The Rhesus Chart, page 32
“Not necessary. Is Alex Schwartz around? Mhari Murphy? Any of the PHANGs?”
“No.” Suddenly I’m hunched over. Andy watches me, eyes narrow; Pete merely looks resigned, as if he thinks this is just another case of bad telephonic etiquette cutting a casual conversation dead.
“All right. Meet me in the lobby immediately. I need you to come with me to make an identification.”
Oh fuck. That does not sound good. “Right.” I pause. “Anything for Andy or Pete?”
“Ask them not to go home until we’re back. We should not be long.”
“Okay. Bye.” I hang up. “That was Angleton. I have to go off-site for a while. Not long. He says you should both stay here until I get back—I think he intends to rope you in on whatever this is later.”
“What does that mean?” Pete complains.
“Hope he’s wrong and you don’t find out,” Andy says darkly. “Good luck, Bob.”
“Hope I don’t need it,” I say. Then I grab my jacket and smartphone and run for the stairs.
• • •
I MEET ANGLETON IN THE LOBBY. “WHAT’S UP?” I ASK.
He strides towards the front door, trench coat flapping around his knees. “You’ll see.” The usual expression of arch amusement is missing from his gaunt face right now. He looks—old? Tired? Ill-at-ease? All of these things, I decide. Which is bad for my stomach, but not as bad as the crimson police BMW with the yellow stripes and the flashing blue lights that’s waiting for us with a heavy from SCO19 leaning against it beside the open door.
“You Angleton and Howard?” asks the cop. He doesn’t look terribly amused.
I pull out my warrant card, carefully not moving too fast. Unlike most British cops this one has a holstered pistol to go with his bulletproof vest, and there’s undoubtedly an exciting collection of things that go bang in the locked safe in the car boot. “I’m Angleton,” says Angleton. “He’s Howard. I gather we’re needed at . . .” He gives an address, somewhere in the East End.
“Okay, hop in.” The officer passes my warrant card back and looks at me, checking my face against the photograph. “We’ll have you there in no time.”
That’s when I realize how serious this is: the Met charge top dollar for their services as a taxi firm, especially when automatic weapons are along for the ride. Also, there’s a dress code for the back of this limo—uniform or handcuffs—and we’re breaking it. Our interlocutor climbs in the front next to the driver, and we barely have time to shut the doors before he switches on the disco lights and sound system and floors it. It’s not a terribly comfortable way to travel, but it’s the third fastest way to get around London—after helicopters and motorbikes—and it’s astonishing how the buses and taxis get out of your way when you’ve got lights, sirens, and submachine guns on your side.
Barely fifteen minutes later we pull up in a very tidy residential street, outside an imposing chunk of Victorian masonry that’s clearly been converted into posh apartments. They’re not so upmarket right now, with police incident tape strung around the railings and doorways. A couple of constables are on hand, bitching into their wallyphones as they stand by to check IDs for the upset residents who will be coming home from work to find their des res is a crime scene. Angleton strides over to the nearest PC. “Which flat is it?” he asks briskly.
“Can I see your—oh, it’s you guys.” The cop gives me the hairy eyeball. “Him, too?” I pull out my warrant card. “Okay, it’s Flat Four. Go on in, the front door’s locked open. Don’t mess with the crime scene unless you want the inspector to shout at you.” He turns away.
I follow Angleton up the front steps. “What was that about?” I ask.
“None of your business, boy.” He seems amused about something. I shrug and follow him up the stairs, pausing to stand aside as a couple of SOCOs in bunny suits shuffle downstairs, almost doubled over under the weight of their cameras and bashed gear bags.
“What is this? A murder investigation?” I ask.
“Perhaps.” Angleton arrives at the entrance to Flat Four, which is indeed wedged open. The white door is smeared with fingerprint powder all around the handle. (Very old-school; maybe the door surface doesn’t play nice with cyanoacrylate?) “Anyone there?” he calls.
“Wait one!” There is a loud rustling noise, then a boil-in-the-bag cop appears. Her Tetra radio is crackling excitedly. (It’s digital: I suspect they add the fake interference because it confuses the users if the quality is too good.) “Who are you?”
