Operation WetFish, Vampire Detective: Ultimate Omnibus Volume 1 of 4 (Operation WetFish, Vampire Detective Ultimate Omnibus)

by Adam Carter

  Perhaps Baronaire was right. Perhaps it was time to do a little investigation into the man behind the murders.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The report was finished and Detective Sue Lin stood anxiously before the desk of DCI Sanders. There were few people left in the office. Baronaire had long since left, gone home presumably, and Lin had finally finished her report. She had not wanted to hand it in while Baronaire was still around; with his super-sensitive hearing she didn’t trust the glass walls to keep the sound from reaching him.

  Sanders had read the report in silence, giving nothing away in his facial expressions either. It was as though he was reading about tomorrow’s weather when he fully intended to spend the day indoors.

  Finally he set down the report and looked into Lin’s eyes. “Take a seat.”

  Lin obeyed but said nothing. She was fighting to control her breathing, but she could practically feel her heart trying to leap out of her chest.

  Sanders leaned back and splayed his fingers in a pyramid, his elbows leaning on the armrests of his chair. “So tell me about Charles Baronaire.”

  “There’s not much to tell,” she said. “He’s a good and capable officer. Doesn’t always share everything, but then I think he gets that from his DCI.”

  Sanders didn’t smile, didn’t react at all. She wondered whether she had pushed him too far. “You came to my attention because you were bright, Detective Lin,” he said simply. “I saw you as someone I could use. Which is why I’m glad you’ve decided to drop this ridiculous quest of yours against me.”

  Lin’s mouth hung wide. “How ... What do you mean?”

  “Don’t be coy, Lin. You’ve been researching me for a while now, uncovering whatever you could about Operation WetFish. You hoped to bring me down, but who is there to tell? You can’t go to the police, so your only other option is the press. When you first came to me, that was your intention. Now you’ve decided you like it here. That you fit in.”

  “How do you know if I’ve decided that?” she asked stonily.

  “I can see it in your eyes. And because Charles gave you a glowing report.”

  “He did?” she asked, surprised.

  “Charles is a very good judge of character. If he says you’re trustworthy, then you’re trustworthy.”

  “I’ll have to remember to thank him.”

  “Probably not a good idea.”

  Lin swallowed, said nothing.

  “So,” Sanders repeated slowly, “tell me about Charles Baronaire.”

  “He’s fine.”

  Sanders raised an eyebrow. “A little short for a final report, Detective. I didn’t just choose your first assignment at random, you know. I told you why you were placed with Baronaire. A few months back he was captured, tortured and flew off the handle. Ever since then he’s been ... peculiar. I haven’t been certain whether I can still trust him. I needed someone to watch him, to get to know him. To dig deep. And you’ve proven more than capable of that. So, Detective Lin, what do you think about Baronaire? Is he compos mentis?”

  “He can do his job, and does it well.”

  “That’s not in question. Nor is it what I asked.”

  Lin did not entirely know what he was asking, but she was certain Baronaire was right about one thing: this man knew far more than any of them. “What is he?” she asked. “He has strange powers. Super-senses, strength ... he hypnotised Reynolds, that’s not normal. Is he an experiment or something? Some kind of future super cop?”

  “No. He’s a relic. What he is, there aren’t that many left. Not in this country anyway.”

  “And what is he? Precisely?”

  “A good man. Essentially, deep down, a good man. And while he’s kept on a leash he can be of use. I need to know whether he’s about to break away.”

  She thought about Baronaire’s request of her to find out what she could from the DCI. This was exactly what Sanders was asking. He wanted to know whether Baronaire was working against him. And she had to tell him. If she didn’t, she was choosing to side with Baronaire against Sanders. She couldn’t do that. Sanders was her DCI.

  But he was also in charge of a bully organisation the like of which she had spent her entire life fighting.

  “He’s cool,” she said. “You have no worries from him.”

  She sat in silence while Sanders stared hard at her. She could almost feel his eyes boring through her soul to the exact truth. His hand slowly reached for the drawer at his desk and Lin’s heart froze. He withdrew something and she was stuck to her chair, her body tense, as she saw the object he was bringing out. It was not a gun, but a ballpoint pen.

  He clicked the pen and Lin jumped.

  Sanders didn’t seem to notice as he scribbled his signature onto her report, replacing both the pen and papers into his drawer. “Dismissed,” he said.

  Lin left slowly, walking nervously to the car park, feeling Sanders’s eyes following her. She didn’t know why she had chosen Baronaire over Sanders, didn’t have a clue what she was playing at. But she did not regret it; not yet anyway.

  She wondered how long it would be before that changed.

  OPERATION WETFISH

  BOOK 6

  NO COMMENT

  CHAPTER ONE

  On paper, rape bought you a life sentence. In reality, as with any crime, it earned you the ability to accrue time off for good behaviour. Once the conviction was set, no one cared about the victim; the victim was just someone handy to stand up in court so the prosecution could press for the maximum sentence. In prison, the victims were forgotten and all the focus was centred upon how well the convicted criminal was adapting to prison life and whether he should be allowed out to spend a nice Christmas with his family. Many voters did not agree with this attitude, some called for stronger sentences for heinous crimes. A few even wished the police had the power to punish these criminals properly, to make their lives the living hell their victims’ had become.

