by Emma Jameson
“Oi! There he is,” Kate called, emerging from an Embankment shop. She advanced on him rapidly, shaking a greasy paper bag. “I have mini doughnuts.”
“After all that food and Chardonnay, I figured you’d be slimming this morning.” He, too, had overindulged last night, but that didn’t stop him from digging into the bag. A fair proportion of the Met now overindulged in the mini doughnuts daily. According to MPS PR flacks, the new New Scotland Yard’s design would contribute to the health of public servants by getting them out of the office and walking along the Embankment. But many walked no farther than the bakery. There’d been a time, ten or twenty years ago, where many Brits had felt comfortably superior to their rotund American cousins. Recent public health trends suggested the glory days of laughing at Yank fatties was done.
“Told you. I’m off slimming for good.” Kate bit defiantly into a mini doughnut. “After the fire I went through my wardrobe, plucked out the itsy-bitsies and packed them off to Oxfam. I’m not fat. I’m just not as thin as I used to be. It’s fine.”
“You’re a liar.”
“I’m at peace. No more starvation diets. More cardio, more weight training, and more veg with every meal. Except this one.” Finishing her doughnut, Kate plucked another out of the bag. “You’ve inspired me. Look at that skunk streak. It’s getting bigger and I don’t see you fighting it.”
“I’m dyeing my hair next week.”
“Get out!”
“I am.” He resisted the urge to run his fingers through the streak, which started at his temple and zigzagged toward his crown. According to experts—his mum, his aunts, Kyla, his neighbors, two pensioners in Tesco and a full-regalia Morris Dancer on the underground—concealing the white streak would be a commitment. Once he started, he’d have to color it every two to three weeks.
“It’s not that I’m vain,” he said, wishing there was a reflective surface nearby for him to check himself in. “If my hair was going salt-and-pepper, or even full-on gray like Tony’s, I could live with it. Maybe. But it’s snow white. Mendelsohn’s calling me Pepé Le Pew.”
“Mendelsohn in the Vetting Bureau?” Kate asked scornfully. “Tell him to shut it. He’s a big girl’s blouse.”
“Mendelsohn in SCO19.”
“Oh. Well. In that case, if you don’t like the nickname, you’d better dye it quick. Speaking of big girl’s blouses….” Kate narrowed her eyes at him.
Paul groaned. He knew what she was getting at. He’d been postponing it for months. Six months, to be exact.
“I’m still up for training. I had to heal,” he said, referring to an injury that had sidelined him around the previous Halloween. “Then we had another big public case and you and Tony got married and it was Christmas, then it was New Year’s. Next thing I knew, Wellegrave House burned down and you were busy with the move….”
“Apart from the four month gap in that narrative, you’re quite right. Look. If you don’t want to improve your CQB skills, that’s your business,” Kate said, referring to Close Quarter Battle, a martial arts discipline in which she excelled. “But before you know it, you’ll be up for review. A poor score won’t serve your dream of becoming DI Bhar anytime soon.”
That was true. Paul exercised daily, but not like Kate, who set goals and took classes, or like Tony, who followed roughly the same routine of fencing, weight training, and boxing he’d done for the last thirty-five years. Paul’s notion of a great workout was to pop in the ear buds, run a couple of miles, have a coffee, check his Sky Sports fantasy football stats, and run home. For him, it was all about fresh air and music. For Tony, it was a deeply ingrained habit. For Kate, it was a competitive sport.
“DI Bhar does have that magical ring to it,” he said. “Maybe if I master your signature move—the roundhouse kick—and wow the reviewers, I’ll finally change my S to an I.”
“360-degree roundhouse kick,” Kate corrected. “Right. Time and date TBA. But soon. Don’t expect me to go easy.”
They polished off the rest of the mini doughnuts while watching the river. According to the Daily Mail, a London version of the Loch Ness monster had been sighted recently. That was bollocks, of course. But if any body of water on earth might actually contain a cryptozoological beast, it was the Thames. All manner of things had been pulled out of it: Roman swords, bullet-riddled crime bosses, and the occasional BMW, parked too long on a slipway and taken out by the tide. Paul was watching a rusty old fishing boat chug by when Kate said,
“Think we ought to go in? I’ve got Gulls.”
