Final Lap Page 15

  Jade sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “I have consulted a doctor. The effects of the tranquilliser in humans are not known but it may be possible to reverse them by administering a drug called yohimbine. You are not qualified...”

  Jade interrupted again. “Malc can do that if you give it to him.”

  The voice hesitated.

  “And I’ve got one quality your FI doesn’t have. The most important one.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I care about him,” Jade said with sheer belief and grit.

  After five seconds, the Deputy Head of Criminology replied, “All right. It is most irregular but I will instruct this mobile to continue working with you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Take care, Ms Vernon. You’re a musician. Remember that. Bear your limitations in mind. You must avoid all unnecessary risks. If in doubt at any time, you must consult with the mobile who will be in contact with me.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Jade?”

  “Yes?”

  “I wish you good luck.”

  Jade was flushed with her success in getting her own way but, once the effect wore off, she felt nervous and inadequate. She wasn’t going to admit it, though. Not to The Authorities. Not even to an inanimate machine.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Malc recharged his batteries as much as possible during the short journey. As soon as the electric cab came to a halt in Hounslow, he got out with Jade and led her through the deserted construction site. He came to a stop beside the four imposing pillars and the plinth without its statue. “This is the building,” he told her. “I am instructed to confirm that you still wish to proceed.”

  “Just take me to the room,” she said. She told herself that it didn’t matter if Malc saw her quaking but she did her best to hide it anyway.

  There were no lights on in the eerily quiet building. It was Malc who lit the way. Only once did his beam pick out movement. A rat scurried along the passageway and then disappeared into a hole that would be an electrical output once the interior had been completed.

  Malc guided her past the Gymnastics Hall to a series of games rooms. The mobile halted outside the second one. “This is the room in which Luke Harding and Ian Pritchard played darts.”

  Fearful of what she was about to find, Jade swallowed. Her heart seemed to be on the point of bursting. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  “There is no lock. You should push the door open without going in. I will shine a light inside. Regardless of what you see,” Malc said, “you must not enter the room. I am required to hinder your access.”

  “Deal,” Jade replied.

  When she reached out for the door, the sight of her own hand amazed her. It was quivering visibly in the light coming out of Malc. There was no hiding her fear now.

  She pressed the button and the door clicked open. She gave it a push and it swung back easily, without a sound.

  Malc went forward, blocking her way and flooding the room with light.

  Behind him, Jade caught her breath. “What...? Malc! What’s going on?”

  The games room was empty.

  Malc did not seem perturbed. He said, “I am programmed to consider that suspects and culprits may not tell the truth. Ian Pritchard has deliberately given incorrect information.”

  “How can you just...?” Fists on hips, she answered her own question. “Because you’re a machine.” She shook her head, annoyed but not beaten. “Now what?”

  “A standard procedure for this situation does not exist.”

  ****

  On the steps outside, Jade watched the first rays of the sun and heard the first stirrings of the site. A few construction workers began to stroll past and greet each other with little enthusiasm for a new day. In her mind, she ran through every word of what Pritchard had said to her. She relied on her memory because she’d forgotten that she could ask Malc to play his recording. There was just one sentence that struck her as odd. “Pritchard said something about Luke deserving more than cremation. What was it?”

  Within a few seconds, Malc retrieved the dialogue. “Referring to Luke Harding, the accused said, ‘He’s an FI. That makes him special. He deserves a memorial.’”

  Jade frowned. “A memorial. Why did he say that?”

  “Insufficient data.”

  “Do you have a dictionary, Malc?”

  “Confirmed. I am equipped with...”

  “Just give me all the definitions of memorial.”

  Slowly, the rising sun illuminated Hounslow regeneration scheme. One building after another came into view. The long shadows all pointed west. Jade wished they were giving her directions.

  “Noun: something, chiefly in the form of a monument, sculpture or other structure, that serves to preserve the memory of a person or event; a historical record; a memorandum or diplomatic communication; a statement of facts addressed to The Authorities. Adjective: of or involving memory...”

