Bad Faith

BAD FAITH

Chapter Four

TAKING IT TO THE CLEANERS

The day he was killed, there were far more pressing matters on his mind. For the last twenty-three months.

Sex. Guilt. Sex. Guilt. More guilt. It was seeing his wife at night peeling carrots over the sink and wishing he hadn't. It was seeing his mum and dad coming over for dinner, still holding hands. Look at us. We're happily married. What the fuck is wrong with you?

Hampstead, please. And be quick about it. Just yesterday. Neal Street, Covent Garden. Working his arse sore driving other people around every day, packing luggage, battling the traffic. He put food on the table, paid the rent, even though it was hell. Just grin and bear it. Grin and bear it. It's for the best.

He didn't want to care at first, always coming home late at night, making excuses all the time, because it felt so good. Really good, the first kind of good he'd felt since his wife had had their third child and wasn't in the mood any longer. It hadn't been that bad at first. There was no sign by the third month, though, none at all, just nights of sultry hot heat, sheets sticking to his back and legs, their stomachs never brushing.

He was watching the bank account grow so slowly, saving every last penny for that car he'd seen in the dealership so long ago. I love you, she would say then, something they both hadn't said to each other in a long time, they'd travel the world in that car, she'd be laughing, brown hair blowing back, those white sunglasses she used to wear during her University days falling down her nose. I love you, too.

Fingers pressed on the steering wheel, he hated himself. Later, he would remember stopping the cab to pick up two blokes, one was in a suit, Armani maybe, though he didn't know too much about clothing. The other looked like another one of those stupid American pillocks who went to Britain so he could brag about it to his friends when he got back, like a double dare. I've been to Bloody Bloody Britain and back. Camera bag slung over his shoulder, shades over his eyes, a baseball cap with Knicks sewed on it. He clambered in, all arms and legs.

"Will he be there?" the man in the suit asked, glancing at the other.

The American said, "He better be."

They were smooth. Straight away, he answered. Of course, sir. Anything you want. I can drive you to the fucking moon, if you like.

He didn't see death coming. He was too busy seeing what he had seen that morning, again, and again, and again.

"You look great, darling." First fucking thing he'd said to her that day. Seven o'clock.

She hadn't answered. And then, she had said, "I know."

"Know what?"

He had frozen, he had thought it was about letting Jackson come with him to Mark's last Tuesday, she would get really pissed off about that, he had suspected, so he opened his mouth to explain that the sitter had been off with the flu and the blokes there had all been clean, and Jackson had had pie and told knock-knock jokes to old Fordham, the one who never smiled but Jackson got him to smile and wasn't that great?

But she had said, "I know about Greta." She continued. "I know there were more than just Greta. And that it's been going on for a while."

And then the moment of truth. "How long has it been going on?"

He had answered, dumbstruck. "Since you gave birth to Madeline." He had been counting the months and days, trying to justify what he was doing. Twenty-three months. That was an awful long time for him to wait.

"Since we stopped making love." She was still sitting there, holding a grubby envelope, the big orange kind he stuck papers in when he didn't want to fold them. Opening it, she pulled out some photographs, crystal fucking clear shots of him and Greta sitting in her car, the beat up red Nova with the squeaky seat, him and Greta kissing, his tongue shoved down her throat. Funny thing was, he had never been less attracted to Greta at that moment, would take back every moment just so this wasn't happening now. There was dirt on his skin, roaches crawling all over it, spit on his chest, he had to wash it off but he couldn't.

He wanted to forget.

One of the men in the seat behind him pulled something out, sounding like paper rustling. "That's him."

"And the bird?"

"Don't know. I think she works for him." A cough. He gripped the steering wheel even tighter, staring at the red light.

He couldn't forget that morning.

"It didn't mean anything," he had said. Then she looked angry, she pulled out his drawers with his clothes and underwear in them. "What are you doing?"

"You're leaving, " she had said, dragged out his suitcase, the one he hadn't used in years. "You're moving out."

He made a right turn, looking back at the two men. He could drive there blindfolded with the car in reverse, anywhere in London, he knew the way. Anywhere. The steering wheel was heating up beneath his fingers, suddenly it was so hot he could barely touch it, and thank God he was there. Some posh-looking building, a lot of granite and gold colored metal.

The American said, "You sure it's here?"

He said, "Yes." Death was closer but he still didn't know it; it was almost choking him.

