by Adam Carter
“That would be very little.”
“Stop talking in riddles,” she tried to snap, although it came out a hoarse wheeze.
“I was born in nineteen sixty-one. I remember my childhood well, but then my father died and ... my memories after that become a little hazy. Jeremiah was there; throughout most of my life Jeremiah’s been there. And something else. A hatred of Edward Sanders. I joined WetFish in nineteen eighty-three. My activities have been on record since then, but before? I’m not even sure myself what happened before.”
“On record? You mean Sanders knows what you do?”
There was a smirk to Baronaire’s reply. “What do I do?”
She turned then, staring him straight in the eyes. There was complacency there, regret, a little humour perhaps; but if she was expecting to see shame she was sorely disappointed. “What are you?” she rasped.
He met her gaze and replied levelly. “I don’t know. Tell me something. You’re so good at your job, tell me what I am to WetFish.”
Lin blinked. “An officer.”
“And?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Try again, Detective.”
Lin blinked again. In her albeit short time at WetFish, all her time partnered with Baronaire, she had never noticed something about him. Something which just didn’t add up. “You don’t have a rank.”
“No. Nor does Jeremiah. We’re not officers, Lin. We’re not detectives, we’re not constables, we’re not DCIs. We’re projects, pets. Tools of the trade. Sanders needs us, uses us to further his aims. He envisions a perfect future, a Utopian London. And he’s made any deal with the Devil he finds necessary.”
Lin’s heart was beating faster now. Baronaire was speaking with such a straight face, yet he could not be serious about what he was saying. She had never been religious, but Lin was glad she was in a church right at that moment. “Is that what you are?”
He smiled slightly. “No. Of course not. Or at least I hope not. I was born human, Lin. I’m just not convinced I am any more.”
Lin felt a tightness in her throat as she asked her question one final time. “What did you do to Agnes?”
“I fed off her. I do that. It’s not very nice to think about, but I’m used to it. She’s survived, which is nice for her, but sometimes they don’t. I can’t stop, you see. I’m like an addict; as soon as I open the vein I know I should only take a little, but it’s so hard to stop. Once I begin, it’s so difficult. And she’s smiling down at me, her eyes so full of life, begging me to take more. It’s my drug. My alcohol. My need.”
Lin recoiled, her skin feeling as though a thousand centipedes were suddenly caressing her. “You’re a monster.”
“Yes,” Baronaire said with sad eyes, “I rather think I am.”
*
Lin shook her head. It pounded with a dull ache, and she fought to remember where she was, what she was doing. She looked up. She was in her hotel room, although she didn’t recall having come back. She rose quickly, her body stiff. She was wearing her nightgown, although couldn’t understand why she thought that was so odd. Moving to the curtains, she pulled them open and looked out at the bright, morning sky. It was early and she had been asleep. There was nothing wrong with that. But she had had such a vivid dream, a dream of ...
A dream of what?
She fought for the details, but they eluded her. It had been something to do with the case, with the house on the cliffs, but the more she fought for answers, the quicker they slipped through her mind.
Still tired, her brain a miasma of jumbled half-awake memories, Lin decided she wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, so headed for the shower. The cold water woke her up somewhat, although still the events of the dream eluded her. The more they faded, the more she ceased caring of them, as is the nature of all dreams, and she checked the time in case she would be able to get some breakfast. She didn’t remember much of the previous day, but today they were checking out and heading back to London. She had no idea what Baronaire and Foster had got up to last night, but in all likelihood the former was brooding somewhere and the latter was hung over. It had gone seven, so she was just in time for something to eat.
Heading down, she briefly considered knocking for Foster, but very much doubted she would have appreciated the wake-up call, and so passed by her door. There were a couple of people already helping themselves to cereal when Lin arrived and she smiled at the young man dishing out the bacon.
“Where’s Dave this morning?” Lin asked, taking up a hot plate.
“Dave? Ah wish ah knew. Probably at the hospital with that lady-friend a his.”
