by Deanna Chase
The lack of pockets in the dress is causing problems. I nip outside and look around, quickly finding a discarded plastic bag trapped against the door of another lock-up. Sending a grateful prayer up to the non-environmentally-friendly denizens of London, I pick it up and deposit my keys, pepper spray and wallet inside. Emblazoned on the outside are the words ‘Funny Farm Meats: For All Your Butchery Need’s’. I tsk at the misplaced apostrophe, then shut up the garage and walk away swinging the bag. Frankly, I’ve got bigger problems than poor punctuation.
Walking briskly, I hit the nearest row of shops in next to no time. As luck would have it, there’s a kiosk selling cheap mobile phones, so I pass over an insulting amount of cash and buy three, then make sure I’m some distance away before I make the call I need. It’s fortunate I’ve got a head for numbers and have memorised the phone number. I let it ring five times then hang up. I count to fifty in my head and repeat the call. It’s not until the third try that someone actually answers.
‘Yeah.’
‘I need a place to stay.’
‘Just you?’
‘No. There’ll be another.’
‘Can I trust them?’
I don’t hesitate. ‘No.’
‘14A Markmore Close. There’s an upper-floor flat with views to the front and back. The key will be on the windowsill.’
I sense he’s about to hang up so I screech into the phone. ‘Wait!’
‘What?’
‘My flat. I think it’s been compromised. I need it checked out.’
There’s a pause. ‘I can do it. Don’t call back though. I’ll come and find you.’ The phone clicks off and I’m left listening to the dull mechanical burr.
I feel better now that I have somewhere to sleep and to take O’Shea. There are several hours until I need to pick him up; that means it’s time to confront Tam.
Chapter Four: Bruce Willis
Now that I’m car-less, I’m forced to take public transport to get to Dire Straits. And yes, that really is the name. Tam is a hard-core eighties’ music fan. I’m not convinced he thought the name through before christening his fledgling company but he weathers all the ‘money for nothing’ jokes with humour. I’m just thankful that the chicks aren’t for free.
I’d be tempted to grab a taxi but keeping a low profile includes not accessing my bank account so I’m lumbered with only the cash I have on me. And there’s not much of that. I’ll need to be frugal.
As I sit on the train, I run through scenarios in my head. I’d been under the impression that Tam and I had a fairly solid working relationship, even if he didn’t value me as much as I thought he should. Now I have to assume that he might be involved in setting me up. He was, after all, the one who sent me after O’Shea in the first place.
I’ve been working for Tam for the past two years. I’d initially had visions of spending six months with him before leaving to set up my own firm but it didn’t take me long to realise that it was going to take a damn sight longer than half a year to learn this business. I had, on occasion, wondered if he deliberately kept me doing scut work because he knew I’d up sticks as soon as I felt confident enough. The thing is, I have a lot of respect for him and I doubt he’s that petty or small-minded. I’m at the bottom of the ladder because I was the last one in and there are cavernous depths of detail and information involved in being a private investigator that I still don’t know. But loitering on the bottom rung might make me the easiest person to target. Perhaps Tam needed to get rid of O’Shea for some reason and I’m merely a convenient tag to keep the police away from him.
I think about it some more. It could also be the connection to my grandfather that’s initiated this move. Except that Tam has known about him from the start and the old man has been out of commission for years, so that theory doesn’t really make any sense. I can’t think of anything I’ve inadvertently done to piss Tam off this much. Sure, I’ve moaned a bit about being stuck with working over weaker tribers like O’Shea but it’s only because acting like that’s de rigeur in a firm like ours. The truth is I’m not experienced enough to trail fully-fledged vampires, daemons or faeries; I’m simply too human. And secretly I prefer focusing on the human side of things anyway. I find it hard to understand the motivation behind a lot of triber actions. Untangling whatever webs the humans have chosen to weave is far, far easier. The triber world may be more glamorous and exciting but I don’t need it to get my kicks. The thought flashes through my mind that if I make it to the other side of this kerfuffle, I’m going to have some appropriately impressive triber experience to add to my CV. I may end up stuck with them whether I like it or not.
