by Helen Harper
My grandfather’s expression remains impassive until it’s clear she’s not coming back. Then he looks at me approvingly. ‘Well, well, well. You may have uncovered a decades-old conspiracy. There was never anything about a photograph of Renfrew’s corpse in MI7’s files.’
‘I don’t get it,’ Connor says slowly. ‘The army have a fake photo of Tobias Renfrew’s death? But if they faked it, then why didn’t they release it for the world to see?’
‘I have no idea,’ I answer. ‘It might have been Renfrew’s body in the picture, I couldn’t tell for sure. If it is him, I believe the army killed him. If it isn’t him, goodness only knows what they were hoping to achieve.’
‘It’s not New Order’s remit to investigate daemons,’ my grandfather says. ‘But I think in this case we can make an exception.’
I can’t keep the beaming smile off my face. ‘Brilliant.’
He jabs a finger at me. ‘If I hear you’ve been sneaking onto any more army properties, however, I’ll lock you up myself and throw away the key.’
‘It was a one-time thing,’ I say absently.
‘What can we do?’ Everyone is eager to get involved.
I consider. ‘I want to check up on the two daemon killers from last night. They might have something to do with all this and they might not but, either way, I’m not letting them get off scot free. It might be helpful to bring Connor along as a fresh set of eyes.’
Matt looks crestfallen. ‘Not me?’
I look from him to Dahlia. ‘I have some books I’d like the two of you to look at.’
‘Books? But that’s so boring!’ he complains.
‘It’s necessary,’ I say briskly.
‘What’s the daemon going to be doing?’ my grandfather asks.
‘O’Shea?’ I sneak a glance at Connor who simply smiles. ‘I’ll call him. He can come along to Creed and Wyatt’s with us. Matt, come upstairs and help me collect the books, please.’
He mutters under his breath and I grin at him. I’m still convinced that the enhancement spell that warped his mind is starting to lose its effect even though his feet are already leading him out of the room. I follow quickly.
Once we’re in my flat upstairs – and the door is safely closed ‒ I grab the pile of Renfrew-related books from the gift shop and hand them over to him. ‘This is important,’ I say in an undertone. ‘Dahlia was in the room so I can’t stop her getting involved, much as I might wish otherwise. I trust you and I don’t trust her. You need to cross-reference the material in these books to see if there’s anything new we can learn about Renfrew. You also need to cross-reference what Dahlia’s doing.’
‘Why can’t you trust her?’ Matt asks, confused. ‘I like her.’
‘She might be working for Medici,’ I say, pointing out the obvious.
He mulls it over. ‘So I’ll be like a super spy, will I?’
‘Exactly. That’s why I need you here instead of out in the field.’
‘OK, Bo. I can do this.’
I pat him on the shoulder. ‘You’re the best, Matt.’
There’s a knock on the door. Leaving Matt to carry the books, I open it half an inch. It’s Drechlin. ‘I have your dog,’ he tells me, with a curl to his lips.
I open the door further. Kimchi leaps forward, bowling me over. I receive several slobbering licks to the face. ‘Thanks,’ I say, doing what I can to keep my face away from Kimchi’s lolling tongue.
‘You should take better care of him,’ Drechlin sniffs. ‘This came for you too. Some courier who was too lazy to climb the stairs.’
I freeze. Kimchi’s blocking my view but I have a sudden feeling that I know exactly what Drechlin is holding. In his hands there’s a single white card. There’s not even an envelope. I gently push the dog out of the way.
‘When?’ I demand. ‘When did it arrive?’
He shrugs. ‘About half an hour ago.’
I grind my teeth. Damn it. I’d liked to have talked to that courier. I eye the card as if it’s a snake. Why now, I wonder?
I wait for Drechlin to hand it over, but he doesn’t seem particularly keen. ‘There are too many of you bloodguzzlers now,’ he says. ‘It’s a fire hazard.’
I’m not sure what his beef is; since the crowd of journalists left the street outside, Drechlin’s little dentistry business has been teeming with customers hoping to catch a glimpse of the Red Angel while getting their fillings done.
‘I’m sure we meet all the regulations.’ At least I’m sure Arzo and my grandfather have covered that aspect of our tenancy.
