by AD Davies
“Mum!”
“Hello, darling,” said Dorothy Braithwaite—Dot to her friends. “I’ve come to take care of you for a while.”
CHAPTER TEN
Alicia did not allow Robbie to go to bed, despite it being a school night. She insisted Robbie put on a pot of tea and join them in the living room. As the leaves brewed, Alicia explained the nursery wasn’t quite ready for the baby yet, although it was painted in a neutral light purple colour and the cot was scheduled for construction on Saturday, the day after her maternity leave commenced.
“Yes,” her mum said. “I’ve seen the carpet too. It’s rather light.”
“It’s the same beige carpet throughout. It came with the flat, and the landlord was not keen on changing it.”
Alicia’s mum said, “A carpet with a pattern is much better. It hides the stains.”
“I was kind of thinking of wiping up any spills before they become stains,” Alicia replied with as little snark as possible.
Dot patted Alicia’s leg. “Of course you are, my dear. We all plan to do that. But, trust me, a little dribble of Calpol in the middle of the night will wait until morning. Then when morning comes, you have other priorities.”
Robbie brought the tea through on a tray, the tea set a present from the woman currently invading their space. It was only ever used in her presence, or when more than four people gathered in the apartment, which was never. Both Alicia and Robbie had boyfriends over occasionally, but none recently.
Dot sighed with approval at her first sip. “I’ll come right out with it. Roberta, life’s going to get very difficult soon, so I thought it might be nice if you were to take a break.”
Alicia cringed internally. Although her mum held no ill feelings against Robbie specifically, she did possess the sort of mind that separated each and every person on the planet by race. Her first interaction with Robbie involved two questions: one, what was she doing for work while Alicia put her up; and two, when would Robbie be returning home?
As far as both Robbie and Alicia were concerned, this flat was her home. Her original home—on the island of Montserrat—was buried beneath ten feet of lava, an eruption many years ago having driven most of the island’s inhabitants to various parts of the globe. Robbie’s parents lived in the United States, but as a fine schoolteacher Robbie was able to remain here.
Alicia said, “What do you mean by ‘a break’, mother?”
“Oh, relax,” her mum replied. “Don’t worry. I’m completely politically correct now. You have to be, don’t you? And it’s not hard. I mean, I’m not going all the way like your dad, but I really don’t mind immigrants these days.”
“Great,” Robbie said. “Welcome to the club.”
The TV remained on silent, but Alicia flipped on the BBC’s twenty-four-hour news channel, which was currently cycling footage from some Labour Party event. One of their more controversial MPs tried to leave an official-looking building while reporters and photographers crammed close to him.
“Your dad likes that chap,” Alicia’s mum said. “Can’t think why.”
“Maybe that’s why you don’t live together anymore.” Alicia immediately regretted saying it. Her mother swallowed but said nothing, so Alicia added, “Dad doesn’t necessarily love this guy, but he’s anti-establishment. It’s like Bernie Sanders and Donald Trump in America. He offers something different.” Alicia’s mind started to wander to the current case, something familiar about her own words. “Can we get back to this break you’re offering Robbie?”
“Oh yes.” She placed her tea on the coffee table. “Having a baby is hard. Really hard. And as I understand it, the pair of you are not actually lesbians.”
“No, mother, we are not.”
“Because it would be okay if you are. In fact, it would probably be better.”
“Sorry. We’re not.”
“Right, fine. In that case, after your fright last week—the Braxton Hicks episode where you thought the baby was coming early—I would like to move into Roberta’s room, while Roberta takes up residence in my house.”
Alicia had almost forgotten about calling her mum in a panic that night, but knew how she felt about the offer straightaway. But, just to be fair, she turned directly to Robbie, who kind-of held the cup and saucer in front of her, eyes wide, everything else frozen.
Alicia said, “How about that, Robbie?”
Robbie slowly lowered the saucer to the table and fixed Alicia with a “help me” stare.
