The Shadow Behind Her Smile

by Janene Wood

  “He's the man from the warehouse,” confirmed Marc. “The man responsible for the death of Errol Kippler.”

  Leo nodded, apparently unsurprised by this information. “Lord Emberley suspected as much as soon as the name 'Bouvré' was raised in conjunction with your sighting of him the other night. Bouvré is Alete, in case you hadn't already guessed, although she went off the reservation at a young age and was disowned by her family.”

  Pax frowned at the unfamiliar term, but Marc just narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “That probably explains how she left her apartment without being seen.”

  “I'll leave that up to you to determine,” said Leo dismissively. “What we do know is she's not the full quid, and Wulverov isn't a whole lot saner. He's a cold-blooded killer, if not an outright sociopath. In the old days, he had a reputation as a thug and a bully, although he was never arrested. His victims clearly feared for their lives and wouldn't speak out against him. And then there were the girls. Prostitutes started turning up, beaten, strangled and dumped naked in out of the way locations throughout the West End. Seven of them in four years, all murdered by the Wolf. Legend says he bragged about the kills to his lackeys, yet was careful enough to leave no evidence behind.”

  There were spots of colour on Leo's cheeks, a sure sign of his growing indignation. “The man's a fucking psycho,” he muttered, gritting his teeth. It was a rare display of emotion from the deputy director, who was renowned for his ability to remain cool under the most extreme provocation. Marc was surprised the murder of seven prostitutes would get him so riled up, but everyone had a different trigger.

  “And if that's not enough,” continued Leo, “based on Marc's report of the warehouse fire, we also suspect him of dabbling in the dark arts, although we don't think he's any sort of adept. As far as magic goes, the fire he started is likely the full extent of his abilities.”

  At the word “magic”, Pax's eyes went wide and he opened his mouth to speak, but Leo raised a finger to forestall his interruption. Pax shut his mouth again, but wasn’t happy at being shut down like an overly-curious child.

  “We came to the same conclusion ourselves, but how did you figure it out?” asked Marc curiously.

  “One of your 'consultants' gave us their expert opinion,” Leo informed him.

  Marc raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “It might surprise you to learn that the BoJ and the Brotherhood do actually cooperate when the need arises,” said Leo sardonically.

  The DD leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together. “Look, I'm well aware this is an unusual case, particularly for you, Jim; you've had no experience of...well, of the sort of things we've alluded to here. But you're far and away the best investigator we've got and I believe you're broad-minded enough to handle it. I, myself, had trouble accepting the truth when I was first exposed to it. It will help that you and Marc have such a long history and that you trust each other.”

  Pax glanced at Marc, who gave him an ironic smile. Who would have thought, when they first clapped eyes on each other as kids, that this was where they would end up, 20 years later?

  “And you, Marc,” Leo went on, observing their silent interaction, “I know the sort of sensitive information you're privy to as a Guardian, and that your training has enhanced your already formidable skills, giving you a unique perspective on...things. Gentlemen, I'm trusting that your combined knowledge, experience and skill will succeed now where we've failed in the past.”

  He allowed that to sink in before continuing. “The apprehension of these villains is long overdue. After Lavinia’s murder, they went to ground immediately, not even waiting to see if we could build a case against them. In the event, there wasn't enough evidence to prosecute, so there was no question of the Bureau going after them and bringing them to trial. Bouvré turned up in Paris ten years later, and we've been keeping a discreet eye on her ever since, though this is the first time Wulverov's surfaced in 25 years. This may be the only chance we get to put them away.”

  Marc nodded imperceptibly, understanding the importance of their mission, quite aside from his own personal interest in the outcome, but felt compelled to point out the obvious. “The evidence against them is still circumstantial. How do you plan to get around that minor detail?”

  “Don't worry, by the time you catch up to them, I have no doubt there'll be evidence aplenty. They’re not here for a social visit.” Leo seemed quite certain there would be a pay day at the end of their hard work.

