Red Eye - 02 (14 page)

“Yeah, and look how he ended up. You want to martyr the fuck out of yourself, go right ahead. That’s your prerogative. But this thing we’re doing, this investigation or whatever it is, don’t you see that ultimately it could be your way out, your ticket back to respectability? I’m providing you with a platform here, a public forum where you can defend yourself and show that you’re fighting the good fight. It’s a chance to state your case, somewhere where nobody can mess with you or shout you down. A chance to put John Redlaw’s point of fucking view.”

“You swear an awful lot.”

“Point of fudging view.” Tina gripped his hand on the tabletop. “Redlaw, I’m willing to be your Woodward and Bernstein, all in one charming half-Italian, half-Baptist package. Together, we can stick it to the twenty-first-century Nixons. We can... Redlaw? Are you even listening?”

But Redlaw’s attention had shifted abruptly to the TV, where a report was being filed live from a Brooklyn dockyard. A reporter with chapped pink cheeks stood in front of a stack of shipping containers, the topmost of which appeared to have been broken into from above.

“...still baffling NYPD,” she was saying. A caption identified her as Molly Chan, Home Affairs Correspondent, and stated that she was broadcasting from the East River docks, Brooklyn. “The container has been extensively vandalised and there are reports, as yet unconfirmed, of large quantities of shell casings and spent bullets being found inside.”

“Turn up the volume, please,” Redlaw asked the waitress.

She either failed to hear or chose to ignore the request.

“Yo!” Tina bellowed across the diner. “Lady! Man wants to listen to this. Turn it up.”

The waitress sucked her teeth, but complied.

“Most puzzling of all,” Molly Chan said, “is how the culprits were able to open the roof of the container. They clearly used cutting equipment and possibly crowbars, but we’re talking half-inch steel. To bend that, you’d need to apply more pressure than an ordinary person is capable of. One theory is that a ‘jaws of life’, the device firefighters use to cut accident victims out of wrecked vehicles, was involved. However, that doesn’t account for the strange ‘curl of butter’ effect that you can see behind me.”

The cameraman zoomed in over her shoulder to the container. On it stood a pair of police officers who were gazing down at the peeled-back roof. They looked appropriately mystified.

The anchorman in the studio asked, “Molly, what can you tell us about the possibility of an alleged vampire connection with all this?”

“Dale, that’s one of the many rumours that are swirling around right now, but detectives investigating remain tight-lipped on the subject. The container came from Poland and supposedly was being used to transport furniture destined for a well-known chain of department stores. However, since its point of origin is eastern Europe, some kind of vampire element to the crime cannot be completely ruled out.”

“Thanks, Molly. We’ll give you more on this breaking story as we get it. Now, over to Kevin Weingarten with the latest from the stock exchange. Kevin?”

“It’s them,” said Redlaw firmly. “I know it is.”

“You think?”

“Same
modus operandi
. A military-style infiltration. A hail of bullets. I bet you anything those are Fraxinus rounds in that container. I bet you anything there are piles of ash in it, too, like in the subway. The police just aren’t telling us that yet.”

“But the report was mostly supposition,” said Tina. “That skinny little bitch with the bad nose job was inferring and sensationalising. She didn’t
know
.”

“Shipping containers are ideal for Sunless who want to travel overseas. Sealed so no light gets in. Like giant steel coffins. The things get ferried around from A to B to C and nobody ever looks inside, not until they reach their final destination. The number of ’Lesses who’ve been sneaked into Britain that way—it beggars belief. We didn’t have enough manpower in SHADE to put a stop to it, and we found it hard to persuade customs officials to do more than just glance at the container manifests and wave them through.”

“Not exactly club class, is it, though?”

“Usually there’s no alternative. Sometimes the vampires can manage unaided, slipping into a container when no one’s looking, but more often organised crime’s involved. Gangs can make a bundle out of smuggling them across borders. The ’Lesses scrimp, save, steal, use cards from the wallets of their victims, until they’ve got the money together to pay for their passage. It invariably costs a small fortune. But worth it, to be transported to a new land where there’s room to roam and no vampire overpopulation problem.” Redlaw quickly finished up his meal. “I want to visit that dockyard. Brooklyn, it said. Can you get us there?”

F
INDING THE RELEVANT
dockyard was easy. It was where police cars and outside broadcast vans were parked in droves. Getting beyond the crime scene tape, however, proved impossible. Back in London, in the good old days, Redlaw could have waltzed past with just a flash of his SHADE badge. But this wasn’t London, and the days were neither good nor old. The cop stationed at the gate was turning away everyone who didn’t have a legitimate excuse to come through. He was also flatly refusing to answer queries. “No comment” was all he would say. To anyone. About anything.

Redlaw had to be content with joining the throng of gawkers and rubberneckers on the wrong side of the perimeter fence. There was little to be seen but the damaged container in the far distance and, nearer by, a couple of CSU officers in pale blue coveralls conferring together and several of New York’s finest standing around drinking coffee from cardboard cups and looking robustly officious.

“This is a waste of time,” Tina said. “We could stand here all day freezing our tits off. No way are we going to see anything interesting.”

“I disagree. This is all very revealing.”

“How so?”

“Look. Police crawling all over the place. No effort’s been made to disguise what happened here. There’s been no attempt at a cover-up. The attack was incredibly bold. Brazen, even. Out in the open where everyone can see.”

