Section F: Fairy Tales & Physicists

Chapter 1

While Fields usually enjoyed flashing the badge, today he couldn't quite muster the enthusiasm. So, in response to the immaculate receptionist's inquiring look, he just went with, "Er, yeah. I'm Fields. Looking for"—he checked the card he'd been given—"Agent Peregrine."

"Ah yes, Agent Fields. Agent Peregrine said to expect you. You'll find her in Lab 3—down the stairs, fifth door on your left."

"Thanks."

As Fields headed down the stairwell, the lush carpet, fine artwork and tasteful plants of the lobby gave way to bare concrete, exposed plumbing and water-stained ceiling tiles. The Novus Institute may have been world-renowned for its advanced scientific research, but Fields could only assume the well-funded, important stuff didn't happen down here. The place was a dump.

He was just about to knock on the half-open door of Lab 3 when a cheerful, "Come on in," saved him the trouble. Making his way into the dimly lit room, he found the presumed Agent Peregrine leafing through a large leather-bound book, which at his entry she tossed onto a nearby paper-strewn desk. Fields just had time to make out the title on the cover—Grimms' Fairy Tales.

"Er, hey there. I'm Fields."

"Ever been ploughed? Ha! Sushi?" Peregrine proffered a plastic tray.

"What? Er, no."

"No, you've never been ploughed, or no to the sushi?"

"Huh? Uh, both. I mean, neither." Fields shook his head. "I'm sorry, but are you Agent Peregrine?"

"The one and only. And a good thing, some would say. You sure about the sushi? It's really very good. I know this guy."

Fields hadn't been an agent all that long, but even in his relatively short career he'd learnt the importance of keeping your partner onside. Or—more to the point, in his case—the dire consequences of not keeping your partner onside.

And if this short, jovial and apparently sushi-loving woman was to be his new partner then it was probably wise to start things off on a positive note. Plus, it had been a while since breakfast.

"Sure, why not?" He selected a roll. "Looks good, thanks."

"No problem. Soy?" Expecting maybe a sachet, Fields was a little surprised when Peregrine produced a full-size bottle of the stuff from somewhere on her person.

"Uh...okay." Taking the bottle, he applied a few tentative drops.

"Wasabi? Mayo?"

Slowly, Fields handed the bottle back. "You know what? I think I'm good."

"Ah, a purist. Nice." Peregrine doused a sushi-roll in soy and took a healthy bite. "So," she said, mouth full, "whose shit list are you on?"

"Sorry?"

She swallowed. "You've been lumped with me as your partner. Therefore, you've either boned the wrong girl, booked the wrong crook or knocked back the wrong bribe." She gave him an appraising look. "I'm guessing it's the girl thing."

Fields opened his mouth to protest—but then closed it again. He'd been telling himself for the past week his re-assignment had nothing to do with the Penny debacle, his promising career wasn't really going off the rails, and before he knew it, he'd be back in the big-time, back amongst the movers-and-shakers, and back making the big busts.

But now, standing in a dank, airless basement, sharing a strange woman's sushi and not even really aware of why he was there, he could see these self-reassurances for the self-delusions they were. If his career wasn't already down the crapper, then it was only a flush away.

Having watched the play of emotions across Field's face, Peregrine gave him a sympathetic look. "Let me guess—your, um...section chief's niece?"

"The director's daughter."

She gave a low whistle. "Youch." Shoving the remainder of the sushi-roll into her mouth, she gave him a consolatory punch in the arm. "Don't sweat it, I've got just the case to distract you from your woes."

With a conscious effort, Fields shook off his melancholy. He may be on the outer, but he was still an agent, and still had work to do. "Okay, what have we got?"

"You heard of the Princess Murders?"

Fields snorted. He doubted whether anybody in the city hadn't heard of them. Three women assaulted and murdered over the last couple of weeks: all three young and beautiful, all three found in princess costumes, and all three complete Jane Does—no matches on DNA, on fingerprints, on dental. Zip, zero, zilch.

The media, of course, were lapping it up, and almost inevitably each of the mystery victims had been anointed with their very own titles, suitably dramatic monikers dredged up from the fevered imagination of some hack of a copyeditor, buried deep in the bowels of one of the city's less reputable tabloids.

There was Rapunzel, with her golden, flowing hair—flowing with seawater, when the police divers dredged her up from the bottom of the harbour. Snow White, petite, pretty of features and pale of skin—exsanguination tended to have that effect on a complexion. And Sleeping Beauty—flawless, serene, and so full of botulinum toxin that no prince's kiss was ever going to wake her up.

"You don't mean to tell me we're working that case?" Although oozing with potential from a career resuscitation point of view, Fields knew perfectly well the odds of a job like that landing in his lap. Even when he was the golden boy. In the world of law enforcement, the Princess Murders were the biggest show around and tickets were in hot demand.

Peregrine began poking through the papers on the desk. "Why wouldn't we be?"

Fields didn't know where to begin. "Uh, because there's a whole agency task force already working it, not to mention half the cops in the city. Then there's my aforementioned pole position on the commissioner's shit-list. And, no offence, but I'd never even heard of you before today. This case is high-profile—we aren't."

"Well, you're right about the last part. We're not high-profile and that's exactly how we're gonna stay. Low-profile works better for our particular avenues of investigation."

"Which are?"

Peregrine grinned. "The ones nobody else thinks of, my friend. The unconventional. The unconsidered. The unexpected. The unbelievable. All of which are my particular areas of expertise. That's why I have certain degree of what you might call latitude in picking my cases. And it's why they've given me Section F."

"Section F? What does the F stand for?"

The grin broadened. "Well, I like to think it stands for fantastical, although I suspect the commissioner who started it probably had a different word in mind. Given it was over a century ago, we'll never know."

"A century ago? How is it possible I've never heard of an agency department that's been around for that long?"

"Like I said, Fields—low-profile. Plus, 'department' might be overstating things a bit. A desk, a filing-cabinet and in more recent times, a computer—that's about it, for Section F. Oh, and us, of course."

Bewildered, Fields shook his head. "Okay, but what does all that mean? What do you...we, actually do?"

"Fields, remember how Sherlock Holmes said, 'Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth'?"

Dumbly, Fields nodded.

"Well, he was right. The trouble is a lot of what most folks think is impossible turns out to be...not so much. That's where we come in."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, what if I told you the reason those Jane Does were unidentifiable and dressed as fairy-tale princesses was because they're not Jane Does but actual, real, live fairy-tale princesses? Well, dead fairy-tale princesses now, I guess."

Fields considered this. From somewhere he could hear the faint but unmistakable sound of flushing. For lack of any better options, he took a bite of his sushi. It really was very good.