Lifeblood

by Tom Becker

  Praise for the series:

  “Enough hellish mystery to have you drooling for the next in the series”

  Observer

  “An exciting romp”

  Daily Telegraph

  “Wild and gripping … brilliant”

  Sunday Express

  “Atmospheric”

  Independent

  “Brilliant”

  Times Educational Supplement

  “This is a real cracker! The thrills and chills come thick and fast”

  Gateway Monthly

  “Full of spine-chilling characters and stomach-turning action”

  Herald Express

  “It’s got more terror and thrills than you could get your fangs into”

  Liverpool Echo

  Titles by Tom Becker

  Darkside

  Lifeblood

  Nighttrap

  Timecurse

  Blackjack

  The Traitors

  For Youngy, for battles won.

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for the DARKSIDE series

  Titles by Tom Becker

  Title page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Dare to discover more?

  Copyright

  Prologue

  The envelope had arrived for him seven days ago. He had returned to his desk late one evening to find it sitting there waiting for him, a large black rectangle elegantly tied up in red ribbons. No name had been written on it, nor was there any indication that it had travelled through the post. Looking back, he supposed that he should have been more cautious about opening it, but he had assumed it was one of his colleagues playing a prank on him. Policemen were like that sometimes.

  So Sergeant Ian Shaw wasn’t worried when he untied the ribbons and carefully slit open the envelope. Curious, yes, but not worried. It was only after he’d seen what was inside – flicked through the photos, read the sculpted, handwritten note telling him precisely what he had to do, and precisely who was going to see the photos if he didn’t – that his hands began to shake, and he slumped down in his seat and put his head in his hands.

  Seven days ago: he had barely slept since. Shaw had so much to lose. Ever since he had been drafted in to investigate the kidnappings of two boys, the policeman’s life had been turned upside down. He had been able to reunite one boy with his mother, and the second – well, although technically Jonathan Starling remained missing, Shaw knew where he was, and that he was happy and safe. The solving of the case had taken place in a blaze of publicity, and Shaw had been at the very centre of it. A promotion and several high-profile newspaper interviews had quickly followed. His colleagues looked at him with a newfound respect (and no little jealousy), while his wife spoke of him with a pride that he had never before heard in her voice.

  So instead of alerting his family and his superiors to what was happening, or telling the blackmailers to go to hell, one night Sergeant Shaw crept down to the station basement and began rooting through old case files. It didn’t take him long: the Starling case was very recent, after all. After that, things were relatively simple. He put one phone call through to the lab, ordered one test, and received one batch of results. The technician had sounded surprised to be ordered to carry out the test, but he did it anyway. Ian Shaw was a name that carried some weight around the force these days.

  Now he was in Rotherhithe, standing on the Thames Path and looking out over the south side of the river. The envelope had given him precise instructions of where he was to wait. Staring out over the choppy waters, Shaw thought glumly to himself that this location was the perfect setting for shady deeds. Even in the bright sunshine tourists rarely ventured this far east, preferring the wide, bustling walkways near Blackfriars and Waterloo. At nearly ten o’clock on a biting December night, this part of town was deserted.

  He had travelled to the waterfront on foot, as instructed, past the cavernous old wharf houses that had once welcomed home the trading vessels of the British Empire, which criss-crossed the oceans in search of a profit. Now the wharf houses had been converted into plush apartment blocks, and decorated with window boxes, satellite dishes and burglar alarms. Even so, Shaw felt he could almost hear the echoing cries of long-dead sailors and dockhands.

  The waves down below him began to lap more insistently against the waterfront. He checked his watch again. Given the preciseness of the instructions, he had a feeling that whoever was coming to meet him would be prompt. Not for the first time, the thought occurred to Shaw that he had placed himself in danger by coming here. The note had told him to come unarmed, but it was an unnecessary instruction. He had never fired a gun in his life, and didn’t intend to start now.

  The current was picking up, foam bubbling on the crests of the waves. Shaw saw a movement in the darkness over the Thames, and suddenly realized why he had been told to wait here.

  A low barge was cutting through the waves towards him with a speed and a sleekness that Shaw could not have believed possible from such a craft. It was steam-powered, yet the engine hummed rather than roared, and the steam rose out of the funnel in soft rings. The barge was painted entirely black, and had it not been heading directly for him Shaw doubted whether he would have seen it at all.

  The boat pulled up dangerously close to the side of the waterfront, somehow maintaining its position on the rolling waves. There was a movement from the back of the barge, and a hand beckoned to Shaw to jump aboard. The policeman took a look around and, seeing that no one was watching, swung his legs over the bars and planted his feet on the edge of the walkway.

