The Thirteen Hallows (16 page)

Do we have an ID on the corpse?”

“He was a skinhead. They discovered that…when they found his head,” Victoria Heath added.

Tony Fowler cut across Earls Court Road without bothering to signal, leaving horns blaring in his wake. He was in a pissy mood. It was seven in the morning, and he and his partner were running on fumes. “When did the call come in?” The bodies were starting to pile up, and there was no sign of Miller. “Around midnight. There was an incomplete call to 999. The operator didn’t get the full details, but caller ID identified the full address. A unit drove by to investigate and gave chase to some men running from the building.” Sergeant Heath leaned forward and pointed to the right. “It’s down there.”

“Halloween isn’t until tomorrow and already everyone’s gone crazy.”

“In all fairness, last night was a busy night,” the sergeant continued, glancing down at her notebook. “Chelsea lost two–nil to the Villa, and there were a lot of disappointed fans. Seventeen arrests. Then there was a multiple pileup on Earls Court Road, which effectively closed off this whole section of roadway. It was close to two thirty before the unit returned. They spoke to the complainant, the landlady who lives in the flat above the basement apartment. Turns out she’d been talking to one of her tenants who said she’d encountered a stranger on the steps earlier that evening asking after the man in the flat. Landlady hadn’t thought too much of it until she heard the screams….”

“And by then it was too late.” Fowler sighed. “When will the public ever fucking learn? Phone us sooner, not later.”

“The problem is even when they do phone us, it takes us nearly two and a half hours to get there,” Victoria reminded him. “The call came from Owen Walker’s cell phone, the graduate student renting the apartment,” Victoria added.

“Walker? Any relation to Judith Walker?”

“The boy’s American, but we’re checking it out. He works for a local consulting firm. Been living here for three years.” She squinted, trying to read her own shaky writing. She was on her third cup of coffee and had copied the notes over the air from an officer already at the scene.

“What happened then?”

“When the officers reached the apartment, they found the window in Walker’s sitting room broken. They shone a flashlight through the window and saw a pair of legs on the floor. They pushed open the door, and inside they discovered the body of an unidentified male. He’d been disemboweled and decapitated by a sharp weapon. Possibly a sword,” she added with a sour smile.

“A sword?”

“A sword.”

“I don’t fucking believe it,” Tony Fowler whispered, easing the car into the curb behind the coroner’s car. “Any connection to Miller?”

“Too early to say. Boyfriend, maybe?”

“Was there any sign of the Miller woman?”

“None.”

GAVIN MACKINTOSH
was peeling off his rubber gloves when the two police officers entered the apartment. The Scotsman’s face was drawn, deep shadows under his eyes. “What’s wrong with this picture?” he asked.

Tony Fowler stopped beside the corpse, pulling down the zipper on the body bag to look over the chilling wounds. Then he stood and looked around the room. “No blood,” he said finally.

The Scotsman nodded. “Under normal circumstances, I’d lay money that our dead friend wasn’t killed in this room, that he’d been butchered somewhere else and his body transported here. However, these are not normal circumstances. I don’t think there’s too much doubt that he fought and died here.”

“But where’s the blood?” Victoria Heath murmured.

“Exactly!” Mackintosh snapped. “Where’s the blood? He’s been gutted like a fish and bled out. This place should be swimming in blood. He’s had his throat cut while still alive. Blood pumping from the arteries under pressure should have sprayed the walls and ceiling.” All heads turned to look up at the ceiling. “So, what’s the connection between this guy and the body I looked at earlier?”

“The sword,” Tony Fowler said.

“The sword.” Mackintosh smiled wanly. “They were both killed with the same weapon.”

“The same killer?” Victoria muttered.

“That would be a logical assumption.” The Scotsman nodded. “I’m glad I’m not a cop.”

THE LANDLADY’S
name was Diane Gale, and although she felt sorry for the young man in the basement flat, who seemed to have been kidnapped or murdered—or possibly both—by a homicidal maniac, she was enjoying her fifteen minutes in the spotlight. She was also keeping a tight rein on what she said; after all, surely one of the tabloids would be prepared to pay good money for the story, and she didn’t want to give it all away for nothing.

“I’ve given my statement to the other officers,” she said, striking a pose in her colorful kimono when the tired-looking man and the masculine-looking woman appeared at her door, both holding police ID in their hands.

“This will only take a minute, Mrs. Gale,” Tony Fowler said easily, ignoring her and stepping into the hall.

“It’s Miss, actually,” she flirted.

“Miss,” Tony corrected himself. “I am Detective Fowler, and this is my partner, Sergeant Heath. First I would like to thank you for your invaluable assistance. If more of the public were like you, our job would be made a lot easier.” He managed to make the words sound sincere.

