by Helen Harper
I’m not surprised. If she found out the truth, she’d probably flip. Nicholls has never liked me. Even before I turned vigilante, I’m sure I was top of her hit list.
‘I understand,’ I tell him quietly. ‘But I would like to get Lisa Johnson’s file.’
Foxworthy’s fingers tighten round his glass. Other than that, he gives no hint of his unhappiness at our deal. ‘Hellstrom first.’
I arch a teasing eyebrow as if to joke that I’m not sure I trust him. Foxworthy is clearly not in the mood for jokes – at least, not from me. I sigh and give him the address.
‘He won’t be alone,’ I warn. ‘He’s too canny for that.’
Foxworthy gives me a distracted nod. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me how you came across this information?’
‘I’ll tell you if you want.’ I mean it; I owe this gruff old policeman a great deal, even if relations between us are now at breaking point.
He shakes his head. ‘Perhaps not.’ He gets up and opens a drawer, passing over a manila envelope. It’s on the slim side.
‘Is this it?’
‘It’s all I could get at short notice.’
‘I wanted to see the items taken from her room as well,’ I remind him.
‘Bo, you wouldn’t believe the strings I had to pull just to get you that. Be satisfied because there’s nothing else coming.’
I look into his eyes. He’s telling the truth. So be it. I lay the file to one side; I’ll look at it when I have peace and quiet and I’m in a position to give it all my attention.
The sky outside is already starting to lighten and my eyelids are growing very heavy. I expended a lot of energy getting shot tonight. I need my beauty sleep.
‘There aren’t any curtains in the spare room,’ Foxworthy says. ‘But I have a cupboard which has enough space.’ He looks me over critically. ‘It helps that you’re the size of a thimble.’
The corner of my mouth quirks up. Was that a friendly overture? ‘It’s very kind of you,’ I say. ‘I won’t disturb you any further.’ I nibble on my lip. ‘Apart from…’
He sighs. ‘What? I can’t help you with the Lisa Johnson case. It’s not mine and I’ve stepped on too many toes as it is.’
‘No, that’s okay. The file should help. It’s, um, the car outside. The one I came here in.’
His eyes narrow. ‘What about it?’
I reach into my jacket and pull out a wad of banknotes. ‘I need you to put this in the glove box and get a uniform to return it to Hyde Park.’
Foxworthy’s mouth drops open. ‘Did you steal it?’
‘I borrowed it.’
‘Well, so much for being all high and mighty and ridding London of its criminal elements,’ he says with obvious anger. ‘Last time I looked, stealing cars was a crime too.’
‘I’m compensating the owner,’ I point out. Very generously, as well.
‘Is that supposed to make a difference?’
‘Yes.’ I sigh. ‘Okay, it was wrong to take it but I had to get to see you and there was no other way to do it in time. You live too far away from the Underground train lines and I left my bike at home.’
Foxworthy shakes his head. ‘What’s happened to you?’
I don’t answer him. ‘Can you show me that cupboard?’
The anger drains out of him and he looks at me sadly. For some reason that’s far worse. I avoid his eyes.
‘Fine,’ he says finally, ‘follow me.’
***
It’s not the most comfortable place I’ve ever slept but it’s far from the worst. I spend most of the day curled up in a foetal position with some surprisingly soft towels. Foxworthy may be the archetypal grumpy divorced detective, but he knows how to use fabric softener.
When I finally wake up, my eyes snapping open and my body alert, it’s clear that Foxworthy is long gone. I take the file and wander down to the kitchen. My stomach growls in irritation at the lack of blood but it’s no matter. I can go hunting when I leave. It will take depressingly little time to find someone breaching the law; I can drink from them to show them the error of their ways. It’s win-win.
The first few pages contain little more than Lisa’s basic background information and notes from the initial interviews with her parents and neighbours. Everything confirms what I’d already discovered on my own: Lisa is a well-liked young woman who is passionate about any number of causes and has no problems voicing her opinions about them. Other than Adrian Leeman, the police found no evidence that she had any romantic entanglements. As far as the world is concerned, Lisa Johnson lived a blemish-free life.
