“What’s with the books?” I asked.

Gabriel reluctantly looked up from his sleeve adjusting. “Master Phil is a keen student of the financial sciences.”

A “student of the financial sciences” seemed like a pretty fancy name for a bean counter. I had a lot of names for my accountant, but none of them sounded as nice as that.

I scanned the shelves further and, at last, my eyes alit on something out of the ordinary. Amongst the ornaments displayed was a group of items that seemed completely out of place in the room: a long hunting knife, a deadly-looking spear, a collection of fearsome native carvings. Was it possible that underneath the neatness and the number crunching, this fine young gentleman did have a darker side? I picked up one of the carvings.

“What’s a nice boy like Phil doing with a nasty thing like this?”

“A gift from Master Jesus. He travels a lot, often to quite exotic places. He always brings back the most remarkable things.”

So much for that idea. I put the carving back.

“Do you see what I mean, Mr Clarenden?” Gabriel’s voice somehow managed to convey a mix of both triumph and complete indifference.

I nodded. It seemed Gabriel was right. If Phil had a dark side, soap and detergent couldn’t have made it any lighter. There was nothing to see in this room that might have aroused any kind of suspicion.

“I suppose I’d be wasting my time if I asked if you had any idea where Phil might be,” I said to Gabriel.

“I suppose you would be.” Gabriel had already turned his back and was leaving the room.

I followed. As we began walking back down the majestic hall, I considered what I had learned so far.

My missing person didn’t seem to be anyone special. An average kid, hard-working, neat. There was just one thing that made him stand out in a big way, like a kangaroo in a chicken coop.

How many people could claim a parentage like his? How many kids could say they were the son of God? Just two, it would seem. From what I had gleaned about Phil, he didn’t sound like the type to boast, but it wouldn’t be something he could hide either. Had he perhaps been kidnapped and held hostage? Was there someone in Heaven with the nerve to hold God to ransom?

This theory seemed the strongest possibility so far, except it had one major flaw: God had made no reference to a ransom note. I knew He had been holding things back, but surely He wouldn’t want to conceal such a crucial piece of evidence. Even Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t be able to solve the case if that sort of information was withheld.

By this time, we had come to the door at the end of the hall. Before we departed, I figured I should treat my eyes to one last look back. I couldn’t help noticing that amidst the gleaming splendor, there were three points of light gliding towards us. As I looked more closely, the lights began to resolve into figures. I pointed them out to Gabriel.

“Angels,” Gabriel sniffed.

“I don’t see any wings?”

“Probably at the dry cleaners.”

As the figures drew near, I could see there were two women and one man. They seemed to radiate light, though it was less blindingly brilliant than the light in God’s chamber. Still, I was beginning to realise Heaven was not a good place for those with sensitive eyes.

Gabriel did the introductions in a tone you could have mixed with whiskey.

“Mr Clarenden, it is my utter delight to present to you the archangels of my Master’s court, Sally, Jessie, and Raphael.” He turned to the angels. “If you would be so kind as to entertain Mr Clarenden, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Then he disappeared through the door at the end of the hall.

I looked at the angels. Well, that’s not quite true. I looked at the one angel standing in front of the other two, the one Gabriel had introduced as Sally. It was hard to look anywhere else.

She was stunning. Let me rephrase that. She was beyond stunning. No, let me try again. She was beyond beyond stunning. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders like flowing sheets of gold and her eyes sparkled with piercing blue fire. Her lips were red and moist and drawn up into a slightly mocking smile, while her legs, barely concealed by a shorter-than-short robe, were surely the most finely crafted artifacts in the whole of this hall.

“Mr Clarenden,” she purred. “Not Mr Jimmy Clarenden?” Her voice was as clear as an iceberg and just as dangerous.

“It’s hard to tell,” I said. “I’m a master of disguises.”

“So I hear.” She laughed. “They tell me that in your previous life, you were disguised as a private investigator.”

“The best disguise I ever created. It lasted twenty years and no one ever saw through it.”

“How strange that no one saw through it. I hear you haven’t actually solved a case for over five years.”

“Just part of the cover. Wouldn’t want to appear too successful. I’d hate to draw unwanted attention to myself.” I fixed her in the eyes as I spoke.

She paused. For a moment, those fiery eyes locked onto mine, trying to stare me into submission. When my face didn’t drop, she wavered and looked away.

“What are you doing here, Clarenden?” she said softly. Underneath the ice, I could hear just the tiniest shred of doubt.

“What is anyone doing here?” I said. “Enjoying the rewards due after a life of toil and struggle.”

“Toil and struggle? You wouldn’t know toil and struggle if it came up behind you and kicked you in the pants.”

“A kick in the pants would be a lot more pleasant than this welcoming committee. Is this the sort of greeting people usually get when they enter God’s kingdom?”

“You think you got a rotten welcome? You should see the send-off they gave you.”

She raised a finger and pointed up to the nearest painting on the wall. Instantly, the image was replaced by a television screen. On the screen, a small group was visible, standing outside a church beside a grave. It was my own funeral.

A tired-looking priest was speaking. “It betides us ill to speak poorly of the dead,” he intoned, “however in the case of Jimmy Clarenden, I’m not sure there’s much else we can do.”

The others in the group murmured in agreement and then took turns approaching the grave. My accountant, Charlie Singbuck, was the first.

“Jimmy, I’m always real sorry whenever I lose a client,” he said. “But for you I’m happy to make an exception.”

The next person to approach was Stan, the barman at the Greasy Shamrock, a venue where I had spent a good portion of my waking hours. He wasn’t much better.

“Jimmy, I just want you to know that business is booming now that we’ve finally gotten rid of you. The Shamrock has never been so busy. Thanks.”

A group of women followed: old girlfriends or clients, or possibly people I had investigated. I honestly couldn’t remember who was who, although they obviously remembered me. They approached in turn and either cursed me, insulted me, or spat into my grave.

“Quite a hit with the ladies,” Sally’s voice whispered into my ear as I stood, hoping to place at least one of those vengeful harpies.

The final person to approach the grave was my old friend, Detective Clyde Harris. Surely he’d have something decent to say about me. Surely he’d be the one person to stand by me, even in death.

He didn’t say anything. He stood for a moment, staring down at the coffin. Then he sighed, shook his head, and turned and walked away.

The vision disappeared. The screen went blank and the old painting reappeared.

“Nice work, Clarenden,” Sally said in a voice of treacle that would have burned through steel. “Nobody wanted you down there. Believe me, nobody wants you up here either.” She laughed again and turned to the other angels, who immediately let out loud and fairly unconvincing guffaws as well.

“For someone who doesn’t want me here, you seem to be devoting an awful lot of attention to me,” I said.