Gumshoe Glamours

Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
Contents
Chapter 1 Unwelcome Arrival .............................3 Chapter 2 Dubious Request.............................. 10 Chapter 3 New Endeavours .............................. 19 Chapter 4 Partners in Crime ............................. 26 Chapter 5 Unlucky Lady................................... 34 Chapter 6 Defective Memory ............................ 41 Chapter 7 A Question of Depth ......................... 50 Chapter 8 Unexpected Exit............................... 58 Chapter 9 Private Enterprise ............................ 65 Chapter 10 Betrayal of Trust ............................ 70 Chapter 11 A Painful Truth ............................... 78 Chapter 12 Overt Threats ................................ 85 Chapter 13 Discreet Pressure ........................... 92 Chapter 14 Surface Treatment ......................... 99 Chapter 15 Protective Circle ........................... 107 Chapter 16 Question of Motives ...................... 114 Chapter 17 Surprise Descent.......................... 122 Chapter 18 Dungeons ................................. 129 Chapter 19 and Dragons............................. 134 Chapter 20 Wisdom Arisen............................. 143 Chapter 21 Blood and Water .......................... 150 Chapter 22 Last Chance................................. 158 Chapter 23 A Ray of Light .............................. 166 Chapter 24 Sudden Moves ............................. 174 Chapter 25 Bitter Ends .................................. 181 Chapter 26 The Long Goodbye ....................... 188 Chapter 27 Partners in Crime (Reprise) ........... 194
Chapter 1 Unwelcome Arrival

I was on my way to visit a client; indeed, a very nearly exclient, assuming that he didn't come up with a further surprise assignment for me. He was one which here must remain nameless - I have no desire to risk unnecessary entanglements with lawyers - although, for those of you read the gossip columns of the trashier newspapers, his identity would not come as a complete surprise. It had been a high-profile divorce case: dirty work, but somebody's got to do it. Besides, it paid well enough. I had spend several weeks tailing his wife - armed only with a camera with a powerful zoom lens - who was, as it turned out, enjoying the most intimate company of another while his back was turned. It was just a pity that the one whose company she preferred turned out to be his most recent mistress but one. Anyway, the client had got what he wanted - or at least what he said he wanted - a quickie divorce with a minimal settlement, keeping his millions intact for his own enjoyment, or at least ready for the taking by the next unscrupulous gold-digger he happened across. I too was seeking money for favours advanced, although in this case it was extracting payment for a bill for investigative services. I had done my job well, feeding the lawyers with what they needed, and I saw no cause for delay in payment. Not that he necessarily saw it that way, of course; once the pressure is off, clients do have a habit of suddenly resisting handing over hard cash for services rendered. We had arranged to meet in a seedy bar I knew only by reputation. He didn't want me to be seen visiting his office, or any of his homes, and certainly not anyplace that I might be spotted by his country club friends. Or maybe he just needed a stiff drink. Or two. The joint in question was called the Deepest Joy. It took me twenty minutes to track it down when I arrived in the vicinity, even though I was less than a hundred feet from the entrance the entire time. The door, marked only with a single small sign, was on an alley off a thronging main street in the lower levels. The area was notorious as a meeting place between mainstream Goblin society
and those who elect to live on the fringe, or beyond it. quite literally, an Underworld bar.
It was,
When I finally entered, the lights were turned down low - even by the standards of Goblins, who can see perfectly well in conditions that humans would refer to as darkness. I blinked and looked around, my large eyes instinctively opened to their fullest extent in the gloom. I took off my hat and toyed with it in my hands; I should have known better than to expect a hat-check in a place like this. After a few moments, I spotted him sat at the bar, already toying with a murky green cocktail whose content I wasn't keen on discovering. He was dressed in a well-cut business suit in a dark fabric which probably cost more than the bill for my entire investigation. Underneath, he wore a crisp cotton shirt with fine blue stripes which de-emphasised his bulk, set off by understated silver cufflinks and a tie which probably announced him to be a member of some club I had never heard of. I tossed my hat on the bar next to him and spoke his name politely. He turned on the stool to face me. "Gask," he said coolly, "You made it." Before a witty rejoinder could form on my lips, the barkeeper, a wiry and frenetic little Goblin in a waistcoat, bounced up and wanted to know my drinks order. "Scotch on the Rocks," I said, "Make it a double." The barkeep scurried off. I sat on the next stool, leaned an elbow on the bar and looked levelly at my client. "I've been looking at your reports," he began, adopting a managerial style that sounded like it had come straight from the pages of one of those How to Deal With Difficult People handbooks, "They're very thin. I don't see the value. You're charging too much." I sighed resignedly, then took a slug of the whiskey the bartender had positioned in front of me. Twenty-five dollars a day, that's all I ask, plus some pretty reasonable expenses. Cheaper much cheaper - than fancy lawyers. "Look," I explained patiently, "There's long hours of surveillance work behind those reports, day and night stake-outs. When there's nothing to report, of course I report nothing. That's the risk you take." My bill lay on the bar next to his cocktail coaster, a few sheets of badly typewritten paper bearing my letterhead. He picked it up and waved it under my nose.
"Frankly, this is a rip-off. I don't agree with the days you've billed, you're not worth your rates and I'm not paying this." He slammed the invoice back down on the bar. I shook my head sadly. The bill was honest enough, with almost no padding, and my expenses - mainly photographic film - were very modest indeed. This kind of thing happens all too often, and certainly often enough for me to take out an insurance policy. "Long hours," I re-iterated, "I know a lot about your wife..." "Ex-wife," he interjected. "Ex-wife," I agreed, shrugging, "I also know a lot about you. I've got lots of pictures featuring your good self - and a variety of other people - and you will have seen how good the lens on my camera is." There was a sudden moment of stillness, amplified rather than masked by the piped Muzac which permeated the bar, filling the gaps like industrial-strength decorator's paste. I didn't elaborate on what I might have captured on film. I didn't need to. "Okay, Gask," he said eventually, "You'll get your dough. He reached into his jacket pocket. I stiffened instinctively, then forced myself to relax. He wasn't the type to pull a heater from its holster just to avoid paying a bill. Even a private dick's bill. After a few seconds rummaging, my ex-client produced a chequebook in a leather cover with shiny silver corners. He then dug out an expensive fountain pen, which I recognised as being a well-known brand made doubly prestigious by the fact it had been manufactured on the surface. He wrote for a few moments, finishing with a flourish over the signature. "There you are," he muttered, handing me the torn slip, the ink still wet, "Just don't expect a reference." I inspected the cheque carefully. It would probably not bounce. He certainly had the money and could have just given it to be without quibbling. It's just that the rich tend to be careful with their cash - that's how they got to be rich in the first place, of course. Later, I would pay it into the bank. The amount would just about cover my current overdraft, so that the bank manager might be forced to smile at me, at least for a few months. In the money again, Gask. * My ex-client downed the remainder of his sickly green cocktail in one gulp, grabbed the now-receipted invoice, scowled at me and scurried off across the barroom floor. The last I saw of him was close to the exit, nearly colliding with a swaying drunk tacking his
way across the floor trying to find the restrooms. He had left me with the bar bill, of course. I grinning wryly, shaking my head. Still, I had got his money in front of me. I'd have bought him a drink anyway. Maybe. I sat and sipped my scotch - it was good enough to be worth savouring - and half-heartedly watching the goings-on in the bar behind me in the mirror. It was very quiet. I studied my own reflection for a few moments: a large and bulky Goblin - not fat, just heavily-built - with tired-looking green eyes, and the long and pointed ears of one perpetually alert, one who did not like anybody sneaking up on them from behind. I was dressed in a two-piece suit and long overcoat - both of which had seen better days - with a well-laundered shirt and a tie which had come off the bottom shelf at the haberdashers where, I suspect, it had resided for a great many years before I acquired it. * It remains inexplicable to me how little those on the surface know about the occupants of the Lower Realms. Oh, sure, there are a few old myths in various human cultures, all of which are now universally regarded as fairy stories suitable only for children. Admittedly, the Goblins retreated to the security of the underground warrens and interconnected caverns several millennia ago, to avoid a direct conflict with the teeming hordes of humanity which, even in those days, threatened to overrun the less numerous but longer-lived Goblin race. I guess the humans have such short memories: after a mere three or four thousand years, they seemed to have forgotten all about us. Conversely, the Goblin communities know all about the surface world, although I do sometimes wonder whether very many of them really believe what they are taught in school. So very few Goblins ever visit the surface, or even imagine the possibility of doing so. Those who do are very much a minority, widely considered to be weirdoes or perhaps just terminally insane, in which number I should probably count myself. After all, humans are not so very different from Goblins as natural variation in shape and size blurs the distinctions between the two races. Like Goblins, humans have two arms, two legs, two sexes, and just the one head - although in many humans it is partially obscured by a strange covering called "hair". Humans are on average much taller than Goblins, although an unusually large Goblin - such as myself - are taller than some human females and a few of the males. Even so, on the surface, Goblins are more often than not mistaken - at least at first glance, in the dark - for one of their
children. A second closer glance, in a better light, would make the truth uncomfortably clear: long arms, long fingers and long nails they are not claws - and short powerful legs. Goblins also have large eyes and see much better in low lighting than humans, which is why such legends that persist in the surface world suggest that Goblins - or trolls, or gnomes, whatever term you prefer - spend their time sneaking around in the dark. * My whiskey glass was getting empty, the ice rattling as I put it back on the coaster. The bartender scurried over, ostensibly to offer me another drink although more likely worried that I would attempt to skip the joint without paying. The discreet name-badge affixed to his green-and-white striped waistcoat announced him to be Maddoes. I pulled a couple of bills from my pocket and placed them on the bar next to my glass. There was enough money to cover the drinks already ordered, and maybe enough for a third large one - or for a fairly decent tip. Instantly, a professionallyfriendly grin suffused his face. "Who's your friend, pal?" he asked, nodding in the direction my client had taken a few minutes before, "Seems familiar, somehow." "Yeah, well, he's just got one of those faces you see everywhere," I replied laconically. "Uh-huh," the barkeep grunted, clearly unconvinced. I pulled out a business card, one which included my name and the telephone number of my answering service, not the office number. I put the card on top of the bills next to my glass and pushed the whole lot over the bar. "Look," I said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "Sometimes I need to keep tabs on a few people. You see that guy in here again, you give me a call. Leave a message. It'll be worth your while." His grin widened, showing a large number of sharp yellow teeth. His hands moved so fast they practically blurred, and money and card disappeared in an instant. "You got it, bud." He winked and wandered off, not bothering to stop at the cash register. I gave the cheque a final once-over, folded it carefully and slipped it into one of the many capacious pockets of the long overcoat I habitually wear. Then I nodded again to the bartender, who was now chatting amicably with a couple of obvious regulars at the other end of the bar, drained my drink and put my hat on my head, tugging it down over my eyes. Time to go.
* For far too many years, I have maintained an apartment - a small one with not very much style - in one of the rather less fashionable caverns. For me, it's just somewhere to sleep, hang up my clothes, make early-morning coffee, and to store a very few mementos of purely sentimental value - although some of those sentiments are pretty confused and strongly-felt. In another cavern, similarly low-rent, I have a small office with my name painted on the glass of the door: Findo Gask - Private Investigator. For no readily apparent reason, I am still trying to keep my work and what passes for my personal life separate. The office is a single room, furnished with worn furniture inherited from the previous tenant or bought cheap from the thrift store. I advertise the office address and phone number, so most of the junk mail and itinerant clients find their way to me there. The door is never locked; these cheap joints have flimsy locks anyway, so this policy just saves on the repair bill. I store nothing of real significance at the office either; just a few dusty files in even dustier filing cabinets. I do have some much more important things - things variously valuable, illegal, magical or just deadly - which are carefully stored in a variety of unlikely places - some of which are on the surface. Things put aside for a rainy day, for a genuine emergency; things that, quite frankly, I would rather never have to use at all. But it was a reassurance that I could put my hands on them quickly in the case of need. It was too early to go home, far too early for dinner, and just too late to get to the bank before it closed. The cheque would have to live in my pocket until tomorrow. I shouldered my way through the crowded transit tubes, scanning the streets and alleys automatically. I had decided to head for the office, to check the mail and ignore the bills, and to conclude my notes of the case now closed - notes soon to be buried in one of the filing cabinets, never to be seen again. The cavern where I rent the office space is mid-level, both physically and socially. It is not so close to the surface that most Goblins start to feel just a little insecure, nor is it so deep that one is at risk of encountering any of the stranger creatures not all of which being Goblin-shaped that inhabit the lower caverns. Its low-rent, and therefore tightly packed with shops and residences a far cry from the spacious mansions occupied by the rich and famous but at least people are usually able to pay for their own accommodations. I was trudging up four flights of stairs when I first noticed the odour. Goblins have a much better sense of smell than humans 8 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
their noses are entirely useless appendages. From two floors down, I could identify the stench of dirty skin and unwashed clothes, overlaid with the acrid esters formed by the breakdown of alcohol in the body. From along the corridor I could detect the cloud of cheap cigarette smoke emanating from my office doorway, accompanied by a sullen muttering interspersed with an occasional racking cough. I knew who it must be before I could see him. Nether Gask, my ne'er-do-well older brother: a drunk, a disappointment to my dear departed parents and, until this very moment, one who had completely disappeared from my life. He was sitting in the squeaky swivel chair on my side of the desk. He had managed to track down the office whiskey bottle, the one I normally keep not-very-well hidden in the deep desk drawer. It was probably the first place he looked. At least he was using one of the accompanying shot glasses, rather than just taking a slug from the bottle directly. "Neth," I said, using the conventional diminutive that I knew he had grown to loathe over the years, "What the hells are you doing here?"
Chapter 2 Dubious Request

"Ah, Findo," Nether said smoothly, hardly slurring his words at all, "That would be quite a tale. And one I'm sure you'll want to hear. I need your help. Sit down and let me tell you all about it." He raised his glass - actually my glass, containing my whiskey in a semblance of a toast, then knocked back the contents in one gulp. In a single smooth movement, he swept up the whiskey bottle, which stood open on the worn dragon-hide of my desk, and poured another large measure into the shot-glass without spilling a single drop. He returned the bottle to the desktop and, with a supreme effort of will, managed to not pick up the refilled glass immediately. He didn't pour me a drink, though. Or even offer to do so. Drunks rarely do. They resent anybody else drinking any alcohol in preference to themselves. They want to keep it all for their own consumption. Annoyed, I snatched the bottle from the desk and placed it on top of the filing cabinets, well away from Nether's reach. Then, and only then, did I walk around the desk, open the deep bottom drawer and pull out another shot-glass. I kicked the drawer closed, returned to the client's side of the desk, put the glass on the cabinet next to the bottle, and poured myself a stiff one. "Look, if you want a loan, well, you're out of luck," I growled, "My overdraft is at the limit." Nether glared at me, willing me to return the whiskey to within his grasp. "That's not it," he said, not taking his eyes off the bottle in my hand, "You really ought to listen to what I have to say." I ignored his unspoken pleas and left the bottle - already close to empty - well out of the way. Clutching my own glass, I slumped in the better of my guest chairs and sipped at the whiskey. It wasn't a patch on the scotch I had drunk in the Deepest Joy. The office bottle is intended to be medicine, drunk out of necessity rather than pleasure. "Okay, I'll bite," I said, once I had recovered my composure after the affront so thoughtlessly delivered by my brother, "You've got something to tell me. So spit it out." 10 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
Nether picked up the shot-glass from the desk in front of him and held it at eye level, twisting the glass first this way and that in the meagre light from the air shaft outside the window. He looked for all the world like a connoisseur inspecting the clarity of a fine vintage. "Well, yes," he smirked, "But first, I need to establish our arrangement. I want to hire you, in your professional capacity as a private eye, to investigate on my behalf." "Hire me! Pah!" I snorted, "What the hells for? exactly are you planning on using to pay me with?" And what
Nether drank about half of the contents of his shot-glass, not draining it immediately this time; another triumph for his own willpower, I assumed. "Findo, Findo," he murmered, barely wincing as the fiery spirits burned their way down his throat, "Always such a cynic. Have you no trust in your brother?" "Frankly, no," I snarled, "And I'm sure as hell not going to work for free." He put down the half-empty glass and sat back in my chair, looking very much as if he belonged there. "That won't be necessary at all," he said airily. He reached inside the greasy green tweed suit jacket he wore and pulled out a fat bundle of notes, held together by an eclectic arrangement of elastic bands, paperclips and those gummed lengths of paper used by the banks to gather together bills of a common value. The wad contained a mixture of bills in all denominations, with no sense of order. All were well-thumbed and dirty, and gave the distinct impression of having been accumulated haphazardly over a considerable period but, at least as far as I could tell at a distance, all the notes were the genuine article. "Still charging twenty-five bucks a day?" Nether asked casually, obviously already knowing the answer. I nodded wordlessly, astonished by the sudden appearance of considerable wealth, at least by my recent standards. Nether peeled off a random fraction of the bundle and threw it down on the desk. I had no idea how much money was there but, as the bundle clearly contained at least fifty bills, there must be more than enough to pay for my very valuable services for more than a few days. By his standards, Nether was hardly drunk at all. He was articulate, practically clear-thinking, in that happy intermediate state where he had drunk enough to remediate last night's
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hangover but he had not yet reached the state of falling-down incompetence expected later in the day. It was quite a success for an alcoholic in the late afternoon. Even so, he was extremely dishevelled and unwashed. He gave every impression that he has gotten out of the habit of bathing, that he simply couldn't be bothered to change his clothes. I looked at the money on the desk, then slowly looked back at my brother. I was, of course, immediately suspicious, and there could be only one reason why Nether was prepared to squander what money he had on engaging my services. "Okay, Neth," I said slowly, calmly, "I'll admit you've got my entire attention. And can I assume you want to pay me to ensure you have my professional confidence, so that I won't spill the beans should somebody ask me about your affairs?" "Of course," he replied, again lifting the shot-glass and studying the contents as if he expected the contents to have mutated from mediocre whiskey to the finest cognac, "Perhaps you'd care to write me a receipt?" I snorted, then my sense of professional etiquette came to the fore. I reached over and extracted a carbon-copy receipt book from the top drawer of the desk, together with a cheap plastic biro featuring the name of some hotel on the surface I visited once and have now completely forgotten. I counted out the bills from the scruffy bundle, sorting them into denominations and arranging the notes so that they were all face-up and aligned. The total was three hundred and seventy-seven dollars, enough to cover a couple of weeks of work and a few modest expenses. I scribbled one of those "...received the sum of ..." notes in the duplicate book, noted that it was an advance on my investigative service, then signed and dated it. I tore out the original sheet and presented it with a flourish to Nether, who had watched me closely throughout the entire process. Neth picked up the receipt and studied it closely for a few moments. Apparently satisfied that the legal situation was unequivocal, he then stashed the receipt and the remainder of his wad in an inside jacket pocket. He drained the little tumbler in his hand, smacked his lips appreciatively and slid the empty glass onto the desk. "Well then," he said reflectively, "Time for a little story." * Goblins live for a long time, at least compared with the mayfly human existence. My grandfather lived to the ripe old age of three hundred and ninety three: a respectable age, but not in the least
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unusual. On the other hand, my own parents both died relatively young - but that is another story, and one we may get to later. As a consequence of this longevity, Goblin children are few and far between, and each infant is usually well on the way to adulthood - into their thirties, at least - before a younger sibling appears. Nether is my elder brother, the oldest of the family, the one who, according to long-established Goblin convention, would inherit the lion's share of the familial inheritance. Some of my earliest and most poignant memories are of my big brother playing with me when I was but a tiny child. On his return from school or, later on, from college, Nether would challenge me to games with balls or pucks or shuttlecocks, and bouts of tag and hide-and-seek. Later he could sometimes be persuaded to entertain me with tricks of sleight of hand and illusory magic, tricks which gently introduced me to the properties of everyday glamours and charms, not to mention the things that could be achieved without magical assistance. I grew quickly - I have always been big for a Goblin - but Nether was for many years nearly as tall as me. He was himself a strapping lad, quite capable to taking me on in a friendly wrestling match with a decent chance of a throw or a hold. He would take me on long walks, exploring many of the vast caverns which form the Goblin world, and the sights and wonders which abound in the Lower Realms. I remember later encounters, when I was at school or when I returned home from the long-established University I had been so lucky to win a scholarship to attend, studying policing and lawenforcement. Nether was already pursuing a career in the civil administration, the lower echelons of government. When we met at our parents house, Nether would regale me with tales of derring-do, of assignments to exotic locations, and complex stories of politics and the secrets behind the headlines in the newspapers. He was my idol, the one I looked up to, the one I aspired to emulate in every way, right up to the day he disappeared. When the police eventually investigated his lodgings, they found everything in its place, just as if he had left for work in the morning and simply never returned. There was no break-in, no evidence of foul play, nothing to suggest he had packed clothes and toiletries and left for an extended trip. He was just nowhere to be found. He was still alive, though. The police told us that money was being taken out of his bank accounts, in small amounts and in a dizzying array of places. In the Goblin world, such a consistent fraud would not be possible: it was quite definitely Nether's signature or thumb-print, with his credit card Verified by Hexes, Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 13
that was being used to withdrawn ten bucks here and five dollars there. The amounts were puzzling - not enough to live on, I had thought - and for a long time, we assumed he had simply moved in with a lover, one he was too embarrassed about to introduce to his friends, his work colleagues or to his family. Or perhaps he was on some secret assignment, an extended mission from which one day he would suddenly return and fascinate us all with astonishing tales of his adventures. We put him out of our minds, at least mostly, choosing to believe he was living happily elsewhere. Much later, long after the death of my father, Mother was already on her deathbed; she was never really well again after the tragedy that killed her husband. She begged me to try and find Nether, knowing that I had been, for a short time, a copper - my career in the police force had been short and ignominious - and that I was now setting myself up as a licensed Private Investigator. I agreed at once, of course, although I had no idea of how to go about the task. All the obvious leads had been exhausted long ago and my training in police work tells me that it is nearby impossible to find someone who has made a determined attempt to remain un-found. The money in Nether's accounts had dried up decades before. If he was still alive, he must have found some alternative means of support. The most likely possibility was that he was engaged in some sort of criminal activity. The trouble was that the police training, and the experiences I had had whilst a trainee cop, let me to believe that he was likely to have come to the attention of the law enforcement agencies before now. Contrary to popular opinion, perhaps, coppers really do have a god idea about what's going on in the Underworld, most of the time. It's being able to prove it in a court of law - in front of those professional cynics known as Judges - that seems beyond the wit of far too many policemen. The only alternative was he was removed from the Goblin demesne altogether, which meant he was somewhere on the surface. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced he was hiding somewhere in the human world. I needed to find some way of tracking him down up there. * I started to spend a lot of time on the surface, more than most Goblins would feel comfortable with; indeed, far too much time, even in my own opinion, as I felt I was neglecting Mother. But I was able to make a great many - very cautious - enquiries, using as contacts some acquaintances in that branch of the Lower Realms police force that was concerned with retrieving fugitive 14 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
Goblins desperate enough to think they could hide out on the surface. The Goblin's policing the upper world have a long-standing reputation for weirdness and a wilfulness bordering on sloth. They tend not to go out of their way to give themselves work, but prefer to mooch about with their human cronies or drive powerful cars far too fast. As far as anybody knew, Nether had committed no crime and his "missing person" bulletin had been long forgotten. Nevertheless, the coppers kept their ears to the ground for rumours about the location of persons who might be runaway Goblins - if only to make their task easier when they really did have to go and arrest somebody. It was from buying one of the coppers a few stiff drinks that I got my real lead. They say there are more humans claiming Irish extraction in New York City than there are people in Ireland. True or not, there are certainly any number of taverns with an Irish theme on Manhattan island, and they all seem to house a tight coterie of regulars: men - and a few women - who never drink anywhere else and leave unsteadily at closing time every night. So it was that I was advised to talk to Tighe o'Chill, then the proprietor of Chill's Bar, an Irish pub in one of the quieter parts of upper Manhattan. I stood outside, in the rain, wearing a long waterproof coat - collar turned up - and a trilby hat large enough to conceal my ears. It was an ensemble I have made my own over the years. Through the misted-up windows, I sized up the place. The decor featured scuffed wooden floorboards, panelling creaking and groaning under the weight of endless coats of dark brown paint, and beer-stained tables supported by empty barrels. It was dimlylit, dark enough for one such as me to be comfortable without sunglasses; much of the light came from dusty illuminated signs displaying lucky four-leaved clovers or advertising authentic dark stout beer. I pushed open the door and led it close quietly behind me. Conversation didn't stop, although a few patrons turned their heads lazily to see who had arrived. One group was clustered at the end of the bar, and a few others were sitting at the tables in conversation or with their noses buried in newspapers. Some recorded music played on: traditional pipes and accordions accompanying soft sad ballads of lost paramours and unrequited love. Nobody seemed interested in me. The barkeeper was short and fat, ruddy-faced and with a polished dome as hairless as my own. His face was alive with bonhomie, with smiling features which seemed to emit all the welcome that an Irishman could want. The publican wore a clean Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 15
and crisply laundered white cotton apron over what looked like a tailor-made shirt - white with fine emerald green pinstripes - open at the throat and held together at the wrists by heavy gold cufflinks. I ordered whiskey - Irish, of course - and a large measure appeared almost instantaneous on the bar in front of me. I sipped and then nodded to signify my approval. It was good stuff. "Looking for Tighe o'Chill," I said gruffly. "You've found him," the barman said, "And in me own bar, too. Welcome to o'Chill's very own pub." "Glad to be here," I said, "Now, I've a couple of questions for you. Could you spare me a few minutes?" Tighe looked at me closely. I could practically hear the wheels in his head turning. "Are you who - or what - I think you are?" he asked shrewdly, in a low voice. I took off my glasses and looked the man straight in the eye. He jerked back, then swore a loud and sustained oath which I halfexpected to turn the air blue, although the actual effect was that every head in the place turned to look at him. "Another one," he said to the room at large, "Thirty years thinking he was unique, and another one comes along, just like that." A head appeared over the edge of the bar. Just a head. The figure was too short for any more to show. It wasn't human. The ears were a dead giveaway. "Findo Gask," Nether said in the Goblin tongue, "Good of you to find time in your busy schedule to stop by." * It turned out that Nether had become the resident leprechaun at Chill's Bar. No doubt he looked the part, habitually wearing a green tweed suit with clashing puce waistcoat, and a bowler hat several sizes too small which emphasised rather than concealed his ears. For the price of a stiff drink from one of the regulars - he seemed to have been smart enough to remain hidden when a stranger was in the place - he would entertain the clientele with tales from the Lower Realms translated, as best he could, into that over-simplified language known as English. He would perform tricks of sleight-of-hand or use rudimentary home-made glamours: the same stunts that he used to use to entertain my childhood self.
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There are a few charms that all Goblins know: one of them is good-luck glamour which delivers a limited form of prescience. I prefer not to rely on them, since they are more than likely to show you a true but utterly misleading version of the future. But they can be manufactured at home, if you have the time and the patience. Nether had demonstrated his worth during that period known in certain parts of the Upper World as Prohibition. During this period when alcohol was officially banned, Chill's bar masqueraded as a coffee house. Drinks were still served, of course, from under the counter, and supplies shipped in from the underworld - that is, the human underworld - sources to satisfy the thirsty public. Nether's glamours gave reliable warnings when a police raid was imminent, so that the alcoholic drinks could be spirited away and innocuous substitutes provided. Chill's Bar, and presumably Tighe himself, had prospered, and it was perhaps no surprise that he had been permitted to take up residence there. Nether sauntered casually around the bar, ducking slightly under the counter-top in a casual motion. We sat on stools at a table in a dark corner, a table which was markedly lower than all the others, a table intended to be comfortable for a Goblin to use. I got the impression he just wanted to talk. Perhaps it was just that he wanted to use the Goblin tongue - presumably a language he had not spoken much for decades. He told me about his recent life while the two of us shared a bottle of whiskey; actually, he drank most of it, but then again, that was fair, since he did most of the talking, too. He had been living in the bar itself or, more precisely, in some spaces off the beer cellar below. Goblins prefer the sense of security of being underground and he had converted some of the rambling space into a bedroom. He showed it to me. It was untidy and barely furnished, but it was at least warm and dry. I asked him what had possessed him to disappear like that. He didn't like the question, avoided it, the first time I asked. I asked him again. Eventually, and after more whiskey, he admitted he had simply not been able to cope with the pressure of his old life, that he left unable to live up to the expectations of our Father to succeed. He finally asked what I was doing here. I conveyed the message I had sought him out to deliver, that Mother was dying and wanted to see him. He appeared unimpressed, dithered about the possibility of returning below. I was unimpressed, and said so, loudly. He shouted at me, I shouted back. He told me to go to Hell and scuttled behind the bar out of sight before I could reply.
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To be fair, he did appear at Mother's bedside a couple of days later, sober or some fair approximation thereto, to say his farewells. After Mother's funeral, he disappeared again. I couldn't be bothered to go looking for him.
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Chapter 3 New Endeavours

Nether Gask was a Goblin with many tales, old and new, and I did of course remember how he used to entertain me when I was much younger. Despite myself, I could not help settling back into the office chair in anticipation of him spinning a yarn for my amusement. I was disappointed, and surprised, at his next statement. "Rosie's disappeared," he said shortly, "I'm getting worried." "Who's Rosie?" I asked, sitting forward, genuinely confused. at the dint of great effort, I managed to suppress some remark along the lines of, well, you would know all about disappearing. "Rosie o'Chill. Tighe's granddaughter," Nether went on, looking genuinely worried, "She runs Chill's Bar now." I sighed. These humans and their short lives. You spend some time getting to know one and then, a few short decades later, they're senile or worse. It's hardly worth the effort. "I don't know her," I answered, "I remember the old man. imagine she was left the bar in a bequest when he died." "It's more complicated than that," he replied, frowning. "Inevitably." "Look, Tighe left the bar to the both of us," Nether explained patently, as if to a child, "In some kind of complicated trust. But it only stands if both of us continue to run the place." "You, running a bar?" I spluttered, "Youd just drink all the profits." "Well, thanks for your support, brother," Nether huffed, looking genuinely put out, "Look, I don't drink that much. And the bar's a real money-spinner." I doubted the first point was true, although perhaps he was drinking less than before. There was still whiskey in the office bottle, and it had been only half-full even before he got his hands on it. The second I could believe: low rent and overheads, living on the premises, selling imported booze at high mark-ups. And in an established tavern with lots of regulars, all intent in soaking up the authentic Irish atmosphere along with pints of dark beer. I
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"How long have the two of you been running this place?" "Ten years, more or less," Nether said, "Hardly any time at all." "Any problems?" "No, not really," he replied, looking only very slightly shifty, "I've been having to keep my head down a lot recently. Too many humans with cameras in their pockets. I'm having to come down here occasionally to buy a few glamours to keep myself hidden. And a few other things, of course." That would explain the sheaf of assorted bills. They would have changed from US dollars at one of the seamier money exchanges hopefully, this Rosie would not have been stupid enough to trust Nether with most financial matters - most used to purchase the necessities not easily available in the Upper World, and the remainder stuffed into some inner pocket a promptly forgotten about. "Okay, so you want me to locate this Rosie, then?" "Yes," he said, suddenly plaintive, "Look, I like Rosie. She's smart and sassy. And she takes care of me. I miss her. Can you do it?" "On my own, no," I answered, unsurprised by the sharp intake of breath, "But I know just the man who can." * I sent Nether back to his den under the bar, with strict instructions to keep himself out of sight. I handed him the remainder of the office bottle to keep him company along the way. Before he went, he told me that the bar was still operating normally. The assistant staff - all human, of course, or what passes for it in New York - were standing in, and nobody else knew that Rosie was gone. She was "just out of town for a few days, family business." That story might last a little longer, but I didn't have a great deal of time to track her down before people started getting suspicious. All that whiskey was making me ravenously hungry. I soon left the office, having spent no more than ten minutes opening and binning the bulk of my mail. I also made a few phone calls - long distance, very long distance - and set up some arrangements for the following day. Then I made my way in the direction of my apartment, stopping at David's Diner on the corner of my block. David, the patron was standing by the door - his habitual place, I knew - when I arrived and welcomed me inside with much of his characteristic bustling bonhomie. I guess I am one of his more regular customers.
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I was escorted to a small booth at the back - I like to keep out of the public eye - and presented with today's menu. I glanced over the standard items, all very familiar to me, then ordered the Daily Special without knowing exactly what it was. It turned out to be four kinds of fungi - in four iridescent colours - accompanying small kebabs of minced meat - no further definition was available on the menu - and soft baked biscuits. I washed it all down with a large glass of Goblin beer, strong and dark and flavourful, and not entirely dissimilar to the Irish stout served in Chill's Bar. I lingered over my beer, smoked two cigarettes in quick succession - this was one vice that Nether did not seem to be indulging in, I noticed - them sauntered back to my little apartment. I sat in my favourite chair for a long time, thinking about Nether. Maybe he had mellowed a little with age. There was no sign of the animosity between us when we last separated. Clearly, he did not seriously expect me to say no to his request; on the contrary, he evidently expected me to drop everything and investigate on his behalf immediately. Not that I had a great deal of work on at the moment, so his money would come in useful. Much later, I went to bed and slept soundly, dreamlessly. * The following morning, fortified by a light breakfast and much strong black coffee, I took a detour via the bank to pay in that cheque and, against my better judgement, a substantial fraction of the cash that Nether had so casually presented me with. The bank must have thought all their Christmases had come at once. Or maybe they wouldn't even notice, at least until my overdraft hit rock-bottom again. After that, I took a series of transit tubes and presented myself at one of the official portals between the worlds. There are other, less official, ways to the surface, but most of these involved walking up several miles of stairs. No need for such efforts today; I was barely slowed down. The border guard glanced at my PI badge disinterestedly, as if he saw this kind of official documentation every day. Perhaps he did. In any case, he waved me through without hesitation. Goblins prefer cool and dark places, and are generally more comfortable when surrounded by solid rock, or at least masonry. It is no surprise, then, that most exits from the Lower Realms open out in human cities in temperate northern zones. This is not universally true, of course, but if one takes a randomly-chosen portal, one is most likely to end up in some dark alley in an old and rundown part of town.
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I had used this particular exit many times before. It was the closest one to the offices I needed to visit this morning. * It was time to call on an old friend - well, not as old as I am, obviously, but one who has lived a long life to the full, at least by human standards. Yes, a human, and an experienced Private Investigator as well. His name is Martin Gamshack but he is always known as Gumshoe to those unfortunate enough to have made his acquaintance. As far as I knew, he still ran a little company called Gamshack and Associates, although I never had known him to have any actual associates, human or otherwise. I emerged into an alley which most humans would have thought a dead-end. Behind me, a high brick wall, featureless apart from a rickety drainpipe. The brickwork was lavishly decorated with graffiti, overlapping primary colours, reaching higher than even a human could easily reach and more than enough to disguise the secret runes which identified this place as an entrance to the Lower Realm. The weather was misty and damp, a sullen drizzle enough to keep most humans of the streets. Low clouds overhead made it grey and overcast, although it was still bright enough for me to need to wear the dark glasses which Goblins find essential in any visit to the surface. I turned up my collar, pulled down the brim of my hat and set off in the rain. My objective was a little more than three blocks from the alley entrance, and eight floors up. I elected to walk up the fire stairs; getting stuck in an elevator, even though highly unlikely, would make it very difficult for me to retain my disguise. Besides, approaching by a less obvious route gets to be something of a habit for somebody in my line of business. The stairwell was faintly dusty, and the concrete steps and walls were painted some dingy institutional shade of cream. My footsteps were soft - Goblins are light-footed by nature, and I have had a lot of practice in stealthy movement over the years and I was breathing through an open mouth. Nobody could have heard me approaching. My target was behind the first door on the left along the corridor from the fire-door. The door itself was heavy wood, darkened with age and infrequent coats of varnish, and marked out with a tarnished brass plate which confirmed, as if I really needed it, that I have come to the right place. I straightened up and was just about to knock when the door was yanked open from the inside by a large figure. "Findo Gask," he boomed, "What an unexpected pleasure."
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"Gumshoe," I replied sardonically, recovering from my surprise, "You seem to be expecting me, even so." "Come in, come in," he said, less loudly, "You certainly haven't forgotten how to move silently. But nobody with a legitimate purpose walks up eight flights of stairs when there is a perfectly serviceable elevator right there in the lobby." "So how did you detect my approach?" I asked, my tone light but with unfeigned interest. "Ah, hah," Gumshoe grunted, "You really ought to keep up with technology." He indicated a large screen on corner of his desk; at least, it was large in height and width, but measuring only a couple of inches deep. I was sure the last time I was here, such screens for "computers", I believe - would have occupied the whole desk. "I like to keep an eye on what's going on nearby," he explained, his face breaking into a wry grin, "I put a few hidden cameras in the stairwell and along the corridor. They're really tiny. And I installed movement detection software on my computer, so any change in an image sounds an alert. Simple." I guess I had learned a lesson: trying to sneak up on a wellprepared human was pointless if I wasnt going to be bothered with an expensive invisibility glamour. Sometimes I think these humans are getting just a bit too smart for comfort. * Martin Gamshack was short for a human - although he still towered over me, of course - but very powerfully built. Even in late middle age, the bulky muscles of his shoulders flowed seamlessly into a thick neck. He kept his head shaved, presumably to disguise grey or receding hair, and tended to wear formal white cotton shirts to deemphasise his bulk. He habitually wore darkcoloured striped neckties too, but they soon became loosened, sagging below his unbuttoned shirt collar as the day wore on. His face was chubby and rarely flexed to show any emotion, although his eyes would glitter with amusement, delight or malice as the mood took him. "Sit down," Gumshoe suggested, shutting the door behind me, "Make yourself comfortable." I selected a human-scale office chair which some thoughtful person had lowered to its minimum setting. It was only very slightly too high and certainly reduced the feeling I often have when on the surface, that I am a child in an adult world. I took off my hat and tipped back my collar, but kept on my dark glasses.
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Gumshoe would understand; even with only the light from a desk lamp, the office was uncomfortably bright for one such as me. Gumshoe threw himself into the other guest chair, which squeaked protestingly under the sudden load. Politely, he had chosen not to try and peer over his fabulously cluttered desk at me. "Not much changed here," I remarked, looking around casually. The walls were festooned with the mementoes of a sports jock: trophies for football from his college days, more recent pennants for golf and interspersed with just a few certificates for his qualifications, the most prominent of which was his Private Investigators licence in a lavish frame of polished wood. "Yeah," Gumshoe growled, following my gaze, "Same office, same debts. Don't seem to be able to shake either of them." He shuffled himself to a more comfortable position in the chair, then reached out and tilted the desk lamp away from my face. "So what brings you to the surface?" "I've got a job, and a client," I began, adding, "A client with money. I need your help." He looked at me dubiously. "Hmmm. I seem to remember falling foul of one or two of your assignments. Getting shot at, repeatedly; nearly breaking both my legs. Left me nursing a sore head one time, as I recall." That was all very nearly true. But I protested anyway. "They all worked out in the end," I said reasonably, "We got what the client wanted. And you did get paid." "Eventually," he agreed grudgingly, "And maybe quicker than some clients I could mention." I reached into my inside coat pocket and drew out a bundle of crisp green banknotes. This represented a smaller fraction of Nethers money the cash I had not deposited with the bank converted into US Dollars just before I left the caverns. The Goblin currency is very hard; a little goes a long was in the human world. I inspected the roll of greenbacks closely for a moment, then tossed it into Gumshoes lap. "So here's a little deposit, on account," I suggested, "Are you interested?" Gumshoe's eyes lit up. He picked up and thumbed through the fat wad of bills, then stood up suddenly, stepped over to the framed PI certificate and swung it aside. Behind it, fixed in the 24 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
wall, was a modern safe with a keypad lock. He punched buttons until the safe opened with a click, threw the stack of notes inside then slammed it shut. "Okay," he said, returning to his seat and looking satisfied, "Count me in."
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Chapter 4 Partners in Crime