  Even though the barge was keeping remarkably still, it was far enough from land to make the jump a difficult one. Shaw hesitated, only for the hand to move again and a voice from somewhere shout, “Damnit man, come on!” Reacting instinctively, the policeman sprang off the side of the waterfront, landing with a heavy thump on the wet prow of the barge. Immediately, a hand reached down and dragged him up, and as the barge moved away from the waterfront, Shaw was marched briskly into the cabin. His unseen guide closed the door behind him, preferring to stay out on deck.

  Two men were waiting for the policeman in the cramped quarters of the cabin. The first was a huge walrus of a man, who rose to greet Shaw with a beaming smile, as if he were meeting an old friend. On a plate in front of him, a pile of chicken legs had been devoured, leaving only the bones and a few scraps of skin. The walrus’s tall companion could scarcely have looked more different. In his pressed suit and top hat, he seemed to be heading for a tea dance rather than a clandestine meeting. His features were twisted into a perpetual curl of disdain that helped jam a monocle in his left eye. When he raised his hat in a greeting, Shaw was surprised to see that his silver hair rose up into the air in stiff peaks, like dried paintbrushes in a pot.

  “Sergeant Shaw!” the second man said in a nasal voice. “I recognize you from the photographs. I’m glad you could make our rendezvous.”

  “I suppose you’re not goi
ng to tell me your name,” Shaw replied icily.

  A look of scorn crossed the man’s face. “Why should I care whether you know my name or not? It’s Nicholas de Quincy, not that it will do you any good. You won’t find me in your files.”

  Sergeant Shaw’s heart sank. Ever since he had received the envelope he had hoped against hope that his blackmailers were ordinary, run-of-the-mill hoodlums and thugs. During the Starling case he had taken glimpses into a different, darker world that he hoped never to experience again. In vain, it seemed.

  “Humphrey Granville,” said the first man, helpfully. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  He wiped a greasy hand on his shirt and proffered a handshake. Still dazed by the turn of events, Shaw accepted it. De Quincy looked on with a look of undisguised contempt. He turned to Humphrey.

  “Is that idiot Rafferty sober enough to be left in charge of the barge?”

  Humphrey shrugged. “Probably not. But he’s been driving these boats since he was able to stand up. I think he’ll be all right.”

  “Excuse me. . .” Shaw tried. “But what the hell’s going on here?”

  “A typical policemen – cutting straight to the point!” smirked de Quincy. “That will make things so much easier. I presume that you received the envelope I left you exactly one week ago?”

  “I did, and I have to tell you now that those photographs—”

  De Quincy held up an elongated hand. “I don’t care,” he said starkly. “Given the fact that you are here, I am guessing that you followed my instructions? Because we both know what will happen to you if you haven’t. . .”

  “You even think about sending those photographs, and I’ll—!”

  “Anger . . . excuses . . . blustering threats,” said de Quincy. “I have heard it all a million times before. Did you follow my instructions?”

  Shaw nodded again.

  “And what did you discover?”

  The policeman reached into his pockets and drew out a piece of paper. “Well, I went through the Starling case files and found the fluorescent orange hair – the one taken from the female bounty hunter Starling identified as Marianne. I sent it to the lab with the piece of hair you gave me, and told one of the technicians to run a DNA test on them both.”

  Both Granville and de Quincy leaned closer.

  “And?” Granville said, with breathless excitement.

  Shaw consulted the piece of paper. “Obviously, the boys in the lab can never be definite about this sort of thing, but having analysed the DNA, they’re ninety-nine per cent sure that these people are closely related.”

  Granville whooped and punched his fist into his palm with glee.

  A thin smirk spread across de Quincy’s lips. “Well, well, well. That is decidedly interesting news.”

  “Thank you so much for your help, Sergeant,” Granville enthused. “We are most grateful.”

  “It’s been an absolute pleasure,” Shaw said sarcastically. “Now give me the photographs!”

  De Quincy sighed delicately. “I’m afraid I can’t quite do that just yet.”

  “You promised!”

  “I promised not to show them if you did what I told you to. And I won’t. You have been very helpful. And if I need some help in this part of London again, I know who to call on.”

  With a shout of rage Shaw made for de Quincy, arms outstretched, only to see Granville raise an old flintlock pistol and point it straight at him.

  “Regretfully,” the small man began, “I have to ask you to step away from my colleague. If you do move any closer, I will be forced to shoot you. I know you are accustomed to slightly different weapons, but let me assure you that this gun fires real bullets and I am a fine shot.”

  Breathing heavily, Shaw backed away from de Quincy, who sneered at him.

  “You’re just as pathetically predictable as the rest of them. Now get out of here! Rest assured I will be in contact with you again.”

  Granville gestured at the door and ushered Shaw out of the cabin and back into the icy night air.

  “Edwin!” he cried out to the pilot, still hidden away at the stern of the barge. “Drop the sergeant off, and then take us home.”

  The barge changed course instantly, cutting back towards one side of the river. Confused and disorientated, Shaw couldn’t even tell whether it was the north or the south bank. As the barge purred up to a small wooden jetty, Granville gestured with his gun again.

