Dead Men's s Boots

She was easy on that score, because she’d already decided to cut loose and take a cab: she found that a little of Todd’s company went a long way, and it didn’t help at all to know that he was going out of his way to be friendly. From her point of view he’d still played a major part in the nightmare of the last few days, and he stuck in her craw no matter what.

I gave her a hug, promised to be back in touch the next day to see how she was, and headed for the door. Todd ran an intercept, and I stopped because otherwise I’d have had to trample him.

He gave me a firm handshake and a hard, speculative glance.

‘Thanks for all your help, Mister Castor,’ he said.

‘My pleasure.’

‘You feeling okay now?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Nervous condition?’

‘Something like that.’ I pushed on past him: I liked the man well enough, but I wasn’t interested in talking about it right then.

Juliet was leaning against the wall in between the Lion of Saint Mark and the Eagle of Saint John, looking like the odd one out in a police line-up.

She checked her watch meaningfully as I appeared. It was kind of cute: it’s not like she gives a damn about time in the days, hours and minutes sense, but it’s exactly the sort of human mannerism that fascinates her – and watching her reproducing it is like hearing someone talk in a sexy foreign accent.

‘Pushed for time?’ I asked.

‘I’ve got other places to be, yes,’ she confirmed, kicking off from the wall and falling in beside me. ‘I came all the way over here because Sue said you sounded worried.

She thought it might be something urgent. If it’s not, just tell me: I’ll go back to where I belong and you can send me a letter.’

‘Where you belong?’ I raised an eyebrow. That’s something of a loaded proposition when you’re an earthbound demon.

‘You know what I mean.’

We walked down the steps and out into bright, clear winter sunlight: the clouds had rolled away while w cd a=""-e were inside and the day had taken on an entirely different cast. I welcomed it with something like relief.

‘It’s about a crime scene you read for Gary Coldwood,’ I said, as we walked down the curved drive back towards the street. Silence now from the gardens: the dead were in communion, maybe welcoming a newbie into their hallowed ranks.

‘Alastair Barnard,’ Juliet said.

‘Lucky guess.’

‘Gary called me. He said you were taking an interest in the case, and he reminded me that I’d signed a confidentiality agreement with the Met when I took their retainer.