Sophie Morgan (Book 2): Death in the Family

by Treharne, Helen

  "Yes?" he said hesitantly. Nobody replied. He stared at the device before pressing the pick-up button. He tried again. "Yes?"

  "It's Mrs Craig, Mr Ferrers."

  "Yes?"

  "Apologies for the hour, but I thought you'd want to know right away, sir."

  "That's quite alright Mrs Craig, as you know I'm not one for sleep." He smiled at his own joke.

  "Yes, well sir, a young lady phoned for you, all the way from Brussels and it sounded urgent, so I thought I better call you sir, in case it was important or anything."

  The only person who might have cause to call him was the lovely Margeaux Renard, his long-time friend and fellow vampire. They had met more than a century ago in Paris, but she now lived in Brussels, proving to be quite a hit with the diplomats and running a successful prostitution and gambling syndicate. They hadn't spoken for many years until recently, when he called her to see if she had any knowledge of Sophie Morgan based on the trip to Antwerp that someone had told Richard about. He'd got more than he bargained for when Margeaux told him that she couldn't be certain Sophie was involved, but that a gang of vampires had been causing trouble. A girl had survived an attack, killed some vamps in the process and they wanted to find her - revenge perhaps, she couldn't be sure. The biggest kick in the guts was that one of them was Kasper, the one who had walked out on him decades earlier. The one.

  “That’s very thoughtful of you Mrs Craig. Please, do go on.” Years of Mrs Craig picking up after him and running his home had made them both relaxed. Neither put up any pretence about what he was. Nevertheless, he believed in good manners and in treating staff courteously and with consideration.

  "Mar-got Ray-nard," the housekeeper replied. She hadn’t asked the lady to spell her name, but she was certain she’d written it down correctly.

  “Very good, Mrs Craig. She is a very dear old friend. I shall call her directly.”

  “She said not to alarm you, you wouldn't be expecting her call and she had the devil of a time to find your number, but she'd be grateful if you could give her a call please sir. Soon as you can sir."

  Ferrer's thanked his servant for her trouble. He had brought Margeaux’s telephone number with him on their little holiday to Wales, but Mrs Craig had taken it ‘just in case”. For convenience, he took it and scribbled it down on the ‘Big Family Shopping List’ jotter a previous resident had left. It smelled a little of dog. Werewolves, Ferrers said to himself, never clean up after themselves.

  Ferrers replaced the handset. What could Margeaux want, he wondered? Perhaps she had more news of Kasper. A heat vibrated within him as he thought of beautiful Kasper. Angry, slender, so young. Was Kasper close? Was he tracking down the girl that had survived an attack in Antwerp? That girl had to be Sophie. Ferrers could feel it down to his bones. Who did he want to find more? Kasper or Sophie? Ferrers kicked a chair across the room as an urge long forgotten crept up his groin, torso and into his jaws. Involuntarily his fangs emerged and the need to devour something overcame him. The blood packs in the fridge were within reach but of no interest. He needed to rip, tear, consume.

  An hour later, the mutilated body of a sixteen-year-old rent boy, new to the scene and desperate for cash, was pushed into the murky waters of the River Taff, covered in mud and anchored with stones.

  It was midnight when I woke in a sweat on my sofa. I'd dozed off in front of ‘The Way We Were’, the third glass of Shiraz and impromptu crooning a la Streisand to Charlie. I sat up and wiped saliva off my cheek. My empty wine glass lay on its side on the carpet.

  My skin was hot, but the perspiration coating it was cold. I couldn’t remember anything but knew I’d had another nightmare. Sometimes, the only way I would know that I’d had one was the pounding in my chest and the sudden scream, that would leave my lips as I sat, bolt upright in bed.

  I stumbled over Charlie on my way to the kitchen, smacked my knee on the doorway and swore. I hadn't drank more than one or two units for a while, what with needing to be vigilant for supernatural threats and all that. Note to self, my internal monologue chided, alcohol is another thing to tick off your list of ‘things it's safe for Sophie to do’, along with going out at night and sleeping without a weapon.

