re an idiot.”
It isn’t unusual for Kendra to make these sudden outbursts. As a member of the Kingdom’s Special Brigade for ten years, she rose to the rank of sergeant, a role famous for its direct, no-nonsense approach.
“Thank you,” Cae replies in a simple tone. “And why is that exactly?”
“This part about the impact of the fall, and the damage done to the front of the body when it hit the concrete, take a look at it again.”
Kendra throws the file at Cae, who misses the catch most expertly. He scoops up the pages in one gloved hand, delivering Kendra her drink in the other.
“The approximate height of the fall, based on the damage,” she guides.
Cae finds the right place. “Five thousand metres,” he reads.
Kendra looks at him aghast. “How are you not making this connection?” She asks in disbelief.
The detective shuffles into the seat next to her, taking a sip of his drink. “I’m sort of a feet-and-inches kind of guy,” he answers.
The soldier shakes her head a little. “Five thousand metres. How high d’you think that is?”
Cae screws up his face, knowing whatever answer he gives will be wrong. “Maybe,” he begins, “Maybe as high as the old Watchtower, in the town centre?”
“Try bigger, say twenty times bigger,” Kendra corrects, “This guy was practically thrown off of Kilimanjaro.”
“Well that changes things a little,” Cae observes. This kind of deep confusion would worry some, but a seasoned inquisitor like Caecilius Rex knows it’s all part of the bigger picture.
“And he definitely landed on the promenade?” Kendra pushes. “He wasn’t placed there?”
Cae slowly remembers the small crater around the crushed body; the flecks of smashed concrete strewn as far as an eye could see in the smog.
“That’s where he landed all-right,” he confirms.
“He must have been thrown out of a plane,” Kendra says, but Cae shakes his head.
“We’d know. The police always get warning if there’s going to be a flyover, so we can turn our searchlights off,” he explains, “even if it’s just a holiday charter. There was nothing scheduled for that night.”
“Then explain to me where this guy fell from?”
Caecilius looks up into Kendra’s serious expression. She hates not knowing the answers, but for him the world is nothing but a series of unsolved stories.
“I can’t,” he finally replies.
8.
Dartley Police Department Audio-Transcription
Statement of: Reddrick Quentin Richmond
Status: Dartley Prison Inmate (ID 54968)
Case of: C. A. Brooks
Interview Conducted By: M Spinner, PC
S: In your own words, please describe your relationship with the victim.
R: My own words? Whose words were you expecting? Keats? Shelley perhaps?
S: From the beginning, Mr Richmond.
S: And how did you find him?
R: Cheery, usually. Always had a story about his army days. Moaned about the police force a lot. Especially you. Didn’t like you much, Mikey. But who can blame him?
S: Thanks for that. Always nice to know. So would you say he was happy in his job?
R: Yes and no. I love saying that. Yes and no.
S: Any time you’re ready to elaborate, just let me know.
R: Right, right. Sorry. He was always happy to look at. Big smile, pretty nice to the crims actually. I suppose he has to be, working in liaison. Sorry, that’s had to be, isn’t it, now that the poor bugger’s dead?
S: Get to the “no” part.
R: Ah. He was very anti-establishment for a screw. I liked that about him. Always saying he’d be out of the nick if there were any better jobs going. But he couldn’t afford to quit, which is funny, “cause Angel told me yesterday that the pay in liaison’s incredible these days. Proper golden handshake kind of gig.
S: You think he had money problems?
R: Well would you keep wearing the same shoes with a huge hole in the sole if you could afford to change them? Oh wait. I just remembered who I’m asking. Seriously Mikey, when was the last time you bought shoes? Those things are disgusting. And I’m saying that in prison orange.
S: Do you have anything else to add?
R: Well your hair could do with some volume.
S: About Mr Brooks. Please.
R: Well, since you said please. I did hear from another inmate that he’d seen Brooks down at the circus one time.
S: The what?
R: It’s a vice event. Happens randomly. Moves around a lot. I don’t really know much about it to be honest. Black market isn’t my style, it’s just not chic, you know?
S: Which inmate?
R: Ooh now, if I’m going to name names, there should be something in it for me.
S: Ah yes, you’ve got an appeal coming up, haven’t you? Your co-operation won’t be forgotten.
R: Well, in that case. Flash Morgan.
S: Frederick Morgan? The pimp?
R: The very same. Though I’ll grant you, he’s not the most solid source of intel.
S: Anything else?
R: Don’t think so, no. As I said, it’s not my style.
9.
Standing the smog waiting for the prison boat is a new experience for ex-sergeant Kendra Nai, and she isn’t the only one silently wondering if bringing her along to official police business is a good idea. Caecilius stands beside her, and she can hear his breathing echoing inside his mask. His cobalt blue eyes are focused tightly on the sea, which is only visible for a few metres ahead before it disappears into the brownish smoke on the water.
“You’re sure this is okay?” she asks for the hundredth time of the morning.
“I told you,” Cae replies in a quiet tone, “Jobe even offered you payroll, so you may as well be here.”
Kendra nods a little. “It’s not like I was busy.” She hasn’t been busy at all since the army wrote her off with a big fat pension at the tender age of twenty-eight. And looking for a new career wouldn’t exactly be easy, given the terms of the write-off.
The boat arrives after a few more awkward minutes, and they board with a quick flash of Cae’s badge. Under the canopy of the boat a woman starts walking towards them immediately. She wears a bright orange gas mask that can only be prison-issue, and her blonde hair falls flawlessly over its straps. Kendra almost moves to adjust her own black plaits, but then she thinks better of it. Who cares if you look good in this awful toxic smog?
