Dire Straits

by Helen Harper

‘Are you Lucy?’ I ask.

  She looks startled and more than a little afraid. I nod, satisfied. That’s one mystery solved at least. It turns out I didn’t require Rogu3’s services after all.

  ‘Where’s Devlin?’ she asks, not acknowledging my question.

  ‘The Montserrat Family have got him,’ I tell her. I can give her that much information.

  It doesn’t appease her fears. ‘What? No, no, no, no, no, that’s bad.’

  I take a step towards her and she flinches. ‘Why, Lucy? Why is it bad?’

  ‘They needed the spell. If he tells anyone about it…’ Her voice drifts off and she wrings her hands.

  O’Shea’s little enhancement project. I wonder why it’s so important though right now I’m less concerned with motive than perpetrator. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘They made me contact him. They wanted the spell,’ she babbles. ‘They needed it.’

  I’m getting impatient; this much I already know. ‘Who are they?’ I repeat.

  ‘I don’t know!’ she yells. ‘They’re all involved with the Families though. Every single one of them.’

  I watch her carefully. She seems to be telling the truth. That means Montserrat was too but it doesn’t make me feel any more warm and fuzzy towards him.

  ‘No vampire has ever done that, Lucy. They obey the Head. It’s part of who they are.’

  ‘They are obeying their Head,’ she moans.

  I curse. ‘Which one? Is it Montserrat?’

  ‘No, you don’t get it.’

  ‘What? What don’t I get?’

  ‘There’s a new Family. A new Head. They’re obeying her.’

  My eyes narrow. It actually makes sense. The vampires’ innate desire to follow the leader would still hold. None of the existing Heads would normally risk the fragile peace between the Families by stealing each other’s members. A new Head, however, might not feel the same sense of responsibility. I wonder if Montserrat realises this. He has to, otherwise he’d never believe that there were traitors. I don’t know why he wouldn’t tell me though.

  ‘Who’s the new Head?’ I keep my voice quiet and steady.

  She opens her mouth but whatever she says is swallowed in the roar of an oncoming train.

  ‘Pardon?’

  Out of nowhere, there’s a flash of movement that comes from behind me and launches itself towards her. I spring forward but it’s already too late. Her body is shoved directly into the path of the train. It happens so fast that I can do little more than stare aghast as her blood spatters across the platform and hits me in the face while she is dragged along the tracks. I’m dimly aware of screams and yells from the other people on the train and the platform.

  I look up and the vampire grins at me. He’s blond so obviously not Tam’s murderer. Not that that is going to help Lucy – or whoever she was. He lunges towards me with and I instinctively put up my hands to protect myself. There are several shouts from behind me. The vampire pulls back and gives me another grin that chills me to my core. ‘Another time,’ he hisses, before vaulting onto to the roof of the stationary train and disappearing down the other side.

  I’ve not even lowered my hands when someone from behind grabs my wrists and yanks them behind my back. In one swift, practised motion a plastic tie secures my hands.

  My captor leans in towards me. ‘You’re under arrest for murder.’

  Bugger.

  Chapter Twelve: The Cell

  I’m hauled away unceremoniously while an impossibly young looking copper reads me my rights. I’m about to protest my innocence when I think better about opening my big mouth in case I blab something I shouldn’t. As we pass the gaping commuters and the train with Lucy’s gruesome remains clinging to its front, I try to avert my eyes but I can’t stop myself from looking. I wish I hadn’t.

  Ten minutes later, I’m shoved into a small beige room complete with CCTV camera, what is obviously a two-way mirror mounted on one wall, and a small desk and chairs. The door is slammed shut and I’m left on my own. I kick the nearest chair and swear loudly. In the mirror I can see high points of colour on my cheeks. My hair is a dark, unruly mess of curls. I look like a mad woman. The sort of mad woman who would be capable of pushing someone under a train. I grit my teeth, use my foot to return the chair to a standing position and sit down. I’m not going to get anywhere if I lose my cool.

  It’s not long before I’m joined by two plainclothes police officers. The first one has a lined face, reflecting the many injustices in the world. He glances at me warily as he enters. His partner, a younger woman, smiles. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you every cliché of police work in the book, I think sardonically, from good cop, bad cop to old partner versus new copper. I just manage to avoid rolling my eyes.

