Prologue
The Capital – The Eighth Great and Bountiful Human Empire
“Do not move! Please lower your weapon!” Detective Superintendent Goodwin maneuvered herself to get a clearer path. With fifteen years of purely recreational and harmless experience – shooting robotic targets not as training, but as stress relief – she knew she was the best shot in the room.
The kidnapper wobbled, potentially sensing Goodwin finding a clear shot, or perhaps just shaking in trepidation. She wondered what was going on underneath that balaclava; even now it shifted, as if his face was contorting. Less clear, however, was the hostage, a bag tied over her head. Without the panting of the kidnapper and the footsteps of her men, Goodwin wondered whether they would be able to hear her crying.
“I’ll kill her!” yelled the kidnapper, in a rough, alpha-male accent Goodwin instantly realised wasn’t his own. He pulled out a knife and held it to the hostage’s throat. She recoiled at the slightest pressure. “Back off or I’ll do it!”
“What colour’s my hair?” asked Goodwin. The kidnapper hesitated. “You don’t know, do you? That’s because you’ve only been looking at one thing: what I’m holding in my hand. All these threats to make us back off aren’t for us to leave you alone because you know that’s never going to happen. They’re to save your skin because you’re bloody terrified of dying! Well let me tell you something, soldier, the second the blade of that knife touches her skin, your worst nightmare will come true.”
“You think you can do it?” taunted the kidnapper. He held his arm out further. The blade was inches from touching the hostage’s neck. “You think you’re fast enough? Good enough?”
Goodwin faltered. No.
“No.” Before he could react, the kidnapper was thrown to the floor as he was simultaneously head-butted and elbowed in the crotch by the hostage. She stood up, removing the bag from over her head, and threw a clearly ineffective length of rope on the floor. Goodwin’s question was answered. This woman was not even close to crying.
“Detective Rivers?”
“Do not move! Please lower your weapon!” Detective Superintendent Goodwin maneuvered herself to get a clearer path. With fifteen years of purely recreational and harmless experience – shooting robotic targets not as training, but as stress relief – she knew she was the best shot in the room.
The kidnapper wobbled, potentially sensing Goodwin finding a clear shot, or perhaps just shaking in trepidation. She wondered what was going on underneath that balaclava; even now it shifted, as if his face was contorting. Less clear, however, was the hostage, a bag tied over her head. Without the panting of the kidnapper and the footsteps of her men, Goodwin wondered whether they would be able to hear her crying.
“I’ll kill her!” yelled the kidnapper, in a rough, alpha-male accent Goodwin instantly realised wasn’t his own. He pulled out a knife and held it to the hostage’s throat. She recoiled at the slightest pressure. “Back off or I’ll do it!”
“What colour’s my hair?” asked Goodwin. The kidnapper hesitated. “You don’t know, do you? That’s because you’ve only been looking at one thing: what I’m holding in my hand. All these threats to make us back off aren’t for us to leave you alone because you know that’s never going to happen. They’re to save your skin because you’re bloody terrified of dying! Well let me tell you something, soldier, the second the blade of that knife touches her skin, your worst nightmare will come true.”
“You think you can do it?” taunted the kidnapper. He held his arm out further. The blade was inches from touching the hostage’s neck. “You think you’re fast enough? Good enough?”
Goodwin faltered. No.
“No.” Before he could react, the kidnapper was thrown to the floor as he was simultaneously head-butted and elbowed in the crotch by the hostage. She stood up, removing the bag from over her head, and threw a clearly ineffective length of rope on the floor. Goodwin’s question was answered. This woman was not even close to crying.
“Detective Rivers?”
The Dying Detective
Episode 1/6
If You Want Something Done
Written by Janine Rivers
Kajallam ducked as another brick flew through his window. He only had time to save himself: his TV screen smashed, and the weight of the block destabilised the unit it was sat on, also knocking the lamp. His living room fell apart. Yet, as his sanctuary was ruined, his first thought moved to the door: did I lock up? The key was still in. The answer, he feared, was no. There was no time to reach the door, and no doubt that was exactly what they had planned for him to do.
Assessing his options, he bolted up the stairs and into his room, hiding like a child under the covers of his bed. He locked his door. The curtains were drawn; no one would have seen him enter from outside. He might be safe.
This was routine: his bedroom was always the safest. Hilarious, he thought – the significance of the bedroom: the one place the serial rapist was safe. Even through his fear, it was just a little bit funny how stupid the families of his victims were, as if the motorskills required to lob a brick through a window were the extent of their mental ability. As thick as their sisters and daughters were. And probably just as gullible.
He lay back in bed. The duvet was especially warm today, and felt heavier than usual. It hadn’t been changed in two weeks. Strange.
Kajallam screamed suddenly, a sharp but short scream; the most he was capable of in the last two seconds of his life. The sheets were already long overdue a wash, but now they were covered in his blood, it was hardly even worthwhile. All that was left in evidence of what had happened here was a clear slice through the mattress where the knife had caught it on the attack. And, of course, the dead body of Kajallam Develraik.
