Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1

by Angela Slatter

  ‘Long drop,’ I said, knuckles white on the rail while my feet tried to sneak away.

  David caught my forearms and pulled me close, winding his hands around my waist. ‘I won’t let you fall.’ Then he kissed me, and I didn’t care what happened in worlds either Weyrd or Normal or how much rain fell, just as long as no one interrupted us. For a long while no one did.

  Until somewhere close by there was a crash, and boughs creaked and cracked. We separated and stared in the direction of the sound. Something heavy, dark and mostly obscured by foliage bounded off, branches and leaves whirling aside as whatever it was disappeared at speed.

  ‘What the—?’ I started.

  ‘Mmmm, one of the inhabitants.’

  ‘Mutant wombats?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Ah, nature.’

  ‘You know, you have to stop saying that with such disgust.’

  ‘Meh.’

  He ran a finger tenderly across the injury on my forehead. ‘Really ran into a door, huh?’

  ‘Really.’

  I kissed him again and that kept him quiet.

  Chapter Eleven

  Inspector McIntyre had provided two addresses for Serena Kallos, along with strict instructions not to leave any prints or destroy any evidence, which to my mind denoted a certain lack of faith. I decided not to take it personally. The Scene of Crimes Officer wouldn’t get to either place until later that day, she’d told me, and if I could defuse any magical mousetraps first, everyone would be eternally grateful. So I had free rein for a while, and a little breaking-and-entering was just what the doctor ordered.

  Some quick searches showed that the siren was registered to vote, owned property, paid her taxes and generally kept records, which endeared her to me. She had a shop called Birds of a Feather on Oxford Street at Bulimba, close to the ferry stop, so I started there.

  Ziggi loaned me his electric pick gun after expressing some concern about my lack of subtlety when it came to locks. The back door gave only token resistance, and it turned out that Serena Kallos, like a lot of Weyrd, didn’t bother with Normal alarm systems. There were no serious sorceries, either, just some simple spells that might have been pretty effective against your average burglar, but which took me only a few moments to undo. A chalk mark erased here, a near-invisible thread snipped there, a judicious sprinkling of powdered lavender and marjoram and a whisper of certain words that I understood, a little. Anyone with ill-intent and nefarious purpose would have come down with a nasty rash, not to mention developing a scent the siren would have been able to track. For me, armed as I was with my virtuous designs, a pair of heavy-duty disposable gloves and Grigor’s eldritch teachings, I was okay.

  A small kitchen at the rear of the building was sandwiched between a stuffed storeroom and a loo so tiny there was barely enough room to sit down, let alone swing any proverbial cats. A sliding door led into the store proper, which was open-plan, with some curtained-off dressing rooms in one corner. A couple of fake Louis XIV chairs, all faded gilt and burgundy velvet, were artfully arranged in between the hanging racks packed tight with vintage clothes. My eyes were drawn to a lovely silk shift; as I stroked the fabric I flipped over the price tag – and immediately let go of the dress, my fingers feeling scalded. Maybe the chairs weren’t so fake after all. It took me a while to find the cash drawer, which had been cunningly built into the side of a display case holding a small fortune in sparkling jewellery.

  The whole set-up looked less like a vintage clothing shop and more like Lily Langtree’s walk-in wardrobe.

  I poked around a bit more, but nothing stood out, nothing looked displaced. Nothing reeked of either weird or Weyrd.

  I turned to head back through the kitchen – and a flash of bright pink caught my eye. I fished out the something from between the sink and the miniscule fridge: a towelling bib, embellished with an embroidered bunny and dried lumps of baby food, smelling distinctly pumpkiny. On the back was one of those iron-on labels mums are so fond of. This one read Calliope Kallos.

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  I locked up and, carefully tucking away my gloves, walked around to the front of the shop where the lurid purple cab was waiting, Ziggi impatiently tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. As I returned the pick gun I wondered whether or not I should get one of my very own. The ethical part of me said no; the lazy part of me said please! Ziggi examined it closely for any scratches, dents, smudges, or other signs that it had been in my possession too long. Finally satisfied, he put it in the glove box. ‘Leave a mess?’

