Where an opinion is general, it is usually correct – Jane Austen
In a boarded-up old house, a stone's throw from the Thames, Greg Lestrade stood with both hands shoved deep into his trenchcoat pockets, a gloomy expression flattening his mouth. Of the four dead, middle-aged men seated neatly around the table in front of him, three displayed signs suggestive of poisoning and the fourth had been shot, a small-calibre hole directly between the eyes. However, no weapon could be found, not on the corpse, on or under the table or anywhere else in the room. Nor did there appear to be any container holding poison or the residue thereof. None of the bodies had any form of identification on them, no notable jewellery or wallets. Additionally, barely a thing was out of place on the circular table at which they sat. Plates, cups, saucers, glasses ... even the knives and forks were in their rightful places, with no indication of a struggle or any sign, other than the bullet-wound, that physical force had been involved in any way in any of the deaths. If all four men had been murdered by a person or persons unknown, then why had one been shot rather than poisoned? The situation was indeed a strange one. Apart from the four dead bodies, it looked as if dinner had been about to begin at any moment.
"Don't say it," lifting a cautionary index finger, while Greg's eyes remained focused on the macabre setting in front of him, the quiet words were aimed at the knowing face of the red fox daemon sitting several feet away. "It is not a mad scientist, okay?" Greg waved the extended finger in the air. "It is never a mad scientist."
"Might be." Adrasta sniffed moodily as her latest pet theory was summarily dismissed. Flicking her long, glossy and somewhat bouffant tail until it curled effortlessly around her seated form, she arched what would be eyebrows on a human. "The law of averages suggests there has to be a mad scientist at the bottom of at least a few murders, but if you insist on being blinkered about the whole thing ..." Shrugging as only a fox can, Adrasta raised an elegant snout, turning her attention to the other daemons in the room.
There were a selection of dogs; mostly big, earnest types, randomly wolf-like in a couple of cases, all of them looking simply too serious for words and following their human officers around with a tenacity verging on the ridiculous. Anderson's squirrel monkey Karilideon clung gamely to the Forensic pathologist's shoulder as the man hunched over one of the corpses, and then there was that new one, Adrasta moved her head slightly to observe Greg's latest sergeant, a woman called Sally Donovan. She'd only been in the team for a couple of weeks, too shy to speak much. Lifting her gaze to the curtain rail, Adrasta watched Donovan's small grey owl ... Horth? ... clinging silently to the long brass rail with some determination. Hardly surprising the bird was almost never seen, not with the way its human acted. The pair of them had kept very much to themselves up to now. Strange for a copper to have a bird daemon: they usually went for the more predictable canine forms, unlike herself, of course. Though she was indeed a fox, Adrasta was nobody's dog.
"The carpet's wet around this side, sir," Donovan pressed the toe of her shoe firmly into the thick pile. She was right. It wasn't oozing, but there was definitely a darker smudge on the tip of her sensible black lace-up. There was also the faintest of squishing sounds as she walked around the perimeter of the table, very carefully not touching anything. Mysterious deaths and wet feet? There was one obvious possibility.
"Everyone off the carpet!" Stepping smartly backwards onto the dry parquet tiles, DI Lestrade wanted no more fatalities, deliberate or accidental. He waved generally at the virulently floral rug "Tic, can you sense if there's anything metallic underneath all this?"
Happy to oblige, Adrasta padded silently forwards, her four-toed paws making no impression at all on the carpet fibres. Sniffing, she wrinkled her nose in distaste. "There's all sorts of gunge in this horrible mat," she sounded as disgusted as she looked. "And yes; there's a smell of sheet aluminium all around here, underneath," she added, walking around the feet of the deceased, though there's no live current that I can sense." Looking up at Greg, Adrasta paused, knowing what was coming next.
"Right. I want everyone out of here until we can locate the cause any potential source of an electrical current, live or not. Anderson, get yourself away from the table until I say you can go back. Move."
Needing no additional encouragement to take himself out of harm's way, Philip Anderson hastily abandoned any attempts at forensic research, quite content to leave the situation to the scene-of-crime experts.
Waiting until all extraneous personnel had left the room, Greg looked around. There was only himself, Anderson and Donovan left. "Right people, you know what to do," he nodded. On cue, their three daemons began a meticulous examination of the scene. Adrasta took the floor level, her keen nose detecting various disagreeable chemicals as well as other, even less pleasant things, but also the more ancient scents of lavender and lemon. It was probably old floor polish under the carpet, a pleasant change from everything else. Karilideon leaped around the perimeter of the room, her light and nimble form easily swinging from the drawn curtains to the polished sideboard and up the tops of doors. Donovan's little owl hardly moved, but his eyes widened as he scanned every inch of the room from his lofty perch. Between the three daemons, nothing important would be missed.
Horth clicked and muttered softly. "He says he can see a set of footprints walking around the table before leaving the room, sir," Donovan frowned. "Says it's a man's footprints on the carpet, but not police issue shoes," the new DS hesitated as she listened to the voice inside her own head. "Also that there's a plug with a cord in it over there," she pointed to a mostly hidden socket near one corner. "Horth says the wire doesn't go anywhere that he can see."
Trotting across to the power socket, Adrasta sniffed the cable, following the sharp copper scent around the perimeter of the room, until it vanished under the corner of the carpet farthest away from the table. Of the same brownish colour as the worn wooden parquet, the few exposed inches of fine wire was all but invisible to the human eye.
"The cable is connected to the aluminium just here," she touched her forepaw to a spot less than a yard away from the table and chairs.
"At the risk of sounding insensitive, does anyone else get the feeling that this is overkill? Poison, shooting and, if all other options failed, electrocution?" Greg inhaled slowly, nodding as Anderson ensured the socket was switched off – it was – and the plug pulled, which it wasn't. His blue-gloved fingers made the electrical device safe. It didn't even look as though it had been switched on. Any direct current applied to metal and conducted through water would surely have shorted the socket out, yet, there was no sign of such an event. No scorching, no smoke. No ... cooked smell.
