by Ken Preston
“How?”
“We’re going to have to kill some people.”
“Ooh, good,” Steffanie said, and smiled. “I like the sound of that.”
And, to Tom’s horror, the ancient, skeletal monstrosity on the floor paused in its feeding, and lifted its head to grin at Tom, its mouth and teeth a mask of dripping red.
prod the wasp's nest
Emma stared at the three packets of baby wipes lined up on her desk. She had arranged them in a very neat row, all facing the same direction, the company logo and the product name forming the start of a repeating pattern. Hell, if she had some more, she could set up a display. Maybe that could be her new career, after she got the sack from the Birmingham Herald for breaking and entering Joe Coffin’s house, and stealing three packets of baby wipes.
Shelf stacker.
“Hey, Ems, you want me to bring you a sandwich back?” Barry said.
Emma, jolted from her thoughts, looked up. “Huh?”
“A sandwich. Ham salad? Ploughman’s?”
“Oh, uh, no thanks, I’m fine, Barry.”
“Are those baby wipes?”
“Shit, Barry, all these years I’ve wondered what possessed Karl to hire you as a reporter, but now I see it. It’s your fucking powers of observation, right?”
“Yeah, very funny. What are you going to do with them, anyway?”
“What the fuck do you think I’m going to do with them? I’m going to wipe a baby’s arse.”
Barry’s eyes widened. “Emma, are you pregnant?”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Get the fuck out of my sight, Barry, before I report you to Karl.”
“What the hell for?”
“For being an empty headed fucktard, that’s what.”
“Have you always been an evil bitch, Emma, or is it permanently your time of the month?”
Emma flicked Barry the finger, but she was too late, he’d turned his back on her and was walking away. He’d probably go crying to Karl later, and then Karl would invite her into his office, talk about how she needed to be a team player, change her fucking attitude.
Fuck that.
She looked at the baby wipes again. Yanked open a drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. She picked up the packet on the left of the row, attacked the thin plastic wrapper with the scissors. Pulled the block of moist, fragrant wipes out of their packet, and began leafing through them, scattering the wipes across her desk, until they had all been peeled apart.
Nothing.
Emma jammed the scissors into the second packet, ripped it open, tearing at the wipes, feeling her way through them until she was sure there was no USB stick hidden inside.
One pack left.
Emma put the scissors down. Stared at the packet like she could see right through it, like she could will that USB stick into existence in the middle of that block of wipes. If it wasn’t there, she had to accept the fact that she wasn’t going to find it. Either it had already been found by one of Craggs’ men, or Steffanie had been cleverer than Emma had thought. Either way, her big, career defining story was finished.
Picking up the scissors again, her hands shaking slightly, Emma sliced open the packet and pulled the block of wet baby wipes out. She didn’t peel them apart immediately, but picked the brick of moist wipes up and squeezed it.
There, in the middle, she could feel a solid object. She pulled the wipes apart, until the USB stick, wrapped in a clear plastic bag, dropped on her desk. Emma let go of the remaining wipes, swiped them off her desk and onto the floor. Stared at the USB stick, not quite believing that she had found it. If Steffanie had been telling the truth, and there was enough evidence on there to bring down Craggs and the Slaughterhouse Mob, including the footage of Coffin murdering Terry Wu, then Emma finally had that story she had been chasing all her adult life.
With trembling fingers, Emma ripped the plastic bag apart and pulled the USB stick out. She removed the cap and inserted it into a port on her computer. A dialogue box popped open on her screen, asking her what she wanted to do with the device. Emma selected ‘Open’ and clicked ‘OK’.
A new window opened. There were several Word and Excel files, and one MPG4.
Emma took a deep breath. Double clicked the MPG4 file.
The computer’s media player opened.
Emma yelped as an image of Terry Wu stared at her from the monitor, his big, round face in the middle of the screen.
