Free Square Wave by Mark de Silva Page A

of lint from his sock, which rested on the opposite thigh, his legs being crossed. “Maybe that doesn’t say much. Either way, though.”
    “Not really, no. One way counts, Carl. The other is simple assault. Run-of-the-mill police work. We’d turn that over. Even a string of beatings—if that’s all it is, we’re wasting our time. So, does this woman, what happened to her, have anything to do with anything? Jenko, say. Or the elections—”
    “Does it matter who wins anymore?” Stagg said. “Sometimes, for a few seconds, I can forget who’s president now. Which is crazy.”
    “It matters,” Penerin said.
    “A third of them voted last time.”
    “And that’s what we’re trying to fix. We have to make it matter to them. Obviously it already does to the ones destroying everything. So as long as you work for me, as long as the government keeps picking up both our tabs, it’ll have to matter to you. So, from all the months you’ve been with us, Carl, can you tell me something?”
    A sneer overtook Stagg’s face. “Look, this girl, she got seriously fucked up. But it looked like, to me, she was meant to live, the exact way she’d been fucked up. That’s it. She didn’t say a word, not when the police and the ambulance came either. They must have gotten her name after I left, or from something she had on her. I only know what you’re holding in your hands. And there’s not all that much in the report, beyond the few details I supplied. What’s there to interpret yet? Her empty stare? If it’s speculation—sure, a less-than-murderous ex, maybe. Or a warning for the check that bounced. Or just a dissatisfied customer looking for a refund. There was nothing obviously about… politics—the ‘State’—if that’s what you mean. That I can say.”
    Penerin got up from his swivel chair. “Your impressions, even the faint ones, are why you’re here. If that’s all you have, then fine, that’s all. But did you check this against the earlier incidents? That at least could mean something eventually—that they’re definitely all related, if they are.”
    “I wasn’t working here when they happened, though.”
    “But the reports. Did you look them up?”
    “This happened yesterday. No.”
    “Then we need to check now.”
    “I’m going to get something just from comparing names, images? I need to talk to her.”
    “We’ll do both,” Penerin said as he got up from his desk. “Anyway, here’s the thing. I have another watch here, from Henning, who’s seen prostitutes harassed or worse recently. I sent him a copy of the report this morning. He thought we should compare notes.” He walked past Stagg to the door that looked only a little like wood and gestured for him to follow.
    At the end of an underlit corridor they came to a room of glass. The ceiling was painted a cool green. In the corner was a small desk with a fax machine and a printer. Three folding chairs were laid out around a coffee table in the center of the room. A South Asian sat in the middle chair, slender-framed, long-fingered. His eyes livened when he caught Stagg’s.
    “This is Ravan, this is Carl,” Penerin said without gestures. Stagg extended his hand and Ravan received it happily, though without standing.
    “So you’ve seen what I’ve seen, something a bit like it anyway,” Ravan said, still shaking his hand. His accent confounded. England was in it, but in a complicated way.
    “Really there hasn’t been a case like this in months, in Easton,” Penerin said.
    “But yeah,” Stagg interrupted, “I found a woman, beaten but not mugged. She lost nothing,” he said, scanning Penerin’s copy of the report. “Her bag, money, ID, everything was found on her. Just yesterday.”
    Ravan pulled on the collar of his polo with two fingers. His sneakers were battered, offsetting the curiously sharp creases in his gray wool trousers. He turned his eyes to the floor and then quickly back to Stagg. “Lately there’s been