And So Things Go, Chapter 9
Title- And So Things Go (9/34)
Author- jlrpuck
Rating - T
Pairing - Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
Disclaimer - Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of the BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary - The story of how Peter Carlisle moved to London to live with Rose Tyler.
Author’s Notes - Peter and Elias get back to work.
earlgreytea68 and
chicklet73 have been ideal betas for this-supportive, diligent, and full of excellent ideas.
lostwolfchats has been fabulous, as well, and equally as invaluable, ensuring that I didn’t ruin the Queen’s English…too badly. Any errors-grammatical, colloquial, or factual-are mine, and mine alone.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Epilogue
It was another two days before they had a break in the case. Two interminably long, boring days, spent reading through government reports on the importation of tetrodotoxin, learning who legally imported it and why, how it was handled, and where and when some had gone missing; reports from customs agents, detailing arrests of suspected smugglers at immigration; and off-the-record notes from interviews with Met sources, gathered in the past week, about the people suspected of selling it on the black market. Martin Shields was on the list-and his was the only name within a hundred miles of Glasgow.
Two long days of sitting at his temporary desk, making phone call after phone call, trying to reach the names listed on the reports, to clarify statements, or schedule in-person interviews.
Two days without hearing from Martin. Or Rose.
It figured that, after nine total days of conducting interviews and reading documents, the big break in the case came from a wholly unexpected source. One of the residents of the shelter they’d visited in the first days of the investigation shuffled in near the end of the workday, asking quietly for McCoy; both of them escorted the young woman into one of the interrogation rooms. She was spooked by Peter sounding like a local copper, stammeringly said she thought two detectives from out of town were working; Elias took over then, calming her, reassuring her that what she’d heard was true, at which point she finally relented and shared what she knew.
Judy Hampton knew Shields, had been buying smack from him for ages; he’d often cut her a deal in return for sex, and she was keen enough for the drugs to not even think twice about it. There’d been a party the night before Shields had been found, at a house near the Hillsborough Industrial estate; a bunch of the local users she knew had been there, as had Shields, handing out drugs like candy, boasting about how he was about to become untouchable.
She’d been in the room when a scuffle had broken out; she’d been coming down from a high, and had been interested in it only because she’d hoped someone would drop some of their stash and she could take it. Another of the dealers had come in, had been yelling at Shields for something-she couldn’t remember what.
“Do you remember who it was, who came in?” McCoy asked, once Judy’s rambling recitation had come to an end.
“Oh, without a doubt. ‘twas Sammy-used to be like brothers, those two. Didn’t like him, meself-he was nasty in bed.”
“Wilson?” Peter asked, leaning forward.
“He’s the one.”
“And when did he leave?”
“Oh, not until after Marty fell like a sack of potatoes. Cleared us all out of there right quick, he did, yelling and shovin’.”
“Where’d you go after that, then?” Peter was staring hard at the woman, wondering why she had waited so long to come forward-and what had driven her to the station in the first place.
“Why I waited outside, o’ course. Marty’d promised me extra if I stayed behind, not going to turn that down, not for something as easy as a trick.”
“And?” McCoy prodded.
And, it seemed, she’d seen Sammy and another man carry Shields from the house, put him in the back of their car-“What kind of car?” Peter interrupted. “Flash. Dark,” Judy replied, vaguely-and driven off into the night.
The room fell into silence briefly, before Peter once again leaned forward. “And why’re ye coming forward now?”
“Got no place to stay, have I?”
“You’ve got the shelter.”
“It’s not safe.” Judy wrapped her arms around herself defensively. “Johnny, as was there with me? He’s gone, not come back for days now. And Timothy, as well-went out a few nights ago, haven’t seen him since. The lads about the shelter have taken his stuff, reckon he’s gone on to other places.”
“But you don’t.”
“He’d not have left his medal behind, you see.” She reached forward, clutching a small shiny object.
Peter watched Judy as McCoy regarded her. “Is that all, then?” he finally asked.
Judy bristled. “It’s right plenty, I say.”
“And you’d be willing to swear to it, and testify?” Peter asked, gazing steadily at her.
“Aye. But I want protection.”
