MURDER IN PARLIAMENT STREET
by BARRY B. LONGYEAR
Illustration by John Allemand
Wherein Jaggers and Shad rise to new heights....
“Cold and windy, dreary and damp,” muttered Detective Superintendent Marvin Matheson. “No wonder Guy Fawkes chose November in which to kill King James and blow up bloody Parliament.”
It was a day after that particular celebration, but superintendent was still celebrating apparently. No knock-knock jokes, which meant he was really down the pipe this time. Matheson was standing behind his desk, his hands clasped behind his back, head hung forward, eyes looking up through a frown and his office window at the gloom of the latest weather front. Superintendent’s early-model police replacement meat suit strongly resembled a historical American gangster named John Dillinger. I for one never wished to see John Dillinger depressed. Media ridicule of that model meat suit, in combination with his wife’s insistence he keep it, lost Matheson his position as Assistant Chief Constable of Greater Manchester. He was eventually deposited in Artificial Beings Crimes Division of Interpol as a lowly detective superintendent running ABCD’s Devon office in Exeter. Never quite let go of that.
“You wanted to see me, superintendent?” I said brightly.
He slowly turned his face toward me. “Jaggers.”
“Yes sir.”
He turned and looked down at his desk. Twice he tapped on a few papers with the tip of a stylus. “It has been pointed out to me, Inspector Jaggers, you and Shad deserve a day off, principally in recognition of your work on the Hound Tor and Hangingstone Rat inquiries. That recommendation, incidentally, came directly from Middlemoor.” He smiled sadly. “I heartily concur.”
That took me back a step. It was uncommon at best to have any mention at all of ABCD issue from the rarified climes of the chief constable’s office. Well known to us all, ever since a particular award ceremony, Raymond Crowe, chief constable of the Devon & Cornwall Constabulary, had been rather frosty on the subject of artificial beings, particularly on amdroids in law enforcement. Perhaps we were coming up in the world. “Good news, sir.”
Matheson almost maintained his sad smile. “Nice spot of media buzz on both cases, Jaggers. Shad and you have the rest of the day and this evening off. Pass on the word to Detective Sergeant Shad, if you would be so kind.”
“Thank you, sir, I will. Doesn’t that leave the office a bit shorthanded? Towson called in sick.”
“Stay on call, but Parker should be able to handle anything that comes up.” He gave himself a moment of silence thinking upon Detective Constable Ralph Parker, incontinent flea-infested gorilla. His sad gaze elevated until it rested upon me. “So, Jaggers, how is Shad settling into his replacement duck suit?”
“Well enough, sir.”
“A bit embarrassing him renting that Watson meat suit from Celebrity Look-alikes after his duck caught it at Hangingstone.”
“That was a Nigel Bruce suit, sir, made up to look like Dr. Watson.”
Matheson shook his head and looked again at the gloomy sky. “Damned silly. You looking like Basil Rathbone and Shad doing his Watson—damned silly. The chief constable put a bug in my shell-like when he heard about it, I can tell you.”
“Remarkable amount of cooperation we received from the public, though, sir, as Holmes and Watson. C.C. Crowe, in addition, appears to have forgiven us with this suggestion of a day off.”
Matheson looked confused for a moment then sloughed it off. “True. Mercurial man, the chief constable.” He turned and faced me. “I find it hard to tell with a duck, Jaggers, but at times Shad seems a bit depressed. Still recovering from the Hangingstone thing?”
“I don’t believe it’s Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, sir. As you know better than anyone else, no one ends in ABCD by choice. Being a star on the telly must have been very exciting for him.”
“He didn’t find getting blown to pieces exciting?”
“I hardly think he’d list that as a job perk.”
“I suppose not.” He shook his head. “Those adverts Shad was in: You suppose there’s anything to that insurance?” He waved a hand at me to fend off my uninformed answer to his idle question. “All rubbish now they’ve gone to that slimy little yob of a lizard for a mascot, isn’t it? In any event, a night off will do Shad and you both some good. AB Emancipation Week, you know. I may take the missus out tonight myself.” He sat down, opened a file, and said without looking up, “Try and enjoy yourself, Jaggers. Hate to waste a perfectly good gesture.”
It was going to be a good night out. I called Val with the news and she suggested a double date with Shad and Nadine. Val was a golden Tonkinese bio and her orange tabby bio friend had been steady dating Shad. I put it to my partner and Shad decided to shake off his mood and agreed to go with us to a showing of The Adventures of Robin Hood at Exeter’s Picture House. Part of the film’s appeal to the AB culture was because a generic bio used to replace fallen police males in Britain some decades ago bore a striking resemblance to twentieth century actor Basil Rathbone. Besides Sherlock Holmes, Rathbone also played Sir Guy Gisbourne, Sheriff of Nottingham in the 1938 Robin Hood classic. What amused me about the film, aside from being a detective and wearing one of those Sheriff of Nottingham meat suits myself, was the strong resemblance of Dr. Hitchins, the current Archbishop of Canterbury, to the actor Eugene Pallette who played Friar Tuck. The archbishop was a very outspoken—dare I say rabid—opponent not only of AB rights but of AB existence, which is why Eugene Pallette always drew some good natured booing from the ABs in the audience every time he appeared on screen.
Shad and his date shared a seat. Val, of course, watched from my lap while I scratched her ears. I had disabled my wireless interface, the theater was darkening, and the new stadium seating was packed with just about every kind of artificial being in town, bio and mech, amdroid and android, as well as the occasional human natural. The flick had barely begun when Shad’s head went back, shook, and faced me, his bill dropping open. I sighed glumly, knowing either it was a call from Heavitree Tower or Shad was suffering a massive stroke. Either way the evening’s entertainment was concluded.
“It’s Parker,” Shad quacked.
“Told you to disable your wireless.”
“Exeter cops have a dead bio, Jaggs. Parker says it’s on Parliament Street and he can’t fit. What’s he mean he can’t fit?”
“It means he’s too big to fit in the street,” I answered curtly as evil Prince John and the sheriff conversed up on the screen. “Call in the cruiser and run up the mechs.” I bent over and said to Val, “I’m terribly sorry, dear, but we have a call.”
“Harry,” Val purred, “Nadine and I can make it home on our own. You two go and take your call.”
“We’ll be fine,” Nadine mewed to Shad. “Take care.”
I stood and put Val down on the seat as Shad hopped off their seat and followed me out into the aisle at a brisk waddle.
Outside the sky was dark, the wind coming up from the Exe dank and chilly. Tarp fields protecting the unfinished new apartment construction across Bartholomew from the theater cast the street in a powder blue glow. I turned up my collar against the chill, but only a bit to conserve the charge.
“Cruiser’s on the way, Jaggs. Parker says he’s running his command post out of Broadgate.”
“Shad, do you still have that can of flea spray we picked up from the chemist’s last time we worked with Parker? I can’t afford to bring an infestation home with me again. Val is terribly sensitive.”