The Sphere
In 2018, the world changed. Irrevocably, irreversibly, undeniably and for all eternity. The moment the Eco-bomb Gaia exploded in the centre of Trafalgar Square and the climate of London, all of Southern England and half of Europe transformed in an instant.
The work of a group of academics from universities across the world, united in their belief that irreversible climate change was being caused by human activity. These academics never appeared on any terror watchlist, GCHQ or the NSA never picked up any suspicious signals traffic, they paid their taxes, had dinner parties, attended amateur dramatic groups. Pillars of their respective bourgois communities. But behind their plastic coated, faux Victorian closed doors their hidden idealism and eventual fanaticism ran riot.
“The rampant increase of the thoughtless actions of an ungrateful and uncaring race on the glorious planet, Gaia, our mother, has forced this action upon us.” Their declaration of responsibility for the bombing read. So they activated the Eco-bomb and the old world was no more.
Initially no one was seriously hurt. Mildly aberrant weather patterns were reported but that was all. It seemed that the academics aim, to merely send a message to the world, had been successful. But in the subsequent weeks and months, as the climate in the surrounding area had started to unravel, people died in their thousands, they froze to death huddled in the beds, drowned in the flash floods that flowed suddenly through the streets both ancient and modern. The weather itself had become an enemy to nature.
Mother Earth, the very “Gaia” invoked in the declaration of responsibility was at war with herself. Now London, the former capitol, that not six years before had welcomed the world to its triumphant Olympics, stood ruined. A barely liveable wasteland, criss-crossed with pockets of weather whose extremes seemed like something out of a waking nightmare. The seat of kings and queens, the home of the mother of parliaments, the heart of Shakespeare's sceptred isle, captured in word, brushstroke, film, could no longer comfortably support life.
No country can ever exist totally in isolation from another.The aftershocks of this event could be felt around the globe and in every sphere of human culture. Suddenly one of the financial centres of the globe was offline. Massive companies had their entire net worth wiped out and ceased to exist. World currency markets started to crumble. The diplomatic balance of power tilted and the world woke up to a more uncertain future. The ripples caused by the tiny pebble that was this one event flowed out across the surface of the planet. Something had to be done.
So it was decided to rebuild the city elsewhere, to transfer its whole population, its businesses, its banks and hedge funds, hospitals and art galleries, its history and culture, even its sports teams and place them in a purpose built “Future-city”.
They decided to rebuild around the river Humber, in the North of England. The land was relatively flat and low-lying and the area relatively sparsely populated. And it seemed the most sensible of the options at the government's disposal.
The construction of said “Future-City” and the ensuing migration of over 7 million people into their new homes, however, was traumatic to say the least. The few small towns that had previously existed there were now, somewhat unwillingly, drawn into the new metropolis, sucked into one massive urban mass. A huge leviathan of concrete, metal and glass which took only six months to construct. 7 million people relocated in less than a year.
They named it the Humber Urban Development or HUD. It was a wonder of the twenty first century, a purpose built city, the solution to the world’s financial and diplomatic crisis and the new capital of the nation.
For the people of London it was an adjustment, to say the least, a migration that they’d never asked for. Everything that was London, they were told, would still exist in the new city. But how can the future really contain that which is past.
For those that had always lived in the small towns that had hugged the river, it was perhaps just as hard, gone were the farms and fields, the little country pubs that lay in the small villages on the river road, in their place, stood upmarket night clubs and trendy wine bars and the rising towers of steel superstructure and overreaching aspiration.
After it was all completed, the architects left memorials throughout the HUD to remind everyone who lived there afterwards of the upheaval. The rubble and detritus of the construction, preserved in climate controlled spaces underneath massive geodesic domes, like modern reliquaries for some long gone way of life. The Crosby Sphere was the furthest dome west and the one closest to Frodingham Central and the S.I.D.
In the aftermath of the crisis, it was decided, unsurprisingly, that every child was to be taught about the Ecobomb, the dangers of unbridled ideology and the significance of the Spheres. As one of those children, Esther Ballard entered the Crosby Sphere airlock, not without a sense of awe and a certain degree of trepidation. She stood quietly in the solitude of the airlock, collecting her thoughts, as the pressure equalised. The inner door finally opened with the sound of its mechanical whirring and then bizarrely, on the other side, music could be heard.
Esther walked into the Crosby Sphere to the eerie sound of music floating through the cavernous space of the Sphere’s interior. In front of her, the pile of rubble towered above her like a concrete monolith. Around the base of it, police technicians rushed back and forth, trying to collect enough forensic information as soon as possible. Quietly they went about their business, the strange music seemingly robbing them of the ability to speak.