In the quietness of Gamshack's office, I told him everything that Nether had told me, as well as something of our background together. Throughout the briefing, Gumshoe didn't make notes of any kind; he just sat motionless, like a monolith in a white shirt, and committed it all to memory. He did this for every case. I asked him about this one time. He said that written notes were too insecure, too dangerous, that you never knew whose hands they might fall into. When I ran out of steam, Gumshoe asked me a couple of pertinent questions, then sat silent, digesting all he had heard. Beneath that pugnacious exterior, there was a very considerable brain at work. Many people - including more than a few Goblins had been fooled by the bulky man's apparent slowness and phlegmatic character. And, yes, he had me fooled for a while on first acquaintance, too. "Okay," he said finally, "What do you want me to do?" "You still have contacts in the NYPD?" "A few, I guess," he replied uncertainly, "We're not looking at a homicide here, are we?" "I don't think so," I replied, "If there was, there's nothing we can do. Perhaps Rosie has genuinely gone off on her own - an overdue vacation, a new lover, a family emergency - something that Nether was too drunk to remember being told about, or maybe he just couldn't be roused before she left." Gumshoe squinted at me shrewdly. "You don't believe any of that, do you?" I grinned, something I rarely do in human company since it shows off a large number of my teeth. "No, I don't," I said with conviction, "Nether made it plain Rosie loved that bar, enjoyed socialising with the regulars, being the centre of a certain amount of attention. And all her immediate family are dead. I think she's been taken." "Newspapers, or the media?" Gumshoe asked, probing as always, "An imminent exposure of the existence of your kind?"
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I snorted derisively. He had always had something of a bee in his bonnet about that particular possibility. "If it is, then the whole matter will very shortly be taken right out of our hands. The governments - yours and mine - and the more secret of its agencies will step in, the press and TV will be directed what they can or cannot reveal. No," I went on, "There's a more private matter at stake here, and I have a sneaking suspicion that it has something to do with old man Tighe and Chill's Bar." "Money, then?" Gumshoe can get very terse when he's under a certain amount of pressure. "There's good money in the bar, but not a huge sum," I replied, "Not enough to do anything this overt to get your hands on." Gamshack possibilities. nodded slowly, his mind turning over the
"So, you want me to talk to the police? See if there's been any official report of a missing person?" I nodded in response. "Sure, I can do that," Gumshoe answered, "Might take a day or two. I'll start this afternoon." "Thanks," I said warmly, "And maybe you'd have a look at Chill's place yourself. It's too risky if I go; I doubt anything I could use to disguise myself as a human would stand up in a place where too many people have seen a real Goblin. Sit at the bar, talk to people. Nobody knows you there and perhaps you'll be able to shake out a lead or two. "Top o' the mornin' to you," Gumshoe said in an Irish accent so marked that even my Goblin ears picked up on it. "Pretty good," I observed, "But you might want to tone that down just a little." * "Right," Gamshack agreed, emitting a series of throttled snorts which I knew from prior experience to be his laughter, "I'll be less obvious." He stood up in one motion, and picked up his overcoat and hat from the hatstand behind the door. Gumshoe was something of a traditionalist when it came to the sartorial appearance of the welldressed private eye, or perhaps it was just because that's what the punters expected.
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"Do you want me to call you later?" he asked, tugging the hat down over his eyes. "Yeah," I assented, "Leave a message with my service." I prised myself from the oversized chair and shook out my coat. "I'll get below," I suggested, "See what I can shake loose about Nether. Somebody must know something, even after all these years. Ill see of the Lower Realms cops have any information." He nodded his agreement, the modest dip of the head marking one professional's acknowledgement of another's professionalism. Standard practice dictated that Gumshoe and should not be seen leaving together. Gamshack left first, striding out of his own office as if he owned the place, pausing only to turn off the electric lights, and then making for the elevator. I waited quietly in the dark for twenty-odd minutes, alternately mulling over the inexplicable disappearance of this human called Rosie and the uncharacteristically altruistic behaviour of my brother. When the time was up, I slipped back down the stairs - I doubted that anybody else in this low-rent building was bugging the entrances - and out through a fire exit which opened onto a deserted alley. The side-street was blocked at one end, and I had no option but to follow it back to the main road, where I cautiously emerged not far from the main entrance. The New York street was just as dark and wet as when I arrived. I drew up my collar against the weather and scuttled off in the direction of the alley where the entrance to the Lower Realms was located. I walked quickly, keeping to the shadows, hugging the buildings and the patches of shadow that lay between the streetlights. In my line of business, you cultivate a certain sense of professional paranoia, an awareness of what is going on around you, which is so much embedded in the subconscious that it becomes almost like a sixth sense. I had a feeling, a prickling at the back of my neck, that I was being watched. I glanced around unobtrusively and my suspicions were confirmed when I caught sight of somebody lurking in the damp shadows across the street. I thought I recognised the bulky shape of a big human, much taller than Gumshoe and even blockier about the shoulders. He was definitely following me, very skilfully keeping to places where he would be difficult to spot and taking advantage of the occasional passer-by to conceal his movements. Humans can enter the Lower Realms, if they want to - and they know how to. They can even leave again afterwards. It's not forbidden, exactly. But very few do. It is very hard for them to
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remain inconspicuous. The caverns are dark; Goblins can see better than a human in those conditions and a dazzling light - from an electric torch, for example - is more likely to attract unwanted attention than to assist the visitor in finding their own way about. Many visitors engage a guide; it is a role I have undertaken myself a time or two, and indeed this was how I made the acquaintance of Martin Gamshack in the first place, all those years ago. Besides, almost all humans tower over Goblins, which makes it difficult to get through the smaller spaces - doors, for example. And of course they stand out in a crowd, head and shoulders above everybody else. In recent years, a few humans - presumably selected to be smaller than the norm - have been seen making their way around wearing bulky goggles which I was told was military night-vision equipment. But they have bene few and far between. So it was a fair bet that my tail would not attempt to follow me below. Sure enough, when I reached the graffitid wall in the alley and make the few gestures which opened the portal, he was nowhere to be seen. But maybe he had an accomplice in the Lower Realms. I flashed my buzzer at the border guards, wound my senses up one more notch and sought out the transit tube which would take me back to my office. * According to the summary Gamshack would later leave with my answering service - and follow up with a voluminous written report - he had a distinctly curious time when he visited Chill's Bar that evening. I hadn't anticipated any serious problems; Gumshoe would have had a lot of experience in hanging around in bars, sitting alone, nursing a beer, listening to the chatter and gently questioning any garrulous drunk he chanced upon. Chill's bar was busy but not packed when Gumshoe arrived, the buzz of chatter almost drowning the traditional piped music, but not so loud that it was impossible to have a conversation without shouting. The place seemed to run smoothly enough without Rosie's presence. The bartenders and waiting staff were uniformly young and fashionably dressed entirely in black, their shirts sporting the emblem of a well-known brand of Irish stout. They chatted cheerfully to the regulars, each other and occasional visitors; many were students taking part-time work to fund their studies and several were actually from various parts of Ireland. Gently professed confessing giving the questioned by Gumshoe, the youngsters invariably ignorance about the history of Chill's Bar itself, that they had worked here only a few months and impression that nobody really expected to stay much
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longer than that. Not unusual in itself; in a big city bar, waiting staff would come and go frequently. Hoping to ingratiate himself with the regulars, Gumshoe found himself playing a game with pool balls and cues that he had not seen before. There was a table covered in green baize and with bumpers on three sides only but, instead of pockets, there were holes in the table itself, each associated with different scores, together with pegs which stood on defined spots and would negate your entire score if any were knocked over. Given his inexperience, it wasn't too hard for him to lose convincingly and repeatedly, foregoing small bets of money and beer. His opponents clapped him on the back when he lost, toasted him with their beer glasses, but would not be drawn into any conversation that did not involve sports. The noise level went up steadily, and it was clear that a lot of money was going over the bar. At various time during the evening, Gumshoe was approached by several ladies, singly and in small groups, and invited in lilting Irish accents to join them. He of course declined, after he had chatted for a while. Invariably, the ladies professed disappointment then left him alone. Gumshoe concluded that the bar was a very friendly place, but in a closed kind of way: a way which was intended to discover as much as possible about strangers without disclosing anything in return. The only thing that Gumshoe was able to pick up was a rumour that the place was up for sale and even that was from overhearing a snippet of a conversation from three tables away during a brief lull in the ambient noise. There was no sign of Nether. Whether this was because he was indeed following my advice and keeping a low profile, or that he actually wasn't there at all, Gumshoe couldn't tell. Even if he had not already known about Nether's residence, he would have suspected that there was some secret, something hidden from the public view in Chill's Bar. As the evening wore on, Gumshoe drank his beers as slowly as he thought he could get away with. There's always some loudmouth drunk in any bar: some large-boned bore fond of the sound of his own voice and quick to anger should his unwilling audience have the temerity to disagree with him. Apparently the resident bore buttonholed Gumshoe as he approached the bar for his third drink, spouting some near-incomprehensible but evidently extreme political view as if it were self-evident truth. Gumshoe tried agreeing with the man, which just invited more of the same treatment, then politely attempted to change the subject, which the drunk just ignored. Finally, Gumshoe was forced to engage in debate with the man. This just made him angry, pushing his face right up to Gamshack's
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and threatening violence in a loud voice. With hindsight, Gumshoe through it was curious, in such a friendly bar, than nobody seemed inclined to intervene or even pay the slightest notice to the increasingly noisy altercation. Rather than getting into a fight, Gumshoe decided that discretion was the better part of valour and quickly left the bar, his last beer untouched. Being a professional sleuth, Gumshoe found a hidden spot across the road and watched from the outside for a while. Although the windows were small and his view restricted by the clutter of the bar, just for a moment he caught sight of the bar bore in conversation with several of the black-garbed staff, who clustered around him. They seem to have been congratulating him on a job well done. * Much to my surprise, there was no sign of anybody following me once I had left the border station. This didn't stop me applying a few basic techniques to shake off a tail I hadn't detected. PI Class 101 stuff. Child's play. I needed assistance in this case: individuals I could trust - at least, somewhat - as long as I paid them well and, for that matter, I didn't tell them anything of the slightest importance. Nether's cash advance gave me a certain amount of leeway in the matter of expenses and I didn't feel the need to stint unreasonably just at the moment. My destination was in one of the less salubrious caverns, a back-street shop which did not, as far as I knew, have a proper name. Even in my own mind, it was always just "that funny little shop in the backstreets." I had been here dozens of times and I had never come away empty-handed, usually with exactly what I needed. Oh, sometimes I had to return to collect some very special item which had to be acquired, although exactly how or from where these were sourced I have always carefully avoided enquiring. I stood outside the shop front in the deserted alley, looking up at the shuttered windows at every level to the roofline. From long experience, I knew this place never looked open, or even occupied. A dusty "closed" sign was just visible through the security bars that covered the glass of the worn wooden door, the glass itself reinforced by numerous self-adhesive signs advertising longforgotten products and dubious services. I banged on the door with the flat of my hand and then, anticipating a long wait, I stepped back and leaned on the wall opposite, then lit a cigarette. There was no sound or movement behind the glass, although I strongly suspected I was being
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carefully scrutinised by hidden eyes or magical methods. I affected a pose of nonchalant distain, the stance of one confident that in a short time he will be permitted to enter, and blew smoke with a casual disregard for personal or public safety. When my cigarette had burned down to the filter, I flicked away the stub and banged again on the door. Seconds later, I could hear the distinctive sound of locks being undone, bolts being slid back and chains being. This went on for quite some time; somebody within clearly valued their privacy. No doubt a number of less mundane protections were being deactivated simultaneously. Eventually, the door creaked open and I stepped forward confidently. The inside was dark enough for even a Goblin to stop and blink. While my eyes were adjusting, the outer door closed softly behind me. "Come in," a voice said in front of me, quiet and level, "This way, if you please." There was a slight movement in the gloom and the light level went up marginally. An inner door had been opened. I edged my way forward through the doorway, which was again shut behind me. Then the light was turned up, bright enough to make me blink again, and I could finally see my host. The proprietor was Gaur, a tiny and ancient Goblin who had run this place forever, or possibly longer. His arms and legs and face were all wizened and dried-up, while his rotund body was so nearly spherical that his limbs stuck out like twigs in a mud-ball. He had a particularly obsequious manner, his permanently bowed head reducing his statue still further. He was encased in an oldfashioned leather jerkin and matching kilt, the join between the two - more-or-less at the equator - marked by a wide leather belt to which was attached so many heavy objects of dubious purpose that it was a surprise he could move at all. "Mister Gask," the obsequious little Goblin purred, rubbing his hands together, "May I say what a pleasure it is to see you again." "Mister Gaur," I acknowledged, "And how is business?" "Well enough," he replied, "A few regular customers like your good self. And what is it you seek this time?" I told him what I wanted in a few words. I ordered a glamour, a very special magic; one which was, shall we say, in restricted circulation and not available to the general public, although not actually illegal in itself. I had expected a certain amount of haggling at this point and I wasn't disappointed. I managed to persuade Gaur to acquire for me the glamour I needed, at a price
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only slightly above the maximum budget I had set myself. I advanced him a small deposit to secure the deal, again taken from the advance that Nether had pressed on me. I would return later with the remainder of the money in hard cash, of course. The uncontrolled use of magic - there is no other adequate human word for these scientific phenomena - is gently but firmly discouraged by the authorities in the Lower Realms, even though it is part of the authentic Goblin heritage. Many of us remember how to make home-grown glamours and charms - a skill on the decline - simple magics which are amusing enough for children but essentially harmless. The glamour I had just requested was a magic of another order: infinitely powerful, carefully crafted and, in the wrong hands, quite deadly. Frankly, I hoped I would never have to use it.
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Chapter 5 Unlucky Lady

I have a load of contacts in various parts of the Underworld police forces, although many of them being the kind of contact between fist and jaw. I well knew that only a fraction would take kindly to any kind of approach from me. Fewer still owed me a favour and, in the end, I could think of only one who might conceivably react favourably to a dubious request from an underpaid and over-worked Private Eye. Captain Harriet Luncardy sat behind her desk in her cool office. The grey dragon-hide of the desktop was unadorned except for a stone ashtray, a complex-looking telephone, a thin black-bound notebook and an elegant silver fountain pen. The entire office was uncluttered and calm, with everything in its place; the walls were bare except for a couple of certificates of commendation discreetly declaring her rank and her achievements. Luncardy was cool and uncluttered, too. She was a tall skinny Goblin who wore mannish grey suits which entirely concealed any feminine curves she might have. She affected a smoking stick, a long tube flattened at one end to be easily held between the teeth, and with a gasket at the other to retain a cigarette. Hers was high-gloss black lacquer, with a single ring of gold paint by way of embellishment. The Captain had quite a reputation around the 14th precinct, one that - perhaps inadvertently - I had helped to enhance. She was a stickler for the rules and procedures, completely dedicated to the job, but a good copper for all that: cautious, thoughtful and painfully honest. The police under her command probably didn't like her very much; she carefully displayed no hint of warmth or compassion even to her closest colleagues - as a deliberate pose, I was entirely sure - but they trusted her judgement. If she said jump, every Goblin in the place would levitate to ceiling level immediately. She had reluctantly agreed to this interview after I had made a couple of calls on her office number. She probably felt badgered into it. As I entered, she was screwing a cigarette into the holder of her cigarette holder. She waved in the direction of the guest chairs while she took a lighter from her pocket, lit the cigarette, took a long drag and returned the lighter to her pocket. She didn't offer me one. 34 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
The young uniformed type who had guided me through the warren that was the police house waited at the door for instruction; Luncardy nodded once and the youngster backed out closing the door silently behind him. "Findo Gask," she said coolly, "I wondered when I'd see you again." "Luncardy," I nodded, throwing myself untidily into one of the chairs that stood on my side of the desk, "You're looking well, very well. Tip-top condition. Your elevated rank agrees with you." She narrowed her eyes at my flattery and glared at me over the desk. "You want something, don't you?" she said shrewdly. You don't get to be a Captain of Police by being completely stupid. Luncardy was a sharp cookie, clearly destined for greater things, if something didn't take her down permanently on the way up. "I do," I replied, suddenly serious, "I really need your help." "Look, Gask," she said, leaning forward over the desk and waving her smoking stick about for emphasis, "I don't owe you any favours." "I'm not asking for a favour," I said, lying only slightly, "I'm appealing to your better nature. I know you've got one in there somewhere. Just listen to me for a minute." I told her Nether's story in shortened form, leaving nothing of significance out, and contrived to convey a degree of nervousness about his partial rehabilitation. "I have a bad feeling about this case," I concluded, "And not just because it's my own flesh and blood who is somehow involved. There's something more complex going on, something with deep undertones. Something that the police might be interested in." Luncardy looked at me silently for a long moment, not moving, the smoke from the cigarette in its holder lazily trailing its way to the ceiling undisturbed. "Okay," she said eventually, unbending just a notch, "Let's for the sake of argument assume that you are on the level. What exactly do you want me to do?" * "I want to know more about my brother," I explained, "I want to know what the police know about him, and what he's been doing in the decades since I saw him last."
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"Couldn't you just ask him?" Luncardy pressed, her attention apparently returning to her cigarette. "I could," I said, "But I wouldn't necessarily get the truth. He might lie or dissemble, or he might just have plain forgotten what he's been up to all these years. Remember, he's a drunk, so I doubt his memory is everything it could be." "Hmm," Luncardy responded, blowing smoke, not sounding in the least convinced. "Look," I went on, "I'm pretty sure he's not spent all of that time on the surface. He must have come to the attention of the police in some way. Where's he been, any known associates, that sort of thing. It might just help your clean-up rate statistics." "Okay," she agreed, knocking cigarette ash into the grey stone ashtray, "Just this once, mind you. I'll see what Central Records know, make a few inquiries in the other precincts. Might take a few days, maybe longer. I'll call you." She rested the cigarette and holder against the ashtray, then opened her notebook, unscrewed her pen and made a few economical annotations on an otherwise black page. "You won't regret this," I promised her, "Frankly, I think at least one of us is going to be surprised by what you turn up. It'll probably be me, but you can never tell." Luncardy nodded thoughtfully, then pressed a button on the telephone on her desk. A few moments later, the office door opened and the same junior officer stepped inside. "Mister Gask is just leaving," she said dismissively, returning her attentions to her notebook. I stood up, put on my hat and trailed after the young copper. As I was guided through the open-plan area where cops write up the reports for filing, I was reminded that police houses are strange places and the individuals in them even more so. Police work is fuelled by a mixture of mind-numbing boredom interspersed with bowel-churning excitement, and this affects different individuals in different ways. Some become introverted and withdrawn. I recognised one old Sergeant - whose name I had never learned efficient and respected though he might be, but who was so taciturn I could not remember ever hearing him utter more than two words together. Others become gung-ho, blas, overconfident - I could see a gaggle of younger cops bullshitting around the water cooler, their individuality overcome by immature bluster and macho banter, perhaps just to drown out the nagging voices in their own heads.
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When we reached the foyer, I nodded my thanks to the young officer - who seemed well on the way to professional reticence pushed open the door, and made my way out of the police house and down the street. * I made my usual cautious way through the caverns, deep in thought, with just a couple of changes on the transit tubes which link underground spaces all over the world. They are not actually tubes or tunnels, of course; this is just the best rendering of the word into human languages. In reality, they are a magical form of transport, instantly moving goods and people from one cavern to another, travelling hundreds or even thousands of miles in an instant. The entrances and exits are numerous and often crowded with travellers from all parts of the Lower Realms; Goblins of every description hurrying home or on errands of their own. The tubes also served a secondary purpose from my point of view: they were the perfect way of losing anybody who might be trying to follow me. As I have mentioned before, I advertise my office address and telephone number in a few select places, and quite a number of much more obscure ones. You'd be surprised how many clients I pick up from a card left behind in a bar, or from the Classified Ads section of glossy magazines targeted at the female of the species. I'm much more careful about my apartment, my home. I keep it out of the public eye, out of the public record - as far as is possible - and I have identified a whole host of hidden routes that obscure my destination whenever I go back there. So I should not have been at all surprised to discover Trinity in my apartment when I got home. It seemed it was my month for siblings. "Hi, sis," I said, feigning a casualness I did not feel while I hung my coat and hat on the stand by the door. Trinity Gask is my kid sister, as much younger than me as I am younger than Nether. All grown up now, of course. She always was a wild child, determined not to conform to the conventions of society or the expectations of parents and teachers. This may be a family trait. While still in her third decade, she ran away from home several times, to be returned the first time under the escort of two stern-faced members of the child protection agency. The other times she came back just because she wanted to: no explanations, no reasons given. She just expected to be welcomed with open arms, which our parents did unhesitatingly. The last time Trinity had deigned to come home was when Mother was still lingering on her deathbed. Father had died some
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years before - suddenly and unexpectedly - and Mother never really recovered from the shock. Trinity arrived on the doorstep in the company of a male, one Forneth Butterstone, a fussy-looking and over-dressed individual, suspiciously vague in describing what he did for a living. I confess I didn't like Butterstone from that first meeting, an opinion amplified when Trinity declared she was going to marry him. She was evidently completely besotted, repeatedly swearing eternal fidelity and life-long togetherness. To me, though, it was transparently obvious that he was only interested in my parents' money. Not that there was a huge amount - my parents were never really rich - but they had been wealthy enough to attract the attention of a swindler and confidence trickster. I set myself a task which determined, to a certain extent, the future direction of my life. I set out to prove that Trinity's intended was not all she could see on the surface. It turned out to be easier than I anticipated. Butterstone made no attempt to conceal his womanising and profligate behaviour, and it was but a few hours work to tail him and take a few photographs, which I duly presented to Trinity at the earliest opportunity. Her reaction to Butterstone's perfidy was at first predictably dramatic: hysterical crying interspersed with rants and curses and inprecations, all uttered at full volume while pacing the tiny apartment she rented. It was unfortunate that her soon-to-be-ex fiance turned up a few minutes later, although fortunate for him that I was still there. Trinity's reaction as Butterstone strolled in was one of the most frightening things I have seen in a long career. Her face hardened to a mask of fury and she grabbed the two largest knives from the kitchenette and advanced on her erstwhile fianc. Butterstone froze in the doorway, eyes wide in terror and seemingly unable to move a muscle. I swear to this day that Trinity would have carved off his ears, at the very least, if I had not stepped in and wrested the knives from her hands. I pushed the now-disarmed Trinity onto the davenport with more force than was, perhaps, strictly necessary and shouted at Butterstone to get out. He emerged from his catatonic state, shrieked wildly and fled, slamming the door behind him. I never saw him again. * "Nice place you've got here," Trinity purred, inspecting me closely from her seat on the davenport, "Discreet, and so very well hidden. You've spent your money on glamours rather than the services of an interior designer, I can see." "It suffices," I replied, "For my modest requirements."
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She was right, of course. I had expended some considerable sums in acquiring magics which shield my home from prying eyes. They did not actually make the apartment invisible, of course; such glamours are unreliable and, in any case, people notice the absense of things nearly as easily as their presence. No, these glamours make things unremarkable; the eye just slides off the nondescript and focuses instead on something more relevant, more interesting. It helps the magic considerably if the underlying mundane appearance does not itself stand out. My carefully-selected apartment is one of hundreds of similar places in a large tower block, one of a set of seven which decorate the sloping floor near the edge of one of the less fashionable caverns. Inside, the apartment was an uncluttered one room space doubling as a bedroom, a sitting area and a kitchenette, with a walk-in closet and bathroom - about the same size as each other as the only other rooms. It was decorated unstylishly in shades of brown - I had not changed it since I had moved in, many years ago - and decorated with a small collection of memorabilia from cases old and new. I shook my head at the clarity and directness of Trinity's insight. She would notice such things as a matter of course, much as I would do, and for much the same reason, too. She was, in truth, a highly-trained professional - at least as much as I am although in a slightly different field to myself. Over the years, Trinity had evolved an eclectic personal fashion sense. She usually dressed in black - of itself, not uncommon in the Lower Realms - but the glossy black cat-suit she wore was so tightly-fitting that the eye could follow every line of her powerfully sinewy body. She was tall and extravagantly muscular, bulky about the shoulders and thighs in a way that most females - even Goblin females - are not. The cat-suit was set off with heavy black boots - not the stiletto-heeled idiocies that overheated imaginations might have suggested, but practical ankle-length laced boots which would undoubtedly protect her feet under almost any circumstances. After Trinity's profoundly unsettling experience in so very nearly marrying an obviously exploitative bastard, she swore never to be so defenceless again, either emotionally or physically. She took up the study of a number of martial arts disciplines, undertook an intensive programme of firearms training and close-combat drills of a style that a human would undoubtedly recognise as paramilitary, or something close to it. She also worked on her physical strength and fitness with grim determination and supreme selfsacrifice, and was now capable of moving swiftly and decisively if the need arose.
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And the need did occasionally arise. She has long undertaken the role of bodyguard for the rich and important - well, rich anyway, if my understanding of her daily rates were correct. By now, she had acquired quite a reputation, a reputation that said that she had never lost a client, that she had been injured twice in the line of duty, and that she had apprehended, disabled or, in two cases, killed those who threatened those she protected. I sat heavily on my favourite armchair opposite her, leaning back and fumbling in my pockets for cigarettes and matches. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" I asked. "I've lost a client," she said flatly. "That's a bit careless," I replied casually, "Somebody finally got past you. A sniper rifle at long range, perhaps?" Trinity snorted derisively. "No fucking way. He's still alive, at least as far as I know. He just stepped out of his own bedroom for a moment, then disappeared. No traces, no clue, nothing." "Okay," I said, placatingly, "So who is this mysteriously disappearing person?"
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Chapter 6 Defective Memory

"His name is Professor Urquhart Garrick," Trinity said. I sat up straight in my chair, dropping my - fortunately, not yet lighted - cigarette on the carpet. "Garrick," I spluttered, "How in the hells did you get mixed up with that old reprobate?" Trinity looked amused at my discomfiture. "You know of him, then?" she asked snidely, then added as if an elusive memory were returning to the forefront of her mind, "Oh yes, you knew him, didn't you, at that stuck-up University of yours." Trinity never went to a University, never gave any sign of having wanted to go to a College of any kind. But it still rankled with her that I was able to attend a moderately prestigious institution - as did Nether - funded almost entirely by our parents. Not that it had got me very far, in any case: a moderately good degree in an esoteric subject that made me practically unemployable, hence my segue into police work. I leant over to recover my errant cigarette from under the chair, put it in my mouth and lit it. Unusually in the Lower Realms, Trinity didn't smoke - some misguided notion that it was bad for the health, I suppose - and I knew she disliked the pungent aroma. I blew smoke not quite in her direction. She coughed pointedly and fanned a hand in front of her face. "Look, I had a run-in with Garrick a year or two back," I said, recovering some of my composure, "People got hurt, even killed." "Yeah, I heard that," she sneered, "That's why I thought you'd want to find him for me." "Maybe. Why do you want to find him?" "He owes me money," she said, "A lot of money." "For your professional services?" I enquired, genuinely puzzled, "I thought you'd charge in advance for those?" "I do," she agreed, "Mostly. But we were conducting a little private business on the side. You don't need to know about that."
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"Uh-huh," I responded noncommittally, nodding as if the matter was of no moment. When somebody says "you don't need to know" to me, it's usually the case that it's vitally important that I know. And there's a good chance they say that just because its illegal, or immoral, or maybe just embarrassing. I didn't worry. I'd find out about it eventually. I always do, even if I have to prise it out of somebody with heavy equipment. I took another puff from my cigarette and leaned forward to knock ash into the ashtray, which was the only thing on the low and slightly dusty coffee table which separated Trinity and myself. "Garrick's a slippery customer," I went on, settling back in my chair, "Good at hiding. Better than most at disappearing." "Don't I know it," she said, then added, "Look, you just find Garrick for me. I imagine your rates haven't changed? No. And I suppose there's no point in asking for a family discount. Didn't think so." Trinity unzipped an outer pocket in her glossy black cat-suit, one over her left breast, and reached inside delicately with two fingers. She drew out a couple of folded bills and tossed them on the table nonchalantly. "An advance," she explained sarcastically, "Against your ruinous daily rate and no-doubt enormous expenses." I let that one slide, and looked instead at the money on the table. Two C-notes, two hundred dollars. A very modest fortune. Everybody seemed to be throwing folding currency in my direction at the moment. Still, I did have bills to pay. "Okay," I said slowly, "You've hired yourself a private dick." "Huh," Trinity replied disdainfully, "I don't need any more dicks in my life." * "Fair enough," I said noncommittally, not wanting to be sidetracked now that I had an investigation - indeed, another investigation - to undertake. I took a last drag on my cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. "I need to note down a few details of the case," I continued, "Which might take a while. I for one am getting hungry. So why don't we grab some dinner?" Trinity glared at me then, sensing I wasn't being obviously ironic, her face softened into something resembling a smile. 42 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
"Okay, then," she replied, "You can pay - claim it from expenses, if you must. And leave those disgusting cigarettes behind." I stood up and crossed the room to retrieve my hat and coat. Trinity unfolded herself from the davenport and picked up her own coat, a full-length affair in a dull black which she has tossed over the arm of the settee. "Somewhere local?" I suggested, "There's a little place on the corner of the block I know quite well." She nodded, surprisingly amicably. I held open the door for her - these gentlemanly urges will be the death of me, one of these years - then closed and locked it behind us. Not that those locks had been successful in keeping Trinity out, but I didn't want to make it too easy for all and sundry to come wandering in. One of these days I'll have to find out how she managed to get in, and how she managed to identify my apartment. But the reason I wasn't surprised by her presence was that there was at least one glamour she had not detected or evaded, one I had relatively recently installed at considerable expense, one which flashed me an early warning image of anybody in my apartment as I approached. There was another reason I wanted to guide Trinity out of the apartment: it was to see if she was genuinely unaccompanied or whether she had some of her colleagues staking the place out. When we hit the street, Trinity strode off purposefully in the direction I indicated, causing me to hurry to catch up with her. She showed no interest in anything around her, but marched on apparently oblivious. I looked around as discreetly as I could manage, but there were no shadows in places I did not expect, no furtive movements in the entrances to alleys, nothing out of place to my trained senses. Perhaps she had come on her own after all. * "This is the place," I said, indicating the brightly-lit entrance to David's Diner. I held the door open again and Trinity swept inside. The eponymous owner was, for once, not had his usual station by the door, but he spotted me across the half-full restaurant and scurried over to welcome me, his characteristic bonhomie coming to the fore. "Table for two this evening, Mister Gask?" he enquired in a particularly avuncular tone.
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"Yes, please, David," I responded in my finest cheery voice, carefully declining to introduce Trinity despite David's obvious curiosity. Normally, I would be directed to a quiet booth at the back, not from any disrespect but simply because this is what I would have asked for anyway. But tonight, with a young woman on my arm of quite distinctive appearance - not to mention powerful physical presence - I was shown to the best seat in the house. We were rapidly directed to a large table in the centre of the dining room, clearly visible from the window, not to mention from almost every other diner in the place. Trinity looked around disinterestedly. David's place is not a posh gourmet restaurant with white linen tablecloths, but has an honest homely atmosphere, and honest homely food, too. It has always had a short and well-chosen menu which varies frequently which is one thing that keeps me coming back - featuring food which is not messed about with unnecessarily, but competently cooked to order within minimum delay. "Come here often?" she asked with conscious irony, after David had seated us. The patron bustled off to chivvy his staff along, most of whom seemed to be relatives of one kind or another. It was a real oldfashioned family business. "Reasonably frequently," I answered, ignoring her barbs, "The food's pretty reasonably priced and it hasn't killed me yet." "There's always a first time." I knew that, by now, her pointed comments were simply automatic defensiveness: nothing personal intended, particularly, just another mechanism for keeping the rest of the world at bay. I perused the menu card, paying special attention to the handwritten specials section. Trinity glanced at the card then put it down. She prided herself on her ability to make even the most inconsequential decisions quickly. David himself came back to take our order, notebook in hand. Trinity ordered in a few terse words, while I dithered for a while over which of the specials to select. I ordered my usual beer; Trinity would take nothing but water. "So," I began, "Tell me about your dealings with my dear old tutor, Professor Garrick." * As the food started to arrive, Trinity seemed to wind her prickly personal armour back a notch or two. I gently prompted her about
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Garrick's disappearance, which she told me at some length, between mouthfuls. Trinity has always had a raging appetite. Even when she was a child, she ate twice as much as her elder siblings, much to my Mother's despair at dinnertime. I guess, even now, her regime of high-stress work assignments and intense physical exercise meant that she still burned calories really fast, even compared with a big male like myself. "You'll know that much of my work comes through agents of one kind or another," Trinity explained between mouthfuls. I nodded. Her line of business was not the kind of thing that one would expect to find in the trade pages of the telephone directory. Unlike mine, where desperate housewives and frustrated businessmen seem more than willing to find some random stranger in the phone book to listen to their woes. "Garrick came to me through a personal recommendation," she went on. "Who recommended you to him?" I interjected. Trinity chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "It's not entirely unusual, but I don't remember asking him," she said slowly, "And I'm sure he never told me exactly who it was." She shook her head. "Anyway, Garrick called my office, wanted to engage my services. I called him back and agreed to an introductory meet. It was in a cafe at a shopping mall, nowhere special. He was a bit jumpy - but, then again, most of my clients are. He said he had been hiding out, afraid for his life, he said, although he didn't say who or what was threatening him." "Didn't you ask?" I pressed. "Frankly, no," she replied wearily, "My experience is that a panic-stricken client either doesn't know what he's facing, or thinks he does, but turns out to be just plain wrong. Anything a customer says in answer to that question is likely to be misleading at best, and a distraction at worst." "Did he say where he had been hiding out?" "Again, I didn't press, although I got the impression that he had been living in the Deeps." The Deeps are really off the beaten track, the Goblin equivalent of the back of beyond. The further down one goes, the warmer the caverns get, and more likely you are to encounter some of the more unusual creatures with whom we share our Realm. There are
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persistent rumours - even in this day and age - of unknown and sometimes violent denizens secreted in the side-tunnels and hidden ways although, personally, I suspect this is some combination of urban myth and wishful thinking. "Anyway," Trinity went on, "We agreed terms, and Garrick handed over a bankers draft as a deposit. Within the hour, I had arranged to transport him to a safe house, one of several my organisation manages. I got him installed, set up a standard roster from my staff; teams of two changing three times a day, usual stuff." She paused again to wipe clean her plate with the last piece of toadstool bread. "And then?" I prompted. "I took to calling on the Professor every two or three days..." "To conduct that mysterious business you're not tell me about," I added. Trinity looked peeved. One of David's waiters chose that moment to hurry over and take away our empty plates. "Including a little business on the side," she agreed acidly, once the waiter had disappeared, "So, there were no real incidents, just a couple of false alarms which were undertandable enough. Further instalments of his fees turned up in my bank account with monotonous regularity. From my point of view, the dream client." Trinity fell silent. I waited as patiently as I could manage. "Two days ago," she resumed eventually, "I visited the safe house as usual. Garrick was there, looking relaxed. After the pleasantries, I broached the subject of our business" - she frowned - "Garrick nodded amiably enough, then explained he needed to step into his bedroom for a moment. He was still dressed in his pyjamas. I waited and waited, getting increasingly agitated. There was no answer to knocks or shouts. The door was locked from the inside, and took all three of us to break it down." "Not there?" I said softly. "Garrick wasn't there," she agreed simply, "It was an oldfashioned Goblin bedroom, all heavy masonry and hewn stone. No windows. No furniture other than the bed itself, and a couple of small cabinets. The kind of place designed to make you feel safe and secure. There were no hidden tunnels or secret exits we could find. I used up a fortune in Reveal spells and detection glamours. That's another thing he owes me for," she added sourly. Trinity sat back in her chair, looking at me levelly over the table. 46 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
"So," she said finally, "I've a score to settle. So have you. You track him down, I'll grab him and extract what he owes me - from his hide, if necessary. Then, you can turn him over to the authorities. How's that sound?" * I told Trinity that I had no immediate idea how I would go about tracking down the missing Professor Garrick, although in truth I did have a few initial thoughts. She seemed to accept this; I suspect she has always underestimated my intelligence and imagination. Or maybe she just didn't believe anything I said. We had little more to say to one another. I paid David for the meal using money from the advance that my sister had presented me with only a little earlier, then parted from Trinity at the door of the restaurant. She set off down the street at a brisk march, not once looking back at her elder brother. Job done, her stance said, on to the next task. Shaking my head, I made my way back to my apartment. There, I found my cigarette packet and lit up. Then I called my answering service, one of the very few which will take messages in the major human languages - Mandarin, Spanish, English - as well as most of the variants of the Goblin tongue. The efficientsounding voice at the other end told me I had two messages. One was from Gamshacks, summarising his visit to Chill's Bar and promising a full report in writing. The other was from Nether, insisting that I call him as soon as possible; he left a telephone number with a New York area code. It was timed less than an hour ago. It must have arrived while I was dining with Trinity. I picked up the phone receiver and dialled a telephone number. Not the number Nether had left; this was one I knew from memory. It was another agency I used occasionally: for a fee, they would connect your home or office phone to a number in the surface world. A voice answered on the second ring and I gave them the number that Nether had left. I don't use this service very often - which is just as well, since it is very expensive - but it is extremely convenient if you really need to speak to a human in a hurry. There were a series of clicks, whirrs and other obscure noises on the line, then the ring tone started again. "Chill's Bar," a gruff voice said. A surprisingly large number of Goblins are fluent in one or more of the myriad of languages in use on the surface. All human languages are simple and unstructured compared with the elegant complexities and nuances of expression of the Goblin tongue, a language which has been in use since humans were still grunting at Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 47
each other in caves. Even so, to the educated ear, there are telltale signs: a certain guttural quality, various tones which would be near-subsonic for the human listener, which mark out a Goblin speaking a human tongue. "Hello, Nether," I said, "You wanted me to call." "Rosie's back," he said without preamble. "Glad to hear it. Is she okay?" There was a pause. "More or less," Nether replied eventually, the uncertainly plainly audible in his voice. "What happened?" Nether was clearly a little distraught and his narrative was disjointed and repetitive. In summary, then, it seemed that Rosie had just turned up, wandering the streets, feeling dazed and confused, and with no memory of where she has been or even that she has been away. I didn't say so at the time, but she was probably suffering the characteristic effects of certain memory-modifying glamours, magics which are not widely available - evern from the more disreputable vendors - but which are sometimes used by several Lower Realms enforcement agencies to remove human memories of an encounter with Goblins. Rosie had been discovered by the New York police and taken to a human hospital. By the time that Nether had been in touch - by telephone, appearing in person would be far too much of a risk she did not appear to be seriously ill, and it was suggested that she would be discharged in the morning. He was worried, but not as worried as when she was missing. But her mental state suggested that she had encountered something or somebody who had very close connections with the authorities in the Lower Realms. My brother's monologue finally ground to a halt. "Okay, Nether," I said, "There's nothing either of us can do now. You go to bed. I'll come and see you both in the morning, when Rosie's been discharged. Let me talk to her, see if she can remember anything." "Okay," Nether assented, relief sounding in his voice, "See you tomorrow." He hung up. I sat in my best chair for a long while, musing. It looked like I was going to be busy for a few days, or weeks. Two cases to deal with, each with their own variation on demanding clients, clients
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who wouldn't consider moderating their demands just because they happened to be relatives. I went to bed. Guess I was going to need the sleep.
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Chapter 7 A Question of Depth

