“Let me simplify it for you, then,” said the detective. “The evening before last. Where were you?”
“Home.”
“That’s it? Home?”
“Home.”
“Is there anybody who can confirm that?”
“No.”
“You were just... home.”
“Yes. Alone. Catching up on a spot of paperwork.”
“You weren’t, by any chance, at the Regent’s Park outdoor theatre?”
“No. Should I have been? What was on?”
“A hell of a show, actually.”
“Really? Well, I’m sorry to have missed it.”
“So you can’t account for your whereabouts that night.”
“Yes, I can. I told you. I was home.”
“If you start getting obstructive with me, Mr Reston, we can always carry on this conversation down at the Yard. It’s a whole lot less congenial there than here, and the tone will be a whole lot less civil.”
“How am I being obstructive?” Stuart protested. “I’m giving you straight answers to your questions. What more do you want?”
“So you’re telling me that no one else can confirm that you were at your house all evening?”
“My flat. I’m a widower, a single man. I don’t need a house any more. And no, no one can corroborate my claim. What part of ‘alone’ are you finding so hard to comprehend, chief inspector?”
“It’s really not much of an alibi, is it?”
“Agreed, it’s not. Had I known in advance that I’d need to come up with an alibi for myself on the night in question, then I’d have made sure I had one. I simply didn’t realise it would be required. Sorry.”
The detective looked at him askance. “You are one conceited son of a bitch, you know that?”
Stuart gave her a blank stare in return. “Let’s get down to brass tacks, inspector. Are you or are you not here to accuse me of something? And if so, what?”
“You know full well what.”
“Clearly I don’t.”
“Am I going to have to come right out and say it?”
“I think you are.”
“All right.” She set her jaw. “Mr Reston, I have good reason to believe that you are the mass-murdering terrorist known as the Conquistador.”
Stuart hesitated. Then he burst out laughing. “Preposterous! What proof do you have? Give me a single shred of evidence that says I am.”
“Priest Marquand’s murder.”
“Was the Conquistador seen there? Are there any eyewitnesses who can place him at the scene?”
“No, but –”
“There you go.”
“But it has all the hallmarks of a Conquistador attack. The only difference was, it was unplanned. You just didn’t happen to have your armour handy. You seized the moment, thinking you’d rack up another dead priest to add to your total.”
“Pure supposition. Assuming I was the Conquistador, would I really do something so rash? Why?”
“Because you’re cocky. You’re out of control. You’re so far into this, you just can’t help yourself any more.”
“And I’m killing priests for what reason, precisely?”
“Because priests killed your wife and son.”
“Sacrificed them. Crucial distinction.”
“Same end result, though. They wound up dead.”
“My wife put herself on the altar voluntarily. It was her decision. Nobody forced her to do it.”
“Except the voices inside her head.”
“Crudely put, but yes. You could, perhaps, call it suicide by theocracy. But then to hate the entire hieratic caste for it, to want to seek revenge on them – it’s not logical.”
“Is it not?” said Chief Inspector Vaughn. “Grief isn’t logical, though. It takes all sorts of strange forms. Grievance is one of them.”
“You sound like someone who knows whereof she speaks.”
Bullseye. A tiny flinch of the policewoman’s eyes. Stuart had at last scored a hit against her.
“You think grief would compel a man to dress up in armour,” he continued, “and visit vigilante justice on his nation’s ruling elite?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him. Past you. You fit all the criteria. You have the resources, the training, the capability, above all the motivation.”
“Ultimately a self-defeating course of action, though, wouldn’t you agree?” said Stuart. “Suppose I, as the Conquistador, manage to foment a revolution, as he intends to. The people rise up, stage a coup, throw off the shackles of imperial rule, declare an independent Britain. What then? I’m out of a job, for starters. What use is the obsidian trade in a country no longer run along Empire lines?”
