SolarPunk Detective #1 Extract

A bit more of our solarpunk fiction series for free

Feb 20, 2023

[In a solapunked London 2066 murders are rare, but when then happen DI Russo is on the case - IMAGE: George Grey @Royalston Design]

As we gear up for the release of SolarPunk Detective #2 Innocent as Doves, we’re sharing an extract from our first story The Prodigal.

Below follows on immediately from the beginning of the story which you can read for free first by clicking here.

This story contains descriptions of violence and gore.

Reader discretion is advised.

FROM SOLARPUNK DETETCIVE #1 - THE PRODIGAL

[TWO]

“Look it’s a plane.”, Andrew shouted with surprise as he pointed over the edge of the walkway. Russo turned slowly to inspect the sky that could be seen from the seventh floor walkway of Woolley House on the Loughborough Estate.

“I don’t see it.” Russo said flatly.

Annoyed, Andrew turned to look back for his plane. They were heading into autumn and the building’s sun screens had been winched back, giving an uninterrupted panorama of London.

The rooftops of the houses and blocks were a patchwork of shiny white solar paint and older blue panels. Rising up in the distance were the old skyscrapers weaved through with threads of green, showing where they had been converted into vertical farms.

Andrew kept scanning for the plane, but the sky wasn’t clear. Black storm clouds were forming and big bass drum rolls of thunder came across London to hit him in the ears. The air pressure was so high, it felt like palms pushing on his face and there was the clean metallic scent of ozone in the air. He could see the usual airships, both passenger and commercial but the plane had disappeared.

“It’s probably gone behind a cloud.” Andrew said half-heartedly.

Russo raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“It was a passenger plane I’m sure.” Andrew said defiantly, but knowing that it was unlikely to be the case. Nonetheless he was annoyed that Russo was shitting on his happiness and didn’t want to back down.

It wasn’t just that Russo’s accent was so arch, it was that he could act so superior to everybody else that Andrew sometimes felt he was being lectured by his DI. One of those times was now.

“If it was a plane it was probably a military one on manoeuvres. They’re the only wings we’re likely to see round here anymore.” Russo said.

“Now if you’re done trainspotting, I believe there’s something we came here to do.”

Andrew grudgingly fell in behind him as they headed to the crime scene. It wasn’t hard to spot it, the white boiler suits and masks of the forensics team making their way in and out of the apartment door were easy to see.

Russo nodded to one of the white shapes that was about a head taller than the rest, at least 6’6”.

“Morning Flo, done playing scientist now?” The gap over the suit’s mask showed Flo’s light brown skin and eyes that narrowed as she clocked the DI.

“Sure Russo, as long as you don’t make a mess of my scene.” Her accent was Yorkshire and her tone flinty.

“I was planning to roll around in it a bit, that’s OK right?” Russo quipped. Flo rolled her eyes.

“Get in there before I request another detective.” She said bluntly.

Andrew and Russo put on their blastic crime scene gloves and went into the flat. There was a lingering saccharine smell to the entry area that made Andrew think it was frequently cleaned with cheap detergent. A polished side table held a petro-plastic bowl with artificial flowers made of the same ancient material. They walked through an open door into the living room. The decoration was spartan but the contents were a bomb site.

There were half eaten plates of food, empty bottles of alcohol, and shopping bags strewn around the room. It was all capped off with the spectacular centrepiece of a corpse lying on a thick blood-stained rug.

Andrew fought down the urge to retch up the cereal and tea he’d had for breakfast. It wasn’t the first body he’d seen during his year on the deadpool, even so murders had been few enough to still make him queasy when looking at death.

Andrew was yet to see Russo phased by a body. His DI had been working murders for decades, going back to the bad old days, when there were so many each borough had its own dedicated team to investigate them. Since the foundation of the republic and all the changes that had come with that, killings had dropped so low there was now just one squad for the whole of London. Local borough detectives were called away from their normal duties as murders arose and assigned to what was officially called the Murder Investigation Panel, but because they were put on it according to a rota officers called it the deadpool.

Russo picked his way carefully around the patch of blood to get closer to the body and lifted his hat off. Using his free hand, he swept each half of his scarf across his neck and over the back of his jacket, so that they hung down his shoulders like two little waterfalls of fabric. Andrew thought he looked more like a 1920s country gent who was about to jump in a crank powered motor car, than a Brixton detective from 2066.

Now that his scarf wouldn’t drop into the victim’s blood, Russo put the hat back in place. He pinched his cords at the thighs to pull them up slightly so he could squat down to get a better look at the face of the deceased. Andrew leaned down to look at the victim too. Even through all the matted hair and blood, you could make out that this had been a young man’s face, early 20s.

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Still squatting, Russo turned his head to look into the face of Anna Wilton, mother of the nation. It was a bronze bust of the woman who helped found the British Republic and served as its first president. The bust of her head was almost as big as a person’s. It lay on its side, the back covered with blood, brains and bits of skull. The metal mass was lying directly facing the deceased as if they were two lovers of different generations gazing at each other across a pillow after sex.

“Madame President, I never knew you were so naughty.” Russo muttered.

