I touch my bruised lips, suddenly no longer sure of anything at all.
Chapter Twelve: Practice Makes Perfect
‘So,’ Rogu3 says, sitting on my small sofa, ‘I’ve been through as many images as I can pull. Your guys stole the car from here.’ He shows me the first photo. It’s definitely the same two goons who tried to shoot me and O’Shea. ‘It was at a car park near Brent Cross shopping centre. It’s supposed to be one of those theft-proof cars. They had a handheld computer and were inside in about twenty seconds flat.’ He sounds impressed.
I purse my lips. ‘So they have some skills.’
‘Mad skills. You see the way they’re keeping their heads down? They knew where the cameras were and where to avoid looking. But my skills are better.’ He’s smug in the way that only a teenager can be. ‘I caught their reflection off this wing mirror, see? It was a simple matter to enhance it.’
I give him a quick round of applause but he holds up his index finger. ‘Just wait, Bo Peep. I can do much better. I backtracked through the other nearby CCTV and surveillance videos. London really is a godsend for this sort of stuff. I have them here,’ he pulls out another photo, ‘six minutes before they entered the car park. And here,’ he points to another one, ‘ten minutes before that.’
I squint. ‘That looks like Hendon Central.’
‘Well done. But they’re not coming from the underground. Check this out. I got it from the camera inside Subway. Pretty impressive, huh?’
‘Cooper Funeral Director’s,’ I read. ‘They’re coming out of the door.’
‘Yup. And it’s a tiny place. Even if they’re not associated with it personally and they were visiting because they’re both recently bereaved, they’re going to be remembered.’
‘Could you pull anything from surveillance inside?’
He shakes his head. ‘Unfortunately not. These places tend not to use CCTV. You know, respect for the dead and all that.’
I stare at the two of them. They’re wearing the same suits as when I met them face to face. And they have the same arrogant expressions on their faces. ‘Does the funeral director’s deal with Agathos daemons?’
Rogu3 grins. ‘Exclusively. I tried calling. You know, pretended to be looking for the body of a friend of mine. The person I spoke to was male and had what sounded like an American accent.’
I scratch my head. ‘That’s not my guy. It’s a huge help though, Rogu3.’
He beams. ‘Told you I’d do a better job than the Agathos court could.’
‘I had no doubt.’ I write him a cheque not only for these services but also for the previous ones I still have on account. For a second, I think he’s about to refuse it but when I frown he quickly pockets it.
He looks round my flat doubtfully. ‘Are you sure you can afford me?’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
His eyes fall on the hand-drawn map I’ve tacked on the wall. I’ve only just started it but I’ve managed to draft out several key places already. ‘Where’s this?’ he asks.
‘London.’
‘It doesn’t look like London.’
‘It’s the underground,’ I tell him. ‘But not just the train lines. There are lots of tunnels and dead stations lurking down there.’
‘Cool.’ He points to an area I’ve shaded in red. ‘What’s that?’
‘Fort Knox.’ Rogu3 gives me a puzzled look but doesn’t pursue it. ‘It’s your turn now,’ I tell him. ‘Stand up.’
He does as he’s told. I look him over. His posture isn’t too bad, but there’s a lot of room for improvement. ‘Pull your shoulders back a bit.’ He makes a jerking movement and suddenly looks like a robot. I grin. ‘No, like this.’ I gently grab them and apply a bit of pressure. ‘You need to look relaxed and comfortable to pull this off.’
‘This position is not comfortable.’
‘I said, look comfortable. There’s a big difference. If I wanted you to be comfortable, I’d tell you to stay at home slumped in a chair.’ I move round to the front of him and gently nudge his feet apart a few inches. ‘Put your hands in your pockets. It can be hard to know what to do with your hands sometimes so if you have them resting there, you won’t have to worry. Just, you know, don’t go fiddling or fumbling or anything.’
Rogu3’s face screws up. ‘Bo! As if.’
I smile. ‘Okay, let’s try walking.’
