Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1 (10 page)

The clean-up crew was working hard to get the evidence tagged and bagged at speed; it was best if no one else saw it. They
might have had to tidy things away, but they didn’t have to investigate it – that got outsourced to yours truly. The early
summons was a real pain and I desperately wanted to sleep, but favours were owed.

I crouched beside the body and stared at her, taking in the awkward angle of her neck that enabled me to look into her blank
violet eyes. She’d been
more
than lovely before the fall. There weren’t a lot of sirens in Brisbane – the ecosystem could only bear a small flock
because they could be voracious in the right circumstances. Too many in one place could lead to a lot of things needing explanation:
men, women, disappearances, the usual issues. The exhortation not to eat human flesh had not been popular with the siren community,
but the smart ones knew enough to adapt, or at least to be extremely careful.

I didn’t recognise this one, and had no memory of her ever presenting a problem. She was probably a serial flirt, because
that was what sirens did best, but not a danger to anyone – not one of those who stole citizens away, who might be tracked
down by grieving relatives. At least, I’d never encountered her as such. And even if she had been, sirens were damned hard
to kill, what with their ability to shift teeth and talons, not to mention the whole being able to fly away deal. There were
a lot of white feathers lying around her, presumably plucked out while she was killed.

I took a few steps backwards and turned to face the river, not wanting to look on death any more, even if only for a little
while.

‘Well?’

The whisky-and-cigarettes voice was too close. I hadn’t heard her approach and that irked me. I might have been washed and
dressed and upright, but I was also very sleep-deprived. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘I thought you were special, Fassbinder.’ It was clear she didn’t mean it. That was just rude.

‘You called me, Detective Inspector.’

‘Actually, I called Tepes.’

‘Touché. At any rate, you’re taking up my time on a wintery morning when I’d far rather be in bed. Try to be nice.’

‘I understand you were pretty banged up this morning. Are you quite recovered?’ she enquired politely, mockingly. McIntyre
was the reason those enthusiastic young constables had obediently left
Mel’s place. We got on okay, might even be described as friends, but that didn’t mean either of us would let a chance to be
obnoxious go by. Besides, it was cold; we had to keep warm somehow.

‘Thank you, yes.’

‘Anything about this strike you as strange?’

‘Other than the fact that the Colonel would wet himself to see wings and drumsticks like these?’

Rhonda McIntyre grimaced. Rumour had it she’d been a pretty young thing once, but that was before the job took hold of her.
Too many late nights, too many fags, too much booze and too many takeaways had contrived to wreak havoc on her face and figure,
and now she was configured something like a keg in an ill-cut charcoal suit, just like most cops after a few years on the
job. A gold crucifix sat in the hollow of her throat, nestled among shallow wrinkles. She was in her late forties; in a few
years they’d become furrows. Her eyes were hard from staring at the seamy underbelly of the city and I suspected her short,
iron-grey hair hadn’t ever met a hairdresser it liked. She’d managed to rise to a decent rank in her chosen profession, but
she must have upset someone important to get landed with what she called (on her good days) the Strange Shit Basket.

‘Other than
that
,’ she said, teeth gritted, then asked hopefully, ‘Suicide?’

‘Alas, sirens are unlikely candidates for suicide – especially like this.’

McIntyre paused, cocked her head to the side. ‘Should I be talking to what’s-her-name in Hobart? Nancy Napoleon?’

For someone with little tolerance for Strange Shit, she knew the right names; still, I wondered how much Bird-Women 101 she
would tolerate. ‘Different kind of sirens there. Shared ancestors, but these are the first kind, fowl not fish, distinctly
non-marine variety.’

‘Why can’t there just be an ordinary murder?’ McIntyre asked wistfully. Whoever she’d pissed off had made it unlikely she’d
move beyond inspector. She obviously hated dealing with the weird – and the Weyrd – but if the powers-that-be had intended
to irritate her into resigning by making her the Strange Shit liaison, they’d badly miscalculated. She was fully stocked with
both piss and vinegar and she clearly wasn’t planning on going anywhere until honourable retirement and a sizeable superannuation
payout. McIntyre didn’t count either patience or subtlety among her virtues: she knew the real story about my father, and
for a long while she’d not hesitated to let me know that she didn’t trust me; when she’d stopped making digs about Grigor,
I figured we’d moved past that.

