On the Cusp

Pushing aside the remains of my prawn kaeng phet and steamed rice I hit enter, saving my latest amendments into the folder I'd named "Auror Service".

My trip to the West Country had confirmed that the third of the addresses I'd traced was correct. Detective Chief Inspector Roberta A Wood lived in a tiny village in rural Dorset, a place called Bere Regis.

It was ridiculous. She'd just returned to work from maternity leave, yet she lived more than a hundred miles—a two-hour drive—from London. Despite a lot of digging, I'd been unable to determine what her husband, Oliver, did for a living; it seemed he was a house-husband. After pinning her address on the map, I linked all the data I'd collected on the Wood family to the pin and looked through the other folders.

No one, not even DCI Bradstreet, was interested in pursuing the Tommy Harris murder. It was "an international case," he told me when, only two days after we'd found half a corpse, the investigation was shut down. The security service was working with the French Authorities, because they had the other half of the body. The order to close the case had come from the very top. Amazingly, despite the gory details and the—albeit minor—celebrity status of the victim, the press appeared to have forgotten the story very quickly.

After two weeks of off-duty investigations, I had not made much progress in my enquiries about the murder. The Home Office pathologist wouldn't talk to me, the body had been released for cremation, and I'd been unable to get any sense from Harris' boyfriend. He seemed to be taking comfort from the fact that the death had been accidental. I'd asked him how and why he'd reached that conclusion, but he couldn't give me an answer. Frustrated, I turned my attention to the mysterious "Auror Service" and its staff. I now knew that they operated out of the Home Office, and I'd discovered that their head was someone named "Mr H J Potter". There was, however, no mention of them on the Home Office website. The only staff members I'd been able to track down were the trio who'd attended the crime scene.

Dennis Creevey lived in Esher with his wife, a planning officer for the local council. They had a young daughter. Creevey's home was some distance outside London, but it was a much more reasonable commute than DCI Wood's. Stanley Cresswell was the only person who lived centrally. He had a small flat in Camden.

According to my research, Wood was a serving police officer. She'd claimed to be a DCI in SO15, my investigations showed that to be true, so I contacted SO15. They told me she was on special assignment, asked me who I was, and why I wanted to know.

Wood's colleagues, Creevey and Cresswell were listed as civil servants working out of the Home Office. All other information about them was classified. That meant they were either; Security Service (MI5), or National Crime Agency.

I'd checked out creepy Cresswell first; I thought that he'd be easy. The arrogant sod asked me out at the crime scene. I said yes. I'd never had any intention of seeing him; he was one of those men who thought that no meant yes. I'd agreed to meet him simply because it stopped him pestering me for the rest of the evening.

When the case was suddenly closed, I changed my mind. Instead of simply standing him up, I parked in a side street overlooking the restaurant where we'd arranged to meet, and waited. The bastard didn't turn up. The fact that he'd stood me up annoyed me more than it should have. It took me days to find his address, and when I did his, neighbour told me that Cresswell was in France. I assumed that he was still on the case, as the neighbour had no idea when he'd be back.

In desperation, I went online and checked out the police message boards. When I asked about the Auror Service, everyone warned me off. According to the gossip, they were the Home Office's "X-files" squad: interested in flying saucers, ghosts, vampires, and werewolves. I'd said that my case wasn't like that; it involved a violent death—a man had been cut in two. Even then, most advised me to drop it.

The few helpful messages gave me some other names: Detective Inspector Beadle (DCI Wood's maiden name), Bones, Brown, Moon, Protheroe, and Tepes were the names that appeared most frequently. The only useful reply I got enclosed a few scanned documents. The message said, "They like locked rooms and invisible men, too. And magic. Good luck."

I began rereading the files I'd been sent. One was a report about an estate agent, a missing police officer, and a mysterious house that had not appeared on the map of the area. Like the Tommy Harris murder, it was a series of very strange events.

