[03] Elite: Docking is Difficult by Gideon Defoe Page B

piercing shriek stopped her in her tracks.
    ‘Fffeeeeeeeeeeebbbbbbssss!’
    Phoebe froze.
    ‘Alicia!’ she said, turning around and doing the best approximation of a grin she could manage in the circumstances.
    Alicia, just as bony and glossy as she remembered, did weird little air kisses either side of Phoebe’s head and pulled her towards where a gaggle of homicide detectives were shouting and downing shots and giving each other high-fives. Phoebe could tell they were homicide because they were all wearing their stupid shiny homicide division bomber jackets. A slightly confused but glassily cheery Peterson was there too. He raised a wobbly drink at her.
    ‘Soooo great to see you! You didn’t reply to my message!’ Alicia shrieked again, right into Phoebe’s ear this time. ‘Have a drink, we’re celebrating!’
    ‘Oh, Alicia, I’d love to,’ said Phoebe, ‘but I’ve got a
thing
.’
    ‘Nonsense! You never have a thing,’ Alicia turned to Peterson and tugged his sleeve. ‘Tell her she has to stay!’
    ‘Your future career progression depends on it,’ said Peterson, with a ponderous nod. Facial cues went on letting Phoebe down, so she couldn’t tell if he was joking and reluctantly let herself get dragged into the middle of the group. Alicia sloshed out some thick green juice from a bottle into a cocktail glass.
    ‘Have some Lavian gin! It’s really expensive! Because it’s fermented in the guts of marmosets or civets or something!’
    ‘I think I read that it kills the civets,’ said Phoebe, frowning. ‘It’s actually a very cruel process.’
    ‘I know! I read that too! Isn’t that brilliant? It’s why it’s so exclusive.’
    Phoebe looked through the throng to where Misha was still loitering, studying a complimentary vol-au-vent. She waved. He waved back. Phoebe pulled an apologetic face, rolled her eyes theatrically, mouthed the words ‘work stuff’ and held up a hand to indicate five minutes. Misha gave her a thumbs-up and mouthed ‘no problem’. Then he did a little mime. At least, Phoebe thought it was a mime, it could have been an epileptic fit or something. She had no clue what it was supposed to convey, but she grinned at him anyway.
    ‘It’s great down this end of the station,’ said Alicia. ‘So much more urban. The way you’ve got
litter
in the corridors. Our neighbourhood is so clean and anodyne. Such a good choice of venue for an art show, it’s got real edge.’
    ‘Yes, we don’t see you guys round here very often.’
    ‘Today’s a special occasion!’
    The homicide detectives chest-bumped and gave themselves another round of high-fives.
    ‘What are you celebrating?’ Phoebe asked.
    ‘We’ve closed the Cliff Ganymede case! Our division’s hundred percent clean-up record goes on standing!’
    Alicia whooped and the homicide jocks made a sort of boo-yah noise.
    ‘Hey, that’s fantastic, congratulations,’ Phoebe said, not even trying to sound like she meant it. ‘So … who did it?’
    ‘Did what?’
    ‘The murder.’
    ‘Nobody!’ shrieked Alicia. ‘It turns out it was a suicide all along!’
    ‘A suicide?’ Phoebe stared at her, blankly. ‘But he was
beaten
to death with a copy of his own book.’
    ‘Yes, that’s right. We’re working on the theory that he beat himself to death.’
    ‘What about the
anonymous hit
that had been placed on him? The bounty offered on one of the pirate message boards?’
    ‘Yes, well, we couldn’t get any leads on that,’ said Alicia, with an airy shrug, ‘So we figured it was probably a hit placed by Ganymede himself, to make it
look
like a murder.’
    Phoebe goggled at her. ‘But … why? Why would he do that?’
    ‘Because he was mentally unbalanced, obviously. You’ve got to remember that the guy must have been
suicidal
to kill himself, so that makes you do strange, unexplainable things. And he was a writer. Writers are messed up.’
    ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Alicia. It just … it doesn’t really