by Helen Cox
‘Who cares?’ Halloran said, leaning in and cupping her face with both his hands. His lips were on hers before she could reply and she moaned contentedly as the kiss deepened. It was some minutes before Halloran paused to close the door behind him. When he turned back to resume the kiss, however, Kitt made a dash around a chest of drawers that was nestled at the end of the bed.
‘Come here, you,’ Halloran said, chuckling and taking a step towards her.
‘Now, before things go any further, Inspector Halloran,’ Kitt said with a demure smile, or, at least, the closest approximation she’d ever managed, ‘I expect a full update on the case.’
Halloran stared at her for a moment. ‘I can’t tell if you’re joking.’
‘I’m most certainly not joking,’ said Kitt. ‘I handed you a strong lead on a plate today. You promised this exchange was going to be mutual. So I want to know if Ayleen’s got alibis for the murders before we enjoy even so much as another cuddle.’
Halloran sighed. ‘Is this what people mean when they talk about their partners using sex as a weapon?’
Kitt paused for a moment, thinking. ‘Probably. But you can punish me later.’
Halloran laughed. ‘I’ll hold you to that.’
Kitt raised an eyebrow at him and smiled. ‘So, come on, out with it, what do you think of Ayleen’s story?’
Halloran, seemingly accepting the fact he wasn’t going to get out of talking shop, took off his dark grey coat and hung it on a peg on the back of the door. ‘Extremely sad, if it’s true.’
‘You couldn’t be sure either then, if she was telling the truth?’
‘I’ve got a pretty good nose for these things, she didn’t give any of the usual tells people do when they’re lying. But of course that could just mean she’s good at it. From the way she behaved, I would say the bulk of what she’s telling us is true but until I substantiate as much of the story as I can, I’m reserving judgement.’
‘What about alibis?’
‘She was a bit taken aback by that question when I asked. I told her it was routine but, I don’t know, she still seemed put out by it. Which isn’t usually the go-to for a psychopath. They’re usually all too happy to provide full details to us. They tend to be overly polite, in fact, and usually very prepared. That’s often how you catch them out. They’re just a bit too helpful.’
‘So the fact that she was unprepared for the question might also signal she doesn’t believe there’s any reason why she should be considered a suspect.’
‘That, or she’s even cleverer than we think and double bluffing us.’
‘Could she prove her whereabouts on the nights of all three previous murders? That would certainly help us rule her out without having to analyse every last word and bodily response.’
‘She could only provide an alibi for the middle murder of the three,’ said Halloran. ‘When Roger Fairclough was murdered she was out having drinks at a pub in town and then continued the party back at her house with a couple of her friends.’
‘She doesn’t have anyone at home with her?’
‘No, she lives alone.’
‘On the one hand I can understand that,’ said Kitt. ‘Given all she says she’s been through. Trust wouldn’t come very easily to a person who’d suffered that kind of manipulation and betrayal, so relationships would probably be more difficult to forge. On the other hand . . .’
‘It means that she lives her life unmonitored. Anything could be going on at home and nobody would be any the wiser. If anything untoward comes up while verifying her story, I’ll be applying for a search warrant like a shot.’
‘Given that she can’t provide an alibi for the days when the people she knew were murdered, I’d say that was a good call,’ said Kitt. ‘That seems like a concerning development.’
‘It’s certainly enough to keep her in the frame but we’re going to have to go through her finance and phone records with a fine-tooth comb to find out whether it’s likely that she really was at home asleep.’
‘What about the dates when the doors were marked by the killer?’
‘With those happening around dusk she has an alibi for all three. She was at work and is fairly sure she had clients in the shop. Financial records for the business should verify that, especially if we can get hold of the customers she served and confirm her whereabouts with them.’
‘So it’s just a case of making sure she’s really telling the truth about where she was when the murders were committed,’ said Kitt.
‘CCTV footage from the local areas where the killer struck has already been scoured by the police in other districts and they haven’t come up with anything useful so yes, it will be about other, smaller details.’
