Strike a Match 3 Page 3

  “Did Emmitt give you that rifle?” Mitchell asked again.

  “I’ve never heard that name before,” Pollock replied. “I was just out hunting, that’s all.”

  “Hunting? In Edinburgh? I know the stories say it’s a wild city, but I don’t think a judge is going to buy that. Why did you do it?”

  “Do what?” Pollock replied.

  “Why did you kill Jameson?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Mitchell moved an inch closer to the door. “Jameson was Emmitt’s spotter during his assassination attempt on the prime minister. He was arrested, and since then, has said next to nothing. Four days ago, it was decided to transfer him to a work detail in Cornwall. He was moved back to a holding cell in Police House. At three in the morning, you entered the building, ostensibly looking for files that had been taken from your department. At three-twenty, you left. At half past four, the guard looked in on Jameson and found he’d been shot. Through the bars. Not with an AK-47, I’ll add, but with a round from a government-issue revolver.”

  “So? I didn’t do it,” Pollock said. “I… I was only in the building because I wanted to get all my paperwork in order before my holiday.”

  “Your hunting holiday, here in Scotland, in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle? A place taken over by monks who follow a strict code of non-violence towards animals?”

  “That’s why I’m not staying at the castle,” Pollock said. “And… and I only shot at you because I thought you were a bandit. That’s all. You should have announced yourself, not come charging down the roof at me.”

  “Now that I have announced myself, why don’t you throw your gun out?” Mitchell said. There was no reply from Pollock. Mitchell sighed. “You’re an interesting man, Pollock. Technically you hold the rank of captain in the police, but in reality, you’re a clerk. You work in central government, keeping tabs on all the police personnel files. The rank is a courtesy, a way to ensure you don’t get bullied or blackmailed into handing over information you shouldn’t. You took the rank to heart, though. You even had a uniform made. Made, I should add, not issued.”

  “A captain is a captain,” Pollock said. “I had every right to wear that uniform.”

  “Not really,” Mitchell said. “Commissioner Wallace got you the job, but since you weren’t on the police payroll, I didn’t think to look at you when we were searching for his cronies in the force. More fool me. But you want to know why I’m here? Why I followed you?”

  “Why?” Pollock said.

  “We knew that Wallace had corrupted dozens of officers,” Mitchell said. “Some worked for him for money. Others thought that, when he became prime minister, he’d reward them with promotions, power, and prestige. When I pushed, when I dug, when I drew the truth out, I found that though that might have been why they continued working for him, the reason they began was blackmail. Longfield was the clue there. She liked to blackmail. She even recorded herself threatening some of my colleagues. Threatening to let their secrets be known to the world. For some it was gambling or an affair, for others it was something achingly more personal. Longfield’s video recordings were the leverage she and Wallace needed, but how did she learn about them in the first place? That was you, Pollock. The civil service clerk who was responsible for keeping personnel files secret. That’s how you helped them. And then you killed Jameson. You murdered a prisoner in custody.”

  “I didn’t,” Pollock said.

  “You might have dared to wear a uniform you had made,” Mitchell said, “but you didn’t carry a revolver. You knew that would be going too far. The gun was inside your briefcase. You attached a sheath-silencer that you had in your left trouser pocket. Jameson was asleep. You tapped the gun against the bars to wake him, and then you fired. Three times, though only two bullets hit. Unfortunately, one hit his heart. He died.”

  “None of that happened,” Pollock said. “You’ve got no proof.”

  “I’ve got video,” Mitchell said. “After the counterfeiter, Josh Turnbull, was murdered in custody, I installed some cameras in the cells. Oh, I know, that’s old-world tech. It can’t be used in the trial, but I don’t need to use it. Based solely on the guard having seen you in Police House, and then your failure to arrive at work the next morning, we got a warrant to search your home. I saw how you lived, Pollock, and it’s far beyond your means. You’ve got a wine cellar, for Pete’s sake.”

  “I recovered all those bottles myself,” Pollock said. “I found them out in the wasteland. That’s bona-fide salvage.”

  “And the steak?” Mitchell asked. “Did you salvage that, too? It would cost me two months’ salary to buy all of that meat.”

