A dim light flickered in the grim cabin of the old elevator as four people stepped inside. The dust-covered panel of buttons suggested it hadn't been updated in decades, and the battered thud of the elevator as the doors slammed shut suggested the mechanism was well past its time.
"Well, God bless you," Pharqraut said, pressing the worn button for the third floor.
The elevator started with a characteristic creak, as if resisting the movement. The tense silence that immediately filled the space was palpable, almost dense. Each of them was silent, and it seemed that no words were needed here. Maurice stood with his eyes downcast, his hands hidden in the pockets of his robe, as if he were trying to hide from something invisible. Nelissen, not used to such silence, tried not to look at Pharqraut, whose expression said that there would be no conversation.
Galbraith stood in the corner, arms folded across his chest. His gaze swept over each passenger in the elevator, but his face showed no emotion or concern. They were all preoccupied with their thoughts. The report they were moving forward with was not just important; it could be decisive. But as they moved toward the third floor, there were no easy decisions.
When the elevator came to a heavy stop, the doors opened with obvious resistance. The third floor corridor was long and almost deserted, only the noise of the fan and muffled conversations from distant offices broke the silence. The group's footsteps echoed loudly, as if each step they took broke the silence of the place.
They walked calmly, but not slowing down. Nelissen, walking a little behind, tried to hide his excitement, although he himself felt it taking hold of him. He was the youngest in the group, and although his rank already inspired respect, it seemed to him that he was only a newcomer among these veterans.
On either side of the corridor, on the dim walls, hung old photographs, capturing moments when the place was still full of life and movement. These pictures, fading with time, seemed like ominous reminders of past grandeur, which only added to the gloomy atmosphere that reigned here. Finally, they came to a door on which a sign was barely visible that read "Chief Inspector Schaeymoure".
Pharqraut paused for a moment to collect his thoughts, feeling the weight of the conversation ahead. He exhaled deeply, as if trying to shake out all doubts, and knocked on the old wooden door. The sound was muffled, but with some kind of firm determination, as if it were a warning in itself. A few seconds later, a low, even voice sounded from behind the door. The owner of the office, without the slightest interest in those waiting in the hallway, calmly invited them in.
Pharqraut opened the door and they entered the office. Chief Inspector Schaeymoure sat behind his desk, not deigning to look at the newcomers. His sharp features, framed by deep lines on his forehead, were focused on the file in front of him. As he turned the page, his thick gray eyebrows rose slightly. It seemed as if this document was more important than everything else that was going on around him. His entire attention was absorbed by it, and nothing seemed to be able to distract him.
Inspector Galbraith, a dark man with a neat moustache, looked around the office and shrugged involuntarily, as if he had a presentiment that the meeting would be prolonged. Silently, he walked over to a long table against the wall on which stood a decanter of water and four glasses, already filled to the brim. Taking one of them, he placed it in front of his place and carefully pulled out his chair, intending to make himself more comfortable.
But as his hand touched the back of the chair, Chief Inspector Schaeymoure slowly looked up. His eyes were sharp, almost piercing, and they swept over each person present as if he were trying to read their thoughts. Suddenly he raised his hand for silence, and everyone in the room held their breath.
"Please sit down," he said briefly and nodded slightly towards the table.
Pharqraut, who was standing closest to Schaeymoure, coughed slightly, indicating that he was ready to speak.
"Dear Inspector," he began, trying to maintain his composure. His voice remained controlled, but there was a sense of urgency in it. "We acted under extreme urgency, as this matter is of great importance. It arose suddenly and required an immediate response on our part. All available information has been collected, and new facts have come to light that require your immediate attention.
With his last words he placed a thin folder of documents on the table in front of Schaeymoure. The chief inspector looked at it carefully, but did not hurry to open it. He looked up at his interlocutor, as if trying to grasp his intentions.
"Go on," he said, crossing his fingers in front of him.
Pharqraut glanced around at the others, as if inviting them to join in, but no one was in a hurry to speak. Everyone knew that it was better not to waste time with Schaeymoure.