It’s only when I reach the fifth page that I come across new information. It’s interesting information, as well. What her parents neglected to tell me – although it’s no surprise that they kept it quiet – is that her latest venture involved joining the anti-vampire protests. Together with a bunch of others, she targeted a prosperous apartment building not far from Soho which is well known for housing vampettes for the Bancroft Family.
Vampettes are willing victims, happy to allow access to their jugulars in return for favours and compensation. Most of them, like poor Connor, aren’t in it for the money; they enjoy the thrill of danger or being close to power. A good number hope that being a vampette first will make it easier to jump the queue when it comes to recruiting season. Unfortunately for them, the Families don’t care about that kind of thing.
An alarming number of new bloodguzzler recruits are actually criminals. As Michael has explained many times, recruitment is meant to encourage them to move to the straight and narrow and turn over a new leaf. He believes it keeps crime numbers low. I think the real reason for the policy is something far less admirable: not only do criminals possess skill-sets which the rest of the law-abiding population rarely have, but they’re also likely to be more loyal ‒ and more dangerous. When the five Families capped their numbers at five hundred, the only way one Family could get ahead of the others was by making sure its vampires were the biggest, baddest and downright meanest. Most vampettes don’t fit that bill. If I tried to suggest this to Michael, he’d tell me I was being unnecessarily cynical. I call it realistic.
The Soho protests didn’t take long to turn nasty. Someone, whether it was Lisa or one of her best buds, used pig’s blood to daub the front of the vampettes’ building. The vampettes called out a few vampire protectors who, in turn, threatened the crowd. As far as I can tell from the report, none of the Bancroft guzzlers intended to do anything more than shake their fists and bare their fangs but the protestors didn’t know that. Several of them rushed the vampires – never a smart move at the best of times – and while no one was seriously injured, many of the protestors spent the rest of the night in jail. Lisa was questioned but managed to escape incarceration.
Judging by events at the café last night, I wouldn’t be surprised if the tree people’s raison d’être is halting the vampires in their tracks. They might have approached her after seeing her at one of the rallies and she may have disappeared because she’s run off to join them. What I still don’t understand is if that theory is true, then why aren’t the tree people better known? And why have the protests died down rather than getting worse? I nibble my bottom lip. There is a way to find out. Unfortunately, it’s just not something I can do on my own.
I tuck the file inside my jacket and zip it up, making sure it’s not going to fall out, then I let myself out of Foxworthy’s house. The car has gone. If I’d been smart, I wouldn’t have mentioned it at all and I could have taken it back myself. At least then I’d have had some form of transportation; now I have to use my own two feet. It’s not that I’m lazy but time is constantly against me. That’s what happens when you can only go outside when the sun is down. I could nick another car but I have a feeling that Foxworthy’s patience won’t extend to me stealing from his neighbours. The nearest train station is three miles away. I can cope.
I set off, winding my way out of the cul-de-sac and towards civilisa
tion. Not only is my to-do list growing, but so are my hunger pangs. I need to find people. Tasty, juicy people.
***
With my stomach full and the three hoodie-clad blokes who are old enough to know better trussed up on a rusting kids’ roundabout, I get down to business. I’m in a position to kill several birds with one stone and I intend to take full advantage of the opportunity. Poor Medici will be feeling left out after I skipped last night’s vigil as a result of getting shot, so I head out towards his stronghold first.
When I get there, I admit that I’m surprised. Instead of its usual ‘shrouded in darkness because we’re a lair of evil vampires’ image, the Medici building is bathed in light. Not only have the curtains been thrown open so any passerby can peer inside, there are several large spotlights dotted around the front. For some reason, hundreds of candles are flickering in the gentle night breeze. Perhaps Medici is planning to break the record for the world’s largest séance. Or, more worryingly, he’s making his place look even more inviting and is literally lighting the way for more recruits to join him.
I take up my usual spot across the road. I’m not the only one; various members of the tabloid press are also there. I guess that news of Medici’s illuminations has spread quickly. Unsurprisingly, several of them break away and barrel their way towards me.
‘Bo!’
‘Red Angel!’