  ‘You insult me,’ I grumped, then added, ‘Neat as a pin, my friend.’

  ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘Just this.’ I handed him the bib.

  He examined it, then sniffed at it, as if that might give him a clue – in fairness, it might have; his sense of smell was much sharper than mine – but in the end he shook his head and gave it back. ‘I got nothing,’ he said a little sadly.

  I read out the next address: one of the more exclusive reaches of the river, great resale value and high enough to avoid flood-waters and keep insurance premiums slightly less than astronomical. He took off at an unhealthy speed just before I managed to belt up; he always did that. I was only a little panicked.

  ‘If there’s a baby—’ he began.

  ‘I know,’ I whispered, horribly aware of what we might find at Serena’s home. In an effort to distract us both, I asked, ‘Anything more on that clip? The monster-thing in the Valley?’

  ‘Monster? Guess it was,’ he mused. ‘Thought you weren’t interested.’

  ‘Just making conversation.’ I drew patterns on the back of the seat in front of me. ‘We both know the worst monsters are on the inside of the skin.’

  ‘Truer words never spoken.’ He paused, then added, ‘Can’t trace anything, can’t tell where it was uploaded. User ID is FunBoyster, which is to say, useless. People can hide themselves on the Internet.’ Ziggi stopped talking to concentrate on the mailbox numbers flashing by. As we approached a high fence of black metal posts topped with fleur-de-lis finials, he tapped the brakes, slowing the cab and we drove through the open double gates. At the end of a longish driveway through a very neat garden landscaped mostly with succulents, we found a white stucco house with lots of tall windows. The front door – Nordic pine, I guessed – stood ajar. Ziggi handed me the box and we both pulled on new sets of disposable gloves before getting out.

  The foyer was glacial: the walls were tiled with tiny slivers of mirror, a mosaic that threw thousands of tiny Veritys and Ziggis back at us. A silver-painted wrought-iron hall table held a pot plant; something bushy with pointy red and black flowers. It looked unnaturally healthy, but in my experience plants tended to thrive on benign neglect – or mine had to anyway – and that made me wonder precisely how long Serena Kallos had been gone from this house. As I leaned closer, the leaves, moving of their own volition, reached for my face, and when I jerked away with a very loud ‘Fuck!’ the thing went into a seizure, like a belly dancer on speed. It eventually calmed down, settling like a cat after an undignified jump. Ziggi and I moved on; it took a while for my adrenalin levels to return to normal.

  It wasn’t just the foyer; the whole interior was blinding: all high ceilings and alabaster walls, with the back of the house, facing the river, floor-to-ceiling glass. The lounge was mostly occupied by a white leather corner sofa resting on a ruby and charcoal rug, with two matching armchairs. I suspected the pristine ottoman hadn’t ever endured the indignity of a pair of clawed feet. The dining area, long and thin and running the width of the house, had a twelve-seater table of raven metal and tinted glass the colour of smoky quartz. Not a smudge nor fingerprint could be seen anywhere. The kitchen, all stainless steel and stone worktops, didn’t appear to have ever been used for its intended purpose. There wasn’t even a trace of rubbish festering in the bin under the desert-dry sink. Maybe Serena ate out a lot, or perhaps she hadn’t been home for days before she died.
Ziggi, fairly certain that the place was empty and I was – relatively – safe, went outside to recce the garden.

  I tiptoed up stairs thickly carpeted in impractical ivory to the master bedroom, facing the river, with its king-size bed wreathed in linen of some impossibly high thread count. There wasn’t much else in the way of furniture, probably because of the enormous walk-in closet, which was packed with almost as many dresses as in Serena’s store. There were special compartments accommodating jewellery, handbags, belts, hats, scarves, sunglasses and just about every other accessory known to and desired by womankind. And then there were the shoes, so many shoes, all custom-made, each pair stored in its own neatly labelled, see-through box. I wasted a few moments appreciating the aesthetics of – okay, drooling over – customised Jimmy Choos and Louboutins I could never afford and wouldn’t be able to walk in even if I did decide to mortgage my home and buy a pair.

