Dire Straits (Bo Blackman) Read online

  I feel disgusted. I can’t believe I’m driving around the London streets with vampires and police chasing me in the company of a petty thief who steals from corpses. ‘Even if it’s not been reported, we can’t just waltz into a hotel and hand it over.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Look at the third newspaper,’ I say tersely.

  He flicks through, stopping when he sees my face. He whistles. ‘That’s a crap photo of you.’

  ‘You are such a wanker. The point is, I’m likely to be recognised. And you’re covered in dried blood.’

  ‘I know.’ He sounds cheery. ‘But I also know a place to go. Turn left here.’

  I give him my death stare. Unfortunately it doesn’t affect him any more than it affects my grandfather.

  ‘I mean it, Bo, trust me. It’s my life on the line too, you know.’

  I indicate and turn in the direction he’s pointing. I have a feeling I’m going to regret this. After about fifteen minutes, when O’Shea tells me to pull up at the curb and I see the neon sign, I realise my feeling was right.

  ‘A love hotel?’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ he grins.

  ‘O’Shea, if this is somewhere you often come…’

  ‘It’s not. In fact, I’ve never been here. I’ve just heard about it from a few friends.’

  I’m not quite sure what’s harder to believe: that he has friends or that I’m sitting in a car about to go into a love hotel with him.

  ‘There’ll be a front desk. We’ll still have to register.’

  He shakes head. ‘Didn’t I tell you to trust me?’

  He gets out of the car. I have no choice but to follow him, keeping my head down when we enter the lobby – although ‘lobby’ would be a flattering term for the tiny space at the hotel’s entrance. It’s lit with a buzzing fluorescent strip light and smells strongly of disinfectant. I dread to think what odour is being covered up. O’Shea’s right though: there’s no reception and no receptionist, just what looks like a vending machine.

  ‘Ta da!’ he trills. ‘You’ve got to love the Japanese for giving us this concept. To avoid embarrassment, all you need to do is swipe your card.’ He takes the unfortunate Mr Thomson’s credit card and puts in the machine. ‘And then you simply choose your room. Would you like the water bed or the S&M theme room?’

  I look at him. He nods. ‘You’re quite right. I’ve had enough of handcuffs recently too.’

  He jabs in his selection and there’s a clunking sound as a key drops into the slot below. He scoops it out and offers it to me. I shake my head; I’m not touching that thing. I’ve got enough problems as it is without getting a communicable disease. He shrugs and pockets it.

  ‘Well, Bo, let’s see what delights room 302 has in store for us.’

  God. I really want to punch him.

  ***

  The room’s not as bad as I imagined it would be. The sheets on water bed smell clean and freshly laundered. It’ll do, I suppose. It’s better than sitting in the damp lock-up.

  O’Shea sits down and takes out the phone I’d given him. ‘Only 999 hospitals to go!’

  I ignore him and spread out the newspapers, flicking past the front pages to avoid seeing those horrific pictures again. These papers are little more than gossip rags; if the Heads of the Families were out and about yesterday, I’m betting it’ll be reported.

  I get lucky in the very first newspaper. It seems the Bancroft Head spent all day in a very exclusive spa. Back, crack and sack, I wonder, before remembering the Bancroft Head is not a Lord – she’s a Lady. I pull open the drawer of a small side table. This might be a seedy love hotel, but it’s still got a Gideon bible in case you want a little spiritual as well as physical enlightenment. I rip out a blank page from the back and scribble down the spa’s details. When I look up, I realise O’Shea has stopped speaking into the phone and is staring at me, aghast.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re going to hell,’ he whispers.

  ‘You’re kidding me. You’ll steal from a dead man and deal in dodgy magic, but I’m the bad one for taking out a blank page from a bible?’

