by Helen Harper
O’Shea reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a coin. He pivots round towards the large sink and draws it across the ceramic.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I ask.
He gestures at it. ‘It’s scratched here too now.’
‘You’ve damaged it? Shit in a hell basket, O’Shea, at least Kimchi doesn’t know any better! We’re not trying to advertise ourselves. This is supposed to be an undercover operation!’
‘Do you think it’s the same suite that was here when the murders happened?’ he muses, not noticing my admonishments.
I shake my head in confusion. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘It’s so easily damaged.’
I shrug. ‘So what? It’s not like the sort of durable plastic you get nowadays.’ Then I falter. ‘Oh.’
O’Shea stands back up. ‘Because of the amount of blood, it was always assumed the murders took place here.’
I nod slowly. ‘I’ve never heard it suggested otherwise.’
‘But how can you kill five people, four of whom are tribers, and not leave a single mark? In less than five minutes we’ve managed to scratch the surfaces without even trying.’
‘You think they weren’t actually killed here? They were murdered somewhere else and transported here?’
His eyes meet mine. ‘If someone wanted to frame Tobias Renfrew, it would make sense. It was the Sixties, after all. Forensics weren’t as good as they are now.’
‘It might be a replica suite. We could get in touch with the National Trust and ask them.’
O’Shea smiles. ‘Or we could check out the gift shop at the front.’
‘Eh?’
‘There were a lot of books inside. I bet some of them are about this room in particular.’
‘Good idea.’
O’Shea beams. ‘See? I’m not merely a devilishly handsome face. I’ve got smarts too.’
I smile back. ‘How about putting those smarts into action and working out how we can hide all these scratches?’
He rubs his chin. ‘Um, Tippex?’
*
In the end, we have no choice but to leave them as they are. The mark O’Shea made on the sink doesn’t show much but Kimchi’s scrapes inside the bath are horribly obvious. I can only hope that the next batch of visitors will assume they aren’t fresh. I take snapshots of everything with my phone so we can compare them with the original photos, then head out to retrieve Kimchi.
He’s lying next to the side table, his head on his paws. He cocks his head at me and his tail gives a tiny wag as if he’s asking whether he’s forgiven yet. I tut at him and untie his lead from the table leg. When I stand up, I catch my forehead on a corner of table and wince in pain. An expensive vase on top of the table wobbles but I manage to catch it before it falls. I set it upright again underneath a pretty landscape painting of a farm. A tiny figure sits underneath a tree in the far corner, while golden fields stretch out in front, leading down to a quaint-looking farmhouse. I decide that Tobias Renfrew had good taste in art. Then I spot the scrawled signature in the bottom: ‘T. Renfrew’. I gaze at the painting with renewed interest. The fact that the ex-military daemon dabbled in painting is a new one on me. Out of vague interest, I also take a photo of it. Maybe it’s a place that had some significance for him. You never know.
I meet O’Shea back at the stairs. Kimchi nudges his hand with his nose and a smile crosses the daemon’s face. I raise my eyebrows. When he catches me looking, he abruptly changes his smile to a scowl. ‘Damn dog,’ he growls.
Kimchi wags his tail again and I grin. ‘You love him really.’
We exit the same way we entered, carefully closing the window again. The guard seems to have disappeared so it’s an easy jaunt back to the gift shop. I pull out my trusty lockpick and let us in. Unfortunately there’s a bell above the door which jangles loudly. I hiss through my teeth and all three of us freeze. When no one comes running, I force myself to relax.
‘What is this?’ O’Shea asks, cheerfully. ‘The third place in two nights that you’ve broken into?’
‘Second.’
‘Brigstone, the mansion and now here,’ he says, ticking them off on his fingers.
‘I’m counting this and the mansion as the same.’
He snorts. ‘If you say so. I’ll make a hardened criminal of you yet.’
I stick out my tongue and make a beeline for the bookshelves. There’s a vast array of titles pertaining to Tobias Renfrew. I take one of each and balance them in a pile then I take out my wallet and leave enough cash to cover them all.
‘Bo, is that really necessary?’
