Innocent Blood (32 page)

Frank had almost reached the office door when the bomb went off. Three feet nearer and he would have been hit full in the face by a blizzard of flying glass. As it was, the door was blown across the corridor and the force of the blast knocked him backward so that he hit a framed poster for
The Grapes of Wrath
and cracked it right across.

Black smoke rolled out of the open doorway, filled with hundreds of fragments of burning paper. The stench of exploded Semtex and burned nylon carpet was overwhelming, and Frank found himself on his hands and knees, his ears ringing, his eyes streaming, whooping for breath.

The fire bell started ringing and he heard people shouting and screaming. He climbed on to his feet, leaning against the wall to support himself, and all he could think of was
no, not Lizzie, not Mo, not Daphne
. They were as much a part of his family as his father and mother, or Carol and Smitty. Closer, in a way, because he had spent every working day with them for three and a half years, laughing, arguing, writing and re-writing. He had probably known more about Lizzie and Mo than he had ever known about Margot.

Frank made his way to the office door, covering his mouth with his hand. Daphne's room was relatively untouched, although it was full of smoke and her computer was lying on the floor. Her yucca plant, too, had been stripped of its leaves and stood totally naked.

Daphne herself was lying in the open doorway to the main office. She didn't look as if she had been badly hurt. Frank crunched across the broken glass that littered the carpet, and knelt down beside her. ‘Daphne?' he said gently, and shook her shoulder. She didn't reply, so he pulled her carefully on to her back. It was then that he saw the triangular metal arm of a chair had embedded itself into her chest. She was staring at him intently, as if she were about to say something important.

He looked across the devastated office. Mo was lying in the opposite corner, one hand raised as if he were trying to catch Frank's attention, except that the left half of his head had been blown away, and his left arm was a bloody, blackened tangle of bone and muscle and shredded skin. Lizzie was still sitting in her chair, surprisingly intact, her arms spread wide, her hair sticking up on end, and her mouth open in astonishment.

Frank circled the room, coughing. At first he couldn't understand what had happened to the pizza delivery boy, but then he saw something that looked like a wet red raincoat hanging over the back of his chair. He didn't want to look any closer.

He left the office just as three firefighters came bustling along the corridor. ‘Sir? Are you OK?'

‘Bombed us,' he choked, with a mouthful of grit. ‘The bastards bombed us.'

Twenty-Two

‘
B
ut why
us
?' he asked Astrid later that evening. He had hardly touched the Thai noodles she had ordered, and they lay congealing in their bowls. Why was it that, after a bereavement or a disaster, people always said, ‘I know how you're feeling . . . but you mustn't forget to eat?'

Frank had no appetite for food. He didn't even feel like getting drunk. He was freshly bruised, and half deaf, and all he wanted to do was hunt down the man who had ordered Mo and Lizzie's murders and beat him to death with a baseball bat.

Astrid was wearing a tight black leather jerkin and tight black leather pants and spiky-heeled boots. Her hair was gelled back and there were huge silver hoops dangling in her ears. She looked as if she had just walked off the set of a low-budget horror movie.

‘They said they were going to bomb the entertainment industry, didn't they?' she reminded him. ‘They said they were going to set off a bomb a day, every day for eleven days. You were just unlucky.' Her voice sounded huskier than ever.

‘I know that. But that pizza delivery boy
specifically
asked for Bell, Cohen and Fries. He hadn't come there to bomb Twentieth Century Fox. He came to bomb
us
.'

‘All right, he came there to bomb you. But think about it. If it's true what your psychic detective friend was telling you . . . I mean, if Dar Tariki Tariqat are all abused people, trying to get their revenge . . . well, you can see why they went for a program like
Pigs
.'

‘
Pigs
is a comedy, for Christ's sake!'

‘Yes, but it's folksy and warm and it's
happy
.'

‘It's not
always
happy. Most of the time, Dusty and Henry are pretty miserable. And their dad is practically a manic depressive.'

