by Janene Wood
The Shadow Behind Her Smile
Janene Wood
Copyright © 2017 by Janene Wood.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For Katy Rachel, whose eternal innocence and perpetual good humour inspired it.
And for my family.
Like me, they are better people for having known and loved her.
Table of Contents
Part 1 – Paris 7
Surveillance 7
Regrets 25
Time to Regroup 32
Marking Time 39
Farewell to Paris 46
Part 2 – London 59
Dinner and Dancing 59
Istanbul 68
Moving House 81
All Good Things Must Come To An End 104
Death in the Park 118
Final Goodbyes 122
Body in the Bush 133
The Airport 140
Disappointment 143
Getting to Know Kate 154
Fortuitous Rescue 167
The Investigation Begins 188
Just Another Day at the Office 204
A Fateful Meeting 216
Bitter Reunion 232
Just When You Think You Know Someone 247
Part 3 – Fiddlers Creek 269
The First Healing 269
Lazy Afternoon 286
Double Admission 300
New Friends 316
Felicitations of the Season 333
Attack from an Unexpected Quarter 341
New Year's Eve 351
Could Things Get Any Worse? 368
Life Goes On 375
A New Start 390
So That's Where You've Been 405
Imelda 431
Drunk and Disorderly 461
The Lady Vanishes 485
Part 4 – London 512
Awakening 512
Confrontation 523
Kate Regroups 538
A Visitor 555
Witches for Dinner 572
Truce 585
A New Beginning 595
Declaration of War 606
Stir Crazy 621
A United Front 626
Victorious 649
About The Book
It is 1979 and the world is not what it seems. Evil creatures lurk in the shadows, unseen by most people, but feeding on their lust, lies, pride and greed. And growing ever stronger.
Kate McDermott is Alete. She can see these creatures and slay them, but other dangers threaten her that she is not aware of.
An unexpected meeting brings her face to face with her past, with a man who betrayed and left her without a word of explanation. He threatens to turn her world upside down, destroying everything she values and revealing secrets she has been hiding, even from herself.
London was both refuge and prison to Kate, but now it might well be the death of her.
Part 1 – Paris
Surveillance
Wednesday, 7 November, 1979
The sky was growing lighter with the crisp radiance of dawn. A line of low, white clouds sat benignly on the horizon and a soft breeze carried with it the salty tang of the sea. It was still an hour or so before the first shift change, but the port of Marseilles was never still. Giant freighters sat at rest against the quay while ant-like bodies scurried over them. Robotic cranes crept across the sky, loading and unloading heavy steel containers before the ships continued on to destinations exotic and mundane.
Hungry dock workers would soon descend upon the greasy café in a wave of unwashed, odorous bodies, but for now, only a few tables were occupied. The early-sixties décor was faded and shabby but the food was the best on the waterfront, and the strong, gut-burning coffee was guaranteed to keep the weariest crane driver alert throughout an entire double shift. A bored waitress leaned against the counter, her complexion as dry and faded as the wallpaper. She shared a desultory word with the balding short-order cook and allowed him a puff of her cigarette while she topped-up the two customers huddled conspiratorially at a back table.
The two men paused in their conversation while the waitress poured their coffee. The one with his back to the wall was thirtyish, dark-haired and unshaven, with intense brown eyes that missed little and gave away less. His black leather jacket was comfortably well-worn; under it, he wore a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, black denim jeans and trainers. Although his attention was focused on the man facing him, his eyes scanned the room at regular intervals, alert for anything out of the ordinary.
The second man was ill at ease and agitated. Younger, edgier, and dressed in faded blue jeans; the hood of his red Manchester United sweatshirt was pulled forward over his forehead, keeping the early morning chill at bay and rendering casual recognition difficult. He sat with his back to the door, deferring to his companion who had only agreed to the meeting with reluctance. Barely twenty, his swarthy complexion and unshaven face made him appear much older. He sat tensely with his elbows on the table, jiggling one foot nervously on the floor and playing with a plastic guitar pick, which he repeatedly flipped over and under his fingers with practiced dexterity.
“But you haven’t given me anything concrete, Errol,” insisted the older man, not without sympathy.
The younger man sighed. “I can’t put my finger on it, Strider, I just have this feeling in my gut.”
“Explain it to me,” urged the man called Strider. “I’m the last person to tell you to ignore your gut, but you know how much is riding on this.”
“I know!” agreed Errol emphatically, obviously torn. He paused to gather his thoughts. “Okay…we were in the pub last night,” he said uncomfortably, “having a couple of quiet drinks. We knew we had a big day today, so didn’t plan on getting too wasted. Then these two girls walked in. Halil bought them a drink, so they invited us to sit with them. Everything was nice and friendly-like, but after a couple of rounds and a bit of chat, Halil starts downing shots like he’s got nothing better to do today than sleep off a deadly hangover.
