Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1 (7 page)

‘I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself last night, Sally,’ I said, snatching away the knife and tossing it over the fence.

‘I know who you are, bitch.’

I winced. ‘Language.’

She let loose with a few more choice profanities and I lost what
little patience I had left and grabbed her face. As I held her jaw and squeezed, she whimpered.

‘Now, you will notice that I am freakishly strong. I can and will pop your head if you don’t tell me what I want to know.’
I gave her an encouraging shake. ‘You went by my house – how did you know where I lived?’

She tried to say something, but it sounded impolite, so I squeezed a bit harder. Tears trickled down her cheeks and I felt
like a bully, but Lizzie was missing and I wasn’t stupid. I let Sally’s face go, but stayed on top of her.

‘Aspasia. I said I wanted to talk to you.’ She spat, red-tinged spittle. I’d squeezed too tight. Aspasia – really? It was
hard to know if she thought she was doing me a good turn or just trying to fuck up my day. My money was on the latter. At
any rate, we’d be having words later.

‘Sally, if you know who I am, then you know what I can do – and have done. This could end several ways, but I’d really prefer
it if you’d just tell me what I need to know, then I’ll let you get on with your life.’

Her eyes glittered, but she nodded slowly.

‘Good. So I have questions. Firstly, who’s got you pimping that wine? And secondly, what do you know about the disappearance
of a young girl this afternoon?’ Her expression clearly said she was considering lying, which ramped up my tightly controlled
rage, so I added, ‘Think very carefully before you answer. If anything happens to her, I swear I’ll be back for you, and you
will not enjoy our reunion.’

I gave her time to digest this. ‘I’ll start, okay? I
suspect
you’re collaborating with someone. I
suspect
that you’ve been leading children astray – no, don’t say anything yet; if I only suspect things,
you’re safe.’ I waved a finger at her; it would have looked flippant but for the fact it was shaking. ‘For now. If I
know
for certain, then I will not be able to turn a blind eye. But I am willing to ignore all the other things you’ve done if
you answer my questions.’

‘She’ll kill me,’ the child whined, and my conscience pricked at me. Beneath the rat-like demeanour I could see a little girl
who’d been ill-used, who was only doing what she could to survive; a child whose humanity had been stripped away until she
thought of no one but herself. I felt sorry for her – but that didn’t stop me from saying, ‘And if you don’t tell me, I have
another friend called Zvezdomir Tepes and if you don’t know who he is now, you will soon.’

She moaned.

Okay, she knows about Bela; someone’s warned her good and proper
.

‘Sally, tell me, and I will stop her so she won’t hurt anyone again – she won’t be a danger to you any more. I promise.’

She seemed to weigh the odds, and I saw as the scales dropped in my favour, though I didn’t kid myself; it was due purely
to my proximity, nothing to do with the strength or righteousness of my argument.

‘House at Ascot,’ she snarled.

‘Has this woman got a name?’ I asked. She shook her head, but reeled off the address and I decided I believed her. If she
was desperate enough to help someone who saw children as an
ingredient
there was no reason to think anyone would trust Sally with more information than they absolutely had to.

I rose stiffly and offered a hand, which she took reluctantly. She stood, poised, as if she couldn’t decide whether to try
and hit me again or just flee. I pulled out my wallet and handed over the few notes I had in the hope it might keep her from
doing anything awful for a night or two. I gave her a business card too, though I was pretty
sure it was pointless, but I couldn’t help thinking that this might be Lizzie one day, if her life went badly wrong. This
girl wouldn’t ask for help; she was too far gone, but her face still took on a strange look of wonderment as the tens and
fifties crackled into her palm. She stared at me as if I was crazy. She mightn’t have been too far off the mark.

‘If you’ve lied to me . . .’ I started. I didn’t ask how she’d taken Lizzie, how she’d lured her, or
why
, because I didn’t trust myself not to lose my temper if I heard any more. This child had already borne too much of other
people’s anger.