  Perhaps it was the nightmare or the mild intoxication, but I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched. I couldn't see anything through the slats in the kitchen blind. I checked I'd locked the back door for a third time and slid a dining chair under the handle for good measure. Then Charlie, my wine-bottle-come-cudgel, my screwdriver, cooks' knife and I went to bed.

  I didn't wake till morning. Whatever had happened to that nightmare, it had satisfied itself that it was over.

  Margeaux Renard's voice was a welcome one, particularly when compared to the impertinent manservant who appeared to be on telephone answering duty

  "Mon Cherie, I am so glad that you telephoned me. You have no idea the lengths I went to secure a telephone number for you. Now I have it though, I am going to make a point of calling you more often, and hopefully I can persuade you to come and see me, non?"

  "Resourceful as always,” said Ferrers. “I must apologise though, my dearest Margeaux. First, for the short delay in returning your call, but second for the abrupt ending to our last communication. That was incredibly bad manners on my part. I am sure you understand, the news of Kasper was an enormous shock to me, after so long, so many years."

  "My darling, you need never explain yourself to me. We are all slaves to our emotions, even though we feel them very differently - humans, vampires - love is love. I learned a long time ago that true love will destroy you. I prefer the simple transaction of sex for money, blood, jewels, my place and power in the world. You were happier I think when you had a purpose."

  Ferrers knew what she was referring to. When they had first met, he was a freelance Enforcer. At the time he was in Paris, cleaning up the mess a couple of new vampires had caused, two young men running amok in the red light district. Margeaux was entertaining gentlemen at the Moulin Rouge, sucking their wallets dry, as well as much of their blood supply. She had learned to be careful though and her business-like approach, coupled with her sharp wit, made her a charming companion.

  "Is it news of Kurt or the girl that you have for me?"

  She lowered her voice. "Not exactly." She paused. Ferrers heard a door close in the background. "Apologies, I needed to let my dinner guest out. “

  "Think nothing of it. Please, go on."

  "I received a call from the Byzantium, well, one of the families' officials. They’ve had a manuscript stolen from one of their archives. They need it back.

  "Why I am calling is this. Intelligence has proved surprisingly easy to secure. The paper is in the hands of an academic, a Professor Andersen, who I expect has no idea who it actually belongs to."

  "Andersen?"

  "Yes, do you see now why I had to contact you?"

  "Is it a relation?"

  "I think so. Mr Sadik, their official, sent me some information to brief you with. It’s not much, just a little background on the professor.” Ferrers heard the rustling of paper. “There is photograph and a newspaper clipping, wait, here it is. Kurt Andersen, teaches at the University of Wales, guest lecturer at the University of Istanbul. I don’t have an address here, but I’m sure you can track him down. He’s written several papers on religion, the occult, and vampirism. He was witnessed in the area at the time of the sale apparently.”

  “And are there any references to my Kasper?”

  “Mais oui, an interview with Professor Andersen for the University newspaper, a little biographical information in that. It says he was from Copenhagen. He mentions a childhood love of sports, the disappearance of his younger brother and that he smokes, although he shouldn’t.”

  “Does he mention the brother's name?”

  “Oui Cherie. It is Kasper.”

  "He's here isn't he, in Cardiff, with his brother?"

  "Kasper? I don't know. But the brother is. Pr
ofessor Andersen has a position at the University of Wales, right there in Cardiff. Charles, they want you to find the manuscript and return it. Do whatever it takes."

  "I see."

  "Charles, I am sorry. I had no choice but to ask you."

  “I understand.”

  “You will complete the task, won’t you Charles?”

  “Fear not Margeaux, I will ensure that you are not affected negatively by this situation. Where do I send the manuscript once I’ve retrieved it?”

  “You are to call me. I will then make contact with Mr Sadik. He will give further instructions.”

  “Very well Margeaux.”

  “Charles?”

  “Yes Margeaux?”

