by Paul Starkey
Feeling uncomfortable, and not a little patronising, Chalice gently patted the back of her head. “It’s ok,” she said. Her mind was reeling. She’d never known her own father, and her life had always seemed slightly empty because of that, in the curious way a person could miss something they’d never had. But perhaps she had been lucky. There would be one less parent to mourn come the day, and some fathers, just some, were monsters. Christ, if Lucy had grown up in that kind of environment…suddenly things clicked into place. The fact she hadn’t screamed for help—probably conditioned not too—and the killing of Fox—two birds with one stone, two men with one bullet.
Lucy’s sobs had calmed. She eased the young woman’s head back from her chest. “Let’s go downstairs,” she suggested. “We’ll leave this room closed, nobody’s going to come up here, you don’t even have to come upstairs if you don’t want to.”
Lucy smiled. “Ok.”
She let Lucy go first through the doorway. As she followed she cast one last look back at the impromptu shroud covering the body. She didn’t envy whoever ended up cleaning this up.
She pulled the door gently shut behind her, as she did so though it was as if the door was caught in a sudden draft, and it seemed to fling itself into the frame with so much force that Chalice felt the shockwave reverberate up her arm even as it slammed shut.
For a moment she just stood, rubbing her arm as she looked at the door. There was no window open in the bedroom so how’d that happened? She smiled. The fireplace, obviously a draft had come from the fireplace. She turned to look at Lucy. The younger woman was hugging herself as if frozen, and Chalice felt herself shudder too.
“Draughty old house isn’t it? Let’s go downstairs where it’s warmer.”
Chapter twenty five
When the bang sounded overhead, Tyrell’s head snapped upwards to stare at the ceiling, and he felt his heart begin to pound again. It’s another gunshot, his mind told him. And that suggested only one thing; Chalice had killed Lucy, either in revenge or else to tie up loose ends. Hadn’t she said “I’ll…we’ll be down soon”?
“It’s just a door slamming, John,” said Ibex.
Tyrell looked across the drawing room. Quintus Armstrong was stood by the globe, its northern hemisphere had been lifted off and now rested on a bracket; the southern half held several decanters. The American was pouring himself a drink, scotch by the look of it. For a moment Tyrell understood why. Shock at what had gone on upstairs, and he almost wanted a large one himself, even though he knew the aftereffects wouldn’t be pretty. His tolerance for alcohol was nowhere near what it had once been, though he wasn’t sure if this was mere age, or the illness.
Still he wanted a drink, a big glass of scotch that he could down in one and…
Ibex took a sip then let out a satisfied sigh. “Want one?” he said with a cool smile.
“Is anyone else cold?”
Tyrell looked over to where Cheung was stood by the TV, which was still displaying the CCTV images. The light flickered over Cheung, making it look like he was standing before a roaring fire rather than a television. The image was made yet more incongruous by the dead fireplace beyond him. The young man was still ashen faced, still looked zoned out. Still Tyrell agreed with him. “It’s definitely got colder in here.”
Ibex, glass in hand, walked over to the nearest radiator nestled below on of the windows. He placed a palm to the metal. “Still hot.” He smiled again. “It’s probably just shock, Lord knows we’re all feeling it.” He took another mechanical sip.
The door to the room swung open, and they all turned sharply, even Ibex Tyrell noted. Lucy walked in; head downcast as if she didn’t want to make eye contact with any of them. Well that made sense he thought, although she has nothing to feel guilty about. He’d been annoyed at Brendan Fox’s bullying, wished he could have put him in his place. The man he’d once been would have. And then maybe Lucy wouldn’t have anything to feel guilty about.
Chalice came next, closing the door behind her in a very slow and precise manner, not letting go of the handle until the door was firmly in its frame. It seemed an odd thing to do somehow. She gestured at Lucy to sit down at the table then walked over to Tyrell.
“Doing ok, John?”
He nodded. “Feel a bit jittery, but I’ll cope.”
She smiled, there was a weary look in her eyes. “You look tied. I’m guessing you didn’t get much of a rest.”
