by Helen Harper
Giving up on my appearance, I push open the car door so I can stretch my aching muscles. D’Argneau offered me a bed but, as I wasn’t sure it didn’t come with strings attached and I needed some time alone, I declined politely and got him to drop me off a few miles away. I had to put some of my old evasion skills into practice to make sure I wasn’t followed. I suppose that sort of thing is a bit like riding a bike: you never really forget it.
If I’d hoped that Michael would send someone after me, I was disappointed. As far as I could tell, I really was on my own. There was the option of my grandfather, of course, but spending the night in my rusty old car was more appealing than facing him. Even if I had to rip out the front passenger seat first; it was still caked with O’Shea’s dried blood from weeks ago and the smell was horrific. I’m not sure whether my nose has simply got used to it or whether it dissipated after I removed the offending seat.
The lock-up is dark but there’s the faintest chink of light coming in from under the door. Thanks to that, I’ll know when I can venture safely outside. I try not to think about Michael’s expression if he knew I’d spent the day here. The trouble is, the harder you try to not think about something, the more you end up dwelling on it. And thinking about Michael enhances my feelings of guilt. I have done what no other vampire has dared to do. It’s simply not the done thing to leave your Family. I imagine if anyone else tried, they’d be executed before they got more than five steps from the door. I’m still very much alive, so D’Argneau’s legal loophole must be offering me enough protection. It doesn’t change the fact that I betrayed the Family, though.
I trace a shape on the dust covering the body of the car: the Montserrat logo. Then, scowling to myself, I rub it away and dust off my hands. I’m still wearing my Montserrat jumpsuit under my leather jacket. I’ll need to find something new to wear. I briefly consider driving to The Steam Team so I can ‘borrow’ another abandoned outfit from Rebecca but I’m not convinced that I can trust myself these days, so it’s probably not a good idea.
My stomach growls. Something else to worry about.
I should focus on myself first. I’m homeless and hungry – and apparently hallucinating from time to time. But I promised Stephen Templeton that I’d be in touch today and I can’t afford to wait too long. He’s hardly going to be nocturnal like me. It would be easy to dismiss him, now that I’m probably persona non grata with Arzo but my reason for finding the errant Dahlia hasn’t changed: it’s not something that Arzo should be concerning himself with. So, as soon as I’m positive that night has fallen, I pull up the garage door and reverse out, heading for the Templetons’ house.
Unfortunately it’s on the other side of the city so it takes a long time to get there. When I arrive on their quiet residential street, however, I find the house quickly. That’s because it’s the one plastered in Do Not Cross crime-scene tape. Bugger. The tape looks undisturbed, meaning that Templeton, the devious bastard, is living somewhere else for the time being. It should have occurred to me before. I take my phone out to call him, noticing that the battery is almost dead. I ignore two missed calls from O’Shea. I’ll have to find a charger before I worry about him.
‘Ms Montserrat!’ Templeton says before I can utter a word. ‘Have you found anything? Have you found Dahlia?’
I’m about to snap that it’s been bloody daytime so I couldn’t go outside when I think better of it. He has no reason to know that I’m a fledgling and not strong enough to face sunlight yet. If I tell him, he might go back to the Montserrat mansion to find someone more experienced. Then he may discover that Arzo’s not swanning around the icy wastes of Antarctica after all.
‘I’ve had other things to do,’ I say tersely. ‘But I’m at your house now. Come and meet me with that list.’
‘It’ll take me a while to…’
‘I’ll wait. And don’t call me Ms Montserrat. It’s Blackman. Bo Blackman.’
He’s puzzled. ‘I thought all vampires took on their Family name.’
‘I’m different.’ I hang up before he can say anything else. I probably should have gone along with the Montserrat nomenclature but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I duck under the tape and try the door. Unsurprisingly, it’s locked. I examine it carefully. The lock itself is sturdy and unscratched. Whoever disturbed the Templetons’ perfect lives didn’t break in this way. I’m probably strong enough to kick the door open but I don’t need nosy neighbours calling the police because there’s been a second break-in. I’ve been in enough trouble in the past with the police thinking that I’m a criminal, I don’t need it now. Vampires aren’t subject to human laws; all punishment is meted out via the Families. Now I’m without a Family, goodness knows where I stand.
I skirt round the large house, setting off various motion-activated lights. Their presence gives me pause. It seems unlikely, although not impossible, that Dahlia’s kidnapping – or murder – took place in broad daylight. But these lights would put off any night-time burglar. Were the Templetons were specifically targeted? If they treat other people the way they treated Arzo, then I wouldn’t be surprised.
There’s a broken window but it’s on the second storey. After my rooftop lesson with Michael, I know that I can reach it easily but I don’t see how a human would be able to without a ladder. It’s covered by an opaque sheet of plastic, rippling in the faint breeze.
