by Ian Jarvis
‘Yes, no one can see us here,’ said the detective, ignoring the gesture and dropping his overnight bag on the ground. ‘I’m curious. How did you recognise us and how did you know where we’d be?’
‘Our employer is interested in you,’ said the larger thug. ‘She tracked your phone. We knew you were on the train from Edinburgh and I rang your number when the crowd left the station.’
‘Ah, the silent phone call.’ Quist nodded. ‘Who’s your employer?’
Both heavies laughed dryly, the sardonic noise suggesting this question wouldn’t be answered.
‘Tracking phones isn’t an easy task,’ said the detective. ‘I know the police can do it, but you must have excellent resources.’
‘Shut up,’ snarled the scarred man. ‘Get inside.’
‘I much prefer the fresh air out here. Tell me, what does this concern?’
The big man held up his stun gun, crackling the electric prongs inches from Watson’s frightened face. ‘You rang the press office for the artist Ligeia earlier today,’ he said. ‘You were enquiring about a man named Rex Grant. You’re going to tell us why you’re so interested in his disappearance and everything you know about him.’
‘Well, that shouldn’t pose any problems,’ said Quist, thoughtfully stroking his chin. ‘Let’s see. What can I tell you? He’s rather good-looking. Some say he resembles Tom Cruise in his younger Top Gun days, and he enjoys...’
The scar-faced character smashed a fist into the detective’s face. ‘I don’t like insolence,’ he growled menacingly. ‘And I don’t like flippant bastards.’
‘Is that so?’ said Quist, fingering his cheekbone and wincing. ‘You certainly won’t like Watson then.’
‘And you certainly won’t like this.’ The larger thug released the trembling youth, grabbed the detective and lifted him from his feet to throw him inside the vehicle. ‘You were asked nicely, but you chose to be...’
Quist slammed an elbow into the man’s stomach and brought his fist up beneath his chin. A loud crack sounded as the lower jaw fractured in two places and he crumpled into an unconscious heap. His accomplice reached quickly into a pocket for his stun gun, but the detective snatched his arm and twisted sharply, snapping a bone. The man screeched and Quist slapped a hand over his mouth to silence him, glancing around the car park to ensure no one had seen or heard anything.
‘Bloody hell, Guv,’ stammered Watson, stepping back. ‘Nice work.’
‘Right,’ said Quist, shoving the wounded man against the van. ‘Now it’s time for you to answer a few questions. Why do you want to know about Rex Grant and, more to the point, where is he?’
‘Fuck you,’ hissed the heavy.
‘I told you I didn’t feel talkative,’ said Quist. ‘I don’t feel fuckable either. Where’s Grant and who’s your employer?’
Watson winced to hear a crackling sound as the detective squeezed the fractured arm.
‘Where is he?’ repeated Quist. ‘What happened to him in Edinburgh?’ He squeezed the arm again, then twisted it, tutting irritably as the man passed out and collapsed.
‘Shit!’ said Watson. ‘You’re amazing, Guv. You look like my boring old geography teacher from school and then you fight like Muhammad Ali on cocaine. They never expect it and that gives you the edge. Mind you, I suppose having werewolf strength doesn’t harm.’
‘Fortunately they’re unconscious and didn’t hear that,’ snarled Quist. ‘Anyway, as I’ve pointed out on many occasions, violence is nothing to be proud of.’
‘Er, yeah.’ Watson eyed the comatose heavies. The larger one’s fractured jaw hung loosely open and three teeth had fallen out. His accomplice’s arm was bent into the horrific shape of a letter N. ‘Yeah, whatever you say.’
‘Interesting.’ Quist gazed thoughtfully at the pair. ‘The pain must have been unbearable when I twisted his arm.’
‘Hey, really? Have you had medical training?’
‘The point is he still wouldn’t talk. He’s obviously been trained to resist torture.’ Quist removed the man’s watch. ‘I’d say they’re both military, or ex-military.’
