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I pushed him hard across the narrow passageway with one hand so that he bounced off the cracked stone wall opposite and slithered to the ground. As a scion of what passes for moderate wealth and privilege down here, he was probably unused to this kind of rough treatment. Tough luck. He should have known better than to try and follow a genuinely professional investigator. I leaned casually against a convenient buttress opposite the slumped figure of Cutmal Lundie and pointed my automatic less obviously in his direction. I doubted the weaponry being waved around would make much difference in his case; he seemed entirely cowed by the sudden turning of the tables. "Cutmal Lundie," I echoed, adding ironically, "And to what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your company?" He looked up at me and started to struggle to his feet. "Stay where you are," I growled, waving the iron around again, "And keep your hands where I can see them." He sagged back against the wall and half-waved his hands about placatingly. "I hear you're investigating the death of Strowan Westwood," he said finally. "So?" "So I'm interested." "And what's your interest exactly." "I know Mayfield, slightly," he shrugged, adding coyly, "But not as well as I'd like." "Uh-huh. And?" "So I hear she's in trouble." This was news to me. In the sense that, while Mayfield might be under threat from her dissolute and manic brother, I was definitely interested in how this information had got to the likes of a distant connection, an acquaintance of an acquaintance at best. "So how did you know about me?" I queried, affecting a wry grimace. "Almon Methven told me you had visited him," Lundie answered promptly, sounding like he was in front of of the headmaster, "And that you had been engaged by Mayfield. In a professional capacity, of course." That was also interesting. Very interesting. I had carefully given Methven no indication of who I was working for, never mentioned Mayfield at all. And I had only mentioned Tibbermore in the context of the manuscripts of Lady Strowan's memoirs. Wherever Lundie was getting his information from, it wasn't from the places he was telling me about. If I had them, my hackles would be up by now. Lundie was lying to me, probably without even realising what he was giving away. That kind of thing always annoys me. But getting the whole truth out of Lundie might be difficult: sure, I could just beat it out of him, but it would make my knuckles sore and - who knows - he might have a legitimate reason for knowing what he knew. But beating up on somebody on a first acquaintance wasn't exactly my style, and he might just have the kind of family contacts which could make my life very difficult in the future if I did. To use a metaphor alien to Goblins - who don't hold with oceans at the best of times - it was time to put a warning shot across his bows. I stood up straight, then reached down and yanked Lundie to his feet. I glared down at him, an approach amplified by the way the firearm had suddenly reappeared under his chin. "Look, this is none of your business," I said in an undertone, "Leave Mayfield alone. And stop following me. It's not your place to get involved with this business. Go home, go to your club, visit your favourite brothel, but leave the murder investigations to the professionals." The barb must have struck home. I shoved him away, spinning him against another section of the passageway wall. Instead of slinking off, as I might have expected, he pulled himself up to his full height and started back towards me with such sudden anger that I was forced to make more threatening movements with the automatic I was still holding. "If you're such a genius," Lundie snarled, "Why haven't you caught the killer already? Strowan deserves more than a third-rate copper like you!" "Kid," I drawled, "I've been putting killers behind bars since before you were born. And ..." "And what?" he interrupted angrily, "You've spent your days chasing from place to place, doing nothing, getting nowhere. Engaging you was a waste of money." And with that, he spun on his heel and stalked off down the alley, oblivious of the gun I was still pointing at him. He did have a point, though.
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Part 74