They followed the attractive septuagenarian into a tiny sitting room that was dominated by an enormous piano. On the far wall was a new flat-screen television. Toothy breakfast-time announcers listed the overnight stories and disasters in fifteen-second sound bites. Miss Gale turned off the television as the smiling weather girl appeared.

“Miss Gale, what can you tell us about the young man who lived downstairs?” Tony Fowler said immediately.

“He was an American. Quite lovely. Rather handsome. Frankly, I wish he were twenty years older and I were ten years younger. Shame. Still, he always paid his rent on time.”

“Did he have any girlfriends…or boyfriends?” Victoria Heath asked quickly.

“Well, of course. He was stunning; there were always young people coming and going. Young people do like to entertain. But there was no one special, if you know what I mean.”

“Any of them skinheads?”

She looked shocked. “Absolutely not. There are no skinheads in this establishment.”

Heath and Miller looked at each other.

“Did Owen shave his head?”

“He most certainly did not. He had a very nice head of hair.”

“What about family?” Victoria asked.

“Just an aunt. His parents are both dead; such a shame. I cooked him a Thanksgiving dinner last year, a real American tradition, and he got rather weepy when talking about them.” She took a deep breath. “It seems that—”

“Is his aunt English?” Tony interrupted.

“Yes, yes, of course, she lives—”

“Do you have a name for this aunt?” Victoria interrupted. “We’ll need to contact her.”

“Of course. She’s a big-time children’s author, you know. I have every one of her Dark Castle series. Here, I’ll show you, they’re autographed and everything.” Diane Gale reached up to the bookshelf and pulled down a brightly illustrated children’s book. She smiled broadly as she opened the book so the two police officers could read the signature. But the smile faded as the officers turned and hurried out of the room.

A UNIFORMED
officer stopped the detectives on the steps. “Excuse me, but there’s a constable here I think you should talk to.”

The detective and sergeant followed the officer across to one of the police cars, where a young, red-faced officer was standing, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “This is Constable Napier, he’s with the local station.”

“What can we do for you, Constable?”

“I was on my way to this address to talk to the owner of a red Honda Civic, registration number—”

Fowler raised his hand. “The point?” he snapped.

“The car, registered to a Mr. Owen Walker, was found abandoned at the corner of Kensington High Street and Derry Street. We believe, judging from the damage to the car, that Mr. Walker had been involved in a multiple-car crash. We initially thought he might simply have driven off, but we’ve established the existence of bloodstains on the upholstery. We think he may have been injured.”

Fowler caught the older officer by the shoulder. “Get Mackintosh. Tell him to meet us there. You”—he grabbed the younger constable by the arm—“take us there immediately.”

“It’s Miller, isn’t it?” Sergeant Heath asked.

“Has to be. She probably kidnapped the boy and was driving away in his car when he struggled, the car got out of control, and crashed.”

Victoria Heath nodded, but it didn’t make sense: Sarah Miller was a petite five feet four, while Owen Walker, according to the description they had, was a six-foot all-American athlete. It made absolutely no sense.

Fowler snapped, “Contact HQ. Tell them to make an addition to Miller’s sheet. She should not be approached. Use extreme caution.”

“I wonder where Owen Walker is now?” Victoria Heath whispered.

Fowler grunted. “Dead. Or if he’s not dead, then she’s probably torturing him to death right now.”

The deliciously aromatic smells of roasting coffee and burning toast awakened him from his troubled dreams. Owen rolled over and struggled to sit up in bed. He brushed hair out of his eyes, groaning aloud as his hand grazed his battered cheek. The entire right side of his face was hot and felt swollen to the touch, and he could feel hard points of glass beneath the skin.

So it hadn’t been a dream.

The wild car ride had chased him through his dreams, only now the cold-eyed man with the hammer hadn’t pounded the windscreen and bashed on the roof; he had been striking him directly with the hammer, the blows cracking bones and breaking skin.

Owen barely remembered the tube ride to Notting Hill Gate. He’d made the journey slumped up against Sarah, numbed by the events of the evening, his bruised face nestled against her shoulder to hide the cuts. He’d taken Sarah to the flat of a friend in Notting Hill, just off Portobello Road. Joyce was one of a string of women he was dating. She was away for the week and had given Owen a set of keys so that he could feed her cats.

A shadow loomed in the door, and his heart lurched as he remembered the shadowy figures of the previous night.

