Page 26 of The Unforgiven

I made him write it down. “You know what, you’re a muppet. I don’t know how you actually stay alive.”

“But the ladies love me.” He logged out and stood up, sending his chair flying.

“Apart from Dr Miz.” Who I’d spent two hours with.

Vinny grabbed his jacket. “Did she say anything about me?”

“For fuck’s sake, you sound like Lachy mooning over that girl two weeks ago. Yes, she said a lot about you.”

“Come to the pub and tell me, and I’ll buy you a burger. Extra cheese.” He patted his oversized hand on my shoulder.

I had nothing better to do, and nothing in the fridge. “Deal.”

“Excellent. Is she still going on about the small sample jar?”

Chapter Twelve

The twisted staircases belonged in a fairytale or some dark academia romance rather than an old Georgian building at the edge of the city centre, inside a building that’d been used for several TV and film sets.

It was a building where I’d spent five years of my life, three as an undergrad, studying criminology and then two as a master’s student, working part time as Dr Daniel Fletcher’s assistant.

That was why I knew he’d already be in his office, even though it wasn’t quite six in the morning.

I headed through the wide corridor, the original tiles maintained just about well enough to make them look safe to walk over rather than treasure of the past. Dark wood panelling graced the walls, the windows through doors and looking into seminar rooms and offices mainly the originals, some with stained glass, others coated with plastic peeling in the corners, an attempt at privacy for some don who wanted a quick nip of whisky during office hours.

The stairs wound round like some old museum, floor to ceiling windows at the approach of each floor, more stained glass. Portraits adorned the walls, all of white, middle-aged menuntil I reached the second floor which celebrated the beginnings of society viewing women as starting to have a voice.

Daniel’s office was on the third floor, one of the larger ones, and next to the library, which was more of a collection of first and rare editions related to psychology now. His door was ajar, the early morning light petering through, spotlighting dances of dust in a line of pale yellow. I paused before knocking; it’d been months since I’d last been here, spare time being scarce and it never making the top of my priority list on a rare free day.

The smell didn’t change. It had been the same scent of old books and late nights that I’d noticed on my first day as a fresher, a cologne I’d never thought I’d be special enough to share, university not for kids who’d been in care and had a mother who’d been an addict and an inmate.

I’d defied the odds all along though because there was something in me that didn’t give up, genetics I seemed to share with other blood family members.

The pity was that not all of us used our powers for good.

“Mia McAllister, I can hear your brain working from in here. Come in and pray you have decent coffee.”

The building almost shook with the depth of his baritone. Deep, melodic, the sort of voice that woke memories from seven lives ago.

“It’s still the same.” I stepped into Daniel’s office, his antique gentlemen’s desk neatly piled with papers, as well as the more modern equivalent of two screens and a tablet.

“It’s been the same for hundred years and I fully expect it’ll be the same the century following my death, whenever that event occurs. More interestingly than a building that doesn’t change, how are you, my dear?” He stood up and switched on the elaborate coffee machine which was a new addition since I’d last been there.

“Good. Busy. The usual.” I sat down without waiting for an invitation. “New toy?”

“My new assistant isn’t as efficient with the coffee as you were. But I did notice you were emptied handed. That’s unlike you.” A blast of grinding punctuated his sentence.

I stretched out my legs then sat up straighter. My chosen seat was the antique sofa, a traditional psychiatrist’s couch that I’d spent a lot of time sat on while under Daniel’s tutelage, always a pupil, or on a few occasions, a patient. “I’m not your assistant anymore. It’s not in my job description.”

He chuckled. “I’m assuming the deaths of these two women are part of your current job description, and that might be the reason for your visit.”

I nodded, accepting the coffee which was, as expected, a little on the strong side. “I wondered if you’d mind me bouncing some ideas off you, unofficially.”

He finished his own drink first and then sat back down behind his desk, shifting a pile of print outs so they were blocking his being able to make eye contact. “Happy to help, but I’d be happier if your team brought me into consult again. Officially.” This wasn’t the first time he’d said this.

“Budget cuts.” I gave the same response. It wasn’t just that; Wrigley couldn’t stand my old professor and had said a few choice words about him, which was rather un-Wrigley like.

Daniel shrugged. “Cheaper for them to solve it as quickly as possible though, but maybe they don’t have that sort of logical thinking, or maybe it’s me who doesn’t understand it. So, these two women. What can you tell me?”