Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1 (14 page)

I turned to head back through the kitchen – and a flash of bright pink caught my eye. I fished out the
something
from between the sink and the miniscule fridge: a towelling bib, embellished with an embroidered bunny and dried lumps of
baby food, smelling distinctly pumpkiny. On the back was one of those iron-on labels mums are so fond of. This one read
Calliope Kallos
.

Curiouser and curiouser.

I locked up and, carefully tucking away my gloves, walked around to the front of the shop where the lurid purple cab was waiting,
Ziggi impatiently tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. As I
returned the pick gun I wondered whether or not I should get one of my very own. The ethical part of me said
no
; the lazy part of me said
please!
Ziggi examined it closely for any scratches, dents, smudges, or other signs that it had been in my possession too long. Finally
satisfied, he put it in the glove box. ‘Leave a mess?’

‘You insult me,’ I grumped, then added, ‘Neat as a pin, my friend.’

‘Did you find anything?’

‘Just this.’ I handed him the bib.

He examined it, then sniffed at it, as if that might give him a clue – in fairness, it might have; his sense of smell was
much sharper than mine – but in the end he shook his head and gave it back. ‘I got nothing,’ he said a little sadly.

I read out the next address: one of the more exclusive reaches of the river, great resale value and high enough to avoid flood-waters
and keep insurance premiums slightly less than astronomical. He took off at an unhealthy speed just before I managed to belt
up; he always did that. I was only a little panicked.

‘If there’s a baby—’ he began.

‘I know,’ I whispered, horribly aware of what we might find at Serena’s home. In an effort to distract us both, I asked, ‘Anything
more on that clip? The monster-thing in the Valley?’

‘Monster? Guess it was,’ he mused. ‘Thought you weren’t interested.’

‘Just making conversation.’ I drew patterns on the back of the seat in front of me. ‘We both know the worst monsters are on
the inside of the skin.’

‘Truer words never spoken.’ He paused, then added, ‘Can’t trace anything, can’t tell where it was uploaded. User ID is FunBoyster,
which is to say, useless. People can hide themselves on the Internet.’ Ziggi stopped talking to concentrate on the mailbox
numbers flashing by. As we approached a high fence of black metal posts
topped with fleur-de-lis finials, he tapped the brakes, slowing the cab and we drove through the open double gates. At the
end of a longish driveway through a very neat garden landscaped mostly with succulents, we found a white stucco house with
lots of tall windows. The front door – Nordic pine, I guessed – stood ajar. Ziggi handed me the box and we both pulled on
new sets of disposable gloves before getting out.

The foyer was glacial: the walls were tiled with tiny slivers of mirror, a mosaic that threw thousands of tiny Veritys and
Ziggis back at us. A silver-painted wrought-iron hall table held a pot plant; something bushy with pointy red and black flowers.
It looked unnaturally healthy, but in my experience plants tended to thrive on benign neglect – or mine had to anyway – and
that made me wonder precisely how long Serena Kallos had been gone from this house. As I leaned closer, the leaves, moving
of their own volition, reached for my face, and when I jerked away with a very loud ‘Fuck!’ the thing went into a seizure,
like a belly dancer on speed. It eventually calmed down, settling like a cat after an undignified jump. Ziggi and I moved
on; it took a while for my adrenalin levels to return to normal.

It wasn’t just the foyer; the whole interior was blinding: all high ceilings and alabaster walls, with the back of the house,
facing the river, floor-to-ceiling glass. The lounge was mostly occupied by a white leather corner sofa resting on a ruby
and charcoal rug, with two matching armchairs. I suspected the pristine ottoman hadn’t ever endured the indignity of a pair
of clawed feet. The dining area, long and thin and running the width of the house, had a twelve-seater table of raven metal
and tinted glass the colour of smoky quartz. Not a smudge nor fingerprint could be seen anywhere. The kitchen, all stainless
steel and stone worktops, didn’t appear to have ever been used for its intended purpose. There wasn’t even a trace of rubbish
festering in the bin under the desert-dry sink. Maybe Serena ate out a lot, or perhaps she hadn’t been home for days before
she died. Ziggi, fairly certain that the place was empty and I was – relatively – safe, went outside to recce the garden.

