City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [60]
The two men glared at him suspiciously, and stood in front of the crates, to block his view. They were both redheads, and the one on the left had tattoos covering his neck. ‘Fuck you want to know for?’ said one, and the other folded his arms belligerently.
‘Oh, I’m just a curious investigator.’ Jeryd pulled out his medallion. ‘You know how the Inquisition likes to gather a few facts now and then.’ Well, this one does at least. Glances were exchanged, an uneasy change of expression at the law’s presence. For a while neither said anything.
‘How much?’ one of them finally asked.
‘How much for what?’ Jeryd grunted.
‘How much you want to, uh, go away, like? You know – and we know – the policy.’
This attempt at bribery only made Jeryd more determined to find out what was contained in the crate. ‘I’m afraid I’m not like the other guys. I only want an answer. What’s in there?’
The young men conferred in whispers. ‘Meat,’ the one with tattoos explained. ‘We’re taking it from the slaughterhouse to the irens. Boss’s orders.’ Then he added, ‘And our boss is Malum, leader of the Bloods, someone who don’t take kindly to having his men hassled by the Inquisition. You know what I mean?’
Jeryd knew what they meant. Malum was the most influential man in the underworld. A violent sociopath by all accounts. Jeryd had been hearing far too much about this man since his arrival in Villiren. His name was whispered every other day in the Inquisition headquarters, more in awe and fear than otherwise. This individual had myth wrapped around him so tightly that Jeryd wondered how he could even breathe.
He glowered at them both, then at the leaked bits of offal that had slipped onto the cobbles, then back at their street-warrior faces. ‘I don’t need paying to go away,’ Jeryd declared. ‘As I said, I’m not like the others – if you understand what I mean.’
*
Jeryd had to pass the gaol cells in the Inquisition headquarters in order to get to his office. Despite the fact that crimes were rarely investigated properly, it seemed that prisoners were still being herded in daily, all types, including many that did not look like typical prisoners. Jeryd made enquiries.
‘Just between you and me, right,’ one of the aides confided, a short, skinny individual with a mop of blond hair, ‘we arrest such people as get in the way of Lutto’s progress. You know, he wants a street cleared to let the army pass through, and people disagree and protest, he calls it a crime, and suddenly we’ve got our cells filled. He wants traditional traders disposed of to make space for more profitable ones – ones that can offer cheaper goods. When the politicians clear ’em out, it makes for a free market. But you know how it is, some folk don’t like change, and want to kick up a fuss, don’t they? And space is precious here, you see. City’s got to make money, like. And those miners who lost their jobs and started getting violent during their protests . . . well, they came straight in here too. Meanwhile we got murderers running much of the show out on the streets. As for being a criminal – well, I s’pose it’s all a matter of perspective, right? Anyway, just doing my job, like, so don’t you complain to me about it. And this stays between you and me, all right – not worth my job, this.’
Jeryd was growing more and more disillusioned with this city as each day passed, and as he entered his office was inhabiting a deeply reflective state.
Nanzi was already waiting for him.
‘Morning, Nanzi.’ Jeryd placed his hat on the desk and slumped into his chair with a thundering sigh.
‘Good morning, investigator,’ Nanzi said. ‘Would you like something to drink?’
‘No thanks, I had a big breakfast on the way here.’ He rubbed his face to make himself more alert. ‘Now, it transpires we have some leads.’
‘Clues?’
‘Yeah, from the Citadel party. I found an interesting and unusual substance there. I’m slowly becoming convinced it’s a step in the right direction.’
‘What kind of substance?’ she demanded coolly.
‘No idea yet. I’ve already given a similar sample to the