High Stakes (4 page)

I find my voice. ‘Is she going to make it?’

Nicholls shrugs. ‘Probably. But even if her wounds heal, she’ll have nightmares for the rest of her life.’

‘Was it a vampire?’

She meets my eyes. ‘You tell me.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘We’re not releasing any details. Victims have rights too.’

‘I can help!’ I burst out. ‘If a vampire did this…’

Her lip curls. ‘Then she’ll never get peace. Your kind don’t like sharing. Even if the prick who did this is slaughtered, you won’t tell us. We’ll chase our tails for months while you sit back and laugh.’

‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘It’s not like that any more. We’re changing. We’re going to be more open and share what goes on. It’s not going to be like it used to be.’

She leans in until her face is barely an inch from mine. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’ Then she turns on her heel and stalks off.

Bile rises in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s going to take more than my words to prove that the Families are finally adapting to the modern world. The only thing that’ll do it is action. I think of the broken woman lying less than a hundred feet away and make her a silent promise. No matter what, I’ll find out the truth for her so she knows. I can’t heal her bones or ease the pain in her mind but I can get her the justice she deserves, whatever form it takes. This isn’t just about improving the Families’ battered reputations.

*

Foxworthy let slip that the woman was found at the South Bank. Deciding that trying to breach hospital security is pointless, I head straight there instead, hoping there are still enough crime scene investigators around so I can find the exact location. I park the bike directly across the river from the Houses of Parliament and take a brief moment to stare up at Big Ben’s illuminated clock face as painful memories flash through my mind. Then I shake myself and get to work.

I walk briskly along the waterfront, passing large, glittering buildings. The London Eye stares down at me, illuminated in blue. It’s not the wheel itself that catches my attention, however – it’s the other blue lights that are flashing nearby at the edge of Jubilee Park.

I frown. It’s a well travelled and public place for such a prolonged attack; it’s a wonder that the bastard who did this wasn’t interrupted by someone wandering past. It must have been barely dark when the victim was attacked; either the rapist didn’t care about getting caught or he had a point to prove. I think about her being held in place by stakes and shudder. It can’t be a coincidence that the traditional weapon used for killing bloodguzzlers was used to pin down a human woman. It’s not looking good for the Families. For us.

There’s a small crowd of gawkers behind the police cordon. Distastefully, more than one is using a smartphone to record the apparently titillating action. White-suited investigators pick over the ground and there’s a makeshift tent near a large oak tree: it’s the sort that’s normally used to conceal dead bodies from prying eyes. My stomach lurches at the thought of just how horrific the scene is that it needs to be hidden.

I ignore the onlookers and try to find the best vantage point. I can’t just stroll nonchalantly onto the scene, I’m going to have to surreptitiously piggyback onto the police investigation and use what they discover to my own advantage. Right now, however, my chances of either seeing or hearing anything appear slim.

The principle behind any crime scene is that every contact made by both victim and perpetrator can be counted as a silent witness. Disruptive as it is to people who are live or work close to such scenes, every trace of evidence needs to be examined, from flecks of blood to smudged footprints to displaced blades of grass. It’s a painstaking process. Most investigators try to preserve evidence by creating two cordons: an inner one where the main crime took place, and an outer one to keep away anyone who shouldn’t be there. That includes me.

The only thing I have on my side is that the outer cordon here at Jubilee Park is fairly small; that means I’ll have a better chance of learning something useful because I can get closer to the action. Most of the other onlookers are on the north side because that’s where the tent is. I head towards the start of the approach path, where small metal footpads have been placed to give the investigators access to the site without disturbing the scene too much.

A uniformed officer stands to the side so, careful to avoid being identified as a bloodguzzler, I stay away from him. People trail past me and I strain to listen to what they say about the scene. Unfortunately they’re all too sodding tight-lipped and engaged in their own sombre business to let anything slip. I’m going to have to be more canny.

I back away carefully. Because of the large temporary lamps set up to light the crime scene and the flashing police vehicles, the area is so bright that it could be midday rather than the middle of the night. I keep my head down whenever someone passes near me so they don’t look in my eyes and spot my vampiric ethnicity. Then I step right until I’m next to the closest car.