‘We’re not thieves.’ I give him a look. ‘OK,’ I amend, ‘I’m not a thief.’
‘They’re hardly going to notice,’ he says. ‘Look at this book. It’s covered in dust, it’s probably not been picked up in years.’
I glance at the small volume on the top. He has a point; the cover is twee and old-fashioned with a hand-drawn picture of Renfrew standing in a pile of bloody bodies. ‘It might be useful,’ I say.
‘Mm.’ He sounds doubtful. ‘How about this instead?’ O’Shea holds up a key ring of a miniature Tobias Renfrew. He shakes it and the tiny plastic ruby in its ear lights up while the theme tune plays from the Twilight Zone.
‘Put that away,’ I hiss.
‘It’s kind of cute. I’m going to keep it.’
‘Then pay for it.’
‘Bo, you really do suck the fun out of life sometimes.’
I’m about to reply when Kimchi suddenly growls. I glance down and realise his hackles are raised. ‘Either he doesn’t think you should take the damn key ring either,’ I whisper, ‘or we’re about to be interrupted.’
O’Shea nods. ‘Hide.’
A beam of torch light reappears and we duck. Kimchi growls again so I pull him down onto the floor and hush him. He does as he’s told but through his thick fur I can feel his body vibrating with anxiety. As I crane my head to check whether the guard is heading for us there’s a sudden popping noise and the glass in the shop window splinters, spraying shards in every direction.
‘He’s shooting at us!’ O’Shea screeches.
We hear the sound of running feet on gravel and distant shouts. There’s only one door out of the damn shop and, thanks to me, it’s wide open. Keeping my head down, I scoot over and slam it closed. My fingers fumble with the lock just as a pale face suddenly appears, pressed against the glass. Orange eyes blink down at me, wide with fear. Then there’s another shot and the daemon, whoever he is, slumps forward before crashing to the ground.
I throw myself back towards Kimchi and O’Shea, keeping as low as I can.
‘Bo, that sodding door is made of glass! They’ll come through in a second!’
‘Quiet!’
‘But…’
‘I don’t think we’re the targets,’ I tell O’Shea urgently. He stills. I place a protective arm around Kimchi as the voices get louder.
‘Did you get him?’ a man asks. It sounds as if he’s right outside.
There’s a thud. ‘Yeah, he’s gone.’
‘Good riddance,’ he spits. There’s a pause. ‘Your aim is off. Now we need to fix the shitty window too.’
‘No need. They’ll blame it on kids. Get his ear.’
‘I got it last time. You take it.’
I debate what to do. Whoever these two are, they’re preoccupied with the daemon they executed. I can’t tell whether they’re tribers or humans – and I reckon I could probably take both of them out. They are, however, armed and there may be more of them in the vicinity. It might be more prudent to see what they do next.
I dare not move an inch. There’s a heavy sigh and one of the men bends down in front of the door and grabs the dead daemon’s head. I see a flicker of steel and I damp down my nausea as he starts sawing away at the soft flesh.
‘I hate this part,’ he grunts. There’s a plopping sound as the cartilage rips away then he stands up again. ‘Call the clean-up crew
. We need to dispose of this mess.’
I reach in my back pocket and slide out my phone as the men walk away. Kimchi whines and I hush him, quickly typing out a message to Foxworthy.
I glance at O’Shea and he nods in agreement. ‘What are we going to do?’ he asks in a low voice.
‘Follow those two, of course,’ I answer.
He groans. ‘I had a horrible feeling that’s what you were going to say. They murdered a daemon right in front of us, Bo.’
‘And sliced off his ear. There’s no way I’m letting them get away.’
There’s the sound of an engine revving in the distance. ‘We’d better get a move on, then.’
‘I hope Barry can keep up,’ I mutter.
‘Somehow I think my car is going to be the least of our worries.’
Keeping low, we edge out of the gift shop, stepping over the daemon’s body. I hug the pile of pilfered books to my chest. ‘Watch out for the blood,’ I warn. ‘We don’t want to compromise the scene.’
‘Give me your phone,’ O’Shea says.
I toss it over to him, turning away as he bends down and takes a quick snap of the dead daemon’s face. There’s a screech of tyres as our two culprits speed away.