Her expression said,
I know, I know
. ‘It wasn’t me,’ she said. ‘I didn’t take her.’ But she had, though she was lying determinedly, as if saying the words out
loud might make them true. Even if I hadn’t seen the sequins on the footpath, the way she spoke and the expression on her
face told me Sally was lying. I’d known Lizzie wouldn’t have gone to a stranger – or an adult, but another child? Of course
she’d have gone with another child – she was lonely and wanted someone to play with.

‘You should change your shirt,’ was all I said. I felt sick with anger – anger at Sally, anger at a world where kids had to
live like her – but I walked away before it got the better of me.

‘Ah, Ziggi. How did we not know about this?’ I stared at the huge, venerable white architectural mess: two storeys and an
attic, a widow’s walk between more chimney stacks than looked entirely necessary, a lot of decorative lattice-work and a kind
of strange Gothic thing happening with the windows. I didn’t remember ever seeing it before. I looked askance at my sidekick:
I
knew
Brisneyland, I
knew
all the big Weyrd residences, the places where the moneyed, powerful families resided – or at least, I thought I did. But
this . . .

He was still peering at the place. ‘Glamoured – a very powerful spell, even I’m struggling. We’re only seeing it now because
we had the address and came looking for it specifically.’

He wasn’t wrong, it was kind of laborious to behold. My eyes kept sliding to the side and I had to concentrate hard for the
first few minutes we sat and watched. It got a bit easier, but the building was still, well,
slippery
. I climbed from the cab and leaned against the door while Ziggi hung out the window.

The plot was enormous, even for this area. The house was set far back from the road, in the middle of an overgrown garden
with camphor laurels lining the driveway, so tall and close that they formed a loose canopy above the gravel path where we’d
parked. Flying foxes squeaked overhead, darker patches against the moonlit
sky, like shadow puppets flitting between branches, on course for an evening of stripping people’s fruit trees and crapping
on their laundry.

‘Aw, Ziggi,’ I repeated. ‘
Shit
.’

‘What? You don’t think it looks right?’

‘I think it looks too damned right.’ I pushed myself away from the body of the cab. ‘You’re not going anywhere?’

‘I ain’t going nowhere,’ he said. ‘You sure you wanna go on your own?’

I was pretty sure I didn’t want to, but if I started making a habit of taking my chaperone everywhere I was doomed; I might
as well stop leaving the house and start collecting cats and pizza boxes. ‘I’m sure.’

He said hopefully, ‘If anyone comes, you gotta secret signal you want me to give?’

‘Fuck no! I want you to make a
really
big noise so I can hear you. Who knows, maybe you’ll scare
them
away. Just listen out in case
I
start yelling for help. Help would be good. You know, cavalry, et cetera.’ I carefully switched my mobile to vibrate.

‘Got it. Big fucking noise.’

I gave him a thumbs-up and set off down the drive. I could feel the weight of his gaze. The pills were wearing off and the
pain in my leg sharpened; I was okay with that right now, though. It kept me alert.

This house, the whole massive enchantment thing? It would have made sense in West End, but this . . . this was Ascot, home
to the important people, with property prices so high they could give you a nosebleed. If the car in the garage wasn’t a Jag
or a Merc or some high-end 4x4 with bull-bars and spray-on dirt, then you knew it belonged to the cleaning lady. And yet here
was this camouflaged mansion . . .

Then again, maybe it did make sense. Only idiots hunt where they live, and no one with half a brain was going to snatch a
kid from
around here, were they? So maybe someone had learned from Grigor’s mistakes.

The five steps up to the verandah creaked under my feet. The red cedar double doors had frosted panels. A white-painted swing-chair
sat to one side, a snowy metal table next to it, with three small ceramic pots clustered in the centre, each sprouting some
kind of succulent. I pushed the doorbell, listening for reverberations inside, but there was no response. Maybe the battery
was dead; it wasn’t likely to get much use. Of course, if anyone had answered, some tap-dancing would have been required,
but I had standard routines: I’d ask if they were interested in a pyramid investment scheme or if they’d like to be introduced
to Jesus. People tended to back away from that sort of approach, though I’d be in trouble if they said yes.

I thought,
What if Sally had lied?
Then,
What if Sally’d told the truth?

