The beautiful blue-eyed, blonde fifteen-year-old was gone, and in her place was a green-eyed, green-haired, green-skinned female of around forty with deep bracketed lines running from her small nose to her pinched mouth. Huge drooping breasts and a roll of excess flesh around her waist and hips made her look as if she’d lost a lot of weight quickly. For a moment I thought she was a bean nighe, one of the dark fae, but then I realised she couldn’t be, because her body hadn’t faded after death. I brushed the dead faeling’s hair away from her ears to find they ended in a definite point. Not a bean nighe then.
‘Oh,’ Juliet gasped softly, as she placed her stethoscope over the female’s heart, ‘she’s a leprechaun faeling, isn’t she? I’ve never seen one before.’
I hadn’t either, but I had once seen a full-blood leprechaun: Juliet was right. I sat back on my heels as she checked the leprechaun faeling over, hoping that whatever had killed her had been quick and painless, and wondering who she was.
‘Her name’s Aoife,’ Ricou said, startling me.
I looked up to see him standing outside the circle. I hadn’t noticed him arrive, but the rest of the WPCs had, and they weren’t bothering to hide their stares. He was still in his Johnny Depp guise, but he’d taken his trilby off and was holding it against his chest, sadness etching his face.
‘Her father is a full-blood leprechaun,’ he continued, then turned to Hugh. ‘He came over from Ireland in the sixties and hitched up with a girl from Dagenham. They split when Aoife was still a kid. Her mum’s passed now, but her dad’s back over there. This will cut him up.’ He paused. ‘Aoife means beauty. She was beautiful too, when she was younger …’ He crushed his hat.
‘Is she anything to do with the Morrígan?’ I asked.
‘Her father’s from Rath Cruachán.’ Ricou frowned. ‘That’s in County Roscommon. Which is where the MacCúailnge, the Old Donn, hailed from, so she could be.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I leaned on the railing surrounding the mortuary dock and stared out over the Thames. The brisk wind blew my hair back and brought me the ozone scent of the river; rain was on the way. Ricou’s information about Aoife’s likely connection to the Morrígan had sent Hugh into detective sergeant mode and next thing I knew, we were all giving statements. I’d told Hugh everything about the Morrígan, the dreams, the Coffin Club and the vamps, and anything else I could think of (that The Mother’s gag clause would let me) that could possibly help. Then he’d asked me to wait while he checked a few things out.
I’d spent my waiting time dredging the Internet via my phone for info about Rath Cruachán. Google hits on the name brought up the Táin Bó Cúailnge—the Cattle Raid of Cooley—apparently fought over the ownership of Donn Cúailnge, a stud bull, who had once been fae. And Donn Cúailnge was linked to the Morrígan romantically (although ‘romance’ and ‘stud bull’ didn’t necessarily go together in my mind) and their romance had obviously borne fruit in the person of the Old Donn. Which meant the Old Donn was a horned wylde fae, and a prime candidate for The Mother’s photofit of the villain of the piece. If it wasn’t for everyone telling me he was dead, I’d have been pretty sure I’d found the faelings’ killer. Now I was back to thinking the photofit was symbolic, which wasn’t helping much in the whole killer identification stakes.
I turned at the sound of heavy footsteps to find Hugh approaching, carrying two takeaway cups. ‘So any chance you’re going to let me in on your evidence?’ I asked. Then I added, ‘The deaths are to do with the fertility curse, and the latest one does sort of implicate—’
‘If you will give me a chance, Genny.’ He smiled, his pink granite teeth gleaming in his ruddy face, and handed me one of the cups: hot chocolate. ‘From everyone’s statements and our own investigations, it appears that whoever is killing the faelings has resurrected the Between that is attached to the Tower of London.’
‘Which is where Victoria Harrier was trying to take me.’ I wrapped my hands around the hot cup, sending mental thanks to Sylvia that Victoria Harrier’s plans hadn’t succeeded.
‘Yes, Victoria Harrier does appear to be the lynchpin in all this,’ Hugh said. ‘She’s on the Board of Directors of a TV production company—Adonis Films—which is making a series of historical documentaries at the Tower. That is how she’s gained access, we think. There have also been rumours on the streets about “short-term work contracts”, aimed particularly at faelings, which lead back to Adonis. Who of course deny all knowledge.’
