Fade to Black (17 page)

The bag was name brand and shiny blue with silver clasp and thin shoulder strap. Allie donned clingy, plastic gloves and extracted the bag from under a pile of fast-food containers and soiled plastic bags. Someone had dumped refuse from a nearby food store on the bag, presumably without noticing it was there. She could only wonder at how Michael found it.

The important thing was that it was chock full of female belongings. No attempt had been made to scatter or pilfer the contents. She tensed as her hand closed around the little purse. She fumbled with the clasp. Michael stood quietly by, scanning the neighborhood, every inch a guardian.

Allie finally snapped open the purse and took out a driver’s license from among the credit cards, bubblegum wrappers, and soggy tissues. The name leapt out at her. Georgeta Konstanzo.
Georgie.
Tears stung Allie’s eyes. Georgie—so it
was
her. Despite the fact that the dead girl had seemingly attacked her in the lane the night before, she knew it wasn’t Georgie’s doing. It was that
thing
out there—and it was reaching for her—she knew it now with absolute certainty.

She turned and looked at the sky, the rooftops around her and the trees now swaying in a stronger wind. She felt herself lifted above the level of the lane—floating on a sky hook, a vibrating, low humming in her ears. She saw across the city in a black and white tableau—the gothic Houses of Parliament; Nelson’s column towering above The Strand; Temple Church sandwiched into the concrete and glass business district; and Ludgate Hill, the highest point in London, crowned by St Pauls’ Cathedral, its dome contrasting brilliant white against a rapidly darkening sky. And she alone saw the abomination on it—the crouching, black, grinning thing perched on a balcony rail beneath the highest point. She could see and
smell
it. She spoke in a guttural voice not her own,
“Bring it on, Black. Bring it on.”
Its misshapen head with its protruding mouth and bulging white eyes turned towards her. Michael grabbed her, shook her, and ran her up the lane. Her legs pumped on autopilot, her mind still in the sky, her hands still clutching the bright blue bag.

They approached Everett Blight who seemed not to notice their distress, babbling something about the photos he’d taken. Michael held his finger up as they brushed past.

“Just email the photos.”

Michael hustled Allie into the car and told her to drive. She didn’t respond. He roared at her with a sound that turned heads on the street. She snapped out of her reverie, gripping the wheel with clammy hands. She looked helplessly at Michael. “Drive, now!” he yelled.

And drive she did. She pulled straight out into traffic without looking, miraculously missing a BMW estate by inches. She pointed the standard issue, black Vauxhall saloon down Earl’s Court Road and floored the accelerator.

Allie slowly regained control and focus as she drove. The thrumming noise in her head abated and her thoughts cleared. They approached a major intersection. She looked questioningly at Michael.

“Don’t go anywhere near your home,” he said. “Just drive.”

Just driving, she turned right and then right again, heading vaguely west, towards Hammersmith.

“Why am I doing this?” she finally asked.

“Because you saw each other.”

“So?”

He looked at her with a sad expression. “
So
, he has found you.”

Allie braked hard, pulling the car into a bus stop, scaring the life out of a gray-haired cyclist.

“Wait a second, I’m confused here.
He found me?
I thought we…
you
were looking for him!

“Let’s get a coffee.”

“Coffee? You want coffee? Fine, let’s do that. No drama at all. I’ll just drive leisurely till I see a suitable, intimate place.” She swerved back into the traffic.

Michael pointed up the road. “There’s a good place up here on the left about a mile. Victor’s, I think it’s called. They have Ethiopian Yirgacheff coffee beans.”

Allie shook her head in disbelief. She was losing her mind; she was now sure of it. God’s big, tough general had his favorite little coffee shop. Victor’s—how sweet. Never mind that she now knew the victim’s identity and hadn’t yet called it in. She hadn’t even properly examined the contents of Georgeta’s bag.

Ten minutes later, they were seated at a wonky little wooden table jammed into a corner next to a bookshelf that was stuffed with nineteen seventies era books.
Fabulous
, Allie thought,
Victor’s is in its own time warp
. They both ordered double-shot flat whites.