“In answer to that, I’d say that you haven’t thought that far ahead. You want to satisfy your thirst for vengeance here and now. The rest – the further ramifications – can all take care of itself. You’re not bothered, so long as priests and acolytes and anyone else directly associated with the Empire die in their droves. Besides,” she added, “rich man like you, I reckon you’ve got enough money salted away in assets and savings that you could manage pretty well for yourself even without income from your company.”
“What this comes down to, Miss Vaughn, is that you’ve made your mind up about me. I’m the Conquistador, that’s decided, and you won’t be swayed from your opinion. Trouble is, other than the happenstance of me sharing a flight with His Holiness Marquand, there’s nothing to connect me to any of the Conquistador’s killings – and we’re not even sure Marquand was one of those. Therefore, unless you have actual concrete proof to back up these wild allegations of yours, I would ask you kindly to go away now and stop harassing me.”
The detective bridled. “You do not talk to a Jaguar Warrior in that way.”
“Oh, I think I do,” Stuart shot back.
“I could have you down the nick in three seconds flat. I could have a dozen of the burliest men on the force working you over, just on my say-so.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“You won’t, can’t, because you know it won’t fly. The Jaguars can get away with pretty much anything, but hauling in Stuart Reston for questioning? The Stuart Reston? On the flimsiest of hunches that he might be the Conquistador? I think not. I’m a public figure. I’m regarded as part of the state apparatus, much as you yourself are. Without something cast-iron against me, you’d risk making yourself and the force as a whole look pretty foolish. You’d be doing the Conquistador’s work for him. And once I got out of custody – and I would, you can be sure of that – I’d make sure the world knew all about it. A misstep like that, I doubt you’d ever recover from.”
“I have nothing to lose.”
“I think you do. Otherwise you’d have arrested me already.”
“All right. Granted. But...” Chief Inspector Vaughn leaned in close and lowered her voice to a lion-like growl. “You’d better pray I never get to the point where I do have nothing to lose. Because then, matey, you are well and truly buggered.”
Stuart stood his ground. The skirmish was over. He didn’t think he’d won but he had at least forced a stalemate.
“Perhaps you should leave now, chief inspector,” he said.
“Oh, I’m going,” she replied. “But this isn’t the last you’ll be hearing from me. Definitely not the last.”
She looked as though she was about to turn away. Stuart saw the punch coming. Her upper body tensed. She began to pivot on the ball of one foot.
He could have blocked it. He knew how. Every instinct told him to.
But a flash-thought said, It’s a test. She wants confirmation. You have to fail it.
So the punch landed, smack dab on his jaw, undeflected, and it was a cracker of a blow, carrying all her weight behind it, expertly swung. Stuart’s head exploded, and his legs crumpled. He had thought he would have to fake pain as he lay there on the floor of his office, so as to discourage her from giving h
im another wallop, but the pain was genuine and raw. His jaw fucking well hurt. Hurt like flames.
He looked up at her, wincing, smarting. “What the – what the hell was that for?”
“Just because. Think of it as a downpayment, Mr Tycoon. A promise of more to come.”
So saying, Chief Inspector Vaughn waltzed out. The door slammed behind her.
Stuart slowly picked himself up. He braved a smile, even though his jawbone was throbbing and it felt like there were splinters of glass embedded in it and smiling did nothing to alleviate the pain.
Being the Conquistador had just got rather more interesting.
EIGHT
Same Day
WELL, THAT COULD have gone more smoothly, Mal thought as she drove across town.
She hadn’t intended to tip her hand to Reston that he was a person of interest in an ongoing investigation. She had let her temper get the better of her. If only he hadn’t been so arrogant, so infuriatingly, insufferably smug...
On the other hand, now he knew he was under suspicion. That could work to Mal’s advantage. He might just become a whole lot more reckless. He might, like a fox with the hounds on its tail, do something wild and impulsive which would leave him dangerously exposed.
