by Malcolm Rose
TRACES
Final Lap
The Fifth Case
By Malcolm Rose
Text copyright © Malcolm Rose 2013
First published by Kingfisher 2007
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.
There’s a huge building site in London. The Authorities are trying to regenerate the area by building a sports facility to host the International Youth Games. But someone’s out to sabotage the development by any means possible. When the manager vanishes, The Authorities call in Luke Harding and Malc to investigate a whole series of suspicious accidents. With help from his girlfriend, Jade, Luke closes in on the killer, codenamed Spoilsport. But will Luke overtake Spoilsport on the final lap? Maybe he’s going to need Malc and Jade as the race unfolds.
‘Tight plotting, credible clue trails and last minute twists make this real edge of the seat reading.’ Schools Library Association, Must-Read Books for Boys.
Also available:
Traces 1: FRAMED!
Traces 2: LOST BULLET
Traces 3: ROLL CALL
Traces 4: DOUBLE CHECK
Traces 6: BLOOD BROTHER
Traces 7: MURDER CLUB
Chapter One
Everything was wrong. It was the wrong time of year and the sports stadium was unfinished. The crowd was not really a crowd at all. A few trainers, athletes, reporters and enthusiasts were bunched together in the only stand that had been completed so far. Seen from the airship overhead, they were a small oasis in a concrete desert and the builders crawling busily over the rest of the arena looked like worker ants.
Only one competitor had re-entered the stadium and embarked on the final lap. Approaching the end of the marathon, his gasps left a trail of steam behind him in the cold air. The weather was all wrong as well.
The giant telescreen at the far end of the oval was blank. When the electronics were fully installed, it would show pictures taken by the airship and outside cameras, trackside close-ups, and a list of the exact position of every runner in the marathon. For now, the leader’s triumph was unannounced, but the large timer was showing 2:08:13.7.
Jed Lester shook his head in disbelief. Without taking his eyes off the front-runner in the sky-blue kit, he said to Owen Goode, “He’s quality, but the organizers are going to have to check the clock or the route. It’s a practice run, out of season, he’s so young, yet he’s coming in not far short of the national record. They’ve probably messed up the distance.”
Owen nodded. “Likely, it’s short of the full forty kilometres.”
The construction workers on the opposite stand stopped what they were doing and watched the lone runner completing a circuit of the track.
The event was a strange spectacle, designed to test Hounslow’s preparations for hosting the International Youth Games in the spring. The volunteer runners were putting the planned marathon route through its paces. The organizers were also checking the electronic timing system, the orientation of the airship, and a tagging device that monitored the position and order of every competitor throughout the long-distance event. After the race had finished, they would also test the newly completed laboratory for detecting and measuring performance-enhancing drugs.
Jed had been a middle-distance runner. Twenty years ago, he was the best over fifteen hundred metres. Now, he’d teamed up with fifteen-year-old Owen Goode to develop a sports club in Greenwich. They were converting the old domed warehouse, built in a loop of the Thames, into an indoor track and training facility. Already, it was becoming a popular haunt for rebellious London kids who had run away from their schools. Jed was hoping to spot a new generation of athletes among them. He’d entered one boy and two girls into the trial marathon. Right now, he expected them to be twelve to eighteen minutes away from the stadium.
Perplexed by the leader’s performance, Jed stroked his trademark bald head with a cold hand and glanced down at the list he’d been given. “Ford Drayton. On this showing, he’ll be selected for the Games if the distance and time are right. But something’s got to be wrong.”
From across the other side of the track, there was a loud clunk and a metallic squeal. Thunderous hammering, pounding, shouting and drilling had become commonplace during the construction of the stadium, so no one took any notice. The noises were followed by a fearsome mechanical groan. Two builders, standing way up high on scaffolding, were resting their elbows on the steel rail and looking down at the closing stages of the race. From their lofty position, they could probably also see the other runners labouring along the outside walkway towards the stadium. Almost certainly, they’d be able to appreciate the full extent of Ford Drayton’s lead over the following pack.
