The Trouble With Time Page 4

Dancing in the dark

  Scott lived in a raffish part of East London, where high density housing had been built in the 2020s to cope with London’s ever-increasing population, and the inexorable rise of house prices. These chic blocks soared improbably among seedy little shops and street markets. The flats only cost between four and five million to buy, or around two thousand a week to rent, had sleek kitchen units and bathrooms and every robotic convenience. They were even smaller than Jace’s.

  Jace approached the entrance, pushed past a man suggesting he visit the lap dancing bar next door, and stared at a daunting battalion of numbered bells. He’d just have to keep trying until he chanced on the right one. Assuming Scott was in. He heard the hum of a pod pulling up behind him and swivelled as its passenger got out. With a shock, Jace recognized Quinn. He put his hand on his gun, stood beside the door and waited.

  Quinn saw him and walked up to him. “Jace! What are you doing here?”

  Jace didn’t smile in return. “I might ask you the same.”

  “I’m here to see Scott.”

  “Why? What for?”

  “You haven’t answered my question yet.”

  “By an amazing coincidence, I’m calling on Scott, too.”

  Quinn nodded slowly. “So you’ve been making the same deductions I have. I might have guessed. But you should have come to me, not acted alone. This could be dangerous.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Ah.” Quinn’s eyebrows went up. “I thought I was talking about the same thing you were. Okay. Let me make myself clearer. It occurred to me that Scott may have killed McGuire deliberately. You wouldn’t know this, but he shot pistols competitively in the States, so it’s pretty unlikely he killed him by accident.”

  Jace felt winded. He hadn’t considered Scott as a suspect, though now Quinn suggested it, he saw the facts could indeed be read that way. It was conceivable the purpose of Scott’s visit to him had been to cast suspicion elsewhere; a pre-emptive strike. Now Jace was face to face with his boss, the theories that had seemed so indisputable lost their force. Quinn, besides being hugely able, was solid; an authority figure, part of the establishment. Unlike Ryker. He was still talking.

  “If that’s the case, he may well have McGuire’s TiTrav – that could have been his motive for murder. So I’ve come here to put this to him, see what he says, and if necessary, arrest him. As you’re here, I’d appreciate your coming with me, just in case he tries anything.”

  Jace’s brain flipped between two possible realities as if trying to make sense of a trompe l’oeil. While he was doing this, the man from the strip club who had accosted him before sidled up.

  “Gentlemen, why not have your discussion in comfort over a drink while watching lovely ladies? No entry fee before eight thirty.”

  Jace shook his head impatiently. “No thanks.”

  “Why not?” said Quinn. “I can see you’ve got something on your mind. Let’s have a quiet chat and you can tell me what it is.”

  They went down narrow steps to the sound of loud music, which throbbed louder as they reached a dim red basement with tables dotted around a small stage. Curtained booths lined the walls. The place smelled of damp and alcohol, perfume and sweat. There was a scattering of customers, outnumbered three-to-one at that hour by scantily clad women working in the bar in various capacities. On the stage a pole dancer performed her act, lit by colour-changing spotlights. Quinn chose a table away from the stage, and after quick consideration of a list handed him by a micro-skirted waitress, ordered two Flatliners.

  “What’s a Flatliner?”

  Quinn said, “No idea. We’ll find out. Go with the flow.”

  Two women approached purposefully and Quinn dismissed them with polite reluctance, saying their delightful presence might prove distracting to a discussion of business matters. The drinks arrived in squat glasses; amber liquid shading to brown, with ice, a twist of peel, and an unidentifiable sprig of greenery. The absurdity of the situation suddenly struck Jace; the provocatively pouting dancer, the clichéd surroundings he’d only experienced before vicariously in movies, the names of the drinks, his surely mistaken melodramatic suspicions of his boss . . . He relaxed and began to laugh.

  “Quiet chat, did you say?” he said, leaning in to be heard above the noise. He raised his glass. “Cheers.” He sipped and grimaced. “Bloody hell. I’m guessing meths and paint stripper, with . . . let me see, the merest dash of shoe polish?”

