“Yes, I’m . . . that thing.”
“ ’Tis well.” He took two long strides that placed him beside the window. “Diablerie’s scheme hinges thusly. The lower orders are a confrontational bunch amongst themselves, but there is one thing that will unite them.”
“What’s that?” Alison sensed he wouldn’t continue until she asked.
“A common foe. And there is no greater foe to the common than authority. Whatever petty reproachment exists between that harpy and her tenant will swiftly be forgotten now that she perceives the terrible shadow of the law overhead. Diablerie wagers she wasted no time in informing him of our presence.”
“You think so?”
“Diablerie does not ‘think so’! Diablerie is friend only to certainties! And it is my certainty that the creature that did its dark deeds within that maisonette will be swift to return there, to erase their stagnant droppings. All we need do is lie in wait.”
“So this is a stakeout?”
“Spare me your gutter dialect. Keep watch upon the accursed household. I shall monitor our surroundings through the less mundane methods.” He made to resume his weird hand gestures.
“Um, just one thing,” said Alison quickly, before he put himself in a trance again. “Are you sure it’s an absolute certainty? He might get frightened off. Or that woman might not want any more trouble.”
Diablerie drew himself up, offering the full force of his glare. “You dare to question Diablerie?”
“No!”
He drew himself even further, standing on tiptoe to enhance the effect. “You dare to go back on your words?!”
“I’m sorry,” cringed Alison. “Which one was worse?”
Diablerie lowered himself with a sneer. “Leave the thinking to me, girl. Trust in Diablerie’s ineffable wisdom. There is solidarity within all lower orders of life. With the possible exception of tainted ones.”
Alison hung her head and resolutely took up the binoculars again, but Diablerie had temporarily blinded himself to signals.
“Like your friends,” said Diablerie wheedlingly. “The fire elemental and the sniffer dog. What better example could there be for the wretchedness of the taint, incapable of tolerating even itself?”
“But . . . Adam and Victor have worked together for—”
“I speak not of their brittle fraternity! I speak of their campaign to hunt their fellow hellspawn! No sooner was their taint identified than they employed it against their own kind. Be ever mindful of any who so easily betray their body and soul.”
Alison gave in, lowering the binoculars. “But, Doctor, they didn’t have a choice . . .”
“Pfah! Diablerie has more respect for the creatures we exterminate. At least they show loyalty to a cause. Be it the evil cause of the Ancients’ war upon humanity.”
Alison strongly suspected that Diablerie was testing her, or deliberately trying to drive her away so that he could be free of scrutiny at last. In which case, the smartest response would have been to brush it off and quietly get on with her task. But out of nowhere she thought of Nita Pavani, and the confidence with which she threw out her bold ideas. She talked and acted like she refused to change to win the approval of others. Alison wanted to become just like her.
“I think you’re wrong,” said Alison, bracing herself.
Diablerie slowly cocked his head. His voice was like cold magma gradually descending a gentle slope. “What did you say?”
The fact that he had not responded with fierce dictatorial ranting did nothing to ease Alison’s nerves. “I said, I think, maybe, you might be wrong. Possibly. Maybe the Ancients aren’t all working against humanity. Maybe there’s not some big plan behind it all.”
“Not working against humanity?!” roared Diablerie, incredulously pulling his cloak tighter around himself. “They work against humanity from within our very souls! Corrupting our newborns with their insidious taint!”
“I know! I know!” Alison had unconsciously brought one of her knees up to her chest and was now perched on the crate of bottles in a partial fetal position. “But that doesn’t mean they have a plan! Maybe they’re like the fluidics. Maybe they just want a chance to live.”
Diablerie backed off, narrowed his eyes, and made a dramatic half turn on his heel. “So,” he said, apparently addressing the door. “You think you have learned enough to challenge Diablerie in the field of debate?”
“I’d just like to know what makes you certain that they’re evil,” she said, weakly.
