Black Hearts Rising (Wardens of the Black Heart Book 2)

by Rob Campbell

  Chapter 29

  Gooch was startled by a knock at the door.

  Despite not needing as much sleep as he used to, he found himself dozing off from time to time. He’d only been watching the evening news to pass the time but had become interested in a report from Australia in which a truck driver had had a lucky escape when a large section of bridge had collapsed. The driver was explaining to the reporter, in morbid detail, how several cars that had been on the road in front of him had slipped into the ravine as he watched helplessly from behind his wheel.

  When the reporter had asked him how he felt, he’d given a one-word answer: “Lucky.”

  “Lucky that you’d escaped with your life when countless others perished?” the reporter had pressed.

  “Lucky that I had to jam my brakes on when a runaway pram rolled across my path less than a minute before the bridge collapsed,” the driver had said. “If I hadn’t done that, I’d have made it onto the bridge thirty seconds earlier,” he elaborated, turning to cast a mournful glance into the ravine into which the central span of the concrete bridge and approximately twenty cars had tumbled.

  Gooch had watched in fascination, dispassionately calculating how much good and bad luck must have been involved in the incident. He wondered whether the disaster had truly been an act of God, as the reporter had surmised, or whether agents from the Wardens’ Asia-Pacific arm had been involved.

  He felt himself drifting again before coming awake at the sound of more urgent knocking. He stared at the television to find that the news had been replaced by an early-evening quiz show, the plastered-on smile of the gurning host not too dissimilar to that of the Australian reporter.

  Mindless quiz shows, horrific disasters, reality TV – anything to further anaesthetise the brains of the nation’s couch potatoes after a mind-numbing day at work. He rose to his feet, and there was a third series of knocks as he approached the door.

  “Alright, give me a second,” he said angrily, reaching for the lock.

  Who’d call on him at this time of evening? It’s not like he knew many people in town, even though he’d lived in this apartment for more than a year. He hoped it wasn’t that busy-body from next door. What was her name? Sheila Grady? Always turning up at awkward times, asking him if he’d seen her cat or whether he knew when the landlord would next be around.

  He pulled the door open and felt the breath catch in his throat.

  “Good evening, Charles,” the Bookkeeper said. The light from the corridor shone off the gel on his shiny, grey hair, giving him the look of an ageing vampire. Not too far from the truth, he thought, feeling an involuntary curl of his lip.

  Suddenly, he wished it was only Mrs Grady standing there.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” the Bookkeeper asked, his question accompanied by a slight rise of the left eyebrow.

  “In the movies, it’s bad form to invite a vampire into your house,” Gooch deadpanned, despite not feeling the slightest bit jovial.

  “Humour doesn’t suit you, Charles.”

  Gooch beckoned him in, realising that he wouldn’t get rid of a fellow council member that easily. Especially if he was here on Wardens’ business.

  “I assume you’re not here simply to pass the time of day?”

  The Bookkeeper grunted noncommittally as he made his way into the apartment, but Gooch knew better than to assume the best-case scenario where this man was concerned.

  The Bookkeeper removed his cheap jacket and threw it over one of Gooch’s dining chairs, making himself at home at the table. “A strong coffee wouldn’t go amiss,” he said as he pulled out his ledger from a briefcase.

  Any slim hope that this was merely a social call disappeared when Gooch saw the old book on his dining table. His mouth suddenly felt drier than a three-day-old bacon sandwich, and despite the uneasy storm roiling in his stomach – a feeling that he’d not experienced for many years – a strong coffee seemed like a good plan.

  “I’ll get the coffees,” he said, watching as the Bookkeeper removed a black pen from his pocket and wrote something in his ledger.

  “You do that, Charles. I just need to make a few notes before we start.”

  The day he never had to hear the rasp of that voice again couldn’t come too soon. Quickly assessing his options, he realised that he didn’t have any. If he threw the trumped-up bureaucrat out whilst he was on Warden council business, there would surely be serious repercussions. No, he might not like it, but all he could do was go along with whatever the Bookkeeper had in mind.

