Red Angel (20 page)

‘The children…?’

‘They were taken care of. We found good homes for them all.’

‘Do you have a list of their names?’ I ask. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that one of them decided to revive Checkers and use it to take revenge for what happened to Renfrew.

‘They didn’t know anything about what happened,’ he says dismissively.

‘They knew the boy you murdered. The child.’

Deutscher winces. ‘Yes. But we told them we’d found some distant relatives of his in Canada and they’d agreed to take him in. Whatever is happening now is nothing to do with the children.’

I’m not convinced but I let it rest. I can get the list elsewhere. ‘Have you spoken to the other Trustees since?’

‘I don’t think any of us could face it. To look each other in the eyes and know exactly what we’d done…’ He shivers. ‘I know De Mille and Boyce are dead. Wiggins went to Australia. As if sunshine and kangaroos could erase our actions,’ he snorts. ‘Andrew McIntosh was on the news yesterday. His son has gone missing.’

I think of the wide-eyed fear in the eyes of Creed and Wyatt’s victim. ‘Was he a daemon?’

‘Yes, Ms Blackman, he was.’

‘So that leaves Brownslow.’ I pull out my phone and read the addresses again. He’s the first one, living in the East End.

Deutscher lifts up his head. ‘If I’d known Renfrew would take Madeline, I’d have put a stop to this long ago. If Brownslow has children, don’t let them be hurt. What we did is not their fault.’ He puts down the whisky. ‘I need to use the bathroom.’

I watch him leave then sink back into my chair. My head is still reeling from everything he’s told me. I do need that damned drink after all. I grab the bottle. There’s a drawer underneath it that’s lying open a few inches. I frown. It was definitely closed before. I peer inside. When I see the tray of shiny bullets, with a single one missing, I swear loudly and spin round, just in time to hear the shot.

‘Murder and mayhem seem to follow you around, don’t they, Ms Blackman?’

Irritated, I stare at the sergeant. ‘As do you, Nicholls. Besides, Alan Deutscher wasn’t murdered. He committed suicide.’

‘Mm.’ She folds her arms. ‘Strange that such a celebrated heroine as yourself would allow something like that to happen.’

‘It wasn’t my fault.’ I clench my fists. I should have known, though. I should have stopped him.

‘It wouldn’t matter if it was,’ she sneers. ‘You’re a vampire.’

I wonder how many times she’s going to bring that up. I should keep a tally. ‘Where’s Foxworthy?’ I ask.

‘Why? So you can wrap him around your little finger even more?’

I gaze at her coolly. ‘I rather think he’s stronger than that.’ I stand up to go.

‘You can’t just walk out of here.’

I rub my forehead tiredly. ‘I can. Because, as you’ve already pointed out, I’m a vampire. You can’t hold me.’

She hisses. I ignore her.

It’s a relief to be back outside again. I suck in a breath of fresh air and hold it for a long moment in my lungs. My neck prickles and I know without turning who’s behind me. ‘Isn’t it rather dangerous for you to show up when so many police are around?’

X laughs, the sound pouring over me like liquid. ‘I don’t walk around showing my true form to any Tom, Dick or Harry.’

This is probably supposed to be my cue to face him but I don’t. I already know what he looks like. And those writhing tattoos of his make me feel seasick. ‘What do you want, X?’

‘Your little investigation is going well.’

‘A man died,’ I say flatly.

‘You know what I mean. A decades-old mystery and little Bo Blackman is going to solve it.’

‘I’m no closer to finding Tobias Renfrew than the police are.’

‘Oh, come, come,’ he drawls. ‘You know that’s not true.’ He moves closer behind me until I can almost feel his heat. He leans into my ear and whispers, ‘It’s not their fault they’re incompetent. They have to abide by the law. You don’t.’

‘If this is another job pitch, I’m not interested.’

‘Unlimited funds. Unlimited resources. Think what you could do.’

‘Find another stooge.’

He laughs again. ‘That’s why I like you. No one has ever dared to talk to me like that. You can keep playing hard to get; just know that I always get what I want. Sooner or later.’

‘Well then, it’s your lucky day. You can open yourself up to new experiences and discover what it’s like to be refused.’ My words fall emptily into the street; X has already gone. I sigh and shove my hands in pockets. I tightly squeeze my little pebble and remember to breathe again. Then I pull out my phone and call Matt.

‘Hey, babe!’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘Babe?’

‘Of course! You’re my babe. I’m your guy.’

‘I think you’re re-defining our relationship and taking it into fantasy land, Matt,’ I tell him.

