by Ian Jarvis
‘Oh yes,’ said Ligeia. ‘Yes, I do.’
Unbelievable, thought Adler, cuddling her and smirking. If only all people were as childish and easily manipulated as this.
Stroking her back, the Colonel gazed through the huge window. This side of the building descended directly into the moat, with the lily-covered water twelve feet below. Twilight was turning into night, but she could see perfectly well. Her eyesight and hearing seemed clearer, but that could be imagination and wishful thinking rather than any supernatural augmentation. The disappearance of the bite, however, was another matter entirely.
‘Ah, I see I’ll have to reprimand my security team,’ said Adler, her smile tightening as the French doors opened and Quist walked in from the terrace. ‘Well, you appear to have vacated the guest room and I hear your friends have just left in one of my vehicles. I assumed you were with them. I take it the accommodation wasn’t to your liking?’
‘I’ve had better,’ said Quist.
‘There you are.’ Ligeia’s face lit up and she ran to the detective, wrapping her arms around his tweed jacket and squeezing. ‘It’s been so long, but I want to say thank you for what you did that night.’
‘I can’t believe you still remember,’ said Quist, holding her shoulders.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Adler, suspiciously. ‘When did this man help you?’
Ligeia kissed his cheek. ‘A long time ago on the boat.’
‘Is that so?’ The Colonel leant against the wall by the moat window and slid her right hand into her jacket. ‘I have something here in my pocket, Mister Quist. I won’t produce it, as it might scare Ligeia, but you can doubtless guess what it is?’
‘Absolutely.’ Quist gave a sarcastic grimace. ‘I’m rather good at guesswork.’
‘The contents are silver,’ she continued. ‘I’m not sure if that’s necessary, but it’s best to be safe, isn’t it? My Padre doesn’t care for your vibrations.’
‘He dislikes my vibrations? You can give a person a complex, you know?’
‘I’ve just taken a phone call from the main gate. The other two just left somewhat dramatically, but they won’t get far. I’m curious as to why you didn’t accompany them.’
‘You told me we’d have a chat later,’ said Quist. ‘Here I am.’
‘I wanted to know who you were and your connection with Grant. I detained you because you were searching for him and you could have posed a threat, but things have changed and I no longer care.’
‘I’m afraid we still need to talk.’
‘Unfortunately I don’t have time. A helicopter will be arriving soon to transport us to the O2 for a night concert.’
‘The helicopter.’ Ligeia clapped her hands and sat on the couch.
‘Believe me,’ said Quist, ‘you’ll have enough time for this. It’s something you definitely need to hear. Are you aware of what Ligeia is?’
Adler regarded him curiously. ‘I’m aware she has a talent for making money.’
‘You know she has a rather unique power? You know her voice is supernatural?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Adler, moving closer. ‘It only works when she’s happy and content. The Padre has always known. He senses that she’s very different to us.’
‘Far more different than you can imagine,’ said Quist. ‘Ligeia, how old are you?’
The girl smiled and shrugged.
‘What does that matter?’ asked Adler.
‘You don’t know, do you?’ asked Quist, eyeing the petite singer. ‘Do you remember showing Elva around that club in Edinburgh the other night? Did you once sing there?’
‘Yes, many times.’ Ligeia sat up, excited. ‘I showed her the stage where I sang.’
Quist nodded. ‘And you showed Elva an old poster on the wall?’
‘Yes, someone had drawn a picture of me. I looked funny.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Adler, shaking her head irritably. ‘When did you sing there, my dear?’
‘Indulge me, Colonel.’ Quist gestured to a computer terminal by one of the bookcases. ‘Use your search engine and look up Scottish music hall acts around 1910.’
‘I’ll keep my hand warm,’ said Adler, pointing the concealed gun. ‘You can do the searching.’
Quist sat at the terminal, thankful that Watson had shown him how to do this. He tapped at the keyboard, negotiating several websites before finally finding what he was looking for. He gestured to the screen.
