Gangland

Frank Longbottom studied the congealing contents of the flimsy beaker. Superficially it had looked like coffee. Hadn't tasted like it. He tried to think of something witty to tell Alice about it--something about appearance versus reality.

'Reading the tea leaves again, Frank?' Alastor Moody stood framed in the doorway.

'Something like. And you, Alastor?'

'Me? I only read The Guardian.' Moody smiled and Frank mentally filed this quip under 'Usable.'

'What brings you to Gangland, Alastor?'

Gangland. The Ministry's in-house name given to the Aurors' organised crime division. The holy of holies for ambitious high-flyers who didn't have the time to age their way to seniority. A stint in Gangland was a quick route to promotion--albeit an often posthumous promotion.

Frank had joined Specialised and Organised Crime Squad nearly six months ago. An opening had been caused by the sudden and violent death of a beloved old-timer--old in that she had passed eight years behind a Gangland desk--almost a record.

It wasn't unusual for a bit of murder to open up one of the squad's positions, but Gangland had been running a disturbing trend for the last two years--four deaths in twenty-four months. Rumours were going 'round, rumours about a bad egg. Someone on the inside. Rumours that Frank had brought straight to his old friend, Mad-Eye Moody.

'You know Gangland?' Frank had asked. 'Specialised and Organised Crimes.'

Moody nodded.

'They've offered me a spot.'

'I know. I suggested you.'

'And here I was thinking we were friends.'

Moody laughed unpleasantly. Then he laid out what he knew. There were now only five members left of the Gangland squad--each had put in time, all over two years.

Pearl Rochdale: Chief. Middle management material. Likes young boys, expensive restaurants. Married, two kids.

Andrew Scarlotti: bit flash. On his way up. Doing his tour of Gangland, trying not to get too much shite on his shoes before he hits the big league.

Rab Barnlow: an absolute Cro-Mag. Probably does cave art. Huge network of informants, second to none.

Martin Hogmanny: gent of the old school. Doesn't muck about. Likes a drink, not always the classy kind.

Kingsley Shacklebolt: definitely has something to prove. Keeps clean, keeps to himself. Surprised he's not dead yet, really.

Evan Rosier: bright lad. Riding one of the girls in the typist pool--the one with the tits. My da' would have called him a cad.

'At least one of them is dirty--maybe all,' Moody had warned him. 'Now be a good lad and find out who it is.'

'Just walk in and see who tries to kill me? Shouldn't this be put under a Fidelius Charm or something?'

'Come on, Frank.' There was a tinge of pity in Moody's tone. 'Who would you trust?'

Christ, I'm fucked, thought Frank.

'Anyway, whatever doesn't kill ya makes ya stronger.'

'Ta, Alastor.'

Well, he had survived six months, had brought over his own collection of snouts, grasses and touts, even pulled off an operation, earning him some valuable graffiti space in the men's lavatory: 'Rochdale has Longbottom on special arsesignment' (sic).

Moody stepped over to Frank's desk and dropped the beaker of pseudo-coffee into the rubbish bin.

'Up you get. Whilst you've been sittin' here divining your future, someone's been narrowing down your suspect list.'

Frank stood and grabbed his coat. 'What's up?'

'Marty Hogmanny just had his head blown off.'