‘What about the other body?’
‘That one’s just dead.’
Haddad straightened. She gave me a weak smile. ‘Autopsy’s going to be a bitch. The coroner hates corpses that move.’
Slender threw up his hands. ‘Fine. If it’s not a rotter, that’s your department, not mine. I’ve still got one on the loose. At least one, and if he’s bitten that flying aberration then I’ve got a flying zombie on my hands. I’ve got enough to do.’
Aberration. I ignored it, but I didn’t miss the look the cat shifter and the werebee gave him.
10
The tube was in lockdown and I didn’t have a car, so I asked Haddad if I could get a lift to the office so I could check on Obe.
‘Fine, I’ll get DS Little to take you, but there’s a condition. Brannick must have gone to someone, and chances are that’s going to be someone dumb enough to think talking to the police is worse than risking the zompocalypse. I know what the metanatural community are like. No one wants to talk to us.’ She grimaced. ‘They won’t even talk to me. You’re Lipscombe. They’ll trust you, and I know you’ve got the contacts. All I want you to do is put the word out.’
That sounded fair to me. The cat seemed less than impressed at being offered out as a taxi service, but he took the car keys and walked out to the street without a backwards look.
I left Haddad hissing something into Dunne’s ear, and because they both kept looking in my direction, I assumed it was about me. Light drizzle settled on my hair and face. My stomach was still turning over, half post-death and half from the stench of the corpses. I’m used to the stink of death, but I’ll never like it. I lifted my face to the sky, grateful for the fresh air.
The water soaked into my skin and made the harpy scratch ache. Are there bacteria in harpy claws? They didn’t look too clean. On the other hand, that might imply bacteria went to heaven. Or hell. And which would spending eternity stuck under the claws of a harpy be? I rubbed my eyes. It was a thought better suited to the tail end of a bottle of wine.
I followed Little to a white Vauxhall. He pressed the key ring, and it beeped twice as it unlocked. I climbed in and was assaulted by the chemical reek of a lemon-scented car freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. The sickly stench permeated even the smell of sick in my nose, and the nausea rose again. I pushed the button to roll the window down.
Little started the car, turned the heating up to the max, then pressed the button on the driver’s side to roll my window back up. I didn’t have the energy to argue. I’ve never met a cat who liked the cold.
The constable at the end of the road moved the cordon so we could get through. Away from the disapproving frown of Haddad, Little perked up a little. ‘Hey, if you can go to the underworld, can you bring people back? That would be cool.’
‘No.’ I tried to put a sense of finality into the word, but the tone flew over Little’s head.
‘Have you tried?’
‘Dead is dead.’
‘Not for you.’
‘The lines of the dead aren’t meant to be crossed. I’m different. Anyone else, and you risk breaking something you really don’t want to break.’ I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes, but the cat still didn’t get the hint.
‘You know I’ve never seen Slender that angry. Still... flying zombie. They’re going to have to get some really big nets. Or’—he grinned, showing all his teeth—’they could recruit pigeon shifters to peck him down.’
I smiled, despite myself. ‘Now you’re just being silly. The pigeons would never collaborate with the Met.’
He laughed, then fell silent.
The streets should have been deserted, but Londoners have never been good at obeying rules. Little stopped at a pedestrian crossing for a couple of students breaking the lockdown. They hadn’t been the first we’d seen, but he raised a single finger from the steering wheel and pointed it at them.
‘Them. They’re going to be first to go if the zompocalypse starts. Hell, they’re young and fit. They’ll get away after the first bite and end up being the ones who fuel it. Idiots.’
We drove the rest of the way in silence. The last time I’d seen this was the last time a zombie got loose—a fourteen-year-old girl who’d been sheltered by her family. That had been under Slender’s predecessor, and the reason there’d been a job opening shortly after. It hadn’t been a bad time for me at least. I’d stayed in, doors locked and curtains drawn, and had a box-set marathon. Of course, the clean-up afterwards had been less fun.
