Vicious Circle

Gwillam nodded, seeing that I’d made the connection. “When Ditko raised Asmodeus that night, it was a move in a game—a game that Fanke was playing against God. Abbie Torrington was another such move. Perhaps she was originally destined to be sacrificed on a different altar, to a different devil. But Ditko failed, and you . . . well, you did what you did. He chose his own path, of course, but your choices were made for you a long time ago, Castor. You’re one of heaven’s soldiers, too, whether you believe that or not. You’re the brand that he takes from the fire, already burning, to smite his foes. Perhaps when he’s done with you there’ll still be something left to save.”

“Go fuck yourself,” I snarled. As clever ripostes go, I had to admit, it lacked something. Actually, it lacked pretty much everything.

Gwillam turned and walked away, his steps ringing on the cobbles until the whoop of approaching sirens drowned them out. It sounded like Detective Sergeant Basquiat had finally checked her messages.

I took out my whistle and played a few bars for Juliet, ragged and halting: the notes that cut the strings Gwillam had laid on her. When she could, she turned to face me, her gaze deep and searching.

“Debriefing comes later,” I said. “No smutty double meanings intended. Right now, if I were you, I’d be somewhere else.”

She glanced at the first of the police cars as it turned the corner and came belting toward us. Then, in the glare of its headlights, she turned back to me and nodded once, as if to say that there’d be answers she’d insist on.

When the cars rattled to a halt on the cobbles to either side of me, I was the last man standing.

Twenty-three

IN THE SECURE UNIT AT WHITTINGTON’S, I’D AT LEAST HAD a magazine—along with a phone on a wheely trolley, all the small change I could pick off the floor, and a werewolf-themed cabaret. In the remand cells at the Uxbridge Road cop shop, all I had was the clothes I stood up in, minus belt and jacket.

The graffiti on the cell wall were varied and imaginative, but even they palled after a while. Kicking on the door got no response except for muffled swear words from the guy in the cell next door, who muttered and raved to himself in a variety of different voices in between times. Even the cockroaches, bred in the wild and proud of spirit, refused to race. After three hours or so, I began to understand why they’d taken the belt: if I’d still had it, I’d have hanged myself. Alternatively, if there’d been any sheets on the cot bunk, I’d have slept.

Basquiat arrived some time toward morning, with Field tagging along as usual to hold her coat and feed her straight lines. The guard on duty unlocked the door for her and signed her in, then set one of the interview tape recorders down on the floor and left, giving her a respectful nod.

She left the tape recorder where it was, though, signaling for me to sit down on my bunk while she took the edge of the table and Field stood by the door, ignored.

“So,” she said.

I waited for something more solid to go on.

“A burning church full of dead men in black gowns. Another one, in red, lying dead outside. And you, kneeling next to a woman who’s been tied up with duct tape.”

“I admit that looks fairly suspicious at first glance,” I said.

Basquiat smiled coldly. “Just a little, yeah. But then we start to look at the small print. The guy in red checks out as Anton Fanke, so I guess he got tired of Belgium.”

“A man who’s tired of Belgium . . .”

“Don’t get smart, Castor. I like you better when you’re scared and desperate. And besides, I didn’t get to the good part yet. Fanke was carrying a gun that my friends in ballistics greeted like a long-lost friend. It’s the one that killed Melanie Torrington. And one of the corpses in the church had a knife with Abigail Torrington’s blood on the blade. A whole lot of fingerprints, including Fanke’s—but not yours.

“So my case against you for those earlier murders starts to look a little shaky. I’ve still got you for Peace, of course—you at the scene of the crime, and your prints on the gun that killed him. But that duct-taped woman has been telling us all kinds of things about the late Mr. Fanke. Stuff that you wouldn’t believe.”

The mention of Pen made me wince. “I think I’d believe most of it,” I said.

“Yeah, maybe you would at that. Anyway, it seems like he was looking for Peace even before you were—looking in some of the same places, like that club in Soho Square. So maybe your story about him hiring you to do his legwork makes a little more sense now.”

The first thing that Bourbon Bryant had said to me when I asked him about Peace: Seems like he’s flavor of the month all of a sudden. Why the hell hadn’t I made the connection, and asked him who else had been sniffing around?