"But why would this chap at the end be shot if the other three were poisoned?" Anderson rested his bearded chin on a thumb.
"It must have been a quick-acting poison for them to have died with so little fuss. These three have barely moved." Donovan peered at several sets of fingertips resting on the uncreased tablecloth.
"There's a funny smell from all of them," Adrasta sat at the foot of the fourth corpse and looked up at Greg. "Smells like a chemical of some kind."
"Chemical? The same chemical everywhere?" Greg met his daemon's thoughtful gaze. "Chemical or poison?"
Shrugging again, Adrasta tilted her head slightly. "I think poison," she said. "Not sure what sort, though."
"But if the plan was murder by poison, then why go to all the trouble of wiring up the carpet at the same time?" Sally sounded uncertain. "A backup plan?"
"Can't tell until we get all the forensic tests done and then have all these autopsied," Anderson smiled fleetingly. "Can't hurry science, you know."
"In which case, you'd better chuff off and give science a hand, don't you think?" Greg wasn't in a mood to humour his forensic officer, not with four dead bodies to explain. "Let me know the minute you've received confirmation of cause of death, as well as time of death," he added, turning to the newest member of the team. "So, Sally," he said, folding his arms as Anderson left the room, leaving the two of them alone. "What d'ya reckon?"
Sergeant Donovan smiled briefly up at the nearest door top where her owl perched, his small feathered form sleek and still and nearly invisible in the dimming daylight. "Horth thinks someone is playing a game," she said. "Everything is set up to be seen like this; the whole room is like a stage set, with things arranged for us to come and see, after the event."
Nodding, Greg walked slowly around the edge of the centrally-placed carpet. "This would have taken time to arrange," he said, still nodding slowly. "The metal beneath the carpet, the electrical cable, the people sitting down for drinks," he added. "This extravagant piece of theatre was planned very carefully, clinically, almost. Someone took a lot of time and effort to make this turn out just the way they wanted," he stopped pacing, looking down at the stately red fox once more at his feet. "Someone familiar with both electricity and poisons ..."
Saying nothing, Adrasta rolled her eyes. Mad scientist, for sure.
###
Back at the Yard, sitting comfortably at his desk, Lestrade lifted his focus from the initial forensic and pathology overview reports as Donovan knocked on the door with her foot. Carrying a mug of coffee in each hand, it was all she had spare. Horth was perched on her shoulder, his eyes half-lidded.
"Thought you could do with a decent brew, sir," she said, placing a steaming mug by his right hand.
"Very thoughtful of you Sal, ta." Greg sat back and rubbed his eyes. Lowering his fingers to scratch the top of Adrasta's head as she dozed beside the desk. "You got a minute? Grab a seat." Blinking, Horth half hopped, half flew across to a ledge by the window where he blended right in with the dull grey painted steel frame.
"Have you ever met Sherlock Holmes?" Greg asked, leaning back in his seat, sipping what was really quite good coffee. "In his given capacity of detective, I mean."
Her mouth turning down a little at the corners, Donovan shook her head. "I've read about the guy," she said. "Heard a few rumours about him. Can't say I'm overwhelmed by his approach, to be honest."
"Yeah, he's a bit of a dick in the social skills area, but damn good at seeing things other people miss."
"And, by other people, you mean us?" Sally made a face. "He's a chancer, from what I've heard," she said. "Does it for kicks. Doesn't stick to protocol."
"All true," Greg nodded. "And yet ..."
Inhaling hard through her nose, Donovan sat back and folded her arms. "You want to get him in on these Dinner-table murders, don't you?"
"Is that what they're being called?" Lestrade stared at his coffee mug, his eyes distant. "I'm curious about the one who was shot," he said. "It's odd."
"They were all pretty odd if you ask me," Sally rubbed her face tiredly. "Three bodies with hardly a mark on them and one with a single bullet-wound, all sitting around the table like that. Bloody gruesome."
"And gruesome is what Sherlock does best," Greg smiled briefly, reaching for his phone.
Sitting up, Adrasta walked around the corner of the desk, her bright amber eyes full of intelligence and understanding as she sat at Donovan's feet. "Sherlock needs to help," she said. "The rest of it is just show. It's the artistic streak in him." Tipping her head fractionally to the side, Adrasta smiled, her pink tongue lolling clownishly.
"Mind your tail, Tic," Greg pushed the heavy mass of auburn fur away with his foot as he stood with the phone at his ear.
"Why Tic?" Sally smiled back, entranced by the steady attention of the big fox.
"Me at eighteen months, couldn't pronounce Adrasta," Greg smiled fondly at his daemon who turned to grin up at him. "I just about managed 'Drastic' and the name kind of stuck." Frowning as he got the engaged tone, Lestrade made a mental note to try again later.
Moving her gaze towards the window, Sally said nothing as the little grey owl blinked unhurriedly.
###
"Inspector." Mycroft Holmes stood beside the big black car. An enormous raven perched strategically behind him on the vehicle's shiny roof. "And Adrasta," Holmes bowed marginally towards the glowing russet daemon at Greg's side. "You remember Artis?" his dark blue eyes flickered briefly towards the great bird at his shoulder.
"Of course," Greg nodded politely at the big raven. Of the pair, he wasn't entirely sure which one unsettled him the most. Mycroft Holmes, tall, stately and with enough gravitas for the entire nation, or Artis, darkly inscrutable and vaguely looming. "Anything I can help you with?" he asked, realising that the reason he was meeting with Holmes was because Holmes had wanted to meet.
