“Don’t worry, I know when I’m not wanted.” Mary stood as she gathered her papers. “I’ll get this written up and you can call me if anything comes up. Be seeing you, I’m sure.” She closed the door carefully behind her.
“Pilot program.” Wendy gave Gibson a hard stare. “How many other transhuman investigators do you have, sir? I mean, surely you must have more than—”
“—How many transhumans do you think there are who’ve done full police training, worked the beat, and passed their detective exams?”
She was about to say scores, surely? But something gave her pause. “How many?”
“Two years ago, when the Home Office set up the TPCF and set this whole ball rolling, they started with one. You might have heard of him: Officer Friendly. Six months down the line, when TPCF was rolled into the Met, they were up to eight. But three of them were borrowed spooks, and the other four were still probationers. I gather they’ve only been full constables for a few months. You’d already left the force, otherwise you’d have been up for the world’s fastest promotion to detective inspector.”
She stared at him. “What you’re saying is, I should have held out for more money.”
To his credit, Gibson looked abashed. “It’s a pilot program. We had to start somewhere, so we started with you. Management assigned you the codename ABLE ARCHER: that you’re a named asset should tell you something. Once we can recruit some more transhumans, and once you’re past your probationary term, you’ll be in line for promotion. We’ll need someone to take charge of training and draw up professional standards in conjunction with HR. As all that stuff is management-level, I’ll be able to push through a re-grading, then shake the money tree again—if you’re willing to rise to the challenge. But right now, while you’re doing a gumshoe job, you get gumshoe wages. Is that clear?”
“Clear enough.” She shrugged. “It was worth a try.” Gumshoe wages don’t pay enough to put up with gangsters unloading Kalashnikovs at me, she added silently.
“So.” Gibson tilted his office chair back. “Any questions?”
“Let’s see. Do we have any leads on Group A, after you made me abandon the pursuit?”
“Maybe.” Gibson twitched the mouse on his computer, squinting at something on the screen. “Incidentally, engaging in an unsupported solo pursuit of a gang of escaping bank robbers may be brave, but another word for brave is foolhardy. You’re not in the Met any more, you’re not a sworn officer of the law, you’re not protecting the public, and I will be really annoyed if you put yourself in hospital for six months by engaging in unauthorized heroics. Like inviting some thug to run you over with an SUV.” Gibson’s tone was even and he didn’t raise his voice, but Wendy sat up straight as a flush of embarrassment stained her cheeks.
“Sorry sir. Won’t happen again.” She paused. “If I’m not protecting the public and upholding the law, what am I doing?”
“You’re here to take in thieves we’re contracted to arrest, Deere; it’s a business. You’re a fancy version of what our trans-Atlantic cousins call a bounty hunter. You are not paid to put your neck on the line. If you want to play at being a superhero, do it on your own time and don’t come crying to me when it all goes horribly wrong.” His cheek twitched. “So. What exactly was it about the safe deposit box that attracted our targets’ interest?”
“A letter, sir.” Wendy gave him a slow look. “I didn’t get to read much of it, but it was addressed to an Eve Starkey, and it seemed to be an invitation to participate in an auction. Something about sealed bids and a rare manuscript. I, uh, got a number and a description, but no title or author? The letter referred to it as the AW-312.4 concordance.”
Gibson leaned towards his computer and started rapid-fire typing. “AW-312.4? Okay, I’m actioning a search.” He paused, then glanced at her. “This is major. More than one group wants that thing and they’re willing to spray bullets around to get it. We may be pulled off the case—depends how Management assess the risk level. Remember, we’re not cops and you’re too valuable to put your life on the line. It’s just a job. There are some sources I can consult and I’ll get back to you if anything shakes loose, but that’s all.”
“Sources you—”
“Not police, not Home Office. You aren’t cleared for those contacts, at least not yet.”
“Oh. Then what should I do now?”
Gibson blinked. “I don’t know—why don’t you go and write up today’s events while they’re still fresh in your mind? Then … yes, take the rest of today off, and tomorrow as well—I’ll write it up as sick leave. It can’t have been any fun getting caught up in all that. If you need a referral for counseling—”
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” Wendy said hastily. “So, uh. I’ll go write stuff up, then go home. See you the day after tomorrow, I guess?”
“Yes. Dismissed.” Gibson’s eyes were focussing on his computer as she stood. Already forgotten, she headed for the cubicle she’d been assigned for desk work. You are not to put your neck on the line on company time. Message received, loud and clear. But Gibson had overlooked something very important when he told her not to take risks.
This thing with the transhuman gang, the impresario and his not-husband and their teenage sidekick and dreadlock-rocking getaway driver, wasn’t a job; it was personal. It had turned personal the moment they broke her ward, slammed her with mind control mojo, and stole the bid letter out of her inside pocket. Right after she got them out from under the guns of Group B and Automatic Shotgun Dude.
And Gibson was smart enough to notice and devious enough to want some baked-in deniability when she threw down with
