The rain came down in sheets, the kind that makes you wonder if the sky has finally decided the city's sins need a proper rinse. It hammered the cobbles like an angry landlord demanding back rent, and the neon signs those hopeful lies in electric pink and acid green fizzed and spat reflections that danced across puddles deep enough to drown a man's regrets.
I stood there under the brim of my hat, which had given up pretending to be waterproof about three streets ago. The turquoise satin trench coat clung to me like an ambitious squid, heavy and glistening, the sort of garment that looks magnificent in the mirror at three in the afternoon and ridiculous at three in the morning when you're soaked to the marrow and smelling faintly of wet ferret. But dignity is a luxury, and mine had pawned itself years back for a bottle of something that promised to forget.
Beside me stood the Turquoise Queen.
She didn't so much stand as preside. The satin hijab caught what little light there was and threw it back in shimmering defiance, while the oversized headscarf cascaded into a chiffon voile veil that billowed and swirled in the fog like the ghost of a particularly extravagant wedding dress that had died of embarrassment. Every time she moved even to breathe the fabric whispered secrets to the night air, expensive secrets involving rose attar and old money and perhaps the occasional small assassination. In this monochrome world of stark blacks and murderous whites, she was a scandal in turquoise, a splash of colour that the rain itself seemed too polite to touch.
I took a drag on the cigarette that had somehow survived the deluge. The smoke curled upward in lazy question marks, as if even it was wondering what the hell we were doing here.
"You know," I said, because silence is only golden until it starts to rust, "most people come to this northern town looking for opportunity. Or revenge. Or a decent kebab at two in the morning. Very few arrive dressed like the centrepiece of a particularly expensive funeral."
She tilted her head, and the veil shifted in a slow, liquid motion that suggested physics had been bribed. "And yet here I am, Grimshaw, The Gumshoe. Opportunity found me first. It was wearing a cheap suit and carrying a very sharp knife."
I grunted. Grunting is cheaper than conversation and usually gets the same results. "Opportunity has a habit of leaving bodies behind. That's why they pay me to follow the stains."
A passing drunk staggered through a puddle that may or may not have contained tomorrow's headlines. He stared at her veil as though it might contain the meaning of life, then decided it probably didn't and lurched onward toward whatever oblivion still had room for one more customer.
The fog thickened, turning the streetlamps into soft, accusing halos. Somewhere in the distance a greasy takeaway exploded in a brief symphony of swearing and sizzling fat. Life in the town: always conducting itself with unnecessary drama.
She lifted one gloved hand turquoise, naturally and pointed toward the mouth of an alley that smelled strongly of yesterday's fish and tomorrow's trouble. "The man we're after went that way. He thinks shadows will hide him."
"They won't," I said. "Shadows in this town are unionised. They demand overtime for hiding villains after midnight."
Her laugh was low, like velvet dragged over broken glass. "Then let us give them something to earn their pay, Detective."
I flicked the cigarette into a puddle where it hissed its last. The Turquoise Queen moved ahead, veil trailing like a comet's tail made of expensive regret. I followed, because that's what you do when the only alternative is standing alone in the rain wondering why the universe bothers.
Somewhere ahead, a door creaked. A scream started, then thought better of it.
The night was just getting interesting.
I stood there under the brim of my hat, which had given up pretending to be waterproof about three streets ago. The turquoise satin trench coat clung to me like an ambitious squid, heavy and glistening, the sort of garment that looks magnificent in the mirror at three in the afternoon and ridiculous at three in the morning when you're soaked to the marrow and smelling faintly of wet ferret. But dignity is a luxury, and mine had pawned itself years back for a bottle of something that promised to forget.
Beside me stood the Turquoise Queen.
She didn't so much stand as preside. The satin hijab caught what little light there was and threw it back in shimmering defiance, while the oversized headscarf cascaded into a chiffon voile veil that billowed and swirled in the fog like the ghost of a particularly extravagant wedding dress that had died of embarrassment. Every time she moved even to breathe the fabric whispered secrets to the night air, expensive secrets involving rose attar and old money and perhaps the occasional small assassination. In this monochrome world of stark blacks and murderous whites, she was a scandal in turquoise, a splash of colour that the rain itself seemed too polite to touch.
I took a drag on the cigarette that had somehow survived the deluge. The smoke curled upward in lazy question marks, as if even it was wondering what the hell we were doing here.
"You know," I said, because silence is only golden until it starts to rust, "most people come to this northern town looking for opportunity. Or revenge. Or a decent kebab at two in the morning. Very few arrive dressed like the centrepiece of a particularly expensive funeral."
