Know Your Rites Read online

  Know Your Rites

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

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  18

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  36

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  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  To Karen and Christopher, who somehow still manage to put up with me.

  1

  What do you do, the week after you save the world? Inspector Nick Paris pondered the question as the elevator rose up the tower block. For most people, he guessed, going back to work wouldn’t be their preferred option. For him, however, it was a must. He’d spent seven days surrounded by mystical beings and the attendant media circus, and that was quite enough. He desperately wanted to get away, back to solving normal crimes with normal criminals. Admittedly, it had been nice at first, being made a fuss over and awarded medals. He now possessed the fairies’ Legion of Valour – plus the rock trolls’ Order of the Sacred Cabbage. He grimaced. The trolls meant well, but they really needed to work on their marketing.

  The elevator pinged as the doors opened onto the top floor. Paris stepped out to find a tastefully understated corridor and the somewhat more conspicuous sight of his assistant, Sergeant Bonetti. Almost two metres tall, with his rugby-honed muscles bulging beneath his jacket. Bigger than average for a person, yet still just a tiddler compared to the rock trolls. Quite big enough though, thought Paris. Human-sized police and human-sized problems were all he wanted right now.

  ‘Alright, Boss,’ called the sergeant. ‘Didn’t think you’d be doing detective work any more. Not now you’re a TV star.’

  Paris rolled his eyes as Bonetti lumbered towards him.

  ‘Hardly a TV star,’ he said. ‘I did a few interviews because I got ordered to.’

  ‘Well, now everybody knows about creatures from the magic world living in our one, everybody wants to talk to you. And you stopped the demon invasion. You’re an official hero. The wife even watched Newsnight specially, just so she could see you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, Boss. She says you’re getting fat.’

  Paris looked up at Bonetti’s childlike grin. Maybe the week after you save the world you were supposed to go to the gym.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘We’d better walk over to see what’s happened. I obviously need the exercise.’

  He strode along the corridor towards an open door with a constable standing by its side. Paris took in the scene beyond. An apartment filled with expensive-looking furniture. More officers and lab techs, dusting for prints and collecting evidence. And lying in the middle of the carpet, in a pool of blood, a body. A decidedly ordinary, normal human body, with no wings or war hammers or pointy ears to be seen. Bliss.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘What have we got?’

  Bonetti pointed into the room.

  ‘Dead body, Boss.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant. I’ve spotted him. What else?’

  ‘We’ve got a murder weapon. CCTV footage. A suspect in custody. And a confession.’

  The inspector frowned.

  ‘Doesn’t sound like there’s much detective work left to do. So why have we been brought in?’

  ‘Well,’ said Bonetti, ‘you haven’t seen the suspect.’

  Paris groaned.

  ‘Not magical creatures? Not again!’

  ‘Yes, Boss. Welcome back!’

  2

  Paris took a deep breath. Obviously regular crimes weren’t on the menu at the moment. Instead he had murder and magic, his least favourite combination since sprouts and curry. He stepped into the apartment.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, as he composed himself. ‘What do we know about the victim?’

  ‘Name’s Jay Ramirez,’ replied Bonetti. ‘Music producer. Twenty-eight. This is his flat.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Not even thirty. And he could afford the rent on this place! Plus the plasma screen TV, enormous leather sofa, high-end stereo system, paintings on every wall. We’re in the wrong job, Bonetti.’

  ‘Yes, Boss,’ said the sergeant. ‘But we’re not dead.’

  A smile played with the edge of Paris’s lips. For his assistant, that was almost deep.

  ‘True,’ he said. ‘Glass half full, eh?’

  ‘What glass, Boss?’

  Paris’s smile disappeared. About as deep as a puddle. Discussions around philosophy would have to wait until he found someone who could spell it. Or even spell “puddle”.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘We’ve arrested somebody from the mystic world?’

  ‘Yes, Boss. Bang to rights he was too.’

  ‘So you said. Where is he?’

  Bonetti gestured towards a door on the other side of the room.

  ‘In the kitchen.’

  Paris moved to go, then paused.

  ‘More important question. What is he?’

  ‘He’s a dwarf,’ replied the sergeant.

  The inspector nodded. ‘Good. At least it’s not some new kind of weirdness. It’s someone the same as we’ve dealt with before.’

  ‘Well,’ said Bonetti. ‘He is the same. Only different.’

  ‘What do you mean? Is he like a three-metre-tall dwarf?’

  ‘No, Boss. He’s as little as all the others. He’s just… different.’

  Paris gave Bonetti a disparaging look. He set off across the room, stepping carefully around the dead body and the crime lab boys. Never mind philosophy, trying to get sense out of his sergeant was bad enough. What the hell was he on about now? Over the past few weeks they’d met plenty of dwarves, and their menfolk were much of a muchness: short and stocky, with a thick mop of hair plus a big, bushy beard. The ones who lived in the magic world wore leather tunics above their breeches, while those who had moved to this world preferred hoodies with the sleeves cut off. That fashion quirk aside, they were all more or less identikit.