Watching Ford’s unflagging finish, Owen commented, “Maybe he’s had a bit help from drugs.”
“I don’t think so. It’s not like it’s a power event.” Jed stared at Ford’s wiry body as he came past the spectators’ stand. “It’s not his technique that’s wrong, for sure,” Jed said in admiration. “Look at his posture, how he holds his head. His arms pump beautiful and his coordination’s near perfect, even after that distance. But if you’re right and he has taken something, he’ll be disgraced in an hour or two. That’s LAPPED for you.” Thinking of the Laboratory Analytical Procedure for Performance-Enhancing Drugs, Jed grunted. “In my day, lapped was something that happened to you on the track if you weren’t much good. Back then, I had to race – and beat – the cheats. Simple as that.”
Before Ford Drayton reached the finishing line, there was an alarming creak from one section of the scaffolding. The sound was followed by a dreadful twang as the bolts holding up the platform on the left-hand side gave way. The planks of wood tilted and then tumbled down towards the running track. The two builders who had been standing on them were tipped sideways as the boards slid out from under their feet. In panic, they both grabbed the bar they’d been leaning against. But the rail also came adrift from the rest of the contraption and the men were pitched into empty air.
Every face in the stand looked up – away from Ford’s victory. Steel poles, three planks of wood, a girder, and two men plummeted to the ground. Yet their plunge seemed to last a lifetime. Their arms wheeled and legs flailed in slow motion.
A protracted human scream tore the atmosphere. It was followed by the thud of wood hitting the trackside area and the clatter of a girder and steel railings. One of the metal shafts stabbed into the earth like an oversized javelin. But worst was the silence that followed the dull thumps of the builders hitting the ground.
Focussing on his performance, maintaining his style in spite of exhaustion, Ford Drayton kept an eye on the stadium clock and paid no attention to the commotion behind him. He ran to the finish in stunned silence. Only one spectator – his own trainer – applauded his remarkable achievement.
****
Forensic Investigator Luke Harding was listening carefully as the face on his telescreen described his next assignment. She was telling him about two construction workers who’d lost their lives in the main sports stadium at Hounslow in the London area. Luke was puzzled, though. He asked, “Do you know for sure it’s suspicious? A scaffolding collapse sounds like an accident to me. Or shoddy work.”
The representative of The Authorities seemed put out that Luke was questioning her word. She was probably aware that FI Harding had a growing reputation for dissent. Despite his youth, though, he also had a growing reputat
ion for solving difficult cases. “It might sound like an accident to you, taken in isolation. But this isn’t the first mishap at the Hounslow development. It began two years ago with an air traffic accident. I believe you know about it.”
“Oh, yes,” Luke replied. “I came across it in my last case. A Hounslow-to-Glasgow flight. Its fuel line was iffy. Someone in maintenance fitted the wrong nut. The pipe loosened in flight and fuel poured out.”
“That’s right. And one of the indoor sports venues went up in flames some months ago. It had to be rebuilt. The first manager has gone missing and there have been other incidents as well. I’ll download details into your Mobile Aid to Law and Crime. We accept that accidents happen. But not this many. There comes a point when bad luck begins to look deliberate. We’ve reached that point. So, you’ll investigate possible sabotage at the site.”
“Have there been any deaths apart from the passengers in the plane and these two builders?” he asked.
“Aren’t they enough?” she responded. “We want you to catch the person or persons responsible before anyone else dies, and we want to know what happened to Libby Byrne. She was the site manager until she vanished. Her disappearance may or may not have anything to do with her work.” The voice of The Authorities paused before adding, “There’s a lot at stake here, Investigator Harding. Hounslow’s a high-profile regeneration project. The biggest in the south of England by some distance. Despite the... difficulties, we’re on the final lap as far as construction’s concerned. We don’t want the International Youth Games jeopardized at this late stage. If it fails, it’ll be our last attempt to renovate an area of London.”
