by Aderyn Wood
No. His grandmother was right. He had to guard his heart. Besides, he’d grown used to being lonely.
The phone buzzed in his hand. “Hello, Georgette.”
“Bonjour,” she said. “Can we meet? I am free today, not on duty until tonight. I have some news.” As usual excitement rang in her voice. No doubt she’d get along well with Anais. The two of them would have Emma turned into a vampire quicker than you could say Dracula.
“Would you like to meet at Emma’s apartment? I’m about to go there now.”
“I’ll see you in half an hour.”
Michael arrived before Georgette and immediately noticed the desk. The letter he’d left was gone, and so was the book. His fingers tingled and he rubbed his hands together. Someone had been here, but was it Emma? The flowers remained in their vase. But they’d been rearranged. They looked better now, more balanced.
Then he noticed the computer – on the keyboard was a small spot. He adjusted his glasses and bent down for a closer look, it was a dark red, like blood. Michael frowned, wondering at the implications.
The door opened and Georgette walked into the apartment. She wore a large purple trench coat; the dark glasses and scarf were in place again.
“Hello,” she said as she undid her scarf and shook off the moisture. “Oh, this weather, I’m already sick of it.” She took off her glasses. “How was your dinner? Did you finding anything interesting?”
“A little. I had the ox blood soup.”
Georgette’s eyes widened, she recognized the significance immediately. “And how was it?”
“Surprisingly good.”
She strode over to the desk and stood before him. She was a tall woman and her eyes met with his directly. “I looked at the CCTV footage. There is no shadow that I could see.”
Michael frowned, wondering if he had been wrong. No, he couldn’t be – the letter was gone, the flowers rearranged – someone had been here.
“But something else came up overnight.” Her eyes lit up. She opened her big bag and scrummaged around for her laptop, which she put on the desk. “I couldn’t believe it when I found it this morning.” Her fingers typed. “Every day I’ve checked it just to see if she might give us a message, or him, Nate. This morning I found this.”
She turned the laptop around to face Michael and he squinted at the screen. It was Emma’s Blog, and there was a new post, dated at midnight. It was a short paragraph and Michael read the words slowly, aloud. “I’ll be at Gypsy’s tonight.” He looked up, and his eyes found Georgette’s.
“It’s her,” she whispered.
“What if it’s him?”
Georgette shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Gypsy’s. She means the nightclub. The club where she met him.”
“Yes, will you go? I would go myself but I have a stake out tonight.”
Michael pointed. “Is that blood?”
Georgette turned her gaze to the keyboard and the splotch of red there. She pulled a pair of gloves from her bag and snapped them on, then held the keyboard up into the light of the window, looking at it from every angle. “Yes, definitely blood.” She put it down and looked at him. “The blog entry must have been written on this computer.”
Michael turned to look at the camera up on the high ceiling above the bed. The light was off. “That’s strange.”
“Que?”
“I put a new battery in the camera, but it looks like it is off.”
“Really? I brought the old battery for you; it is charged now.” She searched in her bag again, found the battery, and put it on the desk.
“How long are these batteries supposed to last, Georgette?”
“Up to two days.”
Michael frowned. So why was the camera off? He strode to the steps and climbed to the mezzanine level. He took the camera off its hinge. He turned it on, flipped open the screen and went back down to where Georgette stood. She watched from over his shoulder. The video played and Michael’s head could be seen from when he turned the button on yesterday and looked up at the camera. His cowlick stuck up at the back. Michael patted his hair down now as they watched. He pushed fast forward and after about five hours of recording the camera stopped.
“Someone turned it off,” Georgette whispered in his ear. Her breath smelt of coffee and nutmeg. “Rewind it a minute before the end.”
Michael did so and then pressed play. Georgette’s heavy breath tickled his ear. The footage stopped again. “There’s nothing to see,” he said.
“I’m not so sure, give it to me.” She reached for it, rewound the footage again, and played it through at a slower speed. “There. There’s that shadow.” She paused the frame.