I woke early with the aid of an old-fashioned but highly reliable alarm clock. I guess it would have to be reliable given the way I habitually smote it when it rang in what felt like the middle of the night. Thirty-five minutes later, and fortified with much strong black coffee, I was making my way through the as-yet uncrowded transit tubes to the cavern that lay closest to the human city of New York. Not quite underneath it, in fact, although most of the portals which link the world above with the Lower Realms are close to vertical, if only for engineering convenience. I completed the border controls with the flash of my PI's licence, and soon emerged from the same seedy alley in one of the less fashionable parts of the island of Manhattan. It was still the dead of night in East Coast America, which suited me just fine; my disguise would not withstand close scrutiny from close range or in bright light. I habitually wore a brimmed hat and a long dark raincoat with a great many pockets in which I keep necessities, like my packet of cigarettes and book of matches, as well as a number of more dangerous things I sincerely hope I will never have to use in anger. This morning, since I knew I would be travelling to the surface, I made sure I had packed a pair of sunglasses; so much of the human world is so brightly lit that Goblins need eye protection and, besides, my eyes are so unlike the average human's that I needed to hide them anyway. I had also donned a heavy pair of lift shoes which discreetly add a couple of inches to my height, thereby bringing me just a little closer to the human norm as well as making my legs look longer. It felt like I was walking on stilts; it takes a certain amount of practice to learn how to move in the jerky and angular gait that is the human version of a walk. I tucked my ears into my hat and turned up my collar against the night, then set off through the early morning gloom. * I knew that Chill's Bar would be closed at this hour, shut up tight. Not even the most hardened drinkers would still be conscious at this time of the morning. I would not want to try and wake Rosie: it would make far too much noise and draw attention I could well do without. But there were other possibilities for entry,
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means available only to those from the Lower Realms which, I imagined, would be more than likely at the long-term residence of even the most solitary Goblin. Chill's place was set in the middle of a block with a narrow alley down one side; the other abutted a store of some kind, its windows shuttered tightly against the night and those who might be abroad in the dark hours. Like me. I entered the alley which was graffitid lavishly, as so much of the darker parts of the urban landscape are wont to be. The wall on the side where Chill's Bar was located was featureless brick, with no windows or doors that the eye could see. The wall opposite contained a couple of heavy steel doors, of the kind which could only be opened from the inside, each framed by large wheeled dumpsters which smelled loathsome to my Goblin senses, and which would probably have offended any nearby humans, too. I knew what I was looking for, and I was not disappointed. Towards the end of the alley, I could make out the sign which read, simply, "door", the runes concealed by the angular and stylised artwork of the graffiti. I reached out at a natural height for a Goblin - about eighteen inches below where a human would expect. My questing hand found the cold metal of a handle, even though my eyes saw only the energetically painted brick. It was a simple concealment glamour. Cheap stuff. I did not even need to disable it; indeed, better not, in case some iterant came along and took it into his head to try the lock. Ignoring the vibrant paintwork, I lifted and turned the handle and stepped into the doorway. * Once inside, I could see that the door had originally been meant for humans: wider than necessary and much too tall to be comfortable for even a big guy like me. It had probably been part of the original building, refitted at some point after Nether had moved in with Goblin style fixtures and the concealing magic. I carefully closed the door behind me, then looked around cautiously. From the inside, the door was equally invisible, appearing to be just part of the grubby wall of a storeroom, one which gave every impression of not being used a great deal. Plastic crates, either empty or part-filled with dusty empty bottles, were piled in one corner, towering over my head. Elsewhere, there were cardboard boxes stacked on slightly rickety-looking shelving, whose labelling suggested they contained new drinks glasses of various shapes or assorted species of those bagged salty snacks that barkeepers the world over deploy in order to encourage their customers to drink more booze.
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The storeroom appeared to have just one door which led, I imagined to a corridor and thence the rest of the bar. I didn't believe it for a moment. Nether must have a private hiding-place nearby, somewhere which opened onto this room, some place were he would feel safe as well as having a convenient swift exit should the need arise. I studied the walls carefully, running my hands over their surface, seeking the slightest sign of an irregularity which might mark an entrance. Nether's inner sanctum would be much more carefully concealed than the tatty glamour on the outer door. I was inspecting the plasterwork in one corner, kneeling on the floor, when a slight noise behind me made me jump up and spin around. "Hello, Findo," a familiar voice said ironically, "Breaking and entering again? You could just have called, you know." "Just trying to avoid attracting undesired attention," I said smoothly, "Besides, you didn't give me a telephone number." "Excuses, excuses," he laughed wearily, then added, "You'd better come inside." The wall behind Nether was unbroken, unmarked other than for the occasional scuff mark or grubby fingerprint. I had been over it with a fine-toothed comb already. Even so, as soon as Nether's hand touched a particular spot, the dirty plaster faded away and a Goblin-sized doorway stood in its place. This magic was expensive stuff, an entrance keyed to his own hand. I would have had to use a similarly expensive glamour even to detect the presence of such a well-concealed entrance and I doubted there was anything I could afford which would have opened it without Nether's permission. Which begged the question: exactly where was Nether getting so much money from? My brother ushered me inside and closed the door with a similar touch of his hand. From within, the door gave the appearance of intricately carved and polished wood, bound with shiny brass hinges and fittings. We stood in a spacious living room elegantly decorated in classical Goblin style: furniture of heavy carved wood and leather-covered chairs. It all spoke of much money and taste, and was entirely at odds with Nether's raggedy drunk appearance. Nether threw himself into an overstuffed armchair and waved at the davenport. I went and sat down where he indicated with my hat in my hands. "Did you send a stooge into the bar yesterday?" he asked. "Yeah," I replied, "Thought it would help, maybe shake something loose."
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"Did it work?" "Don't think so. Nobody would talk to him." "Huh. The regulars thought he was another reporter. We get those from time to time. When rumours get out." I nodded. It seemed plausible. "So what happened to Rosie?" I asked, changing the subject. "She was locking up the front doors when she heard a noise behind her," Nether said, "Then, nothing until she woke up in an alley with an ache in her head." "Which alley?" "I don't know. Not very far away from here." I nodded thoughtfully, unsure of whether it was worth trying to track down the exact place she woke up. "Anyway," he resumed, "Somebody found her, dialled nine-oneone. The cops - humans - took her to the precinct house, then onto hospital. Unexplained amnesia. Held overnight for observation, then released when one of the waiting staff went to collect her." "Hmm. refund." So now you've got Rosie back, I guess you'll want a
Nether's florid face was suddenly serious. "No, I don't," he said quietly, "If anything, I think I need your services now more than ever." "Why?" I asked, although I suspected I already knew the answer. "She can't remember anything," Nether replied, "But she's clearly been treated with a glamour - quite definitely a Goblin magic - to make her forget. I need to find out, where she's been, who took her and, most importantly, why." "Okay," I said slowly, "I need to see her myself, talk to her." "Why? I've told you everything she's said," he replied warily, "You'll only upset her." "It's what she's not said that interests me," I said, sounding more confident than I felt, "Just let me talk to her, okay?" * "Of course," Nether agreed, "But not right away. Rosie needs her sleep."
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It was still before dawn. Those who run pubs and bars for a living do not, as a rule, rise early. I doubted there would be any movement upstairs for an hour to two yet. There was no point in rushing things. "Got any coffee?" I asked. "Sure. Come with me." Nether got up and went though an inner arched doorway. I followed. It was a compact kitchen with fittings suitable for a Goblin - a human would think them child-sized - which included a breakfast bar with two stools. I pulled one out, sat and watched Nether bustling around, rather surprised with his domesticity. "Something to eat?" he asked casually. "Sure," I replied. I was getting peckish. Nether slid a plate of the hard flat biscuits that are so popular for breakfast in the Lower Realms. I picked one up and bit into it. It was fresh from the ovens, made very recently, possibly even this week. Nether must visit the Lower Realms more frequently than I thought. A cup - human made, and big and clunky by Goblin standards appeared next to my plate. It was filled with hot black coffee, thick and poisonously strong. Just how I like it. "Splash of scotch in it?" Nether asked, waving a human-sized whiskey bottle languidly in my direction. The bottle was opened, the metal foil long gone, and the amber fluid could be seen sloshing about inside. Still a fair bit left, I noted. "Bit early for me," I said, shaking my head. "Suit yourself." I noticed he didn't pour himself one, just put the bottle back on the shelf. We ate breakfast languidly, lingering over our coffee refills. Nether told me a little more about his life since I had seen him last; a selection of tales and anecdotes from his life in the bar. In exchange, I told him a few of my stories: some of my more hairrazing exploits as a Private Detective. I talked up the element of luck in my investigations and played down the importance of deduction. I also quizzed him again about Rosies predicament, although he came up with the same story as last time. He really didn't know how to ask the right questions. Finally, Nether glanced at the kitchen clock set into the wall above the cooker. 54 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
"Rosie will be awake by now," he said, "Let's go talk to her, since you are so insistent." I shrugged, then jammed my hat back on my head. Just force of habit - a good one in the surface world where ears like mine would attract far too much attention. Nether guided out of the kitchen and to the hidden entrance to his private suite, which closed behind us at Nether's touch. We went through the mundane door which opened onto an even more mundane corridor and along the corridor to the stairwell. It was a short walk up two flights of stairs to the point where my brother tapped diffidently on a bedroom door. * There was a creaking noise from within, as if somebody was carefully manoeuvring themselves to a more upright posture in bed and arranging the bedclothes. "Who is it?" came a soft voice through the door, not as highpitched as I might have expected. "It's Nether," my brother said. "Come in." Nether tugged on the handle and pushed the door open. I followed him inside. A human female sat up in a small bed, a bed which would never have allowed two to share in comfort. Her eyes widened slightly as she caught sight of me trailing in, then she looked at Nether and back to me again, as if unsure of what she was seeing. Then she nodded, a single dip of the chin than seemed to signify her acceptance of the situation: that it was not bullshit and wishful thinking, but there really were two mythical creatures at the bottom of her bed. All humans tend to look the same to me, even under ideal circumstances, and Rosie was so swathed in pyjamas and bedclothes it was hard to determine any distinguishing features at all. She was shorter than most, a little rounder than most. Her hair was that orange colour that humans call "red", her eyes were somewhere between blue and green, and her pale skin was dusted with those marks known as freckles. "Are you the one that came for Nether all those years ago?" Rosie blurted out, smiling uncertainly at me, "The one my grandfather told me about?" "Findo Gask, Private Detective. And Nethers brother," I said, bowing in an exaggerated fashion and lifting my hat in a parody of formal politeness.
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"Please to meet you, Findo," she said, "My grandfather remembered you well, I think." "I remember him," I said civilly, "Although I only met him the once. That was a long time ago." "Indeed," she replied, "He was a good man, if a bit earthy at times." Rosie looked sad for a fleeting moment, then she was distracted. She held her hand to her head, swallowing awkwardly and repeatedly, and grimacing at some discomfort around her face. "Are you okay?" I asked solicitously. "My ears hurt," she said simply, "I can't seem to clear them." I looked at Nether, whose anxious gaze returned my worried expression in spades. "You're right," I said to him levelly, "You really do need my help." Rosie looked confused, turning her head from Nether to me and back again. "What's wrong?" she demanded. I explained. The Goblin caverns are deep down in the earth, many thousands of feet - even miles - below the surface. The portals which link surface and deeps aren't tunnels, at least in the conventional sense. They utilize the same technology as the transit tubes which link the caverns together, but are set vertically rather than nearly horizontal. Anybody entering or leaving the Goblin world will always experience a sudden change in air pressure. It is something that Goblins are not very sensitive to. But most humans can feel pressure changes in their inner ear - when they fly up in an aircraft, for example, or even when they take a high-speed lift in a tall building. An entrance to the Lower Realms drops you a mile into the ground instantaneously, with a rapid pressure change. This causes discomfort, even severe pain, to almost all humans; it is another one of the reason why people from the surface do not frequently visit the caverns of the Goblins. In a few places, there are staging points for human visitors, allowing them to acclimatise to the air pressure before continuing their descent, or ascent. Or there are conventional stairs, although nobody in their right mind really wants to walk up, or down, a flight of stairs a mile high. If Rosie was still suffering from pains now, she had probably been abducted to the Lower Realms, by person or persons
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unknown. And it looked quite possible that she had returned very quickly, without the courtesy of stopping to let her recover. That would certainly hurt like hell, adding to her pain and confusion when she was dumped in that alley.
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Chapter 8 Unexpected Exit

Rosie o'Chill looked confused again. habit. It was getting to be a
"You're telling me I've actually been to the kingdom of the Goblins, and I can't remember it?" she exclaimed. "It's not a kingdom, but basically yes, that's right," I replied calmly. She shook her head. "It's all such a blur," she said glumly, "I still ache all over, but the doctors said there isn't anything seriously wrong with me." "Don't worry," Nether said with a surprising degree of tenderness which made me wonder about the real nature of the relationship between the two of them, "I'll look after you." I had to get things moving in what I hoped was the right direction. Things were drifting and nobody was showing any sign of urgency. Rosie was obviously feeling sorry for herself, probably just wanting to curl up under the bedclothes and put everything behind her, and my brother showed every sign of wanting to become her willing handmaiden, or some close approximation thereto. "Look, I need to take a look at the alley," I said firmly, turning to face Rosie squarely, "I want you to come with me, see what you can remember of the place you were found. It might be very important." Nether looked at me askance. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Yes," I said solemnly, "I am. Entirely." Rosie's eyes widened as she took in the seriousness of what I was suggesting. "So, get dressed. We'll go take a look-see," I told them both firmly, adding, "I'll arrange us some transport." "Okay," Rosie said uncertainly, "If you think that's really necessary." "I do," I emphasised, "So get dressed". 58 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
She looked to Nether for affirmation. "He's right," my brother confirmed, nodding vigorously, "And I'll come too." Nether and I backed out of the room, leaving Rosie to her ablutions in private. Once the bedroom door closed behind us, I reverted to the Goblin tongue. "Are you telling me everything you know?" I demanded, rounding on my brother so quickly that he backed into the wall. "Of course," Nether replied, his face an expression of wide-eyed innocence. I wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. "Okay," I let it ride, "Is there a phone in this joint?" * Nether led me downstairs again and into a small and cluttered room that could only be the office of a person for whom paperwork is a necessary chore, to be avoided or at least deferred wherever possible, rather than an end in itself. There was a row of fourdrawer filing cabinets with at least two drawers open and papers resting loose on the files within. There was a desk with a computer screen and a printer, although keyboard, mouse and - I hoped telephone were buried beneath. Nearby was a waste paper bin full to overflowing with geological layers of discarded correspondence and at least two pencils broken in apparent frustration. "Your Rosie's not keen on the paperwork, then?" I said to Nether wryly. My brother regarded the explosion of misfiled paper and shook his head. "It does tend to get on top of her," he admitted. If it really did, I thought, she would be buried forever, never to be seen again. Nether waded forward and gingerly lifted some of the more easily moveable paperwork. After a minute or so, he unearthed a telephone, one of the new-fangled push-button ones which have become popular up here in recent decades. Up here, everything's so fickle, fashion's changing for no apparent reason; what's wrong with a simple, reliable mechanical dial, I wondered. I levered myself into the swivel chair - human-sized, so I felt like a child again - and Nether handed me the telephone. I dialled Gumshoe's office number from memory - meaning I pressed the over-sized buttons - and waited patiently. No answer. Too early for the hard-pressed PI to be in the office just yet. I tried his home number instead; he answered on the fourth ring.
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"Morning, Gumshoe," I said as brightly as one who already had his morning coffee twice over could seem. "Gask!" he answered, already sounding a lot more alert, "What's up?" "I need your help, and quickly, please," I replied directly, "You still got a car?" "Yeah," he replied, "You just want a taxi service, then?" "I could just take a yellow cab," I snorted. New York cab drivers pay little enough attention to what's in the back seat, "I'd rather have the use of your eyes and your brain." He chuckled. "Okay. Where are you?" "Chill's Bar. Meet us out the front." "Us?" "Rosie's turned up. And Nether. I'll explain later." "Right," I replied, "Twenty minutes - no, make it twenty-five at this hour." "We'll be waiting." * Gumshoe's car was one of those vast old-fashioned Oldsmobiles styled by some designer with a vision of what the next century would look like, but now looked quirky and aggressively retro. It was well-looked after, though, and there was plenty of space in the back for two large Goblins and a smallish human female; even Gumshoe's bulk failed to fill the space between steering wheel and the worn leather of the driver's seat. He put the automatic transmission in Drive, set off from the kerb with a jerk and slotted neatly into the traffic. Gumshoe had nodded politely to Nether and Rosie when I introduced them, then he asked: "Where to, Gask?" I looked at Rosie, who appeared to be searching her memory, then reeled off one of those number-and-avenue locations that mean nothing to anybody who has not spent at least five years in New York. Gumshoe grunted in acknowledgement, then pulled a highly illegal U-turn at a traffic light with a squealing of tyres and the sounding of horns. "The purpose of car horns in this city," Gumshoe said conversationally as we accelerated, "Is for feedback: to let the other guy know that you know he is driving like an idiot."
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By the time we were in the vicinity of the intersection Rosie had named, there was no problem with driving slowly. The rush-hour traffic was so dense that Rosie had plenty of time to study the shop-fronts and alley entrances for anything she might recognise. We criss-crossed the area for at least an hour without any response from her other than occasional apologies. It must have been at least the second time along this particular street when Rosie pointed at a shop-front and said: "I'm sure this looks familiar." "Can we park up?" I asked Gumshoe. He swung the car right at the next junction and drove for a block or two, then managed to slip the vehicle into a spot vacated for all of ten seconds by the previous occupant. We got out. There were a few pedestrians about. The thing about humans on New York streets is that nobody really looks at you, regardless of how outlandish your appearance. "Know anything about this part of the city?" I quizzed Gumshoe as we walked. He looked up and down the street for a moment, obviously deep in thought. "Uh, no," he said finally, "It's, like, nowhere in particular. Sure, Upper Broadway's about ten blocks that way" - he waved a hand vaguely - "and I thought I'd been everywhere in this town." * We turned onto the sidewalk of the avenue we had passed a few minutes earlier. The immediate area seemed curiously lowkey, quiet and subdued. The buildings which lined the block were full of stores which, while definitely open, seemed to stock goods which were selling goods either impossible to identify or merely of a kind which I could not imagine anybody wanting to actually buy. None of the pedestrians seemed interested in the shop windows but hurried on past, intent on whatever business had brought them out at this hour. It was as if the displays were intended to repel rather than attract potential customers. A few minutes stroll brought us to the mouth of the alley that Rosie had tentatively identified from the car. Even Nether managed a credible attempt at walking like a human. I was impressed. "Is this the one?" Nether asked, looking up at Rosie. She looked around, once again uncertain. I took a few steps into the narrow entrance to take a closer look. I spend far too much time lurking in alleyways in this city.
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"Bingo," I said softly in the Goblin tongue. "What's that?" Rosie asked from the end of the alley. I repeated myself in English for her benefit. I've never been too sure of Gumshoe's level of fluency; he rarely utters more than a few syllables in the language, although I suspect he understands more than he lets on. The narrow alley had all the usual furnishings: squalid-looking dumpsters and bins on wheels, tightly bolted metal doors and nowhere enough lighting to make most humans comfortable. Even so, I had spotted the unmistakable sign of Goblin runes hidden among the palimpsest of graffiti that seem to grow like mushrooms on every available surface in the surface world. There are rather more paths and passages between the surface world and the Lower Realms than the authorities would like. Nobody, I'm sure, knows them all and, even after all these years, the Goblin border police are still uncovering new ones or, more precisely, ones which had remained undiscovered for the thousands of years since the Goblin caverns were created. I knew of a dozen or more in various parts of the island of Manhattan alone and there are tens of thousands spread all over the surface of the planet. But I didn't know of one here, in this nondescript part of town. I was just about to take a closer look when I caught a faint sound, only just audible over the roar of traffic, together with the slight movement of air which suggested that a hidden entrance was about to open. I backed away hurriedly, scurrying back to the alley entrance. "Hide!" I hissed, "Get out of sight, quickly!" Gumshoe grabbed Rosie by the arm and dragged her to one side. Nether slid behind a rubbish bin with the flair for concealment which comes naturally to a Goblin. I ducked behind a dumpster on the other side of the alley, then pressed my eye to the gap between wall and metal. A Goblin, lithe and quick-moving, stepped through the wall at the point marked by the runes, and looked about cautiously. I recognised the black-garbed figure at once, of course. It was my sister Trinity emerging from the exit. * Trinity adjusted the black beret she wore to disguise her ears and her baldness, then turned up her collar and fastened her coat closely at her throat. She turned and walked towards the exit with a sway of the hips which would have been grossly exaggerated for
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a Goblin but looked authentic up here. I was impressed. She could have fooled me into thinking she was an aloof yet stylish human female, a petite and well-dressed woman holding the world at bay behind her sunglasses. "Hi Trinity. How're you doin'?" I stood up and drawled as she drew level with my hiding-place. Her guise as a human disappeared in a flash. Her pose became that of a state of readiness from one of the martial arts - Goblin martial arts, designed for those with sharp teeth and strong fingernails - with claws outstretched and fangs bared. She saw who it was and relaxed - at least, a little. "What the hell are you doing here?" she yelled. Then her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Have you been following me?" she added in a low growl which conveys more unsettling undertones than the shouting moments earlier. I grinned in response. Always an effective gesture for a Goblin, since my teeth are at least as long and sharp as hers. "Not at all," I replied, "I'm on another job, for another client. One you might recognise, as it happens." I gestured in the direction of Nether, who had silently appeared from his own hiding-place. Trinity swung around, then gasped aloud as she recognised her other brother. "Isn't this nice?" Nether drawled, evidently enjoying the irony of the situation, "A family reunion. Quite touching. We might want to explain ourselves to the natives, mind you." Rosie and Gumshoe had emerged and were now standing in the entrance to the alley. Rosie stood with her mouth open, her head turning from one Goblin to another with an expression of disbelieving astonishment on her face. Gamshack was much more phlegmatic, his expression more one of amusement than bemusement. Still, I doubted either of them had fully understood the words we had used, although I suspect the tone of voice was fairly telling. The Goblin language is widely thought - amongst ignorant humans, at least - to resemble grunts and snarls. A gross misrepresentation. A great deal of the intonation and the subtle emotional markers in our speech is in the upper harmonics, in the registers that the surface-dwellers find difficult to detect. Human languages are extremely blunt and one-dimensional by comparison.
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Trinity's reaction to her human observers was fascinating. Her martial arts readiness diminished noticeably and she was clearly fighting the instinct - one I have struggled with on occasions - to run and hide in the presence of the surface folk. This is not because humans are individually dangerous - they may be big, but they are slow and noisy too - but because the Goblin race has long felt threatened by the vastly more numerous humans. With commendable swiftness, she managed to recover her composure, noting that neither Nether nor I were in the slightest perturbed by the presence of Gumshoe and Rosie. Even her perpetual wry smirk re-asserted itself. "I take it you know each other, then?" Gumshoe said, making it clear he had picked up something from our exchange. I laughed aloud. "Ladies and Gentlemen," I said in a mockingly formal tone, "May I introduce my little sister Trinity. Sis, this is Miss Rosie o'Chill, present proprietor of Chill's Bar, when Neth has been living these last, oh, eighty years or so. My other client, just at the moment. And Mister Martin Gamshack, Private Investigator, my business partner." Gumshoe nodded affably, while Rosie bobbed a curtsey which would not have looked out of place on a shy eight-year old. "So," I continued in a more serious tone, turning to Trinity, "Now that we are all suitably acquainted, perhaps we can go somewhere just a little more out of sight. Then, you can tell us exactly why you're lurking around in the place where Miss o'Chill's kidnappers released her, not twenty-four hours ago."
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Chapter 9 Private Enterprise

I guess Trinity really didn't like being asked this kind of direct question. She fumed silently for a few moments before condescending to reply. "Okay," she snorted, trying to regain some control of the situation, "An explanation. Yeah, you're right. I do want to know what in all the Hells is going on." In case you didn't know, the Hells is a conventional name for a very dark mystery. The reference is to the Lost Caverns, caves abandoned by Goblins long ago. Some are reputed to have become filled with water when the bed of some surface sea or lake ruptured, or with lava from the magma channels of a volcano not quite as dormant as the original surveyors thought. It is also said that there are ways to travel to these caverns, hidden and mysterious ways, full of danger - which seems only too reasonable, given that they are supposed to be either molten rock or water under extreme pressure. Such nonsense. They are stories fit only for children; nobody takes them at all seriously. Trinity took another deep breath, and looked up and down the street. I followed her glance with my own. There was very little traffic on the road, and absolutely nobody on the sidewalk. It really was a well-chosen site for a illicit entrance to the Lower Realms. I wondered idly how much of this was the result of intensive observation and careful selection, and how much was the application of subtle - and entirely forbidden - magics in this area. "We need get off the street," Trinity said resignedly, the inevitability of the situation dawning on her, "You'd better come inside. Then we can talk." She turned and walked back in the direction from which she had come. I followed her, Nether a step or two behind me. At the point where the runes nestled amongst the swoops and whorls of eagerly-executed urban street decoration, she stopped and said a few words that, inevitably, I could not hear - this is a standard characteristic of Goblin glamours - and waved a hand nonchalantly. At her gesture, some concealment glamour flickered and died, revealing a battered-looking doorway set into the grafittid brick wall. It was, I noticed, a human-sized door, its lintel way up over my head. It looked as if it was part of the original fabric of the Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 65
building, erected no more than a hundred years ago. It was now very worn and damaged; humans never really build to last. "Come on," I turned and yelled at Rosie, who was still standing at the alleyway entrance looking entirely bemused. Gumshoe grabbed her by the arm and urged her forward. Trinity pushed the door open and we all followed her inside. * Within, the contrast from the quiet alley outside could not have been greater. It was a huge space, at least by the standards of human construction; it would of course have been dwarfed by the vast airy underground caverns which I call home. I looked up; above me, the high ceiling was cluttered with girders and lights and sprinklers and all the paraphernalia deemed necessary by the guardians of Health and Safety that infest the interstices of the modern human world. Gumshoe and Rosie squinted through what I imagine seemed like near-darkness to them, especially after the brightness of daylight outside. I took off my sunglasses and tucked them carefully in an inside pocket; I never knew when I might need their protection again. It was clear that the lighting had been set at a level presumably intended as a compromise of convenience: dim enough to be comfortable to Goblins but still bright enough so that humans did not spend the entire time walking into things. The half-light was full of noise and movement. Figures scurried purposefully back and forth carrying boxes and cluttered clipboards, although not at the same time; figures whose distinctive shapes showed them to be human and Goblin in approximately equal measure. A large fraction of the space was filled with high racks of perforated metal supporting plywood shelves stretching up to the ceiling. The racking was filled with a profusion of goods, some strapped to pallets, others contained in wooden packing cases and cardboard boxes, and all clearly - if misleadingly - labelled in human script and more obscurely - and correctly, I guessed - in Goblin runes disguised as aerosol graffiti. Between the rows of racking, fork-lift trucks were being manoeuvred with great skill and dexterity by Goblin operators as well as humans, and with a surprising lack of that irrepressible, even manic, driving style that characterises all too many denizens of the Lower Realms when operating vehicles and powered machinery in the surface world.
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At one side, a couple of eighteen-wheelers had been backed into loading bays - all entirely under cover, I had already noted with spaces for a dozen more similarly-sized trucks further down the space. These, at least, had human drivers in evidence: large men in overalls who stood together, cigarettes in hand, watching the bustle of other people with the wry amusement of those whose job does not require them to scurry around like lunatics. Across the floor, an archway marked an entrance to the Lower Realms stood against a solid wall, its edges picked out in a faint purple glow which indicated in was in operation. It was one in the larger size which is generally intended for high-volume transfers and outsize goods items. From what I could see, it was in nearcontinuous operation, with a stream of boxes and pallets being transferred in both directions. I could see at once that the whole block had been converted into a warehouse for goods in transit between the two worlds, no doubt for reasons of administrative and operational convenience while retaining the appearance of multiple separate buildings and independent businesses from the outside. Clever. Very clever. The kind of cleverness that would appeal to somebody like my sister. Trinity completely ignored the bustle going on at full speed around us, and stalked across the floor. She was clearly entirely familiar with the layout of the building. With no evident choice in the matter, I followed her, trailed by Gumshoe, Rosie and Nether. She nodded at one or two of those wielding clipboards as she passed but did not stop. She was single-mindedly heading for one of the offices situated on a mezzanine level at the side of the main floor, overlooking the expanse of the racks and shelving stretching into the dark distance. We trailed after her up a flight of stairs fabricated from steel gratings and girders, our footsteps banging and rattling on the steps. At the top, Trinity kicked open a door marked Operations Director in two languages. I followed her inside, trailed by Gumshoe and Rosie, with Nether bringing up the rear. Rosie looked askance at the gyred and curlicued Goblin script on the door, perhaps realising that this was a form of writing and not mere decoration. Judging by her curiosity, this may have been the first time she had encountered the undisguised everyday form of the Lower Realms script. Inside, to nobody's particular surprise, was a modern office space furnished with moderately expensive but efficiently nondescript furniture, indicative of those who expect to spend their time working for a living rather than impressing their visitors by the tasteful and sophisticated nature of their working environment.
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On one side, a large glazed window provided a comprehensive view over the warehouse floor, an essential feature for any hardpressed - and hard-nosed - boss. On the opposite side, a high window let in a modicum of daylight although, to my relief, the blinds were sufficiently well closed that it was not uncomfortable. The other walls were lined with of new-looking grey-painted steel filing cabinets, and folders and files arranged on shelves. A few folders lay opened on the top of the cabinets, looking as if they were actually used on a regular basis. * Trinity marched over to the desk, its surface cluttered by the usual collection of paperwork, several telephones and what looked like a powerful personal computer. She flung herself into a large executive chair positioned on the far side of the desk, then pressed some hidden button or lever which caused the chair to rise in the air and give her a clear view over the untidy polished wood surface. "Take a seat," she said casually. She waved at the high-tech office chairs that littered the office. Chairs in two distinct sizes, I noticed: three built to a human scale and a single one more suited to a human child, or a Goblin; all designed to the same pattern in sleek polished metal and all capable of being raised up to a level so that humans and Goblins could face each other eye-to-eye. Again, very clever, I thought. Humans and Goblins working together as equals or, more precisely, giving reassurrance to the humans that they weren't giving offence by looking down on the elder race. Gumshoe sat, as he had been directed, in the furthest of the human sized chairs. He too had been carefully checking out the industrial operation that was going on all around us. Rosie followed him and sat daintily, and Nether took the Goblin-sized model. He rummaged around for a few seconds then, having discovered the elevation control, rose smoothly upwards. I jumped up into the remaining oversized - well, human-sized - chair, which was already at its highest setting, bouncing and twisting to make sure I landed facing Trinity across the desk. "Nice little operation you've got here," I drawled. Trinity treated that remark with the contempt it probably deserved. She swivelled in her executive chair glaring at me and Gumshoe alternatively. I caught Gumshoe's eye and nodded. He took the hint. With an economical choice of words, he explained to Trinity about Rosie o'Chill's apparently motiveless abduction and equally mysterious re-appearance, and how Nether had been resident at Chill's Bar for a great many decades. Nether chipped in
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to say a little more about his sojourn at the Bar, although he carefully advanced no clear reason why he had chosen to reside there for so long. Trinity asked questions, many questions, questions with the overlapping and demanding nature of a court cross-examination, fired off at double-quick pace as if to catch one unawares. I had been distracted for a while now, hardly listening to the words that Nether and Gumshoe had been using. An idea had been circling in my head like a fly around a particularly tasty piece of dirt. "Let me guess," I interjected, bruskly cutting across Trinity's next question, "This place, this is the business that you were doing with Urquhart Garrick on the side - the business you wouldn't discuss with me." Trinity fumed silently for a moment, then nodded once. The look on my face could probably have been mistaken for a smirk, although I'd swear on solemn oath in any court in the caverns it shouldn't have been. Honest. "So you agreed to run this business," I went on, sitting back in the chair and looking around, checking to see if Gumshoe was following the direction of the conversation, "You even put some of your own money into it. Then Garrick disappeared, without trace, and you're still running it, waiting for him to turn up." "Yeah," Trinity replied sourly, "Sucks, doesn't it. And I've had a very close look at the books, and this business is nothing like as profitable as he led me to believe." "Well I can see why you're keen to track down Professor Garrick," I acknowledged, shrugging off Trinity's misfortune, "I guess you must have been pretty desperate to come to me at all. But it worse than that." I jabbed a finger repeatedly at her for emphasis as I spoke. "You've been set up for a fall." I'd like to think it was poetic justice, or perhaps professional intuition at its finest, but it was most likely a lucky coincidence. It was just at that moment that the first faint sounds of approaching police sirens reached my ears. Nether and Trinity heard it too, an unusual sound in this quiet neighbourhood, even in New York city. The sirens were getting closer very rapidly. *
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Chapter 10 Betrayal of Trust

The sirens seemed to be very close now. They would be here within the minute, I judged. I stuck my head into the darkened entrance in front of me. Inside, there were steep steps downward - not the drop-tube I might have been expected - which went on for several flights, with damp concrete walls. It looked as if it would take us well below street level, but of course nowhere near the subterranean caverns of the Goblins. "Come on," muttered Nether over my shoulder, "We should be gone already." I had to agree. As one, Nether and I slipped inside, followed by Rosie and with Gamshack following up the rear. As Gumshoe ducked inside, his head bent, the doorway formed from the front of the filing cabinets slamed shut, leaving us in almost complete darkness. There was a squeak from Rosie. My eyes adjusted quickly; I could just see Nether reaching out to take her hand gently while Gumshoe fumbled for her other hand. "Keep together," Nether hissed, "Findo, lead the way." I scurried down a few steps. Nether tugged on Rosie's hand. "Careful now," he said, "Just feel the steps with your feet." A Goblin would have been down those steps and away in ten seconds, but it took several minutes for the humans to manage it. It was just as well neither Rosie nor Gumshoe are particularly tall, for humans, otherwise it would have been impossible for them to squeeze through. Even so, Gumshoe's muscular bulk must have been uncomfortably tight and particularly claustrophobic, especially in the complete darkness that a human would be experiencing. The bottom of the stairwell was featureless except for a battered steel door that looked as if it was rusted shut, although it opened easily enough to my touch. On the other side was what seemed to be a human-constructed sewer, although not particularly noisome and with nothing more than a tiny trickle of water running along the gully. Mercifully, there was a little more light, enough for even Rosie and Gumshoe to see their footing. "Which way?" Nether whispered.
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There was a soft whistle along the sewer. We all swung around. It was my sister. She waved once and turned on her heel, disappearing out of sight around a curve in the tunnel. I looked at Nether. "Better follow her," I said, "Unless you've got a better idea." He shook his head, then tugged at Rosie's hand again. We hurried along, splashing through the occasional puddles and trying to avoid the worst of the liquids that poured or dripped from the roof. We could hear, and occasionally see, Trinity ahead of us; she managed to stay far enough ahead that we had no difficulty in determining which way she had gone at the junctions and intersections. Finally, Trinity stopped and turned to face us as we hurried towards her. She gestured, then sprang upwards into a hole in the ceiling. When we reached the same spot a few moments later, I could see a steel ladder bolted to the wall, running into a vertical pipe that led to an inspection hatch on the surface. I could hear Trinity's footsteps on the rungs, receding quickly. "Up there," I said to Nether, "You go first. Then you," I added, turning to Rosie. Rosie followed Nether with barely a hesitation. Gumshoe followed her, while I kept a lookout until I judged that the humans were reaching the top of the ladder. Then I scurried up the ladder, my long arms helping me to move two - human-sized, natch rungs at a time. The inspection hatch at the top was already moved aside and I tumbled onto the pavement, in full daylight, at Gumshoe's feet. I fumbled for my sunglasses in my pocket and slipped them on. Mercifully, my hat was still in place, not that there were any other humans in this alley. Why do I spend so much time in the surface world skulking in alleys? Gamshack gripped Rosie by the elbow and helped her to her feet. Then he hurried to the alley entrance and looked around urgently, getting his bearings, while Nether and I pushed the steel manhole cover back into its proper place. The he turned back to us. "This way," he said firmly and pointing along the street, "Two blocks." I too looked around, suddenly suspicious. Trinity had disappeared; vanished without trace in the way that Goblins are very good at, with or without magical assistance. *
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I knew better than to try and track Trinity just now. If she was determined not to be found, it would be very difficult. Anyway, there was no point. She would turn up when it suited her, probably just after I left her a message about that old reprobate Garrick. I was quietly confident I would be doing so, although I didn't have too many leads just at the moment. Nether had noticed Trinity's disappearance too, judging by the wry look he gave me. Gumshoe affected not to notice, or perhaps not to care. Rosie was looking stunned, in shock perhaps, frozen, but still holding Nether's hand. "Okay," I said to Gumshoe, "Let's get to your car pronto and get out of here." The Oldsmobile was still where we had left it and there was no sign of anybody lurking about. Mercifully we had parked far enough away to be well clear of the cordon of police whose blue lights could be seen reflected from shop windows. We piled into Gumshoe's car which, much to everybody's evident relief, started at the first turn of the key. Gumshoe put the monstrous old thing into gear and set off with a screech of tyres. "Where to?" Gumshoe called over his shoulder. He was driving fast and only moderately like a lunatic - that is, like almost everybody else in New York. "Back to Chill's Bar," I suggested, "Let's takie Rosie home." Gumshoe grunted, swung across two lanes of traffic without indicating - to a chorus of driver-feedback horns, of course - and ran a yellow light unhesitatingly. Definitely a native New York driver. * An hour later, we were in Rosie's cluttered little office at the back of the bar. Rosie herself had been marched off to bed by Nether, with a mixture of brooking-no-nonsense firmness and touching tenderness. When he re-appeared, he looked distinctly careworn. "Is she okay?" Gumshoe asked from his perch on the end of the desk. "She's asleep," my brother replied, "I've slipped her a little something to calm her nerves, so shell probably sleep for a few hours now." Gumshoe nodded. Nether hopped up into Rosie's worn office chair and sat back, then closed his eyes. I had found a bottle of whiskey and three shot glasses - this was an Irish bar, after all and poured a modest measure for Gumshoe and myself. The 72 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
remaining glass and the nearly full bottle I had left on the other end of the desk. "You look like you could use a drink," I said to Nether. He looked up blearily, seeming to catch sight of the booze for the first time. "Not just now," he said, "Maybe later." I was beginning to wonder just how much of an alcoholic Nether really was. In fact, I was beginning to wonder all sorts of things about my elder brother. Fortified by the whiskey, I had been pacing up and down, chainsmoking cigarettes and either thinking or just trying to wear out the carpet. There was definitely more going on here than met the eye. "Right then," I said in a determined voice, loud enough to make both Nether and Gumshoe sit up and take notice, "That little escapade was all very exciting, but we're no closer to finding out exactly what happened to Rosie." "Oh, we've learned something," Nether said wearily, "We know that our sister and Urquhart Garrick were running a grey-area import-export business" - flat-out illegal was my view, but I let it ride - "and it was almost certainly the route by which Rosie was returned to the surface. And possibly abducted, too." "Yeah, well," I replied laconically, "But we don't know who, and we don't know why. And you said you wanted to know those things." Nether just nodded. "So what next, then?" he said, half to himself. While we had been waiting for Nether, I had called my message service, using one of those nearly-secret telephone numbers that allow calls to be made to numbers in the Lower Realms from a phone on the surface, or vice versa. There was just one message, from Luncardy and typically terse: "My office. 4pm." "You, just stay here and look after Rosie," I instructed Nether, then turned to Gumshoe, "I take it you've not got anything out of your contacts in the NYPD?" "No," he replied, "I'll better go bother them some more." Okay. But do me a favour. Come back here this evening. Hang around in the bar. Maybe the regulars will be a little more talkative. Besides, you might get a free drink. Gumshoe shrugged.
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That wouldnt be too much of a hardship, he said, his face breaking into a wry grin. Nether roused himself. "And what are you going to do?" he demanded. "Put some more enquiries in motion," I said obscurely, "Down below. And before that, I'm going to visit a lady." * Gumshoe left quietly, the silence only broken by the rumble of him starting his ancient car outside. After he left, I turned to my brother. "Are you sure there's nothing else you want to tell me, Neth?" He shook his head sadly. "There's nothing else I can tell you," he said with a strange inflection, "I am relying on you, you know." "Yeah, okay," I replied, "You look after your tame human, and I'll get going." "Look after yourself, too," he urged, "They're tough worlds out there, okay?" I nodded and adjusted my hat to maximum tilt. Time to up my attitude a notch or two. * Captain Luncardy's office was just as cool and organised as the last time I was there. The same could be said for the Captain herself. As I was escorted in, she held her long elegant cigarette holder in one hand, forgotten, smoke trailing lazily to the ceiling, as she studied the contents of a thin manilla folder intently. She looked up, frowned slightly at me, then placed the report carefully back on the polished surface of the desk. "You're late," she said bruskly, conveying with economical gestures that the young copper who was my escort should leave and I should sit. I sat and looked at my watch. Three minutes after the time she had stipulated; not bad by my standards. Once again, I was reminded how very glad I was that I did not have Luncardy for a boss. The Captain regarded me coolly for a long moment. I toyed with my hat in my hand, waiting for Luncardy to speak. She was the kind of person who would say what she had to say, only when she was good and ready.
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"I have to confess that you have managed to interest me, slightly," she said finally, contriving to sound as if this was entirely against her better judgement, "It seems that your mysteriouslydisappearing brother has a connection to somebody who I have been investigating for quite some time now." "How so?" I asked, trying with modest success to keep the sudden interest out of my voice. I don't think I was successful. "Your brother was on the Missing Persons list for a long time," Luncardy snorted, "Yet his file is surprisingly thin. He seems to have pulled down the curtain quite successfully for a long time. Nobody seems to know where he's been and there's certainly nothing definite on his whereabouts in the file at all." Luncardy paused, puffed on her smoking stick for a moment and blew smoke over her shoulder. "About the only concrete thing that is in the files," she resumed, "Is a reference to one Coupar Angus, who's got a very curious reputation on the street, and is somebody I would very much like to interview." "Why don't you just pull him in?" "Because he's done nothing illegal, at least anything that we have any chance of proving," she growled, "And, contrary to popular belief, we do have to have a reason to bring people in for questioning." "So who is this Coupar Angus?" "He's in business as a Realtor," Luncardy said thoughtfully, "Offices in several caverns. Fair enough. But he seems to have a very odd client list: bankers, racketeers, gamblers, the occasional politician. Lots of people who might just have money acquired in, shall we say, ways that we, or the tax office, might want to know more about." I had been trying without success to crane my neck to read the notations in the file that Luncardy was holding. All I could be sure was that the file had Nether's name on the front. "Okay, so he might have information about what Nether's been up to," I said uncertainly, "Where will I find this Angus guy?" "Huh. Use the Telephone Directory. walking." Let your fingers do the
Luncardy took another drag on her cigarette and added, "Or, even easier, you could just ask your sister. She's had business dealings with him, not so long ago."
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I hate coincidences. Both my siblings turn up and employ my professional services, within hours of each other, and now they've got a disreputable businessman in common, and a dodgy importexport business. It looked like I was being taken for a patsy, again. Not good, Gask. The Captain shook her head, then leaned forward, gathered up the papers on her desk and slipped them back into the file. "That's what I've got, Gask. More than you deserve," she said curtly, "And don't make a habit of turning up like this. I've got plenty of real police work to do." She slid Nether's slim file to one side and picked up up another, fatter folder that sat hitherto unregarded on the other side of the polished desktop. She opened it and started reading. It seemed I had been dismissed. I stood up and put my hat back on. "Oh, and Gask," she said, looking up again just as I was about to leave, "One last thing. You might find out why your brother's file has an FI stamp on it." Federal Interest. Just my luck. I would be asking my brother some much more pointed questions when I next got my hands on him. * There was just enough time, I hoped, to make one last call before most businesses started to shut up shop for the evening rest period. Well, most conventional businesses, those businesses conducted at least mostly legally. Those convinced of the truth of the statement "crime doesn't pay" should take a very close look at the way those less-legal enterprises are at work twenty-four hours a day. And some more legitimate ones - like mine, for example. Once I was a few blocks away from the 14th precinct police house, I ducked into a sidewalk diner, one I had never visited before. I didn't think anybody was following me; it was just the normal kind of paranoia that everybody in my profession seems to develop after a few years, if you manage to survive that long. I sat in a booth right by the public phone, one with a good view through the windows. I ordered a coffee from a sullen youth in an apron; the beverage was delivered quickly and with a notable lack of delicacy. I sipped my coffee - it was weak and stale-tasting while pretending to be immersed in a day-old newspaper that some previous customer had left on the bench. After ten minutes, and no sign of a tail, I simply followed Luncardy's advice: I looked up Coupar Angus in the Yellow Pages. He was remarkably easy to find in the directory. At the beginning of the appropriate section I could not help but notice a 76 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
half-page advertisement proclaiming in bold type: "Coupar Angus and Associates: Realtors. Exclusive properties in all areas." I jotted down addresses and phone numbers in my notebook, threw a small bill on the table to cover the price of my coffee - a total ripoff - and set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the nearest transit tube entrance.
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Chapter 11 A Painful Truth