He chuckles. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a good fantasy. Are you avoiding the office?’

I think of Arzo and Dahlia. ‘No. I’m busy. And I need some help. Call Connor and O’Shea.’

‘They’re already here.’ He lowers his voice melodramatically. ‘I think they like each other.’

A flicker of a smile crosses my face. ‘I think they do.’

‘What do you need?’

‘Brownslow,’ I say. ‘The Checkers’ trustee. The three of you need to get to his house now. Find his family and keep them safe. Don’t let them out of your sight.’

Matt sobers up. ‘Are they in trouble?’

I massage my neck, trying – and failing – to ease away some of the knotted tension. ‘Yeah. I think they might be.’

‘Will you be there too?’

My eyes drift to the storage compartment under my motorbike seat. ‘No. I’ve got something else to check out first.’

*

I am half expecting the Renfrew mansion to be covered in crime scene tape, or at least for security to have been beefed up, but it seems even more silent than it was when I came here with O’Shea. I park the bike, taking Rogu3’s box with me, and walk to the gift shop. The pane of glass has already been replaced. I crouch down and examine the ground in front of the door. There’s no trace that anyone died here. I suppose commerce waits for no one.

I stand up and peer inside. Foxworthy didn’t tell me if they recovered any bullet fragments or the damned ear those bastards sawed off – not to mention the body. I suppose I should feel sad that Andrew McIntosh lost his son like that; I certainly feel bad for his son. But McIntosh was with Deutscher. They killed a lot of people for the sake of some money and a good reputation.

I look around. I suppose I should keep my visit inconspicuous but in light of this evening’s revelations, I can’t muster up the energy. I gaze to my left at the path leading towards the back of the house then I shrug. The front door will be a lot quicker. I march up to it, eye the lock and, without drawing breath, kick it in. There’s a loud splintering of wood. The security guard doesn’t appear; I suppose that with all Renfrew’s money locked away, they couldn’t afford to hire someone who would stay awake on the job.

I push open the door and walk in. Five minutes later I’m back in the bathroom. I can see Kimchi’s scratches in the enamel of the bath; whether anyone else has noticed them yet is unclear. I consider what Deutscher told me about that terrible night and I shudder.

After Wiggins told Renfrew what they’d done, the billionaire shut down either with shock, overwhelming grief or a combination of both. However, when he was on the stage giving his speech, he recovered enough to stop himself repeating Elizabeth De Mille’s lines. He did something to disappear. I don’t know much about the nature of daemon billionaires but I do know humans and I know myself. If I was about to vanish from the world, I’d want one last look at the person who was important to me. Michael’s face floats in my mind. With effort, I push it away.

I’m betting that Renfrew came here. He wouldn’t have had long, perhaps only a minute or two before people came searching for him. If I manage this accurately, I can set the time bubble to appear a few seconds after he did his disappearing act. If I get bounced out then it’s because Renfrew didn’t travel far. He really did come here to get one last look at poor Hope’s dismembered body. If the time bubble orb works, however, and I don’t get thrown out almost immediately, then I reckon whatever happened was out of Renfrew’s control.

I take a deep breath, open Rogu3’s box and carefully lift out the orb. It’s heavier than I expected and the blue swirls create an eerie light in the dark hallway. It might be my imagination but I’m sure they react to my touch and spin more quickly.

I stare at it and say, ‘It’d be really handy if you came with an instruction manual.’ Unsurprisingly, nothing happens. I turn it over in my hands to see if there’s a clue about setting it up. Its glassy surface is smooth but a faint buzz emanates from it that makes my fingers tingle. I lift it up and frown.

From out of nowhere a hologram appears, projecting upwards into the air. It’s like a sort of touch screen and it’s asking me for a date and time. My heart rate picks up. The date section lights up when I touch it. I spin the numbers until I get the one that I want: the seventeenth of January, 1963. Then I move to the time, setting it for two minutes after Renfrew was reported to have disappeared. The display is replaced by a single word: Confirm? With my heart in mouth, I touch it to agree.

My body jerks. It’s an odd sensation, like when a train or a bus comes to a halt. I lose my balance and trip over my own feet. When I stand up again and look around, I realise that everything’s different. It’s as if I’m viewing the world in muted tones.

I blink several times. The barrier that holds back the tourists has gone. Unfortunately, it’s been replaced by a truly sickening sight. Bile rises in my mouth and I’m forced to look away. I might be a vampire but I’ve never seen so much blood. Deutscher confirmed that this wasn’t the scene of any of the murders, so it’s a testament to every single one of the trustees’ brutality that there’s so much splattered around. Perhaps it’s just as well that it seems Renfrew didn’t return here.

