Red Angel (15 page)

‘We don’t get on,’ I protest. ‘He’s merely useful. We argue all the time.’

He pats me on the shoulder. ‘Lord Montserrat and you argue all the time as well.’

‘I don’t get on with him either,’ I mumble.

‘Yeah, right.’ Connor’s eyes twinkle. ‘Bo, I’m not telling you that relationships like that are easy. I’m telling you that they’re worth it.’

I stare at him. ‘When did you get to be so wise?’

He smirks. ‘I’m not just a pretty face. Now, come on. We’ve got some murderers to catch.’

*

We meet up with O’Shea at the far end of Creed’s street. Connor gives him an easy smile and touches his arm – and the answering look of delight from the daemon squeezes my heart. He coughs and looks at me. ‘There are two coppers,’ he says. ‘They’re parked several doors down.’

‘Are they obvious?’

He purses his lips. ‘Actually, they’re doing well. Foxworthy must have made sure that they’re experienced. I knew they were there and it still took me a while to spot them.’

A glow spreads through me. It’s nice to be trusted – especially by the gruff policeman. ‘All the same,’ I say, ‘they’re probably not going to hang around forever. Not with a complete absence of evidence.’

‘Then we do what any self-respecting private dick would do,’ O’Shea declares.

‘I’m the only official PI around here,’ I remind him. ‘And I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.’

‘I think I’m thinking exactly what you think I’m thinking.’

I roll my eyes.

‘Er, what?’ Connor asks.

O’Shea turns to him, his old self shining through. ‘We go through their rubbish, of course.’

I wrinkle my nose. ‘Wonderful.’

‘Won’t the police stop us if we rummage through their bins?’

O’Shea beams, clearly proud to display his knowledge to the younger man. ‘They will. But if you look behind you, you will see the number fifty-nine night bus.’

Both of us look. ‘Perfect timing,’ I say as the bus trundles towards us. ‘All the same, Connor, you should probably grab the bin bags. The police and the killers know me and O’Shea. If they see you, there’s less chance they’ll be suspicious.’

O’Shea frowns. ‘He’s human. We shouldn’t put him in any danger.’

Connor flashes him a smile. ‘Don’t worry, Devlin. I’ve got this.’ He dashes to the other side of the road and waits for the bus. As soon as it reaches him, he starts to jog towards Creed’s place. The bus should block the police officers’ view. It’s unlikely that Creed will look out of the window and spot Connor but it is still possible. Connor will have to be quick to minimise his chances of detection.

‘That’s amazing,’ O’Shea breathes, as we watch Connor make his way down.

‘As long as he doesn’t draw attention to himself,’ I add.

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘That’s not what I meant. He called me Devlin. The sound of my name on his lips…’

‘Ask him out,’ I say suddenly. ‘When he gets back.’

‘What?’ His eyes widen. ‘No, no, no. We’re on a job right now. We need to stay focused. I’ll do it, um, tomorrow. Maybe.’

‘Devlin,’ I say quietly, ‘just ask him.’

Connor draws level with Creed’s house and I hold my breath. He flips open the wheelie bin lid and snatches up a large green bag from inside before the bus passes by completely. In less than three seconds he’s sprinting away, his waves of ginger hair flapping in the wind.

‘Good boy,’ I say satisfied.

O’Shea smiles. ‘He’s no boy.’

It takes Connor ten minutes to circle back the long way and meet us again. We find a quiet spot in the corner of a nearby park and sit down cross-legged.

‘Well, at least they’re environmentally friendly daemon killers,’ O’Shea says, untying the biodegradable bag.

The reek of rotting food reaches our nostrils. I recoil.

‘That’s rank,’ Connor groans, wafting his hand in front of his face.

I pull out a pair of gloves from my leather jacket. ‘Tools of the trade,’ I tell the other two.

‘Well, as you’re the only one with the tools, you can do the rummaging,’ O’Shea says.