“Angleton and Howard, to ID the victim.” Oh, now he tells me.
“Okay, come on in. You don’t need to suit up but you should avoid touching anything.” She backs into the apartment. “We left him in situ, in the living room.”
I get my first premonition from the greasy, mouth-watering smell. It’s faint but noticeable: last night’s Chinese char siu takeaway, or something worse? (Or was it last night’s? Could it be even older?) “Wait one. There’s a corpse? Do you know what he died of?”
Our guide stops, her bunny suit rustling. “You’re definitely Howard?” I nod. “You’re here to ID the victim?”
Angleton buts in: “He is.”
“Well, thanks for briefing me,” I say sarcastically. In context, the smell is nauseating. And my ward is itching—it’s not under attack, but something very bad happened here not long ago, and it’s picking up the aftershocks. “How bad is it?”
“Breathe deeply,” she suggests. “If you’re feeling faint, it’s okay to go back into the hall. Or sit on one of the dining chairs. But don’t throw up on the evidence.”
Oh, that bad. We move on, doing the pantomime horse thing, into a big open-plan dining-kitchen-living area. Kitchen and breakfast bar at one end, then a dining table, then thick shag-pile carpet and sofa and living stuff opposite a picture window. Someone’s sitting on the sofa—
Oh, right.
I wander over to the window, turn round, then squat on my heels facing the corpse. The victim is badly burned, but the sofa’s made of thick cowhide over fire-retardant padding, and the carpet didn’t catch. Like many burn victims the corpse’s arms and legs are drawn in, its back arched by contracting muscles—so why is his charcoal briquette of a head lolling to one side? I close my eyes and anchor myself, then look. Yes, I’ve seen him before. In the Scrum’s office, then a couple of times on induction courses around the New Annex crèche. There’s still a faint crimson glow inside his skull, but it’s not human; there’s not enough life there for me to reanimate, just the quiet crunching and munching of the V-parasites chowing down on a host who can no longer deliver the goods.
I open my eyes. “It’s Evan,” I say. “Evan Elliott. Teamed with Alex for pair programming, specialist in Hilbert-space visualization interfaces.” I look at Angleton. “Neck’s broken, and there’s some residual V-parasite activity. But nothing I can reanimate.” The SOCO sergeant is giving me a glassy-eyed stare. “If I had to speculate, I’d say someone broke his neck. Then, while he was paralyzed”—(looks like vampires are tougher than merely mortal humans)—“they positioned him in front of the window and opened the curtains, leaving him for the daylight. Which implies they knew who and what he was.” Evan has clearly participated in his final burn-down. I stand up and look at Angleton. “When did we hear about it? How long has he been dead?”
“You knew the deceased?” asks the cop. “Do you know how he was set on fire? We haven’t been able to find an ignition source or an accelerant.”
I keep a straight face. “Everyone knows vampires don’t exist,” I say. “So if I was to tell you he was a blood-sucking fiend—”
“You have got to be kidding.” For a moment I wonder if I’ve gone too far: cops take a very dim view of people messing with their heads. But she’s seen the warrant card; I’m not sure who she thinks we are, but as long as she thinks we’re authority figures she can trust, we should be okay.
I shrug. “Have it your way. It’d explain everything very neatly, though, wouldn’t it? Otherwise how else would Vampy Vicious here break his neck sitting down, then spontaneously combust?”
“There are signs of abrasions around his wrists, inflicted pre-mortem. And if you examine his crotch—”
Hmm. “Abrasions? You think someone cuffed him? What about his crotch?”
The sergeant walks over, points at a carbonized mess where the legs join the torso. “Looks like Mr. Polyester Pants suffered a bit of a meltdown in the wedding tackle department. Which was unzipped, privates on parade.” Angleton is watching me with arch amusement. “Hm. Your V—theory. Would Edward Cullen here be very strong, by any chance?”
“Yes,” I admit. “So, um. Hypothesis: the killer seduced him in order to get close enough to cuff him, then broke his neck and left him to face the rising sun. Which would destroy most of the other evidence, wouldn’t it? DNA, skin samples, and so on.” Yummy! Self-cremating murder victims. “How long ago did it happen?”
