Free Half Moon Chambers by Fox Harper

, then picked up again at twenty one. Clearly the place had been designed by a lunatic...
    Retracing my steps, I saw a corridor off from the main hall, narrow and almost pitch dark. It was on the wrong side to lead to the missing flats, but I took it. I'd lost my bearings. This weirdly angled passageway must lead to one of the turrets, the rounded corner rooms under their domed, fish - scale tiled roofs. I'd thought those must be for decoration only. From outside they'd looked almost derelict, paint peeling from the window frames . Still, there in front of me, terminating the corridor , were two doors. Nineteen was numbered , the other just a forbidding dark-wood rectangle .
    It didn't take a genius. I hesitated, then remembered I was a policeman in pursuit of a witness and gave it a solid thump. A heavy silence descended . All sounds from the street were muffled up here. There was a sense of unreality, of displacement from the world. This was Rowan Clyde's hideaway. Suddenly I saw it as Rowan might . God knew who he thought had tracked him down in his lair. I leaned my hands on the door frame . "Rowan? It's Vince Carr."
    The door opened straight away. The first thing to hit me was a rich smell of turpentine, and then the warmth. Rowan was standing in front of me , and to my surprise that uncertain smile was back . He was wearing an old, paint-stained shirt.
    We stood for a moment in silence. If I was sizing him up, he was definitely doing the same to me . "Hi," I said. I needed a moment longer, a chance to get a feel for him. "I never thanked you.
    For hoisting my arse up all those stairs, I mean, and clearing up my flat."
    It was a lame effort at a hedge, but he didn't seem to mind. He wiped his hands on a cloth and then extended one to me. "Hi. We didn't do this last time."
    I took his proffered grip. "No, we didn't. That was my fault."
    "If you give me a ring before you visit, I won 't be so slow about answering the door."
    "Okay." Bill Hodges had specifically told me not to do that, to try and take him by surprise. I'd enjoyed that idea. I'd used to like every weapon in my arsenal, from the guns to the pysch techniques for rattling witnesses, wrong-footing them and getting round their guard. Rowan Clyde's bruises looked bad in the dim-lit hallway. Maybe it was the effect of my own injuries, but these days the tricks I'd learned lay heavy on me, like tools in a bag I was being forced to lug around. "I won't kid you it's a social call," I said. "I did want to thank you , but... there's something I need to talk to you about . Have you got a few minutes?"
    "Yes, sure. Come in."
    He closed the door behind me, and the warmth wrapped me round. "Crikey," I said awkwardly , following him down the hall. "I wouldn 't fancy your heating bills. Are you growing marijuana in here?"
    It was a poor joke in the circumstances, but he shot me a wry glance over his shoulder. "You'd be the last person I'd tell, wouldn't you? Take your coat off. I don't like the cold."
    No. He didn't look as if he did. A proper little hothouse flower, I'd have labelled him, if this had been our first meeting and I hadn't encountered his strength . His shirt was tucked into soft, tight-fitting jeans that revealed his fine-made dancer's hips. He had the rich ivory skin which sometimes goes with dark hair and eyes. I couldn't imagine him ever taking a tan. Then, I wasn't in love with the remorseless bitter winter that gripped my city from November to late March myself, and I was glad enough to shrug off my heavy coat. Rowan took it, grinned at my gesture of fanning myself. I hesitated, then stripped out of my sweater as well. "Ta," I said . "I don't normally rip half my kit off before starting an interview."
    "I'm glad to hear it." He hung my coat, more carefully than it deserved, off a brass hook in the wall . "Is that what this is, then? Another interview ?"
    "I'm afraid so." I rubbed my arms. It was nice to feel the warm air on them, to be able to stand in a