I was just in time to catch Mister Angus at his office. The office building itself was a masterpiece of modern architecture and interior design, all plate-glass windows and furniture formed from angled lengths of chrome-plated tubing supporting black leather bolsters. The lights were on and at least some of the desks visible through the glass were occupied. I marched straight up to the door, following the School of Ham Acting approach and attempting to give every impression that I had the wealth and influence which would make buying one of the properties on sale here a mere blip on my bank balance. It must have worked. The doorman opened the door for me and ushered me inside, his smart uniform and peaked cap not quite successfully disguising the crooked teeth, broken nose and slightly run-to-seed look that marked him out as a retired pugilist. A young female Goblin sat behind the reception desk. She was dressed in a sharpy-cut business suit set off my no more than the minimum of discreet but tastefully expensive jewellery. A trustfund babe, I surmised, working while waiting to be introduced to her future husband, somewhere which required manners and class, but nothing much by way of vital business skills, like typing. The desk itself was formed from what appeared to be a single block of polished green granite and marked with a helpful sign which read "Reception" but was otherwise devoid of decoration or even an appointments book. The youngster - surely no more than fifty - looked up as I sauntered in, a polite professional smile tightening her lips but somehow failing to quite reach her eyes. "I'd like to see Coupar Angus, please," I announced breezily, looking around as if I had designs on buying the whole joint. "Do you have an appointment?" she asked primly. "No," I replied, looking her up and down with a bare minimum of interest and the faintest of sneers, "But I'm quite certain he'll want to see me anyway. We have business to discuss." "I'm not sure whether Mister Angus is available," she said, slightly more uncertainly, "Let me check."
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She asked my name, which I gave, truthfully - false names always give rise to future misunderstandings, and I didn't want to get on the wrong side of those draconian Goblin laws about misrepresentation of identity - and suggested I take a seat for a moment. I nodded my thanks and sat in one of the smart-looking but incredibly uncomfortable chairs in the waiting area. The receptionist toddled off to a door marked "Private", ducked inside for a few moments, then returned to her post, eyes downcast and careful to avoid acknowledging me in any way. I wondered what tack Angus would take to get rid of me. It didn't take long for me to find out. A few moments later, Couper Angus himself bustled out of his office. He was a big Goblin, as tall as me and quite a lot heavier, and with what is usually described as a larger-than-life personality. I know the type: he probably liked to think he is coming across as avuncular, but ends up just being a bore. This particular sample sported a loud doublebreasted suit with a waistcoat buttoned tightly over his expansive belly, complete with a fob-watch on a chain, booming voice and, as I was about to discover, a crushing handshake. "Mister Gask," he cried, grasping my hand with unnecessary firmness as I levered myself from the chair. I returning the handshake with slightly more than enough force to make it plain I wasn't intimidated by it. "Mister Angus," I replied, "I'm sure we haven't met but I've heard good things about you. You may have just what I need." "Well, delighted to meet you, dear boy, but I'm afraid it'll have to wait. Need to rush off now, don't'cha'know. But Belna, my receptionist will fit you in, tomorrow, perhaps the day after." He glanced at the young female behind the desk, who took her cue flawlessly. "Full diary tomorrow, sir," she interjected, "Three o'clock the day after?" Angus's attention swung back to me. "Works for you?" I nodded amiably, as if I had all the time in the world. "Sure. If it has to wait, too bad," I drawled, "Day after tomorrow. It's a date." I swung on my heel and set off for the door, where the doorman tugged open the door for me with alacrity. Once on the pavement, I affected a jaunty swagger and set off in the direction
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of the nearest travel tube entrance. I glanced back just once; the doorman, the receptionist and Coupar Angus himself were watching me with more than casual interest. Once definitely out of sight, I ducked into the shadows and doubled back, sticking to the narrowest of alleys until I reached a point with a decent view of the realtor's offices. I did not have long to wait. Within ten minutes, Mister Angus himself appeared at the front door, his bulk now swaddled in a heavy overcoat. He was followed out by a few of his workers, although not the snooty receptionist or the thuggish doorman. Left behind to secure the place, I imagined. Angus was not hard to follow. His height meant that he stood out in a crowd and he appeared to be making no effort to lose anybody who might be following him. A perfect mark. I kept well back, merging with knots of pedestrians as much as I could and keeping to the shadows when I couldn't. I followed him to a bar called the Deepest Joy, a bar where I had been before, just once and very recently. I wondered whether that was just a coincidence. * I hung around outside alley that led to the Deepest Joy for ten minutes or so, trying to look inconspicuous. I needn't have bothered. Nobody passing by paid me the slightest bit of attention, and probably wouldn't have done so even if I was naked, painted in yellow and purple stripes, and performing handstands. I decided I had waited long enough and strolled casually down the alley to the nearly-hidden tavern doorway. Once inside, I stood quietly for a few moments while my eyes adjusted to the gloom, then made my way to a vacant stool at the bar itself. As I seated myself, the skinny barkeeper scurried up, apparently wearing the same green waistcoat from my previous visit. There was a faint glimmer of recognition in his eyes, although nothing of that recognition was apparent in his professional demeanour. "What'll it be?" "Scotch on the Rocks." The whiskey appeared almost instantly, neatly laid out with a paper coaster and a little bowl of spicy toadstool snacks. I sipped the drink - a decent measure - and nodded approval; I was pretty sure I had got a better class of single malt than any average Joe would have received. I beckoned to the bartender whose name I recalled as Gaur confirmed by his badge, of course - and pointed out Angus, who sat at a small table away from the bar itself. One of the waiting
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staff was presenting him with a large glass of dark liquid - his second, judging by the empty being collected - and a bowl of bar nuts, into which he immediately dug one paw into and scooped out a handful. "What do you know about that one?" I asked quietly. Gaur looked over briefly, then leaned forward confidentially. "He comes in here almost every night. Don't know his name. He drinks much, but not too much eats the bar snacks greedily, tips meanly when he is on his own and overtly generously when in company - which doesn't happen often. Always pays cash. Oh, and he eyes up the females in a hungry kind of way." I nodded. No doubt a shady place like this would attract unattached ladies of a variety of kinds, all trouble. "So he likes the ladies, does he?" I sneered. "I guess he does, but," Guar hesitated for a moment, then when on, "Only in a theoretical kind of way. He never approaches any, never tries to talk to them. Frankly, he doesn't seem to be able to summon the backbone." "So who does he talk to?" Gaur shrugged. "He occasionally meets people here, males always. They're always strangers; they arrive, seek him out, take just one drink, talk to him for a while, then leave. Otherwise keeps himself to himself. Never any trouble." "So, a good customer then?" The bartender snorted. "As good as any we get here." Just at that moment, Coupar Angus caught sight of me across the bar. Even from that distance, I could see a frown wrinkling his forehead; the familiar look of somebody who recognises another they are almost certain of it - but cannot quite place when or when they met. I swallowed the rest of my whiskey and threw a few bills on the bar - enough to pay the bar tab and a generous tip to thank Gaur for his helpfulness, and to ensure his future helpfulness, too. It was time to leave. I needed more information; I had someplace else I needed to be tonight. * My face was getting to be too well-known to pass unnoticed in many parts and, if I was going to make any headway on the two Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 81
cases, I needed to be in several places at once. I decided to employ a couple of other professionals; good though Gumshoe was, he wasn't going to be much help down here in the Lower Realms. To that end, I was currently hanging out in a bar in one of the better class of downtown hotels, toying with a small bar snack and a large Scotch, and waiting for the ladies to arrive. A few quiet enquiries on street corners had led me to this joint; apparently the ladies I sought would come in here maybe four nights in seven. I was hoping my luck held this evening. Using the mirror behind the bar, I kept half an eye on the guys - they were mostly male - who started appearing in the room. Most were part of two or three groups which rapidly got louder and drunker as more individuals joined the party, then the whole group would peel away, off to a restaurant or some other entertainment. The remaining few sat quietly, nursing expensive drinks and toying with Club Sandwiches, generally reading magazines or typed documents that practically had Important Work written on them in large letters. I was three-quarters of the way down my over-priced and bland whiskey when the ladies I sought arrived. The noisy parties had long since departed, and the quiet room collectively held its breath as the two pretty females made their entrance. Grinning, I turned around on the bar stool and waved unsubtly for them to join me. It was a pity to spoil the drama of their entrance, but needs must. "Good evening, girls," I said cheerily as they approached, "Buy you ladies a drink?" Arlie and Lorny were definitely professionals, yes, but not detectives; the ladies were both long-standing members of the oldest profession of all. They had no other names that I knew or they would admit to - not that it really mattered who they really were, as far as I was concerned. Their professional rates are probably higher than mine, on a daily basis at least, but both of them owed me a favour, after a case I worked on years ago seemed to lead to them being implicated in a grisly murder. They were innocent - of the murder, at least - and I got them off without unnecessary entanglements with the police. "Findo Gask," Arlie said, her hands firmly on her hips, "Turns up like a bad penny. I knew life had been too good recently." "Now, now, ladies," I admonished, a wry smile cracking my features as I looked them up and down, "That's not very friendly, is it? No way to greet an old friend, a guy who needs to call in a favour." "Huh," Lorny responded, "Now he wants something." 82 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
Arlie wore a low-cut crimson top which exposed a considerable amount of dcolletage and was barely held in place by thin shoulder straps, set off with a black leather miniskirt and teeteringly high-heeled boots, also black. Lorny had eschewed the subtle approach of her friend altogether and was clad in an eyewateringly tight cat-suit in some shimmering blue and exceptionally elastic material which left even the most casual observer in no doubt exactly where all her curves were. Lorny turned to the bartender, who had approached with professional efficiency. "Champagne," she said firmly, to Arlie's evident approval. Then she turned to me. "Then, Mister Findo Gask, you can tell us all about your little problems." Were they trustworthy? Almost certainly not, at least, not entirely. But the offer of a small payment in advance and the promise of more money would ensure their cooperation, and all for a little meeting and greeting, a little careful observation, with their clothes on, and not even having to bed anybody at the end of the evening. * I spent quite some time in the bar briefing Arlie and Lorny on the tasks I wanted them to do. This was accompanied by much banter and ribald humour which did not quite conceal the seriousness of the challenge we faced. I also helped to pour the girls' Champagne - I didn't drink any of it, not to my taste - and otherwise feed and entertain them. After that, I left them to their own devices and made my way back to my own little apartment. Back home, I took a long shower - it had been a long and sweaty day - wrapped myself in my favourite dressing gown and poured myself a small nightcap to top up the Scotch I had consumed at both bars I had been in tonight. I sat in my favourite armchair, the lights down low, with a notebook in my lap, and my cigarettes and matches conveniently to hand on a side table. I sat and thought for a long, long time. It was time I faced an uncomfortable, even painful truth: my brother was not really a drunk, a runaway, a neer-do-well who had taken refuge in a bar in the surface world. The alcoholism and the Irish leprechaun impersonation was all just an act, a cover to throw the most curious off the scent - even professionally curious types like me, or even Trinity. Nether was almost certainly an agent for the Feds.
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Well, perhaps a word or two of explanation might be required for some of my readers. In principle, there are still independent state governing bodies covering groups of caverns, large and small - the "Realms" of the "Lower Realms" - but nobody takes them in the least bit seriously, not even in an election year. The state legislature has become a haven for tin-pot politicians of all brands and flavours; indeed, these state institutions could have been invented just to keep that kind of interfering busybody harmlessly occupied. In reality, it is the Federal government which holds all of the reins of power in our society. Oh, of course there are a plethora of elected officials in the Senate, where there is much heated debate and politicking, but little policy is decided; most of the real control is delegated to the organs of bureaucracy. The bureaucrats really decide what happens in the Lower Realms, all of them. Amongst the legion responsibilities of the Federal bureaucracy is deciding what items of commerce can, and what can not, be exported to the upper world, and what could be imported from the surface. Of course, this includes the granting of licences to those who were permitted to undertake such businesses and the extraction of considerable customs duties from the revenues of those licensed import/export companies. Inevitably, smuggling and customs duty evasion was widespread, leading to a thriving black market. The Federal customs authorities had plenty of highly-visible, uniformed officers to discourage the illegal trade. But it also had more secret, undercover operatives, in whose number, I was now nearly sure, was counted my very own brother, Nether Gask. I finished my whiskey and went to bed.
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Chapter 12 Overt Threats

There was no need to rush the following morning. I slept late, dressed at a leisurely pace and strolled down the street to David's diner for a substantial late breakfast assisted by three cups of strong coffee and a leisurely wander though the morning newspapers. Well, that's what I had in mind when I went to sleep. Needless to say, what actually transpired was nothing like that at all. I was woken in what felt like the middle of the night by the phone ringing. I was awake enough to snatch it from its hook by the fourth ring. It was Gumshoe. I had long ago trusted him with one of the telephone numbers which allowed the redirection of calls from the surface world to the Lower Realms, although with a strict admonishment to use that facility only when absolutely necessary. Gumshoe's opening gambit brought me to full alertness in an instant, exactly as if somebody had thrown a large bucket of icecold water over my bed-sheets. "Gask? It's Gamshack. There's a suspicious guy hanging around Chill's Bar," he said without preamble, "Hes been there all night. Been badgering the regulars." "A human?" I asked, answered by Gumshoe's immediate affirmative grunt, "What's he look like?" "A big man, replied, "Looks point. Speaks shoulder-length muscular, late thirties maybe," the other detective like he might have been in the military at some with a distinct British accent. Oh, and he has blond hair."
Goblins are naturally entirely hairless, and it takes a certain twist of the average Goblin mind to fully comprehend the hirsute nature of the surface dwellers, and the implications of a feature that so often appears in human descriptions of other humans. Were much better at languages, though. "It's Rigg!" I breathed. "What's that?" I explained to Gumshoe at some length. Rigg was a human I had tangled with before. He even got the drop on me once. I
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wasn't about to let that happen again in a hurry. Besides, I had a score to settle with that particular man. "Well, he's back," Gumshoe said bluntly, "And definitively making a nuisance of himself. Though I think I scared him off." From his description, it seemed that a few hours after I had left Chill's Bar, a stranger had appeared; one with an apparently bottomless wallet, intent on striking up conversations with anyone who would entertain him and buying drinks for the most chance acquaintance. All in all, the man was behaving much as Gumshoe himself had attempted on his first visit to the pub, although with less subtlety and a great deal more pushiness. I sat on the side of the bed in my nightshirt and quizzed Gamshack carefully enough to piece together the whole story. Rosie had felt well enough to return to her familiar place behind the bar, chatting to the regulars, and enjoying the warmth and humour of their company. Gumshoe himself had been keeping a lookout in the shadows, sipping a light beer on a bar stool at the far end of the counter, although it was clear to the more observant of the clientele that, rather than being an unwanted interloper, he was now in a position of some trust. Nether had been staying completely out of sight, holed up in his secret room, presumably out of some hyper-developed sense of caution. Rigg had appeared at the door, shaking raindrops off his expensive yet fashionably understated leather coat. He was at first perceived as harmless, just another passer-by, but he soon set about buttonholing everyone present in a determined fashion. Even the resident bore who had persuaded Gumshoe to depart on his first visit seemed unable to upset Rigg, and the threat of unreasonable violence had noticeably zero effect on the hard man with what looked like a background in Special Forces. Rosie, seeing what was happening, closed the bar at the earliest acceptable hour, the regulars taking the hint and slinking off to their homes, or whatever passed for that establishment, with a minimum of fuss. Rigg made no attempt to out-stay his welcome but gave every appearance of finishing his last drink, extending a cheery goodnight to all his new best friends and wandering off apparently slightly unsteadily - into the night. Gumshoe wasn't fooled. After the bar was locked up and the lights turned right down, he kept watch from behind the closed blinds of the bar and through the hidden observation lenses that prudent publicans in both worlds deploy to ensure that no undesirables are hanging around after closing time. For a long time, all was silent, as silent as the grave, maybe or at least some graves.
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* An hour or so of careful observation made it clear to Gumshoe that there were watchers abroad; Very good watchers, professionals. He noticed shadows in places where there shouldn't have been shadows, observed the tell-tale twist of the head from the vry occasional passer-by glancing into the darkness of alleys and doorways where they had caught the suspicion of somebody concealing themselves. After a hurried whispered conference with Rosie and Nether, who had emerged from his hiding-place after the clientele had been ejected, Gumshoe decided on a course of action. With my brother's assistance with the tricksy Goblin magic, he made his way out of the secret exit then, using his own New York street-wise smarts, he made his way around in a rough circle, following his nose through the back alleys and making a reasonable job - for a human, of course - of remaining undetected. Unexpectedly, Gumshoe disturbed somebody at the far end of an alley, a man dressed entirely in black; not Rigg, he was immediately certain, but a smaller man with swarthy skin and dark hair, which he took to be a henchman or hired hand of some kind. Startled by Gumshoe's sudden appearance, the goon dropped whatever it was he was holding and darted off, yelling some kind of warning - either a code word or in a language that Gumshoe didn't recognise. The detective chased him, but the man in black got away; his deftness and his head start allowing him to lose Gumshoe almost immediately in the maze of alleyways and dumpsters that threaded behind the buildings. Backtracking rapidly and - I strongly suspected - cursing profusely, Gumshoe returned to the place where he had disturbed the henchman. At first, there seemed to be nothing to be found, but then his foot nudged something hard and heavy which turned out to be a lump of cement which looked like it had come from a building site. It was the object the mystery man had dropped. Gumshoe picked it up. There was a note taped to the block, the words formed in the time-honoured way from cuttings from a newspaper pasted onto a sheet of paper, no doubt. "What did the note say?" "This could have been a Molotov Cocktail," he intoned. I drew a blank. "What's that?" I said after a moment. "A bomb," Gumshoe said slowly, clearly, "A gasoline bomb; a bottle filled with flammable liquid, and with a wick to explode when the bottle breaks."
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"Ah," I said levelly, "Nasty." "Indeed. And it is a very British term," the human detective went on, "The devices were used by paramilitaries of both sides in the recent Irish troubles. Rosie would know what it meant." A worrying development. Somehow, Rosie knew something or somebody that made her worth threatening. "Where are you now?" I asked. "Back inside the bar," he replied, sounding just a little weary, "Rosie and Nether are still here. I've sent Rosie off to bed. Nether and I have been keeping watch. There's no sign of anyone hanging around at the moment." "Do you want me to come up?" "Nah. I don't think there's anything you can do. In any case, I've a better idea." Gumshoe suddenly sounded smug. "There's a private security firm I know," he went on, "Did a job for the boss once, not so long ago, so he owes me a few favours. I'll give him a call, get a few of his boys around here to flash a bit of muscle. That should prevent any problems, and give me a chance to get back to my place and get tooled up." Gumshoe didn't usually carry a gun. He was clearly sufficiently rattled to break this particular habit. I hope he didn't do any stupid. "Fine. But be careful," I said, emphasising the last point. Gumshoe snorted. "You got it," he agreed, "One last thing. coming down." Nether said he was
My brother, returning to the Lower Realms. Another worrying development. "Okay," I replied slowly, "Where does he want me to meet him?" * It took me a few minutes to gather my wits after the shock of being awakened ludicrously early and the alarming tale that Gumshoe had told. I pulled myself together with the aid of strong black coffee - not completely poisonous - a quick shower and a much-needed cigarette. Then I pulled on some clothes, and my coat and hat, and went out.
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The meeting with my brother in the Lower Realms was for breakfast at David's diner. Nether obviously knew more about my habits than he let on when we had met again so recently. Or perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. He always was a smart boy, excelled at school and destined to be a high-flyer, until whatever event caused him to drop out of sight. By the time I arrived, Nether was already settled at a table near the front, sipping coffee and reading a newspaper with the ease of one who had all the time in the world. He glanced up and waved languidly when I entered and looked around. I gently deflected David, the avuncular patron, who was trying to usher me to my usual quiet booth at the back, and slid into the chair opposite Nether. "Good morning, Findo," he said, folding his paper neatly and placing it on the table. "Nether," I responded curtly. David bustled over, clutching two menus - not that I needed one, of course - and proffered them deferentially. Nether took the card graciously, with the air of one who has spent their entire life dining in fine restaurants. Maybe he had, for all I knew. I was beginning to wonder just how much I really knew about my elder brother. "I'm buying," he said, placing the menu on the table in front of him and nodding to David, who was hovering at a discreet distance. Not that Nether's offer was particularly generous. David's diner was generous with its portions and not at all expensive. It offered solid traditional Goblin cooking - heavy on the fungus - rather than haute cuisine and costly imported ingredients. The avuncular patron, displaying much more deference to my brother than he had ever done to me, bustled over. Nether unselfconsciously ordered the most expensive item on the menu, while I took the blue-plate special which would, I felt sure from long experience, offered the best ratio of stomach-filling to walletlightening. Our breakfasts appeared in double-quick time, delivered by David himself, rather than one of the interchangeable youngsters he habitually employed to heft plates from kitchen to table and back again. I tucked in heartily while my brother picked at his own plate with apparent indifference. Nether wisely declined to engage me in conversation until the food and more coffee hit the point, the calories beginning to compensate for the short night's sleep and the shock of awakening.
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When my plate was cleared, Nether pushed his own aside - he'd eaten less than half of it - and again picked up the newspaper. He folded it to an inside page and twisted it around to show me. "Look at this," he said, tapping an article on the page. I glanced at the headline he indicated. Ring Busted in Dawn Raid." * I took the paper from Nether's hand and read the article quickly. It looked like a stock item: another police success in rounding up a criminal gang engaged in illegal imports from the surface. A surprise raid; a win for our boys in blue; many Goblins arrested. No mention of the obligatory "Criminal Mastermind" or "Racketeer Bosses" was apparent in the newsprint, so presumably they had only netted a few of the small fry and the big fish had escaped their snares once again. I tossed the paper back onto the table casually and glared pointedly at Nether. He looked calmly back at me. "There's less of this kind of thing these days, isn't there?" he said, smirking very slightly. This kind of policing work had bored me, even when I actually was a policeman. All guns and guts. Oh, there was a certain amount of intelligence gathered, a certain piecing together of the evidence. Kindergarten stuff. The actual raid itself was usually of the "all guns blazing" nature: trigger-happy cops and equally uninhibited perps desperately trying to annihilate each other. But Nether's question set me thinking along another tack entirely. Either the cops had got better in policing the blackmarket conduits between the surface world and the Lower Realms, or the criminals had got much smarter in orchestrating their import/export business operations: both equally implausible scenarios as far as I was concerned. It was true, nevertheless; there were very few reports of this kind these days. I couldn't recall when I had last spotted an outing for that particular flavour of newspaper boilerplate. "Did you have something to do with this raid?" I demanded. "No, I didn't," he replied, suddenly sounding irritated and sullen, "And, frankly, I wish it were otherwise." There was some game, some hidden play going on here. I was too tired, or too stupid to identify exactly what it was. "So what is going on?" I retorted sharply. It read: "Smuggling
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Nether declined to answer my question, for reasons I would only work out much later. "Look," he said, a touch of steel appearing in his voice, "Your job is to find out what happened to Rosie. And I'd advise you in the strongest possible terms not to enquire too deeply about what I've had been doing recently. It's none of your business." "Why ever not?" I exclaimed, taken aback. My brother took a few dirty bills from an inside pocket and tossed them on the table. "That, dear boy," Nether said, standing up and gathering his newspaper from the table, "is not a question I am prepared to answer."
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Chapter 13 Discreet Pressure

I sat for a long while at the table in David's diner, nursing my coffee and musing on what Nether had said - and what he had not said. As I sat, the Patron himself again bustled over and swept away the plates and the bills Nether had so casually deposited. I ignored him, other than a barely acceptable minimal nod. Eventually, I gave up conjecturing what Nether's hidden agenda might be and applied myself to the more tractable problem of what I profitably should do today. Returning to my bed to catch up with a few hours sleep had its attractions, but some hitherto unsuspected streak of professionalism prompted me to go to the office. This kind of behaviour is something I try to keep hidden, but it surfaces in times of stress and usually gets me into all sorts of trouble. In this case, I was glad - eventually, anyway - that I succumbed to the temptation. I drained the last of my coffee, stood up, adjusted my hat to an angle which simultaneously shaded my eyes and communicated the necessary level of surly standoffishness for street credibility, and made my way onto the pavement. The few passers-by ignored me; there was nobody obviously giving me any attention at all. I could have been invisible. Of course, if there had been anybody watching me, anyone professional watching me, I would probably never have known about it. The trip to the quiet block where I retain a small office took only ten minutes or so - I remain amazed how so many humans in the surface world tolerate journey times measured in hours or even days. I stopped only briefly to buy another bottle of cheap scotch to replace the one my dear brother had nearly finished. I trudged up the stairs to the scruffy landing, already aware of a faint smell a scent I recognised - emanating from the open semi-glazed door which had once had "Findo Gask - Private Investigations" painted on the glass. You could still read it if you looked closely. I never bother to lock my office door; the landlord's door and locks are rubbish quality anyway, so it just saves on repairs. The furniture and fittings are thrift-store at best, my files and notes are both cryptic and barely-legible, and anything either valuable or irreplaceable is stored somewhere else - several somewhere elses, in fact.
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Trinity was waiting for me. She had correctly identified the least disreputable of my guest chairs and was sitting with every evidence of patience: most unlike her, really. Perhaps she really hadn't been waiting very long; after all, it was still early - at least by my standards - and I had not been detained all that long by breakfast with Nether. "Findo," she said sardonically as I entered, "Nearly keeping office hours these days?" "Usually," I agreed amicably, "Delayed by a breakfast meeting with our dear brother." That wiped the faint smirk from her face. She scowled at me suspiciously. "What did he want?" I grinned at her, then swung around my side of the desk and slotted myself into the squeaky swivel chair. "He wanted to give me some words of advice," I replied. "Care to tell me what they were?" "No." "Do you intend to follow his advice?" "Not sure yet. Maybe." Trinity huffed in exasperation then, perhaps realising she wasn't going to get anywhere with this particular line of questioning, promptly changed the subject. She drew out a folded newspaper which had been wedged between the shiny black leather that covered her thigh and the tatty leather that covered the arm of the chair, and flung it on the desk in front of me. She tapped urgently at a few column-inches. I picked it up. It was the very same newspaper and the same report that Nether had brought to my attention no more than an hour ago. I did my best to hide that fact from Trinity, trying instead to give the impression of reading it closely, pursing my lips as I did so. Finally I tossed the paper back on the desk with a shrug. "Pretty run-of-the-mill journalism, don't you think?" "I'm not interested in a critique of the writing, you jackass," Trinity said, "It's a report of the raid on the warehouse yesterday." "I guessed that," I agreed, "Just one of those risks you take when you run a black-market operation, I expect." "But it wasn't supposed to be an illegal operation!" Trinity exploded, "I was set up." Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 93
* I suddenly found myself paying a lot more attention to what my dear sister had to say. I sat up straight and leaned forward over the desk, looking closely at Trinity to detect any signs of duplicity or deceit. But she seemed to be entirely earnest in what she said, completely truthful. "It was supposed to be a licensed company, entirely legit and above board," she insisted, "Garrick even showed me the documents, and I checked them most carefully." I should explain at this point that the authenticity of most documents, legal and the like, is enforced by the use of a specialised glamour, a magic that means that document forgery in the Lower Realms is an extremely rare phenomena. The glamour usually used is one of these sensitive psychic types that give any reader of a document an uncanny sense of the true intent of the parties involved in the contract. There is no point is trying to lie or dissemble under these circumstances since the magic will inevitably point out the deceitful purposes. This expectation, borne out by a long and ancient history, gives most Goblins an almost reverential view of contractual documents, although the more cautious will still invoke the glamour that confirms the legitimacy. "You saw the official permits?" I asked in a level tone. Trinity nodded wordlessly. "I've been in business a long time," she asserted, "I've set up partnerships before. I know the form, and I always check that the documents are genuine." "Careful with you choice of business partners, aren't you," I responded ironically, "But it didn't stop you having a concealed exit, though, did it?" Trinity snorted. "I'm not that trusting," she said, "And I'm pretty certain that Garrick didn't know about that particular rat-hole. Besides, it was on the surface; you'd want a hidden way out, wouldn't you?" I had to agree with her. Folks like me can't be too careful up there. There are too many rumours, too many dark tales, both folklore and legend from long ago and urban myths from more recent times. I would bet that the particular exit we used wasn't the only one that provided a swift retreat from the warehouse. But, since it used mostly human-constructed tunnels, it might have been the only one constructed without the aid of magic, and therefore not susceptible to detection from an adept like Garrick.
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There was no doubt that Professor Urquhart Garrick was indeed an adept; one skilled in the ways of magic. Certainly, he might be one skilled enough to falsify the credentials on an official permit. That would be typical of Professor Garrick's style, and his warped but still considerable genius. But, why bother - unless it was part of some deeper play, some long-term plan. "Well," I admitted, "You think Garrick forged the documents and set you up?" Trinity nodded again. It could be a coincidence but, on balance, I was inclined to agree with her suspicions. I sat back in the chair, the tired springs squeaking like a mouse in a trap. "I take it you still want me to track down Professor Urquhart Garrick, then?" I said, affecting a degree of boredom with the whole proceedings. "Yes, I do," Trinity snorted, clearly spotting my pose for what it was, "He owes me, big time. But you don't seem to be making much progress at the moment." "Well, he's a wily old bird," I said, "But I do have a lead, and a plan. So why don't you just leave me alone to get on with it?" * After Trinity left, I sat and stared out of the window and thought for a long time. Once again, I wondered how a Goblin - an individual not easily mistaken for a human except in conditions of near darkness would manage the purchase of something substantial in the upper world. Like a house, for example? I knew from previous experience that Garrick had been a long-time resident on the surface, so he must have managed it. And, if I knew anything about the crafty old academic, he would have avoided unnecessary risks. After a few seconds thought - lasting, as is usual, for several minutes - the answer was plain enough. It was the same way I would do things in the upper world whenever possible: I use an agent. To buy a house, I would use an estate agent, a realtor, a realtor with good connections, perhaps even connections with somebody in the same business in the Lower Realms. His connection would be a Goblin with his own shady connections: somebody known to a drunk who might also be a Federal agent; somebody who ran a protection agency who might not be too picky about the individuals she protected; in short, one Coupar Angus. Talking of agents, it was time to catch up with Gumshoe again. I was able to reach him by phone at his office at the first try. This
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might have been a first; under normal circumstances I somehow always end up talking to an answering machine. "Everything okay at Chill's Bar?" "All quiet," he replied, "I've got a few reinforcements in place." "Good. If it's okay with you, leave the protection of Rosie to your friends," I advised, "They don't need to know what's really going on but I'd have thought that a small threat of violence in an Irish bar in New York is unlikely to ring any alarm bells with them." An inarticulate grunt was my only indication of Gumshoe's agreement with my assessment. This was as much As I could expect under these conditions. "You caught up with any of your contacts in the NYPD?" I asked. "Nah. Got side-tracked," he replied, "You think it's time to have another go?" "I think you should," I assented, "See if you can find any traces of Rigg and his merry men." "Yeah," Gumshoe growled, "I'd like to catch up with that particular individual." "Good idea," I demurred, "And, in the meantime, I'll see if I can shake a few leads loose down here." I spent the next few hours pottering about the office sorting the mail, which did not take very long at all, since most of what I receive are either bills or circulars. The junk mail I filed in the round cabinet I keep for this very purpose under the desk, but some of the bills were sufficiently red and annoyed-looking that I squandered more of my siblings' money on making payments. I wrote cheques and licked stamps, interspersed with making a few phone calls, until I had built a tidy pile of envelopes on the desk. I took a stroll along the street to the post office to deposit the letters, with only a momentary twang of conscience at spending money I had not yet entirely earned. I returned to my office to consume a perfectly adequate lunch of sandwiches and beer sliced smoked rat on toadstool flour bread, if you want to know bought from the deli counter further down the block. After eating, I put my feet on the desk, tugged my hat over my eyes and settled down for a long afternoon nap. * The sting on Coupar Angus went almost exactly as planned. I don't really like this kind of approach; for one thing, it's not exactly legal. But Angus was a sufficiently oily character - and one with a
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sufficiently dubious reputation - that I was able to overcome my qualms fairly easily. There might have been another way of making progress in the case, but nothing had presented itself so far, and I was running out of options. It was early evening by the time I awoke, alert and refreshed and ready for action. I made my way to the lower levels and found the slightly sleazy rooms that the girls had rented - with a portion of my advance - in a quiet side-street not very far from the Deepest Joy. Obviously, I wasn't present in the bar that evening one sniff of my involvement would surely have tipped off of Angus, and I wasn't necessarily sure how much I could rely on Maddoes discretion either, but I got it all, in stereo and in considerable detail, from Lorny and Arlie later on. The ladies had arrived and stationed themselves prominently at the bar shortly after Angus's usual arrival time. The realtor was already installed at his usual table, his usual drink already mostly consumed. The two girls were wearing the kind of clothes which would get them noticed - especially in a joint like the Deepest Joy but not so low-cut that their true intention - or profession - was immediately apparent. Lorny and Arlie had treated the obvious interest from Angus as a flattering advance, rather than with the lofty distain that his clumsy approach usually instilled. At the first opportunity, and without waiting to be invited, my two accomplices joined Coupar Angus at his table. Over the next few hours, they allowed him to buy them endless drinks and, in the fashion of those professionals who depend on their clients being at three sheets to the wind, managed to avoid drinking more than a very little from any of the glasses. After much small talk, and a fair amount of overtly suggestive body language, Lorny and Arlie guided Angus to the nearby rented rooms. Once inside, they sat him on the bed, one girl either side, and loosening his clothing with the aid of much fumbling and panting on his part, and a certain amount of smooching on theirs. Meanwhile I, hidden inside the darkened and partially-closed cupboard, and equipped with the powerful camera which is an essential part of any PI's kit, took a considerable number of photographs of a ruddy-faced Angus and the two smiling girls. With the prints in my hand - Goblin photography has long dispensed with such cumbersome techniques as chemical developers - I stepped from my hiding place to confront Coupar Angus. I stalked over to where he sat on the edge of the bed, flanked by the comely and widely-grinning forms of Lorny and Arlie. He recognised me immediately, as I had expected he would, despite the copious quantities of alcohol he had consumed.
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"You!" he exclaimed, nearly incoherent indignation, "What are you doing here?"
with
shock
and
I didn't answer. Instead, I snapped a phial under his nose, a Goblin potion which had the disturbing effort of sobering him up almost immediately. Then I shoved a sheaf of photographs into his hand, allowing him time to realise exactly what kind of predicament he found himself in, and handed the rest of the pictures to Lorny. Angus looked around wildly for a few panicstricken moments, as if he were a cornered animal seeking some kind of escape. There was none. I turned and waved at the retreating forms of the girls on the way out of the room, who nodded with the respect of one professional to another. Once the door had closed behind them, I bent to straighten Anguss necktie, leaning forward so that my face was close to his as I did so. "Mister Coupar Angus," I whispered in his ear, "I hope you are feeling alert and receptive to a suggestion or two. Perhaps ready to answer a few simple questions? Otherwise, I may feel compelled to make some different suggestions to your good lady wife." Angus stiffened perceptibly at that suggestion, then shoulders sagged in defeat. He knew when he was beaten. "What do you want to know?" he asked despondently. his
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Chapter 14 Surface Treatment

