She parked the car on the double yellow lines outside the Grahame Coats Agency offices, and they went inside together.
ROSIE LAY IN THE SUN BY THE POOL ON THE AFT DECK OF A KOrean cruise ship2 with a magazine over her head and her mother beside her, trying to remember why she had ever thought a holiday with her mother would be a good idea.
There were no English newspapers on the cruise ship, and Rosie did not miss them. She missed everything else, though. In her mind the cruise was a form of floating purgatory, made bearable only by the islands they visited every day or so. The other passengers would go ashore and shop or parasail or go for rum sodden trips on floating pirate ships. Rosie, on the other hand, would walk, and talk to people.
She would see people in pain, see people who looked hungry or miserable, and she wanted to help. Everything seemed very fixable to Rosie. It just needed someone to fix it.
MAEVE LIVINGSTONE HAD EXPECTED DEATH TO BE A NUMBER of things, but irritating had never been one of them. Still, she was irritated. She was tired of being walked through, tired of being ignored, and, most of all, tired of not being able to leave the offices in the Aldwych.
“I mean, if I have to haunt anywhere,” she said to the receptionist, “why can’t I haunt Somerset House, over the road? Lovely buildings, excellent view over the Thames, several architecturally impressive features. Some very nice little restaurants as well. Even if you don’t need to eat any longer, it’d be nice for people-watching.”
Annie the receptionist, whose job since the vanishment of Grahame Coats had been to answer the phone in a bored voice and say, “I’m afraid I don’t know” to pretty much any question she was asked, and who, when she was not performing this function, would phone her friends and discuss the mystery in hushed but excitable tones, did not reply to this, as she had not replied to anything Maeve had said to her.
The monotony was broken by the arrival of Fat Charlie Nancy, accompanied by the female police officer.
Maeve had always rather liked Fat Charlie, even when his function had been to assure her that a check would soon be in the mail, but now she saw things she had never seen before: there were shadows that fluttered about him, always keeping their distance: bad things coming. He looked like a man on the run from something, and it worried her.
She followed them into Grahame Coats’s office and was delighted to see Fat Charlie head straight over to the bookshelf at the back of the room.
“So where’s the secret panel?” asked Daisy.
“It’s not a panel. It was a door. Behind the bookshelf over here. I don’t know. Maybe there’s a secret catch or something.”
Daisy looked at the bookshelf. “Did Grahame Coats ever write an autobiography?” she asked Fat Charlie.
“Not that I’ve ever heard about.”
She pushed on the leatherbound copy of My Life by Grahame Coats. It clicked, and the bookshelf swung away from the wall, revealing a locked door behind it.
“We’ll need a locksmith,” she said. “And I don’t really think we need you here any longer, Mr Nancy.”
“Right,” said Fat Charlie. “Well,” he said, “It’s been, um. Interesting.”
And then he said, “I don’t suppose you’d like. To get some food. With me. One day?”
“Dim sum,” she said. “Sunday lunchtime. We’ll go dutch. You’ll need to be there when they open the doors at eleven-thirty, or we’ll have to queue for ages.” She scribbled down the address of a restaurant and handed it to Fat Charlie. “Watch out for birds on the way home,” she said.
“I will,” he said. “See you Sunday.”
THE LOCKSMITH UNFOLDED A BLACK CLOTH WALLET AND took out several slim pieces of metal.
“Honestly,” he said. “You’d think they’d learn. It’s not like good locks are expensive. I mean, you look at that door, lovely piece of work. Solid that is. Take you half a day to get through it with a blow torch. And then they let the whole thing down with a lock that a five-year old could open with a spoon-handle… There we go… Easy as falling off the wagon.”
He pulled on the door. The door opened and they saw the thing on the floor.
“Well, for goodness’ sake,” said Maeve Livingstone. “That’s not me.” She thought she’d have more affection for her body, but she didn’t; it reminded her of a dead animal at the side of the road.
Soon enough the room was filled with people. Maeve, who had never had much patience for detective dramas, was quickly bored, only taking an interest in what was happening when she felt herself being pulled, unarguably, downstairs and out the front door, as the human remains were taken away in a discreet blue plastic bag.
“This is more like it,” said Maeve Livingstone.
She was out.
At least she was out of the office in the Aldwych.