  I tore myself away and went back into the bedroom. There were two more doors to explore. One opened into a spotless, gleaming bathroom. The other revealed a nursery.

  The walls were painted with Aegean scenes: whitewashed buildings with blue window frames and doors clinging to dusty green hillsides, water like turquoise and ancient, jagged cliffs. In the sky were figures: winged women, each feather on their snow-brilliant wings picked out in intricate detail. This room had heart; for all the icy elegance and perfect decor everywhere else in the house, this room felt like a home, a place where love lived. It took me a moment to realise what the marks on the ceiling were: constellations of glow-in-the-dark stars. A rocking chair in one corner sat beside a pastel pink toybox filled with plushy creatures that would have had Lizzie in a state of cuddle-ecstasy. The cradle, a great thing carved from silvered driftwood, was empty, the bedding cold and unruffled. An immaculate changing table sat against one wall; there was not a single dirty nappy in the lidded bucket.

  The rest of the upper floor was devoted to a second bedroom, a larger bathroom and a well-appointed study, furnished with a desk and two four-drawer filing cabinets heavy with folders, a state-of-the-art printer-cum-scanner-cum-fax machine and a slim laptop. A thorough search turned up no sign of either recent habitation or violent ransacking, no sign that Serena might have died in her own home – and no suggestion of what might have happened to her child.

  I ran through the records in the filing cabinets; they were about the shop, banking, tax stuff. Her laptop wasn’t password-protected, but that too was all business.

  Feeling defeated, I wandered back down to the lounge and flopped onto the couch. I lifted my feet onto the ottoman, which squeaked in protest under my Docs, and called McIntyre. She picked up on the first ring.

  ‘I think there might be a baby.’

  ‘And hello to you, too. You leave a mess, Fassbinder?’

  ‘Why does everyone keep asking that?’ I looked through the huge windows, watching the ferry making its way across the river. ‘I found a dirty baby’s bib at the shop and there’s a nursery at the house, but there’s no actual baby.’

  ‘Shit,’ she said vehemently, and I imagined her looking for something to throw. ‘Shitty shitty shit-shit.’

  ‘Calliope,’ I said. ‘The baby’s name is Calliope. So where’s Calliope Kallos?’

  ‘You think maybe this is about the kid?’

  ‘Hard to tell. Sirens don’t tend to breed that often. They live a very long time, and they really don’t have much need – or desire – to procreate. I suppose every now and then some of them might get broody . . .’

  ‘What do they do – lay eggs?’

  That stopped me. Now I couldn’t get the picture out of my head of a grown woman crouched over a nest, straining like mad. ‘I am honestly not sure,’ I said at last. ‘Let me get back to you on that.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t want to know.’

  ‘We should try to find the father. You know, someone important and official might be able to get a rush on a birth certificate—’

  She snorted. ‘Keep me updated,’ she said, then cut me off.

  I chose to believe she’d get back to me, but made a mental note to follow it up myself. You can never be too suspicious.

  A stomping at the front door signified that Ziggi was meticulously wiping his boots. He came into the lounge and announced, ‘No recently turned earth, no garbage bags, no dodgy-looking compost, nothing untoward in the wheelie bin. There’s a Mercedes in the garage with a baby seat in the back. Nothing here?’

  ‘Nothing here,’ I agreed. ‘Jesus, Ziggi – she called me. Serena Kallos called me and I didn’t turn up.’ I tugged at my hair, hard, as if pain might cancel out the emotions, or at least distract me from them.

  ‘V, no one’s blaming you,’ Ziggi said kindly. ‘You were kind of busy not getting killed, after all. You might feel bad, but this wasn’t your fault.’ He patted me clumsily on the back. ‘Whatever happened to her started well before she rang you – and remember, they only ever contact us when they’re already in deep shit.’

  I exhaled. I knew he was right, but that didn’t really help right now.

  I looked around the room, racking my brain for inspiration. ‘You think the kid might have been stolen – by whom, though? The father? Some woman who desperately wanted a child? Baby smugglers?’

  ‘Maybe another siren?’ he suggested. ‘Why shouldn’t they be as nuts as everyone else?’