“That’d be a pity.” Luke was wondering if she was threatening to axe Owen Goode’s alternative school in Greenwich as well.
“Make sure it doesn’t happen, then.”
“I’ll do my best,” Luke said towards her fading face.
****
When the Principal of the Sheffield Music Collective appeared at Jade Vernon’s door, Jade pulled her headphones down from her ears and let them rest on her shoulders, making a strange outsize necklace. She clicked the Save button to keep the samples she’d added to a new mix of one of her pieces, and swivelled towards him.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but I’ve got some news you’ll want to hear.”
“Oh?”
“Good news,” he stressed, beaming like a child. “It’s from The Authorities and I think you’ll be pleased. Very pleased.”
At once, Jade’s thoughts turned to pairing. She was sixteen – four years from The Time – and she was hoping that The Authorities might have had a change of heart. Perhaps they would couple her with Luke Harding when The Time came. But would the Head of the Collective get involved in the business of the Sheffield Pairing Committee? Would he even know about her pairing situation and her wishes?
“Oh?” she repeated, wondering how long he was going to keep her in suspense.
“It’s an honour for you and the whole Collective,” he said. “The Authorities have commissioned you to compose the music for the opening ceremony of the International Youth Games and the official anthem.” He’d clearly got more to say but he hesitated to let the offer of the glitzy task sink in and to watch her reaction.
Her frown turned into a wide grin. “Really? The anthem? That’s... brilliant. Amazing.” In her excitement, she jumped to her feet and the headphone cable nearly throttled her. “Fantastic. Why me, though?”
The principal replied, “Don’t be so modest, Jade. It’s obvious. You were selected because you’re good. The best person for the job. Given the occasion, it’s also appropriate for a youth – someone less than twenty – to provide the music.”
Jade shook both of her fists in the air. “Yes! Fame at last.”
“True. Previous writers of sports anthems have gone on to great things. I wish you well with it – as does everyone in the Collective.”
“I can hardly believe it, but... I’ll need a site visit,” Jade said. “To get a feel for the place, to see what would work. Is that all right?”
“I assumed you’d ask so I’ve already checked. The main stadium is nearly complete so you can visit by arrangement almost any time. The other venues are at various stages of construction. Someone will take you wherever you want to go as long as it’s safe and doesn’t interfere with the building.”
“It’s down near London, isn’t it?” She tried not to pull a face.
The Principal laughed. “Don’t let that put you off. Think of yourself as part of the Hounslow regeneration scheme. It’s a golden opportunity.”
Despite the need to go to the South, she tingled all over. “I can’t wait to get going,” she said.
Chapter Two
It was very early in the morning. Brooke Adams was the only person in the huge swimming baths. She felt as if she were standing alone in a large flooded cavern. The atmosphere was eerie and still. The windows at the far end of the baths and the lights overhead were reflected perfectly on the flat surface of the water. Brooke wasn’t used to such calm. Whenever she stepped up to the edge of a pool, her supporters were normally chanting her name, encouraging her to yet another win. Now, the spectator’s gallery was empty. Her cough was the only sound and it echoed back and forth across the empty space.
The Aquatic Centre reeked. Brooke hadn’t smelled anything like it before but she imagined that it was normal for a brand new facility.
She shook her arms and hands vigorously, and wiggled her fingers. Then she moved her head from side to side and rotated her shoulders. Stretching the muscles of her sleek and supple body, she massaged the back of one leg and then the other. Keeping her legs straight, she bent down and touched her toes effortlessly. For a moment, she rubbed them because they were itchy. Finally, she was ready. She was about to be the first person ever to enter the water.
She pulled her goggles down over her eyes and perched at the side of the pool. Crouching into her start position, she took a deep breath. Then she pulled her arms back before throwing them forward and launching herself into the tranquil unspoilt water.
