Runya
Proveho
- Joined
- Feb 17, 2009
- Messages
- 237
HOW DARE YOU!
Pier.
OOohhh!... Je pense que ce nom est sexy!Parlez-vous français, monsieur?
'Cause I don't! *grins*
Like Tears In Rain
- Thread starter reiver33
- Start date
- Status
HOW DARE YOU!
Pier.
OOohhh!... Je pense que ce nom est sexy!Parlez-vous français, monsieur?
'Cause I don't! *grins*
Menion
ze Spaniard!
Very good Story, i dont agree with all thoose people that say its got wrong words, i think its fine how it is (missplet words add charecter ) but than again it just might be that im spanish and that is how i think it is spelt.
Thumbs up to the Author, is there anymore?
) but than again it just might be that im spanish and that is how i think it is spelt.Thumbs up to the Author, is there anymore?
Oh, I was going to start "If you two have finished getting each other's names wrong this is somebody's critiques thread.", but look. Someone's posted a comment.
overflowing?
Perhaps a verb? "were still coping"?
majesty's
that goose is traditionally "wild"
When you've all quite finished!
It's like being a substitute teacher in a class of bright but socially inept children, it really is...
ANYWAY, thanks to all for the 'creative input' and I can only apologise, again, for the shoddy grammer, typos, etc. - my only excuse being the 'single sitting, no notes' way in which I work. When I get the chance I'll post the next bit from the ideas still in my head (which features tea, Bourbons and the Department of Direct Labour with flamethrowers).
Cheers,
Martin
It's like being a substitute teacher in a class of bright but socially inept children, it really is...
ANYWAY, thanks to all for the 'creative input' and I can only apologise, again, for the shoddy grammer, typos, etc. - my only excuse being the 'single sitting, no notes' way in which I work. When I get the chance I'll post the next bit from the ideas still in my head (which features tea, Bourbons and the Department of Direct Labour with flamethrowers).
Cheers,
Martin
Runya
Proveho
- Joined
- Feb 17, 2009
- Messages
- 237
HOW DARE YOU!
Pier.
Parlez-vous français, monsieur?
'Cause I don't! *grins*
Hehehehe!
Non, je ne le faites pas, madame. Je crois que nous sommes tous fiers de nos noms.
(Google Translator ftw!)
Right then, this is a repost of the 'corrected' first section plus a second section for you to savage.
One
I watched a couple share a last embrace, wreathed in flame.
Then a sudden rain squall swept Nelson Square, blotting out my view while the CCTV wiper struggled with a deluge it had never been designed for. Eventually the shot cleared enough to reveal two smouldering bodies on the pavement, one of them still moving, but both burnt beyond recognition at this distance.
I swore under my breath and set aside the paperwork I’d been working on, dumping it back into the already overflowing tray. The switchboard managed to get me an outside line but I could tell from the background whispers that my call was being shunted over half of London, the remaining exchanges still barely coping with the workload.
“Cleansing department.”
“Hi, this is Detective Inspector Vic Morden over at Justice.”
“Acting Detective Inspector”, murmured Anderson from across the desk, as he never misses a trick. I refused to scowl at his jibe and carried on, regardless.
“Look, we’ve got a couple who torched themselves in Nelson Square, Southwark, and I was wondering if you could get a crew over there before the dogs get busy.”
“They both dead then? I’m not going to send a wagon only to have some do-gooder call an ambulance instead.”
“Well, I won’t ******** you but one of them is still moving…”
I heard the sign of exasperation and decided to throw in a sweetener.
“…but, trust me, they’re way beyond medical help. Look, send a wagon and if they’re still twitching have your boys give a thumbs down to the camera. I’ll have a paramedic swing by for an assisted termination – can’t say fairer than that?”
There was a pause, and there was the shuffle of paper as he consulted a clipboard.
“Yeah, OK. I’ve got a collection in SE1 just now anyway, and I’ll have them take a gander. Thumbs up if they’re stiffs then?”
“You got it, and thanks again.”
I hung up and checked the monitor; neither prone figure was moving now and the few pedestrians about were giving them a wide berth. It may sound harsh but no hospital these days was going to treat a severe burns victim, one who was probably going to die anyway. If I did call in the paramedic then at least they would be spared lying about on a trolley in an unregarded corridor for several hours.
Detective Sergeant Anderson signed off on a report and dumped it in the ‘out’ tray, placing his pen down ever-so precisely before rubbing his eyes.
“Technically speaking, someone should check the bodies for identification, so that the next of kin can be informed. Might save the state the cost of burial.”
