A Little Bit Witchy (A Riddler's Edge Cozy Mystery #1) Page 11

  He spat again. Greg was messing about with filters, taking photos while I talked. I doubted many people would enjoy seeing a picture of a spitting murderer, so I had to assume he was doing something wizardly.

  ‘Another thing I find interesting,’ I went on, ‘is the fact that you were only on duty for three of the recent murders. I guess that means you’re a lot more talented at the whole vampire thing than you look, or else … or else there’s someone else involved. Another member of Vlad’s Boys, maybe? One who isn’t dumb enough to wear a tattoo?’

  He was still looking away from me, but his fists were clenched with agitation, so I pressed on. ‘I bet Detective Quinn’s already offered you a deal. I mean, that’s the kind of thing I’d do if I were in charge of the investigation. See if I could get you a couple of years off your sentence in return for info on the other killer. Or killers. Maybe even a whole heap of years off for information on who’s actually running Vlad’s Boys. Because that’s a big secret, or so I’m told.’

  His undead eyes flashed towards me. ‘And it’s going to stay that way, human.’ He sat forward on his bed. It looked narrow and uncomfortable, but he hardly deserved a thick mattress and a king-sized bed. ‘I might be in a cage right now, but that doesn’t make me a rat. I admire the people I work with. I’d go so far as to say I even care for one or two of them. And I do not rat out my people. I know all about the human world. I know that loyalty is just a word your leaders use to suppress the masses. But vampires, vampires know the true meaning of loyalty. It’s just one of the reasons why we’re the superior species.’

  ‘Species?’ I glanced down at my notes. ‘You think you’re a species? You’re not a species, Gunnar. Vampirism is a virus. A virus that’s constantly changing. And you know what I think? I think no one actually knows why the dayturner strain came about. I think that you could wake up tomorrow, and be the very thing you hate.’

  His jaw started to saw, and he stood up and punched the air. ‘Get out!’ he cried, his teeth elongating into very sharp points. ‘Get out before I show you what a vampire really is.’

  I stood up, placing an even smile on my face. ‘I think we have quite enough for the article,’ I told Greg. ‘Are you happy with the pictures you’ve taken?’

  ‘Very,’ he said, slinging his camera around his neck. ‘Let’s go and get a nice lunch, shall we?’

  ‘Somewhere fancy,’ I added. ‘And outdoors. I do like to be able to sit outside and enjoy the fresh air while I eat.’

  17. The Best Man for the Job

  Well, I was enjoying the fresh air, if you count rolling down the window of Greg’s van while we sat in the train station carpark. The journey back from Witchfield had been just as sickening as the journey there, and if my lunch hadn’t been so darned delicious, I doubt I would have been able to stomach it.

  ‘I’ll check out the filters while we eat,’ Greg said through mouthfuls of one of my sandwiches. There had been four in the lunchbox, so I decided it would be selfish not to share.

  The sandwiches were stuffed with fresh tuna, sundried tomatoes and a whole lot of yumminess. There was even dessert, some sort of apple crumble with cream.

  ‘How did he whip all this up this morning?’ I wondered. ‘And more importantly, how did he manage to fit it all into such a small lunchbox?’

  Greg grinned, the gap between his teeth filled with something green. ‘Jared’s always been an amazing chef. And the lunchbox is bigger on the inside. Wizard tech.’

  I shook my head in amazement as Greg leaned over and pressed on the bottom of the lunchbox, making a second, far larger layer appear. It was even bigger than the first, and it was filled with fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. ‘I wish I was a wizard. Hey, I haven’t asked Pru this in case it’s rude, but … I always thought vampires just consumed blood. And that they only went out at night.’

  Greg wiped his hand and hooked his camera up to his laptop. ‘They’ve evolved to be able to stand daylight over the years, but they much prefer the dark, and some vamps say their eyes sting during the day if they don’t wear sunglasses. And as for blood, they need it to survive. But they like everyday food, same as the rest of us. There’s a rumour the Vlad’s Boys gang only drink blood. No other food or drink. But I doubt it’s true.’ He began to type quickly, somehow managing to steal three of my cookies at the same time. ‘So, I wasn’t taking normal photos of Gunnar, but I guess you figured that out. Grace would rather wear a pair of jeans than run a photo of one of Vlad’s Boys. She has this idea that criminals get off on the exposure.’