  They sit down across from me.

  ‘Hello, Bo,’ says the woman. ‘I’m Sergeant Nicholls and this is Inspector Foxworthy. Do you know why you’re here?’

  I keep my mouth resolutely shut.

  Foxworthy opens a manila folder, placing a series of photos in front of me. There’s a shot of the façade of the Wiltshore Avenue hellhole, followed by several of the interior. Then there are technicolour displays of the room where O’Shea almost pegged it: the blood-spattered walls, the half-destroyed chair, a set of footprints.

  ‘Where did you bury his body?’

  I’m surprised and a little alarmed that they believe O’Shea is dead.

  ‘Bo,’ Nicholls coos, ‘we know Devlin O’Shea is no longer with us.’

  ‘And we know you killed him,’ interrupts Foxworthy. Nicholls shoots him an annoyed look; clearly these two have their routine down to a perfect art form.

  ‘What we don’t know,’ she continues, ‘is where his body is or why you did it. He was a lowlife, Bo, we know that.’ She ticks off her fingers. ‘Dealing in black magic, stealing, ripping off innocent people. He was scum. Let’s face it, the planet is better off without him.’

  All I can think is that I really hope he’s still alive. If Montserrat has killed him and disposed of his body then I’m well and truly up shit creek without a paddle.

  Foxworthy leans in. ‘Is that why you murdered him, Ms Blackman?’ He draws out the ‘Mizz’ until it sounds like an insult.

  ‘We wouldn’t blame you if you did,’ adds Nicholls, trying to appeal to my better nature. ‘His family will want to know where he is. They’ll still want to give him a decent burial. Most of them are human, Bo. Even if he was a bastard, they still care for him.’

  I’m interested in her line of questioning. Is she suggesting that his daemon relations don’t care for him? Or is she assuming that I killed him because he was a daemon and I’m a racist bitch?

  Foxworthy changes tack abruptly. ‘Who was the woman you threw off the tracks?’

  I stare at him. There must have been upwards of a dozen witnesses to the vampire, not to mention the footage from the security cameras.

  ‘You look surprised, Ms Blackman.’

  I forget my promise to myself to stay quiet. ‘It was a freaking vampire!’

  I receive a scornful look in return. ‘Why would a bloodguzzler kill someone by shoving them under a train? That would be a waste of good blood, don’t you think?’ He folds his arms. ‘Besides, we can’t prosecute vampires. But we can prosecute you.’

  It’d take less than two minutes of their time to find proof that I had nothing to do with Lucy’s murder. They obviously know this and they don’t care. Or they’re using the fact of her death to lure me into telling them about O’Shea. I gnaw at my lip. There’s more than enough evidence to prove I didn’t kill either Lucy or O’Shea. I wonder if they care.

  ‘Don’t you have anything to say?’

  ‘Come on, Bo,’ Nicholls urges, ‘just tell us what’s going on.’

  I could call my grandfather and get him to send someone round but I have a better idea. ‘I’d like a lawyer,’ I announce.

  Something flickers in Nicholls’ expression although Foxworthy remains impassive. �
��We can appoint someone for you,’ he says.

  I shake my head. ‘No. I have a lawyer.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘D’Argneau,’ I say calmly. ‘Harry D’Argneau.’

  I’m left cooling my heels while they make the call. I honestly have no idea whether D’Argneau will actually show or not. I rest my forehead on the table and close my eyes. Lucy’s horrified expression as she flies in midair into the path of the train replays itself in my head over and over again. Several times I have to force down rising bile. At some point Nicholls re-enters and leaves me a glass of water. I chug it down then continue to wait.

  With no clock in the room, and my watch removed with my other few personal possessions when I entered the station, I have no way of knowing what time it is when the door eventually re-opens. I look up and see D’Argneau striding in. I’d forgotten how good looking he is. He pauses for a moment, his eyes widening infinitesimally in what can only be an unfaked reaction to my presence. Then he quickly recovers and takes the chair vacated by Inspector Foxworthy.

  ‘You’re Bo Blackman?’ he asks.

  I nod.