Lin detected a sourness to the young man’s tone: jealousy perhaps? Agnes was the young woman employed to tend to the needs of Walter Chamberlain. Why she was in the hospital Lin could not say. Perhaps she had been a witness to Chamberlain’s death and was suffering from shock or something. A mild worry set in her mind then that Baronaire had not been careful when he had taken care of Chamberlain; but it was a silly thought. Baronaire was careful in everything he did.
She ate her breakfast in silence, alone, and once she was done started back for her room. Foster and Baronaire would be up soon, but Lin had to pack. They were checking out today, heading back home. It just seemed a shame this particular assignment had been so uniform. Coming up to such an exotic location as Scotland, Lin had hoped for some out of the ordinary adventure.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It wasn’t something she had expected, but then Detective Laidlaw had never really trusted the English. When Chamberlain had first come to stay in Scotland for a while, it was pretty obvious what he was doing. Everyone locally knew of his crime, knew his family were powerful, knew how the English loved to think themselves better than everyone else. Chamberlain would stick around for a few months, living life to the full with his very own Scottish maid, then return home to his luxury life once the heat had died down. That he was innocent of the crime for which he had been accused was a thought which had never entered Laidlaw’s mind. Besides, if he wasn’t guilty, why was he running?
That he had not himself attacked Agnes McBright was, Laidlaw supposed, something at least. The girl had been so desperate for money she would lock herself away with a rapist ... It wasn’t the cleverest of moves, but then Laidlaw wasn’t a teenage girl and she wasn’t desperate for money. Not that she had any money, but she had enough to live on and that was all she cared about.
Laidlaw stepped out of the hotel. She had just been to see the manager, to explain the situation to him personally. She did not have to of course, but the manager was an old friend of hers and she didn’t feel like sleeping right now. The more Laidlaw complained about never getting enough sleep, the more she remembered she had insomnia. She would lie awake at night thinking of all the sickos out there who needed her attention. The more she slept, the more crime there seemed to be, and that was something Laidlaw would never allow.
She caught sight of someone then, waiting for a taxi. He had a small suitcase, and waited with a short woman of plain appearance. The man was tall, wearing a stylishly old-fashioned trench coat and a serious, sombre expression. Laidlaw sauntered over to them and smiled a good morning. The woman she did not know, but strangely enough she shot Laidlaw a terrible glower as though she was going to pounce on them or something.
“Detective Laidlaw,” Baronaire said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“What a coincidence,” she said. “Ah didn’t know you were staying here. You could have delivered my message for me, saved me tha trouble a coming down here.”
“We haven’t been introduced,” the short woman scowled, her every word dripping with poison.
Laidlaw looked at Baronaire, who tried to roll his eyes without his companion noticing. “Detective Foster, Detective Laidlaw. Cathy and I met yesterday, we discussed the Chamberlain murder.”
“Cathy?” Foster asked.
Laidlaw pegged Foster immediately as a stalker. Not literally, perhaps, but she
was certainly clinging to her colleague as though afraid of prowling cougars. Laidlaw had no interest in any of that, however. She had a job to do, and didn’t allow anything to come between the two of them. “Your input proved invaluable,” she told Baronaire. “Thanks for that, I never considered it from that angle before.”
“Don’t mention it. Just glad I could have been of use.”
Baronaire was here on some team-building exercise, or some English rubbish. Laidlaw had met him yesterday and he had turned out to be a decent cop. Laidlaw was pretty stumped over what had happened at that house. Chamberlain was dead, Agnes was half drained of blood, and there were no suspects. Just Agnes’s vague recollections of there being another man in the house. Then there was Detective Lin, Baronaire’s final party member, who was sticking her nose in the investigation without providing much assistance. Thankfully Baronaire had not been like that at all. He had contacted Laidlaw directly and explained who he was and what he was doing there, placing himself at her disposal. He was a gentleman, and together they had worked out the identity of the killer.
