Déjà Vu: A Technothriller Hocking, Ian (online e book reader .TXT) 📖

to nothing. The records were blank. Somebody had erased them. From her desk, the picture of Simon stared. Saskia was not in the photograph. She scowled and rubbed her back against the chair.

“Computer,” she said. “I...” Her voice trailed away. She looked into the corners of the ceiling. Tiny cameras followed her movements.

“I beg your pardon, Saskia?”

“Computer, you use those cameras to help disambiguate spoken commands. Do you record the footage?”

“Yes. The footage is kept for one week, to use as a statistical aid for difficult utterances.”

Saskia tapped her blotter. It became reflective then changed to display a graphical user interface. “Show me on my desktop.”

“Certainly. It will take a moment.”

Another icon appeared on the blotter. She tapped it and turned around to face the window. “Play it on the window.”

The window darkened as the liquid crystal elements arranged themselves into a display with four equal sections. Each showed the view from one of the four cameras in the main office. They held Saskia’s face in extreme close-up. The computer had no cameras in the bathroom or kitchen.

“Go back to Friday.”

“Done. This is 12:07 p.m.”

Saskia watched. All four cameras were trained on her secretary, Mary. From the limited background, Saskia guessed she was seated at her small desk near the door. She looked at the woman. Mary. She still had no feelings for her.

“Jump to 7 p.m.”

The computer did so. Each camera showed an empty room.

“Back to 6:30. Show the time on-screen.”

It showed the secretary again, seated at her desk. Saskia waited and then, as the timer clicked over to 6:34, there was a knocking sound. The secretary stood. She walked to the door and opened it. The cameras moved jerkily, tight on Mary’s head, so she could see Mary in great detail, but little else. Mary was expectant, then puzzled, then afraid. Pan out, Saskia willed.

The computer did.

As the murderer entered the room, two of the four cameras zoomed out, targeted his head, and zoomed in. He wore a broad-brimmed fedora. Because each camera was high on the wall, the hat masked everything but his hairless chin. Saskia thumped her desk.

It was difficult to see precisely what happened next. In little more than two seconds, the murderer grabbed Mary and stabbed her behind the ear. Saskia listened for clues and admired the murderer’s skill. She saw the secretary’s surprise and then her sleepiness. Both figures sank to the floor. The murderer laid her almost tenderly.

The murderer wiped his blade on Mary’s collar. Without ceremony, he began the process of hauling her towards the kitchen. Mary was a big girl and he struggled.

“Computer, stop it there. Go back to the full-length shot of the bloke who walked in.”

“I do not understand. Speak more slowly, please.”

“Back five seconds. Back five seconds. Forward two seconds. Back three frames. OK, print that on paper.”

A hot piece of paper slid from the desk. Saskia flapped it. It had some motion blur, but showed the murderer mid-stride. His height was average. He wore a long raincoat. He wore gloves. He didn’t have a beard. He had narrow shoulders. That was it. She fed the paper into her shredder, but the feeder jammed and spat the paper back out.

“Computer, can you clean up that image? Sharpen it?”

“Yes.”

Nothing happened.

“Do it.”

The image sharpened. “Print that again.”

Once more, a hot piece of paper slid into her hand. The man’s clothing was unremarkable. Perhaps an expert could tell her something, but they looked perfectly ordinary. Next, she scrutinized the hat. The image processing had revealed a band of blue and gold around the rim. And, yes, a little badge. A golden eagle.

Bingo, as Simon would say.

Saskia pressed her ID against the glass and pointed at the door. An assistant, exquisitely dressed, smiled under his pencil-thin moustache. He was hanging a feather boa in the shop window. He unlocked the door. Saskia shook the rain from her umbrella and asked for the manager. The assistant asked, “Have I seen you somewhere before?”

“Sorry?”

“Excuse me. I’ll get Jean-François.”

The assistant vanished.

The sign above the door claimed that the shop had been established in the nineteenth century. Saskia looked around suspiciously. It was the kind of place that did not need to display its wares. Customers knew what they came for: the satisfaction of exclusivity and price.

A little man emerged from the backroom. He wore dungarees and delicate, expensive shoes. His hands hung limply from his wrists. A pair of pince-nez sat on the bridge of his nose, so far down that they seemed quite useless for anything but the appreciation of his beautiful shoes. His head was hairless but for large pork-chop sideburns. He held out his hand and she took it. Saskia looked down. He was holding a handkerchief.

“I apologise, miss,” he said, in French. “I suffer from a delicate constitution.”

“I need your help,” Saskia said.

The man spread his hands in supplication, as though she had offered him something so expensive he could not possibly accept. “Everybody needs my help, madam.”

“What do you mean?” she asked. “Has someone else asked for your help?”

He smiled. “You are a detective, yes?”

“Yes.” Saskia retrieved her wallet and held it up. She squeezed the sides and it became transparent, revealing her ID. The man did not seem to glance at it.

“Ms Saskia Brandt. Welcome. I am Jean-François Champollion. I am descended from the Champollion who successfully deciphered the hieroglyphics of ancient Egypt.”

Saskia smiled politely. Her French was not quite proficient enough to understand what he had said. She smiled anyway. “I understand you make hats.”

Jean-Francois shrugged. He seemed to agree but with reluctance. “I ‘make hats’, yes.”

Saskia removed the computer printout from her pocket. It had been folded and unfolded many times. The edges were corrugated with finger marks. She offered it, but he made no move to take the paper.

“Do you sell this hat, Jean-Francois?”

“Hmm?” He craned forward. He devoted equal time to the paper and her chest. She shook the paper to get his attention.

“The hat.”

“The hat, yes.”

Saskia sagged. She had been to