A/N: So, I have no real excuse for taking so long to post another chapter. Except that I was dragged into the Real Life fandom, which I would not recommend. Sub-par plot. Waaaaaaay too much drama.
Once again, I advise reading on AO3, where I write under waterandsilver, so you can see wolfern's great art!
Chapter 2: The Suspects
Mrs Jones was the first to arrive.
She stepped into the room with the grace of a long-reigning queen, looking neither surprised nor uncomfortable. As she cast an eye over the room's set-up, one eyebrow rose.
"Only five chairs? I think you'll find Alan had more enemies than that, Detective. Unless you haven't done your homework."
The Detective offered her a smile, and gestured towards the seats, which had been arranged in neat semi-circle. It was a layout reminiscent of an Alcoholic's Anonymous meeting or perhaps a small session of group therapy.
This interrogation room was buried deep in the bowels of Scotland Yard. It was designed to be as uninteresting as possible, so that its inhabitants would want to get out as soon as they could. There were no windows, no decorations, not even a clock on the wall. Nothing at all that might entertain the eye. There were only the chairs, and the Detective.
"Please take a seat, Mrs Jones," said the Detective. "I assure you that I have done my homework thoroughly."
In the twenty-four hours since the body was discovered, nobody in MI5, MI6 or the metropolitan police had gotten much sleep. Countless minds had poured over the facts, the theories, the possibilities. And it had been narrowed down to exactly five people. Five suspects.
Jones looked at him, holding his gaze for a moment, in which the detective got the distinct impression of a lioness sizing up a potential piece of prey, deciding whether it was worth the effort. Then, she simply crossed the room and sat down in one of the chairs. Interestingly, she chose the furthest seat from the door. Trying to show that she had nothing to prove? No need to be close to the exit?
Mrs Jones crossed one leg over another, rested her hands upon her knees, and said nothing more.
Second to arrive was the Sergeant. The file had contained his real name, of course. But in these circles, in this room, he was, first and foremost, the man who trained soldiers and spies at the SAS compound located in the Brecon Beacons.
The Detective had pondered that title over the last twenty-four hours: the Sergeant. In Latin, it meant "the one who serves". To what end had this man served Alan Blunt?
He wore clothes that were both military and smart: combats with a fitted khaki blazer. An array of pins gleamed on his lapel, testimonials to his dedication and loyalty. And yet when the investigators were narrowing down the pool of suspects, during the long and arduous hours of the night, the Sergeant had remained in the pool at each stage. There were reasons that he has been brought to this room. Perhaps not the primary suspect - but a suspect, nonetheless.
The Sergeant paused before stepping across the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder. There was resistance written into the lines of his body language. Clearly, he didn't wish to enter.
"Is someone going to tell me what's going on?"
"Please take a seat, Sergeant," the Detective said pleasantly. "All will be explained in due time."
Still, the Sergeant hesitated. But then he looked past the Detective and caught the eye of Mrs Jones. Although she made no gesture towards him, and he made none towards her, her presence in itself must have been some kind of reassurance, because the SAS instructor took three abrupt strides and took a seat.
The closest seat to the door.
Third to arrive was the spy. Well, technically, there would be several people in this room who could be considered "spies". But Ben Daniels really was the quintessential spy. A secret agent in his prime: mid-twenties, clean-shaven, alert, fit and good-looking. Moreover, there was an innate kind of earnestness about Daniels, in his body language and the way he talked. He was likeable, and therefore he gave the impression that he was trustworthy. The Detective supposed that this quality must be very valuable in his line of work – in throwing off suspicion.
Daniels was cautious when he arrived; hesitant, like the Sergeant had been. But unlike the Sergeant, he did not ask questions. He undoubtedly had many that he wished to ask; the police officers tasked with bringing the suspects in were under strict instruction to keep their lips tightly sealed. But Daniels was evidently used to this level of secrecy. He stared for a moment, at the room and its occupants, before resigning himself and wordlessly stepping inside.
Of course, as the quintessential spy, Daniels was also intelligent. He had probably already worked out that there was no point in trying to leave... or trying to convince anyone of his innocence.
There was another hesitation when he approached the ring of chairs. Should he sit beside Jones, beside the Sergeant, or straight down the middle? The Detective watched with interest. Daniels' file had been an interesting read. Something about him felt a little too clean. The Detective didn't buy the wide-eyed honesty, not when Daniels had both the skills and the motivation for the crime.
The Detective had already started to suspect that Daniels' earnestness was a façade. Would it would slip, when the pressure began to build? Or would it crack completely?
