High Stakes

by Helen Harper

  ‘Anything I can help with?’

  I frown. It would be easiest to follow Brinkish’s suggestion and use the Montserrat labs to test Kimchi’s blood but an outside agency would remove any taint of bias. I’ll get Connor to take him to a vet tomorrow before his shift starts. ‘No,’ I answer finally, ‘everything’s good.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he purrs. ‘In that case, would you like to meet me for breakfast once you’re done for the night?’

  I hesitate. The last time we met for a meal it didn’t go very well. ‘Uh…’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be a vampette establishment, Bo. Not if you’ve already drunk today.’

  Thankfully Connor provided that service before I left for therapy. ‘I have. How about a drink? Alcoholic, I mean,’ I quickly add, ‘not blood.’ Facing him with some Dutch courage to help me along seems like a good idea.

  He’s silent for a moment before answering. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Have you heard anything from Medici?’

  ‘No,’ he says grimly. ‘Have you?’

  ‘Nada. He’s going to bring Dahlia out of the woodwork sooner or later,’ I say, referring to Arzo’s ex-fiancée, whom Lord Medici illegally turned.

  ‘I’m tempted to force the issue.’

  ‘I don’t think…’ I trail off as I register Connor’s face paling dramatically as he stares at his computer screen. Matt leans over, his eyes widening in dismay.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Hold on,’ I mutter, going over to see what the problem is.

  My grandfather’s door opens and he strides out as if he’s sensed that there is a problem. He joins our little cluster. A reporter’s mouth moves silently from a live news feed. The scrolling words on the bottom of the screen read: ‘Unprovoked vampire attack.’

  ‘Turn up the sound.’

  Connor does as he’s told. The office fills with the reporter’s flat, received pronunciation. ‘…The woman in question called an ambulance early this evening. Police are already on the scene and making a formal request for witnesses. The victim’s name is currently being withheld but we understand she has been viciously beaten as well as raped. Sources say that she has identified her attacker as a vampire.’

  I close my eyes. Bugger it all to hell. That’s the last thing we need.

  ‘Bo?’ Michael’s voice floats in from the receiver.

  I hold it back up to my ear. ‘We’ve got a serious problem.’

  Chapter Three: Evidence

  I hover around the London General Hospital entrance, keeping far enough away to ensure the gaggle of journalists at the front don’t spot me. It’s imperative that I talk to the woman but I can’t risk being identified. All it will take is one blurry photo and the tabloids will scream intimidation.

  I chew my lip. There has to be a way to manage this. I could skirt round the back and look for a side entrance – or even clamber up to the roof to see whether I can gain access that way – but it doesn’t take a genius to realise that the entire building will be on high alert for bloodguzzlers. The chance of me slipping in unnoticed is miniscule. And much as I need to talk to the victim, if I barge into her room and demand answers while she lies prone and hurting in a hospital bed, it is intimidation regardless of how pure my motives are.

  I wonder how many Family members were rapists before they were recruited. Michael told me that new vampire recruits have their slates wiped clean; the few who don’t take to the rehabilitation becoming a bloodguzzler affords are executed immediately if they step out of line. He views recruiting criminals as giving them a second chance; it’s a way to make society better for everyone. I can’t help thinking that once a rapist, always a rapist.

  I check my watch. It’s already well after midnight so, tempting as it is to contact Rogu3 and see whether he can infiltrate each Family’s network and pull the files on any supposed ex-shitheads who would try this sort of thing, it wouldn’t be fair. He’s just a kid, after all. Besides, Medici aside, the Families pledged to cooperate with any investigations we started. Now is as good a time as any to test that promise.

  I pull out my phone and dial. As I expect, Matt answers. I tell him what I need, adding that he’s not to take no for an answer. He’ll doggedly do everything necessary to get the information I need. I’m just hanging up when I spot a familiar figure striding out of the hospital’s main entrance to address the press. My eyes narrow while the journalists rush forward. Perhaps they’re not just called ‘the press’ because of their old printing equipment.

  ‘At nine twenty-five this evening, police were called to a location on the South Bank. They were responding to an alleged sexual attack. On arrival, they discovered a woman aged thirty-five who had been badly beaten. There were also visible signs of sexual assault. To date, no suspects have been identified but door-to-door enquiries are taking place.’

  ‘Was it a bloodguzzler?’

  ‘No suspects have yet been identified,’ Inspector Foxworthy repeats.

  ‘The vampires are above human law. If her attacker turns out to be one, what action will the police take?’

  Even from this distance, I see the inspector’s eyes harden. ‘This was a brutal and sustained attack. The victim is lucky to have escaped with her life. Regardless of who the perpetrator is, when they are caught justice will be served.’

  Several cameras flash, illuminating his grim face. I mull over his choice of words. Justice can mean many things to many people. For humans, it only involves life imprisonment. For a fleeting moment, I hope it is a bloodguzzler who’s done this. I quash down the thought as quickly as it arrives. Prior to my own turning, I’d believed that capital punishment was both futile and wrong. It’s more than just my lifespan that’s altered in recent months. I shiver and tell myself my opinions haven’t changed, and that I’m just reacting to the brutality of the crime.

