Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [67]
Both of the Bowmans were standing tensely, holding their sidearms in the businesslike two‐handed stance that was taught at the academy. But they both looked a little uncertain, as if they didn’t know whether to point their guns at Creed or at the dog who was barking so furiously.
Artie didn’t like the way this was shaping up. The cop was supposed to be working with them, a fellow team member, not the subject of a bust. But at the moment Creed was the only one in the room who seemed calm.
‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘Everybody take it easy.’
‘Make the dog shut up.’
‘How am I supposed to do that?’ Creed stroked the dog’s head. ‘Come on, take it easy, Bert.’ The dog’s sides were shaking as it barked, pointing its muzzle at the intruders, jaws heaving. Creed looked at them. He didn’t seem at all bothered by the guns. ‘Listen, if he’s freaking out, it’s because he’s picking it up from you. If you would just relax, so would he. Try putting the guns away.’
‘I think not,’ said Raymond Bowman. ‘Artie, grab the dog and take him outside.’
‘Me? What if he bites me?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ said Creed. Before any of them could react he was on his feet, moving towards the kitchen, dragging the dog with him.
‘Don’t move!’ shouted the Bowmans in unison, spinning to keep their guns on Creed. But he’d already opened the door and shoved the dog out.
‘Relax,’ he said. Chrissie Bowman grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him back into the living‐room. As he stumbled past, Artie could smell a strange odour coming off the guy, like the smell of an exotic liqueur. He wondered if the cop was drunk but then he got a look at his eyes. They were wide open, the pupils very dark. No, Artie realized, the guy was stoned.
Chrissie gave Creed a final shove which should have sent him sprawling but instead the cop took a graceful sideways step and settled down on the couch. ‘So how can I help you?’ he said. Sitting there, looking calm and composed, it was oddly as if he’d invited them all into his home. Artie found himself grinning. The guy had balls: you had to give him that.
Neither of the Bowmans seemed to know what to say for a moment. Then Raymond turned to Artie. ‘Give the place a once‐over.’
‘What am I looking for?’
‘Just do it,’ said Raymond.
‘If it’s drugs you’re after I’m afraid you’re a little late.’ Creed reached for something on the littered coffee table in front of him and instantly Christine drew a bead with her pistol. ‘Don’t move,’ she said.
‘Oh, come on,’ said Creed. He was holding a remote control in his hand and as he fingered a button on it the room filled with music. Lingering, edgy string instruments playing something sad and complex.
‘Turn it off,’ snapped Raymond.
‘What are you, my father?’ said Creed. He pressed another button on the handset and the music went down a little but not off.
Artie didn’t mind; he was quite enjoying it. He sneaked a look at the display on the CD player; the music was by Bartok. Was that a solo artist or a group? Artie went round the room, looking behind furniture, opening drawers in an antique desk, standing on tiptoe to peer at bookshelves. He felt a bit stupid at first. After all, this wasn’t a real bust. The whole thing was just a piece of territorial pissing by Raymond Bowman. He wanted to shake Creed up, show him who was boss. But it didn’t seem to be working and Artie was secretly glad.
He began to take an interest in looking around the apartment, the way you would if you poked in anybody’s private stuff. Particularly if you knew them a little. The disorder in the bathroom reminded him of his own place. In the bedroom there was nothing but a big futon, a dresser with some clothes dumped on top of it and a mirror fixed to the wall. He saw the corner of a photograph sticking out from behind the mirror, as though it had been stuck to the wall and had come loose, slipping behind there. He fished it out and found himself looking