by Ian Jarvis
‘Incredible,’ whispered Fran.
‘Lovely,’ muttered Rex. Far more lethal didn’t sound good. ‘Thanks for the lesson, but I’m hoping never to meet them again.’
‘I had terrible dreams too,’ said Marika. ‘All concerning you, Rex. You’ll think I’m silly, but I want to try something.’
Intrigued, he sat on a couch by the fire with the girls either side, Marika opening the box on the table before them. ‘You want to play cards?’ he asked, confused.
‘They’re tarot cards,’ said Fran.
‘I know that.’ He gave an embarrassed cough. ‘It was a joke.’
‘It’s not often I have such vivid dreams.’ Marika spread the pack. ‘I need to make sense of them and I want to see if the cards can help.’
‘You’re psychic?’ asked Fran.
‘Yes. I have dreams and get fleeting visions, like yesterday when I saw...’ Marika glanced at Rex and thought better of it.
‘You’re going to read my fortune?’ Rex laughed quietly. ‘I didn’t think you’d be the type for this stuff.’
Marika smiled faintly. ‘You don’t believe the tarot can be used to see the future?’
‘Maybe by Santa Claus.’
‘Transylvania has many superstitions and customs. These cards belonged to an old gypsy lady who recognised my gift and taught me. In my land gypsies don’t burn tyres and steal electrical cable. They play violins, and dance around fires with tambourines. Many have the second sight. Believe me, I’ve found these cards really work.’
‘Yeah.’ Rex smirked. ‘If you say so.’
Fran watched Marika shuffle. ‘What does he have to do?’
‘Pick five.’ Placing the deck facedown, she swept the cards into a circle. ‘Lay them in a cross with your last choice central.’
‘Sounds easy.’ He slid five from the ring and arranged them.
‘Alright. Turn them one at a time. Start at the top and work anti-clockwise.’
Lighting a cigarette, Rex flipped the first. It was like an Asian film poster with lightning crackling onto a crumbling building. ‘Nice.’ His face lit up. ‘That looks exciting.’
‘The worst card in the pack.’ Marika squirmed. ‘The Tower signifies death, destruction and violence.’
‘It could have been better then?’ said Fran.
Rex needed no help identifying the scythe-wielding skeleton on the next card. ‘Hey,’ he drawled. ‘Things are looking up.’
‘It isn’t as bad as it seems,’ said Marika, unconvincingly. ‘The Death card has many complex meanings. It can symbolise change and resurrection.’
The next was the Moon.
Marika looked puzzled. ‘Keep going,’ she said.
The fourth was the Star.
‘And the last. This is the most important.’
Rex hesitated, then turned over an innocent-looking Five of Pentacles. Marika sat back, grim and confused.
‘What do these last three mean?’ asked Fran.
‘Each has its own meanings, but together like this...’ Marika gathered the cards and shuffled. ‘Pick three more. Don’t lay them in a cross. Just pick them and show me.’
Rex pondered, and chose the Tower, the Five of Pentacles and Death.
Marika turned ashen.
‘This is bad, isn’t it?’ gasped Fran. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Surely you’re not taking this seriously?’ said Rex, chuckling.
‘I need to consult my books,’ said Marika. ‘But I’m certain this is connected to my dreams and to something I saw on Rex’s hand.’
‘So come on,’ he prompted. ‘What were these dreams and what did you see that caused that fuss yesterday?’
‘Not yet.’ Marika hesitated. ‘Not until I’m sure. It would only have you thinking me crazy. Let me read through my reference works first. I’ll tell you everything when you return this afternoon.’
Rex looked at his hand. His limited dealings with the supernatural amounted to a magazine feature on palmistry he’d once read. The basics he’d picked up entertained a certain type of girl, and it was easy explaining how the lines on a giggling model’s hand meant imminent sex with a playboy in sunglasses. What he saw now wasn’t so simple to explain.
‘This is wrong,’ he said. ‘My left hand’s different.’
‘Let me see.’ Marika grabbed his wrist.