  ‘He drove a stake through her palms to pin her to the ground,’ a soft voice says behind me.

  I jump half a foot in the air. So much for enhanced senses. I twist round, recognising Foxworthy’s sidekick. Oh joy. She moves a step closer.

  ‘Her mouth was stuffed full of dirt so she couldn’t scream but she still bit off part of her tongue. Both her legs are broken.’ Sergeant Nicholls raises her eyebrows. ‘Have you ever seen someone who’s been beaten so badly that their body is not only purple with bruises but swollen to almost twice its normal size?’

  I stare at her.

  ‘He was going to kill her,’ she continues. ‘It’s only because she ripped free from the stakes that she managed to get away. You should see her hands, Ms Blackman. I wonder whether even a bloodguzzler like you would have the strength to tear your own flesh like that.’

  I find my voice. ‘Is she going to make it?’

  Nicholls shrugs. ‘Probably. But even if her wounds heal, she’ll have nightmares for the rest of her life.’

  ‘Was it a vampire?’

  She meets my eyes. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘We’re not releasing any details. Victims have rights too.’

  ‘I can help!’ I burst out. ‘If a vampire did this…’

  Her lip curls. ‘Then she’ll never get peace. Your kind don’t like sharing. Even if the prick who did this is slaughtered, you won’t tell us. We’ll chase our tails for months while you sit back and laugh.’

  ‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘It’s not like that any more. We’re changing. We’re going to be more open and share what goes on. It’s not going to be like it used to be.’

  She leans in until her face is barely an inch from mine. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’ Then she turns on her heel and stalks off.

  Bile rises in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s going to take more than my words to prove that the Families are finally adapting to the modern worl
d. The only thing that’ll do it is action. I think of the broken woman lying less than a hundred feet away and make her a silent promise. No matter what, I’ll find out the truth for her so she knows. I can’t heal her bones or ease the pain in her mind but I can get her the justice she deserves, whatever form it takes. This isn’t just about improving the Families’ battered reputations.

  *

  Foxworthy let slip that the woman was found at the South Bank. Deciding that trying to breach hospital security is pointless, I head straight there instead, hoping there are still enough crime scene investigators around so I can find the exact location. I park the bike directly across the river from the Houses of Parliament and take a brief moment to stare up at Big Ben’s illuminated clock face as painful memories flash through my mind. Then I shake myself and get to work.

  I walk briskly along the waterfront, passing large, glittering buildings. The London Eye stares down at me, illuminated in blue. It’s not the wheel itself that catches my attention, however – it’s the other blue lights that are flashing nearby at the edge of Jubilee Park.

  I frown. It’s a well travelled and public place for such a prolonged attack; it’s a wonder that the bastard who did this wasn’t interrupted by someone wandering past. It must have been barely dark when the victim was attacked; either the rapist didn’t care about getting caught or he had a point to prove. I think about her being held in place by stakes and shudder. It can’t be a coincidence that the traditional weapon used for killing bloodguzzlers was used to pin down a human woman. It’s not looking good for the Families. For us.

  There’s a small crowd of gawkers behind the police cordon. Distastefully, more than one is using a smartphone to record the apparently titillating action. White-suited investigators pick over the ground and there’s a makeshift tent near a large oak tree: it’s the sort that’s normally used to conceal dead bodies from prying eyes. My stomach lurches at the thought of just how horrific the scene is that it needs to be hidden.

  I ignore the onlookers and try to find the best vantage point. I can’t just stroll nonchalantly onto the scene, I’m going to have to surreptitiously piggyback onto the police investigation and use what they discover to my own advantage. Right now, however, my chances of either seeing or hearing anything appear slim.

  The principle behind any crime scene is that every contact made by both victim and perpetrator can be counted as a silent witness. Disruptive as it is to people who are live or work close to such scenes, every trace of evidence needs to be examined, from flecks of blood to smudged footprints to displaced blades of grass. It’s a painstaking process. Most investigators try to preserve evidence by creating two cordons: an inner one where the main crime took place, and an outer one to keep away anyone who shouldn’t be there. That includes me.

  The only thing I have on my side is that the outer cordon here at Jubilee Park is fairly small; that means I’ll have a better chance of learning something useful because I can get closer to the action. Most of the other onlookers are on the north side because that’s where the tent is. I head towards the start of the approach path, where small metal footpads have been placed to give the investigators access to the site without disturbing the scene too much.

  A uniformed officer stands to the side so, careful to avoid being identified as a bloodguzzler, I stay away from him. People trail past me and I strain to listen to what they say about the scene. Unfortunately they’re all too sodding tight-lipped and engaged in their own sombre business to let anything slip. I’m going to have to be more canny.

  I back away carefully. Because of the large temporary lamps set up to light the crime scene and the flashing police vehicles, the area is so bright that it could be midday rather than the middle of the night. I keep my head down whenever someone passes near me so they don’t look in my eyes and spot my vampiric ethnicity. Then I step right until I’m next to the closest car.

  The window is down and a tinny voice echoes out from the radio. ‘Foxtrot Delta. The vic’s flat is clear. Do we have the go-ahead to begin sweeps?’

