“Oh, right, sure.”
“I think you’ll be able to identify it…”
“What?”
“You seem to know them.”
Sharma led them over and pulled the sheet back, exposing a shattered face.
“F. F’ing F, I do know her.”
“Can you confirm?”
“That’s Jessica Villiers.”
“Uniform found the body shortly before you sent her a text.”
“F. She’s a journalist. Specialising in hate crime. We met her today and I was texting back to say I’d do an interview with her. Get something arranged. Maruma and I were mulling it over.”
“Sharma stood back up. “Is there any motive in there for someone to kill her, or is this random? When you say interview, what do you mean?”
Grayling’s eyes widened. “She said she had things she could tell us about the Patriot Party, and Morthern.Info, and what’s going on. She wanted an exchange of information, her research for our candid replies.”
“And shortly after making that offer, someone beats her to death. I mean her wallet is gone, so someone wants us to think this is a robbery… but,” Sharma turned to Maruma, “we are agreed this is an assassination?”
“Looks likely,” Maruma replied.
Sharma looked back at Grayling, who nodded. “F,” Grayling said, a hand to her head. “I shouldn’t have let her go while I decided.”
“Any sign of a murder weapon?” Maruma asked the SOCO.
“No sign, but I think we’re looking for a hammer or something similar.”
“Whoever did this has abandoned subtlety. But we can’t rule out they were interrupted,” Grayling said as she tried to make sense of the scene.
“Fair point,” Sharma said, “we’ll need to work out who drove through here at the time. All right, let’s get this body gone.”
“They knew we met,” Grayling said with a heavy note of sadness. “Maybe they watched, could have been anyone but someone…”
“You going to be okay to work on this?” Sharma asked.
“Oh yes, you know us, professional.”
Sharma nodded, but thought to herself, you’re not as cold as you like to think you are Rebecca.
St. George Stevens was having the night off. Instead Rupert Hume was at the fore, and he picked up a crystal decanter which weighed as much as a cat and poured himself a glass of very expensive whisky. He was sure he could taste the difference, and if he repeated that enough he would look like a man of taste, surely. He sipped it, felt it bite into his throat and complimented himself on buying such a fine one. Then the doorbell rang, and it was time to welcome his guests.
The door opened to reveal a man in a suit as expensive as Hume’s own, and a woman in a dress three times the cost. Both were in their late fifties. Hume welcomed the businessman and ushered him into an immaculately kept hallway filled with tasteful objects. The former was thanks to his cleaner, an immigrant from India, and the latter due to buying what shopping assistants told him were his own choices.
“Come through,” Hume said, taking them into the lounge. Here the eye was drawn between a large and very fake fireplace and something else.
“That television is huge!” the businessman observed.
“Eighty inches, curved, 8k,” Hume showed off.
“Must have cost a lot!”
“Well, if you’ve got it, spend it, can’t take it with you!”
The businessman nodded. “Politics must be a thriving business.”
“I am very much an expert in new media,” Hume bragged, “my website links to socials and that alone bring in tens of thousands. That’s why I never have to eat in this house unless I’m entertaining, there are so many dinner invitations!” Part of that wasn’t a lie.
“So, what is for dinner tonight?”
Without any trace of irony, Hume said “I have a chef in the building from Thailand, who is cooking us authentic cuisine. Not cheap, but the finest you’ll find outside London, and even then, the best parts of London.”
“Excellent.”
“How about some champagne?”
“At the risk of looking common,” the businessman laughed, “I’d just like a beer thanks, but I’m sure my wife would like some bubbles? Bubbles dear?”
“Oh yes.”
“I shall call and have this all brought out.”
Hume grinned internally and externally. His campaign to wine-and-dine the rich string-pullers of Morthern was going very well indeed, with the bonus side effect of giving him a series of delicious meals and semi drunken nights. Not that Hume himself drank until the guests had gone and he could relax and get out of character, even if that character was the man of taste and culture… and money, lots of money.
Hume had never met Tim Berners-Lee, who was meant to have invented the web, but if he did, he’d have to present him with a whole bottle of champagne, for creating the system that made all of his income and influence possible. What a marvellous system to bring humanity together and then corrupt them. A people united is a wonderful thing when you’re the one directing them.
Three
Dan Dobbs was still mayor. As he sat in his office, he knew he might not have long left in the office, but he was still mayor and now it was fun time. One of the things he’d learned throughout his service was that there was a period when everyone wanted you, to know you, talk to you, and that was election time. Everyone wanted to lend their support in exchange for promises about what future policy would be, and as soon as the election was over all the friendliness left and it was endless demands turning into total hostility. But just for these few weeks he was a man of possibilities and people wanted him. This must be how an X-Factor winner felt in the few hours while the media still looked their way before turning to the next fresh meat.
He looked down at the list of meetings in front of him. Breakfast meetings, lunches, dinners, drinks, trips to the theatre, art galleries, one even said he could drive sports cars round a track. They all wanted a piece of him, just in case he got back in, and Dan was more than willing to give them it. Of course, there were a few things you had to struggle through, like interviews with journalists, hustings with the other candidates, repelling those people who wanted to coerce rather than co-opt. There were even some people who wanted something from him without any presents or threats, they just tried to appeal to some inner civic duty: that wasn’t how this worked!