“Sounds like a diagnosis. ‘Why so blue?’ ‘I’ve got Gulls.’”
“And there’s no cure. Just an endless stream of rainbows and unicorns.”
“Some would say taking on a trainee detective constable was an honor,” Paul said, meaning it not in the least.
“Pull the other one. I think my number came up because I’m female. Meant to be nurturing.”
“I reckoned it’s because you’re prickly. Payback for one of your gobby moments. Besides. I overheard you with Gulls the other day. Admit it. You’re a mother hen. I think you’re starting to like her.”
“She did good work on our last case. Off-the-record, weekend work,” Kate agreed. “Dedication isn’t the issue. Neither is competence. She’s just so… chipper.”
“Another six weeks with you should cure her of that.” Rising, Paul gathered up the empty doughnut bag and napkins, pitching them into a nearby receptacle that said, “Do the right thing! Bin it for a cleaner Thames.” The notion was about three hundred years overdue, but better late than never.
“I was only taking the mickey, by the way,” Kate said, rummaging in her bag for her sunglasses. She popped them on and fell into step with him as they headed for the new HQ.
“About what?”
“You hopping back on the promotion obsession. And if you did, you’d better hop back off. You passed the exam. You went out for drinks and lunches with the top brass. Now all you can do is wait for the stars to line up. A higher rating at CQB won’t make the wheels turn any faster. Might save your life, though.”
“I was never obsessed with making DI,” Paul lied. “You’re the one who paid someone to prep you for the written exam.”
“Money well spent. I’m hopeless when it comes to tests. My A-levels were the worst experience of my life.”
“Yes, well, one thing I learned from three years in the wilderness. People love an underdog,” he said, hoping it was true. “I mucked up and everyone knows it. Had a few hiccups getting back on my feet. Now I’ve proven I can take my lumps. I chased a cat through an entire borough to secure an eyewitness, for heaven’s sake. Now I’m sidling into the chief’s good graces by volunteering for his scut work.”
“Right. This has to stop,” Kate said, stopping dead in the middle of the thoroughfare as fast-walking Londoners fell over themselves to evade her. “DCI Jackson is our guv now. It’s been months. You have to start calling him that.”
“No. You’re married to the guv. Jackson’s our boss. The chief.”
“Jackson’s the guv. I’m married to Tony. Two syllables. Toe-nee. Say it.”
“I won’t. It’s not natural.”
“Tony is now a private investigator. Say it. Or I’ll stand rooted to the spot till you die of shame,” Kate said.
Dying of shame was a possibility. The Embankment had plenty of foot traffic on sunny afternoons; Londoners didn’t appreciate a hold-up. Passers-by were glaring at them, tutting at them, or both. On a nearby bench, an old lady with tightly permed hair sat, handbag clutched to her chest and shaking her head.
“Fine. Tony is a private investigator,” Paul forced himself to say. “Maybe I’ll call him Lord Tony. I know it’s incorrect, but it sounds better, somehow.”
“This isn’t right. You can do better, you know.” It was the bench-sitter. She’d risen to approach them, vinyl bag still melded to her bosom.
“Right. Yes. Sorry,” Paul said automatically, like every Englishma
n ever. “We’ll clear out of the way.”
“I mean her.” The old lady drew closer to Kate. “You’re a pretty thing. Still young enough to find a proper bloke. One that won’t break your dad’s heart.” To Paul she said, “We had a vote, you know. You have to get out.”
Kate groaned. “Shove off, you mad bat.”
“We had a vote. We have borders now.” Trembling with emotion, the old woman stared at Paul, watery eyes wide.
He said,“Hab SoSlI’ Quch.”
She gave a little cry, apparently shocked he would even address her. “Don’t you curse at me, you ruddy Paki. How dare you!”
“Tera’ngan Soj lujab’a’.”
“Do you hear that, Lizzy? He’s cursing me in his heathen tongue!” the woman cried.
On cue, Lizzy, a middle-aged lady with a matching face but looser curls, turned up. She slid a protective arm around what could only be her mum.
“What’s all this, then?” Lizzy demanded.
“I should be asking you,” Kate snapped. “Are you meant to be minding her? She strolled up, bold as brass, and unloaded a lot of racist remarks.”
