Streets of blood

11

Rani knew it was useless questioning any of the neighbors in the faded five-story Victorian apartment house. Imran, like any decent snakeboy with any vestige of self-respect, only hung with those who considered themselves tough, mean types. No way did that include the trancers squatting in the rat-infested ground floors, or the meek and fearful old folk upstairs. Her brother was still sleeping, but Rani would find out whatever she could from his friends.

Being an ork and-worse-a girl, Rani knew the reaction she was likely to get. But with three family members dead, nothing was going to stop her trying to dig up any possible scrap of information. She really didn’t expect trouble, but she decided to pack the long knife anyway. After thinking long and hard about it, she went to get Imran’s Predator too. Partly for extra security, but mostly because she felt tougher with the gun bulging inside her jacket. Today she’d need all the fierceness she could muster.

Passing some kids playing with the remains of a dog in the street, she crossed over along Whitechapel Road. It wasn’t far east to the wooded, gentrified corporate enclave of Limehouse, with its media elves and chardonnay-sipping kens and kylies, but it could easily have been half a continent and half a lifetime away.

Along the main road, Rani smiled wryly at a double-decker tourist bus parked to allow the mostly American and Japanese tourists aboard the opportunity to buy baked potatoes and hot chestnuts from a street vendor. Hot smoke from his barrow poured into the freezing air of the November morning.

“Cor blimey, mister, that’ll be two quid. Cheap at half the price and no mistake," the cloth-capped urchin pattered cheerfully to an admiring American snapping away with an accessory-bedecked portacam. Chestnuts, huh! Extruded fungal residues, matey, and that’s if you’re lucky. As for the jacket potatoes served with a plastic beaker of real Lancashire hot pot, she didn’t think the rat meat in it came from Lancashire. With the slightest shake of her head, Rani crossed over and cut through Old Montague Street, heading for Brick Lane.

She found who she was looking for in their usual spot, hawking stolen cameras and other goods near the back of the fruit’n’veg stall. The men looked momentarily surprised to see her dressed so differently, but Kapil barely missed a beat before resuming his pitch. Business was slow this morning, though the regulars would surely stop by later to see what had fallen off the back of sundry lorries over the weekend. By the look of the cartons discreetly stashed next to the pulpy tomatoes, quite a few lorries had coincidentally lost some of their cargo of late.

The boys might be in a better mood later after they’d pocketed some more doshi, but Rani had no time to waste. Kapil seemed deep in conversation with a rodent-faced white kid, so Rani grabbed Bishen, his partner.

“There’s been trouble, Bishen,” she said. "Trouble that left family dead.”

“So I heard. Where’s lmran?" Bishen asked, sounding like he didn’t want to know.

“He took a little flak. Nothing serious but he’s out for a while." She’d prepared the lie in advance. "I’m trying to find out what I can about who fixed him for this run. There’s a score to settle.”

“That’s men’s work, Rani. Tell Imran to see us, and we’ll see what we can do.” The man started to turn away, but Rani grabbed his arm.

“No time for that! The trail will be cold. I got to find out as much as possible right now, so my brother can follow up the right way when he’s better.” It was a clever pitch, acknowledging her brother’s primacy, but Bishen wasn’t having any of it. He folded his arms adamantly.

“Look, Rani, go back home, huh? Tell Imran to come talk when he’s ready. Nothing much we could tell him anyway.”

He turned away, head down, kicking at the remains of some produce rotting in the gutter. She’d gotten her first brush-off of the day, but Rani was sure it wasn’t going to be the last.

Rani had almost worked her way up to Bethnal Green by the time she succumbed to the smell of hot bagels wafting up the street. Rubbing her hands together to warm them a bit, she decided to try raising her spirits with a hot soystrami and soykaf. All she’d gotten for her trouble this morning was a string of no one’s heard anything, no one knows anything, no one’s saying anything, and we’ll talk to Imran, girl. Raising the best smile she could in response to the wrinkled vendor’s chitchat, she took her tray and retreated to a distant corner of the cafe. The place was filling up mostly with street sharks taking their morning break and flyboys and night girls just waking up to another pointless day or maybe heading home after a long night of oblivion. There was also a sprinkling of down-and-outs with hands cupped around the cheap soykaf they would nurse in sips long after it had gone cold.

