‘Good morning, VIA.’ His voice was smooth and soft. ‘None of you know me, but I know you all very well. Chief Harry Rumble. Special Agent Bishop. We have never met. But I’m sure we will — soon. Allow me to introduce myself. I have gone by many names in my time. The one by which I am presently known is Gabriel Stone.’
Rumble snapped his fingers at Kelby, who nodded and ran to a computer terminal.
The face on the screen smiled. ‘Rumble, call off your minion. It is pointless to search for me on your database. Your so-called Federation has no record of my existence.’
‘Shit, can he see us?’ Minto gaped.
‘He can’t see us,’ Alex said. ‘He’s just smart. He knows exactly how we think.’
‘You gotta love this guy,’ Slade muttered, and Minto jabbed him in the ribs.
Around the room, vampires exchanged nervous glances.
‘Is he kidding us?’
‘Does he look like he’s kidding?’
‘Quiet, people,’ Rumble commanded.
‘By now,’ Stone continued after a dramatic pause, ‘I’m sure you will all have become aware of the tragedy that has befallen the establishment in Italy where you manufacture your obscene poisons. And I am sure you have all been wondering whose hand it was that has struck you this blow. Look no further. It was I. I am now in possession of your loathsome stockpiles of drugs, and, I believe, some hundred thousand rounds of the ammunition that your treacherous Federation authorises you to use against your own kind.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘The disgrace that is VIA ends here. Know that I will destroy you. All of you. You are traitors to the vampire race, and your time is over.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Joel had gone into the office early that morning to run a trace on the registration number of the McLaren F11. After more than an hour’s worth of triple and quadruple checking, he’d had to give up. There was no record of the car anywhere.
He was heading out of the door when the phone rang on his desk.
‘Joel, it’s Sam.’ Carter sounded serious. ‘Have you heard yet?’
‘Heard what?’
‘Then you haven’t. They found another body this morning, early. Oxford centre, right under the Bridge of Sighs. It was ex…it was like the other one.’
‘Exsanguinated?’
‘Dry as a witch’s tit. Poor bugger. Some postgrad maths boffin by the name of Mickey Thompson. First we thought he’d been chucked off the bridge. Broken glass everywhere. But there aren’t any lacerations on him, except for where his neck’s been ripped open. And if he’d fallen he’d have a few fractures. Just talked to Jack Briar. Zilch.
So maybe the crazy bastard who did this was the one who jumped off the bridge. Must have smashed himself up a bit. Nobody could take a leap like that and not get hurt.’
‘Any blood at the scene?’
‘Just the victim’s. We’re checking all the casualty departments now in case this nutter turned up there. Anyway, it’s official. We’re looking for a serial murderer, and a right maniac to boot. Thought I should fill you in.’
Joel grabbed a squad car and headed out to the JR. Dec Maddon was sitting glumly in the hospital foyer.
‘What happened to the sling?’ Joel asked, noticing it was gone.
‘Junked it.’
‘The doctor say that was okay to do?’
‘Fuck the doctor,’ Dec said. ‘I’ve got the name of the house. I kept thinking about those birds. Crows. That’s what made me remember. It’s Crow-something house, manor, something like that.’
‘Then let’s go.’
Joel let Dec sit with his work laptop as they drove. If Sam Carter could see me, he thought. Letting a kid on a drugs charge get his hands on the police databases.
‘Got it,’ Dec said triumphantly, tapping keys. ‘Crowmoor Hall. Just a couple of miles out of Henley.’
Joel nodded and put his foot down.
As the countryside flashed by, few words passed between them and there was no mention at all of vampires. But it was the things left unspoken that screamed out, filling the space around them as they drove, bonding them into a tenuous alliance. They were like two co-conspirators, each just as uneasy as the other. Joel focused on his driving, speeding the police car down the country lanes.
‘There’s where I crashed the VW,’ Dec said, pointing at the tight bend up ahead.
