Accusations: part 2

All is not as it seems

The Triverse is
Mid-Earth, an alternate 1970s London
Max-Earth, a vision of the 26th century
Palinor, where magic is real

Previously: A school girl has been found, beaten and left for dead. Suspicion immediately falls upon her history teacher, a koth immigrant. While DC Frank Holland interrogates the suspect, DC Kaminski and Chakraborty are out in the community interviewing friends of the victim. Meanwhile, tensions simmer in London…

Late shift
On duty: DC Frank Holland & DC Marion Hobb

London.
1973. April.

“He didn’t do it,” Holland said, emerging from the interview room. He grabbed a can of something fizzy from his desk.

“They didn’t do it,” Styles corrected him. She was always so righteous.

“I don’t give a fuck about the thing’s pronouns,” Holland said, snapping off the drink’s ring pull. “He, she, it, the thing - only bit that matters to me is that someone else attacked that girl.”

Styles stood with her hands on her hips, looking surprised.

Holland shrugged in her direction. “What is it, Styles?”

“I thought you’d be locking them up and throwing away the keys at the first opportunity.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I’m sure you did.” Perching on the edge of his desk, he took a long drink. There was a particular enjoyment to be had in seeing Styles’ presumptions evaporating to nothing.

Clarke stood from his own desk and walked closer to the others. “What makes you so sure?”

“Well, I won’t be sure sure until we have someone else in cuffs. But it was all a bit convenient, didn’t you think? Injuries exactly I line with what a koth could pull off - pardon the expression. Just so happens there’s a koth teacher at the girl’s school.” He snorted. “I mean, there’s also the fact that he could bust out of there and kill all of us in a second if he wanted. Shit, he can probably breathe fire, or plasma, or something. You really think a koth who did something as fucked up as what happened to that little girl is going to sit around and get arrested?”

Styles began to look slightly less indignant. It was clearly a struggle. “You think he was framed. Someone’s setting him up.”

“No shit, Sherlock Holmes. I can see why they gave you a job here.” Holland grinned. “Anyways, you were baying for blood when we brought the koth in earlier.”

She didn’t take the bait. “So we’re back to square one?”

“Nope,” he said, crushing the can and throwing it into a bin. “I’m just waiting on a phone call from our intrepid men in the field.”

Nisha looked up at the front of the house. Her nose was cold. “Remind me why we’re here, again?”

“They’re on Holland’s list,” Kaminski said, stubbing his cigarette out on the pavement, then kicking it into the gutter. He rubbed his hands together swiftly, trying to warm them up. Water dripped down his face. “Victim’s best friend and family.”

“We’ve already ticked off five of Holland’s list. Still don’t get why we’re out here in the rain when it’s his case.”

“He wanted time with the suspect. Also, I think he wanted to send people who come across as nice.”

She looked at him. “I’m not nice.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, gesturing towards the house, “but they don’t.”

The house had a fake colonnaded façade that had pretensions of being much older and grander than it actually was. Nonetheless it was still a large, detached house in an upmarket area of London. Nisha couldn’t help but compare it to her shitty apartment. She could fit everything she had into the porch of this place.

“Listen,” Kaminski said, “try and get the mum off into the kitchen while I talk to the father.”

“Divide and conquer?” They walked up the path toward the front door. “Is this information gathering or are they suspects?”

“Holland treats everyone as a suspect. Hell, we’re probably suspects.”

She began to laugh, then stifled it. Business face. She rang the bell and the door opened almost immediately, as if someone had been waiting on the other side. A woman stood there, looking tired with a face marked by rivulets of tears.

Kaminski spoke first. “Mrs Victoria Price?” He held up his badge. “Detective Constable Kaminski, Specialist Dimensional Command. This is Detective Constable Nisha Chakraborty. We’re here to discuss Yvette Field.”

“Yes, of course, please come in.”

She ushered them into the hallway, which was wider than Nisha’s entire bathroom. They followed into a reception room of sorts, containing a long table, comfortable chairs and a plush banquette along the back wall. Nisha marvelled that it was neither dining room nor living room, but an additional room entirely. What did they do with all this space?

