Nighttrap

by Tom Becker

  “Is she OK?” asked Jonathan, hovering nervously over Carnegie’s shoulder.

  “She’s in shock,” the wereman replied. “Hardly surprising. She’ll be better when we get her out of here.”

  Jonathan nodded at the spear protruding from Xavier’s side. “Good job you brought that along.”

  “I found it in the umbrella stand on the way here – was the only antique that looked like it might be useful in a fight.”

  There was a clatter from the other side of the chamber, and Correlli appeared from behind the recesses of the cobweb, a flaming torch in one hand and a thick metal pole in the other. Carnegie bared his teeth angrily.

  “Just in time,” he barked sarcastically. “Where on Darkside have you been?”

  Correlli spread his hands. “When my fire-stick went out I had no more weapons, and I wasn’t going to wrestle that thing with my bare hands. I went looking for something big to hit it with. Looks like I wasn’t needed anyway.” Correlli dropped the pole to the ground. “Where are Fray and Nettle?”

  Carnegie smiled sourly. “They decided they’d lead the remaining guards on a goose chase around the mansion. I think they’re actually having fun.”

  “Which is great for them, but we’re running out of time,” Jonathan pressed. “We’ve got to find the vault.”

  Correlli jerked a thumb in the direction he had come from. “It’s over there. I—”

  “Rat dung!”

  The wereman grabbed a fistful of Correlli’s shirt, and pulled him so close their noses were almost touching.

  “You weren’t looking for a weapon, you wretched thief,” he said, through clenched teeth. “You thought Xavier might be too busy munching on the boy to notice you waltzing off with his jewels!”

  In the past, Jonathan had seen some of Darkside’s most hardened criminals stutter and wilt under Carnegie’s interrogations. But Correlli simply looked the wereman calmly in the eye, and said levelly:

  “I’m telling the truth. I was looking for a weapon. I stumbled across the vault by accident.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Carnegie snarled.

  Jonathan barged his way in between the two men, forcing them apart. “We haven’t got time for this! Sort it out later. Look, me and Correlli will go and try to get into the vault. Carnegie, you have to get Raquella out of here.”

  The wereman shook his head. “Not leaving you with him. He’ll double-cross you.”

  Jonathan pointed at the maid, who was still sitting on the floor, hugging her knees and whispering to herself. “Look at her! She can’t stay here!” He pulled Carnegie to one side, and said quietly in his ear: “It’s my fault she got into this mess in the first place. You’re the only person I can trust to get her to safety. Please, Carnegie.”

  A guttural note of displeasure emanated from the back of the wereman’s throat. “I don’t like this, boy.”

  “You don’t have to. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

  Carnegie strode over to Raquella and swept her up in his arms as if she weighed no more than a kitten. Before he headed for the stairs, he flashed a dark look at the fire-eater.

  “This isn’t over,” he growled.

  Correlli shrugged. “Is it ever?”

  The wereman spat on the floor with disgust and walked out of the chamber, leaving only the echo of his footsteps on the staircase. The fire-eater turned to Jonathan.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me left.”

  Jonathan nodded pensively. Despite everything he had said to Carnegie, he wasn’t sure he trusted Correlli either. Now, with just the two of them alone, the fire-eater cut a larger and more threatening figure than before.

  “How much time have we got left before the police get here?”

  The fire-eater snorted. “Who cares? After what we’ve been through, I’m not leaving without the Stone.”

  He strode off towards the vault, using the flaming torch to burn a corridor through the cobwebs. As they passed Xavier’s bloated corpse, Jonathan tried not to look at the river of steaming green slime still oozing from it.

  Compared to the fantastical horror of the rest of the chamber, the vault was a model of modern technology. Built into the wall, it comprised a stainless steel door and a small electronic keypad. Correlli ran his fingers over the vault door, his face grim.

  “Can you break into it?” Jonathan asked anxiously.