  When the kettle had boiled, he poured water on the instant coffee.

  “Milk?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Black, no sugar,” the Bookkeeper replied without taking his eyes from the page.

  Naturally, thought Gooch, carrying the cups to the table and placing one down heavily, next to the ledger. A small amount of coffee spilled over the side where it stained the edge of the page.

  “Careful!” the Bookkeeper said angrily, pushing the offending liquid away with the back of his hand.

  Gooch kept his face neutral, but inside he was laughing. A petty victory, admittedly, but he hated the greasy-haired clerk with a passion, and any victory tasted sweet, regardless of its nature. “Sorry,” he said through clenched teeth.

  The Bookkeeper glared at him before picking up the cup and taking a hesitant sip. He made a face like he had been served a cup of warm mud. “I take it that you didn’t spit in that?” he said humourlessly.

  Damn, I didn’t think of that. That would have been another petty victory.

  “Can we get on with whatever you’ve come here to discuss?” Gooch said.

  “All in good time.” The Bookkeeper held a pen between his two hands, twirling it around absently. “Why don’t we start with how things are going here?”

  “So-so,” Gooch said evasively.

  “Any sign of The Frenchman?”

  “Not yet. I’m working on a recovery plan.”

  “Has Ramón Blanco been of any assistance?”

  Gooch pressed his lips together and shook his head, trying to manufacture a suitably disgusted expression. “About as useful as a hand-brake in a canoe.”

  “He’s very highly regarded by Turnbull and the others. Are you saying that he hasn’t been able to provide any information to guide you?”

  “No,” Gooch said flatly. “I thought he might be able to use his so-called prophetic skills to point out when Lester Hawkstone might be at his weakest, but he seems to spend all his days in a daydream.”

  The Bookkeeper raised his cup to his lips, managing to take a couple of gulps without wincing this time. He lowered the cup and licked his lips, looking for all the world like a reptile eyeing its prey. “So, you won’t be recommending him for future missions?”

  “You’re more likely to find a sharper tool in a jar of marshmallows.”

  “How do you feel about Ramón as a person?” the Bookkeeper asked, his eyes narrowing slightly, clearly failing to find any humour in Gooch’s quip.

  “He’s not my favourite person after the mess he’s landed me in, I can tell you that.”

  “You think he’s caused you some trouble?” The Bookkeeper’s voice indicated a piqued interest.

  “I guess you wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  The Bookkeeper made a few more notes in his ledger. Gooch peered across the table in an effort to see what he was writing, but the spiderlike scrawl that passed for handwriting wherever this halfwit was educated made it impossible.

  “When was the last time you spoke to Ramón?”

  Gooch thought for a few moments. “Not for a few days. I sent him a text a couple of days ago, but he didn’t reply.”

  The Bookkeeper nodded as if understanding Gooch’s problem before saying: “Hard to do when you’re dead.”

  “Don’t make excuses for him… wait… what did you say?”

  “Ramón Blanco’s body was found by a jogger in the woods this afternoon.”


  Gooch stared across the table, open-mouthed. He’d been honest enough when he’d said that he didn’t like Ramón, but he never expected this. “How…?” he started.

  “According to a source we have with the local police, his throat had been slit from ear-to-ear, his tattoo carved out of his flesh.”

  “Classic Wardens,” Gooch commented. Somebody must have wanted Ramón dead badly and was prepared to send a message whilst doing it.

  “Indeed,” the Bookkeeper agreed, his eyes fixed on Gooch.

  “Wait… you don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?”

  “I don’t think it’s your style, Charles. You prefer more subtle methods like radiation poisoning.”

  He’d expected some put-down along those lines – his greatest triumph being thrown back in his face.

  “Plus,” the Bookkeeper continued, “you probably don’t have the skill.”

  Gooch struggled to hold in his contempt. He felt an anger boiling inside his chest and clenched his fists. The Bookkeeper’s response was to scrawl a few more words in the book, which made Gooch even angrier.

