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

Proctor. “As I was saying, Proctor was injured during the evacuation and slept it off in the medical tent. Next morning, he woke up and persuaded the doctor to let him go for a walk. At that point, you understand, he was not really under suspicion. He was still in the role of ‘consultant’. He walked into this tent, sent a radio message to his discarded personal computer, which started a fire to clear remaining personnel from the research centre. It was a prelude to the bomb.”

“But Shimoda remained down there?” asked Saskia.

“Had to. If we disconnected him, he would have died from strokes.”

“And then the bomb went off.”

“Indeed. It killed Shimoda.”

Hannah asked Garrel about Proctor’s escape from custody. He spoke at length. Saskia did not take any more notes. She had read the police report on the flight to Edinburgh. She was impressed by Garrel’s innocence. The blame could be attributed to every object and process in the known universe that was not called Garrel. He was particularly piqued by the funeral. “God only knows whose idea that was, to send a terrorist to the funeral of one of his victims.” He went on. An expert lawyer and sympathetic judge – combined with the lamentable fact that the closest Japanese translator was in Leeds – meant that the entire family were now en route to Osaka.

Saskia smiled. This was an interesting case. She did not mention that it was her first. There were many fascinating aspects. Someone had helped David Proctor. They had made sure he attended that funeral, even made sure that there was a funeral. They had arranged a complicated escape. Was the fake priest behind everything? Or the family?

“What about the priest?” Saskia asked.

“Her description narrows the search to about five million suspects. She’s aged between late thirties and early fifties. Bit of a looker. Long brown hair. English. That’s it. We would have her in custody if it wasn’t for the local police. They had a WPC and a jailer on David, plus a guy driving the van. This priest tied them up with their own handcuffs before disappearing. All of this was watched, of course, by the cast of The Mikado. As for a photofit, you should ask DI Hannah. His friends are taking care of the plodwork.”

Hannah smiled as though receiving a compliment. “We like to be useful.”

Saskia put the notebook in her pocket. She removed her coat, handed it to Hannah, and removed her suit jacket. Both men stared at her. “What do you think you’re doing?” Garrel asked.

“I came here to see the crime scene.”

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Garrel said quickly.

“Me either,” said Hannah.

Saskia removed her earrings and put them in a trouser pocket. “Colonel Garrel, or whatever your rank is, I am not asking for your advice. Just your cooperation.”

“Listen, Brandt,” Garrel said. His face was close to hers. “I need this hole capped, soiled and turfed by six p.m. That gives me,” and Saskia noted he did not check his watch, because that would have involved looking away, “just over an hour.”

“Then we should proceed immediately.”

Garrel held her stare for while and then threw up his arms in resignation. “Splendid. Why not? We’ll call it ‘The Magical Mystery Tour’ and charge at the gate.” He looked at Hannah in exasperation, but the DI ignored him. “We’ll need some equipment.” He found an open crate and began to dig inside.

Saskia gave Hannah her suit jacket. He draped it across one arm, solemnly as a butler, but as she reached to remove her pancake holster, his hand clamped hers. She read his eyes and nodded. The gun stayed.

“Take this,” Garrel said. He passed her a harness and a climbing helmet, complete with lamp. She fed her legs through the seat and locked the pelvis connection. She watched her hands as they manipulated the ropes and double-sprocket mechanism with considerable expertise. Lucky. These motor actions – abseiling, weapon handling, shorthand – were probably implanted skills.

“What are you waiting for, Brandt?” Garrel stepped over the yellow cordon and attached his harness to one of the ropes. Each rope was a different colour. “Twenty metres. I’m on the blue rope.” He tapped his helmet and the lamp shone. Then he jumped into the blackness and fell like a dead weight. The rope whistled through his decelerator.

Saskia wandered over to the hole. Her palms were slick with sweat. “You want to come down too, Scottie?”

Hannah smiled. “No thanks. A friend of mine was paralysed using one of those decelerators. Anyway,” he said, hefting her coat and jacket, “I’m being useful.”

“Right.” Saskia clipped her harness to the rope. She chose the red one. She unhinged the decelerator and fitted the rope around the two sprockets. She closed it firmly and checked, with a tug, that the rope was gripped tight. There was a disc attached to a sprocket axle. She pulled it out and turned the dial to twenty metres. Then she snapped it back, checked it was locked, and jumped.

Dinner At McCabe’s

David pulled into a narrow alleyway. The engine faltered and stopped. He dug for the kick-stand and eased it to a stable tilt. He slid off. He removed the key and the dull glow of the windscreen’s display faded to nothing. The suspension sank and the windscreen slipped into the steering column.

He stepped back and flexed his arms. His wrists cracked arthritically. His vertebra settled.

“Oi, sunshine,” said a voice.

David looked up. An old woman was leaning into the alley from her window, her ample bosom resting on her white folded arms. He could hear a TV babbling behind her. Her hair was in curlers. A cigarette wagged in the corner of her mouth when she spoke: “You. That. You can’t stop here.”

He flipped open the visor on his helmet. “Firstly, I am not your sunshine. Secondly, this bike will stay here, undisturbed by you, for the entire night. And if I find so much as a scratch in the morning, we