by Thomas Emson
“Bad news,” McCall had told his wife when Jenna first brought Lawton home when she was a schoolgirl. He was sixteen, she was fourteen, fifteen. Then he went and joined up, broke Jenna’s heart, and that made it even worse. The Army, for Christ’s sake. “Soldiers, nothing but trouble,” McCall had said.
“Give him a chance,” Sarah told him, “he seems nice enough – and he treats Jenna well.”
“We’ll see. I tell you, if he lays a finger on her – ”
“What, Mark? What will you do?” His wife glared at him and he’d felt the shame rise up in him. He’d balled his hands into fists. But then he’d counted back from ten and turned his back on her like they’d told him to do at the counselling sessions. And then she’d put a hand on his shoulder and told him it would be all right.
Well, fifteen years on it wasn’t all right.
It was worse – worse that they’d lost Jenna, firstly, to some weird sub-culture, then lost her to some bizarre drug, and then found out she attacked people in the street.
And things weren’t good at home, either.
The old anger flared up in McCall. The old anger that made him raise his hand and made Sarah cower.
“Anything else, mate?” said the cafe owner.
McCall asked for another tea. He studied the picture of Jenna again.
He’d lost her, now – he knew that. And because he’d lost her, someone had to pay. And that was Lawton. McCall clenched his teeth and balled his fists. If the fury erupted again after all these years, it would erupt in Lawton’s face.
McCall got up, threw a tenner on the table.
The owner put the tea down on the table and said, “Your tea, mate,” as McCall stomped out of the cafe.
Chapter 76
DISCOVERIES.
LAWTON said, “Let’s go over it again.”
Murray, scanning the paperwork spread out on her kitchen table, bit her lip. She plucked a sheet from the carpet of papers. She furrowed her brow and began by going through everything they knew about the house in Holland Park and Dr. Afdal Haddad. “And now we know he was originally from Iraq,” she said.
“Which links him to the vessels,” said Sassie.
Sassie had napped for a while on an armchair in the corner of the kitchen, and now she sipped black coffee to keep fatigue at bay.
Lithgow was grabbing some kip on Murray’s sofa. Richard Murray provided the coffee and tea and toast, and Murray smiled at him. They shared the loss of their boys. Richard had cried when they’d got back that morning, realizing he’d been stupid the night before. Sassie went on, her eyes filled with fire. Murray looked at her, wishing she could have some of the younger woman’s enthusiasm. But it was rage and fear that drove Murray now. She glanced at Lawton. He looked pale.
Gauze covered the wound on his cheek. The bruise at his throat was livid. How many other injuries did he have? Murray knew he’d been shot five times during his Army career – “That man’s got five bullet holes in his body for you,” a major ranted at Murray when she was writing her story about the incident in Basra. She wondered how long he could go on.
Sassie said, “Everything Tom Wilson said makes sense. We’ve got to find their lair. Like Alexander found their lair. He trapped them all there, in Nebuchadnezzar’s palace. And then he” – she looked at Lawton – “faced the trinity and killed them with this.” She placed her hand on the spear, which lay on the table in its scabbard. “That’s what we’ve got to do.”
“So you’re saying there’s a Nebuchadnezzar’s palace here in London?” said Murray.
“I don’t know,” said Sassie. “I’m just trying to think what we can do.” She paused. And then said, “Could they be going back there?
Planning a return to Babylon, rebuild the city?”
“Saddam tried that,” said Lawton. “He started to rebuild Babylon.
Then the U.S. Army mowed it all down.”
Sassie said, “Could they still be at the house in Holland Park?”
Murray shook her head. “Police trawled that place with a fine tooth comb. There’s nothing left.”
“And the house isn’t on the market?” said Lawton.
“No – still owned by Haddad.”
Richard went through to the living room. Murray watched him go. She remembered why she loved him. And then grief ached in her heart. Why had it taken the loss of her children to make these feelings return, to make them come together again? She bit her lip to stem the tears.
“Was Haddad and the Radu woman that lived with him in a relationship?” said Lawton.
