Sometimes, the boring cases are the most fun. To me, at least.

Shay prides herself on only working cases she deems important, or fun (whatever her definition of that is), or in some other mysterious way worth it. Sadly, for her, it doesn’t always work out that way.

Sometimes, a mysterious contact will call her on a quiet day, and she’ll groan and come to their aid. Those days remind me of when I met Tristan for the first time, a friend helping someone out even though they don’t want to.

Some days, Peter will storm in and announce we have a case. Those days remind me of when I used to bully my sister into doing my yard work.

This was one of the latter cases. Peter came into my office, where Shay had been building a tea-making station and bonked his head against the wall next to my computer.

“We’re going to Knightsbridge.” He announced, groaning. “Locked room robbery.”

“Sounds like a Met problem.” She didn’t look up from where she was carefully taping wires to the table.

“I’m not going out there alone.” In my peripheral, I could see him turn his head to glare at her, but I didn’t dare look. I wouldn’t be able to hold it together if I did.

“Take Davies.” She did look up, now. “She is your subordinate, no?”

“It’s Knightsbridge.” He turned, slumped fully against the wall, looking at her. “Davies would rip ‘em apart. Or storm off. Or- I need emotional support, not Davies.”

“Ask your dad.” She knelt to connect the wires to the wall. “He doesn’t seem to be doing much.”

“He’s not a certified consultant.” He pulled a face. “I can’t take him.”

I saved my progress. I knew how this would end. It always ends the same.

“Well, I’m busy.” She twisted something, flipped a switch, and the light of the kettle turned on.

“You’re almost done.” I know he was using that pleading look, even when I didn’t see it. “You have nothing else on.”

“I have plenty.” I could hear her roll her eyes. “I need to restring your dad’s piano, and there’s a pile of stained wood with my name on it, not to mention my-”

“Please? I need you.”

There it was. I shut down my computer and grabbed my bag. She was about to give in to him, and I had no doubt she’d drag me down with her.

There was a groan, a sigh. An angry click as she flicked the main switch.
“Aiden is coming with me.” She bargained, “I’m not I’m not making a single note for those Knightsbridge snobs.”

“Taking.” Smirking broadly, he tossed me my jacket. “Come on, then, let’s get this over with.”

Watching Shay work is something I’ll never get used to. There is a meticulous method, an underlying set of steps to the way she dances around a room. It took me a while to figure them out, but once you see the patterns, they’re hard to ignore.

First, after making her way to wherever she was needed and dealing with the social aspect of her job, she stands. She stands in the doorway, or just inside the police tape, or at the entrance of the alleyway, or wherever she can survey the space. She stands, watching, unmoving, long enough for people to think that her mind has gone elsewhere. Then, like a wind-up toy, she springs into action, circling the crime scene, twirling on her feet, hands gliding through the air almost-touching the world around her. It reminds me of a dancer, almost, with her focus and perfectly precise poise, except that tumbling through spaces and sniffing walls should never be called graceful, in whatever context. After, she will take off in a flurry of half explanations and rushed orders, and most of us will watch hopelessly as Peter tries to keep up with her.

Knightsbridge was no different.

I remember the client (We’ll call her Mrs. Richards, for privacy’s sake, because if someone would sue us, it’d be her) opening the door, smiling at Peter’s carefully put-together persona of charming, calming DI. I could tell she seemed less happy with me; my slightly ragged appearance not entirely suited to the neighbourhood. (In my defence, I’d been late that morning, and I wasn’t expecting a case. Since then, I’ve taken to keeping a suit and a razor at the office.)

When Mrs. Richards saw Shay, though, her face didn’t just fall, it plummeted.

It might’ve had something to do with Shay’s refusal to change out of her home improvement kit.

Shay stepped forward, smiling brightly, seemingly unaware that her rags were an affront and an insult and all that, and for the first time that day, I wished I’d brought popcorn. Everything in her attitude screamed she was there to have some fun with the clients.

(The first time I noticed that demeanour in her was ten minutes before getting barred from an upscale china shop. Witnessing the complete chaos she could wreak was worth the lifetime ban.)

Peter introduced her as Shay Klinger, police consultant, without offering much more than that, and Mrs. Richards pulled a face as she shook her hand.

“This way.” Her accent was as posh as her house. She guided us down a hall, up a marble-clad set of stairs, and to a closed door.

Peter stopped her before she opened it. “Could you just reiterate what happened?” He asked, positioning himself between her and the door, “For my colleagues.”

The word colleague seemed to spark something in Shay, and she perked up from where she’d been studying an abstract painting.

Mrs. Richards sighed, as if the whole ordeal was far too much trouble, but explained anyway. “This is my husband’s study.” She started, “He’s an investor, he keeps a lot of important papers in here. Confidential, you see.” Her gaze landed on Shay, her message clear. “He keeps the door closed, for… safety reasons.”

“He’s paranoid.” Shay surmised, “Didn’t want anyone seeing his plans.”

“Merely careful.” She bristled, “My husband moves around a lot of money. Enfin, I also keep some valuables in there, some necklaces, my pearls, you can probably imagine the sort.”

“I might be able to, yes.” She didn’t quite roll her eyes, but it was a close thing.

“Well, I was preparing for my husband’s return -I’d booked dinner to an Italian place he loves at the Strand, a nightmare to get a table, but if you have the right connections-”

“Where is he now?” She interrupted.

The woman seemed nonplussed, wrongfooted at the interruption. People probably let her ramble on indefinitely.

“In an aeroplane, presumably.” She frowned at her. “On his way back from Dubai. He called me, this morning. before he boarded. He should arrive here this evening. I wanted to surprise him.”

“Probably not like this.” She looked around. “What exactly is missing? When did you find out?”

“A pearl necklace.” She touched her collarbone, almost in memory. “He gave it to me at our engagement party. It’s a unique piece.”

She hummed, “Unique means expensive.” She nodded, “Anything else?”

The woman shook her head. “I have a diamond pendant in there, but the thieves left it.”

“Thieves.” She hummed, “When did you last see it?”

“Oh, it must’ve been three days ago, maybe four.” She seemed to relax a little. “My husband had sent it to a jeweller’s to be cleaned, and it came back just this week. You see, pearls need to be-”

“This was after your husband left for Dubai?” Shay interrupted, “You put it back in the safe?”

“Put it back in and locked the door behind me.” She procured a key from somewhere. “Only my husband and I enter the room, even the cleaner stays out.”

“And when you came back to your locked room, and your locked safe, the necklace was gone.” Shay surmised. “Was it insured?”

Mrs. Richards nodded, “We keep the papers downstairs.”

“Peter?”

“It would be a great help if you can find them for us.” Peter offered, smiling disarmingly at the woman. “In the meantime, we’d like to take a look around the study.”

The woman handed him the key. “I’d rather you didn’t-”

“We won’t disturb anything.” He promised. “And I can assure you we’re not interested in your husband’s trading secrets.”

It seemed to be enough to assure her, because soon, she was on her way down.