Darkside (10 page)

 

 

J
onathan froze in his seat. Despite the oppressive heat in the glasshouse, a sliver of ice ran down his spine. Vendetta kept his light blue eyes trained on Jonathan. In the silence, the trickling of the stream sounded like the roar of a waterfall. He forced himself to meet Vendetta's gaze as steadily as possible. If he looked guilty, he was done for. Thank God he had changed out of his normal clothes.

Though Carnegie must have been as stunned as Jonathan, he hid it well. His head was bowed, as if he was deep in thought. Eventually he looked up and cleared his throat.

“That doesn't sound like the sort of thing I usually do.”

“It's not the sort of thing that I usually ask for. Terribly exciting, isn't it?”

“I'm not going over to Lightside.”

“I'm not asking you to. The boy's here.”

Carnegie snorted. “A Lightside boy? Here? I doubt that. Even if he did manage to cross over – for whatever reason – he'd be dead by now.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But I've got a feeling that he's still very much alive.”

Again Vendetta's gaze flicked back to Jonathan, whose head was spinning with questions. How did the richest man in Darkside know his name? What did he want with him? Was it just a coincidence that he wanted to hire Carnegie, or did he know that his target was sitting directly in front of him? The sweat was now pouring down Jonathan's face. He hoped that Vendetta would put it down to the heat.

“OK, say the boy's still alive and I track him down. What do you want with him?”

“That's none of your concern. I'm only asking you to deliver him to me.”

“I don't know. . .” the wereman said dubiously. “It all sounds a bit strange to me.”

A look of exasperation flashed across Vendetta's face. “Damn it, Carnegie, it's not that difficult. Do you want the case or not?”

“I couldn't have a drink while I'm thinking about it, could I?”

Vendetta's jaw tightened. He eyeballed Carnegie for several seconds, before forcing his mouth to relax into a smile. “Of course. Let me just ring for the maid.”

He rose smoothly from his chair and moved over to a table on the far edge of the patio, where an old-fashioned phone was obscured by a voluminous fern. He picked up the receiver without bothering to dial, and spoke in a curt manner.

“Raquella, I'm in the glasshouse. Bring me a new bottle and another two glasses.”

Carnegie raised an eyebrow as he hung up. “A phone in the glasshouse?”

“A necessary extravagance. I conduct a lot of business here. . . Oh, I should have asked. Does the boy want anything? He looks a little flushed.”

Carnegie's head spun round a little too quickly.

“No, no. . .” Jonathan cut in hastily. “I'm a bit hot, but I'm not thirsty at all.”

The truth was, his mouth was parched and his throat was sore, but he didn't want to attract any more attention to himself. If he had to drink a glass of water, he wouldn't be able to stop his hand from shaking.

“Don't worry about him, Vendetta. He'll be fine. As soon as his father pays up, he can go home and drink all the water he wants to.”

Vendetta laughed. “And you wonder why I want to hire you?”

“I guessed it was because of that business with McIlroy. . .”

The two men began reminiscing over old Darkside feuds, and Jonathan felt himself slip out of the limelight. He found it strange to watch the two of them talking. Although the suave businessman and the shabby private detective were very different people, they were inextricably linked by the seedy world they lived in. They may not have liked each other but there was something between them, a grudging respect for each other's power.

Then Jonathan heard the door to the glasshouse gently open and close. He watched as a small girl appeared from between two large palm trees, balancing a drinks tray expertly in one hand. She was wearing a black dress and a white apron, which contrasted sharply with her flaming red hair. Even from a distance, Jonathan couldn't fail to recognize her. It was the girl who had saved him on the Grand. Which meant that she knew his name and, in all probability, he was done for.

“Ah, Raquella. Just leave the drinks over there, please.”

She curtsied neatly and did as she was told. Jonathan held his breath. All it needed was for her to look up and say his name, and the game would be up. Luckily for him, she kept her eyes respectfully down, and didn't look at either of the guests. Vendetta poured out a glass for Carnegie and handed it to him. The wereman took a long, messy swig, sending a spray of liquid down the front of his shirt. Vendetta shuddered, and took a delicate sip. The maid turned to leave, and was nearly out of sight before her master called her back. Jonathan's heart sank.

“Oh, Raquella. I think you know Carnegie.”

She nodded, blushing, and smiled shyly at the wereman. He gave her a cheery wave in return. “Hello there, little miss. How's your mother and father doing these days? I haven't seen them for a while.”

“They're well, Mr Carnegie. Thanks to you.”

“Good. Tell them I said hello.”

Vendetta smiled idly, and poured himself more drink from the bottle. “And have you met Mr Carnegie's hostage, Tobias, Raquella?”