The music sounded old, distorted, crackling with static. An old, analogue sound amongst the gleaming, space age, digital interior of the Sphere. “Oh, the Sisters of Mercy, they are not departed or gone” A deep male voice intoned over a simple haunting tune.
Esther stood, almost frozen, by the strange scene in front of her eyes.
“Are you lost?”
The voice startled her and she had to search for a moment to see where it came from. Looking up she saw two men stood partway up the mound.
A study in extremes, the first was perhaps the tallest man she had ever seen. He was nearly seven feet tall, clad in dark military fatigues, with, of all things, a military tactical vest strapped to his muscular upper body. His face had a windswept look as if he had spent many months out amongst the elements. Despite his weathered look, he didn’t appear to be much above thirty. His hair was dark and wavy and he had a short cropped beard. The other man was nearly a foot and a half smaller, with a barrel chest. He was mostly bald and was dressed in a garishly bright button down shirt which was open, showing a black t-shirt which appeared to refer to some band that had long since dropped off the government approved list. He was much older than the first man, maybe in his early 50s.
“I’m sorry?” Esther stammered, momentarily surprised by the question.
“Are you lost?” The taller of the two asked. When he did she realised that it was he who had asked the question before. His accent was odd, British but mingled, with a touch of American or Canadian about it, maybe even some Eastern European or Russian.
“I don’t understand what you mean.” Esther answered.
“He’s talking about what you’re wearing, love.” The other man explained. His accent was more common, the Northern English inflection betraying his identity as an original inhabitant of this area of the HUD. With a speed that Esther wouldn’t have expected from a man of his age, he jumped and climbed down the uneven surface of the mound.
“Pyjamas and a trench-coat, how very haute couture of you.” He voice laden with good natured sarcasm. “You must be our new Detective Sergeant, well, unless the officers outside are really asleep on the job. I’m sorry, I haven’t had chance to read your file yet, what’s your name?”
“Ballard, sir, Esther Ballard. Pleased to meet you.” She put her hand out for the man to shake. He took it with a strong and firm grip and pumped it hard.
“Sir? There’s no need to call me sir, lass. I’m only a DS like your good self, despite my receded hairline. My name’s Matthew Lewis, although most people just call me Lewis. The bad tempered giant’s name is Briggs, Specialist Briggs.” He gestured towards Briggs, who scowled and climbed further up.
“Ah, don’t mind him, my dear. We got him on secondment from… somewhere. He’s been a mercenary pretty much everywhere and might tell you about it… then again, he might not. The same goes for his Christian name. However you want to hear about any conspiracy theory in existence, he's your man. So I’m presuming the night clothes are evidence that you weren’t expecting to be working when the call came in.” Lewis started walking around the side of the mountain of construction detritus. Without prompting, Ballard followed him.
“I asked for the day off.” She answered the diminutive yet muscular form striding in front of her. “It’s Winterval. I know it’s childish and not encouraged generally today but I still like to celebrate it.”
“That doesn't bother me, my family wish I was at home right now, I don’t like working on Christmas Day either.” Lewis replied without looking over his shoulder.
“Christmas Day? I haven’t heard it called that in... there was a girl at school, she used to celebrate, she used to bring in these cards for everyone, they had a stable on the front, animals, parents and a child.”
“That was before the approved list right?” Lewis asked.
“I don’t know, I suppose so.” Esther answered unsure of the reason for the question.
“My children can’t tell anyone about Christmas.” Lewis stated stopping abruptly in front of her. “It’s not “approved”.” He said in a bitter tone.
“Your family are Christians?”
“Also, not on the approved list. But yes we are. The baby on the cards, that’s Jesus Christ. Used to be, this whole day was about his birth. Now it’s just about getting drunk and loaded up on Euphie. Which is why I get called out here, when I should be at home with my family.” Lewis answered in an irritated tone.
He looked at Esther for a second, his eyes full of anger, then just as soon as his aggression had appeared it faded. “I’m sorry, you don’t need to hear all this, we’ve only just met, this day just gets under my skin. And there’s me saying that Briggs is the bad tempered one.” He started walking again.
Esther was about to say something but decided otherwise, she merely carried on following Lewis.
Halfway around their journey around the circumference of the Sphere, they turned an outcropping spur of the mound and came upon a small group of people stood in front of the official public viewing area of the Sphere.
They stood looking up at a point halfway up the man made hill in front of them. Esther followed their gaze and realised why the call that had called her here had been so urgent.
