“Sir Douglas was home alone just as he said,” Uriel tells you, offering you a chair that looks like a mouth.

It’s so uncomfortable, you spend a full fifteen seconds shifting your butt around like a fussy dog. “How is that an alibi?”

“Let’s just say he and his lover were enjoying a video call and leave it at that, shall we?” Uriel holds up a jug. “Juice?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He pours juice into two glasses, handing one to you before sitting down on a green chair that looks like a cartoonish mitochondrion. “You don’t need to see the recording.”

You grimace. “There was a recording?”

“Which you don’t need to see,” Uriel emphasises again, offering you a sandwich.

“Right. And…” You take the sandwich, fidgeting again because your spine feels like it’s collapsing. “Do you have something against comfortable furniture?”

He laughs. “You think this is my place?”

“It’s not?”

“Good god, no. It’s Bel’s shrine to his club. This is the eighties room.” He glances around. “Ghastly, isn’t it?”

Pop art pops from the walls, looking down on bubblegum sofas, rugs covered in vibrant squiggles, and glass-topped, plasticky geometric tables in a variety of gaudy shades. Yes, the eighties had very much exploded in this room.

“It really is,” you agree, through a mouthful of sandwich. You’re not even sure what’s in it, but it’s delicious. “So, who are the other suspects?”

“That’s just it,” Uriel says, shifting about in the mitochondrion. “There was nobody else in the house. The granddaughter, Daisy, was at a book signing, which went on until quite late since it was an after-hours event. Her sister has been estranged from the family for so long, she didn’t even bother coming home until the day before the funeral.”

You swallow, washing the sandwich down with your juice. “From where? Where does she live?”

“Edinburgh.”

“And that’s it? That’s the whole family?”

“Sir Douglas has a younger sister, but she lives in America with her family. She came back alone for the funeral. There’s no love lost in the family. Though, by all accounts, Daisy had adored her grandfather.”

“Yeah, Ophelia said. So, who are her parents if not Sir Douglas or the sister in America?”

“Her dad left when she and her sister were eight.”

“They’re twins?”

“Yes. And their mother was the middle child. She killed herself when her husband left.”

“Wow! Do you know why Daisy’s sister is estranged?”

“She fell in with the wrong crowd… got mixed up in drugs and robberies. Sir Reginald tried to help at first, but Daisy was sick of how her sister’s behaviour affected her own opportunities. She persuaded her grandfather to send Azalea to last-chance rehab, and later to cut her off if she wouldn’t help herself. So that’s what he did.”

“I guess the sisters don’t get on at all, then?” you say, popping the last of the sandwich into your mouth.

 “You guess correct, though Azalea is back in the house at the moment. She’s clean now… has been for a few years. She’s an actor.”

“Why is she back at the house?”

“No idea. There’s also a live-in housekeeper, but she was visiting her sister for a couple of days in Blackpool. They were singing Don’t Go Breaking My Heart at a karaoke at the time of Sir Reginald’s murder. And trust me when I say, you don’t need to see the recording of that either.”

You laugh.

“The rest of the staff don’t live there and don’t have keys,” Uriel goes on.

“How long will Ophelia be with her tests and whatnot?”

“They’ve moved the exhumation forward to this afternoon. Ophelia reckons she can be done in a day and a half, assuming she doesn’t manage to piss off the environmental health officer at the grave site. She’s spectacularly good at pissing off the people she relies upon to get her job done swiftly.”

This doesn’t surprise you. “So, what am I going to do for the next two days if Ophelia won’t have her results until then?”

“There is some CCTV footage that’s safe to watch. And then I thought we’d… snoop.”

“I think I know where Ophelia gets it from.”

Uriel huffs. “How dare you?”

You smile, but it slowly falls away. “Where’s Pride? He’s not in trouble, is he?”

“Pride can take care of himself.” Uriel stares you down somewhat solemnly, then rubs his hands together. “Shall we watch this footage, then?”

“Fine,” you say, “but can we sit somewhere more comfortable? This chair is a crime.”

He laughs, but it falters as he fails to get out of the mitochondrion on his first attempt. He lifts his legs up to swing his way out of the chair, and when he’s finally standing, he hauls you to your feet. “I recall that the seventies room is more comfortable… if a bit dull.” He bends over to retrieve a briefcase that you hadn’t even noticed, and leads the way into the next room. “This will do.”

