Great North Road (103 page)

“No point in decorating until you’ve got the basics sorted out. What about the garden?” He gestured at the shaggy lawn, which was mostly yellow patches from the previous owner’s dog peeing everywhere. The raised flower beds that enclosed it were overgrown and weed-infested.

“What about it?”

“It’s not right for kids. We should take out the roses and flowers, grass it over, maybe put in some goalposts for Will. And around the side here, that could be a vegetable patch. It’s big enough. We could get a new freezer, a bigger one to store everything in. We’d have homegrown food in the winter.”

“Stop! For a start, all this would cost a fortune. Second, what is wrong?”

Sid gave the open doors a guilty glance. “I talked to Aldred last week. The GE, and probably everyone else, is dipping into recession. St. Libra used to supply sixty percent of our bioil.”

“Sixty? Aye, crap on that, like. Are you sure? I thought it was about fifteen.”

“No. That’s what Brussels wanted everyone to believe. Turns out good little GE bioil production companies haven’t been investing the way they should; it’s been all dividends for shareholders and no infrastructure expansion. So life is going to get tough for a while, maybe a long while.”

“Which is why you want to go all survivalist on me?”

“I got a bonus this weekend. Unexpected. It’s Aldred’s way of saying thank you for the investigation. We can afford to be a little more self-sufficient.”

She puffed out her cheeks. “Well it wouldn’t hurt, pet.”

“Good, we’ll get some quotes in.”

“What about the whole puppy issue? Will’s been asking every day. He’s even behaving himself—as well as he can. We can’t put it off forever.”

“Sure. Why not? Puppy steak tastes good with the right sauce.”

“Oh!” Jacinta’s hand flew to her mouth as she started to giggle. She gave the open French doors a frantic look. “Don’t! They won’t get that. You’re just so evil.”

He grinned and put his arms around her. They kissed. “So what kind?” he asked. “A St. Bernard? English sheepdog?”

“Crap on it, no. A big pedigree, what are you thinking, man? We’ll get something small from the rescue center.”

“Small dogs are yappy. I hate them.”

“If times are hard, we can’t afford a big dog. Do you know how much they cost to feed? And then there’s vet insurance.”

“Maybe we’ll get them both a goldfish, instead.”

Jacinta gave the door another cautionary look. “And the potatoes we grow will make good chips to go with them.”

They both laughed guiltily, hugging tighter.

Zara appeared in the doorway and cocked her head to one side as she looked at them. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, poppet,” Sid promised. “Now have you done your homework?”

“Done it. Logged it,” she said proudly.

“Aye, gimme five. I’ll take you both to school today. I don’t have to be at the court until ten.”

Market Street that afternoon resembled what Sid imagined the end of term at some posh boarding school would be like. Everyone milling around not working, every table in the canteen full so people could swap opinions and gossip. Offices empty. Cases ignored. Ominous PERSONAL EFFECTS boxes were piled up outside some doors, ready for the janitorial staff to move them. Outside or to a higher floor—that was the only topic.

It was as if the morning’s court hearing was irrelevant to Market Street, rather than the incident that started the revolution. Ernie Reinert had pleaded guilty to the charge of accessory to murder; while Maura Dellington, Chester Hubley, Murray Blazczaka, and Lucas Kremer were all charged under the lesser charge of conspiracy to conceal a crime.

The media turnout was huge, with all the large news offices tipped off by both O’Rouke and the mayor’s office. Sid was the one who had to face them, explaining that the carjacking was a necessary cover story that allowed the police to maintain the integrity of the murder investigation. He’d done all right, he thought, maintaining his composure during some pretty abrasive questioning. Most of them wanted to know why the actual murderer hadn’t been caught.

Good question,
he acknowledged to himself before repeating the official line about the investigation still being ongoing.

Back in the station, answering Jenson San’s summons, those colleagues who noticed him amid the turmoil had all congratulated him on keeping his cool.

When Sid finally stepped out of the lift on the sixth floor, just about every door had the ubiquitous stack of boxes outside. All the doors were left open, their seals dark. Nothing private or privileged was happening on the administration level today. Chloe Healy was standing beside the watercooler at the end of the corridor, listless and morose. They locked eyes as he walked toward the Executive Bureau door. Like him, she’d put her best suit on for today, a classy gray silk number with a crisp white blouse. Perfect makeup was spoiled by what looked suspiciously like tear-flushed mascara.

