"Hello?"
There was no reply. Harriet noticed the armoury door was ajar, and when she looked inside the uniforms were jumbled together on the floor. There was a hat missing too, but fortunately the case with the station's only pistol was still on the shelf.
Her face cleared as she realised what had happened. Alice had decided to dress up, and was probably in the locker room trying on uniforms. As for Bernie, she'd be in the charger, as usual.
She heard a noise, and realised Bernie wasn't in the charger after all. "Good afternoon, Bernie," called Harriet, and she slipped out of the armoury and closed the door quickly, before the robot could see the mess.
Bernie wasn't there.
"Hello?" Harriet glanced around the office. The noise definitely sounded like one of Bernie's heavy footsteps, but there was usually more than one … unless the robot's batteries had died for good. She went to check the reception area, which had recently been converted into a grocery store. Bernie had objected strenuously, until Dave Birch, the retired Peace Force officer who owned the store, had offered to pay a couple of hundred credits a week in rent. Bernie had a keen eye for a profit, and since nobody ever came to the Peace Force Station, she almost snatched Birch's hands off in her rush to accept his offer.
But when Harriet peered into the shop, it was deserted. There was a hand-written sign on the automatic glass doors leading to the outside, and although it was reversed she could still make out the words: 'back in 5 minutes'.
With a shrug, Harriet went to sit at her desk, where she checked the call log. Half a sheet had been ripped off, but that wasn't unusual. Alice often took stray pieces of paper for sketches.
She drummed her fingers, then decided to go find Alice after all. Someone would have to tidy up the armoury before Bernie saw it, or there'd be another row. Bernie didn't even realise Harriet knew the combination code … and, until now, Harriet had no idea Alice also knew the code. In fact, they might just as well leave the damn thing open.
She strode through the staff room to the double doors at the back, and pushed them open. There was a bank of lockers, and draped all over the benches were Alice's clothes. "Alice? Are you here?"
No reply.
Frowning, Harriet checked the bathrooms, then gave up and returned to the office. Alice was probably sitting behind a desk somewhere, pretending to be a Peace Force captain, and she was blowed if she was going to search the entire station. Anyway, Alice was supposed to be Bernie's responsibility.
Harriet returned to her desk, sat down, and removed the other half of the torn page from the call log. That's when she noticed indentations in the newly-revealed page, and she grabbed a pencil and rubbed it lightly across the marks. Faint lettering appeared, and her eyes widened as the words were revealed: CASE! MURDER? MUGGING? THEFT!
Underneath was an address, and Harriet sighed and picked up the commset. "Bernie?"
"Yes, Trainee Walsh?"
"Did you send Alice on a —" Harriet stopped. No point dropping Alice in it, that could come later. "Did you send her out anywhere?"
"Of course not. She's restricted to the office until she finishes her essay."
That'll be a week then, thought Harriet. "Okay Bernie. Thanks."
"How is her essay coming along?"
"Great. Excellent. Gotta dash. Bye!" Harriet hung up, and she was just about to call Alice's commset when she heard a noise close by. Standing behind her, just metres away, was a tall, dark-haired man with a tanned face and a battered leather coat. The coat hung open, and she could see a gun-belt and holster — empty, luckily. He wore tall boots, battered and cracked with age, and there was an old scar on one cheek. He was almost a caricature of the hardened space pilot, except caricatures were supposed to be humorous, and there wasn't anything remotely funny about this man. "Who are you?" demanded Harriet.
He said nothing, just studied her thoughtfully.
"Members of the public aren't supposed to enter the—"
"Looking for my niece," said the man, in a gravelly voice.
"Have you filed a missing persons report?"
"About to," said the man.
"What's her name? Actually, let's start with your name."
"Really?"
"For the paperwork."
"It's … Smith."
"You'll have to do better than that, sir."
The man reached under his coat, and Harriet felt a chill. Did he have another holster? A hidden weapon?
Instead, he took out a wallet and handed her a card.
"Tyron Smith," she said, reading the name aloud. The photo was unmistakably his, and the ID card's security hologram went through the correct sequence of images when she touched it, so it wasn't a fake. "Well, Mr Smith. Tell me about your niece. When did you last see her?"
"Eight year ago, most like."
Harriet's eyebrows rose. "You only just realised she's missing?"
"Thought she were being looked after." He shrugged. "Was wrong."
"How old is she now?"
"Fifteen, maybe sixteen."
"Name?"
"Rebecca. Rebecca Smith."
Harriet turned to her terminal, only to realise Tyron Smith was now standing directly behind her. It gave her an unpleasant, creepy feeling, and she pushed her chair sideways and tried to keep both the screen and Smith in view. She managed it, just, and after typing rapidly she shook her head. "Sorry, there's no record of a Rebecca Smith on Dismolle. Nobody under seventy, at any rate."
"You sure?"
"I'm certain." She turned to face him. "Someone misled you. I'm sorry."
He pressed his lips together, and looked like he was going to argue. Then he opened his wallet and passed her a photo. "This is the girl. If you see her around, I want to know."
Harriet stared at the photo, and she got such a surprise she almost dropped it. It showed a child of seven or eight, with long curly hair and a mulish, stubborn expression. It wasn't the hair or the expression which made Harriet's heart thump, though.
