by Deanna Chase
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t tell them your name.’
Irritation flickers in his eyes . ‘I’m not an idiot.’
‘Good. You’re looking for a man called Arzo.’
‘That’s it? Arzo? Is that his first name or last name?’
I consider. ‘Huh. I have no idea.’
‘Great,’ he mutters, ‘just great.’
***
While O’Shea starts on the phone, I ponder my next move. The most useful information at this point would probably be which Family the attacks originated from. Not that I have any hope of penetrating any of the Families, but at least I could narrow my focus and find someone connected to them who could provide more leads. I could go back and scour Wiltshore Avenue and Tam’s office but they’ll be sealed-off crime scenes by now and I can’t risk bumping into the police. The veil of secrecy surrounding all five Families is annoying.
I chew the inside of my cheek. I may not be able to work out which Family is involved but perhaps I can work out which ones aren’t. None of this could happen without the sanction of a Family Head. From what little I know, the Heads keep their vampires on extraordinarily short leashes; any vampire who killed or attempted to kill a human without getting the okay first would sign their own death warrant. It would be suicide to march up to one of the Heads and ask whether they were involved but I know at exactly what times the attacks went down. O’Shea’s had to be in the window between 9 and 9.50am, just before I entered the house. The office assault happened at about 3.20pm. Whoever carried out the attacks would have contacted their Head immediately afterwards to inform them of their respective failure and success. If the Heads happened to be out in public, then maybe someone noticed whether they received any calls or not. It’s a long shot, but worth pursuing.
I check my watch. It’s still early in the morning but I reckon today’s papers will already have been delivered to the newsagents. It’s of little consequence that the shops themselves won’t be open yet.
I leave the flat, taking the time to check whether I’m being watched. I don’t think it’s likely; if anyone knew where I was, I’d probably already be in handcuffs or dead. Fortunately I can’t see anyone lurking in the shadows, but I walk slowly and double back once to be sure. It seems, however, that I’m still in the clear.
I locate a newsagent’s on the corner of the next street. It’s small and grubby, with several handwritten cards posted in the window offering things like discreet massages (any time day or night!) and mixed-breed puppies. As I’d hoped, there’s a range of freshly delivered newspapers in neatly tied piles in front of the shop.
I ignore the broadsheets and head for the tabloids. The front pages turn my stomach. Each one details the massacre at Dire Straits in lurid colour. One of them, even more nauseatingly, includes a terrible photo of me with the headline ‘Is this a killer?’. That’s really not good. I realise how foolish I was to go to that nightclub earlier; Mr Tortoiseshell is unlikely to forget my face. One glimpse of this paper and he’ll be on the phone to some hack, selling his story. This entire area is compromised. So much for another three days at 14A Markmore Close.
With no one but myself to blame, I pull out my last crumpled five pound note from my bodice and throw it down onto the nearest pile of papers. I sigh heavily. At least it’s still dark.
As soon as I get back to the flat, O’Shea glares at me. ‘Where have you been?’
I don’t bother answering; instead I start tidying up the debris around him. ‘We need to leave.’
‘What? Why?’
I pick up the corner of the bed frame and release it from the chair leg. ‘Help me put this back.’
He glances at me scornfully but he does as I say. The pair of us take it back to the bedroom and slot it back into place.
‘Have you found Arzo yet?’
‘No.’
‘Has Rogu3 called back?’
‘No.’
Damn it. I didn’t think it would take him this long. ‘Lucy’ must have covered her tracks well. I debate whether to call him myself and decide against it. It’s more important to get away from Markmore Close while the streets are still quiet.
I hand O’Shea the pile of newspapers. He stares down at the first headline. ‘Wow. Did you see what happened to this firm?’ He scans the story. ‘It’s a bunch of private dicks who’ve been slaughtered.’ There’s an element of awe in his voice that makes me want to punch him in the face. ‘Damn silly name for a company if you ask me.’
‘I saw it,’ I say shortly.
‘You’re a PI, aren’t you? Did you know these guys?’