He took the seat beside Mrs Jones.
Next to arrive was the solider, and he was the least happy about it.
"No! I want to know what's going on! Get your fucking hands off me! Is this something to do with 'Six? Fucking feels like them… bastards… tell them I said no, already, for fuck's sake—!"
The door opened once again, and the source of the shouting came into view.
Wolf was exactly as his file described. He was the same age as Daniels, and the Detective knew from their files that they used to be rather close, when they were training together. But now, it seemed that they couldn't be more different. While Daniels had learned the art of carefully masking his emotions, Wolf's face darkened as soon as he set eyes upon the room. It was almost refreshing, in a way, for the Detective. Spies could be so hard to read, with their secrets and their lies. Soldiers could grate on him, at times, but at least they were upfront about things.
"What's going on? Who are you?"
"Please take a seat, Wolf. Everything will be explained shortly."
"Ben? Sarge? What's going on? What the hell are we all doing here?"
"Just sit down, Wolf," Daniels said quietly. "I'm sure we'll be told what's happening soon."
Wolf's brow drew together with confusion, and his mouth opened again, but the Sergeant cut in across him.
"Sit down, Wolf," he repeated, but with a lot more authority than Daniels, enough to snap Wolf's mouth shut. "Sit down and have some bloody patience, for Christ's sake. I want to know what's going on as much as you do, but we don't always get what we want. You should know that." He glanced briefly at the Detective. There was no warmth in his gaze. "The cops are behind this. It's not a kidnapping. And believe me, if they don't have a damn good reason for dragging us out of our beds in the middle of the night, you'll have to wait your turn to drag them to court, because I'll be doing it first."
Quite a speech, the Detective thought.
It had the desired effect. Wolf still hesitated, for a moment. But then, wincing as if every step pained his feet, he made his way across the room and took his seat beside the Sergeant.
Now, the only chair left empty was the one in the centre of the room. That was very fitting, the Detective thought. After all, the fifth and final suspect was the one who tied them all together.
At long last, he arrived.
A fairly average-looking teenage boy stood in the doorway to the interrogation room. He wore a hoodie and a scowl.
It was a disarming appearance, but the Detective instantly steeled himself against judging the book by its cover. Blunt's corpse had quite literally been bleeding onto this boy's file, and in the past twenty-four hours, the Detective has memorised every detail of those pages.
This was not an ordinary teenager. This was a venomous snake living in the skin of a child. This was a killer.
"Is somebody going to tell me what's going on?" Rider glanced at the Detective, looking him up and down, before moving onto the more familiar faces in the room. "Ben? Mrs Jones? Wolf? What is this?"
"Sit down, Rider," the Detective said coolly. "Now that you've arrived, we can begin."
The boy stared at him with open suspicion and, already, the first inklings of dislike. "What do you—"
"Just sit down, Cub," Wolf interrupted. "For fuck's sake. We've been here hours already. Just sit down so we can get on with – whatever this is."
"Please, Alex," said Daniels more quietly. "Let's just get this over with, so we can leave as soon as possible, okay?"
Daniels' words persuaded him; the Detective saw it, and took a note of it. Yes, the file had mentioned that there was a bond between them. The Detective would keep a close eye on that. Still, Rider moved with considerable reluctance as he took his place in the dead centre of the room.
Finally, they could begin.
"You are undoubtedly wondering why you've been gathered here so suddenly in the night. Rest assured, the decision to bring you five together was not taken lightly. In fact, many at Scotland Yard do not agree with it at all."
"This is sounding promising," Rider muttered.
The Detective decided to cut straight to the point.
"Alan Blunt is dead."
The effect of those words upon the room was quite fascinating.
Mrs Jones: nothing. Her cool expression did not so much as waver. It confirmed what the Detective already suspected: she already knew. It was hardly surprising, given her connections, although the police had done everything they could to keep it out of public knowledge. The others, however, seemed not to have been aware. The Sergeant: lips parting in shock. Daniels: lips tightening into a hard, straight line. Wolf: mouth falling open, glancing immediately at the other members of the room, as if searching for a bloody knife protruding from one of their pockets.
And Rider: a few rapid blinks, followed by his gaze quickly falling to the floor, hiding whatever emotion they might contain.
"He was murdered last night," the Sergeant continued. "The evidence has been exhumed. The killer had access to resources and information that were only available to certain people. And of those people, an even smaller number had a motive.
"One of you killed Alan Blunt. And none of you are leaving this room until I discover the identity of his murderer."
Next chapter: the interrogation begins.
(I promise I will solve the actual mystery before we all die of old age.)