Dire Straits (3 page)

‘It’s possible I’m being targeted.’ I keep my tone deliberately light.

There’s no reaction from my grandfather but the length of time before he speaks again is telling. ‘Not the daemon?’

I shrug. ‘Maybe him too. At this point it’s difficult to say.’

He nods thoughtfully. ‘So what did you do?’

‘Jesus! Why do you always think the worst of me? I’ve not done anything!’

‘Bo, I was planning a quiet afternoon of Pimms and bridge. Now I need to batten down the hatches and worry about who might knock on my door. I deserve to know the truth.’

‘I’m not lying.’ I hold his eyes. ‘If keeping him here is a problem, then just say so.’

‘Why would having a half-dead quarter daemon on my kitchen table be a problem?’ He runs a hand through his shock of white hair and takes a deep breath. ‘He can stay for now.’

I exhale slowly. Thank God for that.

‘So who is he?’

‘His name is Devlin O’Shea. He’s suspected of dabbling in black magic.’

‘How black?’

I wave a dismissive hand in the air. ‘More grey than black. I was told he’s been selling a few glamour spells. Just your usual petty witchcraft, nothing to get anyone’s knickers in a twist.’

‘Was he selling to bloodguzzlers?’

I shake my head. ‘Humans.’ At least that’s what I had been told anyway.

My grandfather sniffs. ‘And you? How are you involved?’

‘I was supposed to serve him with a summons to appear before the Agathos court. There was a bonus in it if I caught him in the act of dealing.’ I look away for a moment. ‘The thing is, the summons was only going to be activated at noon. I was to wait until then before approaching him. I may have been a little overly punctual.’

‘You were early?’

I nod.

‘Why?’

‘I wanted to hurry home to catch the afternoon soaps. What does it matter?’

He growls at me. I don’t care. I’m damned if I’m going to tell him that it was because I needed the loo.

‘Have you been nosing into anything you shouldn’t have?’

I take the question seriously, mulling over all my recent exploits. There’s nothing that stands out. I’ve served a few other summons, but their recipients have accepted them with equanimity. And my other work has involved me staying out of sight on routine surveillance missions.

‘I’ve been squeaky clean.’ Just for the hell of it, I smirk humourlessly at the old man. ‘Can you say the same?’

He snorts. I scratch at my neck. O’Shea’s blood is congealing on my skin and starting to feel uncomfortable. I check my watch, focusing not on the panic which is swirling in my veins but on what I need to do next.

‘I’ll be back around nine,’ I say. ‘Can you hold the fort until then?’

He gives me a droll look. Say what you like about the old bastard, he’s as tough as old nails. If the daemon’s attackers are smart – or stupid – enough to come calling, they’ll be in for a great surprise. I turn to leave but he grabs my arm. ‘Be careful.’ His tone is serious.

I nod, then walk out.

Chapter Three: Clean and Call

My car door is still hanging open. The cat, pretending to be asleep on the pavement beside it, half-opens one green eye as I approach. It lets out a tiny guttural meow and clambers to its feet, stretching out its forelegs then padding off. I peer inside, taking in the blood-soaked seat and sigh. I’d only just forked out a wad to have it valeted the previous week. Slamming the door shut, I walk round to the driver’s side and get in. I’m tempted to head straight for the office to face Tam and demand to know exactly what is going on. I know that wouldn’t be the smartest move though, so instead I turn on the engine and shift into first gear. This is one of those times when it pays to be friends with all sorts of people.

As I drive, I pay close attention to the roads leading in the direction of Wiltshore Avenue, just in case the police van shows up again. There’s no sign of it. I make a few u-turns, once pulling into a service station and stopping for a minute with my eyes fixed closely on my rear-view mirror. When I’m about as certain as I can be that I’m not being followed, I drive across town. The worst of the lunchtime traffic seems to be over, but I avoid the busier streets. I have a lot to do if I’m to return to pick up O’Shea at nine. I can’t afford to waste time waiting in a grid-lock. Fortunately, it’s not long after two when I pull up outside The Steam Team.

The pedestrians milling around on the street make me tense. At least they’re only human and far enough away not to catch the scent or sight of blood. That’s another good reason to wear black. I duck inside the shop, breathing in the clean scent of dry cleaning, and grin as I spot Rebecca behind the counter.

She raises her eyebrows. ‘Bo. I’m surprised to see you here again this month. Haven’t you already had your annual clean?’

‘Ha ha. Just because I only come for dry cleaning once a month doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use a washing machine.’

‘You forget I’ve seen the inside of your car.’

I grimace. Not recently she hasn’t. She twigs that something is wrong and her expression grows serious. ‘What’s the problem?’

I point at my clothes. ‘I need these cleaned. And I need to borrow something to wear in the meantime.’

