Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 7 - 9

“So you obviously didn’t hear me earlier when I said that confidentiality is a big part of why people choose to do business with us.”

“But this was thirty years ago.”

“That doesn’t make it any less confidential.”

“But Lament is dead. You can look it up. He’s listed as missing, presumed dead.”

“That’s really sad.”

“It really is, but he’s not around any more, so why keep his secrets?”

“Keeping secrets is one of our policies.”

“We really need that address, Hansard. People are dying. And the longer this goes on, the greater the chance that the mortal world will find out the biggest secret of all.”

He smiled. “Nicely done.”

“Thank you. And, well... if you help us, I would personally be ever so grateful.”

“Would you now?”

“I would.”

The train rocked and she let herself stumble slightly. He caught her, his hands round her arms, her own hands pressing against his chest.

“I really would,” she said softly.

He looked at her, and chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Fine,” he said at last, leaving her standing there and walking to the table. He sat, opened up a laptop, started tapping the keyboard. “Lament. What was the first name?”

“Tyren,” she said, walking over. “But I thought you said all this information was in a dusty old cabinet somewhere.”

“It is,” he said, nodding. “And I spent an entire summer transferring it to computer when all of my friends were out having fun. That’s the disadvantage of a family business – you’ve really got no choice in the matter.” His fingers flew over the keys, and he sat back. “Tyren Lament,” he said. “Going back over fifty years, he used this company three times in total. Twice shipping materials from New York to Dublin, and once shipping from Africa to Switzerland. The Switzerland job was the last time he used us.”

“Then that’s the one I’m interested in,” Valkyrie said. “Is there an address?”

Hansard scribbled a few numbers on a piece of paper, and handed it to her as he stood.

She smiled. “Your phone number? Do I have to call you before you’ll tell me?”

“They’re co-ordinates, Valkyrie. The materials were delivered halfway up a mountain.”

“Oh,” she said. “Thanks.”

He shrugged. “What harm can it do? The guy’s dead, right?”

“Exactly.” She smiled. “But really, thank you. And I’m sorry about, you know, accusing you of whatever. And sorry about the damage. I don’t have a happy history with those things.”

“That’s understandable,” Hansard said. “And don’t worry about it. I’ll put it down to travel damage, we’ll reimburse the owner, and my father will never know you paid me a visit.”

“Cool. Thanks. Well, I should probably get going.”

He nodded, and she smiled awkwardly and walked to the carriage door. Right before she opened it, she turned. “Do you want my number?” she asked quickly. “My phone number, like. Do you want it?”

He looked at her as if she’d asked him to list off mathematical equations. “Why would I need it?”

She blinked, and felt the heat rising. “No. No reason. Just thought. OK, cool, thank you so much for—”

“Oh,” he said, his eyes widening slightly. “Ah, of course. Sorry, I’m a bit slow sometimes. Certain things, you know, it takes ages for them to reach my brain.”

She laughed. “I know the feeling.”

He smiled. “But no, I don’t want your number.”

Her laugh died. “Er… OK then.”

She waited for a little more information, maybe a reason or the name of a girlfriend, but she didn’t get either of those things.

“No problem,” she said, sliding open the door and leaning out into the wind and noise. She gave him a forced smile and stepped out, letting the wind catch her. She adjusted the current and propelled herself upwards, passing through the cloaking bubble that took the train from her sight. Skulduggery swooped in, caught her, one arm encircling her hip.

“Did you get it?” he asked as they hovered there in the light breeze.

“I am morto,” she mumbled.

“Sorry?”

“Mortified. Oh, God, I want to die.”

“What happened?”

She buried her head in his bony shoulder. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You brought it up.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, we weren’t until you—”

“I have the co-ordinates,” she interrupted. “It’s in the Alps.”

“Marvellous. I love the Alps. Why are you mortified?”

“Don’t. Want. To talk about it.”

“Your eyes are red.”

“There were Hollow Men in there, being taken to someone who wants to use them for something. Is that illegal?”

“Owning Hollow Men is not illegal, no. It’s unsettling, but not illegal. Hansard didn’t happen to tell you who they’re going to, no?”