The window is down and a tinny voice echoes out from the radio. ‘Foxtrot Delta. The vic’s flat is clear. Do we have the go-ahead to begin sweeps?’

There’s a crackle of reply from somewhere across the city. Too many people monitor the radios; the police are not daft enough to give out hard information over such an unsecure line.

I glance around the car’s interior but it’s completely empty. Not that I am expecting to see a file marked ‘Secret Evidence Regarding Jubilee Park Rape’, but it is still frustrating.

I move to the next vehicle. There’s a crumpled chocolate wrapper, some empty evidence bags and very little else. I wrinkle my nose. This isn’t going well.

I hear a rustle of movement further away and twist my head round to track it. One of the investigators pads over in his blue bootees to a nearby van and gives several clear evidence bags to someone inside. I scan the contents as quickly as I can before they’re swallowed up. This time the lights are working in my favour and I spot a few cigarette butts, some dead leaves – which I suppose include traces of blood – and a scrap of ripped material. Nothing that will aid my cause right now but they do give me an idea.

Double-checking that no one is looking in my direction, I reach behind me and test the car door. The driver clearly thought it was safe to leave the car unlocked given the police presence surrounding us. I open the door slightly and squeeze my hand inside until I can grab the corner of one of the empty evidence bags. I pull it out and walk away, using a tree to block myself from everyone else’s view. I scuff up some dirt from the tree roots, scoop it into the bag and seal it. I shake it a few times then I muss up my fringe until it covers half my eyes.

Striding over to the van, I hold out the bag. Naturally, I’m not wearing the necessary protective clothing so it’s touch and go whether I’ll get away with this. Fortunately, the technician inside is obviously exhausted and concerned more with getting back to his bed than who is handing him another scrap of probably useless evidence.

‘Here,’ I say gruffly.

‘From which sector?’ he asks in a bored voice.

Shit. ‘Uh, three.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Three what?’

I blink.

‘A, B or C?’

‘3A,’ I squeak, hoping this isn’t going to cause problems with the investigation. It’s only dirt, so I very much doubt it but I can’t help feeling guilty.

He takes the bag and scribbles something on a clipboard. I crane my neck over his shoulder. Evidence bags are neatly stacked on shelves behind him, one of which contains an ID card. I shift my weight to my left foot and move so I can see it more clearly. There’s a photo of an unsmiling woman and a name: Corinne something. Damn it, her surname is completely obscured. I grit my teeth.

‘Sign here,’ the tech grunts, holding out his clipboard and a pen.

I scribble something illegible and return it, although I keep hold of the pen. He gestures. ‘I need the pen too.’

I pretend to look startled and glance down. ‘Oh, yes, silly me!’ I start to pass it over but fumble and trip so it falls to the ground. He curses as I kick it underneath the exhaust. ‘Shit, sorry,’ I apologise, getting down to look for it. After a moment or two, I stand up. ‘I can’t see it. Do you have a torch?’

He sighs and goes into the back of the van. I quickly go inside after him.

‘You can’t come in here!’ he shouts.

I take another step and look down at the evidence bag. Corinne Matheson. Then I hold up my palms as he faces me. ‘Sorry.’ I say as I back away.

‘Don’t you know anything about chain of evidence?’ he snaps. ‘Who are you anyway?’

I give up on the pretence and sprint out of the van. The tech yells after me and several heads turn in my direction. A few people give chase but I’m a vampire. Even on my worst day and even as a fledgling, I could outrun any human. I speed out of the park, down the street and away.

*

I don’t slow to a walk until I’m a good distance away. I curse my lack of foresight in parking the bike so near to the crime scene. I’ll have to retrieve it later. Still, I now have something to go on, even if it’s only a name. I dig out my phone, connect to the internet and search for Corinne.

It’s such an unusual name that there are only three Corinne Mathesons using social media in London. I hope that the one I want is among them. Given that the first Corinne appears to be in school uniform – and remembering that Foxworthy’s statement mentioned the victim was thirty-five – I narrow the names down to two. Both have high privacy settings and I can only see their profile pictures. The second one, who has bouncy blonde curls and a friendly lipsticked smile, is standing next to a small coffee shop called Huggamug. It takes less than a minute to discover it’s located out towards the East End.

