Vicious Circle (20 page)

There was an upside to his madness, though: he still saw the exorcists—especially the London exorcists—as his boys, his special charges. He gave Bourbon Bryant the premises that became the Oriflamme, because he loved the idea of ghostbusters meeting up and sharing ideas (he was probably also working on the principle that there’s strength in numbers). And when he died, he left his yacht to a trust with Bryant as the first president, changing its name in his will to the
Thames Collective
. Money from his estate would be diverted to keeping it seaworthy and in a reasonable state of repair, and any London exorcist would have the right to live there at need for as long as they liked, with berths being strictly rotated if too many people took up the offer at the same time.

To begin with, it looked like that might actually be a problem: a whole lot of people liked the idea of living for free in a luxury yacht. But the
Collective
wasn’t as luxurious as all that: to increase the number of berths, Steiner had the big staterooms subdivided with plasterboard partitions, so living space was cramped and somewhat rough-and-ready. There’d been problems with the administration of the trust, too: the idea was that London-based exorcists would volunteer for one- or two-year stretches so that the burden wouldn’t fall too heavily on a small group. But not many, even of the people who wanted to live on the
Collective,
were enthused by the idea of devoting any of their time to running it. It was also hard to define who was eligible, because anyone could say they were an exorcist with no more proof than a letterhead or a shingle. In a welter of resentment, recrimination, and mutual backstabbing, the trust more or less imploded. The
Collective
still existed, but the money that should have kept it in good repair was legally frozen and it was falling apart in melancholy slow motion. It went from berth to berth along the Thames, bringing down the tone wherever it stopped and so always unwelcome even though it could pay its way. The people who lived on it now tended to be people who were only staying in the city for a short while, or who had no other options.

What did I know about Reggie Tang? Just barely north of nothing. He was a rising star of the kind that old dogs like me watch suspiciously and from a distance: rumored to be a very quick study, a bit on the quick-tempered side and very handy in a fight. His dad had been some sort of broker in Hong Kong before the handover; he was a Buddhist, or so I’d heard; and he was active on the gay scene. That was pretty much it. I’d only ever met him once, and the bulk of that had been a frank exchange of views: a shouting match, in other words, on the theme of how far any of the medieval grimoires could be said to be worth a rat’s arse when it came to defining the names and natures of demons. Reggie thought the
Liber Juratus Honorii
was the dog’s bollocks: I thought it was the most feeble-minded piece of crap I’d ever set eyes on. We didn’t get much further than the is-isn’t-is stage of the discussion, though, because we were both passing-out drunk. I was hoping he’d remember that evening fondly, or at least still have a vague idea of who I was. Otherwise the best I could hope for here was the cold shoulder.

I found the [_Collective _]exactly where Nicky had said it would be, at the end of a pier just down from the Artillery Museum—but getting on board turned out to be a bit more problematic because the only way to get onto the pier was through a locked gate with a nasty tangle of razor wire on top of it. I took a look at the lock. The keyhole was a very distinctive shape: an asterisk, more or less, with seven radiating lines that were all the same length and thickness except for the one going vertically downward from the center, which was both longer and slightly wider than the rest. It was a French design, and I was never likely to forget it once I’d met it because the company that made it was named Pollux—and Castor and Pollux are the twins that make up the constellation Gemini. More to the point, I could crack the thing in a minute flat.

But when I rummaged through the pockets of the trenchcoat, I came up empty. I’d transferred my whistle, obviously, and a couple of other bits and pieces that had survived my close encounter with the two loup-garous the night before, but I hadn’t remembered to take any of my lockpicks.

So all I could do was hammer on the gate and shout, and then wait until somebody heard me. It was a harsh blow to my professional pride.

Eventually, though, I got a response. There were approaching footsteps, and then the gate rattled as someone unlocked it from the far side. It swung open, and a face I didn’t know appeared in the gap.

It was a face you couldn’t do much about, like it or not, except maybe commiserate with the owner. It was pale and flat and had the slight grayness of unbaked dough. The messiest tangle of spiky light-brown hair I’d ever seen stood up on top of it like couch grass on a sand dune. You couldn’t tell whether the body attached to a face like that would be young, old, or somewhere in between. The furthest you’d want to go would be to say that it was—on the balance of probabilities—male.

