Lost Bullet

by Malcolm Rose

  There was the muffled noise of a shotgun blast. A sudden spray of red blossomed behind Shetal as the impact of the bullet in her chest knocked her violently backwards.

  The younger woman’s hand still covered her mouth as she turned in her seat towards Shetal. Her shriek was louder this time. “No!” The second shot thudded into her shoulder with a dreadful splintering sound. She screamed as she fell to the floor.

  Luke heard the third shot but the reaction to it was not so dramatic. Under the table, the younger man had curled himself up into a ball, arms wrapped protectively round his head. He jolted and then slowly toppled over like a snail that had lost its grip on the earth.

  Alone, the old man sat at the table, still staring through his spectacles at the person beyond Luke’s view. He was mesmerized. His expression had gone beyond fear. He was petrified, totally unable to move. But he knew that he was next.

  Luke felt as if he were a part of the massacre because he seemed to be sharing the same room. But he was a distant bystander. He could not stop it. He could not rush in and help. About a mile away, he could not even tell Malc to follow the assassin. He could only watch helplessly.

  Malc had already alerted The Authorities but it would be minutes before guards could get to the scene. That would be too late.

  Realizing that the last committee member must be looking straight at the barrel of a gun, Luke winced. Holding his breath, Luke prepared himself for the dreadful sight of a bullet cracking a skull, but oddly it didn’t come. There was utter silence instead of another explosion.

  The man’s expression did not change. With eyes fixed on the same spot, he sat and sat and nothing happened.

  Then, at last, three people ran into the chamber. A noisy chaos replaced the dreadful quiet. The picture on Luke’s telescreen broke up and abruptly disappeared.

  For the first time, Luke had seen a murder played out live in front of him and he felt utterly sick. For a minute, he could not speak.

  When he next heard a voice, he said, “What? Pardon?”

  “Are you all right, Luke?” Malc asked. “Do you need assistance?”

  “No. I’m... okay.” He took some deep breaths to calm himself. He felt that he should be doing something but he was detached from it all. It was not even his case. Even so, he could not stop his training kicking in. He was an investigator by instinct. “Malc, those pictures and sound, is there any way you can keep them?”

  “Not in total. As soon as I realized that a crime was taking place, I started to record.”

  “What have you got? Show me.”

  Malc’s recording began as soon as the second victim cried, “No!” and the gun fired.

  Choked, Luke sat through it all again. “Can you analyse the soundtrack? What sort of weapon makes that exact noise? Can you distinguish different ones?”

  “In theory, that should be possible because different types of firearms have different interior ballistics. The hammer or firing pin strikes the primer cup and explodes a chemical mixture. The shower of hot particles penetrates and ignites the propellant. This produces a large volume of hot gas that forces the bullet out of the barrel. All firearms function in this way but the three steps are distinctive to each type. However, I do not have a database of discharge sounds. I could request the information, but the investigator assigned to the case will simply examine the spent bullets and cartridge cases to get better information.”

  “All right. Do a fine search of any noises apart from the second victim’s shout and the gunshots. Did the person with the gun say anything? Amplify and play me anything interesting.”

  “There is evidence of human speech after the second shot. However, it is short, quiet and incomplete.”

  As the gunshot echoed and faded, there was the end of an utterance, mixed with the ghastly noise of disintegrating bone and a scream. The fragment of speech sounded like “...ect.”

  Luke listened to it five times and was none the wiser. It could have been the end of a word like ‘wrecked’. “Can you enhance it, Malc? How about taking the tail end of the third gunshot and subtracting it from the second? Will I get to hear what’s underneath that way?”

  Once Malc had processed the sound, Luke listened again and thought that he heard another consonant. Now, the voice seemed to be saying ‘pecked’. Luke shrugged. “I don’t know. Is it a male or female voice? I can’t even tell that.”

  “Uncertain.”