On a slab of concrete halfway up the mound of rubble and dirt lay the body of a young man. He lay lifeless, his eyes open staring at the ceiling, unblinking, unseeing. His arms folded over his chest, his legs next to each other, like a carving from a medieval stone sarcophagus. Only instead of a suit of armour he wore a sombre dark suit, shirt and tie. A Pathologist and his assistant stood near the body working on it.
Esther stood staring at the body, the other people around her forgotten for a moment. Everything else faded into the background. The scene before her eyes drawing her in. She’d seen bodies before of course. Euphie ODs, drunk drivers, the kids they dragged out of the old water filled iron ore quarries that still could be found in the part of the HUD which still contained the steel works. But none of it had compared her for this.
The young man seemed peaceful, almost serene. The whole scene felt sacred somehow, the last resting place of a young life ended too soon and Esther felt somehow sorry for being there, for looking, for disturbing the slumber of the unknown man. The eerie music still hung in the air providing a strange requiem for the scene before her eyes.
“Are you okay, Ballard?, Esther?” Lewis’ voice broke into her reverie. His arm was on her shoulder. Belatedly she noticed him.
“Yes… yes, I’m fine.” She answered tentatively, as if not sure of the answer herself.
“This can’t have been the first body you’ve seen.”
“It’s not, no, it’s, uh, it’s not. It’s just the first one I’ve seen one like this. The stillness, the ritual of it all and the music. Why is there music?” She asked nervously.
“That’s the big question.” Lewis answered.
“Can’t we stop it?”
“As soon as Briggs pulls his finger out and finds the radio that’s producing it, of course.” Lewis said in an irritated tone.
“A radio?” Esther asked incredulously.
“I know, old fashioned. Even more old fashioned if it’s like the other two that we found at the other murder sites. 1930s wireless, made of Bakelite, one of the first synthetic polymers to be mass produced for domestic use, No I hadn’t heard of it either.” Lewis relayed the information quickly, in a light tone as if trying to defuse the tension of the situation with his words.
“So there have been two other murders?” Esther asked.
“That’s right, one in May, the next in early October. Exactly the same MO, single white males, found in public places, smartly dressed in a suit and tie, arranged in a reverent way with good old Leonard bawling away in the background.” Lewis replied with the air of one who had rattled off the same details so often he knew them by heart.
“Leonard. Who’s Leonard?” Esther inquired.
“Leonard Cohen: Canadian Poet and Musician, particularly popular in the latter half of the 1960s. You’re listening to his dulcet tones at this very moment. Always the same song at every murder site. The Sisters of Mercy. 1967 song. You won’t have heard of it. It’s not on the approved list. Anyway, now that I’ve told you all that, let me introduce you to the rest of the maniacs who make up SID.”
Esther slowly dragged her gaze away from the corpse and walked with Lewis to the small group of people. There were four of them. Three man and a woman. The tallest of the three men spoke before Lewis or Esther could say anything.
“Where have you been?” he said, his voice displaying annoyance.
“Doing exactly what you told me to do, searching for that bloody radio. Briggs is still clambering around up there, he’s more likely than me to find it. You know what he’s like, a proper bloodhound.”
“Very nice, who’s the girl in the tasteful nightwear?” The taller man shot back.
“Our new DS. Dexter’s replacement. Don’t you read any of your transfer notifications?” Lewis asked.
“It has been known. It’s a studied indifference that he projects.” The woman spoke now. She was a short, Afro-Caribbean woman not much older than Esther herself. She was smiling despite the situation they were in.
“Actually, Hannah, I did take time out of my busy social life to look at Sergeant Ballard’s file.” The tall man smiled slightly.
“Esther Ballard, this is our boss, Detective Inspector Simeon Gibson. Detective Constable Hannah Sayers is the lovely young lady who constantly tries to test his patience. The scruffy young man hiding at the back is our technology expert, Miles “Firewall” Callaghan and the final man is our other DC, John Marlowe.” Lewis made the introductions.
Esther truly had never seen a more unusual group of people. Even amongst the cosmopolitan melting pot of the HUD, they would always have looked unusual.
Gibson was easily the oldest, Esther wasn’t sure but he was definitely well into his 50s potentially even his 60s. He was tall and lean, with short, dark hair, only just tinged with grey. His movements were slow and measured. His eyes were blue and Esther could tell there was little that they ever missed. He wore one of the ubiquitous trench-coats that most of the police department wore from the Commissioner on down.
Next to him, Hannah Sayers was dressed in the latest of fashions, but with her, unlike Dexter, they worked. A short black leather jacket hugged her small frame, underneath it, she wore a black t-shirt with a florescent anime character on it. Her face was the sort that was built for smiling which she was doing now.
