Wolf in Shadow-eARC (25 page)

Frankie’s eyebrows travelled so far north that they were in danger of disappearing into her hairline. She resembled a geriatric film star with too harsh a facelift, the sort of plastic surgery that relocates your navel to under your chin.

“That is a considerable sum of money,” Frankie said, slowly. “What would one have to do to earn it?”

“I didn’t ask that,” Rhian admitted.

“Tell me about Max.” Frankie said. “I know you don’t like talking about your private life, honey, but this is important. I want every detail, no holding back.”

Rhian told her everything, well, almost everything. Frankie was a good listener and interrupted only to tease some detail out of Rhian’s memory.

“You know what Max is?” Frankie asked when Rhian had finished.

“A vampire,” Rhian replied.

“We prefer to call them daemons, EDEs, or just suckers. Vampires are mythical monsters,” Frankie said primly.

“EDEs?”

“Extra-dimensional entities.”

“And ‘we’ are?” Rhian asked.

“The Commission, my ex-employers, I suppose I should call them ‘they’ now I’ve left, but old habits, and all that. Suckers are, well, daemons but not vampires.” She sighed. “But I agree that it’s a distinction without much difference. So our potential new rich client is a sucker, which explains why he needs to hire witches. Suckers are daemonic monsters, but they don’t usually do magic. They sort of
are
magic, if you see what I mean.”

Rhian didn’t, but she didn’t suppose it mattered much.

Frankie stood up and looked at Rhian, head cocked to one side.

“Max turned up very conveniently to dispose of the gangsters,” Frankie said. “How did he know where you worked?”

“I don’t know,” Rhian replied. “I didn’t tell him.”

“You got your phone from him, so he knows the number. I suppose he might have pinged it to get your location. Journalists do that to track down celebrities to their drinking holes and mistresses’ flats.”

“How do you ping a mobile?” Rhian asked.

“You bribe a policeman. The Met has the technology, but suckers don’t normally turn to technology or officialdom. Unfortunately, there is another possibility.”

Frankie went into her bedroom. Rhian could hear her searching through a cupboard for something. She reappeared with a white plastic desktop lamp. Its fashionable square head looked quite out of keeping with the rest of Frankie’s rather old-fashioned furniture.

“A sun-ray lamp,” Frankie said, answering Rhian’s unasked question.

Rhian could not imagine why on Earth the pale-skinned Frankie required a tanning lamp. The woman pulled a chair to the wall where the electrical sockets were fixed. Old London houses never had enough electrical outlets for modern demands, so Frankie had a dangerous array of multiple adaptors plugged into the only two in the room.

“Sit here,” Frankie said.

Rhian did as she was told. Frankie pushed her head back and played the ultraviolet-rich light on her neck.

“You’ve met Max twice, right?”

“Yes,” Rhian replied.

“You’ve evidence of two bites on your neck. One is old, the other recent, very recent. Max doesn’t need a phone to track you down. He has taken a little of your blood, your life force. He knows where you are and how you are feeling about it. The connection will fade with time, provided it isn’t reinforced by other intimacies.”

Rhian felt her cheeks burning.

“Oh, I see,” Frankie said.

CHAPTER 13
FINANCIAL INCENTIVES

Jameson gave Inspector Fowler a week to investigate Fether’s activities before arranging a meeting. The Inspector suggested a pub in Southwark called The King’s Men, which somewhat surprised Jameson. It did not surprise him that Fowler chose a pub. Policemen always wanted to meet in pubs as homage to some tradition of the Ancient Guild of Plod. What was unexpected was the location of the hostelry.

Southwark, on the south side of London Bridge, meant The South Bank, Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, The Tate Modern, and all things arty. The King’s Men presumably referred to the acting company to which Shakespeare belonged in his early days. It occurred to Jameson that Fether was having a little joke at his expense, a dig at his Cambridge literary degree. He would not have credited the inspector with that much comedic subtlety.

He looked up the exact location of the pub up on his phone. It wasn’t on the South Bank of the Thames at all but down in the heart of Southwark Town where Watling Street, the old Roman Road to the Channel Coast, terminated.

