The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy Read Free

thing.”
    Melbourne giving Derek the run-around isn’t that surprising. Most people like to give Derek the run-around. I don’t know how he became Morrigan’s assistant. Yeah, I know
why
, he’s a hard worker, and ambitious, almost as ambitious as Morrigan—and Morrigan is Ankou, second only to Mr. D. But Derek’s hardly a people person. I can’t think of anyone who Derek hasn’t pissed off over the years: anyone
beneath
him, that is. He’d not dare with Morrigan, and only a madman would consider it with Mr. D—you don’t mess with Geoff Daly, the Australian Regional Manager. Mr. D’s too creepy, even for us.
    “OK, I’ll send some flowers,” I say. “Gerberas, everyone likes gerberas, don’t they?”
    Dad grunts. He’s been tapping away at his computer all this time. I’m not sure if it’s the computer or me that frustrates him more.
    “Can you see anything?”
    A put-upon sigh, more tapping. “Yeah…I’m…looking into… All right, let me just…” Dad’s a one-finger typist. If glaciers had fingers they’d type faster than him. Morrigan gives him hell about it all the time; Dad’s response requires only one finger as well. “I can’t see anything unusual in the records, Steve. I’d put it down to bad luck, or good luck. You didn’t get shot after all. Maybe you should buy a scratchie, one of those $250,000 ones.”
    “Why would I want to ruin my mood?”
    Dad laughs. Another phone rings in the background; wouldn’t put it past Derek to be on the other end. But then all the phones seem to be ringing.
    “Dad, maybe I should come into the office. If you need a hand…”
    “No, we’re fine here,” Dad says, and I can tell he’s trying to keep me away from Derek, which is probably a good thing. My Derek tolerance is definitely at a low today.
    We say our goodbyes and I leave him to all those ringing phones, though my guilt stays with me.

3
    I take a deep breath. I feel slightly reassured about my own living-breathing-walking-talking future. If Number Four’s computers can’t bring anything unusual up then nothing unusual is happening.
    There are levels of unusual though, and I don’t feel that reassured by the whole thing, even if I can be reasonably certain no one has a bead on me. Something’s wrong. I just can’t put my finger on it. The increased Stirrer activity, the problems with the phones… But we’ve had these sorts of things before, and even if Stirrers are a little exotic, what company doesn’t have issues with their phones at least once a month? Stirrers tend to come in waves, particularly during flu season—there’s always more bodies, and a chance to slip in before someone notices—and it’s definitely flu season, spring is the worst for it in Brisbane. I’m glad I’ve had my shots, there’s some nasty stuff going around. Pomps are a little paranoid about viruses, with good reason—we know how deadly they can be.
    Still, I don’t get shot at every day (well, ever). Nor do I obsess over dead girls to the point where I think I would almost be happy to be shot at again if I got the chance to spend more time with them. It’s ridiculous but I’m thinking about her eyes, and the timbre of her voice. Which is a change from thinking about Robyn.
    My mobile rings a moment later, and I actually jump and make a startled sound, loud enough to draw a bit of attention. I cough. Pretend to clear my throat. The LCD flashes an all too familiar number at me—it’s the garage where my car is being serviced. I take the call. Seems I’m without a vehicle until tomorrow at least, something’s wrong with something. Something expensive I gather. Whenever my mechanic sounds cheerful I know it’s going to cost me, and he’s being particularly ebullient.
    The moment I hang up, the phone rings again.
    My cousin Tim. Alarm bells clang in the distant recesses of my mind. We’re close, Tim’s the nearest thing I have to a brother, but he doesn’t normally call me out of the