9. City of Westminster
Bobbie Beadle’s alarm buzzed. Her hand flailed out to hit the snooze button, and missed. Groaning, she forced her sleep-filled eyes open. In the pre-dawn darkness, she could see little more than the glowing green digits on her bedside clock.
Although she desperately wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, she reluctantly pushed back her duvet and sat up. After little more than four hours sleep, she was tired and confused. She had dreamt of witches flying on broomsticks and of a sallow-faced blond man pointing a magic wand at her.
Rubbing the hard crusts of sleep from her eyes, Bobbie shook her head despairingly and made a desperate wish. ‘It was all a dream,’ she said. ‘It was all a dream!’
Sighing, she fumbled for her bedside light and switched it on. Her memories of the previous night’s events remained worryingly real. As she blinked in the sudden brightness she warily looked down at her bedside table. Propped up against her warrant card lay the business card she’d been given by Harry Potter.
Bobbie picked it up and examined it carefully. In most ways it was like any other business card--a white rectangle the size of a credit card. To the right was the Home Office crest. To the left were the words: Harry Potter, Auror Office, Westminster, LONDON, Telephone: 28767 633423.
Disorientated, she gasped for breath. It was an Oz moment; she had been picked up by a tornado and dropped into a strange new world, but there were no ruby slippers to take her home. There was no room for doubt. The card confirmed that her impossible memories of the previous night were real. Her hand shook.
‘Damn,’ she said.
As she looked at the unusual arrangement of the numbers, something struck her. She picked up the telephone handset next to her bed and checked the numbers. She was right!
‘I don’t believe it,’ she told the empty room.
She was tempted to ring, just to see what would happen, to see if the Auror Office was manned twenty-four hours a day. The phone was in her hand, but she knew that, even if she’d really wanted to ring, she didn’t have time. Her clock showed 5:15, she needed to move quickly.
Forcing herself out of bed, Bobbie staggered through to her kitchen, put a fresh filter in her coffee machine, and filled it with almost double her usual amount of coffee grounds. After setting the machine going, she had a very quick shower.
Cooling the strong coffee with copious quantities of cold milk, she gulped it down while getting dressed. Just before leaving, she carefully slid the card Harry had given her into her wallet, behind her warrant card.
It was still dark as she drove into Belgravia. The streets were filled with the usual mixture of night owls and early birds. Street sweepers and refuse vehicles removed the waste from the city’s streets, while taxis took the last of the late night revellers home. As she drove, Bobbie almost managed to convince herself that it was going to be just another ordinary day at work.
Unfortunately, the moment she entered the station, her hopes for routine and normality were dashed. She’d only just got in through the door when she was warned.
‘You’ve got a complaint against you,’ her friend Tracey Twigg hissed as Bobbie hurried into the locker room. ‘Anonymous tip, it was phoned in last night at about eight.’
‘Thanks, Trace,’ said Bobbie as her fellow constable left.
Bobbie’s heart sank. She’d been due to meet Godley at seven the previous evening. She couldn’t be certain, but it seemed likely that the oily creep had waited an hour and then phoned in a complaint. A complaint, even an anonymous one, meant an interview with the duty Inspector. Her heart beating rapidly, Bobbie changed into her uniform and went to report to the duty sergeant. With the dry and ponderous cynicism of a man who had heard every excuse, he formally told her about the complaint, registered her lack of surprise, and ordered her to Inspector Dawson’s office, where she spent the next hour.
Dawson was a huge man, bigger even than Fatty Abberline. His belly spilled over his belt, his top lip was constantly sweating, and his double chins each supported double chins of their own. The interview was a disaster. Bobbie’s head was still reeling from the impossible events of the previous evening. That, coupled with only four hours sleep, meant that she’d been unable to do anything other than flatly deny the preposterous accusations that had been made. The anonymous caller had claimed that she’d been having an affair with the American, McCoy. Apparently, instead of being on patrol, she’d been in bed with him when he died of a heart attack. That was dereliction of duty. She had then supposedly concocted the burglary story to cover herself, and to provide an excuse should her fingerprints or DNA be discovered inside the property.
Bobbie’s simple denials were not enough for Dawson. When the interview was over, he assigned her station duties for the day, and warned her that he would have to take matters further. To prove his point, he made her wait in his office as he made the telephone call to the Complaints Investigation Branch.
As she sat silently at her desk trying to concentrate on the routine case file she’d been assigned, Bobbie began to worry about the report and about the CIB investigation. What if it wasn’t Godley? What if it was Potter? Perhaps he and his spooks had set her up.