Jameson parked the Jaguar just off Watling Street by Tabard Gardens, cheerfully ignoring the parking restrictions. He put the Police Special Branch car ID on the dashboard to frighten off traffic wardens.

A plaque on the redbrick office block that came hard up to the pavement announced it was the site of a Roman temple dedicated to a Celtic god from Rheims. He recalled that archaeologists had come across impressive remains of Roman Southwark when putting in the new Jubilee Tube Line. They had found the burial of a gladiatrix, a lady gladiator. This news was far more interesting to the press as the burial artefacts included her leather bikini bottom. Some things never change.

The construction work had uncovered a black layer indicating that Boudica’s warriors had burned Southwark when they sacked London. Modern strategic analysis had suggested that Boudica’s real target was London Bridge. By burning the bridge she isolated her chosen battleground of central England from the south. Rome had allied tribes in the south, and the main Roman field army under Governor Seutonius Paulinus drew supplies over London Bridge from its depot at Richborough in Kent.

Jameson thought that was a load of bollocks dreamed up by military planners who didn’t understand the difference between a Celtic warband and NATO. Boudica attacked London because it was undefended, because it was a port depot and full of loot, because a cheap victory would embolden her warriors to take on the Roman army, and because it would provide numerous prisoners for blood sacrifice and blood magic. Mostly, she attacked London because it was there.

A short walk north towards the river took Karla and Jameson to the junction, and they found The King’s Men a few meters down Long Lane. He laughed when he saw the pub sign. It had nothing to do with Shakespeare. It showed a couple of redcoats imbibing deeply from a cask of ale. He was pleased that he had not misinterpreted the Inspector’s character. It was unnerving when one’s judgment was so far off. It made one wonder what else one was missing. What you didn’t know could get you killed in Jameson’s line of work.

Fowler stood at the bar in the crowded pub, sipping a pint of bitter. A no-go area clear of other drinkers around the Inspector showed that he was known to the other clientèle. Jameson joined Fowler and ordered himself a scotch. Karla leaned back against the bar and observed the customers. The no-go area around them suddenly increased in diameter, a ripple of movement following her eyes.

“Can I get you something, Inspector?” Jameson asked.

“Why not? I think I’ll have a double of what you’re having,” Fowler replied.

“You sure you wouldn’t prefer another half pint?”

“No, thanks.”

Jameson and Fowler knew each other well enough that they did not have to go through the pantomime of the policeman refusing a drink “because he was on duty” and being reluctantly persuaded.

“Anything you fancy to drink, Karla?”

She turned her head and gave him an amused smile.

“They don’t serve that,” Jameson said.

Fowler was oblivious to the exchange, busy sinking what was left of his beer in a single gulp. Jameson gave his order to the barman and paid.

“What have you got for me?” Jameson asked.

Fowler tasted his Scotch, with every sign of appreciation before reaching into the inside pocket of his mac to pull out a brown manila envelope. He handed it to Jameson.

“It’s all in there.”

Jameson carefully folded it and stowed it away in his jacket.

“You know, you spooks in Special Branch really piss me off,” Fowler said.

His irritation with Jameson did not seem to spoil his enjoyment of the whisky.

“Really,” Jameson replied, in the tone of one who did not give a damn.

“Most of the time, we operate on thin air, but you snap your fingers and I get unlimited staff, unlimited computer time, and unlimited overtime. I think I spent more on this case in a week than the last three murder investigations added together.”

“National security and all that,” Jameson replied, vaguely.

Fowler snorted and took a gulp of the scotch, to show what he thought of national security.

“Why’s it so important anyway? Terrorist blows up banker, so what? Half the public would vote to give the hit man a medal.”

“I could tell you but . . .”

“I’d have to kill you,” Fowler finished the line of the old joke.

“Well, not kill you, but maybe arrange a posting to the Falkland Islands to guard the penguin colonies or something,” Jameson said with a grin.

“Why do I think you’re not joking?” Fowler asked, sourly.

Jameson sipped his whisky cautiously. It was a cheap blended but did not actually seem to be adulterated or, worse still, Korean. Fowler was a pain in the arse but he was a good investigator, unpolitical and honest. Good reasons why he would never rise higher in the Metropolitan Police Service. That was not entirely fair. The upper echelons at Scotland Yard had nothing against being a good investigator, but they did not value it highly enough to offset Fowler’s other disadvantages, such as integrity.