“Burial? Didn’t you read that last directive? That’s why I called cleansing straight off.”
He gave me that slightly superior smile that I’d come to loathe.
“And here was I thinking you were still the consummate professional - everything by the book, upholding the common good, even with half the planet reduced to ashes.”
“The book changed, I haven’t. Anyway, those two stepped outside society the moment they lit themselves up, and I’ve got no time for those that won’t hold on.”
The intercom buzzed before Anderson could slag me off for indifference after the fact – seemingly a heinous crime in his world view.
“I have a Major Saunders on line two for you, Inspector. He’s been passed down by Divison.”
“Yeah, thanks Heather, I’ll take it.”
I really didn’t like dealing with the Armed Forces at the best of times, but I was feeling particularly irritated by Anderson and just knew I was going to take it out on the hapless Major.
“This is D.I. Morden. How can I help His Majesty’s finest?”
“Good morning Inspector, this is Major Saunders of the Second Composite Battalion. Sorry to trouble you with what, in all probability, is the proverbial wild goose chase, but we have a situation which is more properly your preserve. Thought I’ve give you a bell while it was still under wraps, so to speak.”
At least he hadn’t started off by reminding me I was technically required to assist him under the provisions of Martial Law; I’ve found some get really riled when I point out you actually need an army for the martial bit - something clearly absent these days.
I switched to speaker so that I wouldn’t have to brief Anderson later, if need be.
“A situation, Major? What kind of situation?”
“The daughter of one of my sergeants - good man, rock solid - has been found dead. He popped home on a 48-hour pass to check up on her – the mother absented herself a while ago, you understand – and there she was. Called in our chaps, of course, even though it looked like, ah, a planned departure, and everything was fine until one of the MPs apparently blurted out he thought it was murder.”
“May I ask why your sergeant didn’t call us in straight off? I’m assuming the dead girl is a civilian, after all? It’s still our –“
“Absolutely, old chap, absolutely. It’s just we always like to have a quick look-see in situations involving dependants of active personnel, just in case it’s any kind of revenge scenario.”
“Unlikely, Major, after this time – but I take your point. Any reason why the military police think this is murder and not suicide? I mean, these days killings tend to be fairly obvious and don’t require much in the way of investigation.”
“Can’t help you there, sorry. All I know is that Sergeant Harris is most dreadfully upset at any suggestion of foul play; completely unsettled by the whole affair, apparently, and I’d be failing in my duty if I didn’t do my utmost to set his mind at ease. Bad enough the poor girl had to top herself, eh?”
“Well, it’s something we’ve all had to get used to, Major.”
“Quite. So I can leave this in your capable hands then, Inspector? My two MPs and Sergeant Harris are still in situ, so if you could have someone pop round, give the place a quick once-over and reassure him it was by her own hand, so to speak, they can give him a lift back to base.”
“A funeral at the Army’s expense then?”
“Least we can do, given the circumstances. You hear such dreadful stories these days, about cursory services and ‘body disposal’ - quite dreadful. Now, the address is in south-east London, a Place called Nelson Square…”
Coincidence? Both Anderson and I glanced at the monitor, still showing two blackened bodies on the rain-swept pavement.
I don’t trust coincidence.
One
I watched a couple share a last embrace, wreathed in flame.
Then a sudden rain squall swept Nelson Square, blotting out my view while the CCTV wiper struggled with a deluge it had never been designed for. Eventually the shot cleared enough to reveal two smouldering bodies on the pavement, one of them still moving, but both burnt beyond recognition at this distance.
I swore under my breath and set aside the paperwork I’d been working on, dumping it back into the already overflowing tray. The switchboard managed to get me an outside line but I could tell from the background whispers that my call was being shunted over half of London, the remaining exchanges still barely coping with the workload.
“Cleansing department.”
“Hi, this is Detective Inspector Vic Morden over at Justice.”
“Acting Detective Inspector”, murmured Anderson from across the desk, as he never misses a trick. I refused to scowl at his jibe and carried on, regardless.
“Look, we’ve got a couple who torched themselves in Nelson Square, Southwark, and I was wondering if you could get a crew over there before the dogs get busy.”
“They both dead then? I’m not going to send a wagon only to have some do-gooder call an ambulance instead.”
“Well, I won’t ******** you but one of them is still moving…”
I heard the sign of exasperation and decided to throw in a sweetener.
“…but, trust me, they’re way beyond medical help. Look, send a wagon and if they’re still twitching have your boys give a thumbs down to the camera. I’ll have a paramedic swing by for an assisted termination – can’t say fairer than that?”
