The Reticent Executioner: A dystopian world deserves a dystopian detective, and London just got hers (DI Kramer Series Book 1) by John Fullerton

Author:John Fullerton [Fullerton, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Socciones Editoria Digitale
Published: 2019-05-19T22:00:00+00:00

Day Three: Wednesday, April 20.

‘Dark nights of the soul are lit by inconceivable ideas.’

- Charles Baxter, ‘The Art of Subtext’.

9

Fennel’s reaction would be interesting; Kramer imagined how the man might feel at the sight of two detectives on his doorstep this morning, holding up their warrant cards, Arden using her left while her right rested on the butt of her sidearm, both looking at Fennel with that distinctive expression police adopt through the habit of long experience in dealing with suspects, a combination of stern, naked power and watchfulness, a wariness ready to detect any gesture, any hesitation, any threat, fake smile or facial twitch on the part of the interviewee that might give away a lie, a weakness, a failed effort to dissemble, a sense of his or her own guilt, an animal urge to make a run for it or draw a knife. Even in the best of times, in a democratic society, a police officer had immense power; nowadays that went a lot further; on the word of a sergeant, uniformed or otherwise, and any rank above sergeant - Arden, for example - anyone at all could be declared a terrorist suspect or a suspect extremist. No reason, no form of words were needed; the arresting officer required no narrative, no excuse, to exercise that authority. On the mere word of this same sergeant, or another, the ‘suspect’ could be held for 90 days without trial, and the process - again, on the word of a mere sergeant - endlessly repeated.

Fennel could not fail to have heard of Mostert’s murder. In his first brush with Arden and her fellow officers in the immediate aftermath of Monday’s incident, the record showed he had lied outright to officers canvassing Fentiman Road residents; yes, Fennel knew Chelsea Mostert by sight, he didn’t know her socially, no, and he might have said ‘good morning’ or good afternoon’ as one would to a neighbour, naturally, and of course he knew who she was from television and the press. But he didn’t know her personally, no. They weren’t friends. He was adamant on this point, and pretty sure Mrs Fennel (at this juncture she’d left with the children for school and then her own work) wasn’t either, or the latter would surely have mentioned it to him, and she hadn’t done so. He didn’t know the boyfriend, Ryan Exeter, and had not seen them together in the neighbourhood, though of course he knew from the media who Exeter was. No, he hadn’t spotted either of them at the local Sainsbury’s supermarket at Nine Elms. These details were on the form filled in by a police officer on Fennel’s doorstep within two hours of the killing. Fennel had initialled the form once all the boxes had been ticked and his comments written down in the large, child-like hand of the constable.

Fennel could not have known of the traces of his semen on the murder victim’s clothing, but would have spent an anxious 48 hours

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