by Helen Harper
‘It’s out of my hands,’ I told her. ‘Although it would be a lot worse if he’d actually killed anyone.’ Patrick Clarke didn’t know how lucky he was.
‘I don’t think it can get any worse.’ Mrs Clarke seemed to collapse into herself. ‘What will happen now? What am I supposed to do?’
‘I can call someone for you…’
‘No.’ She straightened her spine and sniffed, and I caught a brief glimpse of the iron will she’d shown me during our first encounter. ‘I’ll talk to our solicitor and find out what’s happening to Patrick. He’s not a bad man, I swear he’s not. What happened with Julian affected us both. But you’re right. I know it’s not the wolves’ fault that my son died. It was a Ford Escort.’ Her voice dropped. ‘A fucking Ford Escort killed him. Every time I see one now, I feel like kicking it.’
I didn’t blame her for that.
She looked at me. ‘They told me my son’s body was taken by ghouls.’
‘That’s what we think.’ I nibbled my bottom lip. ‘Why there?’ I asked. ‘Why bury your son in St Erbin’s? It’s not the nearest graveyard to your home and, given its proximity to the supernatural community, it seems a strange choice.’ I paused. ‘Did the Sullivan clan demand that he was buried there?’
Mrs Clarke looked surprised at the question. ‘No,’ she said. ‘They returned his body to us. It was about the only decent thing they did.’ Her eyes flashed with fury but it didn’t last long. Her desolation was a far more overpowering emotion.
‘The old vicar there was helpful. He gave us a lot of guidance and support after Julian was forced to join the wolves, and again when Julian died. He was a good man. So is his replacement. I don’t blame either of them for what happened to my son’s body. This isn’t their fault.’
With trembling hands, Mrs Clarke reached into her designer handbag and pulled out a photo. The face of a young man who looked a lot like her grinned out at me.
‘This is Julian?’
She choked back a sob. ‘Yes.’
I gazed at his photo and the youthful optimism shining from his eyes. I knew without asking that the picture had been taken before he was changed into a werewolf because of the shark’s tooth necklace hanging round his neck. Wolves didn’t wear jewellery. It didn’t tend to last long when you repeatedly shifted from one body form to another.
‘I know it’s a lot to ask,’ Mrs Clarke said shakily, ‘and I know I have no right to ask it but—'
I interrupted her. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll find the ghouls and see if there’s anything of Julian for you to bury.’
‘Thank you,’ she said simply. ‘It would mean a lot. And I’m sorry about what happened to you.’
My answer was quiet. ‘I know. I’m sorry for what’s happened to you, too.’
Chapter Seven
All the way back to Supe Squad, I felt like I was being watched. For the most part, I was sure that wasn’t remotely true and that I was being ridiculously paranoid. It was still the middle of the night, and all the people we saw on the streets had their own cares and worries.
A few vamps and werewolves goggled at us once Fred turned into the Soho streets. Word had already gone around: Emma Bellamy was back from the dead. I resisted the urge to wave at the few onlookers like I was the Queen, and kept my head down.
‘I can take you straight home, you know,’ Fred said. ‘You just died. I’m sure you can take the day off.’
I smiled. It was difficult to explain that the desire to be active and do something was fizzing through my veins. Dying didn’t make me want to curl up and sleep – it had quite the opposite effect. ‘No, I’d rather get to work and keep busy. But I appreciate the lift. You can certainly take the day off. You’ve been up all night hanging around the morgue while I’ve been dead to the world. Literally.’
‘I’ll go and get a shower,’ he said bravely. ‘But then I’ll be right by your side again.’
This certainly was a different Fred to the one I’d met when I first walked into Supe Squad. That one had spent most of his time slumped in front of the television. I appreciated the effort he was making, even if it wasn’t necessary. ‘I need you to be rested,’ I said. ‘Not half dead through lack of sleep. Take the day off. Liza is going to do the same.’
