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Maybe she had. One thing was for certain. Storm would never tell me. He wanted me off this case.
So that was where I was going to go today. Back to Beatrice’s house to find out what the hell is going on. The plaque at the entrance had said that Raif’s office was in there. I need to get into it.
But what about your job? says the little voice inside my head. She is needling me. She doesn’t give a crap about my job.
She is right, of course. I have a shift at my catering job this morning. I need it because the tips at Luca’s restaurant last night had been crap. But I’ve already lost three shifts at the catering job, and wasted a stupid amount of money on the cab yesterday. No way am I going to be able to pay my rent by Thursday.
The only way to do it is if I win the wager and get that consultancy fee the chief promised me.
So that’s your only option really, the little voice says. I can almost feel her dancing with sheer glee inside my head. She hates the catering job as much as I do.
“Stop being so smug,” I tell her.
I feed AngelBeastie and let her out on my way out to Beatrice Grictor’s house. It is in central London, so it takes a good long march to get there.
The day is sunny and pleasant, and I am glad of it. I had planned to scope out the house from a nearby cafe that had a decent view of Beatrice’s front door, but all the window seats are taken. I end up having to sit outside with my tea, the cheapest thing on the menu, and hope that my floppy sun hat and sunglasses are enough to stop Beatrice from spotting me if she should come out. A damn fool I would have looked had it been cloudy.
I nurse my cold tea for many hours, not drinking it because then they might make me leave. I see first a young lady in a smart little dress and a matching silk scarf enter the house with a key — I figure she must be the secretary — and then the comings and goings of several people who must be Beatrice’s patients.
I note down the times they arrive and leave. Each appointment seems to be an hour long. At lunchtime, Beatrice’s secretary com
es out of the house and walks off down the street and around the corner. Beatrice does not come out. The secretary returns thirty minutes later, to my great relief. The secretary is a key part of my plans.
Twenty-five minutes later another patient arrives and disappears into the house. I wait fifty minutes before I abandon my tea and dart over to the house, intending to ring the buzzer for the secretary to let me in. There is no need. The patient has not pulled the door shut. It is still slightly ajar.
I go inside, expecting to see the secretary sitting at a desk near the entry way. The desk is there, visible through a glass partition, but her chair is empty. She is not there. The waiting area is empty.
Hurry, whispers the little voice, doing nothing to ease my nerves.
Surprise makes me hesitate. This is off-plan. I had thought I was going to have to wait for the next patient to come to the house, hopefully in just a few minutes. I had planned to tell the secretary that I wanted to make an appointment with Beatrice and then ask her to use the bathroom. I had hoped the next patient would distract her, allowing me to sneak off to explore the house.
Turns out my hopes aren’t needed. Beyond the secretary’s desk are two doors with little silver name plates on them. On one is written Beatrice Ann Grictor, Clinical Psychologist. On the other is Dr R. Silverstone.
I run to the second door and listen with my ear pressed to it just long enough to make sure it is quiet on the other side, and then I hurriedly let myself in and pull the door shut behind me.
My heart is thumping. I had worried it would be locked. It was not. Once inside, I pause to catch my breath and calm myself. There is a latch on the door. I lock it quietly, just in case the secretary tries to walk in for some reason. The latch will give me the few moments I need to hide.
The room is fairly cramped. A plush darkwood desk and leather upholstered chair dominate it. They look like they were designed for a much larger space.
I can hear a very muted voice coming from one wall that is lined with bookshelves. It is the wall which joins onto Beatrice’s office. She must be in there with her patient.
For a small office, it has a lot of stuff in it and it is very messy. Too messy, in fact. The shelving is crammed floor-to-ceiling with books and manuals. Many of them are crooked and in disarray, as if they have been hastily put onto the shelves. Some have spilled onto the floor.
Behind the desk is a wall full of photographs and framed certificates that turn out to be educational diplomas. Dr Silverstone has more degrees than I had thought a doctor needed. The two largest frames are wonky. The rest are perfectly straight, immaculately aligned as if Dr Silverstone had been a neat freak.
The appearance of his ghost had certainly attested to his liking for neatness. He had been perfectly groomed, clean shaven, his short hair neatly sprayed into place, and wearing the same preppy outfit he’d had on in my dream.
The room is at odds with itself. It is like someone rifled through everything and didn’t do a great job putting it back in its place. Which makes my job harder. The key Raif was talking about could be anywhere. And what was the point of it anyway? I am looking for his murderer, not a key.
Knowing that I am no great detective and have nowhere near the time it would take to go through the contents of his large desk and his filing cabinets and shelves, I focus on the photographs.
I place my hand on each one, hoping it will bring me some insight. The pictures are largely of people, some in groups, some portraits of individuals, many of them women. They all seem to have been taken in impoverished communities; some rural villages, some urban shanty towns. The people in them look tired but are beaming, clearly at the end of some sort of rewarding project. Dr Silverstone is in almost every shot, standing at the center of each group like a heroic savior. Everyone hugging him. He looks happy.
I scrutinize each of the tiny faces in the group shots, paying particular attention to anyone who might resemble Lynesse Jones. The pictures that fascinate me most are the ones that have been taken in Otherworld, which is apparent from the exotic vegetation and the glimmering skies and buildings with architecture distinctly unlike those found on Earth.
I reach the last picture and am disappointed that none have sparked any insight, even though there had only been the merest chance one would.
Sighing, I go to the desk and take a seat in Dr Silverstone’s chair. I occupy the space he must have occupied so frequently, trying to envision the world through his eyes. One thing is certain. He liked comfort and nice things. The chair is lusher than my bed.