“Don’t know,” said Murray.
Sassie said, “Why are they bringing vampirism to London?”
“Afdal Haddad” – they all turned as Richard came into the kitchen holding a laptop; he read from the screen, which cast a glow on his face – “came to the UK in 1921 as a six-year old. An Anglo-Arab family who came over here in 1900 took him in. This family sponsored Haddad, paid for his schooling. In 1946 this family had twins. In the late 1980s the brothers set up a homeopathic clinic in Holland Park with Haddad called – ”
“F&H Wellbeing,” said Murray, her nerves fraying.
“That’s right,” said Richard. “These twins, they made a lot of money in the Eighties selling cars.”
“F&H,” said Murray. “Fuad and Haddad.”
Her husband nodded. “George and Alfred Fuad.”
Nausea washed through Murray.
Lawton said, “Religion.”
Murray looked at him and said, “You can find out anything if you want to,” her voice thin and fragile.
Chapter 77
BRICK WALL.
DETECTIVE Superintendent Phil Birch said, “You’re not running this investigation, Christine, I am.”
Murray leaned across Birch’s desk. “My sons are missing.”
He frowned and scratched the back of his neck. “I realize that. There are many people missing. And we’re doing our best – ”
“Best is not good enough,” she said, slamming the desk. The heat rose up in her, and she was trembling. She said, “If my boys are dead, I’m coming after you.”
“Don’t threaten me. I’m serious: do not threaten me.”
“Then why don’t you go there, go to Religion?”
He said, “We’ve been to Religion. Our initial inquiries were centred on Religion. There’s nothing there, is that clear?”
“No, that’s not clear.”
“I’m afraid it’s about as clear as it’s going to get.”
“Have you been in contact with the Fuads? Have you found them?”
Birch looked at his clipboard, which lay on the desk in front of him.
He fumbled with the red ribbon laced to the clipping mechanism. He raised his gaze to her again and said, “We’ve – we’ve been in touch, yes, and we’re satisfied with the answers they provided.”
“They’re involved, Mr. Birch, and – ”
He jabbed a finger at her saying, “I’m warning you, Christine, don’t get on your high horse with this one.”
She sat back, the fire leaving her cheeks. She said, “What do you mean?”
“I mean don’t get yourself a crusade. Didn’t work out with the soldier, did it. I hear you’re good mates, now. Hear he’s been a bit of a” – Birch sneered – “hero over the past couple of evenings. So my officers say.”
“Jake Lawton’s courageous. It doesn’t mean he didn’t do what he was suspected of doing. Even bad men can be brave.”
Birch paused for a moment. And then he said, “It might be best for all of you – Lawton, yourself, all of you – to keep out of trouble over the next few days.”
Murray cocked her head. “Is that a threat?”
He laughed. “Heavens, no. Advice, that’s all. It might get – well – fraught out there.”
“I think we can cope with fraught, Mr. Birch. Jake Lawton can cope with fraught, I think.”
He bared his teeth. “I’m telling you, don’t interfere with
our investigations.”
“Then get a search warrant for Religion.”
“We don’t need,” he said, his cheeks red, “a fucking search warrant for Religion.”
“Does Commander Deere know about this? Maybe I’ll go see Commander Deere.”
“Maybe you should. Your pal Peter Deere. Dear little Peter the penpusher.”
Murray tensed. Her mouth opened, but she said nothing.
Birch continued:
“He knows his place, Christine, so he won’t help you anymore. He got you in with our investigation, didn’t he, but you won’t get anything else out of him. He’s not for this world much longer.”
“What does that mean?” she said, her throat dry.
“I mean exactly that – he’s not for this world, the world of the Metropolitan Police. He’s retiring at the end of the year, so he’s keeping his nose clean. Maybe you should consider retiring, too. You could both get a little cottage in the country. I hear things aren’t too healthy in the Murray household, so a love-nest with sweet Peter might be just the thing.”
The strength leached out of Murray. She tried to speak, saying, “How – how – ” but that’s about all she managed.