‘And that’s how they’re finding the girls,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Hugh agreed. ‘Adonis is also the company that make the reality TV show at Morgan Le Fay College—where Victoria Harrier is one of the board of governors. The college appears to be where the Doppelgänger spells originate from.’
‘Wow, so she’s really smack in the middle of it all!’
Hugh nodded. ‘Adonis Films and the college are both subsidiaries of the Merlin Foundation, which is the wizards’ ruling body. Victoria Harrier is a director of the foundation, so we’re looking into it as well.’
‘Yeah, she mentioned the Merlin Foundation; she’s a big fan.’ I took a sip of chocolate. ‘Except— Somehow I don’t see Victoria Harrier as a criminal mastermind. I mean she’s obviously intelligent enough, but why faelings? And what’s it got to do with the curse?’ A possibility hit me. ‘Unless it’s all down to the vamp who’s got his fangs in the Harrier family?’
He drank his tea, a frown creasing his ruddy face. ‘The vamp angle is one we’ll consider along with everything else, Genny, but I don’t want to draw any conclusions yet, not until we’ve questioned Victoria Harrier.’
‘Right,’ I said, shivering as a chill wind gusted over the river. ‘But then even if it is a vamp, Victoria Harrier can’t be working on her own, can she? I mean, there’re at least fifteen faelings missing, and if the vamp has got his fangs into her, then the rest of the Harrier family are possible victims too. Are you checking them out?’
‘Of course.’ Hugh gave me a look that plainly said I was trying to teach a troll how to break rocks here. ‘Ana, the daughter-in-law, is a bit of a recluse. She spends most of her time in the fossegrim’s Between in Trafalgar Square. It makes it difficult to pin her down. So it’s unclear yet whether she is involved, or by how much. Her husband has been in America for the last six months with his work, and Dr Craig—’
‘Dr Craig! What’s he got to do with it?’
‘—and Dr Craig, who is Victoria Harrier’s other son, has been estranged from his whole family for the last ten years,’ Hugh carried on, ignoring my interruption. ‘Apparently he didn’t approve of his brother marrying a faeling. And until we’re able to talk to them all, we can’t be certain of anything.’
My astonishment at Dr Craig’s parentage turned to puzzlement. ‘But that means Dr Craig is a wizard. I knew he could sense a bit of magic, but it’s odd I never picked up on it when I worked with him at HOPE. And odd that he never actually mentioned it, don’t you think?’
‘People will always surprise us, Genny, even when we think we know them well. Like DI Helen Crane. After your email yesterday, I had the crime scene photos of the circle that she drew around Sally Redman double-checked. You were right; there was something wrong with the yew.’
I suppressed an I knew it! grin along with the urge to pump my arm in the air in vindication. Helen the Witch-bitch was a crooked cop. It wasn’t just my biased imagination. Now I could legitimately hate her as ‘my evil witch nemesis’ without feeling guilty. ‘She laid the spell the wrong way round, didn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ Hugh answered, ‘the faeling’s death was suspicious, so the yew was supposed to temporarily hold the victim’s spirit, in the hope that a necromancer would be able to talk to her, but instead the yew was laid to speed the victim’s spirit on its way. Which is what the—’
‘—dwarves do with their ritual ashes,’ I finished. ‘I thought the pattern looked familiar, but it didn’t click with me what it meant un
til later.’
Of course, the fact I’d been beamed up to Disney Heaven was another big hint, especially after I’d uncovered Tavish’s spell bracelet and found the London bus charm minus its wheels. After that, I realised the only way Angel/The Mother had been able to pull me out of London was in spirit form, a.k.a. dead. Bandana the dryad had been right: I had started to fade—not that I was going to say thank you. He still didn’t deserve it, and The Mother wouldn’t have let me truly die anyway.
And Helen Crane, the Witch-bitch, deserved everything she got too. She had to know who killed the faelings, because reversing the Soul-holding spell like that meant she had to be covering up for the killer. So maybe all that animosity between her and Victoria Harrier had been an act, and they were really in league together? I looked up at Hugh. ‘So does this mean Helen Crane is helping you with your enquires?’ I asked, hiding my glee under mild interest. ‘And spilling lots of juicy clues now she’s been caught out?’ Okay, so not hiding it that well.