‘I could complain, you know.’
I look at him, exasperated. He’s complained about us often enough in the past. I’m not sure what’s stopping him this time. ‘That’s your prerogative, Dr Drechlin.’
He seems to be waiting for something but I have no idea what. When he realises I’m not going to say anything else, he exhales. ‘I could be persuaded to stay quiet.’
My nose wrinkles. Does he want a bribe?
He shuffles forward. ‘It must be difficult keeping your, uh, fangs clean. A vampire’s teeth are vital.’
‘You are suggesting I come in for a check-up,’ I say, suddenly understanding. ‘Perhaps have my photo taken while I’m there.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You’re usually closed by the time I’m up and about.’
He smiles, revealing his own blindingly white teeth. ‘I can make an exception. In the interests of being neighbourly.’
I manage not to roll my eyes. ‘How about next week then? Monday? Around eight?’
‘I suppose I can do that.’
I lean forward and take the card from him. ‘I’ll see you then,’ I say firmly, waving him outside. Wonders will never cease.
‘I thought he didn’t like vampires,’ Matt says. ‘I tried to get him to clean my teeth a few weeks ago and he refused.’
‘He wants to jump on the fame bandwagon.’ My fingers tighten around the card. With my heart in my mouth, I flip it over. The handwriting is exactly the same as it was on D’Argneau’s missive. Even the colour of the ink is the same.
Leave Creed and Wyatt alone. They’re a dead end.
So … I reckon I’m on the right track with those two after all.
‘I’ve got to run, Matt,’ I tell him. ‘Make sure you keep an eye on Dahlia.’
I leap out the door with Kimchi at my heels. Speeding into the office downstairs, I find my grandfather in his chair. I fling the card down in front of him. ‘Look!’ I say, shivering with excitement.
He reads the card. ‘Real ink,’ he murmurs. ‘You don’t see that often these days.’
‘Real ink?’ I splutter. ‘That’s all you can say?’
‘It’s certainly interesting,’ he says.
Dahlia walks in and places a cup of tea on a delicate, flowered china saucer in front of him. She looks at the card. ‘Who’s that from?’ she asks.
‘The tooth fairy,’ I answer shortly. Her mouth tightens. Keep your enemies close, Bo, I remind myself. ‘By the way,’ I add, ‘I meant to thank you for keeping those soldiers from tracking me. You did a good job.’
A grateful smile spreads across her face. ‘Thank you!’
‘You’re welcome.’ I try not to soften towards her; she can’t be trusted, no matter how nice she acts in person. ‘Connor and I are leaving now.’
‘Remember the police are watching them too, Bo,’ my grandfather warns. ‘Don’t do anything foolhardy.’
I scoff. ‘As if.’
*
‘I have a location for Creed,’ Connor informs me, ‘but I’ve not been able to find much on Wyatt. His last known address was Manchester.’
‘Good work!’ I grin. ‘Where are we heading?’
‘Kensington.’
I’m slightly taken aback. It’s a pricey area more suited to the London contingent of large bank accounts and four-wheel drives. ‘You’re sure?’
He nods. ‘It’s an unusual name. I’m certain that’s o
ur guy.’
I wonder how Creed’s neighbours are coping with a police presence in their leafy street. I hope that whoever’s been assigned to the stake-out is discreet. My alleged killers will already be on edge after their arrest. I need them relaxed and unworried – then they’ll be more likely to screw up.
‘Can you let O’Shea know?’ I ask.
‘Already have,’ he says cheerily.
There’s nothing in his tone to suggest he thinks of the daemon as any more than an occasional colleague. I’m tempted to ask him about his personal inclinations but I’m mindful of O’Shea’s request not to.
I settle for bland niceties instead. ‘O’Shea seems to be turning over a new leaf. He’s been helping us out a lot. He’s even got himself a gig as a mystery shopper.’
‘I hope he’s not working too hard,’ Connor says. ‘He needs to give himself time to go to the gym and keep that hard daemon body all buff and muscular.’ My mouth drops slightly. Connor winks at me. ‘I’m not stupid, Bo. I know what he wants from me.’
