by Helen Harper
‘Surely we could come to some sort of arrangement that would suit everyone,’ I said quietly. ‘Appropriate punishment for those involved in the kidnappings, and reparations from us for what happened to their kind all those years ago.’
Something subtle shifted in Jasper’s body language and he seemed to relax. ‘That would be the rational response,’ he agreed, almost smiling. ‘But I think we both know that it’s difficult to think logically where emotions are involved.’
I examined his face and thought about his words. ‘That’s why you were spending time with Lydia,’ I said, suddenly understanding. ‘If the trolls’ victims can request a form of leniency, then the rest of us will find it much harder to argue for a more severe punishment.’ I stared at him. There wasn’t anything going on between Jasper and Lydia at all. I’d got it completely wrong. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me that beforehand?’
He licked his lips. ‘I couldn’t be sure how you’d feel about it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about you, it’s that you can be incredibly focused when you want something to happen. You might have wanted the trolls to die for what they did, rather than understand that the inadvertent pain and suffering caused by this office should also be taken into account.’
‘If you couldn’t be sure how I felt, why did you recommend that I lead up the task force?’ A shiver of cold hurt rippled through me. ‘It wasn’t just because of my determination and will to succeed,’ I said stiffly as I slowly worked it out. ‘It’s because you thought that you’d be in a position to control me. That you could stop me from going all gung-ho and destroying the trolls in my own act of vengeance if I thought that was required.’
For a long moment, Jasper didn’t speak. When he did, both his tone and his expression were apologetic. ‘I’m sorry. That thought did cross my mind. I’m convinced that our focus has to be on preventing further atrocities, not creating an opportunity for worse things to happen. I didn’t know if you’d feel that way too. Communication, at least as far as you’re concerned, has not been my strong suit so far. I should have discussed this with you far sooner.’
‘And,’ I added, ‘you should have realised that I’m capable of empathy with the trolls. I don’t agree with what they’ve done, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see things from their point of view.’ I hesitated. ‘I should have granted you the same courtesy. We’re both to blame here.’ I laughed without humour. ‘We definitely wouldn’t make a very good couple. We can’t even talk to each other properly.’
The tiniest frown marred Jasper’s forehead. ‘Mmm.’
Feeling suddenly awkward, I shifted my weight. ‘Anyway,’ I said, focusing on the main topic at hand, ‘if you’re going to insist on joining me and we’re both sneaking into this building on a troll hunt, we should wait until it’s dark. If we said around ten o’clock? Does that suit you?’
‘That’s fine.’ Jasper raised his eyebrows. ‘What about the other matter – your client who’s dying? Have you managed to resolve that situation?’
Uh-oh. ‘Very nearly,’ I said with a false note of cheeriness. ‘If my client could remember anything about me, she’d be thrilled with my progress so far. I’m sure in next to no time I’ll grant her wish and move on to my other clients.’
Jasper rubbed his chin. ‘If you say so.’
I got to my feet. ‘I do say so. In fact, speaking of that client, I should get back to her while I have the chance.’
‘I hope it goes well.’
I nodded, making for the door. ‘Me too!’ I chirped.
‘If she hurts you again,’ Jasper murmured, ‘you can always pass her along to another faery godmother.’
I started. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your wrist. You’ve been holding it strangely ever since you walked in here. It’s obviously been hurt.’
‘Oh.’ I fumbled awkwardly with my response. ‘My client didn’t do that.’
Jasper eyed me coolly. ‘Then who did?’
‘It was just an accident.’ I looked away. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
‘If you insist,’ he said. Then he added more quietly, ‘Unfortunately, communication isn’t your strong suit either.’
***
I sent a quick missive to the others informing them that Jasper and I would infiltrate the building opposite as soon as night fell, then I used a flicker of magic to heal the worst of the damage to my wrist. The ugliest of the bruises remained but at least it no longer hurt quite so much. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Adeline watching me. I squared my shoulders and walked over to talk to her.