***
“I formed a link between his victims,” explained Autumn. “It really is a delight when your serial kidnapper’s obsessive-compulsive tendencies are worse than yours. So I got in the way, played along, and played him right into your hands.”
Goodwin listened intently as their car sped through the city. It was a quiet road for the Capital; only three rows were being used vertically, and they were on the third, elevated several feet off the ground. Autumn sighed as she watched the trail of emissions in the rear-view mirror. The higher the cars elevated, the more they let off. Autumn took a swig out of her second bottle of water. Pretending to be the victim of a kidnapping left one awfully dehydrated.
Every few seconds, she would turn to look out of the window, admiring the Capital in all its forms, while Goodwin occasionally checked her phone, disinterested. It wasn’t like one of those historical cities where one suddenly came across a mass of high-rise buildings – the entire continent was like this; stacks upon stacks of buildings, whether they were shops, banks, or…
Autumn wondered what some of the buildings even were. There were so many of these glass facades, so many of the same lobbies over and over again. She wondered what went on behind meeting room doors, down staircases, along corridors.
“So you wanted us to find you,” said Goodwin, leaning across the table and lowering her voice. Autumn wondered why – the hatch to the front of the vehicle was closed, and the driver was too involved in his afternoon radio drama to pay any attention. “You wanted our attention. Why?”
“Well, I’d just heard… you know, whispers.”
“Autumn…”
“Okay, okay.” Autumn sat back in her seat and adjusted her watch. She still hadn’t set the right time-zone. “I heard you were looking for a new DCI. Well done on your promotion, by the way, but it didn’t look there were any other particularly promising candidates.”
“No,” admitted Goodwin, looking down. “It didn’t.” She looked back up at Autumn. “So you’re putting yourself forward?”
“If I may be so… well, forward.”
“Honestly, you’re the perfect person for the job. But I thought you were travelling with that friend of yours now? The Doc-“
“We… finished things, a short while ago. Personal differences,” Autumn lied. “And you know what it’s like finding employment these days.”
“Really, really easy?”
“Well, okay.” Autumn cursed her limited knowledge of current affairs in the Empire. “You know how much I struggle with authority figures who I don’t like?”
Goodwin smiled. “The job’s yours.”
***
“Everyone, this is Autumn Rivers. Your new DCI.”
Autumn had admired the architecture of the police station on the way up – a building the size of one the 21st Century shopping centres she had visited, each of the six floors overlooking the central lobby. The exterior was glass; they could see out, but no one else could see in – symbolic, she thought, for how the criminal justice system was when working on full capacity. Her department was entirely open-plan, with computers which were functional, if about ten years outdated. The department overlooked the courtyard, where senior officials in the storeys below went out to spend their breaks, usually on the phone, crying, or doing both at once.
“Autumn, this is your team,” said Goodwin, gathering round a small group whilst others, clearly deemed too irrelevant to know on first name terms, remained at their workstations. “DS Peter Phoenix. He’ll be acting as your partner for a good deal of your cases.”
A decent-looking, skinny young man with soft features and brown hair – to which Autumn’s first response was observing that it wasn’t unlike Tommy’s – stepped forward, offering Autumn a handshake, which she warmly reciprocated: that was something she always liked about her own time, finding that the men of the past had a habit of only offering such a greeting to those of their own sex. On the other hand, it felt strange being back in an Empire.
“Prada Hilton,” continued Goodwin as Peter stepped back, gesturing to a tall, thin woman in a grey suit and pencil skirt with a sharp brunette bob haircut, more tuned in to her portable device than she was to the conversation itself. She was more like a nail than a person; long, thin, cold and hard, rooted and unmoving where she stood. Yet, Autumn realised, everything might fall apart without her there to keep it in place.
“And last,” said Goodwin, hurrying on, almost sensing an awkwardness in the air, “if you need her, DC Helen Langham.”
Autumn felt drawn to this last woman: not drawn in the straightforward, confident way she was drawn to Peter, but out of intrigue. Helen was the oldest of the crowd; early sixties, Autumn guessed, and out of place in a constable’s uniform. She smiled constantly, but Autumn wondered whether this was something deliberate, trained – she imagined that Helen’s resting face would be inclined to a naturally morose position, something she may have become aware of. It was a learned smile; one without reason, and to an extent, without passion. Still, Autumn found herself drawn to the woman.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid this will have to be brief.” Prada read off her phone, delivering important news unflinching. “There’s been a murder.”
***
“What do we know about him?”
As she asked the question, Autumn’s eyes explored the room, answering some of her others. The curtains were drawn, and mildew had gathered between the clutter and the walls. The room smelled putrid, and with the presence of Prada’s perfume, gave a sense that wasn’t unlike an attempt to apply deodorant to sweat a few minutes too late. She looked down at the body; unwashed, like the pants on the floor next to it. It probably applied the deodorant-over-sweat practise to personal hygiene anyway.
