by Malcolm Rose
TRACES
Lost Bullet
The Second Case
By Malcolm Rose
Text copyright © Malcolm Rose 2013
First published by Kingfisher 2005
Cover design by Colin Rose
Welcome to the world of Traces. Imagine a place where technology rules, where London is a slum and the North is a cultural capital, where from the age of five The Authorities decide your future. In this fascinating parallel world, quick-thinking Luke Harding and his robot sidekick, Malc, make a top forensic team. Luke and Malc have the talent to crack any crime – and a good joke too.
In the slums of London, Luke and Malc investigate a doctor’s murder. They find a bullet wound to her head but rain has washed away the bullet – and all other clues. As more innocent people die, pressure builds on Luke and Malc to find the culprit before the bizarre shooting spree becomes an all-out massacre.
‘Lost Bullet sees Luke cracking his second case in the steamy forests of London where Malcolm Rose, a serious writer, casts his customary beady eye on the nastier extremes of contemporary society.’ Jan Mark, Times Educational Supplement.
‘It’s a great mystery story almost impossible to predict with every new twist. The opening is good and tense. There is a point in the book when your palms will sweat and you will block everything else out. Fast-paced, unique and original story makes this a must-read.’ Josh Taylor, Judging Panel of The Lancashire Children’s Book of the Year Award.
‘It has good, interesting and well developed characters. It has a lot of exciting action and is full of suspense. I really liked this book and couldn’t put it down. It deals with very serious issues such as free will while managing to be very funny.’ Mauej Matuszewski, Judging Panel of The Lancashire Children’s Book of the Year Award.
‘Rose calls on his chemistry background to provide specific scent and residue clues, and gives Luke an amusingly literal-minded robot companion, a clever foe and a subplot involving a love interest before wrapping things up with a dose of just deserts. The offbeat but well-envisioned locales bode well for future episodes.’ American Library Association.
Also available:
Traces 1: FRAMED!
Traces 3: ROLL CALL
Traces 4: DOUBLE CHECK
Traces 5: FINAL LAP
Traces 6: BLOOD BROTHER
Traces 7: MURDER CLUB
Chapter One
The white boy walking along Tottenham Court Corridor spotted a snake in the elder growing up the side of a house. He was about to move on, keeping away from it, when he was distracted by a small piece of paper that fluttered out of an upstairs window. Pushed along by the breeze, the notepaper sailed straight towards his head. Owen grabbed it in his fist as if he’d caught a moth that was threatening to land on his face. Immediately, there was a scream. “White scum!” It was so loud, so angry and high-pitched that Owen could not even tell if it had come from a man or woman. He wasn’t going to hang around to find out who had shouted, because he recognized pure hatred in that voice. He shoved the piece of paper into his pocket and ran.
On either side of Owen, rampant ivy and clematis were choking the buildings. The rifle poking ominously out of the window above and behind him was camouflaged by the masses of leaves. When Owen heard the first shot, he let out a frightened yelp and ducked. Covering his head with his hands would have been useless against the bullet if it had been on target, but it thudded into the trunk of the elm tree just to his right. Refusing to freeze with fear, he dashed away quickly. Weaving his way down the windy London corridor, swerving round the trees that had pushed their way up through the tarmac, he tried to make it difficult for the sniper to get a clear shot at him.
The second bullet ricocheted off the ground in front of him and to the left, but the third caught his hand. He cried out in pain but did not dare to stop. Cradling his injured left hand in his right, he stumbled on towards the junction. In a few seconds, he could turn into Oxford Freeway, safe from the person with an itchy finger on the trigger. As he dodged round another tree, a window shattered with the force of the next stray shot.
Once, before Owen was born, Oxford Freeway would have been busy with automatic cabs, its walkway bustling with pedestrians. But no one had been employed to maintain it, or any of central London’s routes, so nature had reclaimed lost territory. The cabs’ on-board computers, equipped with the latest artificial intelligence, soon learned to avoid the centre of London because it became impossible to negotiate the erupting trees and shrubs. Besides, too many passengers and pedestrians were mugged in those parts to risk it.