  “I’m sorry to hear about Ramón,” he lied, “but is there a point to all of this? If you don’t think that I killed Ramón, then why are you here?”

  The Bookkeeper leaned back in his chair, tossing his pen onto the ledger whilst simultaneously letting out a long sigh.

  “I’m not here to judge you.” The Bookkeeper combined a gravelly chuckle with a look of contempt. “I merely record the facts and leave the big decisions to those who know better.” Gooch thought that he sounded like a civil servant. He looked across at the man who claimed not to judge him, a feeling of queasiness brought on by the smell of the man’s hair gel coming on and refusing to pass.

  “I won’t lie, Charles. The council is disappointed with your recent work. Let’s face it, The Frenchman is just the latest cock-up in a series of failed missions and sloppy tradecraft.”

  “But other than that, I’m doing alright?” Gooch replied, hoping that an injection of humour might turn the tide of the rapidly nose-diving interview.

  “This is no laughing matter. You’ve not even managed to put any lesser objects back into play these last twelve months!”

  “What about that carriage clock that led to the house fire?” Gooch protested.

  The Bookkeeper flipped back a few pages in his ledger, the paper making a cracking noise as he turned the page. “That was thirteen months ago.” He gave a snort as he read something else. “Then there was that frankly pathetic attempt to flatten that newspaper editor with a falling piano.”

  “I thought you weren't here to judge.”

  “I'm not judging you, I'm merely passing on the thoughts of our esteemed leadership.”

  Gooch fumbled for words as he fought a wave of exasperation that threatened to drown him. “You're just a glorified clerk,” he muttered.

  “We all make our choices, Charles.”

  The Bookkeeper turned back to the page where he was making notes, brushing some imaginary crumbs from the margin. “Have you seen any sign of The Truth around here?”

  Gooch found himself wrong-footed by the question. “The Truth? Surely you don’t believe that poppycock spouted by Harry Winterhart? A message from the other side?” Gooch remembered the council meeting that had been the catalyst for his posting here.

  “Just asking the question, Charles, that’s all.” The Bookkeeper sounded bored with the conversation, but it didn’t stop him retrieving a red pen from his pocket and marking something in his damn book. He even underlined it twice, which couldn’t possibly be good.

  “What are you writing?” Gooch asked in dismay, a question that prompted his adversary to flip his book closed.

  “It’ll all be in the report.” The Bookkeeper smiled sourly, showing his brown teeth. “It’s important to follow due process.”

  Curse him and his two-bit process! It was bad enough that the man’s probing questions had sought to belittle him, but what hurt Gooch even more was the fact that he knew that the Bookkeeper revelled in his job. You wouldn’t know it to look at his miserable pasty face, but Gooch could just imagine him skipping home after an evening like this!

  “So, what happens now?” he asked, feeling all the fight draining out of him, hot on the heels of his confidence that had obviously made a run for it during the interview.

  “You know what happens now, Charles. I make my report, and you'll know the outcome before the week is out.” There was no attempt at a handshake or even a parting gesture. The Bookkeeper shrugged on his coat, slipped his ledger into his briefcase and made for the door.

  He hadn’t expected any special favours, and to say that the interview hadn’t gone well was a gross understatement. The truly sad part was that despite his feeble attempts to undermine the Bookkeeper, Gooch knew that there were more than a few home truths in the damning indictment that had been delivered. He hadn’t achieved even a tenth of what he’d accomplished in Chernobyl in all the years since. Turnbull had warned his old friend that he needed some measure of success.

  We need a result here.

  Turnbull’s words still rang in Gooch’s ear, but he struggled to find the energy to care. He moved over to the window and peered down into the gloomy street where the Bookkeeper was making his way home, or to whatever appointment he had next. A falling piano would probably be too much to hope for at this stage, and even then, the damn thing would probably miss the poxy clerk. He always came up smelling of roses in the eyes of his fellow council members.

