New Order (8 page)

Templeton was right about one thing: there was definitely some kind of commotion here. The living room is a mess. An overturned plant pot has sent dark earth spilling across the cream carpet, while the wide-screen television has been pulled off its bracket and lies on the floor, cracked screen facing upwards. A row of photo frames have been knocked off a mahogany side table. The table itself probably cost more than I make in a year but it’s not what I’m interested in. I pick up one of the photos and frown at it. Unbelievable. Judging by the clothes of the smiling people captured within the frame, it’s an old shot. Not only is a fresh-faced Stephen Templeton beaming out at me, along with a dark-haired woman who must be Dahlia, there’s also the unmistakable visage of Arzo. He’s a good twenty years younger than he is now, but it’s definitely him. It doesn’t make sense that the Templetons would display a photo of their former friend – and Dahlia’s former fiancé – so prominently, considering what they did to him.

I return it carefully to its original position and go to the sofa. The bright floral cushions are in disarray. Interesting. I leave the room through a different door and locate the front entrance, then I turn and gaze speculatively round the house. If an intruder appeared from here or from the window upstairs, presumably while Dahlia was in the kitchen drinking her wine, they’d have disturbed her in that room. That’s why the stool was knocked to the floor. After that, for some reason, they walked – or fought – in the living room. It’s a big room and the television screen is at least four metres from the sofa. The little side table with the photos isn’t close to either of them. I glance back at the inner garage door and the shattered painting. From the living room, they seem to have to moved towards the garage. There’s still a car there, however, and only one vacant spot.

I jog upstairs, glancing in the various rooms until I find the one Dahlia and Stephen slept in. Everything seems fairly normal. I open a few drawers. There’s a diary which I flick through (apart from the first week of January, the pages are blank), some eye-drops and pieces of costume jewellery. I can’t see anything else noteworthy. There’s another door leading to a walk-in wardrobe which is filled with more of Dahlia’s clothes than Steven’s. I examine the shoes. Most of the pairs are barely worn but there’s one set which seems to have been re-heeled recently. Dahlia’s favourite pair, perhaps? I chew my bottom lip. This case is becoming more interesting than I’d imagined it would be.

I go to the room with the broken window. It’s a small box room, obviously unoccupied. In theory, it would be a sensible entrance point, especially if the garage were the exit. How would the intruders know that, though? I lean in to inspect the remaining glass around the edges of the frame. I’d need a magnifying glass to be sure, but I’m fairly certain from the angle of the shards that this window wasn’t broken into. It was broken out of – from the inside rather than the outside.

I check my watch. It’s already gone 11pm. That’s annoying as I really want to talk to the neighbours. None of them are going to be keen to talk to a vampire at this time of night. I’ll have to come back another time. Yet again I’m stymied by my nocturnal nature.

I’m making my way downstairs when the front door opens and the pale face of Stephen Templeton appears. He looks surprised to see me.

‘Hello.’ He scratches his cheek. ‘How did you get in?’

I see no reason to lie. ‘Your garage,’ I say. ‘You should take care of that. It’s wide open so anyone could enter.’ I find my own actions considerably less important than his, however. I watch his eyes carefully. ‘Mr Templeton, why did you lie and tell me you called the police?’

‘Wh-what?’ he stutters.

I dislike him even more for not owning up immediately but I distance myself emotionally from his reaction. The last thing I need is to get worked up and have to deal with another hallucinatory episode.

‘You said the police dusted for fingerprints but there’s no dust. I’ve yet to meet a police department that takes the time to clean up after themselves. Not only that but they would have taken Dahlia’s diary, regardless of how little is written in it. They’d also have made sure that her wine glass, if indeed it is her glass, was examined.’

I lean towards him. From the look in his eyes, he’s feeling intimidated. That pleases me more than it should. When I was human, my lack of height meant that the only people I intimidated without trying were very small children. In fact, thinking about my teen babysitting years, even that’s not true. I’ve not grown at all since I turned, so it must be some indefinable vampire quality.

‘The tape. The crime scene tape,’ he says, with a hint of desperation.

‘You put that there yourself.’ His lack of reaction tells me I’m right. ‘Why?’