His pride twitched. “I’ll be ok,” he said. In truth he felt dead on his feet.
Her smiled widened. “Given your reputation, I’m assuming you used to be a much better liar.”
It could have been taken as an insult, Fox would have meant it as one, but he detected no snide edge to her words, and her smile was infectious.
“No, I’ve always been terrible at it. In hindsight I probably shouldn’t have become a spy. Luckily the KGB and the IRA were pretty hopeless.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Rank amateurs by all accounts.”
Her gaze wandered the room before returning to focus on him. “I don’t want people going off on their own, not with a body upstairs. So I’m going to insist everyone stays here.
“That said you do look in need of a bit of respite, John. Why don’t you see if you can grab a few Zs, those chairs look kinda comfy.”
He followed her eyes to the two green leather armchairs. For a moment he was tempted to resist the idea, but then he nodded.
“We’ll try and keep the noise down.” And then she reached forwards and gripped his forearm. Their eyes locked for a moment. Tyrell wasn’t sure he understood what was implicit within them, but he nodded anyway, and she followed suit.
He decided to take the armchair that faced away from the dining table, and as he made himself comfortable he noted that everyone was now at the other end of the room. All he had for company was a cold fireplace, an empty chair, and a bookcase that seemed replete with too many lonely spaces between books. As he nestled down in the seat he shuddered once more. Hot radiators or not he was sure it was getting colder. He tugged his coat tighter around him, glad that Cheung and Quintus had accompanied him to his room to retrieve his trainers and the sweatshirt, which he’d now slipped over his shirt.
I’m not going to sleep, he thought as he stared at the spine of an especially large tome. His mind was still racing, and he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong, that he’d seen something important and hadn’t recognised it for what it was.
I’m not going to sleep, his mind repeated, and then a few seconds later his eyelids drooped and darkness claimed him.
* * *
One down, one to go, thought Chalice as Tyrell shuffled off to the chair. It wasn’t that she wanted him out of the way, but things had started to go to hell for Bottlewood, and for some reason she couldn’t fathom, she had the feeling she might need to rely on John Tyrell before morning, and she wanted him in the best condition he could be.
It was bad enough she was a man down, but beyond the loss of Brendan she’d potentially lost everyone else. Ok, so maybe she’d never had Ibex, but Lucy still seemed in shock, and Thomas Cheung…
He couldn’t bring himself to look at Lucy. She understood why, but with one of her team dead she needed him more than ever. “Quintus, would you mind taking your seat again?”
The American regarded her for a moment. “Am I allowed to take my new friend along?” he asked raising the glass in his hand.
Like I give a shit… “Of course.” she forced a smile.
“Excellent,” said Ibex and headed for where Lucy was already sat.
Cheung was still staring at the CCTV images. Chalice walked over to him. “Tom, can I have a quick word please?”
He looked at her, eyes moving quickly so as not to linger on anything, anyone else in the process. “Sure.”
She gestured towards the door, and led the way. She didn’t open it though, she’d meant what she said to Tyrell, she needed them all together from now on,
and even if someone went to the bathroom they wouldn’t go alone.
She stood close to the young man, tried to ignore the anguish in his eyes. “Are you going to be ok?” she asked, leaning in close so she could whisper. On another day those words would have suggested compassion, understanding, but right now she squeezed them in her mind so that when they came from her lips they were merciless.
It was a calculated risk, but she knew Cheung well enough to know that he was a professional, and more than that; he was a man with a real sense of duty. He wasn’t the sort to sleep on the job and she needed to remind him of that. Needed to keep things emotionless from her end, because that might, just might, encourage a similar response in him.
Of course if she gambled wrong it might push him over the edge.
For a heartbeat she wondered…but then he straightened his shoulders. “I’ll be fine,” he replied with a tone even icier than hers had been. The look in his eyes said he thought she was a bitch, but it also said that he understood. He’d get angry later, upset later, he’d curse her later, but for right now he’d do his job.
