Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1

by Angela Slatter

I opened my mouth to ask more, but was distracted by the haunting sound of Lizzie’s sobbing.

  ‘We’ll talk later,’ he said, but by the time Lizzie finally calmed and went back to sleep, he was gone.

  The parchment had dried. I folded it into a tiny origami bird and enclosed it in my grandmother’s glass-fronted locket – Lizzie’d always loved it. She was curled in the middle of the bed in the spare room, as if the linen moat might provide protection. Gently, I slid the pendant over her neck, thinking her asleep, but when I sat back her bright eyes were upon me.

  ‘Hey,’ I said.

  ‘Where’s my mum?’

  ‘I don’t know, honey.’

  ‘You’ll find out, right?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘You found me.’

  ‘Yeah. I did. I promise I’ll find your mum,’ I said, writing a cheque I wasn’t sure I’d be good for. I kissed her on the forehead, wishing I could ensure a dreamless sleep, but I knew she was in for the sorts of nights I’d had after Grigor’s arrest: fitful napping fractured by bad dreams that either seemed endless or returned you to wakefulness with a shriek, sure there was a monster under the bed until you remembered why you were upset – and then reality felt infinitely worse.

  I tucked her ancient teddy bear in beside her and pulled the covers up. Though Mel’s sister was notoriously difficult to find on those rare occasions when she was actually needed, and though she really, really wasn’t wanted, police procedure said she had to be looked for, so McIntyre’s team were trying to trace Rose in case she could help with enquiries. I was absolutely certain Mel wouldn’t want Rose to be taking care of Lizzie, though – and even if Rose wanted to, which was highly unlikely, I sure as hell had no intention of handing the kid over.

  The kitchen was cold and I wrapped my fingers around my mug of hot chocolate, trying to absorb the warmth. I wasn’t convinced that whatever had come a-calling was really after Mel. This wasn’t an ordinary home invasion. No one had any reason to take her. She had no enemies – her ex was still in Thailand and the worst Rose would have done was steal her wallet. I couldn’t imagine a disgruntled client doing anything like this.

  Poor Mel.

  On closer inspection, the flecks of bright orange in the goop on the floor had looked very much like carpet fibres. But I took comfort – a very tenuous, anorexic kind of comfort – from the fact that Mel’s shoes had been left behind; as I’d said to the boys hours ago, the golem hadn’t been leaving anything on its plate, and those Birkenstocks had been thrown off in a struggle. As far I knew, I was the only person who’d had a chance to fight against the golem, and I was still alive. It was proof of nothing, really, but I had to hold onto something. Strangely, it was easier to believe Mel’d been taken to get at me, and if that really was the case, she had no value if she was dead. Ergo, she was currently safe. Maybe they’d come for me and I hadn’t been home, so they’d tried for Lizzie, and not being able to find her, had taken her mother instead. That would be a sign that whoever it was knew that both mother and child meant something to me.

  My phone rang. David. He’d headed back to his own place after he’d seen me off, and I had to admit that I’d been somewhat put out, walking in and not finding him in my home, even though I knew he’d gone. Then the thought that he hadn’t been here when the kidnappers came to visit helped me get over that one.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, and hearing his voice almost made me cry, though I fought the impulse. It felt like he’d twisted open a valve and let out all the tension and worry I’d been holding in. I told him first about Mel and then we talked about small things, normal things, tiptoeing around all the weird shit of my life that was going to flow into his if we kept seeing each other.

  ‘So, date night?’ he asked, which made me smile. Brave man.

  ‘I’m going to be a bit jammed up for a while with this surrogate mum deal.’

  ‘If you ever need a babysitter—’

  ‘Got any experience with kids?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Yeah, I could tell from the way you offered so willingly.’

  ‘You’ve got to give me points for being helpful.’

  ‘I bet you’ve got a badge for assisting little old ladies across the street.’

  ‘Why did I call you again?’

  ‘Because you missed me and in spite of everything I’m adorable.’

  ‘Yeah, no.’ He blew a raspberry. ‘How about dinner over here tomorrow night? Mainly because your cupboards are so bare the mice are planning to protest the conditions.’