‘And,’ I ask slowly, ‘does it offend you?’
‘Not in the slightest. I have eclectic tastes.’ The corner of his mouth lifts up in a mischievous smile. ‘Humans. Vampires. Daemons.’
‘Men?’
‘And women. Devlin though…’ he pauses. ‘There’s something special about him.’
This is a brand new Connor that I’m seeing. There’s a glimmer in his eyes. If O’Shea is acting uncharacteristically shy around the red-haired human, then Connor is doing the complete opposite. ‘You seem very self-assured,’ I tell him. ‘Unusually so.’
‘I don’t understand why people get so nervous about relationships. There are some things in this world that it makes sense to be scared of. Your grandfather, for one. His cat for another. Hybrid witches. Kakos daemons.’ He sneaks a quick glance. ‘You.’
‘Me? I’m not scary!’
‘You’re the Red Angel, Bo. You’re bloody terrifying.’ He puts his hands in his pockets. ‘Being frightened of those things is logical. Being frightened of love? That’s daft.’
I shake my head fervently. ‘Love is the scariest thing there is. You’re more likely to be hurt when you love someone. There are complications and problems and arguments about toilet seats.’ I think about Michael. ‘Unnecessary jealousy.’
Connor smiles. ‘You’re not scared of falling in love. You’re scared of being hurt.’ His eyes grow serious. ‘But believe me, Bo, it’s much scarier to walk away from love than it is to experience it.’
‘You’re not in love with O’Shea, are you?’ I ask suspiciously.
He laughs. ‘No. Not yet anyway. Maybe I never will be. I mean love in the sense of the possibility of the word and all its meanings. I hoped that Devlin was going to see that too but I think I need to give him a nudge first. He’s quite a lot like you. That’s probably why you two get on so well.’
‘We don’t get on,’ I protest. ‘He’s merely useful. We argue all the time.’
He pats me on the shoulder. ‘Lord Montserrat and you argue all the time as well.’
‘I don’t get on with him either,’ I mumble.
‘Yeah, right.’ Connor’s eyes twinkle. ‘Bo, I’m not telling you that relationships like that are easy. I’m telling you that they’re worth it.’
I stare at him. ‘When did you get to be so wise?’
He smirks. ‘I’m not just a pretty face. Now, come on. We’ve got some murderers to catch.’
*
We meet up with O’Shea at the far end of Creed’s street. Connor gives him an easy smile and touches his arm – and the answering look of delight from the daemon squeezes my heart. He coughs and looks at me. ‘There are two coppers,’ he says. ‘They’re parked several doors down.’
‘Are they obvious?’
He purses his lips. ‘Actually, they’re doing well. Foxworthy must have made sure that they’re experienced. I knew they were there and it still took me a while to spot them.’
A glow spreads through me. It’s nice to be trusted – especially by the gruff policeman. ‘All the same,’ I say, ‘they’re probably not going to hang around forever. Not with a complete absence of evidence.’
‘Then we do what any self-respecting private dick would do,’ O’Shea declares.
‘I’m the only official PI around here,’ I remind him. ‘And I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.’
‘I think I’m thinking exactly what you think I’m thinking.’
I roll my eyes.
‘Er, what?’ Connor asks.
O’Shea turns to him, his old self shining through. ‘We go through their rubbish, of course.’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘Wonderful.’
‘Won’t the police stop us if we rummage through their bins?’
O’Shea beams, clearly proud to display his knowledge to the younger man. ‘They will. But if you look behind you, you will see the number fifty-nine night bus.’
Both of us look. ‘Perfect timing,’ I say as the bus trundles towards us. ‘All the same, Connor, you should probably grab the bin bags. The police and the killers know me and O’Shea. If they see you, there’s less chance they’ll be suspicious.’
O’Shea frowns. ‘He’s human. We shouldn’t put him in any danger.’
Connor flashes him a smile. ‘Don’t worry, Devlin. I’ve got this.’ He dashes to the other side of the road and waits for the bus. As soon as it reaches him, he starts to jog towards Creed’s place. The bus should block the police officers’ view. It’s unlikely that Creed will look out of the window and spot Connor but it is still possible. Connor will have to be quick to minimise his chances of detection.
