Peter Carlyle Junior, I learnt later that week, is not a man that needs shielding. He called me early that Thursday -just after I’d dropped Elisa off at school but before I went back to contemplating how I was going to tell my wife I had a new job- and asked me if I was willing to testify. He was all business, polite and a little bit grumpy because thanks to Shay and me he had to do the paperwork that came with cleaning up a small-time drug lord.

As it turned out, Peter was a DI, and the hole my data had blown into Fox’s case was enough to warrant a police investigation, too.

More importantly for me, he told me gruffly, my cooperation would mean protection.

I met him for lunch.

He seemed about a decade older than when I met him first, unshaven and messy, eyes tired. He was scribbling in a file, but he tucked it away when I approached, offering a smile.

“I ordered you coffee.” He let the file slip into his bag. “Hope you drink it black.”

“Black’s fine.” I sat down, pretended to glance at the menu. I’d have a chicken sandwich, anyway. “Bit informal for an interrogation.”

“You’re an informant, now.” He almost smirked at me. “This is just a casual informant’s lunch.”

“... With your new employee.” I almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it, but from what I’d seen, this was bordering on normal.

“With my friend’s new employee.” He took the menu from my hands and glanced down. “Speaking of, Shay asked if you could come by tomorrow to talk set-up.”

“What-” I remember frowning at him, trying to formulate what I was going to say without sounding like a prick. “Do you know what I can expect, exactly? She didn’t give me any… briefing.”

He huffed. “Get used to that.” He put down the menu as a waiter approached with our drinks, ordering and waiting for them to be out of earshot before he continued. “She didn’t tell me either, but you wouldn’t be here if she didn’t have a plan.” He pulled a face. “Knowing her, it’s fully legal and above board.”

“And she just forgot to clue you in, right?” I couldn’t help but smile. Whatever she had planned for me, it couldn’t be worse than working for a drug lord. Probably was more on the moral side, at least.

(It was, mostly. Legally dodgy and privacy-infringing and sometimes dangerous, but infinitely better than working for a drug lord. Besides, thanks to her, I get to write all this, and that should count for something)

“What’s she like?” I asked, deciding to change the subject. “As a person? I have a feeling I didn’t get to see her best side, Monday.”

“She’s… hard to pin down.” Smiling, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through something. “She used to be the person to run headfirst into something and not tell anyone where she was.”

“Like getting kidnapped just for a USB stick of data?”

“Like that.” He nodded, “But also-” He turned the phone to me. “Well.”

There was a text conversation, the keyboard popped up to frame five messages.

I just realised how cute corgis are

                                             Don’t you dare try to steal one, they WILL kill you

                                              And then dad will, for being stupid.

Just one

I can outrun them, I think

With a sweep, he popped down the keyboard and a photo appeared. A busted-up backpack lay open on a vaguely familiar red carpet, and a dog was sniffing at it, sticking its head almost all the way inside.

                                             DONT YOU DARE

“That was last month.” He took his phone back. “Since I met her, she’s been… growing, I guess. Doing more of... this stuff. Like I said, hard to pin down.”

Something clicked in my brain and I recognised the carpet, realised where I’d seen it before, and I sure as hell hadn’t expected her to be there and be so casual about stealing a dog. “What does she do?” Why would she be there? “For a job, or a profession? Why was she-”

“Classified, I’m afraid.” He shrugged, “Officially, she’s a liaison for the Met. Unofficially-”

“Fox isn’t in the Met.”

“Exactly.” He sipped his tea. “I’m not sure how much I can tell you, but she’s had a… colourful life. Sometimes people call on her, and she answers. Sometimes...” He frowned, “Sometimes, they whisper her name, and she hears anyway.”

“Wait.” Our conversation paused as our food was delivered, and it gave me a moment to mull over his words. “Is she Holmes, Bond, or Santa?”

He smirked. “She’s Shay.”

He bit into his sandwich, decisively ending the conversation.

(As I’m writing this down, I realise that the entire thing seems needlessly cryptic, but with hindsight, I realise exactly what he meant. There’s no pinning her down, now with words. There’s no explaining what, exactly, she does. There’s just the knowing, the feeling, the trying to articulate but not finding the words, like trying to explain why Mondays are mostly purple, and Thursdays are brown. It just is.)

The next morning, I found myself standing at the wrought-iron fence that secured her property, unsure whether to call her or to press the intercom button.

(That was another question I had, the immense property and infinite funds she seemed to have; one question of many. I’d made a list.)

In the end, I used the intercom.

Carlyle buzzed me in. I followed the winding path to the front door, and I found him waiting in the doorway.

“Good to see you again.” He shook my hand. “Shay’s just finishing up a phone call. Tea?”

“Please.” I followed him to the kitchen, willing him to answer my questions without me asking them.

“I can hear you think.” He flicked on the kettle and turned to me. He loomed, almost. I’m not used to people being taller than me, and he had about four inches. “You might want to reel it in, lest m’lady takes offence. Or worse.”

“Worse?” She didn’t seem like the person who’d take offense easily.

“She is a detective.” He shrugged with one shoulder, his other arm moving to dig out two mugs and tea bags. “If I can see you simmering, she can read you like a book. Better just ask.”

Fine, if he was offering, “She’s, what, twenty-five? How can she afford this place?”

“She has a young face.” He crossed his arms. “And a lot of good karma built up.” The kettle boiled, and he turned to pour the water. “Look, you’re an IT buff, and with the things she’ll have you do you’re going to find out anyway, but Shay has a hard time talking about some things that happened.” He pushed a mug into my hands. “Don’t push her.”

“You know what she wants me to do?”

He smirked, something enigmatic and mysterious. “Oh, I do. I know a lot of things.” It was gone, then, replaced by something much more open. “I read her diary.”

(He didn’t.)