  “That’s… I… I hunted that,” Pollock said. “Wild cows, out on Salisbury Plain.”

  “You kept it in a freezer!” Mitchell said. “Your electricity bill alone is more than your salary, and that’s not counting how much it cost you to have a freezer restored. You shouldn’t have run. You shouldn’t have shot at me. But if we’re going to talk about the things you shouldn’t have done, then we’ll start with killing Jameson. Even so, even now, there’s a deal waiting for you. Wallace died in his study back in September. The torturer, Eve, died in a ruined church. Longfield killed herself in her home. Fairmont, the assistant to the American ambassador, died in the New Forest. A few minutes after that, we arrested Emmitt. Who’s left? Who told you to kill Jameson? Give me a name, Pollock. Give me a name.”

  There was no reply, but there was a soft rasp as of boot heels scuffing the ground as Pollock shifted position. The doors were ten feet from Mitchell. Beyond that were another five feet to where Pollock was concealed. The rasping came again. Maybe a little more than five feet. Was that too far?

  “How about this,” Mitchell said. “How about I guess a name. Adamovitch, yes? It was Longfield’s under-butler. Go on, tell me I’m right.” There was no reply. “Then tell me I’m wrong. Look, Pollock, this is obviously going to end with either you or me dead. In which case, what harm is there in telling me? It was Adamovitch, wasn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” Pollock said. “Maybe it was. So what? Does it matter?”

  Mitchell relaxed. Adamovitch was the last piece of the puzzle. With Longfield dead, Emmitt in jail, and their organisation in tatters, there was a boss-shaped hole in the criminal tapestry of Twynham. The butler was trying to fill it. Importantly, thankfully, that meant that Pollock and Adamovitch were the last. There were hired thugs and rented muscle, of course, but those were a dime-a-dozen down on the docks. They would vie against one another to fill the power-vacuum left by the conspirators, but they were petty criminals with petty dreams who’d be as easy to catch as Pollock.

  Mitchell slid his pistol back into its holster and unclipped his truncheon. He swapped it to his left hand and gripped the LED flashlight in his right.

  “Frederick Charles Pollock,” Mitchell said. “I’m arresting you for murder. You don’t have to say anything, but anything you say will be taken down and may be used against you. Should you fail to say something that you—”

  There was a short burst of gunfire that abruptly ended as the magazine was finally emptied. In a flash, Mitchell flicked on the torch and pitched it into the stockroom. As the light tumbled and spun, Mitchell followed it. Just before the light struck the wall, Mitchell spotted Pollock. The murderer was crouched behind an overturned desk. His hands were awkwardly working the gun’s mechanism, but his eyes were on the spinning light. Mitchell dived forward, swinging the truncheon up, knocking the assault rifle from the man’s hands. Mitchell twisted his wrist, turning the truncheon so that it was at ninety degrees to his arm just before he slammed into Pollock’s chest. The man fell back as Mitchell grabbed Pollock’s right arm. Pollock kicked out, but Mitchell used the man’s own momentum to spin him around, down, and onto his back. He pushed the truncheon under one elbow and then another.

  “Like I was saying,” he said as he cuffed the man’s wrists. “You’re under arrest.”

  He search
ed the man’s pockets and retrieved two spare magazines for the rifle. They went into a drawstring bag. Mitchell collected his light, and then picked up the AK-47.

  “Where did you get this rifle?” Mitchell asked.

  “I’ve had it for years. Got it off a refugee.”

  “I don’t think so. It looks new. Or newly out of storage, anyway. Did it come from Emmitt?”

  Pollock shook his head.

  “Was that a no? Or was that a not-going-to-answer?” Mitchell asked. He slung the rifle over his shoulder. He would have preferred if it was an SA80 like the weapons Emmitt had given to the crooks in Windward Square. They had ostensibly been hired to commit a robbery, though in reality they were a distraction, there to be caught to facilitate the rescue of Fairmont, the assistant to the American ambassador. The ammunition given to those dupes in Windward Square had been duds, but the rifles had all come from an old British Army storehouse. An AK-47 was far more troubling, particularly one that looked as if it had been in storage for the past twenty years.