  “All right,” Jade said. To herself, she muttered, “A monument, sculpture or other structure.” She looked at the pillars and the plinth. “In other words, a memorial stone. That’s it, Malc!” she cried.

  “Explain.”

  “Is there anything that’s about to be made out of concrete?”

  “Yes. The foundations of the auto-carrier station. A cavity has been prepared for filling.”

  “That’s where he is. He’s going to be buried under his own memorial stone!”

  “Your speculation is incorrect. I have already scanned the cavity. There was no trace of a living warm-blooded being.”

  “He’s there! I know he is!” Jade insisted.

  “There are no facts to validate that conclusion.”

  The first heavy motor chugged into life and revved up. The first of the day’s jobs was beginning.

  “Have you got a better idea?” Jade shouted at Malc.

  “A logical deduction is not possible from the available information.”

  “It’s my call, then. Come on!”

  Following the shallow trench that would soon become a moving walkway, she ran towards the end of the line.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  To Luke, it felt more like a nightmare than waking up. Briefly conscious, it took him a while to come to his senses. It was totally dark and he thought that he saw stars. He must have been wrong because he felt enclosed. There was weight on his body, all over, even on his face. He was cold and damp yet hot and sweating. Every single part of his body ached as if it had been pummelled relentlessly. He was incredibly weak. He wanted to groan but his mouth would not move. He wanted to vomit but couldn’t. The bile burned his throat and tongue like acid. He wanted to take great gulps of fresh air but something stopped him even doing that. He breathed through a partly blocked nose. He was unbelievably thirsty but there was no water.

  He wanted to brush the thing from his face but he couldn’t move his hands or feet. Instead, he strained his neck to lift his heavy head a few centimetres. Whatever the thing was, it wasn’t solid. He wasn’t trapped inside a box. It was some sort of material that moved with him. He let his head fall again and it came to rest on something soft. Not as soft as a pillow, not as hard as wood. But it was damp so it wasn’t a carpet. His head pounded. He was definitely dehydrated. Yet, under the weight of the material, he was sweating.

  His brain cleared a little more and he smelled animal. Horse maybe.

  He tried again to move his hands and arms. He could flex his elbows and form fists with his fingers. No bones broken. But when he tried to shift his wrists, he realized that they were attached to something immovable. Narrow straps dug into his skin.

  It was the same with his legs. He could rock his knees from side to side but his ankles were fixed to something. Under the blanket – yes, it was a bulky blanket – his feet were clenched by cramp. He attempted to ease it by wiggling his toes.

  He realized that he’d got shoes on. And he was still wearing clothes.

 
He was outside. He didn’t know exactly what told him. Maybe it was the air that he was sniffing. It was cold. And underneath his head, it was soil. But if he was outside, he would have been freezing. He wasn’t. Sweat was soaking into his clothes.

  It was a thermal blanket! It had to be. And it had been used to keep a sick animal warm, no doubt. That’s why it smelled of horse.

  A sick animal. A vet. Ian Pritchard.

  He opened his eyes and turned his head painfully. In some sort of flashback – a trick of memory – he saw Ian’s holdall, open, revealing a clear plastic bag and a dead rat. Then he felt that prick in his leg again.

  Hippo tranquilliser. He couldn’t recall the name of the drug. Not for human use. Too powerful. Too dangerous. That’s why his body was calling for water – to flush out the remains of the tranquilliser. That’s why he ached to be sick – to get it out of his system. That’s why, from head to toe, he was burning with pain.

  His mouth was sealed with sticky tape. He couldn’t be sick. Couldn’t cry out. Pritchard didn’t want anyone to hear him. That meant people might be nearby.