‘The Director would like to know how you’re getting on with the trolls,’ she said. ‘Has there been any progress?’
I outlined what Angela had discovered, enjoying Adeline’s reaction of pleased surprise.
‘That’s good work. As soon as you confirm that there are trolls in there, pull back and inform us immediately. We will take matters from there.’
‘Actually,’ I said, as casually as possible, ‘I think the Devil’s Advocate is going to take charge of the situation.’
Her smile turned into a frown. ‘He should be concentrating on the audit.’
‘Perhaps what happens to the trolls is part of the audit,’ I told her. ‘After all, it does appear that their fate and that of this office are closely tied together.’
Adeline’s eyebrows snapped together. ‘They kidnapped our people. They chopped off their fingers! And at least one ear! We cannot allow that sort of action to go unpunished.’
‘I’m sure it won’t be,’ I said quietly. ‘But we can’t deny the role of this office in making the trolls what they are today.’
She didn’t appear impressed. ‘We can’t be blamed for an accident that happened decades ago. Those kidnappings happened last month!’
I bit my lip but I wasn’t going to keep my mouth shut, not when it came to this. ‘I wasn’t aware there was a statute of limitations on genocide.’
‘It was hardly genocide, Saffron! It was a mistake.’
‘I’m not sure the trolls see it that way,’ I said, treading carefully. ‘Especially given that we covered it up and all but forget they’d ever existed.’
She opened her mouth to continue arguing then she closed it again. ‘Damn it,’ she muttered. ‘What a mess.’
I nodded. ‘Yeah.’ I sighed. ‘We have to find them and talk to them before anyone does anything that we’ll all regret.’
Her shoulders dropped. ‘Fine. What about the other matter? That client of yours that you came to see me about.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘I thought you wanted plausible deniability as far as she was concerned.’
‘I do.’ She waited.
Ah. ‘But you don’t want it to seem like you aren’t paying attention to what I’m up to, either. Middle management is a complicated line to walk.’
For a brief moment, her expression altered and she showed a surprisingly vulnerable edge. Then she shook herself. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said. ‘Give me the bare bones without the damning details and I’ll see if I can help in any way.’
I thought about it. ‘Well,’ I said finally, ‘I think I’ve discovered who her assassins are. Have you heard of Art Adwell?’
‘Isn’t he some sort of politician?’
‘Yep. He wants my client dead because, as far as I can tell, she has information on him that he doesn’t want anyone else to find out.’
Adeline wrinkled her nose. ‘So it’s easy. Grant her a wish and cause him to forget about her.’
‘She’s already dying, though,’ I said. ‘I don’t think she cares that he wants her dead.’
‘Well she should,’ Adeline snapped. ‘You’re hardly doing a bad thing by looking out for her interests and preventing some sleazy politician from killing her. Wave your wand and be done with it. Not every client knows what they want, Saffron. Sometimes you have to make the big decisions for them.’
‘Mmm.’ That was the easy way out, though. I wanted to make sure
I was doing the best job by Rose that I could.
‘Don’t mmm me,’ Adeline warned. ‘Just sort this out and move on.’
‘Yes, Adeline.’ I doffed an imaginary cap before hesitating.
She sighed. ‘What?’
‘Does Swan Lake mean anything to you?’ I asked.
Adeline looked confused. ‘Other than the ballet?’
Figgy exited the Metafora room and wandered past us. ‘Oh, I love the ballet,’ she breathed. She tucked away her wand which, I noted, had a lovely little red bow wrapped around its tip, and gave us a pirouette. ‘Swan Lake was always my favourite when I was a little kid. At least it was until that woman died by falling over the balcony at the Royal Albert Hall at the exact same time as Siegfried and Odette did. Even now I can’t watch it without hearing her scream.’ Her bottom lip jutted out. ‘She ruined it for me. These days I stick to the Nutcracker and Giselle. Swans give me creeps.’
I froze. ‘Who died?’
