Pete dialed her mobile, waded through the voice directory for New Scotland Yard, and waited with her stomach flipping while the extension rang.
"Ollie Heath." Ollie sounded as though he had a mouthful of shepherd's pie.
"Ollie, it's Pete."
"Pete!" he shouted. "Where the bloody hell have you been? Newell is shitting chestnuts!"
"That sounds uncomfortable." Pete punched on speaker-phone and pulled up her mobile mail client. "Look, I'm sending you a name and I want you to e-mail everything you find to my mobile."
"You got a lead?" Ollie said.
"I will," said Pete. "Once I talk to him." She tapped Ol-lie's e-mail into the address bar and sent the message.
"Got it," said Ollie a moment later. "Though Newell'll have my hide for helping you out." He whistled. "Caldecott, what the bloody hell are you doing messing about with Travis Grinchley?"
Pete drew in a breath. A pointed question and a good one. "He has something I need to move the kidnapping cases. And to find Margaret Smythe," she said.
"Be careful," said Ollie. "People that cross Grinchley end up in baggies. Little ones. For sandwiches."
"Just send me the information when you have it," Pete snapped, "and don't editorialize."
"All right, all right," said Ollie. "What should I tell Newell when he asks me yet again where you've gotten off to?"
Pete stepped out of the shelter and headed for the Stepney Green tube, weaving between taxis stopped at a red light. "Tell him I went to the graveyard."
In Hatton Cemetery, the headstones sat in neat lines, sentinels against the living. The grass stayed mowed and solitary figures and families moved among the rows, placing flowers or standing with their heads bowed.
Pete pulled a few weeds from the base of Connor's headstone. A vase of pink carnations with rotted edges sat in front, tipped over.
"MG, you sodding witch," Pete muttered, picking up the carnations and dumping them into the nearest trash can. Her sister came up from High Wycombe, always managing to miss Pete's own infrequent visits, left cheap flowers purchased outside the cemetery, but never cleaned the grave.
Connor had encased MG's feet in stone when she wanted to fly, with peyote or boys or music. Pete's adventure in Highgate hadn't helped matters. MG never forgave either of them for clipping the wings of her wild, carefree, imaginary life.
"I know you wouldn't approve, Da," Pete murmured, smoothing the turned earth over the grave. "But I know you wouldn't have me leave a little girl to get murdered, either." She sighed and stood, brushing the graveyard dirt from her knees. "What I'm saying is, if I don't come around for a while… Jack will take care of your spot. I think I can at least count on him for that."
Her mobile burbled, and Travis Grinchley's address and relevant personal details appeared onscreen. Pete stood for a moment longer, reading Connor's epitaph. May angels usher you on to paradise.
"I'm sorry, Da," she said, and left between the rows of headstones before she lost her nerve.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Travis Grinchley's narrow Camden house was three stories of red brick veined with climbing ivy and granite-block bones. Someone had spray-painted no future across the bricks at eye level.
"Bloody hooligans," said a reedy voice from Pete's left. A wizened man in a frock coat and spats clutched a cluster of plastic shopping bags filled with takeaway cartons.
"You live here?" Pete said, finding both the fact that Grinchley had a butler and that he dressed the poor man like this vaguely unbelievable.
"I'm Mr. Grinchley's manservant, among other functions," said the gnome, pulling himself upright with a creak of spine. Pete stepped in and took the bags from him, flashing her warrant card with her free hand.
"It's imperative I speak with Mr. Grinchley. Is he in?"
The butler coughed once, in what may have been a laugh a few decades and a few thousand packets of cigarettes ago. "Mr. Grinchley is always in, Inspector. Mr. Grinchley hasn't left his home in nearly fourteen years."
Pete blinked at him, words failing. "Well," she said finally. "Then it will be convenient for me to speak with him."
"I doubt it, miss," said the butler. He took an old-fashioned iron ring from the pocket of his coat and unlocked the double front doors with a skeleton key. "Mr. Grinchley hates being disturbed."
Pete mounted the steps after him, putting on her brightest official smile. "I promise not to be a bother."
