I was very aware of the weight of Rosa’s death file in my backpack. I’d told Per I thought Malcolm’s zombiehood was probably STD based, and he’d just nodded. I remembered thinking he looked uncomfortable. He must have known Rosa was the likely infector, and he hadn’t said anything. I suppose you wouldn’t in the circumstances. He probably thought it had nothing to do with Ben. Except I was sure it did.
My brain whirled. Rosa was murdered. Leslie was murdered. Someone had tried to murder Alister. And then Berenice was murdered. The person I really wanted to speak to was Alister, but I didn’t know where he was.
I did know where to find Moses. He’d been convicted of murdering Rosa, but he couldn’t have killed Leslie or tried to kill Alister—he’d been in prison. I wanted to hear his side of the story.
51
I wish there was some way to claim air miles for the amount of time I spend on one train or another. I’d started out in Sydenham, visited Wimbledon, gone to the office in Croydon, and now I was going back to Wimbledon again. At least it was all south of the river.
It was time someone invented a transporter. I don’t quite like the idea of my whole body being atomised and shot across the city, but I’d take it to save myself yet another journey on public transport in rush hour.
The air inside the packed tram was hot and wet. The windows dripped with condensation; nothing outside was visible. Somehow I managed to drift off, and if it wasn’t for a kind fellow passenger who shook me awake at the end of the line, I would have gone all the way back to Croydon for the return journey.
I stepped off the tram, grateful for the rush of cold air on my skin. I looked at my phone. It was seven thirty and had been fully dark for four hours.
Police tape still smothered the front of Malcolm’s house, and the space where the door should have been had been covered with slatted boards nailed into the frame. There was no sign of anyone about. The Christmas lights were still draped over the house, but they had been switched off and the house was dark.
Next door, the light was on in the front room in Moses’s house. Blue light flickered from a television set. There was no bell or knocker, so I rapped on the door with my knuckles.
The middle-aged woman who opened the door was familiar, and it took a few seconds before I placed her as the neighbour on the other side of Malcolm, the one whose cat had been eaten. She was out of the dressing gown but looked just as comfortable in a mumsy pair of jeans and shapeless cream jumper. She gave me a polite smile.
I showed her my Lipscombe ID. She gave it a cursory glance before handing it back. ‘My name’s Vivia Brisk. I was wondering if I could speak to Mr Ogunwale.’
‘I’m afraid he’s in the bath.’ She gave me a frank, curious look.
‘I don’t mind waiting.’
‘Can I ask what it’s about?’
‘I used to work with Malcolm. I wanted to have a word with him about what happened here. I’d like to talk to you too, if you have the time.’
She perked up, apparently pleased to tell her part in the drama. ‘I already told the police everything I know, but I’m happy to go over it again if you like. Give me a minute, I’ll tell Moses you’re here.’
She introduced herself as Florence Edley, and I followed her inside. The living room she showed me to was beautifully decorated, if a little too floral for my taste. I took a seat in a pastel covered armchair opposite the door and looked around while she went upstairs. China cats and shepherdesses dominated the mantel. The sound on the TV was off, but subtitles to EastEnders streamed along the bottom. Half of them didn’t make any sense. Florence came back in after five minutes with a tea tray and a box of shortbread. She set it down, then clicked the TV off with a remote.
‘Hope you like tea. Coffee gives Moses palpitations, so he never has any in the house.’
‘Tea’s lovely.’
A fat black cat the size of a small panther padded into the room, took one look at me, and evidently decided he liked what he saw because he jumped onto my lap with one bound and began kneading at my thighs.
‘Just push him off if he’s a bother.’
She poured tea from a pot into two china cups with pink roses on them. She asked about milk and sugar, and passed me a cup.
‘How long have you been living in the road?’ I asked.
‘Just over five years.’ Not long enough to know Leslie.
‘Can you tell me what happened? I know what the police told me, but it’s always better to have it from the horse’s mouth.’