The report had obviously been doctored. Despite this, it contained some useful information. I'd already noted the names of the estate agent and several of the Norfolk police officers who'd been involved, and I was trying to track them down. I was about to get back to the task when my doorbell rang.

Whoever was at the door to my flat had entered the building without buzzing my intercom. It could have been a neighbour, of course, but…

Before answering the door, I went into my bedroom and collected my bokken from the wardrobe. When I peered through the peep hole, I saw DCI Wood.

'What do you want?' I shouted.

'The case was closed, but you kept on investigating, Detective Sergeant Smith,' she said. 'And now you've decided to investigate us! I'm here to tell you to stop.'

'How did you find me?' I asked. 'And how did you know about my promotion?'

'The same way you found me,' she said. 'Good honest coppering. Are you going to let me in? I'm unarmed, if you're worried.' She took off her long black coat, revealing the white blouse, grey tie, and black trousers she'd worn at the crime scene. There was no sign of any weapon; she wasn't even carrying a handbag. After lifting the wallet containing her warrant card from a pocket, she raised her arms and performed a slow pirouette.

Satisfied, I quickly opened the door and stepped back. She walked inside. I kept both hands tightly around my bokken, ready to strike.

'Nice place,' she said, apparently unperturbed by my stance.

'Thanks,' I told her. 'Leave the coat there!' I used the bokken to indicate the pegs.

Smiling, she hung up her coat on the back of the door, and nodded politely as I ushered her into the lounge.

'Detective Sergeant Tallulah Smith.' When DCI Wood reached the sofa, she turned to face me. Her expression was assessing, and she didn't appear to be alarmed by my weapon. 'You entered the police service immediately after leaving university. You have a law degree, a two-one, from the University of Reading. You specialised in criminal law. While you were at university you took up both Kendo and archery, and in your final year you became treasurer of the Kendo club.' She pointed at the bokken I still carried. 'That's a kendo sword of some kind, isn't it?'

'It's a bokken, a practice katana made from wood,' I said. 'It won't kill you, but I know how to use it. I could certainly break a few bones.' I used it to point at the sofa; she sat.

'I was a beat bobby when Harry recruited me,' DCI Wood said. Crossing her legs, she stared up at me. 'You remind me of me. Keen as mustard, angry at the injustice, and not sure about what you're dealing with. Would you like to know?'

'Yes!'

'Are you completely sure?' she asked. 'This is your last chance to walk away. You could just delete those files you've been emailed, and that would be the end of it.'

'Is that a threat?' I asked her.

'Of course not,' she assured me. 'But I should warn you that, one way or another, I'm about to change your world.'

'One way or another?' I asked suspiciously.

'I've been working for the Auror Office ... the Auror Service as it is now ... for fourteen years, that's most of my career. I'm thirty-seven years old and I have two sons, one almost five and the other a newborn. You already know all of that, because you've been investigating me. What you don't know is that I've just been offered a Superintendent's post with Dorset Police. It's a promotion to a desk job, and it's a lot closer to home. I'm a mother, and I need a change. I've seen more strange sights and mangled corpses than I want to remember. I've met nice people, I've met monsters, and I've met "monsters" who are nice people. I'm getting older and more risk-averse, yet I'm still doing a job that can be very dangerous. Also, I want to spend more time with my family, so…'

She hesitated. I waited for her to continue.

'Harry—he's my boss—his title is Director of Auror Services.'

'Mr H J Potter,' I said, nodding. 'And now I know his first name, too.'

'You found Harry's name? Well done,' she said. 'You'll have to tell us how you did that.'

I shook my head.

