Tales from the Triverse

Procedural: Part 1

Early shift
On duty: DC Lola Styles, DC Yannick Clarke

London
1972. December.

The house looked remarkably ordinary. It was exemplary in its dullness. Clarke grimaced at it, sighed, and looked to Styles. "Let's get this over with."

"You never know, it might be more interesting than you expect," Styles said, bright and optimistic as ever. It had been several months and he hadn't decided whether it was endearing or annoying. Most probably both, at the same time. Still, he couldn't deny that her enthusiasm made coming to work slightly more tolerable.

They walked up the short driveway, a strip of path sandwiched between patchy grass, mostly mud and leaf mulch. It was a cold December morning, Christmas decorations still visible in windows. Clarke hated the pause before the new year; the strange week that didn't quite exist, where news got lost and everybody took a breath before the plunge. His job never stopped, because criminals never stopped. Bad guys don't stop being bad guys because it's a national holiday.

The door was wood and solid, his knock eliciting a chunky thunk. "If this is another regular case that's been passed over to us for no reason..."

Styles looked up from the path at where he stood on the doorstep. "Does this happen a lot?"

"I'm surprised it's not happened to you already," Clarke said. "Used to get it a lot with Callihan. And before then. When the regulars can't be bothered, they sling it our way at the slightest excuse."

The door opened, revealing a woman in her mid-forties. She was wearing no make-up and looked as if she'd had a rough few nights. "Yes?"

"Mrs Carlisle?" Clarke held up his ID. "Detective Clarke and Styles, we're from the SDC. Here about your break-in."

"Oh! The experts! Please, do come in. I've just made a pot of tea."

Clarke raised his eyebrows at Styles and entered the house, the inside of which was a singular beige, staircase and living room and kitchen and understairs cupboard all precisely where one might expect them to be.

"My husband is at work," the woman explained, "even despite everything, they wouldn't give him any time off. Disgraceful. Here—" She poured them both a cup of tea, then gestured at them to be seated. "I'm so pleased you're here. It really is quite awful how often these foreigners just get away with this sort of thing. It's very reassuring to know that we've got the best people looking after us."

"Thank you, Mrs Carlisle. We have some questions to begin with." Clarke nodded, sipped his tea and managed to suppress his immediate reaction to its lack of flavour.

Styles took out a notepad and pen. "Mrs Carlisle, can you tell us exactly what happened two nights ago?"

"Of course, of course." She took a breath, composed herself, and clasped her fingers in front of her on the table. "I woke up in the night, it was just after two. I don't always sleep well these days. I came downstairs for a glass of water and that's when I found her."

"An intruder?"

"Yes, in the living room, rifling through our papers, through the drawers. Looking for anything valuable."

"Did you recognise them? Were they known to you?"

"What? No, of course not. We don't socialise with their type. No, it was immediately obvious to me what she was. Those pointy ears don't leave any doubt, do they? I always think how fortunate we are that they're so easy to spot. Imagine if they didn't have pointy ears - they could look just like us! Imagine that. Well, other than the ones with peculiar skin colours, of course. They will never be able to blend in, will they?" She chuckled to herself, as if she'd just come up with an amusing witticism.