Strike a Match (Book 1): Serious Crimes Read Online Free

Fairmont and that you’re the principal secretary to the ambassador himself.”
    “Which means you’ve got to let me go,” Fairmont said.
    “Where are you from?” Mitchell asked. “Iowa?”
    “I’m not saying anything more,” Fairmont replied.
    “Fair enough,” Mitchell said. He began a far more thorough search of the man.
    “Hey! You can’t do that!” Fairmont protested.
    “And yet I am,” Mitchell said. There were no weapons, only a thick envelope hidden in a deep pocket concealed in the coat’s lining. “What’s this?” he asked, waving the packet in front of the man’s eyes.
    “Diplomatic correspondence. Which means you can’t open it,” Fairmont said.
    “Does it? Let’s see.” Mitchell tore at the seal, pulling the envelope open.
    “No! You can’t read them! It’s against the law!” Fairmont protested.
    This time Mitchell said nothing as he examined the contents. There were seven sheets of paper. On the left-hand side of each page was a list of names and addresses, with an esoteric collection of details next to each; an elementary school, the colour of the mailbox, the name of an aunt, a name of a business, the address of a lawyer… He turned to the next sheet and found it was much the same.
    “What does this list mean?” Mitchell asked.
    “I’m not saying another word,” Fairmont replied.
    “Yes, you said that before,” Mitchell said. “But why did you bring them out here? Were you selling them? Is that it? Have we devolved to espionage already?” He waited to see if Fairmont would say anything. He didn’t.
    “Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance,” Mitchell said. He hauled the man to his feet and pushed him back along the path, towards the dead body.
    “Stay here,” he said, pushing the man down to his knees, five yards from the corpse. “I’d suggest you tell me what was going on and in return I’d get a few years shaved off your sentence. But I don’t think you’ll take a deal, will you? No, I thought not.”
    Mitchell backed away from the man until he could see both Fairmont and the corpse. He picked up the gun the man had thrown out. It was a revolver, of the same make as the one holstered at Mitchell’s belt. Hopefully it was stolen. The armoury in Scotland manufactured rifles for hunters, shotguns for farmers, and revolvers for the police. Only the Navy used old-world firearms; assault rifles with barrels modified to take the new ammunition made at the powder works in Loch Creigh. Everything from Uzis to AK47s had come to Britain with the waves of immigrants who’d passed through the Channel Tunnel. Fortunately, after surviving the horrors of mainland Europe, few people had any ammunition left. Creating a standardised cartridge of a calibre too large to fit in the most common of old-world weapons, and whose sale was restricted and taxed, was a crude form of gun control. One that clearly hadn’t worked. He pocketed the revolver and picked up the other gun. It was an old-world snub-nosed pistol with four cartridges in the magazine. He weighed it in his hands, thoughtfully.
    “Do you think he planned to shoot you with this?” he asked Fairmont. The man said nothing.
    The sergeant turned back to the corpse. His bullet had entered through the man’s cheek, flying diagonally through the man’s head, blowing out an eye before taking off the top of his skull. He didn’t recognise what was left of the face, but that didn’t mean much.
    “You want to tell me who he is?” he called out to Fairmont. The man glared back.
    The dead man had little in his pockets. There were four loose rounds for the revolver, two one-pound notes and four penny-stamps, a clasp knife with a five-inch blade, and a coin. Mitchell examined it closely.
    All currency was printed. Denominations from fifty pence to twenty pounds were issued as notes, smaller currency was printed as stamps. Even the rarest of metals could be scavenged from the ruins of the dead cities, but electricity was