  Correlli scratched his forehead. “Without Mountebank’s explosives or the combination code, I don’t know how. It’s too sturdy for me to force it open.” Jonathan flinched as Correlli smashed his knuckles against the steel door in frustration. “Ripper be damned! We were so close!”

  He slumped down with his back to the vault and put his head in his hands. Jonathan didn’t know what to do. Mrs Elwood was still in mortal danger, Raquella had been frightened half to death, Mountebank was dead . . . and all for nothing. They had come through so much, only to hit a dead end. If only they knew the stupid numbers to the combination code!

  Numbers. . .

  “Hang on a second,” Jonathan said slowly.

  His mind retreated back to before the robbery, before they had got the Troupe back together, to a time when he had been sat in Alain’s study, reading a book on Xavier. He dimly remembered reading the silk merchant’s birthday – 11th December, 1861. Could that possibly work?

  Jonathan tapped six numbers into the keypad – 111261 – and pressed ‘Enter’.

  And waited.

  After what felt like an eternity, the vault beeped, and the door slid smoothly open. Correlli cried out in surprise, nearly tumbling backwards into the vault. He scrambled to his feet and hoisted Jonathan up into a joyous bear hug, a look of astonishment on his face.

  “You little genius!”

  “It was nothing,” Jonathan said, laughing. “You know, right place and right time and all that. . .”

  He glanced into the vault, and his voice trailed off.

  “Correlli. . .”

  The fire-eater looked round, his mouth open. The size of a small room, Cornelius Xavier’s vault was bursting at the seams with precious stones and gems: glittering diamonds, burnished rubies, glinting emeralds, piled up like pebbles on the shore. The vault shone like a dying sun.

  Jonathan stepped into the vault, and trailed a hand through a tray of gold coins.

  “How much is all this worth?”

  “Millions,” Correlli replied, a note of wonderment in his voice. “Millions and millions. It must have taken Xavier years to buy all of this.” He held up a pearl the size of ping-pong ball. “Nice, isn’t it? I might use it as a doorstop.”

  They both laughed.

  “But the big question is,” the fire-eater continued, “which one is the Crimson Stone?”

  Jonathan pointed at a metal box placed on a table towards the back of the vault. “That’s the presentation case – it must be in there.”

  They marched past all the other jewels and stood over the unassuming box. Jonathan looked up at Correlli.

  “Do you think, before we take it, we could have a look at it?”

  The fire-eater grinned broadly. “I think that’s the least we deserve. You can do the honours.”

  His hands shaking, Jonathan lifted the latch on the lid and prepared to feast his eyes on the most precious stone in Darkside. Then there was a sickening crunch on the back of his head, and he was unconscious before he had the chance to cry out.

  21

  “And when I woke up, I was lying in a hospital bed.”

  A hush settled like dew over Interview Room B as Jonathan came to the end of his story. He took a sip of water for the first time that afternoon, eyes blazing with defiance. From somewhere within the police station, there came the sound of a fist hammering against a cell door.

  Across the table, Sergeant Charlie Wilson was speechless. He
had listened to the boy’s story with mounting incredulity. Ghosts and goblins, stones with magical powers, an evil grotto hidden away in London . . . he had heard some crazy excuses and stories in his time, but this one took the biscuit. It was bad enough having to sit in this boiling room, without having to listen to some lad concoct fairy tales. As Jonathan recounted his battle with the giant spider, Wilson sternly folded his arms, a dark look on his face. Now he sighed and shook his head.

  “Told you you wouldn’t believe me,” the boy muttered.

  Wilson laughed incredulously. “Believe you? Of course I believe you, Jonathan!” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “You broke into a mansion with a team of crack circus performers to steal a priceless stone because a vampire was holding your friend hostage. How could I possibly doubt you?”

  “It’s the truth,” Jonathan said stubbornly.