  “I’m sure you can make it home from here,” he said, still cheery. “Farewell!”

  Shaw alighted back on to dry land, tears of frustration welling in his eyes at the brutal unfairness of his situation. From the dark prow of the barge, the two men watched him turn on his heel and head back into London.

  “Ninety-nine per cent certain!” Humphrey Granville chortled.

  “Yes,” mused Nicholas de Quincy. “Marianne’s a Ripper, all right. Time to start the bidding.”

  1

  The torrent of blood came gushing down without warning, hitting Jonathan Starling before he could react. The last thing he had seen was the playing card with the malevolent face of the Jack of Knives grinning up at him from the table, and then a thick red waterfall engulfed him. The force of the blast sent him sprawling from his seat, and into a dazed heap on the floor.

  As he looked up, coughing and spluttering, his eyes stinging, a face peered at him over the table. It was the dealer, a huge beast with fierce eyes and off-white tusks protruding from his mouth. He was wearing a black suit with a bloodstained butcher’s apron fastened over the top of it. With a shrug, he calmly gathered up the rest of Jonathan’s hand of cards.

  “The boy is out of the game,” he announced. “Do we have a new player to fill the seat?”

  There was a clamour from the small crowd behind Jonathan, and two well-dressed gentlemen leapt over his body to claim the vacant chair. Just as the taller of the two appeared to have won the race, the smaller man punched him viciously in the kidneys. As his competitor crumpled and groaned, the smaller man pushed him aside, chuckled with glee and sat down at the table. The tusked dealer sighed, and began to hand out another round of cards.

  Jonathan gingerly picked himself up, and moved away from the roped-off game. His hair was caked with blood, there was a roaring sound in his ears, and his shoes gave out an apologetic squelch every time he took a step. He rubbed his face with his sleeve in a forlorn attempt to clean himself up, a move which only served to smear more red across his cheek.

  With hindsight, perhaps playing Gorey had not been his best idea.

  Late at night in the Casino Sanguino, and the main hall was quiet; it would be another couple of hours before the serious gamblers took their places. Thick purple drapes had been drawn across the window, and cards were drawn and bets laid under the flicker of gaslight. The air was thick with hushed desperation. Sweaty, dishevelled men rolled dice with a manic gleam in their eyes, certain that this time they would be lucky. Hulking brutes with rolled-up sleeves stalked the room, keeping a beady eye out for any gamblers making money. Winning a game was one thing, making it out alive another matter entirely.

  Jonathan fished inside his pockets and checked his pocket watch. The man he was expecting should have arrived by now. Threading his way between tables, Jonathan scanned the hall. To his right, a game of Blackjack threatened to degenerate into a brawl as the dealer began clubbing one of the players over the head. On the far side of the room, a frantic group braced themselves as the dealer spun again on the Wheel of Misfortune – perhaps for the last time. From time to time a howl of pain flew over from the Ruelette table, where the balls had a nasty habit of flying off the wheel and into the eyes of unwary punters. In these surroundings, being drenched in blood actually helped Jonathan blend into the background. No one gave him a second glance. If he had tried to walk around like this anywhere else in London, he would have been l
ocked up. Then again, he was in Darkside. Things were different here.

  As he passed a raucous game of Hazard, Jonathan caught sight of the man he was looking for. A smartly-dressed man with a gleaming silver cane, he moved with disdain through the hall: Lorcan Bracket, one of Darkside’s finest confidence tricksters. The conman was strutting towards the centre of the room, where a spiral staircase rose like a metal finger over a hundred feet up into the air. At first glance, it appeared that the tall structure was unfinished and led nowhere, but in fact it was the only way to reach the most fabled and dangerous game in the Casino Sanguino: Plummet.

  Craning his neck until he could see high up into the vaulted ceiling of the hall, Jonathan could just make out a suspended platform moving through the air like a magic carpet. A series of steel cables connected it to a motor that powered along a track cut into the ceiling, propelling the platform onwards. Jonathan knew that a group of gamblers was sitting up there, playing a game where the stakes couldn’t possibly be higher. The rules to Plummet were fiendishly complex, but there was one simple factor that tended to occupy the minds of those who played it: if you could knock all your opponents off the platform, then the pot was yours. Cheating and cheap shots were actively encouraged, and the action more often resembled a high-altitude riot than a game.

  Bracket began to ascend the staircase, a spring in his step. Jonathan took a deep breath and slipped quietly after him. As they climbed, the gamblers beneath them became smaller and smaller, while the sound of their screams and shouts dimmed. Jonathan hurried to catch up with the conman. There was no point in hiding now. As Jonathan drew closer, he heard Bracket humming a jaunty tune to himself. Unlike Jonathan, he didn’t know that one of the Plummet players that evening was waiting for him. Lorcan Bracket was walking straight into a trap.