  Marc asked, “Are you expecting them to target another member of Lord Emberley's family?”

  “I'd be surprised if they didn't; there's no love lost there. I think it's what his lordship is most afraid of. You should know that Bouvré harbours a particular grudge against her grandmother, Lady Emberley, though that doesn't necessarily mean her ladyship is the target.”

  Leo paused before speaking again. “There's one more thing you should be aware of. It's 30 years tomorrow since Lavinia's murder, and I don't think the timing is a coincidence. If they are going after the family, I suspect it will happen tomorrow, in order to inflict the maximum amount of emotional pain and suffering.”

  Leo took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I know this is a tough one, gentlemen, but all the resources of this agency are at your disposal. And remember, his lordship and I have confidence in your abilities. I'll expect daily briefings, starting first thing tomorrow.”

  Dismissed, Marc grabbed the box of files and followed Pax out the door.

  Just Another Day at the Office

  Kate parked her yellow Jeep in her usual space behind the clinic and entered the empty building through the back door, humming the song that had been playing on the radio when she pulled up. It was an old song from way back in the forties, but was still played regularly, even on most contemporary stations. Vinny J was one of those timeless artists, like Elvis Presley or The Beatles, who appealed to all generations, and with the 30th anniversary of her death tomorrow, the airwaves were full of her music.

  Still humming, Kate walked down the hallway, automatically turning lights on as she went, heading for the central heating console at the end of the hall. After switching on the heat, she put on a pot of coffee and took a seat at the front reception desk in order to write a short note to Lorna, the practice manager, asking her to reschedule her afternoon appointments. This would free her up to slip across to the hospital to visit her friend Carolyne's daughter, Sophie. Fortunately, she only had three patients this afternoon, unlike this morning, when she was booked solid.

  Her first patient, due in less than an hour, was a Mr Pritchard, whom she hadn’t seen before. All she knew about him – the one thing all her patients had in common – was his desperation. When all other avenues of treatment failed, people came to her, looking for a miracle.

  Most of Kate's patients suffered debilitating, usually life-threatening neurological conditions – tumours, dementia, brain injuries and the like – which required lengthy treatment protocols, certainly more than a single consultation. Treatment usually spanned several weeks, allowing Kate to get to know her patients and build a bond of mutual trust. This was essential, both for the health of the patient, and for reasons of discretion and confidentiality. The medicine she practiced was unorthodox, so in order to avoid controversy and maintain a manageable workload, she preferred to keep a low profile.

  Kate frowned and massaged her temples, attempting to ease the growing discomfort in her head. The constant whispering in her ears was getting worse and it now felt like something solid was pressing against her skull. It was becoming more and more difficult to ignore. She hadn’t quite resorted to pharmaceutical relief, but if it didn’t get any better, that was definitely her next step. Until that became necessary, she would rely on work to distract her.

  “Are you all right?” said a voice behind her.

  Kate spun around in alarm, but it was only Jason. “Oh, Jase! You scared me! You shouldn't creep up on a person like that.”


  “I don’t creep; I walk everywhere in a brisk, manly fashion,” he corrected her with an indignant expression.

  “Of course, you do, you big gorilla,” she teased.

  Jason Dean, her good friend and colleague, was also a partner in the North-West Natural Therapies Centre. A New Zealander by birth and a chiropractor by profession, she and Jules met him by chance on a hiking trip through the Peak District a couple of years before. They’d happened upon him after he fell down a cliff face. He had been too incapacitated to move, so his climbing companion had gone for help. They stayed with him till help arrived, holding his hand, keeping him hydrated and warm and trying to take his mind off the pain. Back in London, they visited him in hospital and were relieved when it turned out his injuries weren't as serious as expected. They kept in touch throughout his recovery and wound up good friends.

  “So how did things go with Bountiful Bianca on Saturday night?” asked Kate, moving past him into the kitchen to pour them both a coffee. “It looked like you were getting pretty hot and heavy on the dance floor.”