Death was on the backseat.

It was the photo one of them had left, flipped over and partially shoved into a seat crack. Like a fool, he pulled it out and found it was a picture of some dead man - he was so pale, eyelashes stuck together with the eyeball whites showing - on the back, it read "12/14," he didn't know what it meant, didn't really want to.

He rolled down the window, shouting, "Hey!"

"This yours?" he asked one of the men when they stepped back in.

"Where the fuck did you get that?" The man in the suit was looking at him different, like he was dangerous, maybe. A threat.

"Found it there." He pointed to the back of the taxi. "The guy you knocked off last month?" Maybe it would make the man smile, stop looking at him in that way - it was making him uncomfortable. As if he'd done something wrong.

The American swore and a hand went inside his camera bag. He pulled out what looked like a gun. A gun, a big fucking gun. Tourists usually don't have those.

"You didn't see anything," and it was poking into the back of his head, cold, hard. He wondered if it would make a clean shot if the man decided to kill him.

"Can't risk it," the man in the suit said to the American. "Just get rid of him."

"Who are you?" he asked, and for the briefest second, he didn't think about his kids or how badly he'd fucked up, which is pretty badly indeed.

"Brian Wright," the tourist said, must be some coincidence, he thought, just like the man on the wanted poster last time he went to the post office, only it's hard to tell if they're the same person because of the sunglasses and the hat. Didn't look like a killer.

The tourist pulled the trigger, and he was breezing down a sunny road, the sky was blue, and he was sitting in a red sports car, his wife was smiling. I love you, she mouthed. Life was good.

* * *

Ginny blinked at the house in front of her. She was sure, very sure, that this could not possibly be in France, could not possibly exist anywhere near France. Glancing down, she made sure all her limbs were properly in place. Not splinched. Damn. It would have explained something, at least.

Cho had her hand by her side, hovering above her wand. "Right," she said, looking over at Ginny, sounding equally surprised. "Is this the place?"

"I suppose so."

"A change of atmosphere," Cho started cautiously, "a very large change in atmosphere."

"Temperature," Ginny said and removed her gloves, wishing she hadn't worn her jumper. "What is this, the bloody Bahamas?"

"According to the address, we're in France. I was under the impression it would be colder here - we're not that far away from the hotel..." Her eyes passed over the sweeping, curved lines of the building, the glinting pavement, and finally, the white sun. "It's nice."

Ginny found herself removing her heavy jacket and hat as they walked up the wide stairs. "This is Philippe Lambert we're interviewing, right?" She assumed it was because before Cho could answer, the door opened.

A dark haired woman in a white pantsuit with a blue scarf around her neck ushered them into a different room. Cho said something in French to her and the woman replied.

"What now?" Ginny asked.

"We just have to wait a few minutes..."

A few fruit trees grew from a sort of indoor garden and a collection of antique Quidditch brooms were displayed in a glass case that hung suspended a few inches off the ground.

From the glass wall, she could see the impressive landscaping and carefully mowed grass. Ginny had become almost used to the grayness and the relentless cold air; it felt oddly unreal, as if she was walking on the surface of the moon. This was going to be interesting.

* * *

Harry had muttered something about going for a walk and dropped Draco off, telling him only to meet him later by the red building. Watching the car leave and wishing Harry had left more detailed instructions, Draco noticed that the area around him looked oddly familiar.

"Tea?" Edwin offered. He set out a clinking set of mismatched teacups, some knockoff antiques from Camden Market with blue enamel flowers lining the edges; he made his with teabags, packaged in a pink cardboard box that read orange spice.

Draco wrapped his hands around the cup, watching the amber seep into the water.

"Bad weather," Edwin remarked, pouring exactly to the rim. "The ceiling is leaking again," he said, pointing to a battered tin bucket set under a drip.

"Isn't it always?"

"The ceiling? Oh, of course."

"I meant the weather." He blew on the tea and took a sip. A little strong but it scorched his throat the way he liked it.

Edwin sat down behind his desk, shoving a pile of newspapers aside, all with decidedly tragic headlines. He continued the pleasant small talk. "Did you play any sports at school?"

A warning light went off in Draco's mind but covered in the sweet fog that enveloped his senses, it went by unnoticed. "Quidditch. I was a Seeker."

"You don't say. Never heard of Quidditch. Is it anything like cricket?"