  ‘Good point. But someone killed the mother, Ziggi. Was it so they could take Calliope? And who – or what – can kill a siren? Have you ever heard of such a thing?’

  ‘Not in recent years,’ he admitted. ‘In the old days, well, that was different. There were all kinds of gods and monsters who could do something like that back then.’

  ‘Any chance one survived?’

  ‘Unlikely. When I say monsters, I mean things that were basically ill-tempered, mid-sized dragons: fire- and acid-spitting, tail-spike-flinging, basilisk-gazed nasties – and big, too, way too big to hide. And it’s not like they actively hunted sirens – I’m just saying, they could’ve taken one down. So if something like that went after Serena Kallos, or even just came through this house – through Brisbane – we’d know about it. Everyone would know about it.’ He scratched at his ear. ‘Maybe your father could have done it, if he’d shifted and got his timing just right, or if he’d snuck up on her—’

  ‘Thought you didn’t know my father?’

  He gave me a look. ‘I didn’t, V. I didn’t need to. There are plenty of stories about him – his strength, his shifting . . . and some of his old cronies were still in the city when I arrived. And Bela’s told me some things. What, you think I’ve been lying to you all this time?’ He stared at me.

  Long moments stretched between us while I thought of Grigor changing, the way he used to grow larger and larger, showing off for his buddies. Finally, I let my pent-up breath go, grabbed his hand and squeezed. ‘No. No, I don’t think that. Of course not. I’m sorry. And I don’t think there’s anyone quite like my father left. Are there any neighbours nearby?’

  ‘The houses on both sides are locked up tight and the gardens are huge, with lots of trees; I doubt you’d hear much.’ He glanced around, but I could see he’d already dismissed the place. He was right: it was a bust. ‘Any more bright ideas?’

  ‘Nope, no ideas, bright or otherwise. I need some percolating time.’

  He gave me a look. ‘How much coffee you drinking?’

  I glared. ‘I meant brain percolation.’

  ‘Oh. Then we should probably have cake. It helps me think. Besides, it’s almost lunchtime.

  ‘It’s ten a.m.,’ I said.

  ‘Then we’ve got plenty of time. You’re buying.’

  ‘Apparently I’m always buying. Why is that?’ I headed into the kitchen and scanned the room until I spotted a spare set of house keys on a wall hook by the phone. It seemed like a good idea to take them. Just in case.

  ‘I’m merely the driver.’

  ‘I thought we were friends.’ I
locked the front door as we left.

  ‘One of us needs a better class of friends.’

  We were both huffing as we made our way back to the cab.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Where would I find a baby?’ I muttered, unfortunately just as David returned from the kitchen, plates in hand. His expression was something to behold, but he managed to set our dinner down without any observable shaking. The aroma of butter chicken mingling with cheese and garlic naan filled the room, and my salivary glands sat up and took notice.

  ‘You getting clucky?’ Which was a fair question from a man I’d only just started seeing.

  ‘Don’t be silly. I mean somebody else’s kid.’ That came out wrong. How the hell would I explain this?

  ‘You getting kidnappy?’

  ‘I’m . . . making some enquiries about a woman who died. It appears she had a baby, and said baby is missing. So, apart from random babynappers and an unknown father, where might the child be?’

  ‘She was a working mum? Before the death, I mean?’ He paused. ‘Crèche? Kindergarten? Day care centre?’

  I stared at him, silently berating myself. Surely I should have been able to come up with that on my own? But we childless, we live in a special kind of happy ignorance.

  What David said made sense; of course someone running a business would need time sans offspring. And there were definitely crèches and kindergartens in Bulimba.

  ‘Have you ever thought about changing careers, maybe renting yourself out as a back-up cortex?’ I asked.

  We’d had a talk – not the talk, not yet – but a talk, which meant I’d told him I was a PI. Well, I was, I investigated things . . . we just hadn’t got around to covering for whom, or mentioning which particular sector of the populace employed me. I didn’t want to lie outright as that struck me as a very poor way to start a relationship with my first non-Weyrd guy-friend, so all I could do was share as much as I was comfortable with him knowing for the moment. Sufficient unto the day is the weirdness thereof, and all that.