Wolf in Shadow-eARC

by John Lambshead

  “And you are?”

  “Inspector Drudge.”

  “Anything and everything is under my jurisdiction if I so choose, Drudge,” Jameson said. “Let’s see your warrant card.”

  Drudge handed it to Jameson, who examined it before passing it to Karla, who flicked the card back to Drudge without bothering to look. It bounced off Drudge’s chest and fell onto the ground. A plainclothesman with Drudge bent down.

  “Leave it,” Drudge snarled. His face turned red and a vein in his neck throbbed with a strong pulse. Karla examined it with interest.

  “And who the hell is she?” Drudge asked.

  “My, ah, associate, Miss Scarlet,” Jameson said.

  “She got an ID card?” Drudge asked.

  “Indeed, she has,” Jameson said. “But you won’t be seeing it. Miss Scarlet is a civil servant, but she does not normally disclose her Department.”

  Drudge blinked. Civil servants who were instructed not to disclose their Department usually worked for the Foreign Office or the Home Office or, to put it another way, were spooks at MI6 or MI5.

  A large man, whose barrel chest strained against buttons fastening the tunic of a senior officer in the Met, joined the group.

  “What’s going on, Drudge?” he asked, looking at Jameson and Karla with distaste.

  “Commander Jameson, Special Branch, and a Miss Scarlet from the, ah, Civil Service, sir,” Drudge said.

  “You are Superintendent Bates?” Jameson asked, casually.

  Bates eyes flickered and his face set into a bland mask. Jameson sussed him immediately. Bates wasn’t a cop but a bureaucrat, one of the new breed of political officers who had risen through the system like a bubble in a lava lamp. They were promoted from rank to rank, leaving no trace of their passage. He would have a career based on lip service to the right policies, shuffling the correct documents but never, ever, rocking the boat. He would always support the current management initiative until the next fad was rolled out.

  P.G. Wodehouse had satirized the system wonderfully after three years in Hollywood, where he was paid a great deal of money but not allowed to do anything. It was all about yes-men and nodders. The current megalomaniac in charge throws out some opinion in committee and the yes-men all say yes according to seniority before the nodders are allowed to nod in order of rank. Bates would have started as a junior nodder on something like the Minor Criminal Self-Esteem Enhancement Committee. Eventually he would become Chief Yes-Man at the dizzy heights of a Health and Safety Awareness Task Force. In the meantime, he might even catch the odd criminal, provided they had no embarrassing political connections. Arresting criminals was not actually frowned upon by promotion boards, just not considered obligatory or even particularly useful.

  “What can I do for you?” Bates asked, more politely.

  A policeman who messed with spooks could find himself manning a hut in the Romney Marshes for the rest of his career, even if he was a Superintendent.

  “Just a few questions, if you don’t mind,” Jameson said blandly. “What did your officers see of the gunfight?”

  “Nothing, of course,” Bates said. “We have only just arrived ourselves.

  Jameson was astonished. “I thought the incident started just before midnight?”

  “Yes, well, it takes time to assemble an armed response,” Bates said huffily. “We had to find enough officers to man a perimeter while we assessed the health and safety issues. By then the gunfire had died away, so I decided to wait for dawn before moving a team in to assess the situation.”

  Jameson knew he was looking at Bates as if he was something found behind the skirting board of a genetics lab, but he couldn’t control his expression. He would not have believed it had he not read in The Times that a woman in Scotland had died of hypothermia at the bottom of a hole, while two senior officers from the local fire brigade had stood around the top for eight hours arguing whether the health and safety regulations allowed them to use the winch on their engine.

  Above them, a police helicopter went by, beating the air with a characteristic whump, whump, whump.

  Jameson was back in Afghanistan, retreating step by step along gullies in the unyielding mountains of the Hindu Kush, followed rock by rock by ISA-backed irregulars. The British Guardsmen returned fire with their SA80 rifles. Designed to fight Russian infantry at long ranges, the rifles were incredibly accurate. At point-blank range they were less useful than combat shotguns. The troopers snap-shot from the hip at fleeting targets that seemed to spring from the solid rock.