At one end of the room, a tangle of silver ducting hose hangs limply from the ceiling amid a dusty collection of disco balls and lights. The furniture in here looks much more comfortable, dressed in shades of brown, gold, and coral, which continues in the silky lampshades set on every coffee table.

You glance at Uriel, whose mouth is turned down in a grimace. “Are you disappointed there’s no orange in here?”

“Can you even call it a seventies colour scheme if there’s no orange?” he says, dropping the briefcase onto the closest table and his backside onto the sofa behind it. He wriggles a bit, then pats the seat beside him. “Come on, this is much more comfy.”

You sit beside him. “What’s in the briefcase?”

“Laptop.” He pulls out the computer and sets it on the table. “The footage is on here, but…”

The picture on the screen looks sharp but small until the laptop screen grows before your very eyes. You look down at the keyboard, where each of the keys is now massive.

“I just thought it would be easier,” Uriel says, when he catches you looking. “You won’t have to hunch over and squint.”

You lean back on the sofa. “Start it off then.”

There begins the most boring twenty minutes of your life. First you watch the twin sister, Azalea, buying her ticket and getting on the train at Edinburgh. She wears sunglasses the whole time, which is a little suspicious since the day is overcast, but maybe she’s one of those people who get headaches from bright outdoor light.

Your only other observation is that she’s left-handed, which you figure out from the way she stirred her coffee and ate the potted meal while she waited on the platform. The next thing you see is her getting off the train at King’s Cross, then heading to the Underground where she takes the circle line to Paddington. She does nothing extraordinary.

“This is boring,” you tell Uriel.

“Yes,” he agrees. “I’m grateful my brother cut it, so we only have to watch the highlights.”

You make a grumble-huff sound. “These are the highlights?”

Uriel groans. “This woman is too boring to be a murderer.”

Azalea does nothing more but get on a train from Paddington to Reading, where she’s captured on CCTV several times in a shopping centre.

“Looks like she’s avoiding going home,” Uriel says.

Finally, after browsing her way around several shops and visiting the bathroom, she gets in a taxi. Thankfully, that’s the last you see of her.

“The driver said he took her straight to the Burrowes estate… right up to the front door,” Uriel tells you, leaning forward to load up a different video, his fingers faltering on the huge keys. “We didn’t get much of interest from the bookshop’s CCTV. It was mostly Daisy sitting behind a table signing books and being photographed with her readers. There are a few fan videos of the performance though.”

“What performance?”

“There was a live reading at midnight. The videos were all over Twitter. Apparently, Daisy has upped her game since her last reading.”

Most of the videos are only a few minutes long, and after Uriel makes you watch a reading from a year ago, you concede that her technique is much improved in the recent videos. Unlike her sister, whose dark brown hair is cropped short, Daisy’s hair is long and dyed blonde. At least, you assume it’s dyed given the darkness of her eyebrows. It’s hard to tell if they’re identical though since Azalea never took off her sunglasses.

“She’s good at doing all the voices and everything,” you say. “But this is also boring. Do we really suspect these people if they have alibis?”

Uriel sighs. “I’m just trying to be thorough. Their uncle also has an alibi, so there must be a weakness somewhere.”

You join him in a hefty sigh. “Alright, what else is there?”

“Just some photos on social media,” he says.

You scan through dozens of photos, not just of Daisy, but of the dedications she’d written to fans inside their books. “All the dots are smudged… on the Is.”

“They are,” Uriel agrees, scrolling back up. “What does that mean?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, but it’s weird that it’s on every single one. Did she sign them herself or use a stamp?”

Uriel keeps going through the photos until he finds one where Daisy is in the middle of signing the book. “Looks like she’s just a bit cack-handed when she writes. My son is the same… Ophelia’s father. Writes like he’s left-handed and eats the same way. There’s nothing here.”

“Then there must be someone else. Someone we’re missing,” you say. “Or the uncle’s alibi is not as tight as you think. Can’t he have made a recording and just made it look like it was live?”

Uriel shakes his head. “Technically, it’s possible, but in this case, he also received a call, which his lover tried to convince him to ignore, and that call was logged on both ends.”

“Who was it?”

“A colleague.”

“Didn’t Sir Reginald die after eleven pm? Why would a colleague be calling that late?”

“Shall we find out?” Uriel bounces to his feet. “We have plenty of time to kill, and Sir Douglas has the day off from his clinic today.”

