Six weeks had passed since the shooting and Charly was back at home sleeping peacefully. An unwell man, of medium height, he did have the nasty habit of sticking his nose into police affairs.
It was the loud knocks that woke him up that morning. Loud and repetitive, he opened his eyes and yawned loudly.

“That sounds like the DI. I suppose I’ll have to answer.”

He sat up then rubbed his bleary eyes. Rather confused now, he stared at his surroundings in disbelief.

“This can’t be right,” he muttered.

The modern, two bed flat had gone. He was looking at a small and mingy room that reminded him of a bedsit. To his left stood an old wardrobe and a small open stove.

His first reaction was to shout for his cat, but this time there was no response.

The knocks intensified and he got up rather angrily. Throwing the door open he cursed.

“Where the ruddy hell am I Nixon?”

Then he spotted the tweed jackets and hats and giggled.

“This must be a prank. Who put you up to it?”

The stony-faced DI shook his head.

“I hope you realise that you are late.”

“I don’t remember any appointment Nixon.”

“That’s sir to you Charly. Kindly remember that you are my sergeant.”

Charly spun around open mouthed.

“What do you mean sergeant? I know that I’ve been out of the loop for weeks now but come on mate.”

The DI ignored this and marched over to the wardrobe. Opening the door, he tossed some clothes at the startled man.

“We are needed at the bank Charly. Some idiot shot the manager.”
Charly gazed at the tweed clothes and dressed without any further protest. As they were leaving he muttered, “This had better be a dream.”

When he saw the outside world, he realised that this was cold and cruel reality. The modern town of Foxley had been replaced by the nineteenth century version. Everywhere he looked, the evidence was indisputable. Even the air had changed. It reeked of horse dung and industrial effluent.

“Are you coming or not?” Nixon demanded.

Charly saw the brougham and shrugged his shoulders. As the horses pulled away, he turned and asked carefully, “What year is it?”

The DI gave him a filthy look.

“1857 of course. You been on the booze again?”

“Not exactly sir. It’s just that something is terribly wrong with all this.”

The DI sighed.

“You say that everyday sergeant. Ah here we are.”

They stepped out and walked into the bank. The wooden teller desk was quiet, due to the fact that the building had been closed since the murder. Only a few police officers were on duty.

Inside the rear office, Charly saw the victim. He was a little overweight and slightly balding, though being dead that was no longer a problem.

“Single gunshot wound to the chest,” the DI explained. “Obviously at point blank range.”

“He must have known the killer then,” Charly said looking around the room.

“Any witnesses?”

The DI shook his head.

“He arrived this morning and let himself in. When the staff turned up he was found like this.”

Charly noted the ledgers and took down the latest volume.”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Checking the books sir. Just like a good copper should.”

“I wish you luck. I am off to check the victim’s home. If you find anything let me know eh?”

As he left, Charly shook his poor head.

“Whatever is really going on, the DI is right on form.”

He started checking the figures, and began to detect more than a few discrepancies.

“Seems the bank was losing money for a change. Far too many withdrawals for my liking.”

He thought quietly for a moment, adding it up.

“I wonder if the bloke was in debt?”

He closed the book and entered the main room where the officers were standing.

“Where has the DI gone?”

“To Prince Street sir.”

Charly suddenly realised that he had no idea where it was. Trying to bluff his way through he asked, “What number?”

“Twenty-six sir.”

“Ta.”

He flagged down a brougham and ordered the driver to take him to the desired address. As it headed across town, he gazed upon unfamiliar surroundings. As they entered a rather busy road, the coach stopped.

“Are we here?”

“Certainly are sir.”

He climbed out and stared at the run down building as the coach drew off. The number twenty-six was clearly marked and he knocked politely.

“Glad you could make it,” Nixon said happily. Find anything at the bank?”

“Only that they are in the red. The manager must have been using customer’s money to clear his debts.”

“You had better take a look at this then.”

Within a small, dark room sat a large cabinet and the DI opened the drawer.

“I found these.”

Charly gazed inside and noticed the stacks of betting slips. As he glanced through them he muttered, “Seems that I was right.”

“That is what I like about you Charly. Always on the ball, despite being late.”

“So the manager decides to stop payments and the thug turns up at the bank. When it’s clear he won’t pay, he shoots him.”

“That could well be our case,” the DI said. “Open and shut for a change.”

Charly had a thought.

“Do we know any money lenders? Apart from the legal ones.”

“There is Prentice, but he never carries a firearm,” the DI replied. “Then of course there is Harry but he died last year.”

“So what’s the bottom line?” Charly asked.

“That leaves only one suspect. A chap called Tim.”

“I would like to talk to him,” Charly said.

“Then we shall. He runs a den on Strand Road.”

When they arrived by the warehouses Charly felt at home. At least this part of town looked the same to him. A small shack had been constructed to the right, and they found Tim sitting at a small table.

“Good morning Nixon, what a surprise.”

“Still in the lending business?” the DI asked casually.

“Of course. I make a good living.”

“So when did the bank manager open an account?” Charly asked.

Tim laughed.

“Never with me mate. I have my principles to uphold you know. Even if one of those tarts begged for help, I’d walk right by.”