Her tired mind was a seething mass of uncertainty and paranoia until Detective Inspector Godley looked into the office. He didn’t say anything to her; he merely smirked knowingly and whispered something to his companion, a red-faced Detective Sergeant whose name Bobbie couldn’t remember. The sergeant gave a harsh laugh, and Bobbie’s doubts vanished. She was immediately certain that Godley, not Potter, was the instigator of the complaint.
No one in the office was talking to her. She recognised the signs. Everyone knew that she was under formal investigation and no doubt the rumour mill would be working overtime. The accusations against her were probably already common knowledge. Tracey Twigg walked into the room, a thick file in her hand. She caught Bobbie’s eye as she strolled slowly past on the way to her own desk.
‘Full enquiry, locker search,’ she whispered under her breath, confirming Bobbie’s suspicions. Tracey didn’t even slow down. Bobbie didn’t blame her. Until the complaint was resolved, everyone would be professional and very formal.
Her locker! The second envelope containing copies of the photographs, her back-up plan, were all still in her locker. Bobbie knew that there was no way she would be allowed to go near it. But she had to do something. Harry Potter was the key to the case. He knew more, much more, than Godley and his team. Even if she’d trusted Godley, telling him what she knew--what had happened last night--would simply result in her being sent for a psychological evaluation. And that would stay on her record forever.
She had to trust someone, and her choice was Potter, or Dawson and Godley. The decision was easy. Everyone watched as she stood and left the office. Godley, who was standing in the corridor and looking smug, began to follow her. She went to the ladies’ toilet, locked herself in a cubicle, pulled out her mobile phone, and dialled the number Potter had given her. She didn’t even need to look at his card.
‘Auror Office,’ said the female voice that answered the phone. ‘How may we help?’
‘My name is Bobbie Beadle. I need to speak to Harry Potter. It’s urgent,’ Bobbie whispered.
There was a short pause. ‘I’m afraid that Mr Potter is unavailable,’ the voice said evenly.
The search could take place at any moment; Bobbie knew that she had no time to waste talking to a receptionist. She checked her watch. It was a few minutes after nine o’clock.
‘I know, he told me. He’s with the Minister for Magic; they’re probably talking about me,’ Bobbie told the woman. She was rewarded by a surprised intake of breath from the other end of the line. ‘Tell him that DI Godley has dropped me in it. I’m under investigation, threatened with a locker search. Tell him that if he wants to keep things quiet, he needs to get my locker emptied, now!’
‘I will pass your message to Mr Potter when he is available,’ said the woman evenly.
‘Not good enough. If you can’t tell Harry Potter, tell Ron Weasley and do it now!’ Bobbie ordered, using her –I’m a copper--do as you’re told†voice.
‘Yes, madam,’ the voice said worriedly. ‘Please wait.’
There was silence. It was a complete silence; there was no annoying music, no recorded apologies for being put on hold, not even the usual background crackles and hisses of a telephone line. Bobbie listened to the nothingness and wondered if she’d been cut off. She checked her watch and was debating whether she should hang up and redial when the woman returned.
‘Mr Weasley is not in the office today. Mr Potter is sending someone over immediately, goodbye,’ the voice said.
The phone was instantly disconnected.
Bobbie flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and returned to her desk. She sat down and once again picked up the crime report she’d been asked to deal with, but she couldn’t concentrate on it. Instead, she wondered where the Auror Office was located and how long it would take for them to get someone to the station. The answer, she discovered only a few minutes later, was not long at all.
The office door opened again, and duty Inspector Dawson walked in. Bobbie was worried. She was convinced that CIB had arrived, and that they were about to take her to her locker. When she saw the three young women following Dawson into the room, she breathed a sigh of relief. Two of them were very young, barely out of their teens. The other was several years older. Because of the photographs she’d discovered, Bobbie could name one of the three, and she recognised a second, the blonde.
The woman immediately behind Dawson was the eldest of the trio, and she was the unknown. She was tall, dark haired, and muscular. The sides of her head were shaved and her hair was swept up into spikes. She had several studs in each ear and a tattoo inside the left one. Bobbie estimated her to be in her mid to late twenties, although, because of the make-up, it was difficult to be certain. Her square and serious face was almost chalk white, her lips crimson, and her eyes lined in black. The woman stared dismissively around the room.
The second was a slender and willowy blonde with a dimple on her chin. Her shoulder length hair was parted on the left; it swept over her right eye, partly covering it and was tied back in a tight and severe looking bun. The blonde’s eyes were a piercing pale blue and she wore little or no makeup. She was actually a couple of inches shorter than the first woman, but the height difference evened out by the fact that she wore black stilettos, whereas the goth wore Dr Marten boots. The blonde looked serious, severe, and aloof.