  ‘I agree with her,’ I said, managing to snatch the last cookie for myself. ‘So what were you doing? All of Gunnar’s abilities are subdued while he’s in Witchfield. What could your filters possibly pick up?’

  He slurped some coffee. ‘You know the way Grace was trying to see your power through her Aurameter? Well, I had this theory that all supernaturals have a unique aura around us. And it turned out, I was right. I’ve managed to fine-tune my software so that I can read auras as clearly as I can read fingerprints.’ He pointed to the screen, where a photo of Gunnar in his cell had loaded. ‘See that hue around him? How it’s all orange and brown and scary looking? My first few trials only picked up things like that. Standard vamp aura. Not super-evil, just your run-of-the mill stupid young vampire. But.’ He began to type in some commands, and the colours around Gunnar intensified. On the right side of the screen, some sort of script was running. It seemed to be listing out the strength of each colour in the aura.

  ‘So you think that by refining it this much, you can identify a unique aura for every supernatural?’

  ‘Exactly. And I’ve found a way to sync it up with crime-scene photos, too. Every recording of telekinetic activity has a unique signature. It’s just been impossible to narrow down. Until now.’ He opened up the photos he’d taken in the aftermath of Bathsheba’s murder, and did some more frantic typing. Within a few seconds, a banner stretched across the screen: Zero Percent Match.

  Greg paled. ‘Either my program isn’t worth the hundreds of hours I’ve spent writing it, or else … or else Gunnar used no telekinetic power whatsoever on the day Bathsheba was murdered. All of that telekinetic energy my filters picked up … it belongs to someone else entirely.’

  ‘And if Gunnar didn’t use any of his vampire powers,’ I said, my mind running a mile a minute, ‘then how on earth did he get rid of the evidence?’

  ≈

  As the train pulled into the station after its latest Dublin to Riddler’s Edge run, Greg and I stood waiting for the driver. He got off, a wide smile on his face, wiping the sweat from his brow with a red neckerchief. I almost squealed right then. Not only did he have a red neckerchief, but he was also carrying a shovel, and he had coal stains on his hands.

  ‘It runs on coal!’ I gasped.

  The train driver grinned. ‘Of a sort. I only have to add one shovel at the start of every journey. Good thing too, or I wouldn’t be able to manage it on my own.’ He tipped his cap. ‘I take it you’re the new reporter, seeing as you’re here with our Greg. What can I do for you both?’

  I was too busy taking in the train driver, so Greg spoke. ‘Ash is writing an article for Friday’s evening edition,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be quite a comprehensive piece on the murder investigation so far.’

  ‘Yeah, I am.’ I finally stopped staring and found my voice. ‘And I was wondering about the staff on the train. Who does the hiring? Because I find it a bit odd that anyone would employ a waiter with a Vlad’s Boys tattoo to serve dayturners.’

  The driver sighed and put his cap back on his head. ‘As do I. And believe me, I’ve had words. But I have no say in hiring or firing. You’ll have to speak to human resources about that. Mick Plimpton – he’s your man.’

  ≈

  The fact that a supernatural train service had a human resource manager was, honestly, the most surprising thing I’d learned since arriving in Riddler’s Edge. Mick Plimpton’s office was based in
Dublin, in a witch enclave called Warren Lane. Just one of the many place names I had listed in my special notebook. Take that, John!

  I would have been a lot more excited to see the place if it hadn’t been for the fact that we were, once again, travelling in Greg’s Wizardly Wagon. By the time we were parked on the street in Warren Lane, I was feeling so unwell that I couldn’t even get giddy about the fact that a man was flying past me on a broom.

  The office itself wouldn’t have made anyone giddy, though. It was bland and modern, with a bland and modern man sitting behind a bland and modern desk, pretending to be too busy typing to speak to us. Eventually he looked up and said, ‘Sorry, just had to shoot off a super-important email. What can I do you for?’