Back to her mum, Alicia replied, “It’s kind of you, but I think that would be a lot of upheaval for a few weeks.”
“Not a few weeks,” Dot said. “I was thinking six months. To get you back on your feet.”
Alicia saw nothing in her mother’s face suggesting deception or malice. It was a genuine offer, one the older woman clearly believed was palatable to all concerned. But while Alicia would be the first to confess to great fear over the impending arrival, she and Robbie talked it through at length. If it came down to it, if things got really bad, Alicia agreed to tap her mum up to allow her to move into that house at least for a few weeks.
It’s what mums were for, after all.
A safety net.
A granny-shaped safety net.
They were not for moving in to their soon-to-be-thirty-three-year-old daughter’s apartment to give round-the-clock on-the-job training to their thirty-three-year-old-soon-to-be-single-mom daughter.
The TV now depicted a different news story. The name Harpinder Rashid popped out on the rolling graphic at the bottom. But this wasn’t related to his murder. This was the business section of the news.
“I’ll stick around a few days,” Dot said, “then the pair of you can decide what you want to do.”
Alicia turned up television’s volume to hear the presenter complete his sentence: “And so, following the death of his son, Tariq Rashid will take a short leave of absence, which has dented consumer confidence, and therefore the share price has dipped…”
Alicia’s mum said, “And of course, Roberta, you’re more than welcome to pop round my house before you make a decision. See if you feel at home.”
“That’s … generous of you, Mrs. Friend,” Robbie said.
“Ms. Braithwaite,” Dot corrected with a cool smile. “I took back my maiden name. But call me Dot.”
“Sorry. Dot. But maybe me and Alicia need to have a chat tomorrow before we make any decision.”
At the corner of her eye Alicia detected Robbie making subtle head waggles, urging her to join the conversation. But her brain was ticking over, an idea slotting into place.
Alicia hit rewind on the Sky+ box, the DVR having recorded the live TV. At the beginning of the story, she hit play, this time without the mute active.
“Following the death of his son in the horrific attack in Leeds this morning, the CEO of Britain’s third biggest insurer Tariq Rashid will be stepping down temporarily to help his family through this difficult time. Before the announcement, speculation as to the effect this would have already dropped the share price by ten percent, but the confirmation of Mr. Rashid’s backseat role halved the remaining value. As a result, several banks who deal closely with Mr. Rashid also took a knock. Here with a full report is our correspondent—”
Robbie said, “Sad, really, that they concentrate so much on money.”
“It’s what makes the world go round, dear,” Dot replied. “Even things like this have wider consequences than simple grief.”
“Right,” Alicia said. “The ramifications can be wider than we realised.”
Then she faked some pain in her stomach and insisted on going to bed where she didn’t manage to sleep until she organised her thoughts, ready to put them to the rest of the team in the morning.
WEDNESDAY
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Murphy entered his office at 8:00 a.m., Alicia was already standing before a whiteboard with a dry wipe marker and had stuck up photographs of the perpetrators arrested recen
tly, denoted by the crimes committed.
Mitchell Vaughn - four gay men in The Dove of Portugal.
Omar Jafari – the Breezeblock Jihadi.
Benjamin Grodin - machete police murder.
She had also added several £ signs: two beside Mitchell Vaughan’s crime, six by Omar’s, and three next to Benjamin Grodin.
Murphy said, “Good morning.”
“Don’t judge me,” she replied, moving faster than he’d seen her all day yesterday. It was as if she weighed less suddenly. She rushed to a desk—Cleaver’s and Ndlove’s—where she finished an espresso with a flourish. “I only managed five hours sleep last night because I was working this out. I didn’t know if I was insane.”
“That’s my line.”
Alicia paused. “Oh yeah. You used it on me yesterday. Well, now it’s my turn. Where’s Stevenson?”
“Probably in Wakefield, checking in with Cyber.”
“Right, right. Cleaver? Ndlove?”
“Half an hour.”