“We’re not certain yet but the body’s cold enough he could have been dead for—”
“It happened yesterday,” says Angleton.
“What?” I ask, just as the cop says, “How do you know?”
“He left the office yesterday around 4 p.m. and missed work today.” Angleton looks annoyed—and rightly so. Someone in HR was asleep on the job if we didn’t learn about it until after the police. “How did you find him?”
“The housekeeper has a key, came in to make the bed, got the fright of her life.” The sergeant shakes her head. “Am I looking for a female or male?”
I shrug. “I have no idea. We could ask his co-workers which way they think he swings—swung—but he could have been closeted or have some other reason to lie.”
“Well. Perhaps you could introduce me to these co-workers?”
Angleton spares me a quelling look, then slides into gear: “I’m afraid not, Sergeant. Mr. Elliott was engaged in secret work for the government, as are his colleagues, and I must remind you at this point of the terms of the Official Secrets Act. Although, having said that, we entirely understand your desire to bring the perpetrator of this, this—”
“Crime,” I suggest.
“Crime to justice, and we will immediately notify you if we develop any leads, identify any witnesses, or find any evidence that will further your investigation.” Angleton straightens up. “Come on, Mr. Howard. We have a briefing room to inform.”
“Hey! Now stop right there, you can’t just—”
Angleton smiles at her, and she freezes. I sympathize with her predicament: being smiled at by Angleton is a bit like getting a glimpse through the gates of hell. Or seeing an atom bomb go off over your hometown and getting to watch all your pets and lovers and children and parents die simultaneously. “We will leave now,” he says, and steps past her. I follow him, and try to ignore the solitary tear overflowing her left eyelid and trickling under her surgical mask.
• • •
IT’S AFTER SIX. I’M IN THE BACK OF THE POLICE CAR, SHOULDER to shoulder with Angleton as we ride back to the office, when it hits me and the shakes begin.
I’m no stranger to death. I’m in a profession where people die by accident—there is a reason we have such a strong emphasis on health and safety at work. In my particular role, I am sometimes responsible for killing people. It’s a horrible, sordid business and I try to avoid it by any means possible—but a chunk of my business is carried out in graveyards and mortuaries. (What band does the necromancer dance to? Boney M.) I’m usually blasé about this stuff; after all, you don’t get to graduate from Trainee Eater of Souls to Journeyman Scoffer of Spectres without chewing some ectoplasm.
But every once in a while it gets to me.
I didn’t know Evan well; in fact I barely knew him at all, and I certainly didn’t kill him myself. But that puts him in a particularly odd space, sort of like a friendzone for collateral damage. If he’d been a real friend, ally, or close co-worker I’d be angry and bitter right now, and justifiably so. If he’d been a complete stranger I’d be, well, not indifferent, but not personally invested either. I’d be professionally engaged, and nothing more.
The trouble is, I knew Evan just well enough that he’s not a total stranger, but not well enough for mourning and anger. So I feel acutely uncomfortable and edgy and introspective and worried that I’m not responding normally to this kind of shit, or that perhaps I’m losing it and overreacting to the death of a near stranger, and chasing my mind’s tail in circles—
“Stop it, boy,” says Angleton, and I startle, just as the police car crashes over a speed pillow so hard I crunch my tailbone and clack my teeth together. “I can’t hear myself think while you emote like that.”
I turn my head to glare at him, but he’s already looking away, staring into the distance—not the queue of buses and taxis ahead, but some inner vista of desolation and horror. “It could have been Mhari,” I say quietly.
“What if it was?” Angleton murmurs.
“If someone is stalking the PHANGs—”
“Isn’t that a bit of a leap?”
I look straight ahead, at the back of the head restraint on the front passenger seat, where a pair of police ears are undoubtedly pricking up and paying attention. “Yes, it is a leap, but don’t tell me you haven’t been half-expecting it. I believe we have a duty of care and should arrange to move them to a place of safety before we continue—”
A throat is very loudly cleared in the front of the car. “’Scuse me, folks, but I couldn’t help overhearing. And I have to advise you that if you are aware of a threat to life then we’re the experts in—”
“Ahem,” says Angleton, in a tone of voice that comes pre-chilled in liquid helium. “Are you gentlemen qualified for vampire protection duty?”