The third girl had curly brown hair several inches longer than that of her companions’, and her eyes were an unusual violet colour. She was curvier than her colleagues and she dressed to her strengths. Instantly recognisable from the photographs in Bobbie’s locker, she was the shortest by a couple of inches. But she wore opera shoes, making her appear tiny alongside her colleagues. She grinned mischievously, her eyes darting around the room, stopping momentarily on two of the best looking males.
All three women carried black coats. All wore white short-sleeved blouses, grey cravats, and black skirts. The coats they carried were identical to those worn by Potter and Weasley at the crime scene. The photographer, Gray, had worn a similar coat plus the blouse and cravat. Bobbie was left in no doubt that the trio were from the Auror Office.
The goth’s right arm was tattooed from wrist to, presumably, shoulder. It was impossible to be certain because the colourful dragon tattoo disappeared under her sleeve. Her skirt was long, calf length, revealing only a few inches of fishnet between boot and hem. The blonde’s skirt was a couple of inches above her knee. Brown’s skirt was several inches shorter than the blonde’s, short enough to be very interesting to the males in the room. Her blouse had the top three buttons unfastened, too.
The office had fallen silent the moment the girls walked in. It was that special, lust-filled, appraising silence reserved for those special occasions when even moderately attractive young women enter an office filled almost entirely by middle-aged men. The silence lasted only seconds before it was replaced by a susurrus of low talk, which rippled and echoed around the room as the three young newcomers were compared, assessed, and remarks--both approving and disparaging--were made.
‘Constable Beadle,’ Inspector Dawson began. ‘These are…’
‘Polly Protheroe,’ the Goth introduced herself, holding out a hand and smiling. ‘These are my colleagues, Susan Bones and …’
‘Lavender Brown,’ Bobbie finished. The three girls looked at her in surprise.
‘Bloody hell!’ Protheroe said. ‘Harry told us you were good. It looks like he was right.’ She turned to address Dawson, who looked nervous. ‘Inspector, we’ll need to escort Constable Beadle to her locker.’
‘You?’ Detective Inspector Godley had followed the three young women into the room. ‘You can’t allow that, Dawson. This is a disciplinary matter.’ He glared at Bobbie.
‘Us,’ Lavender Brown smiled sweetly at him. ‘You must be Inspector Godley.’
‘Heard of me, have you, darlin’?’ Godley grinned lecherously.
‘Oh yes,’ Lavender’s smile turned suddenly wolfish. ‘I’d get back to your office, if I were you; big Terry is looking for you.’
‘I had the Commissioner’s office on the phone when this lot arrived, George.’ Inspector Dawson spoke slowly and softly. Nervous sweat glistened on his forehead. ‘There were four of them. The other one wanted to know where your office was. He...’
As if on cue, a large hand appeared on Godley’s shoulder.
‘Terry Boot.’ The voice of the owner of the hand was a deep rumble. ‘I need to speak to you, Inspector.’ The man spoke slowly and very carefully. Bobbie saw a flicker of amusement on Lavender’s face as she watched Terry. It was as if Lavender was enjoying a performance. Bobbie was immediately uncertain whether any, or all of those aspects of his speech, were also characteristic of the man, but he certainly appeared to be ponderous and slow.
Terry was a couple of inches over six feet in height and so broad at the shoulder that he almost filled the doorway. He was jug-eared and flat featured. Despite his relative youth, his hair was receding, giving him a pronounced widow’s peak. The burly young man wore the same uniform that Bobbie had seen on Harry and Ron.
Godley turned to see who had grabbed his shoulder, made a feeble squeak of surprise when he saw the big man, and slumped a little. Bobbie failed to suppress a smile.
‘There won’t be any trouble, will there?’ Protheroe asked Godley. ‘Terry doesn’t like trouble, do you, Terry?’
Terry shrugged. ‘Don’t mind,’ he grumbled. He paused in thought. ‘Don’t like the paperwork that follows!’ he added.
‘Susan, Lavender, take Constable Beadle to her locker and clear it, then take her to the Ministry,’ Protheroe ordered. ‘Terry and I will speak to Inspector Godley.’
Susan Bones opened the envelope, pulled out the photographs, and gasped. Lavender peered excitedly over her shoulder.
‘The Muggles have got photographs and names,’ Susan said, her face pinched in disapproval. ‘Every member of the DA is on these photographs somewhere! And a Muggle police woman found them!’
