Authors: Scott G. Mariani
Uprising (20 page)
He turned back round and the dismay must have been visible on his face.
‘Satisfied, Inspector Solomon?’ Finch said. ‘It
was
Solomon, wasn’t it?’
‘I didn’t imagine it,’ Dec muttered resolutely. ‘There’s a passageway behind there.’
There was nothing more for it. Between clenched teeth, Joel thanked Finch for his time, and then virtually dragged Dec back outside.
‘Do you still wish to verify Mr Stone’s whereabouts?’ Finch asked from the steps as they walked back towards the police car.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Joel said.
Finch nodded stiffly. ‘Thank you, officer. Be assured that your superiors will be hearing from us.’
There was a strange light in his eyes as Joel drove off.
They were silent long after they’d driven out of the gates and started making their way back towards the main road.
‘I’m fucking telling you I didn’t dream it.’
Joel didn’t reply.
‘So what happens now?’ Dec asked.
‘I’m taking you home.’
‘You don’t believe me any more, do you?’
‘No, Dec. I don’t.’
But Joel knew that was a lie. After a silent drive to the edge of Wallingford, he dropped Dec off at the bottom of Lavender Close a few minutes before noon. He turned the car round. He wasn’t heading back towards Oxford.
He was going straight back to Crowmoor Hall.
The VIA office had been in a state of shock all morning following the double bombshell. First the news of the destruction of the Terzi lab, then the video message from the mysterious Gabriel Stone. Many of the VIA staff sat in stunned silence at their desks, barely able to function. Others huddled in groups in corners to jabber and whisper furiously among themselves while gofers scurried by. The frantic scouring of the archives had revealed exactly what Stone had predicted it would: nothing. There was no trace whatsoever of the vampire on any Federation records, no way to track him, not a shred of a clue as to who or where he might be.
While the rest of the building’s top floor struggled to come to terms with the situation, Harry Rumble was in his office, on two phones at once and typing emails as he talked. After an hour of helping Slade go back through the drug distribution records in the vain hope of finding a useful lead, Alex walked in Rumble’s door to find him slumped and haggard at his desk, tie crooked, hair wild. Xavier Garrett was lurking in the background, filing papers.
‘I’ve just got off the phone with Brussels,’ Rumble said wearily to Alex. He was referring to the main headquarters of the Federation Ruling Council, housed in a high-rise building just a few hundred yards from the European Parliament. ‘I talked to Gaston Lerouge.’ The way he said the name, he might have ended the sentence with an emphatic
‘himself’.
Gaston Lerouge was one of the Supremos of the Ruling Council. He held court within the plush FRC offices like a dauphin prince, surrounded by an army of lackeys, and was second in command only to the legendary Olympia Angelopolis, co-founder of the Federation, the Lady of Steel, the one they called The Vampress.
‘What an honour,’ Alex said. ‘The great Lerouge actually condescending to speak with a lowly VIA chief. So what did our illustrious leader and former toy salesman have to say for himself?’
Garrett looked over at her. ‘That’s enough of that kind of talk, Agent Bishop. A bit of respect would be in order.’
‘Turns out that the same moment our friend Stone was delivering his message to us here,’ Rumble went on, ‘they got an email with the same video clip. The source is untraceable, before you ask.’
‘How are they taking it?’
‘Official version? Stone is just a minor blip, and we’ll have a new pharma lab up and running again before you know it. Nothing to worry about.’
Alex nodded. ‘Yeah. Real version?’
‘Going apeshit,’ Rumble said. ‘Or else why would they be calling a general meeting three days from now, in Brussels? Lerouge will be there, along with Achmed Hassan, Cornelius Borowczyk and all the other Supremos. The Vampress will preside, no less. My presence is requested, and I want you there with me.’
‘Me?’
Garrett strode over to the desk, pointing a finger at Alex. ‘With respect, sir, you can’t be seriously thinking of taking her into a meeting with these people. She’s insubordinate, a loose cannon. And this is way above her grade.’
For once, Alex wasn’t too quick to contradict Garrett. ‘Do I really need to be there, Harry? They don’t usually have field agents at these kinds of events.’
