Ian Hocking - Déjà Vu

Saskia stepped back, aghast. Her calves met the edge of the bed. She did not see the face as a reflection, but as a visitation. She drew her revolver.

‘Only me.’

Saskia screamed as she turned. Mrs McMurray, the elderly proprietor who had asked her not to smoke, there’s a dear, dropped her tray of tea and thin British biscuits.

‘Why, my dear girl,’ Mrs McMurray said. Her mouth worked on autopilot while her eyes roamed. ‘I’m very sorry. I should’ve knocked, should I not.’

‘Frau McMurray—’ Saskia began. Why was the woman apologising? ‘The tea,’ she said, confused.

‘Aye. Will you look at that. I should clean it up.’

The landlady remained exactly where she was.

Saskia faked a laugh. She let the revolver tip over her finger. ‘Do not worry about the gun. It is not loaded. I was…oiling it. This is my nightly practice.’

Do I look familiar, Frau McMurray? Read any Russian newspapers? Do I give you a sense of –

Saskia stowed the gun in its holster. ‘Listen. You clean the spill and I shall make us a fresh pot of tea.’

Mrs McMurray brightened. She was staring at the gun. ‘That’s a fine idea.’

Saskia crept down the thickly-carpeted stairs, past printed masterpieces and a cross-stitched owl. Her heart slowed with each step. The television became louder. She remembered the ghostly reflection and decided that Jago’s last word of the night had been correct. She needed to sleep.

Of course, if the landlady walked into a room without knocking, she got what she deserved. What Mrs McMurray really needed was…

A bullet?

She froze on the stairs.

Is that what she needs, Frau Kommissarin? Spin, measure, and…snip!

Saskia cleared her throat and continued walking. That voice was surely just her conscience. But she remembered the words of Klutikov: ‘The imposition of the donor pattern must be constant. If not, the original pattern—that is, the personality and identity extant in your brain—will resurge.’

Was it the mind of her true body—and its murderous mind—straining at its bonds? She could not be sure. But if she even suspected that she could lose her new mind to the old one, then that gun would find itself pointed at her temple. She did not want to meet the Angel of Death.

A little off the top? asked the voice. Snip.

Early the next morning, Saskia sat with Jago in the back of a police car as they drove towards the Special Incident Unit. She wore a borrowed police greatcoat, complete with sergeant stripes. Their driver was listening to a local radio station. She did not recognise any of the songs. She shivered and turned up the collar of the greatcoat. It smelled musty. Onto to her thoughts stepped Jago, reading from a handheld computer. There had been a sighting the night before, he said. Proctor had checked into a hotel in Northallerton, two hundred and thirty kilometres from Edinburgh and one hundred and sixty kilometres from the equipment shed. Jago had been eager to visit Northallerton, but not Saskia. Her instinct told her it would be a waste of time.

Jago shrugged. Local police and some officers from the Edinburgh team were on the case. They were competent enough.

Saskia closed her eyes on Edinburgh and let Jago’s beautiful vowels and intermittent trill carry her through the report. The equipment shed, she learned, had provided little evidence. A farmer had discovered the parachute and, inside the shed, the exploded remains of a laptop computer: a Korean model available from hundreds of outlets nationwide. It had been destroyed by a plastic bonded explosive with a generic, untraceable blasting cap. A wider search revealed tracks made by four motorbikes. The farmer had no clue. They were not his. He owned two trail bikes and they were kept in a garage at the main farm. They were untouched.

Saskia yawned.

‘What about Northallerton?’

‘Late last night, a constable reported the flight of a man who matched Proctor’s description. He had checked into The Poor Players under the name Harrison. He was moments from being arrested when the constable was called away on an assault-in-progress, which turned out to be a false alarm. When the constable returned twenty minutes later, after a cup of tea—’

‘ Meine Güte . The English and their narcotic tea.’

‘—he found that Proctor had vanished.’

‘Go on.’

Jago angled his computer screen against the sunlight. ‘House-to-house enquiries uncovered Mrs Taome Gallagher. Tay to her friends. Bit of a wind-bag by the sounds of it. She spoke to a man matching Proctor’s description around the time he checked in. According to the credit card people, that was 6:02 p.m. Said he was riding a chrome motorbike and wanted to park in her alleyway. We have an APB on him.’

‘APB?’

‘All Points Bulletin. His description is released nationally.’

Saskia stared at the shops sliding by. ‘Surely that compromises the secret nature of the investigation?’

‘Perhaps. But the governor phoned me this morning and said he was fed up working with one hand tied behind his back. I’m inclined to agree.’

‘Does Proctor’s bike match the tracks found next to the glider?’

‘Yes, but my guess would be that he was met by a group of his own people. They gave him supplies and rode away, splitting up.’

‘No. I think that would be a waste of effort. Why not put all the supplies in the shed?’

Jago scratched a tooth. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Where else was the card used?’

‘Two filling stations between Belford and Northallerton.’

‘Do they have cameras?’

‘No, we checked. He chose wee one-pump jobs. He’s using minor roads. One or two lads saw him, but they can’t give a good description. They say his bike was chrome too. Maybe a trail bike.’

‘So. A trail bike. Probably the same bike he used to ride away from the equipment shed.’

‘Yes.’

‘Back to last night. You said there was a falsified accusation of assault?’

‘It came over the radio just as the officer was about to interview Proctor.’

‘That is convenient. In Germany we say somebody has “cried wolf”.’

‘Here too.’

‘Who was the caller?’

‘It turned out to be a kid. Truscott—the reporting officer—said she looked to be on the wrong side of sixteen.’

Saskia felt a memory move, delicate as a baby’s kick.

The driver stopped midway along a featureless road on an industrial estate. Saskia and Jago left the vehicle and entered a grey complex of office buildings. She could see security cameras tracking them. On instinct, she lowered her face into the raised collar of her greatcoat. The wind sang in the corners. Jago ushered her into the lee of a five-storey building. There were Lothian and Borders Police signs, but the impression was blank, corporate. The occasional flowers looked unhappy.

Saskia relaxed her shoulders as they entered the lobby. There was a security barrier but its horizontal bars were open and its lights green. Jago nodded to the guard and, just like that, they were through.

‘The good news is, they found us a room,’ said Jago, entering the lift.

‘And?’

‘You’ll want to keep your coat on. They’re renovating some of the floor and half the windows are missing. It’s a tad “parky”.’ He used air quotes. ‘That means -’

‘Parky. Right.’

They shared a smile as the doors closed.

‘Agent Brandt,’ said Paul Besson, removing his mittens, ‘what do you know about cryptanalysis?’

Saskia considered this nervous, boyish forty-year-old. She was reminded of Lev Klutikov. The last two minutes had comprised rapid introductions and work allocations for the team of four, all galvanised by the chill in the room.