I let go of Angus's necktie and pushed him back on the bed. He was cowed to the point where he sat there meekly, like a schoolboy caught out-of-bounds and now awaiting a visit to the headmaster's study. "I'm going to mention a number of individuals by name," I said slowly and clearly, "I want you to tell me everything you know about them: what business dealings you've had with them, where and when you've met them, anything you may have seen or overheard." I picked up the remainder of the photographs, which had slipped onto the bedcovers, and arranged them in a neat stack. Then I fanned them under his nose. He shrank away as if they smelled of something bad, really bad. "You need to work hard to convince me that you're not holding out," I went on calmly, "Otherwise the lovely Missus Angus will be getting an express delivery package she might not be expecting. Am I making myself entirely clear?" Angus nodded sadly, his head in his hands. "Okay. First up, Miss Trinity Gask." Angus's brow furrowed with something which resembled honest thought. I don't suppose this was something which bothered him very often. "The bodyguard company? Yeah, I've done several deals for them. Quiet little places in obscure out-of-the-way spots. Often able to shift properties that nobody else seemed interested in. Paid cash, eventually. Sometimes had problems in collecting the payments but I always got the money in the end. Steady repeat business - not something you see often in my line of work." "Now thats a good start," I nodded sagely, "You should keep it up. We'll come back to that individual later. Now I have a second name for you: Mister Nether Gask." Coupar Angus's face furrowed suddenly, as one trying to be shrewd under difficult circumstances. "So this is a family matter, is it?" he asked sharply.
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Gask is not a particularly unusual name for a Goblin family, so it coming it twice could well be just a coincidence. But three times, well - as the expression goes - that is a conspiracy. "It might be," I growled, "But that's none of your business. Your business is to tell me what I want to know." "Okay, okay," Angus muttered, "I got the message. Nether Gask, your relative" - he flicked a glance at me as he spoke, which bounced off my poker face - "he wanted to buy a property in the human world." He stopped, again glancing slyly at me as if judging my reaction. "Let me guess," I said sardonically, "Some out-of-the-way cottage, miles from any other building?" "No," Angus replied, sounding genuinely surprised, "He wanted to buy a bar, a pub, in a slightly sleazy part of the human city called New York. I never could work out want he would want with a place like that. A strange kind of name, too - some kind of joke or pun I can never remember." "Chill's Bar," I said in English. Angus looked up sharply. "That's the one," he said, "you've heard of it, then?" "I may have come across it," I replied, "So how did you go about helping Nether with his purchase?" "I'm a Goblin with connections, a great many connections," Angus said with a trace of smugness in his voice. "Yeah, yeah. particular case?" And what connections did you use in this
Angus sat back on the bed, adopting more of the demeanour he would have done in his own plush offices and surrounded by his own flunkies. "Ive worked with a number of realtors and estate agents in the human world," he said, "In this case, the firm of Huntly and McCash acted on my behalf." "On Nether's behalf," I corrected. "Yes, yes, of course." He waved a hand dismissively. "It was easy enough. The seller wanted to sell; the buyer had the money and no appetite to haggle. I just arranged the legals and the money transfers." "And no doubt commissions." 100 you made a pretty penny in fees and
"No more than the usual, for a sale of this kind," he responded, only slightly defensively. "Uh-huh," I snorted, "I guess you're on the level. Okay. Contestant number three, then. Professor Urquhart Garrick." Instantly, his face went pale and he started shaking. mouth dropped open and his eyes went wide with shock. looked terrified, frightened out of his wits. "I'm not telling you anything about that," he croaked. * I bent forward and grasped Coupar Angus warmly by the necktie again, then tugged his unresisting form towards me. "Look," I growled in his ear, "You clam up on me now, youll regret it when your wife finds out about this evenings little entertainment." "You may be right," he replied with more spunk that I might have given him credit for, "But at least I'd be alive and in one piece to enjoy the legal skinning I'd get from the divorce lawyers employed by my shortly-to-be-ex-wife." I pushed him back on the bed, where he sat passively, cradling his head in his hands. "What do you mean?" I demanded roughly. "Garrick anybody, if information dismember fingers." said if I was to mention any of his business to any of it were to come out, then he'd know where the had come from. He said he'd track me down and me limb from limb, then make me choke on my own His He
I couldn't see Garrick actually issuing such a threat; such crudely graphical language was not his style. But I did suspect that he had used a hypnosis glamour: an old-fashioned spell which had convinced Angus had he was indeed in mortal danger were he to divulge a single one of Garrick's secrets. There was no way the simple threat of a messy divorce - for a Goblin who has married money, I suspected - would overcome such a deeply-held conviction that his life was in peril. It looked like I may have been wasting my time after all. "Look," I said more gently, "I can make this all go away. I'll leave you alone, but you've got to give me something in return. I just need a name. A person, a place, anything. Something I could have got from somebody other than you, conceivably. This is your chance to keep your life intact."
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Coupar Angus sat shaking on the bed for a long moment, then he looked up and croaked two words at me, so softly I could barely hear him. They were the last words he would speak to me. After that, he collapsed into some near-catatonic state, so that I had to practically manhandle him out of the door and point him in the direction of home. The words that Coupar Angus spoke were: "Dulelm Hollows." Now, my problem was: who or what in the two worlds was Dulelm Hollows? * The answer came from Gumshoe the following morning. The name sounded like something in one of the surface languages, probably English, so making a telephone enquiry with the human detective seemed like a sound plan. I left a message on his answering machine; Gumshoe almost never picks up the phone when somebody calls. After some searching, he phoned back with a report that Dulelm Hollows was in fact a place in the surface world, in up-state New York, in fact, not two hundred miles from New York City itself. A quiet little village, apparently, a real backwoods place - and with a reputation for unexplained phenomena: spooky noises, strange creatures sighted, houses reputed to be haunted. It sounded just like the kind of place a retiring Goblin might set up a hideout. "Good work, Gamshack," I said, "I think a little investigation in person is called for, don't you agree?" "Sure," he replied, "This afternoon? Give me a chance to rattle the cages at the NYPD some more?" I agreed. Gumshoe also reported that it has been all quiet overnight at Chill's Bar. The presence of Gumshoe's heavies seemed to have scared off Rigg and his crew, at least for the time being. Gumshoe had spent some part of the evening at the bar, but had to contend with nothing more stressful than fending off unwanted drinks from Rosie and her staff. Gumshoe's NYPD contacts hadn't turned up any trace of Rigg himself as yet. Frankly, I wasn't surprised. The goons were probably just local muscle, and Rigg himself had probably jetted off to some other part of the world on another mission. I did get a message, one I didn't expect. It was from Luncardy. Rather than her usual brusque instructions, this one was lengthy and dripping with intended irony. "Well, Mister Gask, you do seem to have stirred things up. If you could spare a few moments in your busy schedule, perhaps
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you would be good enough to drop by the office and explain it all to me." I went immediately. one. I know a direct instruction when I hear * I was sitting in the lobby of the 14th precinct police station, waiting for one of Luncardy's officers to come and guide me to the Captain herself. I knew the drill by now: some young copper would appear, guide me wordlessly to Luncardy's office and close the door behind him. Then Luncardy would deign to notice my presence, snarl at me a bit, and finally get around to talking about whatever nugget of information she chose to deposit in my lap. So it was quite a surprise when the great lady appeared in the lobby herself. I stood up politely as she approached, my hat in my hand, and nodded a greeting. "Let me buy you a coffee, Gask," she said without preamble, taking my elbow briefly and guiding me towards the main doors. "Sure thing," I answered, "I'd be delighted." I screwed my hat back on my head and followed her down the steps and along the street. We walked in companionable silence along the busy pavement to a coffee shop on the corner of the block, one I had not been in before. The coffee shop was busy enough, but not particularly full, and there were a dozen or more unoccupied tables at the rear of the joint. The waiting staff clearly recognised Luncardy, and we were immediately shown to a quiet booth at the back. The Captain ordered coffee for us both - strong and black - which appeared almost immediately. I sipped at it - it was good, just the way I liked it - while watching her over the rim of the cup. She took her cigarettes and holder from the pocket of the mannish jacket she habitually wore, screwed a cigarette into the holder and put the end in her mouth. Finally, she felt it was time to open up. "There was a raid a couple of days ago," she said, blowing smoke over her shoulder, "On an unauthorised import/export operation in some outlying cavern, with the upper end in up-town New York." "I did read something in the newspapers," I said laconically, "How did you find out about this operation?" "We had an anonymous tip-off." "How anonymous?" I pressed urgently.
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"What do you mean?" Luncardy asked, apparently mystified. "'Anonymous' as in 'we're not telling' or 'anonymous' as in 'we genuinely don't know'?" Luncardy's handsome face screwed up into a frown. "We genuinely have no idea," she said slowly, a trace of suspicion in her voice, "It wasn't from any of our usual sources. None of the usual agencies had any leads. Then we get a phone call, followed up by a note, with photographs. Photographs of your errant sister, amongst others." "I'm not surprised," I said calmly, sipping at my hot coffee again. "All right," Luncardy continued, suddenly more suspicious, "What do you know about this raid?" "I was there," I said simply, "I ran away." Luncardy leaned forward over her coffee and waved the lit end of her smoking stick under my nose. "Gask," she growled, "I should have known. You seem to have the knack of being in the right place at the wrong time. Want to tell me all about it?" Luncardy was a good cop, painfully honest. She could be trusted, mostly. I told her everything, leaving out just one tiny detail, for reasons I didn't know at the time. I emphasised that Trinity thought she was running a legitimate operation and had the documents to prove it. I told her that Trinity was in business with Urquhart Garrick, which made Luncardy narrow her eyes. I told her that Rosie recognised the warehouse through a haze of memory glamours, that Gumshoe was helping me find out what happened to Rosie. I told her about our escape through a hidden tunnel - a human tunnel, not magical - that nobody except Trinity knew about. What I left out was the presence of Nether at the warehouse. When I finished speaking, Luncardy blew smoke and ignored her cooling coffee. "Okay, Gask," she said grudgingly, "I think I can accept we're on the same side here. If you see your sister, you might persuade her to come and talk to us. We'll catch up with her eventually anyway, and it would good if she came in by herself." "If I see her, I'll tell her," I agreed, although I wasn't expecting to see Trinity unless she wanted something from me.
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"And this Urquhart Garrick," she said, emphasising her words carefully, "He's a wanted criminal. You hear anything about his whereabouts, you talk to me first. Okay?" I nodded. It wasn't a promise I necessarily intended to keep. Without another word, Luncardy crushed out her cigarette with her long string-but-slender fingers, stood up in one smooth movement and stalked out of the coffee shop. * I sat in the back of Gumshoe's ancient Oldsmobile, dark glasses and brimmed hat sheltering me from what little light leaked into what a human would consider a dimly-lit interior. Gumshoe was concentrating on driving in heavy New York traffic - a task that required the sounding of the horn at what seemed like ten-second intervals - working his way out of the city and onto the freeway which would take us most of the way to Dulelm Hollows. After Luncardy had left, I finished my coffee slowly and tried to piece together what I knew. There must be some common thread, some sequence of events or interests linking together the people and their motives, but it sure eluded me. This is not unusual; I could accept that I may never learn the full details, but I was quite certain that I would be able to discover a good deal more. I sure wasn't going to give up just yet. A little later, I arrived at Gumshoe's office using much the same route as I had used the last time. With little ado, he swept me down to the quiet street where he had parked his car and ushered me inside. Now there was little for me to do; at our present rate of travel, we should arrive at Dulelm Hollows in the early evening, just when it would be getting dark, so that I would be able to move around without undue discomfort. I tugged my hat down further over my eyes and settled back for a catnap. Gumshoe's resources turned up a little more information. It seemed that Dulelm Hollows had long had a reputation for unexplained happenings and ghostly sightings which appeared to have become more pronounced in recent years. From the reports, perhaps three buildings, all in isolated areas well apart from the main settlement, were thought to be haunted and were generally shunned by the local residents, especially after nightfall. Gumshoe woke me when we drew up outside the first of the properties on his list. The rumble of the engine died away to nothing. He got out of the car cautiously, leaving the door wide open. After a careful look around, he held the seat forward for me to exit. We spread out and moved towards the abandoned building.
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It had once been a farmstead of some kind, built of heavy dark stone and heavy dark wood. Now, the windows and doors were boarded up, and there were several roof tiles missing. It was set in a clearing at the edge of a wood, with farmlands on the other three sides. Even though sun had just set, a light mist was already forming around the trees in complete defiance of everyday metrological expectations. And it was quiet; even the birdsong was muted and distant. Gumshoe loosened the pistol in his shoulder holster, a nervous reaction common to many in our profession and allied trades. He clearly felt uncomfortable, on edge, although if he were challenged, he would have found it hard to articulate just what was upsetting him. I already knew what was upsetting him. One of my senses was tingling, alerting me to something I should have guessed. There was magic here. Pervasive, old-fashioned magic, the kind used thousands of years ago when there were more Goblins on the surface, magic used to scare away any iterant humans from areas which my people wanted to keep private. Another of my senses was telling my something else. Goblins have a very well-developed sense of smell, and get used to the odour of one another. My nose told me there were no Goblins here, hadn't been for a long time. And no humans, either. This place was as abandoned as it looked. "Gamshack," I called out wearily, "We're wasting our time here."
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Chapter 15 Protective Circle

All three buildings on Gumshoe's list were the same: tumbledown old properties where no human had lived for many years. We looked around all three carefully, forcing open shuttered windows and nailed-up doors, just in case my senses were mistaken, but my first impression was the right one: no Goblins and no humans anywhere, and hadnt been for decades. In between times, back in the car, I explained to Gumshoe more about the glamours that I had sensed, long-established glamours that were obvious in their presence - to a Goblin - at all of the places we visited. Spells that induced a deep-seated sense of unease in any nearby human; glamours projecting apparitions, barely seen from the corners of the eye, hideous sounds emanating from unexpected directions and unexplained movements of physical objects when one's back was turned. Gumshoe, to his considerable credit, toughed it out. Once he understood that the sensations he was experiencing were a deliberate attempt to scare him off, he was determined to remain undeterred - although he looked absolutely terrified throughout the whole grim ordeal. I was fine, of course - such magics are carefully tuned to human sensibilities - and I did my best to shield Gumshoe from the worst of the effects. A few hours of investigation had us no further forward. We had scoured three places, all within a mile or so of each other, their locations roughly distributed around the hamlet of Dulelm Hollows. All of them were carefully constructed to speak directly to the dark side of every human psyche; all of them could easily be used as hiding places for Goblins on the run, but all had certainly been untouched and unoccupied for ages. What, I sincerely wanted to know, did Garrick want with these places? Were they some kind of hiding-place, as a fall-back, a long-shot? Perhaps that would be a sensible precaution for such a secretive and much sought-after Goblin. But why three hideouts so close together? Any sniff of a trail leading to Dulelm Hollows and all of the places would be identified immediately by any Goblin with an ounce of magical training. It didn't make any kind of sense. Perhaps it was some kind of elaborate double-bluff, but I suspected not. There was something here we were missing, some aspect both Gumshoe and I had overlooked. Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 107
* I returned with Gumshoe to New York City and to his office, feeling increasingly despondent. I was getting nowhere fast. Nether was stone-walling me on his motivations, as well as what he had really been doing for the last hundred years or so. I was fairly certain there was something he knew that would help break this case but I was short of a lever to pull to prise it out of him. Trinity appeared to be a victim of Garrick's dissembling and trickery, and was probably on the run, now being perceived as a criminal. Maybe she would get in contact soon; maybe I should have asked her what she was going to do. On the other hand, asking Trinity anything was not guaranteed to get a comprehensible answer, or at least an answer anybody could believe. Coupar Angus had clammed up on me, frightened out of his wits - quite literally - by Garrick's glamours. The entire set-up with Lorny and Arlie had been a waste of time; I had used the favour I had banked with the girls to no avail. Gumshoes contacts in the NYPD seemed to be coming up dry. I hadnt really expected hed be able to get close to the group which had raided the warehouse. They would be some special task force of human police, operating with minimal involvement of the regular cops. Rosie was also a victim, barely able to remember anything of the ordeal - which was probably just as well - and appeared to have been an innocent bystander - or at least just a cover story caught up in the action. Dead-ends in every direction. Time to circle around and try again, and hope for a break. * I sat and chewed the fat with Gumshoe way. There wasn't much he had to add. rang. He ignored it; so did I. It rang answering machine cut in with Gumshoe's tones. "Gamshank, PI. message." in a desultory kind of Just then, the phone four times, then the recorded no-nonsense Leave a
I can't take your call right now.
At the time, I thought this was the break I was hoping for, that Gumshoe's contacts had finally came up trumps. The caller was an old acquaintance of his, a long-time copper in the city's police force.
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"Hi, its Jaz. Just got off-shift. If you want to buy me a beer, then meet me at the usual bar. I've got something you might want to hear about some guy named Rigg." Gumshow sat for a moment then glanced at his watch. "I'd better do this one on my own. That bar is pretty crowded and rowdy, especially late at night. My friend Jaz can be a bit rambling when he likes, and he'll probably want me to buy him beer all night." "Okay," I agreed, "But put it on expenses." The muffled rumble that was Gumshoe's laughter indicated that he knew just what I meant. * I got a report by phone from Gumshoe early the following morning, before I even made it into the office. He had caught up with his contact in the bar, fed him a series of beers and bar snacks, and listened to the old copper rattle on. Eventually, and with many detours and distractions, he got to an interesting bit of station-house gossip. Jaz's story was that, the night before, somebody had got drunk in a bar. Not of itself such an unusual event, of course. People get drunk in bars all the time - even done it myself a time or two. Yes, I know, you just wouldn't believe it, would you? However, this particular drunk - a human, name of Milton started telling wild tales of strange creatures abroad in New York: monsters and aliens of multitudinous aspects and diverse habits, and invisible beings spying on innocent citizens. His tales had attracted a crowd, some of whom had taken it into their heads to buy him more drinks, perhaps just to hear him crazy-talk. Through the haze of alcohol, he finally detected the derision and disbelief in his audience. At this point, he got surly and argumentative, which soon erupted into a full-blown bar-room brawl rowdy enough that a couple of uniformed cops had to be called in to break it up. Milton himself was the only one stupid enough to hand around when the police cruiser arrived. The cops hauled him away and threw him in the drunk-tank, along with the night's other catch of belligerents and neer-do-wells. He howled and wailed so loudly and so piteously that the police medical examiner was soon called, who rapidly concluded he was suffering some kind of psychosis beyond the usual pink elephants stage of delirium tremens. The strength of Milton's delusions clearly made an impression on both examiner and the assorted uniformed coppers, enough so
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that it became the subject of the day's gossip around the the water cooler. Gumshoe's contact Jaz would have thought nothing of it if Milon hadn't also mentioned the name "Rigg" repeatedly. "Rigg'll be back," Jaz had reported Miltons words, "To take down the evil creatures. He'll send them back to where they came from or blow them away where they crawl." It all sounded very promising, I thought. "Can you get to interview this psycho?" I asked urgently. Gumshoe's laughter rattled the receiver in my ear. "That's funny, Gask," he said, "My contact assumed I would want to talk to this Milton guy. Jaz will have a word with his Captain when he gets on-shift. I should be able to talk to Milton himself later today." * On the phone, I briefed Gumshoe on what he should attempt to get out of Milton, although he probably would have asked the right questions anyway. Gumshoe was a professional and almost certainly knew better than I what buttons to press to persuade a human to open up. It would be a few hours before he would be able to apply the metaphorical thumbscrews to Milton, so I wondered what I might do to advance the case in the meantime. Eventually, I decided there was some legal research I could catch up on. I walked the few blocks and took a couple of transit tubes to the downtown area, and thence to the Public Library. The Library was a grand old building with high stone walls and tall columns and high overlapping domes, a veritable fortress of learning, a stronghold against those who would misappropriate the learned contained within. I spent a couple of hours in there, reviewing various tomes with some assistance from the Goblin librarian - a dried-up old stick of a spinster who looked accusingly at me of the top of her half-moon spectacles until I showed her my PI buzzer. Then, she suddenly turned into helpfulness personified: nothing was too much trouble for an officer of the law, or some close facsimile thereof. What I was in the library to research was the Federal Interest marker. I had heard something of the nomenclature before; I had a dim memory as a minor part of the very fine police training course that was wasted on me some years ago - indeed, quite a lot of years ago. But I needed a refresher, and what I revised was certainly of enormous interest.
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I made my way back to my office, my head in a whirl. I now knew clearly that the FI indicator in official reports - those of government bodies of various flavours, the police, medics and hospitals, and so on - indicates that the subject should be automatically regarded as above suspicion. Indeed, above the law. There must be no questioning, no detention, nothing to prevent the subject from going about their business, left alone to do what they must do without let or hindrance. Anybody encountering the Federal Interest mark was effectively instructed to refer any enquiries to the Office of Internal Security, a shadowy arm of government whose responsibilities were defined in the vaguest possible terms. I felt it was better not making enquiries with that Office, especially if I wanted to move around without constant surveillance for the rest of my life. It was not at all clear whether all this had any bearing on the case - both cases - I had so precipitously become engaged in. But I had a sneaking suspicion that it did have more than just a minor bearing. And I was more than ever convinced that what my dear brother Nether was telling me - or, more precisely, not telling me was of vital importance. * The ringing of the phone startled me from my reverie. It was another urgent call from Gumshoe. "Gask," he said, "It's Milton. He's been released already. Long gone by the time I got there." "How so?" I demanded, "I thought they were keeping him in for psychiatric evaluation?" Gumshoe's derisive snort was clearly audible over the phone. "They got lazy, maybe," he replied gruffly, "Couldn't be bothered with the paperwork. So they just charged him with drunk and disorderly behaviour." "But how did he get out of the cooler?" I insisted. "Somebody made his bail," Gumshoe said, "According to Jaz, one of the slime-ball sharks from those law practices that represent known criminals turned up clutching a bail bond. Twenty thousand dollars." I wondered where Milton came up with that kind of cash. More importantly, who would find the money to get a drunk with verbal diarrhoea out of the cells. "Go on," I growled, already suspecting the worst.
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Gumshoe told me that the lawyer was accompanied by another man, tall and powerfully built, expensively if understatedly dressed; one who affected a military bearing, spoke not at all and, most tellingly, had long blond hair. "Rigg," I breathed, "The bastard!" "He certainly matches the description," Gumshoe agreed. And it told me where the bail money came from, too. The blond man was apparently greeted warmly by Milton, although his effusive greeting was cut short by a curt hand gesture for silence. After that, Milton waited meekly while the paperwork was sorted out, then was briskly guided by the lawyer out of the building followed by the blond man. The last anyone saw was Milton being driven off in a large but anonymous-looking car. "Can you track him down?" I asked. "I can try, sure. Jaz has a few ideas, and he seems curious enough to give me a hand - and a ride in his cruiser. You stay put and I'll call you again when I have any news." * After I hung up on Gumshoe, I slumped in my broken-down old swivel chair and wondered exactly what it was that Milton knew about Goblins. The authorities in both worlds work very hard to make sure the existence of the Lower Realms is known only to a few. It sounded like Milton had picked up a few snippets, somehow, but did not really understand the whole truth of the matter. I got up and strode across the office, thumping my hand on the filing cabinet in frustration. What was the connection between the drunk and Rigg? Was there also a link to that old reprobate Garrick? Or to Nethers activities, or Trinitys? There were pieces missing, pieces that Milton might be able to provide or at least direct me to a snippet or two. I had been pacing the already worn and grubby carpet in my office when I got a second call from Gumshoe. It was bad news worse news, even. Milton had been found, shot at close range, in the back seat of what was probably the very car that had been used to collect him from the safely of the police station. The car itself was a wreck, having somehow managed to fail to crash through the barriers that separated the road from the dock; the vehicle was probably intended to have disappeared into deep water and not found for a long time. All this Gumshoe had picked up by listening to the police radio. The call had come in while he and Jaz were investigating one of
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several dives and low-life watering-holes apparently frequented by Milton. It seemed that Gumshoe was not the only one with contacts in the NYPD; there was another who was prepared to kill to keep a secret. This looked like a panic reaction, especially when much easier and less terminal methods - magical methods, of course - are available for dealing with incidents which risk the general exposure of the Lower Realms to the surface population. "They must be getting desperate," I told Gumshoe, after he had related the details, "Or maybe we are getting close to something." I didn't add, although it doesn't feel like it at the moment. Gumshoe's grunt of acknowledgment suggested he thought much the same. But I had another concern, a more immediate one. "Look, there's one other person who has already demonstrated that she could remember enough to identify suggestive detail," I said urgently, "Rosie's life is in danger." Gumshoe got the message without further prompting. "We've got to get over to Chill's bar right away."
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Chapter 16 Question of Motives

By the time I got to Chill's Bar, Gumshoe had been there for less than twenty minutes. An impressively speedy response; I suspected his New York traffic navigation skills had been tested to the limit. He had probably worn out his horn just getting here that quickly. And there was an unusually strong smell of burnt tyre rubber wafting around, too. Gumshoe's first action had been to politely dismiss the man he had called in a favour to provide security at the bar, and his hired hands, reasoning correctly that none of us could take the risk of them observing me at close quarters. It would get too messy, too much risk of discovery. We would be better off without them, for all the additional manpower they provided. Besides, there were certain advantages - certain magical advantages - which I could use if there were fewer human around to observe the effects or, at the very least, human observers not on the receiving end of those effects. Rosie was in her accustomed place behind the bar. Gumshoe was standing next to her when I made my way out of the hidden entrance. Very close, I thought, very close indeed. Practically touching. I was out of touch of human mores this century - they seem to change every fifty years or so anyway - but I got the distinct impression they were becoming emotionally close. But I'm a Goblin; what do I know about human relationships? Rosie and Gumshoe were speaking in low voices, so quietly that few humans would have been able to pick out their words. "But I don't know anything," she was objecting as I approached, "I've told you guys everything I can remember already. Twice." "Maybe you don't know anything," Gumshoe's basso rumble replied, "But Rigg doesn't know that. Rigg's a ruthless man with a lot to lose. As long as he thinks you might know something, your life is in danger. And just because we've scared him off once already doesn't mean he won't be back. He's killed others. Recently. Today, I think." Gumshoe sure knew how to lay it on thick. Very persuasive. Unfortunately, I suspected that his assessment wasn't too far from the truth. This was a dangerous situation. 114 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
Moving as quietly as only a cautious Goblin can, I walked up behind them and said "Hi" casually, which made them both jump, almost literally, out of their shoes. "Findo!" Rosie squeaked girlishly, an attitude at odds with her normal pose of worldly-wise New York bar-keeper. "Huh, at last," Gumshoe grunted, feigning a degree of coolness I felt sure he did not really feel. "Evening, both," I returned chirpily, "Let's see if we can secure this joint, shall we?" The rest of the barroom was fairly empty, even by the standards of an early midweek evening in New York. Rosie spoke briefly and individually to each member of the waiting staff, who themselves circulated quietly amongst the sparse crowd encouraging them to drink up and go home. Meanwhile I kept out of sight behind the bar. "Anybody unusual in?" I asked Rosie urgently, "Any strangers, anyone you don't recognise?" Rosie glanced around the emptying bar with the practiced eye of publicans everywhere. "No," she replied quietly, "They're all regulars. have been coming in here for years." Most of 'em
One or two of the punters - men perhaps a little wiser than most, or more courageous, or maybe just more curious - sensed that there was something going on, some threat unspoken yet real, and approached Rosie directly with offers of help. Rosie, following Gumshoe's advice, thanked these few brave men profusely, but entirely declined their offers, assuring them that all would be well that to put this evening out of their minds. With the last of the paying customers - I could not help but think of them as witnesses in my own mind - having left the building, we sent the waiting staff on their way. Then we scurried around closing and bolting the remaining doors, and shuttering windows as best we could. We extinguished most of the remaining lights, and did everything we could think of to give the impression that Chill's bar had simply closed early for a want of paying customers on this particular evening. I don't think we would have fooled a close observer, but it was a ploy worth attempting. Rosie was encouraged to hide in the storeroom, behind the steel barrels and heavy crates that might provide a little protection in the event of a fire-fight. I would have secreted her in Nether's carefully hidden lair, but - even after I knew exactly were it was - I found no way to open it. I took the precaution of reminding Rosie of the secret exit from that room, stressing that it was to be used if Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 115
there seemed no other possibility. But she was not to put her own life in danger; she should run away, run anywhere, rather than allow Rigg and his goons to catch her. I really did not want another innocent death on my hands. In the sudden silence of the empty bar, Gumshoe and I checked our handguns and other assets at our disposal, then settled down to wait. I reminded Gumshoe about the low-rent but surprisingly effective magic which should disable firearms in my close proximity. He should keep a good distance from me to ensure his gun wasn't affected. My own weapon is of course specifically proofed against such everyday glamours. We didn't have to wait long. * The attack, when it came, was rapid and fierce. It was probably triggered by the assailants seeing a couple of waiting staff leaving rather obviously through the rear door. The first we knew was when the glass on one of the few unshuttered windows suddenly shattered, followed by something small and heavy crashing to the floor. The object exploded, quite literally, showering the floor and furniture with flaming gobbets in every direction. The fire caught immediately, charring the heavily varnished wood furniture and filling the air with dark smoke. Across the room, I could see Gumshoe reeling back with his sleeve over his mouth, coughing and retching, desperately fumbling for the fire extinguisher behind the bar. Goblins have a particular horror of fire, at least anything larger than a flame to light a cigarette. It is such a danger underground, at least in the historical past, what with explosive gases like firedamp being all too common in mines and caverns, especially those close to the surface where carboniferous minerals are more likely to be found. We don't use naked flames for heating - our caverns are naturally warm enough for our tastes, although most humans would find them a little chilly - and traditional Goblin food is served either raw or very lightly cooked. In all probability, Rigg knew enough about Goblins - or he had been briefed by somebody who knew very well - to understand that a Goblin's nerve would be broken by a firebomb. Most humans would be terrified, too. What the assailant failed to realise that many Goblins - cautious, old-fashioned Goblins, Goblins who travel to the surface on a regular basis - carry a glamour to combat fire, to contain rather than extinguishing the flames. All this is no more remarkable that a human maintaining a fire extinguisher in their
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car or in their kitchen - a sensible precaution against an everyday risk. I was, I suppose, expecting something of this kind. As a matter of fact, I maintain a collection of useful charms and glamours in the capacious pockets of my coat: some cheap and everyday, others much more specialised, expensive, hard-to-come-by and, in a few cases, entirely illegal. I was already fumbling in my pocket for the suitable glamour, trying to identify the correct item from the numerous cheap cardboard packages in different shapes and colours, when there was a soft whump. The flames instantly collected themselves together in an orange-coloured ball that hung in the centre of the room, leaving charred but rapidly cooling patches where the flaming liquid had landed. I turned around slowly. Nether was walking around the end of the bar counter, dusting off his hands casually, followed by a wideeyed Rosie. "Nether," I said, trying unsuccessfully to keep a derisive sneer out of my demeanour, "What are you doing here?" "I thought Rosie might be in danger," he replied softly, apparently genuine concern radiating from his face, "Looks like I got here just in time." Behind me, the suspended fireball spluttered and died, collapsing inwards and disappearing with a soft pop. The room was still smoky, although the fug was dispersing rapidly as smoke poured out of the ventilation ducts and the broken window. "Come out, Gask!" came a loud voice from outside, "We know you're in there." I turned to my brother Nether. "So which one of us is he referring to?" * "That'll be me, then," Nether snorted, grinning widely with insane enthusiasm. He suddenly looked confident, bright-eyed and alert, in complete control of the situation; a far cry from the dissolute drunk that had appeared so unexpectedly in my office. Whether this was the result of some obscure and sophisticated magic, or merely exemplary acting skills, I could not tell. But he was all of a sudden the clever older brother I used to look up to all those years ago. Right now, I was probably looking at him slack-jawed, to tell the truth.
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"Oh, Rigg realises that there has been some human muscle hired to provide a degree of security," he went on, "Or at least something of its appearance." Nether glanced at Gumshoe, still crouched a little way across the room, trying to make it clear he was deploying irony liberally. He needn't have bothered. The human was peering out of the window holding a handkerchief over his mouth with one hand while the other clutched a large black automatic pistol in a fashion that suggested he knew how to use it. I just hoped he had a licence for it, too. "But there's every chance he's not noticed your involvement," he continued, returning his attention to me, "You're pretty good at keeping out of sight when you put your mind to it. And you've sensibly stayed away from this place for the most part." It was faint praise, perhaps, but I suppose it really was a complement coming from my older - and, presumably, wiser brother. He tapped the side of his nose with a finger to emphasise his next remark. "That's why I wanted you to investigate Rosie's disappearance. You were always much less likely to end up being spotted." "So what are we going to do?" Rosie spoke up, echoing my own thoughts. I was still too tongue-tied to get the words out. "We are going to find out exactly what's going on," Nether said, "Otherwise people are going to get hurt." "People have already got hurt," I interrupted, finally finding my voice "People have died!" He nodded sadly. "I didn't know that," he replied, "We'll have to catch up very soon. But first we have to deal with the minor irritation of these guys outside." "And how exactly are we going to do that?" I asked, pointedly emphasising the same word as he had. His grin reappeared, wider than before, and his eyes narrowed in feral amusement. "We're going to keep them busy out there, trying to smoke us out of here. While we sneak out the back way and circle round. See if we can, err, dissuade them from trying anything like this again." *
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It sounded like a plan to me. I wondered if my brother had the wherewithal to make it work. As it turned out, I was not disappointed. Nether put thumb and forefinger into each of the pockets on the greasy puce waistcoat he wore and drew out a couple of cardboard boxes with a theatrical flourish. They were glamour boxes, slightly worn and slightly squished from being carried around for ages, but undoubtedly intact and ready for activation. He held them up to me for inspection. The box in his left hand was a simple smoke bomb, cheap and readily available. A magic to make smoke without fire, no doubt intended to give the impression that the firebomb was still burning. I nodded in understanding and took the little package from his hand. The second glamour was much more sophisticated and gave every impression of being a custom product from some specialist supplier. I squinted at the crabbed runes on the cover. It was a mimic; a magic capable of imitating us as if we were all still in in the bar - complete with coughs, shouts and screams, gunshots even - but without the obvious repeats that a simple looping recording would give. I wondered where Nether got this kind of thing from. I shouted to attract Gumshoe's attention, then waved him over. He scurried across the floor, bent double, holding his automatic so as to be as far away from me as possible. "Put the gun away, Gamshack," Nether instructed softly, "We won't be needing it just at the moment." Gumshoe looked uncertain, but holstered his piece without comment. Nether then beckoned to Rosie, so that we were all huddled at one end of the bar counter. "We're getting out of here. Gamshack, follow my lead, and look after Rosie," I whispered, "But first we all need to make as much noise as possible." "Make like we're panicing," Nether added, "Maybe getting burned. Coughing from the smoke, that kind of thing." "That won't be too hard to fake," Gumshoe rumbled. "And Findo, squeeze off a couple of shots as well." I nodded again and drew my revolver from my coat pocket. Nether held up the mimic glamour in its box. "On my signal," He said, "Three, two..."
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He waved his hand and mouthed silently a few words, and the lid of the cardboard box popped open. We all did a very credible imitation of chaos, panic and confusion for about twenty seconds, which included me firing my gun in the direction of the already broken window, then Nether held up his hand to signal us to stop. But the noise didn't stop. To my ears, it sounded convincingly like we were all still acting flat out. From all around us came the sounds of frightened and panicking humans and Goblins, interspersed with occasional gunshots apparently from a number of different weapons and calibres. The spell appeared to be working. Nether dropped the little box where we stood. I took my cue, read the invocation from the other spell box then tossed it across the room to a spot close to where the firebomb had landed. Black billowing smoke started emerging, unnaturally quickly, and was sucked out of the broken window. It must have looked very convincing from outside. "Okay, move!" Nether hissed urgently, "Follow me." As I expected, we hurried to the back of the building, to the storeroom which also housed the hidden entrance. We piled into the stockroom and closed the door behind us, then I moved to the exit. "Not that one," Nether said, "They probably know about it. Or at least strongly suspect. There's a better way." He made some subtle gesture with his hand that I could not fully follow and the entrance to his hidden rooms faded into view. Rosie seemed unfazed by the sudden appearance. I assumed she had been inside Nether's lair before. It would only be polite, of course. Inside, Rosie's head brushed the ceiling and Gumshoe, despite his modest height by human standards, had to crouch down in an uncomfortable fashion. "Over here," Nether called, moving to stand in front of a patch of blank wall behind the easy chairs. He ran his hand carefully over the expensive wallpaper and another secret entrance appeared. Goblins always feel much more comfortable when they have an escape route. In any case, if Nether had been resident in this bar for a hundred years or thereabouts, then he would have had plenty of time to install all kinds of features and facilities. And if he had plenty of money, of course. Once again, I wondered where Nether was getting all his money from? The escape tunnel was magical in its entirety, utilising the same technology used for the transit tubes underground. There was no
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physical connection between the two ends of the tunnel; it was almost like stepping though a door from one place to another. A moment later, we emerged into a dark alley. We could all hear the tell-tale sirens in the distance as the local forces responded to reports of flames and gunshots. Rigg's goons no doubt disappeared into the alleys as soon as the human police turned up; there was no report either Gumshoe or I could find that told of any arrests on that night. But it wasn't the goons we had to worry about. Rigg himself was standing at the end of the alley; quite a distance away, beyond the range of my protective glamour. Which was a shame since, as we emerged, he turned sharply and raised two large and nasty-looking handguns, taking careful aim in our direction. " I've been expecting you, Gask," Rigg shouted. Nether yelled something I didn't catch. His voice was drowned by the roar of Rigg's pistols. My glamour definitely wasnt working But I could see, in the direction Nether was pointing, a suggestion of a slivery light tracing an outline. "Move!" I yelled at Rosie and Gumshoe, pushing the bulky humans with all my considerable strength, assisted by Nether. As one, we dived headfirst at the blank brick wall opposite.
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Chapter 17 Surprise Descent