  “The first sip is the worst, no doubt. You may find it grows on you.”

  Another young woman joined them, sitting in one of the two unoccupied chairs and swaying forward to promote her assets. She had long hair, a shapely figure barely contained in a fringed bra and g-string, and might have been pretty under heavy makeup as traditional in its way as a geisha’s. “Would you like a private dance, guys? I’ll do both of you for the price of one.”

  Jace said, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Unable not to, he watched as she walked away, then looked around the bar, fascinated by the weirdness of the place and the men who chose to come here. Those not enjoying one-on-one attention were staring at the pole dancer, who appeared to be reaching the climax of her act, spinning round the pole as the music got more deafening. “That’s actually really impressive. Especially done in five inch heels.”

  “Jace, focus. We’re here to talk.” He dragged his gaze back to Quinn, who said, “You seemed a bit . . . strange when you saw me outside Scott’s. What’s up?”

  Jace pulled himself together. The place was distracting. He looked Quinn in the eyes, trying to read him, though subtly things had shifted; now he was more worried by what his boss would think of him for having such crazy suspicions than anything else. True, given the data, crazy was a bit strong. It had all made sense, in its own way.

  Yet another lap dancer sashayed up to their table to try her luck, smiling seductively. She leaned forward and purred, “I don’t suppose either of you gents would like to buy me a drink?”

  “We’re gay,” Quinn told her. “And in love.”

  “No problem, boys. I’m here if you change your mind.”

  The girl left and he turned to Jace, expression amused and quizzical, eyebrows raised. “Well? Why were you visiting Scott?”

  Jace said reluctantly, his voice flat, “I couldn’t help considering the possibility that you might have killed McGuire on purpose, after you took the TiTrav off him. Then blamed Scott. Because he was new in the department. Then I was worried you might get rid of him so people would assume he’d taken off with the TiTrav, then no one would suspect you. You’d be able to disappear the bullets, too, so no one could prove he wasn’t McGuire’s killer.” He could hear, as if listening to someone else say it, how far-fetched the whole thing sounded; like the summary of a thriller’s plot, ridiculous, sensational. He sat back, feeling a fool, waiting for Quinn’s reaction, though his overriding emotion was relief that he’d been wrong.

  Quinn said nothing for a moment then started to shake with laughter, gazing at Jace. Apparently Jace’s solemn face made the joke funnier. Quinn thumped him on the shoulder, unable to get a word out. Jace couldn’t help laughing a little too. He remembered he’d thought Quinn would laugh if told his conjectures.

  Quinn’s hilarity died down enough for him to speak. “So, once you’d warned Scott about me, what were you planning to do next?”

  Jace’s face felt hot. “I hadn’t decided,” he muttered. He drained his drink so he didn’t have to look at Quinn.

  Quinn stood, smiling. “Let’s go and see Scott. You shall judge between us.”

  They headed for the exit, Quinn waving amiably at the row of girls as they walked past them and up the stairs. Jace’s legs felt tired and his head ached. Having a nap in the daytime was never a good idea. That vile drink hadn’t helped, either. He should have had the sense to leave it.

  A couple were entering Scott’s building as they neared the door, and they followed them into the lobby. The couple pe
eled off to the left, and Quinn pushed the button for the elevator. It arrived and they got in. The doors slid shut. Jace yawned uncontrollably.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  Quinn was watching him oddly, like he was waiting for something. Jace could hardly keep his eyes open. He swayed and had to grab the hand rail for support. Suddenly he understood. Oh shit. He fumbled for his gun with slow fingers, but Quinn already had his out, pointing at Jace.

  CHAPTER 9

  The dark side

  Jace smelled wool and became aware that he was lying on a rug or carpet. The memory of Quinn’s perfidy flooded his mind, and he concentrated on appearing to be unconscious while he assessed his situation. The room was warm and quiet, the hum of traffic just audible. Cautiously, he flexed his muscles, and discovered he couldn’t move freely. His hands were fastened behind him with the plastic cuffs the department used. His feet were tied too. The shoulder he lay on was numb from his awkward position, his head throbbed and he felt queasy. Hot panic surged through him. Quinn was going to kill him instead of Scott. One scapegoat was as good as another.