He also might take fright and give up being the Conquistador altogether. Mal didn’t think this likely, but if she had managed to bring a halt to the Conquistador atrocities, in spite of there being no arrest and conviction, that would be something.
At least she’d got that punch in. Her knuckles ached agreeably. Never underestimate the cathartic power of a solid roundhouse right.
Back at the Yard, she went looking for Kellaway. She wanted to report her findings – her certainty that Stuart Reston was their man. Having filled the chief superintendent in on her progress with the case and lowered his blood pressure somewhat, she could then start digging into Reston’s recent past and trying to correlate his known movements with the timings of the Conquistador’s attacks. At present she had only her drug vision and Reston’s lofty, egotistical attitude to tell her she was right, and neither was irrefutable proof. She needed more. She needed hard facts to substantiate her gut conviction. Her pride demanded it.
Aaronson intercepted her en route to Kellaway’s office.
“I wouldn’t go see him now if I were you, boss,” he warned.
“Why ever not?”
“He’s... he’s just had some bad news.”
“How bad?”
“The worst. The commissioner called him upstairs a couple of hours ago. Since then, the word’s spread like wildfire. Chief super’s going to be striped.”
Mal reeled. “No. Fucking. Way.”
Her DS gave a sombre nod. “This afternoon, at five. He’s on the phone right now to friends and family, making his peace.”
“But... why?”
“The Conquistador, why else? It’s all getting too much for everyone, too embarrassing. A head has to roll – a bigwig’s head. As I understand it, this comes all the way from the Great Speaker himself. His Imperial Holiness is not best pleased with how we’ve been dealing with the Conquistador. Enough’s enough.”
“Striped. The poor bastard.”
“It’s a noble death.” Aaronson sounded more hopeful than reassuring.
“It’s a fucking horrible death,” Mal said.
“Well, yes, can’t argue with that. But we know what to do, don’t we?”
“Too damn right we do.”
GETTING ONTO THE striping detail was not easy. Only four could be chosen, and just about everyone in the building was putting their own name forward. Not only was it an honour to take part, it was a valuable addition to your CV. The officer appointed to make the selection, Sergeant Pembroke, was swamped with volunteers.
Mal, however, reckoned she had leverage on Pembroke, and now was the time to apply it. Drawing the sergeant aside for a quiet word, she reminded him about a case they had both worked on a couple of years ago, busting a conclave of anti-Empire radical extremists who had been publishing pamphlets that mocked and derided the Great Speaker, calling him as the “Great Squeaker” and painting him as a frantic, ranting despot in dire need of being deposed.
At the extremists’ hideout in a West End backstreet basement, along with reams of paper and a printing press, a wad of cash had been found, hadn’t it? A tidy little sum hidden beneath a loose floorboard, no doubt earmarked to fund further subversion. Equivalent to a good three months’ salary, if Mal remembered rightly. And, mysteriously, the money had just sort of disappeared on its way to the evidence lockers. There one minute, gone the next. She hadn’t mentioned anything about it to anyone, but it had been pretty curious, hadn’t it? So much cash going astray.
Pembroke whitened just a little. He said he had no idea what the DCI was talking about. He didn’t recall any money.
“Why should you?” Mal replied sweetly. “If we’re all doing our duty and acting like professionals, we don’t even notice such things. And clerical errors do happen. Someone in Evidence probably mislaid the money, put it in the wrong locker, stuck the wrong label on. It’s sitting downstairs in a box gathering dust, and nobody has a clue it’s there.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“No point raking any of that up. No point bringing it to the attention of Internal Affairs. It’s such a small thing, I don’t even know why we’re discussing it now.”
Pembroke nodded avidly. There was a film of perspiration on his upper lip. “Me either,” he said.
“And if I was to get onto the striping detail, I’m sure I would forget about it completely.”
“Really? That’s all it would take?”
“That’s all.”
He looked at her as if he could scarcely believe it. For what she was selling him, she was charging a remarkably low price.