Our mixed tangle of human and Goblin bodies were sprawled on the landing mat. It must have been a humorous sight for any onlooker, although the phlegmatic border guards did not seem to be particularly amused. Though I did notice that Gumshoe's arm was wrapped protectively around Rosie. She didnt seem to mind, and he didnt rush to remove it either. Nether and I picked ourselves up and counted the bullet-holes, pleased to discover that there were none, while Gumshoe gentlemanly assisted Rosie to her feet. She looked around wildly for a few moments then, entirely confused, she turned to Nether. "What happened?" she asked, adding, "Where are we?" "It looks like you get your wish after all, Rosie," Nether said kindly, "Welcome to the Lower Realms." "This is the Kingdom of the Goblins?" Rosie squeaked, looking around wildly, "How did we get here?" "We used an unmarked entrance to the Lower Realms," I explained, quietly emphasising the correct title. I should have guessed Nether would have arranged a convenient way to get below. On the other hand, I was increasingly worried by just how much Rigg, and logically therefore Garrick, knew about Nether's operations - whatever they were. "Wow." She looked around in awe, speechless. Actually, the current surroundings weren't particularly impressive: a rather grotty customs point, typical of those attached to officially-managed entrances. Which was a shame really, since we had to spend half an hour hanging around while immigration procedures were carried out. There was no problem for Nether and myself, of course, and Gumshoe had visited the caverns before, many years before, in pursuit of a felon who was in the end very nearly the death of both of us. Maybe that's a tale I'll document one of these days. But Rosie had to go through the process, since an immediate return to the surface was unthinkable, which involved quite a lot of paperwork. Human visitors down here are not forbidden, but they are not exactly encouraged, either. Both Nether and I were called
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upon to declare sponsorship and responsibility for the visitors, and Gumshoe was able to pronounce a few pleasantries in the Goblin tongue with not too bad an accent, which mollified the border guards somewhat. Gumshoe and I found the time to bring Nether up to speed with what we had discovered about Milton. Later I alone mentioned Coupar Angus - although omitting the connection with Trinity, which was her business alone. Nether nodded sagely throughout and admitted - out of earshot of Rosie, who was chatting excitedly to Gumshoe and making both of them laugh - that he had bought Chill's Bar without Rosie knowing about it. He said that he had masqueraded as a property investment corporation not difficult since they are generally low-profile and anonymous organisations at the best of times - bought the bar when the business got into financial difficulties, then engaged Rosie to run the place as manager. "So securing pointedly. your hidey-hole up there, then?" I asked
"Of course," Nether smiled gently in return, "Besides, Rosie and her family have been my friends for generations. It's the least I could do." It sure seemed like a good deal all round - if one had the money to make the investment in the first place. But now we had more immediate concerns. I lit a cigarette and found myself trying to imagine how a human visitor to the Lower Realms would see the familiar caverns and cities of the Goblins. I guessed I was about to experience that at close quarters. * Finally, we were released from the attentions of the border guards who had completed their tasks with a degree of plodding efficiency - every "i" crossed and every "t" dotted, or something and allowed to go on our way. A hasty conversation with Nether suggested that we should travel to my offices, on the grounds that we couldn't think of a better place to go. It was, at least, reasonably defensible, highly familiar - to me, at least - and there were a number of additional resources and other advantages I kept carefully concealed around the place. On the way, Nether and I had to keep up a continuous stream of answers and explanations, Rosie having reverted from being dumb with awe to child-like curiosity about anything and everything. Although he didn't ask any questions himself, I did note that Gumshoe was paying close attention to the answers we
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were giving, and I didn't doubt that all this information was being squirraled away in the highly efficient brain that he keeps hidden away behind his rather bull-like exterior. She wanted to know how the travel tubes work - an explanation that neither Nether nor I could manage in English, since neither words nor concepts seemed to be translatable. We were easily able to say that this building was a bank and that a hospital, that this place was a museum, and that a manufactory of everyday and household glamours, and the shops and markets were selfexplanatory anyway. Of course there were other buildings neither of us could identify, and I began to realise just how little I knew about the minutiae of our world. She wanted to know what held the ceiling up - great big supporting columns and careful engineering was the short answer and whether it ever fell down - never, for the same reasons. She asked about money and food and clothing, and children and schools and upbringing, none of which were amenable to any simple explanation. I felt like a tourist guide, or perhaps a schoolteacher - neither of which were professions I had ever felt I had any aptitude for. As we walked, we kept to quieter streets and byways as much as we could. Powered vehicles are all but unknown in the Lower Realms - unlike the plethora of planes, trains and automobiles which litter the surface world - and the parts of everybody's journey that is outside the transit tube network is on foot. Rosie and Nether would always stand out in a crowd, head and shoulders above everyone else, despite their relatively diminutive stature by human standards, and humans tended to attract the attention of passers-by, an attention I was keen to minimise. In a little more than an hour we were all ensconced in my office. Rosie was sitting reasonably comfortably in one of my guest chairs and Nether - entirely at his ease, it seemed - in the other. Gumshoe, whose bulk would inevitably mean that most Goblin furniture would be impossible, chose to sit on the floor with his back to the filing cabinets. I attended to such host-like duties as the facilities of my office would allow, offering strong black coffee to counteract the effects of a sleepless night, or whiskey and water for nerves. To nobody's surprise, all present took both coffee and whiskey, although the effects seemed to be most immediate on Nether. "You should all get some rest, sleep for an hour," he said, looking exceptionally bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, "I'll keep watch for now." "Are you sure?" I asked, not quite stifling a yawn.
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"I'll be fine," he replied jauntily, "I've done this kind of thing before. Trust me." I was dubious for a moment, but Nether seemed so confident, so alert, that I could not harbour serious doubts about his abilities. Besides, I was feeling distinctly tired and a short nap would certainly put things to rights. "Okay." I plonked myself in the squeaky chair behind my desk - it seemed to have become silent all of a sudden - lay back and put my feet on the desk, tilted my hat over my eyes and promptly fell asleep. * It seemed only a moment later when I awoke, feeling surprisingly refreshed. A glance at the clock indicated that my nap was more like two hours than one, and it was just the beginnings of movement in the room that had awakened me. Rosie was yawning and stretching and looking around bleary-eyed, while Gumshoe went from being curled up on the floor like an infant to complete alertness in a flash. Nether looked as bright-eyed as before, sitting back and gazing around at us sleeping babes. I prised myself from my desk chair and made more coffee, this time omitting to offer any of the hooch from the medicinal bottle. While I was handing out cups filled from the medicinal coffee pot, Gumshoe moved over to sit on the floor at Rosie's feet. "Rosie," he began, taking her hand in his and looking up at her like a forlorn puppy, an attitude quite at odds with his usual hardnosed pragmatism, "There's still something we need to know. All of us." Rosie sat up straight, like a keen girl in the front row of a schoolroom. "What is it that you know?" he went on, "Or, at least, what do they think you know? There must be something, or they wouldn't be going to all this trouble." Rosie shook her head sadly. "I've been racking my brains. Anything at all." I can't think of anything.
Gumshoe looked even more forlorn. A thought seemed to strike Rosie. She put her other hand over Gumshoe's massive paw. "Thank you for saving my Bar," she said, looking directly at Gumshoe, "And me."
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Her gaze glanced off me and settled on Nether. "All of you. I'm most grateful," she added, "I just wish I could help more." I resisted the temptation to tell her that Nether was just protecting his own interests, at least in part. That news could wait a while. A thought struck me. Perhaps that few hours sleep had done some good after all. "Have you got a photo of that Milton guy?" I asked Gumshoe. "Sure." He extracted his hand, with a degree of reluctance, from Rosie's grasp and reached into an inside pocket. He pulled out a manila envelope, opened it and extracted a couple of prints - obviously file photos - and waved them at me. I put the coffee pot back on top of the filing cabinet and took them from his hand. The snaps showed a scruffy-looking human male or indeterminate age, with wild staring eyes erupting from a face framed by ginger hair, moustaches and beard. To the best of my knowledge, I had never seen that man before in my life. I shook my head briefly, then handed one photo to Nether and the other to Rosie. Rosie's eyes narrowed as she focussed on the face in the photograph. Like all good publicans, she would have had a good memory for faces; in her position, it's always important to remember to welcome back a long-lost customer, or to eject potential troublemakers before they start. "I know this man," she said firmly. I glanced at Nether, who also shook his head to confirm he didn't recognise the face. "Who is he, Rosie?" "Don't know his name. He's been coming into my bar fairly regularly over the last few months. Always on his own, always with plenty of money - money he was happy to spend, maybe more money than I think he was comfortable with." She paused for a moment, suddenly aware of three pairs of eyes on her. "His name is - was - Milton," Gumshoe said gently, "He was killed, murdered, yesterday. We didnt know you knew him." "I was always unsure about him," Rosie went on, barely audibly, clearly shaken by the news, "He asked a lot of questions,
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made a lot of the regulars quite nervous. I wouldn't let Nether come out while he was around. Although Nether wasn't home much around that time anyway." "That sounds like a connection to me," I said, "But what did Milton actually find out?" Just that that moment, the phone rang. * Everybody in the room froze for a moment. "Go on, answer it," Nether advised acerbically, "It might be important." I scurried back to my side of the desk and picked up the receiver. "Findo Gask, Private Investigations," I said formally into the mouthpiece. "Gask, it's Luncardy," came a familiar voice. "Good morning, Captain," I continued in my best polite talkingto-policemen voice, "How can I help you today?" "Don't mess me about, Gask," Luncardy snapped, "I don't know what contact you've had with your errant sister." I began to say, "None at all" but Luncardy didn't wait for a response of any kind. "But right now she's in the cells downstairs," she went on without pausing for breath. "Trinity? How did you catch her?" I asked politely. I suspected I knew what the response was going to be. I wasn't disappointed. "We didn't," she said shortly, "She turned herself in. About two hours ago. Accompanied by a high-powered lawyer who hasn't left her side since they arrived. One of those where you hope their knowledge of the law is in proportion to the size of their fee." A long speech from Luncardy. Self-evidently she wasn't particularly impressed. Although you would have been hardpushed to recognise that from the tone of her voice. "Look," she went on, "She hasn't said more than ten words since she's got here. And I'm going to have to release her in the next hour or so." The lawyer must be as good as advertised, then. Remind me to find out his name, so that I can avoid him. "So I want you to come and talk to her," Luncardy insisted.
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"Why?" "Just talk to her, that's all," Luncardy exploded, "We're on the same side, remember. If you can persuade her to cooperate, maybe, just a bit, well there might be something we can use to track down Garrick." I wasn't absolutely convinced about that possibility, but then again I didn't have much else to go on just at the moment. "Okay," I demurred, "I'll be in shortly. people with me. Try not to scare them off." I'll be bringing some
"Huh," Luncardy replied, "I don't care who you bring, as long as you get here pronto." "Okay, okay, I'll be there. Just be patient." I returned the receiver to its hook and turned to Nether, the ironic look on his face reflecting the wry one which I suspected had suffused my own. "Our dear sister's in the slammer," I announced, in English so that I could see Gumshoe's reaction. To his credit, Gumshoe was entirely unfazed. "We'd better go get her out then, hadn't we?"
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Chapter 18 Dungeons
It took about forty minutes of brisk walking and even brisker transportation by the travel tubes to get to the 14th precinct. Nether and I were slowed noticeably by having Gumshoe and Rosie travelling with us. But it was inevitable, I suppose, under the circumstances. I wasn't prepared to leave Rosie behind, even in the care of the redoubtable Gumshoe. There were too many things which would be unfamiliar to him, too many surprises which could be pulled to catch him off-guard. Nether couldn't promise to stay, apparently. He got suddenly shifty when I pressed him on his immediate plans, although I doubted either Rosie or Gumshoe had noticed the momentary lapse. So we all had to tag along together. No doubt we looked a peculiar group, especially on the busier streets in the morning rush hour. Two tall and well-built Goblins - Nether is very nearly as big as I am, and he seemed to have grown a few inches now that he had stopped pretending to be a drunk - overshadowed by the two humans, both moving cautiously so as not to crush the other pedestrians, even though the locals were understandably shying away from the oversized monsters in their midst. Nether wan't keen to visit a police station either, for some reason. Maybe he had a guilty conscience, or perhaps there was some more pragmatic reason why his presence would cause a problem. For him, or for the police, I couldn't tell. Who could? Still, he promised to walk with us to the precinct station and then remain outside - hidden somewhere nearby, no doubt - while I talked to Trinity. We made our way up the impressive - if slightly worn - stone steps of the precinct station and checked in at the front desk. Inevitably, our particulars were taken and then we were asked to wait. I took a seat on one of the hard chairs that populate such places, presumably designed expressly to make it impossible to fall asleep in them or perhaps they're just supposed to be easy to clean. Rosie squeezed herself onto a seat, looking particularly uncomfortable; whether this was the chair or just being in a police station it was hard to say. And Gumshoe moved to stand in the far corner of the reception area to de-emphasise his bulk. We got numerous curious glances and a few muttered comments from the cops passing through, although the punters Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 129
seemed to have other things on their mind. Like whether their loved ones were dead or alive, innocent or guilty, to be imprisoned or set free. Police waiting rooms everywhere have this depressing quality, in my experience. Even Rosie was subdued, looking around with large sad eyes at the hard-nosed coppers and the distressed customers that sat in silent huddles. We didn't have to wait for long. Luncardy stalked through the double doors which led to the inner part of the station, glanced around and then scowled in our direction. "Humans," Luncardy muttered in the Goblin tongue as she approached, "What are they doing here?" Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Gumshoe biting his tongue, or at least struggling to give the impression that he didn't understand what the Captain had just said. I guess Luncardy had less practice than I in reading human facial expressions. "Captain Luncardy," I said, speaking in English for Rosie's benefit, "We're here to see my sister Trinity." "I know why you're here, Gask," Luncardy growled, "And you took your time. Her lawyer hasn't come back yet, so you still have a chance to talk to her. But it won't be long before the" - she swallowed hard - "professional representative returns. You've only got a few minutes to persuade her to do the right thing." "And what exactly is the right thing?" I asked calmly, one professional to another. Luncardy glared at me. "Tell us what she knows about Garrick," she thundered, "She's not going to be charged, and she's going to walk out of here in the next half-hour. But she's been entirely silent, on the advice of her lawyer. Just cautious, I guess. But we could really use her help." "Okay, Ill try," I sighed, "I'll talk to her. No promises, though." "Try hard, Gask," the Captain growled, "We need information here." * I was shown into the cell where Trinity was being held by one of Luncardy's interchangeable young coppers, leaving Rosie and Gumshoe in the waiting area. The police didn't seem keen of having humans exploring even more places inside their station. The surface folks get such strange ideas sometimes. For example, I'm sure you'd like me to describe the holding pen as a squalid dungeon, low-ceilinged and straw-lined, but in reality it was dry, warm, had reasonable seating and was very well-lit by Goblin standards. 130 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
"Hi Trinity. This must be a bit of a come-down for you," I suggested ironically. Trinity seemed unfazed. She was lounging on the bolted-down chair with every evidence of comfort, a Goblin who knew she wasn't going to be hanging around for long. "Nah," she replied, "Just a professional liability, and one I carry insurance for. That overpaid lawyer of mine should be back shortly with a writ from the Judge, and then I'll be outa here." "So I hear," I agreed, "Although Luncardy seems to think you're holding out on her." "I don't much care what the police think. Busybody Luncardy." Especially Miss
"But I do," I urged, "Look, I need Luncardy's help if I'm going to stand any chance of achieving what we both want. So if you do have something, if you know - or even suspect - something you've not told them, or me, then you might consider doing so now." Trinity shook her head slowly. "I'm entirely in the dark," she said, "I don't even know why you - or the cops, for that matter - think I know where Garrick is. I'm a victim here. I've lost my investment in what I thought was a legitimate import/export company. The cops seem to be nearly convinced of my innocence, especially after my lawyer showed them one of the falsified business permits." "They are convinced," I said firmly, "So why don't you give them something to go on? Something which helps build a case. Even if you don't know where Garrick is right now." "Like what?" "Tell them everything about your business dealings with Garrick. What the arrangements were, how he presented the fake permits, his comings and goings. Anything." Trinity thought it over. "Okay, I'll talk to my lawyer," she said eventually, "If Luncardy's on the level, and she can convince my legal advisor, then I'll make a statement." Later, I would learn that Trinity's statement was a considerable help in filling in the tangled web of deceit and double-dealing which would have put Garrick away for a long time. My sister missed little of what was going on around her, and a smart cookie like Luncardy would be able to put two and two together, to see through the fronts and cut-outs, and get a better picture of what Garrick was up to. It was complex, true, but also very profitable:
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Garrick would eventually be revealed as having access to a considerable fortune, concealed in dozens of trusts and anonymous bank accounts. And by that time I would already have discovered what he was doing with all that money. *
* My head swirled as I tried to sit up. I couldn't make it at the first attempt and I collapsed back on the warm sand, a move which amplified the dull ache in my head. It wasn't hitting the ground at the bottom which had made my head hurt - such a fall unaided by magical restraints would kill any living being not equipped with wings. I must have caught my noggin on something on the way down. I was in the depths of the caverns, the lowest of the Lower Realms, in the region known as the Hells. I could tell this immediately, of course, even with my eyes closed, from the air pressure, the smell and humidity, and the stifling heat. I remembered that this was a region where keeping your wits about you would be a really good idea. I sat up, more successfully this time, and looked around groggily. Not all of the caverns were actually excavated by Goblins, although we have been digging away down here for a great many millennia. My distant ancestors found, something to their surprise, that other creatures - wiser and stranger creatures - had long since elected to leave the surface world to the upstart and energetic races, and make their homes in the quiet depths. The system of caverns is interconnected, of course, but these older regions are sparsely populated and distinctly low-rent; not that they were particularly dangerous - most of the time, anyway - but many Goblins found the neighbourhood too hot, too oppressive, or just too damn weird. Gumshoe and Rosie were both lying on the ground next to each other, not ten feet from me. I recovered my hat and crawled over to them. They seemed shaken but otherwise uninjured. "Where are we?" Gumshoe asked, gently helping Rosie to her feet then loosening his tie. He found it hot, too. "We're in the Hells," I replied, too bluntly. "In Hell?" Rosie gasped, looking around wildly, "You mean, literally?" 132 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
"It's not quite as bad as that," I quipped, trying to sound reassuring, "It's just a name for the deeper regions." Rosie didn't seem entirely convinced. She looked around at the cave we were in. Goblin tunnels are finished perfectly, the surfaces almost polished smooth and finished with cut stone blocks. Here, the rock walls were all rough-hewn almost as if carved by the claws of a giant creature. I hoped that wasn't actually true, although you do hear some strange stories. "How do we get out?" she asked. This cave was a dead-end, except for the chimney above us. The chamber narrowed to a funnel fifty feet over our heads. There was no way to climb, even with Goblin claws. Just the one low wide archway that led out of the nearly circular room. We had no choice of direction. "I'm not sure we do," I said, "At least, not yet. Somebody - or something - has brought us down here deliberately. And I don't think it's got anything to do with Garrick and his goons. They seemed as surprised as I was when we fell into that trap. Meanwhile, that way, I suppose." I pointed along the wide track and kicked at the sandy surface with the toe of my shoe. The way was lit by a reddish light that seemed to flicker at random. It was unnervingly like firelight, enough to disturb the ancient prejudices of the Goblin race, not to mention being worryingly close to human preconceptions about the fires of hell. "We'd better go and find out," I said, "Somebody's got some explaining to do." Gumshoe shrugged and raised an eyebrow in what was intended to be a meaningful way. I sometimes have difficulty with human facial expressions, but it looked like he was turning over a vast number of questions and possibilities in his head. He asked nothing, though; like me, he realised we still had no real idea of exactly what was going on.
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Chapter 19 and Dragons

The tunnel ended after a hundred paces or so, on a wide shelf of rock jutting out into an open space, the extent of which was at first difficult to see. There was no barrier, no wall to mark the edge of the balcony. Whoever lived here wasn't afraid of heights. In fact, judging from the scuff marks in the sand and in the bare rock, whatever lived here had large claws and preferred to fly rather than walk. Beings like that are probably to be avoided wherever possible. I strolled up to the very edge and looked around. Gumshoe and Rosie approached more cautiously, hanging back from the precipice. Humans are not good with heights, I find, and always seem to want railings and banisters at the edge of even the most modest drop. A vast cavern, bigger than most constructed by even the most ambitious Goblin endeavours, stretched out in front of us. It was sporadically lit by red glows from a multitude of places, on the ground and on the walls. The red lights were not fires in any conventional sense. The beings who inhabit this Realm, I knew from my studies, had long ago perfected the art of making the rocks glow to provide light from molten rocks deeper still in the earth, without transferring more than a tiny fraction of the associated heat. It was a trick not yet replicated by even the most skilled Goblin magical artisan. "What is this place?" Rosie asked in a hushed whisper. "It's one of the Hells, the lowest of the Lower Realms," I told her, "Not many Goblins ever come down here." "So who does live here?" I spoke softly. "Other creatures. Ones we probably won't meet. Creatures who like to keep themselves to themselves, who like their privacy. We should stay out of their way." "I think that would be a good idea," she whispered. Gumshoe nodded violently in agreement.
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The ledge we were standing on appeared to run along the wall of the cavern in both directions, one leading vaguely downwards and the other tilting slightly up. "This way, I think," I said, pointing in the direction which led upwards. Together we set off at a slow walk. After a few minutes, we approached one of the sources of the red light, a patch of rock several tens of feet on a side, set in the face that edged the balcony. Apart from the glow, there was nothing remarkable about the rock. It was not even particularly warm to the touch, as Gumshoe discovered when he approached for a closer look. As we walked, a thought occurred to me. I turned to Rosie. "When we fell," I asked, "You cried Oh no, no again, didnt you? What did you mean? " Rosie stopped dead, as if a sudden realisation had occurred to her also. "Before," She said slowly, "I remember falling before. Just like that." I glanced at Gumshoe, who looked puzzled. "I think," I said equally slowly, "That weve just realised how you got to the Lower Realms last time." Rosies eyes opened wide. "Youre right. But I never remembered before." We walked on in silence. There was no sign of movement, other than the ever-present flicker of the red lights. Once or twice I thought I caught a glimpse of movement in the far distance, as if some vast creature was flying around. But otherwise it seemed we were on our own, although probably not unobserved, given the reputation of those who make this Realm their home. As we walked, we passed a few shallow alcoves, huge depressions in the rock face, which we cautiously explored. But there was nothing to see, nothing to suggest they were anything more than natural fluctuations in the wall. We had just passed the third alcove when there was a grating noise, as if a vast stone block was shifting lubricated by only a few grains of sand. We spun around, both Gumshoe and I automatically reaching for our guns - although I doubted such crude technology would be any kind of protection against anything we might encounter down here. A voice boomed out of an open doorway which had appeared where the alcove once was. Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 135
"Findo Gask!" It seemed my fame had preceded me. I put the gun away and walked towards the now-opened alcove. There was no point trying to run. * In the Goblin tongue, these beings are known as The Old Ones, or perhaps The Wise Ones, and they have been resident down here for a lot longer than any of our histories. They have always been few in number - at least in Goblin memories - and are exceptionally long-lived, even by Goblin standards. Only a human would think of them as winged monsters, although they did sport impressively large wings, leathery and batlike, together with scales and claws like a lizard. Whether you want to think of them as demons or dragons is up to you; they are neither, human mythology and misinformation not withstanding. The Old Ones can speak the Goblin tongue and their words are widely regarded as being worth listening to - if they deign to answer your query or even acknowledge your presence. They do have names, too, but these names are not known to mere Goblins, and they seem oblivious to the names of individual Goblins, too. Except in a very few cases, in which case the named individual can be expected to have a very interesting - and possibly rather short life in the near future. They also have other ways of communicating: each of them know what all the others know, and it is best - according to the limited amount of lore on the subject - to speak whatever statement or question you have in mind, and to answer their enquiries, with total honesty and conviction. The Old Ones have no truck whatsoever with duplicitous or self-serving individuals, and any attempt to knowingly lie will be summarily dealt with. The Goblin tongue is full of overtones, both metaphorically and in the sound of the words being pronounced. In the mouth of one of the Old Ones, the language is slow and sonorous, with subsonics which rattle the bones and make one's stomach distinctly queasy. "You are Findo Gask," the voice boomed out again, a hint of interest just detectable within the guttural utterances, "Enter my presence." I stepped inside. Behind, I could hear Gumshoe and Rosie following me. Gumshoe probably knew enough of our language to understand what the Old One had said, and even Rosie would have recognised the pronunciation of my name. Their movements sounded hesitant, even fearful - and who could blame them - but to their credit they had elected to follow me into the dragon's den.
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* Inside was a large circular space with a high domed roof, nearly hemispherical in its proportions. The walls were all of smooth polished stone, and the floor stepped down steeply like an amphitheatre towards a raised dais set in the exact centre. I had half-expected the vast stone block which formed the door to slide back into place. It didn't move. I found this only faintly reassuring. The Old Ones, I had once been told, had long ago mastered the art of fluid masonry. They could make stone move, flow like water, or become transparent or opaque in a moment. They could slide one massive block through another on different trajectories, each unaffected by the solid mass of the other. These techniques were used to make vast constructions of intricate design and obscure purpose. It was even said that some of these devices yet remained in the lowest of the Lower Realms, quiescent and waiting for who-knows-what event or contingency. Where the truth lay, I couldn't tell. As I stepped forward, the floor lifted, flattened and smoothed itself into a seamless expanse of polished stone. Obscure and complex patterns - decoration or mechanism, I could not be sure froze themselves into the unbroken surface. The Old Ones liked their open spaces, we have always been told. If they had once been accustomed to flying freely in the upper world, the theory went, they might be prone to claustrophobia underground, which is why they were always inclined to build their new habitats on a monumental scale. The red glow was brighter here, bright enough for a human to be comfortable without being crippling for a Goblin. I waited for a second for Gumshoe and Rosie to catch up. "What is it?" Rosie hissed. "One of the Old Ones," I replied, "Be very respectful. only if spoken to. Move slowly. And let me do the talking." Rosie nodded, as did Gumshoe. "Looks like a dragon to me," she muttered. Together we trekked across the floor to the dais where the Old One was waiting for us. He was a fine specimen: scales polished and unbroken, the leathery wings shiny as if recently oiled, the teeth and claws pearly-white and sparkling. These beings never seem to age and always look as if they had emerged from some giant eggshell not twenty-four hours before. I stopped and bowed politely at what seemed like a prudent distance, motioning Gumshoe and Rosie to do the same. Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 137 Speak
"Ah, humans," the Old One spoke, switching to English with no perceptible hesitation and speaking with a crisp accent that was no more than a hundred years out of date, "I have not had the pleasure of the company of your kind for a very long time." * The Old One was curled up on a stone plinth that had seemed to be raised ten feet or more in the air when we started across the floor, but now was no more than a low ledge that a human or Goblin could comfortably have sat upon. The stone seemed to have formed itself to the Old Ones shape, with depressions moulded to his legs and belly. His wings were folded and his tail was curled around his body in the manner of a sleeping cat. Perhaps he was trying to minimise his true bulk to avoid frightening the visitors overmuch. I wasn't sure it was working. There was silence for a long moment, broken only by the susserations of four creatures breathing. Three of them sounded just a bit scared. The Old One cast his yellow unblinking eyes over us three before speaking again. "Welcome to my humble abode," he began, "Let me proffer my apologies at the abrupt way I transported you here. I trust you are not unduly alarmed." There was a pause, as if an answer was expected. around then nodded cautiously, responding for us all. "Please, sit down. I mean you no harm." I looked behind me. Three blocks of stone - no, three stone chairs - had silently extruded themselves from the floor. Stone chairs of differing shapes and sizes, tailored to the needs of two humans and a large Goblin, chairs shaped to conform to our individual contours. They were also, I would shortly discover, extremely comfortable. "I am sure you would have escaped those who would have harmed you," the Old One resumed when we were all seated, "But the opportunity to intercede was too fortuitous to ignore." The Old One snorted as if in amusement. "You are doubtlessly wondering why I - indeed, we - brought you here." I had been wondering on this exact question. The Old Ones do not generally interest themselves in the undertakings of Goblins or anybody else for that matter. I thought it prudent to speak my answer aloud. "Yes, Old One," I said, trying to project undertones of polite civility into every syllable, "I am. I'm sure we all are." 138 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 I glanced
The vast head nodded very slightly. "We have long been aware of the actions and motivations of another of your kind," the Old One intoned, a touch of steel entering his voice, "A wily old Goblin with diverse interests and obscure knowledge in arcane areas. One who is familiar to you." "Professor Urquhart Garrick," I burst out, unable to contain my reaction. "That would be one of his names, yes," came the cold reply, then with added subsonics for emphasis, "And he must be stopped." I was dumb-struck for a moment. "You're interested in Garrick?" I exploded, "What in all the Hells for?" There was another distinct pause: quite enough time for me to thoroughly worry about opening my mouth in quite so uninhibited a fashion. "We are interested, yes," the old One concurred coolly, "Garrick's plans remain opaque to us, at least partially. This in itself is a distressing situation since we are usually able to perceive the ebb and flow of events in the Upper Levels without difficulty." "So he is hiding something," I muttered, "Even from you." "So we find yourselves in the position where we need your help," he added, ignoring my remarks, "Help from all of you." It seemed that I had suddenly acquired yet another client, one that I had never heard of engaging the services of a Private Investigator, even a Goblin one. And I was sure that Gumshoe had never had such a strange customer for his services either. Whether we'd ever get any kind of payment, and even what form it might take, was a moot point. On the other hand, being owed a favour by the Old Ones was probably worth a lot to a Goblin in my position, one way or another. "I would be honoured to give any assistance I can," I replied formally, "Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell us what you do know about Garrick and his associates." The Old One sighed and contrived to look faintly embarrassed, if that were truly possible. "We believe he is attempting to steal our secrets, our magical lore," he said, "He may even have succeeded." *
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Once again, I was astonished beyond the point of speech. Well, nearly, anyway. It takes a lot to get me to shut up. But the idea that the near-omnipotent, all-seeing Old Ones could either find something hidden from their powers of observation or, still worse, be beyond their ability to influence events at a distance seemed incredible. The Old One might have spotted my state of speechlessness and was covering for me, or perhaps he just didn't care. In any case, he went on smoothly, addressing us all in turn with subtle motions of his vast head. "We have detected probes against our secrets, delicate magics executed with skill and talent, almost too subtle to be of Goblin origins." The Old One harrumphed, sounding like a schoolteacher addressing a particularly recalcitrant class who had, once again, failed to complete their homework on time. "Pilfering from our lore is a practice we thought you had long done away with," the Old Ones said, displeasure suddenly radiating from every nuance in his speech and motion of his body, "But somebody seems to be trying it again." I was unsure at the time, but I would later discover - after a certain amount of delving into dusty history books in the public library - that this was a coded reference to what has become known as the Common Cause Pact. It seems that Goblins have always been more than a little acquisitive of others' secrets. We have certainly acquired technologies from the surface world of the humans in recent times and made them an integral part of our own existence - especially where the human technology is more reliable, or just plain cheaper - than any equivalent magic. It's just common sense to use the best, and I'm sure we paid more than a few humans handsomely for the expertise. But before that - long before, when humans were still scratching out a living from the forests - one of the earliest of the Goblin clans delving in the deepness traded secrets with the Old Ones, although always on terms which seemed equitable at the time but turned out to subtly favour the Old Ones when inspected with the benefit of hindsight. It seemed that in millennia past, the Old Ones valued their privacy and their quietness - personally, I have every sympathy and the sounds and the potential disruption of Goblins energetically burrowing in the rock above their heads was intrinsically distressing to them. The Old Ones skilfully guided the negotiation the Pact and contrived to present my ancestors with certain 140 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
magical secrets: tunnelling techniques to make the construction of caverns much easier and much quieter. They also gave us the secret of the transit tube - effectively, instantaneous travel through solid rock - so that fewer physical tunnels would be required and, we would realise much later - so that the society of Goblins would remain singular and unfragmented. But my ancestors weren't satisfied with the bargain and contrived to steal another secret from the Old Ones: the ability to dispose of rock cut from the caverns within the walls themselves, so avoiding the immensely tedious task of hauling the spoil to the surface and depositing it in mountainous heaps, where it was at risk of attracting attention from itinerant humans. Unsurprisingly, the Old Ones were mightily displeased with this magical thievery, once they had discovered their loss. They became more secretive, retreated still further from the ken of most Goblins - although not quite to mythical status, as seemed to have happened for the surface population - and remaining hidden in their own network of caverns - larger and much less populous than our own. "And you think Garrick is behind this?" I asked, my investigative instincts coming to the fore automatically, despite my earlier confusion. "We do," the Old One confirmed, his voice deep and once again calm, "Although I doubt we could prove it to the satisfaction of our Laws, or your own." I cocked my head, professional curiosity overcoming my sense of awe. "Our own probes," the Old One went on, "Honed and refined over aeons, are being deflected, misled or blocked. Now we cannot rely on magic to keep track of everything in the worlds above." That, I surmised, meant both the caverns of the Goblins and the surface world of the humans. Gumshoe glanced sideways at Rosie; I guess both of them had picked up the inference that people were being watched. The Old One suddenly reared up, his head towering thirty feet above us, causing all three of us to stand and attempt a step backwards - in all three cases, successfully prevented by the stone furniture. "So, Detectives," he said, the subsonic rumble again adding emphasis, "Will you help us track down this Garrick?" Everybody in the world seemed to want to lay their claws on my old tutor. I had no problem with that.
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"Sure," I replied laconically, sitting down again and taking a cigarette packet and match-book from my coat pocket, "Tell me what you know."
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Chapter 20 Wisdom Arisen

Rosie sat down heavily on the soft stone chair behind her; more precisely, she collapsed as if her legs were suddenly too weak to support her. She was showing distinct signs of strain - not surprisingly, given what she had been though over the last few days. By contrast, Gumshoe seemed unfazed; he remained standing and adopted the familiar attentive pose that meant he was taking in everything that was said and all the body language nuances as well. Exactly how he would get on with the involuntary movements of a Hellish demon remained to be seen. Meanwhile, I blew smoke and waited with badly-disguised mock patience. Faced with this level of alert attention, the Old One contrived to look mildly sheepish, which is a difficult feat if you are fifty-foot long fire-breathing winged lizard. "We have to confess to being without reliable information," he rumbled, "We hear a few things, we sense others, disjointed and confusing. A few hints and whispers have reached our ears about a great magic, one capable of changing the ways of Goblins forever. We hear the name of this Garrick, with whom we know you share a long history." The Old One paused, his head moving almost imperceptibly as his gaze swept over us all. "And there is one word, a word we have heard repeated, a word we believe is native to your language" - he nodded at Rosie and Gumshoe - "but we are not sure what it means." "Let me guess," Gumshoe said suddenly, stepping forward, "Dulelm?" The Old One's eyes narrowed and his head swivelled rapidly and precisely to focus on the human PI. The Old Ones are reputed to have exceptionally keen eyesight, even able to observe the throb of a pulse in throat or temple. "You've heard this word? Recently?" "Dulelm Hollows. It's a settlement," Gumshoe answered immediately, managing to avoid looking smug, "A human village. On the surface. Not far from New York."
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The Old One narrowed his eyes further, bringing his head down to a level with that of the standing human. Gumshoe stood his ground, returning the penetrating stare with a surprisingly calm gaze. After a moment, the Old One raised his head and shook it momentarily, as if in disbelief. "I knew we should have been paying more attention to what you people have been up to," he muttered to himself, using the Goblin tongue. There was a faint chittering noise, almost inaudible even to sensitive Goblin ears, as if a vast congress suddenly undertook an earnest and high-speed debate on some minor and subtle point of procedure. The noise was gone almost as soon as it had begun. "So you don't know much," I said cockily, grinding out my cigarette butt under my heel. (It was only a little later that I noticed that the butt had entirely disappeared, as if the floor had swallowed it up. I guess the Old Ones just liked to be tidy.) Oblivious at that point to my untidy littering, I ticked off the points on my fingers as I spoke. "Garrick is hiding things, even from you. He's probably stealing magic from you, but you don't know what, and he appears to be planning some masterstroke about which you know almost nothing, except that it has something to do with some backwater township almost nobody's ever heard of. A pretty picture, indeed. So what do you expect a couple of flatfoots and a city barkeeper to do about it?" The Old One paused for a moment, visibly fuming. By which I mean that smoke was emerging from his mouth, profusely perhaps more profusely than usual. Not really surprising, under the circumstances. Once again I could just hear that chittering sound, this time sounding more positive as if a consensus had eventually been reached. "We have every confidence in you," came the reply after a short delay, "We just do not have any more information to give." It seemed that the Old Ones really did not like being without their traditional omniscience. Perhaps I was going to enjoy this new commission after all. * "Okay, then, I'll get right on it," I said, with more assurance that I really felt.
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Confidence in front of the client. Maybe that's my default operating mode. Or at least the one I choose to project when I'm not sure exactly what I'm doing; tell the punter something he wants to hear. Just bravado, I expect. Gumshoe leaned close to me, speaking in what a human would probably consider to be a low whisper and hissed, "So what are we going to do?" Unfortunately, he had forgotten, or just overlooked, that all of the non-humans around him had much better hearing. Goblin ears are large and mobile, like a cat's, and the Old Ones were reputed to be able to hear the drop of a pin on the surface a hundred miles above their heads. "Let's get up above as soon as we can," I replied, equally sotto voce, although with an ironic twist that I suspected the Old One would have spotted, "I think the Old One may be able to help us." Rosie shook herself, as if awakening from a shallow sleep. She seemed to have been almost unaware of what was going on around her, then, on looking around, she all of a sudden remembered exactly where she was. She stood up, standing straight and clasping her hands in front of her. "Mister Dragon," she began. I winced in embarrassment but the Old One smiled indulgently although this did have the alarming side-effect of showing even more of his numerous large, sharp teeth. "How do we get to go home?" she asked with a pleading catch in her voice. "I don't think you can go home just yet, young lady," he said urbanely, "There are too many forces at work, too many people chasing you." Rosie looked shocked, then saddened. Her shoulders sagged and the expression on her face was piteous to behold. "Can we at least get to the surface, then?" she said in a small voice. The response was a snort. "I can certainly arrange that, madam," the Old One replied, "Indeed, I have already started." He nodded, glancing behind us. I turned to look. Over my shoulder, I could see that the stone chairs had disappeared, and that a large dark circle was forming on the otherwise featureless red-lit floor.
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"So it is time for me to say goodbye," he went on, "Just step into the circle and wait." Gumshoe took Rosie by the arm and guided her in the direction of the stone circle. A crack tracing the circumference had already begun to appear and hints of a brighter light begun to shine through. I was about to follow when the Old One's voice boomed out from behind me. "Findo Gask!" I stopped and turned around, finding myself abruptly face-toface with what was possibly the most fearsome creature I had ever been this close to. "We will meet again." the Old One said in the Goblin tongue, with a slightly unexpected inflection, one with an unexpected hint of a threat, "More than once." I gulped, my confidence dented - only temporarily, you'll be pleased to hear - with just a few well-chosen words. The Old Ones were reputed to have perfected a limited form of prescience: the ability to identify points of time in the future which are unchangeable, entirely immutable by the will of human or Goblin alike. I had the horrible feeling that a statement like that was not a wish, or a promise, or even a prediction. It was a statement of fact. * The Old One drew back his head, his eyes never leaving me for a moment. I don't believe that anybody can hold the gaze of an Old One for more than an instant. Certainly, I couldn't. I turned and made my way to the centre of the circle where Rosie and Gumshoe were already standing, all the way resisting the urge to run. I had just reached the others when the marked circle on the ground began to move. It rose with impressive smoothness, a perfect disc of solid rock supported on nothing that I could see. I did take a look ro make sure, scurrying right over to the edge, leaning out and peering down. There might have been a column of stone emerging effortlessly from the floor of the Old One's abode but, by the time I peered over as far as I could manage without actually toppling off, we were already so high up that I could make out almost nothing below. The humans were terrified, of course, although Gumshoe did his best to hide it. Few humans are truly comfortable in high places. Both of them stood petrified in the very centre of the disk, clinging to each other. Meanwhile, I tried looking down from the other side of the disk, but there was nothing to be seen there either. A
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sudden gasp from Rosie made me spin around. Both were staring upwards, their faces a picture of horror. For a split second, perhaps, we all thought we would be squashed like bugs against the roof. Then, above us, the ceiling of the vast cavern opened and we were swallowed up. The dim red light still emerged from the platform, its feeble light enough to make out each others position. I got the impression we were moving sideways as well as upwards. Although the rock walls were glassily smooth, there was just enough contrast to give an impression of considerable speed. It wasn't really a tunnel, of course, just the application of the Old One's magic which allowed solid objects - like the three of us and the disk of stone upon which we stood - to pass though the miles of solid rock between the caverns of the Old Ones and the cities of the surface world. I could not have been more than a minute later that we arrived at the surface. We were unceremoniously deposited at a street-lit corner in New York, the faintly-glowing rock that supported us merging imperceptibly into the sidewalk. There were a few people about, but none of them seemed to be looking in our direction at the point of our sudden arrival. Just another example of the omniscience of the Old Ones, I expect. "Where are we?" I asked. Gumshoe glanced around and spoke immediately. I guess his claim that he knew the streets of this city like the back of his hand was true enough. "My office is six blocks that way," he added, waving a hand, "And my car's parked up even closer than that." Rosie had reverted to a near-catatonic state, probably in a state of shock, as well as being tired and hungry. To be honest, I was flagging a bit too. I must have been running on adrenalin the entire time we were being interviewed by one of the Old Ones. Gumshoe had noticed Rosie's state, too. I'm not sure he was paying any attention to mine. Perhaps he thought I was able to look after myself. "I'm going to have to take Rosie home," he said, supporting the lady in question with an arm around her waist. "But she can't go to the bar," I said quickly, without thinking, "It's not safe, and is probably fire-damaged, too." Gumshoe snorted disparagingly. "I'll take her to my home," he said, adding quickly in response to my curious glance, "She can have the bed and I'll sleep on the couch." Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 147
I knew Gumshoe wasn't referring to the apartment he rented in one of the shabbier parts of New York City. He meant his family home, the old homestead upstate. It wasn't a bad idea. Few people knew much of Gumshoe's history. Short of booking into a hotel, there was nowhere more anonymous we could go right now. * With Gumshoe supporting Rosie by the arm and me hopping along behind, trying to remember how to walk like a human, we made the few blocks to Gumshoe's automobile. I slid into the back, tugging Rosie in behind me; Gumshoe folded his bulk in the front seat, turned the key in the ignition and, after an anxious moment listening to grinding pistons and rattling crankshafts, the vast engine rumbled to life. Gumshoe drove through the night, two - maybe three - hours on the highway. I don't know how he managed to stay awake. There was little traffic on the road - perhaps that was a good thing. We didn't hit anything, anyway. Rosie collapsed in the back seat and snored with her head against the window for the entire trip. The sleep would do her good, I thought. I myself catnapped, jerking awake a time or two when the movement of the car made a more than averagely violent wrench. We barely spoke, mainly because I didn't want to risk distracting Gumshoe from his driving. The human PI had inherited a rambling clapboard house set in many acres of woodland, now entirely untended, more a jungle than a plantation. The exact circumstances under which he has come by the old place were unclear to me, although I knew he had spend some summers of his childhood there, a mere thirty or forty years ago. It was apparently a bequest from a maiden aunt, after some detective service her had performed very early in his career. The full story, I thought, would probably keep for another day. At one time, I understood, the house was a grand country residence maintained by a small army of servants and marking the centre of the social scene for miles around. Most of the property was now tumbledown and uninhabitable. Gumshoe had neither the money nor the inclination to restore the place to its former glory. But one part he did maintain: one of the outbuildings, a small apartment over the garages perhaps once occupied by the chauffeur. The apartment had just two rooms, a kitchen-diner and a single bedroom. I knew that Gumshoe spent a few days there every now and again, resting between professional assignments and applying a few coats of paint to the timbers in between walks down to the lake that lay at the foot of the old gardens. I had visited just once before, Gumshoe taking it into his head that somewhere away from most humans would be more relaxing for a Goblin. It was okay, 148 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
although I had to work on my tolerance for an open sky over my head rather than the solid protection of rock ceilings. But that did mean that I am now more comfortable in the surface world, even in daylight, than almost all Goblins. Gumshoe turned the car into the weed-strewn and overgrown track - once a grand entrance driveway but now reduced to a simple gap in the hedges - that led to the old house, and took the right at the fork that led to the garages. We stopped with a crunch of gravel outside the closed doors of the three-car garage and tumbled out, anxious to stretch our legs after being cooped up in the vehicle for so long. I followed Gumshoe and Rosie, supported in a gentlemanly fashion by the private investigator, up the creaking wooden steps that led to the upper floor. He turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. I tailed him inside, looking cautiously around at the tiny living space. He flicked the light switch instinctively - nothing happened, the power must have been turned off - then blinked in the gloom. Unsurprisingly, Nether was sitting calmly on the davenport.
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Chapter 21 Blood and Water