“Right,” Allie said. “Now we’ve got the all-important coffees on the way, may I ask what on earth, or maybe
what the hell
is going on?
What are we doing here?”

Michael leaned back in his chair, surveyed the tatty little café, then looked back at Allie.

“We’re here because it’s crowded and you need a break and some answers. You’re overwrought, over-stimulated, and overcome by what you’re experiencing.”

“I’m over all this. You’re right about that! Go on.”

“In a crowd like this,” Michael said, again looking across the room, “he can’t see you, at least not easily. I don’t want him to get into your brain. My job is hard enough without him filling your head with paranoia.”

“He’ll do that?”

“Of course, particularly now that you’ve spoken to him."

Allie paused in mid-sip. “I did?”

“You went into another zone there for a while. You actually threatened him.”

Allie shook her head. “I remember seeing him, but not saying anything!”

“Trust me, you did.”

The waiter arrived with two coffees in fat round cups. They waited for him to leave and then each took a thoughtful sip. Allie figured that as long as they were here for five minutes, she’d push him for more information. “This rollercoaster of the last thirty-six hours has been rough. I am seriously short on sleep and maybe even a little grumpy.”

“You think?” he chimed in.

Allie ignored the barb. “Let me get this straight. This thing, Bellhop—”

“Belhor—
Mr. Black
, if you like,” Michael advised.

“Alright, yes,
Mr. Black
is at large from”—she waved at the sky generally— “wherever, and you need to capture him and the only way you can do that is if I find the murderer whom he inhabits. Correct?”

“Correct.”

She sat back in her chair. “But I’ve seen Mr. Black—he’s sitting on top of St. Paul’s. Can’t you now just go and get him?” Michael drained his coffee and signaled the waiter for another.

“Ok, first, let’s not keep using his name—his radar is pinging like a battleship as we speak. Secondly, he was not just sitting there. What you saw was his effigy—what he symbolizes to you. That’s been sitting there for three days waiting for you to get on the wavelength. It was bait, Allie.”

“And I mindlessly took it.”

“Well… yes, you did.”

“Shit.”

Michael smiled. “Perhaps
mindlessly
is a bit harsh; don’t beat yourself up about it. I confess, I did it once years ago—actually, it was a thousand years ago. Hopefully, we all learn from our mistakes. What’s happening is that your senses, the one’s you were born with, but have never used, are awakening. He’s just been waiting for you.”

They stared at each other for a long minute before Allie spoke.

“You said to me the night we met that you realized I didn’t know who I was. That didn’t make any sense at the time, but there are definite shadows across areas of my life, I see that now. There’s something nagging at me, but I can’t grasp it. Why is that? Do you know?”

He looked directly at her, a trickle of electricity bit her again.

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry. I don’t have all the answers, and the ones I do have, I can’t yet give you.”

Allie pushed her serviette away in frustration. She looked at her watch.

“I have to call in the information about Georgeta now. I’ll be seriously derelict in my duty if I don’t.”

*****

Detective Constable Jacinta Wilkinson took the call from DCI St. Clair at 12:53 p.m. She took down the details of Georgeta Konstanzo’s address to run through the databank and confirmed to Allie that CCTV footage from the King’s Lane area from the previous night was now available for viewing. Wilkinson advised there were three sets of footage, two from cameras owned and operated by a security company and one from a London City Council camera mounted on the far side of Earl’s Court road. Allie had said she would return to headquarters to view it and added that it had not yet been established that the blue bag belonging to Georgeta Konstanzo was in fact that of the victim. They might just have found a bag not connected to the murder, so caution should be exercised when contacting or visiting her home address—a bedsit in Shepherd’s Bush, West London. Wilkinson spun in her chair to find Strauss standing virtually on top of her.

“Oops, sorry, Sergeant,” she said. “I thought you were still out in the field.”

“Did you? That was St. Clair on the phone, presumably?”

“Yes, she found a woman’s bag, possibly one belonging to the victim. I’m about to check whether we have any record of her.”

Strauss put her hand out. “Give the name and address to me. I’ll do that.”