She felt pity for the body – pity being the exact word that she had chosen, as she stood above it; clearly not a man she would have liked, but too far beyond being dangerous or dignified for her to despise him either. A man running from himself. Something, Autumn realised, she had once very nearly become.
“Kajallam Develraik,” said Prada. “Quite a case in the news, or rather his lawyer was. He escaped some significant charges.”
“Paedophile,” added Peter, clearly agreeing with the charges. “Do you think this is a vigilante killer?”
“Did you see the bricks through the window on the way in?” asked Autumn. “His address must have been leaked. I’d say yes. But look…” She pulled back the curtains. The window was closed, but not locked. “Someone climbed up on the windowsill, closed the curtains, climbed out the window and shut it behind them. That’s the only reason it would have been left like this.”
“And what does that tell us?”
“This isn’t a kid. This was carefully-planned and I think they were hiding in the room. This is someone above the angry, testosterone-driven reactions of the masses.” She caught the involuntary twitch of an amused smile on Helen’s face. Something about that comment had appealed. Autumn continued. “Someone planning ahead. Someone…” She pushed the window open, looking down into the garden. It would take a long time to flush the stench out of this room and she pitied Kajallam’s neighbours. “Someone who is more than likely to strike again. Yes, Peter.” She turned back to her colleague. “We’ve got a vigilante killer on our hands.”
***
“What if it’s a good thing?” asked Peter. They had stopped at the nearest café. Autumn inhaled the scent of her coffee, still trying to drown out the rancid reek of the crime-scene. Above them, a holo-screen reported on the latest news: already, Kajallam’s murder was a headline. Trying to contain news in the Capital was like trying to contain sewage waste in a paper bag. Eventually, it broke apart the structure and seeped through, until even the thing that contained it was drowned out by its stench.
“There are reasons why vigilante killings don’t work,” said Autumn, choosing not to elaborate. She could hardly admit that she herself had once been a vigilante killer: that she worked her way blindly through those who had agreed to blast her home planet out of the sky. If she could, she would have said that she regretted it, that the person the Doctor referred to once as “the most capable justice system in the universe” had been not the woman who avenged a personal loss, but who helped to rebuild other societies by taking them apart from the top. She sensed the people of the Capital wouldn’t have approved of that, either.
Peter’s phone blipped for a few moments; an unfamiliar pop song, one of the many developments Autumn had missed during her travels with the Doctor. Rather than checking it, Peter swigged down the rest of his coffee, prompting Autumn to do the same, and checked it when it finished its fanfare.
“Shit.” Peter sat up, and the chair grated against the concrete as it was pushed back. “There’s been another one.”
“I was right!” cried Autumn, immediately regretting it. There was a whole new etiquette to learn. She straightened her jacket. “Where?”
***
“You asked me why vigilante killings don’t work. This is why.”
Autumn stood coldly over the body, realising, even at her most detached, that she could never be the nail that Prada Hilton was. There was no one to fix her in place, and nothing to stop her falling straight through and out the other side. She was always movable.
“And that’s a satisfying answer,” sighed Peter, equally appalled at the sight in front of him. There they lay, still hand in hand, though their eyes were still wide open, staring at the ghost of the terror above them. Husband and wife.
“The killer found him guilty of abducting a child,” explained Peter.
“And her?”
Peter shrugged. “Falling in love, I guess.”
“And that’s how this works. That’s how this continues to work. They’re driven by less evidence each time, until they stop attacking people and start attacking ideas of people. Then there are the innocents. In the beginning they just target the friends, the spouses. Then they start to hit all the family. The parents whose fault it must have been, the children who will grow up to be the same. Then anyone with their name. Then anyone who’s ever met them and decided not to kill them. Then anyone who tries to stop them, whoever they are, then anyone who disagrees with them, then everyone. And it never stops.”
“What do we do?”
“That’s not the question,” replied Autumn, sharper than she had been expecting.
“No?”
“No. He knows we’re onto him now. The question is – what does he do?”
***
The whole department gathered around Prada’s computer screen. They were all fixated on the film, save one technician who wondered how Prada’s computer streamed in full quality whilst the others struggled to connect at all.
The other thing that was surprising about the full quality was how willing the vigilante was for her face to be seen in full. She had the potential to be attractive, but opted for a simple haircut, and was pale from days spent indoors. The rings under her eyes didn’t help, nor did her voice, which was just a little bit too fond of itself. The thing that surprised Autumn the most, though, was that the killer was a woman at all – vigilantes tended to be men. Men, she always thought, got the most indignant. Or was it impatient? She dismissed that thought.
“The justice system is incompetent,” she complained. “The police are incompetent. The people themselves are incompetent, but it’s hardly their fault – they’re just the victims, too shocked to react. We have been letting criminals back into our society – people who should have been killed. This city has the death penalty, yet do you know when the last time we used it was?” She paused, allowing time for discussion.
“Thirteen years ago,” answered Prada. Autumn wondered if she had just looked it up on her phone.