Hugh’s expression turned grim. ‘Not as yet.’
In other words, he wasn’t going to tell me, even if she was. Figured.
‘Genny,’ Hugh said, his tone tentative, ‘there’s something else I need to ask of you.’
‘Ah, this is where you tell me why you’re letting me in on all your secret police stuff, isn’t it?’ I smiled encouragingly. ‘Fire away. I’m all ears.’
‘I want to follow up on Victoria Harrier,’ he said, ‘and I think the quickest way to find out what she’s up to, and to locate the missing faelings, is to let her carry out her plans to kidnap you.’
Um … did I really want to be the sacrificial victim in all this? Still, it was to find the faelings, and this was Hugh asking; I trusted him absolutely.
‘It won’t be you making the contact, though, Genny,’ he carried on, to my surprise. ‘It will be an undercover police officer wearing a Doppelgänger spell to look like you. Witch Martin thinks she can replicate the ones the dead faelings used, so that the officer doesn’t raise any alarm bells. Then as soon as our undercover operative is snatched, I’ll have enough evidence for the warrants we need. All the spell needs is a small blood donation.’
I tapped my cup, thinking about his plan; something about it set my skin itching.
‘Of course,’ Hugh added, ‘if you’re worried about the Doppelgänger spell, once the police operation is over, then you can remove the spell from the WPC yourself.’
‘It’s not the spell.’ I frowned. ‘I’m worried about someone else ending up abducted instead of me. What happens if the undercover officer gets taken and you can’t persuade Victoria Harrier to tell you where she is, or she does a disappearing act? The officer could end up in a lot of danger. Or dead.’
‘It’s Constable Martin, Witch Martin’s daughter, who will be taking your place, Genny. She’s got a rather unique ability. She has a link with her mother; they can speak to each other in their minds, no matter where they are. Once Constable Martin is taken, she should be able to relay the information needed for us to mount a rescue operation for her and the faelings.’
It sounded like a practical solution, albeit still a dangerous one for Constable Martin. Thinking of that, another query popped into my head. ‘Do you know how Sally the corvid faeling and Aoife actually died?’
Hugh handed me his cup and pulled out his notebook. ‘Cause of death for Sally Redman initially looks like cardiac arrest, but she was young and her heart was healthy. The toxicology report’s not back yet, so it’s always possible they were given something like digitalis. But if you discount the head wound—which was nasty, but wasn’t a death blow—neither of them had any obvious injuries. For Aiofe’s cause of death, we’ll need to wait until the autopsy has been done.’
‘So, no fang marks, or any way to know what’s killing them?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘There’s something else bugging me,’ I said, remembering The Mother’s photofit of the horned god. ‘The Between in the Tower belonged to the Old Donn, who’s supposed to be dead. But Sylvia mentioned something about his remains. Could you find out if he’s really dead?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Can’t say,’ I gasped as The Mother’s gag clause strangled me.
Hugh took out one of his large troll pens, made a note, then snapped his notebook closed. ‘I’ll check into it and—’
‘Sergeant Munro!’ A shout from the direction of the police vans interrupted him.
He waved an acknowledgement, then said, ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
I dropped the cups into a rubbish bag and stared out at the wind-rippled Thames, that uneasy feeling still pricking at me. Hugh’s doppelgänger plan was good, but before he and his boys in blue—although they’d be mostly witches, of course, so he and his girls in blue—could rush in, apprehend the baddies and hopefully rescue all the faelings, he needed evidence and warrants. With London’s fae as back-up I could put Hugh’s plan into action myself without the hassle and delay of all the judicial red tape.
But as I gave it serious thought, I came up with a fatal flaw: Between is out of this world, a place created by will and magic. And even knowing there was a patch of Between, and knowing where its entrance was, didn’t mean you could just waltz right on in, not unless its creator wanted you to. Hell, even if you had the magical key, and you got it to work, you’d only end up some place else (I know, I tried it at Tavish’s once, which is how I discovered what a swamp-dragon’s cave smells like; never again!). And cracking the entrance from the outside was a non-starter. But cracking the entrance open from the inside would be … well, difficult, but definitely doable in the right circumstances.
So I needed to be on the inside.
