Extraordinaires 1 by Michael Pryor Page A

at the prospect of being thrown into a cell. ‘When I came back to London, being an old newspaperman I couldn’t help but renew our acquaintance. I always feel better if I know a few of our law enforcement officials.’
    â€˜Professional curiosity,’ Evadne said.
    â€˜I beg your pardon?’
    â€˜Professional curiosity. I see it in many occupations, and writing is one of them.’
    Kipling’s moustache twitched. ‘A neat way of putting it, my dear. I am, indeed, inquisitive, and I’ve found that our police officers are often the first to know about anything. Fine storytellers, too, many of them.’
    â€˜They’d have a few stories to tell,’ Kingsley said. He rocked back and forth on his heels impatiently. He hoped that Norris was as understanding as Kipling suggested. The horrible demise of Mrs Walters and the intruders Kingsley had disturbed had certainly made the matter of his foster father’s disappearance even more worrying.
    The sergeant returned, looking puzzled. ‘I can’t find the super, sir, but someone from the Yard is here. A Commander Harvey, said he wanted to see you.’
    â€˜Ah.’ Kipling shared a significant look with Kingsley and Evadne. ‘I think we might know what that’s about, but I’d rather wait and see my friend the superintendent.’
    â€˜The commander was insistent, sir, when I told him you were here.’
    Kipling protested, but the sergeant showed them to an office towards the rear of the station. A tall, uniformed man stood behind the desk. ‘The boy,’ he said. ‘I want to see the boy.’
    Kipling wasn’t happy. ‘I thought we could work things out, the superintendent and I, but now I’m not sure that we shouldn’t have some legal representation.’
    â€˜They can wait,’ the commander said. Kingsley shifted uncomfortably. The man’s gaze hadn’t moved from him. ‘The girl and the man. They can wait.’
    â€˜I say,’ Kipling burst out as the sergeant hustled Evadne and him away. ‘This isn’t what I expected.’
    â€˜Close the door,’ the commander said. Kingsley swallowed. He didn’t like the man’s voice. It had all the warmth of an icicle wrapped in a snow blanket.
    â€˜Sit.’
    The commander’s eyes were as flat as his voice. He was gaunt, his cheeks hollow, and his skin had a peculiar greyish quality.
    Kingsley shifted on the hard wooden chair as the commander studied him silently, conscious that his animal self was becoming increasingly unhappy. The commander disturbed him – all sides of him. Every detail about the man was deeply unsettling. The way he stood was slightly awkward, the way he held his head wasn’t right, the whole line of his balance was askew.
    When Kingsley became aware that the man also smelled wrong, his lips began to curl and the skin at the back of his neck tighten. Flee! his wildness screamed. Leave this place! Get away from him!
    Kingsley was half out of his chair when two peculiarly grey-faced constables burst in. One swung a baton and darkness carried him away.

    When Kingsley woke, he instantly knew where he was: he was in a lightless confined space that smelled of motor exhaust. Since it jolted and rocked, and since the sound of an engine hammered at him, it didn’t take him long to conclude that he was in the back of a lorry. The question of how he’d made the transition from being in a police station to this predicament eluded him, thanks to the waves of nausea that kept him doubled up on the floor of the van. But after the events of the night before, had had to assume he’d been taken by Kipling’s immortal sorcerers. The implications were chilling. If they’d been able to cast a net like this so quickly, their reach was fearsome.
    Grimacing with every bump and every lurch, Kingsley crawled to the doors. Panting heavily, with pain swirling inside his