I walked into that one. I pull the gloves on then pick my way through the bag’s contents. There are several hardened – although not yet mouldy – pizza crusts with traces of tomato sauce and basil clinging to the edges, screwed up utilities bills that I smooth out and put to one side, and numerous crushed beer cans.

‘I guess they’re not that environmentally friendly after all,’ I mutter, shaking off drips of stale beer from my fingers. ‘They’re certainly not recycling.’

I extricate several old batteries leaking crusted acid. I’m getting the impression that Creed is not particularly house proud. There’s a carton of milk, dated eight weeks ago, a half-eaten salad in a plastic container, a ripped charity donation envelope which I place next to the bills, and the contents of what appear to be several ashtrays. The source of the bad smell is some kind of slimy meat that should probably have been thrown out days ago. And there’s pretty much nothing else.

I rock back on my heels. ‘So, boys, what does this tell us?’

‘They like pizza and beer,’ Connor says solemnly. ‘If we knew where they ordered it from, we could find out when they were at home. That would give them an alibi.’

‘There’s no pizza box. And we’re trying to prove that they are the killers we’re chasing. I’m not looking for an alibi.’

‘It’s strange,’ O’Shea comments, ‘that they like pizza
and
salad.’

I pick up the salad tub and frown. It’s nothing exciting – some leaves, shaved radishes and squashed cherry tomatoes. ‘I guess Creed likes pizza and Wyatt likes salad,’ I shrug. ‘Or vice-versa. These leftovers are a lot fresher than the milk and that meat.’ I peel open the salad lid and peer inside.

‘Bo,’ O’Shea says drily, ‘I’m not sure that investigating lettuce is going to help us.’

I’m about to tell him that the key to a good rubbish retrieval is to consider each item in depth to get a rounded picture of your target, when I pause. ‘That’s not lettuce,’ I say slowly.

‘Rocket, spinach, radicchio … who cares?’

Connor shoots him an admiring glance. ‘You know your greens.’

O’Shea blushes. ‘I like to eat healthily.’

‘So do I.’

‘Maybe … maybe we could eat healthily together?’ O’Shea coughs awkwardly. ‘There’s a good restaurant not far from New Order that I go to sometimes.’

In terms of charming date requests, this is hardly going to top the charts. For once, however, I’m not interested. I pick out one of the darker leaves and hold it up to the moonlight. It looks like a herb rather than lettuce. I keep my eyes on it as if it’s about to attack and sniff it. Then I drop it and run.

‘Bo!’ O’Shea shouts. ‘What are you doing?’

I don’t slow down. I sprint down Creed’s street, ignoring the watching police officers. With vampiric speed, I reach his front door and kick it open before they can get out of their car. I burst inside.

They’re both in the kitchen, lying flat on their backs and staring up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. One of them – for some reason I decide it’s Wyatt – has vomit trickling from his mouth. The other is clutching his stomach.

The plain-clothed police arrive ten seconds later. ‘What are you doing?’

I stand up and turn away. They’ve been dead for at least two hours; there’s no point attempting resuscitation. ‘Creed and Wyatt are a dead end,’ I murmur, thinking of the strange white card that Drechlin handed me. ‘Ha. Ha.’

The first policeman mutters something into his radio while the second looks at me, confused. ‘How did you know?’ she asks. ‘You’re the Red Angel and I know you’ve got powers but how did you know they’re dead?’

‘Hemlock,’ I said simply. ‘They ate hemlock.’

The pizza sauce wasn’t laced with basil and the salad leaves weren’t spinach. Creed and Wyatt were poisoned and whoever sent me the card was responsible.

I’m forced to endure another round of questioning and statement giving. Forget the Red Angel, I should be re-named ‘Key Witness Number One’. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem likely that I’ll ever give evidence in a courtroom, not when there are no suspects to hand.

‘I had to pull a few strings to set up that stake-out,’ Foxworthy tells me when he finally appears. ‘Suddenly I’m being inundated with orders to investigate all this more thoroughly.’