  There’s a crackle of reply from somewhere across the city. Too many people monitor the radios; the police are not daft enough to give out hard information over such an unsecure line.

  I glance around the car’s interior but it’s completely empty. Not that I am expecting to see a file marked ‘Secret Evidence Regarding Jubilee Park Rape’, but it is still frustrating.

  I move to the next vehicle. There’s a crumpled chocolate wrapper, some empty evidence bags and very little else. I wrinkle my nose. This isn’t going well.

  I hear a rustle of movement further away and twist my head round to track it. One of the investigators pads over in his blue bootees to a nearby van and gives several clear evidence bags to someone inside. I scan the contents as quickly as I can before they’re swallowed up. This time the lights are working in my favour and I spot a few cigarette butts, some dead leaves – which I suppose include traces of blood – and a scrap of ripped material. Nothing that will aid my cause right now but they do give me an idea.

  Double-checking that no one is looking in my direction, I reach behind me and test the car door. The driver clearly thought it was safe to leave the car unlocked given the police presence surrounding us. I open the door slightly and squeeze my hand inside until I can grab the corner of one of the empty evidence bags. I pull it out and walk away, using a tree to block myself from everyone else’s view. I scuff up some dirt from the tree roots, scoop it into the bag and seal it. I shake it a few times then I muss up my fringe until it covers half my eyes.

  Striding over to the van, I hold out the bag. Naturally, I’m not wearing the necessary protective clothing so it’s touch and go whether I’ll get away with this. Fortunately, the technician inside is obviously exhausted and concerned more with getting back to his bed than who is handing him another scrap of probably useless evidence.

  ‘Here,’ I say gruffly.

  ‘From which sector?’ he asks in a bored voice.

  Shit. ‘Uh, three.’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘Three what?’

  I blink.

  ‘A, B or C?’

  ‘3A,’ I squeak, hoping this isn’t going to cause problems with the investigation. It’s only dirt, so I very much doubt it but I can’t help feeling guilty.

  He takes the bag and scribbles something on a clipboard. I crane my neck over his shoulder. Evidence bags are neatly stacked on shelves behind him, one of which contains an ID card. I shift my weight to my left foot and move so I can see it more clearly. There’s a photo of an unsmiling woman and a name: Corinne something. Damn it, her surname is completely obscured. I grit my teeth.

  ‘Sign here,’ the tech grunts, holding out his clipboard and a pen.

  I scribble something illegible and return it, although I keep hold of the pen. He gestures. ‘I need the pen too.’

  I pretend to look startled and glance down. ‘Oh, yes, silly me!’ I start to pass it over but fumble and trip so it falls to the ground. He curses as I kick it underneath the exhaust. ‘Shit, sorry,’ I apologise, getting down to look for it. After a moment or two, I stand up. ‘I can’t see it. Do you have a torch?’

  He sighs and goes into the back of the van. I quickly go inside after him.

  ‘You can’t come in here!’ he shouts.

  I take another step and look down at the evidence bag. Corinne Matheson. Then I hold up my palms as he faces me. ‘Sorry.’ I say as I back away.

  ‘Don’t you know anything about chain of evidence?’ he snaps. ‘Who are you anyway?’

  I give up on the pretence and sprint out of the van. The tech yells after me and several heads turn in my direction. A few people give chase but I’m a vampire. Even on my worst day and even as a fledgling, I could outrun any human. I speed out of the park, down the street and away.

  *


  I don’t slow to a walk until I’m a good distance away. I curse my lack of foresight in parking the bike so near to the crime scene. I’ll have to retrieve it later. Still, I now have something to go on, even if it’s only a name. I dig out my phone, connect to the internet and search for Corinne.

  It’s such an unusual name that there are only three Corinne Mathesons using social media in London. I hope that the one I want is among them. Given that the first Corinne appears to be in school uniform – and remembering that Foxworthy’s statement mentioned the victim was thirty-five – I narrow the names down to two. Both have high privacy settings and I can only see their profile pictures. The second one, who has bouncy blonde curls and a friendly lipsticked smile, is standing next to a small coffee shop called Huggamug. It takes less than a minute to discover it’s located out towards the East End.

  I flag down a taxi. The one good thing about only being able to venture outside when the sun is down is that the traffic is minimal. It won’t take long to get there.

  The driver is chatty and I have to respond, even though I’d prefer to be left to my own thoughts. Every vampire in the city has been ordered to be as friendly and amenable as possible; the more people we can prove our lack of evil leanings to, the better. Technically I can escape that rule as I’m the only known bloodguzzler without a Family and am therefore free from such strictures, but promoting good relations is the sensible thing to do.

  ‘So,’ the cabbie says in a strong London drawl, ‘I’m betting you’re trying track down a certain nonce.’ He turns his head back in the direction of the park. ‘The coppers are really going all out on this one.’

  By now the news is probably all over the city, less because of the rape than because the main suspect is vamp. I rub my forehead. ‘It’s not surprising. If it turns out that the prick who did this is a vampire…’

  He glances in the rear view mirror and nods. ‘Yeah. You lot are up shit creek. You need to find him before they do.’