Catacombs of Terror! Page 5

  Chapter 9

  Wet Handshake

  I was punctual. I always am. My suit was still looking reasonably sharp, despite the drizzle I arrived in. I climbed the steps up to City Hall and pushed open the double doors. The lobby was spacious, all marble and Victorian civic ostentation. There was a secretary behind a lonely desk that looked tiny and out of place in the chilly vastness.

  “My name’s Bob Jones. From the paper. I’m supposed to be meeting Mario Murnau,” I said. I hoped I sounded polite. I couldn’t tell. Well, yeah.

  “I’ll just page him. Is he expecting you?” Icy cold. Professional, I supposed. But not very welcoming. Well, yeah. What did I expect? Air kisses and a hug?

  “I have an appointment for eleven thirty.”

  “Well, it’s only eleven twenty-five. Would you take a seat?”

  I bit back a few choice words and sat down. I sat still and I looked around until I’d looked around about as much as I cared to. It wasn’t very rewarding. Murnau turned up a quarter of an hour later. I got up and extended my hand, but he didn’t seem to like the idea of shaking it. He walked towards the door. I followed.

  “Bob Jones? I’m Murnau. I take it you’re here to talk to the CCTV chappies.” Mario Murnau was tall, with horn-rimmed specs, and a polished, vaguely Etonian accent. His name sounded exotic, but he didn’t look it. There was something a little odd about him, though. I couldn’t quite tell what it was. We were outside now. The rain didn’t surprise me. I was used to it. Murnau didn’t like it at all. He hurriedly unlocked a black wrought-iron gate, and led me down some steps below the pavement. I’d never noticed them before.

  “They live down here, Bob. The men behind our electronic eyes! Night and day, twenty-four hours, they never stop. Shifts, of course. Ah, could I just see your press card? Good, good. Have to be careful, you realise. Where was I? Yes, indeed, the system is never unattended. Never! Round the clock safety and peace of mind for the good citizens of our city, eh? Anyway, it’s all pretty sensitive stuff, so I’ll stay with you while you speak to the chappies. Don’t mind me.”

  We had entered a subterranean control room beneath City Hall. It seemed unnecessarily dark. There were banks of switches and two walls of TV monitors, both colour and black and white. Figures moved across them. I could recognise most of the locations. There was a reek of body odour and instant coffee in the stuffy atmosphere. Murnau took a couple of steps back into the murk of the corner of the room. He was proprietorial. Watchful. And not entirely at ease. There were three men scrutinising the screens, their faces lit up by them. One of them, a bulky crew-cut guy in some sort of pseudo military pullover, turned on his swivel chair and extended a meaty hand towards me.

  “Morning. I’m Robinson. I take it you’d like to know a little about the system?” Robinson. No first name. He seemed friendly though. Almost keen. Probably welcomed the chance to see someone from outside. A reporter, no less.

  “Bob Jones.” I shook his hand. His handshake was moist. Not too firm. I didn’t like it. Handshakes are one of the things that I tend to judge people on. Not fair, I know. Yeah, well. Anyway.

  “I’m from the paper. I’m working on a piece about twenty-first century crime and prevention. Credit card fraud, Internet scams, that sort of thing. Then moving on to DNA testing, ‘smart water,’ and of course video surveillance. Which is where you guys come in. All right to smoke in here?” I had my cigarette already in my mouth.

  “I’m afraid not, Bob,” said Murnau. I put my cigarette back in the packet.

  “Well,” said Robinson, “basically, we inherited this system from Rentokil. The Council reviews the contract every three years. If everything’s up to scratch, nothing changes. Or if another company offers a better deal than the current outfit, that’s taken into consideration at the review. So we have to perform!” He laughed. Murnau laughed, too. Stage laughter, I thought. “We have a total of a hundred and two cameras in the central city area, and thirty-six in the suburbs, another thirty-six in local villages—”

  “Excuse me,” I interrupted, pulling a notebook from my bag. “This is exactly the kind of thing we need our readers to know. Peace of mind, and all that.” I scribbled down the figures.