The squad room was filling slowly, but shifts didn’t start until nine, and there were few night shifts in the detective pool. No new murders were reported overnight, and the only serious assaults saw a suspect already in custody.
Alicia asked, “You think Stevenson would be really bummed if I said I needed him to come over here?”
“He would probably grumble a bit. Let me get him on Skype.”
If Murphy were being truthful, he would admit his slouching in the face of Alicia’s exuberance was an affectation. In reality, he wanted to know what Alicia had come up with. Her hair bobbed around in a tight ponytail the way it used to when she grew excited about a case. So far, she’d only shown signs of her old self when she realised Omar Jafari was lying, and when they made the connection to the Institute, but other than that she’d been largely subdued.
Subdued for Alicia.
Her improved mood didn’t mean she’d cracked the case, or even that she was correct in whatever she was excited about, but in Murphy’s experience, it would usually give the investigation new impetus.
He set up the laptop so both he and Alicia were in shot, and when Stevenson popped up on screen, they saw he was alone in a room which bore a strong resemblance to Paulson’s office. If it was, the chief superintendent was probably also present, lurking behind the laptop lid.
“Shall I start?” Alicia asked.
Both Murphy and Stevenson said she should.
Alicia whipped out her phone, found the music app, and hit play. Abba’s Money Money Money blared from the small speaker, and Alicia wiggled her hips in the approximation of a dance, pointing her fingers in rhythm to the music. She cut it off abruptly, pointed with a marker at Mitchell Vaughan’s photograph, and said, “Money. In serious cases, whether it’s organised crime, kidnapping, or tracking down the odd international terrorist, what do we do?”
“Follow the money,” Stevenson replied in a monotone.
“Exactamundo! And where did Mitchell Vaughan commit his murders?”
“Restaurant called The Dove of Portugal,” Murphy said.
“That’s right. It’s owned by Denizen Media. Big American company. Specialises in buying out restaurants but keeping their individuality. They look like independents, but they are actually a worldwide chain buying their food from the same tax haven. And right after these murders, the city took a look at their stock, and wondered if a huge lawsuit may be following.”
“Where are you going with this?” Stevenson asked.
“What happens when big lawsuits hit companies whose employees have committed a murderous hate crime?”
“I’m not sure there’ve been many test cases, but I would imagine a slight fall in value.”
“I checked. In this case, an eighteen percent drop in the share price. It recovered slightly, but because the families have only said they won’t rule out legal action, it has remained low. That’s Denizen, a multibillion-dollar company, and the people who supply it—remember this is a media organisation as well as a restaurant owner—although there are firewalls between the businesses, the suppliers of food, distribution, paper free magazines, everyone saw a dip, afraid of the effects of the daddy company’s share price.”
Murphy made sure he didn’t do anything with his hands that might indicate confusion or doubt. “And the others?”
“Yes, the others. The Breezeblock Jihadi not only took the lives of over twenty people, he also set dozens more insurance claims in motion, so not only life insurance, but damages too. Those with medical insurance will have put in claims, and those who were hit in the back by other vehicles will more than likely develop a case of whiplash. The number of businesses in Leeds and the surrounding area who lost money because of the gridlock on the motorway … that’s a huge hit. Nowhere near 9-11 or 7-7 numbers, of course, but it’s tens of millions lost.
“Then we have Benjamin Grodin. We thought he started ranting and carrying on at random. Why? Because the witness statements married up to a particular timeline. First, Mr. Grodin commences his rant, then a member of the public calls in to report the disturbance, then PCSO Harpinder Rashid shows up, and Grodin kills him with the machete.
“And I’ll get to the suicide attempt in a moment.
“But I checked. A random attack would not cause a run on any share prices or businesses. It seems like too much of a coincidence that the victim’s father was CEO of a major insurance company. I saw on the news last night it was struggling to keep its share price up. So it got me thinking, and I checked the movement logs. Guess what?”
Silence from both Murphy and Stevenson.
Alicia pointed at the screen. “Did he freeze? Because I’m pretty sure he knows the answer.”
