‘Go fuck yourself,’ she spat. Then burst into tears. She fell down onto the pillow, shaking and sobbing. Her mother rallied to her side, glaring indignantly at Joel.
‘You’re upsetting my daughter, Inspector. I’d also like to know what these questions are in aid of. Is this an official police line of enquiry? Because if it’s not, I think you should be aware that my husband is a very senior solicitor and that we know our rights.’
Joel stood up. ‘I’m sorry if I upset you,’ he said to Kate. ‘I’ll leave you in peace now. Thanks for talking to me.’
Gillian Hawthorne couldn’t see him out the front door fast enough. Outside, it was getting colder and the night fog was settling in again, wisping like smoke around the streetlamps.
Joel stopped on the doorstep. ‘Out of interest, Mrs Hawthorne, did you put the safety pins on her curtains?’
‘If it’s any of your business, she did it herself. She says the light hurts her.’
‘We had the lights on in her room.’
‘Not those,’ she said impatiently. ‘Just the sunlight.’
‘Since when?’
‘Just this morning. She’ll be fine. She probably has a touch of that new type of flu that’s going round.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Mrs Hawthorne. I hope she gets well soon.’ He turned to go, conscious of her glare following him. He already knew what his next move was going to be. What it could only be. He stopped and turned back. She was still glowering at him.
‘One last question, Mrs Hawthorne. Do you own a dog?’
‘A dog?’ She frowned. ‘Of course I don’t bloody own a dog. Why would you ask me that?’
‘Thanks for your help,’ he smiled, and started walking back to the bike.
Chapter Twenty-One
After his hurried trip back from Italy to the UK, Jeremy Lonsdale had called Seymour Finch with great trepidation. The appointment to see Mr Stone had been set for eight thirty that same evening.
It was only now, as he sat hunched in one of the leather armchairs in Stone’s library watching the logs crackle in the fire, that the real fear was beginning to take him. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and a twitch in his left leg was making his knee bounce up and down uncontrollably. He needed a drink, but Finch had ushered him in with barely a word and had offered him nothing. Did they somehow know what was in his mind? That was a terrifying thought.
‘You wanted to see me.’ Stone’s voice came from behind him, calm and soft.
Lonsdale started and whipped round. The vampire was standing there in a long silk robe over black trousers. The robe was open enough at the chest to show his toned pectoral muscles.
‘What a surprise, Jeremy, to see you back so soon from Italy. To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?’
‘There’s something we have to discuss,’ Lonsdale blurted out.
Stone walked slowly across the room and leaned on the mantelpiece. A smile crept over his lips, and the twinkle in his eye was more than just the reflection of the firelight. ‘You sound nervous, Jeremy. Is something wrong?’
‘I’ve been reconsidering my options,’ Lonsdale said.
Stone raised an eyebrow. ‘What options would you be referring to, my friend?’
Lonsdale let out a deep sigh, and came straight out with it. ‘The deal’s off. I want my money back.’
Stone was quiet for a moment. ‘So you no longer wish to join our circle.’
‘No. Frankly, on reflection, the idea horrifies me.’ Lonsdale cleared his throat and tried desperately to hide the quaver in his voice. ‘Now, if you will be good enough to wire the funds back into my private account, minus a ten per cent administration fee which I’m more than happy to pay you, that will be that and we’ll say no more about it.
I’ve been pleased to be able to help you by using my contacts and influence. I hope we can remain on cordial terms, and perhaps do business together in the future.’
He stood up and put out his hand.
Stone looked at the hand. He didn’t move.
‘Now, I should be on my way,’ Lonsdale said briskly. ‘There are people expecting me back in London. They know I’m here,’ he added.
Stone chuckled. ‘That’s your way of telling me no harm must come to you.
Really. What do you take me for, a monster?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Stone walked over to his desk and pressed a button. ‘Please sit down, Jeremy.
I’d hate for you to leave without a farewell drink.’
Lonsdale hesitated, bit his lip, made a show of glancing at his watch. ‘Just a quick one. I think I have time.’
