‘No, sir.’
‘Shame, shame. Where was I? Oh yes. Out of all those departments, do you know which I fear most?’
‘I’ve no idea, sir.’
‘I’ll tell you. None of them. The thing I fear most is SpecOps regional budget meetings. Do you realise what that means, Next?’
‘No, sir.’
‘It means that every time one of you puts in for extra overtime or a special request, I go over budget and it makes my head hurt right here.’
He pointed to his left temple.
‘And I don’t like that. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He picked up my file again and waved it at me.
‘I heard you had a spot of bother in the big city. Other operatives getting killed. It’s a whole new different alternative kettle of fish here, y’know. We crunch data for a living. If you want to arrest someone then have uniform do it. No running about shooting up bad guys, no overtime and definitely no twenty-four-hour surveillance operations. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now, about Hades.’
My heart leaped; I had thought that would have been censored, if anything.
‘I understand you think he is still alive?’
I thought for a moment. My eyes flicked to the file Hicks was holding. He divined my thoughts.
‘Oh, that’s not in here, my dear girl. I may be a hick commander in the boonies, but I do have my sources. You think he is still alive?’
I knew I could trust Victor and Bowden, but about Hicks I was not so sure. I didn’t think I would risk it.
‘A symptom of stress, sir. Hades is dead.’
He plonked my file in the out-tray, leaned back in his chair and stroked his moustache, something he obviously enjoyed.
‘So you’re not here to try and find him?’
‘Why would Hades be in Swindon if he were alive, sir?’
Braxton looked uneasy for a moment.
‘Quite, quite.’
He smiled and stood up, indicating that the interview was at an end.
‘Good, well, run along. One piece of advice. Learn to play golf; you’ll find it a very rewarding and relaxing game. This is a copy of the department’s budget account and this is a list of all the local golf courses. Study them well. Good luck.’
I went out and closed the door after me.
The clerk looked up.
‘Did he mention the budget?’
‘I don’t think he mentioned anything else. Do you have a waste bin?’
The clerk smiled and pushed it out with his foot. I dumped the heavy document in it unceremoniously.
‘Bravo,’ he said.
As I was about to open the door to leave a short man in a blue suit came powering through without looking. He was reading a fax and knocked against me as he went straight through to Braxton’s office without a word. The clerk was watching me for my reaction.
‘Well, well,’ I murmured, ‘Jack Schitt.’
‘You know him?’
‘Not socially.’
‘As much charm as an open grave,’ said the clerk, who had obviously warmed to me since I binned the budget. ‘Steer clear of him. Goliath, you know.’
I looked at the closed door to Braxton’s office.
‘What’s he here for?’
The secretary shrugged, gave me a conspiratorial wink and said very pointedly and slowly:
‘I’ll get that coffee you wanted and it was two sugars, wasn’t it?’
‘No thanks, not for me.’
‘No, no,’ he replied. ‘Two sugars, TWO sugars.’
He was pointing at the intercom on his desk.
‘Heavens above!’ he exploded. ‘Do I have to spell it out?’
The penny dropped. The clerk gave a wan smile and scurried out of the door. I quickly sat down, flipped up the lever marked Two on the intercom and leaned closer to listen.
‘I don’t like it when you don’t knock, Mr Schitt.’
‘I’m devastated, Braxton. Does she know anything about Hades?’ ‘She says not.’
‘She’s lying. She’s here for a purpose. If I find Hades first we can get rid of her.’
‘Less of the we, Jack,’ said Braxton testily. ‘Please remember that I have given Goliath my full co-operation, but you are working under my jurisdiction and have only the powers that I bestow upon you. Powers that I can revoke at any time. We do this my way or not at all. Do you understand?’
Schitt was unperturbed. He replied in a condescending manner: ‘Of course, Braxton, as long as you understand that if this thing blows up in your face the Goliath Corporation will hold you personally responsible.’
I sat down at my empty desk again. There seemed to be a lot going on in the office that I wasn’t a part of. Bowden laid his hand on my shoulder and made me jump.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t wish to startle you. Did you get the commander’s budget speech?’
‘And more. Jack Schitt went into his office as though he owned the place.’
Bowden shrugged.
‘Since he’s Goliath, then the chances are he does.’
Bowden picked his jacket up from the back of his chair and folded it neatly across his arm.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘Lunch, then a lead in the Chuzzlewit theft. I’ll explain on the way. Do you have a car?’
Bowden wasn’t too impressed when he saw the multicoloured Porsche.
‘This is hardly what one might refer to as low profile.’
‘On the contrary,’ I replied, ‘who would have thought a LiteraTec would drive a car like this? Besides, I have to drive it.’
He got in the passenger seat and looked around slightly disdainfully at the spartan interior.
‘Is there a problem, Miss Next? You’re staring.’
Now that Bowden was in the passenger seat I had suddenly realised where I had seen him before. He had been the passenger when the car had appeared in front of me at the hospital. Events had indeed started to fall into place.
14. Lunch with Bowden
‘Bowden Cable is the sort of honest and dependable operative that is the backbone of SpecOps. They never win commendations or medals and the public has no knowledge of them at all. They are all worth ten of people like me.’
Bowden guided me to a transport cafe on the old Oxford road. I thought it was an odd choice for lunch; the seats were hard orange plastic and the yellowing Melamine-covered table-tops had started to lift at the edges. The windows were almost opaque with dirt and the nylon net curtains hung heavily with deposits of grease. Several flypapers dangled from the ceiling, their potency long worn off, the flies stuck to them long since desiccated to dust. Somebody had made an effort to make the interior slightly more cheery by sticking up a few pictures hastily cut from old calendars; a signed photo of the 1978 England soccer team was hung above a fireplace that had been filled in and then decorated with a vase full of plastic flowers.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked, sitting gingerly at a table near the window.
‘The food’s good,’ responded Bowden, as though that was all that mattered.
A gum-chewing waitress came up to the table and put some bent cutlery in front of us. She was about fifty and was wearing a uniform that might have been her mother’s.
‘Hello, Mr Cable,’ she said in a flat tone with only a sliver of interest in her voice, ‘all well?’
‘Very well, thank you. Lottie, I’d like you to meet my new partner, Thursday Next.’
Lottie looked at me oddly.
‘Any relation to Captain Next?’
‘He was my brother,’ I said loudly, as if wanting Lottie to know that I wasn’t ashamed of the connection, ‘and he didn’t do what they said he did.’
The waitress stared at me for a moment, as if wanting to say something but not daring.
‘What will you lot have, then?’ she asked instead with forced cheerfulness. She had lost someone in the Charge; I could sense it.