There was no decision, when it came down to it: He and McCoy brought Judy into protective custody, arranging to have her secreted away before she could be intimidated or permanently silenced. As Judy was driven off by a PC, McCoy called Ruby, arranging to have her begin discreet surveillance on Wilson; Peter didn’t miss the hushed intensity of McCoy’s admonition to his wife, to not put herself into danger, to not do anything stupid or draw attention to herself. He fought down a chuckle, ducking his eyes as he heard Ruby’s voice through the McCoy’s mobile, telling her husband off.
He had a feeling that Ruby and Rose would get on like a house on fire.
As Peter read once more through the affidavit they’d taken from Judy prior to her departure, McCoy drafted a warrant and sent it out for signature. It had been signed faster than any warrant Peter had ever seen-at least in Kendal-and while McCoy seemed unsurprised, Peter found himself once again remembering McCoy’s comment about the rumours of dysfunction in the North Lakes Constabulary.
By the time he and McCoy set out for the house Judy had described, Ruby had phoned in to let McCoy know that she’d found Wilson. A perk of having Ruby live where she did, McCoy drily noted during their drive, was that some of the less savoury residents of Glasgow and its environs were very easy indeed to find.
The house was not a half-mile from the train station-a small, dilapidated structure of stone and slate, set back from the kerb and looking as though time and progress had completely passed it by. Before-before industrialization had taken over, perhaps, or before the economic crisis of the 60’s--Peter reckoned it might have been home to at least a small middle-class family. He doubted the house had seen prosperity since then, though, and he wondered at the stories its walls could tell.
Peter parked the well-marked car at the kerb, waiting for the two trailing cars of PCs to pull over behind him. He and McCoy held a quick meeting at the boot of the car, assigning each PC to a task or duty point, ensuring someone would be around the back just in case anyone tried to make a hasty exit.
They were rapidly running out of daylight by the time he and McCoy stood at the front door, ready to serve the search warrant to the last known owner of the property.
Peter knocked on the wooden door, the rough weathered paint hurting his knuckles; the door was solid, at least, which meant when someone came after them with firepower, they stood a fair chance of surviving a shot through the door.
He shook his head, chasing the thought away. Why on earth was he assuming they were walking into an ambush?
No one answered and he knocked again, loudly, bellowing, “Police.” He strained to listen for a reply, and heard nothing. Not even footsteps.
“Well, we could use the key to the city,” McCoy said finally, referring to the porta-ram they carried in the boot of the squad car.
“We could…” It felt wrong, the thought of breaking in. Not ethically-he had no qualms whatsoever about that. No, the feeling of wrongness came from the entire situation. They’d been through this neighbourhood, earlier in the investigation, had gone door-to-door. Not a soul had mentioned the house. “What say we take a stroll around back?”
McCoy gave him a questioning look, agreeing slowly. “Alright.” He turned, motioning to the PC waiting at the end of the path. “Watch the door. No one out, no one in. Understood?”
“Aye.” The PC stood leaning against the stone to the side of the door with an air of supreme boredom.
Peter set out to the left, walking clockwise around the house, McCoy following. It all felt wrong, and he ran his eyes searchingly over the sides of the small structure, looking for something that explained why he was so antsy about it. He didn’t think he’d been to the house before, at least not before the week before…
“Hold up.” McCoy’s voice broke into his thoughts, and Peter turned. They had rounded the corner of the house, and McCoy had walked over to look at the sill of one of the windows. He reached down, gently poking at the white-painted wood, and turned to Peter. “Fresh paint. More fresh, certainly, than what we saw out front.”
“I thought Judy said Shields was carried out the front door.”
“She did. But this tells us someone’s been here more recently than the past century.”
Peter rocked up onto the balls of his feet, trying to peer in through the grimy window.
“Why didn’t you want to force the door, Peter?”
He rocked back onto his heels, turning to his partner. “It felt wrong.”
McCoy arched an eyebrow sardonically. “Morally?”
“No. The entire thing feels off. And I can’t work out why.”
McCoy nodded, moving to the second window on the wall, peering in again. “Bugger. Have you a torch?”
“No.” Peter jogged the short distance to the car, pulling the heavy torch from where it was charging in the boot, hurrying back to McCoy.
“Thanks.” His partner was just taller than he was in addition to being a bit more heavyset; he flicked the torch on and shone it through the window.
