The older Goblin moved into my line of sight and looked at me with faint interest, the interest of one viewing a dusty museum specimen now long dead.

"My name's Madderfy," he said calmly, adding, "I see you've heard of me" as I jerked my head up.

I suppose I should not have been surprised. The elder Madderfy had a reputation as a smart cookie and it stood to reason he would be interested in the death of his son-in-law. He also had a reputation as a mover and shaker, and therefore one with certain contacts in the police, contacts that might be relied upon to furnish a little information in exchange for membership of the Country Club. Or maybe just an anonymous brown envelope of folding cash.

"My friend Captain Wester here has suggested that you can help me with a private matter," he continued, "A matter in which I suspect you have an interest yourself."

"I'm not sure I'm going to be much use to anyone just at the moment," I replied, with absolute honesty.

"He's got a thick skull, that one," Wester said with a flash of his usual bluster, "Doesn't take a hint no matter how it's delivered."

"Now, now, Fowlis, be gentle," Madderfy said calmly, "Mister Gask has had a hard night." He paused, then added, "Perhaps it is time you consider your other duties, hmm?"

Wester managed to take the hint without further advice. He squared his uniform cap on his head, pulling down the peak and glared at me through the narrow slit that remained between brim and cheek. He nodded obsequiously to Madderfy, then puffed out his chest and strutted out of the open office door.

With Wester out of the way, Madderfy leaned forward to take a closer look at me, wrinkling his nose at my pervasive odour of mobile cow-pat.

"Mister Gask, I feel sure we can help each other," he said softly, "We both want the same thing."

"And what's that?" I grunted, still barely able to speak coherently.

"We both want to know what really happened to Merton Vale."

"Why do you want to know?"

"He was my son-in-law, and my business partner." That sounded reasonable to me. Perhaps too reasonable.

"Maybe you should ask your tame police captain," I countered.

Madderfy snorted derisorily.

"The police have their uses," he conceded, "But getting them to apply concentrated thought to a single objective is not one of their strong points."

He had a point there, I had to agree. That's why PIs exist in the first place.

"So what do you want from me?"

"Go home and get yourself cleaned up, get some sleep," Madderfy advised, "When you've recovered, you'll hear from me again."

He picked up a slim folder from the once-elegant desk and opened it, appearing to study it carefully.

"But while you're recovering," he continued after a few moments, "There's a curious police report you might want to consider. Something gleaned from our contacts in the Swiss Police in the Zurich Canton."

There was something about his voice that told me that I should pay attention, despite various parts of my body objecting vigorously.

"Sometime during last night, somebody tried to break open a left luggage locker using, of all things, shaped explosive charges."

That sounded like premeditated overkill, in normal circumstances. I knew that the opening of railway station lockers was usually a few minutes work with a decent jemmy. This was, of course, why I had put so much care and expense into glamours and other protections for that stash.

Old man Madderfy glanced in my direction, as if to be assured that he had my attention.

"An eye-witness reported that, a few minutes before, somebody tried to open the locker with a key, but failed. Apparently, he used some pretty, shall we say, heated language. According to the report, the somebody was tall and heavyset, with muscular arms and a thick neck concealed with shoulder-length hair, and wearing a tight-fitting tee-shirt and dirty blue jeans."

He didn't have to say: it was somebody who was almost certainly not a Goblin. Somehow, a human had become involved in this affair. This is almost always bad news, in my experience.

I could now barely speak with the pain in my head and grunted to acknowledge that some of the importance of his report had made it into my skull. Madderfy smiled briefly, without either humour or sympathy. He took out a business card and tucked it into my breast pocket.

"We'll be in touch, soon," he suggested, "Feel free to come and see me, anytime."

One of the goons stepped forward and helped me to my feet. He guided me out through the door of the office, across the dusty and oil-stained floor of the industrial unit, and out though a fire exit. Once the door banged behind me and I was on mhy own, I looked around blearily. I was standing in an alley bounded on one side by the ribbed metal of the warehouse and on the other by a rusty metal fence, deeply entangled with briars and weeds.

The grey metal cladding has been extensively and imaginatively graffiti'd. I recognised in the swirling colours and the angular lines that represented old-fashioned Goblin runes, words that marked the entrance to a drop-shaft, one that returned me to the Lower Realms in a matter of seconds. From there, it was just a short trip by transit tube and a ten-minute walk - stagger, more likely - to reach my apartment. How I managed it, I'll never know.

Part 33

Part 35