“Detective Peter Kipling.” The detective outstretched his long arm with an open palm.

“Paul Barnaby, thank you for seeing me this late in the evening.” The guest’s entire body moved to meet the detective. His elbows remained pinned to his torso as he swung his hands to grasp the handshake. He jostled the ball of appendages up and down with nervous enthusiasm.  

Despite the reserved effort, the guest’s grip was weak compared to the detective’s. His muscles were tired and strained. Tendons and blood vessels flexed under the infirm grip.

Barnaby felt a ring on the detective’s hand. When he uncoupled his hands and saw the ring, it looked nothing like a normal ring of gold or silver. It had a dark, marbled appearance.

The two took their seats in the detective’s apartment living room-cum-office. The room itself was messy and lived in. Countless feet had worn a path in the carpet. Two piles of unmarked DVD cases stood side to side between the detective’s chair and a small TV. On a small round table lay a large bowl full of sunflower seeds. Half the bowl was empty shells.

Printouts of news headlines, framed certificates, and bric-a-brac lined the walls. A radiator protected the room from the brisk winter wind as it beat on the walls outside. 

The room became quiet. The potential client adjusted his tie and waited for the detective to proceed. 

The detective’s mind appeared to be elsewhere however, absorbed in thought. With his hand pressed against his mouth and his body frozen, the detective took his time analysing his subject.

Barnaby’s body was tense with the recent built-up stress and the nervousness of being in a stranger’s home. The detective’s lackadaisical vacantness only exacerbated this for the potential client. The guest struggled to think of how to get the detective’s attention. His eyes began to wander across the walls in front of him, inspecting their decoration. 

The certificates were from local police stations and businesses. They honoured Kipling for solving a case or catching a criminal. A few of the headlines caught his attention. “Assassin Caught in Connection to Crypto Money Laundering Ring.” “Mass U.F.O. Sighting Hoax, ‘It was just a social experiment bro.’ Perpetrator Claims.” Barnaby remembered the U.F.O. scandal, it was a big deal at the time as it caused a lot of panic. 

“Gang of Baby Vampires Face-Off Against Rival Geriatric Werewolf Pack.” The last headline was from a very irreputable publication, The Wednesday West Feed. Most would consider it a joke tabloid. It was strange to see it amongst the more legitimate sources.

“You don’t get awards and headlines like these by being nothing more than a Wednesday West Feed crackpot,” Barnaby thought to himself.

The shelves of knick-knacks had no sense of organization or order. A glass bauble, a silver spoon, a framed photograph at least seventy years old, and a stained water filter all lay side by side. They’d just as well be the shelves of a compulsive hoarder as those of a detective.

“What was my first murder case?” asked the detective as he sat back relaxed in his lounge chair.

“W-what?” the guest asked as he sat, body stiff as a corpse, on the edge of a small worn-in sofa. He was too taken aback by the abrupt questioning to register what the detective had even asked.

“That is what you considered asking me, is it not?” The detective asked with assured confidence.

It took a second for Barnaby’s mind to catch up to the conversation. With a wavering half-formed smile he stammered out, “Y-yes how did you..?” His posture had loosened a little, impressed by the detective’s prediction. Not that he would admit that to himself. “It was just a lucky guess,” he thought

Without looking back, the detective pointed with his thumb towards the wall of headlines. Centred perfectly behind the detective's head hung one blown up larger than the others. It read;

 Private Detective Solves Newlywed Couple Slaying

“It’s a common question among new clients and you couldn’t keep your eyes off the wall behind me,” the detective explained in a dry matter-of-fact tone.

“Ah, I see.” The detective’s guest expressed an instinctual, trepidatious fake smile and gentle nod. Something about the detective’s answer felt dismissive, though he couldn’t put his finger on why.

In Barnaby’s profession, he had become unfortunately accustomed to picking out liars and cheats. It would have been rude to call the detective out on nothing more than a hunch. And there was no way Barnaby was going to risk offending the man who was his last hope.

The detective could see the change in mood on his guest. “Something I love about detective work, people’s natural inquisitiveness. They all want to solve the mystery, but I’m the only one smart enough to do it! Haha…”

The detective’s forced laughter deflated as quickly as it began. With the back of his finger, he brushed the side of his neck beneath his left ear. “So what is a down on his luck banker calling on me for?”

Barnaby’s posture slackened more as the poor bid at a joke lifted some of the tension. This time he was truly surprised. “How did you know I was a banker?”

Kipling knew he had him. The detective knew if anyone was going to cancel the job at this point it would be him, not the client. He crossed one leg over the other and laced his fingers together.

