Ninth Floor

Few people knew that there was a ninth floor in the Alberton building. The lifts only went up to eight, and you had to enter a security pin even to access that option. But if you had (or persuaded someone that you had) legitimate business on the eighth floor; and if you murmured the correct sequence of words to the impeccable and inscrutable receptionist who met you at the lift door, then sometimes sometimes you would be granted access to the ninth floor.

The ninth floor was accessed only via one stairwell, which was guarded by an old fashioned deadbolt on the inside. No fancy locks to be picked, or electronic devices to be fooled. Just a mysterious little personage with a singular dislike of attention of any kind. A small sign in the shadows proclaimed in an uneven hand: any gratuities will be donated to the SPCA.

However, this particular young man had succeeded in getting the attention of the inscrutable receptionist, by the simple expedient of leaving a trail of his own blood from the lift to her desk. One hand clutched to the mess that had been a smart shirt-front, he had gasped “ninth floor” before passing out, face (and bloody wound) forwards into her out-tray.

“Ninth floor” bore no resemblance to the sequence of words appropriate for this particular day; they had something to do with the platinum trade in China. But the receptionist, who had been hired for her intelligence as well as her black-belt in Karate, had buzzed through to the ninth floor anyway. She had then hauled him over onto his back and begun rudimentary first aid.

By the time the wall-like man arrived to take the unexpected guest upstairs, he was more or less in a fit shape to be hoisted over the bodyguard's shoulder. After all, it wasn't for a very long journey. The receptionist watched him go with some curiosity. But she'd seen more remarkable arrivals, and by the time she'd removed the bloodstains from her desk she had already dismissed him from her mind.

File Transfer

“So there have been four suspicious male deaths linked to the school in past year,” Asanda announced. Small talk satisfactorily concluded; she was never slow to get down to business. “Two ODs, one shooting and a mystery bug.”

“Can we assume it’s that recent?”

“I kind of assumed it was. Why would she delay coming to you?”

“Maybe some new piece of information emerged.”

Asanda shrugged. “Okay, I’ll dig deeper. But you can check these ones out so long. Do you have your net-book?”

Danny pulled the slim volume out of his rucksack, and in three minutes received a blue-tooth transfer from her iPhone. He only hesitated for a moment before creating a new folder. Murder Possibles.

Asanda was still talking. “I included the shooting just in case. Didn’t think she’d have any doubts if that was the one, but you never know. And I wasn’t too fussy about age. We’re not dealing with the most massive pool of suspects.”

“Victims.”

“Whatever. Of course, chances are whatever this nutcase is talking about didn’t even make it into the news. So no guarantee my people even know about it.”

“Got the disclaimer loud and clear, A. Thanks anyway. I know it’s not exactly in your sphere.”

 She smiled. “Yeah, got me right out of the mood for pool parties. But I guess it makes a change.”

By mutual consent, they got up and made their way out of the shop. As they came to point at which they would part ways, Asanda paused.

“Danny, be careful will you? This isn’t someone cheating on their girlfriend, or buying exam papers. Those files…they’re for real.”

 He looked at her, and saw that there was genuine concern behind the jade eye-shadow. 

“I’ll be fine, A. It’s probably just some nut-job, as you said.” 

All the same, as they air-kissed and went their separate ways, Danny quickened his pace. He wanted to see what was in the files.