He spun back around, his cloak twirling hypnotically, and stabbed a pointed finger. “Quake at Diablerie’s mastery of logic! Why infect the youth with seductive power, if not intending such powers to be used? Why arm their slaves, if not in the aid of further conquest? You are ensnared in the mire of Diablerie’s invincible reason!”
“No, wait, hang on,” stammered Alison. “You’re talking about magic powers, right? Well, if they’re part of some invasion plan, then why are some of the powers completely useless? Like . . . the glowing-hair thing, or . . . sweating too much? Isn’t it all completely random?”
Diablerie went quiet. Again, he slowly cocked his head from one side to the other, his face rotating like the needle of a pressure gauge. “So,” he said lowly. “Know you of someone who sweats too much?”
A little instinct that had been trying to get Alison’s attention now grabbed her forebrain by the throat and shook it back and forth, yelling, “stupid, stupid, stupid.” She forced herself to freeze her expression and maintain eye contact as she mentally turned out her bottomless internal filing cabinet and hunted through the papers.
How could she know of Jessica Weatherby’s sweating power? Had it been in her file? Not the pages Alison had seen, but there had been others, through which Diablerie had dismissively picked. Did Diablerie know Jessica’s power? If not, why did he want to know if Alison knew? If so, did he already know that Alison knew? Did he know that she knew that he knew? What was she supposed to know again?
His stare wasn’t letting up after five seconds, and Alison needed a quick reply. “I just . . . heard about it from somewhere.”
Diablerie’s sneer did a few circuits around his mouth. “From somewhere?” he repeated mockingly. “How uncharacteristically vague.”
She came to a decision. “It was Jessica Weatherby’s power, wasn’t it,” she said, sitting up straight. “Aaron Weatherby’s sister, the one we couldn’t find. It said so in her file.”
Diablerie raised an eyebrow. Of course, the possibility existed that her file had said nothing of the sort, and that Diablerie knew that, and now also knew that Alison was lying. She shifted uncomfortably as her embarrassed blush spread to every nook and cranny of her flesh, and tried to will away her growing headache.
“Ah, yes,” said Diablerie in a bored tone, breaking the tension at last. “The tainted girl who has somehow eluded all efforts to track her. And whom you now claim to not be dangerous?”
“W-well, not because she has the power of sweating too much. What possible danger could that be?”
Diablerie opened his mouth condescendingly but swiftly closed it again as no words came. His gaze tracked away, and he began to thoughtfully smooth down his mustache with his thumb and index finger. “One could slip in it,” he offered, without confidence.
“One could . . .”
“Gah! Diablerie tires of this asinine debate!” He pointed a thin finger at the binoculars that still hung loosely from Alison’s hands. “Your task was to watch the accursed maisonette! It has been without scrutiny for minutes now!”
Alison looked down. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”
“Foolish girl!” He made for the door. “The Trooping of the Color could have taken place below the window! Diablerie shall inspect the door for interference and return. Waver not from thy task again.”
The maisonette door looked fairly uninterfered with from where Alison was sitting, but she remained silent as the sound of Diablerie stomping down the stairs faded away. Stew
ing in an unaccountable sense of guilt, she resolved to avoid winning arguments in future.
40
Drawing information out of Jessica Weatherby had been as exhausting an experience as Alison had warned, and Nita Pavani was taking a moment to recharge. She stood before the drinks machine in the little kitchenette near her office, perusing the energy drink logos and trying to remember which parent companies she was supposed to be boycotting.
“Doctor,” said Elizabeth Lawrence, materializing by her side to fill a water jug from the kitchenette sink.
“Ms. Lawrence,” returned Nita. With the formalities concluded, she turned slightly toward her and put her hands on her hips. “Why was I not informed that there are two schools?”
“I assumed you had done sufficient research,” said Elizabeth casually, putting the merest, barely detectable speck of emphasis on the word assumed.
“Well, from what my research has indicated,” said Nita, placing a considerably more obvious emphasis on research, “this initial school sounds like an ideal learning environment for the interdimensionally gifted. I want to inspect it. As soon as possible.”