She’d infected another five people within the week, and all the little zombie dominoes had tumbled until the NRTs had to dump fifty wriggling corpses into the pit. Once infection starts, it spreads quickly.
I couldn’t rid my mind of the image of all those neatly wrapped freezer parcels, and my thoughts kept shifting back to the dead girl on the bicycle. Her face had dimmed in my mind, but I could still feel the her of her—the slightly sweaty scent, her bulk, and the distracted way she’d brushed my question off. She had died violently, and recently. Without evidence to the contrary, the human meat in the freezer had to be her.
The bodies in the cars were a whole other problem. There was no reason they had anything to do with Malcolm or his family, but I wasn’t a big believer in coincidence. And soul magic? The thought turned my stomach.
Malcolm was out there somewhere and getting hungrier. Unless he ate soon, he would lose it completely, and that’s when the risk of zompocalypse was at its highest. All it took was for him to go savage in a crowded place. He’d be unlikely to be able to kill anyone, but he’d be able to get a few good bites out of the crowd before he was subdued. And how many of the bitten would just hand themselves in? To be thrown away as a living corpse? Never to see their loved ones again? Not enough.
I wanted to call him a fool and a jerk, but ultimately I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t also have run. The zompocalypse might be a scary thought, but it seemed a lot better when you considered what happened if the NRTs got hold of you.
11
The army stopped us twice before Little thought to stick a blue light on the roof, and by the time we pulled up outside the Trust offices, the sun was just visible overhead, a lighter grey disc in the grey clouds.
I exited onto the wet pavement and grabbed my backpack from the back seat. ‘Thanks for the lift.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Little leaned over and pulled my door shut.
The Trust had started life in the mid-nineteenth century as a charitable concern funded by the Lipscombe family, whose money came from cotton mills in Lancashire. Originally, the Trust handed out small sums enabling ‘respectable non-human persons’ to buy an apprenticeship or set up in trade, but sometime over the years, we’d stopped handing out money and started dispensing advice.
The charity currently occupied the top two floors of a fifties-built office block in East Croydon. We shared the building with a stationery company and an operation that claimed to get you compensation for work-related injuries. We’d been in the new premises for four years. I didn’t miss the old place. It had been bigger and more spacious but had been located on the site of an old poorhouse, and I’d never grown used to the dozens of little ghosts, dead from malnutrition, cholera, or worse, who haunted the corridors. The building was now owned by a hedge fund. I’d heard their fortunes had taken a turn for the worse since they’d moved in, and I couldn’t help wondering how much was down to poor morale.
We’d initially occupied all five floors of the Croydon building, but as we gradually ran out of money, we’d also gradually run out of people. At least three out of four desks were empty, although there was the occasional piece of evidence that someone had once sat at them—a coffee mug, a pen holder, a few photos left behind. In some ways they were the lucky ones—a redundancy package and time to find a new job. I’d been paid late two months in a row, and I wasn’t sure how much longer the Trust was going to keep going. We had plenty of stationery at least. The Pen People gave us freebi
es in exchange for letting them store supplies in our excess office space.
I cupped my hands to the glass door, but the security guard who usually sat behind the desk was missing. Likely he hadn’t left home before the lockdown had been declared. I slipped round the back of the building, keyed my code into the box, and took the stairs up to the fourth floor.
A large orange sticker plastered onto the door indicated the NRTs had already been there looking for Malcolm. I pushed it open.
Reception was empty, but a familiar voice drifted down the corridor, and the light was on in Obe’s office. An additional shape through the clouded glass indicated he had a visitor. The door opened, and Obe poked his head out.
‘Viv! I wasn’t sure you were going to be able to make it in.’ He came out all the way, shutting the door behind him.
‘I got a lift.’
Obe wore a threadbare jumper with a reindeer on it and brown corduroy trousers—the same clothes I’d left him in before the Christmas break. By the smell of him, it wasn’t a wash and rewear. He didn’t look well either. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot. He chewed on his bottom lip as he looked at me. It made his beard look like a small sea creature rolling in the surf.