‘Hey, I’m standing right here, you know!’ Bobbie protested. ‘And it’s police constable, not police woman.’
‘I hated that bloody wheelchair,’ said Lavender, staring at one of the images. ‘Once the Healers were sure I’d make a full recovery, I used a Blasting spell on the bloody thing, reduced it to dust! Hey look, there’s Hannah, and she’s so obviously mooning over Nev! And that’s… Hey, don’t snatch!’
Susan pointedly pushed the photographs back into the envelope. ‘We’re working, remember,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a job to do! We’re on a tight schedule; we need to take her to the Ministry.’
‘Her! She’s called Bobbie! Don’t be so rude and grumpy, Susan,’ said Lavender, squaring up to her companion.
‘Do I have time to change?’ Bobbie asked in an attempt to stop an argument. Lavender glared and pouted, but said nothing. It seemed that she’d decided to sulk.
‘No,’ said Susan. ‘Empty your locker, Bobbie. Take everything.’
‘Even my stab vest and equipment?’ Bobbie asked.
‘Harry said, –clear the locker,†so that means everything,’ said Susan firmly.
Bobbie pulled on the vest, and then put on her duty belt. If the two watching women were prepared to let her wear her equipment, she wasn’t going to refuse. The weight of the baton on her hip was certainly a comfort to her. Picking up her reinforced bowler, she carefully placed it on her head.
‘I’m ready. Where’s your car?’ Bobbie asked.
‘Car?’ asked Susan.
‘We Apparated here,’ said Lavender. ‘Apparating is…’
‘I know what it is,’ Bobbie interrupted. ‘Harry told me. He thinks that the noise I heard at the crime scene was someone Apparating away.’
‘He told you? It’s no wonder he’s in trouble,’ Lavender observed. She turned to her blonde companion. ‘Do you think that we could take her by Side-along, Susan?’
‘I don’t know,’ the blonde said. ‘I don’t know whether a Muggle would survive Apparition.’
‘My car is in the station car park,’ Bobbie suggested hastily. ‘I can drive there.’
‘A trip in a Muggle car!’ Lavender clapped her hands in excitement. ‘Let’s do it, Susan. It will take Polly and Terry a while to clear up here.’
‘I suppose that it will be safest for her… for you, Bobbie,’ said Susan. ‘Have we got everything? You don’t have any more photographs hidden anywhere?’
‘There’s an identical envelope in my car,’ said Bobbie as she hastily pushed her civilian clothes into a plastic bag. ‘But none of them are the originals. The newspaper office I visited has all of these photographs, and more.’
Both women were constantly on alert as Bobbie guided them through the station. Susan stayed alongside her, and Lavender brought up the rear. Susan’s head turned to every open door, and her left hand remained inside her coat pocket at all times. As they approached the exit, the sergeant looked up from his computer and stared.
Bobbie slowed. ‘I’m logged in and on duty,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll have to tell the sergeant where I’m going, and who you are. What do I say?’
‘Tell him we’re…’ Susan’s forehead furrowed; she stopped and pulled out a black leather wallet. Lavender moved alongside Bobbie, grabbed her arm, and continued towards the desk, and the still staring Duty Sergeant.
‘I’m Lavender Brown, and that’s Susan Bones,’ said Lavender, jerking a thumb over her shoulder as she marched towards the desk. She didn’t break her stride. ‘We’re with the Auror Office; it’s a Special Intelligence Division of the Home Office. Constable Beadle has important information for us. We’re taking her back to Headquarters. If you need to check with your superiors, Inspector… that fat man…’ Lavender glanced at Bobbie.
‘Inspector Dawson,’ Bobbie provided.
‘Inspector Dawson has all the details, ask him,’ Lavender continued seamlessly. She slowed and looked dismissively over her shoulder. ‘Come along, Bones, show him your identity card and get a move on! We’re on a tight schedule, remember!’
As they walked out through the steel door and into the car park, Susan’s face was pinched in annoyance.
‘Confidence,’ said Lavender smugly. ‘Make up a story, remember it, and stick to it. Ron and George made these cards for Harry, and us. I don’t even know what the Home Office is, Susan, but you should know who you work for! You shouldn’t have to dig out a card to remind yourself.’
‘Deception obviously comes naturally to you,’ said Susan waspishly.
‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Bobbie. ‘What is it with you two? You’re supposed to be professionals!’
‘True,’ Susan admitted as she walked through the car park. ‘I told Robards I couldn’t work with her, but he put us together anyway.’