‘This life line has changed; it’s shrunk!’ Rex laughed timidly. ‘It’s shorter than a blind test pilot.’
Marika checked his right palm, but the life line there had vanished completely. Rex searched his arm, on the chance it had ignored rational science and somehow migrated north. There was no sign of it.
‘Shit!’ he said.
Chapter 46
Amy Clarkson still wasn’t home. The neighbours hadn’t seen her since the previous day when she left for work, but the lack of police presence informed a relieved Quist that her absence wasn’t Inspector Bradstreet’s development. Instead of waiting, he’d set off for Creeper’s house in Clifton, but the freezing fog made the car journey excruciatingly slow. The windscreen wipers thrashed back and forth fighting the ice particles.
‘So they’re supernatural cat people?’ said Watson, still trying to come to terms with the Ubasteri.
‘Supernatural is a term we use when we don’t understand.’ Quist stared into the fog, driving steadily. ‘Mirages, hypnotism, and acupuncture were all supernatural before science dissected them.’
‘So how come science says there are no shapeshifters?’
‘Scientists aren’t infallible, and they’re terrified to study the paranormal for fear of being branded cranks. Read the historical literature of other civilisations and you’ll find they’ve hardly gone unnoticed. Look into Aztec and Mayan folklore. Read up on the Mesopotamians, Romans, Chinese and Abyssinians. They all had their shapeshifters and monsters long before Europe discovered them in medieval times.’
‘It’s still hard to believe. You say the Egyptians didn’t manage to wipe the Ubasteri out, but why haven’t we got shut of them since? I know what the church was like with witches. Why didn’t it hunt down these furry bastards too?’
‘It did, but few were destroyed. We’re speaking of a resourceful and cunning species with great speed, strength, and hypnotic powers. Mesmerised people can be ordered to do anything, and it’s hard to slay such a creature when the slayers are ordered to kill each other. They’ve always viewed themselves as superior to us; they refer to themselves as the Elite.’
Watson nodded. ‘Okay, let’s get this right. These panthers drink your blood and that turns you into one of them?’
‘When they bite, feline enzymes attack the chromosomes, altering the cell structure. A DNA transformation begins, and from the moment of the bite, the victim is controlled by the cat. Blood is drained over a period and more enzymes are introduced each time they feed. With the final blood removed, the victim falls into a brief coma where they metamorphose fully to awake as Ubasteri. However, as with Lisa Mirren, if all the blood is removed, the nervous system shuts down. The victim dies, but the enzymes still work on the cells. Because these are dead cells, it takes longer; five full days before they transform.’
‘That’s why you went to the morgue yesterday; Lisa died on Saturday. Hey, what are you looking for?’
‘We’re close to Minster Avenue.’ Quist squinted into the fog and spotted a newsagent’s shop on the left. ‘Ah, this is the junction where... Damn!’ He stamped the brake as flashing blue lights and police cones materialized ahead. ‘I think we may be too late.’
Watson watched the officers diverting traffic. ‘They’ve cordoned off the biker’s street. What the hell is this?’
‘I’ve an awful feeling this is Bradstreet’s development.’ Quist reversed the car and parked by the newsa
gent. ‘I’m going to buy some cigarettes. If ever you need information, Watson, call in a local shop.’
The youth watched him enter the store and emerge minutes later. ‘Well?’
‘It isn’t good news.’ Quist jumped back into the Beetle and paused to light a cigarette. ‘According to the locals in there, our biker friends are dead.’
‘What? All of them?’
‘Ten of them, apparently, including Creeper.’
‘Dead, as in murdered?’
‘As in clawed limb from limb. The police found them last night and they’re tying these deaths with the lab murders. What could they have discovered to make them do that?’
‘Ten wiped out,’ croaked Watson, trembling. ‘What am I mixed up in here?’
‘So much for questioning Creeper.’ Quist started the car. ‘Let’s try Amy’s place again. We really have to find her.’
‘Shit! Do you think the cats did this, Guv?’
‘From the terrible way they died, undoubtedly.’ Quist gave a lopsided smile. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll ensure no harm comes to you.’
