Early Shift


    On duty: DC Nisha Chakraborty and DC Zoltan Kaminski


    London.


    1972. August.


    Kaminski dropped his cigarette to the floor and ground it down with his heel. “Make sure the rear exits are secured before we go in,” he said, the sergeant nodding as he continued readying his officers. “I don’t want anyone getting out through doors, windows, secret passageways or fucking hot air balloons. We think the boss man is in there, most of the staff are still clearing up the place. I want to talk to all of them.” He turned to the others: Chakraborty present, of course, but Clarke also, looking like he hadn’t slept and was about to fall into his own grave. “I need you to identify your witness. Point her out and we’ll get her into protective custody. And we’ll talk more about you stealing our case later.”


    “OK, let’s go,” Chakraborty said, “we don’t want any lookouts sending out a warning before we get in.”


    Inside there was a rush of panicked bodies, as those still in the building tried to either hide evidence of nefarious activities or distance themselves from it. Kaminski caught a glimpse of suited legs disappearing up a staircase at the back of the main room and pointed officers in their direction. A minute later it was over, dejected faces all around and officers corralling everyone into small groups. He could see a mix of humans and aen’fa, though it was clear who was in charge. The aen’fa - male and female - all shared the same look of dejected resignation.


    Climbing to the upper floor, Kaminski placed a hand on Chakraborty’s shoulder. “Good job Clarke was paying attention for once.”


    Kaminski made a non-committal noise, then pushed open the door to what turned out to be a manager’s office of sorts. Inside there were two police officers flanking the door, and another examining the contents of a large, ornate wooden desk. Upon the walls were mounted a variety of unusual skulls; unusual in that they were not of Earth origin. Palinese species, then, and Kaminski was somewhat relieved to not see a koth or aen’fa represented. A man in a sharp suit was sat on a chair, looking annoyed and out of breath but otherwise unconcerned.


    The man tilted his head and looked her up and down, deliberately lingering on every curve of her body. “I’d love to know your name, darling, but I don’t need to tell you mine until my lawyer arrives.” His voice was higher pitched than Kaminski expected.


    “I can see I’ve got some crack detectives here,” Ellis said with a grin.


    Ellis nodded, then crossed one leg onto his knee. “Yeah, you see, where it’s best for me is if I wait for my lawyer, while you fail to find anything of interest. I run a reputable massage parlour. Nothing illegal goes on here.”


    “What can I say? I’m a connoisseur.”


    “What’s the supposed to mean?”


    The man shrugged. “We do the usual checks. Best we can, but it’s not up to us to run the customs department down at the portal station, is it? You got a problem with illegal immigration, go talk to them.” He was confident, more so than he ought to be. “And if you don’t mind me making an observation, you don’t look like you’re from around here, either.” He turned to Kaminski. “Your accent ain’t exactly local, now, is it?”


    “Hey, if I’m not at the top, then it isn’t very far to fall, is it, Mr Clever Policeman?”


    The man’s face paled and his eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute, murder?” He laughed nervously and glanced around the room, as if looking for support. “What are you on about?”


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    “A lot of trouble,” Kaminski interjected.


    Ellis swallowed loudly, eyes darting between them both.


    There was a knock on the door and an officer poked his head in. “Got something for you, guv,” he said.


    The officer held up a transparent evidence bag, containing a large, ornate sculpture of a winged creature about the size of his forearm, cast in a hard resin and painted red. Kaminski stared at it, then took another cigarette and lit it. “That’s one ugly son of a bitch,” he said.


    “Where’d you get it?”


    “Don’t poke my eye out with it.”


    *


    Clarke needed to get some sleep, but there was no point going home. His shift would begin at three that afternoon and it was already already mid-morning. He had wheeled two office chairs together to create a makeshift bed from them and his jacket, but it was a rapidly failing experiment.


    Once again he was on his own - Styles having sensibly gone to get some real rest - while his colleagues attended to his unfinished business. Chakraborty and Kaminski he liked, at least. He’d done his part, finding Shona in the chaos of the raid. An officer had arrested her and discreetly removed her from the premises. To an observer she was one of many staff taken from The Palinese Express that morning; the difference being that her destination was a meeting room far from the others. She would be questioned, rinsed for all the information she had, and kept in protective custody for a period. With any luck she’d be given help to leave London, go some place else where nobody would know her face or her name. It would be hard, probably for the rest of her life, and none of it would bring back her friend, but she’d be alive.


    Kaminski rarely used first names. “Any idea who did it?”


    “He would.” There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Clarke, this goes deeper than we thought. The girl was an illegal resident, and she’s not the only one. Turns out this place has a steady turnover of girls and boys coming over from Palinor.”


    “That’s the thing,” Kaminski said, “boss man here has already squealed on the name of his higher-up. Chakraborty reckons we’ve stumbled on a whole trafficking ring. This case is as much yours as it is ours. If you want in, Clarke, you need to come meet us at the portal station. We’re about to head there now; the warrant’s being drawn up as we speak.”


    *


    The emergency call transcripts lay on his desk. The door to his office was closed; he didn’t want anyone else on this, not yet. Not until he had something. Through the blinds he caught sight of Clarke on his way out the door. On the right of the desk was another transcript, of the calls made between Control and Clarke and Callihan’s vehicle on the morning of the koth encounter the previous month.


    Bakker could sense a detail was lurking, waiting to be noticed. Officers had spoken to the original caller from the tower block in the aftermath; he’d approached the police line and introduced himself, willing to answer any questions. That had struck Bakker as odd when he’d read it in the report, especially given the less-than-savoury location, but the man’s details had checked out and matched the call transcript. Martin Chambers, 330 Sterling Court. Dock worker.


    “This number has been disconnected,” came the pre-recorded message, followed by an ugly beep.