It struck me that with Malcolm gone it would be up to someone else to give him the biannual hygiene talk and gently remind him about the need to shower frequently, using both soap and shampoo. Maybe I could get Donna and Habi to agree to draw straws.
Anyone else I would have given a hug, but Obe didn’t like being touched. Instead I nodded towards the glass door. ‘NRTs?’
‘No, they’ve gone. It’s Adam.’
‘Adam?’
‘Malcolm’s nephew. Neil’s son.’
‘Give me a few minutes to wash up and I’ll be with you.’
‘Okay.’ He offered me a cup of tea, but I refused. My stomach was still a bit queasy.
I pushed the door open to my office. The NRTs had been in there. The filing cabinet had been moved a few inches away from the wall, and the cushion on my chair had been shoved to the floor, presumably when one of the black-suited men had checked under my desk.
I grabbed the toiletry bag and change of clothes I kept in the bottom drawer. The clothes that had been clean when I’d put them on only hours earlier now felt soft and greasy, and I didn’t need a cat’s nose to tell me my skin and hair still carried the scent of decomposition and sick.
I stripped down in the disabled toilet that also functioned as First Aid Room and storage space. I washed my hair using soap from the dispenser, then rinsed it under the tap, using the hand dryer to dry it. My hair felt rough and frizzy under my fingers, and I made a mental note to bring some proper shampoo and conditioner into the office. I grimaced. I could still smell the faint odour of puke, but at least the scent of cheap soap was stronger. I brushed my teeth then grabbed the first aid box and dug out antiseptic ointment and some sticking plasters.
I wiped my face with a damp flannel, careful around the harpy scratch. Foundation came off my skin in tan streaks. Malcolm’s voice popped into my head. ‘You should wear makeup more often, Vivvie. It makes you more feminine. You know, less intimidating.’
The memory took me by surprise, and I barked out a laugh. For the first time in five years of washing makeup off a post-death face, I had the sudden urge to reapply it. Malcolm was dead. He’d never irritate me again. I’d never have to hassle him for another overdue press release. He’d never tell me another off-colour joke. I flipped the seat down on the toilet and sat heavily, face in hands, teeth clenched. I began to sob.
But then the memory of Malcolm’s dead face was replaced with the image of small cling-film-wrapped parcels. How old had the girl on the bicycle been? Fifteen?
I wiped at my eyes with the heel of my hand. My chest tightened with anger, and it washed away the sense of loss. Teeth clenched, I cleaned and disinfected the harpy scratch, feeling only rising rage at the idiot I’d been forced to share a workspace with for five years.
12
The tall man sitting opposite Obe was in his early thirties, broad faced and solidly built with meaty arms and the kind of fair skin that always looks a little flushed. He wore his white hair shaved close to his scalp in a way that indicated it was done more to hide encroaching baldness than any sense of style. He wore a grey hoodie and a leather cuff with multi-coloured charms on his left wrist.
‘You must be Malcolm’s nephew. I’m so, so sorry.’ I said. Adam held out his hand. His palm felt warm and soft.
‘Thanks.’ His pale blue eyes scrutinised mine, which were still red-rimmed and puffy. His were clear, but the moment his hand left mine, it returned to his jacket where both hands bunched into fists.
Obe was burrowed as far back in his chair as he could be, the back of it wedged against the wall.
I dragged a chair in from reception and cleared a space on the floor. The NRTs had knocked a potted plant off the top of Obe’s filing cabinet and tracked the soil into the carpet. There were two mugs of tea on Obe’s desk. Obe picked up the one in a Spiderman mug and held it with both hands, warming his fingers. ‘What happened to your face?’
‘Harpies.’
‘Oh.’
Adam gave me an appraising look, probably as the realisation I wasn’t completely human dawned on him.
I ignored his suddenly speculative expression. ‘So the NRTs were here? I assume they didn’t find him.’
Obe’s lower lip wobbled like a toddler’s under his beard. ‘No. They just dragged me out like I was a criminal. I had to wait outside. This is my space. My office. It’s private. It’s not right, Viv. You’re not allowed to treat people like that.’
