Serafina and the Silent Vampire (29 page)

“Is that how the fire was started?” Kolnikov enquired.

“We don’t know yet. Please answer the question.”

He did them the courtesy of appearing to think about it. “I don’t have a car here, so I haven’t been near petrol to my knowledge. Matches…” He held up the cigarette and shrugged. “And I crashed about on the stairs of the warehouse, as far as the first floor before I realized it was useless.”

“We’d also like to take your fingerprints and DNA swabs,” Lamont said.

Gallini opened his mouth, presumably to object, but again his client merely shrugged and said, “Fine.”

Nell could almost have imagined he was innocent.
Aye, right.
Mr. Razz Kolnikov.

“In that case, interview ended at…” he glanced at his watch. “…three fifteen am, in order to take evidence swabs from Mr. Kolnikov.” He stood and regarded Nell. “Would you mind sticking around?”

“Sure.” Sleep was overrated. She’d already resigned herself to the fact that she wasn’t going to get any for a long time. Besides, the caffeine pills had clocked in and she felt
almost
bright eyed and bushy tailed.

****

It was 6.30 am, and almost light. Nell, fortunate enough to find a café open on Leith Walk to catch the shift workers and early starters, sat staring into her black coffee. She felt as if her eyes were kept open with matchsticks and yet her brain was churning so fast she couldn’t have slept on a feather bed with the sandman in attendance and lullabies in the background.

It was years since she’d been in a police station.
That
police station. And the memories it stirred up didn’t help her to deal with the rest of tonight’s crap.

She’d hung around in an outer room, just in case Kolnikov chose to say anything while the police took away his clothes. He didn’t. She’d only glimpsed him once through the swinging door as his clothes were returned to him. He’d been sitting in a dull white bathrobe that seemed too small, his head back against the wall, his eyes closed, his long legs, spread casually wide and constantly vibrating to the tapping of his feet, which seemed to be the only part of him moving. In different surroundings, it would have been a sight worth memorizing. Even with the ends of the robe dragged together almost as far as his throat, as if he were cold, he was a sexy bastard. Nell’s body had acknowledged it, surprising her with its brief, shocking stir of interest.

She didn’t want to think about that.

She took a sip of coffee and hugged the warmth of her cup in both hands while she gazed out of the window. Rain was spitting down in a half-hearted sort of a way. Apart from the passing cars, the street was almost empty. A woman hurried by with a bawling baby in a car-seat.

The café radio played mindless pop music, interspersed with quite inappropriately cheerful chatter. A young man yawned behind the counter and began to fry bacon and sausages. Nell’s stomach rumbled.

And then she saw him. Kolnikov. He was walking down the pavement toward the café, hands in the pockets of a battered black leather jacket, his long legs striding, more, it seemed, because they couldn’t travel any other way than because he was in a hurry. He appeared to be whistling.

The police had found no reason to hold him. So far.

Nell’s heart lurched.
Don’t look in,
she willed him suddenly. Then,
Oh hell, yes, please look in.

He looked in. He stopped first to examine the menu in the window. But she didn’t think he even saw it. He looked pale and exhausted, his lips tighter, his fine jaw more rigid than in the police station. And his blue eyes weren’t hard or cold. They were blank with something very like misery. Then his gaze dropped and he saw her.

She caught a flicker of recognition, even a faint upward tug at the corner of his mouth. For an instant, she held his gaze, descried a flare of intense, almost predatory interest that swiped at her breath.

Then he walked on.

She was at the door before he’d taken two steps.”Mr. Kolnikov?”

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. She wondered what she looked like to him. A professional young woman fully made up at 6.30 in the morning, wearing a smart business suit and hanging out the door of a café only one step up from a greasy spoon. With her eyes held open by imaginary match sticks. This was such a bad idea.

“Are you all right?” she asked reluctantly.

There was the faintest pause, then: “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’ve been up all night being questioned by the police just for trying to help strangers?” It was too close to the words used by his solicitor already. She added quickly but honestly, “You look ill.”

“I’m not ill. Just tired, I guess.” He glanced at the café window. “Is the coffee any good?”

“Good enough,” she said, going back inside.

Stupidly, her heart hammered in her breast. She was careful not to make eye contact as he came in, gave him space. He didn’t need to talk to her. She didn’t
want
him to talk to her.

And yet the writer in her was curious. He wasn’t like any criminal type she’d encountered before. He wasn’t anything like she expected of an arsonist. A possible gangster. A murderer.

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