The Trouble With Time (2 page)

“She seemed okay to me,” Jace said. “Why would she lie?”

“Covering up for someone?”

“I suppose it’s possible . . .”

Farouk said, “Here’s another idea: he could have hidden it somewhere we can’t get at, like buried six feet down where the detectors won’t reach.”

Jace shook his head. “Can’t see McGuire doing that. Too much work. And the ground’s not disturbed.”

“He could have hidden it somewhere else entirely.”

Kayla said, “I think his instinct would have been to keep it close. Maybe he sold it on. We could check out places he might do that.”

Jace was already scrolling through the contacts list on McGuire’s dataphone. He looked up. “I might have guessed. Ryker. This could be the time we pin something on the slippery bastard.”

The team made a brief stop at a pizza restaurant to refuel, with the exception of Scott, whom they dropped off at his home. While they ate, Quinn filled out, filed and printed a search warrant; not the first for Ryker’s premises. They’d pulled him in a couple of times too, but had failed to get anywhere on either occasion. Officially, the man remained as clean as a whistle.

Ryker’s workshop was under a railway arch south of the river. In contravention of the terms of his commercial lease he lived there too, so was likely to be in, though it was now 8.45 on a Sunday evening. When they emerged on to the pavement the pod they had ordered waited for them, glowing in the dark, blue light on to show it was picking up. They stepped inside, Jace told it the name of a street round the corner from Ryker’s and the pod glided off. Rain spattered against its curved glass windows; Jace stared out, yawning. It had been a long discouraging day, and wasn’t over yet.

As they neared their destination the streets got less like anywhere you’d want to live; rundown, neglected and looking their worst in the rain and the streetlights’ harsh glare. The pod let them out in a main road with mean brick buildings on either side, ripe for redevelopment. They followed the pavement under a railway bridge, and turned right into an unlit dead end lined with Victorian railway arches, each housing a small business. Only one had light shining through high up windows in the bricked-in arch; above the door bell a cracked plastic plate offered:

RYKER

Robotics Engineer

BEWARE OF THE DOG

Quinn pressed the bell push. Immediately a frenzied barking started up the other side of the door. Jace pounded the wooden panels, making as much noise as the dog, playing the role of hard cop. “Open up, Ryker, or we’ll break the fucking door down.”

Kayla murmured, “There’s nothing quite like a charm offensive to win friends and influence people.”

Jace grinned at her as the grating sound of heavy bolts being moved replaced the barking. The door opened and Ryker stood on the threshold, lean, scruffy and hostile, a big German Shepherd beside him. Muffled shots sounded from a film playing on the computer in front of an upholstered swivel chair; on the desk stood three bottles of beer and a half-eaten carton of fast food, the accoutrements of his interrupted cosy evening.

Quinn handed him the search warrant. Ryker read it sourly, then stood aside to let them in. Though things being worked on lay about, the place was organized, with no extraneous clutter. More workshop than home, the workbenches, a small forge, lathes, a pillar drill and a milling machine occupied most of the area. The computer desk was at the back, and bed and kitchen units fitted in where they could round the edges of the space, jostled by racks and shelves. The benches were littered with tools and electronic bits and pieces. Damp and crusted lime discoloured the brick-built arch of the ceiling.

Quinn sat in the one comfortable chair as if it were his, switched off the computer’s sound, and helped himself to a chip. Like Jace, Quinn was over six foot, but a little heavier, his neck nearly as wide as his close-cropped head. This might have given him an air of menace, but for the intelligence and humour in his eyes. He swivelled gently to and fro, watched by everyone in the room. Jace wondered how he managed to exude authority so effortlessly.

Finally Quinn said pleasantly, “We arrested a friend of yours today, Mr Ryker. Peter McGuire. Have you seen him lately?”

Ryker’s eyes were stony. “As it happens, he dropped by yesterday. What of it?”

“Why did he come to see you?”

Ryker shrugged. “He was in the area. We had a bit of a chat.”

“What about?”

“This and that.”

“Did he have a TiTrav with him?”

“If he did, I didn’t see it.”

“Our information suggests he may have left one here with you, maybe for repair.”