"The murders you were planning to bring to my brother's attention," Mycroft paused meaningfully. "I would prefer your investigations maintain as low a profile as possible," the man smiled urbanely. "Sherlock's exploits have a tendency to make the front pages of the Yellow Press with unfailing regularity." Tapping the long furled umbrella on the pavement beside a shiny black shoe, Holmes lifted a hand towards his daemon. "Artis has a gift for you."
It was only then that Greg noticed the raven was wearing something resembling a collar. With a few deft beak movements, the daemon disconnected a tiny square item from the strap, smaller than a postage stamp, dropping it into her human's waiting palm. It was one of the smallest flash drives Lestrade had ever seen.
"We have reason to believe that a single person is responsible for all four of the deaths you investigated earlier today. The information contained in this may be of some use to your apprehension of the murderer, Inspector," Holmes held up the tiny piece of tech. "Further, we would appreciate if any mention of this crime be kept from the public for as long as possible." He smiled again as Greg took the miniscule storage device.
"We?" Greg had been a detective for a long time and some questions were automatic.
"Have a lovely evening Inspector," Mycroft's farewell was perfectly affable. "Adrasta." Nodding again, he held out an arm for the raven, before sliding easily into the car, closing the door behind him with barely a sound. It was only then that Greg got around to wondering how Holmes had known about the attempt to contact his brother.
"I hate it when he does that," Greg scowled heavily at the disappearing vehicle.
"Hardly surprising though when you think what Sherlock can do," Adrasta leaned her shoulder against the side of his knee. "They both have a thing for drama and Artis is mad for Shakespeare, which kind of says it all, really. Artis also says that Mycroft is cleverer than his brother."
"You and Artis know each other?" Regarding his daemon with slightly narrowed eyes, Lestrade's voice verged on the suspicious.
"All daemons know each other once we've met," resting her long jaw up the length of his thigh, Adrasta closed her eyes in pleasure as Greg's gentle fingers smoothed along the line of her brow. "It makes things a lot more simple for everyone."
"Shame it doesn't work that way for humans," Lestrade sniffed morosely.
Given the paranoid complexity of the human mind, Adrasta thought that was probably just as well.
At home, Greg stared at the different take-away menus adorning the fridge door until a pointed cough distracted him.
"About time you had something more substantial than Lemon chicken," Adrasta looked pointedly towards the tall kitchen cupboard that served as a larder.
"Turning chef now, are we?" Greg raised his eyebrows. "I don't have time to cook, you know that."
"Utter rubbish," the fox sounded just like his aunt. "Get the pasta you bought a couple of weeks ago and boil it. While that's cooking, get another pan; throw in those frozen prawns you've been meaning to use and some frozen vegetables for colour. Add some butter and garlic and seasoning and you have a perfectly acceptable meal that will take you less time to cook than it would to have your Chinese take-away delivered."
"Nag, nag, nag," Lestrade grumbled but nevertheless moved a pile of half-read books out of the way before digging out two different pans. Half-filling one with water, he put it onto boil, while he opened the door to the freezer to see what else he had in there beside the frozen prawns. Peas, broccoli florets and what looked like frozen sliced red pepper. Under his daemon's watchful eyes, he lobbed a chunk of butter into an old wok and a good spoonful of crushed garlic from a jar, before piling in the prawn cutlets, the broccoli and a glug of soy sauce. Chucking half a bag of penne pasta into the now bubbling water, he stirred the prawns, adding a handful of frozen green peas and the strips of pepper to the other vegetables. As Adrasta had suggested, by the time the pasta was cooked, so was everything else. Fishing out an enormous bowl, he piled pasta and prawns into the dish and grabbed a chilled lager from the fridge. He was too late to catch the BBC news, but was able to watch some mindless quiz game as he ate his dinner which, despite his earlier misgivings, was not actually all that bad.
As she felt his body relax with the heat of the food and the intake of something a little more nutritious than a crisp sandwich, the red fox curled up on the sofa beside him. As soon as he'd finished eating, Greg pulled his old laptop onto his knees
"Strange for three of those people today to have died differently from the forth if all of them were murdered by the same person," he murmured, clicking the miniscule flash drive into an empty slot at the side of the computer. "All sitting at the table like that. I wonder what the hell was going on."
"The chemical smell was on all of the bodies," Adrasta advised him thoughtfully. "Though it was weakest on the body at the end, the one that was shot," she added.
"So they all smelled of the same chemical, but the shooting victim at the end smelled the least strongly of it?" Frowning, He met Tic's eyes. "How much less strongly?"
"Lots less," she said. "It was definitely there, but barely; hardly noticeable compared to the others, which is why I didn't say anything at the time." The big fox sat up straight, widening her golden eyes artlessly.
Right now, Greg would willingly contemplate any half-assed idea that was even remotely possible. He scanned through the files of information on the memory stick; there was a lot of stuff about a man called Daniel Harvey: his personal details, general background, career ... Greg groaned silently. The guy worked for the government as an applied chemist. Adrasta's mad scientist theory was suddenly, horribly, possible. But if Mycroft Holmes had handed this level of detailed info across to the police, it could only be because he wanted the police to follow it up and so far, this guy Harvey was ticking a lot of boxes as a potential suspect, if that's what he was, of course. The Holmesian mind worked in extremely strange ways.
But even if Harvey was the murderer, it still didn't explain why only three of the victims died from poisoning if all four had ingested the stuff. Why had the man at the end been shot as well as poisoned? Perhaps the pathology reports would clear that little mystery up in the morning.
Turning his attention back to the Harvey bio, it seemed that, while he was employed by a large chemical research establishment near London and lived in Stoke Newington; he also spent a fair amount of time at another residence, a house, near Falstone in in Northumberland. Quickly checking the man's CV, Greg saw that Daniel Harvey was a Northerner. That would make him a little easier to spot in a sea of London accents, at least. But if the man was responsible for the murders and such weird murders at that, then ... why?
Grabbing his phone, he wanted to call in to the night shift forensics team. What had they found out? Had they established the identity of any of the dead?
