Simon Green - Spirits from Beyond

“That’s her! That’s the bitch! I want her arrested, and dragged out of here, and thrown in a cell! In handcuffs!”

Heather was already up on her feet, behind her desk. Two really big guns had appeared in her hands, out of nowhere. The Minister’s jaw dropped, and he stood very still. The six security guards lowered their weapons immediately. The man in charge nodded respectfully to Heather, then looked witheringly at the Minister.

“You idiot. This is who you wanted us to arrest? Catherine Latimer’s personal secretary? Are you insane? Sorry, Heather. We didn’t know. Please don’t kill us all and dump our bodies in a mass grave.”

“It’s all right, Dave,” said Heather. “He didn’t know. He’s new.”

“Well, he’s not going to get old, acting like that,” said the security guard. “Come on, lads, let’s get going while the going’s still good.”

They left in a rush, pushing and shoving each other in their hurry to get through the open door. The Minister stood alone, staring in an almost hypnotised way at the really big guns Heather was now pointing exclusively at him.

“So,” he said finally. “If I’m not in charge. . what, exactly, is my job here? What do I do?”

“You get to talk to the media and convince them that we don’t exist,” said Heather. “And that’s it.”

“Ah,” said the Minister. “Yes. I think I’ll go now if that’s all right.”

“I would,” said Heather.

The Minister left, closing the door quietly and very politely behind him. The really big guns disappeared from Heather’s hands, and she sat down again and resumed her typing.

“Potentially bright sort, I thought,” said JC. “He learned quickly.”

Catherine Latimer’s voice sounded suddenly in the office, from no obvious source. “Chance, get in here with your team. Heather; we are not to be interrupted. Unless it’s that thing we talked about.”

“What?” Happy said immediately. “What thing?”

“That thing the Boss and I talked about that the likes of you don’t need to know about,” said Heather.

“Unless it’s that thing we already know about,” said JC.

“The thing with the thing?” said Melody.

“No; the thing with the other thing,” said Happy.

“You all think you’re so funny,” said Heather, crushingly.

“Get in here, Chance!” said Catherine Latimer’s voice.

The extremely solid steel door at the back of the Waiting Room swung slowly open, as though daring the three field agents to enter. JC made a point of swaggering in, while Melody stuck her nose in the air, and Happy slouched along in the rear. The door closed very firmly behind them.

* * *

The Boss’s private office hadn’t changed much since the last time JC and his team had been called before her. Large and comfortable, but in no way cosy or inviting, with only the most luxurious and expensive fittings and furnishings. Catherine Latimer sat upright behind her Hepplewhite desk and gestured for the three of them to arrange themselves on the even more uncomfortable visitors’ chairs set out before her. She then looked them over with her usual cold gaze. JC made a point of not looking at her, pretending an interest in the contents of her office. Which was actually quite interesting in its own right. The Boss’s antique desk might be covered with all the most up-to-date electronic equipment, but there was no doubt Catherine Latimer had placed her own personal mark on her surroundings. Strange objects leapt to the eye everywhere, demanding the visitor’s attention.

There was a large goldfish bowl, half-full of murky ectoplasm, in which the ghost of a goldfish swam calmly backwards; flickering on and off like a faulty light bulb. A glass display case, remarkably similar to the ones JC had encountered down in the Secret Libraries, here containing the Haunted Glove of Haversham, known to have strangled seventeen young debutantes in 1953. The long white evening glove had been very firmly nailed to its wooden stand. It looked ordinary enough until you realised the fingertips were still twitching. Another display case contained an exceedingly large tooth labelled, simply but worryingly, Loch Ness 1933 . A portrait of Queen Elizabeth II took pride of place on the wall behind the Boss’s desk. It was said to have been painted directly after her Coronation, but that it had aged along with the Queen, in real time. It was also said that the Boss talked to the portrait concerning important matters of the day. It was not known whether she ever received a reply; but there was a great deal of discussion on the subject.

JC reluctantly returned his attention to Catherine Latimer to find she was still looking the field agents over, taking her time, saying nothing. So JC looked her over, taking his time.

The Boss had to be almost eighty now, but she still projected an air of unnatural strength and vitality. She was medium height, unapologetically stocky, her grey hair cropped in a bowl cut. Her face was all hard edges and cold grey eyes. She wore a smartly tailored grey suit and smoked black Turkish cigarettes in a long, ivory holder; supposedly an affectation that had survived from her old student days in Cambridge. There was a long-standing rumour that a long time ago, Catherine Latimer had made a deal with Someone, but no-one had ever been able to prove anything.

“You’ve all come a long way,” she said abruptly. “From C-team agents with disreputable backgrounds and quite appalling business interests to full-time A-team agents. With an impressive record of cases solved and a series of impressive victories against the Institute’s enemies. I’d put you all down for a commendation if we did that sort of thing. I am pleased to see you’re all giving the Institute your full attention these days.” She looked at JC. “Mr. Chance, you used to run an antiquarian bookshop, in the Charing Cross Road, specialising in the kind of esoteric forbidden lore that would give any reputable scholar nightmares. The literary occult equivalent of the back-pack nuke.”

“Guilty as charged,” JC said easily. “It’s all in storage now. Just don’t have the time, any more. And A-team pay is so much better than C-team. As long as the money continues, I see no reason why I should have to go back to my bad old ways.”

Catherine Latimer turned to Happy, who sat up straight in his chair, trying hard not to look guilty. Or at least, no guiltier than usual.

“Mr. Palmer,” said the Boss. “You used to be an accountant. A very creative accountant, by all accounts.”

“I find numbers comforting,” said Happy, hardly meeting her gaze. “They are what they are. But like JC said, the money’s good enough now that I have no need for outside income. No need at all. Honest.”

“And you, Miss Chambers,” said the Boss, switching her cold gaze to Melody. “You used to publish. . Well, let’s be polite and call it specialised erotica.”

“Filth,” said Melody. “For the discerning connoisseur. But like JC said, I don’t need the money now. Though I do still have a lock-up full of really quite interesting stuff. In case times get hard. . Banks may come and banks may go, but filth goes on forever.”

“We all give the Carnacki Institute our full attention, these days,” said JC, quickly cutting in. “If only in self-defence. So why don’t we forget the pleasant conversation and get down to business?”

“By all means,” said Catherine Latimer. “What the hell were you doing, back at Chimera House? Is it connected with what happened to Robert Patterson?”

“Kim is back,” said JC. “We had to go back to Chimera House to pick her up.”

The Boss nodded briefly. “Why isn’t she here with you? I said I wanted to see all of you.”