Red Angel

by Helen Harper

  ‘Well, we know one thing now,’ I say. ‘Whoever they are, they’re human.’ The alarm system includes an anti-triber coagulant. As far as I can tell, it’s a damned expensive one too; even if I could bypass the alarm, our presence would be immediately advertised.

  ‘We could try the roof,’ O’Shea suggests.

  I glance upwards. ‘Too risky,’ I decide. ‘It might be alarmed too. Let’s go right and see if we can get a better look inside from over there.’

  We move down the side of the building until we reach the far end where the light still shines out from the windows. They’re high up but I manage to reach the sill and pull myself up far enough to peek inside. Unfortunately all I can see are some shadows moving around.

  ‘They’re still there,’ I inform O’Shea when I drop back down again.

  ‘So what do we do?’ he asks in an undertone. ‘Screw the alarm and storm the place? We know they’re armed.’

  I run a hand through my hair and my fingers snag on a tangle. I work it out as I think aloud. ‘Probably a bad idea. We don’t know what else is inside and we’ll scupper our chances when we lose the element of surprise.’

  ‘We can wait them out.’

  ‘We can. Although that only works until dawn for me.’ I check the time. ‘Three hours, give or take, before I need to find shelter.’

  He shrugs. ‘It’s better than nothing.’

  I nod. ‘I’ll stay at this end. You watch the far door.’

  O’Shea snaps off a salute and walks back. I watch as he takes up position behind another clump of bushes then I clamber up the muddy slope towards the front of the warehouse. Whoever owns this land isn’t into landscape gardening. There’s nothing to hide behind at this end – not unless I head back across the railway line. I hunker down on my belly and use my hands to push together a small wall of mud. As long as I stay flat it should be enough to hide me if the two men venture out again. It’s unfortunate that the mud is particularly slimy and smelly; I can already feel my skin starting to itch.

  There’s another beep on my phone. I wince at the sound and change it to vibrate. It’s a text from Foxworthy.

  Nothing at mansion. Only a sleepy security guard. What’s going on and where are you?

  I stare at the message. That can’t be right – we left less than thirty minutes ago. I frown and jab out a reply.

  Check gift shop.

  A minute later, I get a response.

  We did. Broken window. Nothing else.

  Damn. These guys – or whoever they work for – are bloody efficient. I gnaw on the inside of my cheek.

  Get some luminol. There must be blood traces. And the smashed window is from a bullet. You might find it inside.

  Tell me where you are.

  I wrinkle my nose. I’m going to have to let him know sooner or later. With time running out, it probably makes sense to tell him sooner. Part of me still doesn’t want to ask for his help; I want to get these bastards on my own. I yield to the inevitable, however, and send him my location, along with a caveat to stay stealthy. I don’t want my targets spooked.

  I shift my position. From this high point, I can make out the flicker of moving shadows from within the warehouse. Whatever they’re up to, they’re certainly busy. My stomach grumbles noisily, reminding me that I really need to drink some fresh blood. I lift my head and am rewarded with a faint sensation of dizziness. I blow air out through my teeth in annoyance. Super speed and super strength are all very well but when you need to recharge every twelve hours, it’s easy to realise your own limitations.

  My phone vibrates, indicating an incoming call. Assuming it’s Foxworthy, I don’t bother to check the screen but simply answer in a hushed voice: ‘Hey.’

  ‘Where the fuck are you?’ Michael asks. He sounds very pissed off. Even so, my belly does a flip-flop of traitorous delight.

  ‘This really isn’t a good time,’ I say evenly.

  ‘It never is with you.’

  I blink. I know that things were awkward between us after Medici’s intervention during our first ‘date’ but the level of enmity in Michael’s voice takes me aback.

  ‘Are you with him right now?’ he snarls.

  ‘With who?’

  ‘You know damn well who.’

  ‘What happened the other night with Medici wasn’t my fault, Michael. You know that, right?’

  ‘I’m not talking about Medici.’

  I’m puzzled. ‘Then who?’

  ‘The lawyer.’