I don’t respond but something in my face must have given me away because his eyes widen. ‘Oh.’
‘This whole thing is about more than just you and me, O’Shea.’
He takes several rapid breaths. ‘It was just a fucking enhancement spell,’ he whispers.
I pick up my plastic bag and give the flat one last sweep, trying hard not to snap at him that clearly it’s a hell of a lot more than just an enhancement spell.
‘Let’s go,’ I mutter.
He grabs my arm on the way out. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve caused you a lot of problems and I still don’t even know your name.’
‘It’s Bo.’ I have to look away from the sympathy in his face.
‘I’m sorry, Bo,’ he says quietly.
‘Yeah,’ I sigh, ‘me too.’
***
We walk quickly to the car. There’s still no sign of anyone following, although a few early risers drive past us. ‘Where are we going to go?’ he asks.
‘I’ve got a lock-up garage. It’s safe.’
His nose wrinkles. ‘A garage?’
‘Do you have any better ideas?’ I snap.
He roots around in his back pocket, pulls out a wallet and grins when he looks inside. He waves a shiny credit card in my face. ‘Yes, I do.’
I roll my eyes. ‘I thought you said you weren’t an idiot. We can’t use a credit card, it’ll lead the police straight to us.’
‘Duh, it’s not my card.’ He points to the name on it: Robert Thomson.
‘Who is Robert Thomson?’
He shrugs.
‘O’Shea?’ I say, warningly.
‘I found it.’
‘You found it.’
‘Right before I went to Wiltshore. It might not have been reported yet.’
‘That’s ridiculous! Of course, it’ll have been reported. We can’t use it. I can’t believe you just nicked somebody’s bloody credit card! Is that even your wallet?’
He looks hurt. ‘Yes. And I only took it from someone who won’t be needing it. The chances of it being reported are miniscule.’
My suspicion deepens. ‘Explain.’
He glances out the window. ‘Sometimes I help out a mate who works at a morgue.’
‘Jesus! You robbed a dead guy?’
‘Like I said, he won’t be needing it.’
I feel disgusted. I can’t believe I’m driving around the London streets with vampires and police chasing me in the company of a petty thief who steals from corpses. ‘Even if it’s not been reported, we can’t just waltz into a hotel and hand it over.’
‘Why not?’
‘Look at the third newspaper,’ I say tersely.
He flicks through, stopping when he sees my face. He whistles. ‘That’s a crap photo of you.’
‘You are such a wanker. The point is, I’m likely to be recognised. And you’re covered in dried blood.’
‘I know.’ He sounds cheery. ‘But I also know a place to go. Turn left here.’
I give him my death stare. Unfortunately it doesn’t affect him any more than it affects my grandfather.
‘I mean it, Bo, trust me. It’s my life on the line too, you know.’
I indicate and turn in the direction he’s pointing. I have a feeling I’m going to regret this. After about fifteen minutes, when O’Shea tells me to pull up at the curb and I see the neon sign, I realise my
feeling was right.
‘A love hotel?’
‘It’s perfect,’ he grins.
‘O’Shea, if this is somewhere you often come…’
‘It’s not. In fact, I’ve never been here. I’ve just heard about it from a few friends.’
I’m not quite sure what’s harder to believe: that he has friends or that I’m sitting in a car about to go into a love hotel with him.
‘There’ll be a front desk. We’ll still have to register.’
He shakes head. ‘Didn’t I tell you to trust me?’
He gets out of the car. I have no choice but to follow him, keeping my head down when we enter the lobby – although ‘lobby’ would be a flattering term for the tiny space at the hotel’s entrance. It’s lit with a buzzing fluorescent strip light and smells strongly of disinfectant. I dread to think what odour is being covered up. O’Shea’s right though: there’s no reception and no receptionist, just what looks like a vending machine.
‘Ta da!’ he trills. ‘You’ve got to love the Japanese for giving us this concept. To avoid embarrassment, all you need to do is swipe your card.’ He takes the unfortunate Mr Thomson’s credit card and puts in the machine. ‘And then you simply choose your room. Would you like the water bed or the S&M theme room?’