The verge was ploughed up, a fence flattened, and the trunk of a big sycamore tree badly scarred from the impact. ‘We’re close. Any minute now we should see the pub I passed. There it is. Everything looks different in the daytime.’
After a few more miles, the road narrowed into a twisty and winding lane, overhung with branches, slippery with decaying leaf matter. The high wall of the stately home seemed to go on forever, before the wrought iron gates eventually came into view.
‘There, see?’ Dec pointed up at the stone birds perched on the gateposts. Even in daylight, they looked sinister.
Joel was about to park up at the roadside when the gates suddenly whirred open to let them in. They looked at each other.
‘They’re expecting visitors?’ Dec said.
‘They’re obviously expecting someone.’ Joel drove the car through.
Dec was frowning as they headed up the gravel drive between the trees. ‘The vampires have to have someone working for them. They can’t come out during the day.’ He turned worriedly to Joel. ‘Can they?’
‘Let’s just take this one step at a time, Dec,’ Joel said. He noticed the kid was trembling.
The driveway straightened and widened out into a great circular forecourt. The grand house stood before them, all gothic towers and chimney stacks and angled roofs.
The stonework was mossy and stained dark in places; here and there was a broken window, damaged guttering, loose slates. The main entrance was built in classical style, with columns and a broad flight of steps leading up to the grand doorway. Leaves littered the steps, and the sculpted angels framing the entrance were pitted with age.
A tall, gaunt, bald-headed man stood at the top of the steps, watching the car closely as it pulled up and studying them with a curious and thoughtful expression.
‘Recognise him?’ Joel whispered as they got out.
Dec shook his head. ‘He is one scary bastard. Jesus Christ, look at his hands. The fucking size of them.’
‘Quiet. Leave the talking to me.’
The gaunt man came down the steps to meet them with a raised eyebrow and a ghost of a smile. Up close, he looked almost reptilian. His voice was dry and throaty.
‘Officers?’
Joel flashed his police card. ‘Detective Inspector Joel Solomon. This is Mr Maddon.’
‘My name is Seymour Finch. Personal assistant to Gabriel Stone. May I be of assistance?’
‘Yes. I wondered whether you’d be kind enough to help with a few queries regarding a reported incident here at Crowmoor Hall?’
Finch’s face cracked into a parched grin. ‘Certainly. What incident are you referring to? Have vandals been in the grounds?’
‘Could we talk inside?’ Joel said.
Finch led them into the marble-floored hall. Dec threw a look at Joel as if to say
‘this is definitely the place’.
‘I would appreciate some explanation, Inspector. I’m a very busy man.’
‘See that door there?’ Dec blurted out to Joel. ‘That leads to the ballroom.’
Joel silenced him with a glare.
‘Ballroom?’ Finch said.
‘Could we take a look?’ Joel asked him.
‘Why, certainly, officer.’ Finch walked slowly across the marble floor, grasped the bronze handles of the double doors and swung them open with a creak.
Inside was a huge conference room with a long, long table flanked by dozens of identical chairs. There was a whiteboard, a screen and projector, and a raised stage with a speaking podium and more chairs facing it in rows.
‘They’ve changed it,’ Dec said in r
esponse to Joel’s searching look. ‘It was all different. There was a dance floor there, and the rest of the room was full of old furniture and stuff.’ He pointed. ‘Those are the same. The paintings. Old portraits. I remember.’
‘The oak panels are seventeenth century,’ Finch said. ‘And the tapestries are very valuable. But I should like to know what this young man is talking about, and why you are taking up my time.’
‘Mr Maddon is helping me with an official police enquiry,’ Joel said coolly.
‘That’s the guy there,’ Dec said. He pointed up at the largest of the portraits, which took up a whole wall panel between two bay windows. It showed a strikingly handsome, aristocratic-looking man in his late thirties or early forties. ‘The one without the mask. Their leader.’
Joel stared hard at the painting, closely scrutinising the face. Was this the same man — if it had been a man — that he’d chased from Lavender Close?
‘Inspector. Really.’ Finch was becoming impatient now. ‘What is this about?’
