Strike a Match (Book 1): Serious Crimes (7 page)

The Acre, and all the buildings that stood on it, were now the property of Mr Foster. Officially – and it had been very official – the government gave Foster the land in exchange for a similar sized plot the man had owned before The Blackout, and on which the main railway depot had been built. From the moment the first judge had been sworn in, Foster had fought a protracted legal battle to have that land returned to him. Ruth didn’t know if he’d been a bitter man in the old world. After fifteen years of legal wrangling, and with the prize of a few dozen houses at the wrong end of the metropolis, Foster was certainly bitter now. The newspaper coverage hadn’t helped. During those early years there had been little news that wasn’t full of gloom and despair. Updates on Foster’s legal battle had become a regular fixture, prompting letters and opinions from anyone who could find pencil or pen.

The Acre was too far inland to be home to any fishers. It was too far from the factories for the salaried commuters, and it was far too far from the electrical grid to appeal to those with higher incomes. It was a place for the poor until they could afford something better. The new rents were low, but as high as Mr Foster was allowed to charge. As such they were more than most tenants could afford to pay. Especially Maggie and Ruth.

As she passed the new watermill that marked the boundary of the old town of Christchurch, exhaustion overtook Ruth, as did many other workers cycling to the shops before the evening rush. Soon the houses she passed were as often partially dismantled shells as they were occupied. The roads emptied, and she was alone except for an occasional rusting car deemed worthless even as scrap.

The sun was low on the horizon when she finally caught sight of their home. It was a rambling double-fronted semi that would have been completely detached if it wasn’t for the joists and props holding up the house next door. Maggie had put those up herself and used the ground floor as the schoolhouse.

The wooden gate squeaked as Ruth pushed it open and wheeled her bike into the garden. Maggie paused from digging over the potato patch at the front of the house.

“Evening,” Ruth said.

“What on Earth happened to you?” Maggie asked.

“It’s from a train,” Ruth said. “I rode in the engine.”

“I could guess where the soot came from. I meant your jacket. Is that blood?”

Ruth glanced down. She’d not noticed before, but there was a stain around her sleeve and another across the waist.

“It’s not mine,” she said.

“Well, whose is it?” Maggie asked.

“I don’t know his name. Let me change, and then I’ll tell you all about it.”

“That’s about it,” Ruth said, a brief wash, a change of clothes, and half an hour of conversation later. “Serious Crimes doesn’t seem to have any real responsibilities, and I’m stuck there for the next three months. Probably longer.”

“Well, you have to be somewhere, and that’s the best I can do,” Maggie said, hanging the uniform jacket up to dry. “A murder on your first day, that’s something. Though I don’t know whether it’s worth celebrating or not.”

“Except all I did was carry a trolley and then sit by the body until the coroner turned up.”

The kettle began to whistle. “And what were you expecting?” Maggie asked, as she poured a splash of hot water into the teapot. “Chasing smugglers across the roof tops? Foiling conspiracies committed by criminal masterminds? You’ve read too much Conan Doyle and not enough history. Or would you rather have spent the day being shot at?”

Ruth threw a glance at the locked pine box in the corner of the room. Her revolver was now inside. Ruth had the key, but Maggie had made it clear she wasn’t happy about the gun being inside the house.

“I suppose not,” Ruth said. “It’s…” She trailed off.

“I know, dear,” Maggie said, throwing out the water from the pot. “You wanted to be somewhere else, but how would it be different from here? If you were in Shetland or some market town in Kent, you’d have spent the day doing paperwork or patrolling an empty street. They may have been streets you’d never seen before, but you’d have soon realised that concrete sidewalks look the same the world over.” She opened the tin of powdered tea, added two heaped spoonfuls to the pot, and poured in the boiling water.

“Maybe,” Ruth said. She was starting to think that Maggie was right, not just about her day, but about her joining the police, and that was a depressing thought in itself. She reached for the pot.

“No, dear. You have to let it brew.”