But not as a kidnapped victim. Another plan started to form in my mind …
Hugh rejoined me. ‘DI Crane is now officially missing,’ he announced with a troubled expression.
‘She’s disappeared?’ I said, stunned, then asked, ‘Do you mean she’s done a runner, or that you think someone’s made her disappear?’
‘We’re still working on that, Genny,’ he said.
Crap. I might not like the witch—okay, I was pretty sure I hated her—but I didn’t want her disappeared involuntarily. I had a sudden image of Helen Crane being the next one to be pulled out of the Thames, and what that would mean to Finn and their daughter. ‘Has anyone told Finn?’ I started to head towards the vans—
Hugh placed a restraining hand on my shoulder. ‘Constable Martin is with him just now, Genny. She’s taking a statement, to see whether he knows anything that can help. Let her do her job, and then you can speak to him.’ He held out an opened note in a sealed plastic evidence bag. ‘This was found at DI Crane’s home, Genny. It’s addressed to a G.N. Zakharinova, care of Spellcrackers.com. Finn doesn’t know who that is; what about you?’
The hair rose on the back of my neck. How the hell did Helen know my real name, when only the vamps knew it? Helen was a witch; they all avoided vamps like the plague, and the vamps reciprocated in kind. Plus Helen in particular had a phobia about them. Not to mention, why the hell was she sending me notes? She had to be desperate or devious.
After a few moments I held out my hand. ‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘I’m G. N. Zakharinova. It’s my birth name.’
Hugh nodded and handed me the letter. ‘You’d better read it, Genny. Then we’ll talk.’
I read it through the evidence bag.
To G. N. Zakharinova,
Your uncle Maxim contacted me regarding his Irish wolfhound. He was concerned about the safety of the dog’s offspring. Unfortunately this is no longer something I can guarantee. As I will not be able to speak to him through the usual channels, please ensure you contact him immediately with this information.
Helen Crane
Damn. So Helen had been guaranteeing—or rather, covering up for—‘the dog’s offspring’. And now she couldn’t, because she’d been found out, and had disappeared (willingl
y or not). But whether the note was a clue for the police, a cry for help or a warning she’d thought I’d take to Mad Max, I didn’t know. One thing I did know—
We had a suspect for the mastermind behind the faeling’s deaths. Mad Max’s son, whoever he was.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Hugh’s ‘talk’ about the note was in fact another round of statement-taking in one of the police vans, complete with a laptop-wielding WPC. We went over the memories the Morrígan had given me again, especially the one I’d had of the little blond-haired boy sliding down the slide in the playpark.
‘I’m pretty sure he’s Maxim’s son,’ I said, ‘and the “offspring” Helen Crane is talking about. But I don’t know who the boy is, or even how old he is. I meant to look up when kiddies’ slides were invented to see if that would give me a clue.’
‘I think I can help with that.’ The WPC looked up from her laptop. ‘From your description, Genny, my best guess is that the boy is in his mid-twenties to early thirties now.’ She smiled at me. ‘The slide wasn’t a clue—they’ve been around a lot longer—but the description of the lights was. I’m pretty sure they were halogens, which narrows it down.’
‘Mid-twenties to …?’ I frowned. ‘I bet Mad Max would want to keep his son near him, if he got him back.’ I flipped through the faces I knew at the Coffin Club and hit on one immediately. ‘Gareth Wilson,’ I exclaimed, ‘the human manager at the club—he’s about the right age, and he’s definitely a natural blond like Maxim.’
‘Check the records, Constable,’ Hugh said, ‘but I don’t want any contact with the club until I say so. I know it’s still five hours until sunset, but Maxim appears to be able to move around during the day in his dog shape.’ Hugh contemplated his large troll pen as if it had all the answers, then lifted serious grey eyes to me. ‘Maxim is unlikely to be very cooperative if it’s his son who is killing the faelings, Genny. I think it would be better if we approach the Oligarch privately first, to avoid any possibility of tipping Maxim and his son off and having both of them disappear on us.’ He gave me a quizzical look. ‘I know we haven’t really discussed your association with Malik al-Khan’—we definitely hadn’t, not when it was an association Hugh worried over like a mother hen—‘but do you have a way to contact him without me having to go through the normal channels?’
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