Trick or Treat (18 page)

‘Yeah,’ affirmed Jones.

‘Meanwhile,’ said Ms Bray, ‘there’s been a development.’

‘Another one?’

‘The reports have started to come in from the people who were tested last week. The mad ones,’ she elaborated.

I hadn’t forgotten them. ‘Yes?’

‘Forensics are cross,’ she told me. ‘The agent, whatever it is, eluded them. Metabolised too quickly to be found, but had major central nervous system effects. Eventually they found traces of LSD.’

‘I thought as much,’ I said. We hadn’t told Ms Bray anything about Barnabas, witches, or ordeal poisons, and we probably should have.

‘Far beyond any usual dose,’ said Ms Bray.

‘I worked that out myself,’ I said. ‘And it seems strange.’

‘They had crumbs and fruit by-products in their stomachs,’ she said.

‘Yes.’ I saw what was coming.

‘So we feel that—’

The mobile phone rang. Jones pressed the receive button and handed it over. It wasn’t one of those phones which took pictures or I might have tried to send poor Vincent Wyatt a picture of us, sitting on the iron bench in the lane.

‘It’s me,’ said the apatosaurus.

‘And it’s me, Corinna, here,’ I assured him.

‘I can’t see any way out,’ he said.

‘Just come and open the door,’ I said. ‘It’s easy. I’m here.’

‘I reckon it must have been that worthless little gum-chewing shoppie Eddie,’ he said in a low roar. ‘He must’ve done it. Ruined me by selling drugs.’

‘You don’t know that,’ I urged. That Eddie was earning his weekly wage. I could see his frantic eyes through the window. Terrified eyes, clutching hands. I lost patience abruptly.

‘Vincent!’ I raised my voice. ‘Stop this right now! If it’s your assistant, then the cops will arrest him and make him sorry he was born. Now I can’t sit out here all day, I’ve got to go to bed early, I’ve got baking to do in the morning! You come and open this door. I’ve got bread to make!’

Silence descended and the phone was cut off again.

‘Oops,’ I said meekly.

‘Possibly not oops,’ said Daniel.

Jones rubbed his chin. ‘But possibly. Give it another ten and then, if he still won’t come out and be nice, we’ll have to lay on a negotiator and call out the Sons of God.’

‘Sons of God?’

‘Special Operations Group,’ Ms Bray told me. ‘Otherwise known as Soggies. Snipers. 007s. Licensed to kill.’

‘He doesn’t seem to be armed,’ I said feebly.

‘No, but we don’t know whether he’s armed or not,’ said

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Jones, ‘which is why I’d rather wait. Besides, this sort of thing means overtime and the boss hates authorising overtime.’

I was fascinated by this privileged insight into secret police methods. I was also feeling sorry for Vincent. And his shoppie, the wretched Eddie. And for me. I had been plunged without any preparation or training into this and I was sure that I was about to make a fatal mistake.

Ms Bray captured my attention again. ‘. . . so at least you won’t have to get up early tomorrow,’ she finished. I had missed the start of her discourse.

‘What?’

‘Because of the search,’ she told me again. ‘Just a hint, get those Mouse Police out of the bakery before they arrive.’

‘They can stay upstairs,’ I affirmed. Not open on Monday? My world was shuddering on its axis. I suddenly knew exactly how Vincent Wyatt felt because I felt the same.

Not waiting for a phone call, I went to the barricaded front door of Best Fresh and knocked on it. There was a startled silence inside.

‘Come along, Mr Wyatt,’ I said. ‘Open the door and come with me. We’re in trouble, and bakers must stick together. That’s the way, Eddie, you push those racks aside.’

Eddie did as he was bid. There was a piercing scream of metal on metal, then the barricade was gone. Eddie had pressed himself so flat against the window that he seemed to be glued there. Gradually, he sidled along to the door and unlocked it with a subdued clunk.

‘Nice,’ I heard Jones say.

‘There we are. Come on out, Eddie,’ I encouraged. Poor Eddie slipped out through the opening door and flung himself into the arms of the attendant police. Then I did something which no hostage negotiator ought to do in a million years of careful negotiations. I heard Daniel behind me protest but it was too late. I shoved aside the remains of the bread racks and went into Best Fresh.

It was no longer the shop it had been. The snazzy plastic chairs had been thrown—one by one, it seemed—into a corner, where some of them had smashed. The blinds hung askew on their rails. Bread racks, rolls, loaves and a whole sack of some sort of pre-mix littered the floor. And in the corner was Mr Wyatt, huddled close, his hands together and caught between his knees, a picture of misery.

