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To be honest, Campsie was a natural. Within minutes of being put through, she was already chatting away happily. I let her rattle on, laying the foundations for what would, I felt sure, rapidly become a firm friendship. Finally, she said her goodbyes and returned the receiver to its cradle with a pleased-as-punch look on her face. "Very good," I said, nodding sagely, "Couldn't have done better myself." "I've got an interview with the wardrobe master tomorrow afternoon," Campsie announced, "He's called Rhynd Deuchny. I think he likes me already." "I don't doubt it," I replied, waving in the direction of the cluttered desk, "But let's get the rest of this lot sorted out in the meantime." We plugged away at the paperwork for another hour or two, conferring occasionally when one of us had spotted something noteworthy. Finally, I stood up, stretching my back and shoulders. "Okay," I announced, "That's enough for tonight, I think." Campsie nodded, and started ordering the papers neatly in a manila folder. "Regroup here tomorrow morning?" I suggested, "And get you ready for your interview?" "Sure." I slid the folder into one of the filing cabinets and locked the drawer. "Be careful out there," I said gently. "I will," she answered with a determined grin, "I always am." She whirled out of the office, closing the door behind her. I didn't go home immediately. I sat in the sudden silence created by Campsie's departure and thought about the future - my future. Watching Campsie at work had made me feel suddenly old. She was smarter than me, faster than me, more tenacious than me and, still worse, younger than me. It was enough to make me want to hand in my PI badge and retire. Not that I could afford to, of course: I had no savings, nothing I could cash in to make for a comfortable retirement. Nothing to do but just press on, then. Later, I mooched over to the Diner and selected the blue-plate special - always a reliable choice at David's. I also ordered a large bottle of the strong dark beer I rather favour. I cleared my plate quickly, then sat over the beer for a while as I mulled over the case, wondering where Broxden and Fordun fitted into the motley crew that seemed to have become employed at the Stalactite Saloon, without coming to any firm conclusions.
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Part 31