I tiptoed up stairs thickly carpeted in impractical ivory to the master bedroom, facing the river, with its king-size bed
wreathed in linen of some impossibly high thread count. There wasn’t much else in the way of furniture, probably because of
the
enormous
walk-in closet, which was packed with almost as many dresses as in Serena’s store. There were special compartments accommodating
jewellery, handbags, belts, hats, scarves, sunglasses and just about every other accessory known to and desired by womankind.
And then there were the shoes, so
many
shoes, all custom-made, each pair stored in its own neatly labelled, see-through box. I wasted a few moments appreciating
the aesthetics of – okay, drooling over – customised Jimmy Choos and Louboutins I could never afford and wouldn’t be able
to walk in even if I did decide to mortgage my home and buy a pair.

I tore myself away and went back into the bedroom. There were two more doors to explore. One opened into a spotless, gleaming
bathroom. The other revealed a nursery.

The walls were painted with Aegean scenes: whitewashed buildings with blue window frames and doors clinging to dusty green
hillsides, water like turquoise and ancient, jagged cliffs. In the sky were figures: winged women, each feather on their snow-brilliant
wings picked out in intricate detail. This room had heart; for all the icy elegance and perfect decor everywhere else in the
house, this room felt like a
home
, a place where love lived. It took me a moment to realise what the marks on the ceiling were: constellations of glow-in-the-dark
stars. A rocking chair in one corner sat beside a pastel pink toybox filled with plushy creatures that would have had Lizzie
in a state of cuddle-ecstasy. The cradle, a great thing carved from silvered driftwood, was empty, the bedding cold and unruffled.
An immaculate changing table sat against one wall; there was not a single dirty nappy in the lidded bucket.

The rest of the upper floor was devoted to a second bedroom, a larger bathroom and a well-appointed study, furnished with
a desk and two four-drawer filing cabinets heavy with folders, a state-of-the-art printer-cum-scanner-cum-fax machine and
a slim laptop. A thorough search turned up no sign of either recent habitation or violent ransacking, no sign that Serena
might have died in her own home – and no suggestion of what might have happened to her child.

I ran through the records in the filing cabinets; they were about the shop, banking, tax stuff. Her laptop wasn’t password-protected,
but that too was all business.

Feeling defeated, I wandered back down to the lounge and flopped onto the couch. I lifted my feet onto the ottoman, which
squeaked in protest under my Docs, and called McIntyre. She picked up on the first ring.

‘I think there might be a baby.’

‘And hello to you, too. You leave a mess, Fassbinder?’

‘Why does everyone keep asking that?’ I looked through the huge windows, watching the ferry making its way across the river.
‘I found a dirty baby’s bib at the shop and there’s a nursery at the house, but there’s no actual baby.’

‘Shit,’ she said vehemently, and I imagined her looking for something to throw. ‘Shitty shitty shit-shit.’

‘Calliope,’ I said. ‘The baby’s name is Calliope. So where’s Calliope Kallos?’

‘You think maybe this is about the kid?’

‘Hard to tell. Sirens don’t tend to breed that often. They live a very
long time, and they really don’t have much need – or desire – to procreate. I suppose every now and then some of them might
get broody . . .’

‘What do they do – lay eggs?’

That stopped me. Now I couldn’t get the picture out of my head of a grown woman crouched over a nest, straining like mad.
‘I am honestly not sure,’ I said at last. ‘Let me get back to you on that.’

‘Actually, I don’t want to know.’

‘We should try to find the father. You know, someone important and official might be able to get a rush on a birth certificate—’

She snorted. ‘Keep me updated,’ she said, then cut me off.

I chose to believe she’d get back to me, but made a mental note to follow it up myself. You can never be too suspicious.

