Past Due

by Catherine Winchester

  “Yes.”

  Alex released his hold on Pete’s mind and disappeared before Pete had even blinked.

  Pete wondered why he was back inside the van. He shook his head, thinking he was getting old before his time. Mind you, a full night sleep now and again would probably improve things, but he needed the money right now.

  He sighed and wondered if he could take the van and find a Costa Coffee. He badly needed a double espresso right now.

  Alex might not know the names of everyone who visited his club, but he did know faces and Sylvia Fornham was a face he knew.

  He drove much faster than the speed limits allowed, knowing that he could use mind control on any policeman who dared stop him. He would have liked to go faster but these roads didn’t allow for the kind of speed that would help ease his anger.

  Someone was killing people from his club. This alone would be enough to anger him but by choosing girls from his club, the killer was drawing attention onto Alex. Alex’s life didn’t bear scrutiny.

  He wondered how long he had before the police discovered both girls had his club in common. Sylvia hadn't been a frequent visitor so maybe it would take them a while to make the link. He hoped so because his only option was to find the killer first and the more time he had, the better.

  Alex’s car screeched to a stop just inches from the back wall of the club and he sat there for a few moments. Now that he had a plan he felt a little better. Of course the one flaw in his plan was that he had absolutely no idea exactly how one went about finding a killer.

  Frankie roused herself from bed at 10 the next morning and quickly made a strong coffee before logging back onto her computer. Using MI5’s access she read the latest police reports. Not a lot had changed but there were more forensic details, the same fibres, prints and hair found at the second scene as the first. Things were about to get difficult for her but she had an idea. Noting from the reports that he’d risen quickly through he ranks, she called his station and asked the switchboard operator for Detective Chief Inspector William Campbell.

  “Campbell,” he sounded distracted.

  “Wright,” she teased. No one else she knew could answer a phone so briskly yet not sound rude.

  “Frankie,” she could hear he was pleased to hear from her. “I’m really sorry but-“

  She cut him off. “I have a suggestion for you. Just hear me out, okay? I want to help you with this case. I don’t have a lot on it; I have access to resources you don’t and I can cut through a lot of red tape for you.”

  “I do not want M.I. bloody 5 running roughshod though this!” he hissed, keeping his voice low.

  “They won’t, Will, just me. Come on, I can help you. Imagine it, I can search suspects houses and call in an anonymous tip that will get you a warrant.”

  “We won’t get a warrant based on a tip,”

  “You don’t know the judges that we do.”

  His silence told her he was mad.

  “Look, do you really want another terrorist attack because we couldn’t get a warrant for a wiretap?”

  He sighed. “Of course not.”

  “Then face reality and realise we have sympathetic judges helping us.”

  “Frankie…” there was a whining quality to his voice she recognised. She was winning.

  “Look, it doesn’t matter how much of a golden boy you are there, the chances are that if there’s another murder your bosses are going to take over your case and take all the glory.” She let that sink in for a moment. “Come on, just say yes. You know you want to.”

  “Okay, but on a couple of conditions.”

  “Fine.”

  “One, you check with me before doing anything.”

  “Fine.” Yeah, right!

  “And two, no funny spy stuff.”

  “Agreed.” She wondered what counted as funny spy stuff. Chasing occultists?

  “Great. Tell the guys at the crime scene I’m coming. Tell them I’m a psychologist and I'm doing a profile. Don’t worry, I’ll get you a real profile of the scum bag but it’s a good cover.”

  “They’ll need to see ID.”

  “Will, I’m a spy for Christ sake.” Sometimes he could be a little slow on the uptake.

  “Fine. I’ll let them know you’re coming. Are you at least using your own name?”

  “No, Francine Williams.”

  He gave an exasperated sigh. “Fine. I’ll speak to you later.” He hung up.

  Frankie glared at her receiver. “Thanks for the help, Frankie. Anytime, Will, what are friends for?” She slammed the received down. “Men!”

  The second murder had been committed across town from the first. Serial killers usually stayed in a comfort zone and Frankie wondered if there was any significance to the locations.

  The murder had taken place in a flat on the Broomhouse Estate, a council estate that had seen better days. The officers watching the door let her through easily enough and she began taking pictures of the scene. The victim this time had fallen in the hallway, on her way to the kitchen. It looked like both victims had been running away from the front door.

  Once again the killer had finger painted pagan symbols on the walls in the victims’ blood. She took a lot of pictures of them. She would also have to return to the first crime scene as she’d been unable to get pictures last night.

  She pulled off her glove and touched one of the symbols with the back of her fingers. Once again she got nothing. She closed her eyes and tried again, concentrating harder on picking something up.

  There was something. It was very faint, like she’d feel if she were wearing thick marigold gloves to insulate her when she touched something.

  But that made no sense, there were fingerprints in the blood, someone had touched the wall, presumably while in an aroused emotional state. She should be getting a flood of images.

  She knelt by the bloodstains on the floor and touched one. Like last night’s victim she felt pain and fear, but there was disbelief in there too. Frankie clenched her jaw, trying to sift through the images and emotions.