Ryker said piously, “Repairing a TiTrav would be timecrime. Unless it was for you lot, obviously, when I’d be pleased to help, and do keep me in mind should you have the need. Otherwise I wouldn’t touch it. I’m strictly legit.”

There was a pause. “If I hit him,” Jace suggested to Quinn, “he might get a bit more cooperative. Shall I?”

“No need for that,” Quinn said, getting to his feet. “Mr Ryker, would you open that safe for me?”

Ryker’s safe was so old it opened with a key. Inside were a dozen dataphones and a small bundle of bank notes. Quinn counted them before putting them back and letting Ryker shut the safe.

“Most honest citizens don’t have a use for cash,” Quinn remarked. He turned to his team. “Search him. Then take the place apart. Remember we could be looking for a dismantled TiTrav.”

The search that followed went on into the small hours, and Jace’s conviction right from the start that they were wasting their time didn’t make it any more fun. Not that he believed in Ryker’s innocence; he didn’t. But the man’s demeanour was the giveaway. Ryker wasn’t anxious. He sat impassively throughout and watched them, waiting for them to finish and go. The dog watched them too. So did Quinn, between bouts of trawling through the computer; but while he watched he wandered around, picking things up and putting them down again.

Jace took photographs while Farouk summoned the van with the equipment. When it arrived, they unloaded ladders and a platform, put on vinyl gloves and systematically examined every inch of the ceiling, looking for a concealed hiding place behind a loose brick. Grit fell in their eyes as they worked and the dust made them sneeze. Finding nothing, they moved on to the machines and workbenches.

There was only one small piece of excitement all evening. Jace was testing hand power tools on one of the benches to make sure the TiTrav wasn’t hidden in any of the casings when Farouk, on his knees behind the kitchen units, jumped up and used an expression that had not been heard to pass his lips before.

Jace said, “Fuck me, that’s a first. I thought swearing was haram?”

“He got it from you,” Kayla said. “You’re a terrible influence. Are you okay, Farouk?”

Farouk kicked the cabinet. His foot went straight through the flimsy panel. “A bastard mousetrap got my fingers!”

Quinn looked up from the computer screen and told him to calm down. Ryker cracked his only smile of the evening, which drew Quinn’s attention to him.

“I’m finding a surprising number of TiTrav resources in your files. Technical stuff, service software, updates, diagrams, coding . . . I doubt our own technicians have as much. I’m wondering why anyone without a TiTrav would need this.”

“It’s interesting,” Ryker said. “It’s my hobby.”

They applied stickers as they went, a different colour for each operative, so that nowhere would be missed or gone over twice. These were left in situ. By the time they’d exhausted every possible hiding place – and many impossible ones – it looked as if a hurricane en route from a giant’s wedding had spread confetti through the workshop. The team communicated in monosyllables, working mechanically, longing to get home. Two unproductive searches in one day was two too many. When they ran out of places to search, they stood in a disconsolate group, tacitly admitting defeat.

“We’re done here,” said Quinn.

“Happy now?” said Ryker, standing up. “I suppose there’s no chance of an apology for time wasted and nuisance caused. If you lot will bugger off I’ll tidy up and go to bed.”

“Mr Ryker, on behalf of IEMA I apologize,” said Quinn. “Once again you emerge without a stain on your character. Few people have been so frequently subjected to repeated scrutiny and found to be blameless. I can only congratulate you on your record and hope you retain it.”

They were halfway to the door when Quinn turned. “Perhaps I should tell you, as you were his friend, that Peter McGuire resisted arrest this morning. So we shot him. Dead. Goodnight.”

The elevator reached the tenth floor and Jace opened the door to his rented studio flat, three hundred square feet and a balcony in Hoxton. Fleetingly, he considered having a shower, then decided in favour of immediate sleep. He pressed the button to lower the bed out of the wall and took off his jacket.

The doorbell rang.

Cursing, he walked to the entry phone. Scott’s face filled the screen.

“What is it?”

“Can I come up and talk to you?”

“At this hour? What about? Can’t it wait till morning?”

“I’d really rather talk to you now, if you don’t mind.”

Jace pressed the lock release, then went to the kitchen area and put the kettle on. He heard the clunk of the lift doors and went to let Scott in.

“Coffee?”

“No thanks. I’ve been in the bar over the road all evening waiting for you to come back.” He smiled nervously. “Too much coffee.”