She was lucky to spot the retractables, though the cybereyes would have been a dead giveaway. As Mohinder came through the door, the people seated at the counter quickly made a space for his powerful frame. Hand razors made anyone nervous. He strode slowly and deliberately; dermal plating, she guessed. The man had gotten lucky once with a big rollover in east Whitechapel: a bunch of foolhardy pixies had strayed in from Limehouse and some big credsticks had changed hands. That was a long time before Imran knew Mohinder, of course.

Careful not to let him spot her right away, Rani waited till he left the restaurant, then followed the big man to Sheba Street, where he ducked his frame through the small doorway of a demitech store, its frontage reinforced with steel-barred windows. She had a pretext in her pocket, so she took a chance on it.

Mohinder was just mooching around, waiting to see whether it was safe to ask the owner about what was under the counter. At first he ignored Rani, then shrugged when she discreetly showed the bulge of the pistol. One hard-eyed glance at the nervous man behind the counter got them behind the curtain and into the cramped little storeroom.

“You know about these," Rani said, producing the Ares Predator. “Does it look sound?" She tried to sound like she’d been sleeping in gutters for a month.

Mohinder took the gun in his huge hands, tested its weight and balance, checked the mechanism and the barrel. “Uh-huh. Give you thirteen hundred.” He detached the ammo clip and nodded with newfound respect. “Twelve armor-piercing in the clip," he said, checking. “Give you a premium on that. Call it fourteen fifty."

So he hadn’t been in on the deal. Of course not; he’d have wanted it for himself, surely, if he’d known. But he might know someone who’d seen something. She spun the conversation out a while longer.

“Fifteen.”

He looked coldly at her. "Don’t push your luck, woman. If I say fourteen-fifty, that’s what I pay. Not a nuyen more. You don’t want it, go away.”

"Okay, I’ll take it,” she blurted, quickly backing off from his annoyance. "I need something as a replacement, of course."

“Huh,” Mohinder grunted. “Imran know about all this?”

Ace it, he knew all about her. She was beginning to loathe the sound of her brother’s name. "You’re buying it from me, not him. I just need a little something for the house. To keep behind the door when he’s away."

That worked. "Nice little Ceska be just right for you. That’s eleven hundred, and you can have a spare clip of ammo. Yes?”

She waved the Predator goodbye, hoping the sacrifice wouldn’t be entirely in vain. Taking a deep breath, she began her pitch.

“Something important to my family, big man. Someone paid Imran for a run. It was a set-up, and now three’re dead.”

To her surprise, he didn’t seem to have heard about it. “Imran didn’t say anything to me." His arrogant annoyance gave her an opportunity to push further.

“He made a mistake there. Other people died for it. I need to find out who was the fixer.”

“Imran’s hiding behind skirts?" Mohinder was contemptuous now, turning to leave. In desperation, she stood in his way, arms open beseechingly.

"Mohinder, he blew it! I need to find out what I can, then go back to Imran and the family and see what they can do. It’s for the family." The implicit promise to remain in her proper place if she could just get some information seemed to count for something. He nodded as he waved her out of the way.

"Tell Imran to come see me at the Toadslab. I’ll have the pistol by Wednesday. I’ll bring the money, too. I don’t carry that much around if I don’t have to.”

Rani was dismayed at the thought of such a delay, but it was the only hope she’d gotten all day. She smiled and bowed her head respectfully as Mohinder headed out past the shop counter.

“Eight o’clock. Place’ll be lively by then." His hand razors snapped out of their sheaths as he opened the door. “Now I got to see a man about some money he owes me. Huh. Bye for now.”

Seated on ancient leather in the House of Nobles, Geraint’s thoughts wandered as an irate elf filibustered about road barriers and police patrols in northern Wales. He was only stuck here in the Westminster chambers to make up the numbers for the votes and he knew it. Damn Manchester, he thought, why’s he wasting my time like this?

Geraint hadn’t been able to do much more about Serrin. Returning to Longstanton would be far too dangerous. Inquiries among his contacts in the Home Office revealed no dead elves washed up downriver or found floating in a lock. Then again, the body wasn’t likely to turn up as a statistic in official body counts if it had been Fuchi security that got Serrin. On that score, he could only hope against hope.

Francesca was coming home from Maudsley Hospital tomorrow night. He’d ordered some flowers delivered, and he intended to make a second trip to the ward this evening if he ever managed to escape the interminable wranglings of the House. Doctor van der Merwe, the smooth and unctuous South African doctor, had reassured him of Francesca’s progress in a tone of voice that strongly suggested he believed that most people had IQs smaller than their boot sizes, and that they needed medical matters explained in words of two syllables at most. Geraint’s testy reference to his own degree in neuropsychology hadn’t made a dent.