  “—so we have a total of one hundred seventy-four cameras operating in public areas. All of these cameras are highly visible. That’s a requirement in the guidelines. No hidden cameras. Part of the point of them is to deter crime, as well as detect it. So visible cameras are part of the plot. Your criminal sees the camera and thinks again. Your criminal knows he’s being watched. The knowledge that the cameras exist is enough to deter crime, at least in the first instance. Another part of the plot is that we don’t want the surveillance to be seen as a covert, Big Brother–style operation. The cameras are friends to the law-abiding. It’s your criminals who need to worry about them.”

  He laughed again. He was an irritating guy, self-satisfied and smug. With a wet handshake. I carried on scribbling in my notebook. I noticed Murnau straining to read what I was writing without seeming to.

  “One of the cameras’ sidelines is that they look out for each other, too. Each camera is sited so that I can check the status of its neighbouring device.”

  I was beginning to feel bored. I let the lecture drift on, occasionally nodding or making an appreciative noise. I kept on writing in my book. I knew all this anyway. Standard surveillance industry crap. Everything was smothered in layers of assurance that it was all for the public good. Old-fashioned crime-fighting Dixon-of-Dock-Green sweet-talk. I thought I might as well throw a small spanner into his spiel. Test out a little suspicion of mine.

  “So how much money does KHS earn from the contract?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid that information is classified,” butted in Murnau. He looked at me sharply. “Standard business practice, of course. A company is under no obligation to reveal its finances to anyone other than the Inland Revenue.”

  “Of course,” I concurred. Interesting. Murnau had responded quickly, but perhaps too quickly to notice exactly what I had said.

  “Well, that’s the background. Anything specific you’d like to ask?” said Robinson.

  “That seems to have covered almost everything I need for the article. But I would like to see the cameras in action from here. Would that be possible?”

  “Certainly. Take a seat.” Robinson got up, while Murnau shifted, uncomfortably I thought, from foot to foot in the shadows. “Now, just take a look at that monitor there. General view down this street, one of our prime retail areas. Okay. Let’s just zoom in . . . .” The view on the monitor barrelled down the street, to focus with astonishing clarity on a man standing at a junction at the end.

  “That’s incredible,” I said. I meant it. Apart from the fact that for once it wasn’t raining. The camera had zoomed in on a face maybe two hundred and fifty metres away. You could see the guy’s moustache. His glasses. You could practically tell how long ago he’d shaved his chin.

  “And watch this,” gushed Robinson. He was proud of the hardware. “I’ll just take a still . . . .” There was an audible click from somewhere inside the control desk, and the image froze. “Now what we can do is check this bloke’s face on our database . . . .” Faces scrolled down the screen impossibly fast, dozens and dozens of them. Hundreds. Thousands. In just a few seconds the original still returned with the words NO MATCH emblazoned over it. “So there you have it. Visual mapping. His face has just been compared to all the criminals—convicted or otherwise—in our system archives. He’s clear. No record. Well, not as far as we know. But if we have any reason to be suspicious, we can e-mail his mugshot to the central police archives, and they’ll do a nationwide search. There’s no hiding place for crooks in our city.”

  I was absolutely horrified.

  “That’s quite something,” I said. “Very impressive. No hiding place for crooks in our city, hey? Might make a decent headline.” Robinson glowed with pride. “Would it be all right to have a photographer come
down, take a few pictures of you guys at work, in front of all the monitors?” I pretty much knew this would be refused, but I liked to tease. Robinson was thinking he was going to be famous. Of course, Murnau put the cosh on the notion immediately.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Bob,” he interjected firmly from the gloom behind us. “We cannot put our chappies at risk from criminals who may have been convicted on the strength of video evidence. No, photography is completely out of the question. And no names must be used in your piece. We will naturally need to check it over before publication.”

  Robinson looked a little downcast. He was going to have to wait a while longer for his fifteen minutes of fame. I smiled inwardly. It was fine for these legitimised voyeurs to film, photograph, and file unknowing Joe and Jane Publics. But not okay for the process to be reversed. Yeah, well.

  “What a shame. A photo’s always nice to accompany blocks of text. But never mind. There’s a couple of things I’d like to know, just to wrap things up. Do you have a map—a plan—of the areas covered by the cameras that I could look at? We will need some sort of graphic, if a photo’s not possible. And do you have any plans to extend the network?”

