A flash bounced off the walls ahead, followed by a high-pitched whine. Anderson the Mannequin was already here and waiting where the action was. The bedroom was small but not cramped, enough space for the only piece of furniture they could see in the apartment—a bed, befittingly queen-size. Hogging it like a stage, even to the very end, was the still figure of the Queen of Glam—Darling, Princess, or Goddess, depending on who was asked—Green Maeve.
Jack took in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “This is going to be a spritely day.”
Music, as he always told those around him enlightened enough to listen, ended after the reign of the Beatles, and people these days were only swaying along to the echoes that lingered before they died out completely. On the rare occasions he could tell any of these new pretenders apart from another, he’d more likely get the wrong song to go with the name.
Yet here he was looking at someone he had seen countless times on the telly, on the Internet, on magazine covers, and whose songs, if he was honest about it, he could at least hum. The dozens of headlines from the past two months alone gave him no doubt he was looking at the winner of eight Grammys the year before, with two debut albums hitting triple platinum. For any radio station to go two hours without playing anything from her was sacrilege. What she wore one week practically defined the dress-code for the next, and it wasn’t uncommon to see boys putting on mascara to get the “Maeve Eyes” when they could get away with it.
“Indeed,” said Anderson without lowering his camera. “Come morning, the razz are going to feast like crows.”
Jack never appreciated the cliché of comparing the dead with the asleep, but he had to admit it was difficult telling the difference this time. There was no visible wound, no blood, no sign of violence. Even without makeup or the tricks of studio lighting, the Princess of Pop looked divine with her perfect features, as if only her breath had been taken from her and nothing else. She was just lying down for the moment, waiting for her Prince.
“How goes the tale, Anderson?”
Jack never liked calling the man by his nickname, largely because nobody remembered the history behind it at the Yard, but he agreed “Mannequin” was pretty much spot on about Anderson’s emotionless on-site demeanour. He hadn’t always been like that, so they said, and the word from Forensics seemed to be that if you could arrive on the scene earlier than him, you could ask. Nobody ever did that. Professionalism was its own reward.
“I’m still reading the book, Inspector, but you can skip ahead to see the ending. Spoiler warning: it isn’t a happy one.”
Unnatural death was a certainty, but how the boys and girls would cry was going to depend on whether it suicide, homicide, or a drug overdose.
The big question. “Foul play, you think?”
“Two hours from the body temperature and iris response, but we aren’t seeing any rigor mortis, yet. It’s… a tad unusual. Give me a few more minutes.” Anderson turned to give him a long look over his glasses. “If you want another plot twist for this tale, you might want to look at the next room first.”
There was only one other, and Hilton was there like an American game-show presenter leading him into the bonus round. He saw no bed within, only a heap of what appeared to be unwashed laundry. Lying on it was a sight that stopped him at the door. Memories flashed from the moments years ago when work still kept him late, and all he could do spare every night coming home was a minute or two by the crib to check in on his Pip.
“Oh, crikes.”
“I wasn’t trying to be coy, boss,” said Hilton, “but this isn’t something I could text.”
Like every other vacuum, the one in his mind lasted barely a second before the laws of physics collapsed it with questions and thoughts and guesses to fill the void. But Hilton was whispering to him, and it was reason for a sigh of relief.
“Wait,” he said, repeating it aloud a few times to be sure. “Green Maeve has a little sprog no one knew about? Was she moonlighting as a nanny?”
“We don’t know. Nobody knows. Sorry, I mean I have never heard of this and I don’t think anyone has.”
“No.” Jack’s hand was up. “No. The first thing they teach at the Yard, Sergeant. Somebody knows. Somebody. The tabloids must know, and those two outsi—uh, hullo! And what do we have here?”
