Tarsapple opened one of the rear doors of the heavily customised car while Glenshee fiddled with the controls from the driving seat.

"Please get in, Miss Westwood," he said politely, without obvious irony. He didn't need to be more direct, not with the effects of the Compel glamour in operation.

"I suppose you'll want to come too, Gask," he added sourly.

I said nothing, just grinned at him, then skipped around to the other side of the car and slid in behind Glenshee. The younger Goblin turned the key and fired up the engine with a sudden roar, making me jump, before settling to a low rumble.

Both the Goblins in the front donned sunglasses, even though it was dark outside. This was essential, I knew, for dealing with the intense glare of approaching headlights, not to mention the reflections from our own lamps. Driving without headlights was a sure-fire way of attracting attention and Glenshee sensibly chose not to attempt it, even if it did mean a car full of people all wearing dark glasses. I fumbled in my own coat pocket for my own pair. Mayfield too was well-prepared, finding in her own pockets some oversize dark glasses featuring a certain amount of discreet branding and distinctly feminine bling.

Glenshee slipped the car into gear and set off with a tyre-spinning roar which must have sprayed stones and mud into the hedge and seriously inconvenienced any lurking badger. As I had enticipated, the young driver tackled every bend in the road as if some dangerous villan was in hot pursuit and that he had perfect forewarning of any approaching vehicles concealed by bends and obstacles. Perhaps he genuinely did. It would not be impossible for Glenshee to have acquired a certain amount of prescient magic: enough to inform him of dangers on the road ahead. Or maybe he really was a complete maniac.

I should confess at this point that I am an extremely poor passenger, especially when Goblins are driving. Two minutes into the trip I was already turning green - not a normal skin colour for a healthy Goblin - and fighting to hold onto my breakfast. Fortunately, that meal had been quite some time ago. Mayfield, on the other hand, clearly enjoyed the roller-coaster ride. She sat forward looking over Tarsapple's shoulder, occasionally whooping at the more enthusiastic overtaking manoeuvres. Perhaps fast driving was one of many reasons she liked it so much up here on the surface.

It was altogether far too long before Glenshee brought the car to a screaming halt right outside the alleyway I had used when I arrived in this area. Mayfield seemed unsurprised by our destination. She had probably been this way more than once before to visit the Lower Realms. Including all those regular visits to her grandma. The car had barely stopped rocking from its furious deceleration that Tarsapple leapt out and yanked open the rear door.

"This way, Miss Westwood," he said urbanely. Mayfield graciously accepted his invitation.

Tarsapple's invitation didn't appear to extend to me. I wrestled my way out of the other rear door and half-stepped, half-fell onto the pavement. My head was swimming, my stomach was turning back somersaults, and a black cloud of pain and confusion filled my vision. It would pass, I knew, but for the moment I could hardly move.

Tarsapple pointedly ignored my distress. He walked with Mayfield into the alley. The entrance to the Lower Realms was marked out clearly - for those who knew what they were looking for - in those Goblin runes so easily mistaken for the graffiti which litters so many urban spaces in the surface world. Tarsapple spoke the opening command - inaudible from this distance, as is the nature of Goblin magic - and the two of them disappeared into the energetically-applied paint work on the side of the building.

Glenshee stayed in the car. Presumably he would park it somewhere conveniently out of sight ready for the next high-speed foray in this part of the surface world. While I lolled on the ground, still trying to control my innards and work out which way was down, the normally-stolid Goblin engaged first gear and screeched off in a haze of petrol fumes which did nothing to calm down the contents of my stomach.

After a few minutes, the world stopped orbiting my head and I managed to stagger to my feet. I followed the other two down the alley and through the entrance portal, stumbling inelegantly on the arrival mat. A border guard turned in my direction, stun-stick in hand. I fumbled in my pockets for my wallet and flipped it open to show my PI badge - this acts as a passport in this realm - and waved it distractedly in his direction.

The distraction was a weeping Mayfield. She sat in an alcove, on one of those hard chairs typical of these places, her face in her hands, crying her eyes out. She was being supported by another of the uniformed border guards in that distracted manner many males take when an attractive female stranger suddenly comes over all emotional on them. Tarsapple leaned on a wall nearby, his usual cynical grin now at full wattage. He clearly expected this outcome, the bastard, and had refrained from even hinting at whatever-it-was while we were travelling.

I straightened myself up, retrieved my hat - which had fallen to the floor when I landed - and was just about cross over to find out what was going on when a worryingly familiar voice spoke from behind me.

"Leave her a few minutes, Gask," the voice drawled softly, "She's just had quite a shock."

I spun around. The speaker was short wiry Goblin with a snaggle tooth which made him look a little bit like a country bumpkin, despite the business suit and the dapper hat. It was a carefully cultivated look, one designed to disguise the keen intelligence and insightful intellect, one intended to ensure that nobody would take the speaker seriously. It was a good look for a policeman.

"Detective Mergie Tewel," I said, frowning, "What are you doing here?"

"Detective Sergeant," Tewel corrected mildly, "I'm the bearer of bad news."

He nodded in the direction of Mayfield, who was thoroughly soaking a large white handkerchief which looked as if it had been produced by the luckless border guard.

"It's Lady Strowan Westwood," he went on, "She's dead."

"Dead? That was a bit unexpected," I said, "She seemed in reasonable health when I left her last night. A bit frail, perhaps, but in very good spirits."

"Ye-es," Tewel replied, speaking so softly that I had to strain to make out the words, "That's the problem. She was murdered."

Part 19

Part 21