“Naturally. Danvers can arrange. Make sure to let me know your recommendations.”
Nita tensed up further. All her limbs stiffened in place, and her teeth started to hurt. “I will be sure to do that.”
“Excellent.”
Neither woman moved or broke eye contact. Nita broke the silence. “I’m fairly certain I know what I will be recommending, if everything I have heard is true. The secondary school should be closed, and the primary school should be expanded to offer complete education of the interdimensionally gifted.”
Elizabeth shifted her weight, groping the handle of her cane. “If you can put together a rough plan of action in the next few days, I’m sure we can reach a satisfactory compromise within the next week.”
Nita broke. “What have you done?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve done something, haven’t you! To make this all pointless! What was it this time, another leak to the press? Or you’ve warned them ahead of time, and I’ll show up and the whole place will be razed to the ground?” She took a fearful step backward. “That’s it! You’re trying to make me paranoid!”
Elizabeth sighed. “Dr. Pavani. Please. I have no interest in sabotaging your work with the schools. All I want is for us to get past this silliness and find a place where we can meet halfway.” Her mouth twisted a little as if trying to suck on a sharpened pear drop without lacerating her tongue. “I apologize if I have come across as hostile.”
Pavani’s gaze darted around, looking for the trick, before furrowing her brow in thought and refocusing on Elizabeth. “Did Sean give you an ultimatum?”
Elizabeth’s phone made an insistent noise, and she seized the opportunity to break eye contact. “Excuse . . . me,” she said with growing concern, as she read the words on the screen. It was from Danvers, simply stating, come to my office urgently but not in a way that looks urgent.
She left the kitchenette and peered down the avenue of cubicles to Danvers’s office. Danvers himself was standing in the open doorway, still holding his phone and waving slightly manically with his free hand.
“Close the door behind you,” said Danvers, after Elizabeth had nonchalantly hobbled her way over. She obeyed, gently pushing the door shut with two fingers as she watched him move behind his desk, not sitting down.
“What is it?” she said.
He rotated his monitor around. “Alison’s issued credit card was stolen,” he said, in a flat voice that bubbled with internal tension. “I’ve been going over the charges the thief made, seeing if there were any we could get back.”
Elizabeth inspected the spreadsheet, and her eyes glazed over almost instantly. “What am I looking at?”
“Most of it’s rubbish. Consumer electronics, internet downloads, pizza deliveries. But there are also purchases of train and bus tickets. Back and forth, all over the country. Including”—he pointed out two highlighted lines—“two visits to Okehampton station. A short distance from the site of the fluidic murders.”
Without taking her eyes off the screen, Elizabeth rapidly pulled out a chair and sat. “When?”
“I think you could guess. The first, about a week before Casin and Hesketh discovered the first dead fluidic. The second, the very morning of the Dartmoor forest fire.”
“So whoever stole Alison’s card . . .”
“. . . is a very strong candidate for the Fluidic Killer.” Danvers bit his lip. “Is it possible that Alison could have lied about it being stolen?”
He and Elizabeth both glanced away for a few brief seconds of intense thought, then simultaneously met each other’s gaze again.
“No,” Danvers decided.
“No. Not her. Anyway, she has an alibi for the second killing. She was with Casin and Hesketh as it was taking place.”
“Assuming we can trust all of them. Assuming the three of them aren’t conspiring. Could they be?”
There was another, even shorter bout of thoughtful glances. “No.”
“No, probably not.”
Elizabeth pulled her chair in closer. “Do we know precisely when the card was stolen?”
“Alison says she only ever made one charge with it, so it had to be between then and the time of the second charge.” He pointed to the very top of the list. “That was on the evening of the same day. The day of her first assignment with—”
“Diablerie,” finished Elizabeth.
Danvers didn’t like the low, hungry way in which she had pronounced the word, nor the way she squeezed her walking cane handle. “If we’re believing Alison’s account, then he has an alibi for the second killing as well.”