They had missed something right by the door and in the hard shadows under the single light-bulb. The strap gave it away: a messenger sling-bag, leather brown and stylish and wrong. No woman would be caught on the streets carrying that unless they were itching to be lectured on the existence of the Yard’s elusive but highly influential fashion department. They lifted its flap without using their fingers and slid out the contents, and the first to do so from between stacks of contracts and musical score sheets was a tiny pill bottle. It was plastic and empty, with remnants of a torn label on the side, the writing gone.
Jack took out a ziplock bag and put it in. “We’ll have the boys at the lab look at this.”
They dug out an organiser with a name embossed on the faux-leather cover, one that also appeared on all the documents as either the signatory or the addressee.
“Thomas Lin.”
“Tommy Lin,” Hilton corrected him with a nod. “Her manager.”
“Brilliant. At least we know people still use these archaic things.”
It did what an electronic tablet couldn’t, like keeping stuffed between the pages numerous pictures of Green Maeve in various photo-shoots, along with spreads cut from several entertainment magazines and album covers. There were also receipts and name cards of makeup artists and photographers. Out from the stack dropped a piece of thin card with a serrated torn-off edge.
“A bus ticket stub…” Jack stepped closer to read the details, “from Yorkshire just earlier today.” He stepped back and began looking around. “He was here? And straight from Yorkshire?”
“Ah that,” said Hilton, “you might want to talk to the two reporters outside first. They have not stepped in past the door yet, and I haven’t told them anything.”
The pair looked like they were still trapped in a state of limbo and tears, their makeup ruined with mascara running down their cheeks. Another night and they could well be in some Shoreditch club having their age checked for drinking. The ginger was Joan and the brunette, Rachel, and they were keeping each other warm by the side of the road and under the watchful eye of Constable—Wilhelm? Or was it Jacob?
Jack showed them his ID. “I’m Inspector J. B. Nimbell. I would say ‘good morning’ but that is hardly appropriate now.”
“Wait,” said Joan, catching his printed name. “That was Sergeant Gillian Hilton. So that makes you two—”
“An inspector and a sergeant, yes.” Hilton was the most competent sergeant he knew, and it was only the obsession of people finding humour in the coincidence of their names that made their rapport a bad thing. More than once at the station he had taken pains not to be seen with her at the water-cooler area. Still, the keen observation from the ginger was what he needed. “Can you tell me what happened earlier? You called us about some trouble inside.”
“We are, like, her biggest fans, you know? Sure, we’re working for the Tinker Belle, but it’s a dream job to cover her pics, to just be there. Tonight was, like, the biggest news ever, ‘cause Tommy was coming over—”
“Tommy Lin? You mean the PA?” Jack could have sworn the two rolled their eyes were it not for the mascara smudges.
“Her manager. Ariel’s her PA. She’s really alright, but Tommy is the one behind, like, all her records and MVs and awards and stuff, and… and practically her Prince Charming.” Jack blinked, but took everything down without interrupting. “I mean, everyone knows they’re made for each other, just never, you know, caught together, right? So tonight we caught them coming here together, finally. They have never done that at night before. We came here and waited, you know? Not to, like, bust them, but just to be happy for them.”
“They arrived here together? Wha
t time was it?”
“It was after midnight. I remember because it’s a big thing to catch her out of the house after midnight. It’s like her personal curfew or something. More importantly, it was with Tommy this time.”
Jack made eye contact with Hilton again before asking the next question. “Was either of them carrying a bundle? By which I mean, like, cradling something in their arms?”
“Cradling?” The two looked confused. “I don’t think so. We were both trying to catch them finally holding hands, and they weren’t. But they couldn’t be carrying anything in their arms.”
“So you saw them going in, and they didn’t see you. And you just went on waiting out here?”
“I don’t… I know it sounds like we’re stalking her, but… but we had to stay and wait. Something was going to happen, and… and something was… making us know that. And then… and then…”
Rachel cut in with a gasp, suddenly shaking from the memory. “The door! We saw the door. I swear it! It had a mouth and it screamed! Because she was dying. It screamed because… she was dead… we were just out here! It was—”
“Rachel! We just talked about this!” Joan snapped out, and they both fell silent.