Finch entered the library carrying a tray with two glasses and a bottle of Krug.
He laid the tray down, solemnly filled the glasses and left. Stone handed Lonsdale a glass.
‘To the future,’ he said, raising his own.
‘To the future,’ Lonsdale echoed uncertainly. He slugged down his champagne and went to stand up again. ‘That was lovely. Now—’
‘Why such a hurry?’ Stone said smoothly. ‘Have another. It’s a very good vintage, don’t you think?’ He paused as he refilled Lonsdale’s glass. ‘You see, Jeremy, I knew what it was you wanted to tell me tonight. That’s why I arranged an entertainment for us.’ He slipped a little remote from the pocket of his robe. He aimed it at the bookcases to the right of the fireplace and the carved wood shelves suddenly parted and slid open, revealing a giant screen. ‘You and I are going to watch a little film.’
‘I don’t have time for a film.’
‘I think you’ll like this one,’ Stone replied, with a flare in his eyes that forced Lonsdale helplessly back in his chair.
‘I trust the scene looks familiar to you,’ Stone said as the screen lit up. The warning look had melted from his face and now he looked almost jovial.
Lonsdale gaped. It was himself he was seeing on the screen, on Hallowe’en night, the occasion of his initiation ceremony. He watched in horror as the nightmarish images unravelled. The girl hanging from the chains. The blade slashing through her neck like something on a butcher’s slab. The blood cascading down, soaking his hair, sticking his shirt to his body. And all through the orgiastic frenzy, the camera was right on him.
‘Stop it,’ Lonsdale wheezed. His heart was hammering dangerously now. ‘Stop it.’
Stone raised the remote and the image onscreen froze into a close-up of Lonsdale’s blood-slicked face and his white, rolling eyes behind the mask.
‘You see, Jeremy, the fact is, as you now see, that you have no options. The deal must be honoured. Like it or not, you’re already part of our family.’
‘That could be anyone in a mask,’ Lonsdale exploded in outrage. ‘Nobody could prove it was me.’
‘Jeremy, Jeremy, do you take us for complete idiots? What I am showing you is merely an excerpt. The best bits, if you will. We filmed you coming into the house.
Walking in from the car with the delectable Kate Hawthorne. Putting on your mask. Oh, I think people would have little trouble believing it was you. Then there’s the footage of your bedroom escapades with Lillith. No mask there, if my memory serves me well.’
Lonsdale gulped back rising bile. ‘You could never use this. You’d be incriminating yourself, and your whole bunch.’
Stone laughed. ‘That is of little consequence. None of us exist. Nobody can touch any of us, Jeremy. We are free to vanish. You, on the other hand…’ He shrugged. ‘If I may be permitted to use the vernacular: you’re fucked.’
Lonsdale opened his mouth to protest, but there was nothing to say. He’d been set up. The initiation ceremony, the whole thing, had been concocted just to entrap him. Stone had never intended to make good on his promise of eternal life and unlimited power. He was trapped, and there was no going back. He slumped in the armchair, defeated.
‘Humans are utterly repugnant to me,’ Stone said softly, watching him. ‘But the creature whose verminous ways offend me most deeply
of all is a politician. I’m disappointed in you, Jeremy. I had hopes that you might have been different.’
‘Keep the money,’ Lonsdale breathed. ‘Keep every penny. I don’t care. Just let me go on with my life. Please. I beg you.’
‘Your life?’ Stone smiled. ‘That belongs to me now. When I want you, you’ll be ready for me. You are at my bidding, and will provide me with anything I require, at any time, without question or hesitation. Fail me in any way, and every television station and newspaper in Europe will receive a copy of the film. Let the serfs who voted for you know the truth about their future leader.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Now get out of my sight.’
Jeremy Lonsdale staggered from the library and found his way to the marbled hallway. Outside, he drew in huge gulps of the cold night air. It wasn’t until he was sitting at the wheel of the Rolls, fumbling with the key, half blinded with sweat, that his guts heaved all the way over and the vomit burst down his front.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Canary Wharf, London
9.29 p.m.
