Whumptober 2024 Day 3: Fingerprints
Oct. 3rd, 2024 07:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
No. 3: SET UP FOR FAILURE
Fingerprints | Wrongfully Arrested | "I warned you."
291 words, Biggles & Algy (with mentions of von Stalhein), pre-Hatchet
“This has his fingerprints all over it,” warned Algy, voice dripping with distaste. “I bet you any money, the next corner we turn we’ll run right into our old enemy. And when he tries to shoot at us….”
Biggles did not reply. They were standing at the mouth of a dingy alleyway, rain soaking into both their shirt-collars. It was early evening in Reykjavik, and Biggles had been looking forward to a serviceable dinner and a good night’s sleep before their journey home. The mission was a long and exhausting trek through tundra and he was glad to be shot of it - but now, looking at the corpse laid out in the alleyway, he had a feeling it wasn’t over yet.
He stepped forward and knelt by the body, feeling the slight sense of detachment which sometimes comes with proximity to the dead. The skin was cold and waxy, and the eyes stared sightlessly upwards. A neat circular hole was driven into the forehead, ringed with powder burns - one bullet, shot at point blank range.
The victim was, of course, the man who had blown the whistle on the illegal smuggling operation that the Special Air Police had been called to investigate. And Biggles supposed, as he stood on suddenly weakened knees, it wasn’t impossible that von Stalhein had something to do with it. There had been no sign of his involvement in this case until now, but he had developed a habit of popping up when he was least expected. It was almost like clockwork.
He looked back down at the body. It was washed out and death-white against the paving stones. The open eyes…
“You’d lose your money,” said Biggles, with cold certainty. “Come on. We’d better call Ásmundsson.”
Fingerprints | Wrongfully Arrested | "I warned you."
291 words, Biggles & Algy (with mentions of von Stalhein), pre-Hatchet
“This has his fingerprints all over it,” warned Algy, voice dripping with distaste. “I bet you any money, the next corner we turn we’ll run right into our old enemy. And when he tries to shoot at us….”
Biggles did not reply. They were standing at the mouth of a dingy alleyway, rain soaking into both their shirt-collars. It was early evening in Reykjavik, and Biggles had been looking forward to a serviceable dinner and a good night’s sleep before their journey home. The mission was a long and exhausting trek through tundra and he was glad to be shot of it - but now, looking at the corpse laid out in the alleyway, he had a feeling it wasn’t over yet.
He stepped forward and knelt by the body, feeling the slight sense of detachment which sometimes comes with proximity to the dead. The skin was cold and waxy, and the eyes stared sightlessly upwards. A neat circular hole was driven into the forehead, ringed with powder burns - one bullet, shot at point blank range.
The victim was, of course, the man who had blown the whistle on the illegal smuggling operation that the Special Air Police had been called to investigate. And Biggles supposed, as he stood on suddenly weakened knees, it wasn’t impossible that von Stalhein had something to do with it. There had been no sign of his involvement in this case until now, but he had developed a habit of popping up when he was least expected. It was almost like clockwork.
He looked back down at the body. It was washed out and death-white against the paving stones. The open eyes…
“You’d lose your money,” said Biggles, with cold certainty. “Come on. We’d better call Ásmundsson.”
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