  A pale face, glimpsed over her shoulder. Too pale, something was wrong. Her attacker looked clammy, sick. Frankie replayed the memory, but it was just a glimpse and she could make out no more details. Sylvia had fallen face first towards the kitchen and she hadn't had a chance to look back again.

  Frankie wiped the moisture away from her eyes, then pulled her glove back on and stood up. She hated having to touch crime scenes; the onslaught of emotions always left her feeling raw and weak. But she was used to it, so she swallowed her feelings down and headed into the kitchen.

  A lot of the information on Sylvia was still being compiled, it would take a few days before a full picture of her life was built up. In the meantime, Frankie could build a fairly complete picture with her gift.

  The first thing she looked for was a notice board. Jotted messages, cards pinned up, and photographs would all help her build up a picture. Unfortunately Sylvia didn’t have a message board, or fridge magnets. The next best thing was the kitchen junk drawer, which sure enough Sylvia had.

  It was overflowing. Frankie pulled off her gloves and took each item out one by one. The take away menus mainly had memories of her boyfriend, except for the Chinese menu which she ordered from when her friend Sasha came round. There were some business cards, a plumber (flooded kitchen) a herbalist shop (health kick, only lasted a month) matches from a nightclub (dark, loud, Sylvia had enjoyed it) her work ID (she didn’t want to be a secretary all her life) gas, electric and council tax bills (money was tight) a list of night classes (she wanted to study English, hoped to become a teacher one day) pens and pencils, an assortment of shopping lists, phone messages, Christmas and birthday cards.

  Next she went into the sitting room and sat in what looked like Sylvia’s chair. The memories from such a frequently used chair overwhelmed her for a moment and Frankie clutched the arms of the chair as she fought a wave of vertigo. She swallowed down the bile in her throat and
tried to sift through the memories.

  Sylvia fought with her mother a lot over the phone. The last thing she’d watched had been BBC News 24, just before heading to bed; she was looking forward to Sunday with her boyfriend, she was going to cook for him. They’d made love on, in and over this chair a few times.

  When she could take no more, Frankie literally fell out of the chair onto the floor. This psychic business was exhausting. She could feel her hands trembling and rummaged in her bag for a chocolate bar. Sugar always helped when she felt like this.

  A few minutes later she felt better. The thought that she still had to do this again at the first crime scene wasn’t very comforting.

  Trying to put off the inevitable, Frankie wandered around the apartment, touching various surfaces and ornaments. She opened the wardrobe and touched the clothes, the cosmetics on her dressing table, her bedding. She didn’t get much more information than she already had and finally called it a day.

  As she drove to the first crime scene, she went over everything she'd learned to cement it in her memory.

  The apartment was just as she remembered it from last night. First she tried touching the symbols on the walls again and got the very faint, indistinct impression again. Nothing useful in those impressions and it frightened her that who or whatever was doing this was very different from anything she had encountered before. Soulless.

  She knelt down by the blood stains on the floor and touched them again. Just like she remembered from last night, Kerry had not seen her attacker. She hadn't looked back even once, almost as though she didn’t want to.

  Kerry didn’t have a message board but she did have a fridge. There were a few photographs taken in a dark nightclub, (she’d worked there when she was a student) a half complete shopping list (she liked Sainsbury’s) and a recipe torn from a magazine (to impress her mother when she came to visit).

  Kerry didn’t have a junk drawer but Frankie found a box in the living room that held similar things. Bills, takeout menus, an address book, a few instruction manuals, some business cards, more photos. She went through each item again and paused at the photographs. Everyone was wearing black and dark makeup. Gothic. Like the impression she’d got from a pack of matches from Sylvia’s flat.

  Frankie concentrated on each photo, hoping one of them held the memory of a name. One did - Dante’s.

  She had her first link between the victims. It could be a coincidence, she was sure a lot of people had gone to that club, and Sylvia wasn’t a regular visitor whereas Kerry had worked there and still went regularly.

  Frankie still had to check it out though and made up her mind to visit the club tonight.

  She checked the rest of the apartment. She didn’t discover much more about Kerry, but she did realise from Kerry’s wardrobe that her own wardrobe was sadly lacking if she wanted to blend into the Goth scene.

  Will ran a hand through his dishevelled blonde hair.

  “You’ll need to do more than that before the press conference,” DS Mike Wilson told him.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. He was tired and worried. Frankie was as sharp as a tack; always had been. He hadn't been surprised when MI5 had suggested she apply for a job but he hadn't liked the idea either. Cops and spies didn’t mix well. If he was honest, he was a little jealous of their ability to circumvent the law while he was stuck within its limits, but mostly he hated their superior attitude.

  It was something the whole force understood, you almost picked it up by osmosis even if you’d never encountered them before. And whenever investigations did intersect, MI5 didn’t disappoint.

  He trusted Frankie, though they had only been together for 6 months. She’d been secretive and he was sure she lied to him about her problems. She hadn't told him she’d accepted a job with MI5 and he was fairly sure she hadn't intended to tell him she was leaving.

  Well, he had never said trusting her was rational.