  My brow furrows but I’m prevented from responding by the sound of distant sirens heading this way. ‘Goddammit,’ I hiss. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Bo, wait…’

  I hang up. From the far end, O’Shea half stands, his hands flapping in my direction. I gesture at him to get down but I needn’t have bothered. Less than ten seconds later, five police cars screech round the other side of the building. Several people dressed in black pile out and race to take up positions around the warehouse. I can’t see Foxworthy amongst them but I still curse him viciously under my breath.

  I hear a shout. One of the officers is grabbing O’Shea by his elbow, forcing him to his feet. I scramble to my knees and receive a bright light in my eyes and a muttered command to put my hands up for my trouble. As I’m hauled up, I squint to make out who exactly has decided that I’m suddenly the enemy.

  ‘Don’t move,’ a voice tells me in a tone that brooks no argument.

  I open my mouth to speak but am forestalled by the crash of the warehouse door being blown open. The alarm peals out, ear-splittingly loud. I watch as the police enter the warehouse. There are shouts from within but at least no shots are fired.

  Someone drags down my hands and fixes a pair of handcuffs round my wrists. ‘Sorry, Ms Blackman,’ he mutters. ‘Protocol.’

  I don’t bother telling him that I could break out of these normal cuffs in about three seconds flat. Instead, I watch helplessly as the two killers from the mansion are dragged out and bundled into a waiting vehicle. For all their bluster back at the mansion, they don’t put up much a fight. Annoyingly, with the light shining in my eyes, I still don’t get a good look at their faces.

  At last I hear a familiar voice. ‘What’s going on here?’ Foxworthy shouts.

  I ignore my captor and stumble to my feet. ‘I told you to be quiet and stealthy! We needed to find out what they were doing to discover who they’re working for. Now they’ll lawyer up and we won’t get anywhere!’ My frustration is palpable.

  ‘This wasn’t me,’ he says, sounding surprised. ‘I don’t travel around with Special Forces in tow. I don’t even know why they’re here.’

  The man holding the light in my face drops it to the ground and I finally make out a balaclava-covered head. Only a set of puzzled eyes are visible. ‘We got a call,’ he says.

  ‘Not from me, you didn’t.’

  The man shakes his head. ‘Anonymous tip about an armed gang.’

  ‘There are only two of them,’ I scoff. ‘Not much of a gang.’

  ‘They’re not armed either,’ he says.

  My eyes narrow. ‘But…’

  He shrugs. ‘Just two guys playing cards inside an empty building. Looks like they’ve been here all night. We’ll release them to you for questioning, inspector.’

  Foxworthy glances at me. ‘What’s going on, Bo?’ he asks softly.

  I wipe my cheek, clearing it of the claggy mud that’s attached itself in chunks to my skin. ‘They killed someone,’ I answer. ‘Back at the mansion. They killed him and took his ear.’

  The Special Forces guy looks doubtful. ‘Are you sure it was them?’

  ‘I…’ my voice trails away. ‘I thought I was.’

  He grunts and shrugs. ‘Everyone makes mistakes.’ He gives me the once over. ‘You know, I kind of thought you’d be taller. Could I have your autograph?’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: Cars, Cards, Bars and Kisses

  The nearest police station is in a new building that is all sleek
lines and chrome finishes, as if the government has decided that London’s coppers need to work from a bizarre cross between a diner and Blade Runner. I give my statement to a blushing young constable who can barely look me in the eye then head out to the front to meet O’Shea and get the hell home before the sun comes up.

  I’m surprised to see Connor’s smiling, freckled face in the waiting area. He waves at me and grins. ‘Hi Bo!’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

  ‘Inspector Foxworthy thought you looked hungry. He gave me a ring and sent a car to pick me up and bring me here.’

  I raise an eyebrow. The good inspector is growing more amenable to vampires than I’d have thought possible. ‘I am hungry,’ I admit. ‘I really appreciate you coming out all this way.’

  There’s a flicker of relief in his eyes. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d want me. You know, because you’re drinking from other people nowadays.’ He seems uncomfortable with the idea, as if he preferred it when I only used him alone. The trouble was that ‘used’ was the key word. It wasn’t fair on him; in fact, it’s not fair on him to have been dragged out at this ungodly hour to satiate my blood lust. But beggars can’t be choosers.