There was a pause, and there was the shuffle of paper as he consulted a clipboard.
“Yeah, OK. I’ve got a collection in SE1 just now anyway, and I’ll have them take a gander. Thumbs up if they’re stiffs then?”
“You got it, and thanks again.”
I hung up and checked the monitor; neither prone figure was moving now and the few pedestrians about were giving them a wide berth. It may sound harsh but no hospital these days was going to treat a severe burns victim, one who was probably going to die anyway. If I did call in the paramedic then at least they would be spared lying about on a trolley in an unregarded corridor for several hours.
Detective Sergeant Anderson signed off on a report and dumped it in the ‘out’ tray, placing his pen down ever-so precisely before rubbing his eyes.
“Technically speaking, someone should check the bodies for identification, so that the next of kin can be informed. Might save the state the cost of burial.”
“Burial? Didn’t you read that last directive? That’s why I called cleansing straight off.”
He gave me that slightly superior smile that I’d come to loathe.
“And here was I thinking you were still the consummate professional - everything by the book, upholding the common good, even with half the planet reduced to ashes.”
“The book changed, I haven’t. Anyway, those two stepped outside society the moment they lit themselves up, and I’ve got no time for those that won’t hold on.”
The intercom buzzed before Anderson could slag me off for indifference after the fact – seemingly a heinous crime in his world view.
“I have a Major Saunders on line two for you, Inspector. He’s been passed down by Divison.”
“Yeah, thanks Heather, I’ll take it.”
I really didn’t like dealing with the Armed Forces at the best of times, but I was feeling particularly irritated by Anderson and just knew I was going to take it out on the hapless Major.
“This is D.I. Morden. How can I help His Majesty’s finest?”
“Good morning Inspector, this is Major Saunders of the Second Composite Battalion. Sorry to trouble you with what, in all probability, is the proverbial wild goose chase, but we have a situation which is more properly your preserve. Thought I’ve give you a bell while it was still under wraps, so to speak.”
At least he hadn’t started off by reminding me I was technically required to assist him under the provisions of Martial Law; I’ve found some get really riled when I point out you actually need an army for the martial bit - something clearly absent these days.
I switched to speaker so that I wouldn’t have to brief Anderson later, if need be.
“A situation, Major? What kind of situation?”
“The daughter of one of my sergeants - good man, rock solid - has been found dead. He popped home on a 48-hour pass to check up on her – the mother absented herself a while ago, you understand – and there she was. Called in our chaps, of course, even though it looked like, ah, a planned departure, and everything was fine until one of the MPs apparently blurted out he thought it was murder.”
“May I ask why your sergeant didn’t call us in straight off? I’m assuming the dead girl is a civilian, after all? It’s still our –“
“Absolutely, old chap, absolutely. It’s just we always like to have a quick look-see in situations involving dependants of active personnel, just in case it’s any kind of revenge scenario.”
“Unlikely, Major, after this time – but I take your point. Any reason why the military police think this is murder and not suicide? I mean, these days killings tend to be fairly obvious and don’t require much in the way of investigation.”
“Can’t help you there, sorry. All I know is that Sergeant Harris is most dreadfully upset at any suggestion of foul play; completely unsettled by the whole affair, apparently, and I’d be failing in my duty if I didn’t do my utmost to set his mind at ease. Bad enough the poor girl had to top herself, eh?”
“Well, it’s something we’ve all had to get used to, Major.”
“Quite. So I can leave this in your capable hands then, Inspector? My two MPs and Sergeant Harris are still in situ, so if you could have someone pop round, give the place a quick once-over and reassure him it was by her own hand, so to speak, they can give him a lift back to base.”
“A funeral at the Army’s expense then?”
“Least we can do, given the circumstances. You hear such dreadful stories these days, about cursory services and ‘body disposal’ - quite dreadful. Now, the address is in south-east London, a Place called Nelson Square…”
Coincidence? Both Anderson and I glanced at the monitor, still showing two blackened bodies on the rain-swept pavement.
I don’t trust coincidence.
Two
After the Major had given us all the information he had to hand and rung off, Anderson and I just looked at each other for a moment.
“Are we really going to waste our time on this? Yet Uniform take a gander and if anything looks out of place then, maybe, we can send a D.C. along.”
I shrugged, picking up a pen and tapping it on the desk in an irregular rhythm, which I know irritates him.
“Despite all his bon homme the Major had the clout to get this ‘wild goose chase’ kicked upstairs and flagged for the personal attention of a Detective Inspector…”
“Acting”.