I tried the swirly brass handle but, getting no joy, moved away and peered in the windows. They were clean, as was the swing-chair.
So not entirely deserted; someone was concerned enough to keep the place spick and span. I pressed my nose to the pane and
squinted: dark rooms, what looked like expensive pieces of furniture, a chandelier catching any stray streaks of moonlight,
floor-length curtains tied back with sash ropes. Again I listened hard for the sound of someone moving about, and again, nothing.

I tapped my foot. Maybe Sally had lied and this was just a normal house, so I was wasting my time – but
why
the glamour? I might have given up except for that – that, and the unease in my gut. Where do you hide a whole bunch of kids?
How do you make them disappear without a trace? You take them somewhere no one would think to look. Somewhere no one sees
properly.

I picked up one of the small ceramic pots, hefted it and broke the frosted glass panel in the left-hand door. Reaching very
carefully
through the gap I found the latch and let myself in. Ziggi was probably shaking his head at my ham-fisted efforts, but I’d
never been able to get the hang of lock picks despite the hours he’d put in trying to train me. There was, I noted with relief,
no alarm box on the wall, no little set of lights blinking in a startled fashion as I failed to enter a pin code. There wasn’t
even the lowest rank of wards – but then, who needs a security system when you’ve got a honking great glamour around your
lair?

The narrow Persian rug running the length of the hallway muffled my footsteps. Halfway along was a staircase covered in thick
creamy carpet. To the sides: a lounge and a library, then a dining room and a family room, and on towards the back, where
an expansive kitchen waited, all gleaming stainless steel, glittering granite worktops and tiles of Carrera marble. I retreated
and took the wide staircase.

On the next level were four tastefully decorated bedrooms, each with a queen bed and chests of drawers, but no cupboards,
and no obvious sign of use. Same deal with the cleanest bathroom I’d ever seen; it gleamed. A jungle of very realistic artificial
plants gave it a tropical air. A large office lined with filing cabinets had a ridiculously broad desk beneath the window,
staring out into the thickness of the trees. I made a mental note to return later and toss the room to my heart’s content,
but it was apparent there was no laptop, no desktop, no fax, no phone, no nothing. As I was about to head downstairs again,
I noticed a hatch in the ceiling above the landing with a thin silver chain hanging to person height. A single tug brought
a neat aluminium ladder unfolding easily towards me. I climbed cautiously, but there was nothing in the attic but dust and
a few stacked plastic tubs, empty as could be. My leg almost gave way as I descended and I stumbled for a moment until I caught
my balance. The limb wasn’t thanking me for all this activity.

I returned to the kitchen, the suspicion that I was in the wrong place growing steadily, making it hard to breathe.

It would sound better if I could say I made the discovery because I’m a genius, but mostly I found it because I have this
thing for investigating other people’s pantries. The slatted wooden door opened onto an area roughly the size of a walk-in
wardrobe. Right next to a shelf stacked with salt, sugar, tins of salmon, jars of caviar, bottles of truffle oil and boxes
of water crackers was a second door, which was not only unlocked but actually a little ajar. I guess the owner probably thought
their larder was safe from hostile incursions.

The steps leading down were brightly lit. At the bottom was yet another door, this one of reinforced steel, also unlocked,
which opened into a large white room with a dark grey polished concrete floor that ran the length of the house. This wasn’t
some dingy cellar with cobwebs and discarded crap as far as the eye could see; this was pristine,
industrial
: a serious workroom. There were banks of timber wine racks on either side with a passage between them. I stopped to examine
some of the bottles as I passed: a coat of arms with a big-arsed bird and shield was impressed into the red wax that sealed
the mouth of each. When I stepped into the other half of the room I saw it was open, but filled with a row of steel tables.
A large furnace sat in the left-hand corner at the back, and to the right was a round vat with a screw-down lid and pipes
running into and out of it – it looked a lot like an upmarket moonshine still. The walls were obscured by wine barrels and
benches lined with all manner of bottling paraphernalia. And stark against the floor next to the furnace was a tumbled stack
of small shoes, all scuffed and dirty and worn, and the air still held a faint hint of cooked flesh.