“Take a seat.” Scott sat on the edge of the sofa. The kettle boiled and Jace made himself coffee. He put it on the table in front of the sofa, then got out the bottle of brandy and a couple of glasses.

“Shoot. Brandy?”

“Oh, thanks, yes please. Did you find anything at Ryker’s?”

“Not a solitary time travelling sausage.”

There was a lengthy pause. Scott sipped his brandy. Jace glanced at the clock.
Jesus, 3.10
. “Look, it’s been a long day, so if you could get to the point . . .”

Scott jumped. “Sorry, yes. Okay. I don’t know if you know this, but my mother married an American so I lived in the States for a while.” Jace shook his head. “I went to college there. My stepdad was a pistol shooter, very keen. I did a lot of shooting with him. I think he hoped I’d take it up professionally. He’d won the World Speed Shooting Championship in 2035, and he reckoned I was good enough to follow in his footsteps. I didn’t want to take it that seriously, I had other priorities, but I did a lot of practice.” Scott finished his brandy in one gulp and met Jace’s eyes. “Which means that when I shoot a man who’s sixty feet away intending to hit him in the lower arm, then that’s where I hit him.”

There was a pause. Jace said, “So you’re saying Quinn killed McGuire?”

“I know I didn’t.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

Scott flushed. He looked down, then up again. “Nothing, I guess. If I’m honest I just don’t like everybody thinking it was my bad aim that killed a man, when it wasn’t.”

“Well, now I know it too.”

“Really? You believe me?”

“Maybe.”

Scott frowned, hesitated and said, “Analysis of the bullets would prove whose gun fired which shot.”

“Right. They won’t do that as a matter of course. You’d need authorization.”

“Who from?”

“Ah well. Quinn.”

Scott’s face fell. Jace said, “Probably not the best idea, three weeks into a new job, to try to prove your boss got something wrong. Won’t improve your promotion prospects. I’ll have a think about it, but maybe don’t mention it to anyone else for now. It might be best to let it go. Quinn’s made it clear he’ll ensure you don’t get into any trouble over it.”

After Scott had left, Jace walked to the window and stared out at the city lights, wide awake again, analysing, balancing probabilities. Scott had clearly believed what he said; but on the whole, Jace was inclined to think him mistaken. He might be as good a shot as he claimed, but he had been nervous and excited, and had never fired at a human being before.

There was another reason the team had all believed Scott’s shot to be the fatal one. Quinn was good with a pistol, too; seven years before, he’d been part of the British Olympic shooting team in Detroit, and won gold.

When Jace arrived for the meeting on Monday morning, only Kayla had got there before him. Quinn, sitting at his computer, glanced up and smiled. “You’re early too.”

He returned his attention to the screen, and Jace sat at the round table with Kayla to wait for the others, trying not to yawn after the short night. Quinn’s office was cool; he had a weakness for elaborate clothes – the jacket he wore was black damask, with a high collar, and rows of silver buttons – but he liked his furnishings plain. The only decoration in his office consisted of contrasting textures of marble, glass, slate and steel. A clutter of transparent plastic on one end of the big desk added an incongruous note. Always inquisitive, Jace got up again to see what it was.

Individually packed in tamper-evident bags were McGuire’s possessions that had been taken from his body. As well as the items from his pockets Jace had already seen, there was the microchip from his arm, two small bar-coded bags containing cartridges, and two similar bags each containing a bullet. The labels read:

IEMA Pathology Department 1/2

NAME: Peter William McGuire

DATE OF DEATH: 14th May 2045

ITEM: bullet

LOCATION: lower arm

NOTES:

IEMA Pathology Department 2/2

NAME: Peter William McGuire

DATE OF DEATH: 14th May 2045

ITEM: bullet

LOCATION: heart

NOTES: 2/2 bullets, cause of death

“His effects should have gone straight to Records,” Quinn said, seeing Jace pick over the bags. “I doubt he had family. The taxpayer will be funding his funeral.” He removed the dataphone, put everything else back into a larger bag and moved it to the top of a cabinet.

While he was doing this the door opened and Scott and Farouk walked in together. Quinn joined his team at the table, switched on the vidcam and opened the meeting.