‘Don’t worry?’ Watson burst out laughing, a release of tension. ‘Yeah, right. I feel about as confident as the lady-in-waiting when Anne Boleyn said: the fat bastard’s bluffing.’
***
Detective Constable Mitchell drove slowly along the alley behind Amy Clarkson’s terraced street. ‘Christ alive!’ he muttered. Straining to keep the doctor’s taillights in view, he parked his Honda as she drew up by the back door. ‘This bloody fog.’
He heard Amy enter the house, flicked the wipers to clear the screen, and tried orientating himself. This alleyway ran between the terraces of Appleton Street and George Street. Thanks to the icy conditions and still air, the fog had collected between the two rows of houses, bringing visibility down to a few feet.
He took out his mobile. ‘It’s Gary again,’ he said. ‘Everything okay, Doctor Clarkson? How long will you be?’
‘Not long,’ said Amy. ‘About five minutes. I’m just picking up a change of clothes and a few necessities.’
Mitchell climbed out as headlamps lit up the Honda’s rear window. Martin Gregson was taking the next surveillance and protection shift.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Gregson, pulling up and leaning out of the car. ‘It’s the fog.’
‘I’ve only just arrived myself,’ said Mitchell. ‘There isn’t much to report. Amy picked up her car from the garage yesterday and spent the night at her sister’s in Heslington with WPC Farnon. She’s going back there once she’s grabbed a few things.’ He squat beside the window. ‘Hey, that biker house sounded like a real bloodbath from what Farnon said. Some of them had their heads twisted around like Will Gillette, didn’t they?’
‘That’s right. The Inspector is surmising that Gillette’s murderer could have killed the bikers too.’ Gregson sighed. ‘Listen, another girl could be missing.’
Mitchell’s jaw dropped. ‘Another?’
‘It’s Gillette’s temporary secretary, Nicole Patterson.’
‘She gave Amy a lift from work to the garage yesterday.’
‘Her landlady rang the incident room.’ Gregson handed him an address. ‘She lives near here, so they want you to speak to her.’
‘I’ll head there now.’ Mitchell nodded to the invisible house. ‘Like I say, Amy will be out soon.’
‘See you later,’ said Gregson, raising the window.
Jumping back into the car, Mitchell revved the engine and slowly vanished into the rolling fog. Gregson settled down to wait, oblivious to the white BMW approaching along the alley without lights and pulling up behind. Muffled footsteps arrived at his driver’s door and his visitor tapped on the side window. Half expecting his colleague to have forgotten something, the policeman glanced up at the luminous eyes and razor fangs.
‘What the fu...’
Talons exploded through the glass. Gregson dived over the seats, booted open the passenger door and tumbled screeching onto the cobblestones. What in God’s name was this thing? Could this be their serial killer? Never, not even in his most bowel-churning nightmares, had he expected the murderer to look anything like this.
Amy heard the shrieking and opened the back door.
‘Get inside!’ screamed Gregson, bursting from the fog some twenty feet away, his face petrified. ‘Get inside now!’
Something dark loomed behind and the policeman was yanked back. Drifting whiteness enveloped him and the noises reminded Amy of an eager child ripping wrapping paper from a present.
‘Oh, no!’ She stepped back inside as a steaming red splurge squirted from the fog to splatter at her feet. ‘Oh Jesus, no!’
The milky wall billowed and, for a second, the doctor could see. Her mind registered two things before the air currents changed and the nightmare vanished: a dismembered body in a pool of gore and the glowing eyes and fangs of the furry creature squatting over it. Rooted to the spot, she tried screaming, but couldn’t. Something broke the silence with a chuckle and footsteps began to approach. It was a safe bet they didn’t belong to Constable Gregson.
The laugh came again. ‘Code red,’ growled an inhuman voice. ‘Officer down.’
Amy slammed the door and rammed home the bolt. She raced to the front as something huge crashed into the wood, firing splinters and a hinge across the kitchen.
What was happening? What in Christ’s name was it?