  ‘I choose to ignore your facetious commentary and graciously say thank you.’

  I hung up and ran my hands through my hair, which needed a wash – I could have sworn I still smelled river muck. There was a good chance the odour, like the mud itself, was invasive: it got into the cracks and stayed there, hidden in plain sight.

  I looked at the phone’s screen and saw a missed call. I didn’t recognise the number, but hit call-back and got the answering machine for Dinky Darlings Day Care. It was nine p.m. so I figured it could probably wait – after all, Ligeia had said the baby was safe. If Mrs Tinkler was calling, it was only because she wanted something, and I wasn’t feeling generous.

  *

  ‘An angel?’

  ‘An angel,’ I said for the second time. We’d rehashed Mel’s disappearance and now I was reporting my progress, or lack thereof, on the Kallos case.

  The detective inspector didn’t look good. Her office at Headquarters was a corner one with big windows on the sixth floor, overlooking the junction of Roma and Makerston Streets. Her career might have stalled, but the digs were testament to the fact she still had some clout, although she didn’t appear to appreciate it. The bin was overflowing, unfiled paperwork teetered on tops of cabinets and her in-tray looked like it had vomited all over the desk. Any kind of corporate uniformity had been totally defeated by the force of the owner’s personality. I was a little in awe.

  McIntyre’s leather chair made comfortable groans every time she shifted. I, on the other hand, was perched on the edge of a visitor’s seat designed by the people who furnished the Spanish Inquisition offices; it wasn’t meant to encourage long stays. But Rhonda looked worse than I felt. Her skin was a decided shade of grey, the shadows under her eyes had turned into bruises and her hair looked thinner, as did her face – I’d have sworn her cheekbones were trying to push their way out. And she’d been coughing a lot, especially when I’d first said ‘an angel’.

  But I didn’t get the derision I’d expected. The small gold cross around her neck gleamed at me as if to point out what an idiot I was, but I knew full well that icons didn’t necessarily correlate to faith. I hadn’t ever pegged the inspector as much of a believer, but maybe she had hidden depths. Maybe she was a dyed-in-the-wool disciple and that was why she was so impatient with all things Weyrd: they were an irrefutable big finger to the traditional tenets of Creation, a sure sign that the Bible had more than a few missing chapters. Or maybe I was misreading things entirely and she was just feeling so sick she didn’t have the energy to be angry any more.

  ‘So, where does one find an angel? And more importantly, how does one detain and question one?’ she asked.

  ‘I bet it’s a bitch trying to get the cuffs on them.’

  ‘I repeat: where does one find an angel?’

  ‘Don’t know. They’re not like the sirens, who are visible. As far as I can tell, angels are unseen, unless they want it otherwise.’

  ‘Can they be detected any other way?’

  ‘Based on my brief research last night, only by the crazy, the blessed, the dying, and sometimes by the Weyrd and the mythical.’

  ‘Can you see them?’

  ‘No matter what you think, I don’t actually fit comfortably into any of those categories. So no.’

  ‘Any idea where to start?’

  ‘Like I said, they mostly gather over sacred places, where there are a lot of the faithful, so I’ll try churches. Bu
t if he doesn’t want me to see him it won’t matter where I go. Besides, as far as I can tell, Tobit was here to be with Serena, not to do anything miraculous. I’m assuming Brisbane already has its own angel. One more added to the mix shouldn’t make much difference, at least if it’s just a couple feeding, but I don’t know if Brisneyland could support a whole host for any long period.’

  ‘You’ve got a faithometre?’

  ‘I wish.’

  ‘Any of your strange little friends got a clue?’

  ‘I am planning to do some polite asking today.’ I shrugged. ‘McIntyre, I’ve never dealt with angels. You need to remember these things don’t really like us . . . and they’re not fluffy.’

  She closed her eyes and leaned her head back – the exhalation she gave sounded like steam pouring from an engine – then rubbed her eyes. Her fists thumped on the blotter and the assorted pens and stapler jumped. Finally, she calmed and took a deep breath. ‘Anything else? Anything on the kid?’