  An idea formed in his mind and, for a moment, he panicked. Was he in Pritchard’s pet crematorium? Luke was convinced that’s how the vet had removed all trace of Libby Byrne. Brilliant plan. How does a killer conceal the evidence of a dead body? He treats it like any other body and cremates it. Was that Luke’s end as well? He shuddered at the thought that he might be conscious at the time.

  No. He was wrong. He wasn’t indoors. Not in a crematorium. No smell of burning or ashes.

  He pulled on his arms and legs again, trying to free them, but there was no chance. He could feel what was happening now. There were plastic ties around his wrists and ankles. His skin was tight against cold metal. Metal rods.

  In an instant of clarity, Luke knew everything. He remembered peering into the black pit. He’d called out because he was worried that the vet might be lying somewhere in the steel cage, a victim of Spoilsport. That’s when he’d felt the dart. Seen the holdall, the bag, the dead rat. Luke was the victim. He was the one bound to the metal framework down in the hole.

  He writhed around as much as he could, trying to rid himself of the blanket. He would have used his teeth – anything – to dislodge it if he could, but he couldn’t. He knew why Pritchard had shrouded him with it. If Malc was repaired and set about scanning the site at night, he’d use infrared. Thermal imaging. Looking for body heat. Luke’s signature warmth would be invisible under a thermal blanket. There would be no thermal image.

  Luke floated in and out of awareness.

  Was it morning? Was there light? But it was so dingy in the pit that no one would notice a dark blanket covering a live human being. He would not be seen in daylight either.

  Luke froze. The foundations were going to be laid first thing in the morning! That’s what the manager had said.

  Luke was helpless and hidden. And tonnes of wet concrete were about to choke him. Crush him. Luke gulped back the foul and bitter taste in his sealed mouth. A little vomit dribbled out of his nose. Fighting the effects of the drug, he yanked on the plastic ties until they cut his skin and the pain made him stop. He felt faint as the blood began to flow from his wrists and ankles.

  He hated the thought of what was about to happen to him. Yet he himself had given Spoilsport – Ian Pritchard – the idea. The vet had watched him scanning the pillars of the indoor arena. Pritchard must have realized that Luke was looking for a body concealed in the concrete. In the vet’s warped mind, there would be a perverse beauty in subjecting Luke to the fate that Luke himself had imagined.

  Luke understood, but he could not react. And it was too late. He heard the engine approach. A cry formed in his stinging throat but it died there because his lips were sealed together. The motor was dreadfully close. Somewhere above him. It quietened a little but did not stop. It was idling.

  Voices. Human voices.

  “Okay, let’s get it done. Swing the chute over here. Aim at the middle.” A bored voice.

  “Whoa! Not that far. Back a bit.” An impatient voice.

  “Right. She’s in place. Let her go.” An authoritative voice.

  First it was a rattling noise, a grinding, thudding. The steel rods were vibrating against his limbs. Then there was a splashing noise. The awful sound in Luke’s ears was concrete cascading into the pit.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Jade was hurtling through the messy building site with Malc at her shoulder. When a group of construction workers appeared in front of her with huge drills and a trailer containing supports for the covered walkway, she waved her arms at them and shouted, “Out of the way!”

  The team stopped and stared. They were too startled to move aside quickly.

  “I’m a forensic investigator!” she roared.

  That made them shift. They towed the trailer aside.

  Malc attempted to correct her and state the law on the impersonation of an FI. “You must not...”

  “Don’t you start!” Jade cried, as she forced more effort from her legs and panted for air.

  “The position of the auto-carrier station is one hundred and thirteen metres ahead.”

  It was like the final lap. Just a few seconds for a decent runner. But Jade was not an athlete.

  She saw a huge rotating drum and a group of people in overalls and hard hats standing round a chute, looking into a hole in the ground.

  Getting nearer, she could see the gush of wet concrete. She gasped. At the top of her voice, she yelled, “Stop!”

  “You do not have sufficient evidence to order a cessation...”

  “Stop!” she repeated. “Forensic investigator!”