I hold my palms up to ward off the flashing cameras. Bloody idiots. I open my mouth in a snarl but this lot are as bloodthirsty as I am. They’re not going to be put off by a flash of white teeth.
‘Why are you here, Bo?’ a greasy-haired man asks.
‘Are you planning to join Medici? Has he asked you to come?’ babbles another.
I roll my eyes and mutter a curse under my breath. Fools. I fold my arms and drop the ferocious vampire façade. ‘Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?’ I ask coolly.
I receive several blinks in response. They’re not used to being asked questions about themselves. A journalist for the Evening Post steps forward. I vaguely recognise him. In fact, there was a story less than a fortnight ago with his byline that questioned whether I’d gone off the rails or not. ‘Tit for tat, Ms Blackman,’ he simpers. ‘Tell us why you’re here first.’
I shrug and point at the mansion. ‘I am doing what the police can’t,’ I say in a loud, clear voice. ‘Lord Medici is breaking with hundreds of years of tradition. He’s a power-hungry maniac who needs to be stopped.’
The delight on the journalists’ faces reminds me of Kimchi when I open the fridge. ‘Are you going to stop him, Bo? What are you going to do?’
I look directly in the cameras. ‘I’m a vampire.’ Duh. Obviously. ‘Anyone would think that I would support the vampires’ legal status. However, it’s wrong. The UK government needs to wake up to what’s happening and revoke the current laws allowing the Families to act as they wish. They are outdated and, worse, dangerous.’
‘But you break the law every day, Ms Blackman,’ the journalist persists. ‘Do you think you should be punished for your actions?’
‘If the law did its job,’ I answer, ‘then I wouldn’t have to cross that line.’
‘So are you going to stop Lord Medici from recruiting anyone else?’
I try to keep a straight face. Anyone with half an ounce of knowledge would know that I don’t have enough power to stop Medici from doing a damn thing. I’m pretty certain this lot are aware of that fact; they just want to see blood ‒ and they don’t care who it belongs to.
‘I would like Medici to come out from his hiding hole and talk to me. And the other Families.’ I clear my throat. ‘He’s not going to do that though. He’s too scared.’ I inject just enough sneer into my voice to make my challenge clear. It would be extraordinarily nice for Medici to come out now because he wouldn’t dare kill me in front of an audience. Despite my vigilante activities, I’m still the media’s darling. I know it won’t last; reputations turn on a dime as far as the gutter press is concerned. They might love me today but tomorrow I could be enemy numero uno. It doesn’t matter. The publicity that such an act would generate would nail Medici’s coffin shut. He’s far too clever to let that happen.
The journalist raises his eyebrows. ‘Them’s fighting words.’
I turn to the flickering candles, making a show of sweeping my gaze across the entire Medici base. ‘You betcha.’ I return my attention back to him. Tit for tat. ‘Why are you here?’
He laughs at me. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ He gestures at the lights. ‘He’s up to something. Whatever it is, we ain’t gonna miss it.’
I frown at him in exasperation. ‘You don’t know what he’s up to then?’
‘Nah.’
Like I said – idiots. I move away from the cluster, presenting them with my back to make it obvious that the questioning session is over. A few still persist but when I continue to ignore them they give up, saving their ammo for another day. They know I’ll be around again with a soundbite. As long as public opinion is against Medici and with me, then I have a chance. A slim chance, I admit, but still a chance. The paps know I need them more than they need me.
When I’m sure they’re going to leave me in peace, I hop onto the roof of a nearby car and cross my legs, resting my chin on my hands as I stare at Medici’s place. It’s a deliberate move on my part and I’m rewarded by several more camera flashes. It’ll make a nice story for tomorrow’s papers – Bo Blackman staking out the Medici Family with a hard look in her eyes. Yadda yadda. If nothing else, it might piss Medici off.
‘Good evening, Bo.’
I freeze. This is no journalist. I slowly look round, my eyes meeting those of Arzo’s. Appearing out of nowhere is a nifty trick when you’re in a wheelchair. A few of the paps turn but he’s not interesting enough for them to bother lifting their cameras. They already have all the shots they need.
