Mr. Kirkland pulled at his hair out of habit and released a guttural sound of frustration. This has been the third—THE THIRD!—time they had let the thief go. It wasn't acceptable. Not for them, the respectable Scotland Yard! No. This just won't do.
"Jones, get the bobbies to surround the area. The thief must still be in the neighbourhood!" He barked to his subordinate.
Jones—Alfred Jones, a nice young fellow—nodded quickly before repeating the very same orders to the others. Mr. Kirkland watched his figure retreat and turn a corner. The usually quiet British streets were filled with the sound of sirens and frantic yelling. The dim gold light of the streetlamps cast a soft glow on the surrounding benches and looming trees. Right in front of him stood the towering building of the National Museum. Without sunlight and tourists, the building took on a rather menacing look.
They got the note this morning, stating in simple words when and where he'd hit next. Le Ciel Azure had the unfortunate fate to be stolen. Then again, maybe Mr. Kirkland was the one with the unfortunate fate.
At the moment, he was engaged in a serious conversation with the museum curator, discussing security and details of Le Ciel Azure.
The night ended with him shutting the door to his house and slipping into his bed knowing that the thief would strike again and he'd bring Scotland Yard more trouble next time.
The scent of coffee wafted through the kitchen as sunlight poured in through the windows. The morning was refreshing and still as Mr. Kirkland sipped the coffee. He knew the tranquility wouldn't last. Just like the calm before a storm.
Much to his dismay, today's schedule was filled with work. First a report, a meeting with his superiors (which he was sure wouldn't go well) and then analyzing the thief's notes once again.
Well, he better get to work.
It wasn't until a week later that they got the next note. His eyes widened while reading the carefully scripted calligraphy. The letter ended with the initials F.B. Whoever this F.B. was must have thought this was all a bloody game. Stealing the crown from the Buckingham Palace, who did he think he was?
That night was a very busy night. The letter said he'd come at 6 'o' clock tonight. Merely ten minutes away. This case was rather popular amongst the public and there was already a large thrum of people surrounding the palace. Some places were sectioned off and that's where Mr. Kirkland stood now. Hopefully this night wouldn't be a repeat of last time.
Eight minutes to six. Mr. Kirkland straightened his jacket.
Five minutes to six. He decided to walk in.
Two minutes to six. He stood gazing at the crown.
Mr. Kirkland could hear the chimes as a nearby clock stroke six.
There's not so much as a blur of movement before the crown is lifted from its position, completely passing through its glass barrier. Soon, it floats before him and a figure slowly comes into his vision. He could see some ethereal fabric hanging from his arms.
Mr. Kirkland, being the sarcastic man he is at times, started off by saying, "And what's that? An invisibility cloak? You wouldn't happen to be a Peverell, would you?"
The thief only chuckled.
"We've got you surrounded," as if those words were a cue, footsteps echoed through the hallways, "and we've seen your face." Continued Mr. Kirkland, eyeing the man in front of him.
The thief—dubbed with the name F.B. for the moment—had sharp blue eyes and shoulder length blond hair. If he didn't have the figure of a man, Mr. Kirkland would have thought the thief to be a woman. In the darkness of the room with merely moonlight to see, he could faintly make out a bit of stubble on his chin.
Given Mr. Kirkland's lack of reaction to the cloak, one might have thought he was actually indifferent to such things. On the inside, though, he was extremely puzzled and albeit a bit scared of this unusual phenomenon.
"No need to worry, I'll be taking my leave soon," muses the blue eyed criminal whilst running into the shadows.
Mr. Kirkland whips out his gun on instinct. If he wasn't in trouble before, he'd be knee-deep in it now. Sure, you weren't allowed to take out your gun unless someone took one out on you first, but he knew in his gut that the other would get away otherwise.
He fired a shot in the thief's general direction and listened carefully for any sound of F.B. being hit. Nothing. Nothing but the echoes of the gunshot. He fired again. And again. He fired until he had to replace the bullets. Not once was the thief hit.