"This is a very complicated case, Mister Chief Inspector," he began. "We are talking about Delia Yonce, a twenty-two-year-old musician in a local orchestra. During the entire time she was part of the group, the girl was bullied by her colleagues. Today, the situation got out of control: her tormentors organized a real chase. Their victim managed to find shelter in an apartment on Fourth Street, but..."
Schaeymoure narrowed his eyes, not hiding his irony.
"Chase? What a word. How many of these... "hunters" were there, according to your data?"
"Three," Pharqraut answered calmly. "They didn't stop when she disappeared into the house. Several of them tried to break down the door of the apartment."
"And the neighbors?" Schaeymoure interrupted. "They, as I understand it, were watching what was happening all this time?"
"Exactly. And they called the police. The lieutenant arrived on the scene within seven minutes," Pharqraut explained.
"Seven minutes... Quite enough to make it. Why didn't it happen?"
Pharqraut hesitated, but continued anyway.
"Delia took refuge in an apartment belonging to a certain doctor Baselard. He was not home. When the lieutenant and the medic entered, they found the girl lying on the couch in the living room."
Schaeymoure leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing.
"And what about her?"
"She was dead."
An oppressive silence fell over the office. Schaeymoure leaned back in his chair, continuing to study his interlocutor.
"Cause of death?"
"There are no signs of violence on the body," Maurice's voice rang out. "When I examined her, her skin was pale, her lips were bluish. There was no pulse or breathing."
"And you immediately ruled out violent death?" Schaeymoure narrowed his eyes, as if noticing a weakness in the logic.
"Yes, mister Chief Inspector. The pose was natural, as if she had simply fallen asleep. However, it is impossible to establish the exact cause of death on the spot."
"Hmm..." Schaeymoure drawled, turning his gaze to the lieutenant. "How did she get in there? Did doctor Baselard give her the key to his apartment?"
"The doctor wasn't home. The neighbors say Delia broke in. She may have found a spare key under the doormat," the lieutenant replied.
"Convenient," Schaeymoure said sarcastically. "And no one heard her call for help?"
"No, mister Chief Inspector. It all happened too quickly."
Schaeymoure steepled his fingers thoughtfully and was silent for a moment.
"So," he said at last, slowly and clearly, "we have a young girl who desperately escaped from a crowd. She manages to hide, but a few minutes later she is dead. The cause of death is unknown. Her assailants are breaking down the door, but do not make it in time. The doctor, the owner of the apartment, is mysteriously absent at this time. You must admit, gentlemen, that there are too many coincidences in this story."
Schaeymoure's gaze fell on the inspector again, but then he decided to begin studying the folder Pharqraut had brought. He seemed to read each item with such meticulousness, as if he were looking for something the others had missed. Finally, he looked up from the papers and turned to Pharqraut.
"Good. Have you found out which of lady Yonce's colleagues took part in the chase?"
Pharqraut nodded.
"Yes, Mister Chief Inspector. We have questioned two of them: the second violinist, Ryan Donowho, and the cellist, Carlton Morrow. Both claim that their group's actions were... forced."
Schaeymoure raised his eyebrows.
"Forced? Very interesting. And what, according to them, made them behave like an angry mob?"
"They say there was something wrong with lady Yonce. There were rumours in the orchestra that she 'brought the evil eye'. After the death of Jordan Thurlow, the first flutist, these rumours became stronger.
Schaeymoure looked up from the folder.
"Thurlow. You haven't mentioned this name before. Please explain."
"Jordan Thurlow was the only person Delia had a close relationship with. She moved to Portland from the suburbs exactly thirteen days ago and joined the orchestra. She lived in the conservatory dorm for only seven days before sharing an apartment with Thurlow, who had become her boyfriend in the interim," Pharqraut explained.
"And died," Schaeymoure added, slowly tapping his fingers on the table. "When?"
"Today, a few hours before the chase. He fainted right during the premiere, when he was playing his part on the flute. Doctors confirmed his death on the spot."
"The reason?"
"The official conclusion is not ready yet, but the preliminary diagnosis is a heart attack," the doctor replied.
