by Thomas Emson
Lawton said, “They took that away from me. She, that Christine bloody Murray woman, took that away from me. The M.O-fucking- D took that away from me. The politicians, the papers – they took it away.”
Lithgow leaned back as Lawton raged into his face. And then Lithgow said, “I know what you are.”
“What?” said Lawton, getting out of Lithgow’s face.
“You’re like a ronin, aren’t you, man.”
“A what?”
“A ronin. A samurai who’s been shamed, who hasn’t got a master. The Army was your master, Jake, and now you’ve had to leave your master. You’re a drifter and you’re looking for someone to serve.”
Lawton stared at him for a few moments. Then he spun away, and strode down the road.
* * *
Murray watched Lawton and Lithgow leave the coffee shop. She thought about what they said:
Vampires.
They didn’t exist, of course, but perhaps the myth had some truth in it. The legends of blood-sucking creatures had to have a source, and that source could be true.
A disease, maybe, she thought. She felt a jolt of excitement. That’s what it was: an ancient plague that had somehow been unleashed in modern day London. An affliction that gave the sufferers the appearance of being dead for a few hours, and then when they regained consciousness, they went around attacking people – and drinking their blood.
Vampires.
Her phone rang and she flinched. She answered it. The voice said, “I can’t be on the phone for too long.”
Murray said, “All right, just tell me,” and her skin flushed with anticipation.
“The pills,” said Murray’s contact in the pathology department of a London hospital involved in the case, “contained elements of methylenedioxy amphetamine, from which ecstasy is derived.”
“They were ecstasy?” said Murray.
“For all intents and purposes, they were ecstasy tablets. However – ”
Murray gritted her teeth and thought, Get on with it.
Her contact got on with it: “ – the pills also included that unusual DNA sample we found in the bodies.”
Murray shuddered. She said, “What does that mean?”
“It means that the pills were ecstasy pills, but, like all street drugs, they included other substances – including warfarin, by the way, which thins the blood.”
“And this unknown element that you found in the original bodies?” said Murray.
“Yes. This, um, ‘unknown’ element found in the victims came from the pills – it seems.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“Like I told you before, Christine – we don’t. It’s just – just the weirdest thing. And I think – I don’t know this for sure, so don’t even quote me off the record – but I heard some guys talking – and I think, I think they said – ”
Her contact faltered. Murray squeezed the bottle of orange juice.
The drink spurted from the bottle and splashed on the table. Murray said, “What? What?”
“Sorry,” said her contact, “people walking about.”
“What did you hear?”
“I heard them say the element, the unknown one, that it appeared to be very, very old. I mean, really old. I mean ancient. That’s what they said.”
Chapter 44
LOCKING HORNS.
King’s College London, Strand Campus – 1.16 p.m., February 9
LAWTON put his phone away. “That was Christine Murray,” he said. He felt cold. His throat was dry, so he coughed and swallowed. It didn’t do much good, but he tried to speak.
First he told them about the bodies, that they had no blood in them and that the organs were shrivelled. “Like the life had been sucked out of them,” he said. “But the hearts, they’re engorged, blackened, coated in slime.” And then he told them about Murray’s phone call, Murray ringing to tell him that the pills called “Skarlet” contained some unknown substance that was “ancient”.
And then he said what he, Sassie, and Lithgow had experienced at the house in Holland Park the previous evening.
Ed Crane leaned against the window, arms folded. He wore a sneer and kept winking at Sassie.
They were in Crane’s office, overlooking the river. His office was larger than Sassie’s cluttered corner. Box files stood in neat rows on shelves. Ancient looking books lined the walls. The clay pot depicting Alexander and the vampires sat on the windowsill.
He sat down at his desk, putting his hands behind his head.
He said, “Surely there must be a logical explanation to what’s going on. What do the police think?”
Lawton said, “I’m not sure they think anything. They’re as confused as everyone else. They like to manage an investigation, keep it on a leash. But this one’s tugging and pulling away from them.”
