𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter Thirty Six - Plan Of Action

In some ways, what happened after that was just like the old days. They'd seen the client and had the briefing. Next, they'd prepare their equipment and research the case. If they were to visit Ealing that evening, there was no time to lose, so Lockwood set the wheels in motion as soon as they left Fittes House. Standing on the crowded pavement, he promptly divided forces. He and Holly would buy extra supplies of salt and iron, while George would scour the National Archives to find out all he could about the Guppy murder. And Nola...

What would she do? Where did she fit in?

It seemed she didn't.

"We'll meet you at the Café Royale in Piccadilly Circus, James?" Lockwood said. "We can all get a taxi from there. Four o'clock, okay? That'll give you time to sort your own stuff, won't it?"

"Sure." Nola said.

She was still thinking about what Penelope Fittes had said to her a moment before. That it had been her idea to involve Nola. At her flat the previous day, Lockwood had somehow skirted around that particular detail. Unless she had missed something, he'd very much made it seem as if the impulse had come from him.

"Great, then we look forward to seeing you later. Isn't it an excellent case? I'm glad you're with us on this one." Lockwood said.

Nola nodded along slowly. "Sure..."

Obviously it didn't really matter. It didn't matter whose idea it had been to bring Nola along. And she didn't really have any right to feel annoyed about it either. She was the one who had left Lockwood & Co, after all...

Business, that's all it was: just business. "Actually, there's just one thing." Nola said. "Four o'clock is too late. It won't give us enough daylight when we get to Ealing. Better to arrive well before dark, so we can get the lie of the land and plan the layout of our circles. It's best to take preliminary readings before sunset, anyway. And it'll give us the chance to look in all the nooks and crannies that'll be invisible to us after dark. For all those reasons I suggest we meet at two." She smiled coolly at Lockwood. "Agreed?"

Lockwood nodded. If he was perhaps slightly taken aback, he hid it well. "I see what you're saying, but would that give George enough time—?"

"I think it's a very good point that James makes." Holly Munro said, unexpectedly. "George?"

George made some minor adjustment to his glasses. "Getting scoffed by a big bloke has never been my idea of fun, even if said bloke is a ghost. I'm all for taking extra care. Yes, I'll be finished at the Archives by two. Let's go with that and get there early."

Lockwood's expression had become one of studious unconcern. "You're all probably right. Fine. Two o'clock it is, James. We'll see you there."

"Do you want anything from Mullet's supply shop?" Holly Munro asked.

"No, it's okay, thanks." Nola said. "I've got everything I need. I'll see you later."

She turned before they did, and made off into the crowd. Here she was again, walking away from Lockwood & Co.

She was going against the flow, having to force her way a little, but that suited her mood just then. When she was sure she was out of sight, she took a side-road down to the Thames Embankment, where a lot of the cheaper merchants plied their trade under the brick arches of Hungerford Bridge. It had been a fib, what she had said just then. She was almost out of supplies.

She didn't feel bad about the fib, though. She had been lied to as well.

The tide was low, and wet shingle glinted steeply at the base of the Embankment wall. Seagulls wheeled high above. The road was busy with traffic. Nola crossed over and walked upriver towards the bridge. Above her head, spotlit hoardings advertised the latest products of the giant Rotwell Agency. In one poster their mascot Roger, a roguish cartoon lion, gave a mighty thumbs-up while trampling a cartoon ghost. In another, Roger held some of the exciting new Home Defence equipment that had been dreamed up by the scientists of the Rotwell Institute and was now, thanks to their partners in the Sunrise Corporation, available to customers everywhere. In a third, he appeared with his paw draped over the bulky shoulder of Steve Rotwell, the agency's chairman, whose personal pledge – 'We Fight to Make Safe Your Night' – was emerging in a speech bubble from his mouth. Steve Rotwell's teeth sparkled, his green eyes twinkled, his chin protruded like the prow of a gunship. He radiated more machismo than the cartoon lion. He was the epitome of reassurance in the age of the Problem and – thanks to all this advertising – the most popular figure in London.