“What was that?” Andrew asked.

“Nothing.” Russo said. “Look at this.” He pointed his finger at the bust. Andrew peered down to see that there was a hatch at the base that revealed a small compartment which was empty. Russo stood up slowly, sighing slightly.

“Who’s our customer?” He asked.

Andrew got his mod out to bring up the victim’s police records. His was converted into the classic style of a simple block. Russo mockingly called it his ‘brick’. Russo had his own mod, adapted to look like a pocket watch, with metal casing to match. He always got Andrew to do any digital work though, saying it was his privilege as his constable to do so. Andrew read off the information that came up.

“Perry Fontayne, 22. Resident at this address with his aunt and grandmother. A history of minor misdemeanours throughout his teens. Then he seems to have graduated to quota hacking. Arrests and warnings for several offences before finally being sent down to Berwyn for a two-year sentence. He was released early…” he paused scanning for the date, “…yesterday.”

Russo looked down at the body.

“A Q-jumper was he? Connected to anybody we know?”

Andrew looked back at his device.

“It says here he was suspected of working for Mother Murphy’s gang, but there was no conclusive evidence.”

Russo gave a little snort.

“That doesn’t surprise me, though them bashing his brains out would. That’s extreme, even for Murphy’s crew.”

Andrew put his mod back in his pocket. “What if they felt he’d crossed them badly? It looks like he’d come into a lot of credit recently.”

He reached down to pick a vintage leather jacket out of a new shopping bag. It still had the tag on and he whistled with disbelief. “He didn’t rent this. He bought it. It’s real cow skin. Over two grand.”

Russo came over, put his face close to the black leather and took a big sniff.

“Ahh, that takes me back.” He said standing up straight. He looked around the room. “Take pictures of everything. Let’s see what else we can find.” They searched around, Andrew snapping away with his brick as he did so. He looked at one of the many bottles that were strewn across the room.

“This champagne is from where I grew up.”

“So?” Russo said as if anywhere outside of London were irrelevant.

“So, it’s a Premier Cru 2045, from one of the most expensive vineyards in the Southeast. These don’t come cheap.” Andrew turned his head to take in the other bottles scattered across the floor like children’s toys. “It looks like he bought a whole case.”

Russo nodded his head in the direction of the kitchen. Here they found more empty bottles of booze, and suspicious looking white powder. Using the lid end of his pocket fountain pen the DI opened the fridge door. Andrew gawped open mouthed at the contents. There were the remains of a whole cooked goat’s leg and an entire roast chicken.

“It looks like he’d hit the big time.” Andrew said.

“And several people’s worth of quotas it seems.” Russo added.

“He didn’t even finish them.” Andrew said incredulously, pointing to a chicken drumstick which had bite marks around one side.

“As far as prison release parties go it was definitely an expensive one.”

The cost of everything Perry had bought was in such stark contrast to the sparseness of the flat. Andrew looked back at the open fridge with meat costing several months’ worth of wages in it.

“It’d be a shame to waste it.” He said to Russo smiling.

Russo raised an eyebrow and smiled back.

“It’s evidence. By the time forensics are done with it, even they won’t want to eat it.”

“Check this out guv.” Andrew pointed to a brochure on the kitchen work surface. It had a stylised picture of a passenger jet going through the clouds and the brand ‘True Flight’ written on it.

“If he was considering buying a plane ticket that’s a whole other level of money he must have come in to.” Russo mused.

“Maybe he was paid off for not grassing?” Andrew ventured.

“Maybe.” Said Russo, lifting open the card cover of the brochure with his pen to reveal descriptions of payment plans to help people afford the stratospheric cost of a plane flight.

They left the flat walking past the forensics officers loitering on the walkway outside. Their gloves released the rubbery smell of blastic as they pulled them off.

“Be a pal and compost these for me Flo. That’s your job right?”

With a look of disgust, Flo gestured to one of her team who bagged them. Her mask and suit cap were now off to reveal her cornrowed hair and mocking smile.

“Maybe we can compost your toyboy’s shoes while we’re at it. They seem ready for the wormery.”

She pointed at the muddy garden clogs that went incongruously with the rest of Andrew’s attire.

“Flo, you’re such a flirt. Andrew prefers men so maybe you’re in with a shot.”

She let out somewhere between a laugh and a grunt.

“Done with my crime scene have you?”

“We ate the chicken but left you some goat.” Russo said.

“Very funny.” She replied, rolling her eyes.

A few other neighbours stood gawping further down the walkway just past the stairwell. A uniformed officer kept them back.

“Quite the crowd.” Andrew said to Flo.

“Rare to get a murder these days.” She replied.

“Indeed.” Said Russo. “Where’s the aunt who called it in?”

“Francene Ennis, and her mother Doreen are at their neighbour, Ms Figueira’s flat.” She pointed down the walkway to where a constable stood guard.

“Cheers.” Russo tipped his hat to Flo and turned to Andrew.

“Let’s go say hello to auntie.”

To read the rest of SolarPunk Detective…

Click here to buy the whole story for £3. Ten percent of sales go to Transition Town Brixton, a South London activist group building a more sustainable and socially just future.