He shifts uncomfortably and coughs. ‘I didn’t want the neighbours to call the police. I thought that if they believed the police were already investigating, they’d leave things alone. I got the tape from a joke shop and paid a couple of people to dress up as officers and come round. I told them it was a prank.’

‘So it was you who messed up the house?’

This time he actually looks surprised. He blinks rapidly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s a set-up. And not a very good one either.’

‘But…’

I sigh. ‘The window’s broken to make it look like someone entered upstairs. Except they could have come in the same way I did through the open garage. And the window’s been smashed from the inside. The wine and the stool indicate Dahlia was in the kitchen but the evidence of a struggle is in the living-room. The way in which the sofa cushions have been disturbed, the range of the fallen objects…’ I shake my head. ‘It’s all too pat. You pretended the police had been here and someone else pretended there had been a fight.’

Templeton waves his hands in the air. ‘No, no, no! You’re suggesting Dahlia faked all this! She wouldn’t do that! She…’

I hold up my hand to stop him babbling. ‘I think you’re probably right. I think she was taken.’

‘Eh?’

‘Her shoes,’ I tell him. ‘Unless she’s been shopping recently or was barefoot, she left her favourite shoes behind.’ I know enough from living in close quarters with Beth that women who are into footwear – as Dahlia seemingly is from the number of shoes she has in her closet – never let go of their best pair. The ones she had re-heeled. I shrug. ‘I mean, it’s not definite and I may be wrong, but that’s what my gut tells me.’

His shoulders sink. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

I search inside myself for a trace of sympathy. It’s pretty hard. ‘Why didn’t you tell the police in the first place? Have you been in touch with the kidnappers? Has there been a ransom demand?’

‘No.’ He looks miserable. ‘I didn’t want… I mean, I couldn’t…’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘I’ve done some things the police might not look on too kindly. If they investigated and found out…’

I stare at him in disgust. ‘So you staying out of prison is more important than your wife’s life?’

‘It’s not like that!’ he protests.

‘I think it is very much like that.’ I feel grubby just being in the same room as this pathetic excuse for a human. I put my hands on my hips. ‘No wonder you were so reluctant to give me a list of your business dealings. So who have you pissed off?’

Templeton droops. ‘There was the Triads,’ he whispers.

I roll my eyes. Bloody hell. ‘Okay. At least they’re human. Give me their names and…’

‘And a few white witches.’

I take a deep breath. ‘Right.’

He shrinks further into himself. ‘And the daemon.’

‘Is that it?’

He nods.

‘Then we’ll assume it’s one of them who’s taken Dahlia,’ I say briskly. ‘You’ll need to tell me what you actually did and who to, so I can talk to the Triads. And the witches. I have a contact who can help with whoever the Agathos daemon is.’

‘No,’ he moans.

I’m finally starting to lose patience. ‘Look, if we’re going to find her, then we need to…’

‘You don’t understand. It wasn’t an Agathos daemon.’

My throat constricts. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

He raises up his head and looks me in the eye. ‘It was a Kakos daemon.’

Sodding hell.

Chapter Six: Paying for it

Look up Kakos daemon in Spreitzer’s
Almanac of The Triber World,
and you’ll find a definition of what it means to be evil. Stories of daemons date back to the Hellenistic period and Alexander the Great. Just as black and white magic are said to be two sides of the same coin, so are Agathos and Kakos daemons. It is widely accepted that Agathos daemons are generally ‘good’; Kakos daemons, meanwhile, are an entirely different story. Unfortunately for the rest of us, they’re at the very top of the food chain.

They don’t often show themselves to other tribers. I’ve heard that this is because they consider the rest of the world not worth bothering with. Whatever their reasons are, it’s a good thing. Being in the same room as a Kakos daemon is enough to drive someone entirely and irrevocably insane. And that’s assuming the daemons don’t eat your heart out first. Apparently hearts are a delicacy. At least vampires sip arterial blood because they need it to survive; Kakos daemons munch on body parts just for the hell of it.

I’ve never come close to one. I can confidently state that even my grandfather, who has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the triber world and has had more dealings with its different denizens than almost any other human, has never met a Kakos daemon face to face. And now Stephen Templeton, wanker extraordinaire, is telling me he’s involved with one. I don’t think he’s lying, but also I don’t think it’s true. It has to be some idiot posing as Kakos. God help whoever it is when the real daemons finally catch up with him. I desperately want to call Michael and ask him what he thinks. Of course that’s completely out of the question.

