Ghostfinders 02 - Ghost of a Smile

going to be me.”
    “You were all there when I got the phone call,” JC said patiently. “Which means you know as much as I do. The Boss wants us here, so we’re here.”
    “Five hours on a train, and what kind of greeting do we get when we arrive at Paddington Station?” said Melody. “Big bunch of flowers, box of chocolates, and a hearty Well done ? An air ticket to somewhere decadent? No, we get dropped right in it again. I could spit soot . . .”
    “Please don’t,” said Happy. “It’s not a pretty sight.”
    “You will observe,” said JC, “that our dear and much respected and even-more-feared divine Bossness is conspicuous by her absence. Which suggests that whatever we’ve been sent to tend to, it can’t be that important. Or she’d be here, bending our ears on the matter. However, given how unusual it is for us to be directed straight to a danger site, without even a quick stop-off for a briefing, it does suggest that whatever happened here . . . was not only really bad, but decidedly recent.”
    “I love to hear him talk,” said Melody. “Don’t you love to hear him talk? He has such a way with words . . . Look, can’t we at least go inside? It’s bloody cold out here. I am freezing my tits off.”
    JC looked at her. “You really want simply to walk in there? Into an unknown situation, with unknown dangers?”
    “Yes! I’m cold!”
    “What exactly did the Boss say to you?” said Happy, tactfully changing the subject.
    “Directions on how to get here and orders to stay put for further instructions,” said JC. “And then she rang off before I could tell her to go to Hell.”
    Melody sniffed loudly. “You don’t actually expect her to turn up in person, do you? At this ungodly hour of the morning? Far more likely she’ll roust some poor unfortunate flak-catcher out of bed and send him down here for us to shout at. Hello . . . spot the expensive car.”
    They all turned to look at the huge silver stretch-limousine as it glided down the empty street, then eased to a halt right in front of them, with a purr of its powerful motor. A uniformed chauffeur, complete with peaked cap and supercilious expression, jumped out from behind the wheel and hurried back to open the rear door. Out stepped Robert Patterson. Tall, black, expensively dressed in the best three-piece Saville Row had to offer. A shaved head, a noble brow, and a handsome face, elegant and dignified. Robert Patterson was the public face of the Carnacki Institute, on those rare occasions when it needed to talk with other parts of the Establishment. A product of Eton and Cambridge, ex-Guards and ex-Civil Service, Patterson didn’t normally lower himself to brief field agents. Certainly not out in the field. He had important paper-shuffling to be getting on with.
    JC considered Patterson thoughtfully as the man stood silently, ignoring them as he gave complete concentration to checking that his cuffs were immaculate. For Patterson to appear there, in person, meant they had to be facing a very delicate situation. The kind of case in which very rich, very important, and very well-connected people were involved. So highly placed that even the Carnacki Institute had to tread carefully.
    Patterson finally deigned to acknowledge the field agents, looking them over sourly. He didn’t seem to be any happier about being there than they did, which cheered them up somewhat.
    “Mr. Patterson,” JC said smoothly. “How nice to see you. Especially when you swore you never wanted to see us again after that unfortunate incident at Her Majesty’s garden party last spring. Did you ever get the stains out? No matter, no matter . . . Looking very elegant, as always, straight from your posh ride. Look at the length of it. That’s not a stretch limo, that’s a car with serious glandular problems. You must forgive our rather more rumpled appearance. We’ve just endured five hours in standard class on British Rail, direct from our last very successful assignment.”
    “We had to hire a mini-van!” Happy said loudly. “A bloody mini-van!”
    “Hush now, Happy,” murmured JC. “Grown-ups talking.”
    “Hell with that,” said Happy. “Open up that limo and let me at the booze. I am in dire need of some medicinal brandy. Or medicinal vodka, I’m not fussy . . .”
    “Damn right,” said Melody. “You got any snacks in there, Patterson? I’m so hungry I could eat your upholstery. Let me at it, or I’ll shoot out your tyres and