  Thankfully, the police did have such power. It was just that they did not like to tell the public because there were still many people who valued the criminal’s life over that of the victim’s.

  Detective Jen Thompson had been handed a case last week and had thought little of it. It was standard fare, and not anything she would have to put much effort in. Her target was a man named Jack Stenning and she had read his profile thoroughly, memorising the accompanying photograph as she always did. Stenning had been arrested for picking up a girl in a bar, slipping her something to keep her quiet and unresponsive, and then taking her back to his place to commit the crime. The case had come to court six months ago and had been thrown out. The prosecution had formed a strong case, and there was more than enough DNA evidence to prove that the girl had been at his flat and that they had had intercourse. Unfortunately there was nothing concrete to determine that it had been forced. There were no bruises on her body, no cuts or abrasions. No one reported a commotion when Stenning had brought her into his flat, and nor did his neighbours hear any struggles. The case had hinged upon the concoction he had slipped in her drink, but unfortunately for the girl he had not used any regular drug. Either he had made up something himself or had someone do it for him: either way, the prosecution’s case fell apart when they could not provide any solid proof that there had even been a drug at all.

  So Stenning had walked free and had stayed out of court since.

  The report Thompson had been given detailed seven other instances where Stenning had possibly done the same thing to other young women, two of them in the past six months. It was a pattern, yet, since he had not been arrested again and had not used his flat, no one could prove he had done anything wrong. Stenning had learned from his mistakes and had adapted. That made him dangerous.

  But Thompson did not need proof to secure a conviction. The sheer wealth of evidence against him was enough for her DCI to have handed her the case, and she agreed that Stenning was a repeat offender. And, like a rabid dog, he had to be put down.

  At
last he appeared at the end of the bar. Thompson had free reign of how to deal with her case, and she had decided to go with her usual approach and get as involved as she could. To that end she had spent an hour before the mirror, making herself as attractive to him as she possibly could. She had profiles on all of his victims, and there certainly was a pattern she could follow.

  Thompson was a tall woman in her late-twenties. She was in the process of growing out her dark hair, and she had tied it back into a ponytail Stenning seemed to favour. She had applied rouge to her cheeks to deaden the whiteness of her face, but had done nothing to her eyelashes, leaving them natural. Her body was slim and muscular without having fallen into the build of a weightlifter. Thompson held to a strict exercise regime which had saved her life more than once in the field. It afforded her a lithe figure she knew Stenning would find attractive, over which she wore a tight black T-shirt, cut off at the midriff to expose her bellybutton. Stenning preferred his girls to show more skin at the stomach, although Thompson’s belly was emblazoned with a complex tattoo which she did not want people to see while on assignment. She had no doubt Stenning would find it appealing, and certainly she would reveal it to him, but she could not have anyone in the club able to remember anything so specific about her. Below her waist, she wore tight blue jeans with a large belt buckle. She was not certain why anyone would find a large belt buckle attractive, and possibly Stenning did not, but most of the girls he had assaulted had them so she felt it would not hurt. She did not need to wear any jewellery, which was good since she didn’t own any, although had acquired some clip-on earrings she had taken from work. She was also wearing high heels, which was ridiculous when she was wearing jeans; but, since Thompson thought high heels were ridiculous anyway, that argument didn’t have a leg to stand on. Nor did Thompson herself half the time, as unused to wearing high heels as a dog was a toga, and she was using the bar to hold herself up whenever she slipped.

  Dressed exactly as she needed to in order to appeal to the monster, Detective Thompson had ventured to the bar she knew he would be visiting that night, and had waited.

  Now, after only an hour, her patience had paid off and Stenning was standing at the bar only three people away. It was around eleven and the lights had dimmed, the music was being pumped out as though from a machinegun, and Thompson knew from the files this was the man’s prowling time. She had planned this well and now it seemed everything was about to pay off.

  Thompson tried to catch his eye, but he was too busy trying to get the attention of the barman. Stenning was an average-looking man in his mid-thirties. There was nothing special about him, and Thompson wondered whether he felt that was a good enough excuse for him to do what he did.

  As the barman passed her, she knew Stenning would be looking her way, so she made sure she met his eye and smiled. He smiled back, but seemed more intent on ordering his drink than paying any attention to her. The barman finally got to him and Stenning put in his order.

  Thompson did not know how to feel about that. For Stenning to have ignored her when she had made such an effort to be attractive for him was insulting, but she had never been someone who cared at all what anyone thought about her. She could not see that he was with anyone, and could only imagine that he had his eye on someone else. Or maybe she had tried too hard to get his attention. Thompson had never gone in for all the silly vagueness of mating rituals. Her strategy was to say what she wanted and see where it got her. Having to spend the entire evening making all these ridiculous passes and still not be guaranteed a lay at the end would have done her head in.