  “All right,” Mitchell said. “Let’s try a different question. Where were you going?”

  Pollock shook his head.

  “On your feet,” Mitchell said, pulling Pollock up. “You know what I heard? Adamovitch boarded a boat to Maine five days ago.”

  Pollock gave a short, derisive snort.

  Mitchell smiled, and pushed Pollock towards the door. That snort of derision confirmed a hunch he’d been developing. Adamovitch was a weasel, in temperament, in looks, and in intelligence. He would know that there was no chance he’d be able to stow aboard a transatlantic cargo ship. That witness from the quayside tavern had been either mistaken or lying. The question, then, was whether Adamovitch was in Scotland, or somewhere far closer to Twynham.

  Just before Mitchell had jumped down through the gap in the ceiling, Pollock had hung a saucepan over the fire. The contents had boiled dry, adding the scent of burned potatoes and herbs to the damp and decay pervading the ruined supermarket. Next to the battered office chair Pollock had been sitting on was his haversack. Mitchell pushed Pollock into the chair, and opened the bag.

  “Potatoes, herbs, water, and… what’s this?” He took out a manila folder. “This is Riley’s personnel file. Why do you have this?”

  “Look at it, and you’ll see,” Pollock said.

  “Oh, that creeping worm of doubt that feeds a hatching suspicion,” Mitchell said.

  “What?” Pollock said.

  “You should read more,” Mitchell said. “I saw those books you had in your house. Row upon row of classics. You had the complete collection of hundreds of authors, but not one spine was cracked. Don’t worry, you’ll get the chance to read in prison.” He threw the folder onto the fire.

  “You’re not going to look? You’re not curious?” Pollock asked.

  Mitchell ignored him. Anna Riley had been a young girl when he’d rescued her. He’d adopted her soon after, and, a decade after that, she’d followed him into the police force. He knew her far better than any words in a file.

  “On your feet, Pollock, time for you to face justice.”

  He kicked ash onto the fire, and then marched the murderer out of the supermarket.

  Edinburgh hadn’t been officially re-occupied, but the castle-turned-monastery had become a popular destination. Not quite as a holiday, nor as a pilgrimage, but for people who wanted to see proof that a world existed beyond the mines of Wales or the rooftops of Twynham. Due to the increased demand, the Railway Company had re-opened the station, and there was talk of formally re-occupying the city. That would remain as talk until the separatists in Leicester, who called themselves the Kingdom of Albion, had been brought back into the fold. The new Prime Minister, Phillip Atherton, had taken over the peace talks himself, and was threatening to start war talks if an agreement wasn’t reached soon. That wasn’t Mitchell’s problem.

  He marched Pollock away from the supermarket and down towards the railway. It was a cold but pleasant evening. Night had settled, but the sky was clear, the stars bright. He didn’t need his torch, but kept it shining on the ground in front of Pollock. He didn’t want the man to trip and claim he was pushed. It was almost over. Adamovitch was the last one left, and then all the conspirators and their confederates would be caught or dead. There would be other criminals and other crimes, of course, but they weren’t Henry Mitchell’s problem. Once Adamovitch was arrested, Mitchell would be free. He wouldn’t retire, not exactly, because copper now flowed in his veins. After twenty years, it was time for his life to become his own. Once Adamovitch was arrested, and there weren’t many places for him to hide. Yes, it was almost over.

  Mitchell was almost in a good mood when he reached the station. He cuffed Pollock to one of the benches, walked over to the signal box, unlocked it with a key he kept around his neck, and changed the pattern of lights, signalling that the next passing train should stop.

  “Can’t we wait inside?” Pollock asked.

  “It’s a nice night,” Mitchell said.

  “It’s freezing,” Pollock moaned.

  “Not yet, it isn’t,” Mitchell said. “There’s that crisp dryness to the air that tells me snow’s on the way. Can’t you taste it?”

  “Snow? And you’re going to leave me out here.”