'There's going to be a vacancy in our office. There may even be two, if Stan really means it when he claims that he's going to learn French and stay in Paris as part of the Auror exchange programme. Stan's job will be filled by another Auror. A lot of Aurors want to work in our team. They see the Muggle Interface Team as a means of advancement. My job is more specialised, and it isn't a job that can be advertised. Harry suggested that Dennis take charge of the team. I think that's a good idea. He'll make a good boss. But, after a lot of thought and a long meeting, I've come to realise that the Auror Service still needs a copper. They need a liaison officer on their staff. Someone like you; you're young, fit, and clever, and you're on the fast track for promotion. I've checked up on you. You've passed your Sergeant's exam, you got confirmation this morning. Congratulations, Detective Sergeant Smith. DCI Bradstreet thinks very highly of you, you know.'

I grunted dismissively. I no longer trusted Bradstreet. He had ordered me to stop investigating.

'He does,' she assured me. 'But he's worried that you're throwing away your career by investigating us. I disagree. I think you'd be an asset to the Auror Service. I can't offer you a job, but I can offer you an interview. The Muggle Liaison Officer's post was created for me, and I was beginning to wonder if I'd made myself redundant, but both Harry and Dennis think it's become essential. They need someone to explain how our world works, particularly the police procedures. Harry dragged the Auror Service out from the nineteenth century, and I'd like to think I helped a little. Unfortunately after fourteen years, and especially now that I'm married to Ollie, I'm beginning to lose touch with Muggle technology. They need fresh blood, young blood.'

'Muggle?' I asked. 'Our world? What are you talking about? Are you going to tell me anything about the murder of Tommy Harris? Are you interested in finding out who killed him? Or do you know?'

'We shut down your investigation as soon as we knew what we were dealing with, and after Stan averted a second death.'

'What?'

'The French teenager who was responsible for Mr Harris' death tried to poison herself. Stan's back in France. He claims to be in a purely platonic relationship with the little mademoiselle who helped him save the perpetrator. I'm not sure I believe him! There's a first time for everything, I suppose. He's been pretty emotional recently, perhaps...'

Pausing, she shook her head. 'That's beside the point. We know how Tommy Harris died and who was responsible. His boyfriend has been told an acceptable truth. It wasn't a murder, Tallulah, it was…' DCI Beadle hesitated. 'Unfortunately, I can't give you an explanation that you'll understand. If you really want to know…'

Opening her wallet, she pulled out a card and placed it on my coffee table.

'It was like a car crash, I suppose,' she said thoughtfully. 'The driver made a serious mistake while over-emotional, and her passenger died. She's entered a guilty plea, and the person who put her up to it is going to trial next week. The French prosecutors are throwing everything they can at her.'

'An accident?' I snorted dismissively. 'You expect me to believe a man was cut in half by accident? Don't be ridiculous!'

'The car crash analogy is the best I have. This is one of those rare occasions where I haven't been able to come up with a Muggle-friendly story,' she said apologetically.

'What the hell is a Muggle?' I asked.

'You are,' she said matter-of-factly. 'And so am I. If you want to know more, if you really want to know what happened, read the card and attend the interview.'

'I still have this,' I reminded her, waving my wooden sword.

'And I really am a Detective Chief Inspector with the Met.,' she reminded me. 'You've checked up on me, so you know that's true. You're not going to assault me, Detective Sergeant Smith, that would end your career.'

Standing, she pocketed her wallet, walked to my front door, and picked up her coat. I followed her, uncertain what to do. Opening the door, she turned and gave me a mischievous smile. 'Besides, I'm armed.' Reaching under her shoulder, she pulled what looked like a Taser out from nowhere. I took a hasty step backwards. 'Invisible holster, it works on the same principle as a Headless Hat. It's proved very useful over the years. If you're interested in a job, you'll get to meet our suppliers, Ron and George Weasley. That will be a real treat for you. They'll provide you with a lot of cool toys to play with, and make you laugh while they're doing it. Read the card, go to the Ministry. All your questions will be answered, but then you'll have even more. To be honest, there are still things I still don't understand, and I'm married to a wizard.'

With that, she turned and left. As I watched her go, I wondered whether she was insane. The thought that I might be the crazy one pushed itself forwards, but I tried to ignore it.