  When the Guardsmen reached the flat landing zone, they turned and drove Terry Taliban back with aimed fire until they gained enough distance from their pursuers to disengage and move safely across the open ground. They regrouped in the shelter of some boulders on the far side, where a cliff fell vertically into the valley below.

  The mountains were so high that the Chinook had to climb up to meet them. Its rotors strained for lift in the rarefied mountain air. Terrys appeared among the boulders on the far side, spraying erratic bursts from their AK47s. Guardsmen would already be dead if Afghans could shoot straight. The soldiers returned aimed fire. Some Terrys dropped. The rest faded back into cover.

  A soft, slow American voice drawled in Jameson’s earphones. “We see you, Zulu One. Stand by for extraction.”

  “Zeta Nine this is Zulu One. Abort the extraction. The landing zone is compromised. Repeat, the landing zone is compromised.”

  “Hell, Major, I never expected to live for ever. It’s a long walk home. Y’all be ready now, as I’ll perch off the edge like a sparrow on a wire.”

  American chopper pilots all seemed to hail south of the Mason-Dixon line for some reason. They were also utterly deranged.

  The huge aircraft pivoted over Jameson’s men, blasting dust in all directions. Its tail ramp was already lowered when the pilot dropped the back wheels on the cliff edge. He held the plane level on the rotors with the front wheels dangling over the sheer drop. A crewman at the rear beckoned for them to embark.

  Jameson’s men scrambled aboard. He stayed on one knee, searching the Taliban position through the scope of his rifle, but the whole area was obscured by swirling dust. The scope caught a shadow that resolved into the outline of a man. The Terry got off a wild volley before Jameson dropped him with a double tap to the chest.

  The American crewman screamed something that Jameson couldn’t hear above the roar of the twin turboshaft mounted on the tail. The crewman waved his arm extravagantly for emphasis, indicating that Jameson should get a bloody move on. The helicopter suddenly tilted forward, dragging the ramp across the ground to the cliff edge. It was already a meter off when Jameson leapt the gap. The crewman caught him and punched the button that closed the rear door.

  “You sure left that late,” the crewman screamed, straight into his ear. “Another second and you’d have been flying back on your own.”

  “Most amusing,” Jameson replied, but was doubtful if the crewman heard him. The noise was like being inside a steam boiler while a phalanx of mechanical navvies beat the outside with shovels. Jameson hated choppers.

  The Guardsmen sat exhausted on the floor, heads down, while a medic worked on one who had taken a round on his body armor. Jameson shot him an inquiring look, and the medic gave a nod. The armor had held.

  Another soldier shook so hard he had to place his rifle on the deck. Jameson put his mouth close to the man’s ear so he could hear.

  “Buck up, Perkins. Every one you walk away from . . .”

  “Yes, sir,” Perkins mouthed, attempting a weak grin.

  “Good man.”

  Jameson absentmindedly pulled out a packet of cigarettes. The crewman shook his head, drawing a hand across his throat. Jameson put them away, holding one hand palm up by way of apology. Jameson really hated helicopters.

  He made his way to the front, patting his men on their shoulders and murmuring meaningless platitudes that they couldn’t hear, until he reached the hatch
into the cockpit.

  “Brilliant flying, Zeta Nine . . .”

  The copilot looked up at Jameson, tears running down his face.

  The pilot lolled forward. A single bullet from the last burst had run the length of the cargo bay. It had managed to miss everyone and everything until it punched a hole in the back of the pilot’s helmet.

  Zeta Nine had made his last extraction.

  Bates stepped back in alarm, his eyes wide. He half-raised his arms as if to ward off a blow. Jameson forced himself to unclench hands making tight fists. At that moment he hated the Chief Superintendent so much that he could cheerfully have killed the man. This mincing filing clerk had the audacity to wear the uniform of one of Her Britannic Majesty’s officers. Karla took a step forward, nails lengthening and hardening. She felt what he felt, even if she didn’t understand his reasons. Actually, she didn’t care what his reasons were. It was enough that he hated.