Dobbs stood and patted an expanding waistline he’d work on reducing either once he was re-elected, or in the free time after if he failed. He supposed he should have been a hundred percent optimistic, and he was in public, but privately? He knew he had a fight on. There were two good candidates, and he hadn’t predicted either. The editor of the leading local paper, which must surely be illegal somehow, and that rabble-rousing hypocrite who always gave you the sense you didn’t want to offend him personally or someone would break your windows. Which was clearly why Dan Dobbs himself should be mayor.
He looked down at the desk where a junior had written up a list of achievements from Dan’s time in office that he had to learn and give out, and a list of excuses for the things which had… well let’s not say gone wrong, more not been as successful as people would have wanted.
Ahem.
So, what was coming up next? A look at the chart, and a lovely meal at a restaurant which flirted with Michelin stars. Although, Dobbs supposed, flirting with a star was the same as not having one wasn’t it. A nice piece of PR to get that idea out there, he could do with learning from it.
Anyway, he thought to himself, if he failed to get re-elected, he could always stand as a Member of Parliament.
“British rain-dances. Wimbledon, any form of picnic, and having to do a fingertip search through anywhere.” Maruma said this as he watched a line of uniformed police carefully working their way through a wood. All were dressed to defend against both contaminating a crime scene and getting soaked to the skin in the persistent rain. They were all cold
and tired, but this wood wasn’t going to search itself. Not that they could search the whole thing. The time usefully spent and the money demands of running an austerity police force meant they’d got a likely search area drawn up, and for that part at least time was of the essence.
Grayling stood next to him. The pair had been to get as much medical insight into Jessica Villiers death as they could at this early stage, although in truth there wasn’t much the medics could say. Maybe a toxicology report would reveal drugs, maybe there were wounds hidden on her body, but so far it looked like someone had just beaten Jessica to death in as blatant a manner as humanly possible.
“We’re not looking for a fake leg, are we?” a searcher called out.
Grayling replied “Like… a prosthetic?”
“Yeah, there’s one here.”
“Well bag it up. Does it look bloody?”
“No. Been here ages.”
Maruma mused “who loses a fake leg in a wood?”
“People are always losing them on trains,” a searcher helpfully explained, “along with false teeth.”
“No wonder you left transport.”
“What have we got left?” Grayling asked.
“Not much here.” They both turned so they could just see the large tent set up around the victim’s car, on which they knew the SOCO were searching for prints, DNA and anything else helpful.
“You know how we’re not supposed to jump to conclusions and our guts’ aren’t the final arbiter,” Grayling whispered.
“Yes.”
“Do you also feel like we’re not going to find anything here?”
Maruma whispered back, “I do get that, yes I do. This isn’t a ‘prints’ kind of killing.”
“Nope,” Grayling agreed, “nor a dump the weapon in the woods kind. There’s an element of thought behind this, an attempt to send a message, besides, we’ve had a few swift resolutions, we’re due a tricky one.”
“You gonna get some gloves on and join this line?” a searcher called out half in jest.
“Yep, coming,” Grayling replied. Then she turned to her colleague. “I am going to need a hot shower and some spicy food after this.”
“You wild and crazy thing.”
“Maybe a drink too. Actually, we’ve forgotten the cake!”
“I haven’t forgotten, I’m waiting for you to remember.”
“Good news ladies and gents!” Grayling called to the searchers, “we’ve got a load of cakes for you all! In the car!”
“We had to drive very carefully,” Maruma added.
“Well don’t stand there looking at the view!” a searcher called out. “We need our fuel! Bring us sugar and cakes!”
“Will swap you for a fake leg?”
Two women sat in their house. They had spent the evening listening to music and getting ready to go out. A playlist curated during many office hours, with the careful application of makeup as if it was warpaint going to deflect bullets. Then it had come to the sharp end of the evening, the time to down those last drinks and leave the house. The former wasn’t hard as they had pre-gamed more than they ever normally would and were already slightly wobbly. So, the drinks were sunk and then it was time to leave.
As they passed the door one woman touched her nose where she had recently been punched. It was tender, still purple, and ached, especially when she left her house, or the house of her friend. But she forced this aside and they went out of the home, down the street and stood at a bus stop.
They had been blessed with a warm November evening, so they were in skirts and light jackets, and they stood and laughed as people queued up with them. A bus could be seen approaching, a nice red one which was on time, and as it pulled up the women got their money ready to pay.
The bus came to a halt and a door slid open.
The women looked inside, at a driver who looked out with impatience, and they waved the rest of the queue on. The others climbed on and paid as the two women looked at each other, and then the queue was gone, and it was their turn. But they could not get on a bus, not so soon after they had been abused and attacked, so they stepped back and let the vehicle drive off.
Tipsy and with tickets to a gig, they looked at an empty road.
“We could get a taxi?” one suggested to her girlfriend.