  I shrugged. ‘I’ve been accused of loitering in the past.’

  His smile fell. ‘It was a play on words.’

  ‘And a hilarious one, too.’ I sat forward. ‘We’re from the Daily Riddler. We were told you’re in charge of hiring the staff on the Riddler’s Express.’

  A self-important look crossed his face. ‘That’s me. Mick Plimpton, human resources manager. Our little joke, of course. I’d never actually hire a human for one of our trains. Ugh! Whenever new staff is needed, Mick’s your man! I have the final say on every staffing issue in the Irish supernatural train services. And I think I say with confidence that I am the best man for the job.’

  ‘Oh?’ I arched a brow. ‘Well then you’ll be just the man to tell me – how the hell did you think it was a good idea to hire someone from a well-known hate group? Did you actually think it was appropriate for Gunnar to serve meals to the very people his organisation has sworn to kill?’

  His eyes darted to Greg. ‘I … she … I’ve already spoken to Dylan Quinn about this. Why is this woman here, Greg?’

  Greg fished a liquorice stick from one of his pockets and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘You should address any questions you have to Ash. She’s the boss.’

  I smiled at Greg. ‘I prefer to think of us as partners. But you’re right. This is my story, so I’m not sure why Mr Plimpton here is ignoring me. Mr Plimpton?’

  His lip curled. ‘I didn’t know Gunnar was a member of Vlad’s Boys. I’ve only just heard about the tattoo, and trust me – he didn’t have it when I interviewed him. We have many vampires working in our train services. The early and late routes seem to suit them. Why, on that route alone we have Suzette, Vikram and Miriam. Each and every one of them is an exemplary employee, and I find your line of questioning to be – quite frankly – racist against vampires.’

  Greg looked like he was about to choke on his liquorice. I patted his back and glared at Mr Plimpton. ‘If you’re trying to shift the spotlight, Mr Plimpton, then you’re failing miserably. I take no issue with your hiring vampires. I take issue with your hiring a member of Vlad’s Boys. I came here today to get your take on that, and to make sure I accurately represented your point of view in my article.’ I stood up. ‘But I think I already have all I need.’

  18. The Fisherman’s Friend

  When Greg and I returned to the office, he had to run off and help Grace with a computer emergency, so I typed up my notes alone, replaying the day’s events in my mind. There was something that everyone was overlooking, I just knew there was. And seeing as this was the first story of mine that wouldn’t have the juicy bits edited to death, I wanted to do it justice.

  I read the report that Detective Quinn had submitted that morning, to see how his interview with Gunnar had gone. There wasn’t much to read, though, because Gunnar had been just as unwilling to talk with the detective as he’d been with me.

  With nothing new to read in the detective’s latest report, I reread everything he had submitted previously, in case there was anything I missed. I wanted to check, in particular, if Mick Plimpton had been telling the truth about Gunnar’s tattoo. But it seemed that it was a recent addition, just as he’d said. Detective Quinn wrote that he saw the tattoo for the first time on the day of Bathsheba’s murder, even though he’d interviewed Gunnar before. And in those previous interviews, Gunnar had seemed like little more than your average jerk.

  Every passenger and member of staff on the train had received thorough background checks, and I took another look through all of those, too. Some staff members seemed to have received a greater going over than others – the younger guys, in particular, because intelligence seemed to suggest that Vlad’s Boys specifically recruited younger men.

  Now that his tattoo made his affiliation so clear, it really did seem that Gunnar was the most likely suspect. If only it weren’t for the pesky little matter of Greg’s aura-reading equipment. I wondered how the detective would react when Greg and I offered him that evidence tomorrow. Probably with only slightly more crankiness than usual.

  I was holding a well-chewed pen in one hand, my other hand poised at the computer keyboard, when a shadow fell across my desk.

  ‘Still here?’ asked Grace. She was holding a compact open, applying a fresh coat of lipstick.

  ‘I was hoping to go over some things with Greg before the end of the day,’ I said.

