Walking with Ghosts

wrong line of work, Geordie,’ said Sam. ‘You could go into politics, or join the civil service.’
    ‘Hell, no, Sam. I like the job well enough. Don’t wanna do anything else. I’m gonna be a private eye for the rest of my life.’
     
    Sam went home to relieve Celia. Marie went out on the job, and began the task of talking to friends of the dead woman. Geordie stayed in the office, wanting to finish up several odd jobs he’d been working on over the last few weeks. Get everything out of the way before he started on the murder inquiry.
    ‘Hell, what do you think, Barney?’ he asked his dog. ‘D’you think we could find out who done it?’
    Well, why not? The woman, India - how the hell did somebody get a name like that? There’s probably people in the world called Australia, Africa, Greenland, maybe. But maybe not, Greenland. He’d heard of someone called Israel once, and the guy who lived next door to him and Janet was called Irish. The woman didn’t put herself in a box in an allotment and starve herself to death. Somebody put her in that box. Somebody did it to her, and left her there. So there was someone who knew all about it. Everything. Just because the police hadn’t been able to find him, or her - no, it would have to be a man. Just because the police hadn’t solved it, it didn’t mean that Geordie and Marie wouldn’t be able to do it.
    There must be clues. The guy must’ve left something behind that tied him to the scene. If they could find whatever that was, and crack the case... ‘Wouldn’t that be something, Barney?’
    Barney got out of his basket and walked over to Geordie, nuzzled against his leg. He didn’t understand about murder, he was only a dog. But he could take all the attention he was offered. If it meant appearing to be interested in a murder inquiry, so be it.
    Geordie was filling out a job sheet. Working out the hours he’d spent trying to repossess a car, so that Celia could send out the invoice, when a tall guy with a full beard and tinted glasses walked into the office. ‘The boss Shamus about?’ he asked.
    Geordie looked at him. He must be around forty years old. His suit and shoes were clean. He had a faded red shirt, and a string tie that was pulled down, the top button of the shirt unfastened; black wiry hair which had been combed at least once that day. If you looked at the details the guy was neat and tidy. But the overall effect was scruffy. Must be the beard. Yeah, that was it, the beard had never been trimmed. Somebody should tell him. Maybe he didn’t have any friends.
    ‘No,’ said Geordie. ‘You missed him. He was in earlier.’
    ‘Shit. OK, I’ll blow, catch him later?’
    ‘Is it important? If you tell me what it’s about I’ll probably know the answer.’
    ‘Yes. I mean, no. It’s not desperate. I don’t want to hire you. I was looking for a favour.’
    Geordie made his eyes open wider. He’d seen people do it in movies. It was like an invitation to the other person to keep on talking. And it worked, too.
    ‘OK,’ the guy said. ‘My name’s J.D. Pears. People call me Jaydee. I’m a writer. Write mystery novels, and I’m looking to get a slant on the private dick business.’
    ‘Are you famous?’
    The guy had a shy face, which he’d coloured pink and he brought it forward to cover the face he’d first arrived with. I m not Dick Francis, but I’ll brace him one of these days.’
    ‘OK, you can ask me about that,’ said Geordie. ‘The Private detective business. What d’you want to know?’
    J.D. pulled out the clients’ chair and nodded towards it. ‘OK if I sit down?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘It’s not so much that I’ve got questions,’ he continued. ‘What I was hoping for was some hands-on experience. Like if I could be with one of you when you’re on a job. For a few days, a week, two at the most. Do you think that would be possible?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Geordie told him. ‘I’d have to ask Sam. I mean, I wouldn’t mind if you followed me around. I’m gonna be involved in a murder inquiry for the next couple of weeks. But lots of stuff we do, it’s confidential. I don’t know what Sam’d think about a stranger following us around. Specially if you’re gonna write it down in a book.’
    ‘No, I wouldn’t do that,’ said J.D. ‘Not so’s you’d recognize it, anyway. I write fiction.’
    ‘I’ve read Raymond Chandler,’ Geordie told him. ‘And there was a book by Elmore