‘You can’t tell anyone, Rogu3. You really can’t.’
‘I’ve kept my mouth shut so far, haven’t I? I can keep a bloody secret.’ He curses, stands up and walks to the window. He stares out at the dark street. ‘Thank you.’ He turns to look at me and repeats, ‘Thank you, Bo.’
Biting my lip in a facsimile of his mother, I mumble, ‘You’re welcome. Your parents think you’re struggling to,’ I pause, ‘cope with the aftermath and everything.’
‘Huh. It’s only because I’m not sleeping. What do they expect? I’ve been awake during the night for the last three years because it’s the best time to get my work done. They didn’t used to care until I was on the evening news.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s going to take some time to adjust.’
‘Are you sure that’s all it is?’
He meets my eyes. ‘That and the burning rage I feel towards the pricks who tried to kill me.’ His voice is calm but there’s a look in his eyes I’ve never seen before. Rogu3 senses my worry and changes the subject. ‘You turned me back to human. Why don’t you change yourself back again too?’
I tug at the lapels of my leather jacket. ‘It was a one-time deal.’
‘It was for you,’ he says, realisation dawning. ‘Whatever you gave me was for you.’
‘And I’d use it to save your life a million times over. I wasn’t even sure any more if I wanted to use it on myself.’ I shrug, trying to look complacent. ‘It’s not so bad being a bloodguzzler.’
He smiles faintly. ‘At least you get to kick some bad guys’ butts.’
I take a deep breath. ‘I’m going to get whoever did this to you,’ I tell him quietly. ‘I’m going after the person behind all this and I’ll make sure they pay.’ I lay out everything I’ve done so far, leaving no detail uncovered.
Rogu3 blinks. ‘I have one.’
I frown at him. ‘One what?’
‘A time bubble orb. It’s upstairs in my room.’
My mouth drops open. ‘You’re kidding me. Why would you have one of those?’
‘I thought I could use it,’ he mumbles. ‘After I heard about them in the news. I managed to get hold of it before they shut me down.’ He jerks his head in the direction of the kitchen.
‘I don’t understand. Use it for what?’ Rogu3 shrugs awkwardly. I suddenly realise. ‘Oh. Alice.’ His eight-year-old neighbour who vanished. The reason we met in the first place.
‘Yeah,’ he mumbles. ‘It didn’t do any good. It wouldn’t work because of all the people. Every time I picked a date and went back, I got bounced out.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I’d like to tell him that one day she’ll be found – at least what’s left of her. Neither of us is that dumb, though.
‘If you can use it then it’ll be worth it.’
‘How did you manage to avoid giving it up when they were all recalled?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Please. This is me we’re talking about.’
He jumps up and runs out of the room. I hear him thumping loudly upstairs then, a beat later, thumping back down again. He comes back in and hands me a box. I flip open the lid and stare down. The blue swirls of the orb dance. I swallow. ‘Are you sure about this?’
Rogu3 nods as his father walks in. I put the orb to one side, hoping he doesn’t ask about it but he’s focused on his son. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine.’
I clear my throat. ‘You’re lucky your parents care about you so much.’ I throw Rogu3 a meaningful look. He almost manages to avoid rolling his eyes. Almost.
I stand up, hugging the box to my side and sticking out my free hand. Jonathan Jones stares at it as if it might bite him. I’m about to withdraw it when he takes it and shakes. His grip is dry and firm.
‘Your mother needs some help in the kitchen.’
‘Dad…’
‘Now.’
Rogu3’s glance at me is filled with teenage exasperation. I smile. ‘Look after yourself. Call my any time if you need anything.’ He nods. I narrow my eyes. ‘I mean it.’
‘I will. Thanks, Bo.’ He grins and lopes out.
His father watches me carefully. ‘What did he give you?’
Bugger. ‘This box?’ I tell the truth. ‘It’s a time bubble orb. He thought I could use it.’
He sniffs. ‘I see.’ He continues to look at me. I wait, sensing he has something else he wishes to say. ‘I don’t like you,’ he says finally. ‘I don’t like vampires. It’s unnatural to be what you are. Alistair trusts you though and I respect that.’
