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occasion, wondered if he deliberately kept me doing scut work because he knew I’d up sticks as soon as I felt confident enough. The thing is, I have a lot of respect for him and I doubt he’s that petty or small-minded. I’m at the bottom of the ladder because I was the last one in and there are cavernous depths of detail and information involved in being a private investigator that I still don’t know. But loitering on the bottom rung might make me the easiest person to target. Perhaps Tam needed to get rid of O’Shea for some reason and I’m merely a convenient tag to keep the police away from him.
    I think about it some more. It could also be the connection to my grandfather that’s initiated this move. Except that Tam has known about him from the start and the old man has been out of commission for years, so that theory doesn’t really make any sense. I can’t think of anything I’ve inadvertently done to piss Tam off this much. Sure, I’ve moaned a bit about being stuck with working over weaker tribers like O’Shea but it’s only because acting like that’s de rigeur in a firm like ours. The truth is I’m not experienced enough to trail fully-fledged vampires, daemons or faeries; I’m simply too human. And secretly I prefer focusing on the human side of things anyway. I find it hard to understand the motivation behind a lot of triber actions. Untangling whatever webs the humans have chosen to weave is far, far easier. The triber world may be more glamorous and exciting but I don’t need it to get my kicks. The thought flashes through my mind that if I make it to the other side of this kerfuffle, I’m going to have some appropriately impressive triber experience to add to my CV. I may end up stuck with them whether I like it or not.
    I return my focus to Tam, trying to remember if there was anything odd about the way he acted when he gave me this assignment on Monday. Nothing jumps out at me. It had all been same old, same old. Of course, it would also have been like that if he was attempting to pull the wool over my eyes and prevent me from suspecting anything untoward about the O’Shea set-up. I rub my eyes. I have to face facts: I have no evidence suggesting Tam is either guilty or innocent.
    I’m careful when I disembark the train, getting off one stop before so I can take a circuitous route to the office. It’s not paranoia if they really are after you – and I have to assume that they are. As a result, it’s late in the afternoon by the time I’m staring at the pretentious, glass-fronted office block. I need to figure a way out to enter without anyone noticing, which is easier said than done. If Tam had located his business in an older building, I might have had an outdoor fire escape to climb up. As things stand, I have no way clambering up the side of the metal and glass of this one.
    But all is not lost. When I started at Dire Straits, I made a point of getting to know all the janitorial staff. It doesn’t take a genius to know where all the knowledge and power really lie. Unfortunately Tam knows this too and his extravagant tipping at each year end means that they are remarkably tight-lipped when I approach them for gossip. One thing I did learn, however, is the best place to go for a crafty cigarette. I even know which path to take to avoid the CCTV cameras. I don’t smoke often but hanging out with the gaspers can lead to good tips.
    I make sure there are no familiar faces or unfamiliar watchers hanging around, then I move across the road and round the back of the building. The emergency exit is clear, only a small tin bucket overflowing with tab ends indicating its other use. This is the part that gets tricky. I have no way of opening the heavy barred door from this side so I need to wait until someone opens it for me and get past without them noticing. I need to be very silent and very lucky. To avoid the rustle of the plastic bag in my hand, I jog over to the skip, which for some