Dire Straits (8 page)

Feeling as if I’d just been sneered at by a teacher, I watched as he pulled up the garage door. He shoved me out, leaving me on his driveway, blinking against the sunshine and wondering whether I’d imagined the whole thing. Had I just entered some strange eleven-year-old’s twilight zone? But Rogu3 was true to his word. Less than two hours later, I received a call from my boss telling me to stand down. They had, he informed me, received an unprecedented warning from all the Families and decided it would be safer to pay the Goldmans rather than risk angering the vampires.

I quit the firm a couple of days later, but continued to keep in touch with Rogu3. It would probably be easy to find out his real name – after all I know exactly where he lives – but somehow I feel that would be a betrayal. He’s proven to be more than his weight in gold over the last few years, although he has a good enough grasp of just how much his services are worth. In fact, he’s become one of the top-grade hackers in the country. I think it helps that he has very little ego. He’s not interested in leaving his virtual calling card to let people know he’s been in and out of their private lives. He just takes what he needs. And no, the vampires never did catch up with him.

That’s why I contacted him about a safe house. I know he always has a ready list of places to doss down in for both his mates and his clients. They’re usually temporary hidey-holes, where the real resident has gone off on holiday and left the place empty for a while. He has programmes which track flight and travel agency information. From there it’s easy to hack into email accounts and find out whether the hapless holidaymakers have anyone looking after their place and where they keep their spare key. I’ve never had to use this particular service before and I’m certain that the bill I receive from him once all this is over will be hefty. It’s worth it though. It’ll be even more worth it if he can also track down the mysterious Lucy.

Chapter Eight: Room by the Hour

Once O’Shea has finished speaking to Rogu3, he passes back the receiver. I lift it to my ear but the teenager has already hung up.

‘What did he say? Can he do it?’

‘He mentioned the words “park” and “walking”,’ the daemon said grumpily. ‘And he said to tell you that this week’s word is pettifoggery.’

I smile.

‘What’s that?’ O’Shea asks. ‘Some kind of code?’

‘No,’ I answer. ‘He just likes words.’

He rattles the cuffs against the bed frame again. ‘Now will you help me get out of this?’

I regard him for a moment. ‘I suppose so. If you run off though, you should know that it’s probably more than just the vampires that are after you.’

‘What do you mean?’

I tell him about the armed police who arrived at the house on Wiltshore Avenue just as we were leaving. His face pales. ‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ he babbles. ‘Why would the Families involve the human cops?’

‘I don’t know, mate. But whatever you do next, you’d better keep your head down.’ I find my lock pick and free him from the handcuffs. He springs up then winces; clearly his wounds and blood loss are affecting him more than he realises.

‘Are you okay?’ I enquire.

‘Do you care?’

I consider his question. I have nothing against him, even if his near-death experience almost resulted in my incarceration. I’m not sure he’s done anything yet to warrant my care, however.

‘The fact that you have to think about the answer tells me what it’ll be,’ he gripes.

I shrug. What can I say?

He sniffs. ‘Maybe I’ll stick around here for a few days.’

‘Really?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

I’m surprised, but he’ll come in handy if I think of any more questions. ‘No, I don’t mind.’

He looks at me curiously. ‘Why are you so invested in this?’

‘I was going to be framed for your murder.’

For a second or two he doesn’t respond then he says quietly, ‘They were trying to put you away. But they were trying to kill me. Anything I can do to help, I will.’

This time I believe him. ‘Then I’ve got a job for you while we wait for Rogu3 to get back.’

I toss him one of the burner phones. I don’t want anyone to trace the landline to this flat, even if Rogu3 trusts it. Besides which, it wouldn’t be fair to run up the owners’ phone bill. It’s expensive enough living in London without my temporary break-in adding to the bills. I glance down at the headboard that is now lying in the middle of the living-room floor. I’m going to have to fix that before I leave, too.

O’Shea waves the phone in the air. ‘What do you want me to do with this?’

‘A,’ I pause and search for the right word, ‘colleague of mine was recently taken into hospital. It’s related to this. See if you can find which hospital and whether he’s still alive or not.’

‘There are hundreds of hospitals in London!’

‘You’d better get a move on then. And O’Shea?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t tell them your name.’

Irritation flickers in his eyes . ‘I’m not an idiot.’

‘Good. You’re looking for a man called Arzo.’

‘That’s it? Arzo? Is that his first name or last name?’