‘I know. But things always work out in the end, don't they? Every episode finishes up with that cheesy scene of the Dunger family gathered around the pigsty, laughing and hugging each other and scuffing the kids' hair.'

‘Astrid, that's supposed to be a parody. Like, you know, “goodnight, John Boy.”'

‘Oh, yes? Tell that to some lonely kid who was beaten with a belt buckle and sent to bed without any supper.'

‘So what are you saying? That TV families should always be dysfunctional, with dads who sodomize their daughters, and moms who drink, and kids who take crack and set fire to tramps, just so the viewing audience won't think we're being smug? For Christ's sake, Astrid, we've never tried to pretend that the world is perfect. But people
like
to feel folksy and warm and happy, and why not? What harm does it do?'

‘You tell me. Look what happened to Lizzie and Mo and Daphne, and all of those other people. Look what happened to Danny.'

Frank covered his face with his hands, as if his hands were doors and he wanted them to remain closed for ever, so that he could stay in the dark. He was still shocked, and he still found it impossible to believe that Lizzie and Mo had been killed. He felt like crying, but he didn't seem to have any tears. He kept picturing Mo, frowning at the end of his cigar, trying to make up his mind if it was worth relighting; and Lizzie, toying with her Ethiopian food and telling him to enjoy life while he was still above ground.

Astrid sat close to him and stroked his hair. He could smell her perfume and her warm leather pants. ‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I can't even begin to imagine how bad you must feel.'

‘Tell me it's still morning,' he said, his voice muffled behind his hands. ‘Tell me I've just woken up and I haven't gone to the office yet.'

Astrid kissed him. ‘When I was little, and something really bad happened, I used to pretend that it was only a movie, and that I was only playing a part. Somehow that made it easier to bear.'

Frank took his hands away from his face and looked at her. ‘Do you know something . . . that's the first time you've ever told me anything personal.'

‘I'm always telling you personal things, Frank. It's just that you don't always hear me.'

‘All right. So what was so bad that you used to pretend it was only a movie?'

She smiled at him, still stroking his hair. ‘I lost my innocence.'

‘You lost your innocence? Who took it?'

‘The world is full of thieves, Frank, and they don't only take wallets. They take everything and anything that's worth having. Beauty, joy, innocence. They don't really want it for themselves, they just don't want anybody else to have it.'

‘Tell me,' said Frank.

‘No. You're not in any fit state. You need a sedative and you need some sleep.'

‘Sleep? No thanks. I'll only have nightmares.'

At that moment there was a knock at the door. Astrid went to answer it, and it was Nevile. He was immaculately dressed in a black shirt and black pants, as if he had been playing Well-Groomed Vampire #2 in the same movie as Astrid, and he smelled of Burberry aftershave.

‘Oh,' he said in his tensile British accent. ‘Not interrupting anything, am I?'

‘Of course not,' said Frank. ‘Come on in. This is Astrid, by the way. Astrid, this is Nevile – Nevile Strange, the world-famous psychic detective.'

‘Well, well,' said Astrid. ‘I'm so pleased to meet you at last. Frank and I were just talking about you.'

‘I wondered why my ears were burning,' said Nevile. He held out his hand but Astrid smiled and turned away as if she preferred not to make any physical contact.

Frank said, ‘We've been trying to work out why Dar Tariki Tariqat would want to blow up
Pigs
. Listen, how about a drink? There's a bottle of dry white wine in the fridge.'

‘No, I'm fine, thanks. The police told me all about the bombing and I just called by to make sure that you were all right.'

‘I'm covered in so many bruises I look like a patchwork quilt, and a trolley car keeps ringing in my ears. But they took me to Mount Sinai for a check-up and otherwise I'm all in one piece.'

Nevile came over and peered into his bloodshot eyes. ‘You were damned lucky you weren't in the office with the others. I'm so sorry about your friends; it's absolutely tragic.'

Frank lifted both hands. ‘I feel, mentally, like I've had my arms torn off. Can you understand that?' He suddenly found it difficult to speak. ‘I mean, we wrote that series together every working day for three and a half years and it was like we were . . .'