“Henderson hasn’t cracked yet,” Laidlaw told him, “but ah’m working on it. Never did trust him. I mean, Henderson? Not exactly a Scottish name now is it?”
“Henderson?” Foster asked.
“Dave,” Baronaire told her. “Turns out he was a strange one. He went to the house the night of the storm, attacked Chamberlain, probably tossed him off the cliff, although we don’t know that for sure. What we do know is that he was draining Agnes’s blood. Some black market thing, we think. Either that or he’s just a loon.”
“Either way,” Laidlaw said, “he’s under arrest. We’ll crack him soon.” She saw someone else emerging from the hotel, dragging a suitcase behind her, a smaller bag slung across her shoulder. Laidlaw would have held the door for her but she wasn’t that nice a person. “Detective Lin,” she said by way of greeting when they met.
“Uh, yeah?”
“Just wanted to say your investigation methods are lousy. Just nice some of your colleagues are more people people.”
Lin looked blankly to Baronaire. “He’s not a people person.”
“Well he was yesterday. Oh, and if ye’re going to question mah victims, next time kindly don’t.”
Lin stared at her blankly. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Have we met?”
Laidlaw shook her head as she turned away. English! She was just glad they were going home.
*
Lin stared after the strange woman for some moments, but there was no recognition in her eyes. Baronaire watched her intently, looking for that one flicker of realisation, but thankfully it did not come. He was glad, for Lin’s sake as well as his own.
He became aware that Foster was staring daggers at him now and he looked away, casually, trying to make out he had not been staring at Lin so intently.
“Cab’s here,” Foster said as a car pulled up. She shoved her bag onto Lin as she climbed in the car to sit beside Baronaire. This one time he did not actually mind. This one time he did not mind at all.
Lin climbed in beside the driver and Baronaire said, “That was a good few days. We should do this again sometime.”
“Yeah,” said Foster. “Only next time, we should make it just the two of us. You know, I was wondering what you thought about an assignment farther afield. You know, the Bahamas maybe?”
Baronaire was entirely distracted by Foster’s incessant ramblings, although he did note that Lin had yet to reply to him. “You all right?” he asked her. “Lin?”
She looked around to him, smiling. “Sure. Sorry, just lost there for a moment.”
He shrugged. Said nothing. But his eyes narrowed. Beside him Foster rambled on ad infinitum, but he had blocked her out. His mind was concentrating on Lin. The only sound for the remainder of the journey was Foster’s voice.
In the passenger seat beside the driver Lin had heard Baronaire’s voice behind her, had smelt the familiar scent of the trench coat, had felt his breath upon the back of her neck. And something within her had stirred. Some half-dream memory. Something she could not completely explain, yet something she knew she could not entirely dismiss. Whatever it was, it was important, and she would remember it.
Whatever it was, she would not allow herself to forget.
OPERATION WETFISH
BOOK 8
CALL OF THE SIREN
CHAPTER ONE
It was strange to think that the longest tunnel in the world was now beneath his feet. It was a hot day in late July, but Charles Baronaire did not feel the heat. The chill wind of the sea struck his skin like a miniature hailstorm, repelled by his alien nature. The waves crashed noisily beneath him, the salty spray slamming into his face, attempting to drive him away. He stood resolute, neither caring nor uncaring of the forces of nature around him; he hardly even noticed them at all. Baronaire had never before been to Folkestone, had never given the place much thought. He was here for the first time and had no intention of ever coming back.
The pier, thankfully, was not filled with glaring arcade machines and screaming teenagers on pointless rides. Staring into the water crashing against the old wood which formed the struts of the pier, he could not imagine that there were so many people down there right at that moment, being carried across the ocean as though boats were a thing of the past.
“Not thinking of jumping are you?”
Baronaire glanced across to a man who had not been there seconds earlier. He had not heard Jeremiah approach, but then no one heard Jeremiah approach. Just as it was with Baronaire himself.