Just as he was about to speed-dial out, the phone rang in his hand. Strange, but not uniquely so.
"Lestrade speaking."
"My apologies for interrupting your evening, Inspector," the dulcet tones of Mycroft Holmes were quiet at his ear. "But now you have read through the bulk of the file I gave you, no doubt you'll want to share the details with the rest of your investigation team. I'm afraid you'll need to keep it to yourself, Official Secrets Act, and all that."
"How do you know I've even signed the Official Secrets Act?" Greg started to feel cross again.
"September fourteenth, Nineteen-ninety-eight," Holmes sounded entirely confident. "I can have a copy sent to you if you desire confirmation?"
"You seriously don't want me to do anything with this information?" Greg began to feel more than a little annoyed. To have a potential prime suspect dangled in front of him like this, only to be denied any chance of discovering the truth ... "This man may have just murdered four people in cold blood. He's got to be found and questioned."
"You may do anything you wish with the information, other than sharing it with another person or persons. Mr Harvey holds a very delicate position with the British government and his arrest may prove deleterious to the national interest. Not a word of any investigation or arrest can possibly be permitted to become known. Harvey cannot be publically questioned, charged, arrested or be put through the British legal system in any way. Nor can I send any of my people after him until I know the extent of his communication network." Mycroft's voice was as urbane as ever.
"But that means ..."
"It means, Inspector, that I would like you to travel north in the near future."
"You want me to go after this man even though I can't arrest the bastard? You want me to go up there without any backup? Are you bloody insane?"
"I want this investigation conducted in absolute secrecy. Not one word of this can afford to reach the newspapers or anyone else, for that matter. Harvey needs to be found by someone outside of my sphere whom I can trust. I trust you. Once you have him, call me and I will ensure the appropriate authorities take him into their custody. Naturally, I will ensure that you are given the appropriate clearances and legal jurisdiction in order to facilitate this, shall we say, operation?"
"Then get your own people to do the work. I don't work for you. I don't have to do what you tell me to do."
There was the faintest sound of a long-suffering sigh at the other end of the phone. "I wish to avoid any possibility of Mr Harvey or his colleagues being alerted to my department's involvement." There was a thoughtful pause. "Very well," Mycroft's voice had become slightly harder, slightly more demanding. "If you insist, you may take one other member of your team with you, but no more than that. You can give them no details beyond the absolute basics. Your absence from London could be given any number of explanations, however to have two of you away at the same time under the circumstances will be almost impossible to ..."
"Take Sally Donovan and Horth," Adrasta's words entered Greg's thoughts without reaching his ears.
"I'll take Donovan," Lestrade spoke the words before he'd realised what he was going to say. "And our investigation will be by the book regardless of what you want, even if we can't arrest him."
"As you say, Inspector." Now that he'd got his way, Holmes sounded as he usually did, any evidence of strain completely gone from his tone. "I will, of course, see that any expenditure is immediately refunded to you ... You should depart tomorrow. I can provide a cover for you both for forty-eight hours but no more, so you'll need to return to London within two days."
"Why the rush?" Lestrade felt his head spin. "Why all the secrecy?"
"It's better if you are not burdened by that information at this time, and all the details you require to locate Harvey are in the file. Be aware though ..." Holmes hesitated, as if searching for the appropriate words. "Be aware that Daniel Harvey is not only a wicked man but also a very clever one. You will need to keep your wits about you. Good luck with your investigation." In the soft silence, Greg knew the call had been terminated. With a frown, he dropped the phone on the couch, only to find himself looking into the steady amber eyes of his daemon.
"Looks like we're going on a trip up north," he said.
###
"They want us to go where?" Donovan marched into Lestrade's office, a single printed page in her clenched fingers. "On the second day of a multiple murder investigation, they want us to attend a conference on urban policing in Gretna Green?"
A conference was clearly the best Holmes had been able to come up with at such short notice, but even so, Donovan believed it. And if someone as sharp as her believed it, then others would too.
"The ups and downs of life in the Metropolitan Police, Sally," Greg managed to match his frown to hers as he checked his phone was charged and that nothing new had been sent through to his email inbox in the last ten minutes.
Adrasta sat beside the wall radiator, not because she needed to be warmed but the knowledge of the warmth was a comforting thing. Lifting her eyes to the sill above her head, she caught Horth's dark enigmatic gaze. The two soul-creatures communed silently before the owl blinked and lazily stretched out a scaled talon. There was a sense of understanding between them.
"We just got time to grab some overnight things and catch the midday train from Euston," he said, checking his watch again. "How about we meet there at eleven-thirty and I'll grab us some tickets?"
Standing and staring at him as though he'd grown tentacles, it was obvious to anyone with eyes that DS Donovan was not a happy copper. "Why me?" Her expression was tight with frustration. "Sir," she added as an afterthought.
"Because you're the best I have, Sal," Greg sat and threw together some directions for the rest of the team in the continuance of the investigation. He looked up from the keyboard with a half-smile. "See you at Euston, yeah?"
Heaving a short but heavy sigh, Donovan looked across the room as the grey owl fluttered to her shoulder. Nodding, she turned and strode out of the room. Greg knew he'd have to tell her the real story soon, but not here, not where the walls had ears.
###
He'd managed to secure them two nearly private seats, facing each other across a small table. As the train was nowhere near crowded, Adrasta and Horth initially took the two empty seats beside their humans.
"So let me get this straight," Donovan rubbed her forehead. "We're not actually heading to a conference but you and I are acting on a confidential tip ... a tip that you say is from an impeccable source but you can't tell me who it is?"
Lifting his arms to allow Adrasta to step into his lap, Greg compressed his mouth and nodded deliberately. "We're after a bloke called Daniel Harvey, with a background in chemistry, who works at a chemical engineering place outside of London but who originally comes from a town just north of Newcastle. He's been missing from his workplace for several days and was known to have had a falling-out with all four of the deceased."
