“Someone may have taken your grand-daughter,” I said.
She gave me a long look from under her heavy eyelashes, and tried her seductive smile again. “Tell me, John, how much did my husband offer you to find Melissa?”
“Ten million pounds,” I said, a little hoarsely. I was still getting used to the idea.
“How much more would it take, from me, for you to simply…go through the motions and not find her? I could be very generous…And, of course, it would be our little secret. Jeremiah would never have to know.”
“You don’t want her back?” I said. “Your own granddaughter?”
The smile disappeared, and her eyes were cold, so cold. “She should never have been born,” said Mariah Griffin.
THREE - All the Lost Children
I explained to Mariah Griffin, carefully and very diplomatically, that I couldn’t accept her kind offer because I only ever work for one client at a time. That was when she started throwing things. Basically, anything that came to hand. I decided this would probably be a good time to leave and retreated rapidly to the door with assorted missiles flying past my head. I had to scramble behind me for the door handle, because I didn’t dare take my eyes off the increasingly heavy objects coming my way, but I finally got the door open and departed with haste, if not dignity. I slammed the door shut against the hail of missiles and nodded politely to the waiting Hobbes. (First rule of the successful private eye—grace under pressure.) We both stood for a while and listened to the sound of weighty objects slamming against the other side of the door, then I decided it was time I was somewhere else.
“I need to talk to the Griffin’s children,” I said to Hobbes, as we walked away. “William and Eleanor. Are they both still in residence?”
“Indeed, sir. The Griffin made it very clear that he wished them to remain, along with their respective spouses, on the assumption that you would wish to question them. I have taken the liberty of having them wait in the Library. I trust this is acceptable.”
“I’ve always wanted to question a whole bunch of subjects in a Library,” I said wistfully. “If only I’d brought my meerschaum and my funny hat…”
“This way, sir.”
So back down in the elevator we went, then along more corridors and hallways, to the Library. I was so turned around by now I couldn’t have pointed to the way out if you’d put a gun to my head. I was seriously considering leaving a trail of bread-crumbs behind me, or unreeling a long thread. Or carving directional arrows in the polished woodwork. But that would have been uncouth, and I hate running out of couth in the middle of a case. So I strolled along beside Hobbes, admiring the marvellous works of art to every side and quietly hoping he wouldn’t suddenly start asking me to identify them. There still weren’t many people about, apart from the occasional uniformed servant hurrying past with their head bowed. The corridors were so quiet you could have heard a mouse fart.
“Just how big is this Hall anyway?” I said to Hobbes, as we walked and walked.
“As big as it needs to be, sir. A great man must have a great house. It’s expected of him.”
“Who lived here before the Griffins?”
“I believe the Griffin had the Hall constructed to his own designs, sir, some centuries ago. It’s my understanding he wished to make an impression…”
We came at last to the Library, and Hobbes opened the door and ushered me in. I shut the door firmly behind me, keeping Hobbes on the other side. The Library was large and old-fashioned, almost defiantly so. All four walls were nothing but shelves, packed with heavy bound books that clearly hadn’t been published anywhen recent. Comfortable chairs were scattered across the deep carpeting, and there was a single long table in the middle of the room, complete with extra reading lamps. This had to be the Griffin’s room; he came from a time when everyone who was anyone read. Many of the books on the shelves looked old enough to be seriously rare and expensive. The Griffin probably had every notable text from the past several centuries, everything from a Gutenberg Bible to an unexpurgated Necronomicon. This last in the original Arabic, of course. Probably marked with dog-eared corners, doodles in the margins, and all the best bits heavily underlined.
William and Eleanor Griffin were waiting for me, standing stiffly together to present a united front in the face of a common enemy. They didn’t strike me as the kind of people who’d spend much time in a Library by choice. Their respective spouses stood together in a far corner, observing the situation watchfully. I took my time looking the four of them over. The longer I kept them waiting, the more likely it was someone would say something they hadn’t meant to, just to break the silence.
William Griffin was tall and muscular, in that self-absorbed body-building way. He wore a black leather jacket over a white T-shirt and jeans. All of which looked utterly immaculate. Probably because he threw them out as soon as they got creased and put on new ones. He wore his blond hair close-cropped, had cold blue eyes, his father’s prominent nose, and his mother’s pouting mouth. He was doing his best to stand tall and proud, as befitted a Griffin, but his face refused to look anything but sullen and sulky. After all, his comfortable existence had been turned suddenly upside down, first by the revealing of the new will, then by his daughter’s disappearance. People of his high station resent the unexpected. Their wealth and power are supposed to protect them from such things.
Eleanor gave every impression of being made of stronger stuff. Even though she was wearing an outfit that even Madonna would have turned down as too trashy. Hooker chic, with added gaudy. She wore her long blonde hair in what were obviously artificial waves, and used heavy makeup to disguise only average features. She glared openly at me, as much irritated as angry, and chain-smoked all through the interview. She stubbed out her butts on the polished surface of the long table and ground them under foot into the priceless Persian carpet. I’ll bet she didn’t do that when her father was around.