  ‘If you don’t want to…’

  ‘I do! I do!’ He stretches out his neck, displaying his jugular in invitation.

  I catch the wide-eyed stare of the desk sergeant. ‘Maybe we should go outside for this,’ I suggest.

  We’re finishing up when O’Shea trips down the steps to meet us. ‘I’m not used to being on the right side of the law,’ he drawls. He catches sight of Connor. ‘But it’s good that I am!’ he declares. ‘Devlin O’Shea is a new man who enjoys helping out the police in all matters.’ He scratches his neck and looks away. I watch him, fascinated.

  ‘Hi, Devlin,’ Connor beams.

  ‘Oh hi,’ O’Shea mumbles. ‘I didn’t see you there. It’s Connor, isn’t it?’

  ‘We’ve met a few times.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. So we have.’ He casts around. ‘Where’s Kimchi?’ he asks finally.

  ‘In the car. I took him for a walk while you guys were inside,’ Connor answers. ‘He really is a great dog.’

  ‘He’s the best,’ O’Shea agrees, before lapsing into an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Thank you, Connor. You didn’t have to do that,’ I say. ‘I won’t have time to walk him properly.’

  He grins. ‘You’re right. We should head back while it’s still dark. If we leave now, we should make it in time. Unless you want to hang around here? Maybe the police have a safe room you can stay in.’

  It’s a nice idea because I don’t want to stray too far from my suspects. However, I’m not sure that, even with my status as hero, I’d trust the police to keep me safe while I slept. One stray shaft of sunlight and it would be adios muchachos. Home makes more sense.

  I glance through the revolving glass and spot Foxworthy. He notices me and comes out. ‘What’s happening?’ I ask.

  He grimaces. ‘They’re not saying a word until their counsel gets here.’

  ‘Did you find the ear?’

  ‘No.’ He seems troubled. ‘No ear and no guns. It is possible these aren’t the guys, Bo.’

  I bite my lip. It is possible but it seems unlikely. ‘Do you have people at Renfrew’s mansion?’

  ‘It’s still too dark. As soon as first light hits, forensics will be out in force. Speaking of first light…’

  I nod. ‘We’re just going. You’ll keep me updated?’

  ‘This isn’t my jurisdiction but the chief constable is an old mate. As soon as anything happens, he’ll tell me. And, yes, I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Great.’ We shake hands and he heads back inside. I watch him go. He’s warned me about getting too involved – but this isn’t his case and it’s still barely five o’clock in the morning. I’m not the only one with workaholic tendencies.

  ‘I’ll bring the car round,’ Connor interjects, clearly still eager to help out. ‘It’s kind of messy though. I’m not sure why you bought it. Maybe you should stick to the bike. I can clean out the car once we get home.’

  I glance at O’Shea. Unbelievably, he is going red. He coughs. Deciding to rescue the daemon, I smile encouragingly at Connor and he bounds away.

  ‘What’s with you?’ I ask curiously.

  O’Shea sounds defensive. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘With Connor. It’s like you have a schoolboy crush or something.’ He doesn’t reply. ‘Devlin,’ I say, ‘he’s really young.’

  ‘He’s not a child, Bo. You think of him as young but he’s actually much more mature than you know.’

  Perhaps he’s right. ‘This isn’t like you though. You’re normally more … confident with your conquests.’

  O’Shea shuffles his feet. ‘So?’

  Understanding dawns on me. ‘You really like him, don’t you? I mean, really like him.’

  He shrugs. ‘He’s a nice guy. Is he…?’ His voice trails off.

  ‘Gay?’ I try to think. I’ve never seen Connor with any girls but I’ve never seen him with any guys either. ‘I don’t know,’ I say truthfully. ‘He’s a bit of an innocent, O’Shea. It wouldn’t be fair of you to corrupt him.’

  ‘Please! I wouldn’t corrupt him.’ A smirk appears as the real O’Shea returns. ‘Not much, anyway.’

  I look at him assessingly. ‘I can find out his preferences,’ I offer. ‘But if he’s not interested then you have to promise to back off.’