Crane said, “Might it be possible that someone who’s obsessed by all these myths, this vampire nonsense, could be perpetrating these crimes?”
Sassie shrugged. “How do you drain the blood out of twenty-eight bodies without leaving a mess or a mark?”
Lawton said, “The people who died last night, and on Thursday night, they had” – he furrowed his brow; a chill flushed his veins – “had bite marks on their necks. The kind you see – ”
He faltered.
“See where, Mr. Lawton?” said Crane. “In the movies?” He chuckled.
Sassie said, “Ed, when I drove that stake into that thing at the house, it turned to dust. Right in front of my eyes. That’s not normal.”
“No, not normal at all,” said Crane. “But I don’t think it’s normal, Sassie, to drive stakes through living people.”
“They weren’t living,” said Lithgow. “They were dead. They died at Religion. I saw them die. And – and Hammond, my mate Steve Hammond, he got killed in that house. Murdered by a woman with a gun.”
“Quite a story,” said Crane. “We keep peeling back the layers.
Women with guns, stakes through the heart – ”
“Is there anything in the Babylonian myths about the dead coming back to life?” said Sassie.
Crane shrugged, steepled his fingers. “I’m assuming you’re talking about vampires here.”
Sassie and Lawton glanced at each other.
Crane chuckled. “It’s ridiculous, really. Sassie, we’re academics. We deal in facts. Myths, legends, superstitions, they’re for” – he threw a hand in Lawton’s direction – “the plebs. People whose reading and writing is limited to The Sun and – and an Army recruitment form.”
Lawton glared at him, arching an eyebrow. He wasn’t taking the bait.
This was more important than Crane’s childish game, and his reasons for playing it. Lawton guessed it had something to do with impressing Sassie.
Sassie said, “Okay, Ed, you don’t have to be a wanker about this.”
“A wanker?” he said. “I’m not the one claiming to have killed vampires.”
“I’m not saying that,” said Lawton. “I’m only telling you what I’ve seen and what I know. I thought maybe someone clever like you could help us find the answer. But if you prefer playing ‘my-dad’s-biggerthan- your-dad’ games, then fuck you, mate.”
“Now,” said Crane, “there’s no need to get aggressive, is there,” and he had a smirk on his face that Lawton wanted to rip off.
Sassie said, “Can we stop this.”
Lithgow, gnawing at his nails, said, “Does this mean that all of those people who died at Religion are going to be – ” He trailed off, creased his brow and looked at everyone in the office in turn. And then he said, “Have those dead people come back to life?”
“Good grief,” said Crane, “what silliness. And what do you plan to do, all of you? Hunt them down like you’re little Van Helsings and drive stakes through their hearts?” He laughed, a patronizing guffaw intended, Lawton was sure, to make anyone in his presence feel inferior.
Then Crane frowned and glared at Sassie. “Do you know this m
an, Sassie? This” – and he looked Lawton up and down – “Jake Lawton character?”
“Ed – ” said Sassie, but she wasn’t allowed to finish.
Crane cocked his head, looked at Lawton through narrowed eyes.
“Why did you leave the Army, Mr. Lawton? Not as if you got sick of the killing, was it? Care to tell us?”
Lawton felt rage pulse through his head. He looked Crane in the eye and Crane paled, turning away. The academic looked at Sassie again, eyes wide now. He said, “He killed a man, Sassie, this soldier of yours.”
“Breaking news, Crane, fucking breaking news” said Lawton, his fists clenched. He twitched, fighting the urge to launch himself at Crane.
“Oh, hasn’t he told you, Sassie?” said Crane, and Sassie looked from Crane to Lawton, her cheeks red and her eyes wide. Crane said, “He doesn’t think much of you, does he. Mind you, it was all over the papers a couple of years ago. And on the internet, too. You can see it.