Turned out there was already a pot of freshly made tea. “Such an awful thing,” Mrs Price said as she poured. “Such a lovely girl, too. Jessica is ever so upset. She’s upstairs with my husband.” She passed the cups around and sighed. “So ghastly. And at St Peter’s, of all places.”

“Mrs Price, would you mind if I went upstairs to speak with your husband, while my partner talks to you? It would save some time and we’d be able to leave you in peace sooner.”

“Oh,” she said, “yes, of course. Up the stairs, round to the right. Please if you could leave your shoes at the bottom of the stairs, it’s really frightfully wet out today.”

Nisha took a slow sip of the tea while Kaminski left the room. Turning to the other woman, she smiled. “I’d like to start with your relationship to the victim.”

The stairs were lined with family photographs. Endless images of the happy smiling trio: husband, wife, daughter, the latter ageing from toddler to teenager as Kaminski climbed the stairs. Many were taken in distant locales; the Prices had clearly had a lot of holidays. Kaminski always found it a little creepy when a house was solely decorated with its occupants’ own memories. There was a narcissism to it that seemed in bad taste, though he could never quite articulate why. Maybe he was just jealous.

He found Mr Price as the man was leaving his daughter’s room. Closing the door quietly, he smiled sadly. “You must be the detective,” he said, “I heard you come in.” He nodded his head toward the shut door. “It’s hard on her, you know. Her best friend. Can’t believe it.”

“Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Of course, shall we go back downstairs?”

Kaminski held up a hand. “I’d like to talk to you separately, if that’s alright.” The man’s eyes widened a little. Startled. A natural reaction to interacting with the police. “It’d speed things up a bit.”

“Of course, absolutely. My study?”

“Lead the way.”

The room was dark, wood-panelled and lined with bookshelves. The books were all non-fiction or academic works; lots of history of empire and war games. Price sat down in a leather swivel chair by a mahogany desk and indicated that Kaminski should take the only other seat in the room: a considerably smaller wooden affair.

“So how can I help, detective?”

“That’s a good question, Mr Price. It is Edward Price, yes?”

“Correct. Do call me Edward. There’s no need for formalities here, especially on such a terrible day.”

Kaminski pulled a pencil from his coat pocket and pointed its stub end at the man. “Got it. Edward.” He flicked open his notepad. “Edward, then. Can you tell me about your relationship with the victim?”

“Relationship?” Price picked up a paperweight from the desk, hefted it from one hand to the other.

“How do you know her?”

“Ah, right. She was my daughter’s best friend. They’ve known each other since nursery. I don’t know how she’s going to get past this, I really don’t.”

“If we can find who did this, it might help to bring some closure,” Kaminski said, his voice measured, even, almost a whisper. “Did you know her well yourself?”

He put the paperweight back on the desk. “Well, yes. Victoria and I have known Yvette for years. Not as close as her and Jessica, of course, because we’re the boring parents, but you know. She’d been over for tea and sleepovers I don’t know how many times.” As if remembering something, he took a photo frame off the nearest shelf. “Look, here she is.”

Interesting.

Kaminski took the offered frame. There were two girls in the photograph, both looking to be early teens, meaning it must have been taken in the last year or two. “She’s quite beautiful,” he said.

“Yes, yes, she was,” Price said. “The other girl there is Jessica, who I suppose you’ll need to talk to as well?”

“That would be a great help.” Kaminski liked to let his accent thicken a little in situations like this. It made him sound friendlier, and to some English people it also prompted them to assume he was a little simple, or didn’t understand the language fluently. “Could you tell me, are you aware of any problems at school?”

“You mean with the teachers?”

Brief pause. “I meant in general. Why, are there problems with teachers?”

“Oh, well, I just meant in terms of what was on the news. That a teacher was arrested.”

“I’ve not had much time to watch the news today, Edward. But outside of television, is there anything I should know?”

Price swivelled slowly clockwise and then anti-clockwise on his seat. Just a little each way. “I know she liked history.”

