“Are you trying to embarrass me now?”
“My goodness, you’re sensitive today. I’m asking out of interest.”
“I’ve not found what I was looking for.” I looked up at the map. Suddenly I saw a bright circle that made my heart stop.
The perforations in the top of my desk lamp were illuminating a patch with a ring of death around it. I froze. As I looked, the dots resolved into an almost complete circle with a circumference in different shades. The effect was like one of those silhouettes that appears as a pair of faces in profile or a vase, depending on your perception. The clusters from nearby towns and road-accident blackspots had disguised the shape.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said quietly.
There was a hint of irritation in Christmas’s voice. But I was preoccupied and I left my inattentiveness uncorrected. She said goodnight and I put the phone down.
I climbed onto the desk, staring closely at the patch on the map. The circle broke under my gaze like an image in an impressionist’s painting, turning to meaningless flecks of pigment. I leaned back until the circle formed again.
Pulling the map down, I laid its top half flat on the desk. Using a ruler and pencil, I drew a chord with a faint straight line, starting from a random point on the circle’s circumference at the south-western edge, to another random point on the circumference in the south-east. Then I repeated this for two other random points, from the circle’s northernmost edge to a place near the easterly edge of the circle. Marking the chords’ mid-points, I drew a line at ninety degrees to each chord, through the middle of the circle. The two lines intersected, showing me the circle’s centre. There was nothing there. The map only showed the cities and larger towns.
I went online and found the corresponding point on a detailed map of the UK. The center of the circle was almost precisely at the site of a small village called Limewood, in Cumbria. I folded the map and put it in my desk drawer. Then I searched online for anything and everything on the village surrounded by death.
TWENTY-FIVE
Despite being a tiny village, there were plenty of official statistics for Limewood. In the 1970s, the children had started moving out as soon as they reached adulthood and the hamlet had been left to die of old age. The 1981 census showed it had become one of the smallest villages in the UK, with just two hundred and eight residents. It was an unloved spot, sitting in damp hills next to a military firing range. The last deaths on the range had occurred a decade before my map’s data; some soldiers had been killed when a shell had exploded prematurely. The village itself had no industry other than a little farming on the steeply difficult terrain. It wasn’t remote enough to be secluded and the small roads and lack of train station meant that it wasn’t a convenient commuting distance to any of the larger towns.
But something changed. Though it was still among the smallest villages in the country, by the time of the 1991 census the headcount had grown to three hundred and ninety-six. This near doubling of the community signaled a trend. Twenty years later, the village population had exploded to over fifteen hundred souls. That four-fold increase over a quarter-century wasn’t the most startling number though. In a mature first-world country, the average age of the population is around forty years. Young people tend to move to the larger centers, so the cities are a little younger and village populations a little older. No one expects to find an English village where the average age of the inhabitants is a little under fourteen years. And this village of fourteen-year-olds was encircled by a ring of accidental death.
In the morning Mrs Naumowicz called and got straight to the point. “What have you discovered with the two thousand pounds?”
“Well I’ve spent all of it and so far, I’ve been shot at, stabbed, almost poisoned, my apartment has been burgled and most of my personnel possessions have been smashed.”
She was silent for a while before asking, “What do the police say?”
“They’ve told me to mind my own business before I get killed. I think they’re looking for a blonde woman who may have met your son the night he died. The people attacking me are either connected to this girl or have something to lose if she is found. Either that, or I’ve disturbed some unrelated matter which has made me a target for criminals.”
“They asked me about her before. I don’t know this girl. They tell me same as before. They are looking at many leads. I am sorry you are in danger.”
“So am I. I’m thinking about taking the police’s advice.”
She said quickly, “Can I send you more money?”
“No. But if I get to the end of this alive I might send you a bill.”
“Thank you for not giving up,” she said.
“I’ll call you in two weeks with any news.”
Later that day, I got an email from Mrs Naumowicz telling me that she was sending a check for three thousand pounds to help towards my expenses. I wondered briefly where the money was coming from. But I was happy that I’d get some money to help pay for the repairs to my flat.
I was angry about the vandalism. I wondered if there was something I could do to even the score. I decided to visit Dave Slaughter.
Without Christmas beside me, I found myself dodging into shop doorways whenever more than one person approached. Eventually I reached the detective’s office. Business must have been slack because he was in his room and, according to the receptionist, would be happy to see me right away. She led me briskly past the other detectives’ empty rooms to Dave’s office door, from where burbling underwater howls and strange oscillating moans washed out into the reception area. She leaned through the doorway, introduced me abruptly and went back to her desk.
Dave opened his eyes, adjusted his chair from its fully reclined position, fumbled with his keyboard and eventually flicked off the other-worldly groans coming from his computer speakers.
“Relaxing whale music,” he said.
From outside I heard, “Not for all of us.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said.
