The Chop Shop Read online

  A police fire team stood watch behind concrete barriers with their armoured personnel carrier. He turned left at the sign for the Acel Clinique and drove through the security checkpoint with its electric fence and razor wire. The hospital was five stories of grey brick and multiple smaller buildings spread across the interior of the compound, most of them abandoned and in disrepair.

  Michael drove through dozens of vacant parking spaces and parked close to the main building. He placed his police identity on the dashboard and made it ten meters from the car before he changed his mind and bought a ticket instead. Dim yellow light spilled from the hospital's main entrance.

  The doors slid open for him as he approached. Empty seats filled the waiting area, and just beyond them was the reception desk, where the receptionist had her back turned so she could watch the television mounted on the wall. The sound of his footsteps on the hard floor drew her attention.

  She pivoted in her chair and stood up. “Do you have an appointment?

  The receptionist's left arm hung limp from the shoulder. Her hand was the colour of prosthetic plastic. She looked past him with one wide eye, never blinking, as the other focused on his face. She must have been about his age.

  “Yes, with Nurse Becker. My appointment was for tomorrow, but I phoned ahead earlier and was told I could be seen tonight, instead. The name is Michael Ward.”

  The receptionist glanced down at the computer and typed away with her right hand. She paused every few seconds to hit the backspace key, pressing her lips together, part frustration, part determination.

  “Ah,” she said. “That will be on-”

  “It's okay, I'm a regular,” Michael said. He walked through empty corridors, listening to his footsteps echo off the walls. Most of the doors on the right were boarded up with nails and wood, sealed with orange biohazard stickers and black tape around the frames.

  A lone autocleaner drove down the corridor, wheels squeaking as it bounced back and forth off the skirting boards, sucking up debris. Further on was the real cleaner, mopping up anything the machine had missed with a stooped spine and tired expression on his face.

  Michael stopped to catch his breath when he reached the second floor. He looked out the window and saw tendrils of fire and black smoke escaping from the chimneys of a building by the perimeter fence. Figures in yellow CRBN suits dragged body bags from the back of a truck and took them inside, returning moments later for another load.

  Patients sat idle in the waiting rooms as he passed them by. He went to the outpatients department, checked in at the reception and took a seat in the corner. A few other professionals sat in the scattered assortment of seats, reading out of date magazines from the table or newspapers they had brought themselves. A woman bobbed her head in time to the music playing through her earphones.

  One by one, the waiting area became devoid of life, until he was the last one sitting there. He glanced at the clock, tapping his fingers on the side of the chair as the hands passed his appointment time. Brisk footsteps came down the corridor.

  “Hello, Mr Ward. If you'd like to come this way,” Becker said. Her hair was dark, and her accent still carried a strong trace of German.

  He followed her down the corridor and into one of the rooms.

  “How have you been today? A good day at work? Please, have a seat.”

  He put his coat and jacket aside before rolling up his sleeves. The nurse rifled through several papers, set them aside and tapped on the computer's keyboard.

  “Just a routine check up for your lungs, I see. Have you had any particular problems?”

  “Breathing difficulties, shortness of breath and stabbing pains in the chest.”

  She tapped on the computer's keyboard again. “All can be normal symptoms of the repairs done to your lungs. The chemical weapons you were exposed to would have killed many people in the same situation. Very lucky for you. Have they been severe or worse than normal?”

  “Difficult to say.”

  The nurse scratched her head and stared at her computer display for a moment. “We have the scanner up and running at the moment, so I will take a snap shot of your lungs. This way, please.”

  They went into the next room, decorated with a single chair, desk and computer. The scanner took up the rest of the space. Mould grew in some of the corners like cobwebs. He lay down on the scanner's bed, resting on white paper towels that covered its surface.

  The bed began to retract into the scanner. His heart beat quickened, and his throat became dry. Saliva collected at the corner of his mouth. He shut his eyes and tried to forget where he was, but all he saw was German sewers. The bed stopped.

  “Your fists are clenched; you not like small spaces?”

  “No.”

  “I try to make it quick. Ten minutes for full scan. Do not move, please.”

  Ten minutes felt like ten hours. His shirt was soaked with sweat when the bed finally emerged out of the machine. He breathed a sigh and stood on weak legs. “What now?”

  “It needs to go to the doctor for proper analysis. I cannot tell you anything right now, but we contact you soon for a new appointment, yes?”

  Michael nodded. He collected his jacket and coat from the other room and went home.

  Richard glanced at his watch. “Trust me on this one; I spoke to Harris, and he's going to sort it all out. We'll have it before lunchtime.”

  They were the only two in the office. Michael shivered. He touched the radiator behind his chair and found the metal cold. “It better be something good, otherwise we're going nowhere, and there's more important things to worry about.”

  Richard spun in his chair; he did a three-sixty before stopping himself with a foot. “They're not going to let us get near the bombings. We're just bottom feeders to them. The investigation will be run by company headquarters. God knows it got them all in a real pissy mood.”

  “Yeah, and what do a bunch suits know about this stuff? It's a statistic on a spreadsheet for them.”