Birch slammed his fist on the desk and Murray flinched. He said, “It’s over, Christine. We’re in charge. My advice is as before: keep out of trouble, don’t get involved. This is a nasty, nasty situation.”
“My – my children – it’s – it’s Religion.”
“It’s not. It’s not Religion. Religion is out of bounds. I’ll have anyone caught snooping around there arrested. Do you understand?”
She gathered herself, regaining her strength and her bite. She said, “No, I don’t understand,” and stood up.
“That’s a shame,” said Birch, “a great shame.”
“I’ll go higher.”
He smirked. “You go higher, Christine,” he said. “You go as high as you like.”
Chapter 78
VISITORS.
LAWTON arrived at his flat at 10.50 a.m. He felt thirsty, hungry, and weak. He made a coffee, rolled a fag.
He sat at the kitchen table and put the scabbard containing the spear in front of him on the Formica. He planned to grab an hour’s rest and then head back into the city to meet up with the others.
Before they’d left Murray’s house, Lawton shared a moment with Sassie. They held each other and kissed. She’d asked if they’d ever get through this, and he said they would. But he didn’t know if this was true or not.
She’d gone home to sleep, Lithgow had remained on the sofa in the Murray’s living room, and Murray had gone to Scotland Yard.
He’d got a call from Murray just as he was getting off the bus at New Cross Underground Station, phoning to say how her meeting with Birch had gone. She was crying, and Lawton couldn’t understand what she was saying. Then she stopped crying, made more sense, and said Birch wouldn’t help them.
“He warned us off,” Murray had said to Lawton. “Told us to keep away from Religion, keep our noses clean.”
“Not much chance of that, is there,” he’d said, and promised her again that they’d find David and Michael.
She said she didn’t know what to do. “Birch won’t go for a warrant.”
Lawton thought for a moment, and then he’d said, “Ask Fraser. His old man’s a barrister. He might help.”
He turned on the radio. Trouble filled the news. London in turmoil. Central areas cordoned off. Limited travel. More deaths, more disappearances. CCTV images showing Saturday night’s victims walking around.
The dead becoming alive.
Or something like alive, he thought, remembering Jenna’s touch, cold and clammy. Decay wafting off her. Her eyes tinted red. And no human – living or dead – had fangs like hers.
He rubbed his neck. He still felt weak, as if he’d been drained of strength. He’d blindly ignored his condition last night and fought on adrenalin. He was used to that. They’d often had to do that in combat.
Forget your thirst, your hunger, your pain, your fear, and just focus on the task.
He drank the coffee, smoked his roll-up.
He drew the spear out of the scabbard.
He’d not known much about Alexander the Great until the past couple of days, although his first platoon sergeant, a guy called Jim Quinn, had mentioned him.
Quinn had said, “Alexander the Great led armies at sixteen. What do sixteen-year-olds do these days? Hang about street corners, mug old ladies, and nick cars.”
But Lawton, like the rest of the lads, chuckled, thinking Quinn was a bit of a swot. Now, he regretted not listening to the platoon sergeant.
He remembered himself at sixteen. Leading armies? Not likely.
Hanging around street corners, more like. He never mugged old ladies or nicked cars, though.
He sardonically toasted himself with the coffee mug for not going down those paths, at least.
Lawton poured the coffee down the sink, rinsed the cup. He heard the building’s front door open and footsteps – two sets – clumping up the stairs. The footsteps stopped outside his flat and someone knocked on the door.
Lawton frowned.
He wrapped the spear in it scabbard, tucked it under the table. He went to the door, opened it. His chest grew cold. His eyes fixed first on his neighbour, a constantly smiling Bangladeshi youth who worked in an Indian restaurant down the road.
The youth wasn’t smiling, though, and he had a gun to his head.
The tall man with a scar running down his face was holding the gun and he said, “Good morning, Mr. Lawton.”
