‘A small light-engineering park to the north-west provides minimal employment. The public cinema closed two years ago. The public leisure centre closed one year ago. There are no rail links. There are . . .’
‘Stop,’ said Parrish in an attempt to end this doleful litany.
‘I hold more information on behavioural patterns and population clusters.’
‘I said, enough.’
‘I can provide details of air quality, pollution, water purity . . .’
‘FOR GOD’S SAKE, SHUT UP.’
‘. . . religious groups, census statistics . . .’
‘No,’ said Lockland, quickly. ‘That’s enough. Thank you.’
There was a short pause and then the pod responded, ‘You’re welcome.’
Parrish stared at her. ‘Why would it say that?’
‘Because I said thank you. It’s a polite AI.’
‘Not to me.’
‘You shout at it.’
‘Lockland, it’s a bloody machine.’
North cleared her throat and made a gesture indicating that if Parrish knew what was good for him, he would direct his attention towards the screen where Lower Spurting sprawled in all its late 20th-century glory.
‘Dear God,’ he said, staring at the screen.
‘I suspect Lower Spurting will be equally unimpressed with you,’ said Ellis, drily. ‘Right – the three of you – check you have everything you need – although if you don’t it’s too late now – and get out there and apprehend Henry Plimpton before he does any serious damage. The clean-up crew will be one hour behind you. Make sure you have everything ready for them.’
Lockland’s head swivelled. ‘You’re not coming with us, sir?’
He shook his head. ‘Perfectly straightforward assignment. North and I will monitor your progress from here.’
‘Where are the clean-up crew?’
‘Discreetly waiting until called for.’
‘So which of us is team leader?’ demanded Parrish. The tone of his voice said there could be only one possible choice.
Ellis surveyed them silently. The obvious choice was Parrish. Lockland had done well but needed to be brought on gradually. Let her have her small success today and build on it again tomorrow. And if he selected Farrell, did he lay himself open to charges of favouritism because he’d once been his mentor? Which only left Parrish.
He surveyed his team. ‘Do we have a volunteer?’
As he suspected, only one person was willing.
‘Very well, Mr Parrish. Let’s see what you make of this one.’ He raised his voice a little. ‘Mr Parrish is in charge until I say otherwise.’ He held Parrish’s eyes for a moment, saw nothing but overconfidence and self-assurance there, and sighed.
Parrish turned to his team, full of importance. ‘OK, people – safety check. Vests?’
‘Yes,’ said Jane.
Farrell nodded.
Parrish scowled at him. ‘I can’t hear you.’
Farrell nodded more firmly.
Both Ellis and North were very careful not to catch each other’s eye.
‘Weapons?’
More nods.
‘Cuffs? Batons? Liquid string?’
They nodded, patting their utility belts from which their equipment hung. Once, long ago, someone had referred to this useful piece of equipment as Batman’s utility belt and the name had stuck.
‘Coms check.’
‘Check,’ said Lockland, obediently.
Farrell nodded.
Parrish gritted his teeth. ‘Don’t make it a personal challenge to get you to speak.’
They regarded each other for a moment and then Farrell said, ‘Check.’
Both Farrell and Lockland tightened their chinstraps. Parrish had declined a helmet. Too uncool for words, apparently. Ellis had let it go. Parrish would change his mind soon enough when he got the first brick round his ear, and if he survived that, then he wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
Ellis surveyed his team. Lockland tightly buttoned up, Farrell solidly silent. And Parrish, bright-eyed and cocky. Doing things his way. The next few hours were going to be interesting.
‘Remember, this is not your first jump. You’ve done this before. You’ve accompanied and observed other teams. You’ve practised simulations. The only difference between those jumps and this one is that today you’re in charge of yourselves. As you will be in the future. However, Officer North and I will be monitoring your progress should you find yourself in any difficulties.’ He paused, but there was no reaction. ‘Very well, Mr Parrish. You may proceed.’
The ramp came down and they marched out. At the bottom, Lockland looked back over her shoulder. Ellis and North were sitting at the console, drinking coffee. North made a shooing motion then the ramp came up behind them and Lockland suddenly felt very alone.
Looking around, they appeared to be in some kind of public area. A large open concrete space was before them, surrounded on three sides by garages with heavily graffitied up-and-over doors. Old pieces of shredded plastic, caught for eternity in the branches of a dying tree, fluttered in a light breeze. In one corner, a rusted old wreck of a car perched precariously on crumbling bricks. Weeds grew between the cracks in the oil-stained concrete – the only green things in sight. Litter had blown into small heaps. A faint smell of burning rubber permeated the area and an air of weary defeat hung over everything.
Above them, the small drone which had silently followed them down the ramp hovered unseen.
‘Well,’ said Parrish, stirring something unidentifiable with his boot, ‘I’m betting this is the sort of place where the appearance of armoured police officers isn’t going to cause any sort of stir at all.’
There was no response from his teammates.
‘He needs to get them moving,’ said North, adjusting the pod’s cameras to tracking mode. ‘They can’t stand there all day.’
The same thought had obviously occurred to Parrish. ‘Right,’ he said, crisply, suddenly realising he should have done this before they left the pod. ‘Who’s got the address?’
Lockland pulled out her notebook. ‘Seventeen Beaver Avenue.’
‘Any idea where that is?’
She shook her head.
‘Why not? You should have checked that before you left the pod.’
‘Leave her alone,’ said Farrell.