  “Excuse me,” a voice said, and Thompson noticed Stenning was beside her at the bar. She had not seen him move, and chastised herself for giving more thought to why a rapist didn’t find her attractive and less on taking the creep down. He was smiling presently and Thompson forced a smile back, without making it seem forced. “I couldn’t help but notice you noticing me,” he said. He probably even thought that was a good line.

  “I was hoping you might get served first and buy me a drink.”

  “I thought it was something like that.”

  She could see he had indeed bought her a drink, and she hesitated in taking it. She had been drinking red wine for the simple reason that she never drank wine. He had either seen what she was drinking or asked the barman, which was not unusual. She could not help look at the glass, however, and wonder what else was swirling about inside.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said, beaming once more. “Just not used to men being so kind.” She took the glass, not able to bring herself to thank him, and determined to finish the dregs of her old drink very slowly indeed.

  “My name’s Phil,” he said.

  Your name’s Jack, she wanted to say, but lied herself. “Becky.”

  “That’s a beautiful name,” he said, again likely thinking it a good line.

  She laughed regardless. “So I’m told. You here with friends?”

  “No. Just dropped in after work. You?”

  “Oh, I was here with the girls, but they left about ten minutes ago.”

  “You didn’t go with them?”

  “They all found guys: I’d just get in their way.” It was a casual way of telling him that she and her friends went out in the evening to find random people to sleep with. It would make him think she was interested, so he would stay with her. She could not imagine that every girl he slept with was drugged, but either way she needed to stay with him.

  It seemed to work. “You must have been hiding when those guys picked up your friends then.”

  That was the creepiest line yet.

  “Hiding is so last year,” she replied. “This is 1994 now, Phil. The year of the dog. It’s time to be man’s best friend.” That was not a line she had prepared, but if he was going to be creepy she decided she would pitch a few lines herself and see where they got her.

  Their conversation went on like this for the next half hour. If nothing else, it proved an interesting experience for Thompson, who had always felt uncomfortable in such situations. Clubs had never been her thing, even when she had been a teenager, and her ideal evening consisted of propping up the bar in her local pub, quietly scoping out the talent while deciding how to spend the rest of her night. It was perhaps not the best way to live her life, but Thompson had never had a usual family, job or anything else so didn’t see why her love-life had to follow a standard path.

  Unfortunately her original drink ran out eventually and she was forced to sip from the new glass. She knew he would notice were she to pretend, although she managed to take only the smallest sips and swallowed the tiniest portions. It was an incredible risk she was taking, and she knew it. She had no idea how potent the concoction was, and she had brought no back-up. But she was not certain there was anything even in her drink, so it was a risk she was willing to take at least for a while. Thankfully he disappeared to the toilet at one point and she was able to quickly ditch her glass and buy a replacement. She wondered whether some wandering inebriated reveller might find her discarded wine and down it, passing out on the floor of the club. She also took the opportunity to put another side of her plan into effect and wondered how long it would take Stenning to notice.

  “Hey,” someone said while Thompson was just getting her replacement drink. It was a woman in her early thirties with long red hair and an annoyingly cheery disposition. “You with that guy?”

  “That guy who just left my side two minutes ago?”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, honey.”

  “Like that low-cut top doesn’t become you? Honey?”

  The woman narrowed her eyes acidly. “I just thought I’d warn you about him. I’ve seen him in here before and he’s bad news.”

  “Thanks for your opinion. Now do yourself a favour and go shed a few pounds.”

  The woman stormed off and Thompson regretted being so horrible to her. But she had needed to get rid of the woman fast. If Stenning c
ame back and saw them chatting, it might be all over: especially if the redhead had confronted Stenning before about his way with women.

  When Stenning returned they resumed their chat, and Thompson was able to relax a little more. She even finished her drink, since the next round was hers, although as she looked to draw the attention of the barman Stenning placed a hand upon her waist and whispered in her ear, “You fancy some air?”

  Thompson’s body tensed immediately at the touch, and she forced calm to flow back into her. “Phil, it’s freezing outside,” she said in a delicate voice which suggested his idea was ludicrous.

  “Oh, I’m sure we could find a way to keep warm.”

  She giggled, which was something else she had needed a mirror for, in order to practise. She liked to think she pulled it off quite well.

  “Come on,” he coaxed, reacting well to it. “I got something I want to show you.”

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  “Just think how much fun your friends are having right now. You don’t want to miss out do you?”

  He probably thought that having spoken to her for half an hour afforded him some leeway with the sleazy lines, but of course she had to love it anyway. “All right,” she said coyly. “Just don’t try anything. I was a Judo champion when I was four and I still remember some of the moves.”

  “Maybe I could buy you another drink and you could show me some of those moves, Becky.”

  “Only if you promise to let me put a couple of shots in you later.” She shook her head even as she said the words. She knew she was playing with him, but there was no need to say these things. And she had no idea why she had given him the Judo line. She feared perhaps those few sips of his toxin had proven enough to haze her mind, but the fact was she had drunk two glasses of red wine and suddenly remembered why it was she didn’t drink wine.