‘Are you robbing him?’ asked Watson.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ The detective pointed to the small tattoo that had been obscured by the watch. ‘His blood group is on his wrist; it’s a common practise in the armed forces.’ Tugging off the coat and ripping the man’s shirt to check his arms, he found a regimental tattoo on the right bicep. ‘Ah, there you go; our scarred friend here was in the Royal Marines.’ He began to go through his pockets. ‘Take a look in the van, would you? See if you can find any clue as to who they are.’
Watson rummaged through the cab as Quist searched both unconscious thugs. Neither carried identification, but both had a mobile phone.
‘Nothing in there, Guv,’ said Watson, climbing out. ‘No paperwork or anything. It’s as clean as a whistle.’
Quist held up the two phones. ‘These are both locked, but they could tell us something if we could get into the data. I wonder if your computer genius friend Gareth Lestrade could help?’
‘Gazza?’ The youth nodded. ‘They’ll be no problem for him.’
Quist stared at the heavies. ‘So someone tracked my phone after I rang Ligeia’s press office and sent characters like this to ask questions about Rex? I presume the idea was to beat information out of us. One thing is now crystal clear - if Rex is involved with characters like this, then he’s really in trouble.’
‘They said their employer wanted the information,’ said Watson. ‘They said she, so it sounds like it could be a woman.’
‘Your deductive powers are obviously improving.’
‘I’m guessing you’re thinking the same as me? This employer might have Rex?’
‘That would be a very safe bet, Watson. Speaking of phones...’ Quist took out his mobile and using lupine strength, crushed it in his fist. ‘As I say, someone is tracking this one.’ He tossed the mess of circuitry over the nearby wall. ‘Incredible! I shied away from those things for years and, the first time I purchase one, our adversaries use it against me.’
Chapter 20
A redbrick building at the end of York’s celebrated Shambles, Granary Court stood on St. Andrewgate and had once, unsurprisingly, been a Victorian granary. Back in the nineties, when wealthy people decided old rundown warehouses and factories were the perfect place to reside, it was attractively converted into apartments and Watson’s friend Gareth Lestrade lived on the top floor overlooking the nearby Minster. Surrounded by Star Trek memorabilia, Quist and his assistant sat in the lounge, sipping tins of beer and watching as the young man worked at his desk of computer equipment. Gazza, as everyone referred to the techno-genius Gareth, had plugged the mobile phones into one of his three terminals and unlocking them had been a rudimentary task.
‘Hey,’ whispered Watson, nudging Quist. He nodded to the hi-fi where, ironically, Ligeia’s album Water Music was playing. ‘How about that for a coincidence?’
‘Indeed,’ said Quist, with the sort of enthusiasm parents exhibit when changing a full nappy. ‘Lovely music, isn’t it?’
The teenager smirked. It went without saying that Gazza was a fan of Ligeia; so was everyone Watson had ever met with the exception of Cyrano de Bergerac here, the consultant detective who was educated and cultured, but who clearly had zero musical taste.
‘These are fairly new phones,’ said Lestrade, scrolling through the data. ‘There’s no real information on them apart from a list of telephone numbers and call records. No address books, photographs, or anything.’
‘They rang one number lots of times,’ said Watson, pointing at the monitor. ‘Can you find who it is?’
‘I’ll need to hack the records,’ said Lestrade, changing screens and typing. ‘Here we go; someone called Irana Adler.’
Quis
t raised his eyebrows, impressed by Lestrade’s speed. Fortunately, Watson’s friend didn’t bother himself with things like regulations and data protection laws. ‘Can you discover who the phones are registered to?’ he asked. ‘That would be helpful.’
‘Not a problem.’ Lestrade nodded. ‘Let me take a look.’
The detective leant closer to the screen as the young man typed at the keyboard, going through several menus to arrive at the correct website. A few seconds later he’d hacked into a secure databank.
‘They appear to be company phones,’ said Lestrade. ‘Both numbers are registered to a firm called Red Globe Management.’
‘Who are they?’ asked Quist.
‘Let’s check the register of companies.’ Lestrade typed again, his fingers a blur. ‘I remember the last time you asked for my help like this. I accessed police post mortem reports for you. I take it this is another of those detective cases you can’t talk about?’
‘Yeah.’ Watson grinned. ‘We have a real mystery for a change. It certainly beats the wayward husbands and scumbag benefit cheats.’