“Morning,” I said, with a winning smile. “Is Reggie in?”

The face just stared. I considered the possibility that it was on the end of a pole rather than a neck. But then the guy opened the door a fraction more and I could see for myself that he was alive and intact. He was the same height as me but skinny as a rake. He was dressed in ragged jeans and an op-art T-shirt, and on his feet he wore novelty slippers in the shape of Gromit the dog. “Reggie?” he said, sounding slightly baffled, as if he was hearing the name for the first time. There was an Essex lilt to his voice.

“Yeah, Reggie Tang. You’re from the
Collective,
right? I heard he was living there right now.”

The guy didn’t concede the point by so much as a nod. After a loaded pause, he said, “Who are you?”

“I’m Felix Castor.” I stuck out my hand. He shook it without much interest, but the momentary emotional flash I got while our hands were touching had some odd harmonics in it: unease, resentment, and something like alarm.

There was no trace of any of that in his voice, which was disengaged if not downright lugubrious. “Greg Lockyear,” he said. “So you’re Castor? Heard your name, here and there. Lot of people seem to reckon you.” His gaze went down to my feet as he said this, as if he were checking my shoes against health and safety standards, and then back up to meet mine.

“Reggie’s inside,” he said, sounding resigned now. “Come on in.”

He turned and led the way along the pier to the
Collective
‘s gangplank. The ship had been a floating mansion once: now she was a wreck. I hadn’t seen her in six years, and I could see there were at least that many years’ worth of dirt on her sides. Lower down there was a slimy ring of algae, and below that, winking redly up at me as the water slopped against the hull, a little rust. At this rate the [_Collective _]wasn’t going to last out too many more winters.

Lockyear went on board, and I followed him—along a short companionway and then sharp left into a stairwell that led down to the lower level of the deckhouse. “Mind the steps,” he called out, without looking back. “One of them’s loose.” The warning came a fraction of a second too late: a plank turned under my heel and I just about managed to avoid going over on my face. I was starting to feel a little bit like an Egyptian tomb robber.

The deckhouse was about the only space on board the [_Collective _]that was still the same size and shape as it had started out. It was on two levels, connected by a spiral staircase in carefully matched dark woods, and it still had a sort of faded elegance about it. Very faded: the original leather and built-in tables and couches were sort of overwhelmed now by bootlockers and cupboard units from the provisional wing of MFI—and there was a smell of stale grease in the air from the galley in the corner, which had an arc of smoke-blackened ceiling above it like the hovering spirit of fried meals long since past. The only other door out of the room was there, and it was half off its hinges. The balcony rails edging the deckhouse’s upper level, about eight feet above us, were missing in places, so that a casual promenade could become a life-or-death affair if you didn’t look where you were going.

There was a kind of breakfast bar in the galley area, with a counter bolted to the wall and a few high stools scattered along its length. The same tastefully blended cherry and walnut paneling decorated the area around the bar, showing up the rest of the room for the tip it now was. The guy sitting there, tucking into a sausage and egg breakfast, was Reggie Tang. Actually he wasn’t so much tucking into it as playing with it. He looked up as I came in, and he gave me a cold nod as he shoved the plate away from him decisively. He did cold very well, being the spitting image of Bruce Lee circa
Enter the Dragon
. He was ten years my junior. Since he was wearing only an undershirt and a pair of boxers, I could see that he was in taut, wiry good shape.

“Sorry,” he said, standing up. “I know the face, so I’m assuming we’ve met somewhere. But I can’t remember your name.” I’d forgotten his voice until I heard it again now: it was deep and vibrant, with an almost musical lilt to it.

“No reason why you should,” I said. “We only met the once. I’m Felix Castor. I’m sorry if I disturbed your breakfast.”

He shrugged easily. “Place is meant to be open to our kind all the time. Part of the deal. Castor, yeah, it’s starting to come back to me now. You’re a Liverpudlian, aren’t you? Part of the north-south brain drain. Good to see you again.”

