Chapter Eleven: The Tail
It’s not until I’m back in the car park, with the surgical mask firmly in place, that I finally allow myself to relax. In fact, I stagger round the side of the hospital out of sight from any curious eyes and double over. Nausea surges through me and I yank up the mask to be sick but nothing comes up. Becoming a member of one of the Families is obviously not the most appealing prospect.
When I finally straighten up, I think about what just happened. I’m still not convinced that Tam wasn’t involved in framing me but I’m prepared to acknowledge that Arzo is innocent. As innocent as someone in league with the vampires can be. No wonder he survived the attack at Dire Straits. Being Sanguine clearly offers a lot in terms of physical strength. I can’t believe I’d not heard of them before. It also occurs to me there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people out there who would be thrilled to be given a direct pass like this into the Montserrat Family.
I smile slightly at the thought of what my grandfather would say were he to find out I’d joined forces with the vampires, then I get with the programme. I feel bad about O’Shea and I hope they don’t kill him. He may have his faults but I don’t think he’s a bad sort. I don’t care about him enough to stage a rescue, however. He’s on his own – much like I feel now.
I could walk away. Whatever is going on, the Families are going to deal with it. I could give myself up to the police and let the cards fall where they may. But I still find it hard to believe any vampire would turn on their Family Head, regardless of what Montserrat has told me. Equally, there’s the burning need for revenge for all that’s happened. I also like the idea of solving this case and getting one over on the vampires. And I still have two leads: O’Shea’s mysterious client Lucy, and now the lawyer, D’Argneau. I ain’t giving up just yet.
I have one burner phone left. I’m tempted to call Rogu3 to find out what he’s discovered but he’ll be in school now and won’t thank me for interrupting. He may be a hacker but he takes his education seriously. That leaves the lawyer.
With nothing more to go on than his name, I need to do some research. I’m fairly certain there’s a public library less than twenty minutes away so, ignoring the car, I jog off to find it, shoving the doctor’s coat into a nearby bin as I go. I keep the surgical mask on. Maybe I can get away with looking like someone who’s trying to avoid picking up a seasonal cold.
It works. Even though I pass a police station with my own badly-posed photo staring out at me, no one bats an eyelid. How on earth do the police catch anyone when the public walk around in their own little worlds, never registering the people around them? Good for me; bad for the world.
It doesn’t take long to get to the library. It’s an old building, its grimy bricks testifying to years of pollution, but it has a certain elegance. I slow to a walk as I reach the front entrance and pass under an impressive colonnade. There’s a warm and welcoming atmosphere inside. Brightly coloured posters tell of forthcoming readings and new books. A young guy pushing a loaded trolley smiles at me. I ask him where the computers are and he directs me towards a sunny area at the back of the building.
As it’s still early, most of the computers are free. There’s a tired looking woman at one of the desks scanning through job advertisements, and someone who looks like a student writing an assignment. Other than that, I’ve got the space to myself. I pull up a chair and start typing.
Thanks to the fact that D’Argneau is an unusual name, it doesn’t take long to find what I’m looking for. There are only two barristers with that surname and one deals only with the human family courts. I click on the second one and am taken immediately to D’Argneau & Associates. That’s interesting. He’s not just a lawyer – he leads his own firm, and a large one by the looks of it. It seems strange that he wouldn’t use his own investigative facilities or that he’d waste his time dealing in what initially appeared to be such a small matter.
I scan through the different pages on the site until I find the bouncily titled ‘Our Team’. When the photos and biographies appear, however, I’m absolutely floored. I stare at D’Argneau’s picture, trying to make sense of it. There’s no doubt – same horn-rimmed glasses, same snappy suit and same hair. The lawyer D’Argneau is none other than Mr Tortoiseshell whom I almost shagged in the middle of the street. I try to ignore the return of rising nausea.