“Is your phone off?”
“I switched it off three streets back.”
“Show me.”
I pulled my phone impatiently from my pocket and shoved the blank screen at the detective. “Do you mistrust all your clients?”
“I trust your honesty. It’s your competence that worries me. Speaking of which, I hear you’ve been living the high life. Shooting, stabbing, burglary, and a new girlfriend. If you survive, I might offer you a job as a frontline operative, going where others fear to tread.”
“Thanks for the recognition,” I said flatly. “A little sympathy wouldn’t go amiss.” I closed his office door.
“You don’t like the girlfriend?”
“You’re not funny.”
“I told you not to get involved,” he said, suddenly serious. “You look like you’ve not slept in a week. Constant nightmares? Shunning strangers and hiding behind triple-locked doors?”
“Surviving is turning out to be stressful and expensive. But I hear that the best defense is attack. So I’m wondering if you can find something out.”
“You really can’t take a hint?” He laughed ironically.
“I’m taking the aggression personally. Especially smashing up my apartment. That seems unnecessarily spiteful.”
“Two weeks ago you came in here happy for me to have a quick chat with the dead boy’s mother so you could go back to your desk. Are you telling me that you now really want to go head-to-head with an armed gang?”
“I’d like to turn the tables and I’m not convinced the police will do it for me.”
“That’s a big change in attitude. Have you bought a tank or something?”
“No. But I want to find out if anyone from a particular village in Cumbria was in the vicinity at the time of Aleksy’s murder.”
“What are you thinking of exactly?”
“Phone tracking, credit card usage, finding someone from whatever trail they leave.”
“And who
exactly are we looking for?”
“Someone from a village of about three hundred adults.”
“Well once again, that’s not really our area of expertise. We don’t follow whole villages around. There’s three of us here. We tend to focus on one individual at a time.”
“Do you ever go out to work?”
He looked offended. “Hey, this place costs a packet,” he waved to the walls. “We’re always working. But we’re specialists. Mass surveillance; that’s for GCHQ.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
He drummed his fingers on his desk. “Maybe you need a little online hacking. Phone company servers and the like.”
“Can you introduce me to someone?”
“An intro will cost you.”
“How much?”
“If I put you together with some good people, the best in fact, an intro will cost you a grand. The results are up to you and them.”
I rolled my eyes, “A thousand to meet web geeks?”
“They’re good. But if you’re just chasing a spider up and down the country, you might be disappointed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well it seems my former colleagues found nothing at that pharmaceutical firm where you’ve been making a nuisance of yourself. They’re putting it down to you blundering around and giving everyone advance warning.”
“They told me that before they even went there.”
“And they were right. I said, let them do their job. They’re good at it.”
“Yeah, they said that too. Still got no one in custody though.”
“It takes time.”
“Meanwhile, I’ve had three attempts on my life.”
“You stepped into the kitchen. And so far, you’ve fallen out with the police, an armed gang and an international pharma business. Your knack for making enemies is going to make this one of my shorter client relationships.”
“Well no offense Dave, but I’ve always intended this being very short-term. I’ll be taking your advice as soon as this thing is over, and staying well away from unsolved murders.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“But in the meantime, I’ve got a wild theory. Nothing to do with spiders. And I’d never be able to get the police interested in this. I just want to take one little look and if there’s nothing there, I go back to my day job.”
“And if there is something there?”
“I call the police.”
“Is this to do with the second person?”
“What second person?”
“The second person at the scene who helped blondie clear up.”
“I’d forgotten about that idea of yours. No, it’s something else.”
Dave sat silently for a minute staring at me. Finally he said, “Alright, be back here at six tonight with a grand.”
“Why’s it always a thousand?”
“Smallest unit of measure in my world. We can make it two grand if you like.”
“Look, I can probably find my own hackers.”
“That’s great. Please do that. I’m sure you can find some teenage nitwits who’re busting into government networks, ready to send the law round to your place when they get caught. My guys are proven, discreet and grown-up. Mostly. Quality costs money. I’ve had to kiss a lot of frogs to find this outfit.”
“But a thousand pounds? Just for an introduction?”
“I’m not gonna pass them on to just anyone who asks. Plus they don’t take new clients. They’re careful, suspicious, difficult to reach. If you want me to be late for dinner while I fix you up with some expert help, it costs a grand. Give Mrs Naumowicz the bill.”
“She’s an old cleaning lady, frittering away her savings on trying to find her son’s killer,” I said sulkily. “How much do your hackers charge?”
“Firstly, they’re not mine. I’m just putting you together with them. Secondly, I want cash upfront; you know that right? Thirdly, I don’t know what they’ll charge you. They might use a smaller unit of measure than me. Smaller expenses I imagine. But you’ve got multiple tasks in mind, right? Identifying people. Finding phone numbers. Then phone location and tracking, and credit card spending.”