It took Emma a second to work out what was going on. Then she realised the video had been captured through the camera on Terry Wu’s computer. Emma had always assumed that the video footage had been captured by a CCTV setup. But no, here he was, frozen in a still video image, looking like he was about to Skype someone. And then he had left the camera on? Had he known what was about to happen and wanted evidence?
None of this seemed to make any sense.
Emma clicked on the play button.
Terry Wu sat at his computer, tapping one fingered at the keys on his keyboard. His face was all screwed up, and he took his time searching for each particular key that he needed to depress. The act of writing looked like it might be hard work for him at the best of times. The tip of his tongue was sticking out from between his swollen, baby’s lips. His face looked like a round balloon sitting on top of a round balloon body ...
* * *
Emma gazed through the window and watched the cars crawling by on Broad Street. Lunchtime, and the Starbucks was filled with suited men and women on their breaks, grabbing a quick coffee and something to eat, or sat in front of laptops, working through their break while they ate. There was no excuse for stopping work anymore, or for not being connected. You could hold a conference call here, via the free Wi-Fi, upload files to your cloud storage, and work collaboratively with someone on the other side of the world, whilst consuming vast amounts of strong coffee and calorie rich food.
No wonder the world was so fucked up.
Emma was part of it, though. She carried her iPad around like it was a religious talisman. Had even the most ancient and superstitious of cultures ever revered their gods and idols as much as western society now revered its technological artefacts?
Emma doubted it.
If there really were vampires prowling the city, the next time Emma confronted one, she might try holding her iPad up in front of it. Maybe the holy power of Apple would ward off its evil, and the vampire would disappear into a crumbling mass of dust.
Emma had her iPad with her right now, and she had been watching Joe Coffin shoot Terry Wu, over and over again. She had found a corner seat by the window where nobody else could see what she was looking at on the screen. Finally she had got sick of seeing the video and closed the tablet down. And now here she was, watching the cars and the pedestrians passing by, her coffee going cold, wondering what the hell she was going to do next.
What’s the fucking problem? You stick to the plan, go to the police, write up your story and splash it all over the front page. The cops get Craggs and Coffin and the rest of the Slaughterhouse Mob, and you get your big, career making story.
And yet ...
Something was holding her back. Was it the sense that this career making story still seemed so much bigger than she realised at the moment? Emma still had no idea what Tom was up to, and who his mystery companions were. And what about the Birmingham Vampire? What was his connection to all of this? Emma had been convinced that Steffanie had been murdered by one of Craggs’ people, because they found out she was selling them out. But now she wasn’t so sure.
Emma thought back to what she had seen at Number 99. The blood soaked into the carpet by the fireplace, the Birmingham Vampire attacking her, Joe Coffin arriving. She thought about the fact that Jacob had been kept prisoner in the cellar. Did Tom know Jacob was there? Had he been keeping his son a prisoner all along?
And the video of Coffin killing Terry Wu. It just didn’t make sense to Emma. Terry Wu seemed to have no idea he was being filmed by his own computer. Had he bee
n video conferencing someone earlier and forgot to turn off the camera function? Was that even possible?
Or had he been set up?
And what about Terry Wu’s threat to Coffin, that the Seven Ghosts would hunt him down and avenge Terry Wu’s death? What were they, some kind of Triad gang? Emma would have to look them up. And it had been months since Coffin murdered Terry Wu. Why had there not been any retaliation so far?
Was it because Coffin had been in jail? Were they getting ready to strike now?
Or had Terry Wu been lying, desperately trying to think of anything he could say to stop Coffin pulling the trigger?
Emma remembered her coffee, took a sip. She grimaced and put it back down. She hated lukewarm coffee.
“The coffee that bad?”
Emma looked up. “Oh, hi Karl. No, it’s gone cold.”
“Good job I bought you another one,” the editor said, and placed a fresh coffee in front of her. He stayed standing, holding a second cup of coffee, not going anywhere. “May I join you?”
“Sure,” Emma said.
She put the iPad in her bag, pushed the bag under her chair.