I press my lips together. He’s acting casually enough, his hands on his knees and his posture relaxed. I know better.
‘Lord Montserrat told me I might find you here,’ he says, ‘although I was expecting you to be later than this.’
‘I have things to do later,’ I mutter.
‘You left without saying goodbye.’
‘Yeah.’ What of it?
‘You’re a founding member of New Order. You didn’t have to run away.’
‘Why does everyone think I did that? I wasn’t running.’ It’s true. I strolled towards X after Connor and Dahlia died. I fold my arms. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong. I just needed a change of scenery. It was getting too crowded in those offices and I wanted a change of pace.’
‘You’ve not been to the hospital to see your grandfather.’
I throw my hands up in the air and leap down from the car. This time the journalists do take notice but I ignore the whirrs and clicks from the cameras. ‘For fuck’s sake! He’s in a coma! He’s not going to know if I’m there or not!’ How many times do I need to say the same damn thing? I jump down and stride towards him. Arzo doesn’t flinch and the expression in his eyes doesn’t change. ‘Have you been to see him?’ I demand. ‘Because it was your insistence on keeping that bitch around that sent him into hospital. She poisoned him. She’s responsible for this mess.’
He shakes his head. ‘No. Medici is responsible.’
I snort. ‘He just pointed the way. She pulled the damn trigger.’
His arms remain by his sides but all the same I’m wary. ‘Did you kill her?’ he asks quietly. ‘Lord Montserrat said you didn’t but…’
‘You don’t believe him,’ I say flatly. ‘Well, for your information no, I didn’t kill her.’ I pause for a beat then throw as much defiant menace into my tone as I can. ‘But I should have. I wish I had.’
‘She wasn’t all bad, Bo. And neither are you.’
I tilt up my chin. ‘Yes, I am.’ Unwilling to continue the conversation, I spin round and return to my original spot on top of the car. A minute or two later, when I look back, Arzo has g
one. Good.
***
Rogu3 meets me a few streets away, far enough from the prying eyes of the journalists so that we can talk in private. Maria is with him but she hangs back, her shoulders hunched and her eyes on the pavement. If she’s pretending to be invisible, she’s not doing a very good job.
‘Did you track the number plate I sent you?’ I ask.
He beams at me cheerfully. ‘Sure did. The plates are fake. The car must have been stolen.’
Just great. I curse under my breath. ‘If I gave you an image, would you be able to track where it came from?’
He shrugs. ‘Possibly. What is it?’
‘A tree. One of the men who stole the car had it tattooed onto their skin and two missing girls were wearing it as jewellery before they disappeared. There’s a whole group of people out there with it as their emblem and I can pretty much guarantee they’re up to no good.’
‘Images are harder than people,’ Rogu3 tells me, ‘but I can certainly try. Do you want me to do it now?’
‘No. We’ve got a dinner date.’
Rogu3’s eyes gleam. ‘Ah ha. The mysterious benefactor. Is he of the sharp-fanged variety?’
‘No. And you’ll need to stop making cracks like that.’
‘He doesn’t have a sense of humour?’
Actually, X seems to find almost everything funny but it doesn’t mean he won’t eat Rogu3 if he feels like it. This will be a good test, I decide. If Rogu3 can cope with this, I reckon he’ll cope with anything. If he’s so determined to hang around then I’m going to make full use of him.
‘Shall I drive?’ he asks.
I stare at him. ‘What do you mean? You’re fifteen years old.’
He points across the street. There, propped haphazardly against a lamppost, is my motorbike.
My mouth drops open. ‘Tell me you didn’t.’
‘I didn’t.’
I have to curl my fingers into a fist to stop myself from slapping him. ‘You can’t drive!’
He grins at me, a self-satisfied flicker on his face of the sort that only a teenager can pull off.
‘He very careful,’ Maria says helpfully. When I look at her, she seems to regret speaking up and draws into herself. She’s wearing a shapeless set of dungarees. They’re about as far removed from fashion as a bin bag. I wince guiltily as I realise that I’ve been so wrapped up in other matters I’ve forgotten to get her something to wear. ‘Where did the clothes come from?’