  ‘Nothing so far – apart from the old siren trying to warn me off.’ I hated admitting that. ‘And I had a missed call last night from that day care centre; I rang this morning and couldn’t get anyone to admit to making it, but the lovely Mrs Tinkler hasn’t reported for work.’ Both Bela and McIntyre had done some digging on Mrs T., but nothing Weyrd or otherwise had popped up. ‘So perhaps—’

  ‘You want me to send someone around to check out her place?’

  ‘Gee, Rhonda, would you? I’m a little busy, what with looking for angels and all.’

  She gave me the long flat stare that regularly cracked the men and women under her command before remembering it never had much of an effect on me. Instead, she started drumming her fingers on the desk and almost relaxed.

  We’d reached an impasse, and there were neither doughnuts nor danishes to keep me longer.

  At the door I turned back. ‘I . . . I don’t know if we’re going to find the baby, Rhonda.’

  ‘Not like you to give up.’

  ‘I’m not giving up,’ I said, setting my jaw. ‘It’s just, if the old lady was telling the truth, then someone’s got her and is looking after her. They’re also doing a good job of hiding her. If she was lying, if Calliope’s dead . . . well, there’re a lot of places a body can be disposed of.’

  ‘And her mother’s killer? Find the killer, find the baby?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe, find the baby, find the killer. Maybe find the father, find the baby. Maybe find the baby, still don’t find the killer and vice versa.’

  We sighed simultaneously.

  ‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘You’re not doing much good here.’

  ‘I know you really like me, McIntyre.’

  ‘Keep telling yourself that.’

  I was barely out of the office before the coughing started again.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘Where the fuck is my niece?’

  It wasn’t exactly a refreshing change from ‘hello’, especially when spittle from the woman’s mouth made it an impressive distance to land on my jacket. She couldn’t have done better if she’d been trying. Not for the first time, I really wished I could hex.

  So much for going home to drop off much-needed groceries before heading out again; I should’ve known that was a rotten plan. But at least I knew where Rose Wilkes was now, and it was obviously providing some entertainment value, as Ziggi’d climbed out of the cab to watch. Up close, she looked a lot older than Mel, and the aroma of stale booze travelled on her breath and wafted off her skin.

  I tilted my head and stared and she began to fidget, as if suddenly realising her approach maybe hadn’t been ideal.

  ‘Where’s Lizzie? I’m here—’ She broke off to hiccough, then burp: a warning hint of vomit soon to follow.

  I took a couple of precautionary sidesteps.

  ‘I’m here to take care of my niece.’

  ‘Rose, you have difficulty taking care of yourself.’

  She swung at me and I swayed back; she missed me, smacked her fist into the doorframe and lost her balance, going down like a sack of potatoes. It took me a moment to realise she’d passed out.

  She clearly knew Mel was gone, which meant the cops must’ve found her. I noticed she’d had no word of concern for her sister. If she wanted to look after Lizzie, she must’ve thought there’d be some sort of financial benefit to her. There were fairly strict limits on my tolerance at the best of times and they’d been well and truly reached. I yelled, ‘Little help?’ to my driver and went back inside to grab Mel’s spare keys from the hook in the kitchen.

  With the limp, beery-smelling lump of Aunty Rose over Ziggi’s shoulder, we went next door, ducking under the blue and white chequered crime scene tape announcing POLICE and giving the Crime Stoppers contact number. We dumped Rose unceremoniously on the leather couch and I covered her with a throw against the cold. I didn’t like the idea of leaving her unsupervised in Mel’s home, but I was even less enamoured of the thought of her being in mine, supervised or otherwise.

  ‘You have interesting friends,’ said Ziggi as I pulled the door closed behind us.

  ‘If she’s my friend, I’m in more trouble than I thought.’

  I was pretty sure Rose would be safe; in a clear-cut case of shutting the gate after the horse had bolted, I’d set a few basic wards over Mel’s place after she’d been taken. It was unlikely anything or anyone would come back there since they already had what they wanted, but frankly, anyone who took on Rose Wilkes deserved what they got.