Rogu3 takes a few steps. From behind his back, I wince. That’s not going to work at all. It takes half an hour of practice before I’m satisfied he’s got it right. ‘We’re going to try it in the real word,’ I say finally.
He blanches. ‘Shit.’
I cuff him round the ear. ‘How many times…?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Yeah, yeah. You know what I think next week’s word will be?’
‘If it’s a profanity,’ I say primly, ‘I’m going to call your parents.’
‘Curmudgeon,’ he tells me. ‘That’s what it’ll be.’
I step back and stare at him. He blinks and looks away. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles.
‘See? That’s the sort of look you want to create.’
‘Like I’m about to bite someone and drain them of all their blood?’
‘No,’ I tut. ‘That you’re right and they’re wrong. I told you – it’s all about confidence.’
He nods. ‘Like the painting guy.’ I glance at him questioningly. ‘Guy walks into a gallery in Liverpool. Wants to steal a painting. He tries to take it out of the frame so he can roll it up and hide it inside his jacket but it won’t work. So he pulls it off the wall and just walks straight out with it under his arm. Not a single person stops him.’
‘Um, yes, like that guy. Just don’t go stealing anything.’
‘Well, he did get caught about five feet from the gallery.’
I give him a look as if to say ‘I told you so’. ‘Come on. There’s a café nearby, we’ll try that. It’s dark now, so there shouldn’t be a problem.’
Rogu3 shakes his head. ‘I have a better idea.’
We wander downstairs. I can see Arzo inside the office, craning his neck to see who my visitor is. Even O’Shea, who knows of Rogu3, has no idea who he really is. For the teenager’s sake, I keep him to myself. I glance in through the glass at Drechlin’s on the way out. The dentist is sitting in a large comfortable chair. My grandfather’s cat is on his lap, looking for all the world like it belongs there. Its eyes are closed and Drechlin is murmuring something to it. Then, as I watch, one yellow slitted eye slowly opens and stares at me malevolently. I stick out my tongue childishly. Unfortunately, Drechlin thinks I’m doing it to him and scowls at me. Oops.
The protestors outside are very audible. They seem better organised today and are chanting in a more synchronised fashion. ‘Blood is for life, not for dinner! Blood is for life, not for dinner!’ It’s one of their more inspired offerings, I suppose. They could still do better.
‘Rogu3, this might not be a good idea,’ I say. ‘I don’t want you to get hurt.’
‘Blame the teacher, not the student,’ he grins. He pushes open the door and walks out with me at his heels, ready to launch myself at anyone who so much as gives him a funny look. Bloodguzzers’ reputation be damned.
Rogu3 strides forward, using the gait I just taught him. I hang back as the protestors target me rather than him. The people standing in his path actually move out of his way. He stops, puts his hands in pockets and smiles. I admit that it is a rather disarming grin.
One by one, like participants in an odd Mexican wave, the protestors fall silent. A few look puzzled. An older gentleman at the back appears angry and tries to get the chanting going again but when the others don’t join in, he falters. I keep my eyes on him anyway. Rogu3’s smile widens.
‘Thank you so much,’ he says softly to the sma
ll crowd. ‘You are very loud and my ears were starting to hurt.’ Then he walks through the centre of the group and they part like the Red Sea.
He ruins the effect somewhat by spinning round and giving me a huge, cheesy thumbs-up once he’s a few metres away from them. It’s still a pretty awesome effort though.
I follow him but the crowd suddenly bunches up to stop me. I’d try the same confidence trick but somehow I don’t think it’ll work. These people can’t see past vampire.
‘Spawn of Satan!’ the man at the back yells. I give him a dirty look. I skirt round the group, keeping my distance in case they decide to rush me. I suppose I should be grateful that most of them are too afraid to try. At least Spitting Woman isn’t here.
I catch up with Rogu3 and we amble towards the bus stop. He’s so buoyed with success, he’s almost bouncing along next to me. The streets are full of tourists, even though it’s late in the year. I receive several wary looks, probably because I’m wandering along with a teenage human boy; for once, I choose to ignore them and instead search for a target.
