“Sit,” he repeated, with some satisfaction, returning to his own chair. “Good morning.”
Ben sat, assessing the man. Janossi was a well-built, square-jawed fellow in his midtwenties, a little shorter than his own five foot ten, with light brown hair and vivid green eyes. He looked tired and somewhat beleaguered. He didn’t look special, or gifted, or strange, or magical.
“Right, Constable, uh…Constable. You got here, then. Sorry about Waterford.” Janossi made a face to indicate his opinion of Ben’s guide, and began to scrabble through one of the piles of paper on his desk. “So, you wrote me a letter, which, uh…letter, letter…” He plucked out a paper and scanned it quickly. “Right, yes of course, Constable Marshall. You’ve come about Jonah Pastern.” He frowned. “You’re from the Hertfordshire constabulary. The police force. Not the justiciary?”
“No. I worked with the justiciary on his case.” The word came out so easily now, considering how shocking it had been to learn it just a few months ago. The justiciary. Secret policemen, bringing law to secret people.
“Right, yes, yes. Hertfordshire. You were the people who let him go.”
Ben’s jaw tightened. “He escaped.”
“Yes, well, he does that.” Janossi’s frown deepened. He put the paper down. “Constable, are you working with the Metropolitan Police on this?”
“No,” Ben admitted, with reluctance. This was one of the sticking points he’d feared. If the London justiciary simply directed him to the Met, this whole thing would be a waste of time. As if his time could be wasted. “I’m here on behalf of Hertfordshire. We lost him, we’d like to find him.”
Janossi blinked. “You’re trying to pick Pastern up because he escaped from custody?”
“Yes.” Obviously. As he’d written.
“Because he escaped last October?”
“Yes, last October. He’s still missing and we still want him back.”
Janossi’s face had settled into what looked like a habitual scowl. “Do you even know what happened this winter?”
Ben gritted his teeth. “If there’s something I should know, Mr. Janossi, please tell me.”
“Pastern? The Met? Dead policemen? You don’t know, do you? For God’s sake.” Janossi sounded utterly exasperated. “I’d have thought it might have occurred to somebody to put the word out.”
Ben bit back the urge to shout at him. “What, exactly, are you talking about?”
“Oh Lord.” Janossi sat back, shoulders dropping. “We had a problem here, Constable. A criminal gang, made up of practitioners. You know what that means?”
“Magicians.” He’d seen it, seen them at work, but the word still sounded extraordinary. “People who can do…things.”
“We have certain powers, yes.” Janossi looked rather uncomfortable. “Anyway there were four of them. Jonah Pastern was one.”
“Pastern in a gang,” Ben repeated. “Of thieves?”
“Oh, thieves would have been marvellous.” Janossi made a face. “No. They had…complicated aims.” He waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter now. It’s been dealt with. But on the way, they killed—murdered—four police officers. Two retired, two serving.”
Ben swallowed, trying to keep the movement unobtrusive, but his throat had tightened to the point that it felt difficult to breathe. “Four officers.”
“One of them was the officer who liaised with the justiciary. Inspector Rickaby, he was called. They ripped him in half, tore his head open. We couldn’t let his wife and children see the body.”
Ben stared at the man. “How?”
“Practitioners can do things like that. That’s why we have the justiciary, to try and stop them.” Janossi grimaced at Ben’s expression. “It was an appalling business, and the Met are—well, angry doesn’t begin to describe it. Four murdered coppers, and nobody even arrested for it, let alone convicted.”
“The gang got away?” Ben asked. He was distantly surprised by the steadiness of his own voice.
“Pastern got away. The other three died, which was the best thing for it, but the Met weren’t happy. They want a culprit, someone to stand trial for murder. That’s Pastern or no one, now.”
Murder. Jonah Pastern, a murderer.
“Why haven’t you got him then?” Ben asked. “Four police officers—why’s he still at large?” He welcomed the anger that rose through him. “Why hasn’t he been caught yet? Why aren’t you going after him?”
“Yes, well, it’s not quite that easy. For one thing, we don’t know where he is, and for another—do you know what he can do?”