Draco took another swallow of tea. "You play it on brooms. And there are all these balls..." That lovely, gold shine on the wet grass of the pitch, so far away. The adrenaline rush, the rain soaked ground brushing just past his knees as he dived... pointing the broomstick in an edge to the wind...

Edwin raised one eyebrow. "Broomsticks?"

Draco nodded, running his tongue over his upper lip. "Broomsticks."

"You'll have to show me sometime."

A delicious eddy of warmth wrapped itself around the base of his spine and he stared at the falling water - the world's smallest rain shower.

"So," he snapped into a businesslike tone, "what brings you here?"

"Harry Potter."

"Would you like me to send him a decoy? Surveillance?" He sounded almost sarcastic.

"No."

"More tea?"

"Yes."

Edwin poured more into his cup, tendrils of steam moistening Draco's fingers and lips and the spot beneath his chin. "I just came to talk."

"We can talk. About Harry, you mean."

"Yes. About Harry." Harry, Harry, Harry. Everything in the past few days had been about Harry, everything he ate, everything he wore, everything he saw. The fluorescent lights flickered for a moment, a low, broken hum emitting from the dented radiator.

"You're friends with Harry?" Edwin said, toying with his cup, the tea untouched, and sighed a little. He closed his eyes for a brief moment.

"Yes. No." Feeling confused, he squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to right himself. "I don't know," he admitted. "It's complicated."

"Any reason you're running to a stranger?"

"I just thought you'd know something."

"Everybody knows something about him, Draco."

"I thought you'd know something more."

Edwin laughed, a short bark. "There are 126 more Edwins in the phone book. Just run your finger down the page. That's me."

Draco had the feeling he'd said this before, or at least thought it. "You've known Harry since he left school, though," he said, sounding surer than he felt. "I think you have."

As Edwin stood up, the slightly uneven tray shuddered. "Harry and I... What can I say? I know some things, I suppose."

"What sort of things?"

"Mind if I smoke?" he asked, not answering Draco's question. He was already lighting up; Draco felt the need as well, the first smoke of the day was always the best, the way it filled his lungs and steadied his hands. He pulled out the pack he had stolen from Harry's car and cajoled a flame from the red lighter.

"Those aren't yours." It was a casual comment.

The cigarette dangled from his mouth, burning orange. "How do you know?"

"They're too posh. You probably filched them from a shop or somebody else. You're the type who drinks cheap lager and spends all their money on drugs."

"Close enough." Feeling insulted, he shoved the pack back into his pocket. "I wasn't always this way, you know," he said, making a gesture in the air, cigarette held between his index and middle finger. "I was a Malfoy." It tasted bitter.

"Aren't you still?"

"I suppose. It's complicated."

"You said that already," Edwin remarked through a growing cloud of smoke. He leaned back in his chair. "Try me."

"A fall from grace." He struggled for a comparison, but none seemed dramatic enough. "I used to have money, old money, the kind from generations and generations of living in a proper, aristocratic family where the husband and wife shag everything that moves except each other." He breathed in through his nose, his chest rising and falling slowly.

"What happened then?" Draco fancied he saw a spark of interest in Edwin's black eyes, so dark the pupil melted into the iris.

The effects of the tea were dulling and something cold snaked its way up his leg. "Things. People. The government."

"Taxes weren't that bad, were they?" Edwin smiled.

It was Draco's turn to laugh. "My parents were well-trained in that sort of deal. We had a sort of immunity. My dad was friends with Ministry officials with their political futures shoved up their arse; they knew about it, all right. He always told me to shove some money in their pocket if I wanted anything, worked for him just fine."

They were both quiet for a moment. "About Harry," Edwin said. "What exactly do you want to know?"

"What he's like. I'm such a bloody idiot, can't figure out people for the life of me, can never figure it out until it's too late to do anything. Haven't seen the bloke in twelve or thirteen years... lost count there. Just want to know what he's up to," he finished lamely.

"How well did you know Harry, anyway?"

"You go first." Draco felt oddly reluctant to talk.

Edwin shrugged, stretching his arms behind him to loosen his muscles. "Met him by accident, wandered up from the street somehow, completely pissed out of his skull. Passed out in the hallway, where I found him and dragged him into my office. When he came to, we talked a little and it turned out we had a few things in common. Met for a few drinks, sort of became a tradition, I suppose. He started in business of sorts, I helped him out once in a while, he became more successful and I didn't. We got on well together," he said, something strange in his voice. "The start of a beautiful friendship."