He got away from the House just after six, the guillotine on the bill promising a merciful release after tomorrow’s business. Knowing Francesca would ask what the police had to say, he decided to check with them again.

It was purely by virtue of his title that he caught a couple of minutes with Chief Inspector Swanson. Tweed-suited and smoking an especially malodorous pipe, the pudgy man sat behind his spacious desk, obviously irritated at having to deal with the nobleman.

“We’ll make all possible inquiries, of course,” Swanson said, “but forensics didn’t come up with much. Besides, we’re stretched on manpower right now. A gentleman like yourself would know about that, of course.”

Geraint didn’t take the edge of reproach well. He wasn’t responsible for the Home Office’s funding of the force, and it had already been a long and tedious day. He snapped back a rejoinder suggesting that the police weren’t doing all they could, and Swanson’s expression changed to one of cold formality.

"Sir," the man said archly, “my men have had to deal with eleven murders over this past weekend alone. We’ve got a racist troll butchering in the East End, and our men are out in cars trying to stop a riot developing. If half of what I’m told about the Squeeze is correct, we’ll be getting a regular wagonload of bodies across the river any day now. And, sir, in the case of Miss Chapman there is slight complication owing to gentlemen such as yourself. Because of her line of work, certain individuals have let it be known that overly enthusiastic inquiries might reveal rather embarrassing associations. That, of course, makes matters increasingly difficult for us. The disabling of the security monitors in her flat suggests that such an individual might have been involved in her demise, too. Now, sir, we’ll do what we can and I will notify you if we come up with anything. In the meantime, thank you for your statement, which has been most helpful.”

Swanson stood up and offered his hand in dismissal. Geraint should have realized the man’s predicament. Annie Chapman was a high-class prostitute whose clientele would have included nobles, members of parliament, and corporate high-fliers. Strings were being pulled to prevent any publicity involving them. No wonder the murder hadn’t made the news.

Feeling defeated and depressed, Geraint drove across the city to the hospital, where Doctor van der Merwe informed him that Ms. Young was in preliminary sedation before her final neuroconditioning session. Looking into the room, Geraint was pleased to see the fine bouquet of orchids and tiger lilies Simpson’s had sent over for him. They were her favorites.

Back home, Geraint restlessly took up the Tarot cards. He’d been avoiding them for days, afraid to ask. But as time passed and no sign of the mage was forthcoming, the cards were the only source of information he had. Closing his eyes, shuffling smoothly and silently, he felt himself drift a little, almost as if he could hear the soothing wash of the Thames far below his sealed windows. He stopped, cut the deck and half-fearfully turned over the top card. Feeling a wave of blessed relief to see that was not one of ill omen, Geraint realized just how much he’d been dreading what the cards would tell him.

The Wheel.

So, you will not answer me except as a riddle. Serrin is in the hands of Fortune, and I cannot read that fortune now. At least you leave me with room for hope.

He shuffled again, thinking about Annie, remembering her face on the telecom rather than the horror of the bedroom. He cut again and the great bony figure was no surprise to him.

Death.

Well, of course. He continued to shuffle, this time hardly aware of what he wanted to ask or know, his thoughts divided between concern for Francesca and his frustration at trying to get something, anything, out of the police. He cut to reveal another card and the dead girl’s face returned to his mind.

Death.

This time the card surprised him. It was very rare for the cards to repeat such an image. Another death? Fran? But when he registered no fear at the thought, he felt the card was not warning him of that. He was confused, for a moment afraid that it might mean Serrin, but the Wheel had already told him that was not the meaning either.

I’m just clutching at straws, he thought wearily. I can’t get this clear now. He tried to focus his mind by asking the deck for a card representing himself. That often helped to clarify matters.

The Fool.

It was the standard signal from the deck that Geraint should probe no further. But this time, just for once, he felt that the homed, green-clad man grinned at him for a reason. The Fool is all things, he mused. Right now, I can’t get anywhere with anything. I don’t know where Serrin is, my days are filled with meaningless routine, there’s nothing I can do for Fran, I get nowhere with the police. Looking at the card, he thought how it was a complete contradiction. But then, that was the way with card zero.

“Oh, rakk it!” he cursed aloud, thinking he should just get himself completely steamed. Drink a gutful of Aussie Shiraz and watch the second innings from Adelaide over the satellite.

The drink, yes, but Adelaide, no. That night Geraint was asleep before the fall of the first wicket.