Page 26 of Shake Your Boo Thang

Callum leans back in his chair, studying the computer screen with a serious look on his face.

“Is it just me, or has this whole case just gotten a whole lot more complicated?” I ask.

“Aye, that it has. There’s more to this than we first thought, and it looks like we’re going to need official help.”

I move to sit next to him. “Official? You mean with ExorSquad?”

He grimaces. “No, but I’m going to have to inform Gerald about this, and I know he won’t like it.” A strange mixture of emotions flicker across Callum’s face before he turns away. “We need to contact my ex-partner, Liz, at the Met. She’s Detective Chief Inspector Wu now and can pull information for us. There had to have been an investigation into the fire, but I can’t access those official records without her assistance.”

After Callum takes pictures of the news articles we found, we pack up and thank Jane for her indispensable help, then leave the building.

“Once Liz tracks down the file, she should be able to see if there are any documents available. And then we may need to visit some archives again,” Callum says.

I frown. “Why? Wouldn’t they be at the police station?”

Callum shakes his head. “You have to understand, there are case files dating back over a century. Once enough time has passed, a lot of stuff is moved to different archives for storage.”

“Fascinatin’. I suppose that makes a lot of sense now that I think about it.” I give a sheepish smile. “Most of my knowledge comes from movies and television shows.”

The mix of horror and disbelief on Callum’s face is downright hilarious. “Bloody fucking hell. From here on out, only trust what I or Liz have to say when it comes to policing.”

I grin at him with absolutely no remorse. “What about that Hot Fuzz movie? How real is any of that?”

He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re just taking the piss now, aren’t ya?”

I give him a playful pat on his arm. “Simply keeping you on your toes, darlin’.” Then I rub my hands together. “I say there’s no time like the present. Why don’t we invite your old partner out for lunch?” I give him my most winning smile. “We could go to that haunted pub I told you I wanted to see.”

I’m also dying—no pun intended—to meet his ex-partner so I can grill her for information on Mr. Broody McSexy-Pants.

The look of consternation he sends my way is one I’ve had directed at me by many over the years.

“You want to eat lunch in a place where there might be ghosts flittering about?”

I keep an innocent expression on my face. We’re talking butter wouldn’t melt, honey.

“Sure, why not? They might have some very interestin’ stories to tell. Besides, this time of day we aren’t likely to be overrun with them. They tend to prefer nighttime hours.” I beam. “And this is killing two birds with one stone. I get my tourism of the day in with you, and we get your ex-partner helping us move this investigation along. Win-win.”

Callum heaves a weary sigh. “Fine. I’ll give her a call.”

He pulls out his cell phone—or mobile, as they like to call it here. Being the respectful gentleman that I am, I step away to avoid eavesdropping, but I wouldn’t have really caught all that much anyway. The conversation is remarkably brief, and soon enough, he puts away his phone and comes over to me, his face giving away nothing.

I bet he was a good interrogator of perps when he was a DI.

That would be hot to witness in action.

“What’d she say?” I ask.

“She’ll meet us there in an hour.”

I rub my hands together gleefully.

Hoo boy, not only am I going to get to visit one of the supposedly most haunted pubs in London, but I’m also gonna get to meet Callum’s ex-partner. This day is getting better and better.

We end up on the Tube again, which I must say is proving awfully convenient, although I don’t find going up and down so many stairs and escalators to be very enjoyable, especially when it’s so crowded with far too many people. But like Mama always says, we can’t direct the wind, but we can adjust our sails.

We get off at Sloane Square and walk a ways, eventually turning off a broad, elegant street and onto a narrow, slightly claustrophobic one. Our destination, The Grenadier, is tucked into a row of pale stuccoed houses and would have been easy to miss if we hadn’t been focused on finding it. Its exterior is definitely weathered from time and the elements, and a dark green door sits beneath the hanging pub sign. On the whole, it seems a bit unremarkable to me.

“That’s it?” I ask dubiously. I was expecting something grander, I suppose.