"And then?"

"Very agreeable fellow when he's got something illegal in his system," he replied, not answering Draco's question. "Wouldn't want to work under him, though. Nearly fanatical about everything, has plenty of axes to grind and money to throw around."

Draco felt troubled. "Was he always that way for you?"

"No," he said finally. "He got worse over the years, or better, depending on how you look at it. A lot of people who've been around him have died-" at this, the first thing that came to Draco's mind was Ron, "-and he's had to do a lot to get by."

"What does he do?"

Edwin's face closed, as if a book had just been shut. "Many things. He's taste tested every option out there, I'm guessing."

"... all of them illegal, I imagine?"

"Well, not on paper. For most of them."

"What does he do now?"

"He does dirty work sometimes, not as often, though. He doesn't need to. He makes so much money each go around, he just keeps his hand on his group-"

"Group?"

"People he's close to, pretty low profile for the most part." Draco noted most part, wondering what the other part was. "Anyway, Harry'll have my head on a plate for this." It didn't seem like Edwin cared, however.

"He'll probably have mine just for now," Draco predicted gloomily, not really believing it. "Will you tell?"

"About our little chat?"

"No, about the cigarettes I took. Of course, about our chat."

Edwin mimed zipping his mouth like a schoolgirl taking an oath. "I like talking, even if you can't afford it. It's been a slow month, everyone is too worried about their brains blown up like porridge to worry about unfaithful lovers. I'm still scraping up the rent for this month."

Can't be too much, he thought. "Does Harry ever lend you any money?"

"He's not one to be cheap. He can afford it. We've grown distant lately, as you might have guessed."

"Any reason why?" Draco searched for anything in Edwin's face that would give a clue to its inner workings but he was the master of deadpan. He showed exactly what he wanted to tell and nothing more, it seemed. Had he wanted Harry to see how much he cared?

"Time. Life," he replied vaguely. He had an answer for everything; Draco stubbed out his cigarette in a dolphin shaped ashtray. The room had a hopeless feel to it, empty Styrofoam takeaway containers littered about, fading pinups of yesteryear, half eaten packs of biscuits.

Tightening his coat around him, he stood up, the blood rushing back into his limbs. "Good luck with the rent," he said as he turned to leave. Edwin gave him a smile. "Oh, one more thing."

"Yes?"

"I had a run-in with Finnigan's men."

"I'm surprised you're still here." A placid tone.

"A lot of luck." Luck was all it was.

"I suspected as much."

"You know what Finnigan's up to these days? Been a while since I was in his part of town."

"Haven't the foggiest. Not my area - I occasionally wander into the gray areas but Finnigan's out of my league unless I fancy coming home in a body bag." He sighed. "I can help you if you want to find out what your ex is up to."

"I already know."

"All the same. Want to go for lunch? I know a nice little café, only about fifteen minutes away, that makes great biscotti."

"Already had lunch," Draco lied.

"You're lying."

"I know." Edwin smiled again, and somehow it made Draco feel even worse than his poker face. He lit another cigarette - if he was alive, he mightas well enjoy it. He sucked in too deeply and started coughing, feeling a rush of nausea. "How do you tell?"

"Would I tell you that? It'd ruin all the fun." A sudden draft drying his eyes, he backed out the doorway and the leak from the ceiling made a maddening plink, plink in the bucket.

There was a draining effect about Edwin, always watching like the bloody Mona Lisa. Draco shut the door as quickly as he could.

* * *

Harry hadn't slept for three days.

He kept on talking - about anything, everything, politics, the Dursleys, world peace, his Christmas presents for the first eleven years of his life. It was like watching a video set on fast-forward, a life playing out in comical warp speed. While Harry consistently drove above the speed limit, Draco tagged along as a faithful shadow, nodding and making approving noises when appropriate, waiting in the repaired Mercedes and smoking, waiting for Harry, waiting for his next meal. Waiting for the end of the bloody world.

Sometimes, he would say something about Brian Wright and Draco would listen to that, too, but all he ever got out of it was that it was unbelievable and something about next week, a phone call.

