'Couldn't you have just asked his ghost? Maybe killing him was an easier, safer way of getting the information you required.'
I shook my head. 'It doesn't work like that, not as neatly anyway. I pomped the soul, and the body returned to wherever it was when it entered Hell.'
'You didn't think to ask the spirit any questions?'
'Oh, I tried, but with a death that violent, the soul just usually blazes through. I didn't get much more than rage and anger at being betrayed, I guess, and then I was losing consciousness myself.'
I hobble over to the window beside Solstice. Stare down. 'What I want to know is how a living person ended up out there.'
'Is it really that odd? I mean, I'm here right now, aren't I?'
'It's remarkable, all right,' I say. 'In here you're not really in Hell, just a point that juts into Hell, and even that involves quite a bit of power. Two worlds are mixing here, and it's not a very good mix. A lot of people have trouble with this room; they get all sorts of migraines, dizzy spells. It's why we do our job interviews here. If you can't cope with the energies in this room, you really shouldn't become a Pomp. You're handling it very well, Detective.'
Solstice rubs the bridge of his nose. 'Hm. I do have a bit of a headache, but that could be just the condition I suffer from.'
'What's that?'
'Hypochondria.'
Yeah, funny guy. I point down at the footpath. 'Down there. To get down there with the possibility of returning involves serious pain. The Underworld doesn't like life, just afterlife. Its barriers are permeable, but not without incredible effort, arcane knowledge, and a lot of blood.'
'Blood?'
'Yeah, you need to die and not die. It's about as easy as it sounds, believe me.'
Solstice's pen gets to work again in his notebook. He has a swift, neat writing style – a dot-the-'i's-cross- the-'t's sort of thing. 'Well, he didn't stay living for long.' Solstice scratches the bridge of his nose. 'But then that seems to be something that happens to people who spend any time with you, doesn't it?'
'What are you implying?'
Solstice grins. 'Nothing at all.'
'I honestly don't know how you're going to uncover anything,' I say. 'There's no body that we could find. Who knows where it is? Number Four is healing itself, and we've never used closed circuit TV here.'
'You leave that to me,' Solstice says. 'There's a body somewhere. And there will be a gun.'
'I don't know about that – oh, sorry, Detective, just a condition I suffer from.'
'Yeah, and that is?' he asks.
'Pessimism.'
'I like you already,' Solstice says, patting me on the back. His rolled-up shirt sleeve slips back to reveal a rather large tattoo.
I get a good look at it before Solstice pulls down his sleeve in what must be an automatic gesture. I'm not sure how they regard tatts in the force.
'You'd make a good Pomp,' I say, nodding at his arm.
'What? Oh, yeah.' Seeing no point in hiding it, he grins a little crookedly and pulls up his sleeve to reveal more. A dragon extends all the way along his forearm, the tail disappearing under the fabric. Its scales are a luminous green, narrow red eyes stare at me, and a tiny puff of smoke curls from its nostrils.
'Nice work isn't it?' Solstice says. 'Guy who did it won a lot of awards.'
'Yeah. Your own design?'
Solstice dips his head. 'A little bit Tolkien, a little bit Chinese. I call it Smauget.'
I'm not about to compare tatts. Wal isn't quite as fierce, and his creation was less considered, more alcohol-fuelled.
Solstice peers at his phone. 'No bloody signal.'
Closers certainly don't have access to a phone network as good as ours.
Solstice reaches over to the black phone in the middle of my messy desk. 'Mind if I make a call?'
'Not with that, you won't.' I lift up the tattered end of the phone cord, bits of rusty wire jutting out.
'What is it then, a paperweight?'
'Internal line,' I say with a lame grin. I'm not about to tell him it's a direct line to my old boss, Mr D. The fewer people who know, or even suspect, that he's still about, the better.
Solstice nods his head and glances at his watch. 'I'm going to have to leave. Believe it or not we have more than one case.'
'You Closers,' I say, 'you're a big department?'
'Big enough.'
'Why haven't I heard of you until today?'
'You've never needed to.' He glances at his card on my desk. 'You call me if anything happens.'
'I will.'
He slips on his Akubra. 'And try not to give us any more work.'
10
Tim and I meet at a park in the leafy suburb of Paddington, near enough to some decent pubs if we feel so inclined. It's a meeting place that we use if we want a little privacy. And I'm not sure who I can trust in the office right now; most of my staff are brand new. But last time we met here I was on the run for my life and Lissa was dead, so things could be much worse. Silver lining, right?
After two months of being ignored, the afternoon had seen a flood of RM visitors. I'm not sure if it was because I've finally peformed the Convergence Ceremony, or that I was shot at by an unknown assassin but they certainly didn't talk much about the latter.
China's RM, Li An, was the first to visit. He surprised me; just sat down across from me and didn't say a word. His eyes fixed on me.
I didn't know what to say, I just stared right back. Finally, after twenty minutes, his lips just hinting at a smile, Li An nodded his head and stood. I shook his hand. It was dry, and just a little cold.
'I think she made the right choice. It was a pleasure getting to know you, Mr de Selby,' he said. Then he shifted out before I could ask him what he was talking about.
East Europe's RM, Madeleine Danning, came and gave me a pot of daisies. 'They'll look good in the corner, over there. But you mustn't forget to water them. I always thought they'd cheer this place up.'
England's RM, Anna Kranski, wanted to talk early Hitchcock films, and was mortified that I hadn't watched The 39 Steps.
No one suggested any deals. Not Kiri Baker from New Zealand. Not Devesh Singh from India. No one made any offers. I didn't know how to take it. This was the Orcus. These were the Deaths of the world, and I was treated with nothing but the utmost politeness.
Those who did talk were anxious about the Death Moot. Had the Caterers hinted at what they were doing this time? Was the bridge prepared? Which bridge was it exactly?
The fact that it was a footbridge seemed to impress Japan's RM, Tae Sato. 'A good omen,' he said. 'You'll find it to be a good omen.'
Charlie Top, Middle Africa's RM, was also pleased.
All this RM happiness. And there I was with that image in my head of them at the Negotiation: the hungry gleam, bordering on naked bloodlust, in their eyes.
The only two RMs who didn't visit were Neill Debbier and Suzanne. I didn't know what that meant, but by the time I was ready to leave my office I was tired and didn't really want to know.
'You're one of the club now,' Tim says leaning back on the bonnet of his car. 'It's a good thing.'
He passes me a beer, and I twist off the cap. 'Yeah, but none of them wanted to talk about the attempt on
