Hexed Detective

by Matthew Stott

  I’d dealt with her sort before. The type of person who considers themselves a scrupulously honest samaritan, but is really just a pious old shrew.

  ‘And what is it you’d like to hand in?’ I asked, clicking on the Received tab of the LPO’s computer system, which, would you believe, is called Sherlock. It’s named after the fact that our office is located on Baker Street, right opposite the super-sleuth’s fictitious residence, as though reuniting clueless members of the public with their knackered old brollies can be equated with Holmes solving some great, police-eluding mystery.

  The woman reached into her handbag and produced a wallet; one of those old-fashioned bifolds with the metal clasp that the elderly love to lug around.

  ‘Here you go,’ she said, digging around in its bulging depths and fishing out a single pound coin.

  I watched her place it down on my desk as if it were a solid gold nugget.

  ‘A quid?’ I said, staring at the thing. ‘You came all this way to give me a quid?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, indignantly. ‘Why, what else should I have done with it?’

  I could think of about a dozen alternatives, most of which involved her shoving the thing up one of her bodily orifices, but instead of answering, I settled with staying quiet and corkscrewing my hair in frustration.

  The woman stared at me, hard and unblinking. ‘You don’t seem very grateful,’ she noted.

  ‘Of course I’m bloody not,’ I thought back.

  The woman snatched up the coin. ‘Maybe I should just keep it then, if that’s the way you feel.’ She said it with the intonation of a serial killer shouting at a victim she was keeping at the bottom of a well.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ asked a new voice.

  It belonged to Gary, my idiot supervisor. Gary was kind of like a man, only smaller.

  ‘I came here out of the goodness of my heart,’ screeched the woman, ‘but this girl’s been nothing but rude.’

  ‘I absolutely haven’t,’ I said, and I hadn’t, not out loud anyway.

  Gary shook his head in my direction and apologised on my behalf, never once taking my side into account or considering that I might be the one in the right. He then spent the next ten minutes consoling the old bat and assuring her that no, of course she hadn’t wasted a journey, and yes, of course her pathetic donation was appreciated. He even took the lone pound coin and placed it in a Ziploc bag, like it was forensic evidence in a murder. Meanwhile, I sat there with my arms folded, listening as Gary alternated between grovelling for forgiveness and admonishing me sideways for my lack of professionalism. Only once the woman had been reluctantly appeased and had left the building, did he engage me directly.

  ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Seems like you already made up your mind,’ I replied.

  He jutted out his chin to make himself look more authoritative, but ended up looking like he was trying to blow a troublesome fly off the tip of his nose. ‘I suggest you have a good, hard think about the way you talk to me, Beckett, because if your attitude doesn’t buck up sharpish, you’re going to be out of a job. Get me?’ The last part he said so close to my face that I could smell the vending machine coffee on his breath.

  ‘I get you,’ I mumbled back, the words like tin foil in my mouth.

  ‘Good,’ he said, then did a strut around the office, peacocking for the sake of my so-called co-workers, who sat at their desks, sniggering into their sleeves. For a moment, I thought he was going to go in for a round of high-fives.

  Having completed his “victory” circuit, he then arrived back at my desk for round two. ‘Since you’re obviously so keen to carry on working here,’ he said, ‘I’m going to need you to step up your game. I’ve got sixteen bags of unsorted lost property over there that need dealing with, and someone needs to input the backlog into the system.’

  ‘I’ll get right on it,’ I muttered.

  ‘Too right you will,’ he replied, ‘tonight. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours. And don’t make that face, you’ll get paid for the extra time. Standard rate,’ he added, under his breath.

  Instead of voicing my disapproval, I bit my tongue, stayed quiet, and imagined setting him on fire a bit.

  ‘Oh, and one more thing, Abbey,’ he said, holding up a finger, ‘there’s a dress code now—new company policy—so no more coming into work looking like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark.’ He eyeballed my black clothes and matching nail varnish. ‘It’s morbid.’

  It is true that I have a morbid streak. For instance, whenever I meet a new person, I always think to myself, ‘I wonder what I’d wear to their funeral?’ It’s just a habit really, not because I actively wish the person any ill will. With Gary though, things were different. With Gary, the thought occurred every time he opened his idiot mouth. And every time I imagined standing over his coffin, I pictured myself dry-eyed and dressed in my best and brightest.

