Hard Light (30 page)

California Girl Poppy Teasel has stars in her eyes—one star, anyway! She's joined Lavender Rage as lead singer Jonno Blitz's wardrobe girl/friend—and the best thing is, she can wear his clothes! (And vice versa!) “I believe in breaking the rules,” she confided to Tell Star! “If I want something, I take it! Guys have been doing that forever, now it's our turn.” The Rage will be all the rage back in Olde England this summer when the band goes on tour, with Poppy in charge of boots, belts, and bellbottoms. Just don't lose the key to the costume trunk, Poppy!

I winced. If the adult Poppy had lived by her adolescent credo, one of the things she'd taken might have been Mallo. That would explain her falling out with the Dunfrieses. The thaumatrope might have been a Trojan horse, disguised as a peace offering sent by Morven. When Morven appeared shortly after my departure, Poppy would have welcomed her with open arms—one of which soon had a spike in it.

I glanced again at the
Tell Star!
image of Poppy, and felt a pang for the young Adrian. He'd been an infant when this photo of Poppy ran, but he might have been the same age as the teenybopper Poppy when he first saw it. She must have given it to him. Or maybe it was lying around the farmhouse when he was growing up, a tawdry memento of her own childhood. Either way, it had been handled so often over the years that the fragile paper left yellowing fragments on my fingertips. I slipped it carefully back where I'd found it, then flipped to the end of the journal.

Most of the pages here were empty. A few had dates or phone numbers scribbled on them. Stuck between two pages were several folded clippings from the
Camden New Journal,
with photos and club listings.

Newcomer Krishna Morgenthal left a lingering impression at last night's open mic at World's End, doing covers of classic girl group pop as well as Adore's current hit, “Hitting the Brake.” Well worth checking out.

Fans looking for the next Adele or Laura Burhenn can cool their heels at the Banshee near Kentish Town, where a nineteen-year-old with the unlikely moniker of Krishna Morgenthal (her real name) has been drawing comparisons to those two, not to mention Dusty Springfield and Amy Winehouse …

Adrian's musical taste might run to electronica, but he definitely seemed to have his own groupie thing going on. I stared at the picture of a doe-eyed Krishna glammed up in a slinky halter dress, replaced the clippings, and slid the journal back where I'd found it. I looked out the window. Still no Land Rover.

I swiftly went through the rest of the backpack. Other than a rumpled sweater and a mobile phone charger, there was nothing. But when I unzipped the front pocket and stuck my hand in, my fingers closed around a small cardboard box. I pulled out a blister packet of prescription tablets. The scrip on the label was for someone named Lazslo Chesna. I read what was printed on the back—
Dormicum [Midazolam] 15 mg.

Midazolam is a very powerful, fast-acting sedative and muscle relaxant. It doesn't stay in your system long: There's a quick recovery time, which is why the IV form is used for short-term surgical procedures. Combined with other drugs, it's used in lethal injections for prisoners undergoing execution. In lower doses in oral form, like these tablets, it's prescribed as a sleep aid—it knocks you out, but only for a few hours. The sedative effect is exacerbated by alcohol, and one of the side effects is amnesia, which is why it's used as a date rape drug. In high doses it can be fatal, as when it was administered to Michael Jackson to counter his insomnia, along with Ativan, Valium, and propofol.

The blister pack in my hand had contained twenty pills. Now it was empty.

I peeled away the foil covering and ran my finger along the surface where the tablets had been. An almost invisible blue residue adhered to my fingertip. Ground into a powder, the drug would have dissolved quickly. In a glass of red wine, it would have been undetectable. Mallo and Morven would have welcomed Adrian into their flat. He'd opened the bottle of Cabernet, dosed their wine with Midazolam, and waited the thirty minutes or so until it kicked in.

He'd probably done in Mallo first—the ribbons had been a nice touch. If Morven had been chipping heroin that evening, she would have done most of Adrian's groundwork for him. The drug's anti-anxiety effects would have taken care of any suspicions the Dunfrieses might have had, ex post facto, which would have made it easy for him to strangle Mallo in his office, and even easier for Adrian to assist Morven into a nonexistent elevator going way, way down. But why?