Beside me, I felt rather than saw Adam’s body stiffen. I thought of Jillie and little Finn. Yes, you were. It wasn’t right, but it was allowed.
Obe pushed a piece of paper towards me—some sort of warrant. I wasn’t an expert, but it looked legitimate. Malcolm’s computer, his address book. Miscellaneous files.
‘Miscellaneous?’
‘They took everything in his filing cabinet.’ Obe shook his head slowly. ‘Malcolm had client files in there. Confidential files. And they wonder why non-humans don’t trust the police.’ Obe rubbed his temple with a grimy finger. ‘They could have just asked nicely.’
‘Why did they even want them?’ Adam asked. ‘He’s not hiding in a piece of paper.’
‘To try to track the source of infection, for one thing,’ I said. ‘And because they found bodies at the house.’
Adam made a choking noise. ‘What?’
I described the parcels in the freezer and the bodies at the abandoned car dealer. Adam’s pale skin flushed redder and redder as I spoke.
‘There’s no reason to think the bodies in the cars have anything to do with Malcolm,’ Obe said in a small voice.
‘And the one in the freezer?’
‘They’re mistaken. It can’t be human,’ Obe said.
I didn’t think so. A cat’s nose was never wrong.
Adam’s long frame shifted in the chair. His legs were long enough that he couldn’t unfold them without hitting Obe’s desk.
‘My uncle would never murder anyone. They’re wrong about the meat. You watch. Soon as it’s properly verified in a lab, they’ll look a right bunch of numpties. And the dealership closed before I started secondary school. It’s been empty for a long time. Anyone could have dumped bodies there. I’m more worried about my cousin. If Uncle Malcolm...’ He broke off, looking for the right words.
‘If Malcolm loses control, Ben’s in trouble,’ I said for him. He didn’t meet my eyes.
‘Maybe Ben’s flying home?’ Obe suggested.
Adam shook his head slowly. ‘You mean to St Kilda? Over a thousand miles? In sub-zero temperatures? Carrying a full-grown man? Have you seen the boy? He’s skinny as a rake. I’d be surprised if he could go a half mile.’
‘Okay, maybe not,’ I said. ‘But what was he even doing in London? I thought he was supposed to go home on Bo
xing Day.’
Adam leaned back in his chair. The plastic wobbled under his weight. ‘He did. I took him to the airport myself.’
‘When was this? Did you see him get on the plane?’
‘No, I said goodbye at the gate,’ Adam said. He swore softly. ‘He can’t have got on the plane. I don’t get it. Why wouldn’t he? And if he wanted to stay in London, why not just tell me?’
Because he knew Malcolm was dead, I thought. ‘What about Ben’s mother? Surely she noticed when he didn’t arrive?’
Adam picked up his mug of tea then put it down again immediately. ‘I don’t know. Annie would have called Malcolm, but he didn’t say anything to me. But more importantly, where the hell is he now?’
I thought about it. About what Haddad said. People tend to go to family when they’re in trouble. ‘Any other family?’
‘No. My grandparents are dead. I don’t have any siblings.’
‘What about your father?’
‘God no. They don’t get on. Dad would turn them both in in ten seconds flat.’
‘What about your mother?’
There was a moment’s silence, then Adam said, ‘My mother died of cancer when I was fifteen.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘It’s okay. It was a long time ago.’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘The only other person close enough to count as family is Jillie’s brother, but I’ve already called him. He said he hasn’t seen them, but I don’t know if he was telling the truth or not. He’s never been a big fan of my side of the family. He might hide Ben but not Malcolm.’
‘I know him,’ I said. Samson Comfort ran a day spa and holiday cottages for shifters. He put up the occasional vulnerable client when we couldn’t find an immediate refuge for them. ‘I’ll call him again. We’re on good terms. What about friends?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t think of anyone who’d take him in knowing he was dead. I’ve called all the mutual friends I can think of, but the only person Malcolm would even consider going to is Obe.’
The Secret Dead (London Bones Book 1) Page 6