I open my mouth to speak but he forestalls me. ‘Those three that are in custody. Are they the ones responsible for what happened to him?’
I meet his steady gaze. ‘They were acting under orders.’
‘From whom?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say softly. ‘But I’m going to find out.’
He puts his hands in his pockets and nods. ‘When you do, kill them.’ His voice is quiet. ‘Kill them and keep my boy safe.’
I stare at him mutely. ‘I’m not an executioner, Mr Jones.’
‘No. But you are a vampire.’
I search his face. He really does want me to do this. I put my hand in my pocket and find my pebble. Its smooth hardness is comforting. Jones is incapable of killing himself but he honestly believes that I can do it. Right now, I’m not sure either way.
‘I’ll find them,’ I tell him finally, unable to go any further than that.
*
It’s almost midnight by the time I rock up to Forest Avenue. Rogu3’s present is safely tucked away under the seat of the motorbike. I turn off the engine and gaze up at the house. It’s pretty modest in appearance. Large bay windows jut out from the front and the garden has been neatly tended. From behind heavy curtains I can just make out a chink of light; someone is still awake.
I march up to the front door and ring the bell then I knock loudly as well. It’s not long before a man appears, holding the door open a crack to peer out at me. His face is lined and weathered and his hair – what little is left of it – is grey. A muscle jerks in his jaw then he nods and opens the door wide.
‘Please, Ms Blackman. Come in.’
I almost fall off the step in shock, not because he knows who I am (bloody X) but that he has no qualms about inviting a vampire into his home. I could be here for any number of reasons but he doesn’t even seem curious. My insides tighten. It can only be because he already knows.
I straighten my jacket and step in. A small part of me expects him to rush me, to take me down. Not that he’d manage it, of course; he’s old and he’s human. He doesn’t try anything, however; he simply directs me into a well-appointed room.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ he says.
I stare at him.
‘Well,’ he amends, ‘expecting someone anyway. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Why not now, with the Red Angel herself?’ He laughs. ‘So be it.’ His voice subsides to a mutter. ‘So be it.’
Feeling like I’m about twenty paces behind, I take a deep breath and try to work out how to play this. I’m about to pretend I know what’s going on when my phone beeps, rescuing me. I give an apologetic smile and pull it out. It’s a text from Connor with three addresses on it – the three remaining London-based Checkers’ Trustees. The second one is 12 Forest Avenue and in that instant I really do know.
‘Is she dead?’ he asks me when I put the phone away again.
‘Madeline?’
He nods.
I don’t miss a beat. ‘Yes.’
His shoulders drop fractionally but he’s not shocked by the news. ‘I changed our name, I wiped out my past and he still found me.’
I watch him carefully. ‘Tobias Renfrew?’
‘Who else?’ he says sadly. He walks over to a Welsh dresser, opens a drawer, takes out a photo and hands it to me. The edges are crinkled and the image is faded but there’s no mistaking the familiar figure of Renfrew with his arm around a younger version of the man in front of me. Other beaming figures mill ar
ound. No doubt they are the remaining Checkers’ Trustees.
‘It wasn’t my idea.’ He laughs shortly. ‘I know that’s pathetic but it really wasn’t. It was easier to go along with everyone. We had good intentions, you know. We helped a lot of children. The Sixties weren’t like now. There were a lot of women who got themselves into trouble and we dealt with the aftermath. Orphans, the lot of them. We clothed them, sheltered them. Helped them.’
I keep my expression bland. ‘Those women didn’t get themselves into trouble. Men are involved in creating babies.’
‘Turn of phrase. Like I said, they were different times.’
I don’t have the will to debate gender politics. I focus on the matter in hand. ‘Tell me. Tell me what happened.’
He moves to his left where there is a silver tray with a bottle of whisky and a single glass. He pours a drink, sips it and closes his eyes with pleasure. Then he looks at me. ‘Would you like one?’
‘Tell me,’ I repeat again.
