CHAPTER SEVEN

The early afternoon light shone into Patton's Alley, a place suited by nature to be dripping with moisture, even in the middle of a drought, and to be in perpetual dark, even at noon on a bright day. Detective Inspector Whitebury stood in the alleyway, hands deep in the pocket of his trenchcoat. There's one detective like Whitebury on every Criminal Investigation Department in the whole universe. This is the disillusioned career detective, who has realised that the glamour created by TV police shows is a cruel and cynical joke, and that ninety nine percent of all police-work is standing around in the pouring rain trying to find some old dear's missing cat, or the rent cheque she thinks her son has stolen, or trying to arrest a mugger, whilst his neighbours throw rocks at you and accuse you of brutality. These detectives wear a long trenchcoat, no matter what the weather is, as they know, deep in their hearts, that sooner or later it is going to rain. These are the cold-hearted cynics of the office, who bitch about the job, drink a lot, but never, ever quit, because the truth is that buried deep inside every cynic is a tiny, dim candle of faith, faith that one time the system will work, and work well, and they're just waiting around for it to happen¹². Whitebury sighed, realised that a squad car was pulling up at the entrance to the alley, and walked out to meet whoever it was that was arriving. Caterpillars don't smoke, tobacco having no effect on them, and all other smokeable substances being used in a form that was edible, but if they did, Whitebury would have extinguished the dog-end of his rollup on the floor, before swearing under his breath, and walking, with a note of cynicism evident even in his walk, to meet the car.
Remiel left the car still in a daze, unsure what to think of any of this, and was greeted by an overweight, heavyset caterpillar, clad in a raincoat, and the battered remains of a working suit. The detective offered a hand like a bloodshot ham.
"Detective Inspector Edward Whitebury, I'm heading up the investigation here." Whitebury rumbled in a deep voice that could be quite threatening when needs requited it to be, "I understand you're a friend of the deceased?"
"Oh, er, yeah, My name's Remiel," Remiel mumbled, not sure what to make of it all, "I'd known Cornelius for years."
"Good, then you can identify these for us." Whitebury pulled a polythene bag from his trenchcoat, "They were found at the scene of the crime, and I need someone to confirm that these belonged to your friend."
Whitebury handed Remiel the bag, and Remiel gazed at the contents with a sense of wonder. Inside the bag, slightly buckled, as if someone had fallen upon them, were a pair of half-moon spectacles, gold rimmed, the same style that Jack Sabian wore on the cover of "Return to the Source". They looked as if they had been kept in perfect condition, despite being worn almost constantly, the only mark on them being a place where one of the arms had worked its way loose, and the gold screw had been replaced with a cheaper steel one, as if the owner had scrimped and saved to afford these spectacles, and could not afford to replace them. The very existence of these glasses, in a sterile plastic bag, instead of wrapped around a familiar face, washed away any remaining hope Remiel had of the police being mistaken. The glasses were utterly unmistakable, Remiel had seen them hundreds of times before, they were Cornelius's.
Remiel tried to reply to Whitebury, but couldn't, and realised that Cornelius's death had just hit him. Until he had seen the glasses he could not grieve. Remiel collapsed to the floor of the alleyway, sobbing uncontrollably.

A harsh trill sounded around the apartment, disturbing the sleeping figure lying in the bed, and ending a confusing and mystifying dream about badgers, made even more mystifying by the fact that the Caterpillars had never met a badger, and were not likely to do so. A slim arm shot out of the sheets, grabbing the phone and pressing it to a sleepy face.
"Topsfield 784965?" came the answering voice, in a polite tone, which nevertheless implied that this had better be very, very important.
"Alicia," the reply was rough, and sounded as if the voice had been immersed in alcohol for several hours, with the speaker still attached.
"Remiel, I had a suspicion it might be you," Alicia's voice filled with a patient, but nonetheless chastising tone, "Only you would phone me up at such a godawful hour of the night. What is it this-"
"It's Cornelius, Alicia." Remiel interrupted, his voice not impatient, but despairing.
Alicia sat up in bed, stone cold sober and awake now, knowing that something was very wrong. She had never heard Remiel sounding like this before.
"What's wrong?" she demanded of him, "What's happened?"
"He's - He's dead." The voice on the other end of the line broke up in sobs, "There was - a fight, he was mugged by a gang."
Alicia felt herself detach from her body, and float around in a limbo of despair, as her body asked questions about how Cornelius had died, and when the funeral was. She returned to her body slightly at the revelation that there was no body, and Remiel's apparent lack of despair about the farm, but there was still a sense of detachment. Even as she said that maybe there was hope of him being alive, she knew that there was no hope. Cornelius was dead and there was nothing she could do about it. Except for maybe one thing.
As the call ended, Alicia picked up the phone again and rang the train station about trains to Miller's rest.