‘You should send a team back to that warehouse. They must have done something with the ear and the gun before they were arrested.’

‘It’s already in motion.’ He looks at me shrewdly. ‘Does it feel good to be right?’

I rub my forehead. ‘Not particularly. Even with the stake-out, they still died. The food could have come from anywhere. Maybe it was planted in Creed’s fridge.’

‘If we’d kept them locked up, they’d still be alive,’ Foxworthy says

I look away. ‘Yeah,’ I admit. ‘I guess they would have been. Now all we have is some leftover food and two useless corpses who can’t tell us a bloody thing.’

Foxworthy squeezes my shoulder then leaves without saying any more. I’m not sure what else there is to say right now.

‘I spend more time inside police stations now that I’m a super sleuth than I did when I was a criminal,’ O’Shea complains when I meet him and Connor outside. He throws Connor a panicked look and hastily backtracks. ‘Not that I was an evil criminal or anything…’

I sigh. ‘That’s another lead down the damn drain. Let’s get out of here.’

‘Actually,’ O’Shea whispers, ‘that’s not true.’

‘What do you mean?’

He pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. I recognise it as the charity envelope from Creed’s rubbish. O’Shea checks over his shoulder then waves it at me. ‘I took this before the police came and bagged everything up,’ he says in a conspiratorial undertone.

I’m confused. ‘So?’

‘I must be the only super sleuth around here. What’s the charity?’

I read it. ‘Checkers Children’s Charity.’ I’m none the wiser.

‘Bo, Bo, Bo.’ He shakes his head in dismay.

Connor thumps his arm. ‘He didn’t get it either. It was me who pointed it out.’

‘Pointed what out?’

‘That charity. It’s been out of business for decades. And…’

‘Oh God,’ I breathe. ‘It’s the one that was named in Tobias Renfrew’s will.’

‘Should we tell the police?’

I think about it. Even with Foxworthy on my side and my reputation as heroine of the hour, the police still let Creed and Wyatt go – and look what happened to them. I reckon we can probably manage better on our own.

*

We race back to New Order. It’s time for some old-fashioned research. We need to find out what Matt and Dahlia came up with from the pile of stolen books and we need to learn everything we can about the charity. Rather than being holed up inside poring over information, however, Matt is outside on the street throwing a ball to Kimchi.

He waves enthusiastically at the three of us. Kimchi isn’t interested; the ball is clearly more alluring. I’d be offended if I didn’t know that it’s one of those doggy contraptions that contains a hidden snack.

‘Why aren’t you inside?’ I think about Dahlia and wonder what the hell is going on.

Matt shrugs. ‘They told me to take a walk.’

My eyes narrow. They? I open the main door then walk upstairs, keeping my footsteps light. More than half the staff are vampires so they’ll all have preternatural hearing; that doesn’t I mean I want to be obvious though.

When I reach New Order’s door, my hand hovers over the knob for a moment then I push it open. Arzo and Dahlia spring apart. He wheels back his chair with such force that it clunks heavily against a desk. Sodding hell.

I give Arzo a look filled with dismay. It’s not that his return to Dahlia is unexpected but I’m still disappointed. At least he has the grace to appear embarrassed.

‘Bo,’ Dahlia begins, ‘it’s not what you think.’

I ignore her. ‘How could you?’ I ask Arzo. ‘After everything she did to you? And you know she’s probably still working for Medici.’

‘She’s not, Bo.’

‘You don’t know that!’

‘He forced me to become a vampire against my will. I hate him,’ Dahlia interjects.

‘You mean like you forced Arzo to become a vampire?’

‘I’m Sanguine,’ he says calmly.

‘Only through a quirk of fate!’ I shoot back. ‘We can’t trust her.’