“I’m not convinced that he does.”
“The other three all say he was in the toilet when the second killing started.”
“No, they said he went into a toilet, and was out of view when the second killing started. Alison specifically mentioned that he was taking abnormally long and being unusually quiet.”
Danvers folded his arms. “How about we look for a theory that fits all the facts, and not for facts that fit the current theory. Why would he buy a train ticket to the place he was going to be driven to?”
“He hates magical creatures,” said Elizabeth, dodging the question. “He says so constantly. None of us know what he does in his private life. And we’ve suspected for some time that he has a hidden agenda.”
Danvers rubbed his brow with thumb and forefinger. “No, Elizabeth, you have. You are the one who insists on keeping him employed. What about all these other payments? You really think Diablerie has a fondness for”—he leaned in to read off a random entry—“season one and two of Ritsuko vs. the Space Bastard?”
“Obfuscation,” said Elizabeth stubbornly. “It seems to be one of his specialties.”
Richard did a small circuit of the room, letting all the air out from his lungs in a single, slow hiss. “You seriously want to do this? You want to finger one of our own people? On this evidence?”
“I agree it’s hardly conclusive. But it’s conclusive enough. The Fluidic Killer is the issue of the day; every second we show no progress undermines the Department further. Having a suspect in custody will mean a lot. To us, and to everyone living in fear.” She met his gaze. “People have died, Richard.”
His mouth hung open. “This is quite a reversal. What happened? Have we had an ultimatum, or something?”
41
Still sitting at the window of the room above the pub, Alison watched Diablerie stride along the street toward the maisonette. There was something almost musical about his pompous gait. With every step he raised his walking stick and brought the point around in a wide circle before returning it to the ground, billowing his cloak in an identical pattern each time.
She told herself that she wasn’t spying; she was watching out for attack. She wasn’t entirely sure what she could do to help him if
an attacker did appear, but that was a bridge to cross when she came to it.
The street was bathed in the cold blue light of late afternoon, but there was still enough light to see the maisonette door. It was little more than a sliver at this distance, but the bright frontage of the takeaway shop was impossible to miss. Diablerie slowed as he approached, stopped dead to stand with affronted dignity at the jovial honk of a passing car, then pinned himself to the wall and began to creep the remaining distance to the door.
Alison assumed he was trying to go unnoticed by the people in the takeaway shop. When he was close enough to the maisonette door, he planted his feet to one side of it and leaned over to inspect the handle.
Apparently seeing no sign that anything had changed, he leaned back. He glanced left and right, then took something from the band of his top hat.
He had his back to Alison, and his cloak was muddling his silhouette, but she could tell that he was working at the door handle. She thought he might have been dusting for fingerprints, until the door suddenly fell open and Diablerie disappeared inside.
He picked the lock, she realized. Her pulse quickened as she further realized that he was now out of sight, and bad things had a tendency to happen when Diablerie was out of sight. This development was threatening to invite all of Ms. Lawrence’s terrible and wrathful sarcasm.
Alison lowered her binoculars and stood up. She was planning to make for the stairs and chase after him, until she saw a battered Range Rover pull up and park directly below her window. She recognized the number plate from the email that Danvers had sent along. It was Mike Badger’s vehicle.
Moments later, Mike Badger himself emerged from the driver’s seat, and Alison endeavored to duck out of sight. He looked exactly as he had done in the file photo Danvers had sent. She was pretty sure he was wearing the exact same clothing. The same flat cap, tweed jacket, and Wellington boots.
He moved around the car to the back and opened the boot. The car was parked so close—and more to the point, the buildings in this area were so squat—that even from a first-floor window Alison could plainly see the entire contents. There were a number of ragged cardboard boxes, disgorging ammunition and occult paraphernalia onto the floor, as well as a plastic shopping bag containing a selection of frozen pies. Two beef and onion, one chicken and mushroom, one that just cryptically boasted “meat.” Probably not important details, but she couldn’t help memorizing them anyway.
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