Although her eyes light up with curiosity, she doesn’t ask any more questions, filling me with gratitude. She just lifts up the counter and beckons me inside. As I pass by her, she draws back, evidently smelling O’Shea’s blood.

‘Whoa, okay. I guess you need a shower too.’

‘Do you have one?’

She makes a face. ‘Sort of.’

She leads me into a sparsely furnished back room. There are a few industrial shelving units with large bottles displaying complicated chemical names. In the corner there’s a tap with a rubber hose and a rusting drain set into the floor next to it.

‘Our power shower at its finest,’ she announces.

‘What’s the temperature control like?’

She grins. ‘Oh, you’ll like it.’

I doubt that very much but beggars can’t be choosers. I shoot her a smile of thanks. ‘I appreciate it.’

Rebecca reaches out to squeeze my shoulder then obviously thinks better of it. She looks me over critically. ‘We’ve got some unclaimed clothes that might fit you. I’m not sure they’ll be to your taste though.’

I dread to think. ‘I’ll take whatever you can spare, Becks.’

She offers me another smile then leaves, closing the door carefully behind her. I eye the hose with trepidation before peeling off my jacket. The blood underneath is sticky and the underside of the leather has glued itself to my skin. When I’m finally free, I lay it gently on top of a nearby shelf and look at it sorrowfully before divesting myself of the rest of my clothes. I’m down to my underwear – which is far more functional than pretty – when Rebecca knocks on the door. I open it slightly, keeping my body behind it more because of the dark dried blood staining my skin than any modesty. She hands me a plastic bag and leaves me in peace. Hooking the bag onto a nail, I strip off my bra and knickers, twist on the tap and yelp at the forceful gush of water. It’s icy cold and I spend several moments dancing in and out of its spray as I get used to the temperature. The water pressure is so strong that it feels as if my skin is peeling off alongside the dissolving blood. By the time I’m done, my body is red and raw – but at least I’m clean.

Rebecca has left a towel on top of the bag so I pull it out and vigorously rub myself dry. Then I peer inside to see just how bad the clothes are, and am pleasantly surprised as I shake out a floral mini dress. Just because I normally wear leather doesn’t mean my hidden princess doesn’t occasionally beg to be let out. The dress is decorated with sprigs of pink flowers and kicks out in a flare at the hem. I run my hands over my legs and sigh with relief that I shaved them recently enough to get away with the short skirt. I put my knickers back on but abandon my bra as it’s damp with blood, then try to clamber into the dress. It gets stuck somewhere around my shoulders and I spend a few uncomfortable moments trying to yank it down without tearing the fabric. Eventually I realise there’s a zip in the side which makes life a whole lot easier. I smooth it down and stare at myself critically. Not too shabby. I give myself a little Wonder Woman spin before flicking back my hair. Then I give up and get back to business.

I pull out the pepper spray and my phone from the jacket and stuff it, the towel, and the rest of my clothes into the bag and walk out to the front of the shop. When Rebecca catches sight of me, she starts to laugh. I scowl at her.

‘Very fetching, Bo. I think the bow on the back is particularly attractive.’

I give her a twirl. ‘Actually I rather like it.’

She just laughs harder. ‘Yes, all you need is a bow in your hair and you can be Bo with a bow and a bow.’

I shake my fists at her. ‘Is this the way I’m to be treated after all the help I’ve given you in the past?’

‘No, you’re right.’ She wipes the tears from her eyes. ‘You did a fabulous job helping me get rid of that gang of losers. It’d have been even better if you’d done it wearing that.’

‘Well, at least they wouldn’t see it coming this time.’

Last year Rebecca hired me, via Tam, to keep watch on The Steam Team after a series of break-ins. I camped out for a couple of nights and caught three teenagers sneaking in. As soon as they saw me, they high-tailed it. It took me forever to track them down. I was pretty fast at running, but I wasn’t any match for teen boys amped up on drugs and the speed of youth. I still considered the venture a failure, even though I eventually managed to haul their arses into the local police station. Luckily Rebecca remained grateful. More than that, she’d become a friend. And as I’m learning, it’s handy to have a mate who owns a dry cleaning service.

She finally sobers up and looks at me a seriously. ‘You’re in trouble?’

I bite my lip and nod.

‘You look like what you really need is a stiff drink.’

I sigh. ‘That’d be nice. Unfortunately I can’t stay. I need to deal with,’ I pause for a beat, ‘other things.’

She nods in understanding. ‘If there’s anything else I can do…’

‘Thanks, Becks.’ I smile tightly and deposit the bag of clothes onto the counter in front of her. ‘I really appreciate this. Can I pick these up tomorrow morning?’

‘You mean you’re not prepared to trade in your leather jacket for that dress?’

I tug at the bodice self-consciously. I like the dress but it’s not really suitable attire for a private investigator. Not if I want to be taken seriously.

‘Not just yet. Although maybe Tam will make it the new uniform when he sees me.’ I try to keep my voice flippant, but my stomach remains a tight ball of tension.