‘Thanks, Rudi. See you later.’ Alex snapped her phone shut. The night breeze ruffled her hair as she leaned on the rail of her apartment balcony. A human would have been shivering in the November chill, but she loved the freshness of the air. She lingered for a moment, watching the city lights dance on the river. The sadness that had been hovering over her all day was descending now. She turned from the balcony and walked barefoot in through the sliding glass door of her living room. Philip Glass piano music was playing softly on her stereo system. She padded across the plush carpet of the modern, open-plan living room, then went up the spiral staircase to her bedroom.
As she passed the bed, her sadness sharpened. At the foot of the bed was an oak chest. She stopped, kneeled. While everything else in her apartment was ultra-modern, the chest was pitted with age, splits in the wood patched here and there with metal plates. She and that old chest went back a long way. It had been a while since she’d last opened it.
She reached for the little key she wore around her neck and unclipped it from its leather thong. It was made of the same pitted black metal as the lock of the chest. It slid smoothly into the lock and sprung the mechanism with a tiny click. She carefully lifted the lid until it rested against the foot of the bed.
Inside were her memories.
The diamond and sapphire engagement ring was still as bright and sparkling as the day William had given it to her. She smiled sadly at it, then closed the scuffed, battered little box and replaced it at the bottom of the chest. There was the bundle of letters, still tied with the same yellow ribbon. The lock of his golden hair. The one photograph she had of him, long ago faded to a dull sepia tone.
She gazed at it. Such a long time ago, but she could still remember every moment they’d had together. She could recall the touch of his skin against hers, the softness of his voice, the infectiousness of his laugh.
I’ll come back to you one day, my love.
Those had been his last words to her. A day she didn’t like to remember, but whose memory she couldn’t chase. Not in a hundred and thirteen years.
I’ll come back.
But she was still waiting.
Or was she? As she caressed the faded image with her thumb, she thought about Joel Solomon. It was uncanny. They could have been brothers, twins.
Alexandra Bishop, born 1869, turned 1897, would never have believed in such a thing as reincarnation, as William had. But then, back in those days, she’d never have believed in vampires, either.
She gazed at the picture a while longer, then laid it back inside the chest and shut the lid.
The far wall of the bedroom was one huge solid expanse of mirror. She walked towards it, snatching a remote control off a table as she went. She didn’t slow her pace and, just as she was about to walk straight into the glass, she pressed the button on the remote and the partition instantly slid aside to reveal the hidden room beyond. She stepped inside, aimed the remote behind her and slid the wall shut again.
She was in her weapons room.
The place was as utilitarian as it could be. On a steel wall rack were a pair of assault rifles, a cut-down shotgun and two ex-MOD submachine guns. Beside those, another rack holding four identical.50-calibre Desert Eagle pistols. The opposite wall was covered in industrial shelving, and in between was the workbench where she handloaded her own ammunition. She’d never trusted the stuff that VIA issued the agents. Bolted to the bench was a reloading press with a rotating platform that housed half-a-dozen empty glittering brass cartridge cases at a time. Mounted on top, a clear plastic hopper was filled with peppery gunpowder. It was Alex’s little personal production line.
She sat at the bench and worked the lever on the press. Ker-chunk. One pull to fill up each case with powder. Another pull to ram home the fat half-inch hollowpoint bullets and seat them firmly in the mouths of the cases. After five minutes, she had a batch of thirty.50 Action Express rounds ready — or they would have been, for use on a normal target. For Alex’s purposes, there was one more stage to perform.
She sat the cartridges upright in a row on the bench. Pulled on thick rubber gloves and a surgical mask, then took a plastic flask from one of the shelves. The label was marked ‘Nosferol’. Beside the name was a little skull and crossbones. If you looked closely, the skull had tiny fangs. Some joker at the Federation pharma plant’s idea of humour.
She carefully unscrewed the top. One whiff of the fumes would be enough to destroy her. She hated working with the stuff, but it was her job sometimes to do things she hated.
