Read Online The God Hunter by Tim Lees - Free Book Online Page B

frowned beneath a blonde-­dyed bob, then dropped the pile into my hands. I held it while she picked through items and, at manic speed, stuffed them into folders, sometimes holding one set in her teeth while she placed the next.
    â€œI’ve an appointment,” I was saying. “Adam Shailer at the Registry—­he set it up. He wanted me to meet Detective Ganz, if he’s around . . . ? I’m sorry. Do you speak English?”
    â€œEnglish,” she nodded.
    I nodded. I smiled. She didn’t smile back.
    â€œI speak English, Mr. Copeland. There is no need to speak slowly. I understand quite well, I think.”
    She stepped down from the stool, took another scattering of papers from the desk, gave them a quick once-­over, and then, as if they’d done her some kind of personal affront, stapled them brutally together and threw them in a drawer.
    â€œI am Detective Anna Ganz.”
    I started to apologize, but she held her hand to block me.
    â€œThis is matter of importance to you, I am sure. We discuss when I am finished doing housework. Yes?”
    There’s a quality to the Hungarian accent—­I’m told it’s due to the way the stresses fall in the original language—­that makes their English stern, formal, and always just a bit exasperated, as if everyone around them is quite obviously a fool.
    Even her “thank you” when we cleared away the filing didn’t seem to help. Nor did my apologies.
    She sat herself behind the big oak desk. Its surface had been scratched and dented by the wear of many years’ bureaucracy; the Communists had sat here, and perhaps the Nazis, too. A big old computer lay upon it, monitor on top, big as a ’50s television set.
    She said, “Let me be clear, please. I do not ask for Mr. Shailer’s ‘help’ or yours. But you are here. Please tell me what you think that you can do for me, Mr. Copeland.”
    â€œI—­well.” I shuffled, trying to look competent. “Mr. Shailer said that you’d explain. He told me there was some kind of a problem, something he thinks the Registry might deal with, possibly, and . . .”
    I was improvising. Shailer had been only half coherent by the time he’d got around to explanations, and I’d been only half awake.
    The main thing he’d impressed on me was to keep quiet about what happened on our last visit. And to act magnanimous; a disinterested party, offering its help.
    I told her, “We’ve got specialist knowledge and equipment. We don’t usually act with the police, but we’ve been called upon to do so several times, both at home in England, where I’m from, and in the US. I don’t want to intrude or waste your time, but Adam—­Mr. Shailer—­thought that we could offer some assistance. I gather you’ve a case with some unusual aspects, which you’ll explain to me. Mr. Shailer was discreet about their nature, so if you could assume that I know very little about this . . . ?”
    I waited. She lit a cigarette. She watched me, weighing me up. I did my best to meet her gaze.
    â€œMr. Copeland.”
    â€œChris,” I said. “Please call me Chris.”
    â€œThis is—­I am frank with you—­this is case without clues and leads. If you have information, information will be welcome. You say Mr. Shailer is discreet, and I am hoping this extends to you, too. Please assure me you will speak to no one, yes? There are prurient elements. There are elements we try to hide from public to distinguish the . . .” She paused, looking for words. “Phone callers? ­People who admit to crimes they do not do.”
    â€œCrank calls.”
    â€œYes. Big problem with free press, is free to everyone and everything. Nothing is kept out. When I was young, before I work here, very different. Freedom of press was then great cause, everyone wants. We march for