  ‘I once met your…’

  ‘Grandfather. Yeah, whatever,’ I grunt.

  He takes out a notepad. ‘So, you’re being investigated on the count of two separate murders. That of Devlin O’Shea, an Agathos daemon, and an as-yet unnamed human woman.’

  I think of Rogu3. He’s probably discovered her true identity by now. There’s no way I’m going to tell D’Argneau about him, though. At the moment, even though I’m the one cuffed and being held in a police station, he’s one of my prime suspects. I don’t care that he’s not a vampire, there’s no way he’s not involved.

  ‘Lucy,’ I say. ‘All I know is that she called herself Lucy. Check the surveillance cameras. She was pushed onto the tracks by a vampire.’

  The lawyer raises his eyebrows then scribbles something. ‘I’ll do that. How do you,’ he coughs, ‘sorry, how did you know her?’

  ‘She was following me.’

  ‘And the cameras will also attest to this.’

  Ah. Not exactly. ‘She was following me then I turned the tables and starting following her instead.’

  His eyebrows knit together. ‘I see.’

  It’s clear he doesn’t. ‘Look,’ I sigh, ‘check the cameras from the station and talk to the witnesses. I had nothing to do with her death.’

  ‘And the daemon?’

  ‘He’s not dead.’ I watch him carefully for his reaction.

  D’Argneau looks at me. I look back at him unwaveringly. I do hope Montserrat isn’t making a liar out of me.

  ‘Where is he?’

  I shrug. ‘Tied up.’ Most probably.

  ‘Okay. Is he likely to present himself at any point?’

  ‘Well, that’s difficult to say.’ My ear itches so I lift up one shoulder and rub it awkwardly. ‘You see, he’s still rather worried about losing his life. The firm I work for…’

  ‘Dire Straits,’ he interrupts. ‘The one in the news.’

  ‘Yes. And I’d like to point out I’m no more responsible for what happened there than for anything else.’ I direct this comment at the two-way mirror. Lawyer–client conversations are meant to be confidential but right now I don’t trust anything. ‘They tasked me with serving O’Shea with a summons. I found him half dead.’ I smile humourlessly. ‘The summons came from a barrister seconded to the Agathos court.’

  D’Argneau’s pen stops. I meet his eyes and we stare at each other. The silence chokes the tiny room.

  ‘I have nothing to do with this, Ms Blackman.’

  I press my lips together.

  ‘Are you setting me up?’ he asks quietly.

  ‘I’m the one being framed here, D’Argneau. You hired me to serve the summons on O’Shea.’

  ‘I hired Dire Straits. I’d never even heard of you.’

  I ignore him. ‘And then you suddenly show up in the middle of the night at the same club I decide to have a drink in.’

  His face tightens with anger. ‘Let’s get one thing clear, Ms Blackman. I was already at that club when you walked in. I didn’t follow you. You followed me.’

  ‘Where else was I going to go at that time of night?’

  He leans in towards me, his voice lowering. ‘Is that what the little show was out on the street? Were you trying to get hold of my DNA?’

  ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ I sound screechy, but I don’t care. ‘I’m the one in handcuffs here! I’m the one about to be charged with murder! And I’m the one who walked away from you after the club!’

  His eyes flash. ‘Maybe that’s because you’d already got what you wanted. A few strands of my hair perhaps? Or some saliva?’

  I make a face. ‘Ewww! You think I sucked your spit and kept it in my mouth for a later date? Get real, buster.’

  ‘I don’t care what family connections you’ve got,’ he snarls, ‘you won’t get away with this.’

  Nothing is going the way I expect. I try to calm down. ‘D’Argneau, look at me. I’m not getting away with anything. But I’ve not done anything.’

  He pushes back his hair and stands up. ‘Whatever game you’ve got going on here, it’s not going to wash.’

  ‘Wait! D’Argneau!’

  He doesn’t stop. Instead he just walks out of the little room, the door banging behind him. My shoulders sink and I stare at the empty chair. Either that was an Oscar-winning performance or the lawyer is telling the truth. I mull over the idea that it was merely a coincidence we bumped into each other. It’s just so incredibly unlikely.