Callaghan leant against a wall, he wore dark trousers with pockets along the length, cargo trousers they had once been called. He was skinny and very pale as if he spent far too long indoors. He fidgeted, his hands moving continually as if making their way over an invisible keyboard. He smiled at her slightly, then dropped back into a look for which introspective would have been an understated description.
Marlowe was immaculately dressed in black suit and tie, like one of the heroes of the trashy pulp paperbacks sold by the black marketeers out by the old football ground. The sort of hero who scores it big in Vegas, then carries out a heist and gets double crossed by his “dame” who doesn’t realise that he knew she’d double cross him anyway and made plans. In short, he looked like a high end conman, the sort that got rich making plays off rich lonely women in Susworth or one of the other nouveau riche riverside suburbs.
“Found it!” A voice shouted from behind Esther, in the direction of the mound. She turned.
Specialist Briggs was running down the 70 degree incline of the mound as if it had no gradient at all, taking all the obstacles in his stride. As he reached the bottom, he jumped and landed less than a metre in front of them.
A look of triumph was on his face. At least Esther felt it was a look of triumph. Briggs’ face didn’t exactly give itself to being easily read by anyone.
In his hands, he held what did appear to be a 1930s radio set. It was brown coloured with a large tuning dial on its face.
“What do you want, a medal? We don’t care about you finding it unless you switch it off!” Lewis said laconically to the man mountain in front of him.
“Well I noticed you didn’t spend much time scrambling around up there!” Briggs replied in exasperation.
“Excuse me.” Gibson’s voice cut through the rapidly raising voices.
“Yes guv?” Lewis asked.
“Have you quite finished?”
“Yes guv.” Lewis answered.
“Good, because we haven’t got much time, we’ve got to keep a lid on this before the press get a hold of exactly what we’re looking at here. The department’s about as leaky as a kitchen colander and so we’ve got to get going. I’m afraid the city does expect you to do some work from time to time.” Gibson spoke calmly but hurriedly, the urgency in his voice difficult to miss. “Callaghan, is this the same as the others?”
Callaghan sighed and pushed himself away from the wall with a shrug. He said nothing, but took the radio from Gibson. His hands moved quickly over the surface of the primitive plastic. His eyes flicked from side to side rapidly. He sniffed the device, turned it over, searching for something on the heavy, opaque surface. Finding it, he pulled a tiny screwdriver out of one of one of his seemingly endless pockets. He started to work on the radio. Quickly and with practised ease, he unscrewed a small panel on the back of the radio. He pulled out a small glowing object from a small compartment. The music abruptly stopped.
“Well it’s definitely polyoxybenzylmethylenglycolanhydride. Bakelite, to the layman. A 1930s Wireless Set modified with a state of the art amplification device and a top of the line power cell. The power cell’s only been on the market of six months. Just the same as all the rest, well, the modern technology at least. The radio’s actually a different model to the others. But it’s from the same time period.” Callaghan explained.
“What about the modification. Can we tell anything more about who did it?” Gibson asked. “Or do I not want to know the answer.”
Callaghan pulled a face, his annoyance obvious.
“Sorry, boss. Not possible. I can tell you that the same guy definitely made all the radios. And this is some seriously intricate work. This is not your weekend enthusiast with some copper wire and a soldiering iron, this guy is a pro. But anything more than that, I'd have difficulty saying anything with certainty.”
“Anything to trace him, serial numbers, anything like that?”
The question this time came from Lewis.
“You only wish. All of this stuff comes from household appliances, electrical systems, powerpoints, he just adapted them. The power cell is new but who has ever sold batteries as a traceable item. Playback from a turn of the century MP3 player but they were a dime a dozen back then. All I can tell you for sure is that the person who made this is smart, methodical and knows their trade. That the components were cannibalised from the electrical systems, appliances and wiring of a house built sometime in the second half of the twentieth century. That the power cell, while brand new, is like 200,000 in the country and therefore not remotely traceable. It’s a work of art. And he definitely knows how to avoid getting caught.” Callaghan pointed out, his voice heavy with the sort of weariness that comes from trying to deal with a problem that never seems to be solved.
“All right, well that leaves us at something of a disadvantage.” Gibson exclaimed.
“What else is new.” Lewis said flatly.
“ I know, seems we've been playing catch up on this case for a long time. Okay, Miles, keep working on the wireless. Hannah, do we have an ID on our victim yet?”
Hannah pulled a small Tablet Device out of her pocket, she tapped on the screen until she found the information she wanted.
“Still waiting for the bank to release his records, he’s too old to have been born after neonatal coding was introduced, so we were never going to find a genetic transponder but he did have a banking implant. The bank’s playing hard to get in regards to the record release.” She read from the screen.