“Thirteen years ago,” said the vigilante, in exactly the same tone that Prada had. “No wonder so many people turn to crime. Crime needs consequences. That’s my one and only motto: crime…needs… consequences. And anyone who disagrees with that is against me. Since law and order enforcements have positioned themselves as clearly against it, I have positioned myself against them. If the police intervene, I will hurt them. I am the Justice. You have been warned.” The tape finished, and people stepped back away from the computer. Prada immediately resumed her work.
“How many times now?” asked Autumn, her mind already kicking back into action.
“She’s just killed her third,” informed Goodwin. “You missed it while you were dealing with the second.”
“Another child-killer?”
Goodwin nodded.
“I need information on the court cases of all three.” Autumn fiddled with a pen, realising that wouldn’t be enough. “And information on all cases in which similar charges were avoided.”
Goodwin whispered something to Helen, who sat herself at a computer terminal, presumably carrying out Autumn’s instructions.
“What are you thinking?” murmured Peter, handing Autumn another coffee.
“I’m thinking she’s methodical. She’s warning us off like she knows we’ll form a connection. She’s got a system going. If we can just find the pattern…”
“The three court cases,” said Goodwin, handing Autumn a medium-sized file. “Helen’s just getting hold of some others for you to refer to.”
“Thanks, guv.” She handed Goodwin her coffee, deciding she needed it more than her, and plonked the folder on the table, flipping through it systematically. “Similarities, similarities…”
“Look!” Peter moved the file slightly in his direction, flipping back a couple of pages. “Can’t you see?”
“See what?”
“Theresa Redmond.” He pointed at a name half-way down the page, which Autumn had skimmed over for details of the case.
“The judge?”
“Yes.” Peter flicked forward a few pages onto the next case, and there it was again. On the last case, as expected, Theresa Redmond as well. “It’s the judge. She’s not going crime-by-crime, she’s going judge-by-judge.”
“Helen!” called Autumn, startling the old woman as she opened the print menu on her computer. “New task – a list of all cases where Theresa Redmond was the judge.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Helen closed her window and headed back through her database, entering the necessary information. “Printing now.”
Autumn rushed over to the printer, nearly knocking Peter off his feet, and threw the list on the desk, her eyes rushing over each item. The killer had started on Redmond’s first case and was working through them in chronological order.
“That’s easy,” observed Peter. “Really easy…”
“Too easy. Don’t give the order yet.” Autumn ran her hand through her hair. That was a new habit she had picked up when she was stressed – she was sure she had got it from someone else, but could not recall who. “She sent us the video now. Just when we have the knowledge to form the connection. And she’s threatened us, prompted us into action…” She walked around the desk, her arms crossed, getting closer and closer to the answer she was looking for. “She hates the police, she hates the justice system. She said herself, we’re her enemies…” Autumn unfolded her arms. The epiphany had been expected, but as was the nature of epiphanies, it still landed like a tonne of bricks. “Oh…”
“What is it?”
“I’ve just worked out who she’s going to kill next.”
“But what if it’s not-“
“Theresa.” The department fell silent, taking in at once how obscure and how utterly obvious the answer was. “She’s going to kill Theresa Redmond.”
***
The Justice stood behind the sliding doors of the wardrobe. Theresa would be staring at the wardrobe doors now – mirrors as they were – an image of herself reflected back at her, unaware that she was, in fact, staring straight into the face of the Justice: staring at her own executioner. Staring at the saviour of our society. Staring at what should have consumed her all those years ago.
She waited. It was always a longer wait with women – they had so much more to do, and it took them longer to fall asleep. It was easy to mark the moment they fell asleep. You could almost feel it – a stillness, or as the Justice noticed, vulnerability, creeping across the room. That was, of course, before the snoring. It took a total of forty minutes for Theresa Redmond to fall asleep: the longest yet. She was a thinker.
The Justice slid the doors quietly, having oiled them before Theresa’s arrival. Once she was out, she slipped her knife out of her pocket, varnishing it proudly, and lifted it up. Sometimes she wished she didn’t need to be so covert – it would be nice to say a few words; pronounce a sentence. Instead, she had to strike the same way as her victims once had.
She dug the knife into the lump in the bed, but it was motionless the whole time. The knife went in too easily, and The Justice fell, having expected it to hit a weight. It sailed straight through the lump and into the mattress.
“Looking for someone?”
A light went on and the Justice squinted. As her eyes adjusted, she realised she had been played. The thing she had just stabbed had been a dummy; and Theresa stood at the edge of the room, ostensibly fearless.
“Don’t think that’s saved your life-“
“No.”
The Justice turned to face the direction of this new voice. A detective was stood at the door to the room, several officers behind her, guns trained on the Justice’s head.
“We did.”
***
“Bianca Risencock.” Autumn slapped a file on the desk, right beneath the interrogation room’s main light, and Bianca stared down at it, trembling. “Risencock.” Autumn scoffed. “Sorry.”
“My name is the Justice.”
