Kato had given me a great new lead -- that Inga had gone to work in a specialist library after she dropped out of college. The library belonged to a Buddhist Research Center in some place called Lavender Hill, and for all I knew Inga still worked there. If so, it would explain the mystery of where she drove off to every day. I consulted the maps app again, and saw that Lavender Hill was indeed close to Clapham Junction station, as Kato had said. That was on the other side of the River Thames—the south side -- and Clapham Junction was a huge mainline interchange, not one of the small, convenient tube stations that are so ubiquitous north of the river. To get there, I had to take the tube to Waterloo station, then a surface train to Clapham Junction -- a total journey of almost an hour to travel less than four miles. Little wonder Inga used her car, if that really was where she went every day.

The upside of the long train journey was that it gave me a chance to think things through. Digging into Inga’s past had certainly paid off, so score one for the Tarot cards. Or score two, now I thought about it, because there had been that bit about a slimy Magus character, which was undoubtedly Professor Hamilton in this case. He was probably the one who turned Inga into the frosty ice-goddess she is today.

The other thing I needed to think through was exactly what to do when I got to the Buddhist Center. Although I’d been home for lunch, I was still dressed in my preppy student disguise, so I could change my fictitious subject from journalism to Buddhism easily enough. But I still had something of a dilemma. I wanted to find out if Inga worked there, and perhaps a bit more about her day job, but I really didn’t want to come face to face with her. I mean, with me in semi-disguise, but still easily recognizable -- from my American accent, if nothing else -- it would be pretty obvious to her that I was ... well, stalking her, to put it bluntly. That’s a little unkind, though, because I’m really trying to rescue her from a stupid situation she’s got herself into.

I was hoping there would be some kind of reception desk where I could find out everything I wanted to know in, say, ten minutes. After that -- well, I happen to have a great app on my phone that can get me out of any sticky situation. I can program it to send me a fake text message at a preset time, apparently calling me away on urgent and unmissable business.

Finding my way out of Clapham Junction and onto Lavender Hill was the hard part. The British have no concept of logical urban planning! But once I’d got the right street, it was easy enough to locate the Buddhist center. To my delight, I saw Inga’s Mercedes parked in the street close by. I hurried up to the entrance, then realized I’d almost forgotten the most important thing. I took out my phone, and carefully set the app to message me precisely ten minutes later.

As I’d hoped, there was a reception desk, attended by a middle-aged man with a distinctly effeminate manner. Possibly gay, but in any case not Inga’s type at all, so I was pretty sure there was no workplace romance going on there. That was good; I didn’t want her to have any serious emotional ties. As long as her sexual activity was restricted to the evening sessions I already knew about, I was sure I could cure her of the silly delusion that she was heterosexual.

The man -- his name was Elliott, according to the badge he was wearing -- looked up as I approached. “Can I help you?” he asked.

Hi, I’m a student from America,” I said. “Your library was recommended to me by a friend. And your librarian as well. Inga Seeliger, I think my friend said.”

“Inga? Yes, she’s the only librarian we have, and a most efficient one too. Very dedicated to her work. You’ll find her in the library as usual, at the top of those stairs there.” He indicated a plushly carpeted staircase on the other side of the lobby.

This was going faster than I’d expected, so I looked round to see if there was something I could use as a delaying tactic. And there was, most definitely. In addition to the various traditional Buddhist statues and tapestries on display, there were some very modern-looking paintings hanging on the walls. These were Buddhist-themed too, but done in the same strikingly original style as the paintings I’d seen on the wall of Inga’s apartment.

“Those paintings -- I was just admiring them,” I said. “They’re extremely impressive.”

“Oh, yes, We’re very proud of them,” Elliott replied brightly. “They’re Inga’s work, too.”

“She’s a professional artist?” I asked.

Elliott shook his head. “Oh, no, just a talented amateur. I don’t think it’s ever crossed her mind to ...”

At that point, the conversation was interrupted by an incoming-message sound from my phone. I looked at the screen, making a play of reading a long and increasingly exasperating message. Actually all it said was Good luck, Shelby.

“Oh no -- my boyfriend is such a klutz. I’m really sorry, but I’ll have to go and sort out yet another of his problems for him.” I got a weird kind of kick out of making these phony alter egos heterosexual. Actually, I’ve never had a boyfriend in my life.

“You’ll be back later?” Elliott asked.

“Oh yes,” I called back as I hurriedly exited through the door. But of course I wouldn’t be back; I’d already found out everything I needed to know in that one short visit.