‘Sally Songbird?’ Adler peered over his shoulder at the page of old photographs. ‘Who’s that and what the hell are you supposed to be showing me?’
‘Look closer,’ said Quist, enlarging one of the shots.
The Colonel stared at the girl in the picture, the caption informing her this was a famous Glasgow music hall act from 1911. Adler’s single eye widened as recognition suddenly hit home and she wrestled with confusion. Sally’s dress was Victorian, she wore too much make-up and her blonde hair was piled high, but there was no doubting who it was.
‘Incredible,’ whispered Adler, turning aghast to Ligeia on the couch. ‘If this website is genuine, it makes you over a century old.’
‘Quite a bit over a century,’ murmured Quist, staring at the girl.
‘That would explain certain things,’ said Adler. ‘You told me you’d lived with small groups of people in the past. Inuit people in Canada, you said. Berbers in Morocco and North American Indians. I wondered how that could be possible for one so young.’
‘There was a Scotsman,’ said Quist, scrolling through the information on Sally Songbird. ‘He managed her back then as you do now. Ah, here we are - Lenny Logan.’
‘I remember Lenny,’ said Ligeia. ‘He was nice. He used to do magic tricks for me.’
‘Which made you happy.’ Quist nodded. ‘Just like the Colonel keeps you happy. Lenny realised you sang when you were feeling happy and people would pay to hear you. He took you to that Edinburgh music hall, didn’t he?’
The girl nodded. ‘He didn’t like my name. He told me no one would like Ligeia, so he called me Sarah.’
‘Which he changed to Sally for your stage appearances.’
‘Yes, he called me Sally Songbird. I liked that. He liked my hair blonde too and he dyed it for me. He used to do magic for me.’
Quist gestured to the website text. ‘It says record amounts of money were charged for your shows and the audience famously threw money onto the stage for the encore. It says...’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ligeia suddenly.
‘Whatever for?’ asked Quist.
‘It was so very cold the night we met. I could feel you were like me, but I wasn’t able to talk to you. You saved me, but I couldn’t save you. People do what I ask, but that bad man in the boat wouldn’t let you in when I told him to. It was too cold and I couldn’t use my voice properly.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Quist. ‘After all, I suspect that, like me, your body would have shut down, but you wouldn’t have drowned.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ asked Adler.
Elva entered the library and ran to Ligeia’s side. The two girls kissed and Elva glared icily at Adler who gave her a cynical smile.
Ligeia turned back to Quist. ‘You saved me,’ she said. ‘But I never even knew your name.’
‘Bernard,’ said Quist. ‘My friends call me Bernie. Now I wonder if you and Elva would like to leave the Colonel and I alone for a while? I need to speak with her.’
‘Good idea,’ said Adler. ‘You need to get ready for your concert. Wear your silver dress, my dear.’
‘I will.’ Ligeia gave Quist another kiss. ‘Thank you, Bernie.’
Elva scowled at Adler again and then left arm-in-arm with Ligeia.
With the need for concea
lment gone, the Colonel produced her handgun. ‘She claims you saved her?’ she said. ‘Tell me about it and when was this?’
‘It was a long time ago and it doesn’t concern you,’ said Quist. ‘What should concern you is this information verifying her somewhat advanced years. So you indulge her every whim to maintain the unique power in her voice?’
‘It only works when she’s content,’ confirmed Adler. ‘If Ligeia is unhappy, she sounds like any mundane female vocalist. The Scottish gentleman mentioned on the Internet obviously discovered this, if that website is genuine.’
‘Of course it’s genuine,’ snapped Quist. ‘I’m showing you this to explain what you’re dealing with.’
‘I know what I’m dealing with; the billions in my foreign accounts prove it. As for the website, you could have uploaded that yourself. I’ve seen sites which prove the British Royal family are reptiles. Why should this be any different?’
‘But you concede she has supernatural abilities,’ said Quist. ‘Why doesn’t her song affect you?’
‘It isn’t just her song,’ said Adler. ‘Her speaking voice is mesmerising when she needs it to be.’