The gun went off. Lawton flinched. He smelled cordite. Blood pumped from the Bangladeshi youth’s temple. The youth toppled over and hit the corridor floor. The scarred man strode into the flat, gun aimed at Lawton, Lawton stumbling backwards with his hands held out, his mind reeling.
The scarred man smiled and said, “You next, Mr. Lawton.”
* * *
“Ed? What are you doing here?” said Sassie.
He stood at the top of the stairs outside her door and gave her a grin. “Thought I’d come to see how my favourite researcher’s getting along,” he said.
“Fine, thanks.” She stopped at the top of the flight. Her legs felt heavy and her shoulders sagged. She wanted to get into her flat and sleep. Ed Crane was the last person she could cope with – she wasn’t sharp enough, at the moment, to deal with his banter and fend off his flirting. “I’m just very tired, Ed. Can’t this wait, whatever it is?”
He folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. “I always wait for you, Sassie. Waiting for an answer to my declarations of love.”
She groaned and shook her head, went for the door. “Sorry, Ed, not in the mood.”
He grabbed her arm and glared at her.
Her mouth went dry; she froze, her muscles feeling like lead.
His mouth turned into a smile, but it didn’t make it up to his eyes.
He said, “Wondered how your research into this Babylonian vase’s going, that’s all. I’ve some information. You know, thought I’d help my number one girl.”
Sassie stared at him. She needed sleep. But if Ed had something useful to say, she wanted to hear it. For Jake’s sake, for everyone’s sake.
She couldn’t risk not knowing. She considered him for a moment, and then drew away, putting her key in the lock.
“Ten minutes,” she said, “I’m knackered.”
* * *
“But first,” said the scarred man, “you give me the spear.”
Lawton, hands held out in a surrender pose, glared at the gunman.
“Now, Lawton.”
Lawton stared at the scarred man. The gunman’s face wavered, a frown creasing his forehead. A vein pulsed at the stranger’s temple, and his Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Lawton” – more haste in his voice – “I want the spear. I know you have it. We know you went up to Manchester, to see the old man.”
Heat flared in Lawton�
��s cheeks: they’d been followed.
The scarred man said, “Give me the spear of Abraham, or I’ll kill you.”
“And then what will you do?”
“I’ll ransack your” – Scar’s eyes ranged the flat, and he curled his lip – “home and find it myself.”
“I die either way, then?”
Scar shrugged.
“All right,” said Lawton, “if I’m going to die, you can have what you came for – but first, I want to know a few things.”
Scar smiled, lowered his gun and held it close to his waist, still aimed at Lawton. “All right, for amusement.”
“Are you vampires?” said Lawton.
“Ha! Funny man. We’re human.”
“So what are these creatures running around London?”
“They are vampires. They need blood. Three days without it, they die.”
“How else can they die?”
Scar’s eyes narrowed. He studied Lawton for a moment. Then he said, “I’m sure old Mr. Wilson, the hero of Mesopotamia, thief and killer of children, told you.”
Lawton tensed.
Scar laughed. “We know you’ve been up there. We have eyes everywhere. You can’t do anything without us knowing about it, Lawton. We’re like Big Brother.”
“Did you steal the jars from Wilson’s flat?”
Scar’s brow creased. “Steal? They were ours in the first place. Our family. He stole them from us. Lucky we found them. His great great granddaughter, stupid little bitch, put them on eBay. Then we guess: if he’s got the vases, he’s got the spear. We bid for them, say we’d pick them up. I get the address. I go up there. Lucky he wasn’t in. I’d have cut him into a thousand pieces.”
“Then I’d have cut you into a thousand more.”
Scar chuckled, threw a glance towards the kitchen area saying, “I’m bored with this now. Tell me – ”
Lawton sprang forward. Scar flinched. The gun fired. The bullet zipped past Lawton’s ear. Scar raised the gun to fire again. He yelled as Lawton swatted his gun-hand away with his left hand. Lawton swung his right elbow, cracked Scar above the eye. Bone snapped, skin sliced, blood spurted from the wound. Scar lurched, fell, hit the floor.