“Anything good?”
“Not a thing.” McCoy clicked the light off, and they continued walking. They rounded the corner, nodding to the PC who was guarding the back of the house.
The back door was also made of wood, rotting around the base where the water apparently pooled during a good rain; the paint was missing in parts, revealing the grey wood underneath. They stood, staring at it, neither eager to try to the door.
Peter’s jitters were back, and he began to think out loud. “Nine days, now, and nothing from around here. Interviews are dead ends. The only other time we’ve heard this bloke’s name is through M…my source. Not from interviews or reports or anything related to this case.”
“And then today, everything is handed to us in one neat package,” McCoy finished.
“Exactly. Why?” They continued to stare at the door.
Peter finally reached a hand forward tentatively, not really wanting to try the door, but unsure of what else to do.
“D’you really want to do that?” McCoy asked quietly.
“Not particularly, no.”
“Then let’s not.”
Peter pulled his hand back, feeling his shoulders relax incrementally. What on earth was it about this place that had him so completely on edge?
By silent agreement they continued around the house, walking along the far side. There were two more windows, both slightly cleaner than their counterparts on the other side.
“Let’s take another peek, shall we?” Peter paused, leaning his forehead against the glass. He could see into a bare room, the ancient wallpaper peeling from the walls, the floor surprisingly clean of debris. “Torch?” He reached a hand out blindly, turning his head and straining to look along the sides of the frame, down the walls. McCoy handed it to him, and he absent-mindedly thanked his partner before flicking it on and shining the light through the glass and around the room.
Empty as could be. Very odd.
He ran the light along the edge of the window, looking to see if anything was out of place, his eyes straining to see wires or anything that might indicate a booby trap. It wouldn’t be the first time the police services had been sent to a trapped house, after all.
“Can I get a leg up?” He turned, looking at McCoy, dressed as ever in a fine suit.
McCoy shrugged, walking over and bracing his hands against his leg; Peter stepped up, shining the light along the top of the sash before running it around the edge of the upper part of the window.
“Nothing. Want to check out the other one?” Peter jumped down, handing the torch over to McCoy.
“Right.”
Peter tried not to groan as McCoy looked along the top of the window, his weight entirely centred on his foot, braced against Peter’s hands and his left thigh. The man weighed a bloody ton.
“Nothing.” McCoy stepped down, and Peter exhaled. He rolled his shoulders as he stood, and McCoy laughed. “You’re no lightweight yourself, no matter how skinny you look.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” McCoy turned his attention back to the windows, having already worked out what Peter had in mind. “So. Who goes?”
“Flip you for it,” Peter offered, glancing sideways at McCoy.
McCoy laughed. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.” Peter grinned. “Rose will kill me if I get hurt, and I reckon Ruby would do you in as well. This way, neither of us volunteered.”
“I like how you think, my friend.” McCoy reached into his pocket, pulling out a shilling. “Your call, in the air.”
He flipped the coin.
“Tails.”
The coin landed with a bounce, finally coming to a rest heads-up.
Peter felt his stomach drop. Rose really was going to kill him. He squared his shoulders as he stepped towards the window. “Right. In and out.”
He turned to McCoy, who was watching him, his face neutral. His partner gave him a quick nod, and Peter turned to face the window. He reached for his wallet, removing his bank card; he slid his wallet into his coat pocket before shedding the garment and tossing it off to the side.
Taking a deep breath, he reached forward and tried the window.
Nothing.
He shifted to his left, tried the other window.
Nothing.
He gazed at the barrier to the house, pondering the relative merits of just shattering a pane of glass and unlocking the latch that way; tempting, but noisy. Not that he still thought anyone was in there…but one never knew.
He braced his left hand on the sill, stretching upwards, turning to get the best angle and leverage from his right hand as he worked the plastic of his card against the latch holding the window locked. He closed his eyes, concentrating, working on what direction and twists his wrist need to make to get the latch to give; it would be one of those windows where he couldn’t do something simple like slide the card straight through.
He finally heard the soft snick as the latch opened, and he relaxed, rolling his right shoulder before putting his bank card in his back pocket.
“Thank god for crap construction,” he offered drily over his shoulder; he’d not expected McCoy to fall over laughing, but he certainly had thought he’d get some sort of reaction. There was none.