‘Yeah. I’d love to see what some of those hulking brutes you work with look like in a flowery dress.’

‘With a bow at the back.’

She smiles, masking the worry in her face. ‘Naturally.’

‘I’ll be back first thing in the morning.’

The door jangles, signalling the arrival of a new customer.

‘Thank you! Come again!’ Rebecca trills to me, in full shopkeeper mode.

I sweep a dramatic curtsey from behind the customer’s back then make a hasty exit. As soon as I’m outside I turn on my phone. It flashes with three missed calls and all of them are from Tam. I suppose at least he’s not working under the mistaken assumption that I am now in police custody. It doesn’t really mean much though. If he’s behind the plot to frame me for O’Shea’s supposed murder, he’ll already have the cops in his pocket and be aware that neither the daemon nor I were present at the house when they arrived.

I’m not prepared to speak to him over the phone. When I talk to him, I want to look into his eyes. Right now, he can wait. I’ve got other things to sort out.

I’m about to jab in the number I need when I reconsider. I gaze down at my phone for a moment then slap my forehead. I’m a prize idiot. If the police are looking for me, all they’ll have to do is to track my phone signal. Until I’m completely sure about what is going on and who is on whose payroll, I’m not willing to hand myself in for questioning. I wouldn’t trust the police; there are too many tales of corruption at all sorts of levels for some of them not to be true.

I glance back at The Steam Team. The police will already be able to follow me there. I’m tempted to go back inside and warn Rebecca but I decide against it. I know I can trust her and I’ll only spook the customer who’ll be more likely to remember me. No, better to ditch the phone now and pick up a burner instead. Without further ado, I drop it onto the pavement and crunch it under my heel. Then I turn my attention to the car and frown.

It may be a rusting heap of junk, but it’s
my
rusting heap of junk. But now it’s covered in blood and the longer I keep it, the more likely it is to become a liability. Its only saving grace is that it’s too old to have an in-built GPS system which can be used against me. I could leave it here – after all, the phone will already have led the police to this location but I’m concerned about the blood. I don’t need any more evidence tying me to O’Shea’s attack than there is already.

I climb in and drive off. I know just the place to park. Right now, though, despite having a vague plan of action, I’m feeling less like Sam Spade and more like a fully paid-up member of the Keystone Cops. Hanging on to my phone is the sort of rookie error that’s keeping me at the bottom of the heap at Tam’s. If I’m going to get out of this unscathed, I need to be a hell of a lot smarter.

The lock up is less than fifteen minutes’ drive away. I’ve been paying for it in cash under the counter for the last two years and for the last two years it’s been lying empty. When I’ve been scrabbling around for money, I’ve often wondered whether keeping it is a stupid idea. Today, however, my pragmatism has won out. That doesn’t quite make up for the phone error, but it helps. There’s no record anywhere that I rent this place. And considering that the white witch landlord had his tongue cut out about a decade ago, I’m fairly certain he’s not going to be blabbing to anyone. I root around in the glove box for the key which I eventually discover stuck to the yellowing service record by a chunk of gum – unchewed, I might add. I open the garage door, disturbing some small creature which scuttles off into the darkness, and drive in.

The lack of pockets in the dress is causing problems. I nip outside and look around, quickly finding a discarded plastic bag trapped against the door of another lock-up. Sending a grateful prayer up to the non-environmentally-friendly denizens of London, I pick it up and deposit my keys, pepper spray and wallet inside. Emblazoned on the outside are the words ‘Funny Farm Meats: For All Your Butchery Need’s’. I tsk at the misplaced apostrophe, then shut up the garage and walk away swinging the bag. Frankly, I’ve got bigger problems than poor punctuation.

Walking briskly, I hit the nearest row of shops in next to no time. As luck would have it, there’s a kiosk selling cheap mobile phones, so I pass over an insulting amount of cash and buy three, then make sure I’m some distance away before I make the call I need. It’s fortunate I’ve got a head for numbers and have memorised the phone number. I let it ring five times then hang up. I count to fifty in my head and repeat the call. It’s not until the third try that someone actually answers.

‘Yeah.’

‘I need a place to stay.’

‘Just you?’

‘No. There’ll be another.’

‘Can I trust them?’

I don’t hesitate. ‘No.’

‘14A Markmore Close. There’s an upper-floor flat with views to the front and back. The key will be on the windowsill.’

I sense he’s about to hang up so I screech into the phone. ‘Wait!’

‘What?’

‘My flat. I think it’s been compromised. I need it checked out.’

There’s a pause. ‘I can do it. Don’t call back though. I’ll come and find you.’ The phone clicks off and I’m left listening to the dull mechanical burr.

I feel better now that I have somewhere to sleep and to take O’Shea. There are several hours until I need to pick him up; that means it’s time to confront Tam.