“It’s quite peerless, isn’t it?”
Percy turns to the owner of the voice.
“The view,” the voice continues. The Director is modestly, even humbly dressed, given his status and authority: plain brown shoes, khaki trousers, moss-green cardigan, simple white grandfather shirt buttoned to the neck. A thin, clean shaven face, dark hair, receding from a widow’s peak and greying at the temples. Almost a bookish air about him; professorial.
“Oh, yes,” Percy says. “It’s … it’s amazing.”
The room itself is not too bad either: a subtle symphony of natural tones, mellow greens and rich-grained browns; art nouveau armchairs adorned with graceful carved forms; a parquet floor of intricate geometric design. You would think to look around that the wood shortage is fake news.
The Director smiles. “Yes, we’re very lucky. I’m very lucky. One of the few perks of a demanding job.”
He smiles again – a little tightly.
Nerves?
Perhaps just not a fan of face-to-face, and Percy suspects that, had this not just happened on his own doorstep, the owner of the face in front of him would rather have conducted the meeting remotely.
“Oh.” And now the Director is moving toward him, the forgetful professor, hand outstretched. “Please forgive me: Jonathan Caulden.” A firm grasp – no cold limp fish, but the jaws of an eel; a grasp determined to assert a no-nonsense manner, and one that has nothing to hide.
“Perceval Gordon. Thank you again for seeing me at such short notice, Director,” – attempting to return the eel’s jaws with equal pressure – “I appreciate that you must be very busy.”
“Not too busy for something such as this, Inspector.” Caulden’s brow crumples into a look of sad concern. “Whatever we—whatever I can do to help. And it’s Jonathan, please. Won’t you…?” He gestures toward one of the beautiful armchairs stationed either side of a matching little round table, set just before the wall-sized window that looks out onto that peerless view. They sit. Refreshments are offered and politely declined. “It really is a terrible thing,” the Director continues. “Do you know how she came to be here in the first place?”
“I was rather hoping you could tell me that.” Percy smiles. Should he be smiling? He stops.
“Oh. Well, we’ve checked our records, naturally, and no residents or employees seem to be missing. All recent visitors are accounted for, in and out. Do you have an ID for her? A name?”
“That’s the strange thing. I mean, facial recognition…” – a mangled pulp of flesh and hair; a far-off sky-blue gaze – “well, that … it was inconclusive. As was the DNA. No record at all.”
“None at all? Gosh.” Caulden shakes his head in slow puzzlement. “A real mystery, then. But I suppose some types make every effort to stay off the grid, as it were.”
“Types?”
“Well, there were drugs involved, I understand?”
News travels fast.
“Yes. Some Haze. As well as certain other compounds, the purpose of which I’ve as yet been unable to identify.”
Really? The Director’s eyebrows rise a curious notch.
“But other than that,” Percy continues, “we have no leads.”
“I see.” A sympathetic nod.
“I mean – this is what … well, this is something that puzzles me – actually, a few things.” Percy begins to list these puzzles on his fingers. “First: why come here to … uh … to do that? Surely there are other, less public and dramatic ways of … of ending things. Unless she had some previous connection to the Arc? A disgruntled former employee, maybe? An evicted resident, wanting to make a statement?”
Caulden is already shaking his head. “No, no one that fits that profile, I’m afraid. As I say, we did a check, and that would have included past residents and recent employees.”
“But then there’s the second thing.” Percy extends another finger. “The nails.”
“I’m sorry?”
“They were just in too good a condition – for a Haze addict. Clean, well kept. The hair, too.” What wasn’t matted with gore.
Caulden nods. “An agitator? Some sort of botched protest thing? We do get them, unfortunately, from time to time. Conspiracists, radicals. Not everyone sees the good in what the Arcs are doing.”
“You know, I thought of that too. An act of sabotage gone wrong. But then—”
“I’m sorry?” Caulden is looking at him as if he hasn’t heard him properly.
“An act of sabotage? But there’s the third thing:” – a third finger – “she was wearing a nightdress.”
“A nightdress? How extraordinary.”
“Odd attire for a saboteur. Could she have been a … a visitor, that one of the residents snuck in? Unofficially, perhaps?”
“A lady friend, you mean?” Director Caulden chuckles. “No, no. All visitors accounted for, as I said. And they’d have had a hell of time sneaking her past our security.”
“And yet,” Percy notes, “apparently she did.”
Caulden eyes him a moment, and nods ruminatively, shifting his gaze out past Percy to the view beyond, where the low sun is dissolving cloud corpses in an acid bath of oranges and reds.
“You know, Inspector” – turning back, a thought striking him – “the Haze, the nightdress – mightn’t all that point toward her being somewhat unhinged? Poor girl obviously wasn’t in her right mind, whatever the case. Have you checked with the hospitals? The psychiatric wards?”
“I will of course be doing that. But that still brings us back to the nails.”
Caulden shrugs. “Not impossible that the mentally ill have good grooming, I suppose. Nor addicts, for that matter. I guess we will find out eventually.” He smiles again, and claps his palms on his thighs and stands up. “But as I say, if there is anything we can do.”
“Is there no footage?” Percy asks, remaining seated. “No other data that might help us?”
“Relating to?”
“The fall, Director. Most arcologies I’ve had dealings with have extensive internal surveillance, access logs of the opening of locks on windows, doors, and so on, to help with internal climate control – well! I’m sure I don’t have to explain all that to you.” Caulden smiles thinly. “But that would help decide where she fell from. External footage of entryways might also establish when and where she entered. And would it be possible to put out a call for witnesses?”
The Director scrutinises him once more, and the fulsome smile is back.
“Witnesses, certainly. I shall put a call out, as you suggest. But regarding data and surveillance, I don’t know how your other arcologies are run, Inspector, but here we favour a lighter touch. All the personal data that we require is kept to an absolute minimum and is never allowed out of house. The privacy of our residents is paramount, you understand. I’m not even sure that the central shaft is monitored in any way – we’ve never had a problem with jumpers, you see. People want to be here. We’re not some sort of …” – another of his little chuckles – “… of factory sweatshop, or a detention facility. Nevertheless, I shall task our AI with the matter straight away. It may take a little while to assemble all the relevant data from our various systems, given its other duties, but I will let you know as soon as it’s available. I can have someone drop it over? More secure, by courier. Where are you staying, while you’re in town?”
“The Empire? I came straight here the moment I got the call, so I haven’t yet had chance to check in. Is it nice?”
The Director pulls a “define nice” face. “We’d be happy to put you up here, you know? Until your enquires are finished? Or I can arrange somewhere a little bit nicer Outside?”
Percy declines with a polite smile of his own. “I appreciate the offer, but protocol forbids, I’m afraid.” He gets to his feet. “Perceptions of neutrality, and all that.”
“Of course, of course.” Director Caulden extends his firm grasp once more. “Sorry I haven’t been able to be more helpful, Inspector. Do keep me abreast of all developments, won’t you?”
Percy again returns the grasp equally firmly.
“I will indeed,” he says.
Tidelands is a weekly sci-fi/fantasy serial that publishes every Friday, emailed straight to your inbox. All instalments are free, but you can support my writing by taking out a paid subscription, or buying ebook or paperback editions of the collected instalments.