Jenson San greeted him in O’Rouke’s outer office. There was no sign of the PA.

“He’s ready for you,” Jenson San said.

There were only five boxes in O’Rouke’s office. All of them already filled, and sealed with tape. Eight green plastic bags were next to them, stuffed with shredded paper, crushed memory caches, and lumps of semi-solid removal sludge that’d been applied to the walls and a couple of patches on the ceiling to remove broad sprays of smartdust motes.

O’Rouke was sitting behind the desk, which had an orange ribbon-label fastened around one leg, so the janitorial staff knew to take that down to a waiting lorry. The chief constable’s tunic was open, but the tie was still fastened around his neck, white shirt immaculately pressed. Sid had been half expecting O’Rouke to be working his way through a bottle of whiskey, but instead the chief was sipping tea from an antique bone china cup. A matching teapot sat on the desk.

“You can go,” O’Rouke told Jenson San.

The staff representative left the office, and the blue seal came on around the door. O’Rouke snorted at the pale light. “Don’t know why I bother. Everyone’s going to know anyway. What difference does a few hours make.”

“Sir?”

“Has that pants-stain Milligan been in touch with you yet?”

“No, sir.” The announcement about the chief constable’s office had been made at lunchtime, just after Reinert’s appearance in court. Royce O’Rouke was retiring after forty-three years of dedicated service to the city of Newcastle. The mayor actually managed to look sad on the city hall podium as he spoke to the reporters. Detective Sixth Grade Trevor Milligan was going to assume charge of Newcastle’s police operation, a position that would be confirmed by the full council in six months.

“The man’s a total dick,” O’Rouke grunted. “Can’t find his arse with his own hands. And that’s one fat arse.”

“Certainly is,” Sid agreed.

“I worked with the mayor,” O’Rouke said. “You’ve got to do that; the city would be screwed otherwise. But I fought for a budget, for a service that did a decent job—I wasn’t in his pocket like Milligan. Now we’re all going to get crapped on from higher than the Zanth. It’s all going to go to hell, especially with this recession bollocks hitting us. Half the city’s revenue is bioil-dependent. Where’s the money going to come from now, huh?”

“The mayor will have to find it somewhere, sir.”

“Yeah, but where’s Milligan going to spend it, eh? That’s what counts.”

“I’m sure the new chief constable will understand, sir.”

O’Rouke poured a cup of tea and handed it to Sid. “Aye, sure as bears flush after they shit outside the woods he is. You and I, we’ve gone head-to-head enough over the years, but you’re smart, you know the way things really work around here. You don’t put up with the bollocks that half of them do. I always respected that.”

“I get the job done,” Sid said, wondering what the hell O’Rouke was leading up to.

“Yeah. That’s what we need, Sid.”

“I’m not sure I follow …”

“That bastard mayor, he’s spinning this as a big success. Someone arrested for the North murder, but we both know that’s total bollocks. Reinert is a dickhead nobody. You and I will never know who killed that North, or why. That’s the way it is in this city. Nobody gets to fart around here without the bloody Norths giving you permission to. And they approve of you. I know they do.”

“Everybody builds up contacts. You have to.”

“Exactly. I have contacts, too, that’s why I’m walking into a nice little non-executive directorship at NorthernMetroServices. That’s the way it works.”

“Congratulations, sir.”

“But I’m not there yet. I don’t officially vacate this office until the end of the afternoon shift and hand over the network codes to Milligan. Which means I can still make some appointments before Milligan brings in his own bunch of wankers to screw things up. And a fresh appointment will be bloody hard for him to shift, at least for the first six months until the council gives him the job permanently.”

“Yes,” Sid said cautiously.

“I’m taking some good people with me, but I’d like you to stay here. You’re grade five now, so you qualify for control of a division up here on the administration floor.”

“I don’t think Milligan will like that.”

“Bugger that turd. Kressley is coming with me. Milligan would have shifted him over to the primary school bicycle patrol or some shit, so he’s taking early retirement and stepping into a coordination role at Northern Forensics. I want you to take control of his office, Sid.”