‘We need to go now, O’Shea.’
He stands up, a faint green tinge to his skin. He touches both his own ears absently as if to check they’re still there. ‘Let’s go.’
I take a quick look at the corpse. ‘I should have done something,’ I mutter. ‘I should have at least tried to save him.’
O’Shea’s fingers brush my arm. ‘There was no time.’ His tone is soft. ‘There’s nothing we could have done.’
‘Tell that to him,’ I say sadly. Then I run to the car.
CHAPTER TEN: Chasing Shadows
The two killers, whoever they are, already have a good lead on us. I’m painfully aware of how easily the men who murdered Bergman Stuart slipped away so, at the risk of offending O’Shea, I slip into the driver’s seat.
‘Buckle up,’ I tell him, my tone brusque and business-like. I don’t wait for him to follow orders but start the engine and head off.
Kimchi appears to have understood the urgency of the situation. Rather than remain in the back seat with the litter from Barry’s previous owner, he squeezes forward and perches on O’Shea’s lap, gazing eagerly out of the windshield at the dark road ahead of us.
When we reach the end of the long drive, there’s a choice – left or right. I curse inwardly. ‘A sodding Trace would be pretty handy right about now,’ I mutter.
‘They don’t work on people,’ O’Shea answers. ‘Go right.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if it’s left, we’ve lost them already. There are too many crossroads in the other direction.’
He’s right. My knowledge of London geography is not good out here in the suburbs but I caught enough of the roads and the signs on the way to the mansion to appreciate his words. With my heart in my mouth, I swerve to my right. I speed up but as Barry’s headlights are switched off to avoid us being seen, I’m forced to pay close attention to what’s going on up ahead. I only just manage to avoid a rabbit that bounds out in front of the car. I grit my teeth and change gears, accelerating even more.
We whizz round the next corner. A set of brake lights flickers in the distance and I slow down. This might not be them but it’s the middle of the night and there’s no one else about. I’ll just have to keep my fingers crossed.
My phone beeps. O’Shea snatches it from the dashboard and examines the text. ‘It’s from that copper. He wants to know where we are.’
‘Tell him to get to Renfrew’s mansion,’ I say, as the traffic lights turn green and the car ahead moves again. It glides forward onto a better-lit street where it is harder for us to follow unobtrusively. I hang back, hoping we’re far enough away to avoid raising suspicion.
The phone beeps again. ‘He says you’re not qualified to chase suspects,’ O’Shea says.
‘So I’ll make a goddamn citizen’s arrest. Besides, I still have my PI licence. That’ll grant me some leeway.’
‘Not if you’re ignoring a police request.’
‘If they call out a panda car, those guys will get spooked and we’ll lose them.’
‘Or,’ O’Shea comments, ‘they’ll get arrested for murder.’
I shake my head. ‘No, that won’t help us. They’re just like the Venezuelan crew. These bastards are following orders. We need to find out who’s giving them.’
I breathe again when the car turns away from the main road and the street lamps. Wherever they’re going, they’re smart enough to avoid taking a direct route. Unless they’ve spotted us, they must be trying to keep away from CCTV cameras and traffic hot spots. Either way it means they’re professionals. I drop back further.
A car approaches on the other side of the road. I catch a glimpse of a bleary-eyed driver frowning in my direction. He flicks his high beams off and on and beeps his horn to alert me to my own lack of headlights.
‘Shit.’
‘Do you think they noticed?’ O’Shea asks.
‘Can’t tell,’ I mutter. I turn Barry’s lights on just in case, keeping a close eye on the killers’ car. It slows down fractionally. I bite my lip and make a decision, indicating left.
‘What are you doing, Bo?’ O’Shea cranes his neck round Kimchi’s body, holding onto him so he doesn’t fall over.
‘Taking a gamble.’ This is a residential area. I bet I can find my way out further up ahead and will only lose a short distance between us and the other car. I speed up again. At least the people who live here are tucked up safe and sound in their beds and none of them will get in my way. I twist left, spinning the wheel. Kimchi lets out a small yip when Barry crashes over a speed bump.
