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“And you still say you don’t know anything about the disappearance of Maeve Livingstone?”
“I don’t think I ever actually met her properly. Maybe once when she came through the office. We talked on the phone a few times. She’d want to talk to Grahame Coats. I’d have to tell her the check was in the post.”
“Was it?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was. Look, you can’t believe I had anything to do with her disappearance.”
“No,” she said, cheerfully, “I don’t.”
“Because I honestly don’t know what could have—you what?”
“I don’t think you had anything to do with Maeve Livingstone’s disappearance. I also don’t believe that you had anything to do with the financial irregularities being perpetrated at the Grahame Coats Agency, although someone seems to have worked very hard to make it look like you did. But it’s pretty obvious that the weird accounting practices and the steady syphoning off of money predates your arrival. You’ve only been there two years.”
“About that,” said Fat Charlie. He realized that his jaw was open. He closed it.
Daisy said, “Look, I know that cops in books and movies are mostly idiots, especially if it’s the kind of book with a crime-fighting pensioner or a hard-arsed private eye in it. And I’m really sorry that we don’t have any Jaffa cakes. But we’re not all completely stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were,” said Fat Charlie.
“No,” she said. “But you were thinking it. You’re free to go. With an apology if you’d like one.”
“Where did she, um, disappear?” asked Fat Charlie.
“Mrs. Livingstone? Well, the last time anyone saw her, she was accompanying Grahame Coats into his office.”
“Ah.”
“I meant it about the cup of tea. Would you like one?”
“Yes. Very much. Um. I suppose your people already checked out the secret room in his office. The one behind the bookcase?”
It is to Daisy’s credit that all she said, perfectly calmly, was “I don’t believe they did.”
“I don’t think we were supposed to know about it,” said Fat Charlie, “but I went in once, and the bookshelf was pushed back, and he was inside. I went away again,” he added. “I wasn’t spying on him or anything.”
Daisy said, “We can pick up some Jaffa cakes on the way.”
FAT CHARLIE WASN’T CERTAIN THAT HE LIKED FREEDOM. THERE was too much open air involved.
“Are you okay?” asked Daisy.
“I’m fine.”
“You seem a bit twitchy.”
“I suppose I am. You’ll think this is silly, but I’m a bit—well, I have a thing about birds.”
“What, a phobia?”
“Sort of.”
“Well, that’s the common term for an irrational fear of birds.”
“What do they call a rational fear of birds, then?” He nibbled the Jaffa cake.
There was silence. Daisy said, “Well, anyway, there aren’t any birds in this car.”
She parked the car on the double yellow lines outside the Grahame Coats Agency offices, and they went inside together.