Nether nodded calmly at us from his comfortable seat. "Morning all," he murmured nonchalantly, "You can put the power tools away if you like." Instinctively, both Gumshoe and I found ourselves with our handguns drawn and our hearts racing, swinging the weapons around wildly in search of secondary targets. There was nothing, nobody else in the place. Gumshoe slipped into the bedroom to take a look, but came out again a few moments later shaking his head. Rosie had squeaked in surprise when Nether had announced himself but she was the first to recover from the shock. "Nether!" she cried, rushing over to where he had been lounging and sliding onto the couch next to him, "What are you doing here?" I put my automatic back in its holster and glared at my older brother. "Yeah," I drawled, "That's a very good question. What are you doing here, Neth?" "Well, its all rather surprising. I heard that you had popped up again in New York City," he began. "How did you hear about that?" I interrupted, upping my glare another notch. "Hey, I have a few contacts of my own, you know," he replied smoothly, "And one of them was keeping an eye on Mister Gamshack's car. So I knew you were back in circulation. It soon became clear that you were not going to the Bar," adding quickly as Rosie swung around sharply with a pained expression on her face, "Which isn't badly damaged, by the way. Your staff worked hard at getting the place cleaned up, and even arranged for the window to be repaired. Open as usual yesterday. You could hardly tell that there had been anything going on." Rosie breathed a huge sigh of relief and slumped back on the couch. I knew how much the place meant to her, and to her father and grandfather, too.
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"And you sensibly stayed away from Mister Gamshack's apartment and offices," Nether went on, "Which are being discreetly if effectively staked out by some very shady-looking hoodlums. So there weren't a great many other places you could go. A few reports on the location of your car told me your direction, so I thought it best to be here to welcome you." It was Gumshoe's turn to glower in Nether's direction. "Very few people know about this place," he said slowly, turning his automatic over in his hands, "I didn't think you were one of them." Nether laughed casually. "I guess that would be true, in the general scheme of things," he replied, "But, in your case, certain Goblins - certain official Goblins, shall we say - have been interested in you for some time, thanks to your long association with my brother." I nodded. I'm fairly certain that the comings and goings of Goblins who visit the surface frequently attract a degree of scrutiny. I did wonder how Nether would have access to that information, although it had already become clear that he had more connections than I had ever imagined. Gumshoe shrugged and put his gun away. He moved softly around the familiar room, flipping on the electrical power using the circuit breaker in the corner of the kitchenette and filling a kettle from the tap. "Coffee anyone?" he asked casually. There was a general chorus on the theme of "yes" from around the room. Soon he was handing out mugs of hot drinks. There were no chips in any of them - Gumshoe was more house-proud than you might expect from his appearance and profession. Meanwhile I told Nether about recent events: being chased by Rigg and his crew, being intercepted by a suddenly-appearing portal to the Hells and the unnerving interview with the Old One. I didn't mention the even more unnerving prediction that I would encounter the Old One again. Nether came back to the question of Dulelm Hollows again and again, chewing on it like a particularly fine pickled toadstool. Finally he fell silent. "We're going back to Dulelm," I said firmly. "When are we going?" Nether asked, leaning forward and suddenly looking keenly interested. "I meant Gumshoe and me," I replied curtly, "You've got to look after Rosie. Keep her safe. And, to answer your question, we're going tonight." Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 151
* Dulelm Hollows was just as boring on this visit as it had been on the previous one. With a distinct feeling of deja vu, Gumshoe and I retraced our steps with me once again concealed in the back of Gumshoe's ancient car. We had spent the day recuperating, mainly sleeping - with Nether keeping watch - and a lot of eating. Between the four of us, we did serious damage to Gumshoe's larder of tinned and preserved foodstuffs. Human food is in general a bit bland for Goblin tastes - we prefer stronger flavours and more robust textures, something to get our teeth into - but there is an old saying about "hunger being the best sauce". It was certainly true that day; I wolfed down everything that Gumshoe's stock cupboard could provide. I know for sure that the PI will be filling the trunk of his car with groceries the next time he comes up here. Feeling somewhat recovered, Gumshoe and I left Nether to look after Rosie in the little apartment over the garages. She was keen to come along but all three males did their best to persuade her it was too dangerous. Besides, Nether was not here entirely alone; he clearly had managed to gain access to some backup, some resources I hadn't known he could draw upon - although perhaps I should have guessed before now. It was two hours drive from the sleepy backwater that was Gumshoe's family home to the sleepy backwater called Dulelm Hollows. It was getting dark by the time we arrived and the whole place was wrapped in a chilly mist added to the sense of gloom. I followed the human PI out of the car, tugging up the collar of my coat against the dampness and looked around. "Nothing much changes here, does it?" I asked Gumshoe wryly, receiving a terse grunt in reply. For the next three hours, we criss-crossed the dour hamlet that was the entirety of Dulelm Hollows, revisited each the broken-down homesteads we had searched the last time and with Gumshoe again gritting his teeth against the repulsive glamours that still held as strongly as ever. There was no hint of Goblins in residence, and precious little evidence of any humans either. Finally, Gumshoe stopped and leant on a high stone wall that marked the edge of some property we had passed half a dozen times in our quest. "We're wasting our time," he said glumly. I had to agree with him. There had to be something strange, something out of the ordinary, something beyond the reach of ordinary senses going on in this gods-forsaken backwater.
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Everything we had heard hinted at some astounding coup, some world-changing deployment of magic to be perpetrated by my old tutor Urquhart Garrick. But the Old One had said that they could not perceive events around Garrick and surely the Professor had something to do with Dulelm Hollows. It was time for a long shot. I reached deep into the commodious pockets that line the inner of the long coat I habitually wear and pulled out a small cardboard box colourfully marked with complex scripts that humans still insist on referring to as "runes". It was a residual magic detection spell, that very expensive glamour I had acquired from Gaur's emporium only a few days ago. Now, this kind of magic is tricky stuff. It's prone to all kinds of malfunction, the grosser kinds of which are often supposed to be sabotage or just the vendor making a fast buck by palming off substandard goods as the real thing. I had established a grudgingly-respectful professional relationship with Gaur over - oh, it must be getting on for a hundred years - and I judged it unlikely he would deliberately rip me off. His wares were expensive, to the point I was reluctant to use his glamours unless there was no alternative and the prize for success would adequately compensate me for the ruinous expense. I was convinced that, if used properly, Guar's glamours would almost certainly work as advertised. The trick, of course, was actually using it properly. Magics of this complexity are prone to more subtle failures: deployed incorrectly, or in the wrong place, they are liable to give entirely misleading results. It is for these reasons that the results of using such a glamour are not admissible as evidence in a court of law. Indeed, this kind of spell is illegal to either own or deploy, which was of course why I was forced to acquire them from a back-streets dealer like Gaur. I held up the little box that contained the puissant glamour so that Gumshoe could see it. "I think it's time," I said slowly, "To apply a little magic to the situation." * There's a point in almost any investigation, in my very considerable experience, when a single piece of luck is required. If the luck turns up on schedule, you solve the case to general admiration all round; if not, you remain clueless and the case is relegated to a dusty folder in the back of the filing cabinet. This case had been almost devoid of luck from the start, although made up for by a worryingly large number of unlikely coincidences, not
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least of which was the sudden re-appearance of both of my siblings. This was, I fully admit, entirely a stroke of luck. We could have been standing anywhere in the village or the immediate environs, looking out at any of the three tumbledown properties we had been investigating. Or we could have been traversing what passed for the main road or any of the lonely lanes and paths. But instead we were almost exactly at the centre of the village. "What does it do?" Gumshoe asked, eyeing the little box warily. He had recognised it for what it was: a conventional container for commercially-available Goblin magic. He had been bitten, more than once, by the effects of such glamours. No wonder he was being cautious. "Relax," I said casually, "This one doesn't go bang. Not even a bit." "Huh," he replied, "You've told me that before." I let that one ride. Instead, I explained, quickly and as well as I could in English, that the glamour enhanced the natural ability - in Goblins, at least - to detect magic that had been used recently. Maybe even a thick-skinned human might be sensitive enough to get some hint of what was going on. "But we know some kind of magic is in use," Gumshoe objected, "That awful feeling in the stomach when we entered those places." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Yes, yes," I agreed, "But there's something else, something we're missing. Something that the repulsion spells - very obvious and crude spells - are hiding." "if you say so," Gumshoe said, not sounding at all convinced, "But will it work?" "It ought to," I said glumly, "It was expensive enough." Gumshoe chuckled, and I belatedly joined in. I wasn't sure I saw the joke; the glamour would only find something only if there was, actually, something to find. I had paid Gaur the equivalent of a month's wages for this single charm and I was taking a considerable gamble in using it now. "Here goes." I flipped open the lid of the cardboard box and read aloud the few carefully-chosen words printed on the packaging. They wouldn't have made any sense to Gumshoe even if he had been able to hear them - the language of magic is an ancient Goblin 154 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
dialect now entirely disused except for the activation of glamours. The old language is taught to all in schools, in much the same way that Latin was once a compulsory part of the curriculum in parts of the surface world. Although slightly more useful, of course. As soon as I spoke the last syllable, the world around me began to change. Overlaid on the mundane surroundings of stone buildings and damp foliage was the spin and sparkle of magic at work. I had expected one or two glimmers, hints at magics long since past, but the reveal glamour had lit up like the entire settlement had suddenly decided to celebrate with the aid of lanterns, flashing lights and near-soundless fireworks. "What the hell's going on?" came Gumshoe's anxious squeak. "Shh," I hissed, "Let me concentrate." There was almost too much to take in. I looked around wildly, identifying a repulsion spell here and a disguising glamour there, protections and disguises of all kinds, all fresh and recently deployed. Every building, every wall and fence and hedge as far as the eye could see showed the signs of magics being used on them. I had only a few minutes until the spell worked itself out. But one thing was immediately clear: a considerable amount of expensive and sophisticated magic had been expended here in recent years. One particular marker I paid special attention to. I strode over to it, followed closely by Gumshoe. It was a large circle on the ground, not thirty feet from where we were standing and, as far as I could tell, right at the geometric centre of the village. The residual marker was brightly-lit in a fiery glow I recognised. It was one I had experienced at first-hand only the previous day. It was exactly like the transport which had returned Gumshoe, Rosie and I back to the surface from the realm of the Old Ones. It seemed I had discovered proof that Garrick had indeed successfully stolen a forbidden magic from the Old Ones. * A sudden thought caused me to look up. Against the scudding grey clouds I could make out a faint dome overhead, outlined in silver and blue fairy-lights. It was a spell I didn't recognise, but I could guess its function. It was also one which was still active, but so subtle in its effect that I hadn't noticed it on our previous visit. My guess - I have some track record at this kind of guess - was that the dome would extend underground too, and it kept the magical senses of the Old Ones at bay. That was why the Old Ones needed my assistance: a residual magic glamour would only work inside the dome, and the Old Ones were rather too conspicuous on the surface to risk travelling here in person.
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As quickly as it had appeared, the magic faded, and the little cardboard box that had contained it crumbled into dust. A standard security measure for illegal glamours. Goblin magic can be used only once and the more cautious vendors left no lingering traces behind to inform cops and competitors. Gaur was a professional and took no chances. The last of the magic to linger were crimson markers on the ground: worrying streaks and splashes. Now that it had been pointed out, I could detect even with merely mundane senses that there were splashes of blood on the ground, mingling with the rainwater, where something - somebody, unfortunately - had died messily. Using magic to kill is quite possible, of course, but also quite rare these days. It's just so expensive to do so; if you want to harm somebody, it's generally much cheaper to use non-magical weapons like guns or knives. Somebody around here had too much money, or too much magic, and wasn't afraid to use it in a heavy-handed - not to mention fatal - fashion. Either way, a dangerous combination. Gumshoe pointed to the spot where the circle of red light had once been. "That kinda looked familiar," he said, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Too right. I guess the Old Ones will be interested to learn what's been going on here. But there's something else we need to take a look at." I peered over the stone wall we had been leaning on earlier at the building beyond. I could sense bright lights and faint sounds emerging from within. Up to a few moments ago, I would have sworn that it was inhabited - by humans - and that the instincts of millennia would cause me to give it a wide berth. Gumshoe joined me, his height allowing him to see over the wall without effort while I was forced to stand on tip-toe. "Let's take a closer look at this place," I said softly. "Okay," he replied, unholstering his automatic. I didn't bother with my gun. I was pretty certain I knew what we would find. We scrambled over the wall and made our way cautiously to the house. We peered through windows and cracks in curtains then, in a whisper, I asked Gumshoe to open the back door. He shrugged and produced a set of lock picks wrapped in an oiled leather cloth. Two minutes of muffled swearing and the scrape of metal on metal was enough to get us inside. Within, the television and lights were turned on, and the sounds of movement were all around us: doors closing, creaking floorboards and childish feet on the stairs. But
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there was nobody actually in residence; the house was entirely empty. "Is this place haunted?" Gumshoe asked after we had searched every room for a second time. "Sorta," I replied, "It's a glamour - a subtle one. You know how you can always tell whether a house is empty or not? This glamour gives the subconscious impression that a place is occupied. Very clever. And leaves us with an important question: who owns this property? And why is it empty?"
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Chapter 22 Last Chance

To answer my questions, we decided to drive back to New York City where Gumshoe's contacts would be able to provide the genuine answers, rather than the fictions that were recorded in the publicly-accessible records. On the way, I alternated between a briefing for Gumshoe on the glamours I had identified - quite a substantial task in itself - with listening impatiently while the human detective negotiated on the phone with representatives of a variety of grey-area and semi-legal organisations. Gumshoe also put in a couple of calls to check if Rosie and Nether were OK. After a long conversation, he reported that Rosie seemed surprisingly calm and suggested that the re-appearance of Nether has reassured her that nothing bad was going to happen. I had another theory. I could have been wrong. Then again, now was probably not the time to explore that particular aspect of human behaviour. It was the middle of the night by the time we returned to Gumshoe's office. Even so, Gumshoe seemed tireless. He fired up his computer and pounded the keyboard endlessly and made any number of phone calls. He also slipped out for an hour or so to meet with a couple of underworld types who would not consider talking on the telephone, or indeed any interaction where a handful of high-denomination bills in an anonymous brown envelope could not be handed over. Meanwhile, I twiddled my thumbs, smoked too many cigarettes, reviewed again what we had learned in Dulelm Hollows, and fed Gumshoe and myself several mugs of the poisonously strong coffee we share a taste for. By four in the morning, the results were clear: as far as any human knowledge was concerned, every piece of real estate in the settlement of Dulelm Hollows had been acquired by one of two mysterious corporations, both of which owned at least one of the properties acquired with the aid of Coupar Angus. We knew for certain that Professor Urquhart Garrick controlled all of the property in that village. More darkly, it also appeared that at least some of the previous owners had disappeared. Not all, mercifully - there were tales of unsolicted buyers offering silly money for perfectly ordinary houses but some people were missing, presumed travelling or just gone away. No hint of foul play in the official reports. But it did look as 158 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
if Garrick had committed murder to get his hands on the last few properties. "But does it get us any closer to finding Garrick?" Gumshoe asked, yawning and scratching his head. "No, perhaps not," I agreed, "But I'm beginning to think that finding Garrick may not be the most important thing in the world just at the moment. Still, I guess I should report to our clients." I meant Nether and Trinity. I strongly suspected that the Old Ones would have been keeping a close, if metaphorical, eye on us all, and by now they would know everything that I had told the human. Gumshoe grunted in reply. "Why don't you get a couple of hours sleep," I suggested, "Then get back to the old homestead to brief Nether on what we've found, and to look after Rosie. And take some groceries with you." He seemed very happy with that suggestion. "But what are you going to do?" he wanted to know. "I'm going to get back below while it's still dark," I replied, "See if I can get a message to Trinity. And I need to talk with the authorities. This is way beyond anything in our remit. We need to get some reports heard in certain high places." Gumshoe didn't seem convinced. "Who'd believe us?" he demanded. "Hmm. That's a fair question. Certainly nobody up here. I'd keep very quiet about all this if I were you." The PI nodded in agreement. "So you can leave the Goblin authorities to me," I said grimly. It looked like it was time for another trip downtown to be glared at by Luncardy. * Moving as quietly as only a trained Goblin can, I made my way down the back stairs of the low-rent block where Gumshoe's offices were located. I was trusting that Gumshoe could look after himself. His office was a veritable arsenal of weaponry - mostly legally acquired - and I knew he was competent enough to use it effectively. I also knew his office was more well-defended than might appear at a first glance, with defences other than firearms. Besides, there were enough shady businesses in the building that an out-and-out fire-fight there was an unlikely possibility.
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I quickly made my way to the nearest entrance to the Lower Realms, bounced out of the arrival portal and waved my PI's buzzer at the uniformed customs officials and border guards. I wanted to move swiftly, to get to Luncardy to persuade her to take my message where it needed to be heard. But the Captain probably wouldn't be on duty for an hour or so yet, for all that she was an early riser. Time to kill for the moment. It was many hours since I had been below, and it was time to check in with my messaging service. I ducked into a bar - one I had never entered before or since - which was still open even at this early morning hour and ordered a stiff whiskey while I spied out the telephone in a booth at the back. I dragged the receiver from the rest, gulped half of the mediocre scotch, fumbled for coins in my pocket and dialled a number from memory. There was a couple of messages from names I vaguely recognised who thought I owed them a modest debt, one dubiously prospective client - which came to naught in the end - and one annoying cold-calling salesman for the kind of gadget - for the "Professional Consulting Detective" - that I could never in a million years imagine a use for. The last message was from earlier this evening, a terse missive from Maddoes the barman at the Deepest Joy: "Call me." And a telephone number I vaguely recognised. I shrugged, rummaged deeper in my pockets for more coins, swallowed another portion of the whiskey and dialled the number Maddoes had left. I didn't doubt for a second that the other bar would still be open. Places like that never close. "Deepest Joy Bar." "Hello. Is that Maddoes?" "It is. That'll be Mister Gask, then. I thought you'd get back to me sooner." "I've been out of town. A long way out of town. Just received your message now." "You're too late. He's gone now." "Who's gone?" Maddoes sighed. I could almost see the faint sneer on the old bartender's face. "Look, Gask. You managed to scare off one of my better customers," he said with a hint of reproach in his voice, "I saw what you and your lady friends did." It seemed that Coupar Angus had re-appeared in the bar. I mumbled some apology but Maddoes shrugged it off. He was probably just making a point. 160 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
"Anyway, Mister Angus is back. Not looking very happy, not happy at all. Like he didn't want to be there at all. And he was talking to a very strange-looking cove, most unlike the usual customers we get in here." "What did he look like?" I demanded, "This other one." "I thought youd be interested in this one," Maddoes snorted, sounding amused, "He was a fastidious little Goblin, dressed in an old-fashioned way. Looked like he ought to have been a Professor or something." "Garrick," I breathed. "You recognise him. I'm not surprised. Anyway, the little professorial guy seemed to be accompanied by a couple of large muscular Goblins. And just as well. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but Angus got violent, attempted to attack the little Goblin. He had to be dragged away by his companions, even before our own bouncers to grab him and throw him out. He might be a good customer but we don't tolerate that kind of thing here." Maddoes paused, then went on despondently, sounding like a punter who had bet everything on a horse which had come in second place. "Anyway, they've all gone now. interested." I thought maybe you'd be
At some later time, I would reward Maddoes handsomely. It was only fair, after the loss of a regular customer like Coupar Angus. Oh, and the valuable information he had passed over. * After I had finished the call with Maddoes, I sat for a long while, sipping the remnants of the scotch and thinking about what I had just heard. Why had Coupar Angus felt compelled to visit the Deepest Joy, given his embarrassment on the previous visit? From Maddoes' report, he wasn't at all happy, indeed unhappy enough to attack a Goblin he was mortally afraid of. Travel in the Goblin realms is cheap and fast, so nowhere is very far away by transit tube. But such travel is rarely private; there are people around on the transit systems at all times of the day and night. And it's a natural place for the police to have a presence. So, a Goblin who wishes to keep out of sight or away from the eyes of the law either has to stay put or resign himself to moving at little more than a walking pace. And Garrick had managed to stay out of sight of the police and other agencies for a great many years.
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It was entirely possible that Garrick had a hideout somewhere not far from the Deepest Joy. That made some kind of sense: a base in the lowest part of the Lower Realms might be a good spot to spy on activities in the even deeper demesnes of the Old Ones. Not to mention easy access to the kind of Goblin who would loyally carry out almost any instruction given the application of a large enough sum of money. The cavern which contained the Deepest Joy was one of the smaller ones. A sufficiently determined police action might just be able to smoke out Professor Urquhart Garrick from his lair. It was time to visit Luncardy. I swallowed the last dregs of the whiskey, paid my bill and swung out of the bar. It was a fairly quick trip to the 14th precinct station; just a couple of changes on the transit tubes and perhaps a total of ten minutes walking. Unusually, I was distracted, thinking about what Maddoes had said and wondering if there was some way of narrowing the search for Garrick's hideout. Normally, I watch the street and keep an eye on the shadows to see who might be lurking there. But this morning, in a haze of confusion and alcohol and sleeplessness, I was not paying my customary attention to what was going on behind me. So it was entirely my own fault that Trinity and a couple of her goons got the drop on me. Before I knew it, I was looking at two blank-faced Goblins blocking the way in front of me and listening to a familiar sneering voice behind me. "Findo! I thought you were better than this. A human would pay more attention that you." I turned around slowly. "Hi Trinity. I wondered when you'd reappear," I said, grinning at her and gesturing with a thumb behind me, "And you seem to have picked up some supporting cast." "These guys have worked for me for a long time. They're very good. So don't try disappearing on me." "Me, disappear! You're the one who's disappeared more times than a conjurer's rabbit." "Yeah, well, I have my reasons. But now we're both here, why don't you tell me what's going on?" I saw no reason to share my experiences in the Hells with her but, as for the rest, why not? "Fair enough. The bad news," I began, "Is that I still don't know where Garrick is, precisely. The good news is that I think I know where he is, approximately. And I also know that you're not the only one he's ripped off to further his plans."
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"Yeah, yeah. It's my money I concerned about," she interjected, "Other people can look after their own dough." "Maybe," I agreed, "But at least you're alive, and free, to moan about it." Her eyes narrowed. It was time to explain more. I told her about the narrow escape from Rigg and his murderous henchmen, although not exactly how we managed to get away. I explained in some length and detail about our exploration of Dulelm Hollows, about the disguised and deserted nature of the houses there, and the fact that all of the properties there were indirectly owned by the old Professor, and the worrying bloodstains in a few places. "Okay, okay, all very interesting," Trinity said impatiently, "But where can I get my claws on Garrick himself?" "This is a task for the professionals," I said, adding quickly, "By which I mean the cops. They've got the manpower for this kind of job." Trinity glared at me. She was getting good at that kind of glare. Another few decades and I might have felt intimidated. Still, she did deserve a chance. "There's a bar, in the Underworld," I said carefully, "Called the Deepest Joy. Garrick's been seen in there. There's an evens chance that he's somewhere in that cavern." Trinity's eyes narrowed further. "Be careful," I urged, "Garrick's got support and weapons, and he's had people killed already." Trinity nodded in acknowledgement. I wasn't going to be able to dissuade her even if I wanted to. My little sister had always been nearly impossible to protect. "Right, you two," she said, addressing the big lads who still stood behind me, "Let's get to it. See you about, Findo." The three of them set a cracking pace in the direction of the nearest transit tube. * It was remarkably easy to get to see Captain Harriett Luncardy when I finally got to the 14th precinct station, despite the earliness of the hour. As I was shown in, she was sitting at her desk, an elegant fountain pen in one hand and her trademark - and even more elegant - smoking stick in the other. She blew smoke, then used the smoking stick to point me in the direction of a seat on the other side of the desk. I took off my hat and sat down, fumbling for cigarettes and matches. I needed a smoke badly.
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The young copper acting as gopher was clearly well-training, since she hung around, quiet and motionless, by the door. Luncardy made a last few, and no doubt essential, annotations on the report she was reviewing before gathering up all the papers into a manila folder and handing them to the patiently waiting officer. Then she steepled her hands, rested her chin on her long thin fingers and looked over them levelly at me. Her cool grey eyes missed nothing. "You ought to get more sleep, Gask," She said, "You really look like shit." "Yeah, well I feel like it, too. It's been a busy few days." "And I suppose you want to tell me about it?" "You guessed it. You're a good listener. You might find it interesting. And, besides, I'd like to see the look on your pretty face when you hear what I've got to say." "Huh." She pursed her lips and took an elegant puff from her smoking stick. "You know how to apply the flattery, I'll give you that. Okay, I'll bite. Spill the beans." I gave it to her both barrels. Her eyes opened wide as I spoke. She grabbed her pen and flipped open her notebook and scribbled notes like the most earnest of students in the front row of the lecture theatre, her cigarette burning unregarded on the ashtray. Notes, places, dates, times: all committed to the fine vellum in her round and elegant handwriting. I left almost nothing out. The expression on her face when I told her about the encounter with the Old One was a picture, an oil painting, an old master to be savoured and appreciated for a long time. Her expression when I told her about the sighting of Garrick was a picture of a very different kind: The Huntress, perhaps, or maybe something more feral in shades of black and red. She could be very focussed when she was on the scent. The only thing I left out of my narrative was the name of my informant in the Underworld bar - she could probably have shaken that out if she wanted to, but she understood the value of trusted informants as well as I did - and the promises made by the Old One, which I figured were entirely a private matter. In the end, she needed no further encouragement. At the end of my narrative, she sat for a few moments studying her notes, finally remembering the remnants of her cigarette. Her eyes flicked from notebook to me and back again a couple of times, her expression more calculating than suspicious. "Okay, I need to get a crew down there as soon as possible. I want you to come too," she said with grim determination and
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waving her cigarette holder in my direction, "It might be a long shot, but this may be our only chance to apprehend Garrick before he pulls that disappearing act again."
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Chapter 23 A Ray of Light

I had to admit that Luncardy could move quickly when she wanted to. And her crew were well trained. She also had the contacts, and the influence, and the trust quotient, to get support from others in her organisation without question. There seemed to be little resistance to her requisitions. Maybe it was just a slow day in the police department, or maybe the cops had more information - or just more suspicions about Garrick's activities past and present than I was aware of. Perhaps some senior officers treated it as a training activity, or just a fishing trip: not really likely to succeed in its stated objective, but nevertheless a good excuse to get a force on the ground to shake out whatever criminal activity came to hand. Or maybe some of them were privately keen to see Luncardy fail, to do something foolish, on the principle that, given enough rope, she would hang herself. Whatever the reason, Luncardy was readily able to draft in reinforcements from other precincts. The combined force made rapid time to the particular cavern which contained the Deepest Joy bar. But not as rapid as Luncardy. She and a few of her most trusted staff made double time through the transit tubes, much to the consternation of the regular commuters and itinerants, I don't doubt. It seemed I had been temporarily included in this privileged number. Following Luncardy's unerring direction, we made our way to an observation platform, working our way to the steps which spiralled up and around one of the immense stone pillars that supported the roof of the cavern. Luncardy's long legs made short work of the steps while leaving me very slightly out of breath at the top. From this vantage-point, we had an unparalleled vista across the shallow bowl that was the cavern floor, this surface punctuated irregularly by supporting columns and modulated by buildings of every shape and size. Luncardy muttered quiet instructions to a couple of her officers, who in turn spoke into communication devices that a human might think of as a walkie-talkie, although actually worked by subtle glamours. We know that radio waves don't propagate through solid rock at all well. After a final command from the Captain, we watched the uniformed coppers swirling out of the transit tube 166 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
exits like black ants scurrying from a nest, ready to attack or defend, all set for the sting. The massed police forces set about working their way methodically along the boulevards and side-streets, knocking on doors and waving search warrants in the face and barging past anybody who tried to stand in their way. For those cases where nobody answered, the coppers deployed legal-only-when-used-byauthorised-police glamours to look inside those properties. Fortunately for everybody, for obscure technical reasons these glamours are extremely short range and short-lived, and therefore much less invasive than one might expect. I wondered idly whether this was another magic that had been donated by the Old Ones, a technique carefully hamstrung so as to be useful only under marginal circumstances and with much effort. All this police action seemed astonishingly heavy-handed. "What's going on here, Luncardy?" I asked the Captain, "Theres a lot of manpower down there." She was standing at the very edge of the platform and peering over - there were no protective barriers as a human construction would have included. She turned and moved and stood just a little bit too close to me. I was suddenly aware of her feminine form in the most basic way possible: her scent, her flesh and her bright eyes boring into me. "We've been trying to track down this Garrick for a long time," she breathed, her professional words at odds with the animal presence forcing itself to my attention, "And now we have a chance to lay hands on him." "Ah," I replied, edging backwards cautiously, "So you know a lot about the Professor?" "Urquhart Garrick has been on the Most Wanted list for a long time," she replied, her demeanour suddenly darkening, "Even before your little run-in with him." As if realising just how intimate her actions might have seemed to those around her, Luncardy spun away, returning her focus entirely on the actions of the blue-coated flatfoots hurrying about below her. * Suddenly ignored by the Captain and all of her crew, I stood and watched the teaming hordes of uniformed policemen in action. Putting that much manpower on the ground anywhere in the Lower Realms was bound to shake down something illegal, and here and there I could make out Goblins being led away meekly in handcuffs or manhandled to the ground. They were the unlucky ones, the Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 167
ones too stupid to run away, or stupid enough to swing a punch; all-in-all, those too stupid to allow the police to turn a blind eye just this once. There was no sign of Garrick. Eventually, I got bored and backed away from the edge of the crowded observation platform. I made my way slowly down the steps, wondering whether we were wasting our time. Away from the column, and probably out of sight of the watchers above, I stepped into a public telephone booth. It was time to check in again with my answering service. I pulled coins from my pocket and spun the dial. There was only one message, a rather alarming one from Gumshoe: "Call me as soon as you can, at the old house" and a telephone number I already knew. I swore under my breath, rummaged furiously for more coins - dropping several in my haste - and put through a call to Gumshoe's place. The phone rang and rang, and I was on the verge of hanging up when it was answered. "Gask!" Gumshoe said breathlessly in response to my mumbled greeting, "Thank goodness you've called." "What's going on?" I asked urgently, "And why are you out of breath?" "I just ran back to the house. I've been searching the woods. We had visitors. One of them got the drop on me. Knocked me out cold." "Are you okay?" I asked anxiously. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a sore head. But Rosie's gone, so is Nether. I've been looking for them. No signs of them anywhere. No marks on the ground. It's almost as if they've disappeared off the face of the planet." "Rigg," I growled, adding placatingly, "And his goons." "Could be," Gumshoe agreed grudgingly, "But they must have had some help from your world. No human could get away from here without leaving some kind of trail I could spot." He might have been right. Most humans are clumsy movers. But some are not. On a previous encounter, Rigg had managed to sneak up on me and knock me out. I hadnt told Gumshoe that. "What do you want me to do?" Gumshoe asked plaintively. "Stay put," I said firmly, "Have another look around. Keep sharp. They might come back. And let me know any developments." Gumshoe grunted his agreement and signed off. I hung up the telephone receiver slowly, deep in thought, wondering what this
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new development might mean. So I was shocked almost out of my skin by a bang on the glass of the kiosk. It was Trinity, flanked by the same two bully-boys, or perhaps others too interchangeable to be able to tell the difference. "Don't start, brother dearest," she said as I swung out of the kiosk, holding up a finger to her lips, then whispering, "I know where Garrick is." * "Are you sure?" I demanded. Trinity nodded, looking irredeemably smug. "Pretty sure," she smiled nastily, "My boys ran around here more quietly than your dear Captain's flatfoots. Although I'd admit there's a certain amount of luck involved, too." "Where is he?" I wanted to know. Trinity seemed to be enjoying the moment. "We were just watching the streets," she said with relish, "And, for a while, there was nothing much to see. But, then I noticed a lot of Goblins, big mean-looking Goblins, converging on a place over that way." She waved a finger vaguely. "The Library Theatre." Living space in the Lower Realms is always at a premium, but those with more money than sense can usually find a way of overcoming the planning and zoning regulations. The Library Theatre was a circular building set in the centre of the plaza that few people visited. It was an architectural folly with a domed roof, originally erected as a library by a generous but misguided philanthropist on a budget, a minor palace of learning for the lower orders. It soon became too small for its original function and operated for a time as a theatre in the round, but the size and shape of the building meant that it was both operationally inconvenient and not large enough to turn butts-on-seats into a profit. The theatre was closed down and the building boarded up for quite a while, at least according to the newspaper reports, the memories of which had started stirring behind my eyes. "Ah," I retorted, "I should have guessed. So why haven't you and your boys gone and got him then?" Trinity snorted. "Reinforcements," she replied shortly, "There's a small army in there now, if the number of bodies I saw can be believed."
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The old theatre would make a superb defensible position, with lines of sight in all directions, including upwards. It would be impossible for anyone to approach without getting shot at. It would need a massed attack - and serious protections - to take such a stronghold. "You're the one with the Establishment connections," she went on, "Time for you to help." It was my turn to grin as well. "There's a quicker way of getting Luncardy's attention than just asking," I said wryly, "Follow me." I reached into my pocket for my PI buzzer, then set off at a run in the direction of the Theatre. One of the universal rules of policing is that running people always attract the attentions of the police, and I had not gone more than a couple of hundred yards when I heard a voice behind me. "Hey, you! Stop, police!" I stopped and raised my hands slightly. My sister and her henchmen did the same, Trinity in particular looking frustrated. The young copper didn't recognise me, so I flashed the PI badge at him. "Findo Gask, Private Detective," I said sharply, "I know where Garrick can be found. Get on the blower to your Captain and get her down here pronto!" It didn't take long for Luncardy and her crew to turn up. They had probably seen me hurrying about from their command and control eyrie in any case. The Captain stalked up to me, her eyes narrowed in professional suspicion, distracted only briefly with a glare in the direction of my sister. "Two Gasks in the same place at the same time," she muttered, "Can't be good." "Very funny," Trinity sneered. sneering. Goblin faces are very good at
"Quit messing about," I said grumpily. I had been skipping far too much sleep to be able to tolerate very many of these games. "Okay, so what's the urgency?" Luncardy demanded, her gaze flicking from Trinity to me and back again. "I've found Garrick," Trinity replied shortly, "Are you sure?" Luncardy responded, sounding stereotypically cop-sceptical.
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"Look, I want Garrick detained as much as either of you," Trinity said, sounding annoyed, "And I would've gone and got him myself if I thought there was the slightest chance I could do it without being shot." I interjected with a quick explanation of the Library Theatre before the two ladies started trying to tear each others throats out. To her credit, Luncardy saw both the problem and the logic behind it immediately. She sullied her immaculate face by furrowed her brow for a few seconds before summoning over her most trusted lieutenants for a brief conflab. Within moments, we were off, a large fraction of the combined police forces making their way along side-streets and trying to keep under cover. But to no avail. I guess it was impossible to hide the approach of such a considerable force from those emplaced in the theatre. Some of the advance guard - including Luncardy and myself - were attempting to conceal ourselves in alleys and doorways when we all felt a surge of that difficult-todescribe feeling, the innate sense of magic being deployed that, after thousands of years of exposure, most Goblins are very finely attuned to. I looked over the plaza to the old theatre. As I watched, it seemed to shimmer in a pale blue haze, as if it had suddenly receded to a great distance and I was seeing it through many miles of dusty atmosphere. I recognised it immediately, of course, although I had never seen one this big. It was a protection glamour, an impermeable magical shield. It must have cost a fortune. I sprinted across the plaza, my sudden anger and frsutration allowing me to outpace even Luncardy's long legs. I rammed the translucent, faintly-sparkling shield with my shoulder - pointless, since I just bounced off and collapsed on the stone flags of the plaza. My shoulder ached for days afterwards. Picking myself up, I could see that the old theatre was entirely surrounded by the magic, with a gap of just a few dozen paces between the shield and the worm stonework of the building. Then a door opened and I could see a solitary figure walking across the stonework of the plaza, a figure I recognised. Professor Urquhart Garrick. He stopped on the other side of the barrier and regarded me coolly. "So, dear boy, here we are again," he said, as calmly as if it were an afternoon tutorial in a cosy little office off the quad. "Garrick," I acknowledged, barely keeping my seething anger in check.
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"A stalemate," Garrick went on in the same professorial tones he always used, "Time to call off your dogs. I have what your friends in the police would undoubtedly call a hostage. Miss Rosie o'Chill." "No!" I cried, hammering on the impervious magical shield with my fists and the butt of my gun, "Let her go!" The Professor just shook his head. "I don't think so," he said calmly. * From the other side of the shield, Garrick watched my antics with wry amusement. Finally I stopped wasting my time beating on the wall of magic and deployed a clich instead. "You won't get away with it," I shouted, "The whole area is swarming with cops. You're surrounded." Garrick reacted with mild amusement. "On the contrary, I believe I have just got away with it. You're wasting your time. We all have been, for a long time. We have been hiding in these caverns and caves for much too long, pushed out of our true realm by the humans and held in check by the machinations of the so-called Wise Ones." The old Professor just couldn't help but deliver a lecture, even at a time like this. Old habits die hard. "And now, dear boy, I must be going." He made a gesture which was barely a twitch of the fingers. Flamboyant movements were never the Professors style. "You won't be seeing me again. relatives." Do remember me to your
There was a burst of light, bright and golden from the floor all around the perimeter of the magical shield. I instinctively threw up my arm to protect my eyes and took a step backwards. The light faded, as quickly as if it had been just switched off, but it took a few moments for my eyes to recover. The whole circle, the area where we thought we have Garrick and his compatriots hemmed in, had started to move upwards. Within moments, Garrick's party was far above my head, supported on a vast column of polished blue-grey rock which flowed smoothly and seamlessly from the floor. If this was another example of the magic he had stolen from the Old Ones - and it looked very much like it was - then Garrick might well have been correct in his assertion. This magic could take him anywhere, at
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considerable speed, and in a fashion which would be very difficult to trace. Around me, uniformed cops were shaking or scratching their heads, like me unable to think of anything to do. A few fired their guns at the column - quite uselessly, of course - while a similar number managed to turn the air blue with oaths and curses. I watched the rising column despondently until it reached the cavern ceiling thousands of feet about my head. As it touched, the column of rock froze suddenly, unexpectedly immobile and somehow looking like it had always been there. It seemed that this particular cavern had just gained an additional supporting column. A thought struck me. Garrick was a smart cookie, but he might just have missed something. Reveal spells like the one I had deployed at Dulelm Hollows are delicate things by their very nature and very personal in their effect. They have to be, since their intent is to detect the left-over traces of other magic. Garrick was sure to have watching eyes all over Dulelm Hollows, but only magical ones: I was certain that I would have been able to smell out the presence of even a single Goblin. So, all the poking around that Gumshoe and I had done latterly, and the deployment of a single subtle spell, might just have slipped below the old Professors radar. Besides, the Old Ones were looking out for me, they said; they might have helped too. I had the strongest hunch that Garrick and his entourage were on their way to Dulelm Hollows.
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Chapter 24 Sudden Moves