‘Oh, I know what you mean. I’m so sorry about that poor family. I always quite liked Malcolm. He was so friendly. You don’t see that so much these days. People don’t know their neighbours anymore, but he always had a compliment ready.’ She dunked a piece of shortbread in her cup. It fell off into the tea. She fished it out with a teaspoon.
I’m sure he did. ‘Go on.’
‘It’s such a tragedy. Such a tragedy. And his little boy’s so young to grow up without a daddy. And he was such a good daddy too. He took that boy out to the park every day, sometimes for hours. He had so much patience. I’m sure Jillie appreciated the break, but I don’t think that’s why he did it. He adored that boy.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Terrible.’
‘Yes, terrible! Poor child. At least Malcolm took his hunger out on the cat.’
‘You were the one who called the police.’
She nodded. ‘I was just standing out on the step at the back having a fag. I don’t smoke in the house anymore. I look after the grandkids during the day and my daughter insists on it. She says the whole house is filled with carcinogens, and all them little particles are still floating around in the air even if I smoke when they’re not here. Personally, I think she’s overreacting, but it’s not such a big thing to smoke out there. I’m down to a pack a day anyway. Another biscuit?’
I took one, and she did the same. Crumbs fell into her cleavage with the first bite, but she didn’t notice. ‘Anyway, I was standing out there with my fag, and I spotted Malcolm next door. At first I couldn’t see what he was doing, but it was weird enough that I didn’t say hello like I usually would. He was running about the garden like he was chasing something—not even paying attention to those nettles. I’m glad the police chopped them down. They were always coming through the fence into my side, and they sting like buggery. I’ve got special gloves for them, but they don’t do much good. Anyway, then he stops, and I see he’s got my cat, my Coco. My first thought was that she’d been shitting in his garden again. It really annoys the people on the other side.’ She pointed. ‘Although why he would care in that jungle, I don’t know. But then he just picks Coco up and takes a bite out of her neck. I don’t know how I didn’t just scream. Maybe because he just got such a chunk that that was it for the poor thing straight off. I was in such shock. I never believed that about zombie teeth, about them being so much sharper, but I do now. No normal person could bite like that. The police took Coco away, you know. They wouldn’t even let me bury her. Said she was evidence.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s all right. She was old. I don’t think she was going to last much longer. She had such bad arthritis. At least it was quick.’
‘What about Ben? Did you see him fly off?’
‘Oh yes, wasn’t that something?’
‘Did you know him well?’
‘Oh no. He was only here over Christmas usually. I’d forgotten what his name was until it was in all the papers. I see they’re claiming he killed that girl. That’s a shame.’
‘Did you ever see her around?’
‘Oh sure. She was over there almost every day before Christmas. Hung off every word the boy said. No idea why. He’s so skinny. When I was a girl that was a right turn off.’
‘When did you see her last?’
‘Don’t know really. Oh, wait, I do. It was Christmas evening. The grandkids were acting up, and I sent them into the garden to let off steam. She was out there talking to J
illie. I told the kids not to talk to her. I know she’s only half and half, but that’s at least half I don’t trust.’
And once again, it came round to Christmas. I’d spent my own Christmas talking Stanley out of a sulk because he’d wanted to put my mother at the table with us and spent the rest of the evening worrying about Sigrid because I couldn’t find the tinsel and thought she might have eaten it. It turned out she had, which made for a somewhat festive nappy change.
Berenice’s foster mother said she went out Christmas day and didn’t come home. Jillie said she hadn’t seen her, but she’d lied. I couldn’t think of any good reasons why she would, but I could think of one very bad one.