“Your name is Risencock,” retorted Autumn, taking a seat opposite. “Or the Unrisen. Or the Cock. Or whatever my colleagues can come up with – and you know, I think Helen’s got a seriously naughty side – until you start to see things how they really are, Bianca.”
“Well at least you don’t even pretend to hide who you are,” spat Bianca. “And I know who you are. Autumn Rivers. I watched your show – you had so much potential. Standing up on stage in front of millions and shaming the criminals who ought to be shamed. I thought we were getting somewhere as a society. Then you disappeared, and look and what you’ve become… you’ve joined them.”
“I haven’t joined them; I’m changing them from the inside.” Autumn was careful to watch her words, not wanting to sound like she was on Bianca’s side. “I know the system isn’t perfect, but becoming what you fight is not the answer. Change in a society like ours has to be incremental. Do you know why I came here? Look at this.” She pushed the file across the desk so Bianca could see it properly. “This is what we’ve got on you. Enough evidence to send you down.”
“Go on then. Why are you here?”
“Because I think a part of you,” answered Autumn, staring thoughtfully at Bianca’s body language, “is good. A small part of you wanted to achieve something… good. And although I can’t let you go, I pity you. I see someone I used to be.” She leant across the table, prompting Bianca to do the same, and continued sotto voce. “I want that part of you to know that justice is in safe hands. I will change something. I don’t know what, but I promise, things will get better.”
“Well… that’s quite something.” Bianca chuckled to herself. “Are you dying or something?”
***
Autumn stepped outside of the interrogation room, taking a deep breath, and leant against the wall, feeling unusually tired and breathless. It was probably just a long day. That’s what it would be every time, until Autumn admitted it was something else.
“What did she say?” asked Goodwin, walking down the corridor.
“Oh, you know.” Autumn smiled to herself. “Senseless, fanatical rubbish. Nothing that will ever come true.”
Assessing his options, he bolted up the stairs and into his room, hiding like a child under the covers of his bed. He locked his door. The curtains were drawn; no one would have seen him enter from outside. He might be safe.
This was routine: his bedroom was always the safest. Hilarious, he thought – the significance of the bedroom: the one place the serial rapist was safe. Even through his fear, it was just a little bit funny how stupid the families of his victims were, as if the motorskills required to lob a brick through a window were the extent of their mental ability. As thick as their sisters and daughters were. And probably just as gullible.
He lay back in bed. The duvet was especially warm today, and felt heavier than usual. It hadn’t been changed in two weeks. Strange.
Kajallam screamed suddenly, a sharp but short scream; the most he was capable of in the last two seconds of his life. The sheets were already long overdue a wash, but now they were covered in his blood, it was hardly even worthwhile. All that was left in evidence of what had happened here was a clear slice through the mattress where the knife had caught it on the attack. And, of course, the dead body of Kajallam Develraik.
***
“I formed a link between his victims,” explained Autumn. “It really is a delight when your serial kidnapper’s obsessive-compulsive tendencies are worse than yours. So I got in the way, played along, and played him right into your hands.”
Goodwin listened intently as their car sped through the city. It was a quiet road for the Capital; only three rows were being used vertically, and they were on the third, elevated several feet off the ground. Autumn sighed as she watched the trail of emissions in the rear-view mirror. The higher the cars elevated, the more they let off. Autumn took a swig out of her second bottle of water. Pretending to be the victim of a kidnapping left one awfully dehydrated.
Every few seconds, she would turn to look out of the window, admiring the Capital in all its forms, while Goodwin occasionally checked her phone, disinterested. It wasn’t like one of those historical cities where one suddenly came across a mass of high-rise buildings – the entire continent was like this; stacks upon stacks of buildings, whether they were shops, banks, or…
Autumn wondered what some of the buildings even were. There were so many of these glass facades, so many of the same lobbies over and over again. She wondered what went on behind meeting room doors, down staircases, along corridors.
“So you wanted us to find you,” said Goodwin, leaning across the table and lowering her voice. Autumn wondered why – the hatch to the front of the vehicle was closed, and the driver was too involved in his afternoon radio drama to pay any attention. “You wanted our attention. Why?”
“Well, I’d just heard… you know, whispers.”
“Autumn…”
“Okay, okay.” Autumn sat back in her seat and adjusted her watch. She still hadn’t set the right time-zone. “I heard you were looking for a new DCI. Well done on your promotion, by the way, but it didn’t look there were any other particularly promising candidates.”
“No,” admitted Goodwin, looking down. “It didn’t.” She looked back up at Autumn. “So you’re putting yourself forward?”
“If I may be so… well, forward.”
“Honestly, you’re the perfect person for the job. But I thought you were travelling with that friend of yours now? The Doc-“
“We… finished things, a short while ago. Personal differences,” Autumn lied. “And you know what it’s like finding employment these days.”
“Really, really easy?”
“Well, okay.” Autumn cursed her limited knowledge of current affairs in the Empire. “You know how much I struggle with authority figures who I don’t like?”