  Until now.

  The suspect was sitting at the kitchen table, with his legs dangling in the air. He did indeed seem to be the appropriate height, with the usual barrel chest and muscular arms. Except that his beefy body sported an enormous gold medallion on top of a white Armani T-shirt. His hair lay hidden beneath a back-to-front baseball cap. And his beard had been trimmed into a goatee.

  Paris stood in the kitchen doorway, weighing up this strange apparition. He knew dwarves loved to party. He didn’t know they did fancy dress.

  The suspect looked up.

  ‘Yo!’ he shouted. ‘Is da main man!’

  Paris narrowed his eyes. The standard lilting dwarf voice had been swapped for something much louder and more aggressive. And which was doing a really bad impression of a Los Angeles gang member.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

  ‘Is de inspector, innit?’ bellowed the dwarf. ‘Gimme five, bro!’

  He grinned, holding up his right hand to be slapped. His
handcuffs meant the left arm had to come up as well, hanging in the air like an unwilling participant. Paris eyed the chunky digits warily, keeping his own hands fixed down by his side. They were certainly not joining in.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got the foggiest idea what you’re talking about, and I’m pretty sure you don’t either. So can we have a proper conversation using proper sentences?’

  The dwarf lowered his arms. He stared at the tabletop.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Parrots,’ he mumbled.

  Paris felt a quiet sense of satisfaction. Being “The Man Who Stopped The Demons” earned him recognition and a fair amount of respect from all mystical creatures. Even if this particular one still had the usual irritating dwarven habit of mispronouncing his surname.

  He stepped into the kitchen, nodding a greeting to the constable on guard duty as he surveyed the area. The immaculate white work surfaces were as expensive and gadget-filled as the living room. Definitely in the wrong job, he decided.

  He sat down opposite the suspect, resting his arms on the table.

  ‘I’m Inspector Paris,’ he said, ‘as you obviously know. And you are?’

  The dwarf raised his head.

  ‘Dirk,’ he replied. ‘Dirk Stonesmasher.’

  ‘Okay, Dirk. I need to ask you what happened here. But first, do you want to tell me why you’re wearing these clothes? And why you were talking like that?’

  Dirk shrugged.

  ‘It’s how everyone else looks. And I know I can’t do the talk like what they do; when I try it don’t come out right. But nobody minds, ’cos it’s just another part of my image.’

  Paris frowned.

  ‘You’re talking in proper sentences now, only I still don’t understand what you’re telling me. What “image”? Who is everyone else?’

  ‘The other guys. The posse. This is what I do, Mr Parrots. I’m a rapper.’

  ‘What?’

  The dwarf’s hands shot up, with both index fingers pointing out like pistols.

  ‘Listen up yo, ’cos the name’s Big D. I’m not very big: that’s irony.’ He beamed. ‘What do you think?’

  Paris stared back, dumbfounded. Murder, magic and now rap music. Oh joy.

  The sound of applause grabbed his attention. He turned to see Bonetti grinning away like an idiot.

  ‘That’s good, that is,’ said the sergeant. ‘Proper talent!’

  ‘I haven’t got a deal yet,’ said Dirk. ‘But watch this space. I’m going to be massive!’

  Paris turned back to face the dwarf. He considered commenting on the previous sentence, then decided not to bother. It would be almost as useful as discussing philosophy with Bonetti.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Before you get too carried away, can we talk about what happened last night? I think it might put your music career on hold for a while.’

  ‘But that’s why I’m here, Mr Parrots. Jay is my producer, see. He’s helping me get started as a rapper. I been staying in the spare bedroom while we sort things out.’

  ‘So he’s a friend. What happened next?’

  Dirk shuffled round on his seat. He peered gloomily at the tabletop again.

  ‘We were having a few beers and a laugh. Then we had a few more beers. Then we got into an argument about what direction my music was going. It’s what us creative types call “artistic differences”.’

  Call it what you like, thought Paris. I’d call it a motive, on top of all the evidence.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘After that everything is a bit fuzzy. Next thing I know is the policemen banging on the door. I wake up on the floor holding a knife, and Jay was lying next to me, dead.’

  Dirk raised his head.

  ‘There was nobody else here, Mr Parrots. So I must have done it. But I don’t remember.’

  Paris’s mobile rang before he could ask anything else. Taking it from his pocket, he saw Chief Constable Pemberton’s name displayed. He groaned.

  ‘Excuse me a minute,’ he said, as he stood up. ‘I’d better take this.’

  Bonetti leant past him, towards Dirk. Good man, thought Paris. Offer him some words of comfort.

  ‘While the Boss is gone,’ said Bonetti, ‘can you do some more rapping?’

  Paris shook his head as he went back into the living room. He lifted the phone to his ear.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You’re at the crime scene?’ said Pemberton.

  ‘Yeah. Not quite what I expected for my first case back.’