  Jason followed her into the kitchen. “Yeah… It went okay.”

  Kate was surprised by his subdued response. “Did she knock you back, then? She seemed to really like you.”

  “Mixed signals, I guess,” sighed Jason regretfully.

  Kate watched him carefully, thinking she detected a guilty gleam in his eye. “You slept with her, didn’t you, you great hussy! After all your high and mighty talk last week!”

  Jason tried his best to look chagrined, but couldn’t hold back a grin, which threatened to split his face.

  Shaking her head in disbelief, Kate reminded him of his most recent resolution. “How did you put it again? ‘I’m going to curb my wanton ways...no more bonking anything in high heels...no shagging on the first date...’ Have I forgotten anything?”

  “It wasn’t my fault!” spluttered Jason defensively. “I’ll have you know, she seduced me! I was all set to do the gentlemanly thing – put her in a taxi and call her in the morning – but she dragged me into her flat and practically forced herself on me!” Kate almost choked on her laughter as she pictured the scene. “And she’s bloody insatiable,” he added ruefully, making her laugh even harder.

  “I thought that was every man's idea of the perfect date!”

  “She kept me in bed all day yesterday, screwing my brains out till I could barely think straight. I’m bloody exhausted.” He sighed theatrically but couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “You’re right; it is every man’s dream, and I'm going back for more tonight.”

  Kate punched his arm and reached for her mug.

  The morning flew by and Kate’s last patient walked out the door just after one-thirty. Lorna, the practice manager, entered a minute later with a pile of messages.

  Kate quickly shuffled through the messages, but there was nothing that couldn’t wait until tomorrow. “I’m off to the hospital,” she announced, pushing the yellow slips aside for later.

  “I hope you’re going to eat something first, Kate,” reproved Lorna sternly. “Knowing you, you skipped breakfast, and you haven't stopped to eat all morning.”

  “It’s okay, I’m fine,” Kate assured her. “If I get hungry I’ll grab something while I'm out.”

  “I really think you should eat something,” insisted Lorna.

  “Okay, okay! I'll grab a sandwich at the hospital.”

  “Make sure you do,” Lorna acquiesced reluctantly. “Skipping meals isn't good for you, young lady, particularly in your line of work.”

  Kate looked quizzically at the older woman, wondering exactly what she meant by that comment. It wasn’t the first time she had alluded to things she had no way of knowing. Giving her a reassuring smile, Kate stood up and grabbed her coat. “Don’t worry so much,” she said, laying an affectionate hand on Lorna’s shoulder as she walked past.

  Marc removed the contents of the orange box and placed the files in a neat row on the cleared surface of Pax’s desk.

  The thickest of the files was the murder book, which appeared to be a complete copy of the Met’s investigation into Lavinia James’ murder, complete with crime scene photos, autopsy reports, witness statements, forensic analysis and transcripts from interviews with the victim’s family, friends and other relevant parties. Pax grabbed this file and dragged it closer, giving Marc a brief questioning look. Marc nodded his acquiescence and reached for the next thickest file, pertaining specifically to Anastazia Bouvré, one of the two main suspects in the case.

  They sat down on opposite sides of the desk, reclining in their chairs and making themselves as comfortable as possible since it was going to take a while to familiarize themselves with all the material in front of them. Pax’s assistant brought them coffee and biscuits, which they consumed like automatons, sparing the task no more energy or focus than was necessary.

  Bouvré’s file contained a remarkably thorough biography of her early life, including an apparently unauthorised psychological profile, commissioned by the Director’s wife, Catherine D’Raegan, and dated soon after the accidental death of Bouvré’s twin sister, Alexis. It was fascinating reading.

  When Marc saw Bouvré in the restaurant in Paris, he had judged her to be in her mid-thirties, only a few years older than himself, but that was before he learned she was involved in Lavinia's death, way back in 1949. When added to the fact that she was Alete, he wasn’t really surprised to learn she had been born in 1900, making her 79 years old. She and Vinny weren't the D'Raegan's granddaughters, but their great-great-granddaughters.