‘Who is that?’ Joel asked, motioning at the portrait.
‘That is Mr Stone. My employer.’
‘And where is Mr Stone at present?’
‘He is out of the country.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘He’s in Tuscany,’ Finch said curtly. ‘Staying at the home of a close friend of his.’
‘I’d like to know Mr Stone’s whereabouts on Hallowe’en night.’
‘Hallowe’en?’ Finch frowned, as though unfamiliar with the expression.
‘The last night in October,’ Joel explained as patiently as he could.
‘Forgive me,’ Finch said without any trace of apology. ‘You may be disappointed to know that Mr Stone was already in Italy at that time.’
‘Bollocks, he was here,’ Dec blurted out.
Joel silenced him with a sharp look. ‘I’ll want to verify that. Who is this friend?’
‘Jeremy Lonsdale,’ Finch said.
‘Jeremy Lonsdale the cabinet minister?’
‘That is correct. Now, as you appear not to have a warrant to search the premises, before I throw you out I would like an explanation for this harassment.’
‘We have a report that a serious incident took place here on the night in question,’ Joel said. ‘Involving the ritual murder of a teenager.’ As soon as the words were out, he regretted saying them. He’d gone out on a limb a few times in his career, but this was climbing to the tip of the branch and then sawing it off behind him.
Finch stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. ‘Here, in the ballroom?’
‘Not here, down in the crypt,’ Dec interrupted. Joel groaned inwardly. He should have made the kid stay in the car.
‘Mr Maddon has a florid imagination,’ Finch said dryly. ‘As you can see, the house is being extensively renovated while we build the new conference centre. But we are yet to discover anything resembling a crypt. A wine cellar, yes, at the other end of the house, below the kitchens on the east wing. But it is flooded and filled with rubble.
Would you like to see it?’ he added with mock earnestness.
Dec was undeterred. He pointed at the far end of the room, next to the stage.
‘There. Look. See that bit of old carpet on the wall? There was a curtain there. There’s a door behind it. That’s the way down to the crypt.’
Before Joel could stop him, he was running down the length of the room. He jumped up onto the stage and started tugging at the corner of the tapestry. Finch’s eyes were popping out.
‘Inspector, I would ask you to keep your puppy on a leash. That “bit of old carpet” happens to be priceless. It’s fifteenth century. A Stone family heirloom. And I can assure you there is no doorway behind it.’
Joel ran after Dec and pushed him out of the way. He turned to Finch. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, this guy was giving him the creeps. ‘You won’t mind if I check behind it? I’ll be careful.’
‘It’s your funeral,’ Finch replied, standing back with folded arms.
Joel glanced up at the top of the tapestry. It was ancient all right, the kind of thing that probably belonged in a museum. It hung from wooden rings on wall-mounted hooks. As carefully as he could, he lifted its corner and peeked behind. With a flush of annoyance, he noticed that Dec had ripped part of its edge in his enthusiasm.
And worse, when Joel looked behind, there was no doorway to be seen. Just solid wall. He felt for a seam or a crack, a telltale draught. There was nothing.
He turned back round and the dismay must have been visible on his face.
‘Satisfied, Inspector Solomon?’ Finch said. ‘It was Solomon, wasn’t it?’
‘I didn’t imagine it,’ Dec muttered resolutely. ‘There’s a passageway behind there.’
There was nothing more for it. Between clenched teeth, Joel thanked Finch for his time, and then virtually dragged Dec back outside.
‘Do you still wish to verify Mr Stone’s whereabouts?’ Finch asked from the steps as they walked back towards the police car.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Joel said.
Finch nodded stiffly. ‘Thank you, officer. Be assured that your superiors will be hearing from us.’
There was a strange light in his eyes as Joel drove off.
They were silent long after they’d driven out of the gates and started making their way back towards the main road.
‘I’m fucking telling you I didn’t dream it.’
Joel didn’t reply.
‘So what happens now?’ Dec asked.
‘I’m taking you home.’
‘You don’t believe me any more, do you?’