The butler grunted and stepped aside to let her in. "Police are always a bother, miss. Usually, they make appointments. Out of respect for Mr. Grinchley's status in the community."
"No offense meant," said Pete, "but Mr. Grinchley's status is exactly why I came here." She stepped over the threshold and extended the bags, but before the butler relieved her, pain hit like an iron pipe across her skull.
Pete dropped to her knees on the Persian carpet in the front hall, head bulging with agony. It was as though everything she felt and heard, all those little inklings of magic that she tried to push away, were hugely amplified and splitting her forehead apart.
A pair of black leather driving shoes drifted into her field of view, rapidly blurring as she clutched her head, trying to shut out the avalanche of whispers, the sheer pressure of power causing a trickle of blood from her right nostril.
"Those are my home's protection hexes," said Travis Grinchley. "Designed to keep out unfriendly persons and things."
"I know what a protection hex is," Pete ground out.
One of the shoes, smelling of hide and polish, went under her chin and lifted Pete's face to gaze into Grinchley's. He wore spectacles and had the jaw of a matinee idol. "Interesting. I must say, you don't look terribly unfriendly, miss. Does she look unfriendly to you, Perkins?"
"The inspector asked to speak to you on a matter of some import," said Perkins. "And I got your curry for tea, sir."
Grinchley shoved his spectacles up his nose and reex-amined Pete. "An inspector. Goodness. A vast improvement over the last clod the local constabulary sent out." He smiled, lips closed, stretched and bloodless. "In that case, Inspector… do come in."
The scream of feedback in her head ceased immediately, and Pete went on all fours, feeling sweat along her back sting the scratches left by the bansidhe. "Are you this hospitable with all of your visitors, Mr. Grinchley?"
He took her hand, laid a kiss that crawled along her skin on the back of it, and helped her to her feet. "Only with lovely ones."
Pete took her hand away too quickly and shoved it into her pocket. "Is there somewhere we can talk in private?"
Grinchley's eyes glittered darkly. "Of course. Perkins, bring in a tray when the tea's ready."
Perkins inclined his head and shuffled away like the macabre monster given life. "That makes you the mad doctor, then," Pete whispered at Grinchley's back as he led her into his study. A fire burned in the grate, gas whooshing in the closed space, heating the low-ceilinged room to incubatory temperatures. Grinchley kept his curtains drawn. They could be anywhere, in any time or place. Pete felt her skin dance with chill despite the fire.
"Something stronger than tea?" Grinchley held up a crystal decanter and a cut glass.
"I'm on duty," Pete lied. Grinchley poured himself a tipple.
"Pity." He swirled the whisky and swallowed. All he needs is a bloody monocle and tailcoat, Pete thought. "What did you want to speak with me about, Inspector?" said Grinchley. "I can hardly have witnessed a crime or been privy to confidential information. As you can see." He gestured at the dark oak bookshelves filled with artifacts and leather tomes. Jars and animal skulls shone in the firelight. "I'm quite comfortable within my four walls."
"I'll be blunt," said Pete, turning her back on the rows of curiosities. "Four children have been snatched in the past three weeks. Three have turned up blinded and traumatized beyond speech. The fourth is still missing." She pulled Margaret's picture from the pocket of her jacket and thrust it at Grinchley, who took a disdainful step back. "T
his child is ten years old, Mr. Grinchley. A close friend of mine believes you have the means to assist in finding her."
Grinchley frowned, a studied gesture with just the right crinkling of skin between his eyes and thoughtful concern twisting his mouth. Pete saw it then—the flatness behind Grinchley's blandly handsome face. Jack did something similar when he lied, but the difference was that Jack did feel, underneath his calculated masks. Grinchley was simply empty.
"You know what a protection hex is and you haven't asked me about anything in my collection that would indicate your unfamiliarity with the arcane, so I can hardly play innocent, Inspector. How can I help with your esoteric problem?" Grinchley inclined his head.
"Your Trifold Focus," said Pete. "Give it to me."
Just for a moment, Grinchley tensed, the lines around his eyes growing darker. Then he smiled again, easy and predatory. "Why, Inspector. Someone's been telling you tales. I'm a collector, it's true, but I don't possess anything on the magnitude of that particular item. I can only wish."
