Jason nodded. ‘All right. Seventeen minutes next time. Del is fine now that their computer is clean again. Taz, Rat and Gully took care of it.’
‘Was there any indication of who was responsible?’ I wanted to know.
‘Nah, these guys don’t leave prints. Just standard ransomware, though. Gully said he could clean it off with his eyes shut.’
This was probably true. Of the three members of Nerds Inc., Gully was the most dreamy. Of late, he seemed to be sleepwalking. The result, no doubt, of too many late nights staring at monitors, laptops and phones. Taz had decided to specialise in Android, which I assume is to do with phones. Rat had branched out into the ills and ailments of something called Ubuntu. I didn’t ask. But Gully still did what Gully always did, which was to vacuum up computer viruses and malware better than anyone else. But if we didn’t know where the ransomware had come from, then we didn’t know if it was related to any of our other mysteries. Of which we had far too many for my liking, I thought, frowning as I recalled Jordan’s reappearance.
‘All right, Midshipman. Potato bread, ho!’
‘Aye-aye, Cap’n.’
By one o’clock we had finished for the day. I dismissed my workforce, keeping back a dozen of Jason’s baklava cigars. We had sold around fifty, but they still needed a little fine-tuning. He had gone back to see Yai-yai with two of the remaining cigars, to see what she thought of them. And I made up a platter of six and carried them to Mrs Dawson’s apartment.
She answered my knock at her door, still in her dressing-gown. Well, well. Now here was an unexpected turn of events. She seemed flushed, and more relaxed than I had ever seen her. There was a certain Something in the air it seemed to me. She ushered me into the dining room and disappeared into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Presently I was joined by Professor Monk, also in his dressing-gown, and looking complacent and happy.
‘My dear, how splendid to see you looking so well,’ he ventured.
‘And you also,’ I returned without a hint of insinuation in my voice, or so I hoped.
I laid the platter of baklava on the dining room table, and the Professor sniffed appreciatively.
‘Jason’s latest experiment?’ he enquired.
I nodded.
‘Splendid. And how are things at the Cafe Delicious?’
Before I could answer, Mrs Dawson entered with a pot of tea. She poured tea and disbursed baklava, while I brought them up to speed with yesterday’s doings at the cafe. I then told them about the return of the prodigal early this morning.
Mrs Dawson pursed her lips, and Dion Monk’s eyebrows raised a full centimetre. ‘How extraordinary!’ he exclaimed. ‘What a persistent young man he is. But you say he is now neutralised as a threat to my apartment?’
‘That may be so …’ Mrs Dawson leant back in her chair and beamed at him. ‘But let us not forget that the second burglar is still at large.’
‘Indeed not,’ I put in, eyeing them both. There were odd undercurrents to this conversation. ‘The second break-in could not possibly have been Jordan, so it is not safe for you to return to your apartment as yet.’
‘Ah,’ he answered mildly. ‘Well, in that case, if I may trespass on your hospitality a little longer, my dear …?’
‘Indeed you must. I insist upon it.’
They exchanged a look best described as melting and I had the distinct feeling that I wanted to be elsewhere, as soon as possible. However, I had one more question to put to them.
‘Professor, have you had a chance to talk to Philomela?’
He shook his head. ‘No – at least, I have attempted to, but all we have achieved is an agreement to speak when she feels up to it. I rather gained the impression that she is mute by means of trauma rather than disability. But that is still a formidable obstacle. When she is ready to converse with me, she will call. Until then …’ He sighed. ‘Oh dear. I do hope to have an end to these irruptions into our quiet, blameless lives. And this Maori enforcer? He will keep young Jordan suppressed?’
‘Oh yes. Ma’ani did offer to cook him and eat him, which seemed to make an impression.’
‘I remember hearing about the liberation of East Timor,’ Professor Monk said. ‘Apparently one of the Indonesian commanders was very unhappy about it. So the Australians crept into his tent one night and left an army badge pinned to his pillow. And because the Maori cannot help but go one better, they did what I believe is termed a creepy-crawly next night and left a knife pinned to the ground on one side of his pillow and …’ He paused.
‘Oh no. Really?’ I could see where this was going.
‘Oh yes. And a fork on the other side. I think a recent reputation for cannibalism can be very useful when used sparingly. Sister Mary might be more effective in doctrinal matters.’
‘I really hope so. But all the doctrine in the world is better when bolstered with bowel-knotting fear.’ I rose. ‘Thank you for the tea, Mrs Dawson. I must go and rest.’
And with that, I left them to their own company, let myself into my apartment, and curled up with Horatio. I was asleep within minutes.
I woke up suddenly and uncomfortably, threshing around in the blackness. Horatio protested, and I heard him jump down onto the carpet in offended silence. I glanced at my digital clock and saw it was 2.11 am. What sort of time was that?
I checked my phone. Daniel had not called. No one had called. I had slept for nearly twelve hours, and theoretically I should be bounding out of bed, ready to take on the day and wrestle crocodiles if necessary. Instead, I felt as though someone had beaten me about the head with a shillelagh with nails in it.
Horatio jumped back onto the bed and mewed at me. I switched the bedside light on. Normally after such a rude awakening he would be eager to go back to sleep, but he stayed in a crouch, staring pointedly at the door. ‘What’s wrong, little friend?’ I whispered. I touched his flanks. His whole body was tense. Quivering.
This wasn’t good. I put on my dressing-gown, tied the cord around my middle and looked around for a weapon. In the absence of anything resembling a shillelagh, I grabbed a folded umbrella, grasped it firmly in my left hand and gave it a few practice twirls. My expensive girls school had provided me with many opportunities in sport and recreation. The only one I enjoyed was fencing. It had only been offered for one term, but I had taken my revenge on many of the slim bullies who were astonished to discover that the despised Fat Girl had quicker reflexes than they did, and packed a weighty left-handed punch with a foil. I often wondered if I had been responsible for fencing’s removal from the curriculum. But my reflexes were still adequate, and they might be needed now, because my ears had detected stealthy movements in the next room.
And there was more. Unbelievably, I heard the sound of quiet singing, or possibly humming. It was very soft, as though someone were playing an Arabic instrument at the bottom of a very deep bathtub. The same little phrase, droning on and on but starting from a lower point each time. I froze – not out of fear, because by this point I was very angry indeed and was wanting to spread it around a little, but to await the optimum moment. When the droning hum subsided gradually into silence, I prepared to act.
Urged on silently by my cat, I paced across my bedroom carpet, opened the door and flicked on the living room light. I took in the scene with mounting alarm. My bookcase was half-empty, and books and DVDs were strewn all over the floor. Standing in the middle of the floor, holding a substantial torch in one hand, was a black-clad ninja. Black trousers, black skivvy, black mask, black slippers. Only the hands and a pair of deep brown, fathomless eyes were visible. They blinked.