I spy a girl about Rogu3’s age perched on a wall. She’s staring into space. Nearby, an older couple with similar features are busy snapping away with large expensive looking cameras, so I guess she’s on holiday with her parents. They’re having far more fun than she is.
I nudge Rogu3. ‘Okay, you see the girl? With the long dark hair?’
His eyes widen. ‘She’s pretty.’
We draw closer and I spot a small badge on her jacket. The word ‘fille’ is written on it in large curly letters. Perfect. ‘And she’s here on holiday, probably from France, so there’s no danger of any broken hearts – given that yours is already taken.’
‘What do I do?’ Rogu3 asks, suddenly nervous.
I glance at him from under my eyelashes. The closer we get to the girl, the more scared he seems. It’s one thing to approach a vengeful group of adults with violence on their minds and quite another to say hello to a pretty girl.
‘Exactly what we practised.’ I give him a little nudge then cross to the other side of the road. There’s only so much I’m willing to do to be his wing-man; he has to do this part solo.
He takes a deep breath and walks up to her. His gait verges close to an arrogant strut but when he smiles I know it’ll negate any bad vibes he might give off. Rogu3 looks the girl directly in the eyes and starts to speak. Her face softens and I swear I can see a red stain on her cheeks. He puts his hands in his pockets and relaxes, chatting to her and pointing something out. When the girl’s parents look over – and the father frowns with overly-protective concern – I know Rogu3’s succeeded.
When he rejoins me, I’m reminded of Kimchi and his ecstatically wagging tail.
‘Did you see? Were you watching?’
I smile. ‘I was.’
‘Her name’s Nicole and she’s from Marseilles.’ He drops his voice. ‘She wanted to know where she could get some cigarettes.’
‘She’s far too young to smoke!’
‘Bo, you don’t get it. She thought I was cool enough to know that kind of thing. She put her hand on my arm!’ He laughs with giddy excitement.
‘Do you know where to get cigarettes from?’
He doesn’t even hear my question. ‘If I can act like that around Natasha then maybe she will notice me after all!’
He hugs me, squeezing me tight. It’s galling to note that he has to bend down to reach me: there’s something depressing about being shorter than a fourteen year old. I let the cigarettes’ matter go; I’m sure he’s too sensible for that. Just because I occasionally smoke to aid my investigations and provide useful conversation openers, doesn’t mean I approve of anyone else doing it.
‘I think you’re ready,’ I grin. ‘When’s the disco?’
Rogu3 gives me a funny look. ‘Disco? Who are you? John Travolta?’
‘Uh, party then.’
‘It’s a gig,’ he tells me, witheringly. ‘And it’s on Friday so I’ve got two days to perfect my routine.’
‘Don’t overdo it,’ I warn him. ‘You want to be natural.’
He beams. ‘You’re my guru, Bo. You should hire out your services as a relationship consultant.’
I think of the mess I’ve made with Michael and my chest tightens. I’m pretty certain my skills lie in other directions but I’m glad that Rogu3 is feeling better about himself. ‘Call me once it’s finished,’ I order. ‘I want to hear all the details. And not just “it was fine”. I want to know everything.’
‘I will,’ he promises. A bus comes towards us. ‘I’d better go. Thank you, Bo. I don’t need to be the geek hiding in his parents’ garage any more. I can do anything!’
He dashes across the road, hailing the bus just in time. I wave goodbye, wishing everything in life were so easy.
*
I leave a voice message for Nisha Patel, telling her what Rogu3 uncovered about the funeral directors. Tempted as I am to visit it, it’s not my gig. I’ll just have to tamp down my curiosity about Tobias Renfrew and whether he is really out there or not. The Agathos court is more than capable of sorting it out without my fumbling help and I can read about in the newspapers along with everyone else.
