The pouring rain made the dash from work to the tube station more frustrating than it had to be, dodging the maverick umbrellas that weren’t strong enough to be controlled in the gusts and weaving between similarly minded commuters and meandering poncho wearing tourists.

Harvey Mayfair had secured an early finish and left his Westminster based office to head home. He had already passed Buckingham Palace and was now heading for Green Park Station through Green Park itself. The canopied trees provided adequate cover from the rain.

A protest taking place on the grass caught his eye and he slowed down to have a good gawk at what he considered idiots deluded enough to turn out in the grim rain for their cause. Bored of the spectacle they were making of themselves, Harvey pressed on. A cyclist tore past him from behind, scaring him out of his skin as he hadn’t heard it approaching.

“Tosser!” he shouted out, not even certain the cyclist was near enough to hear anymore. You weren’t even supposed to cycle through the park.

He came out on Piccadilly and continued to the tube station. Just like he did every day. It got him out walking, seeing albeit the same parts of the city and was a good de-stressor before he got home.

The umbrellas were still up as the tube station came into view. A shoulder barge from someone overtaking him on the left made him cross. The hooded person was oblivious to others, clearly.

He watched the man carry on ahead and he thought of all the words he wanted to shout at him to make himself feel better.

Harvey briefly looked away at a distracting bus advert and then looked back out in front. Quicker than he was able to understand what was happening, an object came right at him, straight into his face. The pain was tremendous and horrendous. Everything went black and he lost his balance, falling blindly backwards, his hands instinctively covering his pained face, the source of his agony. Seconds later, another whack came in from the side, caving his skull in. By that point, he was already dead.

***

The phone’s vibrations on the bedside table finally penetrated through Do’Lânqwa’s deep sleep and he rolled over to retrieve it.

“Ma’am?” he wearily greeted. He checked his watch. Five a.m. Couldn’t this have waited? he thought. He was going to be up with his boys in an hour anyway.

“I’ve had a call from Isaac York, The Constable, in London. He has a situation that he’d like your help with.”

“What kind of help?”

“There’s been a murder and they think they have the guy. But they need some help getting him in.”

“Help? From me? Why me? Why now? It’s five a.m. Isn’t there someone else he could ask?”

“Maybe he thinks you’re the best person for the job. I don’t know much about it. He called Brad who called me, and so I’m calling you. I’ll give you his number and you can talk to him directly.”

In an earlier life, before Do’Lânqwa had taken on the mantle of The Astral Sheriff and became a resident of Earth, he was a police captain with the ability to detect dishonesty by recognising a change in body temperature. There wasn’t a crime he couldn’t solve, but murder rarely occurred on Earthgrë. It was a passive planet with an embedded ideology of peace that on the whole was consistently practiced.

“What about Wo’Trendsont and Ta’Balshén? I’ve got them to look after.”

“Don’t worry. As soon as I get off the phone with you, I’m getting out of bed and coming to look after them myself.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. Besides, it’s the reason you haven’t moved from The Facility yet, isn’t it? Knowing that there’ll be someone always around to look after them if you have to work?” The Secretary could be very direct sometimes, but she wasn’t wrong.

“Okay then, thanks. I’ll see you shortly.”

***

Do’Lânqwa was soon up in the air, having kissed his sleepy son and foster son good bye, and thrown some clothes on.

The grey, late afternoon sky provided the perfect cover for him as his jet vertically descended into a quieter area of the City of London airport runway. Do’Lânqwa walked out and shook hands with his British peer. Isaac was a solid guy, dressed immaculately in a grey suit and black trench coat. The look was finished off with a black tie. His hair was ruffled from the kick back caused by the landing jet.

“Welcome back to London. There have been… a few changes since you were here last.”

He greeted Do’Lânqwa with a warm smile and was referring to the time when a space craft full of rogue Peacekeepers crash landed in London last year, causing monumental damage and political jousting between Governments.

“I’m honoured you thought of me if I’m honest. Your reputation for investigative work is brilliant,” Do’Lânqwa responded.

“Thanks. Well the victim was an important person, but it didn’t need that much investigating. It was very easy to work out the culprit when we saw the body, which is what we’re about to do now.”

“So what did you need me for?” Do’Lânqwa asked, slightly miffed he got up at 5 a.m. for this.

“I’ve come across this guy a few times. He’s strong. Stronger than me, stronger than most of the resources I have at my disposal. And when I saw you work at the O2 building, I knew you were capable of great things.”

“So I’m the muscle?”

