Chapter Two: In Sequence

Soho, Central London
13th December 2009, 9.22am

Less than a mile west of the chaos that had overtaken Diagon Alley, and a little before Ron Weasley arrived outside Gringotts bank, a burly Muggle man ignored the fairly unambiguous instruction to DO NOT CROSS and ducked his way under a barrier of white and blue police tape. It had been used to secure the entryway to a council block overlooking the throng of Christmas shoppers on Dean Street, and the man started up the stairs two at a time, followed by a small woman wearing a headscarf and a leather jacket.

When they reached the third floor flat they were greeted at the front door by a uniformed constable who fixed the pair of them with a glare. The large man fished in his pocket and flashed his warrant card, the woman behind him following suit, and after quickly scanning both, the PC stepped aside. Making their way into a grubby, narrow hallway, the big man raised a hand in greeting to a rangy plainclothes officer in Doc Martens.

The officer had been talking quietly to another uniform further along the hallway, but he broke off the conversation when he spotted the new arrivals.

"Skipper's in there," he said without preamble, motioning with his head towards an open doorway. The burly man nodded his thanks before motioning the woman in the headscarf forward.

"Detective Sergeant Sahra Guleed, meet DS Jack Walsh," he said gruffly. "The two of you stay out here," he added, in a tone that brooked no disagreement.

Sahra's mouth flattened into an annoyed line, but she sniffed primly - "Whatever you say, guv" - before walking over and extending a hand to Walsh.

The big man watched them for a moment, then, seemingly satisfied that he wasn't going to be disobeyed, he stepped through into what turned out to be the living room. It was as poky and unremarkable as the rest of the flat that he'd seen so far, and was fitted out, in the way of most London rentals, with odd bits of mismatched furniture. A faint, stale odour of cats and cigarettes permeated the air, seemingly emanating from the worn, greyish carpet.

Detective Chief Inspector Pamela Carey looked up from where she knelt by one of the sagging armchairs and offered him a grim smile. "There you are, Dursley. Sorry to drag you out on a Sunday, but I think we might have an early Christmas present for you."

"One of my odd ones?" asked Detective Inspector Dudley Dursley, pulling at the knees of his suit trousers before he crouched beside Carey to get a closer look at the corpse in the middle of the living room floor.

"Exactly," she nodded. "No signs of disturbance, and the flat was locked from the inside."

"Who called it in?" Dudley asked, running his eyes across the corpse as he fished a pair of blue vinyl gloves from his coat pocket and pulled them on.

"Anonymous tip from a phone box on Old Compton Street. No CCTV, before you ask." Carey smirked wryly, watching Dudley lift the corpse's hands to inspect his fingernails. "We thought it might be something gang-related to begin with, but I think you'll agree he doesn't exactly look the type."

Dudley nodded, his mouth thinning as he took in the victim's neatly tied cravat, dark shirt and old-fashioned, beautifully tailored coat. Looking back up to the corpse's face, he thought that the man's final expression might have been one of surprise, though it was rather hard to tell, since someone had gone to the trouble of cutting out his eyes.

"Do you think that was post-mortem?" Dudley nodded towards the empty, bloodied pits before glancing at Carey, whose nose had wrinkled with distaste.

"Hard to say," she answered. "There doesn't seem to be enough blood for it to have been done while he was alive, but there's no way to be sure until the coroner gets a look at him."

When he'd been new to the force this sort of thing would have turned his stomach, but Dudley was far less green now than he'd been a few years ago so he just frowned a bit deeper before turning to squint over his shoulder, following the approximate angle of the corpse's hollow gaze. If he'd thought the swirls of grimy artex might hold a clue as to what had happened then he was disappointed, as nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

Glancing back down, Dudley's eye caught on the snake insignia that marked each of the row of shining silver buttons that marched down the front of the victim's waistcoat and across his ample stomach, and he felt a prickle of unease.

"Any ID on him?"

"Nothing we've been able to find," Carey replied. "One of my boys is onto the Land Registry to try and trace the owner of the flat, but he's drawing a blank at the moment."

Dudley's eyebrows rose. "Offshore?"

"The weirdest thing, you know." Carey pursed her lips. "He said it's almost as though there's no record of the flat even existing before this morning." She shrugged apologetically when Dudley looked sharply at her, then rose to her feet. Dudley followed suit, stripping off his gloves as he did so.

"What did the caller say, exactly?"