Whimpering, she fumbled with the front door key, limbs shaking and mind racing. Thank God she lived in a terrace. If she escaped through the front, whatever that hideous thing was, it would be stuck in the rear alley. It couldn’t reach her without going around the row or literally smashing its way through. Unfortunately it had figured this out and settled upon the latter option. Moaning, to hear the kitchen door explode inwards, the doctor fled into the fog, raincoat flapping like a cloak, and ran blindly up Appleton Street. Something burst snarling from the house behind her, something that sounded decidedly unfriendly and none too pleased with its breakfast running away.
Two ghostly orbs suddenly glared in the fog and Amy rolled over the sloping bonnet of a Volkswagen Beetle. Most people are shocked when hit by a car, but she’d never felt so grateful.
‘Are you okay?’ Watson opened the door. ‘Good thing he was driving slow because of the fog...’
‘Move,’ screamed Amy, leaping onto his lap. ‘Get away from here now.’
Quist didn’t wait for explanations. Slamming into reverse, he stamped the accelerator, hurled the car around, and screeched out of Appleton Street.
‘Jesus!’ said Watson. ‘What the hell were you running from?’
‘Believe me,’ she panted. ‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Yes we do,’ said Quist.
Watson saw her terrified face. ‘No we don’t.’
Chapter 47
Hazard signs flashed above the M62 ordering motorists not to exceed fifty, but the electricity could have been put to better use. Like most of the cars racing along the misty motorway, Rex’s Ferrari hurtled west at eighty.
‘We’re over half-way,’ said Rex, passing signs for Dewsbury. ‘We’d have made better time if it hadn’t been for those idiots on the A64 crawling along because of the fog.’
‘You don’t seem worried.’ Fran regarded him curiously. ‘You’re very brave, aren’t you? I’m still scared after last night, and I’d be terrified by those tarot cards.’
Rex winked at her over the shades. ‘My training doesn’t allow me the luxury of fear. Anyway, the tarot thing is nonsense. If I listened to Marika’s daft prophesies, I’d stop looking at the calendar and start checking my watch.’
‘But what about the way your life lines have changed?’
He looked at his blank palm, coughed nervously and changed the subject. ‘There’s a s
ervice area coming up,’ he said. ‘I need petrol and cigarettes. If you fancy blowing twenty pounds on a sandwich, now’s your chance.’
Fran shook her head. ‘With all this, I don’t feel the least bit hungry, but I’ll phone my brother to let him know I’m coming. I lost my mobile back at Creeper’s.’
‘You can use mine.’ Rex fished the phone from his jacket. ‘I’ll try Quist again first. He may have discovered something about Lisa Mirren, even without my help. I wonder if he’s checked the answerphone yet. Lord knows what he thought about my blood-drinking cat message.’
‘He probably thought about straitjackets.’
The same message still played on Quist’s office machine. Fuming, Rex tried the home number. ‘Still no one there.’ He passed Fran the mobile. ‘I can’t believe I’m letting that idiot help me investigate.’
‘This investigation of yours...’ she said, keying digits into the phone. ‘You told me all about it, but you never mentioned who owns Ebor Pharmaceuticals.’
Rex shrugged. ‘Amy never said.’
‘But whoever owns the lab may have answers...’
‘I know you’re only trying to help,’ he laughed, ‘but why not leave the detective work to men, okay?’
‘Okay, I suppose you’re the expert. By the way, this phone of yours isn’t working.’
‘It’s fully charged. You’re obviously not doing it right.’ Rex tore up the slip road into the Hartshead Moor Services and braked outside the complex. He took the mobile and stabbed the menu. The back fell off and a spaghetti of micro-circuitry landed in his lap.
‘Really?’ Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘Perhaps you could give me a lesson.’
***
Quist arrived at Briar Cottage seconds after Rex’s failed phone call. A dazed Amy Clarkson shuffled in behind him followed by Watson.
The teenager clicked on the lounge light. ‘You almost left your gift in the car,’ he said, standing the wooden gnome on a table.