Something Rotten

6 SpecOps

I pushed open the door to the station and walked in. The building was shared with Swindon's regular force and seemed slightly shabbier than I remembered. The walls were the same dismal shade of green and I could smell the faint aroma of boiled cabbage from the canteen on the second floor. In truth, my stay here in late '85 had not actually been that long — most of my SpecOps career had been undertaken in London.

I walked over to the main desk, expecting to see Sergeant Ross. He had been replaced by someone who seemed too young to be a police officer, much less a desk sergeant.

'I'm here to get my old job back,' I announced.

'Which was?'

'Literary Detective.'

He chuckled. Unkindly, I thought.

'You'll need to see the commander,' he replied without taking his gaze from the book he was scribbling in. 'Name?'

'Thursday Next.'

A hush descended slowly on the room, beginning with those closest to me and moving outwards with my whispered name like ripples in a pool. Within a few moments I was being stared at in silence by at least two dozen assorted police and SpecOps officers, a couple of Gaskell impersonators and an ersatz Colendge. I gave an embarrassed smile and looked from blank face to blank face, trying to figure out whether to run, or to fight, or what. My heart beat faster as a young officer quite close to me reached into his breast pocket and pulled out . . . a notebook.

'Please,' he said, 'I wonder if I might have your autograph?'

'Well, of course.'

I breathed a sigh of relief, and pretty soon I was having my back slapped and being congratulated on the whole Jane Eyre adventure. I'd forgotten the celebrity thing but also noticed that there were officers in the room who were interested in me for another reason — SO-1, probably.

'I need to see Bowden Cable,' I said to the desk sergeant, realising that if anyone could help, it was my old partner. He smiled, picked up a phone, announced me and wrote out a visitor's pass, then told me to go to interview suite sixteen on the third floor. I thanked my new-found acquaintances, made my way to the elevators and ascended to the third floor. When the lift doors rattled open I walked with a hurried step towards room sixteen. Halfway there I was accosted by Bowden, who slid his arm in mine and steered me into an empty office.

'Bowden!' I said happily. 'How are you?'

He hadn't changed much in the past two years. Fastidiously neat, he was wearing the usual pinstripe suit but without a jacket, so he must have been in a hurry to meet me.

'I'm good, Thursday, real good. But where the hell have you been?'

'I've been—'

'You can tell me later. Thank the GSD I got to you first! We don't have a lot of time. Goodness! What have you done to your hair?'

'Well, Joan of—'

'You can tell me later. Ever heard of Yorrick Kaine?'

'Of course! I'm here to—'

'No time for explanations. He's not fond of you at all. He has a personal adviser named Ernst Stncknene who calls us every day to ask if you've returned. But this morning — he didn't call!'

'So?'

'So he knows you're back. Why is the Chancellor interested in you, anyway?'

'Because he's fictional and I want to take him back to the BookWorld where he belongs.'

'Coming from anyone but you I'd laugh. Is that really true?'

'As true as I'm standing here.'

'Well, your life is in danger, that's all I know. Ever heard of the assassin known as the—'

'Windowmaker?'

'How did you know?'

'I have my sources. Any idea who took out the contract?'

'Well, they've killed sixty-seven people — sixty-eight if they did Samuel Pring — and they definitely did the number on Gordon DuffRolecks, whose death really only benefited—'

'Kaine.'

'Exactly. You need to take particular care. More than that, we need you back as a full serving member of the Literary Detectives. We've got one or two problems that need ironing out in our department.'

'So what do we do?'

'Well, you're AWOL at best and a cheese smuggler at worst. So we've concocted a cover story of such bizarre complexity and outrageous daring that it can only be true. Here it is: in a parallel universe ruled entirely by lobsters you—'

But at that moment the door opened and a familiar figure walked in. I say familiar but he was not exactly welcome. It was Commander Braxton Hicks, head of SpecOps here in Swindon.

I could almost hear Bowden's heart fall — mine too.

Hicks still had a job because of me but I didn't expect that to count for much. He was a company man, a bean counter — more fond of his precious budget than anything else. He had never given me any quarter and I didn't expect any now.

'Ah, found you!' said the commander in a senous tone. 'Miss Next. They told me you'd arrived. Been giving us the run-around, haven't you?'

'She's been—' began Bowden.

'I'm sure Miss Next can explain for herself, hmm?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good. Close the door behind you, eh?'

Bowden gave a sickly smile and slunk out of the interview room.

Braxton sat, opened my file and stroked his large moustache thoughtfully.

'Absent without leave for over two years, demoted eighteen months ago, non-return of SpecOps weapon, badge and ruler, pencil, eight pens and a dictionary.'

'I can explain—'

'Then there is the question of the illegal cheese we found under a Hispano-Suiza at your picnic two and a half years ago. I have sworn affidavits from everyone present that you were alone, met them up there and the cheese was yours.'

'Yes, but—'

'And the traffic police said they saw you aiding and abetting a known serial dangerous driver on the A419 north of Swindon.'

'That's—'

'But what's worse was that you lied to me systematically from the moment you came under my command. You said you would learn to play golf and you never so much as picked up a putter.'

'But—'

'I have proof of your lies, too. I personally visited every single golf club and not one of them had ever let someone of your description play golf there — not even on the practice ranges. How do you explain that, eh?'

