On the Beat

It was a little after ten pm. I was on foot patrol with probationary Constable Kevin Pinner, showing him around the patch he would be covering. Pinner was fresh out of Hendon training college. My station was his first posting, and it was only his second day on the job.

We were walking through London's theatre district. The West End was bustling, busy, and bright with flashing lights and gaudy signs. Around us, tourists gawped. It was a quiet night. In the West End, it often is. The most exciting thing to happen had been when a couple of American tourists asked Pinner for directions to the nearest tube station. Unfortunately, he was clueless, so I had to help him out.

'He's new to the area. It's just there, sir,' I said, pointing at the red roundel and blue bar symbol at the end of the street. They turned and left without thanking me, arrogant sods.

'Always look around for a tube sign before you admit you don't know,' I told Pinner. 'People expect us to know everything, especially the tourists.'

As we continued to walk slowly through the streets, I took a close look at a group of raucous youths. Upon hearing the Australian accents and talk of Eurorail, I dismissed them from my mind. Not troublemakers, but backpackers! I was about to test Pinner, to ask him what he thought of them, when a camera flashed.

'Can they do that?' Pinner asked, looking across at the middle-aged Chinese tourists who were now pointing at us and chattering excitedly.

'It's the hats,' I told him, as I acknowledged them by touching the brim of my bowler. 'They like the hats, especially yours. They aren't doing any harm. This is a nice part of town, Pinner, full of tourists. It's not a bad beat,' I told him confidently.

I turned into one of the quieter side streets and continued to give Pinner the benefit of my years of experience.

'I've been in the job for fifteen years,' I told him. 'I've seen it all,' I added. 'I once saw a man in a domino mask and striped sweater open a basement window and climb through it. He even had a sack slung over his back.'

'Seriously?' Pinner asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

'Yeah.' I nodded. 'I called it in, waited for back up, and then we followed him through the window.'

'Did you catch him red-handed?'

I laughed. 'We caught him with his pants down. Literally! He was very embarrassed, and so was his girlfriend. It was their apartment, and it was "just a little game they played." You never know what you'll see in this job, Kevin.'

By then we'd turned into a side street. We were walking through streets with very few tourists and more chance of something interesting.

A narrow alley snaked off from the side street. The dark-suited man in it was brawny and shaven headed. He had one hand was on the wall and was struggling to keep himself upright. His back was toward us, his head was down, and he was leaning forward, apparently struggling to stay on his feet.

'We'll go and have a word with him, make sure he's okay,' I told Pinner.

The young probationer's reaction to my comment was one of utter confusion. He looked wildly around, wondering what I was talking about. I realised that he hadn't been looking down the alley. Instead, he'd been acting like a tourist himself. He was reading the poster outside the only theatre on the street. The New Music Theatre was one of the smallest and least known theatres in the West End. The smiling, top-billed star on the poster outside the foyer was someone called Tommy Harris.

The show, according to the poster, was called "Snowflakes" and the star's name was vaguely familiar to me. I dredged the information from the back of my mind. Tommy Harris was a former member of a short-lived boy band who, three years earlier, had won one of the many TV talent shows. I couldn't remember which talent show. I couldn't even remember the name of the band he'd been in.

Whatever they were called, Tommy Harris's band had proved to be one-hit wonders. They, and he, had released a moderately successful single and an album, split up, and then rapidly retreated back into the obscurity from which they'd briefly emerged. He was a good-looking young man, but if he was working in the New Music Theatre, a place which was probably the smallest and certainly the shabbiest of the theatres in the area, then his star had fallen a long way.

'You're not here to sightsee, Pinner,' I reminded the probationer sternly. 'You're on the beat. You need to check every alley.'

Pinner finally looked in the right direction. It was a dark and narrow passageway, barely wide enough for a car, but the well-dressed man was clearly silhouetted by light coming from an open fire door. The door led into the rear of the theatre whose posters Pinner had been reading. Because of his build, and his suit, my first thought was that the man was a bouncer and that someone—or, given his size, several someones—had given him a pasting. In a low voice, I gave Pinner the benefit of my experience.

As we approached, I realised that he'd been vomiting, and that there wasn't a mark on him. I immediately changed my assessment and wondered if, instead of assisting him, we'd be arresting him.

'Unless, of course, he's simply drunk,' I whispered to Pinner, attempting to maintain my superiority. 'But it may be drugs. If it's booze or weed, we'll smell it. It could be something stronger; you can do the search.'

As we drew closer the man looked up, relief shone from his face. 'That was quick,' he said, blinking tears from his eyes. 'Thank Christ you're here!'

