Free Sonata of the Dead by Conrad Williams

rustically sliced multi-seed snob cob.
    ‘Ah,’ I said again.
    ‘Mm,’ she said, and widened her eyes.
    ‘When did you see through my cunning ruse?’ I asked.
    At that moment, Louis Ferguson came through the door. The woman stood up. ‘Daddy!’ she called out.
    Right
, I thought.
Immediately
.
    Ferguson seemed perplexed to see me. His confusion turned to glee when his daughter filled him in on my stupidity. I told him I wanted to just borrow some books and I seemed incapable of acting like a normal human being and I was ever so sorry, no damage done, lunch is on me and then—
    Tears hit me. Hard as an April squall. I felt myself bow under the weight of them. I felt Ferguson’s hand on my shoulder, lighter than air. There was only the mass of this sudden misery, sucking me down under the weight of its own gravitational force.
    I calmed down after a while. There was a brandy on the table in front of me though I had not ordered it. Possibly it was meant for Ferguson. I downed it anyway.
    ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
    ‘I don’t know your name,’ I said.
    ‘That’s nothing to get upset about,’ she said.
    I laughed. I liked that. I liked her.
    ‘It’s Romy, Romy Toussaint,’ she said. She gave me her business card. I gave her one of mine.
    ‘Snap,’ she said, perusing the text. ‘Private investigations? How exciting.’
    ‘Toussaint?’
    ‘It’s my mother’s maiden name. I think it’s a better fit than Ferguson.’
    ‘Ferguson is a strong name,’ said the professor, but there was a twinkle in his eye. They’d already had this argument long ago, you could tell.
    ‘Romy. Like in the book,’ I said.
    She seemed confused.
    ‘
For Romy. Daddy’s sweetheart for ever.
’
    ‘Ah yes. It doesn’t take much to make you cry, does it?’
    ‘That wasn’t it,’ I said. ‘Although yes, I suppose it was, in a way. I have a daughter I haven’t seen in a while and watching you and your father together…’
    ‘It’s a scene you’ve yet to have,’ she said, her fingers fluttering near her mouth in dismay. ‘Unless you’re lying to me again and it’s really because your pants are too tight.’
    I shook my head. ‘I won’t lie to you again,’ I said.
    Ferguson leaned towards me. ‘I took the liberty of hailing you a taxi,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
    I thanked him and apologised again and said goodbye. I got in the cab and thought for a moment. I said to the driver: ‘New Scotland Yard.’

7
    I hung around outside, drinking overpriced coffee-flavoured piss. This was one of the downsides of no longer being on the inside. Half my time was spent skulking in the shadows waiting for someone, or for something to happen. The coffee seemed to be lasting longer than it ought but that was because the bucketing rain kept topping it up. My gaze darted around the windows where I knew Mawker had his office. If I was caught out here it would only give him license to tongue-lash me, the by-the-numbers prick.
    A flash of colour on Broadway: Phil Clarke, aka The Kingfisher, cut across to where I was moping outside St Ermin’s Hotel on Caxton Street, keeping the lion statues company. As I said, the pathologist had a bit of a thing for braces. I say ‘bit of a thing’ but it was more like an obsession. Or maybe even a fetish. I could well believe he’d wear them along with a leather thong and nothing else when he was back home in South Ken. These were emerald green, shining like wet electricity, beneath a two-thousand-pound Tom Ford suit.
    ‘What are you doing standing in the rain?’ he bellowed. He gripped my elbow and led me into the hotel foyer. ‘It’s drink o’clock. And I don’t mean that Styrofoam nightmare of yours. Lose the fucker. That’s an order.’
    He guided me into the bar, darkly lit with open fires and walls papered crimson. We sat opposite each other on expansive sofas. The cushions were patterned with little elephants.
    ‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me,’ I told