“Um. One of the spooks…?”
“Yes. Go on?” She nods encouragingly.
“The, uh, Ministry of Magic?” An expression of horror slowly begins to dawn. “Is he some kind of wizard…?”
Jo lets him down gently: “Sort of. If you ever see one of those cards again, just refer it to me. Meanwhile, I’d like the names of the officers who apprehended him because I think they need a training refresher in dealing with transhuman arrest situations. Luckily for them Mr. Howard is a professional and not a bad guy so it all worked out okay this time and I’ll take it from here, but there’d better not be a next time, for their next of kin’s sake. Have you got that file I requested?”
“No ma’am, I’ll just go get it…”
He vanishes smartly and Jo drags out the chair opposite me and makes herself at home. “Jesus, Bob, what have you gotten into now?”
“I have no idea.” I shake my head. “I was just on my way into the office when the boys on the door lifted me. They said something about my name coming up on Charge and Book…?”
Jo frowns. “That makes no sense.” Her eyes flicker towards the door. “You’re lucky I was in town today.” Sotto voce: “Idiots. Sorry, Bob. They should have known better.” She’s not wrong: if they’d followed the correct procedures for arresting someone like me they’d have called in a full transhuman containment crew and sniper teams and whacked me with a sedative dart, and I’d have woken up in the converted nuclear bunker downstairs that they use for holding supervillains. “I don’t think they knew who you were, or this wouldn’t have happened.”
“Yes, well, I kind of guessed that much.”
“So let’s see—” The door opens, and Sergeant Slow passes her a printout apologetically.
Jo reads the top line, then starts swearing, quite creatively. I listen with interest, but then she realizes the door’s still open and the sergeant is standing there and she stops abruptly. “Sergeant, please fetch Mr. Howard’s phone,” she says. “Sorry, Bob, this makes even less sense now.” My phone appears on the table before me. “Sergeant, please attend. Mr. Howard, you are under arrest because you are facing an outstanding charge of receiving stolen goods, specifically, a document or documents that were reported taken from the victim of a fatal mugging at Heathrow Airport last Wednesday.”
Fuck, I think dismally. It can only be Bill McKracken. Poor guy. I knew I should have escorted him all the way to Departures.
Her expression is hard. “Smells like a week-old kipper, but I am afraid I am going to have to book you and print you and run you through the usual, then park you downstairs for a bit. First, one question: do you suspect this charge relates to your activities in pursuit of your lawful orders?”
I don’t even have to think about it. “Yes, definitely, although I didn’t know about the killing. And I need to report this to the Senior Auditor now.”
She points at my phone. “Be my guest.” Then she stands. “Come on, Sergeant, we can wait outside the door while he makes his call, it’s to a recognized security organization; you can take his phone back afterwards. I hope you didn’t have any plans for this morning; things are about to get busy…”
*
Jo walks me back out to the front desk and they take me through the routine of being booked into the system. I’m fingerprinted and photographed, have a DNA swab taken, am given the formal police caution, then I’m told the preliminary charges against me. Then the desk sergeant apologetically leads me to the lift down to the subbasement, then into the suite with the bank vault door up front and the nuclear-grade air filters, then sits me down in the underground break room to wait for a responsible adult to show up and sign me out—prodded by Jo’s not-so-subtle intimation that this is a bullshit charge and something’s obviously gone wrong.
I’m sitting slack-jawed watching the television a couple of hours later, my cup of marginally-less-dreadful coffee cooling beside me, when the SA walks in and takes the chair opposite. “What’s going on?” he asks without preamble.
“Rioting in Glastonbury, apparently three New Age shops have been torched. And there’s some kind of demonstration in Brighton. Superpowered vigilantes tried to vandalize Stonehenge overnight, said it’s a gate to hell or something. And I’ve been charged with receiving stolen goods because apparently we missed Bill McKracken being murdered on Wednesday night and what the fuck is this all about?”
I’m on my feet and breathing deeply by the time I finish and Dr. Armstrong is looking concerned. “I’m not sure, Bob, but we’ll sort it out,” he assures me, but his hand gestures are slightly fluttery and his words fall kind of flat. “Josephine sorted you out, I gather?” I nod. “Good, good. I don’t know the details of the case, but I gather your DNA was found on the victim’s personal effects and you left a CCTV track with him on the buses. I’m less clear on how they have you stealing something—”
I groan. “Oh, I know exactly how. It was at the pub. Tradecraft swap. Probably looked dodgy as hell on camera. But it was entirely legit!”
“Yes, you know that and I know that, but the other thing—Bob, you’re lucky they didn’t charge you with murder.”
“What?”
“Your doppelg?nger boarded the train with Bill—the Heathrow Express—a carriage behind him. If it wasn’t you it was someone identical. When they arrived Bill got off the train, fake-you followed him, and that’s when it happened. Stabbing and snatch job.”
“But, but…” I boggle for a moment, helpless anger bubbling up from under.
“You’ve got a perfect alibi, of course, because at the same time someone who looked like your evil twin was murdering your contact you were in the back of an ambulance having survived a hit. The fake-you was the rest of your tail, Bob, masked with a glamour.”
“Shit.”
“My thoughts exactly.” The SA looks ill. “The killer showed us a clean pair of heels. Probably nipped into a toilet cubicle and dropped the glamour, they could have been anywhere in Western Europe by midnight.” He pauses. “I can brief Jo, of course, and we’ll get the charges dropped. You’ll need to give a statement, but this is basically just a case of crossed wires. I’m more worried about where this is all pointing.”