‘I suspected as much.’
‘Once you’re aware of her ability, you can fight it, but it takes effort and I employ technology instead. My team use tiny ear implants.’
‘Combatting the supernatural with science.’
‘Yes, I had someone reprimanded yesterday for removing them and leaving himself susceptible to her instructions.’
‘I assume this is why her interview with the Edinburgh police only lasted a few minutes?’
Adler grinned. ‘She told them they had enough information and it was time for her to leave. They happily opened the door for her.’
‘Incredible,’ said Quist.
‘I tried to discover how her voice works and employed a scientist from the Cambridge Institute of Acoustics. He’s the doctor who manufactured the audio implants. He’s been analysing her voice and filtering the sonic levels, but he doesn’t understand much. Apparently the sound works on a different wavelength and stimulates the brain and nervous system directly, much like a drug.’
‘So she asks for something in a certain way, and people magically obey?’
‘Exactly. I had her lyrics written to work on that: Years roll by, my music keeps me sane, my love...’ Adler laughed. ‘The fans hear buy my music. The songs are filled with subliminal commands.’
‘Very clever.’ Quist nodded. ‘So you use acoustic implants. Odysseus used wax.’
‘Odysseus?’
‘He’s sometimes called Ulysses; it depends which book you read.’ Quist typed Lamarai into the computer and smiled grimly as a website of ancient Sumerian history appeared. ‘Ah, this is what I’m looking for. Mesopotamia, the land between the Euphrates and Tigris rivers. That’s now Iraq, isn’t it?’
‘Correct,’ said Adler, reading over his shoulder. ‘What are you looking at that for and what does Lamarai mean?’
Quist took a deep breath. ‘The Lamarai are mythical demons,’ he said. ‘Water scream demons and Ligeia is one of them. The Greeks named them Sirens.’
Chapter 29
The black Range Rover limped along a dark woodland lane, steam pouring from the radiator and a disconcerting grinding noise coming from the engine. Watson drove past a pub and a jumble of cottages. With the lights completely smashed, the streetlamps provided welcome illumination.
‘Nice work,’ said Rex, leaning over from the passenger seat to check the oil temperature. The needle was fully into the red and strained to climb further. ‘You’ve really buggered it.’
‘Hey, you don’t say?’ Watson laughed sarcastically. ‘Maybe I should have stopped and asked them to open the gates?’
‘Bad idea. They wouldn’t have let us out.’
The teenager shot him an incredulous glance. Quist accused his assistant of sometimes missing irony, but Rex had probably never even heard of it. ‘We haven’t got very far,’ said Watson, ‘and from the sound of the motor, we’re not going much further.’
‘We should ditch this car anyway,’ said Rex. ‘I’ve driven enough decent motors to know they’re usually fitted with tracking devices. In any case, that bunch will definitely be following us by now and they can’t be far behind.’
‘You’re right.’ Spotting a track off the lane, Watson turned the car onto it and parked in the trees away from the street lights. ‘We’ll be safer on foot.’
‘I spotted a sign for the Richmond Golf Club back there,’ said Rex. ‘We must be near Richmond Park.’ Walking back to the lane, he pointed to a tiny railway station on the opposite side. ‘Hey, we don’t have to walk anywhere. I’ve heard of this Foxglove Line. It’s a little steam train that operates for the tourists and goes along the edge of the park to Wimbledon Common.’
‘That sounds good. It’ll get us well away from the car if they are tracking it.’
‘Better than that. It connects with a main line station near Wimbledon and we can travel into London from there. I have friends where we can stay.’
‘Unless they watch the news.’ Watson gave him a rueful smile. ‘Remember you’re wanted for murder.’
‘I know a girl who won’t believe that crap. She’s a model and she believes anything I tell her. We’ll be okay at Merlot’s apartment.’
They crossed the road to the pretty redbrick building, hurrying through an archway onto the platform where a small steam engine and three old-fashioned carriages stood ready to leave. The disused station had been renovated by railway enthusiasts and entering the place was like stepping back into the 1950s. Watson spotted the price list by the ticket office and saw that fares had risen a little since then. Not that it mattered, as he didn’t even have the 1950s fare.