I’m proud to say that when I worked for Dire Straits I never once technically broke into anyone’s property. As a private investigator, that kind of thing can lead you into a whole heap of trouble. More often than not I did my surveillance from outside or had the owner’s permission to go inside. When it came to cheating spouses, however, I might have the husband’s permission but not the wife’s, or vice-versa. And if my client wanted to know exactly who their partner was having an affair with, from time to time I had to slip inside houses when the targets were ‘otherwise occupied’ to look for identification cards. It seems to be a mark of furtive affairs that couples feel the need to discard their clothes in every room of the house bar the bedroom. Desperation, I guess.
I only entered houses for that reason a few times. As with nasty crimes, the perpetrator (or in these cases the cuckolder) would often be someone already known to the so-called victim. I never got caught on the occasions I surreptitiously sneaked into houses although I was always prepared for that eventuality so I looked for alternative entrances to the front door. That way, it would be believed that I was a burglar and not an investigator. In the unlikely event I was apprehended and the police were called, it would take the officer on the scene one call to the station to realise I’d been given permission to enter and that the police had been informed beforehand by the legal owner about my actions.
It’s a distasteful thing to do and the boundaries between right and wrong in these sorts of cases are often blurred. It could be argued that following someone, or sitting in a car outside their house and watching them, is an invasion of their privacy. But if that was against the law, private investigators wouldn’t exist. Neither would a lot of journalists. Certainly, the police’s abilities to solve crimes would also be severely curtailed. I hate breaking into people’s houses, even though I only did so when I had property owner’s legal permission. I also drew the line at setting up surveillance equipment inside. Nanny-cams and listening devices are, for me, a step too far. There are other less-scrupulous investigators who use them regularly.
The knowledge that I gained from those few experiences tiptoeing into houses will benefit me now. That’s the reason I use the garage as my point of entry. It’s shocking how many people – even those who are security-conscious – forget to lock it up properly. I don’t have the patience to wait for Stephen Templeton and it will be easier to look around without him hovering by my shoulder. I should have asked him to tell the police what I’m doing, but according to vampiric law I’m doing nothing wrong because he’s already invited me in. As long as I don’t disturb the crime scene
, that is.
The first garage door is locked but this is a big house and it boasts a double-door system. As I suspect, the second one is open. I lift it about a metre and duck under to get in. It closes quickly behind me and I’m left in the darkness. There’s a car inside – Dahlia’s, I assume – and it’s locked securely. I peer through the windows; it seems spotlessly clean inside. My night vision is improving daily and the mundanity of the Templetons’ lives is clearly visible: a dirty lawnmower, half-opened tins of paint and various cardboard boxes.
There’s a door in the back of the garage, no doubt leading directly into the house. I walk over to it and hope for the best. The doorknob turns easily and I step inside. It’s immediately obvious from the broken glass and fallen painting in front of me that something terrible happened here. There’s an undertone of blood in the air but it’s faint and smells old. It doesn’t fit with the time frame that Stephen Templeton gave me so I can only think it’s from an old minor injury.
Stepping carefully over the glass shards to avoid disturbing them, I venture further inside. Other than a wooden stool knocked to the ground, there’s not much of a mess. There is, however, a wine glass sitting on top of the marble-covered island. It has a mouthful of red wine inside. I’m surprised that the police didn’t take it away to brush it for fingerprints. I spot a pair of rubber gloves by the sink. They’re a lurid pink but wearing them will make it easier for me to protect the integrity of the scene. I pull them on, wrinkling my nose at the rubbery smell, and move through the rest of the house.
Templeton was right about one thing: there was definitely some kind of commotion here. The living room is a mess. An overturned plant pot has sent dark earth spilling across the cream carpet, while the wide-screen television has been pulled off its bracket and lies on the floor, cracked screen facing upwards. A row of photo frames have been knocked off a mahogany side table. The table itself probably cost more than I make in a year but it’s not what I’m interested in. I pick up one of the photos and frown at it. Unbelievable. Judging by the clothes of the smiling people captured within the frame, it’s an old shot. Not only is a fresh-faced Stephen Templeton beaming out at me, along with a dark-haired woman who must be Dahlia, there’s also the unmistakable visage of Arzo. He’s a good twenty years younger than he is now, but it’s definitely him. It doesn’t make sense that the Templetons would display a photo of their former friend – and Dahlia’s former fiancé – so prominently, considering what they did to him.
I return it carefully to its original position and go to the sofa. The bright floral cushions are in disarray. Interesting. I leave the room through a different door and locate the front entrance, then I turn and gaze speculatively round the house. If an intruder appeared from here or from the window upstairs, presumably while Dahlia was in the kitchen drinking her wine, they’d have disturbed her in that room. That’s why the stool was knocked to the floor. After that, for some reason, they walked – or fought – in the living room. It’s a big room and the television screen is at least four metres from the sofa. The little side table with the photos isn’t close to either of them. I glance back at the inner garage door and the shattered painting. From the living room, they seem to have to moved towards the garage. There’s still a car there, however, and only one vacant spot.
I jog upstairs, glancing in the various rooms until I find the one Dahlia and Stephen slept in. Everything seems fairly normal. I open a few drawers. There’s a diary which I flick through (apart from the first week of January, the pages are blank), some eye-drops and pieces of costume jewellery. I can’t see anything else noteworthy. There’s another door leading to a walk-in wardrobe which is filled with more of Dahlia’s clothes than Steven’s. I examine the shoes. Most of the pairs are barely worn but there’s one set which seems to have been re-heeled recently. Dahlia’s favourite pair, perhaps? I chew my bottom lip. This case is becoming more interesting than I’d imagined it would be.