She crashed through the mirror-like surface, creating a chaos of ripples and a neat splash. Bubbles of air escaped from her nose as she executed one slow breaststroke under water, before breaking the surface again. She propelled herself powerfully through the water, spearheading the wake behind her. Each sturdy stroke lifted her head and broad shoulders into the air. As the water fell back from her face, she sucked in a deep breath.
About thirty metres down the length, though, she pulled up and, treading water, let out another cough followed by a pained cry. Her mouth, tongue and throat seemed to be on fire. All of her exposed skin was smarting as if it had been sandpapered. She stroked her stinging face with both hands. Her cheeks felt rough and ridged like fingertips that had been in water long enough to go wrinkly. Convinced there was something wrong with the swimming baths, Brooke spat out the small amount of water that had got inside her mouth and hurried to the side. As soon as her hands made contact with the edge, she yanked herself out. Feeling sick and screaming, she scampered to the poolside shower and dowsed herself with cold water.
****
Hounslow Residential was a large building riddled with long corridors and apartments, like a rabbit warren or an accommodation wing in a school. As with everything else in the area, it was not quite complete. The basic structure was in place but some of the living quarters, common rooms and passageways had not yet been finished. There was a lot of bare plaster, wood, brick and concrete on show. Everywhere was the smell of paint and adhesives. The elevators seemed to have a mind of their own, stopping and starting at random, sometimes between floors. The water and electrical supplies were unpredictable.
The residence was run by an experienced supervisor and a lot of trainee staff. Apart from Luke and Malc, it seemed to be occupied entirely by builders. Many of them were living temporarily in Hounslow Residential while they worked on the regeneration project
. Some were decorators, putting the finishing touches to the plush accommodation block before it was used later in the year to house the best young athletes from around the world.
The variable quality and size of the meals suggested that the kitchen facilities were temperamental as well. The chefs were apprentices and deliveries of food were as irregular as the elevators.
Seen from Luke’s fourth-storey window, Hounslow was awash with earth-moving vehicles and cranes. Scaffolding embraced many of the buildings like external skeletons. A lot of hotels and restaurants were going up in time for the influx of athletes and spectators in the spring. Trees and shrubs had been cleared almost entirely from the site but one large conifer towered beside Luke’s room. To his right, the Aquatic Centre was complete but had not been officially opened. Workers were dismantling the steel framework and wooden planks that had surrounded it. Without taking his eyes off the industrial clutter, Luke said, “Anyone could wander around here in overalls and hard hat, no questions asked. It’d be a perfect disguise. But who’d want to sabotage all this improvement, or the Games themselves?”
Really, Luke was asking himself but his computer answered, “You have not begun your investigation so you do not have a list of suspects.”
Luke shook his head. “No, I mean, what sort of person would want to throw a spanner in the works?”
“I have searched the case files and find no reference to a propelled tool causing damage,” said the Mobile Aid to Law and Crime.
Luke smiled. His computer was a very clever and powerful piece of equipment but, in a way, dim. “Open dictionary, Malc. A spanner in the works is a fly in the ointment.” Knowing that his mobile would not let the matter rest, Luke stopped teasing him. “It means get in the way of, mess things up, sabotage. And I want to know who’d do it.” He watched a team of roofers crawling over the new medical centre and physiotherapy unit, laying tiles. “Maybe the boss of a rival company that missed out on the building contract, or a construction worker who’s been passed over for promotion. I don’t know. How about an architect whose plans were turned down? And I guess the development might’ve stirred up grievances. I look at it and see all the good it’s doing but not everyone would, I suppose. Perhaps someone living here didn’t want it at all. And there must’ve been other towns that thought they’d be chosen to host the Games, like somewhere up north that’s already got great facilities. Maybe someone there’s determined to see Hounslow fail. Then there are athletes who haven’t been selected for the Games.”