Sir Douglas’ practice on Harley Street looks just as sterile as you imagined it would, the only concessions to softness being a couple of large rubber trees that you’re certain are fake, and a collage hanging behind the reception desk that is desaturated to the point of being almost colourless—a study in greige.

The receptionist smiles brightly, displaying a mouthful of perfect teeth surrounded by coral lipstick. “Good afternoon. Do you have an appointment?”

“Alas, no,” Uriel says. “We were hoping to speak to Doctor Burnley.” He flashes his ID, which has the woman’s smile morphing into a pout. “We’re here in an official capacity.”

She nods, picking up the receiver of an old-fashioned telephone. “I’ll just see if he’s free.” A moment later, she says, “Doctor Burnley, there are some people here to see you… in an official capacity.” She says the last part in a whisper even though there’s nobody else here.

The doctor’s crisp voice comes through the ear-piece. “Send them in, Samantha.”

Samantha smiles again as she lays the receiver gently in its cradle. “Just along the corridor there. Last door on the left.”

You follow Uriel along the narrow hallway, where he knocks politely on the doctor’s door.

“Come in,” the man calls, looking up as Uriel opens the door, ushering you forward.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Burnley.” Uriel closes the door. “Thank you for agreeing to see us without notice.”

The doctor gestures to the two chairs opposite his desk. He looks to be in his fifties, his thin face clean shaven, his suit jacket impeccably tailored. “Make yourselves comfortable. And please, it’s no problem. It’s my catching up on paperwork afternoon, so you’ve likely saved me from a headache. How can I help?”

You take the seat beside Uriel, who shoves a notebook and pen in your direction. Does he want you to take notes? You can only assume so, but the second you open the notebook, you have to angle it away from the doctor because not only is it full of doodles, but words keep forming and reforming on the page.

His forehead is sweaty. He’s distracted by something on the left-hand side of the desk.

Your eyes dart to the left.

No, his left.

There’s a photo there, angled slightly, but still impossible to see from where you’re sitting.

I don’t think he’s wearing any trousers.

You try not to snort at Uriel's latest observation.

For goodness’ sake, at least pretend you’re making notes.

You shoot Uriel a sideways glare. How are you supposed to make notes when nobody has said anything yet?

“We’re here to ask about a phone call you made to Sir Douglas Burrowes on the night of his father’s death.”

Doctor Burnley frowns. “I already spoke to the police about this.”

“The murder remains unsol—”

The man visibly pales. “He was murdered?”

“Yes.” Uriel gives him a sympathetic look. “You were unaware?”

“The police said it was routine… because nobody was around when Sir Reginald fell.”

“The coroner requested Sir Reginald’s body be re-examined. Didn’t Sir Douglas tell you?”

He shakes his head, a sad little frown overcoming his features. “You’re with the coroner’s office?”

“We’re here on behalf of the examining pathologist,” Uriel hedges.

“And… the coroner requested this?” the doctor asks, as though he finds this scenario unlikely.

“Yes. Emlyn Shepherd,” Uriel says. “You know him?”

Doctor Burnley tips his head to the side, shrugging one shoulder. “Tangentially… through my partner.” His cheeks grow rosy before he adds, “Business partner.”

“Right. Well, yes. The coroner requested it at the police’s strong suggestion,” Uriel says.

Understanding lightens the man’s expression. “Ah, that makes much better sense.”

“How so?” asks Uriel.

The man freezes. “Uh… I just mean it’s unlikely he’d want to drag it all up again. Douglas was very fond of his father, and Emlyn is his friend. He—”

“It’s alright,” Uriel says. “We know they were at university together.”

The doctor nods, letting out a relieved sigh. “Precisely. Precisely.”

“So, the phone call,” Uriel reminds him. “Can you tell us what that was about?”

“Oh, it was a stock issue. Samantha and I stayed late to run a stock check after our late day.”

“Late day?” you ask.

The doctor turns to you for the first time, seeming almost surprised to find you sitting there. “Once a month, we run an evening clinic for those who require discretion… celebrities and the like. It’s not something we advertise. More a word of mouth thing.”

“And you found discrepancies in your stock after the clinic?” you ask.

“Yes.” He nods, the look on his face going from grim to alarmed. “Not that I’m suggesting one of our clients made away with our stash of Diazepam, just that we happened to make note of it that night.”