‘He’s a miserable old sod who likes to make other people miserable,’ Lavender observed. ‘You should have begged him to allow you to work with me. That would’ve kept us apart. But I thought we were friends, Susan. I’m only trying to help, you know.’
‘I can be friends with someone and not want to work with them, Lavender.’ Susan sighed. ‘But you’re right. You did a good job of pretending, better than me. You know that I rarely visit the Muggle world. I was uncertain, nervous. It won’t happen again.’ As she spoke, there was a steely determination in the blonde’s ice-blue eyes.
Bobbie thumbed the remote and unlocked her car. As she climbed into the driver’s seat, she was astonished to discover that the blonde Auror was struggling to open the passenger door. She leaned over to open it, and then had to explain how to lift the seat. After a brief discussion, Lavender reluctantly clambered into the back of the car and Susan settled herself alongside Bobbie. Then Bobbie discovered that neither of them could fasten a seatbelt, either.
‘It’s the law!’ said Bobbie, silencing Lavender’s protests. ‘And I’m a police officer! We aren’t moving until you two have fastened those belts. I didn’t have this trouble with Harry and Ginny!’ She leaned into the back of her Ka and fastened Lavender’s seatbelt for her. ‘At last! Now, where are we going?’
‘The Ministry of Magic. There’s an entrance just off Strand,’ said Susan. ‘I’m not sure how far it is from here.’
‘It’s only a ten minute drive,’ said Bobbie as she pulled out into the traffic. ‘I know the area. I went to Charing Cross nick straight from Hendon. It was my first posting.’ She paused. ‘But the Ministry of Magic wasn’t on the list of government buildings. I wonder why!’
Lavender laughed. ‘I like you!’ she announced. Bobbie glanced at the girl and realised that, if the opposite were true, Lavender would have told her so.
Bobbie drove past Victoria Station, and then on to The Mall. As she drove, she kept glancing at her passengers. Susan was extremely tense. She sat bolt upright in the passenger seat, and she reached into her pocket every time an oncoming car strayed close to the white line running down the middle of the road. Lavender, on the other hand, was looking around the inside of the car, examining everything.
‘It’s not very big, is it?’ Lavender said.
‘It’s big enough for me, and I’m usually the only person in it,’ Bobbie said as they passed through Trafalgar Square. ‘Your office is very central, isn’t it? The Palace of Westminster, Parliament, is just down there.’ She lifted a hand from the wheel and pointed.
‘Don’t you need both hands to control this thing?’ Susan asked worriedly.
‘And both feet,’ said Lavender. ‘There are pedals, Susan, I can see them!’
Susan, who’d been looking anxiously out at the traffic, glanced down into the footwell and went rigid.
‘It’s there!’ said Lavender suddenly. ‘Turn right now. No! You’ve missed it!’ she squealed as Bobbie drove straight past.
‘I need more warning than that before I can make a right turn,’ she said over Lavender’s protests. ‘And anyway, those were No Entry signs; it’s a one way street.’ She took the next right, and then turned right again. ‘There’s a parking space here. Is this close enough?’
‘Yes,’ said Susan through clenched teeth. ‘Where is the second set of photographs?’ she added as Bobbie parked.
Bobbie wondered whether it was safe to open her eyes. She’d had to close them, as Susan and Lavender appeared to be leading her towards a solid wall. They’d told her it was safe, and that closing her eyes was the easiest way through. She wasn’t so sure, but the expected impact hadn’t come.
‘You can look now. We’re inside,’ Susan said.
Bobbie found herself standing inside a doorway, looking into an airy vault-roofed atrium. They had entered on the short side. The room was at least one hundred feet wide and probably more than twice as long. It was impossible to accurately estimate the length, because the room was bisected by a line of wooden arches. They reminded Bobbie of the walkthrough metal detectors at airports, although these were much more ornate and baroque. The side walls were lined with dozens of enormous marble fireplaces, and in each one a fire blazed. Midway between Bobbie and the arches was a slab of white marble some twelve feet tall and more than five feet wide.
‘Welcome to the Ministry of Magic,’ Lavender said.
As they set off towards the arches, Bobbie saw one of the fires flare green. A spinning figure appeared in the flames and stepped out. The man, and Bobbie had to look twice to make certain that it was a man, was wearing colourful ankle-length robes.
‘Apparition?’ asked Bobbie wonderingly.
‘No,’ said Susan. ‘They’re the Floo connections.’
When they passed the white marble slab, Bobbie saw that the word –Remember†was carved at the top. Below were dozens of names. Susan led Bobbie towards one of the –Visitors†arches on the left side of the Atrium.
‘Walk into the arch, and speak your full name, and add –Auror Office visitorâ€,’ said Susan.