‘You’re my top operative,’ Rumble insisted. ‘And besides, this is no ordinary meeting.’ He turned to Garrett, who was trembling with indignation. ‘You’ll be there too, Xavier.’
Garrett smiled smugly, and relented right away.
As Alex left Rumble’s office and headed out of the building, she had other things on her mind than waste-of-time conferences with a bunch of stuffed shirts and bureaucrats. She was thinking back to the young guy Dec Maddon, and his wild story of a big house where a girl had been slaughtered by vampires. As she walked to the Jag, she took out her phone.
‘Thames Valley Police,’ said the breezy female voice on the other end.
‘Is DI Solomon available, please?’ Alex asked.
‘One moment.’ A pause. ‘I’m afraid he’s not at his desk. May I ask who’s calling?’
But Alex was already turning off the phone and getting in the car.
Lavender Close, Wallingford
12.16 p.m.
Gillian Hawthorne parked the Rover 75 in the drive before carrying the Sainsbury’s shopping bags round the passage to the back door, the way she always did.
‘Mrs Hawthorne?’
Gillian turned. She let out a loud huff when she saw Dec Maddon approaching from next door.
‘What do
you
want?’ she snapped. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in prison or something?’
‘I want to see Kate,’ he said.
‘Do you indeed? No chance.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘That’s no concern of yours.’ Gillian turned her back on him and continued up the path.
‘I’ve got to see her,’ he yelled after her.
She wheeled around. ‘You’ve caused enough trouble as it is. Stay away from my daughter, or I’ll have the police down on you again. And don’t forget that Kate’s father is a solicitor.’
‘Please,
Mrs Hawthorne—’
‘Get lost.’ Gillian stomped round the back of the house, leaving him standing there looking forlorn. As she turned the key in the back door lock she glanced up at Kate’s bedroom window. The curtains were still tightly closed.
Dumping the shopping bags on the kitchen surface, she turned on the grill, opened the pack of sirloin steak and sliced some bread. When the steak sandwich was prepared, she laid the plate on a tray with a glass of milk and carried it up the stairs. Balancing the tray on one hand, she turned the handle of Kate’s door and went inside.
Her daughter was still lying in bed, on her side with her back to the door and the duvet pulled up tightly around her neck. It was dark, and the air in the room was stale. Gillian felt like pulling back the curtains and throwing open the window, but thought better of it. She laid the tray down on the bedside table.
‘Kate, I brought you something to eat.’
No response.
‘Come on, darling. Dr Andrews said you needed to get something down you.’
Kate didn’t reply.
‘For God’s sake, I’ve just cooked this specially for you. I know you’re not feeling yourself, but I’m getting a little tired of this routine.’ She reached out to shake Kate’s shoulder.
Dr Andrews was the first to get the call.
‘I’m sending an ambulance,’ he told the hysterical mother once he’d drawn a breath and collected himself from the shock of the news. ‘And I’m on my way.’
And minutes later there were sirens and flashing blue lights all over Lavender Close and Dec Maddon standing there in the middle of it all screaming
what’s happened? What’s happened?
Seymour Finch was in the gazebo, staring across Crowmoor Hall’s grounds at the river beyond and deep in thought, when he felt the presence and turned to see the young police inspector walking across the lawn towards him.
‘What a surprise, Inspector. I didn’t think we’d be seeing you again quite so soon. I’ve just been talking to the valuation people at Sotheby’s, by the way. You can expect to receive our invoice for damages shortly.’
‘Enough crap, Finch.’ Joel strode up the gazebo steps and looked the man in the eye. ‘You and I are going to have a talk.’
Finch’s gaunt face crinkled into a dry smile. ‘Splendid. And what will the topic of our conversation be?’
‘You’re going to tell me the truth,’ Joel said. ‘You’re going to show me how you open that hidden passage in the ballroom. And then you’re going to take me down to the crypt. I know it’s there.’
Finch’s smile widened to a grin, and then he gave a mirthless laugh, like the sound of sawing wood. ‘You do have a vivid imagination, Inspector. I thought the police only concerned themselves with the facts.’