I flag down a taxi. The one good thing about only being able to venture outside when the sun is down is that the traffic is minimal. It won’t take long to get there.

The driver is chatty and I have to respond, even though I’d prefer to be left to my own thoughts. Every vampire in the city has been ordered to be as friendly and amenable as possible; the more people we can prove our lack of evil leanings to, the better. Technically I can escape that rule as I’m the only known bloodguzzler without a Family and am therefore free from such strictures, but promoting good relations is the sensible thing to do.

‘So,’ the cabbie says in a strong London drawl, ‘I’m betting you’re trying track down a certain nonce.’ He turns his head back in the direction of the park. ‘The coppers are really going all out on this one.’

By now the news is probably all over the city, less because of the rape than  because the main suspect is vamp. I rub my forehead. ‘It’s not surprising. If it turns out that the prick who did this is a vampire…’

He glances in the rear view mirror and nods. ‘Yeah. You lot are up shit creek. You need to find him before they do.’

I stare at the back of his head. ‘Does that bother you?’

‘I’ve got no truck with bloodguzzlers. No offence,’ he adds hastily, ‘it’s just the blood thing. Gives me the heebie-jeebies.’ Him and me both. ‘But at least if you get to him first, he’ll get what he deserves. We should take a leaf out of your book – it’s  better than our taxes paying for him to live in a comfy cell for the rest of his days. Satellite TV and three meals a day,’ he scoffs. ‘It’s not right.’

I think there’s probably more to being in prison than that, but I stay quiet on the matter. Instead, I ask, ‘Do you think a bloodguzzler could have done it?’

He speaks quietly as if he’s afraid of being overheard. ‘I’ve got a mate works at London General. Not a doctor or anything, he’s just a porter. But he sees things. He called me earlier. Said she’s got bite wounds on her neck. Not just one.’ He shudders. ‘There are lots.’

I feel sick. The only thing worse than Corinne’s attacker being a vampire would be Corinne’s attacker being
several
vampires. If it were true, it could be the nail in the Families’ coffin. The human government is adept at knee-jerk reactions. First, they’ll introduce legislation forcing the vampires to become subject to human law, then they’ll prevent recruitments from taking place. The five Families keep their numbers steady at about five hundred apiece but, contrary to myth, bloodguzzlers aren’t immortal. We enjoy extended life spans but within a few generations we could be all but wiped out of existence. Maybe that would be a good thing but, on the whole, the Families are better at keeping triber peace than the witches or the daemons. Unbalance the triber population and goodness knows what might happen.

The driver drops me off outside the darkened windows of Huggamug. I pass over several crumpled notes and a hefty tip. I wait until he drives off before I turn to the shop. If I need to break in, I’m going to have to make damned sure there aren’t any witnesses.

There are a couple of posters in the window. One refers to a petition to stop a large coffee chain from settling in down the street while the other is for an amateur historical society. There’s a photo on the front of a group of smiling people next to the Tower of London. The one in the centre is Corinne Matheson.

I press my face against the glass and peer inside the café. It’s a small place with only eight little tables inside. Each one has a white vase filled with dried flowers. There’s a strip of counter along the left-hand side and a large industrial-sized coffee maker. It looks completely deserted, although that’s hardly surprising at this time of night. I test the door and the lock rattles. Short of breaking the glass, I’m not going to get in from here. In the interior gloom, however, I spot a door at the back. Maybe I’ll find another way in if I skirt round the building.

Corinne Matheson is my only lead right now. Perhaps if I find out more about her, I’ll find out more about her attacker. Surprisingly few rapes are committed by strangers. Odds are the vampire – or vampires – who did this already knew her.

I glance down the street. This is a terrace of buildings so I’ll have to walk to the end of the road and double back to find a rear entrance. I only walk a few paces before I stop. Next to the coffee shop, there’s a door leading to three flats. There are three buzzers with names inscribed behind plastic panels – and the bottom one is Matheson. She’s probably the owner of Huggamug; living next to her business makes sense. And it makes my life considerably easier.