Karl sat down opposite and tipped sugar and milk into his coffee and looked thoughtfully at Emma as he stirred the drink. “Nick phoned the office earlier, said you weren’t answering your mobile, wondered where you were, if everything was okay.”
“Fuck,” Emma sighed. “That man’s worse than my mother.”
“I told him you were fine, that I’d tell you he was after you.”
“What did he want? Make sure I was eating my five a day?”
“Just said he needed to talk to you.”
Emma took a tentative sip of her coffee. It was hot, and it was good. “Mrs Edwards do this to you, too, keep checking up on you, make sure you’re all right?”
Karl smiled. “You know she does. She’s finally given up on sending me to work with a salad for my lunch, though.”
“Did she ever find out about your affair with the burger van man?”
Karl arched his back, smoothed a hand down his tie. “Unfortunately yes. I dripped more ketchup on my tie yesterday, didn’t realise until I got home and saw her staring at me like I’d murdered someone. We had a blazing row, but when we calmed down, she agreed not to make me anymore salads. And I agreed to cut down on the burgers.”
“Wow, compromise. What marriage is all about, right?”
“You make it sound like a bad thing,” Karl said.
“Well, I kind of think it is,” Emma said. “I mean, fuck, Karl, you should be able to eat as many burgers as you want, without anyone nagging you about your free radicals, or whatever. Let Mrs Edwards eat all the salads she likes, while you stuff your face with burgers.”
“You ever move in with anyone, before Nick?”
“Nope,” Emma said. “Didn’t really see myself moving in with Nick at first, either, but he kept going on and on about it, until I just sort of gave in at the end.”
“Doesn’t exactly sound like the most romantic development in your relationship.”
Emma shrugged, grinned at Karl. “What can I say? I’m not exactly the most romantic of girls. I’m not into all this two becoming one crap, and all hearts and flowers and shit. Nick’s got his life and his job, and I’ve got mine, and that’s the way it should stay.”
“I’m not sure anymore why you actually have a boyfriend, Emma.”
“For the sex, of course,” Emma said. “And Nick is pretty damn good at that, I have to say.”
Karl held his hand up. “Too much information.”
Emma and Karl fell into silence while they drank their coffee. Emma had the distinct feeling this was all leading somewhere. Karl didn’t just drop into Starbucks like this. He preferred the instant shit to real coffee and bought his lunch from the burger van man.
“You came down here looking for me, didn’t you?” she said, finally.
“Yep.”
“How did you know I would be in here?”
Karl smiled. “Emma, if you’re not in the office, or out on a job, there’s only two places you can be. This was my second choice of place to look.”
“Where was your first?”
“The fire escape stairs, of course.”
“Oh, right.”
“Something wrong?”
Emma rotated her cup on the table. “I’m not sure. It’s just, the last few days, I wind up feeling like I’m going to puke, every time I do a run. Felt the same way this morning, when I got out of bed.”
Karl raised an eyebrow. “Morning sickness?”
“Don’t be a fucking idiot, Karl!” Emma snapped. “You’re as bad as that fuckwit, Barry.”
“Do you think maybe you should get checked out, Emma? Or at the very least, do a pregnancy test?”
“I am NOT fucking pregnant!”
“All right, calm down,” Karl said, and sighed. “Why the hell I let you talk to me like this, when I wouldn’t put up with it off anybody else, is beyond me.”
“It’s because you like my dirty mouth,” Emma said.
“Maybe.” Karl leaned forward. “And maybe it’s because you’re the best reporter I’ve got, and I don’t want to lose you. But right now, Emma, you’re not acting like my best. For crying out loud, you’re not even acting like a professional.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Remember our conversation yesterday? What did I tell you?”
Emma leaned back in her chair, reclaiming her personal space. “Fuck, I don’t know. What?”
“I seem to remember the first thing I told you was to stay away from Joe Coffin and the Slaughterhouse Mob. That didn’t exactly work out now, did it?”
“I suppose not,” Emma muttered.
