New Order (7 page)

‘I’m sorry,’ I say for about the umpteenth time today. ‘I have to get out of here.’

A muscle jerks in his cheek, then he strides away. Next to me, Beth is tense. ‘What have you smegging done, Bo?’ she breathes.

I swallow and give her a tremulous smile. ‘What I have to.’ Then I get up and follow the Head of the Montserrat vampires.

I have to hand it to D’Argneau. At this time of night and based on what I already know about him, I’d expected to see him looking somewhat more dishevelled. But he’s immaculately dressed – every inch the professional. This is probably a very dangerous thing for him to do but I guess the allure of knowing more about the inner workings of the Families is too great. He hands some papers to Michael, who looms over him.

‘I’m here to secure the release of Bo Blackman,’ D’Argneau says, as if he’s cheerfully announcing the start of a holiday. If Butlin’s are recruiting any time soon, I reckon he’d be a shoo-in.

There are several sharp intakes of breath.

‘You can’t do that.’

‘The law states clearly that anyone recruited to be a vampire must do so independently and of their own free will.’ He smiles benignly at Michael and gives him a brief bow. ‘My Lord, did you approach Ms Blackman to join you?’

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Michael look so angry. The skin around his mouth is white and his shoulders are hunched. ‘You need to get the hell out of my house,’ he growls.

‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ D’Argneau says. ‘You placed undue pressure on Ms Blackman to be recruited. Not only that, but you implied that she would not have to be a bloodguzzler.’ He allows himself a small smile. ‘Pardon me. A vampire. You made it quite clear that she could be Sanguine. A term, I believe, for someone who possesses some vampire characteristics but who has not completed the turning process and is more human than vampire. Ms Blackman is not Sanguine, is she?’

Michael doesn’t answer. I get the impression that he’s barely holding himself back from snapping D’Argneau’s neck right here in front of everyone. I’m confused as to why his anger is directed at the lawyer. After all, I’m the one who asked him here. I’m the one who’s going to break the Family law and leave.

D’Argneau continues. ‘In which case, Ms Blackman’s contract is null and void.’

Everyone is so quiet, I swear I can hear Michael’s teeth grinding. He turns to me. ‘What is this about, Bo? That bloody feather?’

I shake my head. ‘No.’ I step up to him until he’s so close I can inhale his masculine scent. ‘It’s about me,’ I say quietly. ‘These walls are closing in on me. I can’t do this. Not for the time it’ll take to become used to the sun.’ I look down for a moment, take a deep breath and raise my eyes. ‘I know you’ve tried to help me. You’ve done far more for me than anyone could have expected. But you’re right. You can’t break the rules for me. It’s not fair on anyone else. And I can’t stay here like a prisoner. It’s not just the trauma from what happened before. If I stay, this Jekyll and Hyde stuff I’ve been pulling isn’t going to get any better. I didn’t choose this life, Michael. What happened just now in your office…’

‘Was nothing to do with being a vampire or being here.’

‘I know,’ I answer quietly. ‘But being here makes it worse. If there was any other way…’ My voice trails off.

‘I understand,’ interrupts D’Argneau, ‘that the circumstances surrounding Ms Blackman’s recruitment were unique. In every situation, your recruits‒and those recruits from the other Families‒ make the initial approach. Therefore for them, there is no case to answer. That means there will be no repercussions from this for any other vampires. And there should be no repercussions for Ms Blackman.’

‘You’re still a vampire,’ Michael says to me, ignoring D’Argneau. ‘Nothing’s changed.’

‘I know.’

‘You still need to drink.’

‘I know.’

‘Bo, you won’t manage this on your own.’ His face is a mask; I can’t tell whether he’s angry or worried.

Instinctively I reach a hand up to touch his cheek, think better of it and withdraw before I connect. ‘I will.’ I look at the door then glance back at Michael. ‘I really am sorry.’

Then D’Argneau and I walk out.

Chapter Five: Crime Scene

When I wake up, I’m completely disorientated. I can’t remember where, or even who, I am for a few seconds. My disturbed dreams keep playing out in some nightmarish loop. That’s another thing Arzo was right about: I need professional help if I’m going to prove I can do this on my own. I sit up, running my hands through my hair and doing my best to ignore their visible tremor. Then I check my reflection in the rear view mirror and grimace. Even if vampires aren’t really undead, I certainly look like I am. I pinch my cheeks to get some colour into them but all I succeed in doing is making my skin blotchy and sore.

