Chapter Text
She walks through the corridors of the dark house, small bare feet a whisper against the tiled floor. Her heart pounds in her chest and she knows she should be quiet but a whine of terror keeps breaking free. There’s somebody in her house, and she can’t find her family. “Mummy,” she whispers to herself like a prayer. “I need Mummy.”
But all she finds is more silence.
The saxophone player is terrible, Jett observes, leaning back with a whiskey in hand. The trumpet isn’t bad, but the saxophone…She brushes a hand against the laser pistol in her pocket. Would it be so bad to shoot a hole in a saxophone? She’s got excellent aim, even as drunk as she is right now.
She sighs, moving her hand away from the gun to wrap around the cold glass instead. Time was, she wouldn’t even touch a gun. She barely recognises herself any more.
She casts a slow look around the bar, checking nobody is watching her, nobody saw her move towards her weapon. There’s a good crowd tonight, thronging together in the smoky darkness, but nobody is watching her. One more person drinking alone in a city full of them.
The sound of laserfire cuts through the brittle chatter of the bar patrons, and a hush falls as everybody looks for the source. Jett smirks, leaning back in her booth. It seems she’s not the only music critic here tonight. The saxophonist is looking at his instrument in distress, a hole burned through the middle of it. The trumpeter glances at him, shrugs, and continues.
Nobody else seems to know who fired the shot, but Jett knows. She knows who in this place is armed, the angle the shot came from. There were three people who could have fired the shot, but only one who would. Apart from her, of course.
As the bereaved musician leaves the stage, the bar patrons resume their conversations, and somebody slides into the seat opposite her in a creak of fake leather and a cloud of cheap cologne.
She flicks her gaze over him, then back to the stage, memorising all she can guess about him whilst looking disinterested. Male. Mid-thirties. Married, probably to a woman. Terrible taste in hats. Worried. Proud. Desperate. That’s good; desperation is her bread and butter.
“Are you that PI? The Doctor?”
“Might be,” she allows, knocking back the rest of her drink in a swift movement. “Who’s askin’?”
“My name is Peter Tyler. Please, are you the Doctor?" He's determined and not all too fussed about being polite.
"I am." She flags down the barmaid, Clara, to indicate she wants another drink. She can probably get away with two more before the feisty brunette cuts her off and she has to go home. "What can I do for you?"
Here's the desperation. "My daughter, my little girl, she's gone missing, a week ago. She was playing on the street with her mates and then she was gone." His voice rises in pitch and volume, and he leans across the booth, his hands wringing in front of him. "The police -" Jett scrunches her face without meaning to. "They pretend they'll help but they won't really, not without a bribe. My wife and I, we don't have much money - I'm an inventor, but not a good one, see, so we're always struggling for money and this is one thing too many. We've got a little that we can pay you with, but not enough for a police bribe, you know how much those are. Can you help? Please?"
She sighs. It doesn't sound like they'll be able to afford her going rates. "I don't usually take missing children cases, Mr Tyler."
He takes a photograph out of his jacket pocket and puts it on the table in front of her. "Please. This is my Rose."
Reluctantly Jett picks the photo off the table. The girl is pretty, with dark brown eyes and blonde hair, and a wicked smile. She looks about 10 years old. Jett growls internally. She can't leave a beauty like this out in the cold, there are too many predators out there. She has a few good ideas already of people who might have snatched her. "Fine."
Peter smiles, tears in his eyes. "Thank you. So much. She's our everything." He places a pile of banknotes on the table.
Jett shakes her head. She squints at the stage, the trumpeter has finished his set and someone else is going on. A violinist? In a jazz bar? Interesting. "No charge."
"But -"
She looks him in the eye for the first time. "No charge. I'll start looking into it in the morning."
She looks away. Clara brings the new drink and she knocks it back in one, wincing at the burn of it. She doesn't look at Tyler again. He mumbles a few thanks, and then the creak of the seat marks his departure. She closes her eyes, sighing, as she realises the smell of cologne has remained.
When she opens her eyes, Clara is stood next to her, and she lets out an undignified squeak. Clara drops into the seat opposite, looking delighted with herself.
"How do you do that?" Jett hisses. She glances around to make sure nobody else saw.
"I am small and sneaky," Clara says with a satisfied smirk.
"Is there something I can help you with?" Jett's eyes rove around the bar. Nobody seems to be paying them any attention, but you can never take things as they seem.
"Dinner. My place. Tomorrow." There's steel in the other woman's voice, and that makes Jett want to resist for the sake of it.
"I'm busy," she says, with no give to the words. Clara may be steel, but she is Dalekanium.
"Yes you are. You are busy having dinner with me. I'll see you then. 7pm. Don't be late." She's up and away, taking drink orders with a cheerful smile, and Jett is left snarling in frustration. She doesn't understand how Clara keeps pushing her way into her life. She knows she'll be there for dinner tomorrow though.
Heavy footsteps are coming her way, more purposeful than you usually hear in a place like this, and Jett's fingers are wrapping around the grip of her pistol before she's aware of it. Her suspicions are confirmed when a man sits opposite her. He's big, well-muscled and tattooed. His nose has been broken at least three times, and there are scars on his face and knuckles. She wonders if he's considered getting "mob enforcer" tattooed onto his forehead to complement his ill-fitting suit.
There's no taking her eyes off this one. She tilts her head at him in question, keeping her face blank.
"I have a message for Mr Smith." The man's voice is a growl and a sneer all in one, and Jett stores it in her memory. One day she'll take him down, him and every single one of his mates.
For now, he's nothing but a tool. She rests the barrel of her gun on the table, finger on the trigger. "I'll take the message."
He looks like he's thinking about refusing, his throat working and his jaw clenched. She wonders how often he actually thinks, if it's an unusual workout for him. Then he nods. "There's a new girl working her way up in the Kaled family. Yasmin Khan. She might be…malleable."
She nods. "Picture?"
He places a photograph face down on the table. "Payment."
Her lip curling, she pulls a stack of bank notes from the inside pocket of her grey coat and tosses it to him. He catches it, and begins to count the money, lips moving.
"D'you have to do that here?" She keeps her tone mild, but gives her pistol a little wave. "We'll be 'ere all night."
He grumbles and starts again; she made him lose his place. Finally he seems satisfied, and he gets to his feet, shuffling from the booth and out into the rainy city.
Allowing herself the tiniest spark of hope (not too much, hope is dangerous), she flips the photograph over and studies the features of Yasmin Khan, up-and-coming mobster. Her way in.