  ‘So, no ransom demand?’

  ‘No contact, no nothing. I think taking her was just a warning to me – a kind of ambiguous warning, ’cause I don’t know what I am or am not supposed to do.’

  ‘What are you gonna do?’

  ‘What I always do: my best impersonation of a bull in a china shop until someone tires of the damage and gives me what I want.’ I stretched, then pointed to the cab. ‘Let us set sail for the Gold Coast.’

  ‘The traffic will be murder. You can’t just call him?’

  ‘Sometimes the personal touch is required, my good man. Add an inconvenience fee to your mileage claim.’

  He grinned slowly, as if the idea had never occurred to him before but he liked it very much indeed.

  *

  The Concrete Blonde was nowhere to be seen and Anders Baker’s mansion looked unattended, waiting only for a good breeze to push it over. I pressed the buzzer a few times, then peered through the glass panels on either side of the door. There was a quick rat-like darting across the foyer and someone peeked from behind the mermaid fountain.

  ‘I can see you, Mr Baker,’ I yelled. ‘Don’t make me break something.’

  I waited a full thirty seconds before surveying the garden for nice hefty rocks. He must have seen the intent on my face because he gave in: the door cracked a sliver, security chain still in place, and Baker’s head filled the gap. I pushed hard, and the very expensive, very sturdy links snapped, a piece shearing off to hit my client. He stumbled back as a red line opened up on his face and began to seep like a bloody tear.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, and I almost was.

  Stepping inside, I got a whiff of his body odour, and then I really was sorry as I started to cough: the stench of unwashed male, rank booze and boxers that had probably witnessed an unfortunate accident. How had he fallen so far so fast? What did he know now that he hadn’t before? I was beginning to have a good idea.

  ‘What do you want?’ he snarled.

  ‘Mr Baker, I’m sensing a chill in your welcome.’

  ‘I don’t want you here.’

  ‘You’re a contrary bloke: one minute you simply must have me on the case, the next you’re positively uncontactable.’

  ‘Tell fucking Tepes I don’t want this to go any further.’

  ‘You can’t tell him yourself? I’m reporting in as requested.’ I fished the Rolex from my pocket and dangled it in front of him. He made a grab and childishly, I snatched it away. ‘Where’s
your guard?’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘Did she jump, or was she pushed?’

  ‘Bitch hasn’t shown up for work.’

  I feared the reason and hoped the Concrete Blonde had put up a good fight before the golem got her. ‘Mr Baker, has your son come home?’

  He shook his head, but I’m nothing if not persistent; besides, it’s all in the phrasing. ‘Did you see your son?’

  A hesitation, then what might have been a muffled ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘Last night.’

  So that was the end of the Concrete Blonde. Baker made another grab for the watch and this time I let him have it.

  ‘Did it look like him?’

  He sobbed. ‘No, Christ, no! It – he – said things . . . I couldn’t understand much of it, but I understood enough. It was Donovan.’

  So the golem could still talk. Was there a house on this man-made island or in the mainland suburbs where no trace of the inhabitants would ever be found? How had the golem managed to get to the Gold Coast and back? Train or bus didn’t really seem like an option, so it must be being chauffeured around; that would also explain how it had made it to the National Park, and Pullenvale.

  ‘When did you realise he was changing?’

  ‘I didn’t – not until last night . . .’ He trailed off and started putting his son’s watch on, rubbing it as though to smooth the metal. ‘Maybe it’s not him – it could be someone else, someone pretending, couldn’t it?’

  But he knew as well as I did that the thing was his son. Donovan had whispered to him, the words of an angry child who’d finally found the strength to rebel against a loathed parent. My only surprise was that he hadn’t taken Anders Baker out – then again, the rage required to answer back didn’t necessarily correlate to patricide.

  He began wheedling, ‘But you can help him, can’t you? He’ll get better, won’t he?’

  Reluctantly, I said, ‘I think it’s too late. He’s been transforming for too long. What’s beneath – the real Donovan – is being eaten away. Soon he might not be able to change back at all. You’re lucky to still be alive, Mr Baker.’