Giving up on my appearance, I push open the car door so I can stretch my aching muscles. D’Argneau offered me a bed but, as I wasn’t sure it didn’t come with strings attached and I needed some time alone, I declined politely and got him to drop me off a few miles away. I had to put some of my old evasion skills into practice to make sure I wasn’t followed. I suppose that sort of thing is a bit like riding a bike: you never really forget it.

If I’d hoped that Michael would send someone after me, I was disappointed. As far as I could tell, I really was on my own. There was the option of my grandfather, of course, but spending the night in my rusty old car was more appealing than facing him. Even if I had to rip out the front passenger seat first; it was still caked with O’Shea’s dried blood from weeks ago and the smell was horrific. I’m not sure whether my nose has simply got used to it or whether it dissipated after I removed the offending seat.

The lock-up is dark but there’s the faintest chink of light coming in from under the door. Thanks to that, I’ll know when I can venture safely outside. I try not to think about Michael’s expression if he knew I’d spent the day here. The trouble is, the harder you try to not think about something, the more you end up dwelling on it. And thinking about Michael enhances my feelings of guilt. I have done what no other vampire has dared to do. It’s simply not the done thing to leave your Family. I imagine if anyone else tried, they’d be executed before they got more than five steps from the door. I’m still very much alive, so D’Argneau’s legal loophole must be offering me enough protection. It doesn’t change the fact that I betrayed the Family, though.

I trace a shape on the dust covering the body of the car: the Montserrat logo. Then, scowling to myself, I rub it away and dust off my hands. I’m still wearing my Montserrat jumpsuit under my leather jacket. I’ll need to find something new to wear. I briefly consider driving to The Steam Team so I can ‘borrow’ another abandoned outfit from Rebecca but I’m not convinced that I can trust myself these days, so it’s probably not a good idea.

My stomach growls. Something else to worry about.

I should focus on myself first. I’m homeless and hungry – and apparently hallucinating from time to time. But I promised Stephen Templeton that I’d be in touch today and I can’t afford to wait too long. He’s hardly going to be nocturnal like me. It would be easy to dismiss him, now that I’m probably
persona non grata
with Arzo but my reason for finding the errant Dahlia hasn’t changed: it’s not something that Arzo should be concerning himself with. So, as soon as I’m positive that night has fallen, I pull up the garage door and reverse out, heading for the Templetons’ house.

Unfortunately it’s on the other side of the city so it takes a long time to get there. When I arrive on their quiet residential street, however, I find the house quickly. That’s because it’s the one plastered in
Do Not Cross
crime-scene tape. Bugger. The tape looks undisturbed, meaning that Templeton, the devious bastard, is living somewhere else for the time being. It should have occurred to me before. I take my phone out to call him, noticing that the battery is almost dead. I ignore two missed calls from O’Shea. I’ll have to find a charger before I worry about him.

‘Ms Montserrat!’ Templeton says before I can utter a word. ‘Have you found anything? Have you found Dahlia?’

I’m about to snap that it’s been bloody daytime so I couldn’t go outside when I think better of it. He has no reason to know that I’m a fledgling and not strong enough to face sunlight yet. If I tell him, he might go back to the Montserrat mansion to find someone more experienced. Then he may discover that Arzo’s not swanning around the icy wastes of Antarctica after all.

‘I’ve had other things to do,’ I say tersely. ‘But I’m at your house now. Come and meet me with that list.’

‘It’ll take me a while to…’

‘I’ll wait. And don’t call me Ms Montserrat. It’s Blackman. Bo Blackman.’

He’s puzzled. ‘I thought all vampires took on their Family name.’

‘I’m different.’ I hang up before he can say anything else. I probably should have gone along with the Montserrat nomenclature but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

I duck under the tape and try the door. Unsurprisingly, it’s locked. I examine it carefully. The lock itself is sturdy and unscratched. Whoever disturbed the Templetons’ perfect lives didn’t break in this way. I’m probably strong enough to kick the door open but I don’t need nosy neighbours calling the police because there’s been a second break-in. I’ve been in enough trouble in the past with the police thinking that I’m a criminal, I don’t need it now. Vampires aren’t subject to human laws; all punishment is meted out via the Families. Now I’m without a Family, goodness knows where I stand.