  “Je suis desolate. Bon chance Charles.”

  Ferrers pressed the ‘end call’ button on the phone. This was a lot to take in. First there was the possibility of a reunion with Kasper. Then he was told he might need to kill his brother Kurt. Though Ferrers had retired from his official and freelance duties decades earlier, the old, original families were not to be refused. If they asked for your services, you accepted the offer and you went to whatever lengths necessary to exercise your duty.

  17

  Boy, did I have the hangover from hell. My head felt as thick as clotted cream and acid was sloshing around my stomach like a smoothie in a blender. Ugh, smoothies. The thought of drinking pulp made me feel sick, all that fruit acid compounding the bile that was bracing itself for its trajectory up my oesophagus. The fishy pungency of Charlie's cat food didn't help as I squeezed it out of its sachet and into his dish.

  I'd left my mobile phone in a cupboard in the kitchen so I wouldn't be tempted to read Mickey's texts or phone him. When I switched it on, I saw that I’d had four texts from him and three voicemails. I didn’t listen to them.

  It wasn't that I was angry with Mickey. I was hurt, of course, but that wasn’t the reason I was ignoring him. It was selfish to cling to him for emotional security - or physical security for that matter. It made my eyes burn and my chest tighten to think of not seeing him again, but I had decided it was for the best, for a while at least. He needed time to grieve, not time worrying about me or protecting me from the vampire threat, real or not. I wanted him to be with me for me, not because he felt obliged to. And not because he wanted to fill the big hole in his heart that at the moment was being filled with a big, black, pile of grief.

  A small, slightly selfish part of me also knew that we'd never have a shot at a real relationship until he dealt with his own demons. An even smaller part also worried that if a vampire was that committed, then it would find one of us. Our continued contact would put the other in danger. That was no good for either of us.

  I thumbed through the pages of my diary while the kettle boiled. I had two routine house inspections, not far from each other around lunchtime, some invoices to go through, which I could do from home beforehand, and then a trip to the gym before it got dark. Three weeks since my last vampire, I told myself. Yeah, three weeks, that’s ages in my book. Everything is going to be just fine. Yeah, Sophie, you just keep telling yourself that.

  “Hi, it’s me!” I called as I stepped into Mum’s hallway. “I thought I’d call in on my way to the shop.”

  “Sophie, hang on. I’m coming now.” Her voice sounded distant, muffled almost.

  “Where are you?” I asked, slipping off my jacket and hanging it over the end post of the stairs. I poked my head around the living room door, then tried the kitchen. “Where are you?”

  “Hang on.”

  I heard a thud. “Mum, are you okay?”

  There was a long silence.

  “Mum?”

  Just as I had my foot on the bottom rung of the stairs, Mum appeared on the landing, red-faced and with wild hair.

  I made a veiled attempt to suppress a laugh. I almost choked on it. “What the hell have you been doing?”

  She chuckled as she noticed her reflection in the landing mirror. “Oh God, I do look a state, don’t I? Here take this will you?” She thrust a square flat box into my arms.

  “What are these?” I asked peering over the top.

  “Come downstairs and I’ll show you.”

  Mum bounced the stairs, dusty hair bobbing around her shoulders, and I followed.

  “Put them down there,” she said, over her shoulder, taking clean mugs from a kitchen cupboard. “I thought you’d be interested in these.”

  I lifted up the lid of the box and tried to peek inside. “It’s a bit early in the day for a spring clean isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Oh well, I was up and about early.” Mum said, feeling the side of the kettle. Establishing that it was hot enough she poured water into the mugs, slung in a couple of teabags, added milk, and, after a rigorous stir, handed me one. “Oh shit, sorry, “she said, quickly withdrawing it. “Left the bag in.” She rolled her eyes at herself, threw the bags in the sink and passed me the mug back.

  “Thanks,” I said, sliding onto a stool at the island. “So what’s all this about then?”

  “Well, after you left last night, I got to thinking about things.”

  I arched both eyebrows. “Things?”