"Erm." Carey flicked back a page in her notebook. "Here it is: 'There's something in Flat 7, Portland House, Dean Street that may be of interest to you and your Aurora colleagues' -"

"Wait." Dudley held up a hand. "Aurora?"

"That's what it says here," Carey frowned down at her notes. "Probably just some nutter trying to stir things up, but I had a quick look before I came over and Aurora's listed as a possible flag for your lot. What with that, the locked door and all this -" she gestured at the body "- weird shit, I figured -"

Dudley was barely listening to her as he reached into the inside pocket of his grey wool coat to pull out a tiny vial of something vaguely purple.

"Stand back please, Ma'am," he told Carey, cutting off her soliloquy about special working groups. She closed her mouth with a snap but stepped obediently towards the door, watching intently as Dudley upended the contents of the vial over the body. The liquid turned to greyish smoke upon contact with the air, resolving into a split second image of the thickset man, hands held to his chest and mouth agape, before it dispersed.

"Shit," Dudley sighed, as Carey, who had visibly paled, snapped "What the fuck, Dursley -"

Before Dudley could respond there was a loud and distinctive crack! from the hall and both of them turned towards the doorway as they heard Walsh's voice raised in a shout of alarm.

"Where the bloody hell did you come from?!"

Dudley hurried out of the living room to find the source of the commotion, closely followed by Carey. They found the officers who had been stationed in the hallway facing off against a dark-haired woman who had appeared, seemingly from nowhere, in the doorway that led to the dingy kitchen.

Dudley took in the situation at a glance, eyes skipping from the taser in Sahra's hand to the extended baton in Walsh's. Jack's other arm was thrown protectively in front of the uniformed constable, who was staring at the newcomer with an expression of bewilderment that under any other circumstances would have been funny. Dudley turned his eyes to follow the PC's, and took in the woman. She was tall and slim, poured into an elegant black dress that served to emphasise every curve, but in spite of these distractions it was her right hand that commanded Dudley's attention - or rather, the long, carved stick that she was holding in it.

As though she felt the direction of his gaze the woman snapped her head up to look at Dudley, her perfectly arched brows drawing together as their eyes met. Without a second thought he launched himself forward, shoving Sahra out of the way to wrap his fingers around the woman's wrist and wrench the stick from her grasp.

"Dursley, what are you -"

"Don't even think about it," he breathed in the woman's ear, feeling a staticky fizz beneath his palm as he maintained his tight hold on her. The woman glared at him for a moment, and then her mouth twitched and the sensation died.

Without letting go, Dudley turned towards the other officers crowded into the hallway.

Carey and Walsh were staring at him in mild consternation, and the PC had transferred his shocked stare to Carey as though expecting the senior officer to give an explanation for this bizarre turn of events. Sahra's eyes, meanwhile, hadn't budged from the dark-haired woman who was now in Dudley's armlock.

Suddenly, Dudley remembered the other uniformed PC, who had been stationed at the entrance to the flat when they'd arrived. He glanced towards the door, and realised there was no sign of her.

Bollocks, he thought. Bollocking -

"Dursley?" Carey repeated carefully. "What's going on here?"

Dudley felt another wave of static under his fingers, and squeezed tight enough that he felt a bone creak in the woman's wrist before it subsided. "Stop it," he growled, before turning to address Carey. "I think you were right to call it in, Ma'am."

Carey eyed him for a long moment before she nodded slowly. "You'll be wanting control of the scene then?"

"Yes," Dudley said. "My unit will handle things from here, but I wonder if I might commandeer you and your officers for the time being?"

Carey exchanged a look with Walsh, whose shoulders visibly dropped. "Be my guest," the DCI smirked before she pulled her phone from her pocket and stepped back into the living room.

"Right," Dudley said. "DS Guleed?"

"Yes, guv?" Sahra's voice was businesslike, but her eyes were bright with curiosity.

"Have you got your Airwave on you?"

"Still in your car where you said to leave it, guv." Sahra gave a helpless shrug, but something in her face told Dudley she was enjoying herself, and he scowled in response. Walsh opened his mouth to say something, but Dudley shook his head to quiet him before he turned his attention to the remaining uniform.

"In that case, PC…?"

"Marshall, sir." The young officer swallowed audibly, his adam's apple bobbing in his skinny throat. "I've got my Airwave, sir."