“…two senior detectives when, as you say, it should have gone to Uniform.”
The end came off my pen and the freed spring skittered across the desk. I glared at the remains and binned it while Anderson suppressed a smirk.
“No, I get the distinct impression we’re being asked to rubber-stamp a cursory military investigation, and that if this MP hadn’t queered the pitch by running off at the mouth we’d never even have heard about it. We got anything on this ‘Lola Harris’ then?”
Anderson turned and prodded his terminal into life, running a check on any prior activity at that address and, of course, her name. While he busied himself I dug another pen out of my diminishing personal store; I supply my own rather than use the rubbish the force hands out.
“Harris, Lola – also known as Lola Montez”, he smiled, but I didn’t get the reference, “She’s got priors for possession, Class ‘B’ and ‘C’ a couple of years ago, drunk and disorderly, and two counts of soliciting within the three months leading up to the Emergency. Nothing since then as that kind of behaviour’s been effectively decriminalised. She works as a hostess at Café Berlin in Soho, plus a bit of escorting on the side, it looks like.”
“Not exactly daddies little girl, then.”
“No angel, certainly, but nothing to suggest she was mixed up in anything that would lead to her murder, if that’s what it is.”
He sat back and looked over at me.
“Well, do we go?”
I flipped the pen into my breast pocket – the one trick I can do – and rubbed my eyes with both hands.
“Yeah, I suppose so. Look, it gets us out of the office if nothing else, and we need some mileage this month to justify our petrol allocation.”
He motioned towards the bank of CCTV monitors.
“And our ‘valuable contribution to street safety’, who do we get to take over?”
It irks him – hell, it irks me – that CID have been lumbered with remote surveillance; ‘passive policing’ as its called these days, but its part of the job. I buzzed through to the admin office.
“Heather? D.S. Anderson and I need to pop out for a bit. Who do we have on relief to watch telly while we’re gone?”
“Just a moment, sir.”
I could hear her leafing though the rota and when she came back her tone was decidedly chilly.
“It’s P.C. Hastings, sir. Shall I try to reach her?”
Ah, Lucy Hastings, while not being exactly the ‘office bike’ as the saying goes, had definitely gone off the rails a bit when out of uniform – which tended to be quite often, by all accounts. We couldn’t afford to suspend her just for screwing around but her behaviour, rumoured behaviour, with some senior officers had definitely irritated the other female personnel.
Hell, Lucy had even tried it on with Anderson, even though that’s not his bag at all. Not that I mean he’s gay or anything – and God knows there are enough ‘alternative lifestyles’ out there these days – its just that he seems to find the whole idea of physical intimacy (or even a quickie) faintly distasteful.
“Yes, Heather, if you would be so kind.”
“I’m sure she’ll be off her back and in as soon as possible, sir.”
Heather snapped off before I could reprimand her for the jibe, which I half suspected was based on jealousy in general and gossip concerning Lucy and myself at the last Christmas party in particular.
By way of unspoken apology Heather brought us tea and Bourbon biscuits, of which we seemed to have an inexhaustible supply. I suspected she arranged them on a plate so as to hide how horrendously out-of-date the pack was, but until they actually started growing mould I was happy to accept them.
Anderson stood, sipping his tea and gazing out at the dreary city through unwashed windows.
“For the rain it raineth every day.” He murmured.
Now, I’m not casting myself as Lewis to his Hathaway, but the sod has this habit of shoving his university education down my throat, knowing full-well that if I don’t know something, I’ll usually ask. This time though I didn’t get the chance as his attention was drawn to something in the street below.
“I see the DDL’s finest are out in force today, resplendent in their Day-Glo orange shell suits. Mind if I open the window and hear what they’re on about?”
Without waiting for my agreement he forced the frame apart and the faint sound of a loudhailer drifted in.
“…designated areas. I repeat. This is now a Department of Direct Labour waste disposal zone. No further collections of household rubbish will be made by the local authority. Leave your household rubbish by the roadside every Friday, I repeat, Friday, from now on. All bags and other items for disposal must be placed in the designated…”
He closed the window, his nostrils twitching at the pervasive reek of accumulated household waste.
“Street incineration teams. Not quite ‘bring out your dead’, but its only a matter of time.”
I shrugged and flicked crumbs from the report I was reading while he returned to his desk.
And frowned.
“I didn’t notice this before but there’s a tag on her record indicating our Lola was a person of interest with Thames House. Just a tag though – there was no alert when I accessed her record.”