  “I can get you a map. One moment. And no, there are no plans to extend the network at present.” Robinson was terse. Back to anonymity for you, friend. Being an unknown’s not so bad though. And it looked from the technology in the room that anonymity was getting to be a rare thing. Getting rarer every day. A machine across the way, where Murnau was standing, purred quietly for a few seconds, then I was passed an A4 sheet.

  “I’ll show you out,” said Murnau briskly. I’d had my allotted thirty minutes. I said my goodbyes to the ‘chappies’ and followed Murnau back up the steps, glad to breathe fresh air, if not so pleased to feel the rain on my face.

  “Bloody weather,” muttered Murnau under his breath.

  “Must be quite a strange occupation,” I said. “Watching telly all day in a basement.”

  “ScryTech do a very good job indeed. You’d be very surprised what we see.” A policeman passed us on the steps. Murnau nodded curtly to him.

  “Well, thanks very much for your time,” I smiled. “It’s been very interesting.”

  “Not a problem. Always happy to talk to our illustrious local newspaper. When will your piece appear? I expect Robinson would like to see it.”

  I bet he would, I thought.

  “Oh, some time soon. Next week or so,” I answered breezily. Don’t hold your breath, Murnau. Don’t wait up, Robinson.

  “Goodbye then, Bob.”

  “Bye.”

  Chapter 10

  Shiny New Shoes

  It was just after midday. Town was packed. Shoppers and tourists everywhere, despite the rain and the wind. I glanced up. A black CCTV camera swivelled idly towards me, twenty feet above the crowds. Here’s to you, Mister Robinson, I thought. I barged through the hordes back towards my office. I was definitely interested in the fact that Mario Murnau hadn’t noticed my use of ‘KHS’ instead of ‘ScryTech’ when I’d asked him about the financing. Maybe I was even intrigued. A little idea about the relationship between KHS and ScryTech had germinated, and now it was growing fast. Like a fungus.

  Another interesting thing was happening. I had a peculiar feeling that I was being watched. Not surprising, after ‘interviewing’ a surveillance company. Okay. But it was a more visceral feeling than that. An animal sense. It started as something vague, like a forgotten errand. But by the time I was halfway down the street that led to my office it had coalesced into a certainty. I was being followed. I stopped and inspected the windows of a bike shop. I wasn’t going to do anything as stupid as look back. But I considered my options. If I went to my office now . . . . No. I wanted to stay on top of this. Hell, I needed to stay on top. Time was running out.

  I darted across the road, through the usual slow-moving Saturday traffic jam. Making a bit more of car-avoiding than was really necessary, I ducked into a pub and shook the water off. I stood just inside the door and waited. My tail was just under one minute behind me. Smartly dressed. Pretty expensive clothes, and formal enough to look just a little out of place in this particular pub on a Saturday. He was a very big man, I thought. I’d turned to the bar, waiting to get served. He scanned the pub, quickly and efficiently. Okay. I wasn’t trying to hide. I was just an honest journalist, having a drink after a bit of weekend work. Fair enough? Bet your life. I was covered. And very glad I hadn’t gone straight back to the office, past the brass plaque by the door. That might have been something of a giveaway.

  I got a pint and moved away from the bar, taking care to appear not to notice my unwelcome companion. He checked me out, seemed to come to the conclusion I was legit. He did some kind of ‘my friend isn’t here after all’ mime and left. I found a seat and pulled out my cigarettes. I’d been a convincing reporter, I thought. I’d had a press pass. I’d been fairly predictable. A bit stupid. I didn’t think I’d asked any of those ‘wrong’ questions that Colin had been so keen for me to avoid. Why had the Council, or, more likely, ScryTech/KHS thought it necessary to have me tailed?

  I finished my pint. Scurried out into the rain after checking there was no nosey smart dressed man hanging around. I’d gone fifteen yards when a car pulled up next to me. Expensive. Shiny. The tinted passenger window rolled down electrically and a voice said, “Get in.”