“If you want to reduce it down to that, then I guess, but then I could have asked Tank if that’s all I was looking for. I thought of it more of an opportunity to give you a change of scenery, it would help me out a lot. And might help me develop a new working relationship.”

“Ahh, of course. Sorry. I’m still tired.”

“You’re all good. Takes more than that to offend me,” Isaac chuckled.

In the car, the two men exchanged pleasantries. Isaac shared his condolences for Lucas’ passing and reassured Do’Lânqwa that no one was going to know he is The Astral Sheriff.

“You’re going to stay with me if that’s ok? I didn’t want to bring you all the way to London away from your sons to be left in a hotel room,” Isaac explained. Do’Lânqwa nodded in appreciation. “How are the boys settling?” Isaac asked while they sat at traffic lights.

“Better now, thank you. We have found a routine that works for us. Luckily because Wo’Trendsont is still quite young, he’s adapted well. Ta’Balshén is getting there.”

“Great, I’m glad.” Isaac pulled off out of the junction and turned left. “We’re almost there.”

The swing doors opened out as the morgue technician pushed the trolley carrying the victim’s body came through into the room. It was your typical clinical looking room. Scales and measuring equipment on the surfaces down one side, white butcher tiles on each wall and a big metal table with attached sink and drainage facilities were all the main features.

There was one light in on in the middle of the ceiling, making the cold room feel more less cold. The technician pulled back on the sheet over the body, folding it over at the waist for modesty. Do’Lânqwa winced, and Isaac noticing, got on with it.

“Harvey Mayfair. Aged fifty two. Killed on his walk to the tube station from his offices yesterday evening. He received five catastrophic blows to the face and head, shattering his skull like an egg shell. He was dead by the second blow.”

“What did he do?”

“He was a politician tasked with overseeing the Ministry of Enhanced Beings here. Ruffled a lot of feathers and was very vocal in his support of Enhanced beings. He was a good man.”

“So you say you know who did it? Were there any witnesses?” Do’Lânqwa asked, turning away from the victim’s head. He had seen some unpleasant things before, but the way that Mayfair’s head now looked churned his stomach.

“It was a packed street, and we think we have less luck of anyone seeing anything significant due to all the umbrellas people had up in the rain. What we did establish though was that it all happened extremely quick, no one saw who did it and they vanished. But it’s the injuries that gave it away. There’s only one British Enhanced who has a murderous appetite and over kill approach to killing his victims.”

He nodded at the technician who pulled the sheet back over the body. “They’re going to do a post-mortem over-night and we’ll have more results back in the morning.”

“So are we going now?”

“Yes, there’s nothing more to see here now. I wanted you to see this before they did the PM. Once they get the head open, they won’t get everything back in like it was before,” he stated, turning to leave. Do’Lânqwa shuddered and followed on.

As they walked down the corridor, Isaac continued explaining what he knew about this murder. “So, the who did it. Bloke that goes by The Gripper. I’ve gone up against him a few times. He maims, attacks and kills his victims with his trademark mallet or with his bare hands.”

Do’Lânqwa looked confused. “Bare hands?”

“Yeah. You got to watch out for those. He can squeeze, grip or crush things with his bare hands with the strength almost double that of hydraulic jaws of life. All his strength is localised to his hands and forearms.”

“…And I wear a Kugreycium suit that just might withstand that power?”

“Again, if you look at it like that then yes. Undeniably, it does seem that way, but I’m thinking big picture. ‘Constable and Sheriff join forces against handsy British Enhanced!’” he said, pretending he was reading a news headline in front of him.

“When?”

“Tomorrow, we need sleep first. And some food. Fancy a curry?”

“I have no idea what one is but am willing to give it a go.”

“Oh Do’Lânqwa, you are in for a treat this trip!”

***

The next morning, the pair, backed up by armed police, rolled to a stop just near the scrapyard that The Gripper owned, just within the M25. Do’Lânqwa was mildly impressed that someone so murderous still had time to run a business, but with his enhancements, this was easy work.

“He crushes the cars with his hands, you know?” The Constable said. He and The Sheriff were in full kit, ready to move in for the raid.

“Well no, I didn’t know that. But I can also tell you’re not lying about it.”

In the briefing before they arrived, they discussed what they were going to do. Which didn’t take long. The plan was simple.

“The Sheriff and I will go first, see how compliant our man will be, roll about on the ground for a bit if we have to and then the Police will move in when we give the go ahead to put the handcuffs on,” The Constable explained.

“Handcuffs on someone with the degree of strength Gripper has?” Do’Lânqwa clarified.