Sarah tapped on the door with her foot before stepping into the room. She’d recently showered, and her long red hair was plastered close to her skull; her eyes, which had seemed so dead and lifeless the previous day, were now brighter. The pink towel clung to her shapely body, and Owen averted his eyes in embarrassment. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited until he had straightened the pillows and pulled the sheet up over his groin before placing a tray on his knees.

“I haven’t had breakfast in bed for a long time.” He attempted to smile, but it pulled the skin on his face. With his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, he sipped slowly, feeling the scalding liquid burn his tongue. He sighed and sank back onto the pillow.

“How do you feel?” Sarah asked.

“How do I look like I feel?”

She grinned quickly, her face suddenly girlish. “Like shit.”

“Exactly how I feel.”

She leaned forward to examine the tender flesh on his cheek. “I cleaned it as best I could,” she said, “but there may be some glass still in there.”

Owen shook his head. “I don’t remember you doing that.” He suddenly lifted the covers and looked under them. He was naked. A blush washed up his cheeks and was instantly mirrored on Sarah’s face.

“There was glass all over your clothes…,” she began. And then she smiled shyly. “And after everything that had happened last night, I was in no state to do anything, not even look.”

Owen nodded. “I didn’t get a chance to thank you last night….”

“You can thank me by eating your breakfast. Don’t make a girl eat alone. It’s rude.”

Sarah chewed on a corner of toast and looked at the man, seeing him properly for the first time. She recognized his aunt in his features, the same determination in his green eyes, the strong jaw.

“Who owns the flat?” she asked cautiously, noting the tasteful feminine decor, aware that the silence was lengthening between them.

“A…friend,” he said, unsure why he wanted to hide the fact that he had slept with Joyce several times. “She’s in my statistics class, and she’s away for the week.” An ancient gray tomcat hopped onto the bed, eyes fixed on the milk jug. “I promised to feed Romulus and Remus. What can I say, I’m a softy for animals.”

“I love cats,” she murmured, and then sneezed. “Though they don’t love me.”

Owen tipped a little milk into the saucer and placed it on the bed. Instantly, a second cat, a slender tabby, jumped up. Both cats squatted down to lap at the milk. “Do you think we’ll be safe here?” he asked, not looking at her, gently stroking a cat.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It depends how organized these people are. Maybe they’ll get around to checking out your friends. But you’ve probably got a few days.”

“Are you still going to the police?”

“I am.”

“Then I’m still coming with you.”

Sarah started to shake her head.

“It’s not up for discussion,” Owen said firmly. He finished his coffee. “I want to grab a shower and try and clean up my face first.”

Sarah picked up the tray and carried it back into the tiny kitchen. There was a small picture taped to the refrigerator. It showed Owen and a beautiful Asian woman standing before the London Eye. Their arms were flung around each other in a way that was far from platonic.

“I wish I was this close to all of my friends,” Sarah muttered to Romulus, who had followed her, hoping to get more food. She turned on the tiny television in the kitchen. After watching the news for several minutes, she relaxed a little, realizing that there had been no mention of the man she’d killed. There had been pictures of the pileup on Kensington High Street, half a dozen cars scattered across the road, the reporter’s face washed blue and red in the lights of the emergency vehicles. Although there had been several serious injuries, no one had been killed.

When she finished doing the dishes, she heard Owen climb out of bed and pad into the bathroom. Moments later, the shower turned on.

Sarah wandered back into the sitting room and sank into an overstuffed easy chair. She reached into the bag at her feet and lifted out the Broken Sword.

Hunting horns. Faint and distant.

Calling.

Sarah blinked. For an instant the sword had been whole, a shining sliver of silver metal, and then the sunlight had run liquid down it, blinding her, making her eyes water. When she’d been able to see again, the sword was nothing more than a rusted bar. Someone had killed to possess this chunk of metal. Judith Walker had died in appalling agony to protect its secret. Maybe there was solid gold beneath the rust, a modern-day Maltese falcon. She picked at the rust with her thumbnail, bloodred slivers of oxidized iron tumbling to her lap, but no shining metal shone through.

And yet the sword was special.

Last night when she had plunged it into the skinhead, she had felt…What had she felt? For a brief moment, she had felt strong, powerful, her terror had faded and she felt…
alive
. And earlier, when she’d struck the youth on the train, she’d reacted instinctively, bringing up the metal bar to crack him across the side of his head. In the moment when the youth had smashed into the window, Sarah had felt…What had she felt? How could she explain the sensation? Regret…horror…fear…

No, she had felt
content
.

Cradling the sword in her arms, Sarah Miller lay back in the chair and closed her eyes; the only sound in the apartment was the distant hissing of the shower in the bathroom. It sounded like rain.

Just like rain….