Michael rubbed his eyes and indeed, he could make out a subtle shadow among the grey light of the apartment at night.
Georgette played it again, very slowly now, then paused and gasped. “Mon Dieu.”
“Indeed.” Michael’s hands tingled violently. On the screen flared a pair of transparent irises reflecting silver, like a cat’s.
They went to the pizzeria down stairs and sat at the bar. Michael ordered them a slice each of the margarita – Emma’s favourite according to John.
Georgette seemed to be relishing hers; a cheesy dollop fell on the collar of her trench coat.
“Ah, Georgette.”
“Hmmm?”
“Your collar.” He pointed.
“Ah, Merde. I’m always making a mess.” She cleaned it off with a napkin. “But this pizza is so good. I can see why Emma mentioned it in her blog.”
“I think it’s why she rented the apartment. Pizza was her favourite.”
Georgette’s eyes widened. “Really?”
Michael smiled and took another bite himself.
“Do you think it was her? Those eyes?” she whispered. Her own eyes scanning the man who wiped the counter.
Michael’s fingers hadn’t stopped tingling since they’d looked at the footage. The image of those eyes kept playing over in his mind. It was possible. But many things were possible. “I don’t know, Georgette. But I am not closing my mind to anything.”
“You are different to Schleck. She’s efficient, but she closes her mind to almost everything.”
“That doesn’t sound like a good trait for a detective to have.”
Georgette shrugged. “She likes to close cases.”
The man behind the counter stepped closer and wiped the bench just near Georgette, where a little pile of pizza crumbs had formed.
“The pizza is good, mademoiselle?” he asked in French.
“Oui, c’est délicieux.”
The man smiled at her and a pink blush bloomed on Georgette’s round cheeks.
“Mademoiselle will have another, please.” Michael said, conjuring his best French.
The man smiled broadly and moved toward the ovens.
Georgette’s eyes widened as she turned to Michael. “But, monsieur, I am on a diet.”
Michael pursed his lips, trying to hide a grin. “One more slice won’t hurt, and you do not need a diet, Georgette.”
“You’re a bad liar, but I’ll take the extra slice.”
The man returned with the slice of pizza and handed it to Georgette with a wink.
Michael’s hands tingled, very slightly, as he watched the pizza man. His name badge said ‘Antonio’. Dark hair and eyes. Michael squinted. “Parli Italiano?”
Antonio looked at Michael with a smile. “Sì.”
“The shop – is it yours?” Italian rolled off Michael’s tongue with ease.
“Yes. My father died three years ago. I inherited the shop from him.”
“Do you remember a girl who used to live upstairs? She was English, and she used to frequent your pizzeria almost weekly.”
“Especially on a Friday night; it was her habit,” Georgette added in flawless Italian.
The man smiled at her. “Is she a friend of yours?”
“Ah, no. She has gone missing. We are trying
to find her.” Georgette showed him her police credentials. “Her family is worried, as you might expect.”
The man raised his eyebrows in a look of sympathy. “I am sorry to hear that. What does she look like?”
“Short hair, light brown. Large blue eyes. Pale skin. Medium height,” Georgette said, switching to French.
The man scratched his head. “No. I cannot remember this girl. Strange, I remember all of my regulars.”
Michael looked at Georgette.
“Never mind,” she said. “Thank you.”
Antonio nodded and turned to serve a waiting customer.
“I didn’t know you spoke Italian, Georgette.” Michael whispered.
Georgette smiled. “I speak German, too. It is the norm in my village.”
“And English?”
“I learnt English as a teenager. I lived in Bath as a student in exchange for one year.”
Michael nodded. “Well, we should go.”
Georgette nodded toward Antonio. “Perhaps she used her mind powers to wipe his memory?”
Michael frowned. Yes, it was possible. Both the Foliss Abesse and the little book Brother Gerold had given him described such powers. “Perhaps.”
“You think it is possible?”
“Perhaps.” He repeated.
Georgette wiped her hands with a napkin. “So, what about this recent blog post? Will you go to the Gypsy Bar tonight? You must go. We have to see where this path leads.”
