“That can’s gone,” said the duck with a smirk, which is not easily done with a bill. “I mixed the flea spray in the can with deodorant, had the mix put in a cut glass atomizer I got at Boots, gift wrapped it, and gave it to Parker during that fireworks show yesterday.”
I frowned. “Guy Fawkes Day.”
“Whatever. I told Parker it was cologne. Eau Le Monk, all the rage among the simian set, and Merry Fawkesmas. He was quite moved.”
“Guy Fawkes attempted to blow up Parliament, Shad. We don’t usually give presents on Guy Fawkes Day.”
“I imagine that depends on your opinion of Parliament. Parker is, however, using the spray.”
“You are a devious duck.”
“Thanks. Now, if we can only get Parker to make it to a loo before he takes a dump, there will be peace in our time.” He looked up in the direction of the Pennsylvania—St. Thomas Corridor, the traffic in the air vector sparse at this time of night. “Here’s our ride.”
The cruiser, an issue gray and electric-green Sky Rover Metropolitan, descended in front of us, its green strobe array flashing, its doors rotating up as the wheels touched down on Bartholomew. Shad flew into the driver side and I entered the passenger side, checking the mechs in back on my way in. They were mechanical vehicles of various sizes and configurations into which we could copy our engrams while our bodies were held in stasis. The mechs were able to go places and do things the duck and I couldn’t. Parker could’ve used a mech to work his crime scene, but he numbered copying among his many phobias and there was simply no point in arguing with him about it. Green readouts on the bed panels showed mechs operational, charged, internal laboratories stocked and ready, our engrams as of this morning copied into the Heavitree mainframe.
The doors closed and as the cruiser ascended toward the corridor, Shad said, “Do you Brits have a weird spelling for parliament?”
“Why?”
“I entered it twice, but this heap’s GPS doesn’t have a listing in Exeter for any Parliament Street.”
I looked at the GPS readout. “You spelled it correctly. Parliament isn’t on the cruiser response GPS. Put the cruiser down on High Street in front of the Guildhall.”
“A secret street and Parker can’t fit in it?”
“No secret, but neither Parker nor a cruiser can fit. You’ll see why.”
He waited a moment for a further explanation. When none came, he said, “Be mysterious.”
Grumpily, Shad guided the cruiser through the Cathedral Vector Roundabout. No sooner were we through it, than the cruiser dropped from the corridor and headed toward the illuminated columned gingerbread of the medieval Exeter Guildhall immediately below us, still the oldest working municipal building in Britain. High Street, though, was choked with bright lights, news vehicles, and a crowd. The media were in force.
“Is the king visiting?” asked Shad.
“Not to my knowledge.” I looked around. “Change of plan,” I said seeing a place nearby where we could put down unobserved. “Behind the Guildhall, Market Square in the shopping center. Put us down just beyond that small church.” I reached forward and flicked off the switch for the light array. The entire block of buildings, of which the Guildhall was only one, was a warren of little streets, shops, and walks which had been turned entirely over to foot traffic and enterprise. The lot of it was called the Guildhall Shopping Centre. At this time of night, the shops were closed and the walkways mostly deserted.
Shad changed course slightly and nodded toward the square and the tiny, ancient church constructed from local red stone. “Isn’t that church St. Pancreas?”
“St. Pancras, not pancreas.” I saw the duck laughing silently. “As you well know,” I added, dreading my partner’s delight once he found out the block opposite the High Street end of Parliament Street had another old church called St. Petrocks.
After Shad settled the cruiser down next to the small Rougemont stone church, I had us both copy into micros. The micro is a matte black cylinder-shaped air mech roughly the size of a lipstick, one end of which bristles with a variety of forensic instruments. With them I hoped Shad and I could get to the scene without drawing attention.
Once copied, our usual meat suits in stasis, we flew from the vehicle and Shad put the cruiser up in hover park. At an altitude of approximately two meters, we flew around the west end of the tiny church into a shop-lined walkway that led to the north end of Trickhay Street walk. We streaked south between the furniture stores, gadget emporiums, wireless shops, restaurants, tea shops, and AB boutiques passing only a lone bipedal dustmech with attached dustbin. He was attempting to scrape what appeared to be a flattened wad of chewing gum from the pavement.
“Bloody AB Emancipation Week, me tin arse,” the dustmech muttered. “Doin’ the same bloody thing and payin’ bloody taxes for the privilege is all it is. Bloody wankers in bloody Parliament, tossers the lot—”
We turned right when we came to Waterbeer Street walk, leaving the unhappy mech and his soliloquy on unrequited expectation behind. After only a few meters we came to a police constable standing by himself in the dark, his hands clasped behind his back, his stocky form fairly filling the hundred centimeter-wide entrance of a long narrow walk between two buildings. Partly obscured by his shoulder on the right-hand wall of the walkway was a regulation size traffic sign that read: Parliament St.
“I can see why Parker can’t work the scene,” transmitted Shad out of the cop’s hearing. “He’d need a shoehorn to get in there.”
“It’s even narrower at the High Street end,” I responded. “Imagine Parker dropping a load as he tried to wriggle his way into the crime scene in front of all those cameras. That would’ve been a proper cock-up. Turn on your lights, Shad, go on external audio, and let’s log in with the constable.”
We were both hovering in the dark in front of the fellow’s face. When we turned on our lights I’m afraid we startled the poor chap. He jumped, bellowed, screamed, and swung his arms about.
“Detective Inspector Harrington Jaggers and Detective Sergeant Guy Shad, Devon ABCD,” I quickly introduced us.
The constable froze for an instant, let out a breath, then bent over to pick up his helmet, muttering about bloody pips, the noun modified by an additional Middle English adjective or two. Some words simply never go out of fashion.
“Police Constable Styles,” he introduced himself as he stood, a rather peeved expression on his face. Styles was a big ruddy-looking chap in his late twenties, sandy-haired and attempting rather fruitlessly to raise a moustache. After brushing off his helmet, he replaced it upon his head, smoothed his yellow anorak, adopted a stiff military posture, and said, “Now then. You’re the Interpollys.”
“Detectives Artificial Beings Crimes Division of Interpol, Devon Office, actually,” Shad said using his Laurence Olivier playing Marcus Licinius Crassus voice. Quite intimidating, even coming from an illuminated flying lipstick.
“No offense there, detective,” said the officer stiffly. “But you two bits pop out the dark all sudden like a couple eyeballs from bleedin’ Hell. Not half taken aback I was.”
“Our apologies, Styles,” I said. “We were trying to avoid the media tumult at the High Street end. Do we log in with you?”
“Sergeant Dunn, sir.” He gestured with his head toward the walkway he was guarding. “Sergeant’s at the other end. He sort of expected you to report there.”
“Indeed. Are you chaps responsible for all the media attention? On High Street it looks like the resurrection and marriage of Princess Di and Elvis.”
The corners of Styles’s mouth turned down as he shook his head. “Don’t understand it. Naught there but a dead bird.”