‘Half dead?’ he grinned. ‘That’s an odd turn of phrase given I’m not the one who’s been lying on a slab for the last twelve hours.’
I shrugged. ‘The English language is full of idioms to do with death.’
He pulled up right outside the front door. ‘You’re dead right.’
I gave him a long look. ‘This could get very tiring very quickly.’ I unclipped my seatbelt. ‘Go home, Fred.’
He yawned. ‘Okay. I left the list of ghouls and their whereabouts on your desk,’ he said. ‘From what I know about them, they only stay awake during the night so you’ve got a few hours left to track them down.’
‘Perfect.’ I stepped out of his car and closed the passenger door.
‘Knock ’em dead, boss,’ he smirked. Then he drove off before I had the chance to scowl.
I tutted, ignored the dark glower Max’s night-time replacement gave me, and headed inside. That guy still despised me and I continued to be baffled that he’d chosen a job in customer service in this area. Neither his position nor his location appeared to suit him very well. But, as long as he remained on the right side of the law, it wasn’t my place to judge his life choices.
I flicked on the kettle, grabbed Fred’s list of ghouls and scanned it. He was right – there weren’t many of them: I counted only a dozen names at three separate addresses. Not that the addresses would be particularly easy to find. What was the postcode for somewhere that was ‘the third drain on the right-hand side of Cleveland Street, twelve paces along and five spans down’?
I gazed down doubtfully at the clothes Laura had given to me. It didn’t look as if they would stay clean for very long. I was starting to wish that I’d spent more time recently swotting up about the Others rather than focusing my attention on the vamps and werewolves.
Every time I thought I was getting a handle on all this supernatural stuff, something else came along to remind that me that I was a virtual babe in the woods, no matter how many times I died and came back to life. I didn’t have another experienced detective to work alongside, nor did I have a knowledgeable mentor to whom I could go for advice. Unless I counted Lukas as a mentor but, considering his lack of interest in my latest venture into death, that probably wasn’t wise. Besides, regardless of how helpful he’d been in the past, he was still a vampire. The Lord of all vampires, in fact.
I shrugged off my uncomfortable thoughts regarding black-eyed Lord Horvath and stuffed the list into my back pocket. Then I picked up the thin file Liza had put together on the ghouls. Any insights, no matter how small, would be helpful.
According to Liza, a ghoul’s lifespan was around five hundred years. That in itself was problematic; it was far harder for evolution to do any work when individuals lived for that long. Without new blood in their family trees, and a range of inherited immunities as a result, they’d also be far more susceptible to new diseases. Judging from the sketch she’d acquired from somewhere, ghouls weren’t particularly pretty, either. They rarely exceeded three feet in height, their facial features were exaggerated to the point of deformity and their skin tended towards the grey and leathery end of the spectrum. They didn’t appear to possess any special powers, other than the ability to scrabble through the earth, which explained their long claw-like hands. And, of course, they survived on a sole diet of human corpses. Yum yum.
The only positive was that apparently ghouls tended to be peaceful beings. It was just as well. Given Kennedy’s suggestion that I leave the crossbow at home until I could use it confidently, I had little more than a baton with which to defend myself.
I sighed. I owed the Clarkes nothing, but I’d promised Mrs Clarke I would help. It was my job, exactly the sort of thing I’d signed up for when I’d a
greed to become Supe Squad’s only detective.
I checked my watch. There were only two hours left until dawn. If I was going to find the ghouls in question, I’d have to get my arse into gear.
***
Twenty minutes later, I was standing on Cleveland Street. I noted two pubs that were still open, their windows fogged up and faint strains of music drifting from their doors. I ignored them both and walked up the litter-strewn road in search of the third drain.
Taking the most northerly part of Cleveland Street as my starting point, I gazed at the ground. One drain hole. Two drain holes. I kept moving. There – the third drain hole.
I skipped over and gave its cylindrical iron cover a doubtful glance. I understood that ghouls were creatures that dwelled in darkness, whose activities made my skin crawl – but did they really live in sewers?