‘Bo!’ O’Shea yells.
‘Sorry.’
‘I’ve only had Baz for five minutes,’ he complains. ‘You can’t kill his suspension.’
‘Baz can take it.’ I narrowly avoid driving down a cul-de-sac and turn left, hoping I can find a way out. After several quick turns, we make it. ‘Can you see them?’ I ask anxiously.
‘I can’t see anything,’ O’Shea grumbles. ‘Apart from the back of your dog’s fat head.’
‘He’s not fat,’ I say primly. ‘He’s big boned.’
As if he understands, Kimchi turns and licks my left hand on the steering wheel. My knuckles are white with tension but I relax slightly when I spot the car again.
‘Stop,’ O’Shea hisses.
I slam on the brakes and all three of us jolt forward, saved only by the seatbelts and O’Shea’s hold around Kimchi’s body. ‘What?’
‘Dead end,’ he answers, pointing to a sign only a few metres away. ‘Do you know what’s ahead?’
I shake my head. ‘Not a clue.’
‘I thought you were the queen of the streets.’
‘Not here unfortunately.’ I release the seatbelt and leap out. ‘Leave Kimchi here,’ I call to O’Shea as I start sprinting.
I stick to the more shadowed side of the road . All the same, if either of those goons look back, they’ll notice me – especially if they’re tribers of the vampiric or daemonic persuasion. Their enhanced vision makes it much easier to see in the dark.
Despite my own bloodguzzling nature, I can’t see what’s ahead. I strain my eyes as I run past row upon row of terraced houses that put me in mind of The Truman Show. It’s not until I’m almost at the end of the street that I finally spot the car again.
It’s parked haphazardly at an angle that no self-respecting driver would allow. I peer inside the windows. The seats are empty: there’s not even a chewing-gum wrapper or piece of ID. I pull back and note a scratch on the exterior, just underneath the passenger window. I grimace. No doubt they stole the damn thing.
O’Shea catches up, bending over double and panting. ‘Do you have to run so fast?’ he gasps.
‘We can’t let them get away.’ I search around, noting a high
fence next to a railway line. ‘Come on. They must have gone that way.’
I haul myself over the fence. When I was human, I couldn’t have avoided ripping my clothes on the barbed wire at the top; now I find it easy to vault over it. O’Shea is obviously struggling; I hear the metal links rattle behind me, along with several colourful curses. It doesn’t matter now, though. As soon as I cross the rail tracks, I can see the men. Their shadows cross wasteland and go into an abandoned warehouse less than fifty metres away. I turn back and help O’Shea clamber over.
‘This is a designer suit,’ he complains, fingering a rip in the fabric.
I pat him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. We’ve almost caught them.’
We edge towards the building, keeping low. A light flickers at the far end and I smile in satisfaction. They don’t realise we’re on to them.
‘Do you think this is their hide-out?’ O’Shea asks. ‘I always wanted a hide-out.’
‘Tell you what,’ I say, stepping past some gorse bushes, ‘once we catch these pricks, it’s all yours.’ I pause. ‘Unless it belongs to someone else.’
‘You’re all heart, Bo,’ O’Shea mutters as we reach the building.
There’s a steel door. I reach over and give the doorknob an experimental tug. It doesn’t budge. There’s no visible lock to pick, either.
‘I’ve got this,’ O’Shea whispers.
I step to the side to allow him his moment of machismo. He leans back, ready to launch himself and kick it open. Then I spot the tiny wire hanging out of the door frame and stop him just in time. I place my fingers to my lips and point upwards. His eyes follow, narrowing when he sees it too.
‘Bend down,’ I tell him.
He does as I ask. I hook my legs round his neck and tap him on the head. He stands up, wavering slightly. ‘Have you put on weight lately, Bo?’
‘Shh. Move a bit closer.’
He shuffles forward. I lean over and inspect the wire. ‘It’s alarmed,’ I whisper. ‘Do you still have my phone?’
O’Shea passes it up. Using it as a makeshift torch, I peer more closely, gingerly touching the wire with the tip of my finger. The smell is unmistakable.