‘My full name?’ asked Bobbie.
‘Yes,’ Susan confirmed. ‘Go on.’
Bobbie hesitated, something inside her whispered that this was it. At this point, she could--and probably should--run back through the Atrium and out into the real world outside; the world where men in robes did not step out of fireplaces. Once she was through the arch and into the Ministry proper, that option would vanish.
While Bobbie wavered, Lavender walked through an adjacent arch, saying, ‘Lavender Brown, trainee Auror,’ as she did so. Seconds later, Lavender appeared on the opposite side of the arch, facing Bobbie. ‘It’s okay,’ said Lavender, beckoning her through.
Noticing the anxious look on Lavender’s face, Bobbie again considered running. Then she remembered the victim, Daniel McCoy. She wasn’t going to let down her first murder victim, she decided. Steeling herself, she stepped warily into the arch, ‘Roberta Artemis Beadle, Auror Office visitor,’ she said.
Lavender beckoned her forwards, and Bobbie stepped through into the other half of the atrium. Nothing happened. Susan followed immediately behind. Disappointed by the anti-climax of her entry into the Ministry of Magic, which hadn’t been anywhere near as eventful as her entry into Grimmauld Place, Bobbie looked around. There was a long reception desk where several bizarrely dressed young men and women were dealing with various visitors.
‘We weren’t sure that would work,’ Lavender admitted. ‘I think you’re the first Muggle through the security arches.’
‘Excuse me, Miss Beadle! Excuse me!’ One of the young men behind the desk was frantically waving something at Bobbie. ‘The Minister is expecting you. You’re to go to his office immediately! Here’s your Visitor’s Pass. Please wear it at all times.’
Bobbie walked over and took it from him. It contained a photograph of her, which seemed to have been taken when she’d waited in the arch, and read: –Visitor - DMLE(AO): Roberta A Beadleâ€. Bobbie examined it carefully and wondered how she was supposed to wear it. It was simply a thick rectangle of parchment.
Susan and Lavender were whispering worriedly about –the Ministerâ€. They had opened identical wallets, and were pressing identity badges onto their blouses. Their badges, like Bobbie’s, seemed to be thick parchment; but they stayed in place.
Noting her confusion, Susan took Bobbie’s pass and pressed it onto her stab vest, under the police crest. It was then that Bobbie realised she’d passed through security, but still had her baton, pepper spray, and handcuffs; and she still wore her vest. In recognition of the fact that she was indoors, she removed her hat.
‘Temporary Sticking Charm,’ Susan said. ‘Don’t take it off, it will self-ignite.’
Bobbie had spent years walking the London streets in a uniform which was the only thing most people registered. She was used to being watched, but the blatant gawping of the magical community surprised her.
‘You’d think they’d never seen a copper before,’ Bobbie observed as they made their way towards the bank of lifts at the far end of the Atrium.
‘They haven’t,’ Lavender confided.
After a hair-raising journey in a lift that travelled sideways as well as up and down, Bobbie found herself being escorted along a corridor and through a set of imposing black double doors. The brass plate next to the doors read –Kingsley Shacklebolt: Minister for Magicâ€, but Bobbie found herself in a thick-carpeted, wood-panelled anteroom. A round-faced bespectacled woman looked up from her desk, which was next to a second set of imposing doors.
‘The Minister is expecting you, Constable Beadle, go straight through,’ the woman said, tapping her desk with a wand. The doors opened. ‘Not you two! You’re to return to the Auror Office,’ the woman said firmly when Susan and Lavender attempted to follow. ‘But the Minister does want to see the evidence.’
‘There are two copies, Brenda. I’ll keep one,’ said Susan, handing the other over to Bobbie. The woman nodded.
‘Good luck,’ Lavender murmured.
As Bobbie entered the room, the doors swung closed behind her. There was a large desk against the left-hand wall. Behind the empty chair was an ornate crest. The only person in the room was at the opposite end. As he turned from the windows which, to Bobbie’s surprise, looked out across The Mall towards St James’ Park, she recognised him. He was tall, bald, and black, and he wore a smart grey suit.
‘Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic,’ the man said, walking towards her and stretching out a hand. As Bobbie shook it, she remembered the voice she’d heard emanating from the silver lynx.
‘Constable Roberta Beadle, Metropolitan Police, sir,’ she said. He led her towards a comfortable-looking green leather sofa under the window, and indicated that she should sit. Bobbie stared out of the window. ‘I thought we were on the Strand,’ she said.