  “Okay. Send it to Jade. Ask her if she can analyse that voice. What does it say and is it a man, woman, boy or girl? Right now, I want to try something with the pictures instead. Give me a close-up of the old chap’s glasses.”

  Screwing up his face, Luke concentrated on the grainy image on both lenses. “There! Stop. Give me the last few seconds again. What’s that?”

  “It is a reflection of movement.”

  “Exactly. Isn’t it someone spinning round by the door and walking out?”

  “That is possible,” Malc replied. “However...”

  “I know it’s not going to identify anyone,” Luke said. “But it’s someone in a big coat. The head looks a bit peculiar. Maybe it’s some sort of hat or hood. Anyway, if the FI in charge analyses the shape against the size of the doorframe, it’d give a good idea of height.”

  Malc paused and then said, “That is a novel use of technology and it is likely to give useful data.”

  Beginning to recover from the shock of witnessing three shootings, Luke said, “You almost sound impressed. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “I remind you that it is not your case.”

  “No. Forward the idea to The Authorities. It might help the investigator.”

  “Processing and transmitting.”

  The telescreen flickered into fresh life. This time, it was a larger-than-life image of the hotel chef. “Investigator Harding. Sorry to interrupt. A courier’s just delivered an emergency supply of pomegranates from Birmingham. But they’re marked, ‘For Forensic Use Only’.”

  “That’s all right,” Luke replied with a smile. “It means only forensic investigators get to eat them.”

  Chef returned the grin. “Absolutely understandable. Leave it to me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you all right? You look poorly.”

  “I’m fine, thanks. But before you go,” Luke said, “do you employ anyone in the hotel who’s white, by any chance?”

  “Erm, yes, we do.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Elodie. One of our maids.”

  “Is she in the hotel right now?”

  “I should think so. Shall I get someone to send her up to you?”

  Luke didn’t want to scare her with a summons to see an investigator. “No. Just tell me where she is.”

  “I don’t know. Reception will be able to help, though. I’ll put you through to Mr Morgan. Just a moment.”

  The telescreen went to standby mode for two minutes before a receptionist appeared. “I’m sorry,” she said, “Mr Morgan is feeling unwell and has gone to see his doctor. But chef tells me you want to know where Elodie is. She’s on the third floor, preparing rooms.”

  “Thanks. I’ll find her.”

  ****

  Luke soon located Elodie making up a bed. Being an albino, she was easy to spot. Except for her eyes and lips, everything about her was pale. Her skin was milky and her hair was white. Even her eyebrows were colourless. Set in that ashen face, her lips seemed bright red and her eyes had a conspicuous pink pupil.

  “Meetings?” she said, in answer to his question about London’s white community. “Yes. As it happens, there’s one tonight.”

  At once, Luke perked up. “Where’s that? And what time?”

  “Clement School. Seven thirty.”

  “Thanks,” Luke replied. “I’ll be there.”

  Chapter Ten

  With his large bald head poking out of a waterproof coat, the weighty guard standing at the entrance of the school looked askance at Luke. “You’re n
ot white,” he stated.

  “Well spotted,” Luke said to him with a playful grin. “But I am invited. I’m meeting Owen Goode – who is white. Do you know him?”

  The intimidating bouncer shook his head. “They just use me to keep trouble out. I don’t know most of them.” He held the door open for Luke and Malc.

  Luke got the impression that the guard would have checked him out much more thoroughly if he hadn’t been a forensic investigator. Walking into the reception area and looking through the doorway into the brightly lit hall, Luke was appalled. Clement School was nothing like Birmingham School. The building was very shabby. In places, paint was peeling off the walls, wood looked rotten, and windows were cracked. Two buckets had been placed carefully to catch drops from the leaking roof.

  When he walked into the hall, the buzz of conversation died down for a few seconds as the gathering people turned and gazed at him. Luke was not worried. He could tell that they were curious about him rather than hostile. Ignoring their reaction, he looked around, trying to spot a fifteen-year-old boy with a dressing on his left hand.

