Proxy, page 17
“What kind of questions?”
“Don’t you know already?” Finnegan demanded, standing now. “In fact, how come I’ve never heard of you? I’ve never seen you around the Abbey Rush, and Doctor Finch never mentioned you or anything.”
Game over, thought Ray, eyeing a heavy-looking paperweight sitting on a shelf just within arm’s reach.
“We’re not finished here,” said Ray, trying to put some authority into his voice. “Sit back down, Lewis.”
“No.” Finnegan’s thick, calloused hands flexed at his sides. “I must be a fucking idiot for telling you all this in the first place when I don’t even know who you is!”
Finnegan took a step closer. Ray lunged upright and grabbed hold of the paperweight, swinging it around in a wide arc that ended against the side of Finnegan’s head.
It made a sound like raw steak dropped onto concrete. Finnegan made a noise in the back of his throat and fell back into his armchair, blood seeping from a wound in the side of his head.
Ray leaned over him, brandishing the paperweight in one fist and breathing heavily.
“Try that again,” he warned Finnegan, “and I’ll smash your fucking skull in. And given your past record, Lewis, I don’t think I’ll have too much trouble calling it self-defence if the police got involved. Do we understand each other?”
Finnegan nodded wordlessly and pressed a hand against his head. Ray backed towards the door, still clutching the paperweight.
“If I need to know anything else,” he promised, “I’ll be back.”
Finnegan didn’t respond beyond a last, hateful glare. Ray let himself out and walked fast, afraid Finnegan might yet come after him. He walked five or six blocks before he even allowed himself to slow to a more normal pace.
Before long, he came across a café that was pleasingly ordinary and filled with the chatter of couples and pensioners. Taking a seat near the window, he ordered coffee, then waited for his heart to stop pounding inside his chest.
He watched the sky slowly turn grey. It started raining, fat drops darkening the granite facade of the surrounding buildings.
Once he felt calmer, Ray took out and unrolled a sheet of smart paper, smoothing its edges until it stiffened into a slate. He drew shapes with his fingers to help him focus, connecting the shapes with lines and small notes. He wrote down the names of everyone he had met connected with the Amy Cotter case, trying to find the commonalities between them all.
One thing was clear: much the same thing that happened to the people who had unwittingly spirited Stacy Cotter away had also happened to Finnegan.
Meanwhile, Dominic Fiori, who had been part of the proxy mob, had been held for treatment at the Abbey Rush Centre by this Doctor Finch. Although, given Lewis’s testimony, that was clearly a case of kidnapping.
There was someone out there responsible both for what had happened at Abbey Rush and at the Peartree Institute. Someone who could somehow jump into other people’s proxy sessions and take them over, without either party being aware it had happened until after the fact.
In all the years since its anonymous creator had first posted it online, proxy had been analysed, discussed, studied, obsessed over, been the subject of multiple failed attempts at reverse-engineering it and become the subject of countless conspiracy theories. And yet, after all this time, nobody appeared to understand how the hell it actually worked.
Clearly, however, there was someone out there who did know how it worked—and had found a way to make it do something that had never been done before.
“I hope you understand,” said DCI Edwards early the next morning, stirring a criminal amount of sugar into his tea, “that the last time we spoke I said I wasn’t doing you any more favours.”
“You still owe me,” Ray reminded him, taking a sip of his own tea.
Outside the greasy spoon in which Ray and Edwards sat, people shuffled along the damp streets of Brixton on their way to work. Edwards dropped his spoon down and noisily slurped his tea before putting it back down. “I owed you, past tense. That little debt got paid off years ago.”
“And yet,” said Ray, “here you are, eating the breakfast I paid for.”
Edwards nodded approvingly and shovelled half of a fried egg into his mouth. “They do a nice cuppa here,” he said as he chewed. “Just what kind of mess have you got yourself into, anyway? You didn’t tell me even after I gave you all that information about the Peartree break-in.” He raised an eyebrow. “That kind of thing hurts my feelings. Worse, you were present at the Peartree when the whole thing with that Cotter girl went down, and I still don’t have a statement from you. That might suggest to certain parties that you were involved in her kidnap. Consciously involved, I should say, unlike those other people.”
“Is that what they’re saying in the Met?”
“Not yet,” said Edwards. “But give it time.”
Ray sighed. “How familiar are you with hopscotch?”
Edwards’ fingers tensed around his mug. “Familiar enough to state unreservedly that it’s even more trouble than the original proxy. If they ever invent a proxy that lasts forever, we’re royally fucked.”
“Let’s just say I spoke to someone who might have an indirect connection to the Peartree mob,” said Ray, remembering Lewis’s story. “He told me that while he was proxying with an anonymous partner, he blanked out for the entire session. His anonymous partner, meanwhile, could still make full use of his skin.” Ray folded his hands together and leaned back. “Sound familiar?”
Edwards put down his mug, regarding him with a baleful expression. “If you know of someone who could provide important circumstantial evidence in relation to what happened at the Peartree, then you have a legal obligation to share that information with the police.”
