Age of Aztec

EIGHT

Same Day

Well, that could have gone more smoothly, Mal thought as she drove across town.

She hadn’t intended to tip her hand to Reston that he was a person of interest in an ongoing investigation. She had let her temper get the better of her. If only he hadn’t been so arrogant, so infuriatingly, insufferably smug…

On the other hand, now he knew he was under suspicion. That could work to Mal’s advantage. He might just become a whole lot more reckless. He might, like a fox with the hounds on its tail, do something wild and impulsive which would leave him dangerously exposed.

He also might take fright and give up being the Conquistador altogether. Mal didn’t think this likely, but if she had managed to bring a halt to the Conquistador atrocities, in spite of there being no arrest and conviction, that would be something.

At least she’d got that punch in. Her knuckles ached agreeably. Never underestimate the cathartic power of a solid roundhouse right.

Back at the Yard, she went looking for Kellaway. She wanted to report her findings — her certainty that Stuart Reston was their man. Having filled the chief superintendent in on her progress with the case and lowered his blood pressure somewhat, she could then start digging into Reston’s recent past and trying to correlate his known movements with the timings of the Conquistador’s attacks. At present she had only her drug vision and Reston’s lofty, egotistical attitude to tell her she was right, and neither was irrefutable proof. She needed more. She needed hard facts to substantiate her gut conviction. Her pride demanded it.

Aaronson intercepted her en route to Kellaway’s office.

“I wouldn’t go see him now if I were you, boss,” he warned.

“Why ever not?”

“He’s… he’s just had some bad news.”

“How bad?”

“The worst. The commissioner called him upstairs a couple of hours ago. Since then, the word’s spread like wildfire. Chief super’s going to be striped.”

Mal reeled. “No. Fucking. Way.”

Her DS gave a sombre nod. “This afternoon, at five. He’s on the phone right now to friends and family, making his peace.”

“But… why?”

“The Conquistador, why else? It’s all getting too much for everyone, too embarrassing. A head has to roll — a bigwig’s head. As I understand it, this comes all the way from the Great Speaker himself. His Imperial Holiness is not best pleased with how we’ve been dealing with the Conquistador. Enough’s enough.”

“Striped. The poor bastard.”

“It’s a noble death.” Aaronson sounded more hopeful than reassuring.

“It’s a fucking horrible death,” Mal said.

“Well, yes, can’t argue with that. But we know what to do, don’t we?”

“Too damn right we do.”

Getting onto the striping detail was not easy. Only four could be chosen, and just about everyone in the building was putting their own name forward. Not only was it an honour to take part, it was a valuable addition to your CV. The officer appointed to make the selection, Sergeant Pembroke, was swamped with volunteers.

Mal, however, reckoned she had leverage on Pembroke, and now was the time to apply it. Drawing the sergeant aside for a quiet word, she reminded him about a case they had both worked on a couple of years ago, busting a conclave of anti-Empire radical extremists who had been publishing pamphlets that mocked and derided the Great Speaker, calling him as the “Great Squeaker” and painting him as a frantic, ranting despot in dire need of being deposed.

At the extremists’ hideout in a West End backstreet basement, along with reams of paper and a printing press, a wad of cash had been found, hadn’t it? A tidy little sum hidden beneath a loose floorboard, no doubt earmarked to fund further subversion. Equivalent to a good three months’ salary, if Mal remembered rightly. And, mysteriously, the money had just sort of disappeared on its way to the evidence lockers. There one minute, gone the next. She hadn’t mentioned anything about it to anyone, but it had been pretty curious, hadn’t it? So much cash going astray.

Pembroke whitened just a little. He said he had no idea what the DCI was talking about. He didn’t recall any money.

“Why should you?” Mal replied sweetly. “If we’re all doing our duty and acting like professionals, we don’t even notice such things. And clerical errors do happen. Someone in Evidence probably mislaid the money, put it in the wrong locker, stuck the wrong label on. It’s sitting downstairs in a box gathering dust, and nobody has a clue it’s there.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“No point raking any of that up. No point bringing it to the attention of Internal Affairs. It’s such a small thing, I don’t even know why we’re discussing it now.”

Pembroke nodded avidly. There was a film of perspiration on his upper lip. “Me either,” he said.

“And if I was to get onto the striping detail, I’m sure I would forget about it completely.”

“Really? That’s all it would take?”

“That’s all.”