I’ll e-mail you the link.” He made a face, like he’d smelled something bad. “It’s nasty.”
Sassie stared at Crane, her face flushed. “It doesn’t matter who he is or what he’s done. I don’t need to know his secrets; he doesn’t need to know mine. All we’re doing is trying to – trying to save people.”
Crane winked at Lawton and said, “She’s a good kisser.”
Lawton lunged at him, and Crane’s face blanched, his mouth gaping.
He threw himself off the chair and scrambled across the office, saying, “Don’t touch me! I’ll sue, I’ll bloody sue.”
Sassie, reaching for Lawton, said, “No, Jake, don’t,” and Lawton felt the rage leach out of him when she held his arm.
Crane, ashen faced, cowered in the corner.
Lawton grabbed the vase from the windowsill and stormed out of the office.
Crane, shouting after him, said, “That’s an artefact. It should be in a museum.”
Sassie glowered at Crane, and Lithgow, looking down at the academic, told him, “You shouldn’t make him angry, you know. He’s a bastard, is Jake Lawton.”
Crane said, “I know – I’ve seen the footage.”
Chapter 45
A BITTER TASTE.
LAWTON swigged his Scotch and thought about what had happened in Crane’s office.
Sassie eyed him with fear after they left Crane’s office. He thought of the academic and anger flashed in his head. Had Sassie’s voice not doused his rage, he would’ve gone for the man. He wanted to rip the fuckwit’s head off. He would’ve ripped the fuckwit’s head off.
“I will rip the fuckwit’s head off,” he said, staring at the cracks in the plaster above the door to his flat.
He thought about the video.
That fucking thing was on the internet, downloaded by fanatics in Iraq and anti-war campaigners in Britain, and every nutcase inbetween.
“And all thanks to you, Christine,” he said, holding up his glass in a toast.
He slugged down the Scotch, poured another. He felt fuzzy, now, the drink mushing up his brain. But that’s how he liked to feel. That was the only way he could get any sleep, even if it were only a couple of hours.
The papers had been full of shit when the footage got out. All of them slagging off the war, slagging off the politicians, slagging off the troops, slagging off Lawton.
The phone rang. He picked up, and it was Murray.
“I was just talking about you,” he said.
“To who?”
“To myself.”
“Sign of madness,” she said.
“So they say.”
“I’m sorry to break-up your evening of self-abuse and depression, but I’ve found some stuff out about the house.”
Lawton sat up. “In Holland Park.”
She said, “Yes, in Holland Park. It’s owned by a Dr. Afdal Haddad. British. He’s in his nineties, now. A chemist by training. Cardiff University. He ran a private practice for years. Homeopathy. Firm called F&H Wellbeing. He’s a wealthy individual. Had a couple of staff there, assistants. A” – she paused; Lawton heard papers being shuffled – “Nadia Radu and Ion Friniuc. Again, British citizens.”
“Where d’you find this stuff out?”
“Where do I find anything out?”
“I don’t know,” said Lawton. “Where?”
“I’ve got contacts. This one came from a copper. But it’s not difficult. Information’s available if you know where to look. You can find out anything if you want to.”
Lawton said, “Anything else?”
“Nadia Radu was married to a Viorel Radu,” said Murray, “a minor diplomat in the Romanian embassy during the Ceaucescu regime in the Eighties. He was much older than her. He’s dead now. Died in a car crash in 1999. As to the Holland Park property, neighbours said they didn’t really see much of Haddad or the other two. They were well-to-do, though. Had posh dinner parties, lots of well-heeled sorts coming and going.”
“Funded by drugs,” said Lawton.
“Might be. A chemist. Guns.”
“Guns?”
“Yes,” said Murray. “Lithgow’s pal, Steve Hammond getting shot.
And no one knows anything. Police have got nothing on it.”
“Lithgow didn’t want to report it. Thought he’d get into trouble for breaking into the house.”
