'I'll come and get it in a minute. Are you doing shoes? I've got a whole box of shoes here.'

We shoved and sorted. Meroe, who is very neat when she isn't being amazingly messy, hung every s.h.i.+rt and suit in a huge wardrobe which Lady D had had especially built, tall enough to take ball gowns, she said. It was also big enough to take a bag of golf clubs, a very old hockey stick, a huge pile of Playboy magazines and a basketball. The bedroom was taking shape. We made his bed with new sheets and his own doona, instead of the sleeping bag in which he had been reposing. In the built-in drawers we placed diaries, coins, a finger ring with a university crest on it, a bunch of keys, spare reading gla.s.ses and a pile of cards, including those for a dentist and a doctor, which he might need again.

The kitchen was simple. We just had to put away the cutlery, the crockery and the two pots (a saucepan and a frying pan) and install the microwave. The fridge contained nothing but my fruit cake and some long-life milk and the freezer was full of frozen meals and bottles of Stoli.

I was stacking books in a bookshelf (mostly paperback thrillers) when I heard Meroe say, 'Oh!' in a sad, broken little voice.

In eight cartons Andy had packed all of his daughter's possessions. Her school books, her pink diary with a lock on it, all her clothes. Her seven stuffed toys, including a big white teddy bear with a lot of personality. Her bottle of Charlie perfume had leaked and hung heavy in the air.

'We'll put all of her stuff in the second bedroom,' I said.

'And shut the door,' agreed Meroe. 'But I'd swear she isn't dead,' she added. 'Not from these things.'

'She owned these things before she ran away, and she was alive then,' I reminded her. 'By the way, I met a pretty Goth in your shop the other day. Ruffled s.h.i.+rt. Long blond hair. You don't see long hair often.'

'Lestat,' said Meroe, shutting the door to Cherie's room. 'The "my gift is death" Lestat. Changed his name by deed poll. Lives in a penthouse somewhere. Believes he is a vampire. OD'd on vampire films and may not be entirely sane.'

'No s.h.i.+t. What does he buy from you?' I asked, fascinated.

'Spells,' said Meroe. 'He's looking for a spell for eternal life. He buys all the most abstruse books on ritual. He's on the mailing list of most of the rare and occult booksellers in the world.

He's a customer I could do without, to tell you the truth. He gives me the creeps.'

'But you're a witch!' I exclaimed.

'Doesn't mean I can't have the creeps. Vampire films don't do some people any good,' she added, rummaging for more underwear. 'There, that's all the clothes, I think. Do you want to set up the computer while I connect up the wires?'

'Deal,' I said. Meroe crawled on the floor while I read the manual and eventually we had everything up and working; all the essential machines, the phone, the stereo, even the DVD player.

We put his toiletries in the bathroom, including a bit of shaving soap which had hairs in it, and a worn-through soap-not-really-attached-to-the-rope-anymore. His aftershave was Brut. And he had a lot of mouthwash from when he still met people who didn't know that he was a drunk. His towels were, however, new.

And then we could survey Andy Holliday's life. He had a lot of ca.s.sette tapes and a fair number of CDs. He didn't read much and when he did he read Michael Crichton, Wilbur Smith and true crime. A lot of true crime. His video collection leant heavily towards the p.o.r.nographic and the thriller/action hero Schwarzenegger/James Bond/Van Damme sort of thing.

He had eight bottles of scotch and one bottle of wine. And no mixers.

'A man with a little imagination,' said Meroe, stacking paper into the printer.

'Just enough to give him nightmares,' I agreed.

'A drunk,' she said, opening her basket and taking out a flat bra.s.s dish. She poured some sort of gum into it and set it alight.

'A man in total despair,' I said. I packed stationery and paperclips and all the junk an office needs into one desk drawer and laid a huge pile of correspondence on it, as there was no room in the drawers for so much paper. In the ma.s.s were unopened envelopes and I sorted them to the top. Tax Department. That was a bad sign. Three of them. I could not resist the impulse. I took the paper knife, a silver one with an inscription, and slit the envelopes, tossing them into a recently discovered wastepaper basket.

