Late shift

On duty: DC Frank Holland & DC Marion Hobb

London.

1973. April.

“He didn’t do it,” Holland said, emerging from the interview room. He grabbed a can of something fizzy from his desk.

“They didn’t do it,” Styles corrected him. She was always so righteous.

“I don’t give a fuck about the thing’s pronouns,” Holland said, snapping off the drink’s ring pull. “He, she, it, the thing - only bit that matters to me is that someone else attacked that girl.”

Styles stood with her hands on her hips, looking surprised.

Holland shrugged in her direction. “What is it, Styles?”

“I thought you’d be locking them up and throwing away the keys at the first opportunity.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I’m sure you did.” Perching on the edge of his desk, he took a long drink. There was a particular enjoyment to be had in seeing Styles’ presumptions evaporating to nothing.

Clarke stood from his own desk and walked closer to the others. “What makes you so sure?”

“Well, I won’t be sure sure until we have someone else in cuffs. But it was all a bit convenient, didn’t you think? Injuries exactly I line with what a koth could pull off - pardon the expression. Just so happens there’s a koth teacher at the girl’s school.” He snorted. “I mean, there’s also the fact that he could bust out of there and kill all of us in a second if he wanted. Shit, he can probably breathe fire, or plasma, or something. You really think a koth who did something as fucked up as what happened to that little girl is going to sit around and get arrested?”

Styles began to look slightly less indignant. It was clearly a struggle. “You think he was framed. Someone’s setting him up.”

“No shit, Sherlock Holmes. I can see why they gave you a job here.” Holland grinned. “Anyways, you were baying for blood when we brought the koth in earlier.”

She didn’t take the bait. “So we’re back to square one?”

“Nope,” he said, crushing the can an throwing it into a bin. “I’m just waiting on a phone call from our intrepid men in the field.”

*

Nisha looked up at the front of the house. Her nose was cold. “Remind me why we’re here, again?”

“They’re on Holland’s list,” Kaminski said, stubbing his cigarette out on the pavement, then kicking it into the gutter. He rubbed his hands together swiftly, trying to warm the up. Water dripped down his face. “Victim’s best friend and family.”

“We’ve already ticked off five of Holland’s list. Still don’t get why we’re out here in the rain when it’s his case.”

“He wanted time with the suspect. Also, I think he wanted to send people who come across as nice.”

She looked at him. “I’m not nice.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, gesturing towards the house, “but they don’t.”

The house had a fake colonnaded façade that had pretensions of being much older and grander than it actually was. Nonetheless it was still a large, detached house in an upmarket area of London. Nisha couldn’t help but compare it to her shitty apartment. She could fit everything she had into the porch of this place.

“Listen,” Kaminski said, “try and get the mum off into the kitchen while I talk to the father.”

“Divide and conquer?” They walked up the path toward the front door. “Is this information gathering or are they suspects?”

“Holland treats everyone as a suspect. Hell, we’re probably suspects.”

She began to laugh, then stifled it. Business face. She rang the bell and the door opened almost immediately, as if someone had been waiting on the other side. A woman stood there, looking tired with a face marked by rivulets of tears.

Kaminski spoke first. “Mrs Victoria Price?” He held up his badge. “Detective Constable Kaminski, Specialist Dimensional Command. This is Detective Constable Nisha Chakraborty. We’re here to discuss Yvette Field.”

“Yes, of course, please come in.”

She ushered them into the hallway, which was wider than Nisha’s entire bathroom. They followed into a reception room of sorts, containing a long table, comfortable chairs and a plush banquette along the back wall. Nisha marvelled that it was neither dining room nor living room, but an additional room entirely. What did they do with all this space?

Turned out there was already a pot of freshly made tea. “Such an awful thing,” Mrs Price said as she poured. “Such a lovely girl, too. Jessica is ever so upset. She’s upstairs with my husband.” She passed the cups around and sighed. “So ghastly. And at St Peter’s, of all places.”

“Mrs Price, would you mind if I went upstairs to speak with your husband, while my partner talks to you? It would save some time and we’d be able to leave you in peace sooner.”

“Oh,” she said, “yes, of course. Up the stairs, round to the right. Please if you could leave your shoes at the bottom of the stairs, it’s really frightfully wet out today.”

Nisha took a slow sip of the tea while Kaminski left the room. Turning to the other woman, she smiled. “I’d like to start with your relationship to the victim.”

