Managing Death by Trent Jamieson Page B

doing your –’
    ‘What? If we were doing our jobs properly? Is that what you’re saying?’ I look at my ruined office, the blood, the paper blown everywhere. He kind of has a point. ‘I’m not here to bend over for every government department.’
    Alex grins. ‘Not every department, mate. Just one from now on.’ His face grows more serious. ‘Steven, be careful. People aren’t over the moon with what’s happening here. I’ve been hearing things.’
    ‘You can’t be serious. Morrigan was responsible for all of it.’ I fix him as severe a stare as I can manage. ‘What sort of things?’
    ‘Nothing specific. Just that no one was happy to have a Regional Apocalypse at their doorstep. They’re blaming you.’
    ‘I had nothing to do with it.’ I straighten in my throne, slam my foot down on the floor and remember why I’m sitting here in the first place.
Fuck, that hurts
.
    ‘Doesn’t matter, Mortmax did, and you’re running the Australian branch. You’re responsible as far as peopleare concerned. And they don’t think you’re doing such a great job.’
    ‘If they want to have a go at running death, let them.’ My bluster is just that, though, and Alex knows it.
    ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t be so bloody glib, mate.’
    ‘Yeah, well, I’ve got eight stitches in my foot, and a bit of my ear is missing. Inappropriate glibness is all I have.’ We glare at each other.
    There’s a knock on the door.
    A man peers through at Alex and me. An Akubra hat obscures his features. Most people can’t pull that look off, but he manages it, somehow. It’s the broad shoulders, the skin just on the flesh side of leather. He doffs the wide-brimmed hat, scratches his head. The hair beneath is clipped to within a breath of shaved; a band of sweat rings it. Dark eyes peer at me through thickish metal-rimmed glasses. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but his heart beats slow and steady.
    ‘Can I join the party?’ he asks, and smiles warmly.
    Alex glances at me, gives me a we’ll-talk-later kind of face.
    ‘Yeah, absolutely,’ I say. ‘There’s room for everyone. Once I know just who they are.’
    ‘Of course, of course. I thought you knew I was coming. Detective Magritte Solstice,’ he says. ‘I’ll be running this investigation.’ He shakes my hand. It’s one of those firm but slightly threatening grips that suggests a lot more strength could be applied – if needed.
    ‘Can’t say I’m pleased to meet you.’
    Solstice’s laugh is warm and deep. ‘No one ever is under these situations.’ He looks over at Alex. ‘That’s all for now, Sergeant.’
    ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ I say. ‘It’s time for the grown-ups to talk.’
    Alex nods, gives me a little (and very ironic) salute and gets out of there.
    Solstice shuts the door behind him. The smile slips a little. ‘Now, to get the shit out of the way before it stinks up the room, if you have any problems you call me. I know he’s your friend, but this isn’t Alex’s specialty.’ Solstice hands me a card with his name and number on it, and a symbol of three dots making an equilateral triangle. It reminds me of the brace symbol we use to block Stirrers. ‘My group runs these investigations.’
    ‘You’re the Closers?’
    Solstice blinks at that. I’m happy to wrong-foot him a little. ‘Yeah, it’s our job to close doors that shouldn’t have been opened in the first place.’
    ‘A bit poetic, isn’t it?’
    Solstice grimaces. ‘I didn’t come up with the name. Our job is to work with organisations like yours, off the public record, of course.’
    ‘Well, off the record, what do you really think you’re doing?’
    ‘Fixing your fuck-ups.’
    ‘That’s good to know,’ I say. ‘Puts everything into context.’
    ‘All right. So where did it happen? Scene of the crime and all that.’
    ‘You’re looking at it,’ I say, waving at the room. Solstice lifts an eyebrow.
    ‘I’m sorry, but the window’s self-healing. The body’s