The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [229]
“So what if I am?” retorted Slorter defiantly. “We all have to risk things for advancement.”
“I know that only too well,” I replied, steering them towards a quiet spot next to a model of a matchstick made entirely out of bits of the houses of Parliament. “Just so long as you know what you’re getting into. What happened to Walken and Dedmen?”
“They were reassigned,” explained Lamme.
“You mean dead?”
“No,” exclaimed Lamme with some surprise. “I mean reas— Oh my goodness! Is that what it means?”
I sighed. These two weren’t going to last the day.
“Your predecessors are both dead, guys—and the ones before that. Four agents gone in less than a week. What happened to Walken’s case notes? Accidentally destroyed?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” laughed Lamme. “When recovered they were totally intact—they were then put through the shedder by a new member of staff who mistook it for a photocopier.”
“Do you have anything at all to go on?”
“As soon as they realized it was a shredder, I—sorry, they stopped and we were left with these.”
He handed two half documents over. One was a picture of a young woman striding out of a shop laden down with carrier bags and parcels. Her face, tantalizingly enough, was the part that had been destroyed by the shredder. I turned the picture over. On the back was a penciled note: “A.H. leaves Dorothy Perkins having shopped with a stolen credit card.”
“The ‘A.H.’ means Acheron Hades,” explained Lamme in a confident tone. “We were allowed to read part of his file. He can lie in thought, deed and action.”
“I know. I wrote it. But this isn’t Hades. Acheron doesn’t resolve on film.”
“Then who is it that we’re after?” asked Slorter.
“I have no idea. What was on the other document?”
This was simply a handwritten page of notes, compiled by Walken about whoever it was they were watching. I read:
“... 9:34: Contact with suspect at Camp Hopson sales. 11:03: Elevenses of carrot juice and flapjack—leaves without paying. 11:48: Dorothy Perkins. 12:57: Lunch. 14:45: Continues shopping. 17:20: Argues with manager of Tammy Girl about returned leg warmers. 17:45: Lost contact. 21:03: Reestablished contact at the HotBox nightclub. 23:02: A.H. leaves the HotBox with male companion. 23:16: Contact lost. . . .”
I put down the sheet.
“It’s not exactly how I’d describe the work of a master criminal, now is it?”
“No,” replied Slorter glumly.
“What were your orders?”
“Classified,” announced Lamme, who was getting the hang of SpecOps-5 work, right at the point I didn’t want him to.
“Stick to you like glue,” said Slorter, who understood the situation a lot better, “and reports every half hour sent to SO-5 HQ in three separate ways.”
“You’re being used as live bait,” I told them. “If I were you I’d go back to SO-23 and -28 just as quick as your legs can carry you.”
“And miss all this?” asked Slorter, replacing her dark glasses and looking every bit the part. SO-5 would be the highest office for either of them. I hoped they lived long enough to enjoy it.
By ten-thirty the exhibition was pretty much over. I sent Gran home in a cab fast asleep and a bit tipsy. Saveloy tried to kiss me goodnight but I was too quick for him, and Duchamp2924 had managed to sell an installation of his called The Id Within VII— in a Jar, Pickled. Zorf refused to sell any paintings to anyone who couldn’t see what they were, but to neanderthals who could see what they were he gave them away, arguing that the bond between a painting and an owner should not be sullied by anything as obscenely sapien as cash. The flattened tuba was sold too, the new owner asking Joffy to drop it round to him, and if he wasn’t at home to just slip it under the door. I went home via Mum’s place to collect Pickwick, who hadn’t come out of the airing cupboard the entire time I was in Osaka.
“She insisted on being fed in there,” explained my mother, “and the trouble with the other dodos! Let one in and they all want to follow!”
She handed me Pickwick’s egg wrapped in a towel. Pickwick hopped up and down in a very aggravated manner and I had to show her the egg