  ‘Your barrister doesn’t want you,’ states Foxworthy, strolling into the room.

  I glare at him. ‘Charge me,’ I growl, ‘or let me go.’

  He smirks, making a deliberate show of checking his watch. ‘We’ve got forty-one hours to question you before we need to make that decision, Ms Blackman. There’s no rush.’ He pulls my arm, forcing me to my feet. ‘How about a little break from all this?’ There’s a nasty gleam in his eye, the first real emotion I’ve seen from him. It sends a ripple of uneasiness through me.

  ‘I can keep going,’ I say. ‘I’ll answer your questions.’

  ‘Like I said,’ he smiles, ‘there’s plenty of time for that.’

  ***

  I’m led into a cell. There’s already another occupant, an older man with no irises in his eyes and an instantly recognisable tattoo on his cheek. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.

  ‘Foxworthy, let me out of these damned restraints!’ I call desperately.

  ‘You’re here as a result of a double murder. You may have been involved in the slaughter of several of your work colleagues. That makes you a potential serial killer and far too dangerous to be allowed to go unfettered, Ms Blackman.’ The emphasis he puts on my surname is unmistakable. The black witch in the corner straightens, interested.

  ‘Blackman?’

  I back away, warily. ‘Look, honour among thieves, right? We’re both in this cell together.’

  ‘Any relation to Arbuthnot Blackman?’

  I try to feign ignorance. ‘Er, who?’

  It doesn’t work. The witch opens his mouth and runs a red tongue over his lips. Then he takes a step towards me. His hands, I notice, are uncuffed.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘let’s not be hasty here. Yes, I’m related to Arbuthnot Blackman. But I think he’s as much of a bastard as you do.’

  The witch takes another step. The cell is tiny and my back is literally against the wall. I glance up at the ceiling and note the camera mounted there. Much good it’s going to do me. Not for the first time, I curse my grandfather.

  The witch launches himself at me. Despite my best efforts to protect myself, his fist flies into my face and I see a flash of blinding light and feel an explosion of pain as he breaks my nose. Threads of pain travel outwards across my cheekbones and up through my eyeballs. I lash out instinctively with my foot, catching him in the stomach. He staggers
back, groaning, then he’s on me again.

  He knocks me down hard onto the floor and I narrowly avoid hitting my head on the steel corner of the bed. I roll underneath it. The last thing I need is to come on too strong and do the witch some serious damage. If I do, it’ll no doubt be added to the list of grievances against me. He shakes the bed and it rattles hard against the floor, but fortunately it’s screwed tightly into place. He bends down. I spit out blood and push myself further back but he grabs my ankle to pull me out. I kick against his grip but it’s no use. With my hands behind my back, I can’t fight against him and I’m dragged out, inch by inch. His other hand swoops down and encircles my throat, then he thrusts me up against the wall. He’s not trying to kill me; he’s having far too much fun for that.

  I flail against him. I’ve just about had enough of this. My knee jerks upwards, connecting with his groin. He snarls in pain.

  ‘Having fun?’

  The pair of us twist round. Both Foxworthy and Nicholls are standing in the doorway, watching us.

  ‘Enjoying the show?’ I say, as the witch finally releases his grip. My voice is weak. I put a hand up to my face and it comes away covered in my own blood.

  ‘There’s someone to see you,’ Foxworthy says, moving aside. For a moment I think he’s addressing the witch, then I realise he’s referring to me. I wonder if my grandfather has been informed.

  Foxworthy offers me an old, greying towel. I’m tempted to throw it back in his face but I need something to wipe off the blood. The centre of my face feels as if it’s been smacked with a sledgehammer. I follow him and Nicholls out of the cell and I’m expecting to be led back into the same interview room but, instead, I end up out at the front of the station. Standing there are Montserrat and a very pale Devlin O’Shea.

  ‘The daemon’s alive,’ says Nicholls cheerfully. ‘And we’ve reviewed the footage from the station. It appears it wasn’t you who threw Charity Weathers under a train.’

  I realise that Charity Weathers must be the unfortunate Lucy.

  ‘However, Ms Blackman, we would like to question you further regarding your role in the Dire Straits massacre. So don’t do anything stupid like leave the country.’