Experiment With Destiny by Stephen Carr

and began unwrapping his chips, reminding Steven how long it had been since lunch.
                  “Not sure yet.” Steven clicked on the print icon and glanced across at Menna, who was ignoring them both. “Got a minute?”
                  “Sure,” Jerry mumbled through a mouthful of succulently fried potato.
                  “In private.” Steven’s voice was almost a whisper. Jerry gave him a quizzical look before pacing across to the conference room. Steven joined him, printout in hand, a minute later.
                  “What’s the big secret? You quitting? Found another job?” Jerry’s favourite paranoia, largely because he was usually blamed by those who did quit for making their lives a miserable overworked hell, and that didn’t go down well with the Investors in People obsessed editor.
                  “How’d you guess?” Steven waited long enough for the flash of indignation to pass and the worry to furrow Jerry’s brow. “No, nothing like that. It’s this RTA. The police have released the names of the four dead in record time. Trouble is the details they’ve released don’t match what I know from the scene.”
                  “Police cock-up. No problem. Menna can get onto it and they’ll have it sorted by tomorrow’s first edition.” Jerry eyed his chips longingly. “Just type up what you’ve got, caption your pix and get away. You’re off tomorrow, aren’t you?”
                  “Yes…no!” Steven flapped the printout in frustration. “I mean yes, I’m off, but no, I don’t think it’s a police cock-up. It’s starting to look more…sinister than that.” Jerry cocked an eyebrow, his wooden fork hovering agonisingly close to a large vinegar-doused chip. “It was a government car…a black Jag, one of the old petrol limo types. It had EBM plates…military.”
                  “And they’ve released the names of the people inside? Remarkable!”
                  “That’s just it. According to this…” he waved the printout under Jerry’s nose. “…the three inside were vagrants…waste-dwellers.”
                  “Stolen car, obviously. It’s not unknown, though it must have taken some nerve for waste-dwellers to nick a military vehicle. Bet some MOD chauffeur’s had his arse seriously kicked for that!”
                  “The police say it was stolen, but the point I’m getting at is that the three people who died in it this evening were not the three people the police have named on this press release. Look!  ‘Driver, Timothy Allan Gillislade, aged 19, no fixed abode. Loss of Eurostate Citizenship in April. Category: unresponsive to correctional penalties. Pronounced DOA. Front seat passenger, Edward Ian Bessant, aged 21, no fixed abode. Loss of Eurostate Citizenship in July. Category: unresponsive to correctional penalties. Pronounced DOA.” Steven was quite animated by now.
                  “What are you getting at?” Jerry interrupted. “If you don’t mind, my chips are getting cold!” Steven glared at him momentarily, then instantly regretted his audacity.
                  “I took pictures of the three people they pulled out of that government car.” There was an effort of restraint in his voice.
                  “You did what?” Jerry’s voice was so loud that Menna was now paying attention to what was going on in the conference room, though it was unlikely she could make out what was being said with the door closed.
                  “I took pictures,” Steven continued more quietly, “because I figured whoever had died in that car was not going to be your average Joe Bloggs and because if we could identify whoever that person was ASAP we’d have a head start on a major story…”
                  “Good thinking…I think.” Jerry had