A bell sounded from upstairs. ‘I better give Moses a hand, poor thing.’ She hesitated halfway out the door. She lowered her voice. ‘He is a lovely man, but he’s getting on a bit, and he’s a real chatterbox. And a little’—she made a twirling gesture with her hand—’you know. He was in prison, you know. I think that did it for him. It was arson. He burnt down my house. It was rebuilt of course.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, apparently he thought the woman living there was a zombie. Crazy old fool. But if you talk to him, he swears blind she really was a zombie so it’s a good thing she burned. But then says he didn’t do it. Doesn’t even realise that doesn’t make any sense. You know his son’s that bloke who cut his legs off? Crazy obviously runs in the family.’
‘Obviously.’ I swallowed the last of my tea. The cat was seriously weighty. I was starting to lose feeling in my legs.
She gave me a nervous smile. ‘I just wanted to let you know you’ll have to be a bit patient with him.’
‘I understand,’ I said.
Moses came down the stairs ten minutes later, holding onto the bannister, Florence right behind him. He wore pyjamas and a dressing gown. She settled him into a chair and poured him a cup of tea, then put the TV remote on the table next to him.
‘I’ve got to get back to feed the cats. You okay to get yourself to bed?’ He nodded. ‘You call if you need anything. You got your mobile?’
He patted the pocket of his gown. She looked satisfied. She let herself out.
Moses took a slurpy sip of his tea, then said, ‘You wanted to ask me about Malcolm?’ His voice was rough and gravelly.
I gave him what I hoped looked like a friendly smile. ‘Actually I wanted to ask about Rosa.’
The teacup stopped halfway to his lips. It shook slightly, then he set it down again.
Before he could say anything, I blurted out, ‘I think whatever happened to Malcolm has something to do with what happened to Rosa. I’m not here to make any judgements or anything like that. I just want to know your side of the story.’
His rheumy eyes met mine. ‘I didn’t kill her. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t me. She was a nice lady. No one ever believes me.’
‘I believe you,’ I said. ‘Just tell me what happened.’
‘I don’t know. I was home watching TV, and I smelled smoke. I was the one who called 999. They never mention that.’
‘You were alone?’
‘Yes. No. Well, yes. I was by myself, but I had an alibi. A good one. I had a friend on the phone. Leslie, that was Malcolm’s first wife.’
I nodded.
‘We always used to watch the soaps together. She was at her sister’s, but she phoned me and we talked all the way through both episodes. We’d both taped them, and we watched them together. She was going to make a statement to the police for me.’
‘She didn’t make a statement?’ I asked, but I already knew.
‘No. She just ran off after Malcolm cheated on her. She didn’t even say goodbye. She just ran off and left me to go to prison.’
52
I sat on Malcolm’s front step and dialled Per’s number. It rang six times then went to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. I rang again, and this time he answered.
‘What?’
Gracious way to answer the phone. ‘It’s Vivia. I wanted to ask you some more questions.’
‘I know who it is. That’s why I didn’t answer the first time.’
My turn: ‘What?’
‘You set the police on me. They’ve confiscated half my equipment.’
‘That’s not my fault. They’d have found out you knew Ben sooner or later. I did. Anyway, I know they’re not looking at you seriously. I’ve got a few contacts. I’ll see if I can get them to give you your stuff back.’
‘Gee, thanks.’ The tone was sarcastic, but I thought he sounded mollified.
‘I wanted to ask about your dad.’
There was silence. For a minute I thought he was going to pretend he didn’t know what I was talking about, but then he said, ‘Everything’s in the police report. Since you lot are such buddies, you can ask them.’
‘I wanted to ask you.’
‘Ask him. He’s always more than happy to talk about it.’
‘I have. Now I want to know what you have to say about it.’
A loud sigh sounded in my ear. ‘I was sleeping over at a friend’s house when the fire started. I don’t know anything about it. It was a horrible time. My dad went to prison. I went into foster care. I really don’t have anything to add.’
I thanked him and said goodbye.