‘Siegfried and Odette. They’re the heroes, Saffron. I know you’ve probably never been to the ballet because of where you come from…’
‘Not them,’ I hissed. ‘I’m not interested in fictional characters. The woman who fell over the balcony. The real woman. Who was that?’
Figgy frowned. ‘I don’t know. Some daft politician. She screamed really loudly. And she almost took out an usher when she landed.’ She clicked her teeth to suggest that the dead woman should have been far more careful.
Adeline looked at me. ‘I’m not quite sure what’s going on here but it appears you’ve got some more work to do, Saffron.’
I took a deep breath. So it did.
Chapter Seventeen
I stared at my computer screen, cold cup of coffee in hand. The incident Figgy had outlined had indeed actually happened.
Sixteen years earlier, during a performance of Swan Lake, an up-and-coming female politician called Sophia Twist had toppled over the balcony as the ballet was reaching its climax. There was even video footage; one of the other audience members had been filming the stage from the back row.
The glare of the lights made it difficult to see exactly what happened but the scuffle of dark shadows followed by the loud scream suggested that it hadn’t been an accident. Neither had it been badly-timed suicide. Despite the scuffle, when the police had questioned everyone and found no obvious suspects, Twist’s death was eventually ruled as misadventure. Given what I’d overheard at Rose’s cottage, I found that incredibly hard to believe.
Putting my deep sense of foreboding to one side, I tried to be both pragmatic and unemotional. I’d told Jasper not to jump to conclusions; until I had evidence to prove otherwise, I was going to try and do the same.
I plugged in a search for Sophia Twist and scanned through the information that came up. She’d been unusually young for someone in her position, elected to be Member of Parliament for a small constituency in the Home Counties which technically no longer existed since it had been amalgamated with another one. Twist’s majority had been small but the work she’d done after she was voted in had received acclaim, even from her detractors. She’d kept the local hospital open despite severe cutbacks, and she’d fought to have a man repatriated from South East Asia after he’d landed in jail there on dubious charges. She’d also been on some mind-numbingly boring parliamentary select committee looking into ways to improve the railways. As far as I could tell, she was remarkably uncontroversial.
I gazed at the photos of her. She’d been a striking woman; her chestnut hair was always tied neatly into a tight bun and she usually wore tailored beige suits. Beige wasn’t a colour that I’d normally associate with brilliance but it had suited Twist’s dark complexion and caused her to stand out in photographs – even photographs where she was competing for attention with larger personalities such as Art Adwell. There were several pictures of them together, often with his arm round her shoulders. In more than one of the obituaries she was described as his protégée rather than as a powerful woman in her own right.
I chewed on my bottom lip then printed out all the photos before lining them up in date order on my desk. The first picture was from the day after her election; the last was from the week before her death.
Delilah poked her head round the cubicle wall, her curiosity getting the better of her. ‘What are you up to? Is this to do with the trolls?’
‘No.’ I wrinkled my nose. ‘I think it’s to do with one of my clients. It’s … complicated.’ I glanced from photo to photo. Art Adwell’s expression was virtually identical in every single one. He had the practised smile of a shark. Sophia Twist was smiling in each photograph too, but there were subtle differences.
I grabbed the first one and the last one and held them up to Delilah. ‘The woman,’ I said. ‘In the beige suit. Does she look different to you?’
Delilah frowned and looked at both. ‘She’s relaxed in that one,’ she said, pointing at the first picture. ‘And clearly fucking that guy.’
‘How can you tell?’
She grinned. ‘I can always tell.’
‘Delilah…’
‘She’s leaning into him with a familiarity that only comes post-coitus.’
I stared at her and her smile grew. ‘It’s how I know that you and the Devil’s Advocate haven’t done it, despite the rumours to the contrary.’ She buffed her fingernails on her blouse. ‘I’m something of an expert on body language. I persuaded Adeline to let me go on a training course last year. Do you know that when someone pulls their earlobe it generally indicates indecisiveness?’
‘You learn something every day.’ I looked down and wondered how much of myself I was giving away. ‘Is understanding body language helpful?’ I asked. ‘With faery godmother work, I mean.’
