DI Harding did not want to be here.
This was obviously a dead end. They had stuck him in the Biter division because of that incident last year, just out of spite. They couldn't pull him out altogether so they stuck him in this tiny hell hole of a division to wear him out, wear him ragged until he simply broke under the pressure.
It wasn’t even physical work, like he was used to. Mostly permits and paperwork and taking complaint from Biters bemoaning their driving licences being revoked or being chucked out of fields they had parked their crappy caravans in (usually after wrecking it with bonfires and litter, Harding noted).
He missed being on the chase.
Though he had gotten much older now, he admitted and his legs (or back) weren’t what they used to be, he missed it badly. Actually getting in there, getting stuff done, taking numbers and names, actually talking to people rather than sending emails.
He fucking hated computers.
He was still sharp. He could still spot a suspect by the tilt of their neck or the clenching of fists. He’d always been good at that. Emma had called that Empathy, on those nights, no, mornings when he would come in, haggard and tired and sometimes just broken-hearted about a case, easing a hot cup of coffee into his hands with a small smile.
She thought it was amazing, how easy it came to him.
Sometimes he hated it.
But it was his and he used it well. Not that it came to much use in a small cramped office with a broken heater. He had a few underlings, Brooks wasn’t too bad. Canny, that boy, he would be good one day but even Brooks knew the LD was where they stuck the dregs of the force. Harding only hoped the boy would get out of it, make something out of himself.
After the Carson incident, Harding didn’t even have Emma to fall back on. She had left, with Kate, 5 months ago. She was still only a babe. Harding’s greatest nightmare was not dying on the job, but having his daughter not even recognise him anymore.
But now there was something.
They were called out due to the wounds, all arranged on the neck. Vicious and ragged, obviously a biters doing but funny enough, not on the moon.
So either a copycat or just a very enthusiastic biter with his calendar marked wrong.
But still, obviously a case for the Lycanthrope Division.
Something was happening.
Detective Brandon Harding, deadbeat detective chucked into a nowhere division where the only thing he tackles now is paper work. But then a series of murders, obviously the work of biters, comes his way and for once, something exciting is happening.
He eventually works out that each murder happens just after the biter circus, the Red Crescent, leaves town.
The plot thickens, my dears