At last, her gaze fell upon Jonathan. Immediately there was a flicker of recognition on her face. Luckily for both of them, Vendetta's back was still turned. Jonathan nodded politely, and tried to look at ease. Carnegie must have sensed what was going on, because he glanced at Raquella and placed a finger over his lips.

Quickly recovering her composure, she gave a slight nod. “Hello, Tobias. You are lucky to have such an honourable kidnapper.”

“I don't feel that lucky. He's already tried to eat me,” Jonathan replied, truthfully.

Vendetta clapped with delight. “The boy has some spirit, after all! I thought he was just going to sit there and sweat! You may go now, Raquella. I think you have made enough of an impact.”

The girl's cheeks reddened again, and with a curtsy she hurried out of the glasshouse. Carnegie took another long sip as Vendetta turned to face him. “So then, wereman. You've had enough of my drink. Are you going to take my case or not?”

“I'm not sure I can refuse. I'll take it.”

“I always thought there was a brain rattling somewhere inside that head of yours. That's a wise choice. Come here. I've got something I want to show you.”

Vendetta beckoned conspiratorially, and moved off the patio into the undergrowth. In this part of the glasshouse the plants had wrestled free from the confines of their soil beds, and long vines covered the concrete floor. Foliage closed in above their heads. Jonathan was suddenly very glad of Carnegie's presence in front of him.

They came out by an ornamental pool that had been dug into the floor, its surface flat and blank. Next to the pool there was an iron bench, perhaps placed there so that people could enjoy the peace and tranquillity of the setting amidst the plants. The current occupant of the bench wouldn't have appreciated it, though. He was dead. The corpse was propped up on the bench, his limbs twisted into stiff contortions. His face had turned bone white, and his mouth was wide open in an eternal scream. However he had died, he had suffered first.

Jonathan gasped. He had never seen a dead body before. The posture reminded him of his dad after a darkening, only this man was never going to wake up. Carnegie gripped his shoulder tightly in support, and moved ever so slightly in front of Jonathan. Vendetta walked calmly over to the bench and shook his head with mock remorse. He then began spraying a leafy plant behind the corpse's head.

“I wanted this man to work for me – made him a very generous offer, in fact – but he refused. Said that he was worried about the
responsibility
. Honestly. I tried to change his mind, but he wouldn't listen.”

“So what did you do to him?” It was Jonathan who asked the question, his voice trembling.

Vendetta turned to him and smiled, revealing a set of long, sharp fangs. “What did I do? I sliced him open and drained every last drop of blood from his body. It wasn't much of a meal, Tobias. He was a rather scrawny character.”

Jonathan stepped back in horror. His knees felt weak and there was a surge of nausea in his belly. Vendetta watched him struggle with undisguised amusement. “Now, Carnegie. That is most unfair. You're one of the few people who know about my condition. You might have warned the boy.”

“Why are you showing us this? Is it a threat?”

“No. It's a guarantee.” Menace flashed in Vendetta's eyes. “You cross me, you will pay for it. You, the boy, anyone I feel like blaming. Are we clear?”

Carnegie nodded.

“Good. Then bring me the Starling child. You can leave now.”

With that he turned his back and resumed his spraying, humming a strange tune quietly to himself.

 

Although the sky was black and fat raindrops were falling across the grounds of Vendetta Heights, it felt good to be out of the glasshouse and in the open air. Jonathan's shirt was dripping with sweat, and the cool air on his back was a blessed relief. He stretched out his arms and spun round slowly as Carnegie closed the glasshouse door behind him. It was a total shock when the wereman grabbed him roughly by the collar and hauled him up into the air.

“What . . . have . . . you . . . done?” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“Oww! I don't know! Carnegie! Let me down!”

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” Carnegie roared again. His eyes glittered with feral intent.

“I don't know! Sssh! He'll hear you!”

Carnegie blinked, and abruptly dropped Jonathan in a heap on the ground. The wereman spat out a curse and rubbed his head furiously, thinking hard. “OK. Not the boy's fault,” he muttered to himself. “Don't blame the boy. Come on. We have to get out of here.”

He hauled Jonathan up on to his feet, and propelled him back up the terrace and towards the front of the house. Jonathan's eyes were still watering from Carnegie's attack, and he stumbled with the fast pace. “Why did you do that? You're meant to be my protector!”

The wereman stopped in his tracks. He sighed. “Look, boy, I'm sorry. I've got a few rough edges. In fact, I haven't really got any smooth ones. My job demands it. Things are going to get pretty hairy round here, and I need to know what's going on. Like, what Vendetta wants with you.”

“I told you, I don't know!”

“Well, we need to find out, boy. Crossing that man is like signing your own death warrant. Come on. We need to get out of here. He might twig at any second.”

