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"A set-up?" I echoed, again. I was beginning to get a bad habit of being audibly surprised by Dunsinan's revelations. The other Goblin nodded slowly. "I think Burnbank is a fall guy. But I don't have a clue as to why, or even how." "What makes you think so?" "I found something at the scene. It was under the bed, as if it had been dropped and rolled out of sight. I only found it because I was taking a close look at the body, making sure the man was really dead. He was, but not for very long. A few hours at most." Dunsinan took something from his pocket wrapped in a crumpled pocket handkerchief and put it carefully on the table between us. I pushed my half-finished plate to one side, pulled a pair of thin gloves from my coat pocket and slipped them on, then carefully unwrapped the bundle on the table. Inside the rather grubby handkerchief was a silver snuffbox: a flat round disc of polished metal decorated with fancy etched decorations. A classy piece. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. On the underside, a few words were engraved in angular Goblin runes: "To Carsie, love always" and then a woman's name which I took to be his wife. I gently prised open the box; it was about half-full of a very decent brand of snuff. It smelled fresh and stimulating. I was very tempted to try a pinch right there and then. It was definitely the property of one who enjoys a snootful of tobacco on a regular basis, and who had the wherewithal to invest in a quality product. "It belongs to Burnbank," Dunsinan went on while I closed the box and studied the exterior still further, "And you might think linked him to the scene of the crime." I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. Dunsinan caught the look. "He'd been complaining that he'd lost it for days before he disappeared," he explained reasonably, "He's always pernickety like that. Always likes to know exactly where everything is. I've sat at my desk and watched him across the office. He would carefully take out the contents of his pockets, lay them out neatly in a row on the desk, polish his watch and glasses and, yes, this snuffbox, sort the coins in his small change into size order, then put the whole lot back again." I nodded thoughtfully at this. "You do know you've tampered with evidence, don't you?" I said finally. "Yeah, don't I know it," he agreed grimly, "But there was something fishy about finding such a personal piece of pocket furniture after Burnbank had been complaining about its loss." I guess all old policemen get like this. They know the law, and when the law should be interpreted rigidly or with a little flex here and there. They also know how coppers work, and they know about different sorts of cop, too: those which are careful and thorough, and those who just want a quick result or an easy life. A lazy cop might just have arrested Burnbank on the strength of the snuffbox and forced a confession out of him. It was a good motive even for an honest Goblin to disappear for a while. I rewrapped the snuffbox and pushed it back towards Dunsinan. "Any idea who the human stiff was?" "I made a few enquiries with an old colleague who's still on the force," he said promptly, "The police weren't sure, but they think its one Taylor Mungall, who disappeared from somewhere called New York a couple of days ago. I pulled out a notebook and went back over Dunsinan's story, the old police training in interviewing coming to the fore. Not that I really needed the notebook. I've got an exceptional memory for detail but I've often found that giving the appearance of taking notes gives the customer a better impression. In between times, I sipped my beer. I couldn’t bring myself to eat any more of the dinner, which would undoubtedly put me in David's bad books when he came to collect the plates. "Look, I need Burnbank back," Dunsinan said after I had run out of questions, "I can't run the business on my own. I need you to find him, get him out of the frame for some random murder and back in the office where be belongs." "Why don't you investigate yourself?" I asked. I was genuinely puzzled. After all, Dunsinan was a fine and experienced police investigator in his own right. "I have done, a bit. Poked around here and there. Got a bunch of stuff I already told you about. But, I don't have a PI licence. Not likely to get one either, given my form." I ignored that last comment. "But you don't have to have a PI licence just to go poking around a bit," I replied, consciously echoing his words for emphasis, "It's not like you've made no enquiries of your own, is it?" Dunsinan looked sheepish for a moment. "There is another reason," he admitted finally, "This Mungall guy is the major loose end. And I'm terrified of being on the surface." This was true; I remembered it as soon as he reminded me. When we were cops together, the only time I could ever remember him being visibly frightened, to the point of risking refusing orders from the Captain, was when a particular investigation threatened to take us top-side. And it's not unusual: a great many Goblins are unable to bring themselves to visit the upper world, even for a few minutes.
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Part 7