‘I know. I don't know what to say.'

Frank cleared his throat. ‘I need to talk to you, as a matter of fact.'

‘I'm rather pushed for time, I'm afraid. Perhaps we can make it tomorrow.'

‘The cops told you that it was a pizza delivery boy?'

Nevile nodded.

‘Well, a couple of minutes before that pizza delivery boy showed up, Daphne took a phone message for me. She said it was a woman. Somebody wanted to meet me in the parking lot, urgently. I looked out of the window and I swear to you, I could see Danny standing out there. He was in shadow, I could only see a silhouette, but I swear it was him. That's why I left the office in such a hurry, thank God.'

Nevile raised one eyebrow. ‘Was Danny still there when you got outside?'

‘No, he wasn't, and nobody else had seen him, either. I was still looking for him when it suddenly hit me that none of us had ordered pizza. I mean, the delivery boy had asked me which was our office – Bell, Cohen and Fries – but none of us had ordered pizza. I could see Mo up at the window, and I tried to warn him. You know, I waved, and I shouted . . .' Frank became silent for a moment at the memory of it. ‘I guess he thought I was joking. Mo was incapable of taking anything seriously. Even a bomb warning.'

Nevile looked thoughtful. ‘Seeing Danny in the parking lot could have been some kind of premonition, I suppose. Sometimes we see things that warn us of coming events. Birds, animals, certain vehicles like ambulances or hearses. But in this case, I'm not so sure. What makes this really unusual is that your secretary received an actual phone call, saying that you were needed outside.'

‘Meaning what?'

‘Either a real woman was ringing you, to warn you, or else you were receiving a warning from a very powerful psychic source – so powerful that it could make your phone ring. It's been known before, spirit voices being heard over the telephone. A woman in Wales used to hear her mother talking, even though she had died of cancer more than five years before. Electrical circuits are highly sensitive to spirit messages, like the automatic writing I picked up on my computer.'

‘Any way of telling whether this was a real message or a spirit message?'

‘We should meet tomorrow, and try another séance. Meanwhile, I really have to go. Lieutenant Chessman called me and I'm on my way to Century City right now. They want to see if I can pick up any vibrations from the bomber's shoes – although they're pretty sure that they know his name already.'

‘Really?'

‘He was carrying a photograph of his mother. His foster-mother, anyhow. There was a street sign in the background and they were able to trace her from that.'

‘You know what really gets to me?' said Frank. ‘He's blown himself up, too, and that means that I'll never get the chance to kill him myself.'

Nevile took out a leather-bound notebook. ‘His remains haven't been formally identified yet, but he was a house painter from Culver City called Alexander Sutter, twenty-four years old. His foster parents were Mr and Mrs John Happel, of MacManus Park. Apparently he was put into foster care when he was eleven years old, after persistent sexual and physical abuse from his natural father.'

‘
Another
abuse victim? It looks like your theory could be right.'

‘After this, yes, I'm pretty sure of it.'

‘All the same, it's hard to think of abuse victims getting themselves together and planning something like this. The only ones I've ever met – they're usually so
withdrawn
, you know? So
downtrodden
.'

‘I agree with you,' said Nevile. ‘But it looks as if somebody managed to get them together and inspire them to take some action. These bombings have taken some very careful organization. Dar Tariki Tariqat use a different type of explosive each time, and a different method of delivery, so it's very difficult to trace them back. Somebody's doing their planning for them, that's my opinion. Somebody clever, and very well financed.'

‘What do the cops think?'

‘They still believe that there's some kind of Arab influence at work here – even if they
have
used child-abuse victims to do their dirty work for them.'

‘What's your opinion?'

‘Well, I was talking to an FBI psychologist this afternoon and she agrees that child-abuse victims probably wouldn't have focused their resentment into a terrorist campaign unless somebody had focused it for them. And who wants to see Hollywood destroyed more than Islamic extremists?'