‘We are, in a way,’ the Minister said. ‘Things like –where†aren’t as fixed as you believe they are, Constable. This window is, in fact, on an upper floor of The Royal Society; I’m simply borrowing the view, because I like it. Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘Milk, no sugar, thanks,’ Bobbie told him. ‘You were at Colin Creevey’s funeral, weren’t you?’
‘I was,’ he confirmed, his eyes boring into hers. ‘Is my name in that file of yours?’
‘Not your name,’ Bobbie told him. ‘But your photograph is.’
His short laugh was a deep, rumbling bass note. ‘We constantly underestimate Muggles,’ he said. After pouring the tea into a fine bone china cup, the Minister handed her the cup and saucer, pulled out an ornate gold pocket watch, and sat in a comfortable armchair opposite her.
‘It’s almost ten o’clock,’ he announced. ‘The Wizengamot have summoned me to an emergency meeting at eleven. I have an hour to make a decision.’
‘A decision about what?’ asked Bobbie.
‘About you and Mr Potter,’ the Minister said. ‘Harry has--not for the first time--ignored Wizarding law in his pursuit of the truth. This time, however, he has chosen to ignore the International Statute of Secrecy. Instead of following procedure, he has told you our secrets, revealed our world to you.’
‘What should he have done?’ Bobbie asked.
‘Discovered everything you know about the case, and then summoned an Obliviator to modify your memories so you forgot everything about him, and your investigation.’
Bobbie was instantly on her feet. ‘That’s… It’s… It’s inhumane,’ she said. ‘What about the victim? A man is dead! Does no one but Harry care about the murder of Daniel McCoy.’
‘Not everyone cares. But I do,’ said the Minister quietly. ‘And Harry believes you can help find this man’s killer. He wants me to offer you a job as some sort of Muggle Liaison, but I’ll need to persuade the Wizengamot that you’d be useful. And before that…’ He waited expectantly.
‘I’ll have to persuade you that I would be useful,’ Bobbie said. She handed him the envelope containing her research. ‘But Harry and you are presuming a lot. What makes you think I’d want to work for you?’
‘Your personnel file,’ the Minister indicated a large folder on his desk. ‘You’re single and have no close family. You are not currently in a relationship, you finished top of your class at Hendon, and since qualifying you have taken, and passed, several courses. You are a qualified pursuit driver, a Judo black belt, and much more. You are obviously ambitious, because you have applied for firearms training, for a transfer into the detective branch, and to take your sergeant’s exam. Despite what he’s told you, all three applications are still in Inspector Dawson’s pending tray. He believes you’re too keen. Harry, however, believes you’d be an asset to the Auror Office. If you want a job, you’ll have to prove him right. Can you?’
‘How?’ Bobbie asked.
The Minister pulled out the contents of the envelope, and began rifling through them. Bobbie watched in silence.
‘This is an excellent start, Ms Beadle,’ he told her. We’re looking for five extremely dangerous individuals, and we believe that one of them may have killed Mr McCoy. We also believe that they may be hiding in the Muggle world … in your world. We’ve been looking for them for three years, and despite a huge effort, they are still at large.’
‘Do you have photographs, fingerprints, DNA?’ Bobbie asked. ‘If you do, then you can pass the information to NCS, or NCIS, and ask them to add their names to the database. The photographs would be distributed, and you’d find out if the fingerprints or DNA had been discovered at any crime scene. Of course, not every copper across the country will look at the photographs, but some will, and you might get lucky.’
‘I have no idea what the letters DNA mean, or what NCS or NCIS stand for,’ the Minister admitted.
‘NCS is the National Crime Squad, NCIS is the National Criminal Intelligence Service, and DNA is, um… It’s…’ Bobbie hesitated. ‘I’ve no idea what it stands for,’ she admitted. ‘Do you know what fingerprints are?’
‘Yes. Harry told us, and we’ve started to collect them from criminals. We’ll have fingerprints from some of the people we want, although perhaps not all of them. Harry was raised in your world. He wants to modernise, to change.’
Only just! Bobbie was astonished by the admission. ‘I’ll bet he does,’ Bobbie said. ‘The papers call DNA a genetic fingerprint. It’s close enough. If you have a bit of skin, or blood, or saliva, or… other bodily fluids, you can extract DNA and identify who they’ve come from.’
‘Really?’ asked Kingsley, looking up from the photographs from Colin Creevey’s funeral. ‘That’s quite astonishing. How do they do it?’
‘No idea. It’s science,’ Bobbie told him. ‘But, honestly, Mr Shacklebolt… Minister… without looking at your case files, I’ve no idea whether I can help you.’