  His expression doesn’t change. Jeez. Daemons. I go back to scanning the newspaper. When I reach the classified ads, I throw it onto the floor and pull over the next one. This has the spa story as well as a more serious article about a breakfast meeting between Gully and Stuart. The journalist was speculating whether they were considering joining forces to rid themselves of the other Families. That theory is ridiculous but the fact that two of them were together at the same time and in the same place – and just when I was entering Wiltshore Avenue – is going to make my life a damn sight easier. God bless those vampires for ostentatiously sitting in the middle of Hyde Park at a fully decked-out table. And god bless the nosy tourist who captured the entire thing on film and uploaded it to YouTube. If only I still had my smartphone, I could watch it right now.

  I’m just finishing skimming through all the papers when there’s a crow of delight from O’Shea. He grins at me and gives a thumbs up. Excellent: he must have found Arzo. It finally feels as if we’re getting somewhere. There are still no answers, but at least there are places to go to ask some questions.

  ‘Brighton Hospital,’ he says. ‘I didn’t think I was ever going to find him with that one name but it turns out I’m even more charming than I’d realised.’

  I try not to look too exasperated.

  ‘He’s out of surgery,’ he continues, ‘and doing well. Visiting hours are from nine am.’

  I’m shocked that Arzo is on the mend. I’d have sworn his swarthy cheeks were pressed up against death’s door. ‘Good work,’ I say to O’Shea.

  He pats himself on the shoulder. ‘I know.’

  I check my watch. The sky outside has lightened but it’s still only seven am. The Steam Team will be open again in another hour. If I’m to venture outside though, I need some kind of disguise.

  My eyes settle on the cream pillow case. It’s not perfect but it’ll do. I pull at the seams of the case, ripping it apart until it is one long strip of material. I pile my hair on top of my head and wind the fabric around it. I look at my reflection in the wall-to-wall ceiling mirror. It looks a bit weird, but it’ll do at a push until I can get hold of something better. Judging by the expression on O’Shea’s face, it’s not the most attractive look in the world but I’m hardly trying to garner any admirers right now.

  ‘You need to stay here until I can get you some clean clothes,’ I say.

  He seems relieved. To be fair, he was almost killed yesterday and he probably still needs rest and recuperation. In fact, I’d quite like to hunker down and hide away from the world too. But more than that, I want to find the bastard who’s setting me up and who destroyed my firm. I raise a hand to O’Shea in brief farewell and return to the big, scary world.

  It’s considerably busier on the streets now. Fortunately, most people are in a rush to get to work and either half-asleep or too downtrodden to pay me attention. Equally helpfully, Londoners have this habit of avoiding looking strangers in the eye so they can pretend nobody else exists. Some days it annoys me; today it could save my life. I walk briskly to the car and nobody gives me a second glance, then I drive to The Steam Team.

  I arrive early, parking round the back. I’m more nervous than I’d like to admit. The remnants of my smashed smartphone are probably still on the pavement in front of Rebecca’s dry cleaners. It would be stupid to imagine that the police haven’t already been around to check the premises and it’s possible they’re still keeping them under surveillance. At least I know that there’s a back door.

  I hurry down a small alleyway, then clamber over the stone wall at the end, jumping into the scrap of back garden that belongs to the shop. Whoever attacked O’Shea must have done this back at Wiltshore Avenue to avoid me catching sight of them. I smile grimly. I need to be better at sneaking around than they were.

  I quickly pick the lock on the back door and let m
yself inside to wait for Becks. I’m relieved to spot my leather jacket and the rest of my clothes hanging up on one of the doors. As much as I like the dress, it’s impractical and, given all the crawling around and sweating I’ve been doing, it’s rather smelly. I nip into the room where I showered before and quickly change. It’s a gamble putting on the same clothes I was wearing yesterday morning but I decide it’s exactly what my pursuers – be they of the human or triber variety – won’t expect.

  In the back room where the unclaimed clothes are kept, I find a spare suit that looks like it’ll fit O’Shea, and a flowery hat that was probably worn by some over-bearing mother-in-law at a wedding. It’s an incongruous look with the dark leather, but it’s a step up from the pillow case and I decide it makes me look like some kind of funky art student. I’m just adjusting it when I hear Rebecca come in.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re here again,’ she says.

  I freeze. Shit. Someone is with her. ‘As I told you, I’ve not seen Bo Blackman for at least a month.’