“Seems to me, the only reason the police haven’t been all over you is because of Nick.”
“You think he’s protecting me?”
“I think the officer in charge of the investigation into the assault at Hilton Park services called up Nick as a courtesy, and is holding off picking you up as a witness, giving Nick a chance to question you first.”
“You know this for sure?”
“No. I don’t know a damn thing. But I think it’s pretty strange that the police haven’t come calling for you yet, as, not only are you a witness, but you drove away from the scene of the crime with one of the most notorious criminals in the West Midlands in your car. Does it not strike you as slightly strange, Emma, that the police haven’t been knocking on your door for an interview?”
Emma shrugged. “Maybe. I suppose.”
“That’s right. You suppose.” Karl tapped his temple with his index finger. “You’re not thinking straight, Emma. Whatever the hell you’re involved in, whatever story you think you’ve got your teeth into, it’s messing with your head. You’re too close, Emma. You need to step back, take a good look at what you’ve got. Ask yourself, what’s the right thing to do here?”
“You want me to tell Nick I was at the house, don’t you?”
“That was the other piece of advice I gave you yesterday. I’m not used to my reporters ignoring my advice, Emma. Yes, I think you should talk to Nick, tell him everything you know.”
“But I know fuck all, Karl! That’s the whole fucking point, I have no idea what’s going on here.”
“You should still talk to Nick. You’re a witness.”
“I don’t know,” Emma said, and drained her coffee cup. “Nick will go fucking ballistic when he finds out.”
“You’re probably right, but it will be better coming from you than him finding out some other way. Come on, Emma, I know you feel shit about what happened to Steffanie, and Coffin’s boy, but you can’t let that cloud your judgement forever. Their deaths weren’t your fault.”
“Clouding my judgement?”
“I’ve been there myself, Emma. I was a young reporter, trying to make a name for myself, and I made a stupid mistake. A big, stupid mistake, one that cost somebody else his career, his marriage, h
is family.”
“What happened?”
“I was working down south, on a local rag in Devon. I got a lead that a prominent businessman was a paedophile. This man, he was a big hero in the area, everybody loved him. We were always doing features on him, his charity work, his sponsored runs and bike rides, his expeditions up mountains and across deserts.” Karl paused, looked down at his empty coffee cup. “Well, a lead supplied me with information that he had a huge collection of hardcore porn magazines, really sick stuff, you know. And videos, too. And I was young, and I was eager for that big story, and I believed my anonymous source. But I didn’t go to my editor with it. I thought if I did that, the story would get taken off me, handed over to a more senior reporter. Big mistake.”
Emma waited, whilst Karl gathered his thoughts, still not looking at her.
“So, I did some digging around, tried to find out more, but there was nothing. This man, he was a family man, even attended church on Sundays with his wife and two girls, can you believe? He just sounded too good to be true. I was about to give up on the story, when my anonymous source got in touch again, told me where I could find one of his secret stashes of porn. Our man, he ran a big electrical store in the centre of town. I went down there on the pretext of interviewing him about his latest charity benefit, and partway through the interview I excused myself, said I needed the toilet. I went out back, down to his office, and sure enough, right where my informant had told me they would be, was this stack of porn magazines. And I’m not talking Playboy or Penthouse. This was cheaply produced stuff, and really nasty, involving kids and torture. I looked through some of it, and to this day I wish to God I hadn’t. Still can’t get that shit out of my head.”
“You were set up, weren’t you?” Emma said.
Karl nodded. “I went to my editor with what I’d got, and we ran the story. The businessman was arrested and charged, and it went to court. Eventually he was acquitted. Turns out a disgruntled former employee had been my source, and had planted the magazines, from his own personal collection, in the shop. But by the time it was all over, the businessman had sold his shop to pay for his legal fees, his wife had left him, taking the girls with her, and most of his friends had deserted him too. He went through a bout of major depression and tried to kill himself. Last I heard, he was on the up, rebuilding his life again.”