I consider. ‘Huh. I have no idea.’

‘Great,’ he mutters, ‘just great.’

***

While O’Shea starts on the phone, I ponder my next move. The most useful information at this point would probably be which Family the attacks originated from. Not that I have any hope of penetrating any of the Families, but at least I could narrow my focus and find someone connected to them who could provide more leads. I could go back and scour Wiltshore Avenue and Tam’s office but they’ll be sealed-off crime scenes by now and I can’t risk bumping into the police. The veil of secrecy surrounding all five Families is annoying.

I chew the inside of my cheek. I may not be able to work out which Family is involved but perhaps I can work out which ones aren’t. None of this could happen without the sanction of a Family Head. From what little I know, the Heads keep their vampires on extraordinarily short leashes; any vampire who killed or attempted to kill a human without getting the okay first would sign their own death warrant. It would be suicide to march up to one of the Heads and ask whether they were involved but I know at exactly what times the attacks went down. O’Shea’s had to be in the window between 9 and 9.50am, just before I entered the house. The office assault happened at about 3.20pm. Whoever carried out the attacks would have contacted their Head immediately afterwards to inform them of their respective failure and success. If the Heads happened to be out in public, then maybe someone noticed whether they received any calls or not. It’s a long shot, but worth pursuing.

I check my watch. It’s still early in the morning but I reckon today’s papers will already have been delivered to the newsagents. It’s of little consequence that the shops themselves won’t be open yet.

I leave the flat, taking the time to check whether I’m being watched. I don’t think it’s likely; if anyone knew where I was, I’d probably already be in handcuffs or dead. Fortunately I can’t see anyone lurking in the shadows, but I walk slowly and double back once to be sure. It seems, however, that I’m still in the clear.

I locate a newsagent’s on the corner of the next street. It’s small and grubby, with several handwritten cards posted in the window offering things like discreet massages (any time day or night!) and mixed-breed puppies. As I’d hoped, there’s a range of freshly delivered newspapers in neatly tied piles in front of the shop.

I ignore the broadsheets and head for the tabloids. The front pages turn my stomach. Each one details the massacre at Dire Straits in lurid colour. One of them, even more nauseatingly, includes a terrible photo of me with the headline ‘Is this a killer?’. That’s really not good. I realise how foolish I was to go to that nightclub earlier; Mr Tortoiseshell is unlikely to forget my face. One glimpse of this paper and he’ll be on the phone to some hack, selling his story. This entire area is compromised. So much for another three days at 14A Markmore Close.

With no one but myself to blame, I pull out my last crumpled five pound note from my bodice and throw it down onto the nearest pile of papers. I sigh heavily. At least it’s still dark.

As soon as I get back to the flat, O’Shea glares at me. ‘Where have you been?’

I don’t bother answering; instead I start tidying up the debris around him. ‘We need to leave.’

‘What? Why?’

I pick up the corner of the bed frame and release it from the chair leg. ‘Help me put this back.’

He glances at me scornfully but he does as I say. The pair of us take it back to the bedroom and slot it back into place.

‘Have you found Arzo yet?’

‘No.’

‘Has Rogu3 called back?’

‘No.’

Damn it. I didn’t think it would take him this long. ‘Lucy’ must have covered her tracks well. I debate whether to call him myself and decide against it. It’s more important to get away from Markmore Close while the streets are still quiet.

I hand O’Shea the pile of newspapers. He stares down at the first headline. ‘Wow. Did you see what happened to this firm?’ He scans the story. ‘It’s a bunch of private dicks who’ve been slaughtered.’ There’s an element of awe in his voice that makes me want to punch him in the face. ‘Damn silly name for a company if you ask me.’

‘I saw it,’ I say shortly.

‘You’re a PI, aren’t you? Did you know these guys?’

I don’t respond but something in my face must have given me away because his eyes widen. ‘Oh.’

‘This whole thing is about more than just you and me, O’Shea.’

He takes several rapid breaths. ‘It was just a fucking enhancement spell,’ he whispers.

I pick up my plastic bag and give the flat one last sweep, trying hard not to snap at him that clearly it’s a hell of a lot more than just an enhancement spell.

‘Let’s go,’ I mutter.

He grabs my arm on the way out. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve caused you a lot of problems and I still don’t even know your name.’

‘It’s Bo.’ I have to look away from the sympathy in his face.

‘I’m sorry, Bo,’ he says quietly.

