Nightside 01 - Something From the Nightside

to work out this wasn't just an office. Someone lived here. It was also patently obvious that this wasn't the office of someone on his way up.
    I'd chosen to live in the real world, for what seemed like good reasons at the time, but it had never been easy.
    I suddenly decided I'd had enough of the voice on the telephone. "Look," I said, in that calm reasonable tone that if done properly can drive people absolutely batshit, "if I had the money I'd pay you, but I don't
    have the money. So you'll just have to take a number and get in line. You are of course welcome to try sue-ing, in which case I can recommend a neighbour of mine who's a lawyer. He needs the work, so he won't laugh in your face when you tell him who you're trying to get money out of. However, if you'd care to be patient just a little longer, it's possible a whole lot of money just walked in... You know, hysteria like that can't be good for your blood pressure. I recommend deep breathing and visits to the seaside. I always find the sea very soothing. I'll get back to you. Eventually."
    I put the phone down firmly and smiled politely at my visitor. She didn't smile back. I just knew we were going to get along. She looked pointedly at the murmuring television on my desk, and I turned it off.
    "It's company," I said calmly. "Much like a dog, but with the added advantage that you don't have to take it for walks."
    "Don't you ever go home?" Her tone made it clear she was asking for information, not because she cared.
    "I am currently in between homes. Big, empty, expensive things. Besides, I like it here. Everything's within reach, and nobody bothers me when the day's over. Usually."
    "I know it's late. I didn't want to be seen coming here."
    "I can understand that."
    She sniffed briefly. "You have a hole in your office door, Mr. Taylor."
    I nodded. "Moths."
    The corners of her dark red mouth turned down, and for a moment I thought she was going to get up and leave. I have that effect on people. But she controlled herself and gave me her best intimidating glare.
    "I'm Joanna Barrett."
    I nodded, non-commitally. "You say that like it should mean something to me."
    "To anyone else, it would," she said, just a little acidly. "But then, I don't suppose you read the business pages, do you?"
    "Not unless someone pays me to. Am I to take it you're rich?"
    "Extremely."
    I grinned. "The very best kind of client. What can I do for you?"
    She shifted slightly in her chair, clutching her oversized white leather handbag protectively to her. She didn't want to be here, talking to the likes of me. No doubt usually she had people to take care of such unpleasant tasks for her. But something was eating at her. Something personal. Something she couldn't trust to anyone else. She needed me. I could tell. Hell, I was already counting the money.
    "I have need of a private investigator," she said abruptly. "You were ... recommended to me."
    I nodded, understandingly. "Then you've already tried the police, and all the big private agencies, and none of them were able to help you. Which means your problem isn't one of the usual ones."
    She nodded stiffly. "They let me down. All of them. Took my money and gave me nothing but excuses. Bastards. So I called in every favour I was owed, pulled every string I had, and eventually someone gave me your name. I understand you find people."
    "I can find anyone or anything, if the price is right. It's a gift. I'm dogged and determined and a whole bunch of other things that begin with d, and I never give up as long as the cheques keep coming. But, I don't do insurance work, I don't do divorces, and I don't solve crimes. Hell, I wouldn't know a clue if I fell over it. I just find things. Whether they want to be found or not."
    Joanna Barrett gave me her best icy disapproving look. "I don't like being lectured."
    I smiled easily. "All part of the service."
    "And I don't care for your attitude."
    "Not many do."
    She seriously considered leaving again. I watched her struggle with herself, my face calm and relaxed. Someone like her wouldn't have come this far unless she was really desperate.
    "My daughter is ... missing," she said finally, reluctantly. "I want you to find her for me."
    She produced an eight-by-ten glossy photo from her oversized bag, and skimmed it across the table towards me with an angry flick of her hand. I studied the photo without touching it. A head and shoulders shot of a scowling teenager stared sullenly back at me, narrowed