His qualities were highly valued by The Commission. Fowler had that indefinable copper’s nose for something that just did not smell right and a bloodhound’s instinct for following a trail to source. Having The Commission on his side gave Fowler a wall of protection when the Met put him in the frame for downsizing.

“You’ve been through the file yourself?” Jameson asked.

“Of course,” Fowler replied.

“Anything strike you as suspicious?”

“Not really; Fethers was your usual merchant.”

Merchant, as in merchant banker, was London rhyming slang for wanker. It was not clear which meaning Fowler meant. Probably both, as they were hardly mutually exclusive.

“Pillar of society in Surrey, wife, kids, member of the Rotarians, Mason, and Friends of The Old Puffer.”

Jameson looked at him. “Puffer?”

“A steam train restoration society,” Fowler explained. “He was a bit of a lad in London. He liked cute young escort girls, did a bit of coke, and played in the casinos but lost no more than he could afford. He sailed a bit close to the wind at times but did nothing that would cause the Serious Farce boys to come out of their communal coma.”

Fowler did not just despise the Special Branch. He spread his contempt evenhandedly, loathing most of the specialist police units with the possible exception of the Dog Handlers. Mind you, he had something of a point with the Serious Fraud Squad, universally acknowledged to be useless. To be fair, they were not encouraged to be dynamic by their political masters. London was the world’s largest finance center. The industry made vast sums of money for the British Exchequer, as well as giving generous financial donations to political parties. It was in nobody’s interests to probe too deeply into the entrails of the Golden Goose. One might find something rotten that would force the Government to garrotte the bird. Nobody wanted that, least of all the politicians.

There was a long silence while they both drank their whisky. It was eventually broken by the Inspector.

“There was one thing,” Fowler said. “Fether’s death was conveniently timed.”

“For whom?”

“For Greyfriars Venture Capital.”

“Oh?”

“Hmm, you know the teenage high-street fashion chain, Go-Girls?” Fowler asked.

“No, I don’t have much contact with teenage girls,” Jameson said.

“Lucky you,” said Fowler, who had three daughters. “Go-Girls are in trouble, and Fether was organising a recapitalization. Of course, that collapsed with his death, and Greyfriars were able to pick the chain up for a song.”

“Who owns Greyfriars?” Jameson asked. “Who pulls the strings?”

“The usual crew of hidden offshore trusts own the company,” Fowler replied. “I suppose the SFA could track them back if you gave them a couple of years, but a man called Fyodorovich von Ungern-Shternberg is the real owner.

Fowler looked meaningfully at his empty glass, so Jameson ordered a refill.

“Have you run a background check?” Jameson asked, playing the game.

“Of course,” Fowler pulled out another brown paper envelope with the air of a stage magician producing a rabbit from a hat.

“Shternberg is part of the flotsam that floated west when the Iron Curtain burst. He arrived in London via Milan with mucho capital so was welcomed in with open arms as a non-dom, no embarrassing questions asked.”

“What’s his official nationality?” Jameson asked.

“British now, his company contributes generously to party funds,” Fowler replied cynically.

“Which party?” Jameson asked. The answer might give an insight into Shternberg’s attitudes.

“Whichever one is currently in power,” Fowler said, which was informative in its way.

There was a burst of laughter from the corner of the pub. Jameson realized that he had lost track of Karla. She stood in front of the dartboard, having thrown a clean one hundred and forty. Her opponent could not get out the dart sunk in the double top.

“Thank you, Inspector; we will no doubt be in touch,” Jameson said, hurriedly.

He went to retrieve his beloved before someone got hurt.

Sheila was on duty behind the bar when Rhian put her head around the door of the pub.

“I thought Gary would be working this lunchtime?” she asked.

“He’s had an accident so I’m doing extra shifts,” Sheila replied.

“Where is he?” Rhian asked.

Sheila jerked her head upwards. Gary was either in his flat or heaven. Rhian assumed it was the former so went through behind the bar, up the stairs and knocked on the door at the top.

“It’s open,” Gary called from inside.