The Merc pulled to a stop in front of an ugly, squat house with purple shutters; Harry stepped out and slammed the car door behind him. Rapping on the glass, he mouthed something; Draco guessed it was, "Get out." Sighing, he opened the door and pressed one foot onto the cold pavement.

A passing car sent a spray of brown water onto Draco's trousers and the back of Harry's coat. Draco gestured a fuck you at the back of the Mini; Harry didn't seem to notice.

They were standing in front of a flaking green door, the number 666 unevenly aligned beneath the peephole at eye height. Draco hovered to the side, wondering what brick would taste like, not sure what to expect. Huddling deeper into his jacket, he found it didn't help in keeping him warm. Whether Harry was cold, he couldn't tell. Harry knocked twice, then once, and twice again in rapid succession.

There were a few moments of silence, then, "Whosit?"

"Harry. Open up."

"Coming... coming..." Harry's eyes swept the empty street behind him and he knocked again. The door hinges made a shrill creak as they bent and Draco saw a pale, thin face. Two bloodshot eyes loomed out from the skin like a whitewashed Halloween mask. "You woke me up."

"It's four in the afternoon, Rossini."

"Yeah, well." Rossini coughed, then blinked rapidly at the light outside. "Shit. Is it always this bright? Sure it's already four?"

"You've been living in your rat hole too long." Draco stamped his feet on the pavement, feeling the concrete chill creeping into his shoes.

Rossini drew himself up, wavering slightly. "It's not a rat hole." Glancing at Draco, he turned back to Harry with a suspicious look. "Who's your friend, 'ey? Care to share?"

"Draco Malfoy, Timothy Rossini. Timothy Rossini, Draco Malfoy. Now that we're all properly introduced, can I come in?"

Tightening the sash around his plaid dressing gown, Rossini drew the door open all the way. "Sure, Harry, of course. Tea? Coffee? Heroin?"

"Tea would be fine, thanks." The flat suffered from a misguided decorating attempt by someone who had gave up halfway through and left it in disrepair. Cheaply framed prints of impressionist paintings and brawny action movie posters hung side by side on the walls and waist high piles of magazines crowded the floor space. Draco picked one up; the cover had a smiling brunette modeling a flesh colored dress with the date 1991 printed beneath the title.

"I collect magazines. Got that whole stack there cheap," Timothy said. "I've got every issue of Maxim from 2000 to 2007," he added proudly.

"Is there a point?"

Blinking, he turned to face him and Draco saw the blood vessels painting his eyes pink; Timothy looked at the small fortress of magazines and shrugged. "Dunno. I like collecting things."

"You had that collection of women's underwear," Harry added, pulling his coat sleeve down to glance at his watch. He squashed a fruit fly by the lamp base and flicked the body from his finger. "How did you pay that woman for the orange pair?"

"I didn't. I sent her pictures of my cock," he said. "Look, Harry, I'd like to take a nap soon. If you could just get on with it-"

"Fine. Let's just sit down. You look like you're about to pass out."

Timothy plodded into what Draco supposed was the kitchen from the rotting odor and bloodied apron hanging on a wooden peg. A recipe card for veal marsala clipped out of a magazine ad was weighted down beneath a brown mug; an inch of sodden tea leaves caked at the bottom. He stared at the ingredients, wondering what Harry could possibly be doing with a person who lived in a flat like this.

"How's Lucy?" Harry tapped his ring and middle finger on his thigh.

"She left me."

He said, "About time." Draco wondered who in their right mind would have gone out with Timothy. "How'd she manage to stay so long?"

Not sounding offended, only resigned, "She called me last week from a pay phone and said I never wanted to do anything and that she'd rather be a lesbian." Timothy laughed nervously.

Draco glanced at Harry, who was sitting on the very edge of the chair and calmly folding his hands in his lap as if he was trying to avoid contact with anything more than necessary. "Boss called."

Who the fuck was boss?

Timothy's back immediately straightened and a lock of hair fell into his eyes. He brushed it away impatiently and leaned in over the table. "Really? What's he got this time?"

"More money."

"Doesn't he always," Timothy breathed. He sucked in air through his clenched teeth, his thin chest rising, then slumping again. "Let me make a wild guess what he wanted you to do."

"You, too," Harry lied.

"What're you kissing my arse for, Potter? Don't start on me now. You know well enough I'm perfectly replaceable." He didn't sound bitter about it, almost cheery, matter of fact. "How much?"