‘And simply not being able to provide an alibi at that time of night won’t necessarily incriminate her in the eyes of a jury, right? Even though she knew two of the victims?’
‘Not a chance,’ Halloran said. ‘It’s got to be proven beyond reasonable doubt. I need some hard evidence to attest to her involvement and until I have that it’s just circumstantial. Many other people also knew the victims and couldn’t provide alibis for all three murders. Given the time of day the murders have taken place, it’s not surprising that she can’t.’
‘But were those other people linked to the occult in the same way Ayleen is? Were they practising witchcraft or anything like that?’
‘Nothing has come up on any of the searches we’ve done or interviews we’ve conducted with the victims’ nearest and dearest. We’re looking into that web name you mentioned, SimonB666, though, to see if we can track down the user.’
‘We’ve submitted the name to one of our tracing services,’ said Kitt. ‘Here’s hoping it’s a genuine lead. Time is running out. How is Ruby doing? Have you heard anything from the safe house?’
‘Last I heard she was giving DS Redmond a tarot reading, much against his will from the sound of things. I think he was just too scared of her to say no. I don’t know what she’s been saying to him but he seems really rattled by her.’
‘Oh dear me,’ said Kitt with a little chuckle. ‘Sounds like she’s giving him a run for his money, and likely Wilkinson too. Did you manage to follow up with Ayleen about why she didn’t move further away from Sandersdale when she left the cult? I did find that a bit odd.’
‘I did ask her about that,’ Halloran said with a nod. ‘She said that she moved down south for a few months while she changed her name but ultimately, she decided to move to Whitby because she had fond memories of visiting here with her parents. She thought the name change and a makeover would be enough to throw anyone off her scent.’
‘I suppose that’s plausible enough,’ said Kitt. ‘We’ve managed to set up an appointment with Stoke Bramley tomorrow so I’ll let you know if there are any new leads on that score.’
‘I won’t hold my breath,’ Halloran said with a teasing smile. ‘You’re still going to talk to him even though the Boro nick have already had a crack at him?’
Kitt shrugged. ‘You know as well as I do that sometimes people are willing to tell a civilian something they’d never dream of telling the police. I might be able to get some information out of him they couldn’t.’
‘Just be careful,’ said Halloran. ‘I don’t have any concrete evidence that he’s up to anything untoward otherwise I’d have had him down the nick in a snap, but according to the station at Boro his manner was . . . slippery.’
‘Worry not. I’ll be on coms with Grace the whole time I’m in there,’ said Kitt, and with that she yawned and stretched her hands up to the ceiling, deliberately reaching high enough to make her T-shirt ride up. As they always did whenever they had the opportunity, Halloran’s eyes roamed admiringly over her curves but Kitt had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing when she saw Halloran do a double take at the sight of the tattoo on her hip bone.
‘Is that . . . did you . . . ?’ Halloran looked from Kitt’s face to her hip and back again several times, seemingly trying to digest the information. He moved closer, pushing aside her T-shirt to get a better look.
‘Yes, that’s right. I’m now officially a complete badass,’ Kitt said with a nervous chuckle. She was pretty sure this was the first time she’d ever had cause to say the word ‘badass’ in her life. And given how awkwardly it had just rolled off her tongue, she didn’t intend to make a habit of it.
‘Well,’ Halloran said, pushing Kitt backwards on to the bed and at once climbing to sit astride her. ‘Shop talk is well and truly over.’
‘Now, Mal,’ Kitt said, adopting a mock serious tone as she started to slowly unbutton his shirt, bit by bit revealing the broad chest hidden beneath. ‘Ayleen was very explicit, I’m not supposed to do anything that creates friction on the tattoo.’
Halloran grinned. ‘Then I suppose we’re just going to have to get creative,’ he said, as his hands slid under her T-shirt and lifted it over her head.
