Fade to Black (12 page)

She fought a rising annoyance and looked pointedly at her watch. She really had to get to work.

“Ah,” he said simply. “I see. You really are in the dark, so to speak.”

“It seems so,” Allie said. “I have to leave in about one minute. Care to enlighten me?”

“I’d rather not, just now, anyway,” he said. “This isn’t the time for a history lesson.”

Allie could only agree. “True. I have to go, Michael–I’m sorry.”

He looked at her and again she saw the sad, timeless smile. “Meet me at the Feathers Inn at 1:00 p.m., if you can. You will want to by then anyway.”

She sighed and told him the day was going to be chaotic and it would not be a good look for her to go off for a leisurely lunch in the middle of the investigation–impossible, in fact.

Michael nodded his understanding.

“Ok, leave it for now. We better get you to work.”

She felt the tug immediately–something drawing her towards him. It was almost as if there was a glow about him at that moment.

“How do you mean?” she asked. “I’ll ride my…”

“I don’t think so, Allison. C’mon, get your things together and I’ll take you.”

All manner of possibilities ran through her mind as she fished for her bits and pieces. She heard him clomp down the stairs to wait for her by the front door. The blindingly obvious question finally occurred to her. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. Shouldn’t he have…
wings
? Wasn’t that what the feathers were all about? Was he going to
fly
her to work? Her heart beat like a hammer as she descended the stairs.

“Yes, I have, and no, I’m not,” he said matter-of-factly.

“You’re reading my thoughts?” she blurted, stopping in mid-step.

“You already know that, Allie–have been for days. But don’t worry, I’m not reading everyone’s, just yours.”

She was still huffing and puffing when he opened the door to reveal her motorbike at the roadside. Her mouth dropped open. Her bike was simply a pile of twisted metal, rubber and wire, smothered in thick, sticky wine-red blood that even the lashing rain couldn’t wash away.

It was the blood that got through to her. She looked up at Michael.

“Remember?” he said quietly. “I think you’re still in shock, Allie.”

She knew now that he was right. She now really believed that he was whom he claimed to be and that he had saved her. She should be smeared all over southwest London.

He was about to put his hand on her shoulder, but she saw that he stopped himself. She wanted him to comfort her and was disappointed when he did not. She suddenly felt small, vulnerable, and afraid of what might actually be.

They turned left toward the river and walked in silence for a minute or so until they came to his motorbike. It was parked between two Mercedes saloons near the embankment. Allie stopped and stared at the black bike. Beautiful though it was, she was reluctant to get on, the memory of last night’s horrific accident now raging through her brain. Oblivious to this, Michael pulled out a petite helmet from a big, black leather pannier and handed it to her.

He started the bike and looked questioningly at her.

“Aren’t you wearing a helmet?” she asked weakly, as she climbed aboard, conquering her numbing fear.

He smirked and said something about being confident that he’d be ok. They roared off, Allie with another question forming–
how does an angel get to buy a motorbike or learn to ride one, for that matter?
She shook her helmeted head in disbelief. Maybe she really should have married what’s-his-name and gone trout tickling in Scotland.

*****

“Use the phone to get hold of me,” Michael said as he dropped Allie at the corner of Petit France and Broadway, as she’d asked.

“How? I don’t have your number. Oh, wait a minute… you don’t have one!”

He just flapped his hand at her. “Just push ‘talk’ or the green button or whatever you have–I’ll be on it.”

She resisted asking how that could possibly be and just smiled at him. He smiled back, which was nice. Everybody was happy. Now she just had a major murder investigation to coordinate. Michael went to shove off, but turned to her as she walked away.

“Remember,” he said, “your murderer may be a man, but his mind is not his own.”

The conversation she’d had with Michael about Belhor the Destroyer, or whatever his name was, had not been lost on her. The trouble was, at the rational level, she just couldn’t come to grips with the supposed supernatural elements to all this, but at the same time, there was no denying the events of last night and the tangible evidence provided by her shredded clothes and mangled, blood-stained bike. There was nothing surreal about that.

