“Look, we need to take some care here. We can’t just get into the car and pile across the river. Let’s think it through first.” Serrin’s caution was sensible.
Geraint explained his plan of action, First of all, I’ve been trying to call Catherine Eddowes. The deck’s on auto-repeat dialing through the telecom interface. It’s already got the answering machine, but we’ll plug away and hope. She just might answer if she gets an alert from her phone that she’s being called every thirty seconds. We can afford ten, fifteen minutes at least.
Second, I’m running a program looking for every Catherine Eddowes in London. It’s not likely to be a common name, so I’m using an analysis frame to search for every one in the public datanets. If we come up with an alternative Catherine Eddowes who’s a seventy-five-year-old retired author up in Wood Green or a five-year-old creche regular, I think we can check them off the list.” Geraint paused a moment, unsure how to phrase the next part.
“Third, there’s the minor problem of the fact that you two are, pardon me for saying so, as tight as judges. You’ve gone through the equivalent of at least a bottle of wine each and, unlike me, you don’t have cannula implants to get you over that hurdle in a minute flat. I’ve got some enzyme shots, but that’ll only handle the peripherals, I’m afraid. Your brains will continue to have a very hefty slug of alcohol swimming round in them for about half an hour: modern technology can’t get across the blood-brain barrier much faster than that. That alone is a great reason for spending a quarter of an hour plugging away at the telecom and hoping we don’t have to set foot outside this fiat tonight”
Francesca and Serrin exchanged glances. A few minutes ago Geraint had barely been able to stand upright. The change was impressive.
He gave them both a slap patch with the degrading enzyme, then opened a wall safe after its security system had run a retina scan on his eyes. The seamless edge slid soundlessly open, revealing a space the size of a small wardrobe. He rummaged through the safe contents.
“I think we should take body armor for a start, plus IR lenses and Bond and Carringtons. What are you most comfortable with in the pistol department, Fran?”
“I’ve never carried anything more than a light-a Colt, usually. Never needed anything more. I’ve hardly ever fired one of those.”
He casually tossed her a Bond and Carrington light with a hefty clip. “Twenty shots in the clip, and a spare. That should do the job. Serrin’s got his Ingram and I’ll take my usual. Okay, that’s done. Now, I don’t exactly have an anti-personnel armory here! but we should be able to come up with a few extras. Slap patches for a start. Take the best trauma I’ve got.”
“You figure we’re going to get seriously hurt?” The elf looked grave.
“Serrin, we may walk in to find someone very close to death. The best trauma patch in the world may be no more use to her than using a feather duster to beat off a troll samurai, but we can only hope.
He mused before the shelves of the safe. Serrin could see a startling number of credsticks stacked up in the top row, each taped and labelled. Geraint pocketed a couple and took a hefty wedge of notes into the bargain, but that wasn’t what was on his mind. “Maybe we should reconsider,” he said. “Do you have a pistol license, Fran?”
“Yes. I had to file a residency request, which is still in the works, but the Lord Protector, God preserve, decided I was a fit person to carry a Colt. I think my corporate references may have had something to do with that.”
“Well, technically your pistol isn’t covered by that, but it is functionally identical and I think your Colt developed a sad fault in it yesterday, right?” She grinned. “If you’re caught in possession you’ll get fined but you won’t get deported. Serrin’s Ingram is a trickier problem. I assume you have no license for that, my friend?”
“Well, er, no” Serrin obviously didn’t want to discuss how he'd acquired the weapon.
“Right. If the baggies catch you, it could be serious. If you fire the thing, you could end up as a guest of Her Majesty’s Prison Service. That is not a prospect you want to take lightly. So, maybe you should leave it behind. I can offer you a large net-gun instead. Non-lethal, constraining, purely self-defense. They catch you with that and you get deported, of course, but then that’s not really a pressing worry right now. You’d only get fined a few thou. What do you say?”
The elf grumbled at first, but he could see the wisdom behind Geraint’s suggestion. he accepted the hefty weapon and was figuring out how to conceal it under his voluminous greatcoat when the laser printer began its smooth flow. Geraint ran over to pore over the printout.
“Five of them. More than I’d expected, given the name. Well, well, one’s just gone on holiday to France, poor woman. Not something any patriotic Brit would do, never mind. Her flight left on Friday, so she’s out. One’s a civil servant, age forty-six. Think we can forget her. Number three’s a cab driver in Westway. Twenty-seven years old. She might be a possible, servicing dubious gentlemen in the back of the cab in Paddington, but right now she’s in the Royal Marsden having a retina-tightening eye operation. Someone could try to murder her there, but they’ve got incredible security. Not very likely, I think.”
“How the hell are you finding all this out?” Serrin muttered.
“Easy. Once I have the names from the public datanet it’s pretty simple to check vehicle licenses, air and rail and coach departure bookings, hospital lists, and the like. But I daren’t risk what I really want to do, which is check through Metropolitan Police files on the Met’s own network.”
“Number four is a troll in the Squeeze. Mind you, the data is five years out of date. Census data down there is pretty patchy even in these days of compulsory poll tax. She’s registered as having been a local counsellor in Croydon in 2044, which makes her one of the radfems. That was a real hoot, that business. Anyway, even if she’s still around I think we can safely eliminate a radical feminist troll from our list of possibles.” Geraint allowed himself a grim smile, which spread into a broader one as he scanned the last entry.
“Bringing us to number five. Who happens to be, good heavens, a retired travel writer living in Wood Green. Hmm. She’s sixty-six and specializes in scripting trid documentaries about vanishing cultures. Oh no, I don’t think so.”
Serrin was puzzled. “But the Catherine Eddowes you know isn’t on the list. I don’t understand.”
“That tells us one of two things. Either she’s moved and isn’t registered at her new address, or she’s where she used to be and census data is incomplete, which is more than likely down in the East End. Over a million and a half Londoners do not appear on any official lists, and that doesn’t even count the Undercity. There are plenty of places where census officials wouldn’t go even if toting a vanload of SAS laser packs at their backs. Most places with a Metropolitan Police security rating of C or worse have very incomplete data. And we’re heading into a C zone or lower, no question.”
“You people sobering up, by the way?”
Francesca ruefully admitted she was getting there, but the evening wasn’t turning out to be exactly what they’d expected. A warm haze of alcoholic glow over coffee and truffles had been an inviting prospect, but that was starting to seem all very distant now. Serrin nodded as he fingered the unused patch in his pocket. He’d let his own body deal with it naturally.
Geraint made one final check on the telecom. “Getting nothing but the answering machine. I’ll leave a short message on auto telling her to barricade herself until we arrive. She won’t take any notice even if she gets it, I suppose, but we have to try.”
Serrin had a final consideration. “Hey, what if the media are onto this? We might end up with a posse of trid-jocks down on the site. They might even get there first.”