CHAPTER EIGHT

 

 

WINTER WAS STILL weeks away, and autumn had been fairly mild so far, but still Helen put the heating on when she made it home. She took a hot shower and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, but she couldn’t shake the chill.

After giving her the once-over the paramedics had taken her to A&E, despite her protestations. Tony had been really sweet about the vomit, but on the way to hospital she still hadn’t been able to look him in the eye without blushing.

The docs wanted to keep her in overnight for observation, but she refused; they were concerned about concussion, but she just wanted to go home. She told them she’d take care, that she’d check in with friends regularly and if she felt at all unwell she’d call an ambulance.

They could have forced the issue—these days it was a lot harder to check yourself out of hospital—but they’d eventually relented. Maybe it was the threat of calling in Devonshire (and by extension Desai), or maybe it was just the iron determination in her eyes.

They told her to take it easy.

She went home and worked.

Dean Dowd hadn’t got far; he’d been picked up at the train station buying a ticket to Bristol, where his family were well known villains. Devonshire had called to give her the interrogation highlights. Dean had started singing like a canary almost immediately, no doubt realising he had a slender window of opportunity in which to lay as much blame as he could in his dead brother’s lap. It had been necro-prostitution; they’d been running a profitable side-line for several months. Dean said the zombie was the only girl they’d ever had, and that she’d been dead when Ryan bought her. Devonshire doubted his statements, but seemed more convinced by Dean’s insistence that neither he nor Ryan had had anything to do with Trinity’s death. Increasingly the story she’d been told earlier looked like the truth.

Back to square bloody one.

She was sat in her most comfortable armchair with a steaming cup of coffee on the table beside her and her tablet in her lap. She’d been reviewing all the information she had about Trinity, hoping she’d see something she hadn’t spotted before.

Several things were clear, but none of them helped in determining who’d murdered Trinity. Increasingly it looked like Trinity was more the sort of person to kill herself.

Student counsellors noted a girl unhappy with her lot in life, and hinted at depression, though they hadn’t been able to make a formal diagnosis. Despite what her parents had said, it seemed Trinity was a poor student, even when she applied herself; which she did rarely, according to the academic reports.

Something Ryan had said at the Serpent and the Rainbow seemed pertinent in hindsight. Friends often popped in to see Trinity while she worked, but it rarely seemed to be the same group twice.

Trinity’s internet history concurred: email traffic with others was sporadic, certain addresses would pop up and there’d be back and forth messaging, almost frantic in nature, but it wouldn’t last. Social media told a similar story.

And then there were the clubs and societies. Trinity had held membership to a dazzling array, considering she’d only just started her second year: the drama society, chess club, the karate and fencing societies, something called WARPSOC (which seemed to involve games), something else called Sci-clique (which didn’t come with a description), Chinese for beginners, intermediate French, forensics club, Strictly Salsa, the political society... the list went on.

Trinity had flitted from one group of friends to another, and it seemed she’d flitted from one hobby to another. An image was forming in Helen’s mind of a girl who desperately wanted to belong—to a group of friends, to a particular club—but who never found anything or anyone who held her interest for more than a few weeks.

Until she met Isaac Ziegler.

Maybe she was about to dump him, maybe she was on the cusp of getting bored, but one thing was clear, compared to all her other moth-like affiliations, Isaac represented a long-term relationship.

Isaac still hadn’t shown up, not even flagging up on facial recognition CCTV.

Trinity might not have been able to bring herself to love Trinity Brown, let alone anyone else, but Isaac Ziegler’s self-love approached Dorian Gray proportions. His social media accounts were full of photos of himself, and he seemed to take a new selfie every few days. There were photos of others in his albums—Trinity showed up a few times, as did Helen’s newfound friend from the refectory—and there were people she didn’t recognise, but mainly it was all about Isaac.

His academic reports spoke of a gifted scholar, when he applied himself, which he did as rarely as Trinity. Unlike Trinity, even coasting, it seemed Isaac was in line for a strong upper second, despite what Luke had said.

Reading about Trinity made her sad; reading about Isaac just worried her. The above-average intelligence, the blatant narcissism, the disappearing act... all these facts led to a frightening conclusion: he fit the profile of a zombarchist to a T. She’d been churlish earlier with Desai; it was what most papers called them, what most coppers called them, too.

Her eyes were hurting, her head was hurting, her gums were hurting. She switched off the tablet and turned on the TV.

It was a mistake.

She caught the tail end of a news item about a man in Edinburgh who’d gone to the cinema. Whilst everyone else was laughing (or probably groaning) at Adam Sandler’s comeback in Zombrother, he’d been quietly expiring, a fact no one realised until his cadaver got up and attacked those nearest him. So far three people were confirmed dead (including the original fatality) and twice as many were injured. The police were still investigating to see whether the instigative death was natural causes, or suicide.

Next up was a piece about the Pulse Amendment, including a short interview with Nicholas Wood MP, standing outside Westminster. He was a gruff ex-Army doctor from Leeds with an iron-grey fuzz atop his head.

“I know there’s a lot of apprehension about my amendment, and I understand people’s worries, but this isn’t a snooper’s charter, it’s a matter of public health. The data that will be collected will be minor. Need I remind you that the Information Commissioner herself has expressed no concerns.”

