Rule 34 - Charles Stross [140]
“What the—” You suppress a string of invective: For some reason, swearing tends to alarm Moxie. “The personal contacts. Where does MacDonald know our friend Mr. Hussein from?”
“Our friend who? Oh, him? There are a bunch of local forums hanging off fitlads.net. They’re both regulars under the handles. Let’s see . . . yep, it’s a bed-surfing board. Looks to have a regular crowd.”
“You said the link is via fitlads, yes?” You frown. Anwar is married. Is it the same man? “This Mr. particular Hussein. Can you see if we’ve got anything on him?”
Moxie dives head down into CopSpace while you skim the feed from BABYLON. The death toll from around the world is still rising. You spot a FLASH alert, broadcast from the City Desk to every team—a report of a homicide in the south side, near the Meadows. Life (and death) goes on as usual in the city, even as you scurry round in pursuit of—
“Skipper? How did you know?”
You blink the windows away and focus on Moxie. “Know what?” Kemal appears in the doorway. “Inspector—”
“Mr. Hussein has form, skipper? He’s done time for his part in an identity-theft ring, and hey? Oh, it was you that collared him. Cool!”
“Inspector Kavanaugh. A moment, please?”
Kemal sounds worried. Your stomach lurches. You have an uneasy sense that you are holding the solution to your domino game in your hands if only you could work out where to snap them onto the chain. “Yes?”
“The murder—”
Your phone jangles, a priority incoming. You glance at it: It’s Dickie. You prioritize and answer the detective-in-charge first. “Yes?”
“Liz?” Dickie sounds strained. “You and that fly Eurocop, ye’ve already been and interviewed that professor at the uni? Did ye both go together? Ye did stream everything, reet?”
Eh? “Yes,” you say cautiously. If he’s in the incident room, they’ll know that. So why is he asking? you wonder. “Kemal and I were both there, and we both recorded the session. It’s backed up in Evidence One already. Why?”
“Was MacDonald alive when ye left?”
“What?”
You see Kemal urgently mouthing something at you and flick back to your specs. Another FLASH alert: officer called to Appleton Towers—
“Are you telling me MacDonald’s been murdered?”
“Answer me—”
“Yes, yes! He was alive when we left. I’ve got a witness and two time-stamped evidence streams, Inspector. Do you”—I held the door open, you remember—“shit.”
“Liz. Speak to me.”
“Hold please, I need to check something urgently.”
Without waiting, you put Dickie on hold and poke urgently at your specs. They’re fully lifelogging, and while the main purpose is preservation of evidence, you can at least replay what you’ve seen. You jump back an hour, then rewind at high speed until you get to your departure from Appleton Towers. You were mostly looking at Kemal, talking as you walked, but there—there’s the man coming towards you from outside; there’s you holding the door open.
“Kemal? You’re on the BABYLON roster. Can you get me a picture of John Christie? That’s—”
“What I’ve been trying to tell you,” he says, a tad waspishly, and chucks a tag at your glasses. You zoom it into a window next to your lifelog video and bite your lip.
“Fuck.” You take Dickie off hold. He’s ranting already, but you ignore him: “John Christie was recorded entering the university building at exactly the same time Kemal and I were leaving. It’s in my lifelog. I didn’t recognize him”—because you’d never met him—“is it MacDonald who’s dead?”
“You dinna recognize him,” Dickie snarls.
“Neither did Kemal. Save it for the inquest, Dickie. Have we nailed Christie yet?”
“Get