The Great Game

SORRY AGAIN FOR SLIPPING A DAY. Predictable, I know, but I’m under the gun with a bunch of work at the moment. I’m just not getting much free time. I’ll try my hardest to get back to Thursday/Monday updates.

If you’re new to the Great Game, please have a quick look at the blurb to your left, where you’ll find a short catch-up introduction.

“I just have some questions for you, Mr. Paz. We’re investigating one or two irregularities involving the history of this immediate area. Some of my queries might seem a little unusual, but I can assure you that this matter is extremely serious, and I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to just bear with me and answer as best you can. I can assure you that you are in no way implicated in any wrong-doings.”

Paz thought about that for a moment, and then nodded, looking a little puzzled. “Of course, Agent. I’ll do the best I can.”

“Thank you, sir. To start with, could you tell me  if you have ever heard of Arthur Hallet?”

“Hallet.” Paz frowned, and thought about it for a bit. “I regret that it doesn’t seem familiar, Agent.”

A thought struck me. “This is the man.”

I called up Hallet’s image, and transferred it to Paz. He nodded, and a moment later, the picture flashed up on one of the meeting room’s screens. It was an Overlook image of Hallet going around town on one of his seemingly pointless trips. He looked shabby, and slightly furtive — the kind of shot which got news people all hot and bothered. Paz stared at the picture, looking confused.

“I know this man. His name is Bran Timmins.”

“Where do you know him from?” It was tricky keeping my voice calm.

Paz shot me an odd look. “I suppose he works here.” He sounded uncertain.

“You know his name, though.”

“Yes,” said Paz, more confidently. “He must be from here.”

“Can you check your staff database?”

He nodded, and then a moment later said, “I have him. He works in maintenance.”

“I see,” I said, carefully. “How long has he been here?”

Paz’s face fell a little. “Just ten days.”

I considered various options. “Could you call maintenance and see if he is in the office today?”

“Of course.” I waited a minute as he focussed on his call. Then he looked up at me curiously. “It seems that he has not been in the office for two days.”

Two days fitted with the diaspora, and it meant that I wouldn’t need back-up before approaching his work area. “Okay,” I said. “Would you be so kind as to tell me where I’d find his supervisor?”

“It would be a pleasure,” Paz said. “Would you like me to show you?”

“No thanks, that’s fine.”

“Very well,” he said. “Maintenance have their office area in the basement. You’ll find them all there. It’s right by the lifts.”

“Thank you Mr. Paz,” I said. “You’ve been a great help.”

He obviously wanted to ask questions, but he managed a smile. “It is a pleasure to be of assistance,” he said.

We left the meeting room, and I followed him back to the lifts, and made my way down to the basement. To my surprise, the maintenance area was surprisingly pleasant. Extensive natural-effect lighting made up for the lack of windows, and gave the attractive wooden flooring a pleasant glow. There was a reception desk near the lifts, and I could see some handsome-looking offices running off behind it. It was a far cry from the modern troll-cave I’d been anticipating.

The chap behind the reception desk pointed me to the office of Hallet’s — Timmins’ — supervisor. Bob Sallis was in his forties, and surprisingly cheery-looking for an aging middle-manager working in a basement. I knocked on his open door and walked in.

He looked up and smiled at me pleasantly. “Afternoon. How can I help?”

“Hello Mr. Sallis,” I said. “My name is John Taylor. I work with the DSP. I’d like to ask a couple of questions about one of your team-members.”

“Of course, Agent Taylor. Grab a seat.”

“Thanks,” I said, and sat in one of the chairs by his desk. “It’s about Bran Timmins.”

Sallis sighed. “I thought it might be. Is he… dead?”

I blinked. How the hell did I answer that? “Um…” Two Hallets were dead, at least. Three, counting Carrie Ransom. My brain whinged at me about counting Carrie as Hallet, but I brushed the objection aside. In fact, it was six dead; Travis had mentioned four infiltrators at the DSP office. Out of at least twenty. So this guy’s Hallet was up to 30% likely to be dead. But a day ago, none of this had been here, so had Timmins ever actually existed? I groaned.

“Are you alright?” Sallis sounded concerned, and slightly upset. “How bad was it?”

I pulled myself together. “We’re not sure about Mr. Timmins’ fate, Mr. Salis. We’re investigating the matter.”

“Oh,” said Sallis. “I see. Please, call me Bob.”

I nodded.

Today’s picture is Img_6035 by Robert Scales