"Leave out the act, Grinchley," Pete snapped. "Unlike you, my friend isn't a liar… not about things of this nature, anyway. You have it."
"Your friend should check his sources," Grinchley said, his smile fleeing. He downed the last of the tumbler and slammed it on his desk. "Now I believe I've accommodated you long enough, Inspector. Please leave."
Pete breathed in, and out. Margaret, she reminded herself. "No," she said.
Grinchley froze, his face twisting into a thunderous frown. "No? Inspector, I can assure you that contradicting me is a very stupid move. Did your friend tell you that as well?"
"Give me the Focus and I'll leave," said Pete, calm as if she were ordering a pint. At the base of her spine, fear uncoiled and crawled upward. "I'm quite serious about this, Grinchley."
He crossed the space between them so quickly Pete barely saw his shadow, gripping her by the shoulders and pushing her against the nearest set of bookcases. The jars and lacquer boxes rattled over Pete's head as her skull slammed into the edge of the shelf. "What does a pretty, simple girl like you want a Trifold Focus for, hmm?" Grinchley murmured. "Such a unique item would only be of use to a sorcerer, or a cheap mage with delusions of power. So which is your friend, Inspector? Is he a true student of the blacker arts, or is he a pathetic conjure-man on the street corner with cards up his sleeve, dreaming of a power he cannot hold?"
"He's the type that would melt flesh off your bones for that insult," Pete choked. She wrapped her hand around Grinchley's wrist, which felt like a slender tree trunk, and exerted the pressure points. Grinchley grunted, lips peeling back from his teeth.
"You fight. Stirring effort, but it won't help you." He lifted his other hand to touch Pete's cheek. "I'm not surprised he picked you—the worthless mage. Beautiful, not too delicate, but easily broken by terror or sorrow." His eyes blazed, like Jack's, but their fire was gold and terrible as an angel falling in flames. "Someday he planned it, of that I'm sure. He wants to shatter you, Inspector. Pity I got there first." He reached over Pete's head and brought out a length of rotted and frayed rope. With a flick, he wrapped it around her neck.
"The Dead Man's Snare," Grinchley murmured, reverently as any curator. Pete choked as the smelly thing contracted of its own will, wrapping around her neck so tightly she felt instant bruises on the flesh beneath.
"This particular specimen was collected and cursed at Tyburn, after its length had stretched thirteen murderous bastards on the hanging tree."
The rope grew and grew, rewrapping itself around Pete's neck each time, twisting a hangman's knot. She tried to shove her fingers under the moldy cord, but to no avail. Black started to creep around the edges of her vision.
"It still hungers, Inspector," Grichley said, stroking her face. "And the more you fight, the lustier it will be. So by all means, dance. Dance the dead man's jig. Every movement you make prolongs your death."
"How will you… explain… killing… a police officer?" Pete managed. Grinchley raised one shoulder.
"It wouldn't be the first time someone in a position of authority has come sniffing at my collection. I deal with the most faithful and esteemed servants of the Black, Inspector. I am discreet."
She wasn't getting out of this with mere talk, then, and the blasted rope was so tight she could barely speak. You'll know when the time for talk is past, Connor said. You'll know it and you'd better take swift action, girl, lest you want to end life dirty and bloody and broken.
Pete drew up her knee and with the last of her air planted a kick squarely between Grinchley's legs. He moaned and doubled over, and Pete reached out and swiped what looked like a bone-handled athame from a low display. She shoved it between her flesh and the Dead Man's Snare, and the ancient strands parted, recoiling from the metal and freeing her air.
"All right, Grinchley," she said. Her voice was barely a whisper. She touched her throat and the flesh was tender and rigid with forming bruises. "Get over behind the desk."
The skin of an affable older gentleman had slipped away entirely and Grinchley staggered to the desk under her guidance. He was lumpy and ill formed, like a golem, and his eyes and teeth glittered in the low light. Pete knew this was what Grinchley's last thief must have seen, just before he ended his nightmare in the Thames.
She tucked the snare into her back pocket, and then unplugged the telephone and tossed the cord to Grinchley. "Tie your legs, and use a real knot."