Dahlia steps forward. ‘I understand why you feel like that, Bo…’

‘Do you?’ I snarl. ‘Really? Do you? I was there when your beloved husband was blown to smithereens. I know what he was like as a person and I know what you’re like as a person. You’re a user. A bitch who…’

‘That’s enough, Bo.’ Arzo’s voice is quiet but filled with menace. His fists are clenched and there’s anger written across his face.

‘You’re making a mistake.’

He meets my eyes. ‘It’s my life,’ he says simply. ‘It’s my mistake to make.’

I falter. How can I argue with that? My shoulders droop; I reach inside my pocket and pull out my white pebble. I stare at it in the palm of my hand, then curl my fingers round it and squeeze. ‘We need to work,’ I tell them both coldly. ‘You want to shag each other silly then get a room.’

‘It’s really not like that.’

I hold up my hand. ‘I don’t care.’

We stand there for a moment, the uncomfortable silence growing. Eventually, Arzo speaks. ‘We will leave you to it then.’ He wheels himself out. Dahlia, white-faced, looks at me nervously then follows him. I sink into the nearest chair and press the base of my palms into my eyes.

‘Bo?’ It’s Matt.

I look up at him, smiling weakly at his worried expression. ‘It’s alright,’ I tell him. ‘Everything’s alright.’

‘They deserve a chance to be happy.’

‘She can’t be trusted.’ I shake my head. ‘I don’t know why he can’t see that.’

‘Redemption should always be possible. For everyone.’

I bite my bottom lip so hard I draw blood. ‘Maybe you’re right. It is the premise behind all the Families’ recruitment policies, isn’t it?’ I sigh. ‘Maybe I’m the bitch.’

He takes my hand and squeezes it reassuringly. ‘You’re worried about your friend. He’ll be fine. Arzo can look after himself. Besides, Dahlia came up with the goods with that stuff you wanted.’

‘The books?’

Matt nods. ‘The bathroom suite in the murder room is the original one. That’s not what’s interesting though.’ He beams at me. ‘You’ll like this.’

He pulls over a chair and sits next to me. Connor and O’Shea tiptoe into the room. I notice that they stand very close to each other. I smile at them and beckon them over.

Opening three of the books to marked pages, Matt points to the first highlighted area. ‘Here.’

‘“Although Tobias Renfrew never married, he was in a relationship at the time of his disappearance,”’ I read aloud. ‘I never heard that before. Who was she?’

Matt grins. ‘Look here.’

It’s a black-and-white photo in a restaurant. Renfrew is sitting across from a well-dressed human woman, holding her hand across the table. The caption simply reads ‘Tobias Renfrew and companion’. It’s dated three days before his disappearance.

‘And this one,’ Matt says.

This is a list of forensics from the murder scene. I read the highlighted area. ‘One of the victims had a birth mark on their arm.’

‘Check the photo again.’

I flick back. The mysterious woman’s short-sleeved dress displays reveals a long thin mark. ‘He killed his own girlfriend?’

‘Or someone killed her for him.’

We look at each other. ‘Why would someone do that?’ Connor asks.

‘That’s easy,’ O’Shea shrugs. ‘Money.’

I agree. ‘If he was seriously involved with someone, the beneficiaries of his will would be most likely to get pissed off.’

‘Because a serious relationship might mean he’d change his will in her favour.’

Connor’s eyes widen. ‘And the original beneficiaries were...’

‘Checkers Children’s Charity,’ I finish.

We absorb the information. ‘We need to find out who worked for the charity and where they are now,’ I say finally.

Kimchi appears in the doorway, the mangled ball in his mouth. He drops it on the floor and barks, wagging his tail. In that moment, I think we all feel the same frisson of excitement. We might actually be getting somewhere.

*

In less than an hour we have the names of five triber daemons and two humans who were trustees of the charity. Three of them are dead – old age, cancer and a car accident respectively. Of the remaining four, one emigrated to Australia. Helpfully, the others still live in London. We’re about to start confirming their addresses when Lars, the Gully representative, lopes in.

‘What are you guys up to?’