“All I said was we voted Leave and he cursed me in his heathen tongue!” the old woman wailed.
The daughter looked gobsmacked. Paul felt a little ashamed. “Actually, I wished her a happy birthday. In Klingon.”
“Are you mad? Why would you frighten her that way?”
“Why would she tell a man she’s never met to bugger out of the country?” Kate was turning red.
“Well, because we had a vote. We’re taking back our country. And besides, you should have respect for your elders.” Lizzy lifted her chin as if seizing the moral high ground. “Scotland Yard is just there, you know,” she added, pointing at the iconic revolving sign. “I should report you for abuse.”
“Oh. Please. Do.” Kate whipped off her sunglasses. “Take note of my face. I’m Detective Sergeant Kate Hetheridge. H-e-t-h-e-r-i-d-g-e. This here’s my colleague, Detective Sergeant Paul Bhar. He’s as English as Dickens and he grew up in Clerkenwell, not that it’s any of your damn business. And not that we’re likely to get a thank-you, but we work to keep the public safe.”
“And you’re doing a bang-up job, aren’t you?” Lizzy cried. “Foreigners driving vans into crowds of people. Blokes that look like him beheading soldiers in broad daylight. No one’s safe.”
“Where’s MI6?” her mother added. “Where’s the ring of steel? We don’t need the likes of you two! We need good English men to clean up our country before it’s too late.”
Kate looked ready to deck the pair of them. Paul tugged on her arm, hard. “Walk away.”
She shot him a mutinous look. He tugged harder. “Come on.”
She relented. Paul was relieved the mother-daughter duo didn’t follow them. The mother was probably satisfied by her outburst, and Lizzy didn’t strike him as a shout-remarks-in-the-public-square kind of gal. She seemed more like the sort who would shuffle away quietly, write to her MP, write to the editors of all the London papers, complain on Facebook, rant on Twitter, and bitterly recount the confrontation for years to come, framing it as a moment when she’d bravely spoken out and been insulted for her trouble.
“Did you really tell that mad bat happy birthday in Klingon?” Kate asked as they passed the new HQ’s reflecting pool.
“Yeah. It’s one of two phrases I know. The other is sort of an insult.”
“Let’s hear it, then.”
“Tera’ngan Soj lujab’a.’ It means, your mother has a smooth forehead.”
“Huh?”
“Klingons are aliens. Their skulls are meant to be bumpy.”
She still looked blank. He took out his iPhone to Google a photo of the Star Trek characters, eyed his push notifications, and snapped to attention.
“What is it?”
“The ch—the guv wants us upstairs. Now.”
“Why?”
“‘Somebody blew up a politician,’” Paul read aloud. “‘10 D wants a preliminary report in two hours. You and KH better get up here.’”
Chapter Eight
The HQ designers never saw a hoarder like the guv coming, Kate thought as she and Paul entered DCI Vic Jackson’s new office.
It was less than half the square footage of his old one. The furnishings chosen by the design team were almost cruel to a man like Jackson, who never discarded anything. The minimalist desk was a slab of blond wood on a slender iron frame. The lightweight wire bookcase was clearly ceremonial, meant to display one or two symbolic volumes. Even the chairs were more of a statement than functional items: uncomfortable-looking, as if to signal a culture where public servants were too busy to ever sit down.
Water always finds a way, Kate thought. So does the hoard.
The desk’s slender iron frame was mostly obscured by Jackson’s beloved cardboard file boxes, which he collected and filled obsessively. He’d stacked them up so they seemed to support the desktop, which Kate supposed was still there, though she couldn’t prove it. That minimalist desk, designed for a world of digital memos, digital case files, and endless Cloud storage, had disappeared under Jackson’s pile of dog-eared folders, three-ring binders, and piles of loose paper. Kate, who’d begun her detective career as Jackson’s subordinate, back in the days when they couldn’t so much as share a lift without going for one another’s jugulars, knew for a fact that 90% of Jackson’s data hoard was months, nay, years out of date.
Now that they’d achieved a polite, and at times almost cordial working relationship, she looked upon his piles more kindly. The information Jackson kept put her in mind of a furtive mammal’s lair, filled with picked-dry bones, shiny buttons, and bits of reflective rubbish. Jackson couldn’t see a relevant, or potentially relevant, fact without wanting to physically possess it.