Ruth shook her head. The label on the tin might read ‘Satz! Assam’ but it was a caffeinated substitute that no one who remembered the original thought tasted like real tea. Like the sweetener, pharmaceuticals, ersatz coffee, and so much else, it came from the chemical works on the River Avon. Ruth had never had real tea and didn’t understand Maggie’s need for the ritual. She even insisted on buying the ‘black’, unsweetened variety despite the tins with powdered milk and sweetener being the same price. Milk was available on points, but sugar was rationed, though today the bowl was nearly a quarter full.

“It sounds like it’s a unit of troublemakers,” Maggie said. “Put there to keep them out of harm’s way.”

“Yes, and the sergeant said I should ask myself why I’ve been posted there.”

“A very good question,” Maggie said, adding a splash of milk to the cups. “Have you come up with an answer?”

“No,” Ruth admitted. “Unless they guessed that I lied about my age.”

“If they cared about that, they’d have thrown you out,” Maggie said. “No, the only reason I can think of is that you’ve been sent there to spy on them. Certainly, I imagine that’s what your sergeant and that detective constable must think.”

“But I’m not a spy,” Ruth said.

“Not yet. But give it a few days and I expect someone will call you into their office and ask you to keep them informed. In exchange you’ll probably be guaranteed graduating to constable in three months and passing your probation in a year.”

“That doesn’t seem too bad,” Ruth said.

“It’s a double-edged sword,” Maggie said, finally pouring the tea. “If you inform on them, your colleagues won’t trust you, and you need their trust. You were at a murder scene today, who’s to say when your life might be in their hands? But if you don’t obey an order from your superior, you’ll be sacked. Or worse. This is the police after all. It’s probably a crime.”

“Then what do I do?”

“Be careful. Be cautious,” Maggie said. “And remember you can always quit. Winter is on its way and summer always follows. You can apply for an apprenticeship.”

“Maybe,” Ruth said, not wanting to have the oft-repeated discussion that inevitably turned into an argument.

“Anyway,” Maggie said, as if she’d had the same thought. “For now, just do your job and keep your head down. Let’s forget about it. I’ve got something for you. I wanted to give it to you this morning, but there wasn’t time.” She walked over to the battered dresser and took out a small parcel. “Happy birthday, dear.”

Ruth took the parcel and tugged on the bow holding the red velvet cloth in place. It was the same piece of material that had wrapped all of her presents for as long as she could remember. Inside was a small box, and inside that…

“A watch? Thank you.”

“Every police officer needs one,” Maggie said.

Ruth stood, and hugged her adoptive mother, as much for the words as for the gift. They were the first sign that, though she might not approve of Ruth’s choice of career, nor how she’d attained it, she did accept it.

“There’s a spring inside that will wind the watch as your wrist moves,” Maggie said. “It’s not as accurate as the other kind, but it’s accurate enough. Now sit down, and I’ll get your dinner. I made you a cake for dessert.”

“A cake?”

“Of course, it wouldn’t be much of a birthday without a cake. But light the candle, it’s getting dark.”

Ruth struck a match and lit the candle on the table, and another by the window. There was no electricity in The Acre, though they now had mains water via a tap in the front garden. When they’d chosen the site for the radio antenna, just a few miles to the southwest, there had been rumours that they would electrify the entire stretch of coast. It hadn’t happened yet. Even if it did, Ruth knew they wouldn’t be able to afford it for their home.

“Where did you get the ingredients for the cake?” Ruth asked.

“The eggs are our own,” Maggie said, “but I’ve been saving up the coupons for the sugar and fat.”

“For how long?”

“Oh, throughout the year,” Maggie said, taking a large dish out of the oven.

“But they’re only valid for a month,” Ruth said.

“I’ve been trading the ones we don’t need. With you getting your lunch at the academy, there’s been a few to spare.”

“Trading with whom? And for what?” Ruth asked.

“Ah, and isn’t that the nosiness of a true police officer. Now, eat your dinner before it gets cold.”

The meal was potatoes and vegetables from their own garden, seasoned with mustard and herbs, and with no trace of meat. Even with the coupons and price controls that was too expensive to be anything but a rare luxury. Ruth didn’t mind. The meal was filling and had the comfort of familiarity that came from being what she’d eaten most evenings for as long as she could remember.

They were about to cut the cake when there was a knock on the door. It opened as Maggie was still halfway to her feet. Mr Foster, their new landlord, came in.