I return my focus to Tam, trying to remember if there was anything odd about the way he acted when he gave me this assignment on Monday. Nothing jumps out at me. It had all been same old, same old. Of course, it would also have been like that if he was attempting to pull the wool over my eyes and prevent me from suspecting anything untoward about the O’Shea set-up. I rub my eyes. I have to face facts: I have no evidence suggesting Tam is either guilty or innocent.
I’m careful when I disembark the train, getting off one stop before so I can take a circuitous route to the office. It’s not paranoia if they really are after you – and I have to assume that they are. As a result, it’s late in the afternoon by the time I’m staring at the pretentious, glass-fronted office block. I need to figure a way out to enter without anyone noticing, which is easier said than done. If Tam had located his business in an older building, I might have had an outdoor fire escape to climb up. As things stand, I have no way clambering up the side of the metal and glass of this one.
But all is not lost. When I started at Dire Straits, I made a point of getting to know all the janitorial staff. It doesn’t take a genius to know where all the knowledge and power really lie. Unfortunately Tam knows this too and his extravagant tipping at each year end means that they are remarkably tight-lipped when I approach them for gossip. One thing I did learn, however, is the best place to go for a crafty cigarette. I even know which path to take to avoid the CCTV cameras. I don’t smoke often but hanging out with the gaspers can lead to good tips.
I make sure there are no familiar faces or unfamiliar watchers hanging around, then I move across the road and round the back of the building. The emergency exit is clear, only a small tin bucket overflowing with tab ends indicating its other use. This is the part that gets tricky. I have no way of opening the heavy barred door from this side so I need to wait until someone opens it for me and get past without them noticing. I need to be very silent and very lucky. To avoid the rustle of the plastic bag in my hand, I jog over to the skip, which for some reason is always lurking here, and shove it in, covering it with a folded cardboard box. I keep the pepper spray on me, carefully tucking it into the folds of the bow at the back of my dress where it’ll stay put, if not exactly hidden. Then I head back to the side of the door, moving the bucket an extra foot in front to give myself a bit of wiggle room, and I settle in to wait. At least it’s summer and the air is warm.
I don’t have to wait for long. I’m leaning against the wall, eyes half-closed, when I hear the tell-tale rattle of the inside bar being pushed. I quickly sidestep left to avoid the door hitting me as it opens, but keep myself pressed against the wall so that the secret smoker won’t see me unless they actually turn around. The door swings open noiselessly and a man steps out, cigarette already dangling from his mouth. From this angle, I’m pretty sure it’s one of the security guards. He cups his hands and lights up, not moving from the entrance. I curse inwardly and concentrate on not breathing too loudly. At least this location is fairly central, so there’s a loud hum of traffic to mask any sounds that I make.
I watch his profile intently. He sucks hard on the cigarette, gazing off into the distance, but his feet still don’t move away from the door so there’s no way I can edge behind him and sneak inside. He smokes all the way down to the filter and, just as I’m sure he’s going to do no
more than ground the butt into the tarmac with his heel and head straight back inside, he walks forward to the bucket to drop it in. I swiftly tiptoe behind him and duck inside, bolting up the stairs before he comes back in. I can only think that he must have paused to move the bucket back to its original location because I’m already at the second floor, my heart pounding, when I hear the door clang shut. I grin to myself. There’s nothing like a nicotine addict with OCD. Then I bound up to the tenth floor where Tam will be waiting.