I move away from the bathroom. It’s more of an instinctive reaction than a conscious one; I want to put as much distance between myself and the bloodbath as possible. I pinch the bridge of my nose and breathe through my mouth. There’s not the alluring scent I normally receive from fresh blood; this is just death.

My gaze falls on the painting behind me. It’s the same pretty landscape I spotted a week ago. I try to use it to calm myself down. The tree and the golden fields stretching out behind the farmhouse in the foreground suggest a far different scene to the one that’s seared into my brain. Then my mouth drops open. Oh God.

I stare at it again. My eyes search the paint and I shake my head but there’s no denying it. The last time I saw this painting it was signed at the bottom by Renfrew himself and there was a tiny figure sitting under the tree. Neither the signature nor the figure are there now.

I yank the painting off the wall and flip it over. There’s nothing on the back other than the hook. I hear blood drumming in my ears. Sodding hell.

Still gripping the picture, I move. Adrenalin pulses through my body and I half run. I need to get out of this bubble now and compare the modern version of the painting to this one. Maybe they’re part of a series. They’re not necessarily the same canvas.

Something flickers ahead. A blurred shape is coming towards me and it’s moving fast. My brain struggles to work out what’s going on then I realise it’s from the other side of the bubble. It’s the first person coming to the scene, looking for Tobias Renfrew. But they’re not going to find him – and I’m about to be thrown out of the bubble.

I feel my body jerk again and there’s the sensation of falling. As I try to keep my balance, I see an open doorway inside of which is an array of soft toys. Just as my knees give way I catch the edge of a crib. The muted tones give way to a harshness that makes my eyeballs ache. The door in front of me is now closed and I’m back in real time.

I stretch out and twist the doorknob. This clearly isn’t a door that gets opened very often because the rusty hinges creak loudly. Inside there’s not a stick of furniture to be seen. I frown for a moment then turn to go back to the painting. That’s when I realise I’m no longer holding the original. I mentally slap myself on the forehead. Time cannot be changed: it’s utterly, implacably immutable. That means that not only can I not alter the past, the same object can’t exist twice. I pivot and run, coming to a skidding halt in front of the 2015 version of the picture.

I touch the brushstrokes lightly with my fingertips; they look the same. The fields certainly look the same and the farmhouse has the same thatching and is casting the same shadows. I lift it off – more carefully this time – and turn it over. The back looks the same too. The only differences between this painting and the one I had in my hands moments ago are the signature and the little figure. It’s difficult to tell because it’s so small and indistinct but it looks like a man and he’s definitely wearing black. I realise that I’m shaking. I know exactly where Tobias Renfrew is.

I run back down the hallway with the painting under my arm. The last thing I want is to damage it so I’m holding it carefully but it feels like it’s burning a hole into me. The words run through my head like a mantra: I’ve found Tobias Renfrew; I’ve found Tobias Renfrew.

Unfortunately the security guard has woken up from wherever he was dozing and has come to investigate. You’d think that he’d be more on his toes considering there has just been a murder here.  No matter what, if he’s found the mess I made of the front door, he’ll have called the police. I don’t want the first thing Tobias Renfrew sees when he’s released from the confines of the paint to be the inside of a cell because the police want to interrogate him about what happened the night he disappeared. He deserves some time to acclimatise. So when the guard shines his torch in my direction, I take a running leap and vault over him. My shoes squeak on the polished floor as I veer round and reach the staircase that leads downwards. I jump from the stairs to the banister and, holding the painting above my head, I slide down. I land at the bottom with a little hop and a wide grin. Two seconds later I’m out the door.

*

I pull up outside New Order, jump off the bike and dash inside. Yanking my phone out my pocket, I dial Matt. ‘Brownslow,’ I say, breathless. ‘Do you have him?’

‘No. I’m sorry, Bo. The police arrested him.’

I curse. It was inevitable after what I’d told Nicholls about Deutscher’s confession but I had hoped they’d wait until morning. After all, the crimes were committed over fifty years ago. Brownslow is an old man now; he’s not going anywhere.

‘His family?’ I ask as I run past Drechlin’s surgery and up the stairs to our offices.

‘Two sons and one daughter. We’ve got eyes on them all.’

‘Good. Keep it that way. I’ll be in touch soon.’

‘Bo, don’t hang up. Your grandfather called about an hour ago and…’

I run in through the door to New Order – come to a faltering stop when I see who’s there. I drop the phone.