Now it was my turn to frown.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning this record has been doctored by the security service.”
After the Major had given us all the information he had to hand and rung off, Anderson and I just looked at each other for a moment.
“Are we really going to waste our time on this? Yet Uniform take a gander and if anything looks out of place then, maybe, we can send a D.C. along.”
I shrugged, picking up a pen and tapping it on the desk in an irregular rhythm, which I know irritates him.
“Despite all his bon homme the Major had the clout to get this ‘wild goose chase’ kicked upstairs and flagged for the personal attention of a Detective Inspector…”
“Acting”.
“…two senior detectives when, as you say, it should have gone to Uniform.”
The end came off my pen and the freed spring skittered across the desk. I glared at the remains and binned it while Anderson suppressed a smirk.
“No, I get the distinct impression we’re being asked to rubber-stamp a cursory military investigation, and that if this MP hadn’t queered the pitch by running off at the mouth we’d never even have heard about it. We got anything on this ‘Lola Harris’ then?”
Anderson turned and prodded his terminal into life, running a check on any prior activity at that address and, of course, her name. While he busied himself I dug another pen out of my diminishing personal store; I supply my own rather than use the rubbish the force hands out.
“Harris, Lola – also known as Lola Montez”, he smiled, but I didn’t get the reference, “She’s got priors for possession, Class ‘B’ and ‘C’ a couple of years ago, drunk and disorderly, and two counts of soliciting within the three months leading up to the Emergency. Nothing since then as that kind of behaviour’s been effectively decriminalised. She works as a hostess at Café Berlin in Soho, plus a bit of escorting on the side, it looks like.”
“Not exactly daddies little girl, then.”
“No angel, certainly, but nothing to suggest she was mixed up in anything that would lead to her murder, if that’s what it is.”
He sat back and looked over at me.
“Well, do we go?”
I flipped the pen into my breast pocket – the one trick I can do – and rubbed my eyes with both hands.
“Yeah, I suppose so. Look, it gets us out of the office if nothing else, and we need some mileage this month to justify our petrol allocation.”
He motioned towards the bank of CCTV monitors.
“And our ‘valuable contribution to street safety’, who do we get to take over?”
It irks him – hell, it irks me – that CID have been lumbered with remote surveillance; ‘passive policing’ as its called these days, but its part of the job. I buzzed through to the admin office.
“Heather? D.S. Anderson and I need to pop out for a bit. Who do we have on relief to watch telly while we’re gone?”
“Just a moment, sir.”
I could hear her leafing though the rota and when she came back her tone was decidedly chilly.
“It’s P.C. Hastings, sir. Shall I try to reach her?”
Ah, Lucy Hastings, while not being exactly the ‘office bike’ as the saying goes, had definitely gone off the rails a bit when out of uniform – which tended to be quite often, by all accounts. We couldn’t afford to suspend her just for screwing around but her behaviour, rumoured behaviour, with some senior officers had definitely irritated the other female personnel.
Hell, Lucy had even tried it on with Anderson, even though that’s not his bag at all. Not that I mean he’s gay or anything – and God knows there are enough ‘alternative lifestyles’ out there these days – its just that he seems to find the whole idea of physical intimacy (or even a quickie) faintly distasteful.
“Yes, Heather, if you would be so kind.”
“I’m sure she’ll be off her back and in as soon as possible, sir.”
Heather snapped off before I could reprimand her for the jibe, which I half suspected was based on jealousy in general and gossip concerning Lucy and myself at the last Christmas party in particular.
By way of unspoken apology Heather brought us tea and Bourbon biscuits, of which we seemed to have an inexhaustible supply. I suspected she arranged them on a plate so as to hide how horrendously out-of-date the pack was, but until they actually started growing mould I was happy to accept them.
Anderson stood, sipping his tea and gazing out at the dreary city through unwashed windows.
“For the rain it raineth every day.” He murmured.
Now, I’m not casting myself as Lewis to his Hathaway, but the sod has this habit of shoving his university education down my throat, knowing full-well that if I don’t know something, I’ll usually ask. This time though I didn’t get the chance as his attention was drawn to something in the street below.
“I see the DDL’s finest are out in force today, resplendent in their Day-Glo orange shell suits. Mind if I open the window and hear what they’re on about?”
Without waiting for my agreement he forced the frame apart and the faint sound of a loudhailer drifted in.
“…designated areas. I repeat. This is now a Department of Direct Labour waste disposal zone. No further collections of household rubbish will be made by the local authority. Leave your household rubbish by the roadside every Friday, I repeat, Friday, from now on. All bags and other items for disposal must be placed in the designated…”
He closed the window, his nostrils twitching at the pervasive reek of accumulated household waste.