“For what?” says the first cop. Then the driver chips in: “Don’t be silly, vampires don’t—”
“Correct,” Angleton cuts him dead. “Therefore vampire hunters don’t exist either. Also: who exactly do you think you’d be protecting from whom?”
“Hang on,” says the first cop. “Vampires. Are we talking, like, blood-sucking undead walking corpses? Or people with some sort of disease? Because the first kind, if they’ve been declared dead, then they’re not people. Stands to reason, dunnit?”
“But you can’t stake them or set them on fire,” interrupts the driver (who has slowed down slightly to join in the conversation). “That’d be Interfering with the Proper Disposal of a Corpse, which is an offense subject to, um, I’d have to look it up. Also, wouldn’t it be Interfering with the Work of a Coroner? That’s heavy.”
“But if they’re just a sick human, then the Human Rights Act applies,” says the first cop. “So our normal rules of engagement would apply, and we’d have to meet the minimum criteria for deploying lethal force. And the vampire hunters would be up for GBH or attempted murder if they did anything, right? Common Assault at the very least, possibly criminal harassment. Stalking, maybe. If they tweeted or texted the vampire first we could do them for an s.43 under the Malicious Communications Act . . .”
I glance sidelong at Angleton. He glances back at me. “This is your fault, boy,” he mouths. What, it’s my fault we’re stuck in traffic while Constable Savage lectures us about how to arrest a vampire for wearing a loud opera cape in a built-up area? Angleton turns his head and makes eye contact with our driver in the rearview mirror. “Kindly shut up and drive, there’s a fine chappie,” he says; “we’re in a hurry. Oh, and don’t ever talk about this conversation to anyone. On pain of extreme pain.” He doesn’t even bother to pull his warrant card: his words have the weight of stones. And, for a miracle, the officers of the law stop speculating above their pay grade and mash the pedal to the metal.
16.
CODE BLUE
THE BRIEFING ROOM IS WAITING. IT’S CROWDED: JEZ, LOCKHART, and Andy are there, obviously. Less obviously needed are the other heads at the back of the room, who bracket just about everyone from the DRESDEN RICE committee, including Mhari—and also Pete and Alex. Neither of whom are remotely cleared for this kind of shit, so I view their presence here as either a sign of desperation or of leaking stovepipes and prolapsed security. “Who invited them?” I ask Andy as I join him at the top table.
“Why don’t you ask the ring-wraiths?” Andy murmurs back, swiveling his eyes in the direction of a side-door which is just opening to admit a familiar figure whose mere presence makes my blood run cold and my ward tingle: it is the Senior Auditor, followed by another of his cabal—middle-aged, female, kind-faced as death in her twinset and pearls.
“Good evening, all,” announces the Senior Auditor, looking round the assembled crowd. A quick smile; light flashes from the gold frames of his half-moon reading glasses. “Mr. Schwartz, I’m pleased to meet you.” Alex jerks, doing his best guilty schoolboy impression. “Our Patient Zero. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Charmed,” says the female Auditor, a twinkle as of ice in her eye.
“What is this?” Alex squeaks, sounding as intimidated as a mouse that has just woken up in the middle of a cattery.
“One moment.” The Senior Auditor raises his left hand, extends a couple of fingers—reminding me, incongruously, of a death-metal star messing with his audience’s head—and utters a word. I don’t hear it so much as I feel it, ricocheting back and forth inside my skull like a really angry hornet getting ready to sting someone repeatedly. “I declare this meeting room sealed by the authority vested in my office. What is spoken here may not be discussed with those elsewhere, on pain of execution of your oath of office.”
I spot Pete huddling in a chair with his arms wrapped around him, looking most unhappy. He’s a modern enlightened vicar of the variety who has a PhD in Aramaic Studies. He probably thinks of the whole Bible thing as a fascinating abstract historical puzzle (which he has read in the original tongue—at least those bits that survive via the Dead Sea Scrolls). Of course he’s unhappy! He’s trapped in a committee with a bunch of demonologists and necromancers, the Eater of Souls, two vampires, and a kindly-looking old gent in half-moon specs who scares them all shitless. He must feel like an atheist at a revival meeting.
