“But… why?”
“The Conquistador, why else? It’s all getting too much for everyone, too embarrassing. A head has to roll — a bigwig’s head. As I understand it, this comes all the way from the Great Speaker himself. His Imperial Holiness is not best pleased with how we’ve been dealing with the Conquistador. Enough’s enough.”
“Striped. The poor bastard.”
“It’s a noble death.” Aaronson sounded more hopeful than reassuring.
“It’s a fucking horrible death,” Mal said.
“Well, yes, can’t argue with that. But we know what to do, don’t we?”
“Too damn right we do.”
Getting onto the striping detail was not easy. Only four could be chosen, and just about everyone in the building was putting their own name forward. Not only was it an honour to take part, it was a valuable addition to your CV. The officer appointed to make the selection, Sergeant Pembroke, was swamped with volunteers.
Mal, however, reckoned she had leverage on Pembroke, and now was the time to apply it. Drawing the sergeant aside for a quiet word, she reminded him about a case they had both worked on a couple of years ago, busting a conclave of anti-Empire radical extremists who had been publishing pamphlets that mocked and derided the Great Speaker, calling him as the “Great Squeaker” and painting him as a frantic, ranting despot in dire need of being deposed.
At the extremists’ hideout in a West End backstreet basement, along with reams of paper and a printing press, a wad of cash had been found, hadn’t it? A tidy little sum hidden beneath a loose floorboard, no doubt earmarked to fund further subversion. Equivalent to a good three months’ salary, if Mal remembered rightly. And, mysteriously, the money had just sort of disappeared on its way to the evidence lockers. There one minute, gone the next. She hadn’t mentioned anything about it to anyone, but it had been pretty curious, hadn’t it? So much cash going astray.
Pembroke whitened just a little. He said he had no idea what the DCI was talking about. He didn’t recall any money.
“Why should you?” Mal replied sweetly. “If we’re all doing our duty and acting like professionals, we don’t even notice such things. And clerical errors do happen. Someone in Evidence probably mislaid the money, put it in the wrong locker, stuck the wrong label on. It’s sitting downstairs in a box gathering dust, and nobody has a clue it’s there.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“No point raking any of that up. No point bringing it to the attention of Internal Affairs. It’s such a small thing, I don’t even know why we’re discussing it now.”
Pembroke nodded avidly. There was a film of perspiration on his upper lip. “Me either,” he said.
“And if I was to get onto the striping detail, I’m sure I would forget about it completely.”
“Really? That’s all it would take?”
“That’s all.”
He looked at her as if he could scarcely believe it. For what she was selling him, she was charging a remarkably low price.
“Then you’re on it,” he said. “And the money, nobody’s ever going to hear about it again?”
“Not from me. You have my absolute word on that.”
“Thank you, chief inspector. Thank you so much.”
“Not at all, sergeant. Thank you.”
In the old days, during the Empire’s infancy, striping was a practice routinely carried out on captured enemy combatants. Only those who had shown notable prowess and bravery on the battlefield were singled out to be put to death in this way; the rest of the captive warriors would be mass-slaughtered like cattle. It was considered a mark of respect and a fitting tribute to their valour, although the victims themselves might not see it that way.
In modern times, striping was the fate of anyone in authority who failed to live up to expectations or disgraced the Empire somehow. It was a chance to redeem oneself before gods and men, make reparation through pain, and depart the world with dignity restored. A “flowery” death, as it was known. A good death.
At five o’clock, punctually, Chief Superintendent Kellaway left Scotland Yard for the Westminster ziggurat, a walk of a few hundred metres. Commissioner Brockenhurst was at his side every step of the way. Both men were in full ceremonial garb, their uniforms sporting the plethora of medals and decorations they had earned in the course of their careers.
Behind them, in square formation, strode the four members of the striping detail, Mal among them. They, too, were dressed up for the occasion. Then came a procession of other ranks, nearly a thousand strong, the entire Yard turning out to see the chief super off. Civilian onlookers lined the route, craning their necks. Tourists and commuters, curious, stopped and stared. The inevitable Sun Broadcasting cameras were there, recording the moment for posterity.
During his final walk, Kellaway loudly sang the praises of the Jaguar Warriors, the High Priest, the Empire, the Great Speaker. It was an integral part of the ritual, and to neglect to do so was shameful. At the top of his voice he proclaimed his loyalty to the force and his regret that he had not discharged his role to the very best of his abilities. He wished his successor, whosoever that might be, all success in the job and confessed how sad he was that he would not be around to see the new chief super prevail where he himself had blundered.
He continued with the protestations of faith and hope as he mounted the ziggurat steps. At the summit, the commissioner relieved him of his helmet and most of his regalia and presented him with the weapons he could use to defend himself. These comprised four pine cudgels for throwing and a war club adorned with quetzal feathers. An acolyte stood nearby, the official pastor to the Metropolitan Jaguars. He had a knife ready, along with a jaguar-shaped iron vessel just large enough to hold a human heart.
To the west, the sun was setting in a gory rage of twilight. To the east, the thunderheads loomed higher than ever, massive as a mountain range. It wouldn’t be long now before the storm broke. The air carried a static crackle. Growls echoed over the Thames estuary.
Commissioner Brockenhurst retreated, bowing to Kellaway. The acolyte tethered Kellaway by the waist to a large circular stone mounted on a platform. There was enough slack in the rope to give the chief super the run of the ziggurat’s summit, but no further. The acolyte incanted, commending Kellaway’s soul to the Four Who Rule Supreme. Then he invited the striping detail to step forward and take their positions around the victim.
“In the name of Xipe Totec,” he said to them, “the Flayed One, the Mighty Skinless, I beseech you. Be merciful with slowness. Cut with delicacy. Prolong the suffering, for only in blood and agony may this man’s sins be atoned. Begin!”
Mal held back, allowing the other three Jaguars, all men, to get their licks in first. Unlike Kellaway, the members of the striping detail each carried a decent weapon: a war club edged with shards of flint. The chief super straight away squandered the meagre advantage he had by tossing all four of his pine cudgels at them. Only one found its mark, and bounced all but harmlessly off its target’s chest. The cudgels rolled off the top of the ziggurat, putting them forever out of Kellaway’s reach.
The three Jaguars closed in and began delivering swift, deft slices to Kellaway’s arms and legs. They were careful only to nick the skin, going no deeper into his flesh. Blood was soon pouring down his limbs in ribbons and rivulets.
Kellaway retaliated gamely, lashing out with his feather-fringed club, and managed to get in a few solid connections. He was not going down without a fight. He was not supposed to. However, the odd bruise here and there could hardly compare with the damage that was so insistently being inflicted on him. Moreover, he was an old man, long past his prime, and his opponents were all of them younger, quicker and nimbler.
As the minutes passed, he began to sag. There were wounds all over him now, on torso, neck, buttocks, chest, head. His uniform hung off him in tatters. He was breathing stertorously, his eyes bulging. The three Jaguars did not let up. Kellaway staggered this way and that, flailing with his club, and they continued to dart around him, slashing him as finely and neatly as they could. His body was soon cross-hatched all over with shallow gashes and incisions. He was quite literally striped with his own blood.