Owen knew Oxford Freeway only as a concrete and wildlife jungle, the natural habitat of rats, snakes and crooks. Still, until bullets learned how to turn corners, he could escape in the neglected freeway.
At the sound of another gunshot, two red squirrels darted up an old elm. At once, Owen felt his right foot give way as if someone had kicked it from under him. He gasped and faltered yet he experienced no pain. He expected to cry out in agony when he put his weight back on that leg but he felt only some extra pressure on his heel. The bullet had hit the tarmac, bounced up, thudded into the sole of his shoe and come to rest harmlessly in the thick layer of rubber.
Desperate to keep on his feet, Owen staggered to the junction with Oxford Freeway. Two small patches of ivy clawing up the nearest house exploded, revealing red brick underneath. Chest heaving, Owen darted round the corner where he was shielded from the rifle fire. Yet he did not relax or slow down. He scurried along the corridor, in case the sniper came out of hiding and tailed him. Avoiding the tangle of overgrown vegetation, he raced as fast as he could, still clutching his bleeding left hand, until he got to Wardour Walkway. Turning left into the narrow passage, he zigzagged through the warren of alleys to cheat anyone who might try to follow him.
The stiffening breeze pushed him through the jungle of Soho, along with masses of fallen brown leaves. He emerged on Haymarket and headed for Whitehall and the river. If he could pick a safe path over the crumbling Westminster Bridge, he could admit himself to Thomas’s Hospital and get his hand fixed. The hospital had a reputation for not asking too many awkward questions before offering treatment. Owen glanced nervously behind him but the place was nearly deserted. Of course, it wasn’t really deserted. It was just that, for their own protection, many people stayed behind locked doors – or at least out of sight. Anyway, Owen couldn’t see anyone carrying a rifle. He dropped to walking pace, limping slightly because of the lump of metal embedded in the heel of his shoe, and made his way towards the Thames.
On the riverside, a group of people had hijacked a narrow cargo boat that should have been cruising sedately through the city, programmed to ignore London and deliver its load to the heart of England. The goods on this particular auto-barge would feed and clothe London bandits, not the plush Midlands. Picking his way carefully across the rundown bridge, Owen looked down on the thieves shouting to each other below him on the south bank. One lad stood out from the rest because he was completely bald. No doubt, the bandits would have time to empty the boat because The Authorities were never in a hurry to deal with petty theft in London.
There was a burning sensation in Owen’s left palm. As far as he could tell, the bullet had gone straight through the fleshy part between his thumb and forefinger. Like everyone else who ventured into central London, Owen had been injured a few times but he had never been shot before. It was a new and hurtful experience. It had taken him by surprise also because he had become skilled at avoiding crime, especially the muggings, on London corridors.
Those outbursts of violence were often caused by people who were scared witless by London’s reputation. When they went out, they armed themselves with a hefty piece of metal or wood for self-d
efence. Whenever they confronted another person, they got their attack in first because they thought they’d be too late if they waited until they’d figured out whether they were in danger or not.
Conventional firearms were popular for sport, but in the corridors they were not common. The stinger – an electric stun gun – had become the bandits’ weapon of choice. The person on the other end of that rifle wasn’t a traditional mugger. It could just have been someone insanely protective of a property but Owen had never been targeted in Tottenham Court Corridor before. It could have been someone who had decided to take pot-shots at passers-by for fun but the taunt about the unusual colour of his skin made Owen believe that he’d been singled out.
Waiting in a hospital cubicle, encircled by flimsy curtains, Owen dug the scrap of plain white paper out of his pocket and held it in his right hand. Someone had written ‘72 Russell Plaza’ in blue ink on a page from a notepad. That was it. Nothing else. There wasn’t even anything on the other side. Owen shrugged and, when Dr Suleman entered, he slipped the note back into his pocket without another thought.