I look at him. He nods. ‘You’re quite right. I’ve had enough of handcuffs recently too.’
He jabs in his selection and there’s a clunking sound as a key drops into the slot below. He scoops it out and offers it to me. I shake my head; I’m not touching that thing. I’ve got enough problems as it is without getting a communicable disease. He shrugs and pockets it.
‘Well, Bo, let’s see what delights room 302 has in store for us.’
God. I really want to punch him.
***
The room’s not as bad as I imagined it would be. The sheets on water bed smell clean and freshly laundered. It’ll do, I suppose. It’s better than sitting in the damp lock-up.
O’Shea sits down and takes out the phone I’d given him. ‘Only 999 hospitals to go!’
I ignore him and spread out the newspapers, flicking past the front pages to avoid seeing those horrific pictures again. These papers are little more than gossip rags; if the Heads of the Families were out and about yesterday, I’m betting it’ll be reported.
I get lucky in the very first newspaper. It seems the Bancroft Head spent all day in a very exclusive spa. Back, crack and sack, I wonder, before remembering the Bancroft Head is not a Lord – she’s a Lady. I pull open the drawer of a small side table. This might be a seedy love hotel, but it’s still got a Gideon bible in case you want a little spiritual as well as physical enlightenment. I rip out a blank page from the back and scribble down the spa’s details. When I look up, I realise O’Shea has stopped speaking into the phone and is staring at me, aghast.
‘What?’
‘You’re going to hell,’ he whispers.
‘You’re kidding me. You’ll steal from a dead man and deal in dodgy magic, but I’m the bad one for taking out a blank page from a bible?’
His expression doesn’t change. Jeez. Daemons. I go back to scanning the newspaper. When I reach the classified ads, I throw it onto the floor and pull over the next one. This has the spa story as well as a more serious article about a breakfast meeting between Gully and Stuart. The journalist was speculating whether they were considering joining forces to rid themselves of the other Families. That theory is ridiculous but the fact that two of them were together at the same time and in the same place – and just when I was entering Wiltshore Avenue – is going to make my life a damn sight easier. God bless those vampires for ostentatiously sitting in the middle of Hyde Park at a fully decked-out table. And god bless the nosy tourist who captured the entire thing on film and uploaded it to YouTube. If only I still had my smartphone, I could watch it right now.
I’m just finishing skimming through all the papers when there’s a crow of delight from O’Shea. He grins at me and gives a thumbs up. Excellent: he must have found Arzo. It finally feels as if we’re getting somewhere. There are still no answers, but at least there are places to go to ask some questions.
‘Brighton Hospital,’ he says. ‘I didn’t think I was ever going to find him with that one name but it turns out I’m even more charming than I’d realised.’
I try not to look too exasperated.
‘He’s out of surgery,’ he continues, ‘and doing well. Visiting hours are from nine am.’
I’m shocked that Arzo is on the mend. I’d have sworn his swarthy cheeks were pressed up against death’s door. ‘Good work,’ I say to O’Shea.
He pats himself on the shoulder. ‘I know.’
I check my watch. The sky outside has lightened but it’s still only seven am. The Steam Team will be open again in another hour. If I’m to venture outside though, I need some kind of disguise.
My eyes settle on the cream pillow case. It’s not perfect but it’ll do. I pull at the seams of the case, ripping it apart until it is one long strip of material. I pile my hair on top of my head and wind the fabric around it. I look at my reflection in the wall-to-wall ceiling mirror. It looks a bit weird, but it’ll do at a push until I can get hold of something better. Judging by the expression on O’Shea’s face, it’s not the most attractive look in the world but I’m hardly trying to garner any admirers right now.
‘You need to stay here until I can get you some clean clothes,’ I say.
He seems relieved. To be fair, he was almost killed yesterday and he probably still needs rest and recuperation. In fact, I’d quite like to hunker down and hide away from the world too. But more than that, I want to find the bastard who’s setting me up and who destroyed my firm. I raise a hand to O’Shea in brief farewell and return to the big, scary world.
