Rule 34 - Charles Stross [3]
A constable sticks her head around the door at the end of the hall. “Ma’am?” CopSpace overlays her with a name and number: BERMAN, MARGARET, PC 1022. Medium build, blond highlights, and hazel-nut eyes behind her specs. “Sergeant McDougall’s in the bathroom upstairs: I’m taking a statement from the witness. Are you here to take over?” She sounds anxious, which is never a good sign in Lothian and Borders’ finest.
You do a three-sixty as Sergeant McDougall comes to the top of the stairs: “Aye, skipper?” He leans over the banister. “You’ll be wanting to see what’s up here . . .”
“Wait one,” you tell Berman. Then you take the stairs as fast as you can.
Little details stick in your mind. The picture rails in the hall (from which hang boringly framed prints depicting the city as it might once have looked), the discreet motion detectors and camera nodes in the corners of the hall ceiling. The house smells clean, sterile, as if it’s been mothballed and bubble-wrapped. Jase takes a step back and gestures across the landing at an open door through which enough afternoon daylight filters that you can see his expression. You whip your specs off, and after a momentary pause, he follows suit. “Give me just the executive summary,” you tell him.
McDougall nods tiredly. Thirtyish, sandy-haired, and built like a rugby prop, he could be your classic recruiter’s model for community policing. “Off the record,” he says—on the record, in the event one of your head cams is still snooping, or the householder’s ambient lifelogging, or a passing newsrag surveillance drone, or God: But at least it serves notice of intent to invoke the Privacy Act—“This’n’s a stoater, boss. But it looks like ’e did it to ’isself, to a first approximation.”
You take a deep breath and nod. “Okay, let’s take a look.” You clip your specs back on and follow Jase into the bathroom of the late Michael Blair, esq., also known as Prisoner 972284.
The first thing you clock is that the bathroom’s about the size of an aircraft hangar. Slate tile floor, chrome fittings and fixtures, expensive curved-glass shower with a bar-stool and some kind of funky robot arm to scoosh the water-jet right up your fanny—like an expensive private surgery rather than a temple of hygiene. About the stainless steel manacles bolted to the wall and floor inside the shower cubicle we’ll say no more. It is apparent that for every euro the late Michael Blair, esq., spent on his front hall, he spent ten on the bathroom. But that’s just the beginning, because beyond the shower and the imported Japanese toilet seat with the control panel and heated bumrest, there stands a splendid ceramic pedestal of a sink—one could reasonably accuse the late Mr. Blair of mistaking overblown excess for good taste—and then a steep descent into lunacy.
Mikey, as you knew him before he became (the former) Prisoner 972284, is lying foetal on the floor in front of some kind of antique machine the size of a washer/dryer. It’s clearly a plumbing appliance of some kind, enamelled in pale green trimmed with chrome, sprouting pipes capped with metal gauges and thumb-wheels that are tarnished down to their brass cores, the metal flowers of a modernist ecosystem. The letters CCCP and a red enamel star feature prominently on what passes for a control panel. Mikey is connected to the aforementioned plumbing appliance by a sinuous, braided-metal pipe leading to a chromed tube, which is plugged straight into his—
Jesus. It is a two-wetsuit job.
You glance at Jase. “Tell me you haven’t touched anything?”
He nods, then adds, “I canna speak for the cleaner, ma’am.”
“Okay, logged.”
You walk around the corpse carefully, scanning with your specs and