“Street incineration teams. Not quite ‘bring out your dead’, but its only a matter of time.”
I shrugged and flicked crumbs from the report I was reading while he returned to his desk.
And frowned.
“I didn’t notice this before but there’s a tag on her record indicating our Lola was a person of interest with Thames House. Just a tag though – there was no alert when I accessed her record.”
Now it was my turn to frown.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning this record has been doctored by the security service.”
You don't need me, but I thought it would be nice to let you know I read it:
Question which has no relevance to the story, or your writing thereof; you mention most of the telephone exchanges are out; was this due to the flare itself (EMP plus loss of most geostationary satellites) or secondary civil disorder? (Ugh, "civil", as if they were being polite to each other) International communications must be at a low not seen since Napoleon introduced his semaphores, and with refugees pouring out of the border regions, where the flash wasn't quite powerful enough to kill everybody but easily to start fires and totally disrupt infrastructure.
Perhaps Geneva isn't the best place to be.
I'd (I would, not I have)
Probably "Let"
bonhomie?
"them"? Yes, I know it's the pen, but it's pretty plural now.
daddy's (unless they were sugar daddies, in which case daddies'
it's
Question which has no relevance to the story, or your writing thereof; you mention most of the telephone exchanges are out; was this due to the flare itself (EMP plus loss of most geostationary satellites) or secondary civil disorder? (Ugh, "civil", as if they were being polite to each other) International communications must be at a low not seen since Napoleon introduced his semaphores, and with refugees pouring out of the border regions, where the flash wasn't quite powerful enough to kill everybody but easily to start fires and totally disrupt infrastructure.
Perhaps Geneva isn't the best place to be.
Last edited:
Yet again, CC rides to the rescue of my impetuious fingers! I was called in for a night shift at short notice and battered away at the second segment before before fatigue took too much of the edge off.
In terms of your question; the decline in infrastructure is more lack of maintenance and spare parts, although there would have been some incidental damage due to 'civil' disturbance following a failed attempt at enforcing Martial Law.
Not much in terms of refugees coming out of western Siberia, but the real hotspot (no pun intended) would be Iran-Pakistan-Afganistan, as the major 'land bridge' between burnt and not-burnt. Geneva would be an oasis in comparison.
I'm just up having had 3 hours kip, so I'll get round to a revised (corrected) posting later....
In terms of your question; the decline in infrastructure is more lack of maintenance and spare parts, although there would have been some incidental damage due to 'civil' disturbance following a failed attempt at enforcing Martial Law.
Not much in terms of refugees coming out of western Siberia, but the real hotspot (no pun intended) would be Iran-Pakistan-Afganistan, as the major 'land bridge' between burnt and not-burnt. Geneva would be an oasis in comparison.
I'm just up having had 3 hours kip, so I'll get round to a revised (corrected) posting later....
Three
I snorted in exasperation and tossed the report onto the desk.
“If this is some bloody secret squirrel escapade gone wrong I will not be best pleased.”
Anderson held up a hand to calm my ire.
“It’s probably just sloppy maintenance, nothing more. Looks like you really can’t get the staff these days, even in defence of the realm. Our soft-shoe brethren employed a number of ‘escorts’ for informal intelligence gathering purposes, that’s pillow talk to you and me, but since the Emergency the number of visiting diplomats and industrialists has been, well, curtailed somewhat.”
I was still less than impressed.
“Its times like these I really wish we still had Special Branch to handle ‘sensitive’ cases. I don’t wasn’t us to go wasting time and effort…”
“And petrol.”
“…and petrol on something that officially is a foregone conclusion. If it is then that MP is due for a right rocket, and no mistake.”
Anderson smiled.
“Well, at least they can’t give him a posting at the edge of Empire these days, unless those rumours of surviving military in Afghanistan are true.”
I made some non-committal noise in my throat and we went back to our paperwork, with occasional glances at the bank of monitors. Eventually a cleansing lorry entered the camera shot of rain-swept Nelson Square, its windows and headlights protected by wire grilles. Two men in grey overalls got down, leaving one in the cab, and the foreman (in a hat), inspected the two blackened bodies by poking them with a stick. He turned towards the CCTV camera and gave a double ‘thumbs up’ - before taking on a supervisory role as his minions brought out what looked like very large pizza oven shovels to move the bodies.