  “Yes,” she replied, pulling the box closer to her and opening the flaps on top. “All that talk about Mickey’s brother and his family and all, got me thinking about our little family.”

  “Right.” I took a big sip of breakfast tea.

  “And I was thinking how important it is to have roots and a sense of belonging.”

  “O…kay”

  “So, while I was up early I thought I’d get out some of the old photo albums from up in the attic.”

  “Oh,” I said, putting my mug down. “Lovely.”

  Mum smiled, dipping her hand into the box and pulling out the first of two thick, velour-covered albums. “Now this one is of your grandparents’ wedding.”

  “Oh wow, I’ve never seen this. I didn’t know they had an album.”

  “No, well, to be honest, your grandmother packed it away years ago.” Mum put the album carefully on the unit and unwrapped the tissue paper covering it.

  The pages of photographs brought a smile to my face and the first time in a while my heart swelled with a feeling of love and not of fear, or of relief.

  “Look at Grandma,” I said. She looked so young and full of hope with her little white gloves and starched skirts. Her eyes were wide and thick with mascara. A pillbox hat with a short net sat perched across her chignoned hair. “She looks so glamorous.”

  Mum took a big sip of tea, then smiled. “I know, but what about your grandfather. He even has a quiff!”

  We poured over the photos for almost half an hour. The album documented their early years as a young married couple. There were a couple of black and white photos from their wedding, some candid, snaps of their honeymoon in Torquay, followed by lots of pictures of mum as a baby.

  “Oh my God Mum! Is that this house?”

  “It sure is,” she replied smiling. “That’s me, around two or three years old I guess. And there’s your Grandma and Granddad. That there is your Auntie Beryl, Granddad’s sister.”

  “Granddad had a sister?”

  “Oh year, he was one of five – or was it six? I can’t remember. He was the youngest though so they’ll all be long gone. I only met one or two of them, no idea what happened to the rest.”

  I frowned. “How come I’ve never met any of them?”

  “People grow apart in time I guess. He had two older brothers, they died in the war. You met Beryl, but she died when you were little. I think the other sisters moved away.”

  I was surprised that they hadn’t kept more in touch. My grandparents were both always very ‘big’ on family, but then again, the four of us together had formed our own, very tight-knit group. I stuck out my bottom lip and shrugged.

  “Anyway,” Mum said, closing the album. “What are you doing here so bright and early on this fine morning?”

  “I thought I’d cal
l in and let you know how the auction went. Share everything I learned and all that sort of stuff.”

  “Oh excellent, so was it worthwhile or not?” She pushed an opened packet of digestive biscuits across the worktop in my direction. I took one. Then she did.

  “Quite interesting I suppose,” I said, nibbling. “I mean, it all happened quite fast and it was a bit scary if I’m honest with you. It was good experience, but I think you need to have a really clear idea of what you want before you go in there.”

  Mum broke her biscuit in half and dunked one piece into her mug. “I suppose,” she said between dunks, “that you need to go in with the attitude that you are going to buy ‘that one’, or whatever.”

  “Yeah, people did seem quite experienced at it.”

  “I remember your granddad going and he always had the cash at hand and knew which two or three properties he was going to bid for, and he always set himself a ceiling on how much he was going to spend.”

  “Makes sense,” I said shrugging my shoulders. “Anyway, it was good to go and see what they’re about. I think we need to do some number crunching and figure out a plan of what we want to do with the business, whether we’d get a return on our investment, what mortgage repayments would be, you know, that sort of practical stuff.”

  Mum reached across the island and pinched my chin between her thumb and forefinger. “I shall leave that up to you my clever girl. If you want to have a look at some figures, we’ll sit down and go through them, shall we?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said before slurping up the dregs of my tea. “Okay, well I better hit the road. I need to go and do the annual inspection on those two houses on Cefn Lane.”

  “Wow, which came around quick,” said Mum lifting the mugs from the island. “It only seems like yesterday I had the last lot of paperwork from the agent.”