  “Enjoy it,” Mitchell said. “This might be the last night sky you ever see. The coal train from Wales will be coming through at eight minutes to midnight. From then until your dying day, you’ll be indoors at night. No, enjoy the air. Enjoy this last moment under the stars.”

  But the train that arrived wasn’t carrying coal. It wasn’t even a steam train, but a diesel locomotive, pulling a smartly decorated carriage and a flat bed with a crane and small fuel tank.

  Mitchell had never seen the locomotive before, and hadn’t seen a working diesel engine since before the Blackout, but he knew the carriage, and knew who would be driving the train.

  The door to the locomotive opened, and Rebecca Cavendish peered down.

  “Hello, Henry. Did you get your man?”

  “Always, Rebecca.”

  “And you always do.” She smiled, but it was a more close-lipped expression than he was used to seeing on his old friend.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Climb up and I’ll tell you. Rehnquist, get the prisoner on board.”

  A broad-shouldered, tapered-waisted bull of a guard in the green livery of the Railway Police jumped down. They were called police, though their role was halfway between train conductor and soldier. After the Blackout, the trains had been the lifeline linking the disparate communities in Wales, England, and Scotland. The land between had been riddled with bandits. Most had now been subdued, but a solitary train or remote station was a tempting target for those who preferred to steal what others worked to attain.

  Mitchell gave Rehnquist the key to the cuffs, let him take custody of the prisoner, and climbed up into the locomotive’s cab.

  In many ways Rebecca Cavendish was the Railway Company. She’d been a train enthusiast on a heritage railway before the Blackout, and had brought a dozen steam locomotives south soon after the bombs had fallen. She, and those engines, had become a crucial part of the country’s survival. Cavendish’s legs had been crushed during an icy winter when they were laying new track on old roads. That hadn’t even slowed the woman down. Her body might have been confined to a wheelchair but her mind had soared. She’d created an intricate network of railways that linked the towns and villages, the mines and farms, and so the country had been kept whole rather than collapsing into a thousand different kingdoms.

  “That’s Pollock?” Cavendish asked as the prisoner was hauled aboard the carriage.

  “That’s him,” Mitchell said. “He confirmed that Adamovitch was the one behind Jameson’s murder, and that Adamovitch is still in Britain.”

  “I’ll pass word up and down the line,” Cavendish said. “Do you still want it kept quiet?”

  “For now,” Mit
chell said. “At least, I want it to stay out of the newspaper. I don’t want Adamovitch to know we’re on his trail.”

  “My people will keep it close,” Cavendish said, “but if I can’t give them a name or a picture, I can’t guarantee he won’t slip by them.”

  “Give me a few more days,” Mitchell said. “There a few more leads to follow.” He looked around. “This is a diesel locomotive, Rebecca.”

  “Ah, the great detective at work,” Cavendish said, as she pulled a lever, pressed a button, and the train began to move.

  Mitchell smiled. “Where did you find it?”

  “It was abandoned near Carnoustie,” she said. “I’ve had people restoring it this last year.”

  “Where did you get the fuel?” Mitchell asked. “Was it from the new wells they’ve opened in America?”

  “Hardly,” Cavendish said. “I will not be beholden to them. No, it’s the first batch of biodiesel from Truro. This was meant to be a test run for the train. If it could make it from the outskirts of Dundee all the way to Twynham, we’d have called both the locomotive and the fuel a working success. The plan was to use the diesel engines to take supplies through the Channel Tunnel. It would be safer, and cleaner, than running steam engines and the fans needed to keep the air clear. Things have changed. I take you haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?” Mitchell asked.

  “There was an attack on the garrison in Calais this afternoon,” Cavendish said.

  “Bandits?”

  “This wasn’t a simple band of outlaws,” Cavendish said. “This was an army. At least two-thousand strong.”

  “Two thousand? Are you sure? Are you serious? Where did they come from?”

  “Not from France,” she said. “But more than that, I don’t know. I got word four hours and…” She pulled out a battered watch. “Four hours and eighteen minutes ago. The message was in code, and so it was brief. All trials of this locomotive are over, and we are to collect the Marine garrison from Penrith and bring them south to Dover with all haste.”