home. Well, two out of three wasn’t a total lie.
Back home, I made a lot of coffee, dragged the phone through to the sofa and settled down with notepad, pen and packet of mini muffins.
First I got the number of the Cornish police department. Then I asked for the pathology department. After that I started ringing every number they could give me, looking for Dr. Lucy Denver. The closest I got was that she was off sick, and then I started panicking. What if the killer had got her, too?
I begged for a home number, but was curtly told that wouldn’t be possible. So I called Directory Enquiries again and asked for a Dr. Lucy Denver in Port Gaverne. There couldn’t be many.
The magic number was granted to me, and I wrote it down and underlined it in my notebook. Then I called her up, waited for hours for someone to answer the phone, and almost hung up when a sleepy voice croaked, “Hello?”
“Dr. Denver?”
“Mmm?”
“Sophie Green. We met yesterday, in Cornwall—in Port Trevan. I was the drowned girl. We talked about Molly Stanton?”
“Oh. Yeah. Yes. I remember.”
“I’m sorry, is this a bad time?” I asked politely, hoping she wasn’t going to say “Yes, bugger off.”
“No, I have food poisoning. I think. I’m all right if I stay close to the bathroom. Excuse me if I suddenly drop the phone and run away.”
“I will,” I said, hoping germs weren’t transferable through airwaves. “Erm, I was wondering if there was anything else you could tell me about Molly? Miss Otis? Why did you call her that?”
A hoarse laugh. “Her boyfriend identified her. He said they’d had an argument…”
“But she didn’t shoot him down?”
“No, he looked all right to me.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Gavin somebody… I’m sorry, I don’t recall… They’ll know at the Department.”
“Yes, well, they didn’t like me at the Department,” I said tersely. “Telling someone you’re a government agent doesn’t always guarantee they’ll believe you.” That was true even when I still had my job.
“Oh. Well, I believe you. Listen, Sophie, I'm afraid there’s really not a lot I can do for you at the moment, but I can call the office and get them to fax the case notes over to you, if that’s any help?”
I was about to tell her that would be a marvellous help, until I remembered that I didn’t have a fax machine and I was damned if I was going into the office to use theirs. Besides, it could all have been cleared out by now.
“Could you e-mail it?” I asked, and gave her my address. Dr. Lucy assured me she’d do what she could, I wished her a speedy recovery, and sat back to eat my muffins, satisfied, at least for now.
And then I realised I had nothing else to do all day. No airport shift to go to. No case notes to read. No boyfriend to see. No world to save.
Norma Jean padded into the room and looked at me mournfully. I supposed I could take her for another walk. Once around the field was hardly aerobic exercise.
But just as I was heaving myself to my feet, the muffins having padded out any gaps left by my three-day fast, my phone rang. Luke? Dr. Lucy?
Angel.
Angel is one of my best friends. Probably I’m closer to her than my other friends, because she knows all about SO17. Her parents were very famous celebrities in the sixties and seventies, but also secret government agents, and friends of Karen’s. SO17 helped Angel out in the summer when she had a stalker problem. Actually, mostly it was me who helped, by shooting the bugger dead. Well, he tried to kill me. I take that sort of thing very personally.
Anyway. She is engaged to the only other person of my acquaintance who knows about SO17’s existence, an adorable CIA agent called Harvey, who has been on secondment to SO17 for a while.
Wonder if he knew about his new job allocation? Probably that was why she was ringing. Angel and Harvey, and Harvey’s twin brother, Xander, who is also an absolute sweetheart, had gone to
Back home, I made a lot of coffee, dragged the phone through to the sofa and settled down with notepad, pen and packet of mini muffins.
First I got the number of the Cornish police department. Then I asked for the pathology department. After that I started ringing every number they could give me, looking for Dr. Lucy Denver. The closest I got was that she was off sick, and then I started panicking. What if the killer had got her, too?
I begged for a home number, but was curtly told that wouldn’t be possible. So I called Directory Enquiries again and asked for a Dr. Lucy Denver in Port Gaverne. There couldn’t be many.
The magic number was granted to me, and I wrote it down and underlined it in my notebook. Then I called her up, waited for hours for someone to answer the phone, and almost hung up when a sleepy voice croaked, “Hello?”
“Dr. Denver?”
“Mmm?”
“Sophie Green. We met yesterday, in Cornwall—in Port Trevan. I was the drowned girl. We talked about Molly Stanton?”
“Oh. Yeah. Yes. I remember.”
“I’m sorry, is this a bad time?” I asked politely, hoping she wasn’t going to say “Yes, bugger off.”
“No, I have food poisoning. I think. I’m all right if I stay close to the bathroom. Excuse me if I suddenly drop the phone and run away.”
“I will,” I said, hoping germs weren’t transferable through airwaves. “Erm, I was wondering if there was anything else you could tell me about Molly? Miss Otis? Why did you call her that?”
A hoarse laugh. “Her boyfriend identified her. He said they’d had an argument…”
“But she didn’t shoot him down?”
“No, he looked all right to me.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Gavin somebody… I’m sorry, I don’t recall… They’ll know at the Department.”
“Yes, well, they didn’t like me at the Department,” I said tersely. “Telling someone you’re a government agent doesn’t always guarantee they’ll believe you.” That was true even when I still had my job.
“Oh. Well, I believe you. Listen, Sophie, I'm afraid there’s really not a lot I can do for you at the moment, but I can call the office and get them to fax the case notes over to you, if that’s any help?”
I was about to tell her that would be a marvellous help, until I remembered that I didn’t have a fax machine and I was damned if I was going into the office to use theirs. Besides, it could all have been cleared out by now.
“Could you e-mail it?” I asked, and gave her my address. Dr. Lucy assured me she’d do what she could, I wished her a speedy recovery, and sat back to eat my muffins, satisfied, at least for now.
And then I realised I had nothing else to do all day. No airport shift to go to. No case notes to read. No boyfriend to see. No world to save.
Norma Jean padded into the room and looked at me mournfully. I supposed I could take her for another walk. Once around the field was hardly aerobic exercise.
But just as I was heaving myself to my feet, the muffins having padded out any gaps left by my three-day fast, my phone rang. Luke? Dr. Lucy?
Angel.
Angel is one of my best friends. Probably I’m closer to her than my other friends, because she knows all about SO17. Her parents were very famous celebrities in the sixties and seventies, but also secret government agents, and friends of Karen’s. SO17 helped Angel out in the summer when she had a stalker problem. Actually, mostly it was me who helped, by shooting the bugger dead. Well, he tried to kill me. I take that sort of thing very personally.
Anyway. She is engaged to the only other person of my acquaintance who knows about SO17’s existence, an adorable CIA agent called Harvey, who has been on secondment to SO17 for a while.
Wonder if he knew about his new job allocation? Probably that was why she was ringing. Angel and Harvey, and Harvey’s twin brother, Xander, who is also an absolute sweetheart, had gone to
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