He turned to find McCoy had backed away, standing a safe distance from where Peter was about to break into the house. McCoy waved cheerily from his spot, and Peter waved back, tempted to give him a certain salute but instead grumbling.
He returned his attention to the window, placing both hands at the bottom of the sash. “Please don’t let this be something I regret,” he muttered as he began to work the window upwards. He’d be perfectly happy to live to have Rose yell at him for this particular bit of stupidity.
He flinched as the window rose suddenly, an inch of space appearing between the sill and the bottom of the sash. Peter wiggled a hand into the space, giving the window a good heave upwards, his right arm pushing as hard as it could, forcing the warped wood up the channel of the frame.
It slid, slowly, and it was with relief that Peter stepped back from the fully-opened window a minute later. So far, so good.
“You’d make a nice burglar,” McCoy offered, having moved to stand within ten feet of Peter.
“This may well be one of the stupidest things I’ve done in a very long time,” he marvelled, slightly giddy that nothing untoward had happened. “I’ll just pop in, won’t be a tick.”
McCoy offered a vigorous boost over the sill and Peter tumbled into the room, landing in a heap on the dirty floor. He offered a silent prayer of thanks that there were no used needles or other nasties on the floor, and stood slowly, wiping his hands on his filthy trousers.
“Ta, Elias,” he offered sarcastically.
“Here to help,” McCoy sing-songed in reply, handing the torch through the window.
Peter flicked it on, the sharp, bright beam cutting through the gloom. The house smelled appalling; there clearly had been people in it at some point, the residual body odour filling the space. He thought he caught a scent of something else under it all, and fought back a gag.
“Police!” he shouted into the house, his credentials now in his free hand in the unlikely event that someone replied or challenged his right to be there.
Again, there was no response.
He walked slowly towards the doorway, the beam lighting his way. The floor was still clear, the light catching only dust motes and no wires…or anything else. He reached the torch forward, across the threshold, bracing for a blow; there was nothing.
Perhaps his misgivings had been unjustified, he thought as he crossed into the hallway.
Then again, he thought as he faced the front door, perhaps not.
~ - ~
Chapter 10
Author- jlrpuck
Rating - T
Pairing - Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
Disclaimer - Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of the BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary - The story of how Peter Carlisle moved to London to live with Rose Tyler.
Author’s Notes - Peter and Elias get back to work.
earlgreytea68 and
chicklet73 have been ideal betas for this-supportive, diligent, and full of excellent ideas.
lostwolfchats has been fabulous, as well, and equally as invaluable, ensuring that I didn’t ruin the Queen’s English…too badly. Any errors-grammatical, colloquial, or factual-are mine, and mine alone.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Epilogue
It was another two days before they had a break in the case. Two interminably long, boring days, spent reading through government reports on the importation of tetrodotoxin, learning who legally imported it and why, how it was handled, and where and when some had gone missing; reports from customs agents, detailing arrests of suspected smugglers at immigration; and off-the-record notes from interviews with Met sources, gathered in the past week, about the people suspected of selling it on the black market. Martin Shields was on the list-and his was the only name within a hundred miles of Glasgow.
Two long days of sitting at his temporary desk, making phone call after phone call, trying to reach the names listed on the reports, to clarify statements, or schedule in-person interviews.
Two days without hearing from Martin. Or Rose.
It figured that, after nine total days of conducting interviews and reading documents, the big break in the case came from a wholly unexpected source. One of the residents of the shelter they’d visited in the first days of the investigation shuffled in near the end of the workday, asking quietly for McCoy; both of them escorted the young woman into one of the interrogation rooms. She was spooked by Peter sounding like a local copper, stammeringly said she thought two detectives from out of town were working; Elias took over then, calming her, reassuring her that what she’d heard was true, at which point she finally relented and shared what she knew.
Judy Hampton knew Shields, had been buying smack from him for ages; he’d often cut her a deal in return for sex, and she was keen enough for the drugs to not even think twice about it. There’d been a party the night before Shields had been found, at a house near the Hillsborough Industrial estate; a bunch of the local users she knew had been there, as had Shields, handing out drugs like candy, boasting about how he was about to become untouchable.