He looked at her as if he could scarcely believe it. For what she was selling him, she was charging a remarkably low price.

“Then you’re on it,” he said. “And the money, nobody’s ever going to hear about it again?”

“Not from me. You have my absolute word on that.”

“Thank you, chief inspector. Thank you so much.”

“Not at all, sergeant. Thank you.”

In the old days, during the Empire’s infancy, striping was a practice routinely carried out on captured enemy combatants. Only those who had shown notable prowess and bravery on the battlefield were singled out to be put to death in this way; the rest of the captive warriors would be mass-slaughtered like cattle. It was considered a mark of respect and a fitting tribute to their valour, although the victims themselves might not see it that way.

In modern times, striping was the fate of anyone in authority who failed to live up to expectations or disgraced the Empire somehow. It was a chance to redeem oneself before gods and men, make reparation through pain, and depart the world with dignity restored. A “flowery” death, as it was known. A good death.

At five o’clock, punctually, Chief Superintendent Kellaway left Scotland Yard for the Westminster ziggurat, a walk of a few hundred metres. Commissioner Brockenhurst was at his side every step of the way. Both men were in full ceremonial garb, their uniforms sporting the plethora of medals and decorations they had earned in the course of their careers.

Behind them, in square formation, strode the four members of the striping detail, Mal among them. They, too, were dressed up for the occasion. Then came a procession of other ranks, nearly a thousand strong, the entire Yard turning out to see the chief super off. Civilian onlookers lined the route, craning their necks. Tourists and commuters, curious, stopped and stared. The inevitable Sun Broadcasting cameras were there, recording the moment for posterity.

During his final walk, Kellaway loudly sang the praises of the Jaguar Warriors, the High Priest, the Empire, the Great Speaker. It was an integral part of the ritual, and to neglect to do so was shameful. At the top of his voice he proclaimed his loyalty to the force and his regret that he had not discharged his role to the very best of his abilities. He wished his successor, whosoever that might be, all success in the job and confessed how sad he was that he would not be around to see the new chief super prevail where he himself had blundered.

He continued with the protestations of faith and hope as he mounted the ziggurat steps. At the summit, the commissioner relieved him of his helmet and most of his regalia and presented him with the weapons he could use to defend himself. These comprised four pine cudgels for throwing and a war club adorned with quetzal feathers. An acolyte stood nearby, the official pastor to the Metropolitan Jaguars. He had a knife ready, along with a jaguar-shaped iron vessel just large enough to hold a human heart.

To the west, the sun was setting in a gory rage of twilight. To the east, the thunderheads loomed higher than ever, massive as a mountain range. It wouldn’t be long now before the storm broke. The air carried a static crackle. Growls echoed over the Thames estuary.

Commissioner Brockenhurst retreated, bowing to Kellaway. The acolyte tethered Kellaway by the waist to a large circular stone mounted on a platform. There was enough slack in the rope to give the chief super the run of the ziggurat’s summit, but no further. The acolyte incanted, commending Kellaway’s soul to the Four Who Rule Supreme. Then he invited the striping detail to step forward and take their positions around the victim.

“In the name of Xipe Totec,” he said to them, “the Flayed One, the Mighty Skinless, I beseech you. Be merciful with slowness. Cut with delicacy. Prolong the suffering, for only in blood and agony may this man’s sins be atoned. Begin!”

Mal held back, allowing the other three Jaguars, all men, to get their licks in first. Unlike Kellaway, the members of the striping detail each carried a decent weapon: a war club edged with shards of flint. The chief super straight away squandered the meagre advantage he had by tossing all four of his pine cudgels at them. Only one found its mark, and bounced all but harmlessly off its target’s chest. The cudgels rolled off the top of the ziggurat, putting them forever out of Kellaway’s reach.

The three Jaguars closed in and began delivering swift, deft slices to Kellaway’s arms and legs. They were careful only to nick the skin, going no deeper into his flesh. Blood was soon pouring down his limbs in ribbons and rivulets.

Kellaway retaliated gamely, lashing out with his feather-fringed club, and managed to get in a few solid connections. He was not going down without a fight. He was not supposed to. However, the odd bruise here and there could hardly compare with the damage that was so insistently being inflicted on him. Moreover, he was an old man, long past his prime, and his opponents were all of them younger, quicker and nimbler.

