Accusations: part 1

Hunting for scapegoats

The Triverse is
Mid-Earth, an alternate 1970s London
Max-Earth, a vision of the 26th century
Palinor, where magic is real

Content warning: Includes references to sexual assault and child abuse.

Previously: The Specialist Dimensional Command was set up to deal with crimes relating to portal activity. Their remit continues to expand, bringing in new cases every day…

Late shift
On duty: DC Frank Holland & DC Marion Hobb

London.
1973. April.

The interrogation room was stark, grey-walled, with flat lighting from overhead strips that shadowed faces from below the nose.

“Do you wish to say anything? You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.” Holland leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

A larger chair had been brought in to accommodate the bulk of the koth. It sat there, wings folded, that demonic, alien face glowering at them. “No.”

“Mr Lakshi,” he continued, “you should know that this is a very grave situation and you are in a lot of trouble.”

The koth breathed in and out, its nostrils flaring. “I’m not a ‘mister’, detective. But you already know that, don’t you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Holland said, pretending to consult a file in front of him on the desk. “You’re right. ‘Mr’ and ‘Mrs’ and ‘Ms’ are for humans. My mistake.” The koth could snap him and Hobb in two with a flick of its wrist, but in that room it was the SDC that held all the power.

Hobb tapped a pen on the table impatiently. “You know why you’re here, Lakshi?”

The koth looked at them both in turn. “Systemic racism?”

Sensing Hobb was trying to stifle a smirk, Holland shuffled the papers in front of him to draw the koth’s attention. Clearly it thought it was clever. “You teach at St Peter’s Girls School?”

“Is that a question or a statement, detective?” The koth folded its massive, insect-black arms. The overhead lights reflected sharply off the scales. “You did arrest me in front of my class, after all.”

“Let’s consider it a question.”

The koth held his stare for a few seconds, then sighed. “Yes, I’m a history teacher at St Peter’s. Triverse history, to be precise.”

“Precise,” Holland said, “we like precision. Don’t we, Detective Hobb?”

She leaned forward, her arms on the desk. “Was Yvette Field one of your students?”

“She is—” the words caught in the koth’s throat. Brow furrowed, they shifted from being irritated to seeming suddenly concerned. “Why did you use the past tense?”

“When was the last time you saw Miss Field, Lakshi?” Holland picked up his notepad.

“Yesterday afternoon. She wasn’t in class today. What has happened?”

Holland nodded. “Do you recall the precise time you saw her?”

The koth banged a fist on the desk, making it rattle despite being screwed the floor. “Damn it, what’s this about? Is Yvette alright?” The desk had a dent in it from the impact.

“Please answer the question.”

Breathing heavily, sounding to Holland like he imagined an enraged bull might, the koth clenched their fists. “It would have been about four in the afternoon. After school, but Yvette sometimes stays behind to ask questions. She likes her history, especially if it’s about Palinor.”

Hobb made a non-committal sound and looked up at the ceiling briefly. “You didn’t see her again later that evening?”

The koth frowned. “In the evening? No. I went home. I don’t run any after-school clubs. Now tell me. What. Has happened.”

“Well,” Holland said, staring into the koth’s inky-black eyes, all iris without surrounding white sclera, “we were rather hoping you could tell us. Because Yvette certainly isn’t able to speak for herself.”

The SDC office was quiet. Quieter than usual. Clarke sat at his desk, flicking through incoming case files. Lola was at her desk, next to his, but looked a million miles away. A grimness hung over the place. DS Collins walked in holding two coffees, handed one to Robin. She smiled wanly, then returned to her typing.

On the board was the photograph of a young schoolgirl. Yvette Field. Promising youth athlete and academic, that rare combination. Scholarship to St Peter’s. She was fourteen. Next to the smiling girl in the school photo were more images, of a body mangled to the point that it was nearly unrecognisable. Face battered, jaw broken and frontal bone crushed. Legs clawed and pelvis split in a way that Clarke couldn’t even bear to think about. There were more photographs, in a folder on Holland’s desk. Lola hadn’t let him put those up.

It was different, but it was the same. Clarke saw memories of Callihan’s body, its head missing. An outburst of violence inflicted upon a person. The job so often was about violence, acted by one fragile being on another. An exercise of power. Every case since John’s death reminded Clarke of his own mortality, made him note his temporary and flimsy nature. He flexed the fingers on one hand, cracked his knuckles. He should be working another case, picking a file to open and pursue, but the Yvette Field case had transfixed the entire office in the space of less than twenty-four hours. Chakraborty and Kaminski were out conducting interviews, on Holland’s request.

She’d been found in the early hours, on the school playing field, by the grounds keeper. The injuries pointed the finger immediately to the perpetrator being a koth, such were the claw marks and raw display of strength and rage. It didn’t take long for interviews to send them in the direction of one of the school’s history teachers, who happened to be a koth and familiar to the student.

Lola wheeled her chair over. “How do you think it’s going?”

He grunted. “With Holland and Hobb in there? Grimly. How the hell did he wind up on this case?”

“How does he end up on any case?”

“He’s a good detective,” Clarke said, shrugging. “Or has been. He’s a wanker, but he’s closed a lot of cases. You know he was assigned to the SDC on the personal request of a Joint Council politician? I don’t remember who it was. They’re long gone, but Holland’s still here.”

She let out a dismayed cry. “He’s a racist, misogynistic little shit.”

“I don’t disagree with you. But he knows how to work a case.”

“I just hope he doesn’t mess this up. If he hinders the case by bringing his own prejudices into the interrogation room…”

“I don’t like the guy, but he’s not incompetent.”

“What that koth did to that little girl, though.” Lola had a pencil in her hand and was grinding it into the desk. The lead snapped and pinged off onto the floor.

“We’ll see.”

Robin made a noise of surprise from across the room. “Oh no,” she said, putting her coffee down. “Detectives, you know you said to keep a tight lid on this? Looks like someone’s been a bit leaky.”

“Breaking news now from London, where a student at St Peter’s Girls School was found in the early hours of this morning, beaten and sexually assaulted. Police have taken a teacher at the school of Palinese origin into custody for questioning. We understand that the girl, who has not been identified, is currently in a medically induced coma while doctors assess her injuries. Her family has been informed.

“With tensions already high across the city following February’s devastating ‘kengto’ attack, it remains to be seen how this latest incident could affect relations between the migrant Palinese community and locals.”

DI Robert Ford strode across the office and switched off the television. He looked at each of the detectives in the room. “We need to wrap this one up quickly, lads,” he said. “There are groups out there itching to start a fight.” He pointed towards the corridor that led to the interview room. “Whether or not they did it, having a koth in here is just the excuse they need to kick off. Understand? Good. Let’s get to it.”

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Thanks for reading. This one is turning out grim. Writing crime fiction I’ve found to be challenging because it pokes into unpleasant corners of society; hopefully providing some sort of insight or commentary at the same time, but treading uncomfortable paths regardless.

More next week. (and big hello to the new paid subscribers - thanks!)