  Sam opened the door with her elbow. She carried a stack of folders which she dropped on his desk. Her face was overly pale, like she hadn't slept for an age. She blinked the fatigue away. “From Harris, for your investigation.”

  “I told you I'd get something done,” Richard said, when Sam had gone.

  Michael opened the first folder, thumbing through a few pages. “These are all records from Jim Belton's home. Half of this stuff doesn't even look official. How did he get it?”

  “He pulled some strings. A lot of them, I suppose, and he made it clear that I probably wouldn't have a job to come back to if we waste his time and botch the case. Let's not dally around, okay?”

  Michael passed two of the folders across the table. “A lot of this doesn't seem relevant; it's day to day records, finance, etcetera, etcetera. I'm going to start looking for people he could've pissed off. Tell me if you find anything interesting.”

  They finished skimming the documents two hours later. Nobody else had turned up.

  “Where is everybody? Something has to be up,” Richard said.

  “Worry about it later, let's have a show of hands. I've got two lines of investigation. Count them, one, two,” he said, sticking his index and middle fingers up at Richard in reverse. “What have you got?”

  “Some bank statements and financial records... I don't know Harris got these. Probably best not to ask. I tell you one thing, though, Jim Belton had a lot of money coming in. These kinds of guys always do, but it's not related to his work. Tell me you've got something worthwhile.”

  “He was dealing with lobbyists. These are all personal notes from his house. Nothing logged officially. I've got guys from Eratech and Bouclier named in here. By law, he was meant to record any dealing with corporate liaisons in government logs, but you know what these people are like. They've all got something going on under the table,” Michael said.

  The door opened. Corporal Hill marched in with his rifle slung from his shoulder. He raised his visor, sl
ipped a finger beneath the balaclava to scratch his cheek and sighed from exhaustion. “You might want to put the radio on. The news in particular.”

  Hill shut the door behind himself as he left. The draft blew papers from the table, scattering them across the floor. Static from the radio filled the air; Richard tuned the dial until they got a female voice.

  Michael tidied up the mess and sank deep into his chair. He shut his eyes momentarily and grimaced. “Not another one.”

  Richard held up a finger to quiet him. “You hear that? Four dead detectives. Are they who I think they are? Shit.”

  “We don't know that. Not yet.”

  “They really aren't screwing around, are they? They've bloody well declared war on us, whoever the hell they are. I've seen all kinds of crap turn up around here, but this isn't some arsehole with a fertiliser bomb. We're going after the wrong people. Screw the MP; what did he ever do for us? That bounty is pointless if you're dead and can't spend it.”

  Michael gave a half-hearted shrug. “I don't like it either, but we've got our orders, okay? Leave the bombs to whatever circus HQ sends our way.”

  “We should start parking outside the station on the streets. It'll lessen the damage next time one of those fucking things goes up in smoke. How many other stations do you think are going to start handing out mirrors to check their cars?”

  “After that? All of them.”

  The others walked in.

  “Jesus, where have you lot been? We thought you had been wasted with plastic explosive and nails,” Richard said.

  “Takes more than a nail bomb to kill a man like me, son,” David said.

  “We just got reassigned. We're reporting to a special task force running directly under the department head. He's heading up an investigation on these bombings, and they're reassigning a whole chunk of the detective force along with us. All combat units are required to support the task force in any way needed if trouble arises,” Maria said.

  “It's serious now,” Michael said.

  Archibald nodded. “Very serious. Apparently, investors are getting nervous and company share prices are dropping. They're worried that this is all going to hit the other branches of the company and compromise projected profits. Assurer have their fingers in a lot of pies.”

  “I don't like the sound of that,” Richard said.

  “Get in line,” said Archibald.

  They sat down at their desks. All of them carried metal briefcases with security locks.

  “Leads? Intelligence?” Michael said.

  “They're keeping everything hush hush for now, but you know, the destruction of your old station doesn't really seem like an isolated incident anymore.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Hey,” Maria said. “The two of you won't like this, but there were twenty guys from the Upper London security forces coming down Richmond pillar with us. They're poking around the same things you are.”

  “God damn it, this is our jurisdiction. They can't come snooping around like that; it has to be cleared with us by law. Some courtesy they show us,” Richard said.

  “I suppose they don't really consider it an issue.”

  “We need to pay a visit to Eratech. I've never heard of Bouclier before, so that's one for another time. Eratech have offices on the plate,” Michael said, “and Jim Belton served on a number of government defence committees in his time. See where I'm going with this?”

  Richard nodded.

  They took the lift to Upper Richmond and then made their way onto the streets. The endless grey skies had shifted to a shade of black, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Electric cars drove beneath flashing signs and giant television displays.

  Michael flagged one of the taxis down. They hopped in the back and headed for Upper Canary Wharf. A security checkpoint stopped them just short of the Eratech compound, where he paid the faire and approached the contractor at the gate.