My eyes widened. They were cheques. The Tax Department was actually paying Andy Holliday money and he didn't care. They had never been cashed. That's the best description of total despair I could have come up with offhand. This man was in a very bad way.

The smoke was swirling upward from Meroes's burning resin and I sat down to watch her do her cleansing ritual. It seemed simple. She just walked into the middle of the room, gestured with the smoke to the four corners, then chanted something in an unknown tongue and moved into the next room. I followed and she said to me out of the corner of her mouth, 'Open the door onto the balcony,' and I did. Fresh air failed to blow in, but the sweet smoke billowed out. Meroe put the dish down on the balcony floor and said, 'That's the best I can do. The man is a jangle of terrible pain.'

'We can keep him alive for the moment,' I said. 'And maybe we can find his daughter.'

To that end I took the picture to the Lone Gunmen and asked them to do me a hundred flyers. I also took them a sixpack of Arctic Death and a promise of more, plus proper payment for their labours. They were all together for a change. They accepted the bottles and promised the flyers for tomorrow, no probs, Corinna. Collectively, they looked worried, even guilty. None of my concern. Perhaps they had been spammed by all those people who promise to enlarge my p.e.n.i.s. Any nerd is going to find that worrying.

Then I went to rescue the Prof from Andy Holliday, who must have had more than a medium adult dose of drunken misery for one day.

But when I got to Dionysus the Prof was ending a funny story with a gesture of his elegant hands, '... but on Thursday it's your turn in the barrel!' and Holliday was laughing. Not hysterically, not a fall-off-the-chair-and-wet-the-pants laugh, but definitely laughing. Also, the level in the bottle had not fallen like the tide.

'M'sieur's apartment is prepared,' I said, and Holliday got up. He thanked the Prof for a very amusing visit and went with me like a lamb. Then he stared as he saw his unboxed rooms. He sniffed the oriental scent of the burning incense. He picked up, and then put down, the remote control for the TV.

'It's a miracle,' he said. 'You can't have done all this in one afternoon.'

'I had help,' I said. 'Allow me to introduce my friend and fellow unpacker, Meroe.'

Andy Holliday took Meroe's hand. I expected to hear violins. His expression resembled a flatfish that had just been dazzled by the physical attractions of another flatfish and belted over the head with an anchor at roughly the same time. I thought it best to leave them together.

Besides, I was grimy and dusty and I wanted my bath. Something with a lot of foam. And, by the look of my hands, unparalleled cleansing power. I was tired of other people's problems and wanted to get back to Jade Forrester. How was she going to get her hero and heroine back together again?

These things concerned me as I took the lift down, too tired to take the stairs. Rats. There was Mrs Pemberthy in the lobby, looking frail. Traddles didn't look too good either. They were both leaning against the lift door, wheezing.

I don't like Mrs Pemberthy and she doesn't like me, but what could I do? I took them both into the lift. Mrs P waved her wrists at me, the hands falling loose.

'My hands won't do as I tell them,' she said. 'And the vet just can't tell what is wrong with poor Traddles.'

I could tell that Traddles was sick. He hadn't tried to bite me in minutes. I got them out of the lift and opened the door for them. Mrs P looked so limp that I helped her inside. Mr P wasn't there.

The Pemberthy apartment was overdecorated in the same way as the sea is wet. Every surface that could possibly be decorated was decorated. The furniture was fussy, expensive copies of Sheraton, and every surface was covered with little knick-knacks. Expensive knick-knacks, like j.a.panese ivory carvings and those little trees made of gold wire and semi precious stones. They must have been h.e.l.l to dust.

Mrs Pemberthy fumbled with her shoes and I knelt to take them off. She leaned back in her rose-damask chair and sighed.

'My milk drink,' she said. 'Elias always leaves it in the microwave.'

I had never thought of myself as a lady's maid but what could I do? The woman looked like death. I went into the kitchen and opened the microwave. There was a dainty rose-spattered mug but the milk within smelt off. I was about to pour it out and make another when Mr P came in and almost grabbed the mug out of my hands.

'That's all right,' he said, and he looked straight into my face. 'I'll do it. She likes me to do it,' he said.