Jack held back. He kept still and waited for them to compose themselves, and again, it was Joan who finally spoke.
“You think we’re crazy, don’t you? You think we’re on drugs or something and that we killed her somehow.”
“I didn’t say she’s dead.”
“We felt it, inspector! That’s why we grabbed that axe from the lobby and… Look, I even chipped my nails. We couldn’t… we had to call you. That’s all we know.” Joan was crying again, and Rachel joined in. “Please, Inspector, tell me you got him. If we couldn’t save her, at least tell me you caught him. Was it Tommy? Was it him?”
With that, they were bawling their eyes out again and there was nothing more they could say. Jack strode back past the ruined door, past Hilton and all the way to the kitchen. It had no stove, no refrigerator—nothing, but the windows had a grill across, secured with a tiny padlock that was practically a lump of rust. Nothing here had been opened for years, let alone had someone snuck through without leaving a trace.
What draw could a place like this hold for someone like Green Maeve? Or was it just more of what he called “tosh of the posh”? Fame on this level was different from being merely recognisable as someone on the telly. Beyond a certain threshold was a way of life quite unfathomable to the hoi polloi of Nine-to-Five Land, and she happened to be the very icon of it for her generation. Even her most ardent worshippers could do no more than guess at her likes and dislikes, her motivations, her reasons for doing anything at all.
“I’m surprised they didn’t leg it before you arrived,” Jack said.
“Do you think they’re lying?”
“I think we’ll need more questions for them at the station. If they’re not, they present an interesting obstacle to the only exit here.”
“And before you get to asking, boss,” said Hilton, “no one got out behind me. I’m sure of it.”
It was hard to argue against that, considering there was obviously nowhere to hide in the living room, and the lack of cover made it impossible to cross it without anyone’s notice. They returned to the baby room. The little fellow was still asleep, and they stood in quiet thought listening to the clicks from Anderson next door. Jack’s attention fell to the organiser by the bag, staring at the name for several seconds before it came back to him.
“Twenty years,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry?”
“Yorkshire. I remember now. He was big news twenty years ago.” He resisted looking at Hilton and adding before your time. “A six-year-old boy found abandoned in the middle of a field, dazed and unable to speak for weeks. He matched none of the missing children reports. I was fresh in the Yard, then, a rookie bloodhound given a scent and a quarry. And we found bloomin’ nowt about him in the records. No identity, no information. Drove everyone mental. The case took months to fade from the limelight, and when it did, a migrant couple from Asia adopted him, proper legal and all. It explains his rather distinct last name for a Yorkshireman.”
Hilton arched a brow. “Nothing wrong with that, boss.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” Jack nodded. “And then two years ago I read in the papers that the couple died in a car crash. Tragic is what it is. And Thomas. Did he grow up to have a son with a singer? And then chickened out of a suicide pact?”
“Suicide pact or something more malicious.”
Neither of them would say it. Even the cleaning lady who worked at the Yard could see the impossibility of either scenario. But there was also no third option, no other way things could have gone. No other way he could have gone.
“We’ve tried calling him,” said Hilton. “His phone is off.”
“That’s right!” Jack’s eyes lit up. “And where is it, Sergeant? If his bag is here, his phone should be as well. Where is it?”
Someone was shouting. Jack’s reflexes kicked in so fast he was reaching for his weapon before realising it was Anderson cursing and screaming from the bedroom. Before anyone could say a word, the Mannequin stumbled out like a man running for his life, his face bloodless and eyes wild.
“She’s—she’s gone!”
Hilton was the first to rush past him into the room and she stopped so quickly Jack almost crashed into her. There was no trick of the light, or smoke or mirrors, but Green Maeve’s body, on the bed just moments ago, was missing.