The doctor turned her nose up at the sight of her patient. “Oh, dear,” she muttered.
Owen was not sure whether the medic was referring to his injury, his genetically flawed skin or his rough appearance. For a second he thought that he saw disapproval in Dr Suleman’s eyes. At least it wasn’t the prejudice of the person who had hoped to bury a bullet in Owen’s heart or head rather than his hand and heel. Owen held up his blood-encrusted hand and said, “It’s a bullet wound.”
“Oh, dear,” Dr Suleman repeated. Gingerly, perhaps even reluctantly, she examined the damaged palm but did not query why Owen had been shot. “It looks worse than it is.” Talking to a hidden computer, she called for a scan and then watched a three-dimensional skeletal image form in the air just in front of her. She walked around the hologram, studying the wound carefully from all angles, and then announced, “You’re lucky.”
“I am?”
“It could’ve been worse. The bullet’s nicked a bone but it’ll heal on its own. I can give you a local anaesthetic, clean it up, and sew it back together. You’ll be fine.” She paused before adding, “I don’t suppose you’ve got an identity card, have you?”
“Do I need one? Not sure where mine is.”
The doctor shook her head like an instructor confronting a hopeless pupil. “Never mind,” she said as if she’d rather report him to The Authorities.
In Owen’s mind, her tone confirmed it. The doctor disliked his lifestyle rather than his colour. “Thanks,” he said, ignoring her disquiet.
While she worked on the wound, Dr Suleman asked Owen where he had been attacked. “Tottenham Court? I’ll watch that on the way home.”
“Don’t think you’ll have the same problem,” Owen replied.
“Why’s that?”
“Likely it was a brown supremacy thing.”
The doctor nodded knowingly but said nothing.
Owen decided to leave the spent bullet in the sole of his shoe where it would be his secret memento of a daring escape from a crazed sniper. With a bandaged and throbbing hand, he walked away from Thomas’s Hospital. Just along the bank, the bandits were still emptying the barge that they had commandeered. The blustery wind was threatening to develop into a full-scale storm. Glancing up at the bad-tempered clouds that were gathering in the dark sky, Owen grimaced. It was time to find shelter.
****
Once, Anna Suleman used to flash her identity card past the freeway reader, state her home address and then jump into a cab. As soon as she was seated, the computerized cab would take off along Westminster, over the bridge and seek out a passable route on the corridors running north. Now, it was useless to call for one. She hadn’t seen a vehicle between the hospital and her home near Regent’s Common for years. Instead, she walked. If her partner was working the same shifts, they would walk together. Now that cabs shunned the place, they had a choice of paths. They could keep to the proper walkways, they could use the large freeways that had both walkways and corridors, or they could trudge along the disused corridors where walking used to be forbidden because of the danger from high-speed cabs.
Today, after her shift at Thomas’s Hospital, Dr Suleman stepped out into the dusk alone and was drenched almost immediately. The November downpour had begun in style. The thirsty vegetation relished the driving rainfall, but Anna cursed. As she made for the bridge, her eyelids blinked over and over again to try to keep her vision clear and to stop the wind and raindrops stinging her tired eyes. All that she could see, though, was mist. There was perhaps something to her left, a sudden movement like a shifting shadow, but then it was gone. Perhaps it was a trick of the storm.
It was hopeless. She could not walk through this weather. She spun round and headed back for the hospital entrance. It was then that the shape returned – definitely this time. It was a figure, striding towards her, holding... something. Anna screwed up her eyes but it was like trying to see a bat flying across the night sky. “Is anybody there?”
The slippery figure had vanished again. There was nothing but the ferocious sound of the squally cloudburst. The nearest lamp was flickering on and off. Probably, water was getting inside it and playing havoc with the electrical contacts. The rest of the lights were battling to keep night at bay but succeeded only in illuminating countless raindrops.