"You really think you can do anything, command anything of me?" Grinchley hissed. "My magic will tear you limb from limb and then—"
"Firstly," said Pete as she pulled out the cord of a lamp and tied Grinchley's arms behind him. "If there's one thing I've learned in the past week it's that real mages don't ramble on, they just do it." She secured the knot with a tug. "If you had magic other than tawdry rope tricks, you would have used it, you silly git."
Grinchley started to spit invectives, but Pete picked up a wadded message slip from his desk and stuck it in his mouth. "Secondly, I'm leaving here with the Trifold Focus, and I am out of time to fuck about with you, Grinchley, so either tell me where you keep it or I start slicing." She raised the knife and let it catch the light of the fireplace.
After a long moment of staring into her eyes, Grinchley grunted and spat out the paper. "You're made of less breakable porcelain than it appears at first glance, Inspector."
"Lucky, lucky me. Where's the Focus?" said Pete, keeping her voice flat. All she needed to hurt Grinchley, to bleed him, was contained in the memory of Bridget Killi-gan, of the bleeding tracks in Jack's skin, and the invisible pressure of a Fate measuring off the last moments of Margaret Smythe's existence. But she'd let the threat do the work unless he pressed her. She was still the detective inspector, not a thug.
"The Focus is in my vault room." Grinchley sighed. "In the cellar, at the back of the house."
"There," said Pete. "Isn't being reasonable a simple thing?"
"You'll pay," Grinchley said as she left him tied. "You'll pay in blood for this, little Inspector. Not today and not tomorrow and perhaps not until the end of your time on this earth, but you've put your hand in a wolf's mouth and you'll—"
Pete slammed the library door shut on him and followed a dark broad hallway toward the rear of the town house. The cellar door wasn't locked, and Pete paused at the foot of the stairs. Connor would have said this was too easy by half. Grinchley should have fought harder. He should have locked his doors, at the very bloody least.
Her footfalls were nearly silenced on thick Persian carpet over the stones and it was only a draft against her neck that warned Pete of someone behind her. She spun to see a huge man in an undershirt and black trousers swing a massive fist at her face.
She ducked, but not fast enough and the blow glanced off her skull. Pete fell and the air sang out of her as she hit the floor. The man hulked above her. A line of stitches paraded across his neck and around his right arm at the shoulder, purple and infected. His eyes were
mismatched, green and blue, and he grinned at Pete through bloody teeth. "Trespasser." The word ground out from a throat that might have been patched together after a cutting.
For a few precious seconds, Pete was unable to do anything except stare. It cost her any chance to get away—the golem grabbed her by her collar and simply dragged her along, ignoring Pete's kicks and shouted curses except for a grunt.
They turned a corner and the smell of bleach invaded Pete's nostrils as she slid along a floor of worn linoleum. The golem hauled her to a stop in a scrub room, brightly lit as the rest of Grinchley's town house was shadowed.
"I'd so hoped you wouldn't cause any trouble, Inspector." Perkins sighed. His frock coat was missing and a dish-towel was over his shoulder. "But it appears you were rash. Take her into the operating theater, if you will."
The reanimated servant grunted and picked Pete up again. "It takes orders from you…" she said. The thickness in her head lifted a fraction and she saw past Perkins's stooped shoulders and sagging skin. "You're the sorcerer."
"Of course," said Perkins. "One of Mr. Grinchley's objets d'art, if you will. He does pay handsomely for my services, and my brethren benefit from Grinchley's expertise in antiquities of an… impure nature. Now I don't believe I'll bore you with the details, Inspector. We've all watched a James Bond film or two." He nodded to the servant. "I'll be down momentarily."
The servant half dragged Pete to a metal security door and worked the handle clumsily with his free hand. One limb was small and boyish with manicured nails and the other was flat and scarred; a dock worker's hand.
The operating theater was a catacomb, buried long before the town house sat atop it, slimy stone steps leading down to the round killing floor. Pete skidded and fell the last three steps, landing in a heap. The servant kicked her in the stomach, rolling her along like a lumpy carpet.
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