Captain Harriett Luncardy was a Goblin to whom swear words and coarse language did not usually come either fluently or frequently. So when she said: "What the..." and followed it up with a string of choice epithets I knew for certain that she was severely rattled. Despite my frustration, I could not help but smirk at her discomfiture. Characteristically, Luncardy regained her composure with commendable speed. She took a deep breath, put her gun back in its holster under the sharply-tailored grey suit and gestured me over. "That was quite some magic," she said shortly, her eyes narrowed as if I had something to do with it. "Yes," I agreed, "And probably nicked from the Old Ones." "So we won't be able to trace it?" "I doubt it," I agreed, nodding. She snorted, thought for a moment and then said: "I'm out of options. Any thoughts?" I was suddenly distracted. "Just one," I said uncertainly. Various things came together in my head just at that moment. I had a sudden intuition about the nature of Garrick's true intent. I gasped soundlessly as the full nature of Garrick's plan, the sweep and majesty of its scale, sunk into that overheated and over-tired grey matter between my ears. "Don't be coy," Luncardy snapped, "Spit it out." I explained as best I could, trying to express myself clearly but forever going around in circles with the complexities and interlinkages. I think the message got through eventually. Dulelm Hollows would become a new living space for Goblins on the surface. The real estate was already owned by Garrick either directly or indirectly. The hamlet would be turned into one vast repulsion zone, protected by magic stolen from the Old Ones to keep away any itinerant humans and more puissant glamours to keep away Goblins. In any case, it would be a location on the 174 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
surface which would be hard for Goblins to approach, even under cover of darkness. Dulelm Hollows would become a base for Garrick's nefarious operations and a base for his own power in the Goblin world. Come to the surface, and set yourself free, from the oppression of the official Goblin government and their lapdogs, the police, and away from the tyranny of the humanfolk from whom we have hidden these last five thousand years. Luncardy and the few of her team who were within earshot, and Trinity too, listened to my ramblings in silence until I wound down to a stop. I felt drained, shocked by the enormity, the audacity of the scheme Garrick had hatched. He must have been working on it for years, decades. The Captain was the first to respond. "Right," she said, "Let's go and get him, before he gets entrenched." "No!" I insisted. Both Luncardy and Trinity looked at me strangely. "We've tried the mob-handed, brute-force approach," I explained, "And look where that got us. Besides, they'll be casualties; people will get killed. Perhaps, lots of people. Neither of us want that kind of body count." I could see realisation sinking into the psyche of both ladies. "We need a softly-softly approach," I went on, "Just a couple of reliable Goblins. And me." "And me," Trinity added grimly, "You're not leaving me out of this." Luncardy sighed. "Okay," she said slowly, "But let's have plenty of backup to hand, just in case." It was my turn to nod. "And I'm coming in too," the Captain added in a voice of steel, "Nobody's going to do my job for me." * Getting to Dulelm Hollows by more conventional means took hours, which meant that it was once again getting dark by the time we were approaching the hamlet by road. I napped in the back of one of the motley assortment of motor vehicles maintained by that branch of the Goblin law enforcement agencies which specialises in
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surface operations. My sleep was interrupted repeatedly by dark uneasy dreams that seemed to vanish as soon as I awoke. The cavalcade of motorised transport converged in a field several miles outside the settlement and a motley crew of police disgorged onto the grass. The cops were well-trained and welldisciplined, and most seemed unfazed by being under the open sky, although there were a few nervous glances upwards. The Captain had obviously been studying maps and considering tactics on the trip over, and I had contributed a little in my few waking moments. She seemed in no doubt how to proceed. In a sequence of whispered instructions, she directed the bulk of the force to encircle the entire hamlet in groups of two or three. The cops were directed to wait exactly thirty minutes and then come in, handguns drawn, unless it was obvious that a gun battle had already broken out. The advance guard divided into two groups, with Luncardy and her men in one party, and Trinity and me in the other. Luncardy chose the entry-points. If I knew her at all - and I did all too well by now - she would have selected the approach which she judged would have the best chance of undetected penetration. She waited until the agreed moment when the backup forces should be in place, then nodded decisively. "Right then," she said firmly, "Let's go." We set off, moving as quietly as only Goblins can. The route that Trinity and I had been allocated was the longer one, skirting several areas of woodland and running along hedges, although there was much more cover on the approach. We were barely out of earshot of the other party when a soft whistle caused us to spin around, pointing our guns wildly at innocent patches of darkness. "That's no way to treat a relative," came a familiar voice. I breathed a sigh of relief. Nether strolled out of the undergrowth clutching a couple of big guns and looking worryingly like he was both willing and able to use them. "I wondered what happened to you," I exclaimed as he approached. "Thought you might need some assistance," he replied smugly. There was a soft snort from Trinity. "Besides," Nether went on, "I'm on the trail of those who kidnapped Rosie. Again. And the trail led me here." "I'm not surprised," I said, "So are you coming with us, or what?"
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"Yeah, let's get on with it," he muttered. The Gask party set off again in stealthy single file. We got closer, edging our way through back yards and around porches, checking house by house for any signs of occupancy - there were none - and carefully making our way towards the centre of Dulelm Hollows. I was beginning to suspect that Garrick had set up his base of operations in the largest house in the hamlet, the grand affair set in its own grounds we had noticed in our previous visit. Nether held up his hand and we all stopped, huddled together in the shelter of mature trees and the high stone wall that surrounded the grand old house. "Can you feel it?" he hissed. I could. As softly as a gauze curtain falling from a window, the magic around us suddenly became much less strong. Not absent entirely, but vastly weakened. It seemed that the Old Ones had somehow managed to exert some of their influence at last. * Our second attempt at a stealthy approach was as unsuccessful as the last. We clambered over the stone wall that surrounded the old mansion, picking a place far from the house obscured by overgrown foliage. We were just considering the next stage of our route when we heard shots being fired from the house. But only a few shots and none of them aimed at us, as far as I could tell. Instantly, we sprinted for the house, running zigzags across the damp lawn towards the kitchen door, keeping our heads low, until we reached the shelter of the doorway. The small army we were expecting was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps Garrick thought that fifty Goblins would attract too much attention, even in this protected enclave. Or perhaps Garrick just didn't like company. In any case, it transpired that he had sent them away some time between his disappearance and our own arrival in Dulelm Hollows. According to the reports and descriptions I got later, I pieced together what happened on the other side of the house, more or less. The Captain and her coppers were heading for the side door, perhaps expecting that their approach would be unnoticed. It seemed they triggered some alarm, and Rigg's face appeared at one of the windows, followed shortly by breaking glass and the shots we had heard, causing Luncardy and her companions to dive for cover. There was silence for a minute or so, enough for the coppers to start peering out of their hiding-places to try and see where the shots were coming from. Then, without warning, Rigg burst out of the front door, holding a struggling Rosie bound at the wrists. He
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stopped just outside the door and shouted, in passable Goblin and then repeated in slightly accented English, "Stay back or I'll shoot. I mean it!" "Stay back," Luncardy repeated the instruction, "We don't want unnecessary bloodshed." Seeing the police hesitate, Rigg started making his way to the garages where a powerful car waited outside on the gravel. He must have pressed some button inside the house which opened the electrically-powered gates, the low rumble of which we could hear from our position around the back. Then we all heard the roar of a car, not Riggs. Gumshoe had ignored my instructions to stay put - as I strongly suspected he would - and driven over to Dulelm Hollows as quickly as he could. He drove his ancient Oldsmobile at high speed with headlights blazing into the hamlet, through the gates as they swung open, and screeched to a halt not thirty feet from where Rigg was holding Rosie. Obscured by darkness and smoke from the car, Gumshoe threw open the driver's door and then, rolling low, he slipped out of the door on the other side. Half a dozen bright lights let up the entire front of the old house, dazzling the big human who still held Rosie tightly. The ruse was sufficient to distract Rigg. He got off a couple of shots through the car door - bullet-holes which Gumshoe would have carefully repaired and repainted afterwards. He always was ludicrously fond of that old car. But Gumshoe was no stranger to gunfights, and he was both fast and accurate with the heavy automatic he usually lugged around with him. From his position flat on the ground, he took aim carefully and shot Rigg in the thigh. It was not a fatal wound, but one which slowed him down enough so that the human cops would easily pick him up later. Rigg cried out in pain and collapsed, blood pouring from his thigh, his gun bouncing away to one side. Rosie fell to the ground, then picked herself up and rushed over to Gumshoe. The human PI grabbed her, but he didn't take his eyes of Rigg. And just as well. Gumshoe advanced cautiously to where the other human was lying, kicked away the handgun, and knocked a second gun away that Rigg, despite his injury, was retrieving from under his coat. Gumshoe put his own automatic to Rigg's temple and fumbled for handcuffs. "Stay put, punk," the detective snarled. *
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Meanwhile, around the back, the Gask party had heard the roar of the car and more gunshots, and used the disturbance to deploy a favourite little glamour of mine, one which opens locked doors. We slipped inside and swept through the kitchens of the old house, finding nothing either interesting or dangerous, until we reached the main hall. There, Garrick too was attempting to flee, but in a very different fashion. Perhaps I had expected he would have prepared another of the magical secret passages that Goblins in general and the Professor in particular - always like. But it seemed he had not. Instead, he was attempting to use the Old Ones' glamour, to conjure a magic circle and sink effortlessly into the ground, to turn up who-knows-where. It didn't work. I didn't know why, although I suspect the claws - and magic - of the Old Ones had something to do with it. The frustration was visible in Garrick's face and the set of his shoulders, even at a slight distance. He knew it wasn't going to work. Of course, magical escape routes are not the only way of leaving a building. Garrick turned and saw us bearing down on him with weapons drawn, moved with surprising speed to a small door under the main staircase. We followed him. The door lead to the cellars of the old house, and we could hear the Professor not very far away breathing heavily, followed by a creaking noise I could not immediately place. At the bottom of the cellar stairs, the Gask party split up, each of us taking a different one of the subterranean rooms. I got to the far reaches of the cellar I had selected just in time to see an entrance closing. It was some kind of secret doorway concealed behind a wine rack, a tunnel of human construction, the kind of thing that would have been used by smugglers and bootleggers in years past. Garrick had slipped through my fingers once before and I was determined that her was not going to get away again. "Garrick's getting away!" I bellowed, "After him!" Nether and Trinity all converged on my cries. ineffectually on the now-closed door. "Stand aside," Nether instructed. I did so. My brother put a couple of rounds into the lock, then all three of us tugged at the heavy wooden construction. With excruciating slowness, the door opened and we slipped through in pursuit of our quarry. On the other side of the door was a long straight tunnel, low and narrow and dark of a human, although perfectly acceptable for I tugged
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Goblins. At the far end, we could make out Garrick reaching up to a iron ladder set into the wall, moving very deftly even for one of his advanced age. Again, we followed, hearts pounding and guns held at the ready. We reached the ladder and climbed rapidly, Nether leading the way, followed by Trinity and then myself. The top of the ladder led to a manhole cover in the road. No streetlights, just a few scudding clouds in front of the moon, and Garrick nowhere to be seen. "I'll go this way," Nether said, pointing down the road, "You too try that way." Trinity and I ran off, following the road as the stone walls on either side we high enough to slow down an old Goblin. We rounded a corner and there, visible in the fitful moonlight, we again caught sight of the Professor. I had never known Garrick carry a gun but, somehow, the rules had changed today. The old Professor pulled a little handgun from his jacket pocket, cocked it awkwardly and swung it in my direction. And then the tragedy happened. Trinity, for so long a bodyguard and protector, saw Garrick take aim and threw herself in front of me. The bullet struck her in the heart. It was the last shot, the last bullet. The police force that had surrounded the place had rushed in on hearing the shots, and four different coppers now approached Garrick from as many directions. Garrick dropped his gun and raised his hands. Ignoring the Professor, I fell onto my knees next to my sister. "Trinity," I urged, tears in my eyes, "Stay with me here." Her lips moved in a pale approximation of a wry grin. "Too late for that," she gasped, "Take care of things for me." I cradled her head in my arms. "Findo," she croaked, "Thanks. For everything. I never said so before. You always were my favourite brother." Her eyes closed, her head lolled back, her heart stopped forever. "No!" I howled in anguish, "Nooo!"
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Chapter 25 Bitter Ends

I wasn't in a fit state to pay much attention at the time, but I was later able to piece together what happened next from the reports of others. The force of Goblin cops pointing guns that had surrounded Garrick had evidently taken him unawares. For once, he was nonplussed, uncertain what course to take. Fortunately - for him the decision was taken for him. "Freeze!" When a copper from the Lower Realms tells you this, he really means it. All Goblins know that even a minor movement can be the trigger for a glamour, and so the police are trained to shoot first and pick up the pieces afterwards. The old Professor also knew this, unsurprisingly, and kept his hands motionless and well away from his body. At a nod from Luncardy, one of her crew deployed a disabling glamour - again, a magic rarely used and legal only when deployed by sanctioned members of the police force. Threads of silver and ribbons of lilac appeared from nowhere, folding themselves around Garrick's body like some elaborate giftwrap, a perp in translucent silver foil. These glamours are required to suppress all magic and slow bodily movements, and few are able to counter their effects. Garrick was not one of them. The Professor was formally arrested; extremely formally: encased in the festive wrapping of the disablement magic, he was addressed using the archaic words long custom has required. Some humans might think them similar to Miranda Rights although in truth they are rather longer and much more complicated. After that, he was taken away - quite literally carried bodily from the area in the cocoon of magic by four burly coppers, deposited in the back of a human-scale transport and rushed to the nearest entrance to the Lower Realms. At first, it was expected that Professor Garrick would stand trial in the usual way, Goblins being, generally speaking, fanatical about the rule of law, even those who spend most of their time circumventing them. But it was not to be. By instruction from the Senate - this is a conventional form of words that indicates that somebody in a position of real power has taken an interest in the Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 181
matter - Garrick was transferred to a secure institution: a place reputed to be genuinely impossible to either escape from - using magical as well as physical methods - or to bribe your way out. Garrick might have had friends in high places, sympathisers with his objective to returning to the surface world. If he had, none of them put their heads over the parapet to support him now. * In another place not far away, a quiet copper from Luncardy's force gently disengaged me from Trinity's silent corpse and led me away. It was a long time before I was able to piece my life back together again. * It is a bad habit of mine to want to tie up all the loose ends when a case is closed. Some of those loose ends are purely intellectual curiosity: to understand the motives of those found guilty, or those no longer living, to augment my limited physiological and sociological understanding of Goblin and human alike. Or sometimes it is to elicit a last piece of information, to tidy the files and tick all the boxes. It helps put the whole thing in perspective, even if it does waste a certain amount of time. Of course, the most likely reason for dealing with loose ends is to collect fees owed, plus expenses. Normally I would prepare an itemised bill of hours spent and necessities purchased. But, this time, I wasn't expecting any more cash out of Nether, and I wouldn't touch Trinity's estate even if she did have any money. But I did think the denizens of the Hells owed me something, even though I had not clue as to the form their payment might take. I wasn't even sure how to track down the Old One who had commissioned me to act on their behalf. But I was going to try. One morning before Trinity's funeral, sober, as rested as I could manage, and fortified by a good breakfast, two cigarettes and three cups of coffee, I set off for the one place from which I had known access to the Hells: the dingy alley where Rigg had shot at us. Not that it represented a permanent portal, of course, but if the Old Ones were still keeping track of my whereabouts, they might conceivably take the hint. Or they could just ignore me, ignore the implied promise of reward. They were reputed to be both capricious and honourable; anything could happen. I did not have long to wait. A red circle lit up as soon as I stood still and I sunk into the broken asphalt as smoothly as any elevator. This time, though, I was lowered directly into the lair of the same Old One - at least, I assume it was the same one, although it was probably impossible to be sure. All dragons look alike to me.
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The Old One was once again curled on his pedestal, watching me calmly as I walked across the floor to the extruded stone chair which awaited me. Without waiting for an invitation, I plonked myself in the seat and lit a cigarette. "Welcome again," the Old One intoned formally, "Findo Gask, Goblin Detective." "Hi," I said tersely, "I guess you know why I am here." He nodded serenely. "You have two reasons. You want to know what happened in Dulelm Hollows, and you want to know if we were serious about rewarding you." He blew smoke serenely, then continued. "Yes, we did interfere, much against our usual custom and practice, on that occasion. And I am afraid we used you all three of you to facilitate that interference. We marked you, attached if you like our eyes and ears to you, so we could follow you even inside the areas otherwise protected from our surveillance. We are sorry to have used you so, but we had no other option." "Huh," I grunted, "I guess I should have known you werent telling me everything." The vast head nodded again. "So, we owe you. We would like to give you something, something very special, by way of payment for your services." The Old One gestured in the direction of a low table of the extruding red-tinged stone that they used for everything. The surface was cluttered with tiny cardboard boxes of the kind used for Goblin glamours. I was suddenly, irrationally angry. "My sister is already dead, and my brother is exposed as a spy," I snarled, jumping to my feet and tossing aside my cigarette, "What could you possibly give me that would in any way compensate?" The Old One brought his head down so that it was level with mine. One brief fiery exhale would put me out of my misery for good. At the time, I almost wished he had done so. "We are genuinely sorry for your loss," he said softly, almost tenderly, "It was as unexpected and unforeseen for us as it was for you. And, no, we do not expect to be able to offer you compensation."
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The vast head on the sinewy neck pulled away, again towering above me. "We want you to help us, again," he went on, almost absently, "We believe you are a force for order, for good, with the ability to act in ways we cannot ourselves. And we can give you something you most definitely want, even though you don't know it yet." I shook my head. from them. I couldn't imagine anything I could want
The Old One snorted. "We know you well. We know you hate to fail, to be unable to close a case once you have taken it on," he said with careful emphasis, "We can give you the ability to succeed, to be lucky in your dealing with the world and its inhabitants. Not infallibly, of course. That would be inappropriate even if it was possible. But we can enhance an ability you already have; the gift of making the right decisions, of being in the right place at the right time." "Can you really do that?" I breathed, astonished. "We can. It won't make you rich. It won't make you anything more than very slightly famous. But you will succeed in your endeavours more often than not. And we'll give you some other unconventional and powerful glamours to assist you." The Old One paused again. accept his offer. He already knew I was going to
"We can make you the luckiest detective in the world." * The fate of Coupar Angus might have been one of the least just outcomes of the whole sorry affair. True, he was an unscrupulous businessman who had made a very good profit from selling overpriced properties to those whose money had been acquired in dubious ways - for all that it was his wife's money which allowed him to set up the business in the first place. And he was a tedious bore, a drunk and a faithless husband, at least in a theoretical way, but he probably didn't deserve everything that was meted out. In any case, his business came under the close scrutiny of the police, ostensibly as part of the investigation into Garrick's plot, although I suspect that a fat file had been building on Mister Angus for a long time back at police headquarters. According to the prosecution's case, it seemed he had been a very naughty boy indeed. Top of the charge sheet was money-laundering: helping racketeers to buy properties with cash acquired in a variety of illegal and, in some cases, highly improbable ways, and selling 184 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
them again at a modest loss but releasing untraceable cash. Then there were charges related to irregularities in some of his accounting practices - basically, he had his hand in the till - and, perhaps worst of all, he had been under-reporting his income to the tax authorities. The last of these was a crime where I suspect few Goblins are entirely innocent, the fault being one of degree rather than commission, but the authorities seemed determined to make an example of him. As with all legal processes, bringing Angus to court took an exceedingly long time, and it was much later when I saw him again. I sat in the back of the courtroom for much of the trial, as my part in his activities was too small for me to be called as a witness. He cried and wailed through most of the proceedings, his supposedly affable and avuncular demeanour collapsing to the snivelling of a schoolboy caught with his fingers in the cookie jar. Coupar Angus sensibly elected to plead guilty and throw himself on the mercy of the court. In the end, he would suffer a large fine, a short prison sentence, and the end of his country-club lifestyle for ever. Even while he was being prosecuted in the criminal courts, his wife was engaging a lawyer in the divorce courts, citing mental cruelty - so much for "for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer". She would take him to the cleaners; the money was originally hers and she argued that she should be allowed to keep almost all of it. Afterwards, he became a sad old Goblin, often penniless and always dreaming of the one big deal which would re-establish his fortunes. In between times, he frequented bars even more seedy than the Deepest Joy where a punter desperate for company might be persuaded to buy him a drink in exchange for being regaled with garbled stories about fabulous business dealings and dark mysteries and faithless partners. But, basically, the world forgot about Coupar Angus. * A loose end which I did feel a strong need to track down was the part played by my elder brother Nether in this whole sad story. This was to prove to be a frustrating and ultimately unsuccessful quest, for all that it consumed a considerable amount of time and energy. I had just three more encounters with my elder brother, none of which were in the least bit satisfactory. I felt I had an incomplete realisation of what Nether was up to and what his place in the grand scheme of things. But it was clear to me that he was part of a larger shadowy organisation. There are several candidates whose existence, at least, is known to the general public, although I never did determine exactly which group he was affiliated with. Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 185
A little later, after Trinity was safely buried and on her way to being forgotten by all but a very few, I was waiting in an anteroom in an obscure government office, hoping to meet with some minor government official. I was trying to seek permission to access secret records which might, or might not, throw some light on what had happened. The office building was like so many government buildings everywhere: vast echoing edifices in polished stone and beautifully-executed but somehow bland carvings that supported the high ceilings and tall windows. A monument to power and authority, designed to keep the lower classes in their place, and all paid for with taxpayers' money. I was sitting in one of the uncomfortable chairs in the anteroom when two burly heavies in dark suits suddenly appeared at the outer door. They marched over and grabbed me without any warning, twisting my arms behind my back so that I was immobilised. I struggled ineffectively against the two Goblins, then froze when I saw Nether himself appeared. "I know you're looking for me," he said smugly, "And you're wasting your time. Records about Garrick and his activities - and mine - for the last hundred years are now sealed, forever." "A hundred years?" I shrieked, "So you knew about what Garrick was up to, years ago?" "Not for certain, not for sure," he replied placatingly, "We had to let things run to make sure we could wind in all the tentacles, to make sure that Garrick didn't slip through our fingers again, as he has done so before." I was apoplectic. "And your actions - or inactions - directly led to our own sister being shot dead!" I threw myself against the unyielding bulk of the goon on my left, with little visible effect. "Well, yes, that was very sad," he replied with some semblance of emotion in his voice, "She was, perhaps, a sacrifice necessary to ensure the safely of Goblins everywhere." "You monster!" "Dear brother, it is time for me to disappear, again. Your occasionally clumsy actions and intermittent insight may have netted Garrick - who won't be going anywhere ever again, by the way - but you have certainly thrown a spanner in the works of many decades of careful work. So, goodbye." "No!" 186 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
With a superhuman effort, I struggled free of the two big Goblins who had grabbed me and I would have grabbed Nether there and then if one of the heavies hadn't deployed a stun glamour. Before I could reach my brother, I fell instantly asleep. There was no sense of falling, no blurring or blackout, just the end of all memory. I awoke confused a few minutes or hours later, slumped in the uncomfortable chair. The government clerk was shacking me politely on the shoulder to tell me that the official would see me now. I don't know why the functionary bothered; he imparted no useful information whatsoever, effectively denying the existence of the records I was here to view. Of course, the records probably didn't exist now.
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Chapter 26 The Long Goodbye

At this point, I have to tell you about Trinity's funeral. Frankly, I would much rather not, as the thoughts and recollections it brings back - even after all these years - are almost too painful to bear. But these memoirs would be incomplete without some small account of that day. One cool morning, I found myself following a line of professional bearers carrying a heavy stone coffin and leading a small band of black-garbed mourners along a meandering trail through the graveyard. The graveyard itself was in a quiet area of my home cavern, notable for vertical expanses of polished rock separated by terraces and shallow ramps wide enough for three or four Goblins to walk abreast. Few Goblins ever went there, and those that did always had solemn faces and sombre attire. The funeral party zigzagged up the face of the cavern until we reached a point where a hole in the rock wall had been carefully carved and decorated. A human would have thought it a strange construction. It was high and wide enough to admit the bulky coffin, but just a couple of inches deep. The slab which would later cover the burial spot, carved with Trinity's name and an assortment of dates, stood at an angle against a frame a convenient distance to one side. The coffin was lowered carefully onto a trestle positioned adjacent to the shallow depression. The heavy and well-fitting lid was draped with a remembrance flag, a mark of respect used when Goblins died honourably before their time. One by one, the official mourners approached, bowing their heads and, more often than not, depositing not flowers but paper tokens of remembrance on the coffin lid. The official mourners were few. Nether had turned up, not even pretending to be a drunk any more, and wearing a finelymade black suit of a cloth and cut to which I could not even aspire. My brother was accompanied by a couple of large Goblins, dressed in well-fitting dark suits with that telltale extra space under the armpits, and professionally anonymous faces that had "government service" written all over them. Whether they were minders or bodyguards was hard to tell. Perhaps both.
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Most unusually, there were a couple of humans present. Both Rosie and Gumshoe had agreed to return to the Lower Realms for this event, and I had arranged the services of a tourist agency to provide a guide to help them to and from the surface world. I wasn't going to trust myself with this delicate task, not today. The tall people stood at the back, arm-in-arm with each other, saying little and weeping much. When it came to my turn, I stepped forward but could not think of anything to say. I just stood mute for several minutes until Rosie took pity on me. She took the black-edged paper token from my unresisting fingers and placed it on the carved lid next to her own. Then she led me by the elbow and gently guided me away. Harriett Luncardy and a small contingent from the 14th Precinct stood at a respectful distance. I recognised the taciturn old Sergeant flanking the Captain. The coppers had not been invited to the funeral but had turned up anyway as a mark of respect. Policemen are always respectful of bravery and courage in the face of danger, perhaps because they face much the same thing on a daily basis. Goblin services are mercifully short. The few ancient words that are traditionally used under these circumstances are almost untranslatable into English, so are best thought of as a variant on the "dust to dust, ashes to ashes" theme. The professional leading the funeral completed the burial by deploying a small and simple charm which made the edges of the grave sparkle. Smoothly, the stone coffin slid into the solid rock. When the magic faded, a few seconds later, Trinity was gone, the rock face encasing the deceased for all eternity. It had become a mausoleum for my sister, entombed forever next to the markers for her mother and father, and mine. * The wake for Trinity was held in some dingy hall in a low-rent cavern I had hired for the occasion. My budget wouldn't stretch to anything more elaborate and, besides, there were so few mourners that even this little place barely felt filled by the company. The surroundings were as depressing as the occasion and matched my mood precisely. I stood in the centre of the room, resisting the temptation to drink far too much and in any case barely able to taste the whiskey and water in the glass I held in my hand. Around me, the mourners were being offered finger food and a selection of alcoholic drinks by the caterers, waiters circulating endlessly with trays and bottles. Rosie and Gumshoe kept themselves to themselves, standing at the back of the room where their height and bulk would be less obvious. They were clearly unsure what to expect at a Goblin wake and politely determined Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 189
not to cause any embarrassment or social gaffe. spoke to them.
Few Goblins
Most of the rest of the guests were old, very old even by Goblin standards. Trinity had no children, and neither did I and Nether, at least as far as I was aware. Both our parents were dead, so the place was filled - if that is the right word - with maiden aunts and aged uncles and second cousins. Across the room, I spotted Nether chatting quietly to some distant relative of my Mother's, the glass of light wine in his hand barely even touched and the blocky goons hovering discreetly in the background. Nether had fooled us all for a long time. He was clearly an agent for one of the more secret parts of Goblin federal government, and had managed to survive undercover in the human world for the best part of a hundred years. The sudden disappearance from mainstream society, the smelly drunk, the leprechaun mascot of a back-street Irish bar - it was all an act, a cover story. Nether's disguise had been entirely convincing, but now he was exposed. Too many people in the Lower Realms knew, or guessed, the truth. His part in Trinity's death was perhaps his biggest mistake; if he had followed my instruction, she might have been alive today. It was just as well the large Goblins in dark suits were standing close by, or I would have beaten him to a pulp with my bare hands. I raised my glass in a silent and ironic toast across the room, which Nether returned with a nod, then I turned away to accept the mumbled condolences from another relative I barely recognised. When next I looked, Nether and his heavies had completely disappeared. * It was much, much later that I saw Nether again; long after the events otherwise related in these notes had been forgotten by nearly everybody. It was in a sleazy bar, in the Lower Caverns. Of course there are any number of sleazy bars in the Lower Caverns; sometimes I think I have visited every single one of them in the course of business over the last three centuries or so. I was meeting a client - the kind of client for whom a sleazy bar in the Lower Caverns represents a significant step up in the world. Not that he was poor or down on his luck, particularly; it was just that his business ventures started at the bottom of the pile. Besides, I don't usually work for destitute clients, simply because I can't afford to. In any case, I was early for the meet, or maybe the client was late - I can't remember for sure - so I found myself sipping a beer 190 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
and watching the clientele. They were roughnecks and working types to a Goblin, with the bent backs and callused hands of those who performed physical labour on a daily basis, and the furrowed brow and vacant expression that marked those for whom any kind of thinking was a chore best left to others. It was a gentle company with predictable responses, right the way down to the inevitable fist-fight before closing time. Still, it was easy enough to stay out of trouble if you knew what you were doing. In places like this, I tend to drink over-priced light beer from bottles, partially to remove the risk of exposure to badly-kept draft beer, but mainly in order to keep a clear head so as to be able to duck punches should the need arise. I was nursing my second bottle, still resolutely sober - mostly - and therefore I was more-orless certain of my reaction when Nether turned up. Oh, I'll readily admit I didn't recognise him at first. He had spent a lot of his money - or somebody's money, anyway - on very good plastic surgery, which transformed him completely. The complexion of his face and nose had been roughened, and his ears had been lowered and notched in a fashion that suggested they had been bitten in more than one barroom brawl. His shoulders had become blocky with ropey muscles - whether that was because of surgery or hard labour was difficult to tell - and he had adopted the slightly knuckle-dragging appearance of the Goblin who labours long and hard during the day, and drinks long and hard during the night. All in all, it was a far cry from the sophisticated and educated brother I remembered. It was, I had to admit, an effective disguise. Nether recognised me at once, of course, although he did his best to hide that recognition from his drinking companions. But there was a sudden moment when I was sure it was him, when I caught his glance across the crowded and smoky room. And I knew he knew I was now sure it was him. I stood up and made a bee-line across the room, the drinkers parting before me like the bow-wave of some ship of retribution. Nether turned when he saw me, a sneering half-smile splitting his lips. I grabbed his shoulder and pulled his face towards mine. "This is for Trinity!" I yelled. I swung a vast punch at him. The swing caught him full on the jaw. He rocked, took a step back from the force of the blow but, astonishingly, I had failed to knock him down. I'm big for a Goblin and not entirely inexperienced when it comes to fist-fights, and I suppose I expected I would have felled him with one strike. Maybe I was going soft in my old age. In any case, Nether recovered quickly; before I realised it, he had straightened up and swung back at me. His blow caught me on the jaw with a tooth-rattling Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 191
crack; my vision blackened, I felt myself swaying, toppling. Then I felt no more. I woke, sometime later how long, I do not know slumped against a wall in a noisome back alley-way some small distance from the bar. My jaw ached, my clothes were torn and dirty, and I smelled strongly of cheap liquor of the kind I had not been drinking. I took the hint. Nursing my face, I slinked off back home. I never saw my brother Nether Gask again after that evening. * The wake was finally over. I had shaken hands with every one of the pitiful number of mourners and listened unheedingly to their mumbled words of sympathy and consolation. It took no solace from the conventional words of comfort. I could not even tell if their expressions of compassion were genuinely heartfelt or merely platitudes mouthed to avoid embarrassment on their part or mine. Gumshoe left early to guide Rosie home, to the upper world of sunlight and the teeming human kind. They had been seen standing close together throughout the burial and the wake, she crying on his shoulder and he comforting her with a degree of tenderness which made me suspect that they might want to see more of each other in the future. I was right, of course; it would not be three years before I would be attending their wedding, standing in the deep shadows of a little chapel in a quieter part of New York City, the sparse guests and sombre witnesses an unwitting reminder of today's events. Or maybe it was just me. I was alone, at last. Around me, the caterers were close to finishing tidying away the plates and glasses, and removing the crusts of the mass-produced sandwiches and the dregs of cheap wine that seem to be called for at these events. It was time to leave. I could have gone home - if that is the right word for the tiny and rather cold little apartment I rent by the month. I could have gone anywhere. As it turned out, I found my way to that sophisticated hotel bar where by good fortune alone I found Arnie and Lorny at their station at the counter, speculatively eyeing the bar's clientele and on the lookout for one or two who would have the inclination - and the money, of course - to become clients of their own. The girls turned and saw me as I entered the bar. In my best dark suit and dark tie, my hat and coat freshly cleaned, I might have been mistaken for this night's john. I weaved across the floor and parked myself on a stool two down from those occupied by the professional ladies. They must have seen the look on my face. 192 Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011
Lorny looked over with the concern visible in her large dark eyes while Arlie moved around to sit next to me. She gestured to the bartender and a large whiskey soon appeared in front of me. "What happened?" she asked softly. "Trinity's funeral," I said simply, "It was today." There was a pause, a soft exhalation from both girls. "Gask," Arlie said, laying her hand on my cheek in an authentically tender fashion, "You need a drink. And you need some company, so that you don't drink too much. Tonight, my friend, we will be looking after you." I got that drink - in fact, I got a lot more than one - but the drinking was well-paced and, in any case, the alcohol seemed to have been evaporating from the glass before it ever made it down my throat. Arlie and Lorny guided me to a booth and sat one either side of me, comfortably close. All evening, they regaled me with tales from their own experience. They were earthy and uninhibited, ruthlessly exposing the many foibles and weaknesses of the male of the species. The cut and thrust of their descriptions and their worryingly accurate observations from real life would have my hair curl, if I had any. I ignored the glances - pitying or amused or faintly jealous - from the waiting staff and the more knowing of the bar's clientele. And I laughed, a lot - a lot more than I would usually do - and somehow managed to put the events of the day out of my mind, at least for a while. I got the company, too. Much later, I awoke in the darkness, a sleeping form who turned out to be Arlie under the sheets next to me. Not my bed. She was a whore with a heart of gold, and had taken me in as one professional to another. I have no idea, even to this day, what might or might have happened between us under the covers in Arlie's bed. Again, it was time to leave. It really was time to go home this time.
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Chapter 27 Partners in Crime (Reprise)

Both Rigg and Garrick were soon arraigned and placed in prison. I was to visit them both, at different times, over the next few months. The processes of law take an exceedingly long time to grind through - although very finely, of course - a fact made doubly sure by the fact that both seemed able to afford expensive lawyers of the kind that seemed guaranteed to make my teeth itch. It's a fact of life, it seems, both here and in the surface world, that the law makes lawyers rich and everybody else both poor and disillusioned. In the case of Rigg, my visit was in the company of both Rosie and Gumshoe, with me wearing my best attempt at a disguise as a human - lift shoes and all - and sporting one of several aliases I have established over the centuries. Our task was to provide a formal identification as witnesses of the person of one Johannes (a.k.a. "John") Rigg. It was the usual process: one at a time, we were escorted from the dingy waiting area to a viewing gallery where, through the expanse of one-way glass, we could see a lineup composed of the usual suspects. Eight big men with blond locks, most without facial hair, standing in front of a white board with black horizontal lines. They say that all humans look the same to Goblins. This is patently false: we may not be attuned to nuances of behaviour and languages, but we can tell colours and sizes and shapes as well as anybody. I have had plenty of exposure to humans of all kinds and I can certainly spot one I know in a crowd. I pointed out Rigg unhesitatingly. For a time, I harboured doubts whether Rigg would actually be convicted at all; after all, it might be difficult to explain to a jury of his peers exactly what he had been doing without opening up a whole can of worms about the true nature of the Underworld. Nobody in any position of power up there wants that kind of exposure. As it turned out, the prosecution and defence lawyers seemed to have come to some understanding; perhaps some half-way acceptable plea bargain was struck in some plush office or private club. It seems that Rigg was wanted for a wide range of offences which involved firearms, explosives and cross-border smuggling. He pleaded guilty to a small number of charges which would put
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him in prison for perhaps five years - he was smart enough to play the system to get time off for good behaviour. Rigg would be somebody to carefully watch out for in a few years time. My visit to see Garrick was completely different. For one thing, it was face-to-face. When I was escorted in, I found my old Professor sitting on the hard prison chair as if it was an old overstuffed leather armchair in his own comfortable study, surrounded by books and artefacts, and all the comforts of home. He turned to face me when I entered the interview room and sat on the other side of the beaten-up old table that separated us. "Ah, Mister Findo Gask", he said in much the same tones as he used in one of his tutorials back at the old University, "I had expected to see you sooner." He would have used very much the same disapproving words if I had been two minutes late for his lessons. I had to hand it to him, the old boy had class, lots of class. He sat back, steepling his fingers and looking at me through hooded eyes. "I have to say," he went on in a didactic tone, "That you have surprised me. Considerably. I had not considered it possible that you would have been able to determine the direction of my schemes, although I am quite there are some elements you will have missed, even now." "Like what?" I countered. completely. True to form, he ignored me
"Perhaps you would have done better if you had applied your apparent talents to your studies," he went on as if I had not interrupted him, "Rather than frittering away your time on this law enforcement nonsense." "I'm a Private Investigator," I growled, "People pay me to get even. It's got nothing to do with the law." "Self-evidently," he said smoothly, "And this satisfies your intellectual curiosity how, exactly?" "Listen," I said, standing up and leaning across the battered table, "You're here because my sister is dead. And it's your fault, as surely as if you pulled the trigger yourself." "Detachment, detachment." dear boy," he drawled, "You need more
The prison warders managed to pry my fingers from his throat before I killed him. There was no official report of my actions; I wonder why.
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* The day after the funeral I eventually gathered the force of will to attend my own office, ostensibly to catch up with the paperwork. Not that there was much to do, really. Just my own notes and recollections, carefully and obscurely encoded in case they fell into the wrong hands, and a few receipts and invoices to keep my accountant and the tax authorities off my back. The important documentation was produced elsewhere. After Trinity's death, there would be any amount of official documents: a police report and one from the coroner's office; a few columninches in the tabloid press and an even briefer entry in the obituary pages of the heavyweight papers. And there would be a will which no doubt the legal processes would grind through probate in due course and without any particular input from me. Trinity had died a pauper; any funds that she had spare would probably have been sunk into keeping her undercapitalised businesses afloat. She would have had debts a-plenty, all of which would now be called in. It was probably her need for a few ready dollars that had caused her to accept Garrick's offer of business, even against her better judgement. I doubted there would be any money to distribute after the vultures had circled a few times. In any case, I would rather her be alive and well and enjoy her rather spiky company than profit by a few dollars from her death. There was a diffident knock at the door. I glanced up from my seat behind the desk. It was Luncardy. I guess I should have expected her to put in an appearance at some point. She had probably come to gloat at my stupidity. I waved her inside. The Captain usually liked to travel accompanied by a squad of uniformed types ready to do her bidding at a moment's notice. On this occasion, she appeared to be alone, although I did peer carefully in the direction of the office door for a long moment just to make sure. "Just me, Gask," she said gently, seeing the direction of my gaze, "Just me." "Captain," I acknowledged softly. Luncardy closed the office door and moved swiftly to sit in the better of my guest chairs. She leaned across the desk and took my hand in her own. "You once said something about being friends," she said urgently, "But friends don't need to be distant from one another. We could be close, very close." I let out a sigh. I just couldn't help myself.
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"You've suffered a terrible loss, another terrible loss," she went on, "I feel for you, I really do. You could be a better person, a stronger person. Let me help you, if only for a while. Or maybe longer." There was something inside her which wanted a big strong Goblin to look after her, some child-like part which would invert the desire to be supported into a need to support: part mothering, part wifely advice and guidance. A relationship like that would smother me. Sure enough, the physical intimacy would be wonderful - she sure was a wonderfully sexy creature - but I could get that anywhere. Besides, that kind of thing rarely lasts more than a few decades. "Harriett," I said, squeezing her hand, "I really appreciate the offer. I like you, respect you; and that like and respect won't change any time soon. But ..." I let the words hang in the air. She could see, without my actually saying so, what my answer would be. Still, and true to form, she did not completely give up hope. Abruptly, she stood up and moved to the door. "Think about it, Findo," she said softly, "The offer stands. You need somebody. Somebody who will be good for you. Somebody to help you. Somebody who understands what you've been through. Call me, soon." She turned and left, closing the door gently behind her. I never did accept Luncardy's offer. things would have been better if I had. * After the Captain left, I sat and looked sadly at the spot where Luncardy had been sitting. Finally, I shook my head and took stock of my situation. It seemed I was alone in the world: without parents, without siblings - and certainly without children. Perhaps it had been true for a while, but suddenly I felt the full weight of the loss of - well, of something that had been absent for a very long time already. And without friends? Well, perhaps I shouldn't be too harsh here. There were a few Goblins - and a few humans, too - who would tolerate my company. Lorny and Arlie didn't count; sure, I could enjoy their most intimate company any time I wanted, although I would certainly end up paying for the privilege one way or another. Luncardy would probably talk to me again, at least professionally. Indeed, she probably owed me a favour; she had acquired yet another gold star on her report: with limited effort Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 197 Sometimes I wonder if
and less risk, she had finally put the force's hands on a notorious wanted criminal and several of his henchmen. And the rest? Just professional detachment, surely? It was case closed; ticks in boxes all round. The bad guys locked up with every prospect of them being sent down for a long time. A great success. But would anybody else notice? I opened the deep drawer of the office desk, took out the large bottle of cheap hooch I keep there - for medicinal purpose only, you understand - and stood it on the desk. I looked at it for a long time. * Drinking alone was not going to be good for me, so I elected for the lesser evil: drinking in company. I put on my hat, tugged my sunglasses over my eyes and drew up the collar of my raincoat. There was nobody outside the office, nobody on the stairs, not even anybody on the streets. Just me. I made my way directly to Chill's Bar in New York City, stopping only once to make a short phone call. I went in the back way, the hidden way that Nether had installed. Judging by the noise, the bar was already busy with early evening drinkers. I found Rosie in her little office, apparently searching for some vital piece of paper from amongst the mountain of abandoned paperwork on the desk. I coughed discreetly. Rosie span around, gasped then, collecting herself, smiled warmly. "Findo Gask," she said sympathetically, "How are you?" "I hate funerals," I said gruffly, "I need a drink." Her smile widened and the look in her eyes softened. "Well, you've come to the right place." Within moments, Rosie has installed me in a darkened corner, one where the stools were low enough to be comfortable for a Goblin, and where the beer barrels which functioned as tables made it difficult to tell that one's legs did not quite reach the ground. One of the young and friendly - and worldly-wise, especially in the world of the Goblins - waiting staff hurried over carrying a tray and presented me with a glass - a human half-pint of the best dark Irish stout accompanied by a shot-glass of what I would shortly discover was a very good Irish whiskey. Sensibly, the waiter left me to my own thoughts and bustled back to the bar. I scanned the room automatically - I very rarely fail to take the most basic precautions - but sensed no threat, no risk. Rosie was on best form, entertaining the regulars at the bar,
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and the clientele seemed to be delighted to have another Leprechaun about the place, if only for a while. Ten minutes harassed. I think face settles when around wildly for corner. later, Gumshoe hurried in, looking faintly this is just his default appearance, the way his no strong emotion is driving him. He looked a moment, then saw me nearly hidden in the
"Martin Gamshack, finally," I said as he approached, "So you do pick up your messages sometimes, then?" "Gask," he replied, "I came as quickly as I could. You said it was an emergency." "It is an emergency," I replied, "It was my sister Trinity's funeral yesterday. I haven't slept much. Now I really, really need to get drunk." "Ah," he said, sitting down heavily on one of the low stools, "I can relate to that. What do I have to do to get a drink in here?" Gumshoe looked around but the attentive waiting staff was ahead of him. The same young person hurried over with a refilled tray: another couple of glasses for me and the same for him. I lifted the replenished shot-glass in a toast, Gumshoe following my lead. Our glasses clinked, then there was that moment of internal struggle while we both winced at the fiery liquid burning its way down our throats. We talked for hours, the human detective and I, while the beer and spirits flowing freely. Every now and then, one of the more forthright of the regulars would drop by and press yet more beverages into our hands. Rosie stayed at the bar, but she glanced frequently in our direction, a glance that was always returned by Gumshoe. We talked about the closed case, confirming all we both knew about recent events. Then we moved on to previous glorious triumphs - modestly downplayed in my case - and ignoble disasters, played for laughs. Gumshoe seemed to have as many tales as I did, all suggestive of a detailed knowledge of the seamier side of life on the surface, at least as far as the East Coast of North America was concerned. It all helped take my mind of things. "We should form a partnership," Gumshoe suggested suddenly, out of the blue, "Gamshack and Gask." It was an intriguing idea, especially after a few drinks. "Gask and Gamshack," I countered, grinning broadly. "Nah," he replied airily, gesturing with his half-empty beer glass, "Doesn't scan as well. Better my way." Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011 199
In English, that was probably true. I tried it in the Goblin tongue. Gumshoe looked at me strangely, probably at the sound of his own name pronounced in the Goblin fashion. "How about 'Gamshack and Gask' up here and 'Gask and Gamshack' in the Lower Realms?" I suggested, my judgement only slightly pickled by the booze I had consumed. "It's a deal," he laughed, standing up only slightly unsteadily and sticking out an enormous paw in my direction. I took it and shook hands. This might just work.
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Gumshoe Glamours

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Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011

Copyright Trevor Hopkins 2010-2011

Chapter 1 Unwelcome Arrival

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Chapter 2 Dubious Request

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Chapter 3 New Endeavours

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Chapter 4 Partners in Crime

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Chapter 5 Unlucky Lady

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Chapter 6 Defective Memory

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Chapter 7 A Question of Depth

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Chapter 8 Unexpected Exit

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Chapter 9 Private Enterprise

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