  Very deliberately, Jameson suppressed his emotions. He forced them down into a toxic little core, emptying his soul in the process. That was why lovers left him. He was a hollow man with a frozen void for a heart. The alternative was worse. Feeling left him reliving events every night in his dreams. Karla didn’t care but Karla wasn’t human.

  “So there is no eye-witness evidence,” Jameson said.

  “We have camera footage from a helicopter,” Bates said.

  “Indeed?”

  “But it doesn’t show much, as the yard was erratically lighted. All you can see are running men and gunshots.”

  “Don’t you have thermal imaging on those things,” Jameson jerked his thumb at the police helicopter that was circling the yard.

  “Oh, the images weren’t from a police helicopter, good gracious, no. It’s news footage from a TV company. We couldn’t send a police aircraft over a gunfight, far too dangerous. We have a duty of care to the crew.”

  Bates checked his watch. “I have to chair an important meeting, Drudge will look after you,” Bates said.

  “Health and safety?” Jameson asked.

  “What?”

  “This meeting, is it the Health and Safety Committee?”

  “No, Human Resources, to consider the psychologist’s report on the best color to paint customer waiting rooms in police stations. The idea is to ensure a tranquil atmosphere.”

  “That is important,” Jameson said.

  “Yes,” Bates replied.

  The man was beyond sarcasm so Jameson gave up. “Miss Scarlet and I will just have a wander round. I’ll call you if I need you,” Jameson said to Drudge.

  The inspector thumped off, grinding his teeth, bawling out a subordinate to relieve his anger.

  Jameson went over to where a forensic team were taking swabs from a body, stopping a meter away to avoid contaminating the crime scene.

  “What killed him?”

  “Well, it’s early days,” the technician said. “But I fancy the two holes in his chest had something to do with it.”

  “Are all the deaths by gunshot wound?”

  “No,” the technician paused and grimaced. “Some of them have been ripped open by a chainsaw and died from shock and blood loss.”

  “A chainsaw or a large predatory animal?”

  The technician shrugged. “Could be an animal, but we aren’t talking someone’s pet pooch. The wounds could have been caused by a team of bloody great Rottweiler guard dogs, I suppose, or maybe something escaped from London Zoo.”

  “I see,” Jameson said, glancing at Karla.

  She wandered around the yard while Jameson lit a cigarette.

  “Smoking is forbidden on duty,” Drudge said from behind Jameson.

  He took a lungful of nicotine and exhaled it skywards before turning to face the Inspector. “I shall try to keep it in mind,” Jameson said.

  “Bloody Special Branch, you think you really are special, think the rules don’t apply to you,” Drudge said quietly, so he couldn’t be overheard.

  “Yep,” Jameson said, taking another drag.

  “Jameson, over here,” Karla said.

  He walked over to where she knelt beside a patch of spilled oil that had caked into tar. An animal had run through the mess, leaving pawprints across the concrete.

  “I’m no aboriginal tracker, but that is a dog,” Jameson said, lifting an eyebrow.

  “A dog with large paws,” Karla said.

  She got up, brushing the dust off her knees, and paced out the tracks. The dog must have been running fast, as all four feet touched the ground close together. Karla had to leap to match the bound indicated by the tracks.

  “A dog with large paws and a long stride,” Jameson said.

  “A very large dog,” Karla said.

  “Did the yard have guard dogs, Drudge?” Jameson asked without turning round to repay the Inspector’s incivility.

  “The TV footage of the attack showed a dog,” said Drudge.

  “So was there a guard dog?” Jameson asked again.

  “Mister Parkes didn’t need no guard dog,” said a new voice, with a thick nasal twang.

  A man appeared from amongst the scrap metal. His nose was held in plastic strips that were stuck down to his cheeks.

  “The thug who could talk,” Jameson said with delight. “Of course, Parkes, I knew I had heard the name before.” “How’s your mate’s teeth?” he said solicitously to the thug.

  The thug snarled and took a step towards Jameson with his fist raised. Jameson smiled and the thug thought better of starting something. Probably wisely, as it hadn’t turned out so well the last time.

  “That’s the bastard toff who broke my nose and beat up Dermont,” the thug said. “Why don’t you arrest him, Mister Drudge?”