The level in her flask was getting low. She made a mental note to put in an order for some more. Then, using a squeezy disposable pipette, she dripped five drops into the hollow tip of each bullet, working her way along the line until all thirty were charged with the poison. Still wearing the gloves and mask, she lit a church candle and delicately sealed over the end of each bullet with molten wax. That was the most critical part of the operation. If the Nosferol wasn’t completely sealed in, even a tiny leakage could be disastrous to her.
She waited a few minutes for the wax to set, then loaded the cartridges into a batch of spare magazines, ready for use. Job done. She closed up the weapons room, taking the mags and the most worn and comfortable of the Desert Eagles with her.
She was finishing getting changed to go out when she heard the doorbell. The security monitor in the hallway showed Greg standing outside, shifting nervously from foot to foot. She smiled to herself, then put on a stern face and answered the door.
‘Right on time,’ Greg said.
‘Amazing. Let’s go.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘So where is it we’re going?’ Greg asked as she wove the Jag at top speed through the night traffic. ‘Jesus, do you always drive like this?’
‘To see Rudi Bertolino,’ she said. ‘He called me to say he’s got some information.’
‘The ragu sauce guy. I remember.’
‘Rudi’s a little more than that. He owns the famous Last Bite Bar and Grill on St James’s. Wait till you see it. He’s also one of my prime informers.’
‘He’s…’
‘You’re so coy. Why don’t you just say it? Yes, he’s one of us, he’s a vampire.
You’ll like him, too. Everyone does. A lot of us hang out there. It’s kind of a vampire restaurant.’
‘Right. So vampires can actually eat, like, real food?’ he asked, looking hopeful.
The back of a bus was looming up alarmingly fast. ‘Watch—’
She twisted the wheel smartly and missed the bus by an inch. ‘Sure, we can eat.
It’s a social occasion, and human food tastes pretty good. Especially if it comes out of Rudi Bertolino’s kitchen. Thing is, though, you could pig out on it every day and still starve. There’s no nutrition in it, not for us.’
‘Shit. For a minute there, I was kind of hoping—’
‘We’re vampires, Greg. It’s what we do. Get used
to it.’ She sighed reproachfully.
‘Not feeding yet, then?’
‘Don’t bring that up again. Makes me sick even to think of it.’
‘Of course it does. That’s normal enough. But that feeling doesn’t last. Trust me.’
‘Wonderful. Looking forward to it.’
‘Taken your Solazal today?’
‘What are you, my mother?’
‘When I see a helpless little vampire baby, I get these irrepressible maternal urges. Plus I don’t want you frazzling up too close to me.’
‘Thank you so much,’ he muttered. ‘Helpless little baby. So what information does this Rudi guy have for us?’
‘That’s what we’re going to find out.’
The Last Bite Bar and Grill, open dusk till dawn, was one of central London’s most in and super-trendy hangouts for vampires, movie stars, rock musicians, other assorted celebrities and those wannabes that could afford to eat, drink and party there.
Rudi Bertolino, its owner-manager, was a vampire with his ear to the ground. For a yacht-owning, Porsche-driving multi-millionaire restaurateur he moved in some pretty low places — maybe that was just him keeping in touch with his past selling fish in the street markets of old Napoli, back when he’d been human. In return for the information he passed Alex from time to time, she turned a blind eye to the fact that he occasionally violated Federation rules by knocking off a human and putting their blood in the food to appeal to the real vampires among his clientele.
‘On a strictly assholes-only basis,’ he always insisted in his gravelly bass rumble.
‘Who’s gonna lament the demise of a few pushers, pimps and paedos?’ And that was pretty much good enough for Alex.
Rudi’s establishment sprawled across three floors between a yacht broker’s and a private members’ club on St James’s. His gold 911 Turbo was parked outside, glinting in the lights from the windows. The music was thumping out into the street. Alex and Greg bypassed the chattering throngs of hopefuls gathered on the pavement and steps outside, who were waiting to get tables. Two doormen dressed in cloaks and fake fangs spotted Alex and ushered her and Greg inside, bowing stiffly as they walked in up the red carpet into the lights and noise.
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