"Good man, Marshall," Dudley nodded. "I need you to put a call in to Whiskey Echo Charlie. Ask for DCI Nightingale and tell him DI Dursley is requesting use of the special interview room, bringing in a female IC1 apprehended at scene in possession of a deadly weapon."

Marshall's eyes widened slightly and he gave the woman a quick once-over before his gaze darted to the stick now firmly gripped in Dudley's hand. "Right you are, sir," he nodded hurriedly and turned away, speaking quietly into the transmitter strapped to his stab vest.

"Interesting," the woman remarked, as casually as though she were commenting on the weather.

Dudley ignored her as he spoke to Walsh. "Jack, is that your Q-car parked downstairs?"

"Yeah." Walsh's forehead crinkled. "Why?"

"You've got lights?"

"Ye-es, but -"

"Right then," Dudley said, before the DS could object. "I want you to put on the blues and twos and take DS Guleed with you up to Islington, sharpish. Street called Grimmauld Place, Sahra knows where it is."

Dudley felt the woman tense under his grasp when she heard the street name, but she stayed silent. Sahra raised a single incredulous eyebrow. "In his Beemer? That sort of show'd send any CI running for the hills."

"You know full well you're not going there for a CI," Dudley growled at her. "Give him a call when you're outside the house." He addressed Jack again, "When you see a flash git with a bloody great scar on his forehead, you bring him straight into Savile Row."

Walsh's frown deepened, and he glanced between Sahra and Dudley. "And what if he doesn't want to come with the friendly police officers?"

The dark-haired woman made a soft sound that was almost a laugh, and Dudley fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Then you impress upon him the importance of his cooperation."

The smile that broke across Sahra's face was a little too eager. "Can I impress it upon him with handcuffs?"

"Use your discretion, Detective Sergeant," Dudley sighed, before jerking his head towards the door to indicate that they were both dismissed. He watched as they walked out to the communal stairwell, where they paused to speak quietly with Marshall, before heading off together towards the lifts.

"Anything I can do?"

DCI Carey had re-appeared in the doorway to the living room and was standing there with her arms crossed, eyeing the dark-haired woman warily.

Dudley glanced towards the front door again, where Marshall now stood alone. "What happened to the other PC?"

"What other PC?" Carey asked, frowning.

"Marshall responded to the call alone, did he?" Dudley answered pointedly.

Carey looked towards Marshall, who was once again looking deeply confused. "I was with - I can't remember who I was with."

"Thought so," Dudley sighed. "Ma'am, I don't expect you'll find anything, but if you could have someone check the shift roster for this morning..."

"I will," Carey nodded, her eyes narrowed.

"Any other officers on the scene?" Dudley asked.

"Two in a squad car round the corner," Carey said. "I can have more here if -"

"No, best not." Dudley shook his head. "Ask them to secure the entry downstairs. I'm going to take Miss..."

"Parkinson," the dark-haired woman helpfully supplied when he paused. "Pansy Parkinson."

"...Miss Parkinson here back to West End Central with me for questioning," Dudley continued, before looking at back to Carey. "I'd prefer it if you and Marshall stayed behind, Ma'am. Do you have a number for St Bart's Hospital?"

Carey blinked in surprise. "Yes, I think so. If not, I can get one."

"Good," Dudley nodded. "Ask for Dr Finch-Fletchley in Pathology. Extension 394. Give him the address and tell him Detective Inspector Dursley is requesting his special forensics unit attend."

"Any idea how long it'll take them to get here?" Carey asked, but her expression was more resigned than belligerent, and she nodded wearily when Dudley gave an apologetic shrug. "Right then, Marshall, with me."

Dudley waited until the PC had followed Carey back through to the living room before he turned his attention to Parkinson, who was looking up at him through sooty lashes.

"So," she purred. "How exactly do you know Harry Potter?"

"I'm his cousin," Dudley answered curtly, before making a snap decision. "And I am arresting you, Pansy Parkinson, on suspicion of magically-abetted murder. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your -"

"Murder?" Parkinson interrupted in a sharp voice. Her eyes went to the living room doorway as the colour drained from her face. "Enough," she snapped. "If Potter's Muggle cousin is going to arrest me, then I want a bloody phone call."

A/N: If you've read the Rivers of London series and caught the references, excellent. This isn't really a crossover fic, I've just borrowed some terminology and one of my favourite characters. Also, I appreciate that it isn't hugely christmassy yet, but never fear, because it's coming. You better watch out.