I scratched my head and knelt down. I didn’t have much choice: if I wanted to find the ghouls, I had to go down there. I grimaced and scrabbled at the cover with my fingertips. This was certainly one of the weirder things I’d done lately – and that was saying something.
I’d barely managed to raise the cover enough to peer inside the inky blackness below when I heard a voice from above my head. ‘Are you quite alright there?’
Dropping the drain cover back into place with a loud clang, I straightened up and came face to face with a man who looked to be in his early sixties. For someone wandering around the streets at five o’clock in the morning, he was very well dressed – if you thought people like geography teachers dressed well. He was wearing tweed, a lot of tweed. He was even wearing a jaunty flat cap made of the stuff.
I peered at him, expecting to see a flash of vampiric fangs. His teeth looked too sharp to be human, but they certainly didn’t belong to a vampire. I was too obvious in staring at his mouth; he knew what I was up to straight away.
‘I’m not a blood sucker, DC Bellamy,’ he said with a bland expression. His clipped English accent perfectly matched his clothes.
‘You know who I am.’
He smiled and bowed from the waist. ‘I am a supernatural being. It is part of my very existence to know who you are.’
I had the distinct impression he was playing a well-mannered game with me. ‘And,’ I enquired, ‘who are you?’
He reached into his top pocket, drew out a monocle and screwed it in his left eye socket. ‘My name is Albert Finnegan.’ He bowed again. ‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
I very much doubted that was his real name. All the same, I inclined my head in acknowledgment. ‘Is there anything I can help you with, Mr Finnegan?’ I asked, hoping he’d say no. I had plans for the last couple of hours of darkness.
‘You are the one who looks like they need help,’ he remarked mildly. ‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘I’m on important police business,’ I told him. ‘There’s no need for you to be concerned.’
From the faint quirk at the corners of his mouth, the last thing Albert Finnegan was feeling was concern. ‘I shall try to hold my anxiety at bay.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Move along, sir.’ I crouched down and renewed my attempt to flip open the drain hole. This clearly wasn’t a very well-used entrance. The cover appeared to be almost totally rusted.
‘You know,’ Finnegan said, ‘if you’re looking for the ghouls, there are easier ways to reach them.’
I froze, then I stood up slowly once more. ‘What do you know about the ghouls?’
He smiled more broadly this time. ‘Plenty. Because I am one. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
I looked him over. By my reckoning, he was a smidgeon under six foot. His skin was a smooth nut-brown, which suggested that he spent a considerable amount of time and money on moisturising products. My gaze drifted to his hands. They were not remotely claw-like.
‘I take it that I’m not what you expected,’ he said drily.
‘Assuming,’ I said, taking care not to give offence even if I wasn’t quite ready to believe him, ‘that you are what you say you are, then no. You are not what I was led to believe a ghoul looks like.’
He bowed. ‘I will take that as a compliment.’ He half turned and swept his arm in the direction of a smart red door several feet away from the drain hole. ‘If you’d like to come inside, perhaps I can explain further.’
I looked from the door to Finnegan and back again. I still had DSI Barnes’ warnings ringing in my ears. Going inside a house at the behest of a man I didn’t know was a rather foolhardy move.
I slid out my phone and tapped out a text to Fred, informing him of my location. Finnegan waited patiently. ‘Thank you,’ I said, once the text had been sent. ‘That would be very helpful.’
‘You don’t have to worry, DC Bellamy,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t harm you. For one thing, we ghouls are peaceful creatures. And for another, it wouldn’t be wise to do anything untoward to a police officer.’ He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. ‘Especially a police officer who is currently enjoying the protection of both the clans and Lord Horvath.’ He paused. ‘Regardless of silly drunken pranks that occur along the way.’
Ghoul or otherwise, Albert Finnegan was very well informed. I filed that away mentally and followed him.