“Well, they’re specially made restraints of course, but they’re just like handcuffs.”

The pair walked up the drive through the main gates in the yard. Old, destitute cars lay abandoned, parts and engines missing from them. Crashed car cubes were piled on top of each other ready for removal. The mud squelched under foot after last night’s rain.

“Come on out, Gripper!” The Constable yelled, tightening the Velcro straps of his wrist straps. “I’ve got a mate here with me who wants to say hello. He’s come all the way from America... Kinda, anyway.”

A hard, metal clanging sound rung out in a slow rhythm. Clank! Clank! Clank!

“This is him, with the dramatic entrance,” The Constable whispered to The Sheriff.

“You bought someone to fight your fights for ya, yer pussy?” The Gripper shouted, appearing from behind a pile of ten flattened cars. He was wearing a blue oil stained boiler suit, steel toe capped boots, and a welder’s helmet which was raised so the pair could see he was a middle aged man with a weathered stubbly face. In his hand was a giant metre long carbon steel mallet. “It’s about Harvey Mayfair isn’t it?”

“Ahh, gold star for you. Are you happy to come in with us? Answer a few questions?”

“It’s not me you want though.”

“Well you killed him, didn’t you?” The Constable asked.

“Of course, yeah, but not for my own benefit.”

“For a price?”

“I’ll do anything for the right price. You know me!”

“How long before we... you know... start fighting?” The Sheriff whispered, confused by the lack of action.

“You’re in England now fella, we do things a certain way. There’s an etiquette. Small talk before the big fight,” The Gripper sarcastically explained.

“Is ‘fella’ a slur, because I didn’t like it,” The Astral Sheriff said, leaping into the air and charging straight for The Gripper. The Constable, stood and watched the spectacle.

The Gripper lowered his mask and raised his mallet to swing it like a baseball bat, timing the hit with The Sheriff as he got nearer.

The Sheriff reacted instinctively, blasting his Astral Beam at The Gripper’s hands which caused him to drop it, howling in blistering agony.

“You bloody twat!” The Gripper yelled.

The Sheriff came to land in front him and delivered a shock from his palm through his British foe’s chest, sending him flying into the base of a pile of cars.

“First you call me fella, and now a twat! I thought the English were meant to be polite.” The Sheriff marched towards The Gripper as he got up and advanced towards him.

Within punching distance, The Gripper swung first. The Sheriff ducked and it was like that for a quick minute, the pair going hand to hand furiously. The Sheriff really didn’t want The Gripper to have an opportunity to test his suit’s durability. He only had the one suit.

The pair continued to tussle, and it looked to The Constable like The Sheriff had the upper hand. The Gripper was trying to grab at The Sheriff’s head but The Sheriff was giving as much resistance as he could, pushing against The Gripper’s attempts.

In the stale mate, The Astral Sheriff fired off a blast of Astral energy but it bounced off The Gripper’s helmet, ricocheting off to a tower of more flattened cars. The blast caused the tower to topple and the cars to come tumbling down on the pair.

The Constable remained watching while this happened, finding the whole thing rather amusing and impressive. He’d never seen The Gripper have such a tough time. There was a reason he still wasn’t in custody.

The pile of squashed cars that once stood proud, shifted and The Sheriff emerged with a limp and lifeless Gripper slung over his shoulder. The Sheriff looked around, getting his bearings and made his way towards a rather pleased looking The Constable.

“You got all dressed up to just stand and watch?” The Sheriff asked flatly.

The Constable laughed. “My man, you had it covered, there was nothing I could have done.”

“Yeah, I can see that now. Good job I was here. Have you got the cuffs?”

“Yeah, I’ll bring the team in.”

“So you’re not even going to do that?” The Sheriff chuckled.

The Brit flashed a grin and unhooked his radio from his belt strap. “All units, move in. Target detained.”

***

“Thanks, Sheriff. I appreciate you doing that for me.”

“I know you do.”

Do’Lânqwa had started packing back at Isaac’s place, ahead of his flight back to the States.

“How was that for you then?” Isaac asked as he watched from the door frame.

“It was good to get stuck into something actually, I will admit. It wasn’t quite the investigative work I was used to from my previous life but it was good getting a result.”

“Well you are welcome! I’d like it if we could work together again.”

Do’Lânqwa nodded. “Yeah I’d like that too. Only because I’d like to see you actually do something”

Isaac burst out laughing. “Ok there. I promise I will for you. Let me know when you’re all set and I’ll get the car ready to take you back to the airport.”