‘This is very impressive work.’ The Minister waved the photographs and note she’d collected.
‘Harry’s bike, Hermione’s car, the photograph SOCO found at the crime scene; they’re all things which I used to track Harry down. Let me see your case files, and I’ll see if I can make any suggestions.’
‘I’ll take you to the Auror Office myself,’ the Minister said. ‘And I’ll suggest that the Wizengamot give you one month to prove yourself as a Muggle Liaison Officer. If you agree, then you’re working for the Ministry and you’re bound by the Statute of Secrecy. And if that’s the case, then no laws have been broken. Do you agree?’
Bobbie didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes.’
There were eight of them in the room, most were no older than she was, and only two of the newcomers didn’t feature on the photographs she’d found. Harry, Polly, Susan, Lavender, and Terry had been joined by the burly blond Neville Longbottom; the other two were a bearded man named Dominic, who had trained with Polly; and a mournful-looking older man who the youngsters called Webb. It had been a steep learning curve on both sides, and Bobbie was exhausted. Susan and Neville in particular appeared to know very little about Bobbie’s world. Almost everything she’d suggested they had already tried themselves. She’d been looking to prove herself on her first day, but it wasn’t happening.
‘I really don’t know what else to suggest,’ said Bobbie in frustration. ‘I’m sure you’ve checked their bank accounts, but they’ll be dormant. They’ll probably have opened accounts under false names, and guessing those won’t be easy.’
Everyone looked at Terry and Webb.
‘We only started looking at bank accounts last year. Before that, no one senior thought it was a good idea,’ the older man said. ‘But all accounts have to be in the real name of the holder, the goblins say it’s impossible to use a false name.’
Bobbie smiled. ‘We call them gnomes,’ she said. ‘But how can they avoid people forging documents and using a fake identity.’
‘The gnomes of Zurich,’ said Polly knowledgeably. ‘But that’s just a name, Bobbie, a joke. We call them goblins because that’s what they are. Three feet tall, long noses, and they love gold almost as much as dragons do. Gnomes are different, they’re vicious little buggers who live in gardens.’
‘Seriously?’ Bobbie asked. Everyone nodded.
‘Yes,’ various voices chorused.
‘Would now be a good time to mention that I’m a werewolf?’ Lavender asked.
‘Fine, whatever,’ Bobbie said finding herself drowning in the insanity of her position. ‘You all realise how easy it will be to lie to me, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but I won’t,’ Webb said firmly. ‘My daughter’s like you. She works in a Muggle bank. Perhaps you should talk to her about all of this. This must be hard for you.’ He paused.
‘No magic?’ Bobbie asked.
‘She takes after her late mother,’ Webb said.
‘I’d like to meet her,’ said Bobbie gratefully.
‘I’ll ask her.’ He looked at the younger Aurors. ‘Goblin magic isn’t the same as ours,’ he continued. ‘They say that only the true name can be recorded for a vault, and I’ve never seen, or heard, of anyone having a vault under a name that wasn’t their own.’
‘Neither have I,’ Terry confirmed.
‘After my seventeenth birthday, I opened my own account, separate from Gran’s,’ Neville said. ‘It took hours.’ Four goblins working to make certain that I was who I said I was.’ Susan and Terry nodded in agreement.
‘Now I’m working, I should probably do the same,’ said Lavender. ‘But four hours at Gringotts sounds like torture. Perhaps I’ll just keep my money in Mum and Dad’s vault.’
‘So, you’ve checked the accounts of all five,’ Bobbie said sadly.
Webb and Terry nodded. ‘Nothing,’ they said. ‘No activity. We’ve no idea what they’re living on, but they must be getting their Galleons from somewhere.’
Galleons were gold coins, Bobbie remembered. She looked down at the five files spread out in front of her. The photographs of Marcus Flint, Miles Bletchley, Gregory Goyle, Millicent Bulstrode, and Daphne Greengrass glowered back.
‘Could they legally change their names?’ Bobbie asked.
‘Yes, but they haven’t,’ Webb said. ‘They need to go through the Ministry, so we’d know.’
’Even if they got married?’ Bobbie asked. She looked at Webb. ‘I mean... I don’t know if she did, but when you married, your wife could simply take your name, couldn’t she? No paperwork required, other than the marriage certificate of course.’
Webb’s jaw dropped. Terry looked confused.
‘Surely it can’t be that easy?’ said Harry, barely able to hide his excitement.
‘We’ll go to Gringotts now,’ Webb said. ‘Come on, Terry.’
‘Try the names Millicent Flint and Daphne Bletchley first,’ said Lavender.