“That’s not like you Tim?” Nixon said.

“Obviously you know little about me Nixon.”

“Where would he go to get a loan?” Charly asked. “You must know another source.”

Tim shook his head.

“I’m the only lender in Foxley my boy. I’d crunch anyone else who tried to cash in on my patch.”

His reply disappointed Charly of course.

“Do you any witnesses for this morning?” the DI asked.

“Just ask Kevin. We were together for most of last night too.”

“Thanks for the help Tim. We may speak to you again.”

As they walked away Tim said,” Any time Nixon, any time.”

The brougham took them back into town, by which time the case looked anything but straightforward.

“What could we be missing,” Nixon asked.

As they entered Market Street, Charly suddenly yelled, “Stop the cab!”

“What’s got into you Charly?”

“Where’s the turf accountant?”

The DI pointed across the road. Before he could be stopped, Charly had leapt from the cab and dashed across the street.

Bursting through the door, he saw the mean looking man staring at him from behind the desk.

“Hello Charly. What’s the rush?”

Charly marched up and grabbed him by the hair before smashing his nose off the desk.

“How much does he owe you?”

He released the frightened man who staggered back with blood flowing from his nose.

“I want him arrested Nixon. That’s assault.”

“I did not see a thing,” the DI said. “How much does he owe you?”

“Around £800.”

“Was that worth killing over?” Charly demanded.

Now the accountant was really frightened.

“I never touched him. Been here all morning.”

“You do use heavies though,” the DI commented.

The accountant nodded.

“They are under strict orders though. No lethal force for obvious reasons.”

“Yes I know,” Charly said slowly. If they kill someone you are an accessory, and join them on the scaffold.”

“That’s right,” the accountant replied.

“So where do the heavies hang out?” Nixon asked.

“Grant’s of course.”

The familiar name came as a terrible shock to Charly.

“You had better be right about this,” the DI said. “Come on Charly. Time to make a few arrests.”

After leaving, they headed for the station. En-route, Charly asked casually, “Why this way?”

“We need some shooters my boy. You don’t think that they will give up quietly do you?”

The station was a lot smaller than Charly remembered. The desk sergeant forced them to sign a ledger before the pistols were issued. Afterwards, the brougham took the two officers across town to what was a rather dingy street.

“Right we are here,” Nixon said. “That building is Grant’s okay. We go in quickly, if you value your life.”

They waited a short time outside the cracked, green door before the DI burst inside. The three heavies were sitting at a table in deep discussion and turned in surprise.

“Don’t anyone move!” Nixon warned.

The three men glanced at each other for a split second, before one of them pulled out a handgun. Charly opened fire at once as his friends dived for cover. A shot rang out and Nixon yelled once before going down hard.

Charly threw himself across the floor, rolling as he fired continuously. The bullets smashed the table and struck the two survivors. When there was no counter shots, Charly ran to the DI.

“God!”

The DI lay quite dead of course, as a single head wound bled profusely. Charly was enraged and ran to the wounded men. As they groaned in deep pain, Charly blew their brains out.

He threw the weapon away and started towards the door. As soon as he stepped outside, he saw the modern world.

“I really can’t take much more of this,” he muttered. “What was all that about?”

He looked back and saw a park where Grant’s used to stand.

“I had better see Nixon about this.”

He ran through the streets until he at last reached the station.
Bounding up the steps, he banged the sergeant’s desk.

“I need to see the DI now! It’s ruddy urgent.”

The DI led him into the interview room where Percy was waiting.

“What’s the panic?” Nixon asked.

“Am I glad to see you two.”

“Just calm down mate,” Percy said. “Have a seat eh?”

As Charly collapsed onto the chair, he poured out his entire experience. When it was finished, he stared at the DI.

“Did that ring any bells?”

“Get the old files Percy. Same date eh?”

When Percy returned with a grey and dusty box, Charly opened it up.
He frantically flicked through until he spotted what he was looking for.

“This is the one.”

He handed it to the DI who read the contents.

“According to this the DI was killed in the shoot out.”

“I was there mate. What happened to his sidekick?”

“Oh I see,” the DI muttered. “He was charged and later hanged for double murder. As you told us, they were shot whilst wounded.”

“I was hoping that the file would explain why this time rift happened to me. Obviously it doesn’t.”

“Wait a moment,” Nixon said. “I think this may answer your question.
The officer was a sergeant Charly Dixon.”

Charly’s eyes opened wide.

“Good grief!”

“You recognise the name?” Percy asked.

“I certainly do. He was an ancestor of mine. I never thought he was on the force though. I only heard his name once.”

“After what he did I’m not surprised Charly,” Nixon said. “Even you have skeletons in the family cupboard.”

“That explains everything,” Charly muttered.

“At least we know one thing now,” the DI said.

“Which is?” Charly asked.

The DI smiled sweetly.

“Why you are such a good copper mate. Pity it’s not official. Now get yourself home eh. Another thing. Have a Grouse eh. After what you have been through, you probably need it.”

Charly nodded and left the room slowly. As he stepped outside, he closed his eyes and breathed in the modern fresh air.

“It’s really good to be back.”