It was easy to imagine bad blood seeping between the three of them over the years. Maybe Adrian wasn't crazy about being cut from Mallo's new business plan. And if Adrian and Krishna had some sort of history, past or present, Krishna's dalliance with Morven might have pushed him over the edge.

It was harder for me to square Adrian as Poppy's killer. If he'd faked his reaction to news of her death, he was primed for a career in politics. That, or he was more of a headcase than I was. I recalled the image of Poppy as I'd found her, any trace of pain or regret effaced. The same expression of vacant calm I'd seen in the teenage Quinn when he'd nodded off. Perhaps she'd chosen her own exit via a familiar door, despite Adrian's insistence otherwise. If so, it had been messier than she'd intended. But the result was the same.

From outside came a faint roar that gradually grew louder. The Land Rover. I dropped the empty drug packet into the pocket and zipped it, then hurriedly went through the other pockets but found nothing except some nicotine cartridges. I shoved the backpack onto the mattress and hopped up from the daybed, peering out the window to see the Rover's headlights as it veered closer to the farmyard. I stuck my camera bag under the table and sat, angling my chair toward the space heater.

Five minutes later, the front door opened. I heard Adrian stamping in the entryway as I'd done earlier, followed by muttered curses as he trudged into the kitchen.

“What're you doing?” He removed his anorak and tossed it onto the daybed, shot me a stony look then yelled, “Sam!”

“She was out by the barn,” I said.

“She feed the cow?”

“No clue.”

Adrian lumbered into the living room, shouting. “Sam!”

As he passed me I caught a strong reek of Scotch and tobacco smoke. He soon returned, his stony gaze now outright hostile.

“I'm just keeping warm,” I said, lowering my face toward the heater so I could avoid his eyes. “Trying to, anyway.”

“You been here all day?”

“I took a walk with Sam. Did you go to find Tamsin?”

He shook his head. “You missed her. She's been here—been and gone. Got back from Penzance then went down to the garage to get a tire repaired. No worries, you'll have your chance later.” He grimaced.

“Where's Krishna?”

“Out wandering the moors, trying to get a mobile signal.”

Adrian reached up to pull the bottle of Talisker from the shelf, along with two glasses. He blew into each glass, raising a puff of dust. The bottle of Talisker had seen more recent active duty. Sam must have inherited her father's taste for Scotch. Adrian poured two inches of whiskey into a glass and pushed it across the table to me.

I picked it up and sniffed. The scent reminded me of the night I'd seen someone pitch a propane tank into a bonfire. I didn't taste it, keeping an eye on Adrian as he filled his own glass.

“Cheers,” he said, unsmiling, and knocked back the whiskey.

I took a sip. It tasted better than it smelled. I watched, warily, as Adrian finished his glass, then did the same to my own and helped myself to another shot, finishing the bottle.

“Thank you,” said Adrian.

“You're welcome.” I cupped the glass in my hands. “Is this the only heat you've got? Other than that—” I nudged the electric heater with my boot.

Adrian staggered from his chair. “I'll start a fire in the other room. I've got another bottle there.”

When he was gone, I peered out into the yard. I could just make out Sam's gangly figure moving between the outbuildings, the thin beam of her flashlight dancing before her. I watched her for a few minutes, then went to join Adrian.

He was crouched in front of the fireplace, whiskey bottle beside him. A small stack of what looked like charcoal briquets perched atop the fire dog. Gray smoke filled the air with a pungent, grassy smell: peat.

“Be aware this is only psychological warmth.”

Adrian stepped away from the fireplace, pushing aside the deflated soccer ball with his foot. He took the other chair, pulling it so close to the fire that the tips of his Doc Martens touched the smoldering peat. He was unshaven, his handsome features blue-shadowed and eyes bloodshot. A scratch on one cheek oozed a watery red. He wiped it absently with the back of his hand, leaving a crimson smear beside his mouth.

“Christ, I'm tired.” He shut his eyes, and remained silent for such a long time I thought he'd fallen asleep.

Without warning he kicked at the fireplace. A brick of smoldering peat skittered across the floor. He scooped it up and tossed it back. I picked up the bottle, took a long swallow of Scotch, and glanced at the window. It only threw back the pale blur of my own face.

