The Midnight Caller

8. A Dead Woman's Tale

"You have gone after the living." A pause. "Now you must go after the dead."

As Gabriel sat next to his assistant in the hired taxi headed to Silver Street, he mulled over the words of the midnight caller. Had he interpreted them in the way they were meant to be? Or was he merely embarking on another fruitless excursion?

"Are you alright, Mr Bedford?" his assistant gently enquired. She seemed to be on eggshells around him today, and the detective figured it must have had something to do with his particularly foul mood and unpredictable temper.

Gabriel couldn't deny the recent developments had had him most unhappy. And the alarming tendencies of the merciless woman who was ostensibly his ally certainly didn't help.

"Mr Bedford?" Gabriel did not grace her with a reply.

The vehicle stopped with a violent jerk, and the detective threw the door open and stormed out. Worrying more about whoever had the misfortune of encountering him than about the detective himself, Charlotte picked up her little bag and stepped out. It was a pleasant morning, not too warm or cold, and the hem of her pale dress fluttered in the wind. She thought it a shame they hadn't started earlier in the morning, owing to her employer's notorious indolence.

"Mr Bedford!" She dashed after him, not expecting a reply. Without as much as glancing back, Gabriel hurriedly made his way to the address that was now listed under the name Caroline Gale.

It was a quiet, sophisticated place. With a lovely garden and a friendly Rottweiler (that nearly sent the detective sprinting out the iron gate), Charlotte thought the Gale residence a dream come true. For Gabriel, the canine was akin to a nightmare.

Nevertheless, he gathered the courage to send the dog a malicious sneer and made his way across the lawn. At the front door, they were greeted by a woman of around forty.

"Ms Gale?" asked the detective without ceremony.

"That's me," she smiled warmly. Charlotte instantly liked the woman.

"Gabriel Bedford, Private Detective," he said. "There is something I must ask you with regard to your mother, Mrs Jane Gale." Realisation struck Charlotte like lightening. She was extremely embarrassed to not have figured out the purpose of their visit until she heard the name the dying Mr Hunter had uttered. More so, because several times during the ride she had contemplated asking her employer. Now she could only thank every God in existence that she had been dissuaded by the metaphorical cloud that had hovered over his head all day and held her tongue.

But as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Ms Gale's smile dropped. "May I ask why?" she asked tentatively.

"I am currently working on the Carter Hill case."

"It has been opened again?" She seemed less surprised than Charlotte had thought she would be. "Please, come in."

"Thank you," Charlotte said as she followed the woman through the hallway. It was a small, cozy home, the kind she had always dreamt of. Growing up, Charlotte had always had to move about with her mother. She had few memories of her childhood, and most of them were of dirt and poverty and sickness. Her father had been affluent, but her estranged mother was too proud to get in touch with him, even on her death bed. For reasons she could not comprehend, amidst the comparison between the Gale household and her own childhood home, a neglected apartment at The Pinnacle came to mind. Charlotte hid a smile.

"Do be seated," said Ms Gale. "Would you like something to drink, perhaps?"

"No, thank you," Gabriel said brusquely. "I believe Mrs Gale had been with Garcia & Co. at the time?"