He takes another sip. ‘Very well.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Flashback
Alan Deutscher, as he was known back then, was on board with Checkers from the start. He didn’t fancy charity work initially but he was full of ideals. When his favourite cousin found herself unmarried and pregnant as a result of her summer of love, he began to appreciate how difficult things were for women in that situation. He and six like-minded acquaintances created Checkers. Essentially, it was a last resort: if you had a child and were unable – or unwilling – to bring it up, they would do it for you. Unusually for that time, the organisation was ethnically blind. It didn’t matter whether a child was a daemon, human, witch or combination of the three; Checkers took them in, no questions asked.
It was a grand premise and brimming with promise. The trouble was that no one on the board had any experience in how to run a charity. Deutscher assured me that they had the very best of intentions but they were several sandwiches, a dozen sausage rolls and a bottle of fizzy orange short of a picnic. Within six months, their grandiose ideas were already faltering.
Part of the problem was their desire to let any child of any origin through their doors. Nowadays it wouldn’t be such a big deal – in fact, there are any number of conglomerates, well-meaning millionaires and fundraising drives that practise such impartiality. Back then, it didn’t work. The humans didn’t want to be seen to help daemons, and vice-versa. The witches were even worse. Forget the issues they had with anyone else, their own black–white squabbles meant they wouldn’t touch Checkers Children’s Charity with a barge-pole. When Checkers’ initial funding dried up, it seemed that they’d be forced to close their doors. In hindsight, it would have been better if they had.
A chance encounter with Tobias Renfrew changed the charity’s fortunes. Elizabeth De Mille, the trustee who’d met her demise at the wheel of her zippy red sports car, travelled in the most exclusive social circles. New money was admired and Renfrew’s billions opened the same doors that De Mille had walked through because of her family’s name and stature.
The way Deutscher told it, they wooed each other – she gained a financial benefit and he got sexual favours. Renfrew agreed to become the charity’s benefactor. I suppose it boosted his reputation but there’s no doubt that his own miserable childhood also played a role in his decision.
As months turned into years, Renfrew’s largesse increased. The charity moved to larger premises and gained further prestige. It was said that children who were taken under their wing were well-educated, well-rounded individuals who would go far. The trustees also enjoyed the benefits: they were vaunted across the country as pioneers of a new, more liberal age. Invited to speak at dinner functions, open galas and rarely required to foot a restaurant or bar bill, they congratulated themselves. Not only were they living the high life, they were doing it as a result of helping impoverished orphans. OBEs were definitely in the offing. And when Renfrew informed them that they would be the sole beneficiaries of his will, they all agreed that it was only natural and fitting.
The cracks soon began to show. In less time than it takes the average boyband to rise to fame and disappear again, the bickering started. Funds were misappropriated; and unwise decisions were taken, from hosting lavish fundraisers that lost money to outfitting the orphans with a uniform in such stiff, uncompromising fabric that half of them broke out in hives.
Renfrew, tired of seeing his money being frittered away, threatened to pull out if things did not improve. The trustees held an emergency meeting then sent Deutscher to plead for another chance. It was for the children; everything they did was all for them.
Unfortunately, while the billionaire took a few days to make his decision, the worst happened. There were allegations of abuse against one of the teachers, a history tutor who’d been with the charity since its inception. The boy making the claims was brought in front of the trustees under the cover of darkness. It was imperative that he kept his mouth shut.
This lad, however, was not prepared to back down. Having made the decision to tell all, he was not going to retract. Such bravery in the face of adult opposition was impressive; perhaps one day he would have become another Tobias Renfrew. We will never know.
Deutscher claimed it started with De Mille. Shaken by the boy’s refusal to bend to the trustees’ will, she grabbed his arm, sinking her red talons deep into his skin. He screamed from shock as much as pain. Two of the other trustees, Brownslow and Wiggins leapt into the fray in a bid to keep him quiet. The boy panicked and struggled and during that struggle something went wrong.
Afterwards, all seven of the trustees stood round his limp body hurling recriminations. Brownslow, Wiggins and De Mille were responsible; they had to be turned over to the police. But the remaining four were also implicated. If word got out – if even a whisper left that terrible room – Renfrew would not hesitate to distance himself from the charity. There wasn’t any choice: they had to hide the evidence.