“Do you usually do stock checks after your late day?” asks Uriel.

“No, but Samantha suggested it because she was working a short week that week and knew she wouldn’t have time to do it. I had nothing to go home for that night and a full schedule the following week. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Is that all that was missing? The Diazepam?”

“There were a couple of needles missing, but that happens often because Douglas administers his own injections at home.” He slaps his hand over his mouth. “Oh god. You’ll have to ask him about that.”

“We know he’s diabetic,” Uriel reassures him. “He mentioned it during his interview. And you usually conduct the stock checks yourself?”

“Yes,” he says. “Always with another member of staff. I’m something of a control freak, and frankly, we’ve had some issues in the past when we’ve allowed staff to do the checks by themselves.”

“And do you usually keep drugs here?”

“Well, yes and no,” he says. “We have a licence to dispense, but only use it to provide the discretion we’re known for. It was somebody’s prescription, which they didn’t pick up.”

“So, it was only by chance that it was still here?” you ask.

“Indeed.”

“And would you ordinarily disturb Sir Douglas at home so late for such an issue?” asks Uriel.

“No, but Samantha suggested I do so. I gather she got an earful last time she neglected to report such an incident immediately. For her peace of mind, I agreed.”

“She seems very competent,” Uriel observes. “And friendly.”

“Yes, our clients love her. She strikes just the right balance of friendly and discreet, and she is highly dedicated to her work.”

“So rare these days,” Uriel says. “Do you recall how long the call lasted?”

“Just a few minutes, I should think. I handed the phone to Samantha once I’d informed him of the situation.”

Uriel’s forehead collapses into a frown. “She wanted to talk to him too?”

“It was about the needles,” the doctor says. “She asked him if she should increase the order, and I’m afraid I tuned out after that.”

“Did he seem annoyed to be disturbed at home so late?” you ask.

“Not at all,” says Doctor Burnley. “He kept Samantha on the phone for a few minutes, now I think of it.”

“Thank you for your candour, Doctor. Do you think we might have a word with Samantha?”

“Of course,” he says, standing behind his desk. Thankfully, he is wearing trousers after all. “I’ll just fetch her.”

The second he leaves the room, his footsteps disappearing down the hallway, Uriel lurches forward to pick up the photograph. He arches an eyebrow and shows it to you.

“Who is it?” you whisper.

The photo shows a happy couple, holding cocktail glasses up to the camera and smiling wildly. One of the men is Doctor Burnley, though he’s almost unrecognisable with mussed hair and a Hawaiian shirt.

“That’s Sir Douglas.” Uriel positions the photo back on the desk, tweaking it by a couple of degrees before sitting back in his chair.

You keep your eyes on the notebook in your lap when the doctor comes back in.

“She wasn’t at her desk,” the doctor says. “So, I left her a note. I’m sure she won’t be long.”

Uriel smiles blandly, but mere seconds later, Samantha appears in the open doorway.

She waves the slip of paper in her hand, so you can all read it: Come to my office right away. “You wanted to see me?”

“Mr…?” the doctor enquires.

“Hazard,” Uriel says.

“Mr Hazard would like a word about the phone call we made to Doctor Burrowes the night his father died.”

“Oh,” she says, acting as if this were the last thing she expected. “It was such a long time ago, I’m not sure I recall.”

You’re not convinced by the innocent act, and neither is Uriel. “Try to think back,” he says. “You were here with Doctor Burnley, stocktaking on your late day, when you ran across a discrepancy.”

“Right,” she says, leaning against a filing cabinet. “I asked Doctor Burnley to call him because the last time something similar happened, we had Prozac go missing, and he…” She glances at the doctor. “Um…”

He nods. “You may speak freely, Samantha.”

“Okay, well, he hit the roof because I didn’t tell him immediately. I mean, I put it in the stock report, which was on his desk half an hour after I finished stocktaking. I didn’t realise he wouldn’t read it right away.”

“I see,” Uriel says. “So, you called him to make sure he knew as soon as you discovered the drugs missing.”

“Yes, and I asked Doctor Burnley to make the call on his phone because I didn’t want to get into trouble for disturbing him.”

“Are these the only two times drugs and needles have gone missing?”

“Drugs, yes. Needles, no. But there’s an explanation for that, though I’m not sure if I should…”

“We know about the needles,” Uriel says.