“Meaning whoever’s responsible has clout.”

“Or cast-iron self-confidence. Also, they’re starting to swagger. Which makes them even more dangerous. They’ve made a big splash, so now they may well be tempted to make an even bigger and splashier one. There’s somebody I need to warn about this.”

Redlaw about-turned and started walking.

“Who?” Tina said, following.

“You’re going to insist on tagging along, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh, sure am. I’m sticking to you, Redlaw, like a... Well, like a tick to a bulldog.”

“How flattering. For both of us.”

“Come on, we’re a team now, aren’t we? Partners.”

Partners? Redlaw neither wanted nor needed a partner. In the past, it hadn’t worked out well. Twice, indeed, it had ended with a death.

But he couldn’t deny that he owed Tina Checkley something—a debt of gratitude, perhaps. And she had her uses.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose I’m lumbered with you for the time being. For better or worse.”

She linked her arm through his. “Then cheer up. I’m good news. Without me, you’re just a surly old Grinch who doesn’t know his way around and can’t handle the natives. With me, you’ve got vigour, class, and sass. Plus, I’m a font of local knowledge, Google in a g-string. Together, we can kick ass and change the world. Anything’s possible.”

“That’s exactly my fear,” Redlaw said dryly. “Anything’s possible.”

Tina playfully punched him on the shoulder.

It was his bad shoulder, the one that had been torn up by a vampire a few months back, and her blow left it smarting horribly for the next hour. But Redlaw bore the pain as he did so many things: with grim-lipped stoicism. He was, all said and done, a long-suffering man.

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

“I
T’S TIME,
C
LARA
,” said Farthingale.

She was in the den, lolling on a beanbag, engrossed in the TV.

“Awww,” she griped. “But it’s
Transylvanian Families
. It’s only just started. Sit and watch with me, then we’ll do the transfoodlum after.”

Farthingale had a reasonable fund of patience, especially where his sister was concerned, but he drew the line at a kids’ television show—even one that was produced by a studio he owned and aired on a network he owned, with most of its licensed merchandise manufactured by a toy company he had a controlling stake in.

“No,” he said gently but with resolve. “It’s this time every week, you know that, Clara. It’s just what we have to do. And I have calls to make afterwards, important ones that can’t wait.”

“Come along now, Clara,” said Rozetta. The stocky little Filipina nurse placed her hands on Clara’s shoulders. “It’ll only take a moment, and when it’s done I’ll sit with you and we’ll watch whatever you want.”

Farthingale could see Clara’s posture tightening, her face beginning to scrunch up. He knew the signs. They were in for a tantrum if they weren’t careful. An apocalyptic meltdown.

“But it hurts,” she complained. “The needle always hurts, and I don’t like it.”

“I know, darling, I know,” Rozetta soothed. “But remember how it helps your brother. Poor Howie’s sick, and without you he would get even sicker. You keep him nice and strong and healthy.” In anyone else’s presence, Rozetta would refer to Farthingale as Mr Farthingale. Only when Clara was around was he Howie.

“Get off me!” Clara snapped. “You’re not my mommy. Don’t talk to me like you’re my mommy.”

Rozetta looked helplessly at Farthingale. Both knew they mustn’t push Clara. When cornered or intimidated, she was apt to go berserk, often biting herself until she drew blood or hitting herself until she was black and blue.

Farthingale stepped in front of the TV, squatting so that his eyeline was level with his sister’s.

“Clara,” he said. “Lovely Clara. You know how much I love you.”

She nodded, her lower lip jutting.

“And you love me too, don’t you?”

Again a nod, and Clara tried to peer round him to get a better view of the animated adventures of the vampire clan, the Fangers, and their neighbours, all of whom were residents of a village in the Carpathian mountains and were undead and monstrous in one way or another. The most popular character in the show was the youngest Fanger child, Felix, whose life was a neverending quest to find the next helping of his favourite form of nourishment, “red juice”.

“And because you love me, you do this thing for me. Once a week, you give me some of your blood. Because without it, I might die. And you wouldn’t want me to die, would you, Clara? You wouldn’t want your big brother Howie to die.”

Stiffly she shook her head.

“Because what would happen to you if I did die, Clara? Who would take care of you? Where would you live?”

“Rozetta would,” she replied. “And I’d live here, in our house.”

“But not if I’m not around to pay for everything.”

“You’re a billionaire. That means you have lots of dollar bills. Billionaire. And I’ll inherit it all. So
I
can pay for everything.”

Sometimes she was more perceptive than he gave her credit for. She might behave like a child, she
was
a child in most ways, but a child with forty years of life experience. It was never wise to underestimate her.

“I’m in your will,” Clara went on. “You told me so. The lawyers wrote it and you signed it and if you die I get all the money. And first thing I’ll do is I’ll paint the whole house pink. And next I’ll buy a pony, which you won’t let me have because you say I’ll fall off, only I won’t. And I’ll have ice cream for every meal, even breakfast. And I’ll ride my pony every single day, who’s called Mr Truffles, by the way. With a big plastic hat on, to be safe.”

“Wills can be changed, Clara. I could have the lawyers fix it so that you inherit nothing at all. How about that? Would you like that?”

“But you wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“You love me,” she said. “You just told me. So you wouldn’t leave me with no money, because that wouldn’t be what someone who loves someone would do.”