Goodwin smiled. “The job’s yours.”
***
“Everyone, this is Autumn Rivers. Your new DCI.”
Autumn had admired the architecture of the police station on the way up – a building the size of one the 21st Century shopping centres she had visited, each of the six floors overlooking the central lobby. The exterior was glass; they could see out, but no one else could see in – symbolic, she thought, for how the criminal justice system was when working on full capacity. Her department was entirely open-plan, with computers which were functional, if about ten years outdated. The department overlooked the courtyard, where senior officials in the storeys below went out to spend their breaks, usually on the phone, crying, or doing both at once.
“Autumn, this is your team,” said Goodwin, gathering round a small group whilst others, clearly deemed too irrelevant to know on first name terms, remained at their workstations. “DS Peter Phoenix. He’ll be acting as your partner for a good deal of your cases.”
A decent-looking, skinny young man with soft features and brown hair – to which Autumn’s first response was observing that it wasn’t unlike Tommy’s – stepped forward, offering Autumn a handshake, which she warmly reciprocated: that was something she always liked about her own time, finding that the men of the past had a habit of only offering such a greeting to those of their own sex. On the other hand, it felt strange being back in an Empire.
“Prada Hilton,” continued Goodwin as Peter stepped back, gesturing to a tall, thin woman in a grey suit and pencil skirt with a sharp brunette bob haircut, more tuned in to her portable device than she was to the conversation itself. She was more like a nail than a person; long, thin, cold and hard, rooted and unmoving where she stood. Yet, Autumn realised, everything might fall apart without her there to keep it in place.
“And last,” said Goodwin, hurrying on, almost sensing an awkwardness in the air, “if you need her, DC Helen Langham.”
Autumn felt drawn to this last woman: not drawn in the straightforward, confident way she was drawn to Peter, but out of intrigue. Helen was the oldest of the crowd; early sixties, Autumn guessed, and out of place in a constable’s uniform. She smiled constantly, but Autumn wondered whether this was something deliberate, trained – she imagined that Helen’s resting face would be inclined to a naturally morose position, something she may have become aware of. It was a learned smile; one without reason, and to an extent, without passion. Still, Autumn found herself drawn to the woman.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid this will have to be brief.” Prada read off her phone, delivering important news unflinching. “There’s been a murder.”
***
“What do we know about him?”
As she asked the question, Autumn’s eyes explored the room, answering some of her others. The curtains were drawn, and mildew had gathered between the clutter and the walls. The room smelled putrid, and with the presence of Prada’s perfume, gave a sense that wasn’t unlike an attempt to apply deodorant to sweat a few minutes too late. She looked down at the body; unwashed, like the pants on the floor next to it. It probably applied the deodorant-over-sweat practise to personal hygiene anyway.
She felt pity for the body – pity being the exact word that she had chosen, as she stood above it; clearly not a man she would have liked, but too far beyond being dangerous or dignified for her to despise him either. A man running from himself. Something, Autumn realised, she had once very nearly become.
“Kajallam Develraik,” said Prada. “Quite a case in the news, or rather his lawyer was. He escaped some significant charges.”
“Paedophile,” added Peter, clearly agreeing with the charges. “Do you think this is a vigilante killer?”
“Did you see the bricks through the window on the way in?” asked Autumn. “His address must have been leaked. I’d say yes. But look…” She pulled back the curtains. The window was closed, but not locked. “Someone climbed up on the windowsill, closed the curtains, climbed out the window and shut it behind them. That’s the only reason it would have been left like this.”
“And what does that tell us?”
“This isn’t a kid. This was carefully-planned and I think they were hiding in the room. This is someone above the angry, testosterone-driven reactions of the masses.” She caught the involuntary twitch of an amused smile on Helen’s face. Something about that comment had appealed. Autumn continued. “Someone planning ahead. Someone…” She pushed the window open, looking down into the garden. It would take a long time to flush the stench out of this room and she pitied Kajallam’s neighbours. “Someone who is more than likely to strike again. Yes, Peter.” She turned back to her colleague. “We’ve got a vigilante killer on our hands.”
***
“What if it’s a good thing?” asked Peter. They had stopped at the nearest café. Autumn inhaled the scent of her coffee, still trying to drown out the rancid reek of the crime-scene. Above them, a holo-screen reported on the latest news: already, Kajallam’s murder was a headline. Trying to contain news in the Capital was like trying to contain sewage waste in a paper bag. Eventually, it broke apart the structure and seeped through, until even the thing that contained it was drowned out by its stench.
“There are reasons why vigilante killings don’t work,” said Autumn, choosing not to elaborate. She could hardly admit that she herself had once been a vigilante killer: that she worked her way blindly through those who had agreed to blast her home planet out of the sky. If she could, she would have said that she regretted it, that the person the Doctor referred to once as “the most capable justice system in the universe” had been not the woman who avenged a personal loss, but who helped to rebuild other societies by taking them apart from the top. She sensed the people of the Capital wouldn’t have approved of that, either.