Bound now by a dark veil of guilt, pain and murder, there was no going back. Even though Deutscher eventually persuaded Renfrew to remain as benefactor, the bloody pact the seven made that night created shadows which only deepened as time went on.
Three months later – and only five hours before Renfrew’s ill-fated, infamous party was due to begin ‒ the daemon billionaire broke the news to the trustees: he’d met someone. He’d fallen in love. She was a human woman, the complete opposite to him. He was going to broadcast the news that very night and, Renfrew added with a jovial wink, was already looking for appropriate godparents.
The trustees panicked. Renfrew had had women before, they all knew that, but a long-term relationship was entirely different. De Mille encouraged them to remember that such women often turned out to be nothing more than gold diggers. If there was a child or, God forbid, children, they could kiss goodbye to all those billions.
Deutscher told me he could not remember who made the suggestion; perhaps it was even him and he had chosen to forget. Whatever, once it was voiced aloud, the die was cast. The trustees returned to Renfrew and asked to meet the woman of his dreams. They wanted to welcome her fully into the Checkers Charity family. The children were so excited, they said; Renfrew would know what it was like soon enough – once children got ideas into their heads, there was no stopping them. They wouldn’t rest until they met her.
Arrangements were made and Miss Hope Havrington of Shrewsbury agreed to spend half an hour at the Checkers’ house in all her party finery. The little girls were going to love it. Or they would have, if they’d ever known about it.
Although Hope entered the house alone, she left an entire retinue waiting out at the front. Tobias Renfrew was not about to let the light of his life travel alone. Unfortunately for her, she insisted on meeting the children alone because she didn’t wish to intimidate them.
Of course, she didn’t meet a single child. She met her death, courtesy of a hemlock-spiked drink. Oh, the tragic symmetry of it all.
The mom
ent the deed was done, guilt set in. A momentary madness had overtaken them all, Wiggins stated. De Mille agreed. They would never harm a child, they helped children. They consoled themselves with the fact that the Renfrew foetus could only have been scant weeks old. Hope Havrington hadn’t been showing at all. They would tell Renfrew with unfeigned dismay that she must have miscarried, with internal haemorrhaging as an unfortunate side effect. She had keeled over before they even knew what was happening.
In the midst of this discussion, they didn’t hear Hope’s driver and her maid approach, concerned at what was taking her so long. It took only a moment or two of eavesdropping – and a creaky floorboard – for all their plans to go awry. Now left with three bodies, two of which betrayed signs of blunt-force trauma, the trustees had to switch tactics. They’d leave the corpses at Renfrew’s mansion and the blame would land on the guests. There were lots of people attending the party – at least half of whom were no doubt involved in dodgy dealings. Someone else could be the scapegoat. The trustees had children to look after.
The only way to move the remains without being detected was to chop them up and sneak into Renfrew’s house through a side entrance. Even then, they were interrupted by two people – a vampire and a daemon – who had taken a wrong turn while searching for the way out. More victims.
They left the body parts in a rarely used bathroom, carefully arranging them in the middle of the floor. Each of trustees was sticky with blood. They needed somewhere as far away as possible from the scene to clean up. On their way to another wing, with the strains of Skeeter Davis and The End of the World floating up towards them, they were caught red-handed. Literally.
According to Deutscher, although most people believed Renfrew was still involved in illegal activities, he had genuinely turned over a new leaf. He’d taken a vow to change his ways for good and it was this vow the trustees now had to count on.
Wiggins blurted out the truth: he told Renfrew what they’d done. They’d killed. They’d murdered Hope and, along with her, Renfrew’s child. Tobias Renfrew, who’d seen more death than most people and, thanks to his armament dealings, had been responsible for more death than anyone else in the United Kingdom, went into shock. I guess when it’s your own family everything suddenly changes. He didn’t cry; he didn’t collapse; he didn’t attack the trustees. But he did go into a semi-catatonic shutdown.