“When I suggested he slow down a bit, he totally loses it. He jumps up and threatens to punch my lights out if I don’t sit down and shut the fuck up. So I do – I need to stay on his good side after all – but then he starts up again, but all cool and calm now, like he hasn’t had a drink all night. He looks me in the eye and tells me what happened to the last bloke he worked with – after he got wind of him being a narc. He said he ran him down with his truck, then left his body in a ditch by the side of the road. Then he says he found out later the guy wasn’t a narc at all! He almost pissed himself laughing when he said that last bit.”
Strider’s face was expressionless. “Errol, he was winding you up. You can see that, right?”
“He was talking about Cy!”
“You don't know that,” disagreed the older man, his voice neutral. “He was putting you in your place, that's all.”
An uncomfortable silence sat heavily between them for a long minute. “Look, you knew what you were getting into before you agreed to do this,” reasoned Strider. “You came to me, remember?”
He let that sink in before continuing. “These people are unpredictable and paranoid. There’s no shame in pulling out, but I want you to be sure you’re doing it for the right reasons. It’s natural to be scared, but you have to decide if it’s because of a credible threat or if it’s Halil playing mind games.”
Errol put his head between his hands and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Okay,” he agreed after a few moments, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders. �
��Maybe he was just pissed off and winding me up. I owe it to Cy to see it through.” He looked the other man in the eye and said positively, “I’ll keep going. I’ve been careful – I know I have. I’ll finish the job, Strider.”
“Good man,” said Strider simply. “You need to get back before he wakes up and finds you gone.”
Errol started to slide out of the booth, but hesitated. “You’ll be watching though, right?”
“Every second,” Strider reassured him. “Just keep cool. Don’t take any chances and remember everything we discussed.”
“Right,” agreed Errol, getting to his feet. Strider offered his hand and they shook solemnly.
“Keep cool,” whispered Strider softly as Errol walked away, his hands in his pockets. Just follow the plan and do the job. As long as he kept his nerve, Strider didn't anticipate any problems.
Strider waited ten minutes before following Errol out of the diner and returning to his vehicle, parked a block away, opposite the cheap hotel where Errol and his boss, Halil, had stayed the previous night. Sliding into the driver's seat, Strider tossed a bag of greasy pastries to his second-in-command, Lars Jacobsen, before handing him a takeaway cup of coffee.
“Any movement?” asked Strider.
Shaking his head, Jake yawned. The two Guardians had spent the night in the car, taking turns on watch and dozing uncomfortably the rest of the time. “Nah, anyone with any brains in their head is still in bed.”
“It's nearly seven o'clock,” protested Strider. “Half the day's gone already.”
Jake took the lid off his coffee and inhaled the steam rising from it like it was elixir of the gods. “Only if you're a neurotic gym-junkie who thinks it's normal to get up at the crack of dawn every day.”
“So shoot me; I'm a morning person.” Strider retrieved a croissant from the bag and stuffed half of it in his mouth.
“What did Errol have to say for himself?” Jake's blue eyes narrowed as his thoughts returned to the job at hand.
“He was having second thoughts, but he's back on track now.”
“This is a big deal for a kid from the suburbs,” remarked Jake.
“I know that,” retorted Strider defensively. “If there was any other way, don't you think I'd have taken it?”
“I'm just saying don't be too hard on the kid. You remember what it was like before you saw action for the first time.”
“Yeah, I thought I was going to shit myself,” grimaced Strider, “but I followed orders and survived. That's all he has to do: follow orders.”
“Kids these days think they know better than everyone else. Are you sure he's up to it?”
“Errol's not like most guys his age. With his dad away so much, he had to grow up fast. He took responsibility for himself and Cy very early on. Which is why he's so determined to see this through.”
“Well, I'll be glad when this is over. Surveillance is my least favourite thing in the world.”
Strider gave a snort of amusement. “You reckon? I'd rather do surveillance than get smoked by a binder all tanked up on demon-juice.”
“If you think that, Sonny Jim, you're in the wrong business,” laughed Jake.
A simple surveillance op like this was far tamer than their usual sort of assignment, but still well within their operational purview. As initiates of the Brotherhood of Guardians, their prime directive, in its broadest terms, was to protect the world from evil. Practically speaking, that usually meant smiting shadowbinders, whose innate ability to harness the power of demons made them both ruthless and dangerous. In this case, with no binders involved, the evil was less overt and perhaps less critical, but in Strider's opinion, still needed stamping out.
This job was personal. Strider had known Errol and his brother Cyrus since they were kids and felt a sort of paternal responsibility toward them since their father's death. When Errol contacted him recently to tell him Cy had gone missing and to beg for his help, he had unashamedly used every contact and resource available to try and find him. With limited success. After several weeks of obfuscation and dead-ends, Strider finally learned that Cy had been working for a London-based drug syndicate. The same syndicate whose latest shipment of merchandise he and Jake were now surveilling.
This op wasn't likely to net the sort of results their Chief was ideally looking for, but should nevertheless provide local law enforcement – both here and in London – with valuable intelligence, and in the long term, result in the dismantling of a large drug importation and distribution network. Whether or not they would learn the fate of eighteen-year-old Cyrus Kippler in the process, only time would tell.