“Simply, despite your worried and dishevelled appearance, your clothes are trim and fit. But not expensive, the threading betrays its simple manufacture. And despite it being very outdated technology a pocket calculator is leaning out of your breast pocket. Sentimental?” The detective’s explanation was calm and cold. He was neither impressed by his own deductive skills or embarrassed by his unguarded description of his guest’s person.

“Dishevelled?” Barnaby thought. He had to concede the detective wasn’t wrong. His guest had been too worried to pay attention to his appearance. When was the last time he shaved? He ran his hand over his cheek. Not quite a full beard. He had grown a little something more than a five o’clock shadow.

He was still wearing the shabby trench coat he had entered the flat in. He likely didn’t see himself staying for too long, or was he perhaps too preoccupied to notice he hadn’t taken it off?

The inner monologue continued, “Well, he at least has an eye for detail.” He thought back to the wall of achievements. It reminded him he could put his faith in the detective and his unfiltered words.

“Very observant, so.” He cleared his throat to dislodge the discomfort his upcoming statement produced in him. “I heard you have a speciality for the unusual, Mister Kipling?“

Kipling’s eyes narrowed along with the slight upward tilt of his head. He never felt insulted when someone mistitled him but his pride demanded they never get away with it.

“Please, it’s Detective, and what would you define as unusual? We live in strange times. For decades now we have watched the progress of scientific and technological discovery sprint forward with only minor impedance from the law. It has been to great benefit for humanity. But so too has it helped the bizarre to flourish. Afforded clout to many niche groups that could otherwise never hope to achieve it.”

“Well, I had heard you’ve helped in unusual cases of a more traditional sort. I had heard some of your cases were p-paranormal in nature?” The banker cringed as his inquiry squeaked out of his mouth. He could hardly believe what he was asking. But it had to be asked.

The detective playfully looked off to the side. “I have had cases that my clients believed to be paranormal, and I have solved them. Do you believe in the paranormal Mr Barnaby?” 

Kipling held all the power in the conversation. Exactly as his guest had heard, weird and paranormal cases were his speciality after all. Like a lion toying with a mouse, he had this song and dance down to an art.

“Me? of course not, under normal circumstances I wouldn’t tolerate such nonsense.” Barnaby straightened his back and puffed out his chest to demonstrate his intellectual pride. An action that never made much sense but something so many do all the same. It was a move Kipling saw time and again whenever he had outwitted someone lacking in humility.

“Quite right Mr Barnaby, as they say, ‘seeing is believing’. And with consideration to the thorough understanding of the world we currently hold, is it not only logical to believe this is all there is? In spite of this, as I said, we live in strange times. Whether it be by paranormal or technological means. Our perception of what is possible and even normal is being challenged. So what seems to be the other than normal mystery?” the detective asked.

Barnaby’s pose sank back to a slump as his reserves of energy dwindled. Worry weighed on the features of his face, creating an all-encompassing frown. The light around the man almost seemed to dim. The reality of why he was there returned to the forefront of his mind. 

“It’s my niece, you see. She’s gone missing and my wife is worried sick. We don’t have children of our own and they are very close. The stress and dread are taking their toll on all of us. You can even see it in our pets for Christ’s sake. Something has to change otherwise… well, I don’t know, and that’s nothing to be said of the mother and father.”

Kipling leaned forward. “Alright, how old is she? How long has she been missing? What’s her favourite colour?”

“Thirteen, fourteen next June. She went missing last Tuesday, and um blue I believe?” Confusion blended together with the client’s sadness.

“A whole week? And you’ve contacted the proper authorities, yes?” Kipling confirmed with his client.

“Yes of course.”

“One last question, what makes this disappearance so fantastical?” Kipling asked as his hands separated and held palms up as if in a lazy half-shrug.

Barnaby wrung his hands, desperate to massage his worry out of them, like dirty water from an old rag.

“She disappeared at the house while they were all there. They could see she didn’t use either door. Th-th-there was no sign of disturbance or forced entry on any of the windows. They say she vanished in an instant. Walked out the living room and was just gone.”

The detective arched his eyebrows. It wasn’t much but it was enough to pique his interest. He sat back and folded his arms. “Strange indeed. Do the parents have a copy of the police report and the forensic sweep?”

“Yes, it’s prepared,” Barnaby answered.

The detective handed his new client a business card. It read;

Detective Peter Kipling, Private Investigator 

Printed on the back were his contact details and a QR code. From the card sprung an elaborate hologram of a short-stemmed glass with a shadowy figure lurking in its waters.

“Have them send a copy as well as their address to this email post haste. What’s the earliest I can review the home for myself?”

The scruffy man pulled out his phone as he replied, “Well we should all be free tomorrow, I know it’s short notice but-”

“It’s perfect, we’ll meet there at approximately 2:30.”

The two men stood up and shook hands. The detective lead his new client to the door and they parted ways.