‘Who are they?’
‘The bar staff?’
‘No, the two gentlemen.’
‘They didn’t give any names.’
‘Thank you, Miss—?’
‘Barrett-Browning,’ said the receptionist, ‘Liz Barrett-Browning.’
‘Well, Liz, keep the flowers. Make your boyfriend jealous. If Mr Parke-Laine calls again, tell him I died of haemorrhagic fever or something.’
I pushed my way through the throng of Miltons and on to the Cheshire Cat. It was easy to find. Above the door was a large red neon cat on a green neon tree. Every couple of minutes the red neon flickered and went out, leaving the cat’s grin on its own in the tree. The sound of a jazz band reached my ears from the bar as I walked across the lobby, and a smile crossed my lips as I heard the unmistakable piano of Holroyd Wilson. He was a Swindon man, born and bred. He could have played any bar in Europe with one phone call, but he had chosen to remain in Swindon. The bar was busy but not packed, the clientele mostly Miltons, who were sitting around drinking and joking, lamenting the Restoration and referring to each other as John.
I went up to the bar. It was happy hour in the Cheshire Cat, any drink for 52.5 p.
‘Good evening,’ said the barman. ‘Why is a raven like a writing desk?’
‘Because Poe wrote on both?’
‘Very good.’ He laughed. ‘What’s it to be?’
‘A half of Vorpal’s special, please. The name’s Next. Anyone waiting for me?’
The barman, who was dressed like a hatter, indicated a booth on the other side of the room in which two men were sitting, partially obscured by shadows. I took my drink and walked over. The room was too full for anyone to start any trouble. As I drew closer I could see the two men more clearly.
The elder of the two was a grey-haired gentleman in his mid-seventies. He had large mutton-chop sideburns and was dressed in a neat tweed suit with a silk bow tie. His hands were holding a pair of brown gloves on top of his walking stick and I could see a deerstalker hat on the seat next to him. His face had a ruddy appearance, and as I approached he threw back his head and laughed like a seal at something the younger man had said.
The man opposite him was aged about thirty. He sat on the front of his seat in a slightly nervous manner. He sipped at a tonic water and wore a pin-stripe suit that was expensive but had seen better days. I knew I had seen him before somewhere but couldn’t think where.
‘You gentlemen looking for me?’
They both got up together. The elder of the two spoke first.
‘Miss Next? Delighted to make your acquaintance. The name’s Analogy. Victor Analogy. Head of Swindon LiteraTecs. We spoke on the phone.’
He offered his hand and I shook it.
‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’
‘This is Operative Bowden Cable. You’ll be working together.’
‘I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, madam,’ said Bowden quite grandly, slightly awkwardly and very stiffly.
‘Have we met before?’ I asked, shaking his outstretched hand.
‘No,’ said Bowden firmly. ‘I would have remembered.’
Victor offered me a seat next to Bowden, who shuffled up making polite noises. I took a sip of my drink. It tasted like old horse blankets soaked in urine. I coughed explosively. Bowden offered me his handkerchief.
‘Vorpal’s special?’ said Victor, raising an eyebrow. ‘Brave girl.’
‘Th-thank you.’
‘Welcome to Swindon,’ continued Victor. ‘First of all I’d like to say how sorry we were to hear about your little incident. By all accounts Hades was a monster. I’m not sorry he died. I hope you are quite recovered?’
‘I am, but others were not so fortunate.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, but you are very welcome here. No one of your calibre has ever bothered to join us in this backwater before.’
I looked at Analogy and was slightly puzzled. ‘I’m not sure I understand what you’re driving at.’
‘What I mean—not to put too fine a point on it—is all of us in the office are more academics than typical SpecOp agents. Your post was held by Jim Crometty. He was shot dead in the old town during a book buy that went wrong. He was Bowden’s partner. Jim was a very special friend to us all; he had a wife, three kids. I want… no, I want very badly the person who took Crometty from us.’
I stared at their earnest faces with some confusion until the penny dropped. They thought I was a full and pukka SO-5 operative on a rest-and-recuperation assignment. It wasn’t unusual. Back at SO-27 we used to get worn-out characters from SO-9 and SO-7 all the time. Without exception they had all been mad as pants.
‘You’ve read my file?’ I asked slowly.
‘They wouldn’t release it,’ replied Analogy. ‘It’s not often we get an operative moving to our little band from the dizzy heights of SpecOps 5. We needed a replacement with good field experience but also someone who can… well, how shall I put it—?’
Analogy paused, apparently at a loss for words. Bowden answered for him.
‘We need someone who isn’t frightened to use extreme force if deemed necessary.’
I looked at them both, wondering whether it would be better to come clean; after all, the only thing I had shot recently was my own car and a seemingly bullet-proof master criminal. I was officially SO-27, not SO-5. But with the strong possibility of Acheron still being around, and revenge still high on my agenda, perhaps it would be better to play along.
Analogy shuffled nervously.
‘Crometty’s murder is being looked after by Homicide, of course. Unofficially we can’t do a great deal, but SpecOps has always prided itself on a certain independence. If we uncovered any evidence in the pursuit of other enquiries, it would not be frowned upon. Do you understand?’
‘Sure. Do you have any idea who killed Crometty?’
‘Someone said that they had something for him to see, to buy. A rare Dickens manuscript. He went to see it and… well, he wasn’t armed, you know.’
‘Few LiteraTecs in Swindon even know how to use a firearm,’ added Bowden, ‘and training for many of them is out of the question. Literary detection and firearms don’t really go hand in hand; pen mightier than the sword and so forth.’
‘Words are all very well,’ I replied coolly, suddenly enjoying the SO-5 women-of-mystery stuff, ‘but a nine-millimetre really gets to the root of the problem.’
They stared at me in silence for a second or two. Victor drew out a photograph from a buff envelope and placed it on the table in front of me.
‘We’d like your opinion on this. It was taken yesterday.’
I looked at the photo. I knew the face well enough. ‘Jack Schitt.’
‘And what do you know about him?’
‘Not much. He’s head of Goliath’s Internal Security Service. He wanted to know what Hades had planned to do with the Chuzzlewit manuscript.’
‘I’ll let you into a secret. You’re right that Schitt’s Goliath but he’s not Internal Security.’
‘What, then?’
‘Advanced Weapons Division. Eight billion annual budget and it all goes through him.’
‘Eight billion?’
‘And loose change. Rumour has it they even went over that budget to develop the plasma rifle. He’s intelligent, ambitious and quite inflexible. He came here two weeks ago. He wouldn’t be in Swindon at all unless there was something here that Goliath found of great interest; we think Crometty went to see the original manuscript of Chuzzlewit and if that is so—‘
‘—Schitt is here because I am,’ I announced suddenly. ‘He thought it suspicious that I should want an SO-27 job in Swindon of all places—no offence meant.’
‘None taken,’ replied Analogy. ‘But Schitt being here makes me think that Hades is still about—or at the very least Goliath think so.’