The morning dragged by. It wasn't until after midday that the shipping container transporting the drugs was finally processed and released, and another hour before the truck was loaded and on its way out of Marseilles.
Strider and Jake followed at a discreet distance. Their destination was a warehouse in the north of Paris, situated midway along a narrow road that looped down to the meandering Seine and back again, hidden from the road by a thicket of dense shrubs. According to Errol, it was a way-station, a place to cut and repackage the drugs in preparation for transportation to London. By the time the flatbed disappeared down the sloping driveway of the warehouse, it was late afternoon and all that remained of the sun was a red glow along the western horizon.
Built of cheap lumber during the post-war construction boom and well-weathered after thirty years of exposure to the elements, the building looking like a strong puff of wind might blow it over at any moment. The timber beams were cracked and rotten in places and the nails holding them in place were coated in rust. Positioned on a slight downward slope, the southern end of the building was elevated by concrete footings, while the roof line of the opposite end, closest to the road, was just below street level. In addition to the main loading dock, there was a secondary entry point at the north-western corner, secured by a simple padlock.
Strider and Jake settled down for another long wait. Evening morphed into night and the new moon slowly rose in the east, chasing the sun. Jake retrieved a bag of trail mix from his pack on the back seat to snack on. An hour passed, then two. A stash of bottled water kept them hydrated, but that had its own drawbacks. Strider was relieving himself behind a nearby bush when the unmistakable sound of gunshots cut through the silent night. Sprinting back to the Range Rover, he threw himself into the driver's seat, turned the engine over and accelerated toward the warehouse gates.
“Crap and double crap,” exclaimed Jake, checking his weapon.
“Don't say it,” warned Strider. “We don't know what happened. It might not have anything to do with Errol.” Even as he urged Jake not to jump to conclusions, he couldn't help thinking the op had just gone from surveillance to body retrieval.
The Range Rover careered down the driveway and pulled up in a flurry of dirt. Two other vehicles were parked on the cement forecourt – a late-model silver BMW and a battered green Renault – meaning there were at least two other people inside, in addition to Errol and Halil. Jake jumped out and removed a pair of bolt cutters from the boot while Strider made a quick note of the license plates.
The flatbed truck loaded with the container was backed up to the loading bay at the near side of the warehouse. Beside it stood the grey box truck Halil and Errol had driven across from London the previous day. Just before they rounded the corner of the building, a dark figure ducked under the half-open roller door of the loading dock and leapt awkwardly onto the concrete forecourt. He looked furtively over his shoulder, then stumbled his way to the green Renault. He stalled once, then revved the engine and drove off into the night. He never noticed Strider and Jake watching from the shadows.
The back entrance to the warehouse was secured by a simple padlock. Jake snapped the steel before stepping aside and drawing his weapon. Guardians didn't usually carry firearms, since any shadowbinder worth his salt could halt a bullet in its tracks, but for this job they were armed with handguns and plenty of spare
ammo.
Strider took point while Jake closed the door soundlessly behind them. It was relatively bright inside and they found themselves just beyond a pool of light, enabling them to see their surroundings quite clearly. The sound of voices drew them forward, while several rows of shelves shielded them from the source of the light. A narrow passageway along the outer wall of the warehouse allowed them to edge closer without being seen. They crept past three rows of storage units, piled high with cartons, crates and other miscellanea, before stopping in the shadows of a fourth. They were close enough now to hear the bark of instructions from a strongly accented voice, perhaps Russian in origin.
“Stop wasting time! Finish packing so we can get the fuck out here,” said the Russian.
“Do you think it was smart to let the kid run off like that?” demanded a second voice, pitched lower than the first. A Brit, noted Strider; a Londoner by the accent. Halil? Errol said he was the son of immigrants.
“The job’s done; what did you expect me to do with him?” snorted the Russian. “Shoot him?” He chuckled, but the sound contained no trace of humour.
“What if he goes to the cops?”
“Not bloody likely,” laughed the first man scornfully. “He's young, but he isn’t stupid.”
“Still, it’s a risk we didn't need to take.” The second man clearly wasn't happy. “We could have dropped him outside the city somewhere.”
The reply when it came was icy. “Don't forget who’s in charge here, Halil. I’ll do what I think is best and you can shut your fucking trap. Unless you want me to shut it for you?”
There was a moment of tense silence. “I didn't think so,” said the Russian. “Now get moving.”
Strider edged as close as he dared to the front of the concealing shelving unit, trying to get a clearer view of the scene. A halogen floodlight, powered by a portable generator, lit up the space as brightly as a midsummer’s day. The noxious smell of petrol permeated the air. Leaking fluid from the generator’s fuel tank dripped steadily onto the concrete floor, evaporating almost instantly. Two young men busied themselves about a long table, packing equipment and rubbish into cardboard boxes. One of the pair was dressed in jeans, t-shirt and baseball cap; the other was taller and broader and wore baggy track pants and a sleeveless vest, displaying over-developed biceps.