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

by Adam Carter

  “And what exactly am I like, sir?”

  “You’re a fiery, determined maelstrom who doesn’t let anyone or anything get in her way. I gave you this assignment because I knew you wanted it and I thought you could handle it. Alienating your colleagues is not a good way of going about business, Detective.”

  “She thinks this is a waste of time.”

  “She said that did she?”

  Thompson paused, but refused to allow her anger to abate. “No.”

  Sanders reflected a moment in silence. “Jen, do you know why I don’t allow my officers to move up in rank?”

  The question threw her. “Because you don’t want them leaving the department. The more of a staff turnaround you have, the more people know about us.”

  “That’s a nice by-product, but no, that’s not the reason.”

  Thompson thought a moment. “Go on then.”

  “I’m a good judge of character, Jen. I see people for who they are, and how best they can serve their country. I have twenty-six people working under me and I know each of them inside out. I know their personalities, their strengths, their likes and dislikes. I know how they work best and what would aggravate them. It’s why I allowed you this assignment, against my usual orders. You feel strongly about this case, so that means I should have handed it to someone else. But I knew if you didn’t handle it, it would grate on you and eventually, maybe a year from now, you’d make a mistake somewhere. And you’d probably get yourself killed.”

  Thompson wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to be thanking him at this point, but she certainly didn’t feel like doing that right now. “Your point, sir?”

  If he was surprised by her bluntness he did not show it. “Foster has her strengths. I didn’t assign her to this case with you so she could wind you up. I knew you wouldn’t want another field agent getting in your way, questioning your motives and methods, so I gave you a statistician. You have six people to track and deal with. What better partner could you have than someone who can juggle numbers in her head? Foster can foresee possibilities, and with six perps involved that ability’s going to come in very handy indeed.”

  “Still, I’d prefer to be partnered with Baronaire. What’s with this stupid TV show thing anyway?”

  A small smile tugged at Sanders’s thin lips. “Don’t worry about Baronaire, or our publicity. That’s being well and truly handled.”

  There was a momentary silence between them then, and Thompson said, “I’m not apologising to her.”

  “Don’t much care if you do. Just remember she’s an ally.”

  Thompson put in half an hour of work before finally tossing down her pen and deciding she would have to go after the woman. In truth she had never really much liked Foster, although had seldom worked closely with her so had never allowed herself to be bothered by her. But Sanders was right, and he was also asking politely. If Thompson could not see that then she did not deserve to be a member of this department.

  Picking up her work phone she punched in Foster’s number and it was answered after four rings. “Foster, it’s me. Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot before. What say we meet for coffee and discuss the case?”

  “Not a good time, Detective,” Foster whispered.

  That sent immediate alarm bells ringing. “Foster, where are you?”

  “I followed Searle. Thought it might be a good idea to see where he went after you finished talking to him.”

  “That’s not especially safe. Where did he lead you?”

  “He’s meeting with the others already. Looks like he couldn’t wait for your little trap.”

  Damn. Thompson had never even entertained the possibility the terrified little maggot would actually contact his friends and warn them about her. It was the most obvious thing for him to have done, yet Thompson had clearly not been thinking straight. “I’m coming,” she said. “Just give me the address and for God’s sake keep your head down.”

  Foster whispered the address and Thompson scribbled it down quickly. “The sixth guy just turned up,” Foster said. “You might want to hurry.”

  “Just stay out of sight, I’m on my way.”

  Thompson headed for the car park and passed Sanders on the way. “Problem, Detective?”

  “No, sir. My partner’s made a breakthrough and I’m on my way to back her up.”

  “Good show. Keep me informed.”

  She could feel his victory smile burning the back of her neck all the way to her motorcycle.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “You’re too late.”

  Thompson cursed loudly as Foster delivered the news. The detective had broken a shedload of road safety laws in order to reach Foster’s position in time, only to be met with the sour-faced woman delivering such a flat report. The six men had met at the flat occupied by the twins, Larry and Harry Jones, and Foster quickly informed her as to everything she had witnessed. Searle had called the meeting and the men had disappeared inside for about ten minutes. Foster had tried to listen in, but even though the men’s voices were raised in agitation and alarm she could hear precious little. It was obvious, however, that Searle had told them all what had happened, that some crazy woman was after them and intended to entrap them later that night. Foster had wisely retreated lest she be spotted, and Thompson could not fault her for such a manoeuvre.

  “There’s only one thing for it then,” Thompson said.

  “Forget the whole sorry mess?” Foster asked hopefully.

  “We don’t know where they are right now, but we do know where they’re going to be tonight.”

  “Whoa, you’re not still thinking of meeting Searle tonight? You know it’s a trap. They’ll be waiting for you with knives and cricket bats and ... and there’ll be six of them.”

  “You worry too much.”

  “Maybe you don’t worry enough.”

  “Look. I may have been a little hard on you before, but buck up, Detective. We’re officers of the law and we have a duty.”

  “We have a duty to ourselves as well. Call Sanders. Get some backup sent in.”

