Full Dark House by Christopher Fowler

where real officers gathered. There were no incident, briefing or custody rooms, no communal areas of any kind. There appeared to be a secure property room and some kind of makeshift crime lab, which was odd, because they were usually tucked away in separate offices far from public view, or buried inside much larger buildings where protection could be assured. Such places were primed with red steel alarm bells because tons of evidence, including cash, jewellery, guns and narcotics, passed through them. This unit was beside a busy police station, right on a crowded public thoroughfare, and didn’t appear to be protected in any way that he could see.
    ‘You won’t have seen a place like this before because we’re an experimental unit,’ Forthright explained, reading his mind, ‘and at the moment it’s a one-off. We’re a bit short of space but at least we’ve still got a roof over our heads. I’d take you to your office, duckie, but it’s full of tea chests.’
    The detective sergeant seated herself on the edge of Bryant’s battered desk and studied Davenport’s latest recruit. Tough-looking, sturdy, hair cropped too close to the head. It gave him the appearance of being carved from solid bone. She’d heard a lot about this young chap. He sounded too good to be true, or at least, too good for the unit. He didn’t say much but his small grey eyes took everything in, and he was already starting to unnerve her.
    ‘I’m sure your mates have warned you about Mr Bryant,’ she said, more to break the silence than for any purpose of imparting information. ‘He’s the unit’s big thinker. You’ve probably heard he’s a bit potty.’
    ‘Is he?’
    She paused to consider the idea. ‘Well, I suppose it depends upon your attitude towards clairvoyants, spiritualists, table-tappers and the like.’
    ‘Cranks and crackpots, society’s wastrels,’ said Biddle without hesitation.
    ‘Then yes, I reckon you’ll find he is a bit eccentric.’ Forthright sighed and looked at the floor, wondering if Bryant was on his way back yet.
    ‘I’m told he works long hours.’ Biddle crossed to the mantelpiece and studied the books piled there.
Common Folk Remedies. A Comprehensive History of Occult Practices. The Complete Mythology of the British Isles. The Everyman Book of Wartime First Aid.
The last one had several pages place-marked with playing cards, and in one case a haddock bone. He looked further along the shelf.
Unnatural Vices—Their Causes and Cures. The Third Sex. Fifty Thrifty Cheese Recipes. Nachtkultur and Metatropism. How to Spot German and Italian Aircraft.
A picture of a beautiful, melancholy woman looking out across the Thames at sunset, and a sepia print of a crazy-looking old lady, possibly Bryant’s grandmother, were balanced on top of a copy of
Whither Wicca? The Future of Pagan Cults
. What kind of madman read stuff like this?
    ‘He’s young, Mr Biddle. He doesn’t sleep much because he has a lot of energy and doesn’t want to miss anything.’
    ‘How old is he?’
    ‘Twenty-two, but don’t let his age fool you. When he’s awake and at the office he expects everyone else to be as well. You’ll soon get used to his funny ways.’
    ‘I was employed directly by Mr Davenport and ultimately report to him.’ Biddle looked around the shabby room and sniffed. Stale tobacco and something unhealthily perfumed. He sniffed again.
    ‘Incense,’ Forthright explained. ‘He reckons it helps him to concentrate.’ She folded her arms across her ample bosom. ‘If you think this is a step up to promotion, Mr Biddle, you can forget it. It’s a bleeding dead-end job.’
    ‘I’m not looking to make my name. I just want to see results achieved,’ Biddle told her.
    ‘Well, we all want to do our bit, I’m sure,’ Forthright agreed. ‘But if you keep an open mind, you can learn a lot.’
    ‘And Mr Bryant’s new partner is starting today? I’m surprised not to see him here.’
    Forthright found herself