Remiel replaced the phone in its cradle, and turned back to his room. The bulb had blown several hours ago but he hadn't been able to muster up the energy to change it. This was his city apartment, where he stayed when he was on business trips to the centre of Millers Rest, and would have to act as his permanent residence for the time being. Remiel looked a mess, it had been several days since he'd shaved or washed, and the sense of lethargy hung deep over the room. The apartment, usually a smart, urbane inner city residence, looked like a cross between a student flat 3 weeks before the end of term and the rooms junkies board themselves into for cold turkey. Remiel knew that at some point, he was going to have to get his act together, but he hoped that strenuous exercise, like tidying up (it was getting to the point where he either tidied it or ordered an airstrike), or thinking about his insurance claim, or beginning his process of grief for his friend, could wait for another day. Remiel reached feebly for the TV remote control, and listlessly flicked channels, until he found a film he could watch without any strenuous mental exercise, a lowest common denominator production with lots of fights, car chases, explosions and very little dialogue. Remiel stared at the screen, no real emotion in display on his face, until the fatigue of the day got the better of him, and he slumped forward in his chair.

The sharp ringing of a bell awoke Remiel, and he walked across the debris covering the floor to the video intercom on the wall.
"Hello?" he murmured, sleepy-eyed, into the mike,
"Remiel it's me, can I come in?" a feminine voice asked, a voice which Remiel knew better than his own,
"Alicia!" Remiel was suddenly wide awake, oh shit oh shit, oh shit, he thought, I can't let her into the place looking like this, "Hang on a minute," he mumbled into the intercom, feigning a tiredness he no longer felt, before turning to face the squalid apocalypse that was his apartment.

The next three minutes contained more activity than would normally be considered possible. First Remiel cleared all his clothes into the washing machine in the kitchen, shirts, belts, shoes, everything, then he cleared all the plates, cups, spoons and so on into the dishwasher, followed by all the dirty utensils in the kitchen. Remiel then ran for the bathroom, and as he cleaned up the bathroom, he cleaned up himself. As he washed out the sink with one hand, he shaved with the other¹³, then quickly washed himself as he polished the taps, then tidied his antennae into a neat pony-tail as he put the cap back on the toothpaste. Remiel re-dressed himself in clean underwear, good trousers, smart shirt, then fished his shoes out from the washing machine, laced them up and ran to the door. Halfway there he skidded to a stop as memory hit him like a brick, and he ran back to the kitchen, picked up all the empty bottles, and all the full bottles, and threw them out of the window where, fortunately, they landed in a skip. This done, he ran back to the door. As the door swung open, he saw Alicia standing there, even through the grief at his best friend's demise, this woman still had an incredible effect on him. It was as if every time she spoke, another essential part of his frontal lobes made a break for greener pastures.

"Hello, Remiel." she said, not an original, or interesting line, but one which bled out a lot of emotion.
"Hello Alicia." Remiel's voice took a moment to find itself before delivering his inspired message, not so much conversation as a half hearted echo of what Alicia had just said.
The two caterpillars embraced for a very long time, not in love, although there was love between them, but in a sense of mutual loss.

The funeral was a reasonably sombre affair, Remiel and the band played a few of Cornelius's songs, ending with "One Voice Listening", the counsellor gave a speech about Cornelius having found peace, and being much happier, despite having ended his life by being beaten to near death in an alleyway, then drowned in a sewer, then it was Remiel's turn to make a speech. He rose to the podium.
"I know what you're expecting from a speech," he began, "You're expecting me to say that I've known Cornelius for a long time, and that he was a great friend, and a lovely guy and things like that. Well, that's all true, I have known Cornelius for a long time, all my life in fact, we were at the same playgroup, the same schools, we even roomed together at college, and you couldn't have ever met a better person. We all know that, we all know how wonderful he was. What I want to say with my speech is that this wonderful, intelligent guy was killed in a brutal and unnecessary fashion. What I want to say is that Cornelius did not deserve to die like this. The counsellor talked earlier about Cornelius being at peace, and having gone to a better place¹⁴, well I for one don't believe a word of it. Cornelius was not a quitter. He died unjustly, and in a brutal way, so if he is up there, then he's as sure as hell screaming at us to find who did this, I don't think we can say that Cornelius is at peace yet. He has business to finish, and I for one want to help him finish it."
Silence followed the speech, everyone knew what Remiel meant, even those who did not agree with what he was saying knew that for Remiel, this was a way to help ease the pain, if not Cornelius's, then at least his own.

The insurance payment for the loss of the farm came through on the same day that the police identified the uniforms of the aphids on the security videos. The money from the farm came to three and a half million Kyler, when the premium had been adjusted due to loss of harvest. Remiel also still had possession of one hundred thousand shares in MekTel Communications, and possession of a large warehouse by the loading stations. Remiel told the insurance lawyer that for now, he just wanted the money placed in a building society, as he had not decided what to do with it yet. The police phoning was more of a shock. Remiel thought that they had finished with him, and definitely didn't think they'd tell him if they had a lead on the people responsible. The police department had been set up to stop vigilantes from taking justice to the streets, and so had a policy of not releasing important information to the public. The call was as unusual in content as it was mystifying in the way it was conveyed. As Remiel picked up the phone a voice began speaking, in rushed tones, as if trying to convey a message without being caught,
"Remiel, this is Sergeant Clark, we've established who the gang are. They were dressed as Banderas, the leader was called Lieutenant Gali. I didn't tell you this. I haven't phoned you." then the dull buzz of a phone hanging up.

Remiel stood in his apartment, thinking for a long time. He had promised Cornelius that he would get justice for him. The first step on the path leading to justice involved Banderas, and this Lieutenant Gali. For the first time in a long time, Remiel knew exactly what to do.

End of Part One.

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Copyright 1999 Ian Rennie, for Remiel Productions.