‘Hades?’ I queried ‘Do you think he’s still alive?’

‘You killed him, Next—what do you think?’

I had seen him die up there on the roof at Thornfield and even found his charred remains when we searched the blackened ruins. But Hades had died before—or so he had made us believe.

‘As sure as I can be. What does the credit card statement mean?’

‘Again,’ replied Walken, ‘we’re not sure. The card was stolen. Most of these purchases are of women’s clothes, shoes, hats, bags, and so forth—we’ve got Dorothy Perkins and Camp Hopson under twenty-four-hour observation. Does any of this ring any bells?’

I shook my head.

‘Then tell us about your meeting with Phodder.’

I told them as much as I could about our short meeting while they made copious notes.

‘So they wanted to know if anything odd had happened to you recently?’ asked Walken. ‘Had it?’

I told them about the Skyrail and the Hispano-Suiza and they made even more notes. Finally, after asking me several times whether there was anything more I could add, they got up and Walken handed me his card.

‘If you discover anything at all—?’

‘No problem,’ I replied. ‘I hope you catch them.’ They grunted in reply and left.

I sighed, got up and walked back into the lobby to await Flanker and SO-1. I watched the busy station buzzing around me and then suddenly felt very hot as the room started to swim. The edges of my vision started to fade and if I hadn’t put my head between my knees I would have passed out there and then. The buzz from the room became a dull rumble and I closed my eyes, temples thumping. I stayed there for several moments until the nausea lessened. I opened my eyes and stared at the flecks of mica in the concrete floor.

‘Lost something, Next?’ came Flanker’s familiar voice.

I very gently raised my head. He was reading some notes and spoke without looking at me.

‘I’m running late—someone’s misappropriated an entire cheese seizure. Fifteen minutes’ time, interview room three—be there.’

He strode off without waiting for a reply and I stared at the floor again. The baby was making itself known. Somehow Flanker and SpecOps seemed insignificant given that this time next year I could be a mother. Landen had enough money for us both and it wasn’t as though I needed to actually resign—I could go on the SpecOps reservist list and do the odd job when necessary. I was just starting to ponder on whether I was really cut out for motherhood when I felt a hand on my shoulder and someone pushed a glass of water into my line of vision. I gratefully took the glass and drank half of it before looking up at my rescuer. It was a Neanderthal dressed in a neat double-breasted suit with an SO-13 badge clipped to his top pocket.

‘Hello, Mr Stiggins,’ I said, recognising him.

‘Hello, Ms Next—the nausea will pass.’

There was a shudder and the world snapped back a couple of seconds so harshly it made me jump. Stiggins spoke again but this time made less sense:

‘Helto, our m Ms Next—the nauplea will knoass.’

‘What the hell—’ I muttered as the lobby snapped again and the mauve-painted walls switched to green. I looked at Stiggins, who said:

‘Hatto, is our am Mss Next—bue nauplea will kno you.’

The people in the lobby moved abruptly and were suddenly wearing hats. Stiggins jumped back again and said:

‘That is our ame Miss Next—bue hoivplea kno you?’

My feet felt strange as the world rippled again and I looked down and saw that I was wearing trainers instead of boots. It was clear now that time was flexing slightly and I expected my father to appear, but he didn’t. Stiggins flicked back to the beginning of his sentence yet again and said, this time in a clearer voice:

‘That is our name, Miss Next, but how know you?’

‘Did you feel anything odd just then?’

‘No. Drink the water. You are very pale.’

I had another sip, leaned back and took a deep breath.

‘This wall used to be mauve,’ I mused as Stiggins looked at me.

‘How you know our name, Miss Next?’

‘You turned up at my wedding party,’ I told him. ‘You said you had a job for me.’

He stared at me for almost half a minute through his deep-set eyes. His large nose sniffed the air occasionally. Neanderthals thought a great deal about what they said before they said it—if they said anything at all.

‘You speak the truth,’ he said at last. It was almost impossible to lie to a Neanderthal and I wasn’t going to try. ‘We are to represent you on this case, Miss Next.’

I sighed. Flanker was taking no chances. I had nothing against Neanderthals but they wouldn’t have been my first choice of defence, particularly against the charge of an attack on one of their own.

‘If you have a problem you should tell us,’ said Stiggins, eyeing me carefully.

‘I have no problem with you representing me.’

‘Your face does not match your words. You think we have been placed here to hurt your case. It is our belief too. But as to whether it will hurt your case, we shall see. Are you well enough to walk?’

I said I was and we went and sat down in the interview room. Stiggins opened his case and drew out a buff file. The contents were typed in large underlined capitals. He brought out a wooden ruler and placed it across the first page to help him read.

‘Why you hit Kaylieu, the Skyrail operator?’

‘I thought he had a gun.’

‘Why would you think that?’

I stared into Mr Stiggins’s unblinking brown eyes. If I lied he would know. If I told him the truth he might feel it his duty to tell SO-1 that I had been involved in my father’s work. With the world due to end and the trust in my father implicit, it was a kind of sticky moment, to say the least.

‘They will ask you, Miss Next. Your evasion will not be appreciated.’

‘I’ll have to take that chance.’

Stiggins tilted his head to one side and regarded me for a moment.

‘They know about your father, Miss Next. We advise you to be careful.’

I didn’t say anything but to Stiggins I probably spoke volumes. Half the Thal language is about body movements. It’s possible to conjugate verbs with facial muscles; dancing is conversation.

We didn’t have a chance to say anything else as the door opened and Flanker and two other agents trooped in.

‘You know my name,’ he told me. ‘These are agents King and Nosmo.’

The two officers stared at me unnervingly.

‘This is a preliminary interview,’ announced Flanker, who now fixed me with a steely gaze. ‘There will be time enough for a full inquiry—if we so decide. Anything you say and do can affect the outcome of the hearing. It’s really up to you, Next.’

He wasn’t kidding. SO-1 were not within the law—they made the law. If they really meant business I wouldn’t be here at all—I’d be spirited away to SpecOps Grand Central, wherever the hell that was. It was at times like this that I suddenly realised quite why my father had rebelled against SpecOps in the first place.

Flanker placed two tapes into the recorder and idented it with the date, time and all our names. Once this was done he asked in a voice made more menacing by its softness:

‘You know why you are here?’

‘For hitting a Skyrail operator?’

‘Striking a Neanderthal is hardly a crime worthy of SO-1’s valuable time, Miss Next. In fact, technically speaking, it’s not a crime at all.’

‘What, then?’

‘When did you last see your father?’

The other SpecOps agents leaned forward imperceptibly to hear my answer. I wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

‘I don’t have a father, Flanker—you know that. He was eradicated by your buddies in the ChronoGuard seventeen years ago.’

‘Don’t play me for a fool, Next,’ warned Flanker. ‘This is not something I care to joke about. Despite Colonel Next’s non-actualisation he continues to be a thorn in our side. Again: when did you last see your father?’