Wilkinson hesitated a moment. “I’m happy to do it.”

“It’s no problem at all,” Strauss insisted. “Just give it me. It’ll only take five minutes.”

Reluctantly, Wilkinson surrendered the piece of paper. She turned back to her desk. She had flushed in anger and didn’t want Strauss to see. She heard Strauss walk quickly to a computer terminal across the room and thought briefly about texting Allie about the intervention. Everybody knew they didn’t get on and it was affecting them all one way or another, but maybe texting Allie was crossing a line of sorts. Besides, Strauss could be pretty scary at times.

Chapter Twelve

The Arthur Wendell that emerged from Spenser’s Clothing on Tottenham Court Road looked appreciably younger and taller than the one who had trudged to his Earl’s Court office to start his normal working week just four days ago. Any casual observer would see a fit individual, perhaps in his early forties, well dressed and with a spring in his step—a successful, attractive man with places to go and people to see.

“
Smokin’ now, Artie! Lookin’ good! Good enough to snare an editor wouldn’t you say?
”

Arthur heard the voice, but he was troubled. Despite his outward appearance of confidence, he had been reminded of who he really was in the mirror at Spenser’s. The black head staring back at him, its unblinking, dead eyes fixed above a lupine, crooked smile. He’d shrunk from it, but had been transfixed at the same time. It was not who he wanted to be, but it was so…
forceful
. It had a way of making him want what
it
wanted. But he was not a murderer. The thing,
Mr. Black,
was. He did not want to hurt the lovely Paula. She didn’t deserve it. No-one did. He'd been staring at the pavement as he walked and now looked up to see a red double-decker bus pulling in to the curb towards him.

He decided to throw himself under it right then and there. With a rush, he felt this was the answer. He could end this and at least save Paula. The bus drew near, just ten yards away and still travelling fast. He launched himself towards its wheels. If he could just get under those huge tires…

But in reality, he didn’t move. In fact, he never broke stride. The bus slid past and he barely acknowledged it. He’d walked on. He’d started to think about that girl, Georgeta, at the last second.
Why did she have to be such a slut? Why had she been so rude? And that filthy make-up! How could they employ a slag like that? Sarah was nice, not at all like greasy Georgeta. You never knew with women. They might look all right, but underneath, where they really lived, who knew what they did, what they thought? Like Paula, with her strong legs and bouncy tits, what was she really doing with them at that magazine? She was the same as Georgeta, classed-up a bit, a more polished turd, nothing more than that. It was all bullshit. She’d reject him in the end like all the rest. But he’d get in first. She’d be beggin’ for it… when she got it.

Arthur twitched as Mr. Black’s voice boomed again. “
Heheheheh… Nice to have you back, my man. I thought I’d lost you there for a second
.”

*****

Photographer Everett Blight thought DCI St. Clair to be arrogant and dismissive. She had rushed past him in King’s Lane with her advisor or boyfriend or whatever he was, without a word.
She might look good
, he thought,
but she isn't my type—too damn smart by half.
Anyway, she should have stopped and looked at the photos. They were amazing. He’d really wanted to show her how clever he’d been in capturing the artwork on the brick wall at the end of the lane. And in daylight! She obviously knew a bit about photography, so she might have appreciated his talent.

Placing the big camera down on a wooden bench that was affixed to the restaurant wall, he reached for the more compact model he’d used last night and clicked on ‘review.’ As horrifying as the murder scene had been, the photos were damn good. He scrolled through a half-dozen to luxuriate in his talent. He’d be sure to get more contract work from the MET after they saw these. Perhaps they already had. He stopped randomly on a photo and magnified it to check the resolution. The girl’s ravaged face stared back at him through huge, weeping eye sockets. He winced at the ragged mouth and lewd lipstick and hurriedly moved the focus of the image to her legs. He could just make out something on her left ankle. He increased the magnification to maximum. He could now see that it was a tiny tattoo. He hadn’t noticed it last night—of course, he had been slightly ‘under the weather’ in every sense. The tattoo was of a dolphin, leaping from a tiny, stylized wave. Coldness gripped him.