  ‘And as I told you, I find that difficult to believe.’

  It’s a deep male voice. There’s an edge to it that suggests it’s more than just human. Which means he’s probably a vampire. I keep very still and try not to breathe. Vampire is much worse than police.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt Ms Blackman.’

  Lie.

  ‘I just want to ask her a few questions.’

  Utter horseshit.

  ‘Well, if I see her I’ll tell her you’re looking for her. What’s your name again?’ I have to give it to Becks, she’s remarkably unruffled. I silently applaud her control. But if this is the same vampire who’s responsible for the other attacks, then she could be in a lot of danger. I tense, ready to spring out if need be. Not that I have any chance of facing off against a vampire, but maybe the sight of me will distract him.

  ‘Ursus.’

  I blink. Sounds like arse. Quite fitting, really.

  ‘Here’s my card. She can call me on that number day or night.’

  The door jangles, signalling his departure. I hear Becks exhale in relief. I stay where I am, waiting for her to come round to the back to find me. Arse probably still has eyes on the front of the shop. I’m tempted to leave her in peace; she’ll be safer if I leave without seeing her, but I need to see that card. I need to know which Family that vampire is from.

  As soon as she rounds the corner and sees me, she shrieks, then clutches her chest and gasps.

  ‘Bloody HELL, Bo, you just about gave me a heart attack!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I give her a moment to recover. ‘I won’t stay. It’s not safe for you if I’m here. I just need to see the card that vampire left.’

  She looks surprised, then passes it over. ‘I was going to chuck it in the bin with the others.’

  ‘What others?’

  She looks grim. ‘Wait here.’

  While Rebecca disappears into her office, I check the card. It’s a deep midnight blue, signifying the Montserrat Family. I’m feeling pleased with myself until she emerges holding several other cards. I flip through each one, my horror growing. Red: Medici. Black: Stuart. Silver: Gully. White: Bancroft. Every single freaking vampire Family has been here looking for me.

  ‘Do you want these too?’ She holds out several more cards. ‘They’re from the police.’

  ‘No, I…’ I stutter and end up just shaking my head.

  ‘I saw what happened at Dire Straits, Bo. What the hell is going on?’

  ‘I’m damned if I know.’

  ‘You know if there’s anything I can do…’

  I know,’ I say softly. ‘You’ve already done enough, Becks. I’ll stay away for the near future. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got a plan.’

  She looks at me sceptically. She knows me too well. I wish I really did have a plan though.

  Chapter Nine: Doctors and Nurses

  By the time I leave The Steam Team and start driving towards Brighton Hospital, the London traffic is in full swing and it’s not long before I hit full gridlock. I feel the frustration building up inside me. The driver in front seems more concerned with checking her make-up in the mirror than paying attention to the lights, whilst on my right there’s a kid who not only looks too young to be driving, but also has some kind of godawful rap music blaring out at maximum volume.

  Telling myself there’s nothing I can possibly do to make the traffic move any faster, I grab the burner phone. I’ll have to discard it after these calls; it’s probably almost out of credit anyway. Ignoring all the laws about mobile phone use while driving – not that you could call moving at two miles an hour driving – I ring the ridiculously exclusive spa where the Bancroft Family Head spent her day. My call is answered within three rings.

  ‘Good morning, Spa de Loti, Angelique speaking,’ the receptionist trills. ‘How may I help you?’

  I adapt my accent to the way I speak when I want to needle my grandfather. ‘Good morning, Angelique. This is Midnight calling from the Bancroft estate.’ I know Midnight is a silly name, but I also know a human will accept it at a vampire nom de plume more readily than, say, Trudy or Jane.

  There’s the slightest intake of breath, then Angelique speaks again. ‘I’ll transfer you to our Spa Director.’

  ‘Oh, goodness, Angelique, there’s no need for that.’ Repeatedly using someone’s name helps them to connect to you; the more often I say ‘Angelique’, the more likely she is to trust me. ‘It’s not a serious matter. It’s simply that La Bancroft enjoyed her day so much yesterday, I’ve been requested to make a note of her treatments so she can repeat the experience.’