  The detective hesitated then shook his head.

  “Mister Parkes won’t like it,” the thug warned.

  Drudge looked like Odysseus faced with sailing between Scylla and Charybdis or a man trying to choose between staying for a visit from his mother-in-law or taking a cycling holiday on the Yorkshire Moors. He took a step forward.

  “You intend to arrest a Special Branch Commander on the witness statement of a tin-pot thug?” Jameson asked, softly.

  Drudge shook his head.

  Karla laughed out loud.

  Drudge gazed at her in sheer hatred, trying to intimidate her with the policeman’s glare. Everyone quailed before the policeman’s glare, running a quick mental check through their various offenses. Everyone had at least one black spot on their conscience. Karla held his gaze and gave a sardonic grin. Her conscience was spotless, largely because she didn’t have one. Drudge looked away first. Karla could outstare a Siberian tiger.

  “I guess we’re done here,” Jameson said.

  He and Karla walked back to the Jag.

  “Maybe it was no more than the underworld settling a business dispute in the traditional way?” Jameson asked, rhetorically.

  “Perhaps, but dogs aren’t the only animal to leave tracks like that,” replied Karla. “It could have been a wolf.”

  “Wolves aren’t that big.”

  “Werewolves are.”

  Rhian slept late the next morning, but she still rose exhausted. The ground tilted when she levered herself up, so she steadied herself with a hand upon the wall. Her bed was a tangled mess. She remembered little of her dreams, little except for the crunch of teeth on cartilage and bones, and the taste of hot salty blood. She shuddered at the memory, her face drawn and wan in the bathroom mirror. Dark panda-shadows circumnavigated her eyes.

  She was a mess. Could she have gone down with ’flu?

  Frankie sat clutching a mug of tea when Rhian dropped carefully onto a kitchen chair. Without a word she poured a mug for Rhian and added two sugars, waving away Rhian’s protests that she didn’t use sweeteners.

  “I know you don’t, but drink it anyway,” Frankie said. “Magic costs, and you need to replace the energy.”

  “I don’t do magic,” Rhian said.

  Frankie snorte
d.

  “You might not do magic, but magic certainly does you. Where do you think the wolf gets its power from?”

  Rhian took a sip of the sweet, liquid and felt sick. Her head throbbed, so she rested it carefully in both hands, a precaution to prevent it falling off her shoulders.

  “The wolf feeds on your life force.” Frankie answered her own question. You used to sleep it off when you changed back. Now you can flip back and forwards, you will feel the full impact.” Her voice softened. “Take these.”

  She plonked two aspirin down in front of Rhian, who knocked them back with a gulp of the revolting tea.

  “Don’t you have any magic spells for hangover symptoms?” Rhian asked.

  “Hmm, not a good idea,” Frankie replied. “I can suppress the symptoms, but that will only delay matters and build up the blood debt. Aspirin is safer. And the wolf was busy last night.”

  “What makes you think so?” Rhian asked.

  “Well, apart from your condition, I saw you on television.”

  “What?” Rhian snapped her head up. She immediately regretted giving way to the impulse. The top of her skull kept going when her head stopped. It snapped back with a lurch that gave her double vision.

  “Come and see,” Frankie said. “You’re on Sat News. No, I’ll carry your tea for you. I don’t want it all over the carpet.”

  Frankie switched on the TV in the lounge and they sat down to watch the rolling news. There were a couple of items on the latest economic disasters and an interview with a politician trying to explain why her husband had charged the hire of pornographic movies to her Parliamentary expenses. Then Rhian was on, or rather the wolf was on.

  “Slaughter on the London streets,” claimed the anchor woman with the usual accuracy of the press. “Gang warfare turns our city into a battlefield,” her male co-author added. Why did they have to do a bloody irritating double act? Why did it take two presenters to read the autocue and why was there always one of each sex? And why was she wasting her time on why questions?

  The channel moved into film footage taken from the air showing figures moving indistinctly through the shadows of the scrap yard, scurrying quickly across the lighted zones. Flashes marked out gunshots, the sequence ending with a burst of automatic fire straight into the camera.