She was lucky to be alive. And there was still the lingering feeling that none of this was really foreign to her—she
seemed to know
how it all worked. This strange inner knowledge explained, she supposed, why she didn’t feel compelled to bombard him with questions about who and what he was, how he got here, how her family was involved and a thousand other things. She would demand answers at some stage, but for now, she reckoned she had enough on her plate.

Allie saw that her suggestion to Michael that the media would be all over the murder investigation had been right. A huge gaggle of journalists, cameramen, and hangers-on waited outside the New Scotland Yard offices. She hoped to slip by the pack while they waited for DCS Carr or Commander Whitcombe to appear and answer their sensationalist questions. But she was wrong—they were there for her. She rounded the corner and a young, black man immediately pointed at her. She groaned as twenty heads turned her way. Cameramen started pounding the pavement towards her.

Oh shit
, she thought.
How do they know I’ll be handling the investigation?
Clearly, they had already been tipped off from the inside. Connors. DC Mathew Connors—had to be.

She could not turn and run, but the thought did cross her mind. She decided to brazen it out and quickened her pace towards them. She hit the pack before they had come to a halt and had slipped past half of them in an instant. She continued walking and nearly got out the other side before a microphone appeared under her nose, then another. She was encircled just ten yards from the front door of the Yard.

“Detective Chief Inspector, what can you tell us about the Earl’s Court Crucifixion?”

There it was. Already branded and packaged up, ready for the six o’clock horror show that was the evening news.
Christ
, she thought ironically,
the media is really something.

The sheer weight of numbers brought her to a halt. She had to reply, there was no getting around it. Plus, she did not want to run from them like a cheesy loan shark caught on an exposé program.

She held her hand up and was surprised that the pack fell silent. She recalled her media training and looked at one camera, regardless from where or whom the questions might be asked. She chose a BBC camera and looked down the glass barrel.

“Officers attended a crime scene last night in the Earl’s Court area. Suffice it to say, it will be a major investigation.”

A voice from her left side said, “That much is obvious, DCI St. Clair. Is it true a young girl was brutally murdered and strung up like Christ?”

Allie paused for a long time before answering.

“What
is
true is that prematurely releasing any detail of what might have occurred last night has the potential to prejudice any investigation and cause significant emotional stress to the girl's family.”

She knew as soon as she said it that she’d made a mistake—a really stupid one.

The pack shouted as one, “So it was
a girl
that was murdered!”

Sweat pooled in the small of her back.

“It is clear that there is significant speculation already and it would be counterproductive to fuel that. It is simply too early to release any details. However, as is policy, we will hold a media conference at the earliest practicable time and furnish you with as many details at that time as we are able. Thank you.”

With that, she turned and strode for the glass doors of the main entrance to New Scotland Yard and safety. She pushed through them quickly, leaving the media shouting and jostling in her wake. Already, a dread gnawed at her—she shouldn’t have spoken to them at all.

Riding the lift to her floor, she tried to compose herself. She figured she’d go insane if her life didn’t calm down soon. The lift doors opened to reveal Commander Whitcombe and DCS Carr standing there, obviously waiting to descend to the ground floor.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Allie offered, also nodding at Whitcombe.

Carr was not happy. “Allie, you should have called me early this morning about the Earls’ Court situation. Now we have to go and front a media pack that is demanding to talk to… somebody.”

The blood drained from Allie’s face. Carr and Whitcombe pushed into the lift before she had a chance to speak.

The doors closed. She felt Carr staring at her. “Aren’t you getting out here?”

“No, I—”

“Quick, Allie. I have to speak to the media now.” Carr pushed the ‘open’ button to let Allie exit the lift.

“Ma’am, I already have.”

Carr stared at her. “Already have…
what
?”

Allie could see Carr had made the connection, despite the question. She just needed confirmation.