“But we are talking about everyone in the country being monitored in real time,” said a female reporter off camera. “Right now a chaperone only sends data once someone’s pulse stops.”

Wood shook his head. “People are already monitored in real time; it’s a fallacy that what we’re proposing is something new, all that will change are the parameters. Rather than waiting for someone’s pulse to stop before the chaperone flags up, instead we’ll be alerted when someone’s pulse moves outside of set parameters based on factors such as their age and general health.”

“But in order to maintain those parameters, the NHS’s computer systems will need to draw on live information from the chaperone itself.”

Wood smiled. “Of course, but that just ensures the algorithms we’re using are as accurate as possible. There really is no downside to this.”

Helen had no idea who the faceless reporter was, but give her her due, she wasn’t prepared to give in without a fight. “But what about the report commissioned by the Freedom Society that shows, where a similar system is used in Holland, that people are actively being taken off the streets and into protective custody because of concerns about their general health? Do we really want our hospitals turned into virtual prisons?”

Wood shook his head. The smile had faded and he was starting to look annoyed. “There are a lot of things the Dutch do that we don’t. We’re not about to start growing tulips or legalising marijuana.” He chuckled. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a Select Committee I’m already late for.”

And with that he walked off-camera and the feed returned to the studio, where the news anchors continued with the day’s events, which amazingly seemed to be mainly positive—if you included the fact that rolling power cuts that month were down by two percent.

As if on cue, a tiny red dot appeared in the corner of the screen, and an app on her phone beeped. The power stayed on just long enough for her to catch the start of the local news. The top story was the reason the paramedics had taken as long as they had getting to her: a gaggle of sixth-formers had decided it would be a jolly old jape to snip off their chaperones all at once. As a result a significant number of ambulances and police cars had converged on the location where, supposedly, eight people had just died, expecting to find pandemonium.

Helen didn’t think of herself as particularly vindictive, but she hoped every little shit got expelled for the prank. It just wasn’t funny; in Oldham the week before, three people with nothing in common except for a shared death wish had killed themselves in the middle of a shopping centre. An unemployed butcher, a student nurse and a housewife who’d left behind two kids. Despite what Desai had said about the young, the phenomena of the zombarchist really did cross all boundaries of age, class and gender. They all shared exactly two things: narcissism and nihilism, magnified by an abiding sense that the universe had gone mad these past seven years and there really was no point going on.

Helen was glad when the power cut out and the TV died. Her emergency lighting, wan and with a candle-like flicker, kicked in. With no more distractions, Helen made the call she’d been putting off all evening.

“You’re still breathing, then?”

“Sorry, Rita, I...”

“Six calls, Helen, six calls, and you ignored them all.”

Helen winced. “If it’s any consolation, I was ignoring my mum, too. Still am.”

“That you call me ahead of your mum would be sweet if I hadn’t met your mum.” Her friend sighed down the phone. “You’re okay?”

“Absolutely fine,” said Helen, deciding it wouldn’t be a good idea to mention all her aches and pains. “It’s not the first time I’ve been knocked out by some scumbag.”

“Hmm. Well, I’m glad he got eaten.”

In spite of herself Helen laughed. “Look, maybe we can grab a coffee tomorrow. I should probably get an early night, all things considered. No power here anyway.”

“Really? It’s still on here.”

“That’s because you live in Mackworth, they wouldn’t dream of cutting power to the posh areas.”

“Watch it! So you’re loving me and leaving me?”

“You’ll survive.”

Rita chuckled. “And you don’t even want the update I should have emailed you?”

Damn, Dean must have hit me harder than I thought. “Crap, I forgot. Yes, update me.”

“Okay, well, you were spot on about the antidepressants. Tox-screen showed up Citalopram in her system, plus a blood alcohol level of point one five.”

“So she was royally pissed.”

“Charming. That’s why you don’t live in Mackworth. Yes, she was highly inebriated.”

A suicidal girl shot dead after she’d downed at least a quarter bottle of vodka. The evidence was adding up to something, but annoyingly it wasn’t leading them to an actual killer. “Did forensics turn up anything else?”

“’Fraid not. Plenty of fingerprints and DNA samples from the flat. Most of them Trinity’s, but we got Isaac’s DNA profile from his GP, and he’d definitely been there. Other than that, the biggest fingerprint contributors were the first responders this morning. Oh, and they did find the odd one from me and thee.”

Helen closed her eyes, remembering a slight trip as she entered the bedsit, and having to reach out to steady herself. “I think we can rule us out.” It was further evidence that Trinity didn’t have many friends close enough to pop round on a regular basis. Aside from one. “All roads lead back to Mr Ziegler.”

“So it would seem. Still no sign of him?”

“Nope.” Helen didn’t add that she had a horrible feeling there wouldn’t be until he wandered into a crowded building and slit his wrists. “I’m at a dead end. Look I really do need an early night, so...”

“Go already,” said Rita. “And take a dram of something before you go to bed.”

“Doctors’ orders?”

“Exactly.”

“You realise you’re a pathologist rather than a GP, right?”

“Goodnight!”

Both women were laughing as Helen ended the call. Despite everything Helen, didn’t head for bed. She decided to run through Trinity’s information one more time. Something was nagging at the back of her mind and she knew she wouldn’t sleep until she checked it out.