***
Back on the seafront in Nice, I drank in the familiar smell of Mediterranean blood and money. I booked myself into a hotel and walked the Promenade des Anglais that night, hoping to find an old lady walking her Yorkshire terrier. At last, I spotted a young woman talking on her mobile phone while dragging a Yorkie along. She was in a hurry and was stomping along so fast in her high heels, the wee dog was struggling to keep up. I overheard her saying that she just had to bring Claude home and then she would get in her car. She told the person on the other end that she would be there in half an hour.
She was so preoccupied with texting and walking that she didn’t notice me following her into the building. She lived on the first floor and I lingered on the floor above until she left, then I quickly opened the front door with my tools and picked up a surprised little Claude, who was waiting behind the door hoping it was his mistress coming back. I had a quick look around the apartment, but this girl didn’t have much of value so I sat down comfortably on her sofa and enjoyed Claude. After that I wrapped him in a bag and took him to the nearest bin.
And now for some champagne-soaked floozie!
Going to a nightclub in Nice would be risky, but it was winter and I didn’t expect any of my acquaintances to be about. I soon got talking to a French girl called Charlotte. She was quite short but had a great body. She told me she was a dancer, but was working at the airport to make ends meet. She and her friends put on quite a show on the dance floor and she wanted me to join them. I don’t dance anymore; since swing and rock and roll I hadn’t really kept up with the latest trends. She soon came back over to talk to me.
‘I work at the check-in desk, so it isn’t often I get a night off,’ she told me.
‘Well let’s make the most of it then. Do you drink champagne?’ I asked.
‘I love champagne,’ she purred.
She agreed to come back to the hotel with me and there I had my wicked way with her. She had a small tattoo on the inside of her wrist that would hide the puncture marks well. I knew she had to look good for her job so marks on her neck wouldn’t do.
I let her sleep till about seven o’clock, then gently woke her and asked her to leave, saying I had to get ready for work too. She was scratching her wrist as she got dressed.
‘Bloody winter and there are still mosquitoes,’ she said, irritated.
‘Terrible, those wee monsters. Here let me get you some cream,’ I said, pulling out a tube of ointment from my bag. She kissed me and asked me for my number. I gave her a fake one as I didn’t want to meet her again. I never bite the same girl twice after all.
After five days of debauchery and indulging in all the things I enjoy most, I went back to see Emmy.
‘So, how many dogs and humans died for you?’ she asked, looking none too pleased.
‘I don’t see the problem,’ I retorted, ‘I’ve seen you eat meat. What’s the difference? Just because you give it a name doesn’t make it any less of an animal. Here humans and I agree: animals are food!’
‘I suppose you eat cats too?’ she asked.
‘Ah, no! I would like to, but they just taste incredibly vile!’ I said in disgust.
‘Well, thank god for that!’
‘When god created cats, he said “and let there be cats and let their blood be as rancid as their characters are evil!”’
‘Wow, you really don’t like cats,’ she said and seemed to find me highly amusing.
Turning serious, I sat her down and laid out my plan. I was going to surrender myself to the authorities, but it would have to be to the secret service and in total secrecy. Emmy was to set something up with the head detective and would only phone me if she was assured that she was dealing with the right person.
‘Are you sure this is what you want to do?’ she asked me. She looked at me intently, but a little suspiciously, as though wondering if I was up to something else.
‘I think so. They might put me to good use and treat me well. Foreign legion vampire fighting for the good of France and all that,’ I said cheerfully. But I was dreading what was ahead. Carl-Heinz’s experience was not a good omen. I knew I probably wouldn’t be treated well, but I couldn’t see any other way to get George out of prison.
Emmy hugged me and told me there must still be some good left in me.
If you only knew what I want to do to you, you wouldn’t think that, dear girl! ‘Your great grandfather never forgave me for turning him into a vampire. I think this makes us even now,’ I said.
I’d rented an apartment in Lyon for a month as I needed to keep my distance from Emmy. I was sure the detectives would have her followed as soon as she came forward with the information that she knew where I was. After about two weeks, I got her call.
‘Hi Cameron. I think I’ve got the guy you want to talk to.’
‘Have they agreed to release George once I surrender myself?’ I asked.
‘Yes. They said they would, as you are their main suspect anyway,’ she told me.
‘Have you told them what I am?’
‘I haven’t. I don’t think they would have talked to me if I had. I’ll give you Jean-Claude Bernard now of the DCRI,’ she said and soon a male voice came on the line.
‘Monsieur Cameron MacAdam?’
‘It’s Cameron Blair actually, MacAdam is the false identity I’ve been using,’ I said, wondering if this man could be trusted.
‘That explains why we found that you had died in 2003,’ he said.
‘You won’t find Cameron Blair either, but I will explain that when we meet.’
‘You are confessing to the murder of Yvette Jaunet,’ he asked me.
I asked him for his number and if I could call him back. I wasn’t ready to let them trace me yet. I got in my German stolen car immediately, ditched my phone and drove north. The DCRI headquarters were near Paris so I knew I’d be heading there eventually. First I needed some guarantees.
I called Monsieur Bernard back after a few days. ‘Have you released George Baxter?’ I asked.
‘We are not going to do that until you surrender yourself.’
‘As a gesture of goodwill, could you move him to Grasse prison?’ I knew this was a new prison and conditions were a lot better there.
‘I can do that. He will be moved in the next few days. Now, Monsieur Blair. Are you confessing to the murder of Yvette Jaunet,’ he asked me again.
