The Midnight Caller

7. Suspicion

There were several things that competed in Gabriel's list of the things he despised, but at the very top was mediocrity.

The murderer had waited, in the very building. He had been waiting all along, until Mr Hunter's death created enough of a distraction for him to make an escape. The sheer nerve.

"We couldn't have known," came his assistant's gentle voice. It hardly helped.

"He was there. Right there." He threw his coat into an awkward heap on his one-seater couch. Night had fallen, but the quiet that had once brought him peace only served to agitate him now.

"We couldn't have known," she repeated, this time sounding more resigned. "But it is my fault. I wish I had enquired about Mr Hunter the moment I had found out about him. Perhaps his life could have been saved." She took a deep, heavy breath, as though trying not to cry. "I'm sorry."

There was a pregnant pause. "You could have been more proactive, yes," said the detective unkindly. She hung her head, her eyes moistening.

"However," she looked up at him, her face red, "for what it's worth, I believe nothing could have saved him. Everyone that is suspected to possess any proof of the preceding crimes is being hunted down and silenced." He wasn't sure why he felt the need to placate her. Her feeling any less miserable would hardly help resolve the issue at hand. He decided to account it to his morbid dread of crying females. All good detectives needed to endure crying women now and then. "As a matter of fact," he continued, "the next victim could be one of us." He looked up at her, studying her expression. Her eyes had widened, but for some reason, it didn't seem like fear for her own life.

"I- I have thought about it," she admitted.

"Ms Thompson," he said lowly, drawing her attention. He had settled on the couch, with his feet spread apart and his face shadowed in the dim light. She thought him particularly handsome in the moment.

Then she wanted to slap herself for the extremely inappropriate thought at an even more inappropriate time.

"Hmm?"

"Would you like to quit?"

That instantly pulled her out of her haze. "Pardon?"

"Would you like to quit?" he repeated as though she hadn't heard him the first time. "This is proving to be a dangerous job, and you hardly possess the necessary experience or expertise. Rather than fearing for your life at every step, possibly for an indefinite amount of time, I should suggest that you leave when it's still not too late. What do you think, Ms Thompson?"

"I have no intention of leaving," she said bluntly. She nearly smiled at the surprise on the detective's face. "I do not possess the intellect or finesse you do, Mr Bedford," she said, quoting his own words from before, "but I do have courage. And like you, I wish to see this through. So no- if you permit it, I would like to continue working for you."

Her declaration was followed by complete silence. Neither spoke as a wolf howled somewhere in the distance. The large clock on the wall struck ten, and Charlotte was becoming increasingly aware of how inappropriate her presence in his apartment was at the hour.

"Very well," Mr Bedford finally said. "I suppose it does make everything easier to have someone do it for you."

Her heart skipped a beat as she registered the implication of his words. "Thank you," she said sincerely. He only nodded in response.

"Now, Ms Thompson," he said gravely. Her momentary joy plummeted at his tone. "There is something else I must ask of you."

"Yes?" she waited patiently for him to speak as he produced a bag of candies from somewhere within the leather of the couch (she dreaded to think where it came from or how it could be well past its expiration date, but she digressed).