She’d been in the room when a scuffle had broken out; she’d been coming down from a high, and had been interested in it only because she’d hoped someone would drop some of their stash and she could take it. Another of the dealers had come in, had been yelling at Shields for something-she couldn’t remember what.
“Do you remember who it was, who came in?” McCoy asked, once Judy’s rambling recitation had come to an end.
“Oh, without a doubt. ‘twas Sammy-used to be like brothers, those two. Didn’t like him, meself-he was nasty in bed.”
“Wilson?” Peter asked, leaning forward.
“He’s the one.”
“And when did he leave?”
“Oh, not until after Marty fell like a sack of potatoes. Cleared us all out of there right quick, he did, yelling and shovin’.”
“Where’d you go after that, then?” Peter was staring hard at the woman, wondering why she had waited so long to come forward-and what had driven her to the station in the first place.
“Why I waited outside, o’ course. Marty’d promised me extra if I stayed behind, not going to turn that down, not for something as easy as a trick.”
“And?” McCoy prodded.
And, it seemed, she’d seen Sammy and another man carry Shields from the house, put him in the back of their car-“What kind of car?” Peter interrupted. “Flash. Dark,” Judy replied, vaguely-and driven off into the night.
The room fell into silence briefly, before Peter once again leaned forward. “And why’re ye coming forward now?”
“Got no place to stay, have I?”
“You’ve got the shelter.”
“It’s not safe.” Judy wrapped her arms around herself defensively. “Johnny, as was there with me? He’s gone, not come back for days now. And Timothy, as well-went out a few nights ago, haven’t seen him since. The lads about the shelter have taken his stuff, reckon he’s gone on to other places.”
“But you don’t.”
“He’d not have left his medal behind, you see.” She reached forward, clutching a small shiny object.
Peter watched Judy as McCoy regarded her. “Is that all, then?” he finally asked.
Judy bristled. “It’s right plenty, I say.”
“And you’d be willing to swear to it, and testify?” Peter asked, gazing steadily at her.
“Aye. But I want protection.”
There was no decision, when it came down to it: He and McCoy brought Judy into protective custody, arranging to have her secreted away before she could be intimidated or permanently silenced. As Judy was driven off by a PC, McCoy called Ruby, arranging to have her begin discreet surveillance on Wilson; Peter didn’t miss the hushed intensity of McCoy’s admonition to his wife, to not put herself into danger, to not do anything stupid or draw attention to herself. He fought down a chuckle, ducking his eyes as he heard Ruby’s voice through the McCoy’s mobile, telling her husband off.
He had a feeling that Ruby and Rose would get on like a house on fire.
As Peter read once more through the affidavit they’d taken from Judy prior to her departure, McCoy drafted a warrant and sent it out for signature. It had been signed faster than any warrant Peter had ever seen-at least in Kendal-and while McCoy seemed unsurprised, Peter found himself once again remembering McCoy’s comment about the rumours of dysfunction in the North Lakes Constabulary.
By the time he and McCoy set out for the house Judy had described, Ruby had phoned in to let McCoy know that she’d found Wilson. A perk of having Ruby live where she did, McCoy drily noted during their drive, was that some of the less savoury residents of Glasgow and its environs were very easy indeed to find.
The house was not a half-mile from the train station-a small, dilapidated structure of stone and slate, set back from the kerb and looking as though time and progress had completely passed it by. Before-before industrialization had taken over, perhaps, or before the economic crisis of the 60’s--Peter reckoned it might have been home to at least a small middle-class family. He doubted the house had seen prosperity since then, though, and he wondered at the stories its walls could tell.
Peter parked the well-marked car at the kerb, waiting for the two trailing cars of PCs to pull over behind him. He and McCoy held a quick meeting at the boot of the car, assigning each PC to a task or duty point, ensuring someone would be around the back just in case anyone tried to make a hasty exit.
They were rapidly running out of daylight by the time he and McCoy stood at the front door, ready to serve the search warrant to the last known owner of the property.
Peter knocked on the wooden door, the rough weathered paint hurting his knuckles; the door was solid, at least, which meant when someone came after them with firepower, they stood a fair chance of surviving a shot through the door.
He shook his head, chasing the thought away. Why on earth was he assuming they were walking into an ambush?