Jeremiah and Baronaire were similar men, although to look at them one would not understand why. Jeremiah was tall, thin, well-dressed and well-spoken. His hair was cut short and he had a tidy, trim beard about his chin and feeding into his pencil-thin moustache, but which did not intrude upon his cheeks. He had a youthful cheeriness to his face and an always ready smile. He was garbed in a fashionable jacket and today walked with a cane. Baronaire had not seen him do that in a while, but Jeremiah always liked to show people he was someone important. He tended to reserve the cane for trips to the theatre, but Baronaire supposed a summer holiday to the beach was a special enough occasion for the man.
In contrast, Baronaire was broad-shouldered and moody. He wore a shirt, but never a tie, and his trousers would have long ago walked into the wash had they not been so terrified of his reaction. His beloved trench coat was an earth-brown, and handy with its pockets. His hair was also dark, but was an untidy mess at the best of times, and the sea air was not helping it any. His face was haggard, old for his years, his expression almost always sallow. Baronaire was only in his early thirties, but could have easily been mistaken for a man a decade older.
The only way to be absolutely certain these men were so similar was to look directly into their eyes. They were old eyes, filled with depth and desire, longing and emptiness. And when something can be filled with emptiness it is a sure sign that it should not be trusted.
“I can’t believe they actually built the thing,” Baronaire said, looking back to the water.
Jeremiah glanced at it and shrugged. “Been talking about it long enough.”
Baronaire watched a bird sitting on the waves and wondered why it would even want to do that. “Opening a tunnel connecting England and France is a bad idea,” he said simply.
“Why? You don’t like the French?”
“I think we have enough problems without giving people an easy route into the country. The best thing about the United Kingdom is that we’re an island. We don’t suffer half the problems other countries do.”
“Oh sure, we don’t get any illegal immigrants. You know the original idea was to have horses travel the length of the tunnel and to build a halfway stop point? Back in the early eighteen hundreds, I mean. It would be funny to see them to be using horses now it’s the nineteen nineties.”
Baronaire sighed. “You do come out with weird things sometim
es. Have you located the target?”
“No. But I did hook us up with two girls. They’re waiting for us in just about the only club I can find in this somewhat boring place.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
Jeremiah blinked, which was supposedly a means to get some form of reaction, but Baronaire couldn’t be bothered even to be baited today.
“And Sanders would go nuts,” Baronaire added.
“Sanders isn’t here,” Jeremiah reminded him. “Besides, so long as they don’t die Sanders wouldn’t even be able to find out. Even he can’t see all the way here from London.”
Baronaire knew this. But the simple fact of the matter was he didn’t care. He didn’t mean to be despondent, he didn’t even know why he was. It was seldom that the DCI allowed Baronaire and Jeremiah out together, and to have sent them all this way? Without support? Sanders always liked to keep a close watch on the two of them and Baronaire could not believe the old man was beginning to trust them. Baronaire wouldn’t have trusted them, and Sanders was far more cynical than he. Baronaire kept expecting to find hidden cameras lining the beach or something.
Jeremiah leaned his back upon the wooden pier and rested his elbows casually on the rail. “Come on, Charles, what’s up? Something’s been eating you for months now. We get to spend quality time together, you should be happy for a change.”
But Baronaire had no intention of opening his heart to Jeremiah. He drew himself erect, banished anything not related to his work and said, “Johnny Sheldon. We have an address, did you check it out?”
Jeremiah seemed to sense the change in mood and replied, “Yeah. What else do you think I’ve been doing the last two hours?”
“You mean aside from finding girls in clubs?”
“Cute. Sheldon’s not at home. No one was. His family threw him a party by the looks of things. I figured it might have spilled over into the club, hence my reason for going.” He paused, although whatever reaction he wanted off Baronaire he was not going to get, so continued. “Could be anywhere, but wherever it is he won’t have gone far. Folkestone’s not too big, and besides which, he’s not a wanted man.”