Something Rotten (Thursday Next 4)

'Well, you're AWOL at best and a cheese smuggler at worst. So we've concocted a cover story of such bizarre complexity and outrageous daring that it can only be true. Here it is: in a parallel universe ruled entirely by lobsters you—'

But at that moment the door opened and a familiar figure walked in. I say familiar but he was not exactly welcome. It was Commander Braxton Hicks, head of SpecOps here in Swindon.

I could almost hear Bowden's heart fall – mine too.

Hicks still had a job because of me but I didn't expect that to count for much. He was a company man, a bean counter – more fond of his precious budget than anything else. He had never given me any quarter and I didn't expect any now.

'Ah, found you!' said the commander in a senous tone. 'Miss Next. They told me you'd arrived. Been giving us the run-around, haven't you?'

'She's been—' began Bowden.

'I'm sure Miss Next can explain for herself, hmm?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good. Close the door behind you, eh?'

Bowden gave a sickly smile and slunk out of the interview room.

Braxton sat, opened my file and stroked his large moustache thoughtfully.

'Absent without leave for over two years, demoted eighteen months ago, non-return of SpecOps weapon, badge and ruler, pencil, eight pens and a dictionary.'

'I can explain—'

'Then there is the question of the illegal cheese we found under a Hispano-Suiza at your picnic two and a half years ago. I have sworn affidavits from everyone present that you were alone, met them up there and the cheese was yours.'

'Yes, but—'

'And the traffic police said they saw you aiding and abetting a known serial dangerous driver on the A419 north of Swindon.'

'That's—'

'But what's worse was that you lied to me systematically from the moment you came under my command. You said you would learn to play golf and you never so much as picked up a putter.'

'But—'

'I have proof of your lies, too. I personally visited every single golf club and not one of them had ever let someone of your description play golf there – not even on the practice ranges. How do you explain that, eh?'

'Well—'

'You vanish from sight two and a half years ago. Not a word. Had to demote you. Star

employee. Newspapers had a field day. Upset my swing for weeks.'

'I'm sorry if it upset your golf, sir.'

'You're rather in the soup, young lady.'

He stared at me in exactly the sort of way my English teacher used to at school, and I had that sudden and dangerously overpowering urge to laugh out loud. Luckily, I didn't.

'What have you got to say for yourself?'

'I can explain, if you'll let me.'

'My girl, I've been trying to get you to tell me for five—'

The door opened again and in walked Colonel Flanker of SO-1 with another officer. Flanker ran Internal Affairs, the SpecOps police. About as welcome as worms and another old bête noire of mine. If Hicks was bad, Flanker was worse. Braxton only wanted me to undergo some sort of disciplinary nonsense – Flanker would want to lock me up for good, after I had led them to my father.