Nightingale lament

'You only drink that wormwood muck when you've lost someone close to you. I wouldn't use that stuff to clean combs. I thought the Prometheus gig was a straightforward deal?'

'I really don't want to talk about it, Cathy.'

'No, you'd rather sulk and be miserable and pollute the atmosphere for everyone else. If you're not careful, you'll end up like Alex.'

Cathy could always make me smile. 'There's no danger of that. I'm not in Alex's class. That man could brood for the Olympics, and pick up a bronze in self-pity while he was at it. He's why there's never been a Happy Hour in Strangefellows.'

Cathy sighed, leaned forward, and gave me her best exasperated look. 'Get another case going, John. You know you're really only happy when you're working. Not that that's much healthier, given the cases you spe­cialise in. You need to get out more and meet people, preferably people who aren't trying to kill you. You know, I found this really great new dating site for pro­fessional singles on the Net the other day . . .'

I shuddered. 'I've seen some of those. Hi! I'm Trixi, and I've got diseases so virulent you can even catch them down a phone line! Just give me your credit card number, and I guarantee to make your eyes water in under thirty seconds! No, Cathy! I'm quite happy with my solitary brooding. It builds character.'

Cathy pouted, then shrugged. She never could stay unhappy for long. She finished off the last of her cham­ pagne, hiccuped happily, and looked hopefully round the bar for another dancing partner. I'd never admit it to her, but she was mostly right. My work was all I had to give my life meaning. But since my last successful case earned me a quarter of a million pounds, plus bonuses, I could afford to be more particular about what work I chose to take on. (I located the Unholy Grail for the Vatican, and faced down Heaven and Hell in the process. I'd earned that money.) Maybe I should start looking for a new case, if only to take the taste of Prometheus Inc. out of my mouth.

'I'm bored,' Cathy announced, slapping both hands on the table to prove it. 'Bored of sitting around your expensive new office with nothing to do. It's all very comfortable, I'm sure, and I love all the new equip­ment, but a growing girl can't spend all her life surfing dodgy porn sites on the Internet. Like you, I need to be doing. Earning my keep and smiting the ungodly where it hurts. There must be something in all the messages I've taken that appeals to you. What about the case of the missing shadows? Or the guy who lost his adoles­cence in a rigged card game?'

'Hold everything,' I said sternly. 'A disturbing thought has just occurred to me. Who's looking after things in my expensive new Nightside office, while you're out cavorting and carousing in dubious drinking establishments?'

'Ah,' said Cathy, grinning. 'I got a really good deal on some computers from the future. They practically run the whole business on their own, these days. They can even answer the phone and talk snotty to our cred­ itors.'

'Just how far up the line did these computers come from?' I said suspiciously. 'I mean, are we talking Ar­ tificial Intelligence here? Are they going to want pay­ing?'

'Relax! They're data junkies. The Nightside fasci­nates them. Why don't we ask them to find something that would interest you?'

'Cathy, I only took on the Prometheus case to keep you quiet...'

'No you didn't!' Cathy said hotly. 'You took that on because you wanted Walker to owe you a favour.'

I scowled and addressed myself to my drink. 'Yes, well, that didn't actually work out as well as I'd hoped.'

'Oh God,' said Cathy. 'Am I going to have start locking the doors and windows and hiding under the desk again, when he comes around?'

'I think it would be a better idea if we both stayed away from the office completely, just for a while.'

'That bad?'

'Pretty much. Let Walker argue with the computers and see how far it gets him.'

There was a sudden flare of brilliant light, and a man fell out of nowhere into Strangefellows. He crashed to the floor just in front of the bar, his New Romantic silks in shreds and tatters. Static sparks discharged from every metal object in the bar, and the air was heavy with the stench of ozone—the usual accompanying signs of time travel. The newcomer groaned, sat up, and wiped at his bloody nose with the back of his hand. He'd clearly been through a hell of a fight recently, and just as clearly lost. I knew him, though if I met him in the street, I tried very hard not to. He was Tommy Oblivion, a fellow private investigator, though he spe­cialised in cases of an existential nature. He lurched to his feet, leaned his back against the bar for support while he pulled his ragged silks around him, then saw me watching him. His battered face purpled with rage, and he stabbed a shaking finger at me.

'You! Taylor! This is all your fault! I'll have your balls for this!'

'I haven't seen you in months, Tommy,' I said calmly.

'No, but you will! In the future! Only this time I'll be ready for you, and better prepared! I'll have guns! Big guns!'

He continued to spit abuse at me, but I couldn't be bothered. I looked at Alex, and he gestured at his two bouncers. Betty and Lucy hurried forward, glad of an excuse for a little action. Tommy made the mistake of threatening them, too, and the two girls briskly knocked him to the floor, kicked him somewhere painful, and then frog-marched him out of Strangefel­lows. Cathy gave me a hard look.

'What was that all about?'

'Beats the hell out of me,' I said honestly. 'Presum­ably I'll find out. In time.'

'Excuse me,' said a voice with a cultured French accent. 'Have I the honour of addressing Mr. John Taylor?'

Cathy and I both looked round sharply. Standing right before us was a short, comfortably padded, middle- aged man in an expertly cut suit. He looked supremely elegant, not a hair out of place, and his smile was so­ phisticated charm itself. There was no way he could have entered the bar and approached my corner table without being seen, but there he was, large as life and twice as French. He nodded courteously to me, smiled at Cathy, and kissed her proffered hand. She gave him a dazzling smile in return. I decided not to like him, on general principles. I really don't like being sneaked up on. It's bad for my health. I gestured for the Frenchman to pull up a chair. He studied the empty chair solemnly for a moment, then produced a blindingly white hand­kerchief from an inner pocket and flicked the seat of the chair a few times before deigning to sit on it. I gave him my best intimidating glare, to remind him who was boss around here.

'I'm John Taylor,' I growled. 'You're a long way from home, m'sieu. What can I do for you?'

He nodded easily, entirely unimpressed. 'I am Charles Chabron, for many years one of the most re­spected bankers in Paris. And I have come a very long way to meet with you, Mr. Taylor, and inquire whether I might hire your professional services.'

'Who recommended me to you?' I said carefully.

He flashed his charming smile again. 'An old friend of yours who does not wish to be identified.'

He had me there. 'I get a lot of that,' I admitted. 'What is it you want, Mr. Chabron?'

'Please, call me Charles. I am here because of my daughter. You may have heard of her. She is currently the new singing sensation of the Nightside. She calls herself Rossignol, though that is of course not her real name. Rossignol is merely French for nightingale. She first came to London, then the Nightside, some five years ago, determined to make for herself a career as a singer. And this last year she has been singing very suc­cessfully to packed houses in nightclubs all over the Nightside. I understand there's even talk of a recording contract with one of the major companies. Which is all well and good.

'However, since she took up with her new manage­ment, a Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish, she only sings at one nightclub, Caliban's Cavern, and she has . . . changed. She has broken off all contact with her old friends and family. She does not answer phone calls or letters, and her new management won't let anyone get near her. They say they do this at her explicit request and justify it in the name of protecting her from over-zealous fans of her new fame. But I am not so sure. Her mother is frantic with worry, convinced that the Cavendishes have poisoned our daughter's mind against her family, and that they are, perhaps, taking advantage of her. And so I have come here, to you, Mr. Taylor, in the hope that you can establish the truth of the matter.'

I looked at Cathy. The music scene was her special­ity. There wasn't a club in the Nightside she hadn't