  Whatever happened from here was in the lap of the gods, which for some reason, Gooch found ironic considering the helping hand he’d given fate over the years. It could have been worse; it had certainly turned out that way for Ramón Blanco.

  Chapter 30

  For the second time in the last month, death had paid a visit to Culverton Beck.

  We’d both felt shaken when we’d left Lester’s yesterday. Bad news travelled fast, but it seemed that horrific news travelled faster. With the scent of blood still fresh in the air, legions of reporters and TV crews had descended on our home town once again as if borne on the wings of angels. Or maybe demons.

  There was a healthy line in rumours today. People gathered on street corners, discussing the shocking news that had played out on their TV screens the previous night. Nobody knew who had died, but there was some conjecture about a man who may have been attacked whilst out jogging. Another story suggested that the victim was a gang member who’d been shot by a vengeful rival. It didn’t sound like the sort of thing that happened around here, but after recent events, I wasn’t prepared to rule it out.

  On the way through town, we’d passed the old man with the sandwich board: Toby Barnes, according to the vicar. For some reason, I found that I couldn’t look him in the eye. Whether the end was nigh or not, I couldn’t say, but the end had certainly come around for whoever it was that lay in the woods.

  However, the unexpected turn of events hadn’t dissuaded me from the course of action that I had decided on in the small hours of the morning. A night of tossing and turning, thinking about a dead body, and Victoria’s comment about grabbing life with both hands while you still can, had been enough for the germ of a plan to form in my mind.

  It was a reckless plan, but a plan all the same. I’d yet to seek Monkey’s opinion, and his dour mood this morning hadn’t made it any easier to broach the subject with him. He seemed preoccupied with something, the odd twists on his expressive face suggesting that I wasn’t the only one who’d spent a restless night. But rather than tackling him about it now, I thought it more important that we head to the one place where we might get a straight story.

  I wasn’t prepared for the truth that we’d discover once we stepped into the office.

  “Anja?”

  Her face looked pale, a distinct lack of makeup around the eyes lending her a haunted look. She didn’t respond to my greeting.

  Elaine, the reception
ist, was fussing over Anja at her desk.

  “Poor love. Get this down you,” she said as she handed Anja a steaming cup of tea. Anja accepted the cup with an air of autonomy like she was a robot performing some mundane task on a production line.

  “What’s happened?” I asked Mick.

  “We’ve had some bad news, I’m afraid.” The tone of Mick’s voice indicated that whatever he had to say, we’d be better off sitting down.

  “Mick?” I said, suddenly feeling a little off-kilter.

  The editor rested his backside on Neil’s old desk, removed his glasses and rubbed the end of his nose a couple of times.

  Delaying tactics – I’d seen it before, just before the doctor had delivered the hammer blow with news about my dad. One of the scenes that would be seared in my memory forever.

  Mick’s voice was flat: “The body in the woods: it’s Ramón.”

  Anja stifled a sob, dropping her cup and causing Elaine to fuss around the desk even more, trying to catch the tea with a paper towel as it spread slowly to the edge of the desk.

  “Are you sure? I thought they didn’t know who it is.” The news reports that I’d seen had confirmed that the victim was a man but hadn’t mentioned a name.

  “It’s Ramón. I spoke to a couple of officers I know on the force. They found his wallet and confirmed that the victim was Hispanic.”

  “I feel so guilty!” Anja wailed, huge sobs wracking her body. Elaine gave up on the tea, wrapping Anja in her arms.

  “It’s not your fault, my love. What have you got to feel guilty about?”

  “I cursed him for not calling me back, called him all the names under the sun. All that time he was lying dead!”

  I didn’t have any words of comfort for her. It wasn’t her fault; how could she have known? But it’s human nature to feel guilt after a traumatic event, even when there’s nothing that you could have done. I should know; I’d had that experience.

  “How did he die?” Monkey asked sombrely.

  “Not well,” Mick forced through gritted teeth, glancing over at Anja as if admitting what he knew made him guilty too. With her head still buried in Elaine’s embrace, I didn’t think that anything we could say could make her feel any worse.