  “We don’t need backup. We just need to be clever about this.”

  “But you’re not intending to be clever about it, Detective. You’re going to barrel in there half-cocked like you always do. Only this time you’re going to get yourself beat up over it.”

  Thompson tried to remain calm. She had taken in everything Sanders had told her and was desperately attempting to follow his advice. Foster was making things so difficult for her it was hard not to just do what she had done before and abandon her there.

  “All right,” Foster said at last, the first sensible thing she had said all day. “It’s your call. But we need to figure out precisely what we’re going to do before we get there. Like I said, there are six of them and only two of us.”

  In truth Thompson had not much thought of what she was ultimately going to do. She had the option to arrest or kill them, but either way provided problems. That Sanders trusted her to keep this out of the newspapers was admirable, but it didn’t make her task any easier. The sensible option would be to frame them for a similar crime and have them arrested, this time catch it on camera or find some decent witnesses who were indeed willing to testify. Perhaps even pay a few people to claim they saw it. She mentioned as much to Foster, who nodded slowly.

  “I guess if you got a few of your friends together they’d be willing to testify, even if they hadn’t seen anything.”

  Thompson was confused. “What do my friends have to do with anything?”

  “I meant gays. Your friends in the gay community?”

  “And who says I have friends in the gay community?”

  It was Foster’s turn to frown. “Don’t you all hang out in gay bars and stuff?”

  “No. I hang out in the same bars everyone else does. What, we have to be segregated now?”

  “Oh. How come I never see any then?”

  “Any what?”

  “Gays. When I’
m in a club I mean.”

  Thompson blinked. “Did you even just say that?”

  “Say what?”

  Thompson folded her arms. “Foster, tell me precisely what a gay person looks like. No, really, I’m interested. If there were five people standing before you, how would you be able to tell which ones were gay?”

  “Well ... Are you angry with me again?”

  “Oh no. Why would I be angry? Just interested in your opinion.” Thompson knew she was angry again, which was unusual for her. She was just finding Foster extremely irritating today. There was something about her attitude which bothered Thompson, something that told her Foster had something better she needed to be doing.

  “I’m not getting into this discussion,” Foster said emphatically. “I’m trying to help, Jen, and you’re turning on me again.”

  “I’m not turning on you, I just want to know what you think of me.”

  “What do I think of you? I think you’re a self-centred, arrogant Fonzie reject who thinks she’s better than everyone else. I think if you spent more time with people and less with your bikes you might actually get to understand how human beings work. And I think you hang around Baronaire so much because he’s a closet gay and you have someone you can latch onto.”

  “Baronaire isn’t a ... That’s what this is all about isn’t it? Baronaire goes and gets himself a girlfriend and you don’t like it because you’ve been chasing his skirts for the past year.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  Thompson laughed, which only made Foster huff more. “Foster, do you actually want to know the reason Baronaire’s never looked twice at you? Why he’s probably fantasised more about me than you, even though he knows he doesn’t have a chance with me.”

  “You’re not his type,” Foster said stonily.

  “No. Maybe if he was very drunk I would be, but Baronaire doesn’t like strong women. In fact he likes them kind of like you. Weak-willed and frightened. Like the damsels in those dreadful pulp books he’s always reading. You’re just his type of woman, Shaz, but he has no interest in you for one simple reason. You’re a stuck-up, priggish human being. And no one in their right mind would ever want to form a lasting relationship with you.”

  Foster struck her across the face, a lot harder than Thompson had thought she could. It should not have surprised the detective, but it did nevertheless. “At least my feelings are natural,” Foster spat.

  Thompson slowly turned shocked eyes on her. “What? What did you just ...?”

  Foster’s face drained of colour, her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh God. Jen, I ... I didn’t mean ...”

  “Didn’t mean ...? What, you’re saying my attraction to women makes me unnatural and you didn’t mean to just say that? You just ... just insult my entire ... my entire life and you didn’t mean it? You know what kind of person I hate most, Foster? The sick people who put Smith in the hospital, at least they know what they are and how they feel. The people I hate the most are those who pretend not to care, who pretend not to be bothered either way, but who deep down secretly hate other people just for living their lives a little differently. People like the witnesses who backed out of the trial; people like you, Sharon Foster. I don’t hurt anybody, gay people don’t hurt anybody. Football fans and tax protestors and environmental eco-warriors; they’re people who hurt other people. But they’re something people choose to be. Life’s about choice, Foster, but being gay isn’t a choice. It’s the power of attraction. Some people are attracted to older women, or legs or – weirdly enough – feet. You don’t have a choice in how you feel. It’s just the majority of people are attracted to people of similar age and opposite sex. And it’s so easy to condemn other people when you have a million voices backing you up.”

  “Jen, I didn’t mean anything, really. I’m just tired and I’m grumpy and I didn’t mean to diss you.”