"I didn't think there was anything north of Newcastle," Sally grumbled moodily, unhappy at being lied to, even for such a brief time. Horth fluttered up and onto the shoulder of her coat, his powerful talons holding tight to the thick fabric.
"Look, Sal," Greg rested both hands on Adrasta's smooth coat, stroking her long ears. "I only found this out last night. We've got a very small window of opportunity going for us; if we don't find this guy Harvey by tomorrow, he'll probably be long gone. There wasn't time to arrange anything better than this without tipping him off and, for reasons above our combined pay-grades, this whole ... operation has to be kept completely under wraps," he glanced down. "Adrasta will tell you it's the truth."
"It is the truth, Sargent Donovan," Adrasta laid a paw on the small table, her words quiet and sincere. "I told Greg to ask for your help because you and Horth see things that other people can't see. That's true too, isn't it?"
Two sets of astonished and unblinking eyes stared first at Adrasta and then at Greg.
"What?" Lestrade bent down to meet Adrasta's gaze. "What on earth are you on about, Tic? What do you mean 'see things'?"
Clearing her throat awkwardly, Sally raised her eyebrows. "It's more Horth than me, sir," she murmured quietly. "He does this thing ..."
"What thing?" Greg narrowed his eyes. "And whatever it is, why am I only finding this out now?"
"It's not something we like to talk about, actually." Donovan looked slightly sheepish. "But Horth can sometimes see a little bit into the future. Not much usually, only a few minutes, but he's done it too often for it to be a fluke."
"Your daemon can see the future?" Greg's eyes looked directly across at the owl's innocuous expression.
"Yes, sir," Sally nodded. "He can. Bits of it, at least."
"And you already knew this?" Greg looked back down at a gently grinning fox. "And you didn't tell me?"
"I told you that all daemons know one another once they've met," Adrasta made herself more comfortable in her human's lap. "And anyway, you know now, so I can't see the problem. Horth's on our side."
Rubbing the palm of one hand across his eyes, Greg took a deep breath. He wasn't stupid; he knew very well that any sensible copper took whatever advantage they could find. "Right then," he looked squarely at the owl who had remained silent throughout the conversation. In fact Greg couldn't actually recall the little grey bird ever speaking aloud. "Your human works for me which means that, in a way, so do you, okay? If you see something about to happen that might help either of us on this job, then don't keep it to yourself, yeah?"
Curving a hand over her mouth, Sally fought down a smile.
Horth blinked once ... twice and clicked his beak. "Okay, Guv."
Squinting one eye closed, Greg caught Donovan's amused expression. Willing to take a little teasing if it meant the team stayed strong and they caught the bad guy, he inhaled slowly through his nose.
"So if we're not actually going to a conference, where are we headed?" Sally leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, allowing Horth to wander down from her shoulder to the flat surface, where he stared through the window at the passing countryside.
"Here." Greg held up his phone, the screen showing part of a map.
"It's all green," she observed. "We're going somewhere green."
"I knew you had the makings of a brilliant detective," Greg sat back. "Our man is likely to be holed up in a house in Falstone, which is bang in the middle of Kielder Forest Park."
"Hence the green," Adrasta enthused. Most of the London parks were a little tame for her taste, so the chance to pass a few hours somewhere truly wild was not to be lightly dismissed. "Horth and I will obviously act as scouts, easily mistaken as we are for normal woodland folk."
It was Donovan's turn to look unconvinced. Horth was so small and grey that he might easily be overlooked, but Adrasta's vivid russet coat and flamboyantly long tail would stand out like a neon sign in a dark alley.
"Maybe Horth can fly ahead and have a quick look around," she said eventually, her gaze meeting the stony expression of her DI.
"What about me?" Adrasta jumped up onto the table beside Horth who clicked his beak and rolled his eyes in alarm as he was nearly pushed off the edge. "I'm a fox," she said, alternating her stare between the two humans. "I have instincts."
Fixing his daemon with a look, Greg pulled back his jacket sleeve, exposing his right forearm. It was peppered with small white scars, ancient dog-bites. "And where were your instincts when Old Faithful decided he fancied a slice of prime detective?" he demanded, though the question held no heat.
"We were new in the job. We both made mistakes." Adrasta looked at him down her long muzzle. "I've learned a lot since then."
"Yeah, you have, Tic," Greg ruffled the thick fur at her neck. "We both have."
###
The address on the file Mycroft had supplied was way off the beaten track, past a lot of cultivated fields, high hedgerows and tall stands of oak and sycamore. Arriving in the late afternoon, there had been a small and heavily mud-streaked old ford waiting for them at the station, booked in the name of Lestrade.
"Can you read a map?" Greg unfolded a huge Ordinance Survey of the local area.
"No, but I drive better than you." Sally lifted the keys from his hand and moved to the driver's side of the car. Sliding himself into the passenger seat, Greg had a vague awareness of chittering and scuffling in the rear seat as the two daemons settled themselves but thought nothing of it as his attention was focused entirely on a map large enough to serve as a small tent.
"Harvey's house is right in the middle of the wood, not far from Kielder Water," Greg's half-muffled voice came from inside the tent of heavy parchment. "Look for a road called North Haul."
Puffing out her cheeks in an effort to do what she was asked, Donovan scanned the nearby roadside for signposts of any description. "There's a place here called 'Hawkhope Road'," she observed. "Any good?"
"Take a left and then a right, and then keep on going until we see a house." Greg's muffled voice came from behind the enormous map. The sound of crumpling paper heralded his emergence from several acres of paper. "Daniel Harvey lives somewhere around here. With luck, we'll find him before it gets dark."
Now that her DI had mentioned the time, Sally saw that the evening was indeed drawing in. If they couldn't find their man before too long, they'd either have to find a bed and breakfast somewhere, or spend a cold night in the car. Maybe the map would keep them warm.
