Moon Over Soho by Ben Aaronovitch Page B

corrupt, bullying, or tyrannical, but looking stupid is intolerable. It has a tendency to undermine public faith in the forces of Law and is deleterious to public order. Lacking any convenient scapegoats, the police were forced to professionalize a culture that had, up until then, prided itself on being composed of untalented amateurs. HOLMES was part of that process.
    In order for the data to be useful it had to be input in the right format and checked to make sure any relevant details had been highlighted and indexed. Needless to say, I hadn’t done any of this on the St. John Giles case yet. I was tempted to explain that I worked for a two-man department, one of whom had only just gotten the hang of cable TV, but of course Stephanopoulis already knew this.
    “Yes, boss,” I said. “What’s this victim’s name?”
    “This is Jason Dunlop. Club member, freelance journalist. He was booked into one of the bedrooms upstairs. Last seen heading that way just after twelve and found here just after three by one of the late-night cleaning staff.”
    “What was the time of death?” I asked.
    “Between quarter to one and half two, give or take your usual margin of error.”
    Until the pathologist opened him up, the margin of error could be anything up to an hour each way.
    “Is there anything
special
about him?” she asked.
    I didn’t need to ask what she meant. I sighed. I wasn’t really that keen to get close again but I squatted down and used it as an opportunity to have a good look. His face was slack but his mouth was held closed because of the way his chin rested on his chest. There wasn’t any expression that I recognized and I wondered how long he’d sat there clutching his groin before he’d died. At first I thought there was no
vestigium
but then, very faintly in the hundred-milliyap range, I caught the impression of port wine, treacle, the taste of suet, and the smell of candles.
    “Well?” she asked.
    “Not really,” I said. “If he was attacked by magic it wasn’t directly.”
    “I wish you wouldn’t call it that,” said Stephanopoulis. “Couldn’t we call it ‘other means.’ ”
    “If you like, boss,” I said. “It’s possible this attack had nothing to do with ‘other means.’ ”
    “No? A woman with teeth in her fanny? I’d have to say that was pretty ‘other,’ wouldn’t you?”
    Me and Nightingale had discussed this after the first attack. “It’s possible she was wearing a prosthetic, you know, like a set of dentures only inserted … vertically. If a woman did that, don’t you think she could …” I realized that I was making snapping movements with my hand and stopped it.
    “Well, I couldn’t do that,” said Stephanopoulis. “But thank you, Constable, for that fascinating bit of speculation. It’s definitely going to keep me awake at night.”
    “Not as badly as the men, boss,” I said and really wished I hadn’t.
    Stephanopoulis gave me a strange look. “You’re a cheeky bugger, aren’t you?” she said.
    “Sorry, boss,” I said.
    “Do you know what I like, Grant? A good Friday-night stabbing, some poor sod getting knifed because he looks funny at some other drunk bastard,” she said. “It’s a motive I can relate to.”
    We both stood for a moment and contemplated the hazy far-off days of yesterday evening.
    “You’re not officially part of this investigation,” saidStephanopoulis. “Consider yourself a consultant only. I’m the acting senior investigating officer and if I think I need you, I’ll give you a shout. Understood?”
    “Yes, boss,” I said. “There’s some leads I can follow, ‘other means’ of pursuing the investigation.”
    “Fair enough,” said Stephanopoulis. “But any actions that you generate you’re to clear through me first. Any normal leads you feed back through HOLMES and in return I’ll make sure any creepy stuff involves you. Is that clear?”
    “Yes, guv,” I said.
    “Good boy,” she said. I could