The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(44)

‘Oh, just tell me what it is.’

‘Remember the other day, George mentioning old Adam Bunchurch?’

‘What, getting all furious with the Fittes Agency for trying to close him down?’

‘That’s right. Well, he’s dead.’

‘What? Ghost-touch?’

‘No. He was attacked last night. Exactly what happened is unclear. He was on his way home from sorting a Lurker case in Rotherhithe. Walking alone. Someone lay in wait for him. They beat him up and left him. No one found him until morning. He was taken to hospital, but died there.’

I glanced across at George. ‘No clue as to who did it, I suppose.’

Lockwood didn’t speak for a moment. ‘Maybe the police will make an arrest. I don’t know.’

I didn’t comment. It didn’t seem particularly likely.

‘The next thing to tell you is also fairly ominous.’ Lockwood tossed the paper aside. ‘We got an official letter from DEPRAC. Tomorrow evening all the heads of the small independent agencies are requested to report to Fittes House, where Penelope Fittes is going to make an announcement. Six p.m.’ He glanced across at me.

‘Closing us all down?’

‘It doesn’t say.’

‘Things are certainly happening,’ George said. He was still engrossed in his papers.

‘They are,’ Lockwood said. ‘And speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to tell you both. At the theatre this morning Inspector Barnes came up to me and shook me by the hand.’

‘Doesn’t sound like him,’ I said. ‘Was he ill?’

Lockwood glanced at his palm and wiped it on his knee. ‘I do hope not. No, he was thanking us for our sterling efforts. But that’s not all. He gave me something too.’

He stretched over and handed me a piece of paper. On it were the words:



‘He wants a meeting?’ I said.

Lockwood grinned. ‘A secret one! Might be a bit more hush-hush if it wasn’t scribbled on official DEPRAC notepaper and in Barnes’s own spidery handwriting, but there you are.’

‘So are you going?’ I asked.

‘I think we all should. What do you think Barnes wants, George?’

‘Mm?’ There was a gleam behind George’s spectacles as he looked up. His eyes were bright, but his mind was focused on something far away. ‘Oh, he’ll be telling us to keep out of trouble, stop poking our noses into things that don’t concern us …’ He inspected the documents in his hand. ‘Well, too late for that now.’

‘OK, what are those, George?’ I said. ‘And how come Flo gave them to you?’

‘She’s been doing a little bit of research on my behalf, here and there. I’m not always able to gain access to some of the libraries, but Flo knows people who are surprisingly well connected … As for these, they’re death certificates.’ He scratched his nose.

‘Is this to do with your research on Marissa Fittes?’ I said. ‘What have you found?’

George hesitated. ‘I can’t talk about it now. Still thinking. Ask me again tomorrow.’

Alma Terrace, the location for our meeting with Inspector Barnes, turned out to be a soot-stained row of narrow houses in northwest London. A few old rusted ghost-lamps lined the northern side, flashing vainly at the coming dusk. We walked between them, from light to dark to light again, looking for Number 17.

Net curtains hung in many of the ground-floor windows, lit by warm interior light. The blinds weren’t yet drawn, and you could sometimes make out hazy images of people moving in the rooms. Already, in their evening domesticity, they were detached from us. The curtains kept agents like us at one remove.

Inspector Montagu Barnes was waiting for us outside the gate of Number 17. It was a dark part of the street, midway between ghost-lamps; we could see his crumpled form flashing dimly on and off as we approached. The house behind him was not very different from the others, except for the neatness of its tiny garden. It featured grass and gnomes.

‘Evening, Inspector,’ Lockwood said. ‘Sorry we’re late.’

‘Didn’t expect anything else,’ Barnes said. ‘In fact you’re only half an hour later than I requested. I’m honoured.’

There followed the usual awkward interlude while we smiled at him in our young and perky fashion, and he regarded us with middle-aged distaste. There was something slightly odd about him tonight. What was it? Not his general bearing. As ever, his moustache drooped as if shouldering the sorrows of the world. Then I realized I had never previously seen Barnes without either his raincoat or his tie. He had his shirtsleeves rolled below his elbow, and his collar was undone.

‘So … this is number seventeen.’ George surveyed the building. ‘It’s a sinister-looking dive. You can bet your boots something awful’s happened here.’

‘Yes. You carrying out an exorcism or something, Mr Barnes?’ Lockwood asked. ‘Might be simpler just to knock the old pile down …’ He hesitated. ‘Why are you glaring at us like that?’

‘Because this is my home, isn’t it?’ Barnes gave a heartfelt sigh. ‘Well, I suppose you’d better all come in.’

He held the door open for us. It didn’t look so much like a gesture of welcome as a preparation for slamming it hard on George’s head. We slipped through as quickly as possible. Before closing the door, the inspector took a good look up and down the street. The ghost-lamps flashed on and off in the quiet dark; no one seemed to be near.