‘Here they are,’ said Lestrade. ‘Apparently Red Globe are music management. Ah, and the company is owned by Irana Adler.’
‘The woman they kept phoning,’ said Watson, nodding.
Lestrade read through the information. ‘Red Globe Management only have one client.’ He turned excitedly. ‘Wow, you’ll never guess who it is.’
‘Ooh...’ Quist gazed at the ceiling in mock deliberation. ‘Let me take a wild shot in the dark, Gazza. Would it be Ligeia?’
‘That’s right.’ Lestrade gestured to his music speakers where the singer warbled. ‘Incredible, eh?’
‘Bloody hell,’ gasped Watson. ‘How about that, Guv? Is the company address there?’
Lestrade clicked on the name. ‘Charlington Hall in Richmond...’
‘That’s it,’ said Watson. ‘I remember now. That’s the mansion where Ligeia lives.’
‘Why am I not surprised?’ said Quist. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Leaving aside these two phones for a moment, I wonder if your exceptional talents extend to accessing the footage from closed circuit television cameras?’
‘CCTV?’ Lestrade shrugged. ‘It depends. The clue is in the name closed circuit. I probably can’t if the camera is on someone’s private house, but if it’s connected to an internet-linked computer and the recordings are stored as files, then yes. I can get into most street camera footage.’
‘I was thinking about the cameras at Edinburgh airport?’
‘I see.’ The young man nodded slowly. ‘Well, as you can imagine, with all this terrorism, they really tightened the security on airport computers. It could take a while to break in there.’
‘Shit,’ sighed Watson. ‘How long?’
‘Two or three minutes.’
The detective and his assistant exchanged dumbfounded looks and then sat back to observe as he hurriedly went to work. Watson knew that Quist felt decidedly uncomfortable about paying Gazza money and encouraging his illegal hacking like this, but Rex was almost certainly in danger and their options were limited.
‘Bingo,’ said Lestrade, eventually. ‘I’m in.’
‘Unbelievable,’ said Quist. ‘It’s reassuring to see how well-protected the system is. It took you almost five minutes, not two or three.’
‘Er, yeah.’ Lestrade gave a guilty grin. ‘They have cameras everywhere. Are you interested in a particular one?’
‘The units covering departing aircraft,’ said Quist. ‘Could you show me yesterday’s runway footage for around noon, or possibly early afternoon?’
‘Ligeia’s plane?’ said Watson. ‘Yeah, we’ll be able to see who boarded it.’
‘Exactly. It will most probably be a private flight.’
Lestrade flicked through the camera feeds and found a host of passengers queuing to climb the steps to a large jet.’
‘That appears to be a normal plane,’ said Quist. ‘What else do we have?’
The film footage was fast-forwarded until a smaller aircraft taxied into view.
‘A Gulfstream.’ Quist sat forward. ‘This could be it. These are luxurious executive jets with seating for around fifteen or so.’
‘Fifteen?’ Watson grinned. ‘Any commercial charter airline would soon cram in another fifty or so economy seats with zero legroom. Can you zoom in on the door, Gazza?’
‘Sure.’ Lestrade adjusted the settings and whistled as cars drew up beside the plane and Ligeia climbed out. ‘Oh, wow, there she is. Isn’t she gorgeous? What wouldn’t I give for twenty minutes alone with that girl and a bottle of warm baby oil?’
‘Absolutely,’ whispered Watson. He watched the singer board the jet with another petite young girl. An older woman accompanied them, along with a slender black man and a huge character who resembled a bald gorilla. ‘No sign of Rex, Guv.’
‘Wait a moment,’ murmured Quist. ‘What’s this?’
Towed behind an electronic buggy, two trolleys laden with luggage arrived. The airport staff lifted over a dozen cases on board, along with a large traveller’s trunk.
‘A trunk?’ Watson turned to the detective. ‘They used to bury treasure in those things, but who uses them these days?’
‘Who indeed?’ said Quist. ‘I presume you share my suspicions?’
‘That Rex is inside? Yeah, maybe.’
‘Who’s Rex?’ asked Lestrade. ‘You think Ligeia packed her pet dog in a trunk?’
