Wildcard

PART FOUR - Thursday, 5th May.

Jake had been deep in his own thoughts throughout the journey.

The four detectives had spent the hour discussing the case between themselves, and the Head of Psychic Intelligence – an older woman called Helena – hadn't spoken once. She'd been 'centring' herself into the job ahead, and he'd not wanted to disturb her meditation.

The police van bumped to a halt, and the side panel slid back, the sun's heat baking him instantly as the air-con shut off. Someone helped him out into the unforgiving sunshine, and he stretched the cricks out of his back. The place smelled of healthy leaves and hot soil.

"The Sixers are here, sir," one of the officers from the van yelled.

"Excellent," a gruff voice shouted back. A man clomped across in what sounded like Wellington boots that were one size too big. "Let's get this sorted before lunch because I need an early getaway – the jetlag's killing me."

Fear knifed Jake as the driver gripped his arm without warning and said, "This is it, Taberner – Bairstow Heath."

His heart raced, but he said nothing. There was no ill in his tone, and the gesture wasn't intentionally threatening. How was the man to know he couldn't bear to be touched?

"Shale's supposed to be assisting on this one," Loose Boots shouted across. "Is he here yet?"

Jake held his breath. He'd been helping other detectives hunt the serial killer for three weeks, and in all that time, Ryan hadn't rung him once. It was clear that the rest of the CID officers did not care much for the psychics, and he yearned to hear the friendly voice again.

"Sorry, Sarge – Shale's phone's going straight to voicemail," someone with a nasal twang replied. "Probably tidying up on another case."

"Tidying up his sock drawer, more like," the man in charge muttered.

The rest of the detectives laughed in a way Jake thought wasn't kind.

"What do they mean?" he whispered to Helena as he opened his cane.

She tutted. "Ignore them. DC Shale tends to get side-tracked with sorting his possessions – that's all. They'll tell you he's got OCD, but they're more like little habits to help quieten a troubled mind."

"It's still muddy under the trees from last week's rain, Taberner." A young detective with an Irish accent stepped up to join them. "You might want to borrow some better footwear."

"I don't use any footwear for outdoor Location Events," Jake replied, toeing off his trainers.

"Seriously?" Helena took the trainers from him. "Why not?"

"Need to connect with the earth to hear the messages from the plant life," Jake replied, stripping off his socks and running his bare toes over the soil.

"What about when the winter comes?" the Irish officer asked, shoving a polythene bag into his hands. "How will you manage Location Events when the ground's frozen?"

"Moot point," Jake muttered as he tore open the disposable coveralls. "Reckon I'll be long gone before winter sets in."

"Don't say that – you're doing an amazing job," Helena whispered. "And you'll toughen up to that lot. DS Borrington's a nasty piece of work, but the rest are okay. They're just a bit brusque – that's all."

"I don't want to toughen up," Jake muttered, pulling on the overalls. "It's not who I am ... Why do they call us Sixers?"

"No idea," she replied. "Something to do with having a sixth sense, I imagine. I don't mind 'Sixer' – it's the least offensive of the names they call us."