The inside of the house was unremarkable; it could have belonged to anyone with deep pockets. A rich, red wallpaper covered the walls. The well-maintained period features, from the decadent tiled fireplace in the front room to the elaborate coving and original ceiling rose, would have had an estate agent’s toes curling with excitement.
I glanced at the large windows that faced onto the street. There was a clear view of the outside but I spotted heavy unrolled blinds above them.
Finnegan tracked my gaze. ‘Modern advances have altered our lives considerably. It is certainly true that once upon a time we lived underground – even the slightest hint of sunshine can cause untold damage to ghoul bodies. The blackout blinds have all but eliminated those worries. They allow us to live above ground.’
‘And have these modern advances also allowed you to grow to twice your natural height and develop new skin?’ I enquired baldly.
Finnegan threw back his head and laughed. ‘I see the old stereotypes are still alive and kicking.’
I didn’t smile. ‘I would appreciate an explanation.’
His eyes twinkled; he certainly was enjoying himself. ‘Humans are delicate creatures with strange sensibilities. They are comfortable when they can pigeonhole both their own kind and other species. Our ancestors discovered very early on that it was far easier to appear as grotesque monsters than in our normal forms. Humans could accept that corpse-eating creatures existed when those creatures looked like something from their worst nightmares. When those creatures look just like they do,’ he gestured to himself, ‘humans find it far harder to accept. And it is wise to be wary of humans and their … fears.’
‘So you learned how to shapeshift to keep yourselves safe?’ I asked, still feeling very dubious. ‘Like werewolves do?’
Finnegan chuckled. ‘The truth is far simpler.’ He walked over to a large ornate cabinet and opened its doors. He drew out a rubber mask, of the sort you could obtain in any fancy-dress store, and a pair of gloves styled into claws.
He looked at them fondly. ‘This mask is practically an antique now. We don’t use costumes like this any more – we’ve found that we don’t need to. The old stories persist quite enough for our needs.’
I stared. ‘You dressed up? For hundreds of years, you dressed up to make everyone think you look like monsters?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘What about the height thing? Ghouls are supposed to be three feet high.’
Finnegan smirked and doubled over, folding his body in half before angling his head up towards me. ‘Short monsters are far less scary to humans than ones their own size.’
I shook my head. ‘Unbelievable.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘What we do is very strange.’
/>
‘Why has this never come to light before?’
‘Other supes are well aware of us and our true selves. It’s only humans who haven’t bothered to pay attention. There are a mere eleven ghouls living in London. Numbers in other cities and other countries are similar. We are not numerous enough to warrant much interest.’
‘You steal dead bodies from graves and eat them while wearing fancy dress,’ I said. ‘I should think that warrants considerable interest.’
Finnegan tutted. ‘Oh, DC Bellamy. From what I’ve heard of you so far, I expected far better.’
I folded my arms. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He checked his watch. ‘Any minute now, you’re going to find out.’
‘What does that—?’ I was interrupted by the loud ring of the doorbell. I jumped. ‘You have many visitors at this time of night?’
‘As I’ve already mentioned,’ Finnegan told me, ‘the one part of our legend that is true is that we are strictly nocturnal. For ghouls this is rush hour.’ He smiled at me. ‘Come on.’
I followed him out to the hallway. A woman, who was as well dressed as Finnegan, had already answered the door and was in conversation with the dark-suited man standing on the doorstep.
‘We’ll deliver him round to the rear,’ the man said. ‘This will be the last one for a while. I hope that won’t be a problem.’
‘Oh no,’ the woman said. ‘We’re well-stocked right now.’
A chill ran down my spine. ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Is this …?’
Finnegan nodded. ‘A delivery.’
‘A corpse?’ I whispered.
‘Signed, sealed and delivered, DC Bellamy. I can assure you that we haven’t stolen bodies from graves for a very long time.’
‘1828,’ the woman chirped. ‘That was the year when the Burke and Hare murders came to light. They were more than enough to put a stop to further attempts at those sorts of activities. Grave robbing wasn’t the same after that.’