Late shift

On duty: DC Yannick Clarke and DC Lola Styles

London.

1973. February.

“Feels like this is going to be one of those cases,” Clarke said as they left the tram and walked the distance to the park.

“One of what cases?” They’d come straight from the morgue after the call came in. Another victim, another barely recognisable body, this time found in a park. This time it was a child. She had a tension in her belly, an urge to turn and run. Grinding her teeth together, she fought it down.

“One that keeps me up all damned day and night,” Clarke said, “entirely ignoring my supposed shift pattern.”

“You’re sounding old, Clarke.”

He glanced over at her. “I’m sounding tired, Styles. There’s a difference.” He took deep breath as they crossed the road. “Though I admit they do seem to go together.”

The park was cordoned off already, police tape stretching across the gated entrance. There was a crowd gathered to the side, the usual mix of onlookers - concerned parents with small children in tow, business suited people on their lunch break, a couple of seemingly homeless folk pushing trolleys.

A uniformed officer named Paul met them at the entrance. “Tell us the essentials,” Clarke said, as they showed the officer their badges.

“It’s grim, sir,” he said, his face the kind of pale that follows nausea. “Family on a day out, walking through the park and the little boy goes off to hide.” He led them into the park, towards a dense cluster of trees and a group of other officers. “Sister found him not five minutes later. Poor little bastard. Sorry, sir.”

“It’s OK, officer,” Lola said, briefly touching his arm. “We’ll go check it out, make sure you keep the crowd outside the park and away from the scene.”

“Yes, detective, of course.” He turned and strode back towards the entrance.

“He looked like he’d lost his lunch,” Clarke noted, his face hardened into a grimace.

“Glad I haven’t eaten today,” Lola said.

The officers standing next to the bushes nodded and one pulled a branch aside to give them easier access to whatever lay behind. Lola caught they eye of one of them. “Where’s the family?”

“Down at the station,” he said. “They’re in a bad way, as you can imagine.”

The sheltered glade on the other side of the bushes would have been a serene shelter from the rest of the city, if it wasn’t for the grisly mess. What had once been a person was scattered around the leafy clearing beneath the trees. There wasn’t much left this time, but what pieces remained had the same tell tale marks of acid burns as the body back in Wong’s morgue.

“Fuck me,” Clarke said, running the back of his sleeve across his forehead. “I didn’t need to live long enough to see this shit.” He took a breath. “What do you think?”

“There’s only a few pieces here, other than lots of blood. Whatever’s doing this, it didn’t leave much.”

He nodded. “Are we thinking animal, then?”

Lola crouched down next to a lump of flesh. “Same exact burn patterning, at least to my eye. We need Wong here to confirm.”

“Said he’d be following right behind with his team.”

It wasn’t immediately evident, but Lola slowly realised that she was looking at a hand and forearm. The fingers were melted together, such that it was difficult to identify as having been a hand. “If this is an animal, it’s not from around here.”

“It’s got Palinor written all over it, right?” Clarke moved carefully around the clearing. “That’s why the report came across our desk in the first place. Everything about it is weird. And weird means portals. Which means it gets handed to us.” He paused and peered down at the ground in front of him. “Except in this case, I think that was the right call.”

Lola stood and moved over to see what he had found, cautious to not disturb the scene. “That looks like a snake’s skin. Like when they shed their skin.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“They do that when they’re growing, I think.”

They both stayed silent for a while, staring down at the thin, translucent sheath. Lola became acutely aware of the rustle of leaves and the distant sounds of birds, and the city beyond.

“Got that instant camera of yours on you?”

Lola fished in her bag and pulled it out. “Right here. Not sure how well it’ll work here, it’s pretty dark.”

“We should leave all this in place for Wong, but if you can get an image I’ve got an idea of who we should show it to.”

*

The British & Empire Museum was enormous. It had to be, given it contained the acquired history of three universes. It had begun as a celebration of Empire, of the British’s nearly uncontested reach across the globe. The Americas, the East and much of Europe was drawn according to the whims of British military commanders and politicians. Only in Africa was there no significant colonial presence, due to the concerted effort of the United African Conglomerate. On Mid-Earth, portals had defined the destiny of nations more than once.

Portals had also shaped the museum. There were entire new wings dedicated to Max-Earth and Palinor, each proudly displaying artefacts from those worlds. The Max-Earth section was noticeably sparser than Palinor, as a consequence of their futuristic distrust of empire building. What was on display had been donated, rather than taken. Palinor was different, having long been a tempting destination for explorers, archaeologists and ambitious naturalists.

As a child the museum had been Lola’s favourite place to spend her weekends, poring over ancient texts and sculptures, drifting from room to room soaking up the atmosphere of places far distant and long past. As an adult that wondrous curiosity collided more frequently with her unease at how most of the items had been acquired. If she could afford it she would much rather visit Palinor itself - or, indeed, other countries on her own planet - than observe its lost trinkets.

For their purposes, though, the department specialising in Palinor flora and fauna was most useful. Curator Moira Blakemore was more than happy to meet with the both of them, guiding them through the exhibits as they outlined the facts of the case. Her initial enthusiasm began to visibly dwindle as Clarke described the two bodies, giving way to concern and possibly even a little fear. Lola pulled out the blurry image she’d snapped in the clearing, handing it over apologetically.

“Yes, this is what I feared,” she said, leading them past cabinets of fossils and taxidermied creatures. Lola would have happily spent the afternoon exploring and had to exert real effort to stay focused. Moira’s route arrived at an oddly-shaped glass cabinet, which started small at one end and then become progressively larger.

Lola leaned against the glass of the smaller end. “What is it?” Inside was the preserved carcass of some sort of large larvae or grub - Lola didn’t have the vocabulary. It looked like a caterpillar the size of her arm.

“It’s a kengto,” she said, emphasising each syllable. “It’s still found in some remote areas of Palinor, but is really very rare. It possesses the acidic traits you’ve described, softening its prey before consuming.”

“What about this one?” Clarke had moved ahead to the next part of the cabinet, which was slightly larger and contained a creature about the size of a dog like a retriever. It looked nothing like a dog, appearing far more reptilian, and decorated with spines rather than fur. The head was barely recognisable as such, sporting an ugly, multi-part jaw and multiple sets of eyes.

“That,” said the curator, “is also a kengto.” She pointed to the next section of the increasingly spacious cabinet, which displayed the skeleton of something which would have been as big as a pony. “As is that.”

Clarke frowned. “They all have the same name?”

“They are all the same creature, detective. The kengto is a metaphorph.”

“Like how caterpillars turn into butterflies,” Lola said.

“Yes, only much more dangerous.” She gestured at the cabinet. “We don’t have a complete record of a kengto’s life cycle here. They get much larger than what you’re seeing.”

“Alright,” Clarke said, his voice somehow even wearier than usual, “if we were in the hypothetical situation of having one of these things loose in London, what would you suggest?”

Moira places her hands on her hips and furrowed her brow, deep in thought. “The police won’t be able to handle this,” she said at last. “You’re going to need to bring in some outside help, and quickly.”

“Outside help?” Lola glanced over at Clarke, who shrugged. “What kind of outside help?”

“Monster hunters, detective. You need monster hunters.”