  2

  Seeing as my flat in Thamesmead was an hour’s commute away, it didn’t seem worth making the long trek home just so I could drag my skin all the way back to the office again. That left me with a big slab of time to kill between the end of my crappy day shift and the beginning of my crappy night shift. A big slab of time that I ended up spending in the staff cafeteria gorging on high-calorie snacks while I caught up on some reading.

  My boyfriend, Neil, is a novelist. I’d been lugging around his newest manuscript for days under the pretense that I’d finish the thing, but I was stuck at the three-quarter point still. Don’t get me wrong, Neil’s a great writer, but his stories... they just don’t float my boat. While I like to read weighty hardbacks about orphaned peasant girls overcoming historical prejudice to become successful, independent women, Neil—how can I put this kindly—Neil paints in more… primary colours. His protagonists tend to be of the fantastic variety: modern-day magicians and shapeshifting monsters and generals of Satanic cabals. I mean, I love the boy, I really do, but seriously, give me a break. Just because I dress like a character from an Anne Rice novel, doesn’t mean I want to sit down and read one.

  Anyway, this particular manuscript was book five of Neil’s W&W Investigations set, a pulpy, urban fantasy series about a warlock and a werewolf who run a detective agency in San Francisco. Maybe that’s your bag, I don’t know. To me, that’s homework. Still, I only had a few chapters to go, so I took a deep breath, knuckled down, and got to reading. Or at least I would have, if I hadn’t been disturbed by the sound of a nearby conversation...

  I looked up from the loose pages of Neil’s manuscript to see my supervisor, Gary, a couple of tables over. Apparently, he’d decided to take a break from getting on my case so he could chat up the office temp.

  ‘...There are a lot of old secrets in the Underground network, you know,’ he told her, apropos of nothing. ‘For instance, did you know there’s a hidden tunnel that runs off the Circle line and connects to a classified military bunker in St. James’ Park? Fascinating, right?’

  The temp’s barely suppressed sigh said quite the opposite, but Gary continued to drone on at her regardless. Over his shoulder, the two of us exchanged knowing eye-rolls.

  ‘If you like,’ Gary continued, flashing the temp his supervisor laminate, ‘I could take you on a tour of the tunnels some time. My treat.’

  The temp cleared her throat. ‘That’s nice of you to offer,’ she replied, ‘but I can’t that day.’

  ‘I didn’t say a day yet,’ he huffed back, then turned and caught me earwigging on the conversation.

  He narrowed his eyes at me, as though I’d somehow poisoned his otherwise perfect pitch. Annoyed, he marched over to my table and used a pudgy finger to stab at the face of his Casio watch.

  ‘About time you got to work, I reckon,’ he said, pressing his palms to the surface of the cafeteria table.

  I stood slowly and straightened up. ‘Aye aye, Cap’n,’ I said, firing off a sarcastic salute.

  He gave me a stare that I think was meant to look tough. ‘Enjoy y
our shift, Abbey,’ he said, taking his jacket from the back of a chair and tugging it on. ‘I’ll be going home and putting my feet up now.’

  And with that, he turned on his heel and strutted away.

  What an actual prick.

  It was getting on for half two in the morning and I still had a long way to go before I was finished doing Gary’s dirty work. I was fuming, but more than that, I was experiencing a heavy crush of disappoint. In myself. I always thought I’d be on the road to something by this stage of my life, but instead I was stuck in a rut, on my own, slaving away in a windowless tomb until the sun came up.

  I jolted at the sound of a sharp buzz.

  The office intercom.

  I made my way to reception and checked the CCTV monitor to see a stocky man from the LPO’s collection team shielding himself from the rain with a newspaper. Using the button on the underside of the reception desk, I buzzed him in and he fired into the foyer, shaking himself off like a wet dog.

  ‘Bit late for deliveries, isn’t it?’ I said, checking my phone for the time. ‘Or is it early?’

  He didn’t bother answering, just dumped a plastic basket full of junk on the reception desk and thrust a device into my hand for an electronic signature. I rattled off a jagged scrawl and cast a glance to the basket. Inside, nestling among the usual assortment of umbrellas and mobile phones, was a brown leather briefcase.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘At a guess, I’d say a brown leather briefcase.’

  Well, ask the obvious.