“Right then, D.S. Anderson, we’ve hung about long enough. Heather can watch the monitors until Hastings gets here and we can’t keep the military waiting forever.”
He shrugged and fetched our coats and hats.
Leaving Heather on a break from typing, Anderson and I called in on the Duty Armourer on out way out.
“Yes gentlemen, in or out?”
“Out sergeant, but nothing fancy required.”
“Right away sir, I’ll be back in a moment.”
After consulting his files the sergeant supplied Anderson with a regulation .38 revolver and clip-on hip holster, but pursed his lips when fetching my designated firearm from storage.
“Should have remembered you, sir, being as how this is something of a museum piece. Webley .455, a real vintage item these days.”
My grandfather had brought it back from Rhodesia (as was) after a lifetime in the colonial police force and I’d inherited it, getting a special dispensation from the Chief Constable to carry it in lieu of my regulation pistol. Admittedly this was just after the State of Emergency had been declared and the CC was hitting the bottle quite heavily by then, but it allows me to carry around a piece of my personal history - as a kind of talisman against death in service.
However the damn thing is over ten inches long and would look out of place hanging on my hip, so I carry it in a shoulder rig which Anderson declared makes me look like some gangland ‘enforcer’ from the 1940’s. Certainly with hats and overcoats back in fashion, due to the increased rainfall, the two of us had a definite retro look as we left the building.
I drove and Anderson rode shotgun, literally; nursing a 12-gauge pump-action Mossberg – but filled with bean bags rather than buckshot. Not that I was really anticipating the need for crowd control, but an Army presence could still get the natives restless and I didn’t want to call in the Riot Squad as back-up if that could be avoided.
Thankfully I found the MPs had come ‘incognito’ in a khaki sedan rather than jeep, although no-one would have mistaken the intense young man sitting behind the wheel as anything other than military personnel, out and about in his ill-fitting suit..
The address we wanted was on the first floor; a two-bedroom flat in good order, separate living and kitchen areas, all nicely decorated and sparklingly clean. Whatever else, Lola Harris had been a dab hand with the duster herself or able to afford a cleaner. Either that or the place had been recently ‘sanitised’ and there would be no prints, hair or fibres that didn’t belong to the deceased.
Maybe I’m just too cynical these days.
Sergeant Harris may not have been one of the true ‘stiff upper lip’ brigade, but following whatever outburst had unsettled his commanding officer he was now in emotional ‘last stand’ mode, his face set like stone. After going over the basics we sent him downstairs to wait in the sedan and turned our attention to the other MP, Corporal Rickman, who led us through to the master bedroom. Despite being something of an amateur bodybuilder there was a wary intelligence in his eyes which put him above the usual truncheon-wielding squaddie; the ‘wary’ bit probably the realisation that some things are best left unsaid.
Lola was lying on the bed, dressed in a dark green halter-neck wool dress and matching stilettos. A leggy redhead, pale skinned and slender – in death she looked about twelve years old. She was holding a Steiff teddy bear and had family photos on the bed beside her, an empty bottle of pills and near-drained glass of water on the table to hand. There were no obvious signs of violence and she didn’t appear to have been moved or dressed; there was nothing, and I mean nothing, that would have raised my suspicions.
Anderson took the lead.
“Right then, Corporal. Here we have an unfortunate young woman with every sign of this being a ‘planned departure’, as it’s euphemistically referred to these days. Just what about this undeniably tragic scene leads you to believe it was other than suicide?”
Rickman shifted uncomfortably despite his obvious training as an emotional monolith.
“It’s the rings, sir. This girl is a Foursquare, sir, like my sister, and when they wear the rings they always wear open-toed shoes or sandals, to show the second pair off, like.”
Anderson eased the stilettos from Lola’s feet and, sure enough, there were the rings on her big toes to match the pair on her thumbs.
Damn.
I snorted in exasperation and tossed the report onto the desk.
“If this is some bloody secret squirrel escapade gone wrong I will not be best pleased.”
Anderson held up a hand to calm my ire.
“It’s probably just sloppy maintenance, nothing more. Looks like you really can’t get the staff these days, even in defence of the realm. Our soft-shoe brethren employed a number of ‘escorts’ for informal intelligence gathering purposes, that’s pillow talk to you and me, but since the Emergency the number of visiting diplomats and industrialists has been, well, curtailed somewhat.”
I was still less than impressed.
“Its times like these I really wish we still had Special Branch to handle ‘sensitive’ cases. I don’t wasn’t us to go wasting time and effort…”
“And petrol.”
“…and petrol on something that officially is a foregone conclusion. If it is then that MP is due for a right rocket, and no mistake.”