  ‘No, but you’re the man for the job, Paris. You have to handle this one.’

  ‘There isn’t a great deal to handle really. It’s pretty much open and shut.’

  ‘Good. You’re not there to spend lots of time investigating this particular magic creature. You’re there to deal with the rest of them.’

  Paris frowned at the phone. ‘Come again?’

  ‘You might be aware,’ said Pemberton, ‘that the British government are trying to build good relations with the mystic world. Post-Brexit, we need all the trade partners we can get. We don’t want a dead body screwing things up. The magical creatures trust you, so you’ve got to sort things out with them. I want justice to be done and seen to be done, without disrupting the negotiations with our new friends. Understand?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Good man. I’m counting on you.’

  The chief constable ended the call before Paris could reply. He stared at the now silent phone, while listening to a dwarf making terrible rhymes in the kitchen. Murder, magic, rap music and politics. All things considered, he’d rather have curried sprouts.

  3

  Paris leant forward, resting his arms on his desk.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘That’s the situation. What do you think?’

  The two visitors exchanged a glance. Paris weighed up his own position while he waited for their response. He’d just given a briefing in the standard manner he used to tell his team about a new case, delivered in an office which was almost the definition of unremarkable. All very ordinary. Except that the subject of the briefing was ever so slightly unusual. And the visitors receiving it were very unusual indeed.

  In the chair opposite him sat Tergil, elven warrior and expert on relations between the magical races. On the desk itself stood Malbus, the talking crow from the mystic world police force. Paris watched them, finding himself surprised by how unsurprised he felt. An elven warrior! A talking crow! Was this what getting back to normal meant for him these days? They’d both fought in the battle against the demons, and now Paris required their assistance again. So here he sat, talking to two beings who were decidedly not normal, two of the most colourful characters in the station, while wishing he didn’t have to. In his book “colourful” meant weird and liable to cause problems. You knew where you were with dull.

  His eyes flicked around his office. Two filing cabinets stuffed with papers, a bookcase held up by a lump of wood, a desktop empty apart from a notepad and a lamp, the chair across the desk from him, and a two-seater couch that had seen better days. Hell’s bells, thought Paris. This is dull.

  Tergil shifted his position on his seat.

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘this may be an extremely complicated situation.’

  Paris studied him, with those enormous pointy ears displayed against the neat blonde hair. Apart from the lugholes, this erudite, well-spoken elf could easily pass for human. He had the right features and was only a tad shorter than an average man. He appeared to be developing the human gift for understatement too.

  ‘No kidding,’ said Paris. ‘The British government wants to trade with your world. Only when the British public hear “magic creatures”, they remember what they’ve seen on the news recently: demons running round killing soldiers. If we tell them a magic creature has murdered someone there’ll be uproar.’

  ‘Works the other way and all,’ said Malbus in his cockney drawl. ‘Folks in our world wanna trade with hum
ans, since you’ve got lots of things we can’t make. But the same folks might be nervy about humans, ’cos we remember years of being treated bad. A dwarf – or anybody – getting arrested ain’t gonna make no one feel any better.’

  Paris looked at the bird. Jet black, beady eyes, usual size; a perfectly ordinary crow, you would imagine. Until he started to talk. Which he did, constantly. Paris still found it hard to see him as an inspector in the magic police force. Most of the time it was hard to see him as anything except an irritating pain in the bum. Especially at the moment, with a lit cigarette clamped in his beak. One of Paris’s cigarettes, of course. A special dispensation had been made, just in the station, allowing Malbus to smoke indoors while Paris himself had to hang around outside the back door with the other mere mortals. Very irritating.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit of a mess, so I’ve been lumbered with fixing it. The order came straight from the top – Chief Constable Godfrey Pemberton himself. But I can’t do it on my own. You folks helped me beat the Vanethria, and I’m going to need your help again. You two, plus everyone else who was involved. We’re putting the band back together. I’m on a mission from Godfrey.’

  Malbus blew out a smoke ring. Paris sniffed the air enviously.

  ‘Dirk’s got it all wrong here,’ said the crow. ‘Shouldn’t be like this. First rule for anyone who comes through to this world is keep outta sight of humans. You don’t do singing concerts with them.’

  ‘Seems as if he doesn’t know the rules,’ said Paris. ‘Although I’m surprised we managed to arrest Dirk anyway. Didn’t expect to find him in the apartment. I thought your team were here to keep magical creatures hidden from us?’

  ‘Damn right,’ replied the crow. ‘Only we can’t do nothing if nobody tells us. See, here’s the deal. When someone comes from our world they get told the drill. First rule: like what I just told you. Second rule: you get in any kind of trouble, there’s a number to ring. My guys come and sort it out.’

  Paris frowned. ‘You’ve got a call centre?’

  ‘Yeah. Course we do. It’s in Birmingham.’

  Paris deliberated. It wasn’t any dafter than most things over the past few weeks. Unfortunately.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘So what happened this time?’