“You’re not concerned about my safety, Georgette?”
Michael was jesting with her, but a bad feeling lingered in his stomach. Or was it the hangover of emotions from last night’s dinner with Judith?
“I can arrange to send a patrol unit on their rounds to that area. I will in fact.”
Michael shook his head. “No, don’t worry about it. Perhaps it would be better to leave the police out of this.”
Georgette nodded. “Yes, I see what you mean.” Georgette finished her slice and they rose to leave.
“Grazie,” Georgette said to Antonio as they turned to walk out.
“That girl. She sounds familiar to me now.”
Michael’s fingers tingled as Antonio spoke.
“You remember her?” Georgette asked.
“No. Not remember. But there is a woman who fits her description.” He pointed to the bench outside. “Every Friday evening she comes and sits there and just watches as though she is waiting for her order. We asked her once if she wanted some pizza, but she said nothing and left. Now we leave her to her peace, but she always comes, and she looks very sad. Only her hair is darker than what you described. But perhaps it is her.”
“Perhaps. Grazie,” Michael responded, and he bustled Georgette out before she could ask any more questions. He didn’t want to put the man in danger. A line from his translations of the Foliss Abesse came to mind – ‘the vampyre must go to great lengths to remain hidden, and should seek out and disempower any with the knowledge of their existence.’ Michael had already exposed Georgette to risk; he had no wish to put Antonio in danger.
Chapter 14
Extract from Emma’s blog - Eighth post
The word ‘gypsy’ seems to be infiltrating my life at the moment. Amelie finally dragged me out for some fun last night. We went to Le Carré for fine dining, and then on to The Gypsy Bar for some dancing. I love that bar. It reminds me of the descriptions of the Gypsy’s pavilion in N.C.’s diary. The walls are red with lavishly embossed wallpaper. The lighting is entirely candlelight. It makes me feel as though I’ve stepped back in time.
After a couple of Frangelicoes on ice; Amelie got me up dancing. A Spanish guitar troupe was playing and when they strummed the opening chords to Bamboleo Amelie jumped to her feet. I’m not the best dancer on account of my two left feet, but I loved it. It was wonderful to relax and have fun and just enjoy the music.
Little did I know I was being watched. Amelie and I danced for a handful of songs, and only sat down to rest when the band declared a break. Amelie decided we needed a cocktail and went off to the bar. I sipped my water and watched the crowd milling around our table. That’s when I saw him.
A man sat at a shadowy corner table. He swirled a glass of wine. The momentary glow of his cigarette as he inhaled revealed a handsome face, framed in black silk hair, and dark eyes that looked directly at me. I smiled then and looked away. There was something so intense and interesting about him. I got that feeling, you know, when you see someone who attracts you? Like a butterfly sensation in the stomach. I looked around for Amelie; she was still at the bar. When I looked back at the corner table, he was gone.
The Gypsy Bar was dark and cosy, and not at all like the gaudy nightclubs Michael had sometimes glimpsed in London. The walls impressed with their embossed patterns, and he understood why Emma mentioned them in her blog. Just as she’d described, the whole place was lit with candles, and they cast deep dancing shadows. A waiter was in the process of changing one that now guttered, employing a copper snuffer to stop the smoke and replace the candle. The action brought memories of church to mind. Michael had changed many candles over the years.
A few small tables and chairs lined the wall to the left. In the centre, the wooden dance floor remained empty, and directly above it a chandelier shimmered with hundreds of candles. The light gleamed warmer than the bright light of the chandelier at the restaurant the night before, and the crystals sparkled with deep colours – red, purple, orange.
To the left, on a small stage, a lone guitarist strummed slow Spanish music. Only a few patrons sat at the tables or the bar. Michael checked the time on his phone – eleven p.m. He stifled a yawn and stepped to the bar, his reflection greeting him in the mirror – the mirror Anais had described. His image was clear, although the soft candlelight made his hair appear unnaturally golden.