For the second time in seconds I was forced to reassess the situation. Arrogance leads to downfall, I reminded myself as Pinner's expression showed that he was no longer impressed by my wisdom. It was obvious that the man before us was neither drunk nor high. His face was pale and tearstained. Before I could reply, my radio crackled into life. The shoulder number it called was my own. I responded with it, 'One three zero.'

'We've a report of an incident at the New Music Theatre, Sarge. The 999 call was very sketchy: it said something about a body, but the caller was crying. He wasn't making much sense. We've dispatched a car, but it's on your beat. How close are you?' The voice said.

'Received,' I said. 'I'm already on scene; we've just arrived. I'll let you know what's happening.'

'It's a coincidence, sir,' I told the man as I re-secured my radio on my shoulder. 'Constable Pinner and I were simply passing. Could you tell us what, exactly, is the problem?'

'Tommy's dead,' the man said. 'At least… I think it's Tommy.' He couldn't say more because tears were again tracking down his face.

'Where?' I asked.

He waved at the open fire door.

I peered into the theatre's side door and found myself staring down a poorly lit corridor. The walls were painted a horrible diarrhoea-brown, and the scuffed and shabby doors were the colour of cow-pats. The far end of the narrow passageway was crowded with showbiz types. They were being kept away from an open door by an elderly man in overalls. The man, who had his back to me, was struggling to hold back the crowd.

'Get this gentleman's details, Pinner,' I ordered. 'Name, address, everything.' I caught Pinner's eye. 'Get a witness statement, and don't let him leave,' I added. 'I'll go and see what's happening.'

As I walked in through the fire door, one of the crowd members—a young girl in baggy, bright pink dungarees and a sunflower yellow peasant blouse—saw me. Her vividly purple hair was tied into three bunches by enormous polka dot bows, and she was straining to see past the man who was blocking the corridor.

'Here's the rozzers, Jacko,' she squeaked.

The elderly man turned to face me. His expression changed from that of a man clinging by one hand to the top of the Shard to one who was about to be pulled to safety. Some small semblance of colour returned to his grey face.

'You're not by yourself, are you?' he asked desperately.

That question, and the frightened look in his eyes, were the final pieces of the puzzle. It was confirmation that I was dealing with something very serious. This wasn't simply "Tommy's dead", or "something about a body".

'I was passing on foot patrol, sir,' I told him as I approached. 'Can you tell me what's going on?'

As he distractedly indicated the open door, the girl in the pink dungarees dodged past him. She looked in the room, screamed, and fainted.

Moments later I, too, saw the contents of the room. As I stared in disbelief at the scene, I swore. I tried to retain my professionalism, but it took me a few moments to calm my roiling stomach and regain my composure.

'Pinner!' I yelled as my priorities changed once again. 'Get in here now. Bring chummy with you! And get this lot out of this corridor.' I turned to the elderly man and put on my professional face. 'You, sir! She called you Jacko…' I began. The girl with purple hair moaned and began to stir.

'Alf Jackson,' he told me. 'Senior stagehand.'

'Alf Jackson,' I repeated, fixing his name in my mind. 'Where can we hold this lot, Mr Jackson? Is there somewhere away from the crime scene?'

'Dunno. In the auditorium? On the stage?' he suggested as Pinner arrived at my side.

The initial witness was alongside Pinner. The shaven-headed man sobbed, shuddered, and averted his gaze from the open door as he hurried past. Pinner, however, looked inside the room. He froze for a moment and then screamed. I had never heard any man make such a high-pitched noise. Pinner turned and ran outside to be sick.

'Would you take everyone into the auditorium, please, Mr Jackson?' I asked the stagehand. 'Try to ensure that no one leaves the building. Someone will be along to see you soon.'

I considered entering the room. A very small part of me wanted to make sure that it wasn't a wind-up, some elaborate and very grisly practical joke. But the smell of fresh blood was real enough, and that alone made it easy for me to justify my decision to stay where I was.

I told myself I didn't want to contaminate the crime scene. There was definitely no need for me to check for signs of life.

As Alf Jackson herded the troupe away from the scene, I grabbed my radio. 'Control from one three zero.'

'Go ahead one three zero.'

'Suspicious death, New Music Theatre.' As I spoke, I marvelled at the understatement in those first two words. 'Partial remains of an as-yet unidentified—male—I believe. We'll need CID, and the works. What's the ETA on the car … never mind, they're here.'

Constables Hampshire and Khan looked very cheerful as they walked in through the open fire door. They were obviously making jokes about Pinner puking. They stopped smiling when they saw my face.

'Christ, Andy,' I said. 'Am I glad to see you! You, too, Mo!'

An hour later the place was taped off. A crowd of tourists had gathered to watch the free show.