Instead, I want to do something to erase the haunted look in Corinne Matheson’s eyes. I can’t turn back time but I can try to find the bastard that did this to her and goodness knows how many others. Foxworthy may not want me to interfere but I’m not backing out now. I’m pleased to see that I’m not the only one – as soon as I walk into the office, I spot a brand-spanking-new whiteboard. There are numerous notes, a detailed timeline and several photos. My colleagues have been busy.
I’m about to move forward when there’s a blur of movement at my feet and I feel a sharp pain in my calf. A deep, loud purr reaches my ears. I scowl down at the cat then, before Arzo can begin to quiz me on Rogu3’s identity, I stride up to the board.. ‘This is impressive.’
Arzo nods. ‘Frankly, it’s scary what we’ve managed to uncover.’ He points to the timeline. ‘Thirteen possible victims.’
I feel sick as I stare at the names. ‘Thirteen? How could no one have noticed this before?’
‘They weren’t looking,’ he says grimly. ‘Obviously we already know about Rebecca Small and Corinne Matheson. The first one we’ve found is here.’ He taps the board. ‘We don’t have a name for her but she was abducted just outside her home, taken to a local park and tied up.’
‘No stakes? No rape?’
‘No. But the nature of her kidnapping and the way her wrists her bound are similar enough to the others. And it was reported in the news at the time that her assailant had a gold tooth.’
I suck in a breath. ‘So he didn’t start using the stakes until here?’ I point at another name. ‘Girl three?’
‘Yes. Her name was released. Barbara Fenwick. Twenty-two years old. Daemon.’
‘But he didn’t rape her,’ I muse. ‘That didn’t happen until the fourth victim. Why’s her name in green?’
‘The green ones are daemons, the blue ones are human, the yellows are witches.’
I close my eyes briefly. ‘Then who are the reds?’
Arzo’s voice is quiet. ‘Vampires.’
I step back. ‘You’re kidding me.’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Corinne Matheson’s attacker was human. There’s no human on this planet that could overpower a vampire on their own. It’s hard enough to believe that witches and daemons have been victims.’
Peter joins us. ‘What about the cuffs?’
‘You mean the ones Magix created?’
He nods. ‘They inhibit vampires.’
‘They’re brand new. They’ve only just come on the market.’
‘How long have they been in development though? Did O’Con
nell tell you?’
I try to remember. ‘No. He didn’t say.’
‘It’s a possibility, Bo.’
I stare at the colours. ‘Human. Witch. Daemon. Vampire. Human. Witch. Daemon. Vampire. Human. Witch. Daemon. Vampire. Human.’
‘It doesn’t take a genius to work out the pattern, does it?’
‘His next victim will be a witch,’ I say flatly. ‘By switching between different tribers, no one noticed until now that the crimes are linked.’ I slam my fist down onto the desk.
‘By his sixth victim, he’d escalated to murder. But,’ Arzo taps each name, ‘none of the bodies were found. We’re presuming it’s the same guy because of the pattern. Plus, they were either snatched in broad daylight or trace evidence was found in nearby public parks.’
I’m troubled. ‘That doesn’t make sense. We know that this prick enjoys dancing with danger and making his attacks as public as possible. Why hide the bodies afterwards?’
‘Maybe he eats them.’
‘What, every part? Really? He’s human, not a Kakos daemon.’ Although as soon as I say it, I realise that X’s glamour is so strong, it could be possible. I can’t see a Kakos daemon escalating crimes in this manner, however: he’d start at full throttle and continue that way.
‘We don’t have an answer for that,’ Peter says. ‘But look at the time frame. There was almost a year between the first and second victims. Then months. The gap between each attack has been lessening. From the disappearance of this vampire to Corinne Matheson, there were only…’
‘Three weeks,’ I breathe. I look at them both. ‘We need to talk to Foxworthy. Now.’
There’s a meow and the damn cat appears again, jumping onto Peter’s desk and facing the whiteboard. Its eyes stare unblinkingly at the multi-coloured scribbles.