“Spoken to the media, ma’am. I was surrounded as I entered the building.”

Carr looked past Allie for a moment, clearly a device she used to control her anger.

After what seemed an eternity to Allie, Carr apologized to Commander Whitcombe, who had not uttered a word, and suggested she see him in his office in a few minutes. He stormed from the lift, taking long strides down the corridor.

Allie and Carr stood there together, watching him walk away. Neither spoke. Carr still had her finger on the ‘open’ button.

Allie looked at her. “Your office?”

“My office.” Carr confirmed.

It took three days to walk to Carr’s office, or so it seemed to Allie. She heard every footfall as if it were thunder, every breath Carr took along the way as a hurricane. Her senses were heightened beyond belief. She could feel the heat of Carr’s anger and hear her pulse pounding. They arrived and Carr slowly closed the door and sat with exaggerated slowness in her black leather chair. She made no offer to Allie for her to sit.

“Is this how it’s going to be, Allie?" Her voice was unnaturally calm. “Every five minutes we end up in my office because we have a ‘problem?’ First, it was Strauss, now it’s the media. You’ve been on the job one bloody day.
One!”
The unnatural calm had evaporated.

*****

9:57 a.m.

Paula Armstrong pushed through the frosted-glass door and climbed the narrow stairs to Arthur Wendell’s BizTax Inc. She hesitated at the dark-stained door for a moment, checking that she had all the information she needed for him to complete her tax return. Satisfied that her bulky valise was packed full of the requisite receipts and documentation, she lightly rapped her knuckles on the door. A scuffling and scraping sound came from inside before the door was unlocked. She was reminded that, on a previous visit, she had wondered why he locked the door. He was a funny little man and he certainly seemed to have his share of eccentricities.

The door swung open and Arthur greeted her—more enthusiastically than he usually did, she thought. He ushered her to a faded swivel chair and as he did so, she noticed that he looked a little younger than she remembered and taller, if she wasn’t mistaken. He locked the office door again, walked around and sat as he normally did at his wide, grey, pressed-steel desk, self-consciously fiddling with the desk blotter and pencils before looking up. She was immediately struck by his coal-black eyes—another thing she had not noticed before. They were almost Mediterranean. In all, she decided, Arthur was a better-looking man than she had recalled from their previous meetings. She fiddled with the collar of her blouse and smoothed down her red skirt.

“You have something for me?” he asked.

Inexplicably, she blushed before pushing the bulky valise toward him.

He reached for it, brushing her hand. She looked quickly up at him and saw that he was staring openly at her.

*****

She could not believe she had just agreed to meet Arthur Wendell for lunch. The old Paula Armstrong just didn’t do that. She felt a little tingle as she left his office and hurried off down Cornwall St., past the famous row of funny little Edwardian boutiques, towards the multi-story car park that housed her little silver MX-5 roadster. She would call her beautician shortly—there were ‘things’ that needed to be attended to: hair, nails, waxing, God forbid. She’d pop back in to work for a few minutes, but her staff at
La Mode
would just have to go it alone for the remainder of the morning. She had until one o’clock, at which time she’d meet Arthur on the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street, not far from her offices in St. Giles Road. He’d said he would book ‘somewhere special’ for them. She loved surprises and the little girl inside her was already having a good time.

The half-hour it had taken for Arthur to check her tax information and complete the necessary online work had gone by in a blur. There was something about him that seemed to interrupt her thoughts—obscuring her normal caution. She had agreed to meet him without question, knowing how disappointed she would have been had they not at least had another appointment.

She realized how much she had been hoping for more when he coolly asked her out. She’d nearly jumped in his lap, she realized, but instead of being embarrassed, she felt… excited. She’d jump in his lap a bit later today, alright, she found herself thinking.
What the hell? What on earth has come over me?
she wondered. She nearly laughed out loud as she reached her car, threw in her heavy valise, and roared down the ramps to the pay station.