  “It’s nonsense, and you’re wasting our time. We’ve gone over Xavier’s mansion with a fine-tooth comb, and we didn’t find a single thing that backs up your story: no fire-eaters, no dead magicians, no giant webs and – most importantly – no overgrown spiders. You know what they did find? A young lad unconscious in a vault in the basement of a dusty, deserted mansion holding a sapphire worth millions!”

  “I didn’t touch any sapphires!” Jonathan protested. “Correlli must have planted it on me!”

  Wilson leant across the table and said, more softly this time, “Look, I don’t care who you’re protecting. Maybe it’s a close friend, a family member even. Maybe you think that you’re doing the right thing by hiding them. But you’ve got to realize that the sooner you stop telling us cock-and-bull stories and start telling us what really happened, the sooner your life’s going to improve.”

  The boy snorted dismissively and looked down at his feet.

  Detective Carmichael stretched and yawned loudly, straining the buttons on his ill-fitting shirt. He had dozed through Jonathan’s story, his eyes closed and his head nodding back slightly. Only when the boy had mentioned his encounter in the zoo had the detective’s eyes flickered open and his head cocked to one side thoughtfully. If he had been surprised by the ridiculous fairy tale, he had hidden it well.

  “So, Jonathan,” he said affably, “what’s the plan now, then?”

  The boy eyed him warily. “Plan?”

  “Well, today’s Wednesday. You’ve got a day left until your deadline expires. How are you going to save your friend?”

  There was a pause, and then:

  “Get out of here. Find Correlli. Kill Correlli. Get the Stone off him and take it to Vendetta.”

  Wilson rolled his eyes. “I don’t think you want to be talking about killing anyone, son. You’re in more than enough trouble as it is.”

  “I don’t care,” Jonathan said flatly. “He betrayed us. After everything that had happened, after Mountebank had died ... he knocked me out so he could get his hands on the Crimson Stone. He was lying to us all along. I’m going to kill him.”

  Carmichael’s eyes narrowed. “And how exactly are you going to find Correlli? He could be anywhere.”

  Jonathan shrugged. “I’ll think of something.”

  “Better think fast, Jonathan.” Carmichael glanced meaningfully at his watch. “The clock’s ticking.”

  Wilson had no idea why the detective was humouring the lad, but it wasn’t helping. For all of his vaunted reputation, if this was Carmichael’s usual m.o., it was amazing he had solved one case, let alone hundreds.

  The young policeman shuffled his notes wearily. “Look, why don’t we take a break for a few minutes? It’ll give you some time to think things over and decide whether you want to give us a statement – preferably about something that happened on Planet Earth.”

  There was a rap on the door, and a blonde police -woman entered the interview room carrying a jug of fresh water. She flashed Wilson a dazzling smile.

  “Thought you might need a top-up,” she said.

  Wilson could have kissed her, and not just for the water. “Thank you,” he said, his cheeks reddening slightly.

  “Very thoughtful of you,” Detective Carmichael mused. “We didn’t even have to ask.”

  As she placed the jug on the table, the policewoman smiled at Jonathan. “Hello. Sorry it took me so long.”

  Wilson was wondering why she was bothering to apologize to a suspect when he noticed that a smile of recognition had stolen across Jonathan’s face. By then, though, the cold barrel of a gun was boring into his neck, and it was too late to do anything.

  “Either of you bozos move,” the policewoman said coldly, “and Chuckles here is going to regret it.”

  Jonathan’s eyes brightened. “Hello, Fray.”

  Wilson’s jaw dropped with astonishment. “Fray – you can’t mean. . .?”

  “Welcome to Planet Earth,” Jonathan said acidly.

  Fray beamed with delight. “You recognized me!”

  The interview room door opened slightly, and an identical voice came hissing through the crack.

  “This is a prison break, not a chat show. Get on with it!”

  “Go boil your head, you fat pig!” Fray hissed back.

  “Better a fat pig than a wrinkled old prune. It’s no wonder you haven’t had a boyfriend in years.”