For a moment I didn’t know what to do, but clearly this could not go on. Vincent Wyatt was big, with thinning blond hair and a high complexion. He was tending to fat as a lot of bakers do, and was presumably strong enough to take me on in any sort of physical contest. But I did not want to see him running the risk of being shot. People had died enough. Calico Alley was turning into a war zone and I was sick of it.

I crossed the room, kicking loaves out of the way, sank down on my knees in front of him and grabbed his knotted hands.

‘Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s get you out of here.’

‘Corinna?’ The big face was bleared with tears.

‘Vincent?’

‘Yair,’ he agreed. I pulled and he came up out of his crouch. I retained my grip on his hands but he didn’t seem to notice. ‘Made a hell of a mess,’ he grunted as we crunched and waded through the assorted spilt produce.

‘Certainly have,’ I agreed. ‘But it can be cleaned up. Come on. Cup of tea and you’ll feel slightly better. Perhaps.’

‘It’s a scandal,’ he muttered.

I kept towing. I brought him to the door and gave him a shrewd shove just as he baulked, and then we were out into the

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Goddess’s good air and the fight totally went out of Mr Wyatt. He sank down onto the iron bench next to Daniel and started to cry.

‘Where did you learn that?’ asked Daniel, fascinated.

‘Loading unimpressed horses into floats,’ I replied.

‘Really?’ he asked. ‘I never saw you as an outdoor girl.’

‘I’m not. I had no choice. It was the sort of school I went to, Daniel dear. I had to find an acceptable sport or play hockey and I do not like blood. So I played tennis very badly and they let me take riding. Grandpa Chapman paid for it, bless him. I liked riding,’ I remembered. ‘Mainly because it’s the poor horse who gets all the exercise. You?’

‘I can stick on, if nothing surprising happens,’ he said, smiling. ‘We shall take some equestrian exercise, ma’am, together.’

‘A pleasant idea,’ I said. It was.

‘And what are we to do with our comrade here?’ he asked.

Poor Vincent Wyatt was still weeping in a broken fashion. Altogether too many people had been crying at me today. I was suddenly, and despicably, sick of the entire human race (with the exception of Daniel) and wanted nothing more to do with any of them—soppy, soggy, lachrymose creatures. My mind, which sometimes seems to hate me, presented me with a picture of Meroe grasping Barnabas’s ear in her teeth. All right, not all of them were soppy—some of them were dangerously violent.

‘He’s mine for the moment,’ said Ms Bray sweetly, displacing me on the bench with an adroit wriggle of one hip. ‘Then I need to talk to you again.’

‘All right. I’ll go home,’ I told her. ‘Catch me there in the roof garden. I’ll have to rustle up some food, come and eat it with us. Unless you’re afraid I’ll poison you.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘That is not one of the things I am afraid of. See you in about an hour, then. Ms Vickery will be delighted to meet the kitty-cats again.’

‘Daniel?’ I asked as we walked away.

‘Ketschele?’

‘Kill the next person who wants me to do anything for them.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, saluting like Jason in his midshipman role.

Oh, Lord, Jason would be devastated! No shop opening, and what was he to do? Jason had redefined himself as a baker. His previous definition had been heroin addict. This turn of events might set him back—perhaps even cause him to relapse. And he had been doing so well. We had all been doing so well, until that little voice started singing about soul cakes.

I didn’t swear, because it occurred to me that Daniel had also put up with quite enough emotion for one day. What we needed was some quiet, some company, and some food.

I was wondering what I could ransack from the nearest 7-Eleven which might make a reasonable repast, and thinking that a few cooked chickens with ginger and honey might meet the bill, as we climbed into Insula and rose towards the garden in the lift. There was a buzz of voices on the roof and my heart sank. I was not in the mood for conversation. I was, in fact, now getting my usual backlash from taking bold action and I just wanted to hide. My head ached. My limbs hurt. And somewhere along the way in the rush of the day’s events I had bitten my lip.

But there were all my fellow tenants and there was Daniel and one must bear up, as the Professor says, so I bore up and was richly rewarded. Under the spreading wisteria bower the picnic tables had been set up. Bottles had been opened. Plates were being laid. There was a lovely scent on the air.

