Ian

It was a night much like any other, too much whiskey and not enough work. I was in my office, sorting through closed case files and wondering if I could shake down any old clients for new jobs, when there was a knock at the door.

Knocks at my office door don't often show up without warning, and it's usually bad news. I straightened my tie as best I could and walked to the desk to hit the door release. After it buzzed, I called, 'Come in!', but the door was already swinging inwards.

I tensed, but the guy who walked in was… not that kind of threat. Oh, he's sweet, was my first thought, but there was something immediate and subtle about his eyes, nestled behind a thick, fluffy fringe and perfectly-circular glasses. Those weren't eyes that would miss much. I set aside thoughts of trying to surreptitiously shift the half-finished glass of scotch on the desk out of view and appraised him more carefully.

Gold earrings that looked a bit like arrowheads dangled from his ears. Below that he wore a kind of suit that doesn't often come to this part of town. I could have pawned it and paid my rent for a month with the proceeds. The white jacket almost shimmered under his long, dull overcoat. Black tie and shirt fitted tight at his waist. White trousers flattered the length of his legs, their creases razor-sharp. I judged I'd have an inch or two on him if it wasn't for the slender heels on his matte-black boots.

It was, I had to allow, a good look. When he spoke, his voice was a purr with the same hidden sharpness as his eyes. "Mister… Spector?"

The type to try very hard to avoid pronouncing my name right, to avoid what he probably thought was a pathetic joke. His 'r's sounded Imperial, but under that I caught a hint of a Nordin burr.

"That's me," I answered, trying to sound as chipper as I could. I tipped a finger at the plush chair in front of the desk. "Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink, Mr..?"

"Just call me Lachlan," he said, with an edge that brooked no argument. He was clearly used to saying it, and I wondered what kind of people he usually spoke with. As if to soften the moment a little, though, he did move to the seat, and finished, "Coffee?"

I took that opportunity to grab the whiskey glass and slip it over to the sideboard where the coffee machine stood. There was one generous mug's worth in the pot, a little shy of warm enough to serve. I flicked the hotplate back on and turned to face him. "Give it a minute. How can I help you, Lachlan?"

Those eyes flicked up at me again, and I congratulated myself for not hesitating over the name thing. He clearly wasn't used to that at least. But it didn't break the cool of his voice. "I need… information about an address." The pause was an affectation, not hesitation. "Who owns it. Who's using it, and for what. Anything you can find on the money being spent on it, though I doubt you'll find much."

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Definitely Nordin, that accent. And the request was laden with menace. This wasn't about a cheating wife – or husband – or a stolen wallet or car. This was business, and if he was from out of town then business probably really meant smuggling. 'Lachlan' wasn't giving a surname, either, which meant there'd be no way I was getting him to sign anything.

He seemed to sense my hesitation. A bundle of scruffy cash notes appeared in his hand, the contrast with his immaculate cuffs stark. "I'll double your usual rate. This should cover the next couple of weeks. No paper trail." The bundle landed on the desk with a gentle but noticeable thump.

I poured the coffee, trying to hold my cool. A drip into one mug, for me, to make it seem like I cared about sobering up, and a full mug for him. I thought about asking if he wanted milk or sugar, but thought better of it. Was my milk even still in date?

Walking over to the desk, I set the mugs down and reached for the money. There was a note on top, folded over with some half-legible print on the back. Looked like part of a shipping manifest or something. As Lachlan reached for the coffee, I slipped the note out and opened it.

It was the address, or at least an address, and I felt my forehead screwing up. What the heck was all the way out there? Some fancy mansion? It was the wrong direction for the rich neighbourhoods out on the coast, too far inland to be convenient for the water, nowhere near the industrial estates around the airport. Was it a farm?

Drugs, maybe. I looked at Lachlan, one eyebrow raised, as he pointedly put the coffee back on the desk, barely touched. Right next to all that money. "Funny place," I said.

"It is." He sat back, folding his arms. His fingers were very fine, and his nails looked like they might be glossed. "Hence my interest." Then he seemed to yield a little. "There's an old barn and cottage there, in the middle of a lot of empty fields. Recently someone's been fixing it up. It could just be property developers, but I want to be sure."

How dangerous could the offcuts of an old farm be? He had to be offering that much money for a reason, and even if the reason was only discretion, that was a lot to pay for discretion. "How do I contact you?"

One corner of his lips slipped upward, and I have to confess I felt something fizz in my chest for a second. "I have your number. You'll know it's me."

I reached over and picked up the money. He didn't try to stop me. "Anything else I should think about?" And then a thought occurred to me. "Anyone you want me to speak to?"

That seemed to impress him, from the way his eyebrows crept a fraction higher under that silky fringe. I fought back the treacherous twitching of my cheeks, trying to form a silly grin. With this money, I maybe could pay a small bribe or two. Maybe Lachlan didn't want to be seen at city hall talking to the clerks.

"I'll let you know," he murmured, pushing to his feet. To my surprise, he stuck out his hand. I shook it, feeling clumsy. "Thanks for your time, Spector. I'll be in touch."

"My pleasure," I said, and meant it at least as much for the money in my hand as the light in his eyes.

When he was gone, I counted the money. He was honest to a penny, unless the notes were forgeries, and if they were they were very good. The print on the back of the address was basically illegible except for the odd word, and the handwriting was clear but plain, the letters slanted slightly to the right, tall and narrow like their author.

I went to the window, glass in hand but the whiskey already warm in my gut. Condensation on the inside of the panes blurred the city's lights to a mess, but on a clear day, peering over the haze, the low inland rises where Ike's address lay would be visible. It'd be a right bugger to watch the place, nowhere subtle to park a car or anything, but at least I'd be able to afford snacks.