Jeopardy in Beta Block

2064

When the H-BMW emerged from underneath the podia of block Beta, I was basked in a blood-orange glow, it triggered the implant in my neck.  My head seemed to explode.  A great roar filled my ears, holes in my vision, jerking me uncontrollably. 

It was about 4 o’clock that afternoon, New Year’s Eve if you follow the Gregorian calendar, with the sun peeking out from behind the three other tower blocks – Alpha, Beta, Gamma and Delta.  But thus far, I was celebrating it with my fourth migraine of the day.  My emotional inhibitor and the IPCC were to thank for that.  Back then, The Independent Police Complaints Commission fitted you with the implant if you fucked up, remember those “Effective Policing – Everywhere!” days?  Well, that was their answer!  They demoted me to Inspector, transferred me from Thames Valley to the Met. 

The Chief Superintendent said the Met were keeping a ‘good eye’ on me.  To put it another way, they were punishing me for a judgement error and put me in the ghetto.  Tottenham, Edmonton, real nice spots.

Emotional inhibitors were in their third stage of psych and system tests and I was one of the first officers to get one.  My boyfriend left me because of it.  Memories during shift were more than enough to set it off.  High-pitch squeals.  Wasps in your head.  Clear-water vomit.

When I saw the sun’s colour, I saw false teeth stuck in a brown human eye.

I threw open the door, threw out myself and threw up in the middle of the fucking road. 

My head swam, my ears rang.  The engine cut off.  Loud voices – repairmen in hardhats.  Fuck. 

I tried to compose myself, tried to ease my aching stomach muscles, then cursed.  When they saw the gun on my hip, they fell silent.  They’d been fixing something to the foundations of the podia, structural damage, I figured.  I spat, closed the car door, fired her up and shot away. 

My eyesight was still scattered, glazed over.  Colourful dots swam around in the mirror, but I could just make out the å logo on their uniforms.  That was where I was heading next, to talk to their CEO, the face behind Alliance Construction, Rufus Andersen. 

Driving out of the projects, I tried not to think about the old lady, Mrs Ida Osiyemi-Thomson, her head blown through the coffee table in a flat upstairs. 

At the exit they were fixing up a sign with CAPEL GREEN – COMING SOON written on it.  Andersen had bought the tower blocks from the County Council.  It would be his new business venture.  They were over sixty-years-old.  The Times said he’d bought them for 1.2 million.  They estimated that the rebuilds, the penthouses and the studios would fetch for at up to 800,000 each.  He’d level them when the rest of the residents vacated.  It was a ghost town now.

Later, when I pulled into the Andersen place, I had my powder-blue blazer on, white shirt, trousers and loafers.  I was more presentable and sober, something I hadn’t imagined being that night.  There were Ferraris, Aston Martins, and Bugatti Zeons.  Actors, politicians and music producers.  I waited in line with them and when I got to the door and a small chance, I made the most of it, pushing past the butler and running upstairs.   

There was a moment when Rufus Andersen might have escaped with his life.  If he had listened to the military voice in his head, the one of the war-time lieutenant in the SAS, he would have reached for the Mur-dock .89 in his desk, switched it from stun to kill, and emptied the magazine clip through the door.

He didn’t – he couldn’t spoil his party – but he knew trouble when he saw it, smelled it, or heard it, even if it came from a door knock.  The knock was the sound of his unatoned sins outside. Instead of reducing it to shards, redecorating the landing with brain and bone matter, he let me in.

When the scanner read his thumbprint, I flung myself inside and sat at his desk. 

His butler appeared a moment after me, short of breath, and explained that: ‘She doesn’t have an invitation.’  I felt Andersen’s cold eyes on me, running over me, examining me, seeing if I was a threat or just a good-looking woman at his desk.  He went with the latter, told his butler it was fine and poured himself a rare Macallan, joining me on his side of the desk.  ‘To whom do I owe the pleasure, Miss?’

‘Inspector Jeopardy Carter, CID, and no pleasure,’ I smiled.  ‘Just ten minutes of your time.’

The scotch went down in one.  He stretched his palms flat against the Davenport. He edged his chair forward a bit.  ‘What can I do for you, Jeopardy?’ 

‘Four people have been killed in Beta block.’

‘Right,’ he said, uninterested.  Leaving his desk, he moved over to the window and slid it open onto the balcony.  ‘Step outside, if you’ll please.’ 

From there I could just make out the high rises – blocking the premature fireworks from sight.  Leaning against the railing, my hair whipping around, I could see Central London in all its imperial majesty.  But up close, maybe not so stunning.

‘I have properties all over, Miss Carter.’ I went to speak. He gestured. I fell silent. He continued.  ‘North London, South, East and West. Some properties as far afield as Edinburgh, Oxford, Cambridge and even some shares in The Corinthia.’

A sharp buzz at Oxford – home – friends – fresh air – Mike.  He ignored my discomfort and pressed on.  ‘Can I offer you something to drink, Jeopardy?’