Peter’s phone blipped for a few moments; an unfamiliar pop song, one of the many developments Autumn had missed during her travels with the Doctor. Rather than checking it, Peter swigged down the rest of his coffee, prompting Autumn to do the same, and checked it when it finished its fanfare.
“Shit.” Peter sat up, and the chair grated against the concrete as it was pushed back. “There’s been another one.”
“I was right!” cried Autumn, immediately regretting it. There was a whole new etiquette to learn. She straightened her jacket. “Where?”
***
“You asked me why vigilante killings don’t work. This is why.”
Autumn stood coldly over the body, realising, even at her most detached, that she could never be the nail that Prada Hilton was. There was no one to fix her in place, and nothing to stop her falling straight through and out the other side. She was always movable.
“And that’s a satisfying answer,” sighed Peter, equally appalled at the sight in front of him. There they lay, still hand in hand, though their eyes were still wide open, staring at the ghost of the terror above them. Husband and wife.
“The killer found him guilty of abducting a child,” explained Peter.
“And her?”
Peter shrugged. “Falling in love, I guess.”
“And that’s how this works. That’s how this continues to work. They’re driven by less evidence each time, until they stop attacking people and start attacking ideas of people. Then there are the innocents. In the beginning they just target the friends, the spouses. Then they start to hit all the family. The parents whose fault it must have been, the children who will grow up to be the same. Then anyone with their name. Then anyone who’s ever met them and decided not to kill them. Then anyone who tries to stop them, whoever they are, then anyone who disagrees with them, then everyone. And it never stops.”
“What do we do?”
“That’s not the question,” replied Autumn, sharper than she had been expecting.
“No?”
“No. He knows we’re onto him now. The question is – what does he do?”
***
The whole department gathered around Prada’s computer screen. They were all fixated on the film, save one technician who wondered how Prada’s computer streamed in full quality whilst the others struggled to connect at all.
The other thing that was surprising about the full quality was how willing the vigilante was for her face to be seen in full. She had the potential to be attractive, but opted for a simple haircut, and was pale from days spent indoors. The rings under her eyes didn’t help, nor did her voice, which was just a little bit too fond of itself. The thing that surprised Autumn the most, though, was that the killer was a woman at all – vigilantes tended to be men. Men, she always thought, got the most indignant. Or was it impatient? She dismissed that thought.
“The justice system is incompetent,” she complained. “The police are incompetent. The people themselves are incompetent, but it’s hardly their fault – they’re just the victims, too shocked to react. We have been letting criminals back into our society – people who should have been killed. This city has the death penalty, yet do you know when the last time we used it was?” She paused, allowing time for discussion.
“Thirteen years ago,” answered Prada. Autumn wondered if she had just looked it up on her phone.
“Thirteen years ago,” said the vigilante, in exactly the same tone that Prada had. “No wonder so many people turn to crime. Crime needs consequences. That’s my one and only motto: crime…needs… consequences. And anyone who disagrees with that is against me. Since law and order enforcements have positioned themselves as clearly against it, I have positioned myself against them. If the police intervene, I will hurt them. I am the Justice. You have been warned.” The tape finished, and people stepped back away from the computer. Prada immediately resumed her work.
“How many times now?” asked Autumn, her mind already kicking back into action.
“She’s just killed her third,” informed Goodwin. “You missed it while you were dealing with the second.”
“Another child-killer?”
Goodwin nodded.
“I need information on the court cases of all three.” Autumn fiddled with a pen, realising that wouldn’t be enough. “And information on all cases in which similar charges were avoided.”
Goodwin whispered something to Helen, who sat herself at a computer terminal, presumably carrying out Autumn’s instructions.
“What are you thinking?” murmured Peter, handing Autumn another coffee.
“I’m thinking she’s methodical. She’s warning us off like she knows we’ll form a connection. She’s got a system going. If we can just find the pattern…”
“The three court cases,” said Goodwin, handing Autumn a medium-sized file. “Helen’s just getting hold of some others for you to refer to.”
“Thanks, guv.” She handed Goodwin her coffee, deciding she needed it more than her, and plonked the folder on the table, flipping through it systematically. “Similarities, similarities…”
“Look!” Peter moved the file slightly in his direction, flipping back a couple of pages. “Can’t you see?”
“See what?”
“Theresa Redmond.” He pointed at a name half-way down the page, which Autumn had skimmed over for details of the case.
“The judge?”
“Yes.” Peter flicked forward a few pages onto the next case, and there it was again. On the last case, as expected, Theresa Redmond as well. “It’s the judge. She’s not going crime-by-crime, she’s going judge-by-judge.”
“Helen!” called Autumn, startling the old woman as she opened the print menu on her computer. “New task – a list of all cases where Theresa Redmond was the judge.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Helen closed her window and headed back through her database, entering the necessary information. “Printing now.”
Autumn rushed over to the printer, nearly knocking Peter off his feet, and threw the list on the desk, her eyes rushing over each item. The killer had started on Redmond’s first case and was working through them in chronological order.
