Strike a Match (Book 1): Serious Crimes (16 page)

Ruth was about to raise a hand in return when one of the prisoners began yelling obscenities at the trustee. The woman baulked, shying away until she was cowering against the wall. Simon turned back to his charges, hurrying them onto the cart.

Ruth sighed. Simon was a friend, and though he would have had questions of his own, he might have been able to answer some of hers. Almost reluctantly, she headed back to the cabin.

“You look like you’re still in one piece,” Mitchell said. “How did it go?”

“I’m…” Ruth hesitated. She considered lying, but though she could play one side off against another, there was only so long she could stay in the middle. “I’m to inform on you,” she said. “Or to keep the commissioner informed of whatever you’re planning to do. He thinks you’re going to keep on investigating, and that’s going to end up with you being kicked out of the police.”

“He said as much to me. Said I was antediluvian, and that I should be put out to grass. I hope you said you’d spy on me for him.”

That wasn’t the response she’d expected. “I did,” she said. “And he said that he’d keep some Marines ready in case we need them.”

“Good. He’s a decent man. Too much of a politician for me to call him a friend, but he’s always struck me as honest. That’s as rare in policing as it is anywhere else. Now, the real question is whether you learned anything of use to the investigation.”

“Have you seen the newspaper?” she asked.

“I did. Two murderers on the loose.” He picked up his own copy. “Pretty good likenesses.”

“Which means Captain Weaver must have been close to catching them,” Ruth said.

“Not that close. I spoke to some of the Marines. They said she’d had them on standby but didn’t know where to send them. The commissioner didn’t let slip how Weaver knew what they looked like?”

“No, sir. But he did say you’ve a meeting at the Mint at ten a.m. They’re conducting an internal investigation and want you to answer some questions.”

“Or they want someone to answer some questions, and the commissioner thinks this will keep me busy. Well, why not. I’m free now, and you are coming with me.”

“I am?”

“Until Riley comes in, or we hear from Isaac, or Weaver deigns to allow us to speak to Turnbull, we’ve no leads to follow.” He swept his jacket from the back of the chair and marched outside. Ruth followed.

The Mint, like Police House and most of the other government departments, was in the centre of the old town of Christchurch. Like the others, it had been established in whatever buildings had been left undamaged after The Blackout. In the case of the Mint, it was an old bank and the supermarket next door. The bank part was still used as that, and Ruth had even been inside once. She’d queued up with Maggie as her mother waited to withdraw her teacher’s salary for that month.

As she followed the sergeant through the leaf-blown streets, Ruth tried to remember when that had been. Seven years ago? Five? Eight? She wasn’t sure. It was around the time that the first sets of paper banknotes were issued. Not the ones they had now, but the larger, cruder types. She remembered being excited about the idea. That had dissipated as they’d queued for a teller and then had to wait as Maggie’s pay book was checked. Then there was an almost interminable delay while a paltry few notes were counted, recounted, and counted again. Ruth’s overwhelming memory was of an anti-climax, made worse when she’d seen the goods for sale in the indoor market opposite. She thought that had been around Christmas, but in her memory the day had been warm. Since then, another branch of the bank had opened near the fishing quay, and it was there that Maggie cashed her cheque.

Inside the doors, beyond a pair of unarmed security guards, were two queues, one for deposits, another for withdrawals. Behind the tellers, Ruth could see scores of people with heads bent low over desks. She couldn’t even guess at what they were doing.

“Cadet?” Mitchell prompted.

In the far corner, a young man sat at a desk that blocked the entrance to a set of doors behind him.

“Sergeant Mitchell. Officer Deering. We have an appointment with Mr Grammick.”

“Yes of course,” the man said without glancing down at the ledger in front of him. “But you’re rather early. You’ll have to wait.”

“I don’t think so,” Mitchell said. “I have an autopsy in thirty minutes. Have you ever seen a corpse on a slab, the body cut open from neck to navel?” He leaned forward and pressed a finger against the man’s throat and then drew it down his chest. “The sound of the rib cage cracking is something you never forget.”

“I’ll… I’ll just… Excuse me.” The man hurried away.

“Knowing how to communicate is essential to good policing,” Mitchell said, a gleam in his eye.

The lines in front of the tellers shrank as customers were served and grew as more came in. There seemed to be more deposits than withdrawals. Presumably it was from the previous day’s trading. Money was something that they’d never had much of while Ruth had been growing up, and so it wasn’t something to which she’d ever given much thought. She watched as a trader passed a thick envelope to the teller. The woman’s head nodded, and her lips silently moved as the money was counted, then recounted. She gave a firmer nod in agreement at the amount, before something was passed across the desk, signed, passed back, and countersigned. The trader took her receipt and left, but not without a few uncertain glances back at the teller.

“One more minute, and we’re going,” Mitchell said. “Time it.”

The door opened, someone came in, someone went out, and the lines concertinaed again. Twenty, thirty, forty seconds. Ruth heard a noise behind her. The clerk was holding the door open for the same woman who’d come with Captain Weaver to the cabin the day before.

“Ms Standage, isn’t it?” Mitchell asked.

“Mrs. Mrs Standage,” the woman replied.

She wore the same outfit as the previous day, and her hair was almost out of place. She looked as if she’d not slept.

“And is our appointment with you?” Mitchell asked.

“With Mr Grammick, he’ll be with us in a moment. This way, please.”

Her tone was distracted. No, Ruth thought, not distracted, the woman was alert, and her posture was rigid, but she seemed preoccupied. So did everyone else whom they passed. Some rushed one way, some the other. Presumably it all stemmed from the discovery of the counterfeiting, but was there a purpose to it, or was everyone simply trying to look busy? Then Ruth noticed the woman’s shoes. They were the same odd pair she’d been wearing the day before.