  “But you did. And that’s the difference. Because I’m tired and I’m grumpy, but I would never – never even consider telling you that your sexuality isn’t natural.” And then something suddenly clicked in Thompson’s mind, something that had been niggling for hours. She stared at Foster with wide-eyes, her anger falling from her so suddenly, sheer unrestrained shock taking over. “That’s why you’ve been naysaying this the whole way through. Six people beat up a guy and you don’t care just because that guy happened to be gay. You really don’t care. You think he deserved it.”

  “Hey, now you’re just being stupid. All right, maybe I ... maybe I don’t understand how you could be attracted to someone of the same sex, maybe I’m missing something. But you don’t get to tell me I don’t care, Thompson. I work for the same department you do, I see the scum we deal with, and I am not that scum. And don’t you dare group me with them.”

  Thompson took a step backwards, away from her. She hadn’t even realised she was doing it, but she took another, and another. The part of her mind which still remembered what Sanders had told her about working together was screaming at her to get away, to put some distance between them, else she would end up throttling the woman there and then.

  Thompson ran, leaping onto her bike and gunning the engine before Foster could even realise she was moving. She did not look back, had no reason to. It didn’t matter what Foster had meant, or what she had said. The main thing was how she felt, because deep down Foster felt exactly the same way as Searle and his friends. Foster would never act upon her beliefs, would never even consider it, but the feeling was still there, deeply rooted, and it was that feeling which was the problem. It was that feeling that put people like Martin Smith in comas.

  She drove for over an hour without pause. She was only vaguely aware of what she was doing, and it was a miracle she did not run into anyone. Her mind was clouded, her eyes misted, and her anger and her sorrow were at war within her. Finally she stopped, in the shadow of St Stephen’s Tower – or the Clock Tower, or whatever people wanted to call it. As she gazed up at that great clock face, she did not much care what it was called; its name did nothing to change what it was. It was probably the most famous of all London’s landmarks; people flocked from all over the world to see it. It was a symbol of solidarity, for everyone set their lives by time and the tower was the greatest timepiece in the entire country. Years ago, when the country’s religious order was attempting to maintain hold of whatever power it could, timepieces were prominently displayed upon churches so that the working day could be dictated by God’s followers. The chimes could be heard clear across the town and everyone knew when to start work, when to stop, and when to do anything in between. It didn’t matter who you were, what you believed, what you felt. You were all under the power of the church’s bell-tower.

  People were now free to choose their own lives, do whatever they wanted. It was supposed to be an age of enlightenment, of freedom from oppression. But nothing had changed. The country was still a mess and everyone was still just as much slaves of society as they had been when the church had ruled their lives.

  “What was the point in making it legal,” she whispered to the wind, “if people can still hate so much?”

  And the wind answered, “Because people are stupid.”

  She turned to find Baronaire standing behind her. He looked paler, standing in the shadow of the tower as he was, but gone was all the make-up and powder. He looked upon her with his usual bland expression, although there was pity to his eyes. She did not want his pity. Her whole life, Thompson had never asked for anyone’s pity and she wasn’t about to start now.

  Thompson returned her gaze to the tower. “What do you think the world will be like in twenty years, Baronaire?”

  “Pretty much as it is now, I figure. Tolerance, but no understanding.”

  She looked back to him with a frown. “That’s exactly it. How do you do that?”

  “See into your soul?”

  “Always know the right thing to say.”

  He seemed to shrug. “I study people. I have a unique perspective, Jen. If peop
le knew things about me, they wouldn’t understand.”

  “What things? I don’t follow.”

  He thought about what to say, as though he trusted her only so far, or perhaps didn’t want to burden her with his problems. “Sanders knows a lot about me, more than most people do. More than I do, to be honest. He tolerates me because I’m useful to him, but he doesn’t understand me. I doubt he ever could. I don’t resent him for that. I resent him for other things, sure, but not for that.”

  “How do you cope?”

  “I don’t let it get to me.”

  “And how do you do that?”

  Baronaire regarded her in silence for a while. She began to think he had fallen asleep standing there. “Jen, have you ever tried not being gay?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to go to a bar, chat a guy up and take him home for the night?”

  “No.”

  “Nor have I. Funny that.”

  She stared at him, fighting to understand what he was trying to tell her, but failing miserably. There was so much in her head, so many conflicting thoughts. Foster’s face – her general attitude – featured prominently, but also the thought of having to go back to work and see her every day, knowing she was such an idiot. She didn’t have time for Baronaire’s mind games, even if he was trying to make her feel better.

  “What’s your point, Charles?”

  He wrinkled his nose, glanced about at all the people moving through their everyday lives. Chatting, laughing, arguing. Minding their own business, with no one minding it for them. “Foster doesn’t hate you,” he said at last. “She doesn’t understand you. You don’t fit into her vision of the perfect life; the vision she’s been reared on. The Waltons syndrome. Little House syndrome, call it Happy Days syndrome if you like. It’s all the stuff we were reared on as kids, being shoved in our faces as what we should be like.”

  “Grandpa Walton was gay.”

  “Was he? Bet they never mentioned that in the show.”

  Thompson took a deep breath, released it slowly. “Funny you should mention Happy Days. Foster called me Fonzie earlier.”