More laughter came from the shadows. They were in the opposite direction of where he'd been firing. A scowl appeared on his face and he grit his teeth together, swinging his whole body to the source of the laughter.
Amidst the sound of gunshots, the footsteps of the other police officers were overlooked. They barged into the scene all at once and two of them grabbed Mr. Kirkland's arms. The gunshots ceased and so did the laughter.
"You idiots, he's getting away!" He yelled while fighting against the officers. "Let go of me!"
In the darkness, he could see F.B.—with the initials he still had no idea what stood for—smirking with mischief in his blue eyes, before disappearing underneath his cloak, crown and all.
With the revelation that the thief got away, Mr. Kirkland slumped into the arms of the other. No fight was left in him. He searched the darkness for some kind of hope.
Later on in the evening, his gun was confiscated. The thief's eyes kept haunting him. He was sure—so, so, sure—that he'd catch him. But did he? No, he didn't. What good was he?
Alfred Jones tentatively walked up to the deflated man. "Mr. Kirkland, with all due respect, you look absolutely horrid at the moment!" He said in a far too cheerful tone. It completely stood out with the sad atmosphere surrounding him.
Despite being so depressed, he managed to retort with, "Well, thank you for noticing!"
Jones sighed at his sarcasm-coated voice before starting what Mr. Kirkland expected to be a motivational speech of sorts. "You're acting a bit weak, Arthur," Mr. Kirkland raised an eyebrow at the use of his first name and the unexpected sentence. "Do you really think that's what a police officer should look like? We'll find that thief, so stop acting so pathetic!" Jones continued.
Well, it wasn't as motivational as he'd thought.
But soon, his sadness dissolved into anger and the only thoughts running through his mind involved the thief being captured. Not only that but getting what he deserved.
Perhaps in some way, Jones' words had been motivational.
With that, Arthur Kirkland stormed off, mad that all he knew about the thief was his face and haunting blue eyes.
A wave of dizziness overcame Mr. Kirkland and the world tilted to one side. He ended up falling on the ground. His mind became a jumbled mess and all he was aware of was a devilish laugh. The laugh that sounded so very similar to the thief's.
Soon the dizziness faded and he brushed himself off. He couldn't help but think that he forgot something. Something very important. It was at the back of his mind, but he couldn't seem to reach it. Nevertheless, he went back to the task of storming away, glad that nobody had seen him. More than he was mad at the thief, he was mad at himself. The thief was in the same room as him and he hadn't even gotten a glimpse of his face!
Mr. Arthur Kirkland found himself in his boss's office the next morning. Earlier, when he had thought he was knee-deep in trouble, he had been spot on.
"Do you understand, Mr. Kirkland, the extent of your actions? You were openly firing in the Buckingham Palace without authorization. Not only that but you let the thief go not once, not twice, but four times!" His boss talked as if scolding a young child.
Mr. Kirkland opened his mouth to object but no words were coming out. He lowered his head and clamped his mouth shut.
"Now, you're a good officer—I could even say one of the best—so you'll be let off easily. I'm taking you off this case."
All Mr. Kirkland could do was agree. There was no reason not to.
He was put on another case with an officer that recently joined. There he sat, waiting on a bench outside to meet his new partner for his new case.
Mr. Kirkland didn't realize he was staring at the ground until a pair of feet clad in black leather shoes stopped in front of him. He looked up to see the face of his new partner.
Blond shoulder length hair. Blue eyes.
He stared at him. Why on Earth did the fellow seem so familiar? Dismissing that thought, he smiled to his new partner.
They conversed over a cup of tea, discussing the new case. This fellow was smart, he could tell. He'd make an excellent partner.
"Your eyes seem so familiar. They're very nice," commented Mr. Kirkland.
"Why, thank you," Francis Bonnefoy replied. And then he laughed.