  He also had a feeling that rather than helping him, he had just made his life much harder when he accepted her offer.

  Unwilling to buy a new gothic outfit, Frankie donned her usual black jeans and a dark shirt. She considered wearing dark makeup but she didn’t have any black and figured trying to be someone she wasn’t would only make her stand out more.

  She considered telling Will where she was going but if she found the killer, she didn’t want the police getting in the way; they’d only get hurt.

  She emailed her boss in London giving him an update and telling him her plans for tonight. Now if she went missing, at least someone would know where she’d gone.

  Alex was pacing his office. He had a lot to do tonight and wasn’t sure where to start.

  His first instinct was to stay at the club and watch over its patrons but he couldn’t watch them all every night. If he wanted to keep his patrons safe his best bet was to find the killer. He needed to see the crime scenes, see what he could find there. Perhaps it was an ex-lover they shared, or a friend. If he could find some proof of a connection he would at least have a lead.

  First however, he needed to show his face at the club. He was always there and if he began acting differently now, people would notice.

  When Dante’s had been renovated, Alex had had half the first floor taken out, meaning from the other half, where his office sat above the storeroom he could look down over his club. It was packed tonight.

  He stood on the landing and surveyed his domain. He knew it was cheesy to feel that way about a club but he liked it. He didn’t need to explain himself to anyone.

  Even though the club was dark his eyesight was good enough to see into every corner. He concentrated on hearing individual conversations. No one seemed to have realised both murdered girls had come here. Yet.

  He spotted her the moment she entered and knew immediately she wasn’t just another patron. First of all he hadn't seen her before, secondly, she didn’t look like a Goth, Emo or freak and finally, she had a mission. He could tell from her demeanour that she wasn’t just bar hopping.

  He reached out with his mind and touched her life force, smiling when he realised she wasn’t quite human. He wondered what had brought her here, checking up on a boyfriend, perhaps? If so, he pitied the girl he was found with.

  Ordinarily he would enjoy getting to know her, discovering her secrets, coaxing her into his bed. As it was, he only had time to make sure she wasn’t a threat.

  He descended into the bar and began his usual round of meet and greet; one of the less appealing aspects of his job, unless he was hungry.

  The club wasn’t as loud or as dark as she’d thought it would be. In her experience of clubs the volume levels were deafening but here, while the music was loud, a conversation could be had without shouting. The lighting was provided using uplighters and diffused light sources but the result was subdued lighting rather than darkness. There were also no strobe lights or glitter balls - always a good thing in Frankie’s book.

  She liked it

  She decided to start with the bar staff. Just like the impression she had gotten from the victims' belongings, it seemed Kerry was a regular but Sylvia had only been in a few times. Some didn’t even recognise Sylvia. For a large tip they told her who both girls had been seen with. The list for Kerry was much longer than for Sylvia but none had any matching names. Kerry knew a lot of people since she’d worked here, but she tended to stay with the same group these days.

  When she handed the money over, Frankie was careful to touch them, to make sure they were telling her the truth.

  She stood at the bar, wondering who to question next when the hair on the back of her neck stood up as someone came up behind her.

  A side effect of her gift was that she could sense what she described as auras - peoples' energy. She couldn’t actually see their memories without touching them but she’d learned early on that some people had different auras. As she had grown up she’d discovered why, getting herself into a few tight spots as a result.

  She had sensed a few s
upernatural creatures when she’d walked in but there were so many people here it had been hard to determine how many or what they were.

  But now that he was standing right behind her, there was no mistaking that this supernatural creature was a vampire.

  Chapter Two

  While Frankie knew vampires existed, she had never actually spoken to one, surprising given her line of work. She wasn’t foolish enough to think it was because they were sweet and cuddly law abiding citizens - rather that they had learned to cover up their crimes. MI5’s policy was that if it didn’t come to the public’s attention, it wasn’t their business to investigate. Besides it was hard to investigate a crime when you didn’t have any evidence.

  All this flashed through her mind as she wondered what to do next. She could tell he was right behind her, waiting for her to turn around. Well, Frankie wasn’t one to run from a challenge.

  Nor did she like doing what was expected of her. “Can I help you?” she called back over her shoulder as she sipped on her water.

  “I hear you’ve been asking questions.” Alex could tell she sensed danger because her heartbeat began to race when he came up behind her but how could she tell and how much did she know? He found himself looking forward to meeting her, to the challenge. His staff had already told him she was asking questions, she was a definite threat to him and being a fellow supernatural being, possibly a big threat.

  “What’s it to you?” she asked, still not turning to face him, letting him see she wasn’t afraid. You only turn your back on things you aren’t afraid of, right?

  Alex smiled. “I’m the owner of this establishment. Perhaps I can help you.”

  A vampire owned a bar? Frankie had never given any thought to how they earned a living before.

  As owner he could certainly help her investigation, as a vampire he was definitely dangerous. She began to feel overwhelmed by being so close to that many auras at once and having psychically read everyone she’d spoken to. She needed sugar, plus she had the added fear of having a vampire at her back. She was beginning to hate the loud music thumping through the club, making it even harder for her to think straight.