It’s considerably busier on the streets now. Fortunately, most people are in a rush to get to work and either half-asleep or too downtrodden to pay me attention. Equally helpfully, Londoners have this habit of avoiding looking strangers in the eye so they can pretend nobody else exists. Some days it annoys me; today it could save my life. I walk briskly to the car and nobody gives me a second glance, then I drive to The Steam Team.
I arrive early, parking round the back. I’m more nervous than I’d like to admit. The remnants of my smashed smartphone are probably still on the pavement in front of Rebecca’s dry cleaners. It would be stupid to imagine that the police haven’t already been around to check the premises and it’s possible they’re still keeping them under surveillance. At least I know that there’s a back door.
I hurry down a small alleyway, then clamber over the stone wall at the end, jumping into the scrap of back garden that belongs to the shop. Whoever attacked O’Shea must have done this back at Wiltshore Avenue to avoid me catching sight of them. I smile grimly. I need to be better at sneaking around than they were.
I quickly pick the lock on the back door and let myself inside to wait for Becks. I’m relieved to spot my leather jacket and the rest of my clothes hanging up on one of the doors. As much as I like the dress, it’s impractical and, given all the crawling around and sweating I’ve been doing, it’s rather smelly. I nip into the room where I showered before and quickly change. It’s a gamble putting on the same clothes I was wearing yesterday morning but I decide it’s exactly what my pursuers – be they of the human or triber variety – won’t expect.
In the back room where the unclaimed clothes are kept, I find a spare suit that looks like it’ll fit O’Shea, and a flowery hat that was probably worn by some over-bearing mother-in-law at a wedding. It’s an incongruous look with the dark leather, but it’s a step up from the pillow case and I decide it makes me look like some kind of funky art student. I’m just adjusting it when I hear Rebecca come in.
‘I don’t know why you’re here again,’ she says.
I freeze. Shit. Someone is with her. ‘As I told you, I’ve not seen Bo Blackman for at least a month.’
‘And as I t
old you, I find that difficult to believe.’
It’s a deep male voice. There’s an edge to it that suggests it’s more than just human. Which means he’s probably a vampire. I keep very still and try not to breathe. Vampire is much worse than police.
‘I don’t want to hurt Ms Blackman.’
Lie.
‘I just want to ask her a few questions.’
Utter horseshit.
‘Well, if I see her I’ll tell her you’re looking for her. What’s your name again?’ I have to give it to Becks, she’s remarkably unruffled. I silently applaud her control. But if this is the same vampire who’s responsible for the other attacks, then she could be in a lot of danger. I tense, ready to spring out if need be. Not that I have any chance of facing off against a vampire, but maybe the sight of me will distract him.
‘Ursus.’
I blink. Sounds like arse. Quite fitting, really.
‘Here’s my card. She can call me on that number day or night.’
The door jangles, signalling his departure. I hear Becks exhale in relief. I stay where I am, waiting for her to come round to the back to find me. Arse probably still has eyes on the front of the shop. I’m tempted to leave her in peace; she’ll be safer if I leave without seeing her, but I need to see that card. I need to know which Family that vampire is from.
As soon as she rounds the corner and sees me, she shrieks, then clutches her chest and gasps.
‘Bloody HELL, Bo, you just about gave me a heart attack!’
‘I’m sorry.’ I give her a moment to recover. ‘I won’t stay. It’s not safe for you if I’m here. I just need to see the card that vampire left.’
She looks surprised, then passes it over. ‘I was going to chuck it in the bin with the others.’
‘What others?’
She looks grim. ‘Wait here.’
While Rebecca disappears into her office, I check the card. It’s a deep midnight blue, signifying the Montserrat Family. I’m feeling pleased with myself until she emerges holding several other cards. I flip through each one, my horror growing. Red: Medici. Black: Stuart. Silver: Gully. White: Bancroft. Every single freaking vampire Family has been here looking for me.