'The milk's off,' I told him.

'I'll do it,' he said again. I was suddenly very uncomfortable. 'Women like to be waited on,' said Mr Pemberthy. 'I could serve you, too. I would like to serve you.' I noticed that his grey moustache was yellow near his mouth. He was standing way too close to me. It was time for Corinna to be out of this kitchen.

On the way out I asked Mrs Pemberthy for the name of Traddles' vet. My own Irish charmer was moving to Benalla. Any vet who could put up with Mrs Pemberthy could put up with me. She gave me his card.

Then, at last, I got to go home, run a sumptuous bath and pour in bath foam. I lay in it for some time, considering various things, like Daniel saying that he was falling in love with me, until I was very clean, my fingers looked like I had been taking in was.h.i.+ng since childhood, and the water was lukewarm.

I didn't feel like going out again. I made myself a dish of pasta carbonara with a lot of fresh ground black pepper, drank one gla.s.s of wine and went to bed, like the epitaph on a party girl, early, sober and alone. Well, not alone. Horatio, as usual, reposed beside me, purring just above the level of hearing, a very soothing sound ...

Unless they are bouncing all over you, climbing the curtains, engaging in an extensive wash with that infuriating 'pick, lick, lick, pick' noise or drinking deeply from your bedside gla.s.s of water, cats are very good bedfellows.

Morning dawned as usual and I went down to the bakery with my second cup of coffee to hear someone knocking on the outer door. It was Jason and he just nodded, dived into the shower and threw his clothes out to be washed. 'I might as well have a son,' I thought, a little nettled. I remembered that I actually had a baker's overall somewhere and resolved to find it. It was, of course, in the broom cupboard. I thrust it into the bathroom, averting my gaze.

When he came out clothed in the white overall, I gestured to the m.u.f.fin mixture while the dough hooks scythed through the flour.

'Your gingerbread m.u.f.fins sold out yesterday,' I said. 'Today we're doing apple and spice. Measure out the spices and don't put them in until you show me. I'll read you the recipe while you eat.'

I fetched another cup of coffee and some of the leftover bread which Daniel had not come to collect. I had been too tired last night to wonder where he was.

On cue, there came another knock on the door. Daniel stood there, outlined against the black alley. Lestat could take lessons from him on how to appear on the wings of a thought.

'Bread?' I asked.

'Last s.h.i.+ft,' he said. I gave him the sack, Jason s.n.a.t.c.hing another baguette from it as I pa.s.sed him. Daniel shot the boy a considering look, smiled, took the bread and went.

Thereafter we made bread. Because I was busy and because they are relatively easy to make, I let Jason do the m.u.f.fins from beginning to end. He was tense with concentration but he managed to combine the mixture without overstirring and glop it into the m.u.f.fin tins without incident. This takes skill, because it is lumpy. When they came out of the oven he took one, examined it from all angles, then broke it in half and bit into the spicy crumb. Then he smiled.

I had never seen Jason smile before. He seemed to glow. I wondered how old he was. That was the smile of a happy baby. I gave him a one-armed hug. I had a load of tins in the other arm.

'Very nice,' I said, tasting the bit he held up to my mouth. 'Just right.'

'More coffee?' he asked. 'I can make it.'

'No,' I said, too quickly, and watched him crumple. Dammit! I still wasn't going to let a heroin addict into my own living quarters. On the other hand, this was Jason. I made amends as best I could.

'Tea,' I said. 'You can eat anything you find in the kitchen. Horatio has had his breakfast so do not believe anything he says on the subject of starving cats.'

He beamed again and ran up the stairs in his thongs. Had to get him some shoes. I went back to the bread and worried until he reappeared with a mug of tea for me and a sandwich for himself. It dripped.

'And what is that?' I asked.

'It's a fried egg and chili sauce sandwich,' he said, faintly surprised that I had not immediately recognised it. 'They're well sick.'

'That I can believe.'

'Make one for you?' he offered.

'No, I've had breakfast. Thanks anyway.'

I averted my eyes as he finished the loathsome concoction with every sign of enjoyment and took the dishes up to my kitchen. Well, he had got into my apartment now, and if he had pinched anything, I would know how far to trust him.