Delilah snorted. ‘Hell no. But it’s great for ferreting out the more interesting goings-on in this office.’ She waggled her eyebrows with delight. ‘There’s a lot I can tell you about the relationships around here.’
‘Uh-huh,’ I said faintly, hoping that she wouldn’t. ‘What can you see in this last photo? How does she feel here?’
‘She hates him.’
I gave it a closer look. ‘Because she’s leaning away from him?’
‘Sure.’ Delilah pointed. ‘And because her fist is clenched.’
I examined the picture more carefully. Only one of Sophia’s hands was visible but it was indeed curled into a tight fist. Interesting. ‘Thanks,’ I muttered.
‘No problem.’ Delilah beamed and turned away. I made a mental note to stop fidgeting in her presence. Or moving. Or doing anything at all that might give away any clues about what I was thinking. It was just too damned creepy.
I opened up the video footage and watched a BBC news reporter outside the Royal Albert Hall as he soberly stated that Sophia Twist had tragically died. Once I was sure about what I’d seen, I turned off my computer and got to my feet. It was time to confront Rose.
***
Thanks to Art Adwell and his gun-wielding goons, I’d not managed to get my grubby little fingers on Rose’s medication. Right now I didn’t particularly care. The state of Rose’s heart wasn’t troubling me as much as it had done before my trip to her cottage. Learning that your client is probably a stone-cold killer is certainly one way to reduce sympathy.
When the Metafora magic transported me directly outside Vincent’s little terraced house, I didn’t raise my fist to knock on the door. Instead I glanced up and down the street and made a beeline for the small row of shops at the far end. With any luck, I’d still be able to find what I needed.
I strode past the newsagents with its wire-mesh door and home-made posters detailing the ever-optimistic search for lost cats and cleaning jobs, then I passed the Indian takeaway whose wafting aroma of curry reminded me of Jasper. I crossed the street to where, thankfully, there was a little pharmacy.
The bell above the door jangled as I entered but the white-coated woman behind the desk barely looked up. I scanned the shelves, located
what I needed and took it up to the counter to pay.
‘Well, well, well,’ drawled a familiar voice behind me. ‘Fancy meeting you here. Are you picking up your methadone scrip?’
The pharmacist’s head jerked up, her eyes narrowing at me, while I turned and glared at Vincent. ‘I might ask you the same question,’ I sniffed. I glanced behind him. ‘Where’s Rose?’
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Back at the house. And before you start,’ he added, pre-empting my irritation, ‘she’s got a cup of tea and is watching Homes Under The Hammer. That little old lady is perfectly safe and isn’t going anywhere.’
‘You don’t know that.’ After all, he’d seen evidence of Rose attempting to run away.
Vincent reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. ‘I locked her in,’ he said simply.
I turned back to the pharmacist, whose expression was now considerably grimmer. ‘My mother,’ I lied unnecessarily. ‘She has dementia. She has a bad habit of wandering the streets unless we keep her locked in.’ I didn’t know why I was bothering to make up an excuse because I was working and covered by the memory magic. The pharmacist wouldn’t remember a damned thing as soon as I stepped out of her little shop.
She was only slightly mollified by my explanation but, when she glanced down at the bottle I was holding in my hands, she seemed to soften. ‘That won’t help her dementia, you know. The scientific studies around ginkgo biloba have proved inconclusive. You’re better off taking your mother to a real doctor.’
I coughed. ‘I thought it would be a worth a try. It won’t do any harm, will it?’
She pursed her thin lips. ‘I suppose not.’
I paid her then wandered outside to wait for Vincent. I dreaded to think what he was getting from the pharmacist. Viagra, probably. I gave a delicate shudder.
‘How is she doing?’ I asked gruffly, when he came out and joined me.
‘Better,’ he said. ‘She’s not moved much but she’s not died either.’ He bared his teeth at me in a grin. ‘I’d count that as a win.’