  “You’re awake.” Quinn’s voice.

  Jace opened his eyes. They were in a smallish modern living room elegantly decorated in blues and greys. Quinn sat on a sofa a few feet from him, drink in hand, relaxed. He had taken off his jacket, and looked so normal that part of Jace’s mind could not quite believe this was happening. It was, though; Quinn, his boss, had drugged him and tied him up. He could think of nothing there was any point in saying. He cursed himself for his stupidity and lack of judgment.

  “I’m sorry about this, Jace. I’d far rather it was Scott lying where you are – not that he would be, because I wouldn’t want to talk to him first.” Quinn lifted the cuff of his Darcy shirt, revealing the silver TiTrav on his left wrist. “You guessed right, in every respect. Remarkable. You’re a credit to the department – and my judgment in hiring you. But you have a failing. You didn’t trust your own conclusions enough, and you trusted me too much.”

  Jace was damned if he was going to ask what Quinn had planned for him. He’d find out all too soon. “Why did you do it?”

  “I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to get my hands on a TiTrav for some time. I imagined I’d be able to borrow one of the department’s, but the security on them is ridiculously tight, even for me.” He added with interest, “Don’t tell me you’ve never fantasized about being able to travel in time?”

  Jace had. As a teenager he’d been obsessed with the idea ever since reading about the early experiments, which back then no one thought would have a practical application. If he was honest, one of the main, if undeclared, reasons he’d applied to join IEMA was the hope he might get the chance to time travel. Senior officers did make regular (strictly controlled) forays into the future, to monitor climate change, population trends and similar data. Quinn had. Jace was not high enough up the ladder to be eligible yet. “Of course I have. But it’s banned for a reason. Because it’s so easy to screw up the future.”

  “Is that what you think?” Quinn laughed wryly. “I’ll tell you something classified, since you are not in a position to be anything but discreet. You don’t know what this planet is like in a hundred and fifty years’ time. The top brass at IEMA and the World Government do. So, as it happens, do I, because I’ve been to the future – for legitimate research purposes – and seen it. From about 2065, people stop breeding. Everyone becomes infertile because of an extremely virulent contraceptive virus, and we don’t know how to stop it happening. Gradually, as people fail to reproduce themselves, our civilization grinds to a halt. By 2170, humanity is extinct. The last person has died and plants and animals have the planet to themselves. And nobody’s managed to find out what to do to prevent it, though my God they’ve certainly tried. I’ve tried – and will go on trying – myself. So talk of the danger of time travel is a little beside the point. It’s not possible to make the future worse than it’s already going to be. In fact, lots of random time travel might be a good thing, might accidentally send us in a different direction from the future we’re currently heading for. Because right now, we’re all doomed.”

  Facing as he was his own personal extinction, Jace couldn’t get very worked up about humanity’s. He said wearily, “Did you put this point to IEMA executives?”

  “No, because I intend to keep my job.”

  “So you’re saying it’s okay to have this illegal TiTrav because you’re going to use it to avert the annihilation of the human race?”

  He’d made Quinn laugh again. “Er, no, though thank you for crediting me with such altruism. That justification had not occurred to me, largely because I don’t feel the need to justify myself. True, I am trying to find the solution, because I like a challenge. It’s a fascinating conundrum, like Fermat’s Last Theorem.”

  “It was three hundred and fifty-eight years before Andrew Wiles solved that little puzzle.”

  “How many people know that? Jace, if I have to kill you I’m going to miss you. We have a greater incentive – Fermat’s Theorem was hardly a life or death matter. That aside, it’s my personal aspirations I’ll mainly be using time travel for, and they’re quite modest and more easily achieved. I intend to become obscenely rich and have a great deal of fun, in the knowledge that things won’t get really depressing for quite some time, and when they do, I will relocate to the past. Some time with antibiotics, so the recent past. London in the 1980s would probably suit me.”