The bright theatre lights had been joined by a blaze of flashing blue lights. CID had arrived in the form of SCO1—Homicide and Major Crime Command. Upon their arrival the cheap suit brigade banished we mere uniforms to the periphery of the scene. Andy and Mo were keeping an eye on the front of the theatre; Pinner and I were guarding the alley. Inside, SOCO were processing the crime scene and DCs from the Major Incident Team were taking witness statements.

At my insistence, Pinner had been checked out by the paramedics. They said he was okay, but it was obvious he was extremely shaken. I offered him the opportunity to leave, but he stubbornly refused to go back to the nick.

When I'd spoken to the young paramedic who'd checked Pinner out, I was certain that she wasn't coping very well, either. Sometimes, I wonder about the requirement for a qualified health professional to confirm "no signs of life"; there are occasions where it's blindingly obvious to anyone.

'What should I have done, Sarge?' Pinner asked me.

The pleading in his voice was that of a man racked with guilt. I remembered his tone from my early days in the service. I remembered the cyclist under the lorry, the girl I couldn't save, and I remembered what my sergeant had told me.

'We did everything we could, Kevin,' I assured him. 'We can't always make things better. Sometimes all we can do is pick up the pieces. Nothing that happened here is your fault!'

'Did you see him, Sarge?' Pinner asked.

I'd lost count of the number of times he'd asked that question.

'You know I did,' I said.

'Where do you think the top half of him has gone?' he asked hesitantly.

'That's something for the Major Incident Team to figure out,' I said. 'Don't worry about puking, Kevin. You did okay, and don't let anyone tell you anything else. That was a hell of an introduction to the job for you. Christ! Look at me!' I held out a hand. 'I'm still shaking. It's no wonder you're upset. Listen, the number for the National Police Wellbeing Service is in the office, you should speak to them, I'm going to. And if anyone at the station tries to take the piss, let me know. I'll have words with them. I've been in the force for fifteen years, and I don't think I've seen a dozen bodies.'

'Have you ever seen anything like that?' he asked worriedly.

'No, Kevin,' I assured him. 'I've never seen anything like that. Until tonight the worst I've seem was a cyclist under a lorry, and a bloke who jumped onto the third rail on the tube.' I shuddered. As always when I spoke about the tube incident, I remembered the sweet smell of burning flesh.

'How do you think they did it?' he asked. 'Samurai sword?'

'Straight through a torso, bones and all,' I observed. 'That's a helluva sharp sword, Kevin, or a helluva strong killer.'

'I wonder how they got the other half of the body out,' he pondered.

I didn't answer immediately; I couldn't, because that had been puzzling me, too. It was as if everything from the waist up had simply vanished.

I was still carefully considering my reply when I saw the car. At the end of the alley, a gleaming black Range Rover was gliding to a halt.

'Hello…' I said. 'I reckon things are going to get very interesting now.'

'Who're they?' Pinner asked.

'I think, Kevin, that we're about to find out if the rumours are true,' I told him. 'For a few years there have been whispers about weird deaths, strange cases. I've heard them from several different sources. I think that, a very long time ago, I was sort-of involved in one, just on the edges. The stories all say the same thing: if the death is strange enough, a black Range Rover turns up, and a group of people claiming to be part of the security services take charge. Some people call them UFO hunters; others say that they're ghost busters. According to the rumours, when they arrive they tell everyone that they are from something called the Auror Office … Bloody hell!'

I stared at the tall, broad-shouldered woman who had climbed out from the driver's seat. 'Aye, aye! Bobbie Beadle, as I live and breathe,' I shouted. 'How long have you been a ghost buster?'

'Sam Shetty' she said. 'Long time no see! How are you? When did you make sergeant?'

As she strode up the alley, two younger men followed her. Like Bobbie, they wore black ankle-length trench coats, black trousers, white shirts, and grey ties.

One of the men was small, only about five feet four. There was no weight to him either. He was whip thin, wiry and his hair was a curly, mousey brown. He was also fully alert and very wary. His eyes were darting everywhere, and he had his hand inside his coat. Wondering if he was carrying a concealed firearm, I placed a hand on my baton. It didn't provide me with much reassurance.

The other man was a good-looking and well-built six-footer. He had cropped hair, a square jaw, and bright blue eyes. He looked like a film star, and he was very smug about something.

'Three years ago,' I said.

'Good to see you, Sam,' she told me. 'Time flies. It's been what, five years?

'Closer to ten,' I said.

'Really, where has the time gone?' Bobbie shrugged. 'This is Den Creevey,' she indicated the smaller man, 'and Stan Cresswell,' she pointed at the taller. 'They're from the Auror Service.'

'Told you,' I said to Kevin.