“Then you’re on it,” he said. “And the money, nobody’s ever going to hear about it again?”
“Not from me. You have my absolute word on that.”
“Thank you, chief inspector. Thank you so much.”
“Not at all, sergeant. Thank you.”
IN THE OLD days, during the Empire’s infancy, striping was a practice routinely carried out on captured enemy combatants. Only those who had shown notable prowess and bravery on the battlefield were singled out to be put to death in this way; the rest of the captive warriors would be mass-slaughtered like cattle. It was considered a mark of respect and a fitting tribute to their valour, although the victims themselves might not see it that way.
In modern times, striping was the fate of anyone in authority who failed to live up to expectations or disgraced the Empire somehow. It was a chance to redeem oneself before gods and men, make reparation through pain, and depart the world with dignity restored. A “flowery” death, as it was known. A good death.
At five o’clock, punctually, Chief Superintendent Kellaway left Scotland Yard for the Westminster ziggurat, a walk of a few hundred metres. Commissioner Brockenhurst was at his side every step of the way. Both men were in full ceremonial garb, their uniforms sporting the plethora of medals and decorations they had earned in the course of their careers.
Behind them, in square formation, strode the four members of the striping detail, Mal among them. They, too, were dressed up for the occasion. Then came a procession of other ranks, nearly a thousand strong, the entire Yard turning out to see the chief super off. Civilian onlookers lined the route, craning their necks. Tourists and commuters, curious, stopped and stared. The inevitable Sun Broadcasting cameras were there, recording the moment for posterity.
During his final walk, Kellaway loudly sang the praises of the Jaguar Warriors, the High Priest, the Empire, the Great Speaker. It was an integral part of the ritual, and to neglect to do so was shameful. At the top of his voice he proclaimed his loyalty to the force and his regret that he had not discharged his role to the very best of his abilities. He wished his successor, whosoever that might be, all success in the job and confessed how
sad he was that he would not be around to see the new chief super prevail where he himself had blundered.
He continued with the protestations of faith and hope as he mounted the ziggurat steps. At the summit, the commissioner relieved him of his helmet and most of his regalia and presented him with the weapons he could use to defend himself. These comprised four pine cudgels for throwing and a war club adorned with quetzal feathers. An acolyte stood nearby, the official pastor to the Metropolitan Jaguars. He had a knife ready, along with a jaguar-shaped iron vessel just large enough to hold a human heart.
To the west, the sun was setting in a gory rage of twilight. To the east, the thunderheads loomed higher than ever, massive as a mountain range. It wouldn’t be long now before the storm broke. The air carried a static crackle. Growls echoed over the Thames estuary.
Commissioner Brockenhurst retreated, bowing to Kellaway. The acolyte tethered Kellaway by the waist to a large circular stone mounted on a platform. There was enough slack in the rope to give the chief super the run of the ziggurat’s summit, but no further. The acolyte incanted, commending Kellaway’s soul to the Four Who Rule Supreme. Then he invited the striping detail to step forward and take their positions around the victim.
“In the name of Xipe Totec,” he said to them, “the Flayed One, the Mighty Skinless, I beseech you. Be merciful with slowness. Cut with delicacy. Prolong the suffering, for only in blood and agony may this man’s sins be atoned. Begin!”
Mal held back, allowing the other three Jaguars, all men, to get their licks in first. Unlike Kellaway, the members of the striping detail each carried a decent weapon: a war club edged with shards of flint. The chief super straight away squandered the meagre advantage he had by tossing all four of his pine cudgels at them. Only one found its mark, and bounced all but harmlessly off its target’s chest. The cudgels rolled off the top of the ziggurat, putting them forever out of Kellaway’s reach.
The three Jaguars closed in and began delivering swift, deft slices to Kellaway’s arms and legs. They were careful only to nick the skin, going no deeper into his flesh. Blood was soon pouring down his limbs in ribbons and rivulets.
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