"Twice as much as before."

"How much's that?"

"How much did you take last night?"

"No more than usual. How much, Potter?"

Harry said a number, Draco wasn't sure if he heard correctly; it had more zeroes tacked on at the end than he was used to. "What does all of that have to do with you?" he asked.

"Draco Malfoy, right?" Timothy said, as if he was just noticing Draco's presence. Taking the recipe clipping from beneath the mug, he recited the ingredients under his breath. Two tablespoons olive oil, one tablespoon butter, one cup chicken stock, eight veal cutlets, scalloped. "I could almost swear I've heard your name before. Can't quite remember when."

"It's just one of those names."

A mobile rang and Harry sighed, taking an impossibly thin phone from his belt. "Yes... yes... fuck that then... fine." Snapping it shut, he turned back to Timothy. "I can't go for him this time."

"What? Harry, you get paid more for one trip than I've got my entire bloody life!"

Harry twisted his mouth into something like a smile. "I haven't finished yet. I want you to go for me."

At something of a loss for words, Timothy spluttered, "You're kidding."

"It won't be hard, the casino will fly you over there, free. I know the owner, he's a decent guy, just show him the letter I'll write for you. First class. Hotel room. Meals, everything. It's amazing what they'll do to hold onto the people who'll blow more than ten grand."

Timothy was almost salivating at the prospect. "He won't let me lose more than five, ten percent, right?"

"And you come back with a nice cheque to hand over. Money's clean."

"Do I get anything?"

"How does fifty percent of what I get sound to you?"

Timothy's voice took on a surly note. "Fifty?"

"Fifty. Final offer."

"Fifty-five."

"You can't afford to lose this opportunity, Rossini." Harry smiled and Draco saw the calculated look in his eyes again, the carefully greased mechanisms turning. "Fifty."

"Fine." Timothy's fingers were shredding the recipe to confetti; he brushed it off the table and onto the linoleum floor.

"Don't screw up this time or we'll be looking for a new pair of legs. He's not known for forgiveness, you know."

"I should. Want to see something?" He pointed at Draco. Not waiting, he opened his dressing gown to expose a brown scar that ran from his right side to the middle of his stomach and lightly touched the skin as if it were a blue ribbon. He could count the individual ribs that pressed against his chest as he breathed. "My fault, mostly. Though that was a bloody sharp blade he had."

Harry stood up; next to the low table, he looked unnaturally tall; Draco wondered if he was leaving. Picking up his bag, he said, "The thing you wanted to show me that you were raving about, Rossini, now might be a good time."

"Ah. That." Timothy rubbed his hands together, standing up and placing one hand on the refrigerator. It made a loud, humming sound, the business cards and fliers tacked up shuddering.

He stepped back out into the living room; Draco felt it would have been more aptly named a dying room. As Timothy lifted the seat cushion of an orange and green floral print sofa, he smelled the odor of cigarettes and smoked sausage.

"Original," Harry commented. "Do you put your valuables in your mattress?"

"If I had valuables, I wouldn't be living here." Timothy swept his hand deeper into the couch, hearing the rustling of paper and the muffled clink of lost change. The floorboards creaked beneath his bent knees. "Found it." Pulling out a crumpled photograph, he stuck his arm out, offering it to Harry.

"Who's the dyke?" Draco leaned in to see the picture; a grainy shot of a woman and the blurred profile of a man sitting inside a café.

"Some reporter. I think the name's Rachel or Rochelle Lake. Know who the bloke is?" He jabbed at the photo in Harry's hand, his foot tapping an impatient beat. For the first time since Draco had seen him, he looked half alive. "Take a guess, Potter. Take a guess."

"Hugh Grant."

"Guess again." Not waiting for an answer, he said, "Finnigan."

Something cold punched Draco in the gut. "Him?" He squinted at the picture again but it could have been anybody.

"What's he doing with a reporter?" Harry said, handing it back to Timothy who folded it twice into a square and shoved it into his trouser pocket.

"Haven't the foggiest. Mickey's the one who took it. You'd have to ask him."

"He been trailing people again?" Harry ground a stray cornflake under his heel, crunching it into orange dust.

Timothy shrugged. "Why would he follow Finnigan? He's in a different league."

"All us lowlifes, Rossini, we're all in the same league."

"Whatever you say. When am I going-" he hesitated for a moment, as if when he said it, it would all disappear, "-you know, taking your place?"