As they passed by the front of the house and began up the long driveway leading out of the grounds, Jonathan detected a movement coming from one of the rooms on the top floor of Vendetta Heights. There was a flash of red hair – Raquella was watching them leave. For a reason that he couldn't explain, Jonathan waved up at her. There was no reply, and the curtain was drawn swiftly across the window. In the background, there was a loud rumble of thunder.

 

 

 

“
S
o what are your thoughts about the boys, then, sir?”

PC Shaw and Carter Roberts were sitting in a high-class restaurant near Green Park tube station, one looking uneasy and on edge, the other a study in elegance. Roberts didn't bother to look up from the menu.

“What boys?”

“You know. Thomas and Starling.”

“Oh, yes. Well, you know, it's still early days. . .”

“I just thought that you might have some initial suspicions.”

“My suspicions are that it's going to take a long time for our meals to arrive. That's the only thing that's concerning me at this moment in time. I'm remarkably hungry.”

The table fell silent again. If he was being honest with himself, PC Shaw would have had to admit that working for the SIU had not been the thrilling experience he had anticipated. Ever since his selection, he had spent his nights dreaming about speeding round London in fast cars in hot pursuit of villains, or being involved in dramatic stand-offs with the kidnappers on the top of high-rise buildings. The actual days had proved altogether less glamorous. Shaw chauffeured Roberts around the city in random, unexplained patterns; zigzagging from expensive clothes shops to hulking warehouses to deserted fairgrounds. They never seemed to spend more than a minute at a time in the open air, and Shaw was never allowed to follow his boss out of the car. Yesterday he had been forced to wait for several hours outside a run-down building in East London while Roberts had had his hair cut. It had been embarrassing to say the least, especially as Shaw had been unable to detect any difference in his hairstyle.

As far as actual police work went, there hadn't been any. The new searches at the kidnapping sites had thrown up nothing. At Trafalgar Square one officer had found a strand of fluorescent orange hair, but Roberts had dismissed it on the spot.

“Of course!” he mocked. “The famous kidnapping clowns! Come on, everyone, you can do better than that.”

He threw Shaw an exasperated glance. The PC forced a smirk back. The team had so few clues it seemed strange to ignore anything, but then he supposed that Roberts knew what he was doing. He just wished that he could see some evidence of it.

“So how are you bedding down in the SIU, Shaw? Any problems?”

“No sir. It's been fine. Only. . .”

“Only what?”

Shaw took a gulp from his water. “I just . . . I mean, I haven't really
done
anything yet. Apart from drive.”

Roberts settled back in his chair, an amused smile flickering over his face. “So, you're hoping for a bit more excitement. A bit more running around, chasing after bad guys. Like they do in the movies.”

There was a dangerous edge to his smile now. “Not necessarily like that. . .” stammered Shaw.

Carter's voice dropped to a low hiss. “The SIU cracks cases exactly because we don't work like that. We think, we wait, we anticipate. It's a complex process that a beat copper might find a little beneath him, but we've found it gets results. You understand?”

“Yes, of course, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Then, all of a sudden, the malice was gone, and the amusement had returned to Roberts's face. “Anyway, we're meeting someone this afternoon who I think will be able to help us with the case. He may well have some valuable information. And if you're still bored after that, I'll try and do something to liven things up. Shoot someone or something like that. OK? Ah good, here's the food.”

 

After the meal, he lingered over a coffee, before the two men headed back out into the late afternoon. Their vehicle – a gun-metal grey Mercedes with blacked-out windows – was parked across the road from the restaurant. Shaw had never seen such an expensive car used for police work, but he was getting the feeling that Roberts tended to work to different rules from other coppers.

Shaw climbed into the front seat and rubbed his hands together. “Where are we heading then, sir?”

“Go straight across Waterloo Bridge. I'll direct you from there.”

As usual in central London, the traffic was backed up for miles, and the Mercedes inched its way down busy streets. Roberts seemed unconcerned that he might be late for his meeting, and spent the time jotting notes down in a black leather notebook he carried in his inside jacket pocket. Every so often, he would emit a soft chuckle.

Eventually the Mercedes crossed Waterloo Bridge. The sky was now tinged with pink and purple streaks, and although it was still light, the moon was clearly visible. On the south side of the Thames, the London Eye rotated slowly, like an exhausted fan. Shaw turned the radio on for company, but a level glare from Roberts made him turn it off again. Could he do anything right with this man?

The Mercedes moved on past Waterloo Station, beyond the grim facades of the buildings on the South Bank. The roads began to change in character, becoming narrower and more winding. Roberts directed Shaw through the maze of backstreets without looking up from his notebook. Eventually they found themselves on a desolate road strewn with rubbish and plastic bags. On one side a row of lock-up garages huddled underneath a bridge, their brickwork black with grime.