“Oh, there was one other time when Diazepam went missing. It was maybe a month or so before, though I was still shadowing my predecessor then, so I wasn’t doing the stock checks myself. I only noticed it because I had to go back over the dates to check my numbers… make sure it wasn’t an old mistake carrying over.”

“You stayed on the phone after Doctor Burnley informed Sir Douglas of the situation. What did you talk to him about?”

“I asked if he wanted me to order more needles as a matter of course, and we discussed what sizes we should get.”

“Different size needles were missing?” Uriel asks.

“Yes, but I only know them by their numbers, and I don’t remember which ones were missing. Different lengths, different gauges. It will be in the report book, if you want to see it.” She glances at the doctor. “If that’s alright, of course.”

Doctor Burnley nods. “Whatever you need.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Uriel says. “Thank you both for your time.”

Samantha’s responses ring no further alarm bells, but you’re still not convinced she’s as innocent as she seems.

Uriel agrees. The second you leave the clinic, he says, “She was very thorough in her obfuscation, wasn’t she?” He drags you into an alleyway between two tall brick buildings, demanding you hand over the notebook. He tears a blank sheet from it and shoves the book back into your hands. “Wait here.”

He disappears. For a full minute, you wait.

Finally, he reappears, flapping the empty page he’d torn from the notebook. Only it’s not empty.

“What’s that?” you ask.

“A copy of the page in that report book.”

I thought you didn’t need to see it.”

“I don’t,” he says, offering you his elbow. “I haven’t the foggiest what any of it means, but Ophelia will understand what these needle sizes mean. Questions?”

“Lots,” you say. “Like, why did he get up to speak to Samantha instead of using the intercom? And why did she make such a big deal of showing us the note?”

“I can only assume he went himself, so he could warn her… perhaps even coach her on what to say, and left a note to make it look like he hadn’t spoken to her.”

“Right, but why?” You hook your arm through Uriel’s. “It’s suspicious behaviour for someone who doesn’t actually appear to be hiding anything. Unless you think…”

“No, I’m inclined to believe the man is innocent of everything except protecting the man he loves,” Uriel says, just as the world around you blinks away to be replaced by the earthy tones of Bel’s seventies room. “I assume you saw more than just two friends in that photograph?”

“They’re not lovers though, are they?” You sit on the same sofa you vacated earlier. “He was with his lover when Doctor Burnley called. Unless he…”

“No. I gather it’s unrequited.” Instead of sitting, Uriel paces, munching on a peach he conjured from thin air. “Bel is tracking down Sir Douglas’ lover as we speak.”

“So, Doctor Burnley is protecting Sir Douglas because he knows he’s guilty, or because he thinks he might be?”

“That is the question,” Uriel murmurs. “Peach?”

There’s a string bag of ripe peaches on the table that wasn’t there a moment ago.

You shake your head, determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. “Who do you think the Prozac was for?”

“The prescription was made out to Sally McQueen.”

“Is that someone famous?” you ask. “And do you think Samantha mentioned it deliberately or by accident? I didn’t buy her innocent act.”

“Me neither. I think she wants us to focus on the different needle sizes to make up for her slip-up about the Prozac. A classic case of misdirection. If she hadn’t cleaned up her act, my bet would be on Azalea Burrowes, but as far as we can tell, she hasn’t set foot in England for years.”

Your gaze drifts back and forth with Uriel’s pacing, which is driving you bonkers. You focus on the sheet of paper Uriel tore from your notebook. “How did you make this copy? And so quickly?”

“I’m an angel, darling,” he says. “I have my ways.”

You’ve seen much more impressive and magical things since you began this adventure than a photocopied sheet of paper. You’ve teleported. You’ve heard the voice of an angel inside your own head. You’ve been to Victorian London and served on a pirate ship, for crying out loud. The page is nothing, and yet it seems so much more magical for being so mundane in nature.

“Why would there be different sized needles missing?” I ask. “Do you think…?”

“Do I think what?”

You look up at Uriel, who has stopped pacing. “Do you think whoever took them didn’t know what size needles they would need? Because if that’s the case—”

“Then Sir Douglas can’t be our murderer.”

You sigh as you flop backwards on the sofa. You’re no closer now than you were when Uriel brought you here.

You need more clues.“I think it’s time to examine the scene of the crime,” Uriel says.