  Jace’s brain felt as if he’d got it back after it had been borrowed for use as a football, which hindered coherent thought. He didn’t feel up to sustaining his share of the conversation, and couldn’t imagine why Quinn wanted to explain his viewpoint – which was what he seemed to be doing. Jace took the line of least resistance, and lay inert, listening to the silence. The effect of whatever Quinn had spiked his drink with would wear off in time – if he lived long enough.

  “You’re wondering why I’m saying all this to you,” Quinn remarked with disconcerting accuracy. “I like you, Jace. I regard you as a friend. I don’t want to get rid of you unless I have to. I’m going to be very, very cautious with how I use this thing at first, because I have no intention of getting caught. But in a year or so, when the scandal of Scott’s disappearance is forgotten, I shall be more adventurous.” There was relish in his voice. “Think of all the places and events there are to visit in history. Who wouldn’t want to see gladiators fight in the Colosseum, cruise on the Titanic, watch the first production of Hamlet at the Globe, visit the brothels of Pompeii . . .”

  “You murdered a man so you can be a time tourist? Jesus wept.” Jace closed his eyes to shut Quinn out. He wanted to be at home, in his own bed, and safe.

  “Is that so strange? I’ve got everything else I want. Jace. Jace, look at me.”

  “You want me to look at you, you’ll have to untie me. I’m getting a crick in my neck.”

  “I’m not going to untie you. Yet. I’m going to make you an offer.” Jace opened his eyes. “Some of the places I’ll be visiting will be dangerous. I wouldn’t mind having someone to watch my back. You’d be ideal; you’re tough and you’re bright and we work well together.”

  A tiny flicker of hope sparked in Jace’s chest. His mind went into overdrive. There was no way he would agree to become Quinn’s time-travelling minder, even to save his own life. Perhaps he’d have considered the offer, if Quinn hadn’t killed McGuire deliberately to cover up his own misdeeds . . . but he had. That was heinous, unforgivable. He remembered Saffron’s face, her pain and anger. And now he intended to kill Scott. The man was unhinged. But if Jace pretended to agree, so Quinn untied him, and he played along for a bit, he could pick his moment – which would have to be before anything happened to Scott – and jump him or surreptitiously phone Kayla for help . . .

  He said, “So what you’re doing is building an alternative department? Your own personal team on the dark side? Why would I
want to join?”

  “The dark side?” Quinn’s eyebrows went up. He intoned, in a passable imitation of Darth Vader, “You are beaten, it is useless to resist. There is no escape. Don’t make me destroy you, when together we can bring order to the galaxy. Join me, it is your destiny.” In his normal voice he added, “If money interests you, it’s easy to make when you have access to time travel. I’d be accommodating, if we were partners. Of course, you’d have to abandon a few scruples, and get used to the idea that you’d be doing exactly what your day job is meant to prevent. But then, I’ve explained why your job is entirely futile. For my part, I’d need to be convinced I can rely on you, that you weren’t just agreeing to this in order to get out of the predicament you’re in so you can report me to my superiors.”

  “I don’t see how I can convince you of that.”

  “Luckily, I do. I was planning to maroon Scott two hundred years in the future, leave him to survive as best he could.” Quinn paused for a moment. “But I’ll know I can trust you if you kill him first. It might even be a mercy to Scott. And to make sure you don’t double-cross me, you’ll do it with your bare hands while I cover you both with a gun.”

  With the sudden rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins Jace found he was able to twist himself into a sitting position. From this vantage point he stared at Quinn with rage and disgust. He didn’t consciously decide what to say; the words spilled out on their own.

  “I used to respect you, Quinn. Admire you. Like you. Not any more. Turns out you’re a contemptible, lying, two-faced scumbag who doesn’t give a shit for anyone except himself. I’ve met some lowlifes in my job, God knows, but the lowest and meanest of them is a hundred times better than you. You murdered McGuire and now you want to drag me down to your level by making me murder Scott. I’d rather die. Go fuck yourself.”

  Quinn’s face changed. That got home, Jace thought.

  “You’d rather die . . . I can arrange that for you.”