"A young flutist dies on stage, and then the chase for his girlfriend begins. Too many coincidences," Schaeymoure said thoughtfully.
"Lady Yonce's colleagues claim that her behavior has been "strange" in recent days. She often stares into space, speaks in cryptic phrases, and sometimes fails to show up for rehearsals. People have begun to avoid her."
Schaeymoure raised his head.
"And that's it? A few no-shows at rehearsals, a couple of phrases, and immediately the "evil eye"?"
"The situation worsened after Thurlow's death," Pharqraut continued. "Many of the musicians were in shock. Some decided that lady Yonce had brought the misfortune. They claim that she ran away after the premiere, and that was the last straw.
"In other words, the pursuit was driven by fear and superstition," Schaeymoure said, looking at his interlocutor skeptically. "Have you checked who else has been in contact with Lady Yonce in recent days?"
"We found out that she didn't communicate with anyone except Thurlow. She kept to herself both in the orchestra and outside of it."
"And doctor Baselard? Any news?" Schaeymoure leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
"We questioned his neighbors," Pharqraut said, looking at his notes. "Most of them didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, but one boy, a teenager from the apartment next door, gave an interesting account."
Schaeymoure raised an eyebrow.
"I'm listening."
"According to him, shortly after the three musicians - Ryan Donowho, Carlton Morrow and a certain Emily - tried to break down the door of the apartment, he saw doctor Baselard leave his apartment. But he did it in a very unusual way: he seemed agitated, looking around, as if he was afraid that he was being watched."
"Hmm... Go on."
"He had a suitcase, quite a large one. Baselard locked the door and then left quickly. The boy thought he was heading either to the airport or the train station.
Schaeymoure was silent for a moment, considering what he had heard.
"Did this boy see the pursuers? Donowho, Morrow and what's her name..."
"Emily," Pharqraut helped the chief. "No, Mister Chief Inspector. The boy said he heard noise and stamping outside the door, but he didn't know who it was. It was only later, after they had left, that he saw Baselard."
Schaeymoure shook his head slightly.
"Baselard is clearly hiding something. The situation is such that he either has something to do with lady Yonce's death, or he fears being blamed for it. What is your hypothesis?"
"At this point, mister Chief Inspector, we believe that Baselard was attempting to escape. He may have known about the pursuit, or even been present in the apartment when Delia died," Pharqraut replied.
"So you think he ran to the airport or the train station?"
"This is a likely scenario. We have already sent requests to transport companies and the airport to check the flights and tickets purchased in his name."
Schaeymoure, as if gathering his thoughts into a fist, slammed his palm on the table, attracting everyone's attention.
"Good. We need to find out right now where Baselard is headed and what he might know about Delia Yonce's death. But not only that. We don't know enough about her. Who is she really? Does she have any relatives? Where did she live before she moved to Portland? Why was she in that damn orchestra?"
He paused, looking around at the assembled group.
"Divide the responsibilities. Someone needs to pull up her file, check any records or databases for her. Find out how she lived before Portland. And figure out why she was targeted."
Schaeymoure picked up the pencil, twirled it between his fingers, and grinned. His gaze fell on Galbraith, who had been trying to stay in the shadows until now.
"And to you, Galbraith, I entrust a very important task."
"Of course, mister Chief Inspector," Galbraith responded readily, although his voice trembled slightly.
Schaeymoure leaned back in his chair, barely hiding the mockery in his voice.
"You will go to the morgue where Delia Yonce's body was delivered. Since Constable Williams there is currently busy with... um... more important matters, you will take his place."
Galbraith turned pale, but tried to pretend that the proposal did not bother him.
"On duty at the morgue, Mister Chief Inspector?" he asked, desperately trying to remain calm.
"Exactly. Guard her body. If you get bored, you can have a word with the pathologist," Schaeymoure smiled faintly. "The nights are long in Portland. Who knows, maybe lady Yonce will decide to surprise you with something during your watch!"
Galbraith swallowed and, pretending not to hear the irony hidden in these words, muttered barely audibly:
"Understood, mister Chief Inspector."