  The Alete weren’t the only ones whose life expectancy was greater than average. Guardians also had a long life-span, a perk of the job and a side effect of bodhi that Marc hadn’t given much thought to before now. Though now that he did consider it, it made sense for Guardians and Alete to have a similar longevity, given they were so reliant upon each other, particularly those dyads who chose to Bond.

  There was less information about Bouvré once she made the final break from her family in her early twenties; in fact, there was a gap of nearly twenty years when she disappeared completely. She didn’t resurface until after WWII, a few short years before Lavinia’s murder, in the company of a Russian boxer, with whom she went into business, establishing a chain of high-class brothels throughout the West End, Knightsbridge and Kensington. There were profiles of Bouvré’s friends and associates from that time, along with financial records that confirmed the profitability of her joint enterprise with the Wolf, although the source of their initial capital investment was never determined. There were several wire transfers from banks in Switzerland and Brazil which had set alarm bells ringing at the time, but further investigation went nowhere.

  After Lavinia’s murder, Bouvré and Wulverov fled the country. Marc was interested to learn they were tracked for five years by an elite Alliance team led by Makamu Zende, who followed them from one continent to another, never quite catching up with them. It wasn’t clear what the ultimate purpose of this pursuit was, as there was no outstanding warrant for their arrest, but Marc could read between the lines and was only mildly shocked by his conclusions.

  The remainder of the file consisted of surveillance reports and photos dating from Bouvré’s more recent settlement in Paris. Marc couldn’t tell whether time had mellowed the D'Raegans’ resolve or if they had simply decided to take no further action, but Bouvré had lived there openly, under her own name, ever since. Twice a year, she was put under surveillance by a hand-picked team from BoJ headquarters, but there was never any hint of illegal or subversive activity. The most recent observation period had culminated with the two agents being paralysed and left for dead, yet their preliminary reports revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Although, as he perused the surveillance photos and accompanying notes retrieved from Paris over the weekend, Marc was gratified to see the agents had identified the mystery woman who had accompanied Bouvré and Wulverov out for dinner at the same Spanish restaurant he and his collea
gues happened to be patronising. According to a magazine article found in the Montmartre apartment, the mystery woman was Rachel Ross, a freelance journalist. He didn’t yet know if she was important, but she was a loose end, and he didn’t like loose ends.

  The last file was Wulverov’s, and unfortunately, it contained very little information they didn't already know. His origins were unknown, as were his whereabouts for the last 25 years. Even the material Edwin D’Raegan had managed to compile, for the period between 1945 and 1949, was mostly a duplication of that contained in Bouvré’s file, although there were some additional photos and profiles. The Wolf's habitual associates were a bunch of extremely unsavoury characters, most with violent criminal records.

  Tucked into the back of the file was a large yellow envelope containing crime scene photos of the seven prostitutes Wulverov was alleged to have killed. The pictures were disturbingly graphic, even to jaded eyes that had seen far worse. All the victims were in their late teens, with long blonde hair and blue eyes. They had all been pretty once – the envelope also contained photos showing what they looked like before their deaths – but their faces were so badly beaten by their killer, they’d had to be identified by means of dental records and other distinguishing physical traits. It was easy to see why Leo had been so affected by them.

  Marc looked at his watch and was surprised to see two hours had passed. Pax was still going through the murder book, so he decided to stretch his legs and get some more coffee. When he returned, his friend had finished the first file and moved on to the next. Pax wordlessly picked up the mug Marc placed in front of him and resumed his reading. Marc returned to his seat and did the same.

  By the time they finished perusing all the files, it was early afternoon and the table was covered with empty coffee mugs, scattered photographs, scribbled notes and the detritus of lunch, thoughtfully provided by Pax’s assistant. Marc yawned and Pax unconsciously followed suit.