‘Can you guarantee that no one will know of my capture apart from Emmy and George,’ I asked, questioning whether they would stick to the bargain.
‘Why would we keep it a secret and deny the Jaunet family justice?’ he asked me, annoyed.
‘I think I could be useful to France,’ I told him. ‘I’m someone that you would certainly want to keep in the dark. I am sure you have the ability to provide proof of my death, which should resolve a few things.’
‘The police are already very unhappy that we are getting involved in this case, they think it is to cover up a diplomat trying to get away with murder. Who exactly are you, Monsieur Blair?’
‘Listen, I’ll call you back in a few days when George Baxter has been moved,’ I said, bringing an end to the conversation. I wanted them to jump through a few hoops before I gave them any more information.
I texted Emmy and asked her to post on Facebook once she had visited her dad in a new location, then I ditched my phone and drove on to Paris. She replied after two days and I made contact with Monsieur Bernard again.
‘Thanks for moving Mr Baxter. Have you got things in place to bring me in?’ I asked.
‘Yes. We have manufactured something for the police that will say you died in Argentina a few weeks ago, but that you confessed to the murder beforehand. We have found an Argentinian lawyer to verify the confession, which is written in your handwriting.’
‘You are a clever, sinister lot there at the DCRI. Well done,’ I said, amused.
‘So, Monsieur Blair. Are you confessing to the murder of Yvette Jaunet?’
&n
bsp; This time he got his answer. ‘I murdered Yvette Jaunet in her apartment in Cannes by cutting her throat with a scalpel. I then stole her dog and her jewellery and took them to my yacht where I killed her dog too. George Baxter is only guilty of disposing of the dog’s body, he did not know it was Ms Jaunet’s. I told him I had hit the dog with my car, but that it had died soon after I got it on board. I have a few other murders to confess to too, but we will keep that as a treat for later.’
‘If this is all a hoax, we will make sure Monsieur Baxter ends up in the Baumettes in Marseille and we will charge his daughter with wasting police time,’ he said.
‘I am deadly serious, Monsieur Bernard,’ I told him.
‘Where are you?’
I told him I was in Paris and arranged for him to pick me up. Later that night I waited for him by the Eiffel Tower. As I got in the back of the large black sedan and shook Jean-Claude’s hand I had a strong feeling of impending doom, but I knew I had made the right decision.
Since I’d gone off to war, and died for the privilege, I hadn’t done a single selfless thing. I’d disappointed my family and then gone on to leave a trail of death and general misery, culminating in the incarceration of probably my only true friend.
But it wasn’t really George that had made me care. I liked the grumpy old bastard, but hardly enough to surrender eternal freedom. No. There was somebody else who needed to live her life – and she deserved a father. It was time to stop and let this generation be.
After all, living people should live their lives and dead ones should stop making a nuisance of themselves!
Cameron is back!
in
Blood Ties
Language in the Blood, Book 2
by Angela Lockwood
After meeting his maker on the battlefields of the First World War, Cameron Blair has spent almost a century coming to terms with his new vampire identity. Along with a taste for human blood and lapdogs, he has acquired the linguistic skills of his victims and learned to survive in the shady underbellies of Europe’s great cities.
The end of Language in the Blood sees Cameron facing a dilemma when blame for one of his kills gets laid at his best friend George’s feet. Cameron discovers a deeply buried vestige of humanity and surrenders to the French authorities - a decision he soon regrets as it becomes clear they don’t have quite the same heroic role for a vampire agent in mind that his own vivid imagination does.
For more information about Angela Lockwood, Cameron Blair and the Language in the Blood series, visit:
https://www.cruftslover.adzl.com/
https://www.facebook.com/CruftsloverAkaCameronBlair
Other books by this author available on Amazon:
Something Short
by Elspeth Morrison and Angela Lockwood
Something Short is a collection of short stories from French and Scottish shores by two female writers; Elspeth Morrison and Angela Lockwood. We meet a variety of interesting and amusing Scottish characters in Begonia, The Wee Baldy Man, The Pop Star and a mad scientist in Animals, but also some personal experiences in dealing with arthritis and depression in Begonia and The Goldfish Bowl. The stories are short but impactful and we hope they leave a lasting impression on you.
You’re Not Alone
An Indie Author Anthology
by Ian D. Moore and Friends (Angela Lockwood, contributor)
An international group of indie authors, inspired by the personal grief of one, decided to collaborate in the spring of 2015 in a project to create this multi-genre smorgasbord of original short stories, all with the same potent theme – relationships. Some are heartfelt, some funny, some poignant, and some are just a little bit scary – much like relationships themselves. All are by authors fired by the shared enthusiasm to give something back in aid of Macmillan Cancer Support. Cancer touches us all. It has in some way affected those who have contributed their time and talent here. This is our way of showing that we care.
Indie authors carry forward a revolutionary shift in publishing, which allows the author to be creative director in their own work. There are many exceptional, experienced and acclaimed writers who have decided to take this bold step in publishing. In producing this anthology we have also had the inestimable assistance on board of artists, graphic designers, and bloggers – all of whom have a place in our acknowledgments. You, the discerning reader, are the other vital part of this equation. By buying this book you are supporting the work of indie authors, as well as discovering their worth. You are also supporting the charity to which we have chosen to dedicate our work.
100% of the royalties earned or accrued in the purchase of this book, in all formats, will go to the Pamela Winton tribute fund, which is in aid of Macmillan Cancer Support.
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