The Murder Code by Steve Mosby

rare in the grids, but it is a highly populated area and Vicki Gibson had been murdered in plain sight of several windows.
    All the people who might have been looking out of those windows had been interviewed, and yet, according to the reports in front of us, nobody had seen anything.
    Laura picked up her coffee and took a sip.
    ‘It’s not so unusual,’ she said. ‘It’s the nature of the area. People often turn a blind eye in the grids. We both know that from bitter bloody experience.’
    ‘Not so much on the outskirts.’ The central areas were full of illegal people, illegal trades, and people who were notoriously reluctant to talk to the police. ‘And that’s almost always drug-related. I don’t see this as that sort of attack, do you?’
    Laura shrugged. ‘Not on the surface. But you never know.’
    ‘She had two decent jobs under her belt.’
    ‘Exactly. We know she needed the money. So it could be drug- or debt-related.’
    I thought about that. It was a possibility. Take a loan from the wrong people and it wasn’t unlikely you’d meet with reprisals if you failed to repay. Anyone who saw the murder would probably decide there were far better things to do than get involved by talking to us about it, like absolutely anything at all.
    A boardroom crime.
    ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘We can look into that. Who are the street merchants in that area? I don’t know off the top of my head.’
    ‘Me neither.’
    ‘I don’t know if I buy it though.’
    Laura sighed. ‘Me neither.’
    ‘And it wouldn’t explain our second victim, would it?’
    ‘No. Unless he wandered past, drunk, and the killer followed him to make sure he hadn’t seen anything.’
    ‘That’s a theory?’
    ‘Sort of.’
    ‘It’s weak as a kitten, that one.’
    She sighed again. ‘I know.’
    I picked up my own coffee, and we sat in silence again for a few moments. Nobody looking out of their windows. Apparently nobody around on the street at the time. I didn’t buy the debt idea, but there had to be some explanation for it.
    There was a rap at the door. An officer opened it immediately without waiting to be invited.
    ‘Do not disturb!’ I shouted.
    ‘Sorry, sir.’
    ‘We were deep in conversation there. Deep .’
    Laura gave me a withering look.
    ‘Shut up, Hicks,’ she said. ‘What is it?’
    ‘Simon Duncan’s downstairs. He wants to know whether either of you is attending the post-mortems?’
    Laura looked at me. I held my palm out.
    ‘Not me,’ I said.
    ‘All right, I’ll go.’ She stood up. ‘What are your plans in my absence, then? Going to sit there and pout?’
    ‘Nope,’ I said. ‘Troll East. Try to identify our homeless victim.’
    ‘Lovely.’
    ‘It’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it.’
    Laura gave me a half-smile as she headed to the door. Compared to Troll East, the autopsy was the easy option.
    ‘Might as well be you, then, eh?’ she said.

Nine
    O UR CITY HAS AN underground system with six stops. It runs for several miles below the southern half of the city, under the picturesque old town and business sectors, basically tracing the curl of the river, and is used primarily by tourists and professional sorts. You can travel the entire juddering, clacking line in about twenty minutes. The trains move fast enough between stations that you wouldn’t notice the open pipes and passageways you’re passing. Tunnels under the earth that aren’t entirely as abandoned as you might imagine.
    The underground was originally planned to have eight stations, but due to budget miscalculations—or, more cynically, budget misappropriations—only six were ever completed. So there are two unfinished stations, one at either end, and they aren’t abandoned either. They’re the first official stops on the city below the city: one to the east and one to the west.
    Because our second victim had been found much closer to the east, that was where I was heading.
    The rush hour slowed me down, but I reached the dead