‘Yeah,’ I sigh, ‘me too.’

***

We walk quickly to the car. There’s still no sign of anyone following, although a few early risers drive past us. ‘Where are we going to go?’ he asks.

‘I’ve got a lock-up garage. It’s safe.’

His nose wrinkles. ‘A garage?’

‘Do you have any better ideas?’ I snap.

He roots around in his back pocket, pulls out a wallet and grins when he looks inside. He waves a shiny credit card in my face. ‘Yes, I do.’

I roll my eyes. ‘I thought you said you weren’t an idiot. We can’t use a credit card, it’ll lead the police straight to us.’

‘Duh, it’s not my card.’ He points to the name on it: Robert Thomson.

‘Who is Robert Thomson?’

He shrugs.

‘O’Shea?’ I say, warningly.

‘I found it.’

‘You found it.’

‘Right before I went to Wiltshore. It might not have been reported yet.’

‘That’s ridiculous! Of course, it’ll have been reported. We can’t use it. I can’t believe you just nicked somebody’s bloody credit card! Is that even your wallet?’

He looks hurt. ‘Yes. And I only took it from someone who won’t be needing it. The chances of it being reported are miniscule.’

My suspicion deepens. ‘Explain.’

He glances out the window. ‘Sometimes I help out a mate who works at a morgue.’

‘Jesus! You robbed a dead guy?’

‘Like I said, he won’t be needing it.’

I feel disgusted. I can’t believe I’m driving around the London streets with vampires and police chasing me in the company of a petty thief who steals from corpses. ‘Even if it’s not been reported, we can’t just waltz into a hotel and hand it over.’

‘Why not?’

‘Look at the third newspaper,’ I say tersely.

He flicks through, stopping when he sees my face. He whistles. ‘That’s a crap photo of you.’

‘You are such a wanker. The point is, I’m likely to be recognised. And you’re covered in dried blood.’

‘I know.’ He sounds cheery. ‘But I also know a place to go. Turn left here.’

I give him my death stare. Unfortunately it doesn’t affect him any more than it affects my grandfather.

‘I mean it, Bo, trust me. It’s my life on the line too, you know.’

I indicate and turn in the direction he’s pointing. I have a feeling I’m going to regret this. After about fifteen minutes, when O’Shea tells me to pull up at the curb and I see the neon sign, I realise my feeling was right.

‘A love hotel?’

‘It’s perfect,’ he grins.

‘O’Shea, if this is somewhere you often come…’

‘It’s not. In fact, I’ve never been here. I’ve just heard about it from a few friends.’

I’m not quite sure what’s harder to believe: that he has friends or that I’m sitting in a car about to go into a love hotel with him.

‘There’ll be a front desk. We’ll still have to register.’

He shakes head. ‘Didn’t I tell you to trust me?’

He gets out of the car. I have no choice but to follow him, keeping my head down when we enter the lobby – although ‘lobby’ would be a flattering term for the tiny space at the hotel’s entrance. It’s lit with a buzzing fluorescent strip light and smells strongly of disinfectant. I dread to think what odour is being covered up. O’Shea’s right though: there’s no reception and no receptionist, just what looks like a vending machine.

‘Ta da!’ he trills. ‘You’ve got to love the Japanese for giving us this concept. To avoid embarrassment, all you need to do is swipe your card.’ He takes the unfortunate Mr Thomson’s credit card and puts in the machine. ‘And then you simply choose your room. Would you like the water bed or the S&M theme room?’

I look at him. He nods. ‘You’re quite right. I’ve had enough of handcuffs recently too.’

He jabs in his selection and there’s a clunking sound as a key drops into the slot below. He scoops it out and offers it to me. I shake my head; I’m not touching that thing. I’ve got enough problems as it is without getting a communicable disease. He shrugs and pockets it.

‘Well, Bo, let’s see what delights room 302 has in store for us.’

God. I really want to punch him.

***

The room’s not as bad as I imagined it would be. The sheets on water bed smell clean and freshly laundered. It’ll do, I suppose. It’s better than sitting in the damp lock-up.

O’Shea sits down and takes out the phone I’d given him. ‘Only 999 hospitals to go!’

I ignore him and spread out the newspapers, flicking past the front pages to avoid seeing those horrific pictures again. These papers are little more than gossip rags; if the Heads of the Families were out and about yesterday, I’m betting it’ll be reported.