Over in the far corner, as far away as she could get and still be in the same room, William’s wife Gloria, the ex-supermodel, was tall, thin, and so black her skin had a bluish sheen. She studied me thoughtfully with dark hooded eyes, her high-boned face showing no expression at all under her glistening bald skull. She wore a long white satin dress, to contrast with her night-dark skin. She had that intense, hungry look all professional models cultivate, and she still looked as though she could saunter successfully down any catwalk that took her fancy. Although she was standing right beside Eleanor’s husband Marcel, her body language made it clear she was only standing there because she’d been told to. I don’t think she looked at him once.
Marcel wore a good suit, but from the way it hung off him you could tell he was used to dressing more casually. Marcel was casual, in thought, word, and deed. You could tell, from the way he stood and the way he looked, and from the way he continued to look vague and shifty even when doing nothing at all. He gave the impression that he was only there under sufferance and couldn’t wait to get back to whatever it was he’d been doing. And that he didn’t care who knew it. I don’t think he looked directly at me once. He was handsome enough, in a weak and unfinished sort of way and, like Gloria, remained silent because he’d been told to.
I looked from Walker to Eleanor and back again, letting the tension build. I was in no hurry.
I knew all about the Griffin children and their many marriages. Everyone in the Nightside did. The gossip magazines couldn’t get enough of them and their various doings. I have been known to read the tabloids, on occasion, because they make the perfect light reading on long stakeouts. Because they don’t take up too much of my attention, and you can hide behind them when necessary. Which means I end up knowing a hell of a lot about people who otherwise wouldn’t interest me in the slightest. I knew, for example, that Gloria was William’s seventh wife, and that Marcel was Eleanor’s fourth husband. And that all Griffin spouses were immortal, too, but only as long as they remained married to a Griffin.
In fairness
, Gloria and Marcel had lasted longer than most.
“I know you,” William said to me finally, trying to sound tough and aggressive but not quite pulling it off. (Though it was probably good enough for most of the people he had to deal with.) “John Taylor, the Nightside’s premiere private eye…Just another damned snoop, searching through the garbage of other people’s lives. Muckraker and troublemaker. Don’t tell him anything, Eleanor.”
“I wasn’t going to, you idiot.” Eleanor shot a glare at her brother that reduced him immediately to sulky silence again, then she turned the full force of her cold glare on me. I did my best to bear up under it. “You’re not welcome here, Mr. Taylor. None of us have anything to say to you.”
“Your father thinks otherwise,” I said calmly. “In fact, he’s paying me a hell of a lot of money to be here, and I have his personal authority to ask you any damned thing I feel like. And what Daddy wants, Daddy gets. Am I right?”
They both stared back at me defiantly. Any answers I got out of these two would not come easily or directly.
“Why are you both here?” I said, because you have to start somewhere. “I mean, in residence at the Hall as opposed to your own houses, out in the Nightside? That’s…unusual, isn’t it?”
More silence. I sighed heavily. “Am I going to have to send Hobbes off to bring your father here to spank the pair of you?”
“We’re here because of this nonsense about a new will,” said Eleanor. That was all she meant to say, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave it at that, not when she had so much spleen to vent and a ready listener at hand. “I can’t believe he’s prepared to disinherit us all, after all this time! He just can’t! And certainly not in favour of that holier-than-thou little cow, Melissa! She’s only gone missing because she knows what I’ll do to her when I get my hands on her! She’s poisoned our father’s mind against us.”
William snorted loudly. “Changing his will at this late stage? The old man’s finally going senile.”
“If only it were that simple,” said Eleanor, inhaling half her cigarette in one go. “No, he’s up to something. He’s always up to something…”
“What was Melissa’s state of mind, before she…went missing?” I said. “What did she have to say about the provisions of the new will?”
“Wouldn’t know,” William said shortly. “She wasn’t talking to me. Or Gloria. Locked herself away in her room and wouldn’t come out. Just like Paul.”
“You leave my Paul out of this!” Eleanor said immediately. “There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s just…sensitive.”
“Yeah,” William growled. “He’s sensitive, all right…”
“And what do you mean by that?” said Eleanor, rounding on her brother with the light of battle rising in her eyes.
I knew an old argument when I saw one and moved quickly to intervene. “What are you two planning to do about the new will?”
“Contest it, of course!” Eleanor snapped, turning her glare back on me. “Fight it, with every weapon at our disposal.”
“Even kidnapping?” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Eleanor did her best to look down her nose at me, even though I was a few inches taller. “Daddy Dearest would have us both whipped within an inch of our lives if we so much as looked nastily at his precious grand-daughter. He’s always been soft on her. William wasn’t even allowed to chastise her as a child. If he had, she might not have grown up into such a contrary little bitch.”
