Ghost-hunting Dog

The next morning Lesley asked me how the ghost-hunting had gone. We were loitering in front of Neblett’s office, the place from whence the fatal blow would fall. We weren’t required to be there, but neither of us wanted to prolong the agony.

‘There’s worse things than the Case Progression Unit,’ I said.

We both thought about that for a moment.

‘Traffic,’ said Lesley. ‘That’s worse than the CPU.’

‘You get to drive nice motors though,’ I said. ‘BMW Five, Mercedes M Class.’

‘You know, Peter, you really are quite a shallow person,’ said Lesley.

I was going to protest, but Neblett emerged from his office. He didn’t seem surprised to see us. He handed a letter to Lesley, who seemed curiously reluctant to open it.

‘They’re waiting for you at Belgravia,’ said Neblett. ‘Off you go.’ Belgravia is where the Westminster Murder Team is based. Lesley gave me a nervous little wave, turned and skipped off down the corridor.

‘There goes a proper thief taker,’ said Neblett. He looked at me and frowned.

‘Whereas you,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what you are.’

‘Proactively making a valuable contribution, sir,’ I said.

‘Cheeky bugger is what you are,’ said Neblett. He handed me not an envelope, but a slip of paper. ‘You’re going to be working with a Chief Inspector Thomas Nightingale.’ The slip had the name and address of a Japanese restaurant on New Row.

‘Who am I working for?’ I asked.

‘Economic and Specialist Crime as far as I know,’ said Neblett. ‘They want you in plain clothes, so you’d better get a move on.’

Economic and Specialist Crime was an admin basket for a load of specialist units, everything from arts and antiques to immigration and computer crime. The important thing was that the Case Progression Unit wasn’t one of them. I left in a hurry before he could change his mind, but I want to make it clear that at no point did I break into a skip.