He took the hand I offered and gave it a firm, brief shake. Nothing readable there, but I hadn’t expected there to be; he looked like the sort of guy who kept his emotions pretty tightly locked down. He nodded me toward a couch that was stacked with old newspapers, magazines, and unopened mail. “Grab a seat. You looking to sign in?”

I sat down, shoving some of the old letters aside. Behind me, Lockyear crossed to the galley. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he picked up a still-smoking cigarette from an ashtray there, half-raised it to his lips, but then seemed to change his mind and stubbed it out without taking a drag. “Not right now,” I said. “Actually, I was hoping to get a little free advice.”

“Advice?”

“Yeah. You know, tap the whisper line.”

Reggie smiled at my coy phrasing. “Well, go for it. We’re happy to help if we can, aren’t we, Greg?”

“Sure. Happy to,” Lockyear echoed. He sat down at the breakfast bar, a long way from Reggie’s unfinished breakfast.

“Thanks. The fact is, I’m looking for someone.”

“Someone I know?”

I nodded. “Could be, yeah. Someone who used to live here, anyway, but maybe not during your time. Guy name of Dennis Peace.”

Reggie frowned in thought, as if he was running that name through his memory banks. “Peace. No, doesn’t ring any bells. You know a Dennis Peace, Greg?”

Lockyear looked round at the sound of his name, his expression the same mildly astonished double-take I’d seen him use outside. I was reminded of Stan Laurel, although maybe that was just the hair. He stubbed the cigarette out again, absently, in spite of the fact that it was already dead. “Yeah,” he said. “I know Peace. Well, I used to know him. He lived here for about six months of last year. Bastard never cooked once. Why? What’s he done?”

This was addressed to Reggie, but Reggie turned to me because obviously that was my question to answer if it was anybody’s.

I decided to tell the truth, as far as I could. It’s not like exorcism as a profession generates a whole huge heap of fellow feeling, but I didn’t want to try to extort any information out of these guys by selling them some tired line about Peace owing me money or whatever. That sort of thing will inevitably turn around and bite you in the ass sooner or later. “Someone hired me to find him,” I said. “He’s meant to have a kid with him. A little girl, who—well, who isn’t his. She was abducted from her parents’ house. Peace was there the day it happened, or at least that’s what I’ve been told. So her parents think maybe he took her. I want to see if that’s what happened. And if it is, I’m being paid to get the kid back.”

Reggie said nothing, just kept looking at me with a gambler’s deadpan.

“Well, I never met the man,” I conceded, responding to the skepticism in that look. “This is just a job, and it could all be bullshit as far as I know. Sooner I find him, sooner I find out.”

“Sounds like a job for the police,” Reggie observed. He was standing over me, watching me more closely than the occasion seemed to call for. Having offered me a seat, he made no move to sit down himself.

“Yeah, I guess it would be, if the girl was alive. But she’s dead.”

“All the more reason—”

“I mean, she was already dead when he took her.”

Reggie gave the kind of slanted nod that means “hell of a story.” “There are some very nasty people out there,” he observed. “A lady takes a terrible risk.”

I recognized the quote, let it pass. “Does anyone make a note of forwarding addresses, when someone leaves here?” I asked, giving a tottering pile of envelopes a meditative tap.

“The Trust does. But we’re not the Trust.”

There was definitely an edge in Reggie’s voice now. I could see that we were heading for a point at which he was going to give up the unequal struggle between mood and manners and tell me to sod off. But I was feeling a little bloody-minded myself, now—maybe because of the headache, which was back worse than ever—and I wasn’t quite ready to back off. I looked across at Greg Lockyear, who was now leaning forward with his elbows on the counter and looking out across the Thames toward the Gallions Point marina as if it were the most riveting thing he’d ever seen. A conviction started to grow in me.

“Greg,” I said, leaning out past Reggie to get a better line of sight. “You keep in touch with Peace at all, after he left here?”

Reggie didn’t like the fact that I’d just done an end-play around him, and Greg—when he turned his dazed-rabbit eyes my way—didn’t look all that happy to be back in the conversation. This was making friends and influencing people the Felix Castor way. “No,” Greg said, shaking his head emphatically. “No, I never really got on with him all that well. Glad to see the back of him, to be honest.”