“Pull up here,” ordered Roberts, his head still buried in the book. He finished his sentence, then slipped the notebook back into his pocket and got out through the passenger door. Shaw made to follow, but the head of the SIU looked around and shook his head. “You stay here and keep an eye on the car. Unattended Mercs don't tend to stay that way very long round here. I'll be back soon.”

And with that he slammed the car door shut and strode towards the nearest lock-up garage. As Shaw looked on he unlocked the shutters and lifted them up, before disappearing inside. The PC was fuming. He wanted to be at the meeting, not sat around here like some kind of night-watchman! Not the first time, he wished that he had never been selected for the SIU.

He had just started to doze off when the roaring sound of an engine made him sit up with surprise. A flaming-red motorbike was careering down the street towards him. At the very last second, it swerved wildly right and into the garage that Roberts had just opened up. The bike had disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, leaving only a dark drip of oil and a set of tyre-marks on the surface of the road. Behind it, a carrier bag fluttered forlornly across the pavement.

Shaw hurriedly got out of the car. There was no way he was going to miss this, no matter what Carter said. He turned on the Mercedes' alarm with a beeper and crept to the edge of the garage. Glancing furtively up and down the street, he checked to make sure that no one was watching him. It was empty. He pressed his back to the brickwork and placed his ear as close as he could to the opening. Immediately Shaw recognized the imperious tone of voice that Carter used when he was telling people off.

“. . .and if the Starling boy dies she will regret it. I am
very
unhappy, Silas. When you speak to her, make sure she understands that, won't you?”

“I try. . .”

Shaw shuddered. The man Roberts was speaking to had a cold, reptilian voice with slithering vowels.

“. . .I try, but you know Marianne. She doesn't listen to many people.”

“She will listen to me. Everyone listens to me.” It was said starkly, without a trace of arrogance, and in that moment Shaw could well believe it.

“She is a natural hunter . . . maybe she not stop. The boy has made the crossing to Darkside, after all. Maybe he has an accident. Maybe he's dead already. What are you going to do then?”

There was a hint of mockery in the man's voice that only made the sound worse. Goosepimples broke out on Shaw's skin. Where in God's name was that accent from? Shaw couldn't think of any language that hissed like that. Wherever he was from, he didn't sound like the sort of person that Roberts should be dealing with. Shaw remembered the Super saying that there was “something fishy” about the Biloxi case. If he was referring to this person, he was dead right.

“Let's hope that Marianne can recognize a warning when she hears it, and takes all the necessary precautions. She will bring the boy to me, or you know what I will do.”

The reptilian man hissed with pleasure. “I like to see that fight one day. It might be closer than you think.”

There was a loud thud from inside the garage, and Shaw winced. Was Roberts all right in there? With great caution he poked his head round the side of the open shutters and surveyed the scene. The low-ceilinged garage was poky and cluttered with an array of oily and rusty machine parts. The red motorbike was gleaming on its stand towards the back. By the near wall, Roberts was standing with his back to Shaw. He was holding a spanner in his left hand. His companion was lying on the floor, but Shaw couldn't make out any of his features because Roberts was obscuring his view.

When the head of the SIU spoke again, his voice was icy with anger. “Do you really think that it would be that close?” He leant down and grabbed the other man by the collar. “You're nothing but a go-between, Silas, a penny-scrabbling messenger boy. How close do you think it would be between me and you?”

There was no reply, only a soft hissing noise.

“I agree. Now get out of here and go give Marianne the good news.”

The other man picked himself up off the floor. Shaw suddenly realized that, if Roberts found out that he had been eavesdropping, he was in dead trouble. As he pulled his head back away from the doorway he caught a glimpse of the reptilian man's face. It was dark and pockmarked, and covered with peeling flaps of flesh. The man must have had some sort of horrible skin disease, because he didn't look human. Shaw stood breathing against the side of the wall for a moment as a wave of nausea swept over him. Then there was a scream of an engine from inside the garage, and the red bike flew out into the street. Regaining his composure, Shaw ran back to the Mercedes, his raincoat flapping in the wind. He pressed the beeper frantically, unlocking the car, before collapsing in the front seat. A second later, Roberts appeared and closed the garage door. He walked in a businesslike manner back to the car and got in.

With a Herculean effort, Shaw managed to prevent himself from panting as he spoke. “How did the meeting go, sir?”

Roberts granted him a broad grin. “Surprisingly smoothly, Shaw. I haven't lost my powers of persuasion. Hopefully that will have a large impact on the case. Right then. I could murder a curry. What about you?”