“Sorry to trouble you, and at dinnertime, too. I do apologise,” he said, his voice dripping with insincerity. “I saw the candles and thought I’d pop in on my way home.”

“You can’t barge in here,” Ruth said.

“Oh, I think I can,” Foster said. “You owe me for the water rates.”

“It’s not due for another two weeks,” Maggie said.

“No, in two weeks it’ll be overdue,” Foster said. “And then I’ll have no choice but to evict you. I wouldn’t want that, which is why I thought I’d come and remind you, in case you forgot. There’s a lot of forgetfulness about at the moment. People leaving candles burning when they’ve gone to bed, that sort of thing. A lot of fires get started that way.”

“That’s a threat,” Ruth said. “And those are illegal.”

“Oh, no, it’s not a threat,” Foster said. “Just an observation. You see, I— here, whose is that?” He pointed at the uniform jacket hanging in the corner.

“It belongs to a friend of ours,” Maggie said. “He got into a fight. I was cleaning it for him. You can still make out the bloodstain. Hard to get those out, isn’t it, Mr Foster?”

“Huh,” Foster grunted. He looked around the kitchen again, this time taking in the two sets of dinner plates and the lack of evidence that anyone else was in the house. “Two weeks,” he said. “Not a day longer.”

He turned, stamping his muddy boots on the step as he left.

“I should put that uniform back on,” Ruth said.

“Oh yes, and what would you do then?” Maggie asked, as she pushed the door closed.

“I’d arrest him,” Ruth said.

“What for? He made insinuations, but were there any threats you could take to a judge? The government gave him this land, he paid for the water to be put in, and we have to pay him for it.”

“But it’s not right,” Ruth said. “We’ve been living here for years.”

“It
is
right, though it might not be fair, but life isn’t fair, Ruth, I’ve told you that often enough.”

Ruth nodded as she grabbed the dustpan and started sweeping up the mud the man had trailed into their home.

“Where are we going to find the money?” she asked. “I won’t get paid until the first three months are up, and it’s not like we’ve ever had any to spare.”

“Have you ever been starving? Have you ever not had a roof over your head? No. So don’t worry about the money. Now, leave that floor alone, I’ll deal with it later. Come and finish your cake, and you can tell me more about this sergeant. You say he’s from America?”

“Originally, but his accent’s different from yours.”

“It is? How old is he?”

“Forty. Maybe older, maybe younger. You know how hard it is to tell,” Ruth said. She went on to talk about Mitchell, Riley, and the rest of her day in more detail than before. Hours passed, the cake was eaten, and the candle burned low.

Chapter 3

Counterfeit

18
th
September

Ruth’s sleep was plagued by visions of steam trains that morphed into monstrous flies circling the face of the dead victim. She woke frequently and was glad when the inky darkness outside her window faded to the soft pink of the new day.

She raked the stove and went outside to fill the kettle. The tap in the garden was an improvement on the pump down by the old petrol station. Before that, they’d had to trek back and forth to the river. However, the convenience of the tap wasn’t worth the risk of losing their home. There were plenty of other houses, of course, though after twenty years of neglect most had little beyond roof and walls to offer. Many didn’t even have those. Then there was the school. If Mr Foster evicted them, would Maggie have to find somewhere else to teach the children from the immigration centre? Probably. Would the government provide it? Possibly, though not quickly. Perhaps someone in the Ministry of Education would help simply as a way of avoiding the paperwork that would come with organising a new school building. Thinking of paperwork reminded her of Sergeant Mitchell and the question of why she’d been assigned to his unit. By the time she’d eaten and dressed, she still hadn’t come up with an answer.

As she wheeled her bicycle along the lane, shooting frequent glances at the dark bloodstain on her sleeve, she hoped she might bump into Mr Foster. She wanted him to see her in uniform, but Maggie was right, what would she do then? What could she do? A million malicious ideas sprang to mind, but they were tempered by the memory of the dead man and his lifeless eyes.

