Traffic on the A43 hadn’t moved in forty-seven minutes.
Miss Demeanour — Detective Inspector, Metropolitan Police — sat in the passenger seat of an unmarked police sedan, legs crossed at the ankles (no small feat in eight-inch braided black platform boots). Blue sequin coat, Union Jack picked out in sequins beneath the collar. White shirt with ruffles at the cuffs. Black tie. Leather trousers. Blonde wig brushed to the shoulder. A perfect pair of faux mink lashes. Three layers of MAC Studio Fix, and the kind of posture that made the entire vehicle feel underdressed.
She unscrewed the lid of a thermal mug. Dropped in four marshmallows, one by one. They bobbed on the surface of the matcha latte like tiny white lifeboats adrift on a terrible green sea.
From the driver’s seat, two round bright blue eyes regarded the contents of the mug. Sergeant Whiskers — officially Serial Unit 09 of the Metropolitan Police Autonomous Investigation Division, an AI-powered robot cat, though Miss Demeanour just called him Whisky — sat upright on a custom booster seat, his stubby grey paws resting on the steering wheel at a perfect ten-and-two. He was a British Shorthair model, ten kilos of dense, blue-grey plush covering a titanium-alloy frame, standing just under two feet tall on his hind legs. His ears, soft to the touch but packed with directional microphones, swivelled towards her.
“Miss Demeanour. May I offer an observation regarding the manner in which you take your marshmallows.”
“It’s fusion, darling.” She took a sip.
“Formula 1 is being held at Silverstone Circuit today. Current speed approximately five miles per hour. Estimated time to clear the queue: one hour and twelve minutes.”
“An HOUR?” Miss Demeanour set down the mug. “Whisky, darling, hit the sirens. Blues and twos. Now.”
Whisky blinked. Twice. That meant no.
“Section 87 of the Road Vehicles Regulations permits emergency signal use only when responding to an active incident. We are currently en route to a scheduled briefing. I cannot authorise—”
“You cannot.” She pulled out her compact. “Fine. Then I’ll contour.”
She was halfway through her right cheekbone when the radio crackled.
“All units — suspect vehicle heading southbound on A43, black SUV, index Papa-Foxtrot-Seven-Three. Armed suspect. Pursuit in progress. Requesting immediate support—”
Miss Demeanour looked up. Whisky looked up, his ears rotating forward in unison.
The southbound lane was the other side of the road. Coaches and campervans heading back to London had been watching the northbound queue with comfortable sympathy. Then they noticed their own lane was slowing. Something was coming up behind them. Everyone could feel it.
She could see it now. A black SUV, weaving through oncoming traffic at speed, blue lights flickering somewhere far behind it.
“Whisky.”
“I see it.”
“That’s an active incident.”
A pause. His ears flattened, then sprang back. The feline equivalent of a sigh.
“…Confirmed.”
Miss Demeanour was already out of the car.
She stepped onto the central reservation, blue sequin coat catching the wind, blonde wig immaculate, platform boots planted wide on the tarmac. She reached into her coat and drew her Glock 17. Held it low. Professional. Calm. The kind of calm that comes from seventeen years on the force and absolutely flawless foundation.
The vehicle was closing fast.
Three hundred metres.
Two hundred.
The driver saw her. Six foot two in heels, standing dead centre of the road, sequins blazing in the sunlight like some kind of unholy disco angel.
The SUV swerved. Tyres screamed. It skidded sideways and came to a stop thirty metres from her boots.
For a moment, nothing.
Then the driver’s door flew open and a man scrambled out. Forties. Ripped jeans. Black hoodie. Wild eyes. He did the only thing his panicked brain could think of: he ran towards the traffic jam.
Bad choice.
Miss Demeanour was fast. Absurdly fast. The platforms made a sound like gunshots on the asphalt — CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK — her coat flying behind her like a cape, the Glock holstered now because she didn’t need it, never really did for runners.
The man vaulted a bonnet. Miss Demeanour vaulted it faster.
He dodged between a Porsche and a campervan. She went over the Porsche. One hand on the roof, legs swinging, sequins scraping paint (sorry, mate) and landed on the other side before he’d even cleared the wing mirror.
She grabbed his collar. He went down.
Face on the tarmac. Hands behind his back. One knee, platform boot and all, between his shoulder blades.
“You. Are. Nicked.”
The traffic jam erupted. Car horns. Cheers. A family in a Volvo started clapping. Someone in a convertible was filming. A man in a BMW gave a standing ovation through his sunroof.
Whisky appeared beside her, having trotted the entire distance on his hind legs at a brisk, dignified pace, his grey plush coat completely unruffled. He was already transmitting the arrest coordinates to Dispatch, the tiny blue light behind his left ear pulsing steadily.
“Are you alright, Miss Demeanour?”
She stood up. Brushed off her coat. Checked the suspect’s cuffs. Straightened her wig.
Then she touched her right eye.
Her face went white. Well, whiter than the three layers of MAC Studio Fix already there.
“No.”
She touched it again.
“NO.”
She looked at the ground. There it was. One perfect faux mink lash, lying on the asphalt next to the suspect’s face like a tiny, glamorous crime scene of its own.
“MY LASH! I LOST MY LASH!”
The suspect, face still pressed to the road, whispered: “…Is she serious?”
“SHE IS DEADLY SERIOUS. DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG THESE TAKE TO APPLY? DO YOU?”
Blue lights everywhere now. Three patrol cars. An armed response vehicle. Officers pouring out, securing the scene, taking over the suspect.
A sergeant approached. “Incredible work, Detective. Absolutely incredible.”
“LOOK AT MY FACE. LOOK. One lash. ONE. I look like I’m having a stroke.”
Whisky stepped forward, his round face tilted upward, ears rotating precisely fifteen degrees, his version of clearing his throat.
“Miss Demeanour. Dispatch has confirmed the suspect is wanted in connection with a multi-million pound fraud case spanning three countries. Your arrest will be headline news. The briefing at Silverstone has been reassigned.”
She stared down at him.
“…And?”
“And we are now expected at New Scotland Yard in ninety minutes for a full debrief.”
Silence.
“Ninety minutes. To get to London. With ONE LASH.”
Whisky blinked.
“Shall I authorise blues and twos?”
She grabbed her compact.
“DRIVE.”
Whisky turned and trotted back towards the car on his hind legs, tail held high, ten kilos of titanium and plush moving with the quiet authority of a cat who had just been proven right about Section 87.
TO BE CONTINUED
Next Episode: “Chinatown after the rain. The suspect vanished on Dean Street.”
Today’s Miss Demeanour
- Coat: Blue sequin, Union Jack embroidered in sequins beneath the collar
- Shirt: White with ruffles at the cuffs
- Tie: Black
- Trousers: Leather
- Boots: Braided black platforms, eight-inch heels
- Wig: Blonde, shoulder-length
- Lashes: Faux mink (one lost in action)
- Foundation: MAC Studio Fix, three layers
“This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.”