No one answered and he knocked again, loudly, bellowing, “Police.” He strained to listen for a reply, and heard nothing. Not even footsteps.
“Well, we could use the key to the city,” McCoy said finally, referring to the porta-ram they carried in the boot of the squad car.
“We could…” It felt wrong, the thought of breaking in. Not ethically-he had no qualms whatsoever about that. No, the feeling of wrongness came from the entire situation. They’d been through this neighbourhood, earlier in the investigation, had gone door-to-door. Not a soul had mentioned the house. “What say we take a stroll around back?”
McCoy gave him a questioning look, agreeing slowly. “Alright.” He turned, motioning to the PC waiting at the end of the path. “Watch the door. No one out, no one in. Understood?”
“Aye.” The PC stood leaning against the stone to the side of the door with an air of supreme boredom.
Peter set out to the left, walking clockwise around the house, McCoy following. It all felt wrong, and he ran his eyes searchingly over the sides of the small structure, looking for something that explained why he was so antsy about it. He didn’t think he’d been to the house before, at least not before the week before…
“Hold up.” McCoy’s voice broke into his thoughts, and Peter turned. They had rounded the corner of the house, and McCoy had walked over to look at the sill of one of the windows. He reached down, gently poking at the white-painted wood, and turned to Peter. “Fresh paint. More fresh, certainly, than what we saw out front.”
“I thought Judy said Shields was carried out the front door.”
“She did. But this tells us someone’s been here more recently than the past century.”
Peter rocked up onto the balls of his feet, trying to peer in through the grimy window.
“Why didn’t you want to force the door, Peter?”
He rocked back onto his heels, turning to his partner. “It felt wrong.”
McCoy arched an eyebrow sardonically. “Morally?”
“No. The entire thing feels off. And I can’t work out why.”
McCoy nodded, moving to the second window on the wall, peering in again. “Bugger. Have you a torch?”
“No.” Peter jogged the short distance to the car, pulling the heavy torch from where it was charging in the boot, hurrying back to McCoy.
“Thanks.” His partner was just taller than he was in addition to being a bit more heavyset; he flicked the torch on and shone it through the window.
“Anything good?”
“Not a thing.” McCoy clicked the light off, and they continued walking. They rounded the corner, nodding to the PC who was guarding the back of the house.
The back door was also made of wood, rotting around the base where the water apparently pooled during a good rain; the paint was missing in parts, revealing the grey wood underneath. They stood, staring at it, neither eager to try to the door.
Peter’s jitters were back, and he began to think out loud. “Nine days, now, and nothing from around here. Interviews are dead ends. The only other time we’ve heard this bloke’s name is through M…my source. Not from interviews or reports or anything related to this case.”
“And then today, everything is handed to us in one neat package,” McCoy finished.
“Exactly. Why?” They continued to stare at the door.
Peter finally reached a hand forward tentatively, not really wanting to try the door, but unsure of what else to do.
“D’you really want to do that?” McCoy asked quietly.
“Not particularly, no.”
“Then let’s not.”
Peter pulled his hand back, feeling his shoulders relax incrementally. What on earth was it about this place that had him so completely on edge?
By silent agreement they continued around the house, walking along the far side. There were two more windows, both slightly cleaner than their counterparts on the other side.
“Let’s take another peek, shall we?” Peter paused, leaning his forehead against the glass. He could see into a bare room, the ancient wallpaper peeling from the walls, the floor surprisingly clean of debris. “Torch?” He reached a hand out blindly, turning his head and straining to look along the sides of the frame, down the walls. McCoy handed it to him, and he absent-mindedly thanked his partner before flicking it on and shining the light through the glass and around the room.
Empty as could be. Very odd.
He ran the light along the edge of the window, looking to see if anything was out of place, his eyes straining to see wires or anything that might indicate a booby trap. It wouldn’t be the first time the police services had been sent to a trapped house, after all.
“Can I get a leg up?” He turned, looking at McCoy, dressed as ever in a fine suit.
McCoy shrugged, walking over and bracing his hands against his leg; Peter stepped up, shining the light along the top of the sash before running it around the edge of the upper part of the window.
“Nothing. Want to check out the other one?” Peter jumped down, handing the torch over to McCoy.
“Right.”
