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"My husband is missing," she said shortly, sounding not entirely sure whether this was a bad thing or not. Well, that certainly figured. It was in my best interests, not to mention the interests of professional client confidentiality, to say nothing of the commission I had received only the previous evening, even though, strictly speaking, Ardoch Dunsinan was not yet my client. Indeed, given the suddenly parlous state of Dunsinan's finances, I would be glad of a legitimate legal reason to investigate. "You want me to find your husband?" I enquired politely, scribbling away. "I want you to find out what has happened to my husband," she corrected, her lips pursed together, "It's up to him what he does. I just want to know." "Okay," I said cautiously, "And your husband's name is...?" "It's Carsie, Carsie Burnbank." I made my best method-acting attempt to not react to this statement. My poker face is pretty good these days. I get a lot of practice. "And you last saw Carsie, when?" I pressed, more gently, "Tell me what you know." It was if a dam had broken. Killin Burnbank spoke for twenty minutes almost without taking a breath, telling me everything about her life, as she saw it, in one long stream of consciousness. The impression I formed was of a marriage held together by convention and pride and a desire for stability above all else. Nothing exciting, nothing emotional, but just a state where living together was better than any conceivable alternative. But for all the stream of words flowing over me, I learned nothing more than Dunsinan had already told me: that without the slightest prior warning, Carsie Burnbank had got up one morning, breakfasted lightly, set out for the office at the usual time - and was never seen again. Eventually, she dried up and sat sobbing silently with her face in her hands. After a minute, she pulled a handkerchief from her capacious bag and dabbed in a ladylike fashion at her eyes. When she returned the sodden linen to her handbag and looked up at me, I could tell that the mask of social correctness had descended again and I would get nothing more without a direct question. Of which I had none, really, although I made a point of asking a few clarifications and scribbling down the answers. "I'll start immediately," I said eventually, "If you wish me to proceed, of course." Killin reached for the checkbook on the desk. Recognising my cue, I opened a desk drawer and pulled out a pen, a human-made biro with the name of a third-rate hotel on New York inscribed down the side. Frowning slightly at the curved engraving - so different from the angular runes which are used for the written form of the Goblin tongue - she took the pen and filled out the check for fifty dollars. "A retainer, Mister Gask," she said firmly, handing over the money, "I shall expect reports and a statement of your expenses." "Of course," I replied, "As you wish." She stood up, as did I, and I held the door open as she left. Then I collapsed into the swivel chair again. So at least I was legal and I even had some money in my hand. I had no doubt that her check would be good. And maybe Dunsinan's financial position would ease up enough to fund the investigation further. So, where to start? Dunsinan was right - his cop instincts hadn’t deserted him - the loose end was the dead man. I would need to visit the surface. Just as well I was already dressed in the outfit most likely to allow me to pass as a human.
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Part 11