‘Start talking.’
Finch shrugged. ‘Very well. If that’s what you want.’ He motioned down the gazebo steps. ‘This way, please.’
Joel looked warily at the man for a second or two, then started down the steps.
He hadn’t even reached the lawn before the flash of white light filled his head and he felt the wind explode from his lungs. The impact was like being hit by a train. The ground suddenly rushed up to meet his face, and then he felt nothing more.
The first thing Joel registered as the smudged blur of unconsciousness slowly faded back into light was the familiar, concerned face of Sam Carter peering down at him. The second thing he saw was the police officers and paramedics milling about the lawn.
And then he saw Finch.
Joel did a double-take.
Finch was sitting on the steps of the gazebo with a paramedic crouched by him, mopping blood off his face. He looked like he’d been in a serious fistfight, one eye blackened and puffy, lips split open, his teeth rimed with red, blood smeared over his bald crown.
‘You’ve really done it this time, haven’t you, Solomon?’ Carter muttered out of everyone else’s earshot.
‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘Love to say I believed you, Joel, but look at the guy. Have you lost your mind?’
‘I didn’t touch him.’
‘Then how did he get like that?’
‘I don’t know – someone else did it. Or he did it to himself.’
‘He says you attacked him. Says he had to defend himself and got lucky.’
Joel shook his head in protest, wincing at the pain that lanced through his skull. He felt as if he’d gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champ. It seemed impossible that Finch could have done this to him. And that was the whole problem, because there was no way anyone could see Finch as anything but the victim here.
‘No. I just came to ask him some more questions.’
Carter sighed. ‘You’re in deep shit. You know who Finch works for, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know who he works for.’
Finch looked like a frail old man as the paramedics escorted him into the ambulance. Joel watched as it drove away, and then it was him being escorted to the waiting police car.
London docks
1.15 p.m.
Alex had to retrace her steps three times up and down the quayside before she felt certain of what she was seeing.
She hadn’t quite known what she was going to find when she returned to the wharf where the
Anica
was moored: the place swarming with police and forensics teams, maybe, everything sealed off with crime scene tape, dozens of people running around talking on radios. Or maybe the vessel would be much as she’d last seen it the night before – a floating graveyard of dismembered corpses that might, just might, offer up some kind of clue about the vampire attackers who’d ambushed them here, maybe even a lead that could guide her all the way back to the mysterious Gabriel Stone. She knew that might be too much to hope for. Stone seemed like a guy who’d had a lot of practice in covering his tracks.
But she hadn’t expected to find this.
An empty space where the
Anica
had been just the previous night. The ship was just gone.
‘Who’s helping you, Stone?’ she asked herself out loud as she gazed at the vacant mooring. ‘How are you making all this happen?’
The rathouse pub that was Paulie Lomax’s and his cousin Vinnie’s watering hole of choice wasn’t more than a fifteen-minute walk from the dock. Alex stepped inside the door to be greeted by the surly stares of a bunch of severely nicotine-stained, tattooed, hard-drinking individuals. There were a couple of wolf whistles as she made her way up towards the bar and one of the card players in the corner yelled out something obscene. She wondered whether it would be witty and appropriate just to take out the .44 Smith and blow the top of his head off; maybe, but that wasn’t going to help with the business at hand. Without turning round, she gave him the finger instead. She ignored the whooping and cheering, and walked up to the bar.
In a London that was almost completely homogenised by the inexorable rise of the plastic middle class and the sterile health-and-safety culture that seemed to be taking hold everywhere, she almost relished the spit and sawdust, sweat and grime of a place like this. It reminded her of the old days. You just didn’t want to be a woman back then.
The guy behind the bar was battered and grizzled and looked like he’d served his time in the boxing ring and lost just about every fight he’d been in. He grinned wolfishly and leaned on the pitted wood as she approached.
‘All right, darling. What can I do you for?’
‘I’m looking for Paulie Lomax.’
The grin dropped. ‘Paulie Lomax?’
‘Guy they call Four-Finger. And his friend Vinnie. You know them?’