The lonely road seemed darker and wintrier in the deepening twilight, as tall trees crowded in around them, blocking the scant remaining daylight. There was no traffic, no sounds of cars or the reminders of life out here in the middle of the forest. They were entirely alone, hunting for a mysterious killer, with little more than their wits and a couple pairs of handcuffs.
"I need to fly," Horth's quiet gravelly voice was clear in the back seat of the car. "Let me out, please."
Sally was braking as her daemon spoke, not even thinking about arguing. The owl knew far more about things ahead than she ever would. Sliding out of the car, she pulled the rear door open and watched as Horth hopped out and fluttered to a nearby tree stump.
"You should come too." Standing on the dead wood, Horth blinked at Adrasta still inside the car. "I have a feeling."
"What kind of a feeling?" Greg emerged from his side of the Ford, leaning on the roof, rubbing cold hands together. "Like something bad is going to happen?"
There was a pause as Horth considered his reply. "Something bad could happen," he acknowledged, tilting his head. "Which is why Adrasta should come with me."
"I'll be alright, you know," the big fox jumped out of the still-open door and padded around the car to look at her human. "We've all trained for this kind of thing for a long time," she added, sensibly. "It's not as if Horth and I are going to be very far away, even if you can't see us all the time. I'm sure everything will be fine."
"It's not you being alright that bothers me, Tic," Greg leaned down and stroked her smooth head. "It's me. You know how I get when we're apart."
"Horth wouldn't suggest it unless he thought it was important, sir," Sally folded her arms. "Not that I like being apart any more than you do, but I've learned to listen to his advice."
Grudgingly, Greg nodded. "Okay then," he agreed. "If Horth feels this is so important, then off you go; you probably know where we're supposed to go more than we do," he attempted a smile but it was strained. Intellectually, he knew he could manage his daemon being out of sight, but it was still a decidedly uncomfortable feeling, sometimes holding him at the edge of panic.
"Keep on the road. Head downhill. Stay quiet." Horth clicked his beak. "We'll see if the man is alone."
At Donovan's small smile, her daemon launched himself up into the dark sky, his paler silhouette visible for a few seconds in the emerging moonlight, before his shape faded into the treeline.
"It's all be fine, I promise," Adrasta grinned, before she too was off, her gleaming red form streaking through the undergrowth, following the shadow of the owl.
Taking a deep breath, Greg looked at his sergeant across the roof of the old car. "This is one of the bits of police work I really don't like," he muttered, opening the car door before shoving his hands in his pockets. "It's bloody freezing, as well."
"I hear you, Guv," Donovan's expression was less than happy as she slid in beside him and started the engine. "Let's get this bastard and go home."
###
With the sweetness of damp wood mulch under her flying paws, the brush of brambles and slow-growing ferns through her thick coat, Adrasta ran swiftly and silently through the deepening evening. While Horth's flight was silent and invisible, she was able to track the ripples he'd left in the air above her. Nothing as clear as a trail, but enough of a disturbance to see the owl's essential trajectory. Racing through the understory of the ancient forest, the fox felt an elation unusual for such a creature as she. Knowing Greg wasn't far behind in the car ameliorated the nagging sense of separation, but there was something else out here in the wild, in the dark. It sang to her and, for once, she allowed herself to respond in a way she never could in the built-up streets of London.
Even though she was running at full tilt for the sheer joy of being in a true fox-habitat, the ground was sloping downwards and Adrasta had to temper her headlong race. There was also the chill scent of water, of a very great deal of water, a lake then, somewhere close by. A faint light up ahead percolated between the trees as they thinned out no more than a hundred yards away. Approaching the edge of the trees, she saw the light was emanating from a small stone cottage. There was a dull glow at the uncurtained windows and smoke drifting from the rough chimney.
"One man, inside." Horth flew down to a low branch on a convenient conifer. "He's burning paper."
There was a narrow, rutted track leading away up the hill, clearly the connection to the slightly better road up in the forest. Greg and Sally would be driving down that track very soon.
"We need to make sure he stays in the house until our humans arrive," Adrasta. "I'll run up the track and have them turn off the car lights. Can you keep an eye on things until they arrive?"
"No problem."
"Right. Back soon!"
Haring away up the track into the darkness, Adrasta's sharp ears caught the first faint notes of a car engine. The last thing they could afford was for Daniel Harvey to get wind of anyone coming to find him, so silence was key. Flinging herself along the road until she saw the approaching curve of the car headlights, she held her ground, right in the middle of the road. The old Ford slammed to a halt.
"You daft thing, I could have run right into you!" Donovan's tone was sharp as she jumped from the car, though more from concern than anger.
"Turn the lights off and leave the car here," Adrasta met Greg's equally anxious expression, though his relief at seeing her again blanketed all other sensations.
"Is our man close, Tic?" Lestrade kept his voice low, his eyes scanning for the lights of a building.
"Two minutes around the corner and just down the hill," she said, turning to lead the way. "Horth said he'd keep watch on the house until you arrived."
"Right, let's go." Despite feeling chillier than ever, Greg set off after his daemon without hesitation, leaving Donovan little choice but to leave the car and follow, not that she wanted to be apart from Horth either. The night was coming in frosty and their breathing left white smoke in the air. The moon was fully up now and there was a luminous clarity about the sky; dark, but with a faint yellowy-glow which cast long shadows on the road.
"Down here. Stay quiet," Adrasta whispered as she led the two humans down the gentle slope to the small cottage.
Everything seemed to be the same as when she'd left. The same glow in the window, the same smoking chimney. There was a soft whisper of wings as Horth glided down onto Donovan's left shoulder.
"The man is alone. He has been burning papers. There is a small boat by the edge of the lake which has recently been refuelled."