‘Murder always seems pretty ordinary to me,’ I said. ‘It’s mean and petty and sad. Weyrd murders are no better than Normal
ones.’ All things considered, if I ended up on a cold, hard slab, she was exactly the kind of cop I’d want looking into my
death. There was something heroic and old-school about her level of grumpiness; you couldn’t help but admire it. That didn’t
mean she wasn’t a pain in the arse.

‘Well, fish or fowl, I want it off my books.’

‘As I said, the sirens are a small community. I’ll ask around, see what I can find out – but no promises.’

‘What more can one ask?’ She turned her palms upward like a saint in optimistic prayer. ‘Keep me informed.’

‘But of course. No handbag, no ID, I’m assuming?’

She gave me a look that said,
If there had been I probably wouldn’t have called for you
.

I wandered along the boardwalk, ignoring the slap and sigh of the water below. It wasn’t far to the CityCat stop at Riverside,
where people were already waiting: girls in too few clothes sobering up enough to realise it; young men unwilling to hand
over their jackets
in a last-ditch attempt at ‘romance’. Chivalry’s just a bit frosty these days.

I snuggled smugly into my own winter coat, the one everyone said was too thick for the River City, but which they all eyed
enviously when the cold winds whistled through the streets. Staring at the revellers made me feel painfully old; soon I’d
be starting my sentences with, ‘In my day . . .’ and yelling, ‘Darned kids! Get off my lawn!’ I sighed and sat on a bench;
swinging my leg back and forth, I was gratified to experience no pain. I did feel the warm tremor of healing still going on,
and that made me happier. I had to admit the healer’s abilities were pretty bloody spectacular – I hadn’t even thought about
taking any painkillers this morning.

When I got home I’d check in on Lizzie and Mel, then I’d get some sleep before I became totally psychotic, and
then
I’d make some calls about the dead siren in the garden bed and report to Bela like a good employee. It occurred to me that
I should do some research, see if they had any natural enemies.

The CityCat docked with some inelegant bumping and disgorged a few passengers. I walked the gangplank behind the youngsters;
hurrying footsteps bringing up the rear told me someone had only just made the boat. The others went inside and settled into
the warmth while I took up my usual position in the right-hand corner of the back deck and leaned against the railing like
a dog hanging from a car window. It was chilly, but being in the cabin always made me queasy. As we churned downriver, away
from the high-rise blocks, I noticed the sun hadn’t quite burned off all the mist – in fact, it seemed to have got thicker.
Then I realised there was no ‘seemed’ about it: the air had become a soupy white-grey fog.

I squinted and made out a low dark boat propelled by some unseen force, while a tall figure plied the single oar set in a
rowlock in the
stern to direct its course. A hand with thin fingers was raised in salute and I shivered. Added to the events of the evening
and the dead siren, this really was way too much strangeness before breakfast. I returned the wave all the same; there was
no point in alienating the Boatman. I’d read about him, and heard tales from my father and Bela and dozens of other Weyrd
who apparently got a kick out of bogeyman stories, but this was the closest I’d ever come to him myself. He ferried both Weyrd
and Normal souls off to wherever they went after death, and as I’d ride with him one day, as everyone did, I preferred him
to remember me as well-mannered.

I guessed it wasn’t a social call, which was pretty alarming considering what a professional one usually meant. The Boatman
drew alongside the Cat and kept pace easily. We’d be stopping at Dockside soon so he’d have to talk fast, I was thinking,
when I looked around and noticed no one in the cabin was moving. Eyes were glazed, expressions stone as water bottles were
caught part-way to mouths; there was a ticket inspector frozen in mid-citing of bylaws, young men forever caught in sly gawks
at girls whose nighttime make-up had turned distinctly clownish. Time had been suspended.

It’s good to be the Boatman.

