AI Detective Harlow Quinn’s sensible shoes crunched on a carpet of dust and grit that hadn’t been disturbed in decades. The air hung thick and stagnant, carrying the metallic tang of old machinery and something else, something faintly cloying, like overripe fruit. She’d seen her share of grim crime scenes, from blood-slicked alleys to the sterile interiors of posh flats, but this… this was different. She’d expected fluorescent lights of a London precinct, not the cavernous gloom of an abandoned Tube station. A single lamp, rigged overhead by the forensics team, cast a harsh circle of light on a scene that was, frankly, baffling.
Sergeant Miller, a burly man whose usual jollity was nowhere in evidence, knelt beside a chalk outline that seemed too neat, too precise for the chaos of a violent struggle. "Rough night, Detective," he grunted, not looking up . The cavern echoed his own weariness.
"Understatement, Miller." Harlow swept her gaze around the dilapidated platform. Graffiti, faded and chipped, snaked across the grimy tiles like ancient hieroglyphs. A discarded newspaper, brittle with age, lay plastered to the wall by some long-forgotten leak. "What are we dealing with here?"
"Body found this morning by some urban explorers," Miller replied, finally rising . He gestured to the chalk outline. "Victim’s a John Doe, as of yet. No ID on him, no wallet, no phone. Strangled with what looks like some kind of wire, ligature marks are deep." He paused, rubbing his chin . "Oddest thing is, there's no sign of a struggle. Boxed clean. And the place… locals call it the Veil Market, apparently. Underground black market for, you know, weird shit." He shot a nervous glance into the deeper shadows.
Harlow walked around the outline, her sharp eyes cataloging every detail. The train tracks, thick with debris, disappeared into an impenetrable darkness at either end of the platform. A rusted timetable, its purpose long obsolete, clung precariously to a support pillar. "Weird shit," she repeated, a flicker of a memory touching the edge of her consciousness. She’d heard whispers, dismissed as urban legend – a hidden market beneath the city, dealing in things best left undisturbed. And this location? It fit the rumour perfectly .
"Forensics are going over him now," Miller continued, his voice low . "But they’re not finding much. No prints, no DNA that doesn’t belong to him. Clean as a whistle, except for all the… grime." He gestured vaguely .
Harlow knelt at the head of the outline, her fingers hovering just above where the victim’s skull would have rested. The chalk line was crisp, impossibly so, given the unevenness of the concrete beneath. It was too perfect, as if drawn by a ruler. "No sign of a struggle, you say?"
"None. No scuff marks, no overturned debris. Just… placed there." Miller shrugged, his expression troubled .
Harlow frowned, her gaze scanning the surrounding area. Her eyes caught on a small, dark stain near what would have been the victim’s outstretched hand. It wasn’t blood. It had a different sheen, almost greasy. She reached for her evidence bag, then hesitated, her fingers tracing the outline of the stain with a fingertip. It felt faintly cool, almost sticky. "What’s this?"
Miller leaned closer. "Looks like… oil? Or some kind of lubricant. We bagged a sample."
"Lubricant for what?" Harlow murmured, her mind racing . A clean strangulation, no struggle, a body placed with theatrical precision, in an abandoned underground market… it didn’t add up to a simple mugging gone wrong. This felt staged. Or worse, ritualistic.
She rose and began a slow circuit of the platform, her senses on high alert. The oppressive silence of the station was broken only by the distant drip of water and the muffled sounds of the forensics team. Her military precision, honed over eighteen years of service, led her to notice things others might overlook. A faint scuff mark on the wall, too high for a person to have made in a struggle. A scattering of something that looked like fine, dark sand near a disused ticket booth.
"Anything else unusual, Miller?" she asked, turning back to him. Her worn leather watch , a constant companion, marked the slow passage of time.
Miller sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Just… the sheer oddity of it all, Guv. This place ain't exactly a tourist trap. And the body… why here? Why like this?"
Harlow didn't answer immediately. She was staring at the wall opposite the platform, her eyes narrowed . There, barely visible beneath a layer of grime and faded paint, was a symbol. It was faint, etched into the concrete itself, almost invisible unless you knew to look for it. It wasn't graffiti. It was deliberately carved. A jagged circle with three uneven lines radiating from the centre.
"What do you make of that symbol, Sergeant?" she asked, her voice calm, but with an edge of steel .
Miller squinted. "Damned if I know. Looks like some kid’s doodle."
"Kids don't carve symbols into concrete with this kind of precision," Harlow stated. She’d seen similar markings before, though never here. Never in a place like this. Her partner, DS Morris, had obsessively researched obscure symbols and cults. He’d shown her drawings, diagrams, his face alight with a fascination that, in hindsight, had foreshadowed his own tragic end.
She walked towards the symbol, her hand reaching out to trace its rough edges. The concrete felt different here, almost… warmer. A faint vibration seemed to hum beneath her fingertips. "This isn't a doodle, Miller. This is significant."
"Significant how?" Miller’s skepticism was a tangible thing in the heavy air.
"Think about it. A hidden market for illicit goods. A victim with no ID, killed in a way that suggests control rather than rage. And a symbol carved into the wall that isn't random. This isn't just a murder scene. This is a message." Harlow straightened, her gaze sweeping across the cavernous space again . Her mind, sharp and analytical, began to piece together fragments of half-remembered lore, of stories whispered in hushed tones.
"Message for who?" Miller asked, baffled .
"For those who understand," Harlow replied. She pulled out her mobile, the screen a jarring rectangle of light in the gloom . "I need a favour, Miller. I need someone who knows about… underground markets. And symbols. Someone who might understand what this means." She thought of Eva Kowalski, her childhood friend, the one who’d always been drawn to the strangest corners of history. Eva, with her master's degree from Oxford and her insatiable curiosity about the occult. Eva, who worked in the British Museum's restricted archives, a place where dusty tomes held secrets older than the city itself.
"I know someone," Harlow said, a slow smile finally touching her lips, a dangerous glint entering her eyes. "She owes me. And she’s always looking for a good puzzle." She began to dial, the ringing tone a sharp intrusion on the cemetery-like silence of the abandoned station. "If this is what I think it is, then we're not just dealing with a murder. We're dealing with something… much, much older."