"Very well." Schaeymoure couldn't help but grin. "Go to the morgue at once. Lady Yonce will be waiting for you there with impatience."
A stifled laugh came from Lieutenant Nelissen in the office, but he quickly covered his mouth when he met Schaeymoure's icy gaze.
"You are all free to go," the chief inspector said loudly. "Get to work, gentlemen."
Galbraith struggled to his feet, his face betraying every shade of emotion. He headed for the door, silently cursing himself for not having found a way to refuse. Schaeymoure watched him go, clearly enjoying his "parting words." As the door closed behind Galbraith, Pharqraut moved closer to the chief's desk.
"Don't you think that's a bit too harsh, Mister Chief Inspector?" he asked quietly.
Schaeymoure, without turning around, answered over his shoulder:
"Galbraith has just started his career, and he doesn't know what real work is yet. The morgue is his first test. If he can survive this night next to the body of a young girl and not break down, he will become a full-fledged detective. If not, then it's better to find out right now than when we desperately need "young forces."
Pharqraut considered the closed door, not liking the idea that Galbraith, inexperienced in this particular area, might break down at this point.
"He's not exactly a newbie," Pharqraut said, "he's got some police experience. But do you really think a shift at the morgue is what he needs?"
Schaeymoure turned his head slightly, his gaze cold but penetrating.
"He's lived in the shadows of others for too long, Pharqraut. He thinks he knows what pressure is, but the real test isn't theory. It's action. If he fails, we'll know. But if he does, we'll have confidence in him."
Pharqraut glanced at the door again, remembering his comrade. Galbraith looked older than his years, but despite that, he still didn't have the skills required to operate in this environment. There were too many unanswered questions, too many unpredictable factors.
"What if he breaks?" Pharqraut asked, not hiding his concern. "He can't stand the presence of a dead girl next to him?"
"Then he'll never be with us again," Schaeymoure chuckled. "And it won't be our mistake. In our business, there's no time to waste on weaklings who can't handle the pressure. Everyone has to prove that they're worth their place. If he can't handle it, then we were wrong to trust him with such a task. But that's not our problem, it's his."
Pharqraut was silent. He knew Schaeymoure was telling the truth, but that didn't ease the feeling that someone might disappear due to lack of preparation. Galbraith was older than most of the new recruits, but his nerves and resolve had yet to be tested under real stress.
"How many people like him go through an ordeal like this and never return?" Pharqraut asked, trying to hide his concern behind a cool tone.
Schaeymoure thought, not looking up from the papers on his desk.
"Every year, ten or fifteen people," he said finally. "We can't afford to keep people who can't handle the most basic things. The world doesn't forgive the weak. If they can't pass this test, then they don't belong in the police force."
Pharqraut looked at the closed door again. He didn't like the idea that Galbraith, with his experience, might not be able to handle it. But then, it was all part of the game. Losers didn't last long in this world. Those who couldn't take a hit couldn't leave a mark.
"Do you really think that everyone who fails is truly weak?" Pharqraut asked quietly, unsure of the correctness of such rigid criteria.
Schaeymoure turned and looked at him, his gaze still cold and determined.
"It's not a question of strength, Pharqraut. It's a question of survival. People come to us with different motives, but only those who can endure the trials stay and become seasoned cops. Otherwise, no matter how hard they try, there will always be something that breaks one or another."
He paused, giving his words weight.
"And anyway, if you judge from a purely human point of view, what will you do if a weak person is next to you, when someone's life is at stake? Will you protect him, risking yourself and other, more important people? No," he answered his own question.
Pharqraut nodded silently. He knew that it was impossible to always follow humanitarian principles in the service, but it was hard to shake the feeling that it was somehow unfair to those who fought so hard to protect the law and order to throw people out of the police force so easily.
Galbraith was thirty-one years old, no longer young, but not yet mature. At that age, despite three decades of experience, a man could still break under the pressure of the unknown. That was why Pharqraut felt uneasy under Chief Inspector Schaeymoure's gaze.