We exchange glances. In theory we’re all part of the same team; he works for New Order now just like us. But the investigation into Tobias Renfrew and the severed ears isn’t really a vampire matter. By dint of silent agreement, we decide to play dumb. It’s not a matter of trust – Lars isn’t Dahlia – I guess it’s more because we find it hard to believe that we have some actual leads and we don’t want to share them. Or maybe it’s because we’re a tight-knit little group that traditional bloodguzzlers like Lars can never quite be a part of. Either way, there’s considerable humming and hawing. Fortunately, Lars is more than keen to talk about his night tracking down the bastards who killed Bergman Stuart to notice.

‘So I’ve spent every night checking their known acquaintances,’ he says, ‘and either no one knows or no one’s talking.’

I feel guilty about not doing more, even though it’s at my grandfather’s behest. ‘They obviously spent a lot of time at that night club,’ I say to him, trying to be helpful. ‘Maybe you need to check out similar clubs.’

‘That’ll be like finding a needle in a haystack,’ Lars complains. ‘Do you know how many clubs there are in this city?’

‘Good investigating involves a lot of legwork.’ I hope I don’t sound too patronising. After my confrontation with Arzo and Dahlia, I don’t want to piss off anyone else. I’m still smarting from the implication that I was trying to tell Arzo how to live his life. ‘X never marks the spot. You need to go searching.’

He grumbles slightly but doesn’t appear offended. ‘By the way,’ he tells me, ‘I think those journalists are back again.’

I frown. ‘Really? I thought they’d got tired of hanging around out here.’

Lars shrugs. ‘There’s a mysterious car outside. When I passed it, a guy got out and asked me about you.’

I sigh. Being followed around isn’t what I need right now. If I’m going to visit the high and mighty of Checkers Children’s Charity tomorrow, to find out whether they’re responsible for the brutal murder of at least five people, it’s going to be difficult to get them to talk with half the city’s press in tow. I can disguise myself enough to move around the streets but if I try to sneak out of the premises, I’m asking for trouble. It’ll be easier if they’re not hanging around and waiting for me. I mutter that I’m going to deal with them and head out.

I spot the car immediately. It’s black and unshowy but it seems remarkably expensive for a journalist. As I squint, trying to work out whether there’s anyone inside or not, a dark figure steps from the shadows.

‘You know, Bo, sometimes X does mark the spot.’

I glare at the Kakos daemon. He’s wearing his smoothly handsome human persona but I know what lurks underneath his skin. ‘What do you want?’

‘Oh,’ he drawls, ‘come, come. Surely you can be more welcoming than that? After all, I’ve been a good friend to you. More than a friend, in fact. Look at the PR I got for you.’

‘I didn’t ask you to get involved,’ I hiss.

X smiles. ‘How many times have you come to me for help in the past? You should be more grateful.’

‘Leave me alone.’ I turn on my heel, ready to walk back inside.

‘You still owe me a favour,’ he says. His voice is casual but I stiffen.

I slowly turn. ‘You’re coming to collect?’

He shrugs. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘I’m kind of busy right now. Can it wait a few days?’

‘You mean your ridiculous Renfrew crusade? Who cares? It’s all ancient history now.’ There’s a gleam in his eyes that suggests he thinks otherwise. I feel my gut tighten. X’s mindreading skills mean that he knows far more than he ought to. I’m not asking him for help again though. I’ve damned myself enough as it is by getting involved with him.

‘Come with me, Bo,’ he says smoothly, gesturing towards the car. ‘We have much to discuss. Renfrew’s waited this long. A few more hours won’t hurt.’

Every atom in my body screams at me to say no. I should walk – no, run – away. But much as I’d like to forget it, I do owe X. In return for not slaughtering Rogu3 or Connor or anyone else smart enough to realise that I turned Rogu3 into a vampire and back again, X made me promise to fulfil one favour. I’m a woman of my word. And if I tried to make a dash for it, he’d probably rip out my heart.