  Within seconds, a middle-aged woman approached him and said, “This isn’t an illegal meeting, you know.”

  “I know. I’m here to catch up with a friend of mine. Owen Goode. Is he here, do you know?”

  “Owen? He turns up sometimes. He’s a bit unpredictable, truth be told. He hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?”

  Luke smiled. “No. I just want to chat with him.”

  The woman looked unconvinced.

  Luke turned to Malc and said, “Is Owen Goode under any kind of suspicion?”

  “No,” the mobile answered.

  Reassured, the woman relaxed. “You’re welcome, FI...”

  “Luke Harding. And you are...?”

  “Cleo McGrath. I’m leading the meeting. You might find one or two items interesting. We’re going to discuss crime against whites, for one thing.”

  Luke nodded. “Good. Is that why you’ve got a bouncer on the door?”

  Cleo nodded. “It’s sad. We never used to but...” She shrugged. “We don’t have a choice these days.”

  “Is it personal attacks or damage to homes?”

  She seemed surprised that Luke was aware of the problem. “Are you here to investigate it?” she said eagerly.

  “Not really,” Luke replied. “But I’m not sure what I am investigating till I talk to Owen, so maybe I am.”

  Cleo was smiling broadly. “That would be great. The Authorities have never taken us seriously before. I thought they didn’t believe us.”

  To Malc, Luke said, “Repeat your findings on crime against whites.”

  “There is no evidence of assault or murder in which the motive is skin colour. However, there may be a campaign to drive whites out of some neighbourhoods in London through property damage, mainly arson.”

  Cleo was almost gleeful now. “That’s it exactly! You are taking us seriously. Wait till I tell the others. You really are welcome.”

  Just before she took off towards the stage, Luke said, “You will point out Owen if he turns up, won’t you?”

  “Certainly.”

  When Cleo began her address, Luke noticed Elodie from the Central Hotel standing to the left of the stage. By the time that Cleo got around to the topic of crime and told the crowd that a forensic investigator was looking into their grievances, Luke spotted a white boy entering the hall. He was shorter than Luke, but just as wiry and fit. And he had a bandage on his left hand.

  On the stage, Cleo hesitated. “Ah, Owen,” she said. “Thanks for coming. Late as ever.”

  The boy looked surprised that he’d been singled out and greeted, but Luke knew why Cleo had announced Owen’s arrival. Luke detached himself from the back of the crowd and headed for the newcomer.

  Almost immediately, Malc said to him very quietly, “I am sensing traces of accelerant and products of combustion in the air.”

  At once, Luke halted. “You mean, there’s a fire?” he whispered.

  “Correct.”

  “I can’t smell it yet. Where’s it coming from?”

  Malc moved a few metres away and completed a circle around Luke. “The signal is strongest towards the rear of the school, behind the stage.”

  Immediately, Luke changed his priorities. He was very eager to speak to Owen Goode but, if someone was attempting to murder an entire group of whites, the interview with Owen would have to wait. Pushing his way to the raised stage, he looked around for an exit. Beyond Elodie, there was a door. Before he dashed towards it, he interrupted Cleo. “Get everyone out at the front. I think there’s a problem.”

  With Malc behind him, Luke opened the back door gingerly. It led into a darkened storeroom stacked with scruffy chairs, overhead projectors, whiteboards and flip charts. Luke sniffed the air and, for the first time, smelled smoke. He weaved his way through the stacks of equipment to the only other door and placed his flat palm on it. The surface wasn’t warm so he didn’t expect the fire to be right up against its other side. Edging out of the storeroom, he found himself in a short corridor with a cloakroom. The whole area was choked with grey fumes. The windows opposite him had been smashed. Paper and a lot of other rubbish had been pushed through the holes, soaked with flammable spirit and set on fire. The air was thick with the smell of fuel and burning. The inside wall next to the window was well alight and black smoke was gathering at the ceiling like an angry storm cloud. The open windows provided fresh oxygen to feed the flames.

