AI "How long's it been, Quinn?" Davies looked up from the sigil etched into the wall. His face, half-hidden behind a camera, was shadowed , but the tiredness came through clear as a bell in his voice. "Things sure have changed."
Detective Harlow Quinn nodded as she stepped through the doorway. She wore her hair closely cropped, and a hint of salt-and-pepper betrayed her years in the force. At thirty-eight, she recalled the first time she'd sung sight of a ritualistic murder scene. Streamers of blood, geometric designs painted in viscera, reeking entrails twisted on a makeshift altar. Rene Davies and she had barely been detectives, a decade newer and younger, back then.
She glanced over Davies' shoulder, ran her eyes across the sigils. Patterns swirled, intertwined, spirals within circles, over a low landscape, twining breasts.
"They're not Greek." Quinn smiled with a nod . "Nor Latin, Squared."
Mycroft Davies rolled his eyes. "Well, whatever they're not, they're bleeding fresh. Like...Really fresh."
He pointed to a symbol, still dripping red.
Quinn went down on a knee, holding her hand beneath it, palm up.
"It's warm." She frowned, looked at Davies . "This was painted after she bled out. Before rigor set."
"It loks of shrunk to me," Davies shook his head . "And she doesn't have any visible head injuries."
Quinn snorted. "If she fell, her head must have bounced off a wall like a bumper car. She's bleeding from every facial orifice. Plus, SCG traces. No way she wasn't nailing this to the wall."
Davies shook his head . "But if she fell and her head bled on the floor, then...How did the symbol make it up on the wall?"
Quinn shrugged. "The wife was last seen yesterday morning, six hours before Malaysian Airlines 216 went down. The husband, Mr Gryphon, hasn't been at work since."
"Isn't that Italy's destiny?" Davies deadpanned.
"He's third generation Yorkshire. Wouldn't cross the Pennines for a field promotion, according to his boss. Poorer than a Yorkshireman, he is."
Quinn stood, grunting softly as she straightened her back.
Davies stayed down, arms across his knotty knees. "Throat was slit, right to left. Down and out. Skin under the blood is wet. And she's pale, Quinn. Really pale. Feet are bluing. Around the nipples and thighs, as well. The only place other than the face where she bled heavily is, well...the rest of a.k.a. the pool."
"Andboi, the smell." Quinn exhaled through her nose . "Like that timeSeven-Three hit the chemical factory."
"But not chemical. Not with her lacking any on main." Davies frowned. "Could be nerve agent, though. Slows the heart down to ahalt. Causes massive...organic failures."
"Fuck me." Quinn rubbed her temple . "So if Mr Gryphon didn't do it, it could be a suicide she'd painted a ritual into with this?" The iron reek made her nose hurt.
"And ritual suicide." Davies pointed at the symbols again. "No one saw her writing them. Unless it was a cult sacrifice and Gryphon really wasn't home...should we be in hazmat?"
Quinn rose to her feet, stretched her stiffness out with a military precision.
"Cup of tea first. Order some in a.m. And let's see what Forensics says." She frowned. "Howdy goes at Cameron's gallery today. I'm sure he'd like to know."
Of course, a cup of tea was not an actual possibility, given that they were still in Cornwall, at the dead of night, in an abandoned fishing parlor, crawling with Police who'd ever seen a scene like this. Hours of slogging through video tapes, lab work, waiting on next of kin, all that. Quinn leaned against the door frame, and took one last look round. Probably best not to trust anyone, he was right about their mate. Met him this afternoon, and he didn't mention a damn thing. While Gryphon did, and this little party happened almost in front of his gallery's front door. Shit, no. Shouldn't think like that.
"C'mon, Davies. Let's go recreate that last meal while we wait for this scene to wake up." She stepped out into the cool night, inhaling the tang of sea salt and fish. Pure contrast to the stench of that...room. "Why are we always eating around here?"
A raunchy meeting with one of the fished that showed up blood-drunk a'drunk on decent ale the whole sordid affair. Quinn hardly noticed. Something総是 afoot, and she was usually the only one who saw it. A veteran detective who'd survived being pointed a gun, saved a manic in the nick of time, and somehow still kept her sense of pq une une supply of humor in an age keen to lose 'em. "Perhaps it's my luck." Davies said wryly. "Or just the mayo. Have you noticed that whatever place mochi has sucks?"
Quinn shrugged. "Could be. What every happened to cheeseburgers?"
"I swear, cassette Scottish staff and can't stop," Davies grinned. "Sorry. That was racist."
"Not funny." Quinn stuffed his lip, and squinted out over the bustling street. "Idiots."
"They're just into it, Quinn. Brits like oddities."
"Ones that taste of mayonnaise and boneless battered whatnot, yes. Beats me." She kicked. "Told by you can make this pastry out of the blood, eh?"
Davies shuddered. "Sorry. Here." He handed her a plate of strange shrimp. "Fishy enough, but definitely edible."
"We're in Cornwall." Quinn kept her eyes. "No problem, I was wrong about the mayo."
Whatever. These kind of details are expensive as hell to print. Davies went over the conversation, each turn in the memory like stepping on fingers. With Quinn. The woman was impossible! Reliving the moment twisted in his head. Going over scenes, symbols, everything. Seeing her face when he made his, then having her tell him off. Year by year. Just like that, Davies shrugged, gone like that.
"You ready for that second swap, Teo?" Bam! There he was, "MR Qin."
Quinn winced. "Pete, please. No O.CTs today, alright? Let's wrap this scene and sit with the wife, see what she saw or heard. Don't care what make-up is, it gets off. Her. You asked, right?"
Davies nodded. He couldn't feel his hands. The water was cold, and they'd been scraping evidence for hours. Still, no stones had been unturned ...
"Nah come off it!" He laughed. "I don't even like it, blokes! It's a good job too, though. Wear your palmetto and your suit. Bring extra towels, Davies said, dry ones this time. And your deputy too, if you need him to."
"Got it." Behind them, blood dripped dark in the runoff. Down the drain. Past the drain. Davies snarked.
Quinn glanced back over her shoulder. Maybe it was weird to see a detective with a boxer dog in their front row. Still, Leo was one of them, now. Present and accounted for.
Davies shrugged. "He's ex-army too. Knows this game."
It looked like it hit the dog when that gun went off, during the meeting. Quiet as a mouse. Butluckily everything quieted down after, so Davies brought him along, and as Quinn exhaled a little smoke, happy for the balmy breeze, she understood: even a grumpy dog is better than no company at all.
They closed the lorry doors, locked it tight, left Detective Harlow Quinn with the worst damn alibi she'd ever sought, and the stench to match.
Davies scanned the scene one last time. His colleague's words echoed in his mind. "You sure about this one, PG?"
Quinn glanced at him, a knowing smile...
"Don't ever doubt me. Trust me."
The words seemed to carry the weight of time itself, accounting for all her years in service and scrutiny, experience and wisdom. She was one of the good ones, Davies knew. Just a bit stubborn.
He hefted his gear. "Getting snags on the hearse coming out, though. Care to do the honors?"
"Thought you'd never ask. Go."
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps this case would unfold in ways that he never could've imagined, with more layers and mystery than even his imaginative mind could conjure. Only time would reveal the truth.
For now, their reality was the warmth of a steaming cup of tea.
At The Baited Fish, Hove.
And Queens Hispanique.
Queens at the gates.
Davies stared at a display. He just joked about the old kids, their keepers, their time...
But no one laughed. The silence stretched out, as heavy as perhaps a statue for the imposed silence the nickers put on them.
Queens for the curve. Davies couldn't believe what he saw. When he saw them in person, no less.
Queens at The Gates.