I was probably mad to trust him at all. But he made a neat job of learning how to construct French twists and we got the baking done early. It was nice to have an a.s.sistant. Even one who, offered a whole cuisine to choose from, elected to eat fried eggs with chilli sauce.

Then it was time to open the door to the street, sweep out the spilled flour, and say h.e.l.lo to the day. It didn't say h.e.l.lo back. It was a nasty, cold dawn with a spiteful little wind which blew sharp dust into the eyes. The Mouse Police scooted out for their fish sc.r.a.ps then trotted right back inside and found a convenient flour sack for a nice day-long snooze.

And someone had painted 'wh.o.r.e' in big red letters on my wall.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

I wasn't scared because I was so cross. If this was how Mistress Dread had felt then I thought her restraint admirable. If I'd had a whip I would have used it.

Jason cowered as I turned on him.

'Was this there when you came along the alley?' I demanded.

'I dunno,' he quavered. 'It was dark. I don't think so. I didn't smell paint.'

'You wouldn't,' I snarled. 'It's spray paint again.' I grabbed hold of my temper. I was scaring the staff. 'It's all right, Jason, I'm not blaming you,' I said. 'Come on, let's get the bread into the shop and the trays out to the carrier and then I'll ring the cops.'

'I've ... er ... I've got things to do,' he said.

'I understand,' I told him. 'I'll wait until your clothes are dry. The sign isn't going anywhere. Don't worry.'

'Thanks, Miss,' he muttered. Gone was the Jason who had smiled with delight as his first m.u.f.fin turned out to be delicious. It was a pity. I wondered why he was so scared of the 166.

police. This was such a stupid thing to think that I shook my head and picked up a load of bread. With a heroin lifestyle, almost everything one did was illegal. We loaded the bread into its proper places and Horatio stepped down into the shop. Everything was done and it was only eight o'clock.

Goss hadn't come in and Kylie was not there when I opened the shutters.

'Jason?' I asked. 'Want to serve in the shop?'

'No!' he said in a frightened squeal. 'What, like this?'

I thought he looked very eighteenth century in his overall and he was decently covered down to ankles and wrists. I said so.

'Someone might see me,' he insisted.

Since this was a function of shops I had to agree. 'All right. You stay here and do the waybills. When the carrier comes, make sure that he signs each one and knows that the health bread has to go first. If he makes any comment about the graffiti, tell him that I've already called the cops. All right? Can I rely on you?'

'Yes,' he said, letting out a sigh of relief. For some reason Jason had attached himself to me like a lost puppy falling in to any stranger's heel, desperate to belong. He wanted to please. But he really couldn't afford to be seen. Interesting. I locked up my own quarters. Jason might not steal from me but I would have to leave the bakery door open and some of his friends might decide to flatten Jason and loot the place. He had seen me lock my private apartment at this time each day so he wasn't offended. He sat by the door with the sheaf of waybills, looking responsible and important.

While I sold bread, made change and wondered why Jason's apple and spice m.u.f.fins were better than mine, I thought about our manifold problems. We had three questions to answer.

Who was killing the junkies? (Subsidiary question: why?) Who was terrorising Insula? And where was Cherie Holliday? Quite enough for one day and I didn't have the faintest about any of it.

I was just reflecting that now I had an a.s.sistant I could make potato bread without getting up at three to peel the potatoes when Kylie came in. She looked radiant. Her cheeks were flushed and her navel ring was twinkling.

'Got it!' she said. 'Start Monday! And Goss too!'

'Wonderful,' I said.

'At least three months' work,' she continued, entranced with her good fortune. 'The director said we were perfect for the part.'

'What part?' I asked keenly. Oh, for a girl's role where they would have to put on some weight.

'We're anorexics,' she said blithely. 'So is the main character. It's about the fas.h.i.+on industry. It's called "Cat Walk",' she said to Horatio, tickling his ears. 'Only trouble is we have to smoke and I promised Dad I wouldn't.'

'No problem,' I said. 'Go ask Meroe for some herbal cigarettes. And thank her for that talisman,' I added.