  I leant down to look in at the speaker, but before I could open my mouth, one of the back doors opened, someone from behind manhandled me into the back seat, shoved themselves in after me and there I was, sandwiched between two huge guys. It was like the one who’d tailed me had a twin or something. It was expertly done, and I fought back a scream as it happened. The car started moving immediately, and we were heading out of the city before I could speak.

  “What the fuck is this?” I spluttered.

  “Be quiet. Do not speak until you’re asked to,” said the guy in the passenger seat. He had a very even voice. No emotion at all. He didn’t turn round. Everyone in the car was looking straight ahead. They wore dark clothes, not suits, but pretty smart all the same. What was this type of clothing called? Oh yeah, ‘smart casual.’ Everything looked new. And very, very normal. Very respectable. The car, their clothes, everything. There wasn’t even any scuffing on the shoes of the two apes I was squashed between. I considered my options. There didn’t seem to be any. So I considered them again. Still nothing.

  “You ask the questions, right?” I said. A huge elbow drove into my stomach and I shut up very fast. I was too busy gasping. Tears squeezed up behind my eyes. We were out on the main road heading north, moving fast, when I got my breath back. Nobody spoke. We pulled off the road in a lay-by next to the junction with the motorway. One of the gorillas opened his door and I was persuaded with little difficulty to get out with them. The passenger door opened and the only one who’d spoken got out, too. He was quite a little guy. He put up an umbrella. He looked straight into my eyes.

  “What is your name?” His voice was curt, and still showed no emotion at all. He sounded like an automaton. I wondered what to say.

  “Bob Jones.”

  He seemed to consider this for a minute.

  “Who are you working for?”

  “I’m a journalist. I work for the local paper. Want to see my press card?” He nodded. Well, he moved his head slightly. I reached slowly into my pocket and got my forgery. I wished I’d spent a little more time on it. The little guy took it and examined it. Then he passed it in to the driver.

  “Check this name,” he said. And we stood there in silence, cars rushing past us on their way to somewhere else. Rain was running down my forehead into my eyes, but the gorillas held my arms at my sides so there wasn’t anything I could do about it. A couple of minutes went by, not as quickly as I’d have liked. Then a hand emerged from the driver’s window, holding my card.

  “There is no record of any ‘Bob Jones’ working for any newspaper within two hundred m
iles,” said the driver’s voice. “And this card is fake. Not even a good fake.”

  Oh, shit. The little guy’s eyes left mine for an instant while he glanced at both the gorillas. Then I was marched through a gate into a field, and flung into the soaking wet grass. They didn’t give me a chance to get up. A heavy foot encased in a shiny shoe stood on each of my upper arms and it wasn’t too nice being face down either.

  “Who are you working for?” said the little guy again.

  “I don’t know,” I shouted into the grass. “I’m being fucked about and I don’t know what’s going on and can I please get up for fuck’s sake?”

  The shoes got off my arms and one of them rolled me over. Rain poured into my face.

  “Look, I’m being set up by someone. I don’t know who or why. I’m trying to find out what’s going on.” I tried to get up, but I was pushed back onto the ground.

  “Mister Jones, if that is indeed your name,” said the little guy, “if you have any interest in living a comfortable life I suggest you stop trying to find out, as you say, what’s going on. Cease your puerile enquiries.” He said the words with disgust, as if he was talking about sewage. I sat up, cautiously. I’d been wetter and more uncomfortable before. When I’d drunkenly stumbled into a canal one February night. But I had to admit it. This was pretty bad.

  “Do I have your agreement?” It was less a question, more a statement. I reckoned the easiest course of action was to nod. I nodded. He stared shrewdly at me, then turned back towards the car. I looked at the gorillas, and tried to get up again. No dice. Those shiny new shoes had other ideas.

  Chapter 11

  Very Large Drink

  I lay there in the rain for quite a while, groaning and stuff. An expert kicking had been delivered, and I couldn’t fault the twins’ technique. They hadn’t said a word. They hadn’t grunted, hadn’t got out of breath, and they hadn’t even laughed as they walked back to the car after an action-packed three minutes. Okay. I watched raindrops trickling down the broken stems of the grass and wondered what to do. If they’d wanted to hurt me really badly, then they could have. As it was, parts of me hurt, but nothing was too badly damaged. Nothing broken. It had been a warning.