Fourteen
The next day felt like the longest Kitt had suffered through in a long time. Not because they packed so much into it but because absolutely nothing of use or consequence happened at all. Their appointment with Stoke Bramley wasn’t until sundown – well, what else would Kitt expect from a wannabe vampire? And the rest of the day seemed to be a frustrating waiting game on all other fronts. The trace service didn’t come back with any further information about SimonB666, and the lovely ladies who worked at the acupuncture clinic in the new town both had alibis for all of the murders. The pair were so nice about providing said alibis that it seemed to Kitt the only thing those two could kill someone with was kindness.
As Kitt had expected, Grace hadn’t found anything concerning whatsoever on Joel Mendoza’s social media profiles, which at least meant he could be struck off the suspect list with little effort but that was hardly some grand silver lining. They didn’t get a call back from Seaview Care Home where Cyril Armitage was a resident until right before they were due to set off for their appointment with Stoke Bramley so visiting him would have to be put off until the following day. And, to top it all off, Kitt was still waiting on the Sandersdale library and archive to get back to her about any documents they might hold pertaining to the Children of Silvanus.
Kitt could only hope she’d get something out of Stoke Bramley to save the day from being a complete write-off.
The Creed of Count Dracula was based in a stately home christened Twilight Manor which stood quite close to the cliff edge just a twenty-minute walk beyond Sandsend. There weren’t any other buildings in the immediate vicinity, save an old farm barn on the horizon and a charming little crematorium with ornate pillars and a domed roof that they had passed on the walk over. Thus, with no obvious shelter available, Grace was given no choice but to hide behind some nearby bushes in order to stay close enough for the coms to keep working.
‘You sure you want to go in there on yer own?’ Grace said, eyeing the Gothic mansion from the spot she and Kitt had decided would be a safe enough distance to exchange their final plans.
Kitt again took in the towering structure that seemed to have been built with the darkest bricks the labourers could find and also boasted the ugliest gargoyles she had ever seen. They were huge hulking appendages with ghastly animalistic faces, furred and fanged. Some of them seemed to Kitt to be howling in pain while others looked as though they were snarling. From this distance, she guessed that, though they didn’t have wings, the carvings were supposed to be reminiscent of bats. They were, however, certainly a lot less cute than the Instagram video of a baby bat Evie had shared with her a few months back. Overall, it was a building that seemed to revel in its ability to intimidate.
‘I’m sure I’ll be fine,’ said Kitt, but even she could hear the uncertainty in her voice. ‘Halloran knows where I am and will be back in town in the next hour or so. Bramley is aware I’m a civilian investigator looking to help the police apprehend a killer. Given how close that story is to the truth, he can’t exactly catch me out. If anything goes wrong, you’ll be on coms and can call for help.’
‘Rather you than me,’ Grace said.
‘I’m sure those dark clouds overhead make the whole place look worse than it really is. It’s probably lovely once you get in there.’ Kitt nodded and then, holding her posture as straight as she could in an attempt to prove to herself that she wasn’t afraid, marched towards the iron gates of Twilight Manor. As she pressed the buzzer and studied the name plaque etched in gold typography, Kitt wondered if this old place had been renamed before or after the success of Stephenie Meyer’s books. Probably before. She imagined a true vampire enthusiast would find the romantic element of those books a little on the tacky side.
‘Yeeees?’ A Lurch-like voice droned through the speaker.
‘Kitt Hartley, here. I have an appointment with Stoke Bramley.’
There was a beeping sound and the gates began to swing open. Kitt slid through as soon as they’d opened wide enough and made short work of the gravel path leading to the main entrance of the house.
No sooner had she climbed the few steps to the porch than the front door opened which meant, Kitt reasoned, that they likely had video cameras trained on the entrance.
At first it seemed as though the panelled oak door had opened of its own accord but then a man dressed in a black suit appeared in the door frame. Presumably he was the person who had spoken to Kitt through the telecom. He was an exceedingly tall man but was also very thin, with a wiry frame. What little hair he had was a dark shade of grey and, strangely, his skin seemed to have the same grey tinge to it. Likely a lack of vitamin D. Kitt imagined there wasn’t much opportunity to be out in the sun when your employer believed himself to be a vampire.