She wanted to smile, the clasp him as she’d clasped Tyrell. Instead she just nodded and said, “Good. Go check the CCTV.”
When his back was turned she allowed herself a tiny, barely audible sigh. She checked her watch. Not even eleven yet, not even the witching hour. She ran a hand through her hair. It was likely going to be a long night.
Chapter twenty six
He’d have never admitted it, but Quintus Armstrong had noticed a change in temperature. Not when Tyrell and Cheung had raised the issue what, fifteen minutes ago? No, then he’d thought they were in shock.
But now…
Now it definitely felt colder in here. He desperately wanted to go and feel a radiator again, but somehow he knew they’d still be hot. Perhaps it was a quirk of old English houses. Weren’t they all full of nooks and crannies and gaps and holes where the heat would leach out? Likely it had gotten colder outside and the chill wind was sucking heat from the house like moisture from pores.
Or perhaps, he considered, I’m cold because I’m nervous?
The death of Fox had interrupted his planning, now he was reduced to winging it, and while he could come up with the names, he worried that he’d be caught out if Chalice Knight decided to go back and quiz him about Desmond M’Benga or any of the other fictitious Nigerian spies and Chinese handlers he’d created.
“So how long has M’Benga worked for the Chinese?”
“Eighteen months,” he replied instantly.
“Exactly eighteen months?”
“Pretty much, I don’t know the exact timeframe.”
She stared at him, tapping her pencil against the notebook in front of her while she did so. Though the tape recorder was still running, and though Lucy was taking notes, Chalice it seemed had decided to add her own record of the meeting. He knew she was trying to stare inside his head, trying to figure out if he was lying or not.
He removed his glasses and stared right back at her. He wasn’t about to give anything away. He’d survived working for the Americans, the Russians, and the British all at the same time, had lied to senior KGB figures and men who’d gone on to become Congressmen. He’d lied to lawyers and police detectives and none of them had ever seen past the cool façade he exuded.
Perhaps because it wasn’t really a façade, because there was nothing phoney, it wasn’t an act, he really was that emotionless. For a time he’d wondered if he were a sociopath, but he’d quickly dismissed the notion. Not because he feared it was true, but because it didn’t matter. He was who he was, and he liked who he was. He wouldn’t have hated himself even if he was a sociopath, or a psychopath, or queer, or even a paedophile. The world liked to label people, to put them in specific little boxes and file them away.
Well Quintus Armstrong knew one thing about himself with absolute certainty. There was no neat little box with his name on, and that was the one thing he truly took pleasure in. Being different, being superior to everyone else, in deceiving even those practised in detecting deceit.
She looked away, but even so Quintus restricted his victory smile to his imagination. She scribbled something on the pad then looked back up again. It was a loose, unfocused look, not the hard stare of before. “And how long has been blackmailing Brian MacTavish?”
“Pretty much the whole time.” MacTavish was a member of the Scottish Parliament; Quintus had read about him in that day’s Guardian, and had incorporated him into his web because rumours mentioned in the article suggested MacTavish liked rent boys. Though his short-term memory was excellent, it faded quickly without reinforcement. By tomorrow he’d likely have forgotten all about the unfortunate Scot, but for now he served a purpose as another tiny piece of the jigsaw.
Lying amused him, even off the cuff like this, but as smart as he was, he knew there was a limit to how long he could keep it up. Chalice was a crude interrogator, but sooner or later even the lousiest questioner would start to see the gaps in Quintus’ mosaic, and she’d begin to winkle away at them like a dentist excising a rotten tooth.
“Any chance of another drink?”
Chalice looked at his empty glass. “I’d rather you didn’t drink anymore alcohol.”
“Takes more than a few scotches to inebriate me,” he replied with a grin, laying on the good old boy charm again. “And like I said, I talk easier when I’m lubricated.” He gently shook the glass as if it held a pair of die he was about to roll.
Her eyes narrowed. “Tea, coffee, or a soft drink. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Fine. Lucy, do you mind?”
Lucy smiled broadly. “Of course not.”