She tilted her head, and the veil shifted in a slow, liquid motion that suggested physics had been bribed. "And yet here I am, Grimshaw, The Gumshoe. Opportunity found me first. It was wearing a cheap suit and carrying a very sharp knife."
I grunted. Grunting is cheaper than conversation and usually gets the same results. "Opportunity has a habit of leaving bodies behind. That's why they pay me to follow the stains."
A passing drunk staggered through a puddle that may or may not have contained tomorrow's headlines. He stared at her veil as though it might contain the meaning of life, then decided it probably didn't and lurched onward toward whatever oblivion still had room for one more customer.
The fog thickened, turning the streetlamps into soft, accusing halos. Somewhere in the distance a greasy takeaway exploded in a brief symphony of swearing and sizzling fat. Life in the town: always conducting itself with unnecessary drama.
She lifted one gloved hand turquoise, naturally and pointed toward the mouth of an alley that smelled strongly of yesterday's fish and tomorrow's trouble. "The man we're after went that way. He thinks shadows will hide him."
"They won't," I said. "Shadows in this town are unionised. They demand overtime for hiding villains after midnight."
Her laugh was low, like velvet dragged over broken glass. "Then let us give them something to earn their pay, Detective."
I flicked the cigarette into a puddle where it hissed its last. The Turquoise Queen moved ahead, veil trailing like a comet's tail made of expensive regret. I followed, because that's what you do when the only alternative is standing alone in the rain wondering why the universe bothers.
Somewhere ahead, a door creaked. A scream started, then thought better of it.
The night was just getting interesting.
The rain came down in sheets, the kind that makes you wonder if the sky has finally decided the city's sins need a proper rinse. It hammered the cobbles like an angry landlord demanding back rent, and the neon signs those hopeful lies in electric pink and acid green fizzed and spat reflections that danced across puddles deep enough to drown a man's regrets.
I stood there under the brim of my hat, which had given up pretending to be waterproof about three streets ago. The turquoise satin trench coat clung to me like an ambitious squid, heavy and glistening, the sort of garment that looks magnificent in the mirror at three in the afternoon and ridiculous at three in the morning when you're soaked to the marrow and smelling faintly of wet ferret. But dignity is a luxury, and mine had pawned itself years back for a bottle of something that promised to forget.
Beside me stood the Turquoise Queen.
She didn't so much stand as preside. The satin hijab caught what little light there was and threw it back in shimmering defiance, while the oversized headscarf cascaded into a chiffon voile veil that billowed and swirled in the fog like the ghost of a particularly extravagant wedding dress that had died of embarrassment. Every time she moved even to breathe the fabric whispered secrets to the night air, expensive secrets involving rose attar and old money and perhaps the occasional small assassination. In this monochrome world of stark blacks and murderous whites, she was a scandal in turquoise, a splash of colour that the rain itself seemed too polite to touch.
I took a drag on the cigarette that had somehow survived the deluge. The smoke curled upward in lazy question marks, as if even it was wondering what the hell we were doing here.
"You know," I said, because silence is only golden until it starts to rust, "most people come to this northern town looking for opportunity. Or revenge. Or a decent kebab at two in the morning. Very few arrive dressed like the centrepiece of a particularly expensive funeral."
She tilted her head, and the veil shifted in a slow, liquid motion that suggested physics had been bribed. "And yet here I am, Grimshaw, The Gumshoe. Opportunity found me first. It was wearing a cheap suit and carrying a very sharp knife."
I grunted. Grunting is cheaper than conversation and usually gets the same results. "Opportunity has a habit of leaving bodies behind. That's why they pay me to follow the stains."
A passing drunk staggered through a puddle that may or may not have contained tomorrow's headlines. He stared at her veil as though it might contain the meaning of life, then decided it probably didn't and lurched onward toward whatever oblivion still had room for one more customer.
The fog thickened, turning the streetlamps into soft, accusing halos. Somewhere in the distance a greasy takeaway exploded in a brief symphony of swearing and sizzling fat. Life in the town: always conducting itself with unnecessary drama.
She lifted one gloved hand turquoise, naturally and pointed toward the mouth of an alley that smelled strongly of yesterday's fish and tomorrow's trouble. "The man we're after went that way. He thinks shadows will hide him."
"They won't," I said. "Shadows in this town are unionised. They demand overtime for hiding villains after midnight."
Her laugh was low, like velvet dragged over broken glass. "Then let us give them something to earn their pay, Detective."
I flicked the cigarette into a puddle where it hissed its last. The Turquoise Queen moved ahead, veil trailing like a comet's tail made of expensive regret. I followed, because that's what you do when the only alternative is standing alone in the rain wondering why the universe bothers.
Somewhere ahead, a door creaked. A scream started, then thought better of it.
The night was just getting interesting.
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