“Ah,” Sid said. Now he understood. Kressley had run the Market Street agency Contract and Implementation Office. That controlled the flow of city money to the agencies, and NorthernMetroServices was the largest beneficiary. “You trust me with that?” he asked sharply.

O’Rouke gave a savage grin. “It’s a two-way street. I don’t know what kind of deal you’ve got running with Aldred, but you need more than one of the big boys behind you if you’re going to finish up owning this office. Now those agencies, they spend a lot of cash over there in the civic center. They know how to look after their friends.”

“Chief constable? Me?”

“What, you’re not good enough?”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

“Then it’s about time you did. You’re capable of it. Five years in C and I, building up allies and shafting Milligan, and you’ll be perfectly placed. So, are you accepting Kressley’s job?”

The last thing Sid ever wanted to be was chief constable. The politics alone repelled him. A nice corporate office and a decent salary had always been the goal. But that was with Northumberland Interstellar under Aldred’s patronage—and now that pleasant dream of the future was probably going to get blown to shit when they downloaded the bugs from Sherman’s people.

Sid stuck his hand out. “Thank you, sir. I’d like to accept your offer.”

“Good man, that’s a smart move.” O’Rouke shook vigorously.

It was, but not for the reason O’Rouke believed. The old chief commissioner was assuming that the status quo would remain, that the sunspots and mass emigration through the gateway were temporary and life would get back to normal soon enough; while Sid knew for sure that life in Newcastle was going to shift. Aldred was involved in some kind of inter-family-company fight, and even if they could never pin the murder on him the implications of that struggle had to manifest somehow. Accepting the C&I position opened up the largest range of options. It was simple self-preservation.

“Chief of C&I?” Ian asked that evening. “I can’t believe he offered you that. It’s a weekly lottery win. The agencies will give you anything you want. Crap on it, everyone said Kressley had homes in Cannes and Auckland, as well as that bloody great North Shields mansion he lives in.”

“Five kids through private school and then university; two of them went to American Ivy League colleges, too,” Eva said. “I can’t even work out how much that cost.”

“I heard he kept a mistress at one of the singletowns, too,” Ian said. “Younger than his daughter.”

“Yeah,” Sid said. “I know what everyone said about Kressley.”

“Well done, boss,” Eva said.

“It’s a preservation thing, you know. I took it because it puts me in a good position. I’d never get that kind of appointment from Milligan. He doesn’t even know who I am.”

“He does now,” Eva said.

“Aye,” Sid acknowledged. They’d had five minutes alone after the handover ceremony on the sixth floor. Milligan had expected to drop Oni Schwalbe straight into Kressley’s job, the way he’d slotted the rest of his loyal cronies into critical positions on every floor in Market Street. But a brand-new appointment wasn’t something he had the clout to challenge, much less reverse. Milligan had proved more phlegmatic than Sid was expecting. They quickly came to an agreement about consulting each other when it came to the larger contracts—Milligan after all had gotten the mayor’s support thanks to some intensive lobbying by Security Dynamic. They even shook hands on it as Sid left the corner office. Oni Schwalbe, however, wasn’t so generous; she’d brushed past Sid, giving him a vindictive glare as she went back down to the fourth floor and the job in traffic she thought she’d just left behind.

“Can he evict you?” Ian asked.

“It’s a long process, and O’Rouke still has a lot of influence. Milligan doesn’t want to start a battle his first week. Besides,” Sid said with a grin as he remembered the meeting, “he’s only just found out how much we spent on the North case, and the HDA hasn’t paid the bill yet.”

“Still not paid?” Eva asked in surprise.

“No,” Sid confirmed. “I think Ralph might be waiting for us to tell him if we have anything.”

The three of them turned to stare at the Apple console.

“You sure you want to do this?” Eva asked. “We all did okay on the back of the case. And it looks like we’re heading into a recession.”

“It needs to be settled,” Sid said. “We’ve come this far. Even if none of this ever goes to trial, we’ll be on the inside track.”

“Which isn’t necessarily the safest place to be,” Eva muttered.

“Look, we’ll download and see what we’ve got. Then we can decide what to do with it. But we can’t leave this now.”