“And you're surprised by this fact?” Marlowe said.
“Well, I didn’t think anything was less likely to get a yes from one of our fine upstanding legal establishments than one of your requests for a short term loan but this case has proved me wrong.” Hannah shot back. “Now, it could be that the banks are just being their usual irritating stonewalling selves. Protecting the privacy of their clients and the like, and they haven’t exactly been co-operative since those three banks got shut down over links to the Creationist organisation in Alabama last year. However it’s just possible that there’s another explanation.”
Hannah stopped speaking as if unsure of whether to continue.
“Well?” Gibson urged.
“The number on the banking implant traces back to Humber International Bank which as you know is a subsidiary of Clarion Enterprises which is wholly owned by…” Hannah continued.
“Dexter Holdings!” Lewis finished the sentence for her. “I knew it was a mistake getting rid of that little weasel without first making sure his Daddy couldn’t reach us.”
“It is a possibility that Dexter's father is making you pay, boss. You or the Commissioner might need to go and talk to him.” Hannah suggested.
Gibson looked unhappily at his young DC. “Can’t you get it out of them any other way?”
“Well, eventually the courts will compel them to produce the information but that could take a week. Those places have walls built of lawyers. And this is Dexter Senior that we’re dealing with, who as we all know, is paranoid as a dictator in a bunker when the enemies knocking on the hatch, so that means ten times more lawyers. It would take a week, sir.” Hannah explained.
“And time is of the essence on this one.” Gibson mused, almost to himself.
“Your words sir. Anyone of us would go, but he'd only feel slighted if he saw a lower ranked officer and then we'd still have to wait for the courts.” Hannah pointed out.
“Urggh, I’m going to have to go talk to them, aren’t I? This day just keeps getting better. Okay, Hannah, put a call into Alderman Dexter’s office, after everything that happened with Junior, he’ll take great pleasure making me wait, so we won’t get anything else tonight. I take it fingerprints weren’t in the system?”
Hannah shook her head. “Everything's turning out the same as the last two murders. No fingerprints, no obvious missing persons, no leads.”
“What about forensics. Callaghan?” Gibson said, rapidly moving on.
Callaghan looked thoughtful, his hands moving into overtime, tapping out a manic tattoo.
“This is going to take ages to process, we’ve got techs working overtime, double overtime, triple overtime! We drafted some extras in from Barnetby East and Barton Station but it’s going to take a while. If it’s anything like the other sites we won’t find anything. But definitely nothing tonight.”
“And the coroner always likes 24 hours before issuing the Post Mortem report, although…” Without turning, Gibson raised his voice and shouted to the Pathologist attending the body. “Dr Havers, time of death, please.”
The Pathologist shouted in response without making a move away from the Body. “Between 18:30 and 19:30 and don’t ask anything more until I’ve done the PM.”
“Thanks a lot, Max.” Gibson answered.
Gibson pulled a notebook out of his pocket. He wrote something in it. Esther watched him, finding herself side-lined by the practised short-hand of the team’s investigation. Gibson looked at his watch.
“Okay, that’s it, let’s get back to the office. Then Hannah can phone Dexter Holdings, the rest of us can try to find a way to find this guy’s identity so I don’t have to go in front of the two smuggest people in the city. Also we can brief Sergeant Ballard on the particulars of our investigation so far. As few as said particulars maybe.” Gibson’s attention now turned to Esther.
For the first time, Esther felt herself come under the full scrutiny of the Inspector’s clear blue eyes.
“I have to apologise, DS Ballard. Normally we’d talk you through everything, get you orientated. The usual procedure with inter departmental transfers, but you’ve come into the division at an inopportune time, so, with your permission, the grand tour is going to have to wait.”
His tone was light, but as he looked at her, Esther saw them suddenly take on a heaviness, a secret sadness, as if in looking at her or the scene around her, he was reminded of something deep and painful, something at odds with his demeanour. And then just as suddenly it was cloaked as if, he’d come to terms with whatever secret pain or emotion had arisen in his heart.
“So when you get back to Division HQ, we’ll get you something to wear, we’ll have something to eat and you’ll have to catch up as best you can, okay?.” He asked her.
“I’ve got a change of clothes at Central, sir. I’ll just swing by there on the way to Division HQ.” She responded quickly, eager to please.
“Sounds like a plan, Ballard. Okay, let’s move out.”
At that, the group broke up, walking off in pairs towards the airlock, skirting the areas where the forensics teams still worked, trying to find anything to shed a little light on the tragedy that lay before their eyes.
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