  ‘Someone handed it in at Baker Street,’ he said.

  The front of the briefcase was adorned with a brass plate featuring a name.

  Vizael.

  ‘Are you sure it’s okay to bring this here?’ I asked. ‘Shouldn’t the, you know, bomb squad have looked at it first?’

  To me, the name Vizael sounded—and please don’t judge me for saying this—a bit… Middle Eastern.

  ‘Fucked if I know,’ replied the delivery man, making no attempt to stifle a yawn. ‘Anyway, it’s your problem now.’

  He pushed through the exit, back into the downpour, and the door clicked shut behind him.

  Wonderful.

  I gingerly picked the basket up, carted it into the back office, and set it gently on my desk. With a click of my mouse, I booted up Sherlock and started logging the basket’s contents, picking around the mystery briefcase like a faddy eater dodging her greens, until eventually, the case was all that was left.

  Sighing, I swiped away some clutter on my desk, pushing aside unopened letters, a couple of half-empty drink cans, and the deer skull whose eye socket I used as a pen holder (someone left it on the Northern Line a while back, and since they didn’t claim it in the allotted ninety days, I made it my own. Like I say: morbid). Having cleared a space for the briefcase, I laid it flat on my desk, lid-side up. Its leather was well worn and faded, but continued to survive in the way that expensive things often do. A pair of brass clasps held the case together, each of which sported a three-digit combination lock.

  I began to enter the item into the computer system:

  Item #Misc205AG629. Vintage brown leather briefcase. Identifying markings: Brass plate with name, VIZAEL. Brand: Unknown. Contents: Unknown.

  What was in that thing? A nail bomb? A laptop containing Top Secret files? Military launch codes? I had to know.

  I took a quick glance over my shoulder to check no one was watching—despite the fact that I was the only mug still in the office—then spun the brass wheels of the combination locks with my thumbs.

  Click Click.

  I didn’t even look to see which numbers I’d randomly arrived at, I was too distracted by the clasps simultaneously standing to attention.

  ‘What are the chances…?’ I muttered, as I carefully lifted the lid.

  What I saw next came as a bit of a shocker.

  Inside the case, sat in a black velvet tray, was a weapon.

  Not a bomb, or a disassembled sniper’s rifle, but a knife. A dagger, like something you’d see in one of those Hobbit movies. The dagger’s blade was polished to a mirror finish, its handle wound with a length of purple leather, and its bottom bit—whatever that bit’s called—was a finely-cut gemstone the size of a baby’s fist.

  ‘Niiice,’ I gasped.

  It was a beautiful bit of craftsmanship, and I couldn’t help but pick it up and test its weight.

  Along with mouthing off at my supervisor, that was the second huge mistake I made that day.

  The moment I picked up the dagger, I knew something was wrong. The pain didn’t come right away, but only because it was so intense that it took a moment for my brain to register. When it did hit me, it almost knocked me out cold.

  A burning sensation lit up my palm, white-hot and raw. It felt like sulphuric acid had been poured onto my skin, stripping it down layer by layer, etching its way through fat, muscle and bone.

  I let go of the dagger and it tolled on the edge of my desk like a rung bell.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ I screamed, and filled a speech bubble with some more choice blasphemies.

  Clutching my wrist, I turned my wounded hand over to review the damage. There, in the dead centre of my palm was a brand: a perfect circle containing a big letter Z.

  ‘Motherfucker,’ I noted.

  I shot an accusatory look at the dagger and crouched down to get a better look at the thing, lying innocently on the office floor. Wrapped around the weapon’s handle, I found an embossed metal circle containing a symbol that matched the one burned into my palm.

  ‘Bastard.’

  I was in agony, but thankfully for me, I was also the designated first-aider for my floor, and knew exactly where to find the little green case with the white cross on it.

  I made it to the staff kitchen, found the box, and rifled through tape, gauze, disinfectant, and hydrogen peroxide, until finally I laid my hands on the burn cream. I unscrewed the top of the tube with my teeth and was about to squeeze it dry, when I heard another buzz.

  The office intercom, again.

  I checked my watch. It was three in the morning now. I looked down again and saw the dagger lying on the office’s navy blue carpet, out of its case, and where it didn’t belong.

  ‘Motherfucker,’ I reiterated.

  End of Extract.

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