“Detective Rex,” says the woman, who is shorter than them both. “I’m surprised to see you again so soon.”
“Believe me Miss Lane,” replies Cae, “I take absolutely no pleasure in visiting Dartley Prison.”
The little blonde just nods, and Kendra wonders why they don’t shake hands, particularly after the blonde suddenly holds a hand out to her instead.
“My associate,” Cae says as the women shake hands.
“Kendra Nai,” says the sergeant firmly.
“Angelica Lane,” the blonde replies, her eyes narrowing in what could either be a smile or a frown, the mask making it impossible to tell. “Firm grip,” she observes, taking her hand away slowly.
“Thank you,” says Kendra with an unmistakable triumph in her tone.
“So you’re here for Mr Morgan today, I believe?” asks Angelica.
“Don’t tell me you’re his liaison too?” Cae replies. The blonde just nods. “Wow. Redd Richmond, Flash Morgan, you sure did get a fine herd to look after.”
“If you think they’re bad, you should see the women,” Angelica adds.
Kendra laughs her manly chuckle for a moment, but then the sight of Dartley Prison comes into view through the smog. The horrible building looms darkly, even in the daylight. Through the strange veil of the toxic smoke, it seems like it’s made of shadows.
A moment later they’re docking, and a moment after that they leave the boat. The strange experience of entering the prison passes Kendra in a whirl of masked-and-suited somebodies and keys and locks. Cae and the blonde piece are talking, but she doesn’t hear what they say. The dirty concrete of the inner corridors reminds her of her base in the East Atlantic; the echoing of the gates and shutters sounds just the same. It isn’t until they reach a small room labelled “Security” that she is woken from her haze.
“This is clean air now,” Angelica says as she pulls off her mask. She looks into the reflection of the security window for a brief moment, checking her lipstick.
“Thank you,” says Caecilius as an attendant takes his mask. Kendra relinquishes hers to the same man reluctantly; she likes to keep her possessions on hand.
“You’ll have to check any weapons here too, of course,” adds the blonde, and almost immediately Cae is giving over his handgun.
Kendra watches as it is checked in with a sticky barcode like a supermarket item. The man behind the security window shoves it into a plastic tub with their masks. After a moment Cae turns to her, a knowing look in his eyes.
Slowly, Kendra unveils her own gun from an ankle holster, followed by a flick-knife and two solid silver throwing stars. Everything is coded and thrown into the box.
“She’s ex-army,” Cae explains as the security guards look on in wonder.
“How interesting,” says Angelica, though her face shows no interest at all. This is the moment that Kendra decides she doesn’t like Angelica Lane. It is an important moment, not to be overlooked. “Mr Morgan’s looking forward to seeing you, detective,” Angelica continues, turning to Cae. “Although he won’t tell me why.”
“I’ll bet he is,” Caecilius replies. “It’s not every day you get to talk to the cop who put you away.”
10.
Frederick “Flash” Morgan has been in Dartley Prison’s maximum security wing for about three years. To say he’s unhappy about this would be quite the understatement. So when Caecilius Rex, the youngest detective in the local force, walks into the visitors’ room with that same sallow, boyish face, Flash is not best pleased.
Cae surveys the room. The table where he can talk with Flash is set out in one corner of the large hall. In other places there are other visitors and inmates talking at opposite ends of the same small tables. Officers, counsellors and liaison staff wind their way through the tables slowly.
For a moment Cae catches the eye of Redd Richmond, who gives him a little wave as if they’ve just spotted each other at a party. Richmond’s talking to a younger man with a red face and very little hair, but Cae doesn’t recognise him. Redd doesn’t seem remotely interested in what the young man is saying, which is par for the course. Cae turns his blue eyes back to Flash’s corner, where the man himself is flanked by two burly prison guards. The meeting has t
o be set up this way; Morgan is far too dangerous to transport.
Two chairs are laid out for Cae and Kendra, and once they are occupied Angelica comes to stand at the side of the table, eyeing Flash carefully. The criminal profiteer is thick-set and as ugly as Cae remembers. His dark skin is covered in scars and pock-marks, some old and some much more recent. He is renowned across the county for violence and vice, and it seems that prison has done little to change that.
Flash narrows his small, black eyes at the detective. Angelica leans on the table and puts her head into his eye-line.
“Mr Morgan and I have had a little chat this morning about aiding the police,” she says in an emotionless tone.
“Yeah, yeah,” says Flash in a gravelly tone. “You make nice with me, I make nice with you.”
“Ever the wordsmith, Freddie,” replies Cae dryly, which immediately upsets the huge lump of a thug opposite him. Flash wrestles in his chair, and Cae suddenly notices that he’s strapped in about the waist. “Don’t worry, I won’t be doing much talking,” Cae adds, “Just tell me what you know about the circus.”
Flash stops wriggling, much to the relief of the guards watching over him, and cracks a smile that reveals several dirty gold teeth.
“You won’t find it,” he says happily.
“Then there’s no harm in telling me what goes on there,” Cae says plainly. “I don’t want to get in; I just want to know what they do there.”
“I’ll bet you do,” Flash replies suggestively, then laughs more to himself than anyone in particular. His eyes dart to Angelica for a moment, but she is looking away across the room, scouting for trouble, so he looks back to Cae with a viciously curved lip.
“How’s your mother, Rex?” Flash asks.
“Dead,” Cae replies without a flicker of his expression.
Flash’s beady eyes turn to Kendra. “You ought to watch out love,” he says in a lower tone, “associations with this one tend to lead to an early grave.”
Kendra too keeps a cool temper in the face of the simple thug. “Thanks for the heads up,” she answers. She’s faced worse in her time, much worse in fact, than a beast like Flash Morgan.