Whoever has taken backstabbing Dahlia obviously has their reasons. There’s been no ransom demand and, while it’s true that missing persons are more likely to be rescued safe and sound if they’re discovered within the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours, she’s already been gone for several days. Perhaps I’d have more of a sense of urgency if that wasn’t the case. Regardless, I’ll look for her – and not just because of Arzo. Before I left, Stephen Templeton thrust a wad of money in my direction and begged me to continue investigating. I don’t trust him an inch ‒ let’s face it, even his own wife can’t trust him not to place his safety over hers. But the money will solve my immediate problems. I have to push away my distaste at being employed by someone who harmed a man I genuinely respect. Fortunately, for the moment, our needs converge.

The streets are quieter now so I make good time getting back to the police station where the feather mugger is being held. There’s no parking nearby and, tempted as I am to pull up wherever I can and damn the consequences, I’m wary of getting into more trouble. I end up leaving the car a long distance away before trudging back to the station.

The desk sergeant is a different guy. When I tell him I’m here to make a statement about the McGuire Street mugging, his face blanches. He picks up a phone and mutters something into it, then asks me to wait. It’s barely twenty seconds before a plain-clothed officer appears and directs me into an interview room.

‘You made a citizen’s arrest of the suspect, along with Lord Montserrat, is that correct?’

I nod, carefully describing all the events and everything the kid said. The officer transcribes it all. His manner is distant and unfriendly but I don’t think that’s because of me or my vampire status. There’s something else going on.

‘Sign here,’ he instructs.

I do as he requests, then look up. ‘Is he still here?’

Deliberately obtuse, the officer asks, ‘Who?’

I settle back in my chair, cock my head and don’t reply. Eventually the policeman fills the silence. ‘There was an incident.’ His eyes flick nervously to the door. ‘The suspect’s interrogation was scheduled for the following morning when the next duty officer was in. As per protocol, we checked on him every hour.’

I’m getting an idea where this is heading. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

I receive a nod and my stomach sinks. He may have been a little shit but he didn’t deserve to die.

‘What happened?’ I keep my voice soft and unthreatening but I can feel my pulse starting to pick up.

‘We’re awaiting the results of the post-mortem.’

No doubt they’ll be putting a rush job on it. It never looks good when someone dies suddenly in police custody. I’m not in the mood to wait any length of time, though.

‘But you have an idea,’ I probe.

‘We’re not releasing…’

‘Off the record.’

He sighs. ‘All I know is there is a hex on the wall of his cell.’

‘Black or white?’

‘White.’

‘Can I see it?’

He glances at the door again. ‘No.’

I frown. ‘But…’

‘Thank you for your time.’ He stands up. ‘If you remember anything else, I’d appreciate it if you get in touch. Here’s my card.’ He pulls out a small white oblong and scribbles something on the back. ‘My direct line is there.’

I take the card and flip it over. Instead of a number, he’s hastily drawn an intricate shape on the back. The hex. I look up and smile. ‘Thank you.’

‘We always welcome the support of the Families. Please convey our gratitude to Lord Montserrat.’

I try not to wince. So that’s why he’s being so helpful. Michael brought the mugger in and they’re hoping that Michael will absolve them of any wrongdoing. Unfortunately he’s passing on that message to pretty much the worst person in the world. I’m lucky that news of the first-ever vampire abdication hasn’t yet reached human ears.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve had time to examine the feather he stole?’ I ask casually. ‘Lord Montserrat is keen to understand its significance.’

The officer swallows. ‘It’s gone,’ he says quietly. ‘It vanished from the evidence locker around the time the suspect died.’

Curiouser and curiouser. The police aren’t incompetent and they’re well aware of the various triber abilities that might impede real investigations. Unlike vampires, witches aren’t immune from the full weight of human prosecution – a fact that undoubtedly sticks in their magical craws – but after the highly publicised case of Thomas Argyll, a white Romany witch who charmed sprigs of white heather to cause a number of deaths and who also managed to spirit away all the evidence against him from right under the investigating officers’ eyes, the government paid vast amounts of money to ensure all police departments are heavily protected from similar magic invasions. It’s a powerful witch indeed who could break through those enchantments.