“I just looked away for two seconds, had my back to the bed,” Anderson said as he retreated to the wall and slowly sank to the floor. “And then she just… vanished.”
Silence washed in like a tide and for almost a whole minute no one made a sound. No one knew what to ask or say; everything they needed to see was there without any room for tricks. Jack’s mind grasped for something amusing to tamper the shock while his thoughts escaped his rein and raced down every line of reasoning in every direction, failing at every turn.
Anderson remained glued to the screen of his camera, his face twisting into an expression few had glimpsed before. The Mannequin had no fear, that was the rule. Now everyone was breaking all the rules. He lowered the screen for them, his trembling finger toggling between one picture and the one after it. “I always take two sets of pictures. With flash and without. They bring out different things, different perspectives.”
The camera was good. Even on its tiny screen, Green Maeve remained in vibrant colours, picturesque and serene. The other picture was different.
“Wait— What?” Hilton jerked her head back on reflex. “That’s… not… her.”
It was some other woman, someone too thin to be healthy, with nothing more than skin stretched over bone. Her facial features were unlike anyone Jack had ever seen, as if some deranged surgeon had put together a human visage from a blank slate based solely on descriptions of how a woman should look.
Hilton’s breathing was becoming short and choppy. “What is happening, Anderson? What did you do to her?”
“You were just there, Sergeant!” Anderson shrieked. “What do you think I could do to—”
“People!” Jack said in his normal voice that somehow hushed them both. “We have a sleeping baby next door.”
They were the audience of a magic routine gone wrong, now left gawking on the stage to wait and see if the illusion would break under their glare. But without the body, they had nothing—no case, no incident. Was there even a way to proceed forward? Jack picked up a new smell, one so far removed from those of the city it threw his memories to his childhood decades ago. He remembered flowers. He remembered summer afternoons. It was the smell of honeysuckle and yarrow flowers rotting in the wide fields on the countryside.
He moved closer to the bed to examine the shadow left on the sheets, the dark silhouette that still vaguely described the shape of a body. He had seen blood and this wasn’t blood; blood didn’t dry like this. I
t was brown—no, not brown. It was rust.
“This is some kind of trick,” said Hilton. “Like a magician’s sleight of hand illusion.”
“A trick, yes. But not an illusion.” Jack looked outside where the sky was slowly lighting up. “It’s sunrise.”
The chaos swirling within began to settle, some fragments of thought falling into place. None of it made sense, but everything was leading somewhere. He took out the ziplock bag from his pocket, opened it and took out the pillbox. Hilton’s eyes widened like she was staring at an oncoming train.
“Boss, are you sure—” she started to say but he was already easing open the cap to take a whiff. Certain poisons can kill in amounts less than what is needed to generate a scent, most of which have been romanticised to no end in novels and movies. But what once filled the container was neither odourless nor toxic, just something he hated with a passion.
“Blood supplements,” he said. The coppery smell brought back all the familiar pain.
He dashed back to the organiser and tossed out all the other things between the pages. Aside from the photographs and cards, there were newspaper cuttings, all yellow with age, all that he now saw were stories of kidnappings and disappearances of children. Every one had names scribbled on the side but most were crossed out as if they had been rejected. On a page torn from another notebook was a list of book names along with their authors, with one of them circled multiple times titled The History of Changelings. An arrow led from the entry to a comment lower in the margin:
No writing of names. They know when they’ve been written down.
He kept going back to the word in the book title, staring long at it before flipping to the last entry made just the day before. The last was also the longest, and while the handwriting was no school teacher’s pride, it didn’t look like something penned in a hurry.
Plan B: There is none. I have no backup. It is hard to accept that for all this planning, there is no contingency, but revenge has never had that luxury. This is the last and only prep/check before going forward. They may not acknowledge good or evil, but that means nothing to those who suffer the consequences. This is for my family. I no longer remember what they sounded like, but I remember all their faces. It is late, but it must be done.
Where the Veil Is Thin Page 3