Chapter Text
“Oh for FUCK’S SAKE!”
Some of the newer recruits to the Vauxhall Met Police Station flinch at the violent outburst from DI Davies’ office, but for the older hands, it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Officer O’Hanlon has a quiet chuckle next to the water cooler.
Inside the office, Chief Inspector Osman attempts to pacify his most senior DI.
“Listen, Greg, you know we have procedures to follow. I’m not trying to get in your way here, but-”
“I don’t want another damn rookie dogging my footsteps, shoving their nose in, asking endless inane bloody questions!” Greg steamrollers on.
“DI Davies.” Osman allows a hint of authority to creep into his voice. He’s found this will often get through to Greg when logic alone fails. (Behind his back, some of the officers call Detective Davies ‘FOA’… but never to his face.)
CI Richard Osman is fond of Greg, will look the other way from time to time when his slightly idiosyncratic methods might get another detective in trouble. Greg gets results when no one else can, and in many ways he’s a huge asset to the department.
He’s also, quite literally, a huge physical asset. There have been a number of occasions when Greg just showing up is enough to defuse a situation. And when they’re not on the clock, he’s a right good time and one hell of a laugh to boot.
“This is no rookie, Greg. She’s worked undercover on some of the toughest cases the CID has ever seen. Her track record speaks for itself.” He raises his eyebrows. “And, she certainly won’t take any shit from the likes of you.”
Greg blinks. He knows what Richard is referring to. His previous DC, one Katherine Parkinson, had perhaps taken his (usually playful) ribbing a bit to heart. He’d felt genuinely awful about that. He sighs. “Okay… bring her in, then.”
Chief Inspector Osman smiles. “Excellent! Ms. Robinson, please join us.”
A tall, lithe, and if we’re being honest, extremely attractive woman walks into Greg’s office. Dressed all in black, and with slightly wild dirty blonde hair, she certainly makes an impression.
She extends a hand to DI Davies. “Morgana.” Her voice is silky, and her eyes sparkle with mischief. Greg shakes her hand and offers her a seat.
“Right, I’ll leave it to you to fill Ms. Robinson in on where we’re at?” CI Osman asks Greg, who nods. He gets up and exits the office, ducking beneath the doorframe in a way Greg is all too familiar with himself.
Morgana pushes a folder towards Greg across the table. He appreciates her offering information from the CID up first, it sets a cooperative tone. Inside, there are several photographs, and an envelope with a red wax seal.
Greg’s heart gives a thud. He’s seen photos of the tasks The Assistant has delivered to those who owe him favours, but never actually held a real one himself.
“Where did you get this?” Greg breathes, lifting the envelope to examine the seal more closely.
“After many, many dead ends, we finally managed to make contact with someone who owed The Assistant a favour. A Mr. Robert Mortimer, goes by Bob. It wasn’t easy getting him to talk to us, I’ll tell you that. Funny chap, too, told us some crazy stories. All of which eventually turned out to be true.”
Morgana shrugs. “Nice bloke, really. Felt like he’d got in over his head. We convinced him we could keep him safe, get him into the protection system, and he handed this over.”
Greg has a sinking feeling. “I can’t help but notice you’re using the past tense there.”
“Yes,” Morgana sighs, “We lost him. The Assistant got him, and we haven’t seen him since. Like so many who don’t complete the tasks they’re assigned.”
Greg nods solemnly, “And the seal? TM?” he asks. These mysterious letters appear on every task, and no-one seems to have the foggiest idea what they mean. In the home office in Greg’s flat, he has several walls now papered with lists, musings, and blurry photos related to The Assistant case.
He very deliberately keeps the door to that room locked at all times. If anyone were to see it, they’d have him institutionalised for his own safety, and he wouldn’t blame them.
Morgana tosses her hair behind her shoulder. “No clue, sorry, he didn’t know.”
Greg starts to open the envelope. Before he can unfold it, Morgana reaches across the table and touches his arm. “I must warn you – this task is about you. That’s why I’m here.”
Greg’s eyebrows shoot up. This means The Assistant isn’t just aware of their department’s investigation, he’s aware of Greg personally - and that’s a chilling thought.
He opens the task, is greeted by the all-too-familiar font. From months of analysis, he knows the exact model of typewriter, a 1935 Underwood Universal.
At the top of the page is a simple message, obviously meant for Bob himself:
Deliver this message to Detective Inspector Gregory Daniel Davies, Vauxhall Metropolitan Police Station, London.
You have 48 hours.
Your time starts now.
Then a break in the page.
Hello, Greg. I’d very much like to meet You. :-)
Be at The Plum and Pigeon, next week Monday, 8pm sharp.
I feel I don’t need to remind You to come alone, etc., or I won’t be there.
Yours in anticipation,
The Assistant
Greg rereads the message a few times. He’s heard of the pub before, this Plum and Pigeon, but never been there. “Of course, there’s no chance he’ll show up now, knowing this task has fallen into the wrong hands.”
“Of course.” Morgana agrees, “We’ll have UCOs there just in case – but yes, extremely unlikely. Still, it gives us a starting point. There might be staff at the pub who know something, might be a place he’s done business before.”
Greg has to admit Morgana displays a level of cunning, could prove herself very useful. He gives her a genuine smile. “I like how you think. Let’s talk strategy.”
Morgana returns the smile, “And then…” she continues, with a twinkle in her eye, “Let’s catch the little fucker.”