The burning paper would account for the acrid smell in the air. If Harvey was getting rid of stuff, he probably intended going somewhere and was unable to take much with him. The boat moored near the house lent weight to that supposition. It looked like they'd arrived just in time. If Daniel Harvey disappeared from here, not even Mycroft's minions would be able to find him again. Was the boat to get him across the lake or to suggest a drowning? From the bit of shore Greg could see, it was obvious the lake was massive and could not possibly be dragged. Harvey's abandoned rowing boat in the middle of a vast body of water would be a clever way to vanish and ensure that nobody come looking for him.
"Right then." Lestrade kept his voice down. "Donovan, you and me will go in and grab Harvey, assuming that is him inside the house. Remember that he might be armed, so no heroics. Once we have him in 'cuffs, I'm supposed to call a certain number and arrange to have the guy collected."
"We're not taking him in?" Sally whispered, confused.
"This is a special op, Sal. I've been told that Harvey's position is such that none of this can get into the papers."
"They why are we doing this? Why not MI5 or someone from the anti-terrorist division?"
"I'll tell you what I can, later," Trying not to shiver and wishing he'd got a warm scarf to wrap around his bare neck, Greg looked down at his fox. "You good to go, Tic?"
"We'll distract Harvey's daemon, whatever it is," Adrasta looked at the little cottage. "I doubt it'll be too big if it can survive in that little house."
"Let's do this, then." Taking a deep breath, the DI strode purposefully towards the cottage with his sergeant at his side. At the weathered wooden door, he paused, gripping the door handle tightly and turning it as slowly and silently as was possible. He felt the internal catch lift and the door gave a fraction. Nodding at Donovan, Greg opened the door and stepped inside the small dwelling in a single movement. In the same moment, Adrasta slunk around the far perimeter of the room, with her belly brushing the floor, the fox was almost invisible in the fire-lit dimness of the room.
There was very little furniture in the place. A narrow bed in the far corner, a couple of chairs and a small gas-powered fridge. There was a rickety bookcase with a few ancient volumes stacked on the shelves, a central table holding an unlit candle, a half-empty bottle of good quality scotch and an empty glass. A lopsided tallboy leaning heavily against one wall. There was only one comfortable armchair in the entire place and this was currently right in front of the small fireplace. The chair was occupied by a man who was still feeding a sheaf of papers into the brightly glowing fire, his back to the doorway.
Immediately scanning for any sight of a gun or other weapon, Greg was about to speak when the man's back stiffened, his head whipping around to throw a virulent glare at the two intruders.
At the same moment, a writhing, reptilian shadow rose high, backlit by the leaping flames. An enormous black cobra flared its hood wide, baring its terrifying fangs at the intruders. Almost instantly, a flurry of grey feathers and a streak of red-gold piled in, dragging a blanket from the arm of the chair and burying the huge snake between then. Visibly shocked at the pre-emptive attack on his daemon, Daniel Harvey stood, momentarily uncertain of what to do next. In those fleeting seconds, he lost any possibility of escape, as Donovan hurled herself forward, dragging Harvey's wrists together and clapping them into a pair of very substantial police-issue handcuffs.
Striding around to see what was happening on the floor near the fire; Greg was treated to the sight of Adrasta and Horth sitting more-or-less comfortable atop a wriggling, blanket-wrapped lump. Despite the knowledge that daemons rarely hurt one another, he was relieved to see that Harvey's cobra had not managed to hurt either of them.
The other thing he noticed was how much warmer it was over here beside the fire. A long shudder ran down his back as the slight heat reached his chilled body.
Finding his voice, Harvey began shouting. "Who are you? What is the meaning of this treatment?" Lifting his arms and the handcuffs high, his words grew increasingly furious. "Why am I in these damn things?" His demands growing louder by the sentence, Greg pulled a folded photograph from an inside pocket and held it up beside the man's face. Yes, he was indeed the man they wanted.
"Daniel Harvey, isn't it?" Greg put the photo away as he pushed the man back down into the armchair. "Work in chemical engineering, had a bit of an upset with some of your old pals the other day, remember?"
Harvey's pause was only momentary, but it was enough. He knew exactly why the two strangers were in the cottage and he also knew what was likely to happen next. He took a slow, deep breath, and then shrugged. "I didn't think anyone would be onto me so quickly," he grin had a faintly manic edge. "I assume you're both police. Well done the British copper," he shrugged his entire body relaxing as he accepted he'd been caught. "Aren't you going to charge me?"
"You're not being arrested," Lestrade kept his eyes very closely on the man as he pulled out his mobile. Calling up a number that hadn't been there a day before, Greg held the phone to his ear, waiting to hear a familiar voice.
"Ah, Inspector," Mycroft Holmes sounded unmistakable pleased. "May I take it that you have secured Mr Harvey for me?"
"Yeah, he's here with us," Greg looked down at the seated man. "Now what do you want us to do?"
"Sit tight, Lestrade. I am sending my people to your location even as we speak."
"How do you know ..." Greg shook his head. Of course. GPS was a wonderful thing. "We'll be here," he replied, ending the call.
"So somebody else is more interested in me than the police?" Harvey looked thoughtful for a moment before grinning again. "Serves me right for being overly confident. Ah well." He relaxed back into the chair. "I don't suppose I could have one last dram of that, could I?" Following his gaze, Greg saw the man look at the scotch on the table. "It's chilly in here despite the fire."
The bundle of papers that had filled the hearth with a rosy fire had burned down to smouldering embers. Greg shivered again. He wouldn't mind a taste of that whisky himself.
"Someone's on their way to collect you, Mr Harvey," Greg looked around. "Where's your pistol? The one you used yesterday."
"Oh, that's long gone, I'm afraid," Daniel Harvey seemed entirely resigned to his fate. "Chucked it in the Thames as soon as I left the building. I dislike guns, to be honest. There are much more creative ways to remove obstacles these days."