On entering, Kitt couldn’t help but openly gape at her surroundings. The colour scheme was almost entirely charcoal, of course, but it had been accented with marble and crystal. A large double staircase dominated the hallway and a giant chandelier hung above it, sparkling even in what little light was available. Various portraits hung on the walls in ornate silver frames but the subject of every one of them looked sour-faced and in some cases even depressed. Though the overall impression was quite morbid, there was no mistaking the expensive tastes of the owners. It was clear to see where all the membership money for the Creed of Count Dracula had been spent. And these people were paying for what, exactly? To be given external verification that they were real vampires? Halloran hadn’t gone into detail about that. After what Ayleen had told Kitt about the Children of Silvanus, she intended to make sure everyone here was here of their own free will. If there was any hint of manipulation she’d be onto Mal about it like a shot. These kinds of organizations could only thrive when nobody spoke up about what was really going on and Kitt was no casual bystander.
‘Follow me please, madam,’ said the man Kitt presumed to be Bramley’s butler.
Not much liking the idea of being lost on her own in this place, Kitt did as instructed, sticking close behind the old man while also making a silent promise to have a chat with him on the way out about how happy he was working for a man like Bramley.
After a short walk along an adjoining corridor, decorated in the same manner as the hallway, Kitt was shown into a room panelled with dark mahogany. As far as she could see there were no windows in the room. Just lines of shelves filled with strange trinkets and photographs. Kitt also noticed two goblets wrought in silver that made her wonder, just for a moment, if her host used them to drink blood.
The room was illuminated by several large candelabras that just about offered enough light to see by.
‘The master will be with you shortly,’ said Bramley’s butler. ‘In the meantime, do make yourself comfortable.’
Fat chance of that, Kitt thought, but offered the man a polite smile anyway before he took his leave. After
all, it’s not like Bramley’s employees were responsible for the man’s taste in decor.
A large painting on the wall caught Kitt’s eye, and she moved in for a closer look. It depicted a dark-haired man, clearly a vampire, about to sink his teeth into a pale-skinned blonde woman whose dress didn’t quite cover as much as it could have done. It was the kind of outfit that Kitt’s mother would have told her she could catch her death in. Another painting further along the wall featured a cave full of bats all hanging from the ceiling, their eyes gleaming yellow in the mottled dark. All of a sudden Kitt felt a chill creep over her. Perhaps coming in here alone had been a mistake.
‘Grace,’ she hissed into the microphone which was safely hidden behind a silk scarf she had coiled and knotted around her neck. She waited but there was no response. Checking the door to make sure she wasn’t about to be interrupted, Kitt tapped the earpiece and adjusted the microphone. ‘Grace?’ she hissed again. But all she received in return was static.
Oh dear.
Perhaps they hadn’t chosen a close enough spot for Grace to stand in for the radio to work. Or maybe there was a fault in the equipment. Or maybe Bramley had equipment that blocked radio transmissions because he really was the Vampire Killer.
And she was trapped in his house.
Alone.
Better to live today and fight tomorrow, Kitt thought, making her way towards the door. She could tell the butler she was feeling unwell if he asked and let him know she’d call to rearrange her appointment as soon as she was better. Yes, that was a plausible enough excuse. Once she’d made it out alive, and they’d solved the coms situation, they could try again.
Just as Kitt reached for the door, however, it swung open and Stoke Bramley stood in the frame. It took all of Kitt’s resolve not to cry out with the shock of seeing him there.
‘Miss Hartley, I presume?’ he said, with an unnerving smirk on his lips. He had tied his long dark hair back into a bun. With so few lines on his face it was difficult to be sure of his exact age, but he definitely hadn’t hit thirty yet. Given that in literature looking beautiful for ever was generally deemed to be one of the perks of becoming a vampire, she imagined the youthful look played very well with his potential members.