Peter tried not to groan as McCoy looked along the top of the window, his weight entirely centred on his foot, braced against Peter’s hands and his left thigh. The man weighed a bloody ton.
“Nothing.” McCoy stepped down, and Peter exhaled. He rolled his shoulders as he stood, and McCoy laughed. “You’re no lightweight yourself, no matter how skinny you look.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” McCoy turned his attention back to the windows, having already worked out what Peter had in mind. “So. Who goes?”
“Flip you for it,” Peter offered, glancing sideways at McCoy.
McCoy laughed. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.” Peter grinned. “Rose will kill me if I get hurt, and I reckon Ruby would do you in as well. This way, neither of us volunteered.”
“I like how you think, my friend.” McCoy reached into his pocket, pulling out a shilling. “Your call, in the air.”
He flipped the coin.
“Tails.”
The coin landed with a bounce, finally coming to a rest heads-up.
Peter felt his stomach drop. Rose really was going to kill him. He squared his shoulders as he stepped towards the window. “Right. In and out.”
He turned to McCoy, who was watching him, his face neutral. His partner gave him a quick nod, and Peter turned to face the window. He reached for his wallet, removing his bank card; he slid his wallet into his coat pocket before shedding the garment and tossing it off to the side.
Taking a deep breath, he reached forward and tried the window.
Nothing.
He shifted to his left, tried the other window.
Nothing.
He gazed at the barrier to the house, pondering the relative merits of just shattering a pane of glass and unlocking the latch that way; tempting, but noisy. Not that he still thought anyone was in there…but one never knew.
He braced his left hand on the sill, stretching upwards, turning to get the best angle and leverage from his right hand as he worked the plastic of his card against the latch holding the window locked. He closed his eyes, concentrating, working on what direction and twists his wrist need to make to get the latch to give; it would be one of those windows where he couldn’t do something simple like slide the card straight through.
He finally heard the soft snick as the latch opened, and he relaxed, rolling his right shoulder before putting his bank card in his back pocket.
“Thank god for crap construction,” he offered drily over his shoulder; he’d not expected McCoy to fall over laughing, but he certainly had thought he’d get some sort of reaction. There was none.
He turned to find McCoy had backed away, standing a safe distance from where Peter was about to break into the house. McCoy waved cheerily from his spot, and Peter waved back, tempted to give him a certain salute but instead grumbling.
He returned his attention to the window, placing both hands at the bottom of the sash. “Please don’t let this be something I regret,” he muttered as he began to work the window upwards. He’d be perfectly happy to live to have Rose yell at him for this particular bit of stupidity.
He flinched as the window rose suddenly, an inch of space appearing between the sill and the bottom of the sash. Peter wiggled a hand into the space, giving the window a good heave upwards, his right arm pushing as hard as it could, forcing the warped wood up the channel of the frame.
It slid, slowly, and it was with relief that Peter stepped back from the fully-opened window a minute later. So far, so good.
“You’d make a nice burglar,” McCoy offered, having moved to stand within ten feet of Peter.
“This may well be one of the stupidest things I’ve done in a very long time,” he marvelled, slightly giddy that nothing untoward had happened. “I’ll just pop in, won’t be a tick.”
McCoy offered a vigorous boost over the sill and Peter tumbled into the room, landing in a heap on the dirty floor. He offered a silent prayer of thanks that there were no used needles or other nasties on the floor, and stood slowly, wiping his hands on his filthy trousers.
“Ta, Elias,” he offered sarcastically.
“Here to help,” McCoy sing-songed in reply, handing the torch through the window.
Peter flicked it on, the sharp, bright beam cutting through the gloom. The house smelled appalling; there clearly had been people in it at some point, the residual body odour filling the space. He thought he caught a scent of something else under it all, and fought back a gag.
“Police!” he shouted into the house, his credentials now in his free hand in the unlikely event that someone replied or challenged his right to be there.
Again, there was no response.
He walked slowly towards the doorway, the beam lighting his way. The floor was still clear, the light catching only dust motes and no wires…or anything else. He reached the torch forward, across the threshold, bracing for a blow; there was nothing.
Perhaps his misgivings had been unjustified, he thought as he crossed into the hallway.
Then again, he thought as he faced the front door, perhaps not.
~ - ~
Chapter 10