I clench and unclench my fists, reading his history. He graduated from Cambridge, opening D’Argneau & Associates when he was only twenty-five years old. Since then the practice has gone from strength to strength. He’s worked with both triber and human clients, although there’s no mention of any of the Families. There’s nothing about his personal life. I search some more, hoping that the less corporate websites will offer more information. All I find are news articles about different cases he’s fought. He seems to have a high success rate. Many of them involve the Agathos court; one includes a high-profile case that I remember reading about. Something to do with a daemon deciding to launch an attack on Buckingham Palace, of all places. The daemon was banged up for five years, although he’s likely to be freed sooner than that. The legal community seemed to be of the opinion that D’Argneau did a sterling job of defending him and, were he to have had any other lawyer, he’d be in prison for a good deal longer.
I make a note of the firm’s address, quelling the tremble in my hand and trying to remain unemotional. It’s pretty fucking difficult. They have swanky offices smack bang in the centre of the city. D’Argneau is clearly doing very well for himself, although not so well that he doesn’t feel the need to hang around lousy nightclubs in the middle of the night. Unless that’s part of the plan – whatever it may be.
I move to YouTube to find the video of Gully and Stuart’s public meeting. I’m not about to take Montserrat’s word that the Family Heads are not involved. The library’s internet isn’t particularly fast and the video takes a long time to buffer. I lean back in my chair and glance around. The student is fast asleep, his head buried in his arms, while the jobseeker is looking more optimistic, tapping enthusiastically at her keyboard. Another person is sitting in front of the computer next to her. I casually crane my neck around and freeze. It’s a woman whom I’ve definitely seen before: she was the driver putting on her make-up in the car in front of me when I was on my way to the hospital. I realise she couldn’t have been doing her lippy at all – she was observing me.
Ice-cold fear hits my stomach. I thought I’d done a good job checking for tails. Clearly I’m getting sloppy. This is a screw-up which could cost me dearly.
Trying not to appear obvious, I swivel back to my screen and clear the history. Someone like Rogu3 could easily find out which sites I visited and what I searched for; I’m banking on the fact that few people are as skilled as him. Once I’m satisfied I’ve done the best job I can concealing my tracks, I head for the restroom.
As soon as I enter, I realise I’ve made a mistake. It’s a tiny room with only one stall and the window is too small to squeeze through. I glance at the ceiling for old times’ sake but, even if I could clamber up inside it, it would be a stupid idea. I wouldn’t get anywhere fast and I’d end up stuck inside this building with someone who may very well want my head on a bloody platter. However, my follower is unlikely to know there’s no way out so I take my time, hovering at the sink.
I’m correct in my assumption. After a few minutes, the restroom door opens and she enters. I give her the brief meaningless smile of a stranger and turn on the tap. Now she’s up close, I can tell she’s entirely human. She doesn’t seem like a copper so I have to assume she’s either working officially for one of the Families, which would be odd given her humanity, or she’s with Montserrat’s theoretically rogue bloodguzzlers. At least she doesn’t smell of rosewater.
My plan is to confront her and find out who she is and what’s going on but, as she heads into the stall to maintain her cover of having a pee, I register the tell-tale bulge at her back in the mirror’s reflection. I’m not about to take any chances with anyone who has a gun. There are smarter ways to play this.
I make sure the tap is on full blast so the gushing water will cover the sound of the opening door, then I quickly duck out and head for the library exit. As soon as I’m outside, I race across the road, dodging a couple of irritated drivers, then crouch down behind a parked vehicle opposite. If I stick my head up far enough, I have a clear line of sight towards the library doors. It takes her less than twenty seconds to appear and she’s less circumspect now, glancing up and down the street to work out where I’ve gone. I watch her, taking note of her panicked expression then, when she decides to turn right and head for the busy pedestrian precinct, I follow.