I sat on the step in the cold and played with the scraps of wood that had once been part of the door while I thought. Jillie had already lied to me once, when she’d said she hadn’t seen Berenice, so I didn’t think she would mind lying to me again. Samson would stand by anything Jillie said. Neil, being a known soul practitioner, was my prime suspect. Adam was already hiding something from me.
There was one person left who did know what happened who I hadn’t spoken to. That was Rosa. Her spirit was either still stuck in the living world attached to some scrap of flesh, or she had passed on to the underworld.
The more traumatic the death, the longer a spirit lingers in the mirror of its death place in the underworld, reliving its death over and over until it can make sense of it. For Rosa, that was probably going to be the pit. I’d never visited the underworld version of the ZDC. I’d never had any reason to. The question was, if I was bitten by a ghost zombie, would I get infected?
Of course, I had no intention of actually going into the pit if it was chocka full of ravenous ghost zombies. That would be stupid. But it couldn’t hurt to take a look into the pit and see who was there, and if they were still sentient.
I needed to draw up a plan of action. My usual plan went something like this: die, find dead person, speak to dead person, stop being dead. I could probably add ‘don’t get beaten up by harpies’ to the list, but even so, heading into a pit full of the living dead required a little more preparation.
I don’t know all the rules of the underworld. I’ve never had anyone to ask. I know I can get hurt—it’s happened often enough. The scratch on my cheek wasn’t healing as well as I’d have liked, but it was nothing a little more antiseptic wouldn’t cure.
My mind turned to every bad zombie movie I’d ever seen. They might not be the most realistic way to research fighting off the living dead, but I didn’t have any other ideas.
First point: zombies always hide somewhere they can bite ankles. Either that or lunge out from somewhere unexpected. I knew decapitation wouldn’t kill them, but it would at least buy me some time.
There shouldn’t be any ghost zombies out and about in the underworld, but I wasn’t going to take any chances. I needed some sort of protective clothing and a weapon.
53
The crusaders fought swarms of the living dead in full armour; the troops outside Auckland wore Z-suits. I didn’t have either. Nor did I have a broad sword or a military issue Zed-class bayonet.
I did have a Star Wars Stormtrooper outfit in a box in the attic, courtesy of the Australian boyfriend who’d bought it one Comic Con then left it behind when it didn’t fit in his luggage.
I hauled the cardboard box down the sta
irs, ignoring Stanley’s call of, ‘Hey, watcha doing?’
I fingered the flimsy white plastic. It wasn’t exactly a Z-suit, but then I wasn’t planning on fighting any zombies. I was just going to look into the pit and see if anyone had regained their senses post-death. It was only sensible to take precautions. All I needed was something to protect me from any initial bites, and that would only be in the unlikely scenario any zombie managed to catch me by surprise. I had no intention of letting any get close enough to even see me. At the first glimpse of any zombies on the loose, I fully intended to turn tail and run very fast in the opposite direction.
And if I did have to do any fighting? I had a more conventional weapon for that in the form of a gift from a former client—a samurai sword which looked much better than the Stormtrooper outfit, even if it did have a small tag on the scabbard that read ‘Ornamental use only. May cause death or injury if used negligently.’
Precautions only, I told myself. It would be stupid to do anything else.
I checked on my sister before I died. She was in bed and asleep, her face slack and relaxed in the dark room. I checked her nappy, kissed her cheek, and left her to sleep. Light shone down the stairs from the attic. I went into my bedroom, closed the door, and dressed in the outfit and a pair of wellies. I made sure the sword was tightly gripped in my hand and began the dying ritual.
I woke under the heavy weight of the harpies. I pushed them off and got to my feet. The outfit chafed.
I exited the house awkwardly and flagged down the Boatman. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of me and burst out laughing. ‘And this?’
I explained briefly. He stopped laughing, but his lips turned up with amusement.
‘Vivia, you don’t need the outfit. I’ve seen hags tell worse things than ghost zombies to bugger off.’
The Secret Dead (London Bones Book 1) Page 24