The Annihilation Score by Charles Stross

stunned. Her invisible assailant floats her slowly over the plinth, then lowers her atop the mound of bodies.
Oh shit. I hope she’s not dead.
I stand up and start to walk towards the middle of the square. This isn’t a gumshoe job anymore.
    â€œSorry, miss, you can’t go there. Turn around and go back. Stop right there!”
    I stop, because there’s not much point trying to walk right through the two-meter-tall slab of London’s finest who has just stepped in front of me. Looking past his shoulder I spot another couple of vans pulling up, cops in riot gear climbing out and forming a line facing outwards around the plinth, like a kettling in reverse.
    I pull out my warrant card and hold it where he can’t ignore it: “Take me to your incident controller.”
    â€œYou can’t—” He goes cross-eyed as the warrant card grabs his undivided attention and digs in. * “Er. You want Detective Chief Inspector Sullivan, boss, she’s over there.” He gestures. “Follow me.”
    *   *   *
    A big navy blue mobile command center is busily shoe-horning itself into a parking spot just round the corner in Pall Mall, and my guide leads me straight towards it. I’ve got my hands full with my instrument right now, which is a problem: I think I need to call in my own mobile support team. We approach the bus just as a knot of police officers converge on it. A short woman with a no-nonsense attitude is giving them marching orders. I’m about to raise my warrant card when she turns and stares at me and I recognize her. “Oh good,” says Josephine, “is this
your
mess?”
    â€œI don’t know, I only just got here.” I shrug, bow and fiddle in either hand. I feel calmer now that I’ve got a professional to work with. “Got a call an hour ago. When did it kick off?”
    â€œWait.” She turns to her posse. “Peeps, this is Dr. O’Brien. She works with us: give her what she asks for. Any questions, bring them to me. Now get moving.” If I were the praying kind, I’d think mywishes were answered. Jo Sullivan is one of our direct contacts within the Met; she’s worked with us, on and off, for longer than I’ve been doing field work. In fact, last time I saw her she was working for our Internal Affairs people. I suppose it was inevitable she’d rotate back into the regular force, given the number of paranormal events they must be handling these days. Anyway, if I’d been asked to name the cop I wanted to see in charge of this, she’d be at the top of my list.
    She turns back to me. “Seventy-eight minutes ago, body number one goes flying up to situationist art-show heaven. Male Australian backpacker, mid-twenties, best we can tell. Infrared camera on the chopper says they’re still warm and breathing but they’re not moving and whatever’s doing it likes its bananas peeled.” She glances at her tablet: “We’re up to a count of twelve bodies now, but nobody has any idea who or what is responsible. We sent up the bat-signal for Officer Friendly, but he’s not answering.”
    â€œOfficer Friendly?”
    She raises an eyebrow: “Haven’t met him yet? He’s one of ours: nominally he’s with ACPO, but they’re stretched too thin. Probably still tangled up in paperwork and witness statements from his last big call-out.” Her frustration is palpable: “I don’t want to have to cordon off Trafalgar Square, but if we can’t find the perp—”
    â€œWell. Let me put my kit down and I’ll see if the office knows anything.” We’re standing next to a van with open doors: I put Lecter and his bow on the front seat while I pull out my phone and dial. “Duty desk? O’Brien here. Can you put me through to whoever thought it was a good idea to send me over to Trafalgar Square without a plan?”
    â€œYes,