I’m aware that I’m in a precarious position. She has no idea which direction I’ve gone in so she keeps twisting her head around to look for me. I have to veer in between people to stay hidden from her view. Once I dash into a shop when she stops in her tracks and turns towards me. I maintain a good distance from her but my situation is far from ideal. Any good tracker will never be alone; there could be a team which can switch places with her and avoid detection. I’m on my own although, as far as I can tell, so is she. I can’t help wondering if she’s O’Shea’s online Lucy.
We continue like this for some time. There’s something about her twitchy attitude that confuses me. The fact she’s carrying a gun suggests she’s a professional. We’re in not in the United States of America, after all. It’s not easy to get hold of a weapon in this country, even in London, unless you’re connected. She’s not particularly well versed in the art of tailing though and that makes me think she’s more amateur than she should be.
Eventually she seems to give up on me and stops in the middle of the street. I watch her from behind a bus shelter while she stares dejectedly at her feet. Then she turns round, makes her way down the steps to the Underground, and the darkness quickly swallows her up.
I dash back across the street, narrowly avoiding being run over by a courier cyclist who has other things on his mind, and jog down after her. If she’s getting on a train, I’ll lose her.
I hop over the turnstile, ignoring the shocked gasp from the commuters around me, and sprint forward. My heart sinks as I register two separate platforms: one for trains heading north and one for the southbound. I have a fifty-fifty shot of getting it right. I choose north and run down the next set of stairs. As soon as I hit the platform, I realise I’ve made the wrong decision. She’s standing across the tracks and her mouth opens wide as she spots me. I’m expecting her to pull out her gun and shoot.
Instead, she continues to stare as a train trundles noisily into view, stopping on her side. I remain where I am. I have no hope of getting round to the southern platform in time to catch the same train. My view of her is blocked. Either she’s now scared that I’ve turned the tables on her and she’s going to get on the train and get as far away from me as she can, or she’s running back up the stairs in my direction. I have the feeling she’s not out to kill me unless she can possibly help it. If she were, she had the perfect opportunity in the library bathroom. It doesn’t mean she won’t threaten me with her gun, though.
It takes an age for the train to leave. I keep one eye on it and the other on the staircase leading down to where I’m standing. When the train finally departs, I’m surprised. She’s still on the opposite platform, staring at me.
‘What do you want?’ I shout, trying to sound threatening.
The few other people around me turn and gape. I ignore them. Even from this distance, I can tell she’s shaking.
‘I need to find Devlin,’ she calls back across the tracks.
It takes me a moment to realise who she means. With O’Shea already in Montserrat custody, I can rule out that she’s working for them.
‘What do you want him for?’
‘They’ll kill me if I can’t find him.’
‘Who? Who will kill you?’
‘The vampires,’ she answers. There’s a hiss of shock combined with rubbernecker delight from the waiting passengers.
‘Which ones?’ I try not to sound as desperate as I feel.
She shakes her head, aware of our growing audience.
‘Stay there,’ I yell. ‘I’m coming over.’ I glance at the people bouncing their eyes between me and her as if they’re at a championship tennis game. ‘Performance theatre,’ I mutter to them, before running to the other platform.
She’s still there when I reach the other side. I walk slowly towards her. I don’t know who she is or how she’s involved in any of this but she’s obviously more spooked than I am. A train comes in, ridding the northern platform of our audience. When I reach her, I stop a few feet away and hold up my palms to indicate that I’m unarmed.
‘Are you Lucy?’ I ask.
She looks startled and more than a little afraid. I nod, satisfied. That’s one mystery solved at least. It turns out I didn’t require Rogu3’s services after all.
‘Where’s Devlin?’ she asks, not acknowledging my question.
‘The Montserrat Family have got him,’ I tell her. I can give her that much information.
It doesn’t appease her fears. ‘What? No, no, no, no, no, that’s bad.’
I take a step towards her and she flinches. ‘Why, Lucy? Why is it bad?’
‘They needed the spell. If he tells anyone about it…’ Her voice drifts off and she wrings her hands.