According to her new watch, it was seven forty-five when she pushed her bike into the stand behind Police House. There were three-quarters of an hour before her shift officially began, but when she turned the corner of the stables, she saw Mitchell and Riley were already there. The detective constable stood in the doorway to the cabin, the sergeant at the bottom of the ramp, seemingly barring entry to two women. One wore the uniform of a captain in the SIS – the Secret Intelligence Service – the other was dressed in a distinctly civilian suit.

“There are few crimes
more
serious,” Ruth heard Mitchell say as she got nearer. She slowed her pace.

“And treason’s one of them,” the captain said. “It’s—”

“Forgery isn’t treason,” Mitchell interrupted.

“And this isn’t a few coupons or some fake ration books. This is counterfeiting,” the captain replied. Mitchell’s tone was angry, bordering on enraged. The captain’s voice was calm, with an edge that made it sound as if she was enjoying the confrontation.

“There’s a threshold,” the civilian said. “Of a thousand pounds, and you recovered over ten times that.”

“But the amount doesn’t matter,” the captain said. “Just the method that was used to create the currency.”

Now that she was closer, Ruth saw that the woman wasn’t wearing a suit. The jacket had thin white piping along the seam that was absent on the calf-length skirt. They looked like old-world clothes, though ones that had hardly been worn. Ruth couldn’t see any tears or repairs, and that meant they’d cost a good deal of money. Not as much as having a new set of clothes made by hand, but far more than Ruth herself could afford. She looked at the captain, but found her eyes being drawn back to the civilian. Then she realised why. It was the shoes. Both were black, but the buckle on the left was half the size of the one on the right. Whoever she was, Ruth imagined she must have been woken early, and dressed hurriedly in the dark to come here. As to why… she turned her attention back to the conversation.

“This is murder, Weaver. Murder!” Mitchell growled at the captain, his voice now dangerously low.

“And there are bigger issues at stake,
Mitchell,
” Captain Weaver replied.

“Nevertheless,” Mitchell replied. Ruth waited for him to go on. So did everyone else.

“Fine,” Captain Weaver said, when it became apparent the sergeant had finished. “Then I’m pulling rank,
sergeant
. This is
my
case, and I want your notes and the evidence you collected. All of it. Now.”

There was another long pause.

“Riley?” Mitchell finally said.

The constable went inside the cabin and came out a moment later with a thin file and half a dozen small evidence bags.

“That’s everything?” Weaver asked as she took it from the constable.

“Yes, captain,” Riley said.

Weaver eyed her, and then Mitchell.

“The law is the law, sergeant,” Captain Weaver said.

“That has
always
been my point,” Mitchell replied. He turned on his heel and walked into the cabin.

“Constable.” Weaver nodded to Riley, turned, and headed across the yard. “Cadet.”

Ruth snapped to attention as the two women walked past. She kept her eyes fixed ahead until she could no longer hear the soft clicking of the civilian’s heels.

“What was that about?” she asked Riley.

“Not out there,” Mitchell’s voice came from inside.

Riley gave a shrug that spoke volumes though not in a language Ruth understood.

“Sir?” Ruth asked when she was inside.

“As you might have gathered,” Mitchell said, pacing back and forth between the desks. “The money we found on the body was fake. Forged. Counterfeit. I took it to the Mint yesterday to find out when it might have been issued. They ran the serial numbers and discovered that they haven’t been issued yet.”

“They’re certain?” Ruth asked.

“That woman was. Her name’s Standage and she’s the director of quality assurance. Apparently that means she’s in charge of serial numbers for banknotes.” He walked over to the door and peered outside. “That,” he said, more quietly, “is what they’re telling us. How much truth is in it, I don’t know.” He sighed and turned away from the door. “Call it forgery or counterfeiting or even treason, I don’t care. Someone has been murdered. That is the serious crime. That is what we must solve because you can believe that
Captain
Weaver won’t.” He spat out the SIS officer’s rank with venomous distaste.

“We’re still investigating?” Ruth asked.

“Of course,” Mitchell replied, as if he was surprised the cadet had to ask. He opened a drawer and took out a folder identical to the one Riley had handed to Weaver. “Cadet, what do you know about money?”

“Um… that there’s never enough of it?”

“Quite. Do you know why we use paper money rather than metal?”

“No sir.”