“I do not know the answer,” Stevenson said.
“Murphy?”
Murphy ran through it, wondering what hadn’t been checked yet, and Rashid’s earlier movements were one of those things. It hadn’t seemed relevant.
He took Alicia at face value and guessed, “Rashid was already on-scene.”
Alicia held the marker pen in front of Murphy and drew a tick in the air. “He was in the area. In fact, when the initial 999 call came in regarding the disturbance, according to his GPS, Rahid was no more than two hundred metres away. CCTV shows Benjamin hanging around the area for half an hour before he starts the show.”
Stevenson’s mouth fell open a few seconds earlier. Now he spoke. “Grodin was waiting for Harpinder Rashid. He targeted the poor guy.”
“And … what has two thumbs and paid a visit to Benjamin Grodin this morning before any of you guys got dressed?” After a pause of maybe five seconds, Alicia threw her thumbs back at herself. “Yep, this girl did.”
“He denied it?” Murphy said.
“Of course. But then I hammered the point regarding suicide again. Why? All three attempted to kill themselves, and all three failed. The first, Mitchell, fired eight shots from fifteen in the magazine. At the time, members of the public rushed him from behind. He moved the gun towards his own head. But one of his assailants is reported as saying, ‘You’re not getting away with it that easy, mate.’ So he failed.
“Omar was clearly considering death, but decided against it and turned himself in.
“Then Benjamin attempted to cut his own throat, but yet again it was a failure. Mainly because it’s not a simple operation to cut your own throat with a machete, but he had a good go at it.
“My theory is, whatever philosophy they all subscribe to, whatever level of psychosis is driving them, it has to do with political motivations, and wealth. Specifically, the hoarding of wealth. And whether Mitchell, Omar, or Benjamin knew it, that’s what they ended up dealing with. To make sure the system they are assaulting does not punish them, death is the only way out. Like my mum says, money makes the world go around, and when the big fish lose money, the rest of us get a sense of schadenfreude, that odd satisfaction of seeing other people suffer.”
She attempted a spin but ended up stuck h
alfway and shuffled the rest of the turn, didn’t let her smile fade, and made an approximation of a curtsy.
“So, what do you think?”
Stevenson stared. “You looked like one of those hippo ballerinas in Fantasia.”
The screen suddenly blurred as the camera on the other end span. Paulson’s face filled the screen. “DS Friend, that was uncalled for from DS Stevenson. If you wish to complain—”
“The hippos were always my favourite,” Alicia said. “So no. No complaint. I’ve already compared myself to a shaved woolly mammoth this month, so hey. I’m more likely to complain about you eavesdropping on our conversation without notifying me. But I’ll let that slide, ma’am. What do you all think of my theory?”
Paulson set her jaw. “I think most large scale attacks have an impact on the financial sector.”
“I hope I’m wrong ma’am. A person arranging murder with the added bonus of a financial crime? You know, of all the serial murders I’ve investigated, here, Europe, America, I think this might be gearing up to be the most boring yet.”
Stevenson shuffled in behind Paulson, and both sat so they shared the screen. He said, “I’d like to run with it. DS Friend may have something.”
Alicia once told Murphy it takes five stages to understand her: first, disbelief that she could possibly be considered one of the best in her field. Then came irritation, but when you see how useful she is, stage three comes along: acceptance. Stage four is reliance, and stage five is collaboration, where you actively want her on board. Murphy lasted three days until stage three, but Stevenson had known her far longer, and still appeared only to tolerate her. Murphy would have to watch him; the last thing he needed was a dick head preparing to stab Alicia in the back the first opportunity he saw.
Stevenson said, “Chief Paulson, I need to make a couple of phone calls.”
Paulson dismissed the DS and he vanished. She asked, “So where does that leave us?”
“The institute we visited yesterday was deeply anti-establishment,” Murphy said. “If whoever planned the other attacks is a single person rather than an organised group, he’s possibly targeting the money.”