I skirt round the large house, setting off various motion-activated lights. Their presence gives me pause. It seems unlikely, although not impossible, that Dahlia’s kidnapping – or murder – took place in broad daylight. But these lights would put off any night-time burglar. Were the Templetons were specifically targeted? If they treat other people the way they treated Arzo, then I wouldn’t be surprised.

There’s a broken window but it’s on the second storey. After my rooftop lesson with Michael, I know that I can reach it easily but I don’t see how a human would be able to without a ladder. It’s covered by an opaque sheet of plastic, rippling in the faint breeze.

I’m proud to say that when I worked for Dire Straits I never once
technically
broke into anyone’s property. As a private investigator, that kind of thing can lead you into a whole heap of trouble. More often than not I did my surveillance from outside or had the owner’s permission to go inside. When it came to cheating spouses, however, I might have the husband’s permission but not the wife’s, or vice-versa. And if my client wanted to know exactly who their partner was having an affair with, from time to time I had to slip inside houses when the targets were ‘otherwise occupied’ to look for identification cards. It seems to be a mark of furtive affairs that couples feel the need to discard their clothes in every room of the house bar the bedroom. Desperation, I guess.

I only entered houses for that reason a few times. As with nasty crimes, the perpetrator (or in these cases the cuckolder) would often be someone already known to the so-called victim. I never got caught on the occasions I surreptitiously sneaked into houses although I was always prepared for that eventuality so I looked for alternative entrances to the front door. That way, it would be believed that I was a burglar and not an investigator. In the unlikely event I was apprehended and the police were called, it would take the officer on the scene one call to the station to realise I’d been given permission to enter and that the police had been informed beforehand by the legal owner about my actions.

It’s a distasteful thing to do and the boundaries between right and wrong in these sorts of cases are often blurred. It could be argued that following someone, or sitting in a car outside their house and watching them, is an invasion of their privacy. But if that was against the law, private investigators wouldn’t exist. Neither would a lot of journalists. Certainly, the police’s abilities to solve crimes would also be severely curtailed. I hate breaking into people’s houses, even though I only did so when I had property owner’s legal permission. I also drew the line at setting up surveillance equipment inside. Nanny-cams and listening devices are, for me, a step too far. There are other less-scrupulous investigators who use them regularly.

The knowledge that I gained from those few experiences tiptoeing into houses will benefit me now. That’s the reason I use the garage as my point of entry. It’s shocking how many people – even those who are security-conscious – forget to lock it up properly. I don’t have the patience to wait for Stephen Templeton and it will be easier to look around without him hovering by my shoulder. I should have asked him to tell the police what I’m doing, but according to vampiric law I’m doing nothing wrong because he’s already invited me in. As long as I don’t disturb the crime scene, that is.

The first garage door is locked but this is a big house and it boasts a double-door system. As I suspect, the second one is open. I lift it about a metre and duck under to get in. It closes quickly behind me and I’m left in the darkness. There’s a car inside – Dahlia’s, I assume – and it’s locked securely. I peer through the windows; it seems spotlessly clean inside. My night vision is improving daily and the mundanity of the Templetons’ lives is clearly visible: a dirty lawnmower, half-opened tins of paint and various cardboard boxes.

There’s a door in the back of the garage, no doubt leading directly into the house. I walk over to it and hope for the best. The doorknob turns easily and I step inside. It’s immediately obvious from the broken glass and fallen painting in front of me that something terrible happened here. There’s an undertone of blood in the air but it’s faint and smells old. It doesn’t fit with the time frame that Stephen Templeton gave me so I can only think it’s from an old minor injury.

Stepping carefully over the glass shards to avoid disturbing them, I venture further inside. Other than a wooden stool knocked to the ground, there’s not much of a mess. There is, however, a wine glass sitting on top of the marble-covered island. It has a mouthful of red wine inside. I’m surprised that the police didn’t take it away to brush it for fingerprints. I spot a pair of rubber gloves by the sink. They’re a lurid pink but wearing them will make it easier for me to protect the integrity of the scene. I pull them on, wrinkling my nose at the rubbery smell, and move through the rest of the house.