Strangeness and Charm: The Courts of the Feyre by Mike Shevdon

London.
      "The address matches that of his estranged partner," said Tate. "It was issues with her that sparked the whole thing off, at least that's what the file says. There's an injunction against Difford being within a mile of the house."
      "It looks like he's within a mile of it now."
      "Then I don't think the injunction is working," said Tate, mildly.
      "What's he doing in there?"
      "Not a social call."
      I went forward to the line of onlookers. "What's going on?" I asked a man in a sweatshirt and shorts who was craning his neck to see.
      "It's a siege," he said gleefully, "Some bloke's got himself holed up in the house – they reckon he's got a hostage. Gonna have to shoot him, I reckon."
      "Won't that risk the hostage?"
      "Nah. They'll use one of them sharpshooters from the windows opposite, you wait and see."
      I stood on tiptoe, watching the police moving around the vehicles and talking into radios. There was no sign of weapons being deployed, but they were unlikely to have them on show. I went back to where Tate leaned against a tree in the shade.
      "Will the police try and storm the house?"
      "Not unless obvious violence breaks out. They want a peaceful outcome. They won't push it, at least not yet. Armed response will be on the way, so that could change."
      "We need to move quickly then, what about you?"
      "Garvin said it was your problem, but I'll watch your back."
      "Thanks. You're a great help."
      Tate grinned. "I have confidence in you."
      I glanced back towards the gawkers and then turned and walked away from the police line, heading back towards the end of the row of houses.
      These houses were built in red-brick terraces, originally two stories high but every one had a loft conversion or a gable window as a third floor. Some had whitewashed rendering on the upper floors or a mock balcony with french doors, painted shut through disuse. The front doors were set two by two along the row with no access to the rear from the front of the house. The bins were all in the front gardens, waiting for bin-day. I counted the numbers on the houses to make sure I had the right house.
      The police would be aware that rear gardens backed onto each other and would have people in the house behind, but the presence would be significantly lighter than out here on the street. They were only there to prevent the suspect from bolting over the back fence. If I wanted a quiet entry, that's where it would be.
      In a northern town there would be a service alley, dark enough for muggings and illicit drug-taking, but here the original substantial gardens had no access from the street. Each owner had taken advantage of this by building blocky extensions onto the back of the row, leaving a square of green as a token garden, except for the end-house that had taken advantage of the road access by building a garage which faced the side road. It was simplicity itself to cloak myself in glamour and trip the lock to the garage with a pulse of power, pulling the door closed as Tate followed me through.
      The garage let me out of a side-door into a passageway and from there I could lift myself up on the fence and peer into the next garden before vaulting over, one at a time. Tate and I settled into a natural rhythm, only one of us moving, the other watching.
      The gardens were in contrast to each other, some strewn with children's toys and trampolines while others grew couch grass and thistles to waist-height. Counting the houses back to the one with the police vehicles parked out front, I paused a couple of doors down, letting myself become accustomed to the noise of the city. The sirens were getting closer, but it wouldn't help to climb over the fence and land on top of one the officers watching the rear of the house. I couldn't see them, but I knew they must be there.
      I waited while Tate joined me. He pointed over the back fence and was rewarded with a cough from the garden