“I’ll help,” he offered, rising up out of his seat.
“No,” said Chalice. “You’ll stay here with me, you’re my responsibility and I’m not letting you out of my sight now.”
He shrugged and sat back down, wondering if the damn woman ever allowed herself to be happy? Probably doesn’t even smile when she comes, he thought.
“Lucy, Take Tom with you.”
The younger woman was standing now. “I really can manage on my own,” she said.
Chalice was looking at her, her countenance soft. “Let Tom go with you, please.”
“Ok.”
Cheung didn’t look comfortable with the idea, but Lucy took him by the hand and led him out of the room. Quintus found the image amusing. You could lead a horse to water and all that.
He and Chalice were alone now, or so he thought until a sudden grunt, a fragment of a snore, reminded him that Tyrell was still here. Poor, broken John. He might as well be a hundred miles away for what good he was.
“So,” said Chalice, tapping the notebook again. “Tell me more about what M’Benga has on MacTavish.”
Quintus smiled and continued inventing.
* * *
Cheung’s mouth was dry, but it wasn’t from lack of moisture. He stood in the centre of the kitchen whilst Lucy busied herself taking various jars and containers out of the box she’d brought with them. The box Brendan had complained about carrying, how long ago? Six hours at least; it felt like longer, felt like Fox had been dead for days, like it had been weeks since they’d picked up Quintus Armstrong in that damn car park. Worse, it seemed like he hadn’t seen Nancy in months, which was absurd, as he’d left home early that morning in response to Chalice’s clarion call to action.
Bottlewood was go.
Rape and death had never part of the plan though.
He was leafing through a pile of magazines and leaflets on the kitchen table. More than a little of it was junk mail but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t interested in any of it, he was using it as a distraction, as an excuse not to talk to Lucy, he didn’t even want to be close to her.
Not because she had killed his colleague, not because he felt she was dirty or tainted goods now, but because it was his fault. If he hadn’t offered to take Fox’s place none o
f this would have happened.
Guilt was something Thomas knew a lot about, and this wasn’t the first time he’d felt responsible for something. He wondered if it was his heritage. He was British, felt British, sounded British, but his parents and grandparents had instilled certain things in him like duty and pride that, perhaps, weren’t as strong in modern Britain as they used to be.
He lifted a week old newspaper, then a magazine devoted to sailing, beneath this was a catalogue filled with thermal underwear.
No saucy lingerie catalogues?
He could almost hear Brendan’s voice.
Bastard.
He thought of Nancy, thought, as men can’t help but do, about how he would feel if someone did to her what Fox had done to Lucy. A mixture of anger and helplessness washed over him, and he had to fight the urge to pick up the pile of papers and hurl them at the far wall with a frustrated roar following in their wake.
He bit his bottom lip and picked up the thermals catalogue; ready to toss it onto the second pile he was creating. Instead he paused, catalogue held in mid-air whilst he stared down into the eyes of hell.
The dog stared back up at him, hate in its eyes. Its jaws were wide, a gaping maw revealing teeth that were broken and yellow, yet looked all the more threatening for it. Blood dripped garishly from the tips of incisors, and the dog’s dark fur was matted with the stuff.
Hellhound stalks Devon family! So proclaimed the lurid yellow headline below the dog’s head. Cheung put the catalogue down and reached for the magazine. Part of him didn’t want to touch it, the dog looked filthy, rancid, and the artwork was so well done that he almost imagined the magazine would feel diseased if he touched it.
He picked it up anyway. His parents and grandparents had also instilled a need to be level-headed within him. The magazine was called Paranormal Insight, a monthly publication, and this particular issue was about eight months old. He flicked through it, grateful to no longer be staring at the hellhound, and found the magazine filled with all manner of ridiculous nonsense; Ghosts, aliens, demonic possession. There was even a story about a woman claiming to be regularly sexually assaulted by an especially randy poltergeist. Cheung almost smiled, until he caught a glimpse of Lucy as she shifted position to open a drawer and begin rummaging inside.