Anderson smiled.
“Well, at least they can’t give him a posting at the edge of Empire these days, unless those rumours of surviving military in Afghanistan are true.”
I made some non-committal noise in my throat and we went back to our paperwork, with occasional glances at the bank of monitors. Eventually a cleansing lorry entered the camera shot of rain-swept Nelson Square, its windows and headlights protected by wire grilles. Two men in grey overalls got down, leaving one in the cab, and the foreman (in a hat), inspected the two blackened bodies by poking them with a stick. He turned towards the CCTV camera and gave a double ‘thumbs up’ - before taking on a supervisory role as his minions brought out what looked like very large pizza oven shovels to move the bodies.
“Right then, D.S. Anderson, we’ve hung about long enough. Heather can watch the monitors until Hastings gets here and we can’t keep the military waiting forever.”
He shrugged and fetched our coats and hats.
Leaving Heather on a break from typing, Anderson and I called in on the Duty Armourer on out way out.
“Yes gentlemen, in or out?”
“Out sergeant, but nothing fancy required.”
“Right away sir, I’ll be back in a moment.”
After consulting his files the sergeant supplied Anderson with a regulation .38 revolver and clip-on hip holster, but pursed his lips when fetching my designated firearm from storage.
“Should have remembered you, sir, being as how this is something of a museum piece. Webley .455, a real vintage item these days.”
My grandfather had brought it back from Rhodesia (as was) after a lifetime in the colonial police force and I’d inherited it, getting a special dispensation from the Chief Constable to carry it in lieu of my regulation pistol. Admittedly this was just after the State of Emergency had been declared and the CC was hitting the bottle quite heavily by then, but it allows me to carry around a piece of my personal history - as a kind of talisman against death in service.
However the damn thing is over ten inches long and would look out of place hanging on my hip, so I carry it in a shoulder rig which Anderson declared makes me look like some gangland ‘enforcer’ from the 1940’s. Certainly with hats and overcoats back in fashion, due to the increased rainfall, the two of us had a definite retro look as we left the building.
I drove and Anderson rode shotgun, literally; nursing a 12-gauge pump-action Mossberg – but filled with bean bags rather than buckshot. Not that I was really anticipating the need for crowd control, but an Army presence could still get the natives restless and I didn’t want to call in the Riot Squad as back-up if that could be avoided.
Thankfully I found the MPs had come ‘incognito’ in a khaki sedan rather than jeep, although no-one would have mistaken the intense young man sitting behind the wheel as anything other than military personnel, out and about in his ill-fitting suit..
The address we wanted was on the first floor; a two-bedroom flat in good order, separate living and kitchen areas, all nicely decorated and sparklingly clean. Whatever else, Lola Harris had been a dab hand with the duster herself or able to afford a cleaner. Either that or the place had been recently ‘sanitised’ and there would be no prints, hair or fibres that didn’t belong to the deceased.
Maybe I’m just too cynical these days.
Sergeant Harris may not have been one of the true ‘stiff upper lip’ brigade, but following whatever outburst had unsettled his commanding officer he was now in emotional ‘last stand’ mode, his face set like stone. After going over the basics we sent him downstairs to wait in the sedan and turned our attention to the other MP, Corporal Rickman, who led us through to the master bedroom. Despite being something of an amateur bodybuilder there was a wary intelligence in his eyes which put him above the usual truncheon-wielding squaddie; the ‘wary’ bit probably the realisation that some things are best left unsaid.
Lola was lying on the bed, dressed in a dark green halter-neck wool dress and matching stilettos. A leggy redhead, pale skinned and slender – in death she looked about twelve years old. She was holding a Steiff teddy bear and had family photos on the bed beside her, an empty bottle of pills and near-drained glass of water on the table to hand. There were no obvious signs of violence and she didn’t appear to have been moved or dressed; there was nothing, and I mean nothing, that would have raised my suspicions.
Anderson took the lead.
“Right then, Corporal. Here we have an unfortunate young woman with every sign of this being a ‘planned departure’, as it’s euphemistically referred to these days. Just what about this undeniably tragic scene leads you to believe it was other than suicide?”
Rickman shifted uncomfortably despite his obvious training as an emotional monolith.
“It’s the rings, sir. This girl is a Foursquare, sir, like my sister, and when they wear the rings they always wear open-toed shoes or sandals, to show the second pair off, like.”
Anderson eased the stilettos from Lola’s feet and, sure enough, there were the rings on her big toes to match the pair on her thumbs.
Damn.
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