I go to the room with the broken window. It’s a small box room, obviously unoccupied. In theory, it would be a sensible entrance point, especially if the garage were the exit. How would the intruders know that, though? I lean in to inspect the remaining glass around the edges of the frame. I’d need a magnifying glass to be sure, but I’m fairly certain from the angle of the shards that this window wasn’t broken into. It was broken out of – from the inside rather than the outside.
I check my watch. It’s already gone 11pm. That’s annoying as I really want to talk to the neighbours. None of them are going to be keen to talk to a vampire at this time of night. I’ll have to come back another time. Yet again I’m stymied by my nocturnal nature.
I’m making my way downstairs when the front door opens and the pale face of Stephen Templeton appears. He looks surprised to see me.
‘Hello.’ He scratches his cheek. ‘How did you get in?’
I see no reason to lie. ‘Your garage,’ I say. ‘You should take care of that. It’s wide open so anyone could enter.’ I find my own actions considerably less important than his, however. I watch his eyes carefully. ‘Mr Templeton, why did you lie and tell me you called the police?’
‘Wh-what?’ he stutters.
I dislike him even more for not owning up immediately but I distance myself emotionally from his reaction. The last thing I need is to get worked up and have to deal with another hallucinatory episode.
‘You said the police dusted for fingerprints but there’s no dust. I’ve yet to meet a police department that takes the time to clean up after themselves. Not only that but they would have taken Dahlia’s diary, regardless of how little is written in it. They’d also have made sure that her wine glass, if indeed it is her glass, was examined.’
I lean towards him. From the look in his eyes, he’s feeling intimidated. That pleases me more than it should. When I was human, my lack of height meant that the only people I intimidated without trying were very small children. In fact, thinking about my teen babysitting years, even that’s not true. I’ve not grown at all since I turned, so it must be some indefinable vampire quality.
‘The tape. The crime scene tape,’ he says, with a hint of desperation.
‘You put that there yourself.’ His lack of reaction tells me I’m right. ‘Why?’
He shifts uncomfortably and coughs. ‘I didn’t want the neighbours to call the police. I thought that if they believed the police were already investigating, they’d leave things alone. I got the tape from a joke shop and paid a couple of people to dress up as officers and come round. I told them it was a prank.’
‘So it was you who messed up the house?’
This time he actually looks surprised. He blinks rapidly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s a set-up. And not a very good one either.’
‘But…’
I sigh. ‘The window’s broken to make it look like someone entered upstairs. Except they could have come in the same way I did through the open garage. And the window’s been smashed from the inside. The wine and the stool indicate Dahlia was in the kitchen but the evidence of a struggle is in the living-room. The way in which the sofa cushions have been disturbed, the range of the fallen objects…’ I shake my head. ‘It’s all too pat. You pretended the police had been here and someone else pretended there had been a fight.’
Templeton waves his hands in the air. ‘No, no, no! You’re suggesting Dahlia faked all this! She wouldn’t do that! She…’
I hold up my hand to stop him babbling. ‘I think you’re probably right. I think she was taken.’
‘Eh?’
‘Her shoes,’ I tell him. ‘Unless she’s been shopping recently or was barefoot, she left her favourite shoes behind.’ I know enough from living in close quarters with Beth that women who are into footwear – as Dahlia seemingly is from the number of shoes she has in her closet – never let go of their best pair. The ones she had re-heeled. I shrug. ‘I mean, it’s not definite and I may be wrong, but that’s what my gut tells me.’
/> His shoulders sink. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
I search inside myself for a trace of sympathy. It’s pretty hard. ‘Why didn’t you tell the police in the first place? Have you been in touch with the kidnappers? Has there been a ransom demand?’
‘No.’ He looks miserable. ‘I didn’t want… I mean, I couldn’t…’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘I’ve done some things the police might not look on too kindly. If they investigated and found out…’
I stare at him in disgust. ‘So you staying out of prison is more important than your wife’s life?’
‘It’s not like that!’ he protests.
‘I think it is very much like that.’ I feel grubby just being in the same room as this pathetic excuse for a human. I put my hands on my hips. ‘No wonder you were so reluctant to give me a list of your business dealings. So who have you pissed off?’
Templeton droops. ‘There was the Triads,’ he whispers.
I roll my eyes. Bloody hell. ‘Okay. At least they’re human. Give me their names and…’
‘And a few white witches.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Right.’
He shrinks further into himself. ‘And the daemon.’
‘Is that it?’
He nods.
‘Then we’ll assume it’s one of them who’s taken Dahlia,’ I say briskly. ‘You’ll need to tell me what you actually did and who to, so I can talk to the Triads. And the witches. I have a contact who can help with whoever the Agathos daemon is.’
‘No,’ he moans.
I’m finally starting to lose patience. ‘Look, if we’re going to find her, then we need to…’