“I said the person in question might be connected. I can’t corroborate anything he told me. Not yet.”
Edwards’ expression became less friendly. “Ray,” he said, “you and me go way back, but here’s some advice. You are not well spoken of among certain of my fellow officers. They haven’t forgotten what happened.”
Ray felt a muscle spasm in one of his cheeks. “And you know as well as I do that someone set me up. You said as much yourself.”
“I did,” said Edwards, taking a glance around the café and lowering his voice slightly. “But the fact remains that I shouldn’t even be talking to you about an ongoing investigation. You’re not the one whose career will suffer if that got found out.”
Like mine didn’t? “Just tell me,” Ray pushed. “Was there any sign prior to what happened at the Peartree to suggest more than two people could proxy with each other if they used hopscotch beads?”
“How the fuck should I know? I—” Edwards sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, then shovelled more food into his mouth before putting his knife and fork back down. “Look, I’ll tell you as much as we know about hopscotch, but only because we know fuck all.”
Ray nodded. “Go on.”
“What we know are just rumours. Unlike the original recipe, hopscotch didn’t turn up on some forum. Instead, the story is someone approached two proxy dealers right here in London and gave them the recipe. Gratis.”
Ray stared at him, thunderstruck. “Come again?”
“God’s truth,” said Edwards. “In fact, I think you were originally on that case. Elijah Waits?”
Ray had to think for a moment before the details came back to him. “Yeah, I remember him. He murdered his business partner. Someone left an anonymous tip about the location of their proxy factory and we caught him red-handed. I helped gather evidence on the scene.”
“But you didn’t hear the story Waits came up with while he was preparing his defence,” said Edwards.
Ray frowned. “I knew Waits and his partner printed proxy beads, but not that they were hopscotch proxy.”
“Ray, had you even heard of hopscotch at the time?”
“Well…no,” Ray admitted. “Although I’d heard rumours there was some new kind of proxy going around.”
“You were off the case by then, but Waits based his defence around his claim that someone came to him and his partner offering them the recipe for hopscotch but asking nothing in return. They just wanted it out there.”
“Bullshit,” Ray said automatically.
“Probably,” Edwards agreed. “But you wanted to know, and that’s the entirety of it. Waits might as well have said he got it from his fairy fucking godmother.” He shrugged. “But say just for argument’s sake that Waits was telling the truth, and someone deliberately used him and his partner to get hopscotch out onto the streets. Why would they do that?”
The answer came suddenly and immediately to Ray, and he felt cool sweat prick the small of his back: because they could remotely take random hopscotch users over without their knowledge or permission. Body-jacking, but on an unprecedented scale.
“Was there any proof to back Waits’ story up?” Ray asked, working hard to maintain a semblance of calm.
“None. But there is one thing nobody seems to be able to answer: how do a couple of low-end proxy dealers figure out how to make a new version of proxy when supposedly no one knows how the original proxy works?”
“And the Peartree mob?” asked Ray. “Did you find any discrepancies in their stories?”
“Their stories all match,” said Edwards. “We don’t know how it was done. And no, I haven’t heard any stories from anywhere else about hopscotch being used in that way—except from you, just now.” He pointed his fork at Ray, whose own food still sat untouched before him. “Just remember, the only reason I’m even telling you this much is because you proved I was somewhere else when that impounded heroin went missing. But quid pro quo, mate. I deserve at least a little something in return, even just for the sake of my curiosity. What is it you’re caught up in?”
“As long as it’s just between you and me. Agreed?”
Edwards nodded. “Agreed.”
“Amy Cotter hired me,” said Ray. “Stacy Cotter’s mother.”
Edwards blinked in surprise. “Raphael Markov’s ex? What did she want you to do?”
“Find Stacy Cotter.”
Edwards grunted a laugh. “Good luck finding her before we do. Unless you know something we don’t?” Once again he pointed his fork at Ray. “Quid pro quo.”
“Well,” said Ray, “it turns out Stacy Cotter isn’t Raphael Markov’s biological daughter. Her mother told me as much. She had an affair with one of Raphael’s employees and got pregnant from him.”
Edwards’ face froze mid-swallow. He coughed and cleared his throat. “Fucking hell,” he said. “That is news.”
“Which also makes it odd Markov locked his supposed, but not actual, daughter up in a hospital and refused to let her own mother see her when, in Amy Cotter’s own words, he cut both of them off following the divorce. It makes little sense to Amy, and it makes even less sense to me. So I’m trying to find out what I can.”
Edwards chuckled and finished his meal. “Look, if you find out anything else, maybe we can work out a deal. Wash off some of the muck that got stuck to you after you got booted out.”
Ray shook his head. “Thanks, but it’s not enough. I want that muck to have never been there in the first place. I want everyone to know I did nothing wrong. That’s what I care about.”
Edwards nodded to show his understanding and stood. “Thanks for the grub, mate. I get why you’re so involved in this case now. You’re still convinced Markov stitched you up.” He shook his head. “But going after someone like that is a fool’s game. My advice? Put the whole thing behind you. It’s been long enough.”