I edged my chair closer to the fire, trying to put some distance between Adrian and myself. “How long has Sam been here?”

“Two years. She was bullied at school in London. I decided she'd be better off with Tamsin.”

“She told me she's training to be a shaman.”

“Did she?” Adrian snorted. “God, that's all we need. Tamsin is relentless. I remember her trying that on with me when I was the same age. It didn't stick.”

“Samsung—what the hell kind of name is that?”

“It was a festival thing. Her mom and me. It was her idea—Justina's. You know, embracing the power of technology. When Sam was three, Justina went to Burning Man and never came back. We'd been living with a group of anarchists in Islington; they moved on but I stayed in the squat with Sam. I was able to make ends meet. Barely.”

“Yeah, well, she's living like a wild animal here. She'd be better off back with you in the squat.”

Adrian turned to me, his eyes brighter than the embers. “You saying I abandoned my kid? Fuck you. You and Poppy and all that hippie punk anarchist rhetoric. You think we're animals? That's because we bought into your fairy tales. There is no Golden City. I was a kid, how was I to know better? Now we're living in the ruins like dogs.”

“What's your problem?” I gulped my whiskey. It wasn't Talisker. “I'm not the one who screwed you up. Give your kid a decent home. Get a fucking job. And I'm not a fucking hippie.”

Adrian laughed. “Listen to you. You and your mate Quinn. You know what he is? A contract killer. He scarpered off to Reykjavík when it got too dangerous in Oslo, but he didn't change his spots. Do you want to know why?”

He leaned toward me, and his deep voice dropped to a whisper. “Because he fucking loves it. Twenty years ago I watched him strangle a bloke outside a club in Brixton. The guy had taken Mallo Dunfries for a thousand quid, and Mallo asked Quinn to deal with it. He did, and he took his own sweet time. I saw it with my own eyes. Strangled him with a piano wire, sliced right through his windpipe and his spinal column. Put the head in a bag and dropped it in the river, dumped his body somewhere in the Isle of Dogs. You could see from his face that he got off on it.”

“You're lying.”

Adrian's gaze pierced mine. “I'm not. And you know I'm not. Do you know why he asked me to watch you? Because he's gone. Someone offered him a job back in Oslo, Sweden, someplace like that. He gave me three hundred quid to make sure you were safe, I'll give him that.”

He sank deeper into his chair. The breath left my body. I stared at him, trying to force myself to speak. He avoided my gaze.

“Here.” He thrust a hand into his pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. “Count it. I spent some on petrol, but the rest is there. Three hundred quid—that's what you're worth to Quinn O'Boyle.”

He shoved the notes at me. I struck at him. “Get away from me.”

“You know it's the truth.”

He looked at the empty glass on the floor beside him, as though wondering how it got there. His expression grew pained.

“Look, I'm sorry,” he said. “I am. I should've left you in the city to find your own way. I should have done that. But Poppy and the others … It was too much. I was worried about Sam and Krishna. I couldn't do it alone. I wasn't thinking.”

He slid the money back into his pocket. “All I wanted was to get Krish away from London and make sure Sam was safe. I thought you'd be better off here than there.”

I looked at his face. The cut by his mouth had started to scab over. “Where's Krishna?”

“I told you—outside, trying to get a mobile signal. Good luck with that.” He noticed my stare, and touched his cheek. “She gave me that. Like a mad cat. Every woman I know is mad. Why is that, you think?”

He picked up his empty glass and stared into it, musing.

I gazed numbly into the fire. I saw Quinn in Iceland, garroting a man with a guitar string, blood like crimson sparks. I thought of a girl in Finland, now dead, who had told me about the bouncer at an Oslo nightclub.

This guy took the bodies and cut them up and buried the pieces. Someone I know saw him, he was with his girlfriend one night; she was carrying a bag, and there was a head in it.

I said, “He was going to see some guy so we could go to Greece. A guy with a boat.”

“He's gone. I don't know the details. There was a job he had to take; he couldn't turn it down, he said. But he wanted you safe.”

“Safe?” I stumbled to my feet. “This is safe?”

I grabbed the bottle of whiskey. “Don't you fucking touch me,” I said. “You or anyone else. Don't you say a fucking word to me.”