*

The stairs were lined with family photographs. Endless images of the happy smiling trio: husband, wife, daughter, the latter ageing from toddler to teenager as Kaminski climbed the stairs. Many were taken in distant locales; the Prices had clearly had a lot of holidays. Kaminski always found it a little creepy when a house was solely decorated with its occupants’ own memories. There was a narcissism to it that seemed in bad taste, though he could never quite articulate why. Maybe he was just jealous.

He found Mr Price as the man was leaving his daughter’s room. Closing the door quietly, he smiled sadly. “You must be the detective,” he said, “I heard you come in.” He nodded his head toward the shut door. “It’s hard on her, you know. Her best friend. Can’t believe it.”

“Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Of course, shall we go back downstairs?”

Kaminski held up a hand. “I’d like to talk to you separately, if that’s alright.” The man’s eyes widened a little. Startled. A natural reaction to interacting with the police. “It’d speed things up a bit.”

“Of course, absolutely. My study?”

“Lead the way.”

The room was dark, wood-panelled and lined with bookshelves. The books were all non-fiction or academic works; lots of history of empire and war games. Price sat down in a leather swivel chair by a mahogany desk and indicated that Kaminski should take the only other seat in the room: a considerably smaller wooden affair.

“So how can I help, detective?”

“That’s a good question, Mr Price. It is Edward Price, yes?”

“Correct. Do call me Edward. There’s no need for formalities here, especially on such a terrible day.”

Kaminski pulled a pencil from his coat pocket and pointed its stub end at the man. “Got it. Edward.” He flicked open his notepad. “Edward, then. Can you tell me about your relationship with the victim?”

“Relationship?” Price picked up a paperweight from the desk, hefted it from one hand to the other.

“How do you know her?”

“Ah, right. She was my daughter’s best friend. They’ve known each other since nursery. I don’t know how she’s going to get past this, I really don’t.”

“If we can find who did this, it might help to bring some closure,” Kaminski said, his voice measured, even, almost a whisper. “Did you know her well yourself?”

He put the paperweight back on the desk. “Well, yes. Victoria and I have known Yvette for years. Not as close as her and Jessica, of course, because we’re the boring parents, but you know. She’d been over for tea and sleepovers I don’t know how many times.” As if remembering something, he took a photo frame off the nearest shelf. “Look, here she is.”

Interesting.

Kaminski took the offered frame. There were two girls in the photograph, both looking to be early teens, meaning it must have been taken in the last year or two. “She’s quite beautiful,” he said.

“Yes, yes, she was,” Price said. “The other girl there is Jessica, who I suppose you’ll need to talk to as well?”

“That would be a great help.” Kaminski liked to let his accent thicken a little in situations like this. It made him sound friendlier, and to some English people it also prompted them to assume he was a little simple, or didn’t understand the language fluently. “Could you tell me, are you aware of any problems at school?”

“You mean with the teachers?”

Brief pause. “I meant in general. Why, are there problems with teachers?”

“Oh, well, I just meant in terms of what was on the news. That a teacher was arrested.”

“I’ve not had much time to watch the news today, Edward. But outside of television, is there anything I should know?”

Price swivelled slowly clockwise and then anti-clockwise on his seat. Just a little each way. “I know she liked history.”

“Was that a problem?”

“Well, no. I was thinking of the rumours, that the koth teacher—”

“I’d rather not bring TV news conjecture into this, Mr Price, or playground gossip.”

“Then I’m not sure what to say. Haven’t you already got who did it?”

Shifting on his seat, Kaminski put his pad and paper away. “I can’t comment on particulars of the investigation, unfortunately.”

“Such a shame that Yvette can’t speak for herself. Do they think she’ll ever wake up?”

Getting to his feet, Kaminski smiled. “Oh, I suppose that news hasn’t been on TV yet. Miss Field is already awake. About an hour ago.” He made a point of looking at his watch. “Some of my colleagues are taking her statement right now, I believe.”

He put his hand out. Price stared at him, then down at the hand, as if it were something dangerous. Slowly, as if remembering the etiquette, the man reached out and shook hands, his grip remarkably firm.

“Quite a grip you have there, Mr Price.”

“Sorry,” he said, releasing and backing away a step, “it’s been a difficult day.”

“Yes,” Kaminski said, smiling sympathetically. “Though I think we will have some good news soon.”