  ‘Oh, yes, okay, I’ll get that information for you. It’s the same treatment she has every Wednesday though. I don’t think there was anything different this week. Shall I email it all across anyway?’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ I respond smoothly. ‘It’ll be more helpful if you could just tell me now.’ I hope that the Spa De Loti receptionist is unnerved enough to be speaking to a vampire to not question my request.

  ‘Uh, certainly, yes. Please hold the line.’

  New Age muzak fills my ear. I hold the phone away for a moment, but that just makes the rap music from the next car seem louder. I have visions of Angelique wearing a white mock doctor’s outfit, double checking with the Bancroft Family on another line and then telling me in a suddenly rediscovered Cockney accent to piss off. She’s not that suspicious, however.

  ‘Ms Midnight? The treatments were our acid burn exfoliate body scrub, smouldering hot stone massage and sensory deprivation tub.’

  ‘I see. Angelique, can you confirm for me when the deprivation tub began and ended? I’ve heard it’s so amazing that it feels like five minutes when it’s actually an hour. I’d like to have the definitive answer for Ms Bancroft.’

  ‘It started at two o’clock and finished at four. It’s rather a long period of time but I guess you guys are used to be in small enclosed spaces like coffins.’

  Oops, Angelique, I think to myself, you forgot yourself for a second there. ‘We don’t sleep in coffins,’ I say, in my chilliest tones.

  ‘Oh, goodness, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you! I’m sorry, I didn’t…’

  ‘That will be all.’ I hang up on the poor girl who is still apologising.

  The lights turn green and a slow trickle of cars seeps through. I drive forward, making it to the front of the queue just as they flick red again. Tapping my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, I consider the information I’ve been given. Aside from the fact that Spa De Loti has some seriously disturbing sounding treatments – acid burn exfoliate, anyone? – I feel like I can cross Bancroft off my list for the incident at Tam’s office.

  The Families all have immunity from human prosecution. They don’t stop randomly killing people because they’re worried they’ll end up in prison: they stop themselves because it’s bad PR. I can’t believe that the Head responsible for the worst bloodguzzler att
ack in years would be out of contact while it was going down. Then I think of the fact that every single Family dropped in to see Rebecca. Perhaps they’ve banded together, put aside their usual animosity and are all in it together.

  No. They may have an uneasy truce but they’ve been at each other’s throats for the last three hundred years. A stupid enhancement spell from a dodgy daemon isn’t going to change that. I move the Bancroft Family to the bottom of my list of suspects. I have to trust my gut on this.

  Once I’m past Marble Arch, the traffic eases and I put my foot down. I swing into the Brighton Hospital car park a little after ten o’clock. I balk at the displayed parking charges – how can a hospital expect people to pay that much? I’m down to my last few coins and they won’t even cover half an hour. I’m tempted to drive around and find somewhere cheaper but the traffic has annoyed me and I’m going to have to return this car sooner or later. Where would be safer to leave it than here? I feel a little guilty about racking up hefty charges for the owner. I promise myself that I’ll pay it back as soon as I can access my bank account safely again.

  I stroll nonchalantly into the hospital’s main entrance, going by the maxim that if you look as if you know where you’re going, no one will stop you. It works. The ICU ward is on the third floor so I stick on a bright, confident smile and murmur good morning to several startled people. There’s not a flicker of recognition on anyone’s face, so the silly hat must be doing its job. I go into the lift and press the button for the fourth floor – paediatrics.

  When the lift opens I ignore the main desk and turn right, hoping I’ll find the doctor’s lounge. I’m in luck. There’s a nurse inside sipping a cup of coffee. She barely glances at me so I mutter a brief greeting and make a hasty exit. I walk to the end of the corridor, glancing into the rooms until I find what I’m looking for.

  By the fifth room, where the occupant is hooked up to a beeping machine, I’ve got what I need. I look around then duck inside.

  The person in the bed is a young boy, about eight years old. His face is pale and his eyes are closed. I smooth back a lock of hair from his forehead and check the chart at the foot of his bed. Cycling accident with internal haemorrhaging. Poor kid.