  Grace laughed lightly. ‘The end of the day has long past. Greg’s left the building. I saw him call out a goodbye to you, but you didn’t seem to notice. You and I are the only ones left. And …’ She glanced at her watch. ‘… you’re almost late for your dinner with Arnold. Although I can’t say I blame you if you want to take a rain check.’

  I snatched up my purse and stood up. ‘Good goddess, I didn’t realise the time. I … I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then? I mean, unless Arnold’s decided to bring the trial to an early end.’ As I said it aloud, I realised that I was actually worried about that very thing. What if I came out of the Fisherman’s Friend remembering nothing?

  ‘He wouldn’t dare end the trial early,’ said Grace. She sat on the desk, giving me an even better look at her outfit. It was magnificent. A poodle skirt, red heels and a boat-neck sweater. ‘Listen Aisling, I … well, Greg’s been updating me on your progress. And I just want to say, it sounds like you’re doing an adequate job.’ She stood up once more and snapped her compact shut. ‘Enjoy your dinner. It’s not a supernatural establishment, but it’s an interesting little place if you’re in the mood for that sort of thing. Oh, but whatever you do, do not order the seafood platter.’ She clicked her fingers, and disappeared.

  For a moment I stood there, gaping at the spot where she’d just been. Sure, I’d read all about the whole finger-clicking thing, but boy oh boy! There had been many moments in life when I’d wished I could click my fingers and disappear. Tonight’s dinner might just end with such a moment. But seeing as I didn’t have magic at my fingertips, I picked up my bag and walked to the door.

  ≈

  Now that I was standing out in front of the Fisherman’s Friend, it didn’t look olde-worlde – it just looked ancient. Like the tavern I’d been to in Riddler’s Cove, it too had a thatched roof. But this thatch clearly needed work. It was thinning in spots, and nearly non-existent in others. The stonework of the building was higgledy-piggledy, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure how it remained standing.

  I pushed the door open gingerly, afraid that it would fall off its hinges, and entered a dark room. I had to step down into it, and even then the ceiling beams felt too close for comfort. I wondered what someone as tall as Detective Quinn or even Greg would do in a place like this. Probably stoop.

  I could see Arnold in a booth in the far corner, waving at me. As I went to walk over, I noticed he wasn’t the only person I knew. Greg, Pru and Jared were seated at the bar, drinking stout and eating steak and chips.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a sec,’ I called to Arnold, and made my way to the bar. ‘I know you said you were having a boys’ night out,’ I said. ‘But this place wasn’t quite what I imagined. And also, I’m pretty sure Pru is a girl.’

  Pru tossed back some stout, burped, and then smiled at me. ‘I’m an honorary bloke tonight, and I intend to act like one.�
��

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘And what about the two of you?’ I arched a brow at Greg and Jared. ‘This is your usual haunt when you’re out for the night?’

  Jared gave an oh-so-innocent shrug. ‘It could be. I’m quite enjoying the local colour.’

  I glanced around the pub. There were three old men sitting at one end of the bar, and an even older two seated on stools by the fireplace. They all wore heavy black coats and caps, and not a single one of them was talking.

  ‘Uh huh. Local colour.’ Seeing as Greg was staying silent, I turned to him. ‘And that’s your answer, too? You’re also here for the local colour?’

  Greg’s face reddened. ‘I … well … y’know …’

  ‘Eloquently put. Well, I have to get over to Arnold. See you guys around.’

  As I turned to walk away, Pru caught me by the hand and said, ‘Wait. We’re here because of you, okay? We just want to make sure Arnold doesn’t do anything funny.’

  Greg looked down into his pint. ‘We want you to get the job, Ash. I’m getting sick of reporters coming and going. Pru really likes you. I like working with you. And, well, Jared just likes you because you’re so pretty. So will you do us a favour and come and chat with us when you’re done? So we can make sure you’re still … intact?’

  Aw! I was coming over all warm and fuzzy. Sure, Jared probably did just care because I was the latest female in town. But Pru and Greg really were two of the nicest people I’d ever met. Okay, so Greg was also the nuttiest, and the one with the most snacks on his person at any given time. But you could be nutty and nice, and Greg was the living proof.

  ‘But if I’ve lost my memory, how will I remember to come and talk to you guys?’