'Well—'

'You vanish from sight two and a half years ago. Not a word. Had to demote you. Star employee. Newspapers had a field day. Upset my swing for weeks.'

'I'm sorry if it upset your golf, sir.'

'You're rather in the soup, young lady.'

He stared at me in exactly the sort of way my English teacher used to at school, and I had that sudden and dangerously overpowering urge to laugh out loud. Luckily, I didn't.

'What have you got to say for yourself?'

'I can explain, if you'll let me.'

'My girl, I've been trying to get you to tell me for five—'

The door opened again and in walked Colonel Flanker of SO-1 with another officer. Flanker ran Internal Affairs, the SpecOps police. About as welcome as worms and another old bête noire of mine. If Hicks was bad, Flanker was worse. Braxton only wanted me to undergo some sort of disciplinary nonsense — Flanker would want to lock me up for good, after I had led them to my father.

'So!' he said as soon as he saw me. 'It's true. Thank you, Braxton, my prisoner. Officer Jodrell, cuff her.'

Jodrell walked over to me, took one of my wrists and placed it behind my back. There didn't seem to be much point in running; I could see at least three other SO-1 agents hovering near the door. I thought of Friday. If only Bowden had got to me a few minutes earlier—!

'Just a minute, Mr Flanker,' said Braxton, closing my file. 'What do you think you're doing?'

'Arresting Miss Next on charges of being AWOL, dereliction of duty and illegal possession of bootleg cheese — for starters.'

'She was on assignment for SO-23,' said Braxton, staring at him evenly, 'undercover for the Cheese Squad.'

I couldn't believe my ears. Braxton lying? For me?

'The Cheese Squad?' echoed Flanker with some surprise.

'Yes,' replied Braxton, who once started clearly found the subterfuge and reckless use of his authority somewhat exciting. 'She's been in deep cover in Wales for two years on a clandestine espionage operation monitoring illegal cheese factones. The cheese with her fingerprints on was part of an illegal cross-border shipment that she helped seize.'

'Really?' said Flanker, his confidence rattled.

'On my word. She's not under arrest, she's being debriefed. It seems that the operation was under the control of Joe Martlet. Full details will be available from him.'

'You know as well as I do that Joe was shot dead by the cheese mafia two weeks ago.'

'It was a tragedy,' admitted Braxton. 'Fine man, Martlet — one of the best. Could play a three under par with ease and never swore when he drove into the rough and hence Miss Next's reappearance,' he added without a pause. I'd never seen anyone lie so well before. Not even me. Not even Friday when I found he'd raided the cookie jar with Pickwick's help.

'Is this true?' asked Flanker. 'Two years undercover in Wales?'

' Ydy, ond dydy hi ddim wedi bwrw glaw pob dydd!' I replied in my best Welsh.

Flanker narrowed his eyes and stared at me for a moment without speaking.

'I was just reassigning her to the Literary Detectives when you walked in the door,' added Braxton.

Flanker looked at Braxton, then at me, then at Braxton again. He nodded at Jodrell, who released me.

'Very well. But I want a full report on my desk Tuesday.'

'You can have it Friday, Mr Flanker. I'm a very busy man.'

Flanker glared at me for a moment, then addressed Braxton: 'Since Miss Next is back with the Literary Detectives perhaps you would be good enough to appoint her as SO-14 Danish Book Seizure Liaison Officer. My boys are pretty good at the seizure stuff but to be honest none of them can tell a Mark Twain from a Samuel Clemens.'

'I'm not sure I want—' I began.

'I think you should be happy to assist me, Miss Next, don't you? A chance to make amends for past transgressions, yes?'

Braxton answered for me.

'I'm sure Miss Next would be happy to assist in any way she can, Mr Flanker.'

Flanker gave a rare smile.

'Good. I'll have the divisional head of SO-14 get in touch with you.' He turned to Braxton. 'But I'll still need that report on Tuesday.'

'You'll get it,' replied Braxton, 'on Friday.'

Flanker glared at us both and without another word strode from the room, his minions at his heels. When the door closed I breathed a sigh of relief.

'Sir, I—'

'I don't want to hear anything more about it,' replied Braxton sharply, gathering up his papers. 'I retire in two months' time and wanted to do something that made my whole pen-pushing, play-it-safe, shiny-arse career actually be worth it. I don't know what's going to happen to the LiteraTec division with all this insane Danish book-burning stuff, but what I do know is that people like you need to stay in it. Lead them on a merry goose-chase, young lady — I can keep Flanker wrapped up in red tape pretty much for ever.'

'Braxton,' I said, giving him a spontaneous hug, 'you're a darling!'

'Nonsense!' he said gruffly, and a tad embarrassed. 'But I do expect a little something in return.'

'And that is?'

'Well,' he said slowly, his eyes dropping to the ground, 'I wonder if you and I might—'

'Might what?'

'Might . . . play golf on Sunday. A few holes.' His eyes gleamed. 'Just for you to get the taste. Believe me, as soon as you grasp the handle of a golf club you'll be hooked for ever! Mrs Hicks need never know. How about it?'

'I'll be there at nine,' I told him, laughing.

'You'll be a long time waiting — I get there at eleven.'

'Eleven it is.'

I shook his hand and walked out of the door a free woman. Sometimes help arrives from the last place you expect it.