"Soon." Harry adjusted his sunglasses, raising his chin slightly. "By the end of the month, I think. He likes to have all his cash in one place before he lets us touch it."

"Aren't we dedicated minions," Timothy said.

"There's a difference. We get paid."

* * *

"Wands ready," Cho whispered to her. "Just in case he tries anything."

Ginny nodded, very aware of her own wand strapped to her side. She placed her fingers above it and followed him down the stairs. They reached the bottom, Lambert's soles making a tap, tap on the Italian marble. Giant murals covered the walls, shifting masses of green and blue paint that rearranged itself into equally abstract objects. A few house elves walked by, dragging mops and buckets of soapy water.

"This," Lambert said, "is the Chambre du Soleil." He did not pause, but walked on into the next room, an indoor garden of citrus trees.

"How do you keep the weather like this?" Ginny asked, curious. She felt too warm, something she had thought she'd never feel again after spending a few days in Paris.

Lambert shrugged. "Money. You can get anything if you have enough money."

Cho said, "The Ministry pays you well?"

He smiled. "Very well."

Walking through a set of glass double doors, he made a flourish towards the pool, wet and blue, a diving board perched on the concrete set around it. One of the girls lounging in a long, white chair turned over, the other rubbing tanning oil on her back that glistened under the seemingly impossible sun. She looked up and smiled at Lambert, leaning over slightly.

"Who are they?" Ginny asked, not sure if she wanted to know.

"Models? Friends? Girlfriends?" Cho pressed.

Shrugging again, "Does it matter?"

"Your English is very good," Ginny said.

"I practice."

Cho was growing edgy; she glanced at her watch again, tapping one boot on the warmed concrete. The oily scent of coconuts drifted over; one of the girls was painting her toenails a slick crimson. She admired them for a second before lying back with one tanned arm thrown over the edge of the seat.

"You can ask questions here," Lambert suggested, sitting on a pool chair.

They didn't like it. Feeling as if he had the upper hand, Ginny sat down awkwardly as they started the planned questioning.

Get them comfortable talking. "What do you do at the Ministry?"

"Lots of things. I advise, attend meetings, prepare reports..." His eyes drifted across the pool. "Dupont likes to ask me about America, Britain, Germany. Should we? Shouldn't we? He already knows the answer. I'm just there to assure him it's the right one."

"Any family?"

Lambert laughed for a second. "A father. My mother died when I was five."

Cho said, "I'm sorry." Ginny didn't say anything.

"Don't be."

"Did you know any of the victims?"

"Of course. Jean-Paul Rousseau, especially. We worked together on the Treaty of Moscow in 2007." Ginny watched his face carefully for any sign but his features were still, motionless.

"Any disagreements?"

One of the girls pressed a drink in his hand and whispered something in his ear. He replied, maybe in Spanish, and she laughed. "Who doesn't? It was never anything more serious than the occasional minor quibble and it never prevented any of us from working together," sounding eager to prove himself innocent. "Margaux and I, we had our differences. Just petty things. Petty things."

"Were any of them involved in anything that might have been dangerous?" Cho asked. She loosened her collar.

Lambert stared at the water of the pool, his eyes closing for a moment. "Perhaps. Jean-Paul did foolish things. We all did foolish things."

"What sort of things?"

"Would you like a drink?" he offered.

Glancing over at Ginny, Cho answered, "Thank you but no."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Ginny said firmly. Determined to keep on topic, "What sort of things?"

"Oh, it wasn't important. Working too much, working too little. Sometimes forming the wrong alliances or getting involved in a bad business deal." Ginny didn't press any further but it nagged at the back of her mind.

The sun reflected off the water, making the surface seem glassy; Ginny wondered vaguely what it would feel like if she could go swimming in there, she hadn't gone swimming in forever, not for two years , at least... Did her black swimsuit still fit? It was probably too small, she decided, and reminded herself to ask Melissa about the health club she was always raving about.

"Do you know how they were murdered?" It sounded so crude, blunt. Ginny bit her tongue, reminding herself it was her job.

Cho was looking at the watch again, but not for the time. This invention was one of the few she and Smithson saw eye to eye on, a sort of Sneakoscope, except far more reliable and best of all, silent. The seven on the clock face turned red when anybody in the immediate vicinity was lying. At the moment, it was black.

