The Trouble With Time Read Free

computer; but while he watched he wandered around, picking things up and putting them down again.
    Jace took photographs while Farouk summoned the van with the equipment. When it arrived, they unloaded ladders and a platform, put on vinyl gloves and systematically examined every inch of the ceiling, looking for a concealed hiding place behind a loose brick. Grit fell in their eyes as they worked and the dust made them sneeze. Finding nothing, they moved on to the machines and workbenches.
    There was only one small piece of excitement all evening. Jace was testing hand power tools on one of the benches to make sure the TiTrav wasn’t hidden in any of the casings when Farouk, on his knees behind the kitchen units, jumped up and used an expression that had not been heard to pass his lips before.
    Jace said, “Fuck me, that’s a first. I thought swearing was haram?”
    “He got it from you,” Kayla said. “You’re a terrible influence. Are you okay, Farouk?”
    Farouk kicked the cabinet. His foot went straight through the flimsy panel. “A bastard mousetrap got my fingers!”
    Quinn looked up from the computer screen and told him to calm down. Ryker cracked his only smile of the evening, which drew Quinn’s attention to him.
    “I’m finding a surprising number of TiTrav resources in your files. Technical stuff, service software, updates, diagrams, coding . . . I doubt our own technicians have as much. I’m wondering why anyone without a TiTrav would need this.”
    “It’s interesting,” Ryker said. “It’s my hobby.”
    They applied stickers as they went, a different colour for each operative, so that nowhere would be missed or gone over twice. These were left in situ. By the time they’d exhausted every possible hiding place – and many impossible ones – it looked as if a hurricane en route from a giant’s wedding had spread confetti through the workshop. The team communicated in monosyllables, working mechanically, longing to get home. Two unproductive searches in one day was two too many. When they ran out of places to search, they stood in a disconsolate group, tacitly admitting defeat.
    “We’re done here,” said Quinn.
    “Happy now?” said Ryker, standing up. “I suppose there’s no chance of an apology for time wasted and nuisance caused. If you lot will bugger off I’ll tidy up and go to bed.”
    “Mr Ryker, on behalf of IEMA I apologize,” said Quinn. “Once again you emerge without a stain on your character. Few people have been so frequently subjected to repeated scrutiny and found to be blameless. I can only congratulate you on your record and hope you retain it.”
    They were halfway to the door when Quinn turned. “Perhaps I should tell you, as you were his friend, that Peter McGuire resisted arrest this morning. So we shot him. Dead. Goodnight.”

CHAPTER 3
Scott
    The elevator reached the tenth floor and Jace opened the door to his rented studio flat, three hundred square feet and a balcony in Hoxton. Fleetingly, he considered having a shower, then decided in favour of immediate sleep. He pressed the button to lower the bed out of the wall and took off his jacket.
    The doorbell rang.
    Cursing, he walked to the entry phone. Scott’s face filled the screen.
    “What is it?”
    “Can I come up and talk to you?”
    “At this hour? What about? Can’t it wait till morning?”
    “I’d really rather talk to you now, if you don’t mind.”
    Jace pressed the lock release, then went to the kitchen area and put the kettle on. He heard the clunk of the lift doors and went to let Scott in.
    “Coffee?”
    “No thanks. I’ve been in the bar over the road all evening waiting for you to come back.” He smiled nervously. “Too much coffee.”
    “Take a seat.” Scott sat on the edge of the sofa. The kettle boiled and Jace made himself coffee. He put it on the table in front of the sofa, then got out the bottle of brandy and a couple of glasses.
    “Shoot. Brandy?”
    “Oh, thanks, yes