  One of the builders looked up at her and, believing he’d been instructed to halt the operation by an FI, pulled a lever beside the chute. More of the grey slurry slid down the metal channel and fell into the cavity but the drum wound down to a standstill and no more appeared at the top of the slipway.

  Jade ignored the workers and came to a halt in a cloud of steamy breath at the edge of the pit. “Oh, no!”

  A great mound of watery sand, cement and stones was standing in the middle of the pit. Easily enough to cover and suffocate anyone underneath.

  Struggling for breath, she shrieked, “Malc!”

  “The centre of the cavity is already submerged,” the mobile replied, telling her what was obvious. “I have scanned the edges and corners that are still exposed. I have detected...”

  “What?” Jade snapped.

  “A dead fox.”

  Jade stared at him. “A dead fox! Is that all?”

  “Correct. There are items of rubbish, cloths and a section of tarpaulin, presumably blown into the hole by the wind...”

  “Shush!” Jade muttered.

  Putting her head on one side, she strained to hear.

  “What’s that?” she said to herself.

  “What are you referring to?”

  “That noise.”

  “I have detected fourteen...”

  Jade waved her arms at Malc and everyone else. “Shush!” she shouted. “I can’t hear. Kill any noise. Stop that engine!”

  Hands on hips, she waited for the sound to fade.

  She was not going to get silence, not on a massive works site that was still coming to life, but she had stunned everyone within earshot with the passion of her cry.

  In the quiet that followed, she listened intently.

  And there it was.

  Someone was emitting a strangled, out-of-tune hum.

  It was muted and discordant but it was the best sound Jade had ever heard. It was recognizable as the opening bars of her sports anthem.

  “It’s him, Malc!”

  “My voice-recognition program has analysed all current sound. Each human voice is unique, defined by muscles, vocal cavities and the length, tension and shape of the vocal cords...”

  Jade paid him no attention. She was prowling around the hole, peering into its depths. The weight
of the fluid concrete was making the grey slush settle slowly. Soon, it would reach the edges and creep into all four corners, covering the entire bottom of the hole. Covering Luke.

  Frantic, she cried, “Where is he, Malc? Where’s the sound coming from?”

  “The source of the hum is the northwest corner.”

  Jade looked up at him. “What?”

  One of the builders interrupted. “It means that corner.” He pointed.

  “Right!” Jade knew what she had to do. Malc was too big to go through the network of steel rods but she could use it like a ladder. She sat on the edge of the pit, grabbed the uppermost bar and swung her legs down to make contact with one of the rungs.

  Several of the construction workers shouted at the same time. “You can’t do that! It’s too dangerous.”

  She ignored them.

  One man appeared above her as she began the descent. He put his arm out towards her and said, “Take my hand. Come on. I’ll pull you up, or it’ll be the last thing you do. Hurry! It’s not stable.”

  He was right. The concrete was spreading like lava enveloping the side of a volcano.

  “If you want to help,” Jade said, “get me a crane or a winch or something.” She flashed him a look of utter determination.

  Malc said, “You must take wire cutters.”

  Jade paused. “Why?”

  “Luke Harding is clearly conscious. If he were free to move, he would have climbed out himself. I deduce that he is secured in some manner.”

  A builder knelt at the edge of the foundations and held out some sturdy cutters. “Here. Take these.”

  Jade clutched them in her fist and continued to climb down. Malc hovered above and lit her way as the unstoppable sludge crept closer, little by little filling the cage.

  Jade looked down. Only a few metres to go. Malc’s illumination created a sinister pattern of light and shadow in the pit but Jade could make out some sort of covering. That had to be it. As quickly as she could, she hurried towards it. The cumbersome wire cutters in her hand clunked on the steel poles each time she went down one step. Under her weight, some of the bars bent and the whole of the contraption creaked. It was designed to strengthen foundations. It was never meant to be a giant climbing frame.