The fire exit opens onto the main corridor of Tam’s suite. I know from experience that at this time of day the other investigators will either be out on jobs or in the social room, regaling each other with inflated stories of their mornings’ exploits. Equally, the receptionist will be far too concerned with her phone to pay attention to anything other than the front door. All this means that I only have to sneak past Arzo, Tam’s PA, to get into his office. But Arzo is no push-over like the others and I want a chance to observe Tam before confronting him so, rather than heading directly to his sweeping corner office, I scoot into the ladies’ restroom. It’s time to put my Die Hard Bruce Willis’ skills into action. I’ve always thought it would be possible, considering the entire building is finished with dropped ceilings, but I’ve never actually tried it before. There’s no time like the present.
I hop into one of the cubicles but don’t bother locking the door. I don’t want someone to wander in and wonder why there’s an empty toilet with a locked door. Women with full bladders are neither patient nor good-humoured. Carefully lowering the seat, I step up and onto the cistern then reach up and push aside one of the large ceiling tiles. The space above is dark and filled with pipes which will make it difficult to move around but I am determined.
I curve my fingers round the metal bracket and slowly pull myself upwards, unsure how much of my weight the structure will hold. It creaks and bends slightly but I decide I can make it, so I push my body further up, keeping away from the polystyrene panels where I’ll be sure to fall through. There’s not much space at the top, forcing me to bend my torso down and forwards to shimmy my hips through. It’s a tight squeeze but once they’re past, I wiggle forward so I can pull up my legs. The hardest part is edging backwards so I can replace the tile. Advancing through this space is difficult enough while lying flat on my belly; reversing without being able to see where I’m going is almost impossible. It takes me minutes to manage it and, by the time I’m where I need to be, I’m covered in sweat. Whoever once said that horses sweat, men perspire and women glow clearly hasn’t met me.
I stare down for a moment at the empty restroom and wonder if I’m crazy for doing this. I’m sandwiched between a layer of polystyrene and snaking pipes while looking down on a toilet. From this vantage point, it’s easy to spot where the cleaner has been lax and not bothered to reach round the edges of the bowl. I make a slight face and stiffen my resolve. Just like those weeks of built-up dirt, I’m not going to allow myself, my sanity or my freedom to be simply swept away. As ridiculous as this situation is, I need to find out where I stand with Tam. I push the tile back into its original position then begin my slow shuffle forward.
I barely manage a few feet before I feel the dress snag on something. Damn it. This is another reason I can’t get away with looking pretty while attempting to work at the same time. I eventually untangle the material then tuck the rest of the fabric into my knickers to avoid it happening again. Bruce Willis didn’t have that problem.
Although the straightest and most direct route towards Tam’s office is diagonally across the space, I’m forced to go in a different direction as the pipes are blocking my way. I can only hope that’s not the case once I get further along or this entire venture will be screwed. Inching forward in darkness, I stay as silent as possible. I have to strain to keep my weight balanced on the metal frames and not sag down onto the tiles. The pain of the exertion is attacking my core, as if I’m permanently holding myself in a plank position. At least I won’t have to worry about going to the gym today. It seems like an eternity before I hear the ping of the lift and realise I’ve reached the reception area.
‘Hi, doll-face,’ drawls a deep voice that I immediately recognise as Boris, one of the other investigators.
His weak attempt at flirtation falls flat as Tansy, the receptionist, sighs. ‘Why are you late?’ She sounds bored to tears.
‘Were you worried about me?’
The silence that greets his question pretty much provides an answer. I smirk and am about to continue quietly onwards when I freeze at his next question. His tone is overly casual, which makes it even worse.
‘Is Bo back yet?’
‘Not seen her.’ There’s an odd grating sound.
‘Has she phoned in?’
The sound continues. I finally realise Tansy must be filing her nails. ‘Nah,’ she says. ‘What’s it to you?’
Every muscle in my body tenses as I wait to hear his answer. I’d always pegged him as large and dumb, nothing more than an annoyance, but now my mind is racing at the thought that he might have something to do with all of this.
‘One of my contacts rang me on the way in asking about her. Says the pigs want to talk to her about something that went down this morning.’