"Only what Dupont and everybody else told us. The Ministry has been doing its best to keep the story from being overblown in the press. Not doing a very good job of it, though," he added, the corner of his mouth curving, "not a very good job at all. I know next to nothing. It's tragic," he said, in an almost breezy tone, but Ginny detected something beaten down behind his voice, "but if we are to survive this, we cannot let them win by letting the terror keep us from working."

It sounded optimistic, rehearsed, repeated in front of bathroom mirrors and press conferences, until it almost became true. The seven was still black.

"Did you suspect anyone?" Ginny continued, idly watching the flat, turquoise surface and the reflected sky.

Lambert shrugged. "The Ministry has its enemies. France has been in a state of peace for the last decade, we don't move, nobody else attacks us. Peace is a strange thing..." he trailed off for a moment, studying the sky. "It costs more than war, sometimes. Maybe somebody wanted to stir things up. As for an actual person, I don't know."

"Brian Wright?" The name felt odd in Ginny's mouth.

"This Wright... I'm not sure what to think about him. It's possible, of course, but anything is possible at this point. With all the evidence we have, for all we know, Dupont himself could been this silent, traceless killer." He laughed at his own joke, taking another drink. Still black. "There are hundreds of Brian Wrights, all equally capable. I am every bit as clueless as you. The idea that a Muggle could wreak such havoc on the magical world, however, is still a new one..."

Starting the tedious part of the questioning, Ginny began at the most promising name: "Margaux Dubois?" Lambert's eyes were unfocused, drawing inward. His fingers loosened around the base of his glass, his other hand by his temple.

"She was domineering. I will not lie about it, as I know about that device your friend is wearing." Ginny kept her surprise off her face, "Brilliant, though, in a forceful way. Always the top of her class at Beauxbatons, she told everyone, but I heard she wasn't a favorite among teachers. She was hell to work with, we couldn't agree on anything except that we couldn't agree. She favored a more radical stance than I and she was very determined. When they would not execute a pair of men suspected of a shootout for fear it would damage relations, she almost quit." He was quiet for a while, then took another drink, crossing his feet. "Got quite a raise when she was persuaded to stay. Everyone resented her at one time or another. You will not find leads on that point." He was being honest, truly honest, Ginny realized with a start.

Scanning her notes that listed the victim names, their professions, time and place they were found dead, she decided she might as well continue with a person he could provide information about. "Your friend, Jean-Paul Rousseau. Do you know any reason he might have been targeted?"

Lambert, for once, lost his affected cool. Quieting for a few seconds, Ginny saw the vein in his left temple rising, his spine stiffening, his chest constricting. And as soon as it had come, he was relaxed again. "Do you?" he asked almost sarcastically, and he shifted positions. The girl walked over to him, pressing another drink in his hand, identical to the last. But this time, he didn't seem as happy with her.

"Perhaps you could just tell us something about him, your relationship, his personality, anything would help." Cho laced her fingers together. The sun beat down with a ferocious intensity, just beyond the edge of the trees that surrounded Lambert's estate, Ginny could distinguish the thick mass of clouds that marked where the heat ended and the rest of the world began.

As he started off, his voice was hesitant and clipped. "Jean-Paul - we had known each other for many years, before we worked in the Ministry..." he glared at his drink with a furious concentration, like he was trying to mentally shatter it. "He- he- became an intern at the Ministry at eighteen, as well as I... we were both excited. He didn't fare so well... he was always full of ideas, so impatient..." As he fell silent again, a bird wheeled in the air, shrieking. The sun weighed down on Ginny's shoulders, a yellow hand of heat. Cho had stopped looking at the watch altogether, watching Lambert's face for any sign.

"I shouldn't be boring you with my sentimental stories," he said briskly, the softness disappearing, and he knocked back his drink like a handful of pills.

"No, no, continue," Ginny felt obligated to say.

"You are just humoring me, n'est-ce pas?"

Ginny wasn't sure how to answer. "You can help us," she tried. "Help us solve it-"

"Ah, but you won't solve it. There is nothing to solve. It is just a game, nothing more. You are not looking for who did this, but rather why. You are assuming you know who while you are already likely to be correct, what is important is the where."

"To find Wright, you are saying?"

Lambert shrugged, his favorite evasive gesture, keeping his meaning indefinite. "Perhaps. Perhaps."