As the minutes passed, he began to sag. There were wounds all over him now, on torso, neck, buttocks, chest, head. His uniform hung off him in tatters. He was breathing stertorously, his eyes bulging. The three Jaguars did not let up. Kellaway staggered this way and that, flailing with his club, and they continued to dart around him, slashing him as finely and neatly as they could. His body was soon cross-hatched all over with shallow gashes and incisions. He was quite literally striped with his own blood.

Mal knew she couldn’t loiter on the sidelines any longer. Her three colleagues were casting puzzled looks at her. Why wasn’t she joining in? Why the sudden squeamishness? She was letting them down. She was letting the chief super down. She needed to go in and do what she was here to do.

“My turn,” she said, and motioned to the others to stand back. She outranked them all, so they did as instructed. Clearly she’d been leaving the preliminary work to them. Now she was going to show what finesse and elan a DCI could bring to the process. Senior officer’s prerogative.

She approached Kellaway. He stood hunched over, teetering, bent double. His club dangled from his fingertips, almost too heavy for him to lift any more. He peered up at her. One eye was closed, the upper lid hanging in slivers like a broken Venetian blind. The tip of his nose was absent, revealing a strawberry of cartilage. An ear had been split in two. There was no faulting her colleagues’ craftsmanship.

“Sir,” she said softly so that only he could hear, “I can finish this for you right now. One blow and it’s all over. Just give the word.”

Blood bubbled at his lips. “No,” he managed to say. “It wouldn’t be right. I must go on.”

“You’ve suffered enough. No one would blame you if you wanted it ended. Please let me.”

Kellaway tried to hoist his club to strike at her. He brushed her shin feebly with its tip.

Sorrowfully, Mal raked her club across his collarbone, opening up a long thin streak of red. The chief super moaned.

“Then listen,” she said. “I have him. I have the Conquistador. I know who he is.”

“How?” Kellaway gasped.

“Vision quest.”

“Not… Not admissible as grounds for an arrest.”

“I know, but still. It means the search is over and it’s just a question of time now. Either the Conquistador slips up or I get what I need to haul him in, it doesn’t matter which. He’s done. I have him by the balls. He’s going down.”

Kellaway attempted a smile — a skewed, hangdog thing. His one visible eye regained some of its old lustre.

“Not lying about this? To make a doomed man feel better?”

“Not at all, sir. Gospel truth. And when I do get him, it’ll be for you, in your name.”

The chief super feinted with his club, or at least offered the vague appearance of doing so. Mal duly nicked him on the shoulder.

“Good Jaguar, you are, Vaughn,” he said. “Good copper. Glad I never had to execute you. You’ll go far.”

She gave him a few further little cuts, to show willing. Then she retreated and let the other three have their way with him once more. She could barely bring herself to watch as they reduced the rest of Kellaway’s skin to shreds. How he was able to stay on his feet, she had no idea, but some inhuman determination kept him upright long past the stage where most men would have collapsed. It was love, she though. Kellaway loved being a Jaguar. Loved it even unto death.

The sky darkened, thunder rumbled, rain fell. It was a warm rain, but hard, drops so powerful and heavy they could have been hail. Many of the civilians scurried off to find shelter, but all of the Jaguar Warriors in attendance stayed put, while up on the ziggurat the striping continued unabated. Kellaway had sunk to his knees, but refused to lie down. There seemed to be not one square inch of his body that wasn’t marked, lacerated, ragged. He was a living effigy of Xipe Totec. It was as though the Flayed One had been brought to earth, reincarnated. A god in all his exposed raw flesh.

The rain puddled around Kellaway’s knees, mingling with his blood. Lightning and thunder splintered overhead. Mal raised her face to the pummelling force of the storm, letting it pound her head, her brain, her mind, until she felt empty within, battered into submission, numb.

When, finally, she looked down again, Kellaway was dead and the acolyte was stepping forward to hack out his heart.

That night, no surprise, Mal went out and got steaming drunk. She wound up in some man’s bedroom — she had no clear recollection how she got there — on all fours, letting herself be fucked soundly up the arse and relishing every brutal, piercing thrust of it. At the crucial moment the man withdrew and showered her back with semen. Mal then shat herself and passed out.

She came to in an alleyway some time later, filthy, rain-sodden, no knickers. She hobbled home and sat in a tepid bath while the water slowly turned pink around her. Then she crawled into bed. Hugging her knees to her chest, she waited for sleep to come. Her last thought before she drifted away from herself was: Fuck procedure. Fuck protocol. Nab him anyway.

And in the dark, in pain, she smiled.