  “YOU COW!” Fray screeched, digging the barrel of the gun deeper into Wilson’s skin. The young policeman gave Carmichael a panicked glance out of the corner of his eye, but the detective ignored him. He was watching the exchange with undisguised amusement.

  Jonathan rose from his chair and tapped Fray on the arm. “Er. . . Can we carry this on outside?”

  “Right, yes,” she replied hastily, and then announced to the room, “Jonathan and I are going for a walk. Unless you want to be filled full of holes, I wouldn’t try to follow us.”

  With that, the pressure on Wilson’s neck disappeared, and he looked round to see Jonathan slipping out of the room. Fray was backing away after him, her pistol still trained on the young policeman.

  “Good luck,” Carmichael called out, as the door closed behind them.

  Wilson waited for a couple of seconds until he judged it was safe to move, then sprang to his feet and hit the alarm on the wall. A deafening siren began echoing round the police station. Carmichael was shouting something at him but Wilson couldn’t make out what he was saying above the din. He raced to the door and peered around the corner to see Jonathan racing away down the corridor, flanked by two blonde policewomen. As a group of officers hurried towards him, Wilson pointed at them and hurriedly barked out:

  “The lad’s an escaping suspect. Watch out – the women are armed!”

  The officers nodded and went charging off after the fleeing suspects. Wilson was about to follow suit when he felt a restraining hand on his arm. Carmichael rubbed his temples and winced.

  “I wish you hadn’t set that alarm off,” he shouted. “It gives me an awful headache!”

  “Sir . . . they’re escaping! We have to. . .”

  Carmichael watched Jonathan disappear around the corner, and then turned on his heel and began walking briskly in the opposite direction.

  “Walk with me, Charlie,” he called out.

  Despite all his better instincts, Wilson obeyed. They walked in silence through the station, past the other officers haring to join in on the pursuit of Jonathan. Seemingly unconcerned, Carmichael headed down a flight of steps, past the cells and to the lowest level of the building. This far down, the insistent blaring of the alarm faded into a background hum, to Carmichael’s evident relief. Wilson looked around in bewilderment as the detective led him past a series of doors – he hadn’t even known that there were rooms down here.

  “I don’t understand, sir!” he protested again. “They’re going to get away!”

  “I should bloody well hope so,” Carmichael murmured. “I’ve done everythin
g but roll out the red carpet for them.”

  “Sir?”

  “I mean, do you have any idea how difficult it is to dispose of a giant spider corpse?”

  Wilson gaped at the detective. “What . . . you can’t mean . . . the boy was telling the truth?”

  The detective came to a halt in front of a door with a large “D” daubed in black paint, and gave Wilson a prolonged appraising stare.

  “How long have you been on the force, Charlie?”

  “Just over a year.”

  “You know, that might just be an advantage. I have a small team that investigates crimes of an . . . unusual nature. Just like young Starling’s here. We’re an unorthodox squad, and we have to keep what we do pretty quiet, but there’s nothing like it anywhere else on the force. How would you feel about working with us?”

  Wilson’s mind was whirring. So little that had happened today made sense: first the boy’s crazy story, then his superior’s suggestion of some kind of fantastical cover-up, and now this mysterious invitation. The young policeman had a nagging sensation that working under Carmichael would involve more days like this.

  “To be honest, sir, I’m not sure if I’m suited for this sort of work.”

  Barely listening to the reply, the crumpled detective slipped a key into the lock of Room D and turned the creaking handle.

  “Fair enough, son. Before you make up your mind, though, why don’t you come inside? There’s some people I’d like you to meet. . .”

  22

  Jonathan pelted along the corridor as quickly as he could, trying to ignore the twinges of pain shooting up his left leg, an unwanted remnant from his fall in the Xavier mansion. Fray and Nettle each grabbed one of his arms and urged him onward, glancing over their shoulders at the officers giving chase behind them. The alarm bell was ricocheting off the walls.