‘No, Dec. I don’t.’
But Joel knew that was a lie. After a silent drive to the edge of Wallingford, he dropped Dec off at the bottom of Lavender Close a few minutes before noon. He turned the car round. He wasn’t heading back towards Oxford.
He was going straight back to Crowmoor Hall.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The VIA office had been in a state of shock all morning following the double bombshell. First the news of the destruction of the Terzi lab, then the video message from the mysterious Gabriel Stone. Many of the VIA staff sat in stunned silence at their desks, barely able to function. Others huddled in groups in corners to jabber and whisper furiously among themselves while gofers scurried by. The frantic scouring of the archives had revealed exactly what Stone had predicted it would: nothing. There was no trace whatsoever of the vampire on any Federation records, no way to track him, not a shred of a clue as to who or where he might be.
While the rest of the building’s top floor struggled to come to terms with the situation, Harry Rumble was in his office, on two phones at once and typing emails as he talked. After an hour of helping Slade go back through the drug distribution records in the vain hope of finding a useful lead, Alex walked in Rumble’s door to find him slumped and haggard at his desk, tie crooked, hair wild. Xavier Garrett was lurking in the background, filing papers.
‘I’ve just got off the phone with Brussels,’ Rumble said wearily to Alex. He was referring to the main headquarters of the Federation Ruling Council, housed in a high-rise building just a few hundred yards from the European Parliament. ‘I talked to Gaston Lerouge.’ The way he said the name, he might have ended the sentence with an emphatic ‘himself’. Gaston Lerouge was one of the Supremos of the Ruling Council. He held court within the plush FRC offices like a dauphin prince, surrounded by an army of lackeys, and was second in command only to the legendary Olympia Angelopolis, co-founder of the Federation, the Lady of Steel, the one they called The Vampress.
‘What an honour,’ Alex said. ‘The great Lerouge actually condescending to speak with a lowly VIA chief. So what did our illustrious leader and former toy salesman have to say for himself?’
Garrett looked over at her. ‘That’s enough of that kind of talk, Agent Bishop. A bit of respect would be in order.’
‘Turns out that the same mome
nt our friend Stone was delivering his message to us here,’ Rumble went on, ‘they got an email with the same video clip. The source is untraceable, before you ask.’
‘How are they taking it?’
‘Official version? Stone is just a minor blip, and we’ll have a new pharma lab up and running again before you know it. Nothing to worry about.’
Alex nodded. ‘Yeah. Real version?’
‘Going apeshit,’ Rumble said. ‘Or else why would they be calling a general meeting three days from now, in Brussels? Lerouge will be there, along with Achmed Hassan, Cornelius Borowczyk and all the other Supremos. The Vampress will preside, no less. My presence is requested, and I want you there with me.’
‘Me?’
Garrett strode over to the desk, pointing a finger at Alex. ‘With respect, sir, you can’t be seriously thinking of taking her into a meeting with these people. She’s insubordinate, a loose cannon. And this is way above her grade.’
For once, Alex wasn’t too quick to contradict Garrett. ‘Do I really need to be there, Harry? They don’t usually have field agents at these kinds of events.’
‘You’re my top operative,’ Rumble insisted. ‘And besides, this is no ordinary meeting.’ He turned to Garrett, who was trembling with indignation. ‘You’ll be there too, Xavier.’
Garrett smiled smugly, and relented right away.
As Alex left Rumble’s office and headed out of the building, she had other things on her mind than waste-of-time conferences with a bunch of stuffed shirts and bureaucrats. She was thinking back to the young guy Dec Maddon, and his wild story of a big house where a girl had been slaughtered by vampires. As she walked to the Jag, she took out her phone.
‘Thames Valley Police,’ said the breezy female voice on the other end.
‘Is DI Solomon available, please?’ Alex asked.
‘One moment.’ A pause. ‘I’m afraid he’s not at his desk. May I ask who’s calling?’
But Alex was already turning off the phone and getting in the car.
Chapter Forty
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