  The man was a bulging sack of muscle crammed into combat trousers and tactical vest, with a transparent plastic poncho thrown over the top. His nose was wonky and strapped down with white tap, and magazines for his carbine poked free of the pouches on his vest.

  “Identify yourself,” he said in an accent that sounded Danish.

  His counterpart stood watching ten meters down the road, leaning up against a lamp post for support.

  Michael and Richard produced their identity cards. The contractor snatched Michael's from his hand, holding it up to the light. Another rumble of thunder. It began to rain softly. “You policemen?”

  “Detectives.”

  He tossed the card back, and Michael stumbled to catch it before it hit the ground. The other contractor grinned.

  “Those things can be faked. They don't mean nothing to me. You need an appointment if you want in, but you don't have one of those, do you?”

  Michael slipped the card back in his pocket.

  “My colleague and I phoned ahead,” Richard said.

  “No appointment, no entry, now piss off.”

  His words drew the other contractor forward, and his carbine had a shotgun attachment beneath the barrel.

  “We're here on police business,” Michael said. “You're required by law to let us in, so stop screwing us around. Your employer is expecting us.”

  “What are you going to do, arrest me? I'd like to see you try, you little cripple. Come on, give it a go, see how many bones you have left when I'm through with you.”

  Richard spat on his boot. “Maybe if you laid off the steroids for a bit, you wouldn't be such a complete wanker.”

  “You see that camera up there?” Michael said. “You don't have access to the storage drive, and that make has audio recording capability as well. You're the bottom of the pyramid, you lump of meat, and Eratech will ditch you the moment they think you're a liability.”

  “Fuck off, you queer,” the contractor said. He flicked the safety off on his carbine. “Do you want me to paint the ground with your insides?”

  “Touch that trigger and you're going to have some serious fucking problems,” Richard said.

  The click of heels on the concrete turned heads. She walked under an umbrella, red hair pulled back in a severe knot, and she wore a beige business suit with skirt that came down to the knees, where it was met by the top of her boots. “That's enough. Let them through, and see your supervisor when your shift finishes. He'll be expecting you.”

  They passed through the checkpoint and hurried after the woman. Smoke trailed from the cigarette wedged tight between her two fingers. She took one last puff, tossed the cigarette to the ground and stamped it out.

  “I'm Angela Stokes; we spoke on the phone. I apologise for the trouble at the checkpoint. Some of our security teams are... overzealous in carrying out their orders.”

  Dozens of buildings made up the Eratech compound. They approached the largest, a rectangular shaped office that stood five stories tall. She lowered the umbrella, shook the rain out of it and showed them inside.

  The lobby was glass and blue marble polished to a shine, where water sprouted from a fountain in the centre, and speakers embedded in the walls played tranquil noises. Wind chimes jingled softly. A dozen security contractors stood guard by the marble columns supporting the ceiling.

  They wiped their feet on an oversized entrance mat, but still left a trail of filthy footprints in their wake.

  “This is an impressive building you have here,” Michael said.

  She kept walking without looking back. “Yes, it is. They spent a lot of money here. It's the main company headquarters for all that's left of Europe. Mr Lanning, is it?”

  “Michael Ward. He's Lanning.”

  “Those chumps at the gate aren't exactly the best introduction on company premises,” Richard said.

  “Once again, I'm sorry. We rely on them to ensure the safety of our facilities here and our employees. They are trained to a very high standard, despite what you might think. Try to understand that while we are in U
pper London, and security is greatly improved in comparison to your jurisdiction, there is still much crime and danger about. Corporate espionage is a major problem, and we'd be foolish not to be prepared for all eventualities.”

  They stopped at the lifts, and she swiped her security card and pressed the button.

  “If we can put that issue behind us, I'm hoping that you have somewhere private set aside for us to talk, Ms Stokes,” Michael said.

  “Please, call me Angela,” she said, looking him in the eyes with an expression he couldn't quite read. “And yes, you're quite right; certainly there are some serious issues that need discussing, and I assure you we intend to cooperate fully with the demands of the law. I'll help you however I can.”

  The lift arrived, and glass doors slid open. She gestured for them to step inside, and then followed, hitting the button for the third floor. They found themselves in a corridor surfaced with laminate flooring and pristine walls. The air was clean and smelt of freshly manufactured plastic and cleaning fluids.

  “This way, please,” Angela said. She led them to her office, seating herself in the leather chair and waiting for them to settle in the chairs opposite the other side of her desk. “Let's get down to business.”

  Her office window looked out onto the plaza outside and the security checkpoint. Rain drops streamed down the glass. Michael glanced down at the floor and saw fragments of polystyrene and packing materials scattered across the carpet. She tapped a button on her desk.

  The world outside faded, and the glass and walls changed to display a tropic rainforest background. Lush green leaves dripped with water, as speakers played recorded sounds of wild life and nature. Angela dialled down the volume.

  “That's impressive. I've never seen anything like it before,” Michael said.

  “Perhaps where you live. It is all the fashion right now. Very expensive. Anyway, I must tell you that my time is very valuable and in short supply, and I'd rather not spend it all on idle chatter, so if we may get to the point?”