  Luke coughed and then slammed the door shut on the blaze. “Have you notified The Authorities?” he asked Malc.

  “Confirmed.”

  “There’s a radiator in the corner. If you hit a weak spot with your laser, can you drill a hole?”

  “Confirmed. But it will be very narrow.”

  “So, you can’t make enough water spurt to put the fire out?” Luke coughed again, clearing his lungs of the acrid air.

  “No.”

  “Okay. I give up. We’re out of here. If the building’s clear, at least no one’s going to get hurt.”

  “The fire’s progress is likely to be slow and limited because the building is damp,” Malc said as they retraced their steps through the storeroom, “but the atmosphere will soon be poisonous to humans.”

  The hall was deserted. The air inside it had become a faint blue haze. While Luke held his breath, kept his head down and sprinted through it, Malc said, “There is a second source of combustion on the other side of the premises.”

  Luke burst through the main doors, out into the fresh air, coughed and then looked for Cleo by the light of the lamps. She was standing with the guard, watching smoke emerge from both sides of the building. “Is everyone out?” asked Luke.

  “Yes. Are you all right?”

  “Fine. Where’s Owen?”

  They all looked around.

  When Owen saw them staring at him, he took fright, turned, and darted northwards along Drury Corridor.

  Luke sighed and took off after him. He did not doubt for a moment that he could keep pace with Owen but, seeing how quickly the white lad could run, he had to admit that he might not be able to catch him up. Knowing also that Owen would be far more familiar with London, he suspected that the boy might be able to lose him in the maze of walkways and alleys. He said to Malc, “Go after him. Don’t harm him, though. Obstruct-mode only.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Over the years, Owen had learned to be suspicious of almost everyone. Londoners with weapons in their hands or The Authorities and their investigators were all the same to him. They were best avoided.

  The forensic investigator’s mobile flew past him, halted and then came straight at him. Owen swore under his breath and dived to one side to avoid colliding with the machine. Even before he’d recovered from the stumble, the robot was zooming towards his head. He ducked, lost his footing and staggered before he regained his balance and speed.

  Just as he was about to turn left into Long
Acre, the mobile directed a shot at the ground in front of him. A weed sizzled and died as soon as the laser beam zapped it. Owen swallowed but ignored the demonstration. After all, it was only a warning shot. He gambled on the fact that the machine wouldn’t attack him.

  In Long Acre, he skirted round a leafless ash growing in the middle of the corridor and came face-to-face with the mobile again. This time, he tripped over a rusty fallen sign and fell onto a bush.

  It was hopeless. He had planned to shake off the investigator in the zigzags of Covent Garden but this robot was going to follow him everywhere. He threw up his hands in frustration.

  ****

  Ignoring the stinging sensation in his smoky lungs, Luke veered into Long Acre and sprinted up to Owen. The boy was flat out on the ground with Malc hovering threateningly above him.

  Smiling, Luke held out his hand. “You’re a pretty good runner. If you weren’t so fast, I wouldn’t have set Malc on you. Sorry about that. I only want to talk. You’re not in trouble.”

  Giving up, Owen got to his feet without taking Luke’s hand. “Always in trouble.”

  “Not from me. I just want to ask you about that.” He pointed towards Owen’s dressing.

  Owen glanced at his left hand and frowned. “I got shot. That’s all.”

  “Where?”

  “Where does it look like? In the hand.”

  “No,” Luke said. “I mean, where in London.”

  “Oh. Tottenham Court Corridor. Just above Oxford Freeway.”

  “Who shot you?”

  Owen shrugged.

  “Didn’t you see?”

  “No,” Owen answered.

  “Did anyone follow you to the hospital?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  Disturbed by the two boys, a tree-snake slithered along a branch of the ash and out of their range.

  “How did you get on with the doctor at Thomas’s Hospital?” asked Luke.

  “Didn’t know what to make of her at first. Think she thought I was a bit rough. She wanted an identity card. But she did the job all right.”

  “Do you know why you were shot?”