‘That’s amazing,’ O’Shea breathes, as we watch Connor make his way down.
‘As long as he doesn’t draw attention to himself,’ I add.
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘That’s not what I meant. He called me Devlin. The sound of my name on his lips…’
‘Ask him out,’ I say suddenly. ‘When he gets back.’
‘What?’ His eyes widen. ‘No, no, no. We’re on a job right now. We need to stay focused. I’ll do it, um, tomorrow. Maybe.’
‘Devlin,’ I say quietly, ‘just ask him.’
Connor draws level with Creed’s house and I hold my breath. He flips open the wheelie bin lid and snatches up a large green bag from inside before the bus passes by completely. In less than three seconds he’s sprinting away, his waves of ginger hair flapping in the wind.
‘Good boy,’ I say satisfied.
O’Shea smiles. ‘He’s no boy.’
It takes Connor ten minutes to circle back the long way and meet us again. We find a quiet spot in the corner of a nearby park and sit down cross-legged.
‘Well, at least they’re environmentally friendly daemon killers,’ O’Shea says, untying the biodegradable bag.
The reek of rotting food reaches our nostrils. I recoil.
‘That’s rank,’ Connor groans, wafting his hand in front of his face.
I pull out a pair of gloves from my leather jacket. ‘Tools of the trade,’ I tell the other two.
‘Well, as you’re the only one with the tools, you can do the rummaging,’ O’Shea says.
I walked into that one. I pull the gloves on then pick my way through the bag’s contents. There are several hardened – although not yet mouldy – pizza crusts with traces of tomato sauce and basil clinging to the edges, screwed up utilities bills that I smooth out and put to one side, and numerous crushed beer cans.
‘I guess they’re not that environmentally friendly after all,’ I mutter, shaking off drips of stale beer from my fingers. ‘They’re certainly not recycling.’
I extricate several old batteries leaking crusted acid. I’m getting the impression that Creed is not particularly house proud. There’s a carton of milk, dated eight weeks ago, a half-eaten salad in a plastic container, a ripped charity donation envelope which I place next to the bills, and the contents of wha
t appear to be several ashtrays. The source of the bad smell is some kind of slimy meat that should probably have been thrown out days ago. And there’s pretty much nothing else.
I rock back on my heels. ‘So, boys, what does this tell us?’
‘They like pizza and beer,’ Connor says solemnly. ‘If we knew where they ordered it from, we could find out when they were at home. That would give them an alibi.’
‘There’s no pizza box. And we’re trying to prove that they are the killers we’re chasing. I’m not looking for an alibi.’
‘It’s strange,’ O’Shea comments, ‘that they like pizza and salad.’
I pick up the salad tub and frown. It’s nothing exciting – some leaves, shaved radishes and squashed cherry tomatoes. ‘I guess Creed likes pizza and Wyatt likes salad,’ I shrug. ‘Or vice-versa. These leftovers are a lot fresher than the milk and that meat.’ I peel open the salad lid and peer inside.
‘Bo,’ O’Shea says drily, ‘I’m not sure that investigating lettuce is going to help us.’
I’m about to tell him that the key to a good rubbish retrieval is to consider each item in depth to get a rounded picture of your target, when I pause. ‘That’s not lettuce,’ I say slowly.
‘Rocket, spinach, radicchio … who cares?’
Connor shoots him an admiring glance. ‘You know your greens.’
O’Shea blushes. ‘I like to eat healthily.’
‘So do I.’
‘Maybe … maybe we could eat healthily together?’ O’Shea coughs awkwardly. ‘There’s a good restaurant not far from New Order that I go to sometimes.’
In terms of charming date requests, this is hardly going to top the charts. For once, however, I’m not interested. I pick out one of the darker leaves and hold it up to the moonlight. It looks like a herb rather than lettuce. I keep my eyes on it as if it’s about to attack and sniff it. Then I drop it and run.
‘Bo!’ O’Shea shouts. ‘What are you doing?’
I don’t slow down. I sprint down Creed’s street, ignoring the watching police officers. With vampiric speed, I reach his front door and kick it open before they can get out of their car. I burst inside.