But I can’t do that, thought Ray, watching Edwards exit the greasy spoon. He had to prove his innocence, because he was rotting on the inside—and had been for a long time, if he was honest with himself.
But now he had another story about hopscotch—another piece of the puzzle. Which left the question, assuming any of it was true, of who had supplied Waits and his business partner with the recipe.
And might that person have some connection with whomever created the original proxy?
Whatever the truth, he was certain Dominic Fiori, wherever or whoever he really was, had many, if not all, of the answers. Fiori had been by Stacy’s side from the moment they’d carried her out of the hospital: he might even have been the one orchestrating the whole thing.
As he stared down at his rapidly cooling meal, a sudden realization came to Ray with such force that he jerked suddenly upright, sending the mug he’d been drinking from crashing to the floor and attracting a few curious stares.
It was something Amy Cotter had said, back when they had taken a walk through the fields near her house. He cursed himself for not having worked it out at the time, but he’d been so frazzled by the entire incident at the Peartree Institute he’d hardly been able to think clearly.
Ray left the café, his food still untouched and his bracelet flashing once as he exited to show that the cost had been deducted from his account. Stepping towards the kerb, he lifted his bracelet to his mouth and spoke Amy Cotter’s name.
It beeped for several seconds before she picked up.
“Mr Thomas?” she said, sounding guarded.
“It’s about Paul Green, Miss Cotter.”
“Yes?” She replied, an audible tightness to her voice. “What about him?”
“When exactly did he and your ex-husband begin proxying with each other?” he asked. “I don’t know if you know the specific date, but if you had even a rough idea I’d hugely appreciate it. Believe me when I say it’s important.”
A longer pause this time before she replied. “I’d like to know why you require this information.”
“Please, Miss Cotter. Just indulge me. I know it’s ancient history and these things aren’t always easy to remember long after the fact. But—”
“Remembering dates isn’t an issue,” she replied. “Paul Green told me he first slept with me in Raphael’s body on March 9th, 2030.” There was a change in her voice, as if she had just stepped back into her cottage from outside.
“You’re certain of that?” Ray could hear his heart thudding loud and hard in his chest. “Not 2032 or 2033?”
“Mr Thomas,” she said, a certain steeliness now creeping into her voice, “it was the night of my wedding. I could hardly fail to recall it. Now please,” she said, “will you tell me what this is about?”
Ray stared into the middle distance, feeling as if he stood at a fork in a road. Down one path lay years of bitterness and self-recrimination. Down the other—maybe, just maybe—lay something closer to redemption.
He recalled what he knew: proxy had first come to public attention in January 2032.
Yet if Amy had her dates right, and if Green had been telling her the truth, Raphael Markov had been proxying with Green up to two years before the recipe for proxy first appeared online.
Two years before anyone in the world had ever heard of it.
And given that Telop were a world-leader in both artificial intelligence and biotechnology, then the only conclusion was that the Markov’s had created proxy.
“Amy,” he asked, “do you know who invented proxy?”
“I have no idea,” she responded dismissively. “I’ve done my best to avoid even thinking about such things ever since that dreadful man came to me. Why?”
A mental picture developed in Ray’s mind, of a woman who had little interest or knowledge of her then-husband’s work. Not that he imagined Raphael had cared to share any such details.
“Is the name Dominic Fiori familiar to you?”
“Not at all,” Amy replied. “Should it be?”
“He was in the crowd involved in your daughter’s kidnap.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t recognize the name.”
On a hunch, he asked: “What did you say the name of Stacy’s real father was?”
“Isaac Sizemore.”
“Do you have a picture of him you can send me, Miss Cotter?”
“I…yes, I think so. It might take me a little while to find it.” Curiosity edged her voice. “Can I send it to you once I’ve found it?”
“Of course.”
“I’m always delighted to see you, Raymond,” said Eunice, as a large, bald-headed man with tattoos in Cyrillic placed a blue china plate on the table between them. Half a dozen fairy cakes were arranged on the plate. “But I do worry how you’re going to pay for all this extra information.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.” Another enormous thug arrived, bearing a teapot and two cups on a tray which he placed next to the cakes.
“That’ll be all, Stanislav,” Eunice said. “You and your brother can go now.”
The two men exited the room. “It’s not a problem,” said Ray. “I can afford it.” Which was at least partly true.
“Are you sure?” Something feral touched the edges of Eunice’s smile. “You’re getting quite deep into your savings, aren’t you? And it’s not like you can rely on your police pension after that unfortunate mess you got into.”
Ray opened his mouth and closed it again. “How did you…?”
“Oh, Ray.” Eunice tutted and picked up the teapot, pouring them each a cup. “The less you know,” she said sweetly, “the better off you are.”
Ray stared at her, feeling unsettled. “Then why ask if I can afford your services if you already know?”
Eunice gave him a maternal pat on his hand where it rested on the table. “I just want you to know that I’m concerned. You were a very good policeman in your day, but you don’t have the resources of the Metropolitan behind you now.”