‘Inspector Carter, and not on-duty.’ I said.

He shrugged, loosened the cravat around his neck, it had been slit in the war, I knew from his autobiography.  ‘So, you’ll understand, Carter.  Understand where I’m coming from, what would someone like me know about a few bodies?’

‘Four,’

‘Immaterial!’ he spat.  He took a moment to correct himself.  ‘What I mean is, regarding the current crime rate, this is merely a percentage.  Probably gangs.  What I’m trying to do is build a bigger and better London for us all.  Somewhere where the races and classes can co-exist.’  He produced some cigarettes and offered me one, I shook my head.  He lit his and tossed the packet off the balcony.  ‘My vice,’ he digressed.  ‘Only one on the new year.’

I looked down at the cars on the drive, reflecting on the repulsive nature these people said and what he had actually said, beneath the material elegance, he was absolutely brutal.

Thud – a clatter, howls and fits of laughter in the air, the party was well in tow now.  Champagne and fake smiles all round.  Somebody in a long stiff robe had slipped on the balcony stairs – that’s what they were laughing at. Still, everyone continued to drink and pop fluorinated amphetamines, Forzas.  Some were shooting-up Krokodil, AKA the new in-drug, AKA backstreet desomorphine.  All this unfolded on one corner of loungers.  On the other side, the newest model of TrueCompanion Sexbots – Lilly Latexes – were being passed around the laps of an old clique of men.  Some were Members of the House of Lords.  The papers would have a field day if they got hold of this – those that weren’t bribed anyway.  I watched everything through the windowpanes which pumped incessantly to the rhythm of synthesized music at the bottom of the tile-paved, rounded stairs. 

He saw me looking at the place, taking everything in, the palace of orgies and decadence.  Splendid – but not classy in the slightest.   

‘There’s something I want to show you,’ he said.  ‘On the wall in my office.  Come.’

I went first.  Stopping by the desk, I rested my hand on the desk.  Over by the door was the original Patience.  The notorious Nigerian graffitist IGGY’s first work.  A little before my time, but iconic it truly was.  You could see the level of control, conviction with every spray.  I felt Andersen’s warm breath on me. 

‘Tell me, Jeopardy.  What are you really here for?’ he whispered. 

I straightened up, my back ruler straight.  ‘I just wanted to meet the famous Rufus Andersen before he’s banged up.  My officers’ll be here a minute after Big Ben strikes.’

‘Perfect,’ he said.

The thud of a shot.  Electricity surging up my body.  Breathing became difficult, I thought I’d choke on my tongue.  I gasped for breath and none came.  I became frazzled.  My arms dropped to my side, limp and I felt my knees bending, giving away.  I spun on my heel and saw him with the Mur-dock in his hand.  My hand reached up to my neck and I keeled over and onto the red wine carpet.   

When I jerked awake, I realised everything at once.  The roaring of Red Arrows, guzzling fuel as they passed overhead.  I felt like I was ridden with holes.  People hollered and screamed.  Shredding my eardrums.  Jools Holland, a traditional re-run, could be heard on the speakers and the countdown from ten had begun.    I touched the skin of my neck.  There was no blood.  It was fried.  I bawled my fists in anger, waited for the convulsions, but they didn’t come. 

‘Jeopardy,’ Anderson cried. 

A bold outline stood on the balcony alone.  Specks of green and red light flickered at his hard face from somewhere.  ‘Come, see the fireworks,’

I dragged myself up by the chair.  Found my feet.  Staggered, my head throbbing, like a drunk.  He was watching me with a degree of malevolence I hadn’t yet seen and haven’t seen since.  The eyes didn’t twinkle with the light of human emotion, but rather, the clear blacks of a predator sizing up its prey.   

Andersen put on some Ray-Bans.  Shielding his eyes from the glowing sky.  The others slurred Auld Lang Syne.  ‘Happy new year,’ he said, pointing to  something over the horizon. 

In the distance, one after another, the dark outlines of blocks Alpha, Beta, Gamma and Delta erupted in flames.  Burning brighter than the night’s sky before tumbling down from view.

‘I’ll be out of custody within the hour.  Just let me tell the guests to stay put.’               

The synthesized music resumed.  My fists clenched again.  I didn’t convulse.  I didn’t want to throw up.  The inhibitor!

In a fluid movement, I snatched the automatic pistol from his hand, and flicked it from stun to kill.  He turned, his face upturned in a smug grin.  The gun made little noise, phut-phut, and the shots caught him in the heart, dashing him over the balcony as SO19 charged the gates. 

Later, I found myself sitting in front of Chief Superintendent Hamilton, the Old Man, the “Effective Policing – Everywhere!” poster framed behind his fat head.  He asked me the question, did you murder him, and I gave my honest answer, no, I didn’t – it was self-defence.  The chip would make me sick, right?