‘A dog?’ Watson smirked. ‘Actually, you’re closer to the truth there than you know.’
Chapter 21
The chapel at Charlington Hall stood to the west of the house moat. Constructed of sandstone and surrounded by iron railings and yew trees, the small, unassuming building was twenty feet in length. Colonel Adler smiled to herself as she closed the door behind her. Many British aristocrats had private churches like this built in the grounds of their stately homes. Family funerals, weddings and Christmas services would be conducted in them and the crypt below stored their dead. Thanks to Ligeia, Adler had more than enough cash to build her own cathedral.
The Cantlemere family, the original owners, probably wouldn’t recognise the chapel interior now and Adler felt certain they wouldn’t approve. Black candles flickered in candelabras on either side of the short aisle, their beeswax aroma mingling with an incense fog that spewed from upright thurible stands. Human skulls from the crypt hung from the ceiling beams, animal bones dangled beside them, and a bizarre collection of magical paraphernalia and statuettes covered the altar. A red silk tapestry hung behind, the glossy backdrop embroidered with voodoo symbols around a golden pentagram. Lafont wore a purple robe and stood at the altar, busily working with Rex’s bloodstained shirt and three black cockerels.
‘Those chickens have seen better days,’ said Adler, laughing quietly. They wouldn’t be seeing anything else, for they no longer possessed heads. ‘We’re fortunate the RSPCA don’t carry out surprise visits on voodoo temples. Tell me again what you call this place?’
‘A Hounfour,’ said Lafont, wiping his grisly hands on the robe and turning to his visitor. ‘It is a voodoo temple of the spirits, but as you know, it is a long time since I was a simple Houngan. The term is actually incorrect, as my occult practises go way beyond the elementary Caribbean magic, but it will suffice and it serves to remind me of my former life in Haiti.’
‘Yes, most folk have photographs as a reminder, but a voodoo temple is better.’ The Colonel chuckled at her witticism, then peered curiously at the dishes of blood on the altar and the small model Lafont had constructed: a crude representation of Charlington Hall with a wide circle of red ash around it. ‘So, Padre, how did Grant take a blade through the heart and live? How could the wound vanish? Do you have answers for me yet?’
‘I do.’ Lafont
shook his head in annoyance. ‘How many times have I told you to listen to me when I experience sensations and channel vibrations?’
‘I always listen. You know I trust your powers.’
‘But evidently not enough. I knew there was something wrong with Grant, just like I knew about Ligeia’s mute friend. Their vibrations are wrong.’
‘Wrong?’
‘I’ve tried to tell you before; Elva’s psychic vibrations are very similar to Ligeia’s.’ Lafont grimaced, groping for the right words. ‘They’re actually the same, yet they’re different.’
‘Well, that’s as clear as mud,’ snorted Adler. ‘What a pity she can’t sing. We could market her too.’
‘This is a serious matter,’ snapped Lafont. ‘These feelings are a warning. If she feels wrong to me, then she is wrong and a danger to us.’
‘I’m sorry, Padre, but I disagree. You didn’t like Elva and you warned me not to bring her to Charlington Hall, but the girl has caused us no problems. On the contrary, she’s been very beneficial to Ligeia and keeps her content. You fail to understand that this is a business I’m running. A highly lucrative business and I have dozens of daily problems to deal with. You get these psychic feelings constantly and I can’t act upon every one of them.’
‘As you wish,’ said Lafont. ‘But you must definitely act upon Rex Grant.’
‘I’m listening,’ said Adler, crossing her arms. ‘I take it you’ve discovered something from the samples of blood and hair you took?’
‘My rituals told me what we needed to know.’ Lafont slid a ring from his finger. ‘Watch this.’ He placed the ring in one of the saucers of blood on the altar. ‘This is Grant’s blood. It has been infused with my magic to temporarily give it life.’
The Colonel stared curiously at the congealing liquid. Nothing happened for several seconds and then the saucer rattled as the contents began to bubble, the blood instantly evaporating in a violent hiss of crimson smoke.
‘What the hell...’ muttered Adler, stepping back. She noticed the temperature had fallen and her breath was visible. ‘What did I just witness?’