‘Do you have any money?’ he asked.
‘Er, no.’ Rex grimaced. ‘How about you?’
Watson shook his head.
‘Shit.’ Rex looked around furtively. ‘Let’s just jump on board.’
‘No, they’ll probably see us and ring the cops. That won’t be good, especially for you.’
‘Adler isn’t an amateur. From what I’ve seen of her and her military outfit, she probably monitors the police radio channels. Maybe using the train is a bit risky. Why don’t we steal another car?’
‘What?’ Watson peered at him. ‘How?’
‘I don’t know. Hot wire it or whatever it is you lot do?’
‘My lot?’ snapped Watson. ‘Listen, you racist twat, I may be a black teenager, but I’ve no idea how to steal cars.’
‘I didn’t mean black. I thought that maybe you might...’
‘Not since they fitted decent immobilisers anyway. No, it has to be the train.’
The youth noticed a length of white plastic pipe outside the toilet block where a plumbing repair had been carried out. ‘Wait a minute.’ He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. ‘It says on the noticeboard that disabled folk travel free.’
Rex nodded slowly. ‘You want me to break your legs?’
‘I have a better idea with less pain.’ He grabbed the slender pipe and pulled him into the male toilet. It was small empty room with a urinal trough and two cubicles, one of which had been cordoned off with white tape and bore an out of order sign. ‘Perfect. Okay, you need to change.’
‘Into what?’ Rex looked down at his shirt. ‘You mean swap clothes?’
‘I mean change change.’
‘Oh, right.’ Rex hesitated. ‘Er, why?’
‘Hurry. We don’t have time for me to explain.’ Watson tore lengths of tape from the broken toilet. ‘That train’s about to leave.’
‘Your boss always said never to risk it on the full moon.’ Rex quickly disrobed. ‘Still, I transformed last night and I was fine, so what does he know? This will be okay
.’
Praying that no one came in to relieve themselves, the naked man gripped the edge of the washbasin and arched his back. His spine crackled, fur sprouted and he grew in height. Watson stepped back as Rex grunted and snarled his way through the swift transformation and a terrifying black wolf stood in his place.
‘I’ve never seen you do that before.’ Watson cleared his throat and licked his bone-dry lips. He was already stressed, but the temperature drop had him shivering. ‘You’re different to old Cyrano. Kind of sleeker.’
‘Yeah, well I’m younger and fitter.’ Rex grinned proudly and flexed his furry chest muscles in the bathroom mirror. ‘I keep myself in shape’
‘Oh, very droll.’ Watson gave an uneasy laugh. ‘Shape.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You’re a shapeshifter. I thought you were making a joke to relieve the tension.’
‘No.’
‘Whatever.’ Watson shoved Rex’s shoes and clothes up his T shirt, slipped on his sunglasses and picked up the white tube. ‘Right, you need to be down on all fours.’
The wolf dropped into position and Watson nervously wrapped the tape around its chest like a harness, gathering the ends together as makeshift reins. ‘Come on.’
The pair headed back onto the platform, Watson tapping the ground ahead with his improvised blind man’s cane as he walked to the ticket office.
‘Good evening.’ An elderly man in period uniform smiled at Watson through the cubicle window. ‘This is the last train of the night, so you’ve only just made it. Just the one, is it?’
‘Yeah, but it says disabled travel free.’ The youth faked blindness, peering into space over the man’s shoulder and tapping the counter with his white stick. ‘Do I just get on?’
‘No, you don’t pay anything, but you need a ticket so we know how many are on board...’ The man peered down at the wolf. ‘What the...’ He stepped back. ‘What the fuck is that thing?’
‘You mean Rex?’ Watson adjusted his sunglasses and patted the huge furry head. ‘Rex is my guide dog.’
‘Guide dog? What the hell kind of dog is it supposed to be?’