"Prefer poison, eh?" Sally Donovan looked around the single-roomed cottage.
Shrugging again, Harvey glanced back at the scotch. "I'm cold," he said. "Please?"
Harvey wasn't the only one feeling the chill. His fingers were beginning to go numb, Greg decided that with Holme's people on the way, the man in handcuffs and no gun in sight, it probably wouldn't do anyone any harm to have a small sip, just to keep the blood flowing.
"You got another glass?" Greg looked around.
"He's a poisoner, Guv," Donovan pointed out the obvious.
"Oh, for goodness sake," Harvey scowled. "Pour some for me and I'll drink it. I don't go around poisoning people willy-nilly, you know."
"Could have fooled me." Sally's featured settled into an expression of deep mistrust.
"There's some other glasses and ice in the fridge," Harvey nodded at the tiny bar-fridge in the corner of the room.
"Ice? It's already freezing!" Greg looked disbelieving.
"No need to do without the niceties just because the environment is a little rough," Daniel Harvey sounded vaguely prissy.
Shaking his head, Lestrade bent down to the little fridge, pulling out a couple of extra tumblers and a narrow tray of ice cubes. He put everything on the small table.
"Nothing for me." Donovan was still hunting for Harvey's gun. "I don't drink with poisoners."
"Nothing here is poisoned!" Harvey reached for the used glass, threw a couple of lumps of ice inside and then clumsily unscrewed the bottle of scotch. Glugging in a small measure, Harvey lifted the glass to his mouth and immediately drained the liquor with every evidence of pleasure.
"See?" He said. "Not poisoned. But don't feel compelled to brink my best scotch," he scowled before slumping back into the armchair.
"Just a small one," Greg's fingers were so cold that he fumbled another couple lumps of ice into a glass from the fridge, before pouring in a finger of the golden liquid. Lifting the glass, he naturally swirled the ice around a couple of times.
"I don't suppose either of you need to search me?" Harvey interrupted Lestrade's thoughts. "I might have been lying about the gun for all you know."
It was true. If his brain wasn't half frozen, Greg knew he'd already have done it before now. Putting the glass down on the table, he pulled a slim collapsible baton from his coat pocket which he extended with a flick of the wrist. Handing it to Sally, Greg met her eyes.
"If he tries anything, belt him with it," he said. "We might not be able to arrest him, but if he starts playing silly buggers, then we'll keep him quiet if we have to."
Switching his focus back to Harvey to see if the advice had sunk in, the man appeared entirely too untroubled for someone in his situation. It might mean he had another string to his nasty little bow and Lestrade decided to take no chances. Searching the man with a meticulous care, it was a couple of minutes before he felt satisfied that Harvey had no concealed weapon about him. He pushed the man carefully back towards the armchair, then paused, thought again, and searched the chair's upholstery as well. Nothing.
"Right then. Sit down and keep quiet." Greg reached over for the glass of scotch in which the ice had all but melted. About to take a sip, there was an almighty shriek as Horth whooshed up from the ground, spreading his wings wide, his underfeathers coruscating in brilliant shards of dark and light.
"Poison!" the owl screeched. "Poison!"
In the next instant, Adrasta leaped up onto the table, sniffing Greg's drink.
"It's the same chemical that was in the room with the dead men," she snarled furiously, hackles rising as she almost doubled in size. She bared her canines at the handcuffed man.
"But he drank the same scotch from the same bottle," Greg slammed down the glass, turning to stare as his daemon.
"The scotch wasn't poisoned, the ice was," Adrasta's growl was long and low with more than a hint of timber wolf as she leaned towards Daniel Harvey, whose complexion had turned pasty white.
"But he had ice in his drink too," Donovan scowled, not doubting either daemon for a second, but still wondering how the poison worked.
"Which he drank very quickly," Greg nodded as things made sense. "Whereas he made damn sure that I'd be distracted long enough to let the ice in my drink melt a bit before I drank any of it. It was the same reason he had to shoot the fourth man sitting at the table. He must have knocked his drink back too quickly for the poison to take hold and so Harvey had to kill him in a different way. The others did as they were told because of the threat of electrocution and sipped their drinks slowly." It was a clever if vile method of murder and Greg was very tempted to lay the man out cold, He took a deep breath. "You're damn lucky we are the police," he muttered, all thoughts of a warming tipple gone from his mind.
"And that Horth was here," Donovan murmured.
Before Lestrade could answer, a black shadow slithered across the table, wrapping itself around one of Adrasta's rear legs; the cobra reared up and prepared to strike before the fox had a chance to move.
Greg froze. It was rare, but daemons could be killed by others of their kind. He swallowed in a dry throat.
"If that snake so much as twitches, you're getting a taste of your own fucking medicine," Greg lifted up the tainted scotch and held it ominously towards Daniel Harvey. "There wouldn't be a single question asked and I'd sleep perfectly well at night."
Still pale, though with his expression falling now into a black scowl, Harvey blinked as slowly as any snake and the cobra slithered back to him, curling around the man's foot. The chemist's venomous methods of removing adversaries had not worked this time.
Almost back to her normal size, Adrasta grinned as only a fox can grin. "I did tell you it was a mad scientist."
Stroking his fingers through her still ruffled red fur, Greg sighed heavily. "I'll never hear the end of this, will I?"
"Depends," Adrasta rested her jaw companionably on his hand. "Maybe if you eat properly more often, I might forget."
Perched on the table with Donovan beside him, smoothing his feathers, Horth cocked his head. "Helicopter coming."
Looking across at his newest sergeant and her most valuable addition to the Met police, Greg felt nothing but relief. All he wanted to do now was go home; they could sort out the rest of the problems tomorrow. He listened hard. "I can't hear anything."
"You will," the little owl clicked its beak. "In about twenty minutes."
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Story image: Hare Moon Stained Glass