“Was that a problem?”

“Well, no. I was thinking of the rumours, that the koth teacher—”

“I’d rather not bring TV news conjecture into this, Mr Price, or playground gossip.”

“Then I’m not sure what to say. Haven’t you already got who did it?”

Shifting on his seat, Kaminski put his pad and paper away. “I can’t comment on particulars of the investigation, unfortunately.”

“Such a shame that Yvette can’t speak for herself. Do they think she’ll ever wake up?”

Getting to his feet, Kaminski smiled. “Oh, I suppose that news hasn’t been on TV yet. Miss Field is already awake. About an hour ago.” He made a point of looking at his watch. “Some of my colleagues are taking her statement right now, I believe.”

He put his hand out. Price stared at him, then down at the hand, as if it were something dangerous. Slowly, as if remembering the etiquette, the man reached out and shook hands, his grip remarkably firm.

“Quite a grip you have there, Mr Price.”

“Sorry,” he said, releasing and backing away a step, “it’s been a difficult day.”

“Yes,” Kaminski said, smiling sympathetically. “Though I think we will have some good news soon.”

---

Thanks for reading!

After the far more action-based antics of ‘The Creature’ storyline, it was a very deliberate choice to return to the more procedural, investigation-driven style seen in ‘Accusations’. As ‘The Creature’ became longer and longer I was increasingly worried about it being too much of a diversion from what Triverse was normally all about. It wa fun and action-packed but it was certainly a long way from the slower-paced, more deliberate plotting of previous storylines. Hopefully it was still rooted in character, but it’s certainly harder to weave that in when writing scenes with big stompy monsters.

‘Accusations: part 2’ is a dialogue-heavy piece. It opens from Holland’s POV, which is not one I’ve used much. He’s been a background character for the most part, and is also not someone I enjoy writing. He’s unpleasant, prejudiced, misogynistic, everything-phobic. While there can sometimes be a thrill in writing Bad Guys, that’s not really where Frank Holland’s character fits. He’s not a full-on villain, he’s just not very nice. But therein lies the challenge: depicting someone I thoroughly disagree with as still being a real character, with genuine motivations and thoughts. It’s a difficult and satisfying thing to do as a writer. The extra challenge with Holland is to demonstrate that for all his character flaws, he’s still pretty good at his job. Despite holding deeply racist thoughts, he still is able to sense that the koth is probably innocent. He is able to see the wider picture when ever Lola Styles struggles. It’d be easier to paint him as a corrupt cop who would happily send a koth down regardless of the evidence, but he’s more complex than that.

That said, Holland is still a deeply compromised person. We saw that a few chapters back when we glimpsed his chosen past-time outside of work. He was also the one that shot the koth dead waaaay back at the start of the book. There’s red in his ledger, for sure, to steal a term. Being in his head, even only briefly, should be uncomfortable.

Writing the conversation between Kaminski and Price was fun. It’s one of those exchanges in which it’s all about what is not being said. It’s more about the moments in-between the dialogue, and observing behaviour in the gaps. I’ve found with writing crime fiction that it’s complicated to figure out how overt to be, and when to reveal your hand. There’s no right or wrong answer, so a lot comes down to the pace and length of the storyline: is this going to be wrapped up quickly, or be drawn-out? After the epic ‘Creature’ storyline I’m keeping ‘Accusations’ relatively contained. As such, I didn’t want to follow Kaminski and Chakraborty as they spoke to multiple households. Straight to the point with this one.

Crime fiction inevitably bumps up against the real world. That’s the point of it, really: to examine society from different - often uncomfortable - angles. In that respect it functions much like science fiction, which is probably why they go together so well. This week there has been appalling news from the US, and I found it distinctly unpleasant to write this chapter in which the storyline centres on violence against a schoolchild. Before I started work on Triverse I made a firm decision to focus on the victims rather than the perpetrators: I have no interest in idolising or creating an air of mystery around the aggressors in this story. That’s something I’ll address more next week.

That’s all for today. Thanks for reading, and I hope these behind-the-curtain snippets will prove interesting!