“Alex? Is that you?” Anna called.
This time there was an answer. “Are you a doctor?”
Dr Suleman stopped and shouted in the direction of the voice, “Yes. Are you hurt?” She wiped her eyes. “Where are you? What do you want?”
Lightning punctured the air. Anna heard one more word before the thunder deafened her. “Respect!” Through the deluge, she could barely see the person who had spoken. She certainly didn’t see the rifle. Engulfed by nature’s fierce roar, she could not distinguish between the brutal blast of the weapon and the explosion of the storm.
Chapter Two
The worst of the storm and gusting wind had passed. In a persistent drizzle, Forensic Investigator Luke Harding and Malc – his Mobile Aid to Law and Crime – were examining Dr Suleman’s sodden, lifeless body by the southern bank of the Thames. Some water dripped down from a large cherry tree and plopped onto Dr Suleman’s quietened chest. That regular pulse of rainwater had replaced her heartbeat, adding to the misery of murder.
The Authorities had erected floodlights at the front of Thomas’s Hospital. The whole area glowed like the setting for a night-time football match.
Surrounded by crime-scene tape, Luke let out a long sigh. At the age of sixteen, he was already an expert at investigating death but he was yet not hardened to it. “A doctor,” he muttered. “What a waste.”
The hospital had downloaded details of the victim into Luke’s Mobile Aid to Law and Crime. “Anna Suleman,” Malc reported. “Fifty-seven years old, educated at Liverpool Medical School. She never became a specialist. Instead, she worked in deprived areas, first in Oxford and then here in London. In Liverpool, she was paired with Dr Coppard. He is also at Thomas’s Hospital.”
The rainfall had cleaned the head wound of its blood so Luke could see immediately what had happened. He winced at the damage that a high-velocity bullet inflicted on a human head. Not coping well with death, he shielded himself from his real feelings by following a mechanical routine.
“Check me, Malc,” Luke said. “First, the entrance wound. No smoke soiling or powder burns. There’s a slight abrasion collar round the hole caused by the bullet’s heating and friction on the skin. This wasn’t point blank. It’s a medium-range shot.”
“Confirmed,” Malc replied. “I estimate it was fired from four to ten metres away, possibly a nine-millimetre bullet.”
Luke moved round to the other side of Anna’s head, glanced briefly at the massive exit wound and turned away. “It’s easier to look at things like this when it’s just pictures in school.”
Malc was merely a
machine, immune to emotion. “This is a large cavity typical of a high-velocity bullet fired from a rifled weapon impacting on a skull and then travelling through a dense organ like a brain.”
“I guess it’s all pictures to you, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter if it’s a figure in a database or something you’ve videoed at a crime scene. It’s all pictures to be analysed and compared.”
“Correct,” Malc answered unashamedly.
Needing to get on with the uncomfortable job, Luke asked, “Where’s the bullet?”
“A preliminary sweep for metallic objects indicates that it is not in the immediate vicinity,” Malc replied.
Luke wiped his face free of rainwater. “There’s no point doing a chemical analysis for discharge residues. They’ll have long since washed away. Scan for thirty metres from here, looking for anything significant but especially the spent bullet, empty cartridge case, the weapon, or more bullet damage. Within five metres, where the killer probably stood, make it a fine search.”
Luke was not hopeful. Anna Suleman’s head was just a few centimetres away from a drain. The downpour had probably swept the bullet away for ever and the torrent could have carried the empty cartridge case a long distance. It might even have followed the bullet into the sewer system. Luke assumed that the culprit had taken the firearm away and any residues would have been removed by the storm.
Malc returned and reported after seven minutes. “An auto-barge is moored in the river. It has been intercepted and looted. There is nothing else of particular significance but I have recorded all artefacts.”
Luke shrugged. “I’d better take a look at the boat in case Anna disturbed the bandits and one of them shot her, but I was hoping for something closer.”
“I suggest you note the positioning of the drain relative to the head of...”