I said, ‘Hey!’ as calmly as I could, hoping to cover both dignified and cool, not to mention
totally
not afraid
.

The hood of his cloak flapped, showing cheekbones and a chin, skin as brown as dried wood, a sparse mouth and ruined nose,
the cartilage shrunken and sunken. His eyes remained hidden and I was thankful for that much.

‘Can I help you?’ I asked. ‘No offence, but I was kind of hoping we wouldn’t meet for a while.’

He cracked a smile, exposing yellow teeth crazed like old ivory. He removed one hand from the oar and reached towards me and
my
heart clenched until I realised he was offering something, not trying to take me. I felt the cold through the wrapping and
quickly tucked the thing into my coat pocket.

Gift horse, meet mouth.

‘Thanks?’

He pointed upwards. ‘They want to break the sky.’

‘Huh?’

But apparently that was all I was going to get. The long hand sailed through the air in a gesture that could have meant, ‘These
are not the droids you’re looking for,’ then alighted back on the oar. The world started to move again and the Boatman sped
away, apparently without effort.

‘Way to be cryptic,’ I muttered.

‘Hello.’

I turned. Dark blond hair, glasses, thick scarf, battered leather jacket, jeans.

‘Standard geek,’ I said. The guy I’d run into at the State Library, the one I’d busily dismissed. I saw then what I’d not
fully acknowledged before. He was cute.

‘Excuse me?’ His eyes widened behind the glasses. I thrust my hand at him by way of diversion, hoping he really hadn’t heard
what I’d muttered. We shook.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi. I just wanted to say, you know, hello, but without almost knocking you down,’ he said.

‘Oh. Okay.’ My interpersonal skills were never going to win any prizes and I could see my first chance of a date in more than
twelve months slipping away – well, less slipping than galloping. It was a mystery how I’d ended up in a relationship with
Bela in the first place, really.

‘Ah, anyway. Bye.’ He began to sidestep, his expression clearly saying that the whole ‘Hello’ idea had been a bad one.

Wicked witches. Wine of tears. Sirens. The Boatman. Skies breaking. The object in my pocket. I needed a solid breakfast, preferably
pancakes, with bacon. Crispy bacon. And syrup. Maple syrup, lots of it. Before I could talk myself out of it I touched his
arm and said tentatively, ‘So, about that cup of something warm?’

He grinned.

‘I’m Verity.’

‘David.’

‘How do you feel about breakfast, David?’

‘It’s a meal upon which I look favourably.’

The CityCat began to slow again. We were approaching Dockside, with its fancy-schmancy apartments, overpriced restaurants
and plentiful cafés. Surely pancakes, the solution to most of life’s problems, could be found there.

Several hours and many pancakes later, I was home. I’d even managed some sleep, although by no means enough, and now I was
sitting at the dining table and busily failing to open the Boatman’s gift. The time with David had blotted out a lot of my
concerns, but it was only a temporary fix. Once I was on my own again the chill weight in my pocket brought them all back.

I’d reached out to unwrap it at least four times, but at the last minute my hand had found something else to do: check the
spine of a book, flick away a speck of dust, turn over a piece of paper. Frankly, it was a bit of a relief when the knocking
started. I answered the front door faster than was my wont – by that point I’d have greeted a toilet-brush salesman with joy.

Reality was considerably less pleasant. I might have recognised my visitor at once, from newspapers, glossy magazines and
periodic TV reports about the nation’s richest men, but I hadn’t expected to find him on my doorstep – at least, not so soon.
You’d have thought, with all his money, he’d’ve managed to get a better dye job, but I supposed the Trump Equation worked
no matter where you were: the more cashed-up a man was, the more convinced he was that he could get away with any kind of
coif-related quirk. The jet-black hairdo was bad, but the orange salon tan that hadn’t reached into the wrinkles on his face,
leaving strange white lines deep within the crevasses, was
even worse. His eyes were pale blue and his teeth very, very bright. He must have been trying for casual because he was wearing
the standard outfit of a man who owned a yacht, but didn’t know how to sail; the polo shirt and chinos were perfectly pressed,
the deck shoes brand spanking new.