names we’re looking for.”
Still smirking, Nadir lounged back in his chair. “Lament was a scientist, so he never went anywhere without his muscle to back him up – Vernon Plight. That woman was with them too sometimes, the small one, the psychic. Lenka Bazaar, that’s her name. And someone else.”
“Who?”
“Can’t remember.”
Skulduggery reached for the contract but Nadir snatched it back. “Kalvin Accord! That was it! That’s all I know.”
Skulduggery looked at Valkyrie. “Vernon Plight is missing presumed dead. Same with Kalvin Accord, and I’ve never heard of this Lenka Bazaar.”
Nadir shrugged. “That’s not my fault. I fulfilled my side of the deal.”
“Yes, you did,” said Skulduggery. “There’s no one else you remember? No one else they mentioned?”
“I wasn’t really taking much notice of what they were saying in between hitting me. Those are the names I’ve got for you. That’s all.”
“OK. It’s something to go on, at least. Cleaver, could you escort Mr Nadir to his cell, please?”
Nadir stared. “What? You said you’d hook me back up. You said you’d take me back to that contraption!” The Cleaver hauled him to his feet and shackled his wrists. “We had a deal! We have a contract!”
“Yes, we do,” Skulduggery said, picking it up off the desk. “Unfortunately for you it’s not binding.”
“But the Grand Mage signed it! Eachan Meritorious himself signed it!”
“The Grand Mage did sign it,” Skulduggery nodded, “but Eachan Meritorious is dead – which you wouldn’t have heard about, what with being hooked up to that thing for the last fifteen years. And unless Erskine Ravel, the current Grand Mage, signs this contract with his own name, well... It can hardly be considered a legal document, now can it?”
“You cheated me!” Nadir screeched as the Cleaver dragged him to the door.
“You’re a serial killer, Mr Nadir,” said Skulduggery, tearing up the page. “You deserve to be cheated.”
Valkyrie didn’t like murder scenes. The more she’d visited, the less she’d liked. If they were more along the lines of the murder scenes that her gran watched on TV, where elderly detectives tut-tutted around beautiful countrysides and manor homes, she might have changed her opinion. But the murder scenes she tended to visit belonged in horror movies or police procedurals, where the emphasis was on blood splatter and defensive wounds and, occasionally, finding the head.
Skulduggery had warned her that this morning’s murder scene contained blood, and lots of it. But that was ages away. Skulduggery wouldn’t be picking her up for another half an hour or so. If she were a mayfly, that would be practically a lifetime away. So here she was, in a nice bright coffee shop in town, standing in line like a normal person.
She gave her order, paid and stepped back to wait. A middle-aged woman in the queue behind her stopped rooting through her handbag long enough to look at the selection available and annoy the people behind her by taking ages to make a choice. She smiled at Valkyrie and Valkyrie smiled back politely. She looked like a nice enough person. She probably had a nice enough name, like Helen, or Margaret. Seven people stood behind Margaret, getting increasingly irritated. An eighth person walked in, joined the queue at the end. A big man in a long coat with a shaven head, looking straight at Valkyrie.
She met his gaze and he looked away. He was broad-shouldered. Looked strong. Margaret finally handed over her money and then stepped away to let the next person place their order.
“I always take so long,” she said.
Valkyrie took her eyes off the big man. “I’m sorry?”
“To choose,” Margaret said. “I always take so long to choose.”
“Oh. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“And I can always feel the daggers being stared into my back,” said Margaret, chuckling. “I suppose I’m just not cosmopolitan enough for somewhere like this.”
Valkyrie gave her another polite smile, then took her coffee from the girl behind the counter and went to an empty table by the wall. Weird woman, being all chatty to a complete stranger. She blew on the coffee to cool it down and let her eyes drift. The big man wasn’t looking at her any more. Margaret was now chatting to the girl at the till. Music played. A young man sat by the window. He was dark-haired, heavyset, wearing a suit. Bad tie. He smiled at her. What was this, Be Nice To Strangers Day? She gave him a curt nod, which he mistook for an invitation. She groaned silently as he picked up his coffee and his pastry and approached.
“Mind if I sit?” he asked, a twinkle in his eyes.
“Something wrong with the table over there?”
“It’s a lonely table. All the beautiful girls are at the tables over here.” His smile widened and he sat. “Hi. I’m Alan.”
“Hi, Alan.”
“Can I get your name?”
Valkyrie. “Stephanie.”
“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl. So, Stephanie, what do you do?”
Catch bad guys. Save the world. “I’m still in school, Alan.”
He laughed. “No, you’re not. Seriously? Wow. How old are you?”
“I’m seventeen.”
“Seventeen. Wow. You look older. I don’t mean you look old. You don’t look old. Oh, God, I’ve probably insulted you now, haven’t I?”
He really did like to laugh, this Alan.
“I just saw you sitting here,” he continued, “dressed all in black, standing out from the crowd, looking like a girl who was worth getting to know. Are you a girl worth getting to know, Stephanie?”
“Nope,” she said, “not me.”
“I think you’re being modest.”
She took another sip of coffee.
“Well,” he said, “in case you were wondering, I’m twenty. I work in Boyle Solutions, around the corner