“In here.” Mrs Standage indicated a small, windowless room with a table and four chairs. “Please, have a seat.”

Mitchell took one facing the door. Ruth sat next to him. Mrs Standage sat down with obvious reluctance.

“You’re in charge of quality control, is that right?” Mitchell asked.

There was a pause. “Yes,” Mrs Standage finally said.

Ruth thought the sergeant would ask her to clarify what that meant. He didn’t.

“Do you have children?” he asked instead.

“Yes,” she answered immediately. “A… a son.”

“How old is he?”

“Six.” It came out in a whisper.

“That’s a good age,” Mitchell said. “When they’re still asking questions but are old enough to understand some of the answers.”

There was a slight curl to Mrs Standage’s lips, as if she was about to smile, but the door opened before she could.

“Ah, detectives!” a ruddy faced man barked as he came into the room. Behind him was another clerk, this one holding a tray with two cups. The tray was placed on the table.

“Is that coffee?” Mitchell asked, taking what must have been an involuntary sniff.

“It is. It is,” the man said. “The real stuff. I thought you might like a cup. A taste of home. You’re from America, aren’t you, sergeant?”

“A long time ago,” Mitchell said, eyeing the steaming cups. “And you are Mr Ian Grammick, deputy director of the Mint and special advisor to the Chancellor.”

“Ah, so you’ve done your homework, too,” Grammick said. If anything, his smile grew wider. “That will be all, Bailey,” he added. The clerk left. “Yes,” Grammick continued. “I have special responsibility for inflation, or seeing that there isn’t any. As such, any matter that threatens the stability of the currency comes into my remit. As for the Royal Mint, I am in charge of circulation, so counterfeiting is very much my bailiwick.”

The
Royal
Mint, Ruth noted. Britain had been a monarchy, and technically it still was, though there had been no head on which to hang a crown for the last two decades. No one bothered with the word, whether it was for the Mint, the Marines, or the Mail. Similarly, no one remarked on the portrait of a long dead monarch on the reverse of the banknotes, or how all ships were christened as ‘HMS’ but referred to as ‘SS’ from the moment the gangplank was raised. No one Ruth knew, anyway.

“Is there much counterfeiting?” Ruth asked.

“Oh, people try all the time, but it’s rare for us to find false currency actually in circulation. Please, do try the coffee. It was a gift from the American ambassador. It’s from Puerto Rico, or Costa Rica. I don’t recall which. They’ve started cultivating the wild plantations there.”

“Really?” Mitchell asked. “I’m surprised they have the resources.”

“It’s for trade,” Grammick said, clearly pleased at being able to demonstrate his knowledge, and thus his proximity to the centre of power. “It’s part of the deal they’ll formally sign at the end of the week.”

“We’re getting real coffee in exchange for food? That doesn’t seem like a fair trade at all,” Ruth said.

“Ah, this is only part of it. A small part, and really the most insignificant, but as a symbol it will be the most tangible.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it in the shops,” Mitchell said. “How many forged twenty-pound notes have you found in circulation?”

“What? None,” Grammick said. “That’s right isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Mrs Standage said. “I… as I understand it, the criminals were stockpiling the currency, not spending it.”

“That’s not strictly true,” Mitchell said. “We know of at least some notes being used to purchase clothing in July.”

“Really? In July?” There was a crack in Grammick’s bombastic demeanour.

“Deering, why don’t you tell Mr Grammick what we’ve discovered?” Mitchell said as he picked up a cup and took a sip.

Ruth went through the events of the past two days again. She kept the explanation brief. Even so, Mitchell had finished the first cup and had started on the second before she’d reached the point where they’d arrested Turnbull.

“Well, broadly, that is the account we had from Captain Weaver,” Grammick said when Ruth had finished. “And from what you say I doubt more than a very small amount of forged currency has entered circulation. I don’t think we need to worry. Do we?” He looked to Mitchell for an answer.

The sergeant took a long gulp, draining the second cup before answering. “That’s really for you to determine,” he said.

Grammick turned to look at Mrs Standage.

“I don’t… I have some questions,” she said.

“Go ahead,” Mitchell said.

She glanced at a sheet of paper before speaking. “Do you think there could be more than one printer?”

“Person or machine?” Mitchell replied. “It doesn’t matter, the answer’s the same. There could be. You’ll have to ask Captain Weaver. She’s in charge of the investigation.”

“But what do you think?” Grammick asked.

“Why not?” Mitchell said with a shrug. “Certainly, if I was you, I’d assume so.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose you would,” Grammick said. “Well, we were planning on issuing new notes, and we’re bringing those plans forward. We should have most of the currency replaced by Christmas.” Again he looked to Mrs Standage for confirmation.

“By the first of December,” she corrected him.

“I hope that will be soon enough,” Mitchell said. “Did you have any other questions?”

Mrs Standage looked blank, as if she’d forgotten the list of questions on the table in front of her. “Did you…” She looked down. “Did you see any evidence as to where the paper came from?”

“Anywhere other than the official mill, you mean? No,” Mitchell said. “Do you think it was stolen?”

“Possibly,” Grammick replied. “There was a flood about six months ago in which a lot of stock was destroyed. Or we thought it was destroyed. Was it six months ago?”

“In April,” Mrs Standage said.

“That’s the theory we have at the moment,” Grammick said.

“How much paper do you keep on hand?” Mitchell asked.

“Enough to meet the needs of every depositor,” Grammick said.

It wasn’t really an answer, Ruth thought, and surely paper might be ruined in a flood, but it wouldn’t disappear. She was about to ask that, but Mitchell spoke before she could.

“What about ink, how much is missing?” the sergeant asked.

“That, I don’t know,” Grammick said. “You’d have to ask someone at the chemical works.”

“You don’t do the printing here?” Mitchell asked.