At the bar, Michael ordered a Frangelico on ice and took a seat at one of the small tables. The creamy hazelnut flavour of the liqueur sparked a fire in his blood and his feet started tapping a slow rhythm to the music.
A few couples entered and took their seats. It seemed most had come here for deep conversation. Some were smoking and a light haze surrounded the candles.
The music changed, a strong beat strummed and a couple rose to the dance floor. Michael recognised the song and the dance, the Pasodoble; the man the matador, and the woman his cape. The couple performed it competently – dramatic, though not at all showy.
Michael took out his tablet and re-read the blog post about the club, looking for any clue he might have missed. “A man sat at a shadowy corner table.” Michael glanced at each corner. Shadows lurked in them, but the tables there remained empty. So, this is where she met him. Michael closed his eyes and relaxed, trying to allow any clues to bubble to the surface of his mind.
His fingers tingled and the overwhelming feeling of being watched tickled the back of his neck. Michael’s eyes opened wide and he snapped his tablet shut.
The dancers were just finishing their steps. They received soft applause, then the music changed once more and they started a slow rumba – the dance of love.
The feeling wouldn’t leave him, and Michael scanned the room. Most patrons still enjoyed their conversations, but some now watched the dancing couple. The barman spoke quietly to a woman as he polished a glass.
Slowly, Michael turned to look at the entrance behind him – a curtained foyer. A shadow lurked: he squinted, and the figure moved. A feminine shadow walked through the foyer and exited the club. Michael swallowed his nerves with the last of his drink and stood to follow.
A heavy mist shrouded the city as it had done every night. Midnight, and the street was nearly empty of people. He looked up and down the boulevard, but there was no sign of the woman. Footsteps echoed ahead and when he peered into the gloom; someone crossed the road.
Michael’s pulse quickened, and he tightened his scarf and followed.
He walked under the wrought iron archway. Low lights lit a stone pathway thr
ough the trees. Soon a headstone came into clear view and Michael suddenly realized where he was – Père Lachaise Cemetery. A shiver bolted along his spine. Footsteps resounded and he clenched his hands into fists and followed, his heart pumping. He dared not let his mind run away with him, there was no cause for fear; he simply had to follow the shadow. He walked uphill now, the steam of his breath just visible. The graves stood all around – tall headstones, chapels and granite monuments dwarfed him, and the sense of ancient bones came to him in strong undeniable bursts. Some suffered an uneasy rest.
Gradually, the cemetery became more ordered. Parallel paths and ‘streets’ replaced the meandering stone path, as though at some point in the past someone had taken control, and it began to look like its own small city. The headstones weren’t as old or as tall here, and the further he walked the more modern they became – understated and simple. In the distance mist swirled in slow turns under a lamp and Michael stopped. The shadow lurked there. A woman, small, dark and ethereal in the fog, now crouched in front of a headstone as though reading the inscription. Slowly, she turned to face him and Michael’s heart stopped at the white indiscernible face that shone for an instant in the night; she turned again, and stepped into the darkness like a cat. She was gone.
Michael marched with hurried steps, his eyes squinting into the gloom, but there was no sign of her. At the grave, a bunch of flowers became visible, half hidden in the shadow of the headstone. Michael adjusted his glasses and bent to examine them more closely. He swallowed a heavy lump as he recognised the wildflowers he had put in Emma’s apartment. He crouched at the grave and read the inscription on the headstone. A woman was buried here.
“Jeanne Hubert,” Michael whispered her name, and a tingle bloomed in his hands that made him shiver. Jeanne had died a year ago. Michael took a photo of the headstone with his phone, and then stood abruptly. The darkness beyond the lamp remained as vast as an ocean, and only silence greeted him. Michael took a deep, unsteady breath and turned to hurry back down the path, the way he had come, his footsteps echoing. Was it Emma he’d seen? He couldn’t be sure, but the night was dark and it was late. His spine tingled and a sense of foreboding gripped his heart. He needed to get back to his room, away from lurking shadows.
