Street Magic

desperately it was the end of a Parliament. Sod it, before this morning she'd been meaning to
quit
. Jack had raked all her old vices to front and center.
    "Sorry, sir. What is it you wanted to see me on?"
    "The Superintendent has deemed it appropriate to dedicate a small auxiliary parking structure to Inspector Caldecott, senior. Your father," said Newell as if she might have forgotten. He gave the impression of examining Pete over his glasses, even though his nose was bare. "They would like you to write a brief statement to be engraved on the plaque that will bear his name, if that isn't too taxing."
    Bloody foolishness
. Connor coughed at her from that hospital bed, so diminished but still full of fight.
Tell him to sod his parking structure
—
did my job and never asked for anything more
.
    "Of course, sir," she said aloud, willing Newell,
Don't ask about Bridget Killigan
.
    "Very well," said Newell. "You're dismissed."
    Relief, and a fag waiting outside.
    "And Inspector?" said Newell. Pete's feet ground to a halt against her will.
    "Sir?"
    "Don't think that I won't be asking for a full accounting of the Killigan matter when the girl is released from the hospital."
    Damn you, Jack
. "Of course, sir." Pete tipped her head in deference and escaped into the wider office.
    "Someone sent you papers by courier," said Ollie, with a nod toward the flat tan package on Pete's desk. The return label was the crest of Terry's architectural firm. Pete ripped the package with a letter opener, being more vicious than she strictly had to be.
    Tight orderly lines of black type marched across the columns and Pete swore in a whisper before she punched up an outside line and called Terry at work.
    "Mr. Hanover."
    "This is
not
the price we agreed on, you wanker," Pete gritted into the mouthpiece. Ollie raised his eyebrows at that, and strategically went to refill his tea mug with hot water.
    On the other end of the line, Terry sighed. "The estate agent priced it for a quick sale, Pete, just like you wanted. You told me yourself you didn't want to waste any time haggling over the flat—just get it sold."
    "Yes." Pete turned her back on the MIT room at large and stared at the National Health advisories pinned to the wall behind her desk. "Yes, I do want it sold, sold at the price we gave the estate agent."
    "The market's gone downhill since then. Martha said—"
    "Who the bloody hell is Martha?"
    She could picture Terry's sour pout when he answered. "My new estate agent. Miss Tabram."
    "She's Susan's assistant, the one who had her knees stuck in your ears when I came over to sign the credit check forms last week?"
    "We're seeing each other." Terry sounded far too relaxed for Pete to do anything except get into her car, drive to his firm, and shove his drafting pencil into his ear canal. She couldn't, so she snapped, "Raise the price up, Terry. I'm not going to waste my time with your fucking about," and slammed the receiver down with a crack like bones snapping.
    "Now I really do need that fag," she said to Ollie when he sat down again. "He ordered my food on our first date and he hasn't stopped shoving his bloody opinions down my throat since."
    A clerk came through the maze of desks and touched Pete on the shoulder. "Sorry to bother you, Inspector… four persons to see you waiting in the visitor's room."
    Pete wrapped her fist longingly around the crumpled pack of Parliaments in her pocket.
    "Not the ruddy press, is it?" said Ollie suspiciously. "PR office has been ringing off the hook with tosspots wanting an interview with you, Pete."
    "It's not the press," said the clerk. "It's… well…" Her tan brow crinkled nervously. "They wouldn't exactly say, Inspector… only that it was very urgent."
    "All right, all right." Pete sighed. "I'll be out in a moment. Tell them to keep their knickers on that long."
    Ollie found Pete half an hour later, in her customary spot near the parking shed for the armed response vehicles.
    "What happened, Caldecott?"
    Rain peppered the puddle at Pete's feet, and she threw her cigarette into it, where it floated on the oil-stained water like a tiny corpse. "Two more."
    Ollie sagged a bit, and rubbed his forehead. "Bugger it. When?"
    "This afternoon," said Pete. "After school. Two children, friends, live near each other. They didn't come home, and the parents thought they'd run away."
    "I'll tell Newell," said Ollie, making a move for the door.
    "I did it," said Pete. "Patrols are searching the