And now he pictured Jordan’s grim nod as the telepath said: Yes, and Dragosani was a foundling, too, wasn’t he?
Harry said, Is that supposed to mean something? He knew it was.
Better believe it! Jordan confirmed.
See you outside the Laird’s Larder, Harry told him. Five minutes . . .
He waited out the five minutes in a fever of anticipation, then made it six to be sure Jordan had got there, and finally Möbius-tripped to the steep, cobbled road just off the Royal Mile. He emerged from the Continuum on a crowded, bustling pavement where tourists and locals alike were clustered like bees in a hive, jostling and filled with purpose as they went about their various businesses. No one noticed that Harry was suddenly there; people loomed everywhere, from every direction, side-stepping each other; the Necroscope was just another face in the crowd.
Jordan was in the doorway of the Laird’s Larder. He spotted Harry, grabbed his elbow and guided him off the street into the shade. Harry was glad of that, for the sun was out and it had grown to be more than a mere irrritation. He now actively hated it. ‘Buy three sandwiches,’ he told the telepath. ‘Steak for me and rare as they’ve got it, whatever you like for yourself, and anything with plenty of bread around it for the third. OK?’
Mystified, Jordan nodded and went to the busy counter. He ordered, was served, and came back to Harry where he waited. Harry took his arm, said, ‘Close your eyes,’ and ushered him through a Möbius door. To anyone watching it would look as if they just stepped out of the coffee shop into the street. Except they didn’t arrive in the street. Instead, a moment later, they emerged two miles away by the lake on the crest of the vast volcanic outcrop called Arthur’s Seat. There was an empty bench where they sat down and ate a while in silence, and Harry tore up the third sandwich into small pieces which he fed to the ducks and a lone swan that came paddling to the feast.
And eventually the Necroscope said, ‘Tell me about it.’ But Jordan answered, ‘You first. What’s all this about an “experience” in Darlington? You sounded like something had worried you, Harry. Something other than finding a couple of suspect Johnnies, that is. I mean, tracking this maniac down is important – no one would deny that – but there’s such a thing as personal safety, too. So you’d better tell me, are there going to be problems?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Harry answered. ‘And soon. Something inside tells me that not even Darcy Clarke can do anything about that. But that’s not what this was about.’ And as best he could he explained what he had felt, and told Jordan how his mother had reacted to the death of a small dog.
‘You think someone died this morning? Any idea who?’ Harry shook his head. ‘Someone cried out to me, that’s all. I think so, anyway.’
‘And your deadspeak? Can’t you . . . make inquiries?’
Harry gave a wry snort. ‘The Great Majority don’t want to know me,’ he answered. ‘Not now. Not any longer. I can’t say I blame them.’ He shrugged, then brightened a little. ‘On the other hand, if someone did die and still wants to contact me, then pretty soon he’ll be able to do just that.’
‘Oh?’
‘Through deadspeak,’ Harry explained. ‘Except he’ll have to contact me in person, for I wouldn’t know where to start looking. And it will have to be by night. During the daylight hours the sun interferes too much. If not for this hat of mine I’d be in trouble. Even with the hat I feel tired, sick, unable to think straight. There were a few clouds earlier but they’re clearing. And the brighter it gets the duller I get!’ He stood up and threw the last handful of crumbs on to the surface of the lake between the crags. ‘Let’s get out of here. I could use some shade.’
They took the Möbius route to the gloomy old house on the outskirts of Bonnyrig, then telepathically probed the countryside all around. ‘Nothing,’ Jordan declared, and Harry agreed.