“The problem arose during that first winter when it was too cold to go outside,” he said. “People huddled together for warmth, hoping the snows would melt, and dreading what the landscape would look like when it did. Those who could sew repaired clothes. Those who could weave a story told one. The doctors, nurses, and dentists had plenty of work, and the crudest of tools to do it. With little else to occupy their time, many were happy to labour for no reward except having some familiar task to fill their minds. Others weren’t, and barter began. The problem with barter is that it’s hard to tax. Without taxes the government can’t pay police, and if the government don’t pay us, you better believe the criminals would. So we needed a currency. We couldn’t use gold or silver, as those could be found in any abandoned house, there for anyone strong enough to brave the weather to find it. Using batteries, candles, and other old-world goods could only ever be a temporary measure. We wanted a society that was building something new, not just looting the ruins of the old. Our first efforts were crude, but they had to be. We were limited by what we could physically make, and that was metal oblongs, two inches by five, each with an octagonal hole in the middle. You’ve seen them?”

“Yes, sir. We have a couple at home,” Ruth said.

“And I bet you’ve thought you could make a few yourself? A lot of people did. As many as there were who sat down to sew cloth or skin by firelight, there were those who found rasps and saws. The metal was everywhere. Cars. Trucks. Buses. They littered the streets. We made the designs more elaborate, but that only resulted in our forgers becoming more skilled. That currency didn’t last long. Scarcity is the key. Raw materials are not scarce in our world. Electricity is. Hence the printed, paper notes. You could forge one by hand, but there are far quicker ways of earning a living. To print a note, you need a computer for the design, a printer, paper, and ink. That suggests more than one person is involved, but we knew that since our victim was unlikely to have shot himself.”

“Computers? That’s why the SIS is involved, isn’t it? Because of the risk the AIs will start up again?” Ruth asked.

Mitchell blinked, looked at her, and then gave a long drawn out sigh. “That’s the trouble with your generation. You don’t understand what an artificial intelligence is. Yes, the fact that this was done with a computer gives the SIS jurisdiction regardless of any other facts. No, it doesn’t mean this has anything to do with AIs or The Blackout. The design isn’t so complicated that you’d need a mainframe. A basic graphics package would do, and you’d find one of those on half the computers in the country. Therein lies the dilemma. Though electricity is scarce, computers aren’t. Even after twenty years, I doubt it would take more than a day of searching to find one that hadn’t succumbed to damp and decay.”

“I don’t understand. I thought you said it was harder to forge because they used computers,” Ruth said.

“He means the electricity is harder to get hold of,” Riley said. “Would you need a lot of it?”

“Yes,” Mitchell said. “After you factor in the printer - and we’re not talking about some deskjet or simple scanner-copier that—” He saw the expression on the two women’s faces. “It doesn’t matter. The answer is yes, you’d need a lot more than most people have access to. I’ve got a single light bulb in my place. Do you have electricity, cadet?”

“No, sir. Not yet.”

“Well, you can’t simply pull out a light bulb and plug in a computer. You’d need an adaptor and a transformer, and not an old-world one. And that’s before we’ve addressed the issue of paper and ink, both of which, as you heard, were an exact match.”

“Where do we start?” Riley asked.

“I have a meeting with Rebecca Cavendish. She sent me a note this morning saying that a bloody handprint had been found on a train. She didn’t say which train, which means she wants a favour before she’ll tell me.” He grabbed his coat. “Armed with the probability that either our victim or our killer is a counterfeiter, continue following the boots. Find who made them, and when you do, find out whether our man bought them with a twenty-pound note. How many did you manage yesterday?”

“Four,” Riley said. “I’ve three more on the list for Twynham. After that we’ll have to try Wales or Scotland.”

“And we will, if we have to,” Mitchell said. “Weaver cares about the money. I care about the murder, and I will not have a killer running free in my city.”

Riley opened the drawer to her desk and took out the large evidence bag.

“Are those are the victim’s boots?” Ruth asked.

“They are,” Riley said. She watched Ruth, and Ruth knew why. The constable was waiting for her to make some comment about them not having been handed over to Captain Weaver.

“Where exactly in Scotland?” Ruth asked. “Because I’ve always wanted to go.”