“That’s expensive.”
“Yeah but… we either pay and go, or we don’t go. Which is fine, either is fine, cos if you don’t wanna go on public transport…”
“You don’t either!” the other protested.
“No. No I don’t’. So, we either pay through the arse or we sit on them. Up to you?”
“Don’t put this on me.”
“Hey babe,” a hand was urgently laid on an arm, “this isn’t your fault, its theirs, and they’re being charged. But we’re… I guess we’re being charged as well, with money, to get about, but I’ll front that if it means we get to go out and do stuff and don’t turn into shut-ins, cos that’s what I feel like doing and I know you’re the same… and we’ve got to fight it or we’ll never get anywhere. We’ve got to go out and do stuff. So, let’s pay, cos at the end of the day money is nothing compared to agoraphobia.”
“Okay babe, let’s try it.”
Lindleman walked into the Bunker and did a double take. At first, he thought he’d interrupted something and that Grayling and Maruma were sat on the sofa kissing. It was a jolt until he realised both had been sat on it and fallen asleep and their heads had rolled together. He smiled like a proud parent and went over and gently shook them.
“Wah?” Grayling said as she woke.
“I think you two are exhausted and you need to go home,” Rob said gently.
“Oh, I, no, we can’t,” Grayling said.
Maruma had now come around and Lindleman noted the pair didn’t jump apart. Two people genuinely, innocently comfortable with each other. “We’re waiting for some data.”
“I think Wick and Sharma would tell you to wait at home. You live opposite for fuck’s sake. But what are you waiting on?”
“We had an idea,” Maruma said excitedly, “someone killed Jessica. But she was killed on the road, so she must have stopped on the road, so someone must have been following her, and maybe they stopped her. So, what stops people?”
“Deer?”
“Maybe something people can control Rob, something like the mobile phone found in the footwell. In the footwell? Not a pocket? We wondered what if someone rang her and she pulled over, then they pounced. So, we checked her phone records and low and behold there was a call, as she was driving…”
“Awesome! Who from?”
“We are waiting on the data from that number,” Grayling replied as she headed for the coffee machine.
“Right, well you fell asleep so it’s probably there…”
Maruma and Grayling looked at each other, and ran to their screens, then had a look.
“Sweet F! It arrived twenty minutes ago!”
Lindleman watched them pull up a file, so he went and got three mugs of coffee then went over. “Okay, so you’ve all gone from looking sleepy, through happy to miserable. What do you have to report?”
“Someone wants to be DI,” Maruma joked.
“You think you’re being funny, but like all good jokes it reveals truth. Spill.”
“There is a record of the mobile phone,” Grayling explained, “and yes, the call is logged, and the location was moving right along behind Jessica’s vehicle, so we have that part right. But it’s a total burner phone. Only ever used once, along this road, and all details vanished from then on, never used again, never powered again, we can’t even find its location. We’re still at square one.”
“Well you know it’s an assassination,” Rob tried.
“We already did.”
“Now you can prove the assassination theory in court.”
“Yeah but we’re still no closer to court. To who did this,” Grayling bit her lip, “I mean it’s not like I think there’s jus
tice or some moral punishment or any of that nonsense, but I want to get this person locked away so Jessica isn’t just another entry on a long list of dead. As of now we have nothing.
Rupert Hume looked out at the audience. Some people felt nervous about public speaking, which he thought was a sign of weakness anyway, but he’d found a way around that. He never worried about public speaking now because everyone in the audience was on his side. A hand-invited core group brought in from closed social media groups, and then the rest interested random’s along with the secretly allowed protesters. But here was the fun thing; there was always a protest of some sort at his events, and that was all allowed for. Some people would come along, wave their signs, and Hume would lead a chant to throw them out; they’d be evicted, and the room would be bound together. The protestors had a beneficial effect on his meetings, which they never realised.
Hume peered through the curtain at the people lined up for a new mayoral style speech and smiled to himself. Human nature, wonderful human nature; at its best when it had something to hate. Oh yes, the world was supposed to be all kind and loving but anyone who looked knew the truth. People needed another to react against, to project on, to dislike and see as inferior, to hate, and people like Hume in his St. George character could march right in and exploit that. As he was. A room full of people, ninety-five percent on his side, the five percent about to do him a favour; what a glorious time to be speaking.
He looked down at his watch to check the time. He saw both five minutes until the event started and a clear thousand pounds in mechanics on his wrist. The business was booming since he declared he was going to be mayor. He’d invested more money in advertising to reach people who’d be wavering, but the return was massive as they all read his sites and kicked up the advertising revenue. Furthermore, now the rest of the media was providing vast amounts of coverage and click flow. It was fantastic, he should have stood for office before if he was looking at the bottom line.
Of course, he wanted to enact policies. Change things. Which made him laugh because the left always went on about change, as if the extreme right didn’t want change equally as much just in the different direction. But Britain had moved during the last few years to let people like him rise to the fore. Could they have been stopped? He didn’t care, life is as life does, you deal with what is in front of you, and he was a master.
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