I’m disappointed; I’d been hoping for more. Life would be a hell of a lot easier if I could pin the blame for this on Boring Boris and move on. I suppose the confirmation that the police are definitely after me is useful though. I don’t wait to listen to more; instead I shuffle onwards, making sure I’m as quiet as death. Their voices were as clear as if they’d been standing next to me and the last thing I need is for them to realise there’s something crawling around above them.
Fortunately the pipes twist right, allowing me to continue forward to Tam’s office unhindered. Arzo worries me. He’s a canny bastard. I’d swear he has traces of Kakos daemon blood running through his veins were it not for the fact that he’s been with Tam for more than two decades. No Kakos daemon could spend that long in a human’s company without giving into the temptation to eat their heart or drive them insane. Still, I’m fairly certain he’s more triber than human and that I have no hope of being silent enough to pass over his head without him noticing. At least his desk is outside Tam’s office and slightly to the left, so I reckon the pipes will give me just enough leeway to avoid him. The problem is that, thanks to the ceiling tiles, I can’t see down to check; they are so well fitted that there are no cracks or gaps where I can peer down. I know the layout of the office – I’ve sodding worked there for two years after all – but up here in the ceiling, and with an ache developing through my body as I keep myself aloft, I’m becoming more and more disorientated.
I suck air in through my mouth and hold it for a few seconds, attempting to regain my equilibrium. When I finally exhale, I feel more centred. I side shuffle to my right, getting as close to the pipes as I can. It’s just my rotten luck that the one closest to me is carrying hot water. A couple of times the bare skin of my legs lightly brushes it, scalding me. Each time I have to pause and bite the inside of my cheek until the pain subsides. It takes me at least ten minutes to reach the threshold of Tam’s inner sanctum and ease myself over. I can hear the clacking of computer keys and the hum of distant traffic but little else. I grimace. I really need to find a way to see what he’s doing.
At the edge of my small space, where I presume the large window looking out over the city is situated, there’s a tiny chink of light. That might just be enough of a gap to look down from. It’s at least eight feet away and, as I’ve already discovered, moving sideways for any distance is considerably harder than moving forwards. I decide that shifting my body around will cause too much noise so, painful centimetre by centimetre, I edge towards it. I’m about halfway there when there’s a hard knock at the door and I curse inwardly. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold myself in this position.
I hear the door open.
‘Boss?’
I rol
l my eyes. It’s Boring Boris again. Now that I’ve discounted him from my list of suspects, listening to him is going to be of little help. Unless he has more details about what the police are saying about me, that is. Tam must have beckoned him in because the floor squeaks as if someone is moving forwards.
‘I’m concerned about Bo.’
I’m both surprised and a little touched by this. A trace of guilt about my attitude towards the big man snakes up my spine – but I still really want to hear Tam’s response.
‘What is it?’ His voice is gruff, but I can’t detect any particular emotion in it.
‘The police scanners are after her. There seems to have been some kind of incident at Wiltshore Avenue. You know she had that assignment there with the daemon? Now she’s wanted for questioning.’
Silence. It draws out to an uncomfortable point where I feel my heart begin thrumming faster and faster. What is Tam going to say?
‘I see.’
Damn it. Why does he always have to be so bloody non-committal?
‘I could go out and talk to my contacts. Find out more.’
There’s another long pause. Then Tam speaks again. ‘You do that, Boris. Thank you.’
Tam’s response tells me absolutely nothing. My hands, which are still gripping the criss-cross ceiling frame, tighten. I hear Boris murmur something about leaving straight away, then his footsteps squeak again on their way out. The door closes. If only I could see down to check Tam’s expression. I’m about to start moving again when I hear him lift up his phone and jab in a number. It’s only three digits so he’s calling someone in the office.
‘We have a problem.’ I stiffen at his words. ‘Get in here.’
Tears spring to my eyes and I almost choke. Despite my current precarious position spying on my employer, I hadn’t really believed he was involved. Not deep down.