A stomping at the front door signified that Ziggi was meticulously wiping his boots. He came into the lounge and announced,
‘No recently turned earth, no garbage bags, no dodgy-looking compost, nothing untoward in the wheelie bin. There’s a Mercedes
in the garage with a baby seat in the back. Nothing here?’

‘Nothing here,’ I agreed. ‘Jesus, Ziggi – she
called
me. Serena Kallos called me and I didn’t turn up.’ I tugged at my hair, hard, as if pain might cancel out the emotions, or
at least distract me from them.

‘V, no one’s blaming you,’ Ziggi said kindly. ‘You were kind of busy not getting killed, after all. You might feel bad, but
this wasn’t your fault.’ He patted me clumsily on the back. ‘Whatever happened to her started well before she rang you – and
remember, they only ever contact us when they’re already in deep shit.’

I exhaled. I knew he was right, but that didn’t really help right now.

I looked around the room, racking my brain for inspiration. ‘You think the kid might have been stolen – by whom, though? The
father? Some woman who desperately wanted a child? Baby smugglers?’

‘Maybe another siren?’ he suggested. ‘Why shouldn’t they be as nuts as everyone else?’

‘Good point. But someone killed the
mother
, Ziggi. Was it so they could take Calliope? And who – or
what
– can kill a siren? Have you ever heard of such a thing?’

‘Not in recent years,’ he admitted. ‘In the old days, well, that was different. There were all kinds of gods and monsters
who could do something like that back then.’

‘Any chance one survived?’

‘Unlikely. When I say monsters, I mean things that were basically ill-tempered, mid-sized dragons: fire- and acid-spitting,
tail-spike-flinging, basilisk-gazed nasties – and big, too, way too big to hide. And it’s not like they actively hunted sirens
– I’m just saying, they
could’ve
taken one down. So if something like that went after Serena Kallos, or even just came through this house – through Brisbane
– we’d know about it.
Everyone
would know about it.’ He scratched at his ear. ‘Maybe your father could have done it, if he’d shifted and got his timing
just right, or if he’d snuck up on her—’

‘Thought you didn’t know my father?’

He gave me a look. ‘I didn’t, V. I didn’t need to. There are plenty of stories about him – his strength, his shifting . .
. and some of his old cronies were still in the city when I arrived. And Bela’s told me some things. What, you think I’ve
been lying to you all this time?’ He stared at me.

Long moments stretched between us while I thought of Grigor changing, the way he used to grow larger and larger, showing off
for his buddies. Finally, I let my pent-up breath go, grabbed his hand and squeezed. ‘No. No, I don’t think that. Of course
not. I’m sorry. And I don’t think there’s anyone quite like my father left. Are there any neighbours nearby?’

‘The houses on both sides are locked up tight and the gardens are huge, with lots of trees; I doubt you’d hear much.’ He glanced
around, but I could see he’d already dismissed the place. He was right: it was a bust. ‘Any more bright ideas?’

‘Nope, no ideas, bright or otherwise. I need some percolating time.’

He gave me a look. ‘How much coffee you drinking?’

I glared. ‘I meant
brain
percolation.’

‘Oh. Then we should probably have cake. It helps me think. Besides, it’s almost lunchtime.

‘It’s ten a.m.,’ I said.

‘Then we’ve got plenty of time. You’re buying.’

‘Apparently I’m always buying. Why is that?’ I headed into the kitchen and scanned the room until I spotted a spare set of
house keys on a wall hook by the phone. It seemed like a good idea to take them. Just in case.

‘I’m merely the driver.’

‘I thought we were friends.’ I locked the front door as we left.

‘One of us needs a better class of friends.’

We were both huffing as we made our way back to the cab.

‘Where would I find a baby?’ I muttered, unfortunately just as David returned from the kitchen, plates in hand. His expression
was something to behold, but he managed to set our dinner down without any observable shaking. The aroma of butter chicken
mingling with cheese and garlic naan filled the room, and my salivary glands sat up and took notice.