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‘There you are,’ said Kylie. ‘Like, we were getting so hungry! Come and sit down. Mrs Dawson said to take this,’ she added, passing me two white tablets and a glass of cold water. ‘She said you’d have a headache.’

‘She was right.’ I took the tablets. I sat down on a picnic chair. Kepler, who cannot do anything inelegantly, poured me a glass of white wine.

‘We thought that we needed a conference,’ said Professor Monk. ‘But we also thought we needed some lunch.’

‘So we combined them in the ultimate pot luck feast,’ said Jon. ‘Amazing selection of almost anything you’d like,’ he said. ‘Kepler’s green curry, my stuffed eggplants, muhallabia, and babaganoush, Jason’s stash of experimental muffins. We also have cold meat and cheeses from Mrs Dawson, pickles, condiments and napery from Therese Webb and fruit and various salads from Meroe. Kylie and Goss brought the ice cream, of course. Trudi contributed the sausage which Jason is presently cooking. Mistress Dread brought the beer and the Professor brought the wine. The Pandamuses have invited us all to dinner at eight, because their shop will be closed tomorrow to be tested by the police and Yai Yai just made a new batch of beef stifado and moussaka. Come along, dear Corinna,’ he said, smiling his beautiful smile which has made people open their wallets all over Australia. ‘What would you like to start with?’

‘I would like,’ I said, really thinking about it, ‘a pickled onion. And cheddar cheese. And a piece of that Scottish oatbread. And isn’t there anything I can contribute to the feast?’

‘You are contributing,’ said Jon. ‘By existing. Also Daniel has just gone down to your apartment to fetch that cold frittata he made as a surprise for you.’

I looked around. Everyone was eating and drinking. Jason was forking sausages as to the barbecue born. Mrs Dawson, who only drank champagne, gin and occasionally whisky, was sipping from a glass of golden bubbles. Goss was nibbling at the very edge of a piece of guaranteed free-of-calories lavash loaded with soft fruit cheese. Jon ate ham, Daniel ate green curry, Kepler tasted his first frittata, Mistress Dread dominated the gentleman’s relish. I tasted the chicory and onions, a massively comforting dish.

There was only one thing missing from this consolation feast, and I tried not to mind terribly as I bit into my pickled onion. There was no Earthly Delights bread.

It was such a pleasant lunch and as it drew to an end, it was time for a council of war. I shared with the meeting all I knew or had conjectured about LSD and soul cakes, and Kylie faltered: ‘That song, we did hear it about. A bit. Like we said.’

‘Yes, you would have if anyone did,’ said Jon, as quietly as if he was charming a bird onto his hand. ‘You and Goss go to some of the clubs, you live in the city.’

‘We never bought any,’ said Goss hastily. After an encounter with weight-loss herbs on which they had massively overdosed themselves, both girls were sticking rigidly to a traditional central nervous system depressant called a Mojito. ‘Anyway, we never really saw the dealer. If he was a dealer. We just heard the little song.’

‘Was it always the same voice?’

‘Huh?’

‘A high voice or a low voice?’ persisted Jon. ‘A man or a woman?’

‘The same,’ said Kylie, chewing a fingernail. ‘Yes, the same all the time. A very nice voice. A boy.’

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‘More like Robbie than Justin,’ said Goss helpfully. ‘Always seemed to be round a corner.’ ‘Which clubs?’ Daniel was being very careful not to startle our little birds this time.

‘Around,’ Kylie shrugged. ‘Not the rough ones. The groovy ones, where you need good clothes and the door bitch knows how much your shoes cost. You know?’

‘I know,’ affirmed Daniel. ‘No one wearing a dress from Maison de Target is going to get past the guardian.’

‘Whatever,’ agreed Kylie. ‘Thanks for lunch,’ she added, and they drifted off to rehearse their lines again. All three of them.

Our little gathering was, at this point, supplemented by Ms Bray and her co-ey, who had managed to trip over Lucifer’s lead and was evidently enraptured. Lucifer, for his part, felt it his duty to personally taste test every single one of her nice silver buttons. She was delighted when he ran out of buttons, scaled her uniform, and perched on her shoulder, patting at her earring with one meditative paw as (being Lucifer) he plotted ambush on the remains of the feast. I could see the little ratbag calculating: one leap across to get onto the back of the bench, another spring onto Jon’s lap, then I could land smack in the middle of that large platter of smoked salmon and cream cheese crackers, which have hardly been touched.

The policewoman, who was not without trained forensic instincts, grasped his lead and suppressed him. For the moment.