I nodded.
“Narrow it down for them. Make the cost manageable.”
I hesitated. I was on the point of telling him that I needed to think about it, when he made me a better offer.
“I tell you what, if you don’t get results, I’ll give you five hundred back.”
I pondered my options and not finding any, I said resignedly, “Okay.” If nothing else, at least I’d halved his smallest unit of measure.
I left Dave Slaughter’s office and went home for a few hours to take delivery of my online ordering. After I’d filled up the communal bins with cardboard and polystyrene packaging, I went to my doctor. It was almost time for the stitches to come out.
TWENTY-SIX
Doctor Lopa said, “You’re a day early. I hope we’re just taking stitches out and not putting more in.”
“That’s what I’m hoping too.”
“Let’s see how you’re healing. Shirt off please.”
Lopa raised her eyebrows at the marks Christmas had made on my neck, shook her head briefly, saying, “We’ll come back to that,” and then looked carefully at the knife wound.
I’d removed the dressing a day earlier.
“This looks fine,” she murmured as she carefully snipped out the stitches. “Keep it clean while it heals completely. Any other problems?”
“Only strange dreams.”
“Perhaps that’s not surprising. Have your assassins given up? Are the police involved?”
“Maybe and yes.”
“Alright. But what about this other business?” She pointed at my neck. “You look like you’ve been the evening buffet on the Serengeti.” She peered closely at the marks murmuring, “And I think they’re getting progressively more severe. The skin is broken here. Are you being trained to accept pain?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Don’t let these get infected. Clean the area. Use antiseptic. Get along here if something flares.”
“Is this unusual?”
“Worse than I’ve seen on sixteen-year-olds. Why does she do it?”
“Some kind of compulsion, I think.”
“Sounds like she might need a little help herself.”
“You think the biting thing is psychotic?”
“It’s not typical adult behavior. Doesn’t your girlfriend worry about how this looks to your colleagues, friends and clients?”
“I don’t reckon thinking comes into it. It’s almost reflexive.”
“That I doubt. Tell me, is she physically violent too?”
“Well she’s experienced a lot of dangerous situations so she’s not afraid of violence. Last week when I was stabbed, she knocked the man out cold with one punch.”
“Goodness! I’m glad she’s on your side. What would she be like if she wasn’t?”
“Difficult to manage, I’m pretty sure.”
“You might want to consider that carefully.”
Outside the clinic, I hailed a cab to take me to the Strand. I’d decided to have lunch away from my usual places since I didn’t have an armed companion.
As the vehicle surged through the traffic, I thought about the bite marks. I’d started to get used to Christmas holding me with her teeth, so it was a little surprising to hear how things looked from Doctor Lopa’s perspective. And while we’d been talking, Darren’s words had come back to me several times. It’s a reflex, like animals that hold their mate by the neck. I’d called it a compulsion. As I mentally replayed the attack in the café, more of Darren’s description of Ariadne came back to me. Quicker than a cat. The speed of Christmas’s strike had been amazing. Also the strength behind it. The knifeman was big; he’d probably weighed over fourteen stone. Yet his feet had left the floor when Christmas hit him. Much stronger than you, Darren had said. I began to wonder if
Christmas had a little more in common with Ariadne than just an attractive face. An attractive, oval face. I noticed my free hand had been rubbing my neck.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Later, back at my apartment, I counted out one thousand and five hundred pounds in cash, dividing it into three bundles; a thousand for Slaughter; four hundred for the hacker; a hundred for incidentals. I put them in separate pockets so that I wouldn’t have the awkwardness of counting out money from a larger wad in front of anyone.
Then I spent an hour or two cleaning away the fingerprinting residue left by the police investigators and debris from the tradesmen. Before I left, I took the best picture of the blonde girl from the copied police files, folded it once and put it in my jacket.
* * *
At the detective agency, Dave buzzed me in. The receptionist had gone for the day. The whale music was off. The other two offices were in darkness.
In his room, I put the thousand pounds on his desk.
“You got a pen and paper?”
I pulled out a small notebook and pen.
He gave me an address in Waterloo. “You’re expected.”
* * *
I took a cab to the street in the address and got out at the end of the road. After the taxi drove away I walked down the road to the house number Dave had given me.
It was a boarded-up derelict building with scaffolding at the front. The front door was covered by a piece of dense plywood, and the building appeared to be in complete darkness.
I looked at the address again under a streetlight. I thought I’d probably made a mistake while writing it down. As I checked the note under the yellow light, a battered four-door car with heavily tinted windows pulled up.
Two teenage boys got out, dressed in hoodies, skinny jeans, and sneakers. Pale skinned with dark tousled hair, one of them was my height, the other a little shorter.
The taller one said, “Xavier Fox?”