“There’s more trouble than breaking and entering facing that one, I tell you – facing us all. Another mystery to consider, as well.”
“Too many mysteries. My head hurts.”
Murray ignored him and said, “Have you heard anything from Nathan Holt?”
“Since he lied about me to the police, you mean? No, I haven’t.”
“Well, he’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“I don’t know or I’d find him. He’s not answering his phone, he’s not at his flat, his mum’s in Canterbury and she’s frantic. Police haven’t logged him as a missing person yet, but it won’t be long.”
“He might’ve left the country, gone into hiding.”
“He’s the sensible one,” said Murray.
“What about the Fuads? What does your reporter’s nose sniff on them?”
“Nothing. They’re notoriously publicity-shy. They’ve never given interviews, never made public statements, never had their pictures taken. They announce everything through their PR firm. And even the PR firm’s out of reach at the moment.”
There was silence between them for a moment, and then Lawton asked: “Any idea what’s going on?”
“Yes, I’ve got an idea. The papers have got ideas. People have got ideas about what’s going on. But no one’s willing to do more than speculate at the moment.”
“So what’s your idea?” he said.
“You’re drunk – you give me yours, first.”
“I think,” he said, “that Lithgow was on the mark this morning.”
That word in his head:
Vampires.
“Do you?” she said.
“I do. Do you?”
“I might do.”
There was nothing left to say. They agreed to get in touch the following day. He said goodnight and she said, Stop drinking. He put down the phone and finished his Scotch. He went for a refill, but he’d drained the bottle.
He got up, went over to the kitchenette. He found another bottle, Tesco own brand, and took it back into the living area. He sat on the sofa, picked up the TV remote and considered watching a film.
He thought about it, and then tossed the remote aside. He couldn’t concentrate on a movie, on music, on anything. This business crowded his mind. The dead at Religion. The disappearing bodies. Holt gone, now. Hammond getting killed. More dead people.
But there was one bright spot on all of this.
Sassie perked him up from the start. He’d not felt such a surge of affection towards anyone in a long time. Not even Jenna, who’d been in and out of his life since they were teenagers.
He thought about Sassie. He remembered he
r eyes today after Crane’s bollocks about the footage. She’d looked terrified, and cowered from him.
Shouts wafted in from the street and broke his train of thought.
Louts heading off to find trouble, he guessed. Yobs reeling around after an afternoon on booze and cannabis. Saturdays were always the worst.
A flash of anger burst in Lawton’s head. He almost leaped to his feet and stomped downstairs to the street to confront them, but he stopped himself. It was stupid. One-on-one, he might have been able to deal with them, but if he faced a dozen or more, he’d be in trouble. He had no physical fear of any man but he would always avoid confrontation, always turn the other cheek unless things got hairy. As an ex-soldier he got a lot of shit. People just didn’t like him – from the middle class snobs at their dinner parties berating the war and the “violent” troops, to the scum on the street who’d read too much tabloid shit and wanted to show their mates how hard they were.
Screams sliced the darkness. Lawton sat up and listened. Curses filled the air. The sound of running. Horns blaring.
Bit wild out there tonight, he thought.
And then he remembered the dead from last night, and the night before. And he thought, Are they walking about, those carcasses?
He furrowed his brow, got to his feet. He started to cross to the window. His doorbell went and he flinched.
Kids mucking about?
It buzzed again. He pressed the intercom, said, “Yeah?”
A voice he thought he’d heard the last of said, “Hi, Jake, will you let me in?” and the chill it brought in it wake flooded his veins.
His throat felt dry. His mind reeled.
The voice said, “Will you let me in?”
He pressed the red button and waited. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs. There was a rap on the door. For a moment he didn’t think any of it was real: the voice asking to be let in, the knock on the door, him reaching out for the handle.
He opened the door.
Jenna stood there, grinning at him.
PART THREE.
BATTLEGROUND.
Chapter 46