“I say, steady on, Eleanor,” said William, but she talked right over him. I got the impression that happened a lot.
“Melissa hasn’t been kidnapped. She’s hiding out, hoping the storm will blow over. Well it won’t! I’ll see to that. What’s mine is mine, and no-one takes what’s mine. Especially not my sweet, smiling, treacherous niece!”
“Assume,” I said, “for the sake of argument and because I’ll hit you if you don’t, that Melissa really has been kidnapped. Who do you think might be behind it? Does your father have any serious enemies, or any recent ones who might choose to strike back at him through his grand-daughter?”
William snorted loudly again, and even Eleanor managed a small smile as she ground out her cigarette on the tabletop, scarring the polished surface.
“Our father has enemies like a dog has fleas,” said William. “He collects them, nurtures them.”
“Sometimes I think he goes out of his way to make new ones,” said Eleanor, lighting another cigarette with a monogrammed gold Zippo lighter. “Just to put some spice into his life. Nothing puts a spring in his step and a gleam in his eye like a new enemy to do down, and destroy.”
“Any names in particular you’d care to throw into the pot?” I said.
“Well, the Authorities, of course,” said William.
“Because they wouldn’t let Daddy become a member of their private little club. Never did know why. You’d have thought they’d be perfect for each other. After all, they ran the Nightside, and he owned most of it. But of course, they’re all dead now…”
“I know,” I said. “I was there.”
Everyone in the Library looked at me sharply. Perhaps realising for the first time that some of the many scary things they’d heard about me might be true. And that not answering my questions might not be a good idea, after all. I have a bad reputation in the Nightside, and I’ve put a lot of work into maintaining it. Makes my life so much easier. Though I haven’t killed nearly as many people as everyone thinks.
“Well,” said William, a little uneasily, “I suppose Walker is our father’s main enemy now, inasmuch as anyone is. He’s running things in the Authority’s absence, inasmuch as anyone does.”
I nodded thoughtfully. Of course, Walker. That quiet, calm, and very civilised city gent who’d spent most of his life doing the Authorities’ dirty work. He could call on armies to back him up, or calm a riot with a single thoughtful look, and his every word and whim was law. When he used his Voice, no-one could deny him. They say he once made a corpse sit up on its mortuary slab and answer his questions. Walker had a history of being willing to do whatever it took to get the job done. And he wasn’t afraid of anyone.
We had worked together in the past, on occasion. But we were never what you’d call close. We didn’t approve of each other’s methods.
“Anyone else?” I said.
“You can add the name of anyone who’s ever done business with our father,” said Eleanor, tapping ash onto the priceless carpet, genuinely without thinking about it. “No-one ever shook hands with Daddy and walked away with all their fingers.”
“But none of them would have the balls to threaten him,” said William. “They might talk tough through their lawyers, but not one of them would dare strike at him directly. They know what he’s capable of. Remember Hilly Divine? Thought he could muscle Daddy out of his district by sending an army of mercenaries to storm the Hall?”
“What happened?” I said.
William smirked. “The jungle ate the mercenaries. And Daddy ate Hilly Divine. Over a period of months, I understand, bit by bit. Of course, that was back before we were born. He might have mellowed since then.”
“There are those who say some part of Hilly Divine is still alive, in some hidden dungeon under the Hall,” Eleanor said dreamily. “That Daddy still keeps him around, for special occasions. When he wants to serve something special at a celebratory banquet.”
“Never touch the finger snacks,” said William, still smirking. “Daddy’s had a lot of his enemies disappear…”
“Everyone’s afraid of our father,” Eleanor said shortly.
“No-one would dare touch Melissa because they know what he’d do in retaliation. Everyone in the Nightside bends the knee and bows the neck to Daddy Dearest because of what he could do and has done in the past.”
“I don’t,” I said.
Eleanor looked at me pityingly. “You’re here, aren’t you? You came when he called.”
“Not because I was fright
ened,” I said.
“No,” said Eleanor, studying me thoughtfully. “Maybe you aren’t, at that.” She seemed to find the prospect intriguing.
I looked at William. “Tell me about Melissa. How you feel about her. You don’t seem too upset about her being missing.”
“We’re not close,” said William, scowling heavily.
“Never have been. Daddy saw to that. Insisting she be brought up here, under his roof, ever since she was a baby, instead of with me and Gloria. For security reasons. Yeah, right. She would have been perfectly safe with us. But no, it had to be his way, like always. He wanted to be sure we wouldn’t turn her against him. He always has to be in control, of everything and everyone.”
“Even family?” I said.
“Family most of all,” said Eleanor.
“You could have stood up to your father,” I said to William.
It was his turn to look at me pityingly. “You don’t say no to Jeremiah Griffin. I don’t know why he was so keen to raise her himself,” said William. “It’s not as if he did such a great job raising us.”
Hell To Pay n-7 Page 5