“That’s easy,” observed Peter. “Really easy…”
“Too easy. Don’t give the order yet.” Autumn ran her hand through her hair. That was a new habit she had picked up when she was stressed – she was sure she had got it from someone else, but could not recall who. “She sent us the video now. Just when we have the knowledge to form the connection. And she’s threatened us, prompted us into action…” She walked around the desk, her arms crossed, getting closer and closer to the answer she was looking for. “She hates the police, she hates the justice system. She said herself, we’re her enemies…” Autumn unfolded her arms. The epiphany had been expected, but as was the nature of epiphanies, it still landed like a tonne of bricks. “Oh…”
“What is it?”
“I’ve just worked out who she’s going to kill next.”
“But what if it’s not-“
“Theresa.” The department fell silent, taking in at once how obscure and how utterly obvious the answer was. “She’s going to kill Theresa Redmond.”
***
The Justice stood behind the sliding doors of the wardrobe. Theresa would be staring at the wardrobe doors now – mirrors as they were – an image of herself reflected back at her, unaware that she was, in fact, staring straight into the face of the Justice: staring at her own executioner. Staring at the saviour of our society. Staring at what should have consumed her all those years ago.
She waited. It was always a longer wait with women – they had so much more to do, and it took them longer to fall asleep. It was easy to mark the moment they fell asleep. You could almost feel it – a stillness, or as the Justice noticed, vulnerability, creeping across the room. That was, of course, before the snoring. It took a total of forty minutes for Theresa Redmond to fall asleep: the longest yet. She was a thinker.
The Justice slid the doors quietly, having oiled them before Theresa’s arrival. Once she was out, she slipped her knife out of her pocket, varnishing it proudly, and lifted it up. Sometimes she wished she didn’t need to be so covert – it would be nice to say a few words; pronounce a sentence. Instead, she had to strike the same way as her victims once had.
She dug the knife into the lump in the bed, but it was motionless the whole time. The knife went in too easily, and The Justice fell, having expected it to hit a weight. It sailed straight through the lump and into the mattress.
“Looking for someone?”
A light went on and the Justice squinted. As her eyes adjusted, she realised she had been played. The thing she had just stabbed had been a dummy; and Theresa stood at the edge of the room, ostensibly fearless.
“Don’t think that’s saved your life-“
“No.”
The Justice turned to face the direction of this new voice. A detective was stood at the door to the room, several officers behind her, guns trained on the Justice’s head.
“We did.”
***
“Bianca Risencock.” Autumn slapped a file on the desk, right beneath the interrogation room’s main light, and Bianca stared down at it, trembling. “Risencock.” Autumn scoffed. “Sorry.”
“My name is the Justice.”
“Your name is Risencock,” retorted Autumn, taking a seat opposite. “Or the Unrisen. Or the Cock. Or whatever my colleagues can come up with – and you know, I think Helen’s got a seriously naughty side – until you start to see things how they really are, Bianca.”
“Well at least you don’t even pretend to hide who you are,” spat Bianca. “And I know who you are. Autumn Rivers. I watched your show – you had so much potential. Standing up on stage in front of millions and shaming the criminals who ought to be shamed. I thought we were getting somewhere as a society. Then you disappeared, and look and what you’ve become… you’ve joined them.”
“I haven’t joined them; I’m changing them from the inside.” Autumn was careful to watch her words, not wanting to sound like she was on Bianca’s side. “I know the system isn’t perfect, but becoming what you fight is not the answer. Change in a society like ours has to be incremental. Do you know why I came here? Look at this.” She pushed the file across the desk so Bianca could see it properly. “This is what we’ve got on you. Enough evidence to send you down.”
“Go on then. Why are you here?”
“Because I think a part of you,” answered Autumn, staring thoughtfully at Bianca’s body language, “is good. A small part of you wanted to achieve something… good. And although I can’t let you go, I pity you. I see someone I used to be.” She leant across the table, prompting Bianca to do the same, and continued sotto voce. “I want that part of you to know that justice is in safe hands. I will change something. I don’t know what, but I promise, things will get better.”
“Well… that’s quite something.” Bianca chuckled to herself. “Are you dying or something?”
***
Autumn stepped outside of the interrogation room, taking a deep breath, and leant against the wall, feeling unusually tired and breathless. It was probably just a long day. That’s what it would be every time, until Autumn admitted it was something else.
“What did she say?” asked Goodwin, walking down the corridor.
“Oh, you know.” Autumn smiled to herself. “Senseless, fanatical rubbish. Nothing that will ever come true.”
NEXT TIME
Cat Among Pigeons
After a horrific event, the team face their worst nightmare: terrorists. Meeting with the most powerful man in the Empire, Autumn soon discovers the sheer scale of what she is fighting.
After a horrific event, the team face their worst nightmare: terrorists. Meeting with the most powerful man in the Empire, Autumn soon discovers the sheer scale of what she is fighting.