The appropriately-named Joy, their guv’s friendly, upbeat new administrative assistant, announced Kate and Paul’s arrival.
“Come through,” he shouted. He was a shouty fellow, even when in a peaceable mood. As Kate had expected, they found Jackson behind his invisible desk, down-at-heel loafers on a three-ring binder, a bottle of Cherry Coke Zero Sugar in hand. It was an open secret around the Yard that Jackson had given up the drink. Now his vice was fizzy soda. His mini fridge was always stocked with bottles, which Joy packed in by the case.
“Hello, Chief,” Paul said, reverting back to his forbidden nomenclature.
“Hiya, Guv,” Kate said. Since his promotion, she’d decided to address him with the same general warmth she’d accorded Tony. He repaid her by being slightly less shouty.
“Hiya yourself, Hetheridge. Is this what you call bright and early? Never mind. I don’t want to hear about your struggles getting little Wally off to Wally Academy or wherever.” His tone was amiable. “Ears burning? First thing I did this morning was sit through a conference call about you.”
“Is it about the Trout case? Maybe I shouldn’t have let Gulls do the interview. Rough start, sure, but she sorted it by the end, don’t you think?” Kate said, launching into a rebuttal she’d mentally rehearsed during her Underground commute. “Newbies have to make their own mistakes, that’s what I always say. But in future I suppose I might —”
“In future I suppose you might let me squeeze a word in,” Jackson cut across her. He fiddled with his tie, a relic of some crumbled civilization that favored 100% polyester in shades of brown and cream. “Gulls did start like a mealy-mouthed prat, but who’s to say that’s not a strategy? Old Trout didn’t lawyer up because he thought he could steamroll her. Now he’s confessed to hiding his sister in the deep freeze. Been sectioned, too, which from a PR standpoint is the ideal outcome. Or so I’m told by people whose purpose in life is to decide how things look. The top brass are happy.”
“That’s down to Gulls, sir.”
“That’s down to you.” Jackson cleared his throat. “Well done.”
Kate didn’t know what to say. She tried to think of something gracious, but s
he had difficulty with soppy moments.
“Well done,” Paul concurred. He sounded sincere, but looked guarded. What she’d told Henry the night before was true. Paul had been losing too long.
“Moving on,” Jackson said. “What does the name Ford Fabian mean to you two?”
“Midsize sedan. Boxy,” Paul said.
“Bargain Chardonnay. Pairs well with a cold burrito,” Kate said.
“Wrong and wronger.” Jackson scraped at a spot on his tie. “At least you weren’t fans of the bloody loon. He was a fringe candidate for PM. Backed by the Scottish Greens, all ten of ‘em. Entirely on account of his wife.”
“Alfalfa Fabian,” Paul said. “Her, I remember. Silly name, but she seemed pretty common sense. Clean water, protecting the Green Belt and all that.”
“Come to think of it, I saw her on telly around New Year’s,” Kate said. “Sounded a bit radical.”
“Oh, yeah, I saw that. No nukes, no oil, no fracking, no GMO foods,” Paul agreed. “No meat, no dairy, no captive animals – cows, horses, house cats. That’s where I thought she took a hard left into Crazytown. Her son was there, pumping his fist and shouting, ‘Back to Nature.’ I think he meant all the way back.”
“That wasn’t her son,” Jackson said. “That was Ford Fabian. Thirty years younger than Alfalfa. Took her last name when they married.” He rolled his eyes, then appeared to check himself, glancing sideways at Kate as if to gauge her reaction.
She wasn’t surprised. Older women and younger men tended to still be tut-tutted in public discourse, though surprisingly few people brought up the age difference between her and Tony, at least to her face. When the woman was much older, some people spoke of her as unnaturally lustful, while assuming the man to be entirely mercenary. As for men taking their wife’s surname, instead of the other way around, this was also generally regarded as an affront to something. Kate had opinions. But when there was a murder to discuss, it superseded trivia.
“You’re past-tensing Fabian. He’s dead, then. How? Put us in the picture.” She settled into one of the bucket-style chairs that had come with the desk. Paul did the same.