  ‘No, don’t do that,’ he begs. ‘Let me keep my fantasies a little longer. I’ll speak to him when I’m ready.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  He nods as Connor drives up and sticks his neck out of the window. ‘For all the mess, this car does have character,’ he says. ‘We should give it a name.’

  I smile. ‘How about Barry?’

  Connor grins back. ‘I like it! We could call it Baz for short!’

  I button my lips and open the back door, pushing the clutter to one side so Kimchi and I can get in. O’Shea can ride shotgun this time.

  *

  I’m woken up much earlier than I should have been thanks to the incessant ringing of my phone. It’s particularly irritating because I’d been enjoying a rather racy dream about me, Michael (with a scowl that still confounds me) and a can of UHT cream. I fumble across the bedside table to grab it, disturbing Kimchi’s slumber in the process. He leaps to his feet in the mistaken belief that it’s feeding time.

  ‘Bo Blackman,’ I mumble.

  ‘I’m sorry for waking you,’ Foxworthy says, ‘but I thought you’d want to know straight away.’

  I bolt upright. ‘Know what?’

  ‘Your two have walked.’

  ‘They’ve what?’ I screech.

  ‘There was nothing to hold them on. You couldn’t positively identify them from the scene. There wasn’t a single thing to suggest they’d been doing anything illegal.’

  ‘Were they properly questioned?’

  ‘Bo, that’s not fair.’

  I rub my eyes. ‘I’m sure it was them. It has to have been them.’

  ‘There’s no body, no traces of blood. All we have is a broken window and a single bullet embedded in the gift shop wall. We can’t hold them on that evidence.’

  ‘No blood?’ How good is their damned clean-up crew? ‘What about their car?’ I ask desperately. ‘There must be some traces inside.’

  ‘We couldn’t examine it.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’

  ‘Their barrister got involved. We didn’t have a leg to stand on. He’s a canny bastard. And,’ Foxworthy pauses, ‘I believe he’s a friend of yours.’

  My eyes narrow. He has to be kidding. ‘Harry D’Argneau.’

  ‘That’s him.’

  Sodding hell. I’ll string him up when I find him. ‘Do you at least have an address for them?’ If the police are going to cut them loose I’ll have to deal with them myself.

  ‘I can’t give it to you, Bo.’

&nb
sp; ‘Foxworthy, come on. I’m not going to hurt them. I won’t even talk to them. But they need to be watched. They murdered someone in cold blood!’

  ‘Maybe. They maybe murdered someone.’

  I shake my head in despair. ‘Please.’

  ‘I really can’t. But don’t worry, I’ve put a team onto them. Every move they make will be catalogued. If they are your killers, sooner or later we’ll know about it.’

  The trouble is that it might end up too bloody late: they might kill again. Angry frustration gnaws at me. ‘At least you believe me,’ I say finally. ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘Of course I believe you,’ he answers quietly.

  ‘Can you tell me their names?’ I plead in a last-ditch effort.

  ‘Sorry, Bo.’

  I stalk into the bathroom and glare at myself in the mirror. Then I let out an inarticulate scream and punch the wall. Plaster flies off and my fist leaves an unsightly dent and several hairline cracks. Kimchi nudges my hand and whines softly.

  ‘Sorry,’ I tell him. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’ I look at the phone in my hand, debating whether to call D’Argneau. I’m still too worked up; I can feel the hot anger coursing through my veins. If I can’t speak to him like a calm intelligent adult, I’ll never get anywhere. Besides, I want to look the slimy lawyer in the eyes.

  *

  I take Kimchi with me to D’Argneau’s offices. I’m certain that dogs aren’t allowed inside but I don’t care: let them try and stop me. It helps that I make no effort to conceal myself. I use public transport and keep my head and face uncovered. By the time I reach the gleaming façade, I’ve garnered a considerable following. I don’t ask any of the people behind me why they don’t have better things to do than wander around after me; neither am I bothered by the incessant questions from the few journalists who’ve decided to tag along. From time to time I reach into my pocket and touch my white pebble, then smile prettily for the cameras and allow my seething emotions to solidify into something very cold and very hard.

  ‘You can’t bring him in here,’ the doorman states firmly.

  ‘What if I told you he was a guide dog?’