Dracula Cha Cha Cha (Anno Dracula #3) 6

The Super left Griffin in the park, overseeing vital work. Bins and bushes had to be gone through. Few killers were considerate enough to discard engraved calling cards or one-of-a-kind signet rings at the scene of the crime, but there was a chance something incriminating might turn up among the used Durexes and Sky Ray wrappers.

Carol Thatcher's body was collected by an ambulance and sent for autopsy. Bellaver found Kate space in one of B Division's battered blue Austins. She left her four-year-old red Mini Cooper in the Charlton car park.

'We've invaded the local nick,' the Super told her. 'Dixon has set up an incident room. The Shooter's Hill woodentops aren't happy about us getting comfy on their manor, but such is life. Regan's bringing in Carol's gentleman protector, one Timothy Lea. From the state of Timmy's bird, I'd say he hasn't done a bang-up job of protecting her lately. We can hold "living off immoral earnings" over the ponce until he coughs up anything he knows. Strewth, what's this...'

The car stopped.

'Bloody students,' said Peter Steiger, the driver.

'Not another demo!' Bellaver said. 'What is it this time? Ban the bomb? Stop the War? Free the pit-ponies?'

A solemn, fancy-dress funeral procession blocked the road. Whitefaced youths in black robes and cowls carted a twelve-foot cardboard coffin with 'Old Britannia' scrawled in its side in red paint. A mime brass band waved silent instruments. Some wore distinctive black-and-white striped scarves.

'It's Rag Week,' said Steiger.

'Stone the crows and plough on through. You have a horn, man. Honk!'

'It's Sunday morning, sir,' the driver protested.

Bellaver leant over and punched the horn. Students turned and leered, snarling through kabuki make-up. Some wore fake fangs over real ones. Most were vampires, of a more recent vintage than their dress-up costumes. New-borns playing at being elders. There'd been masses of those when Kate turned. The murgatroyds of the '80s. What happened to them? The same thing that would happen to these sharp kids. They'd die off or grow up.

As a last resort, the Super turned on the nee-naw-nee-naw. When a passing police siren made her stick fingers in her ears, she hadn't thought how much more irritating the two-tone was if you were inside the cop car. She felt the noise in her teeth. At least the siren startled the students into making way.

Bellaver wound down the window and shouted, 'Turn out your pockets, get your hair cut...'

The coffin fell, disclosing a giant white papier mache skeleton. Packets of pills hit the street.

The crowd made oinking and grunting noises.

'My daughter's at the University of Watermouth,' Bellaver said. 'She tells her mates her dad's a lavatory cleaner. Anything's better than being a copper.'

The students were from St Bartolph's, a college well away from the city centre. It didn't have the firebrand rep of the L.S.E. but was a minor hub of suburban student unrest. Vice-Chancellor Walter Goodrich was one of those Establishment worthies constitutionally unable to open his mouth without prompting a sit-in or freak-out. Banning the sale of Socialist Vampire outside lecture halls had led to scuffles between staff and bussed-in radicals. Among the first institutions to boast a School of Vampirism, St Bartolph's had made controversial appointments. Kate was appalled that Caleb Croft, her least-favourite vampire elder, held the Chair of Sociology. Croft, Dracula's Chief of Secret Police during the Terror, had lodged in the security services for the best part of sixty years before retiring to teach.

The Mail indicted St Bartolph's as a hotbed of Maoist revolution. The News of the Screws alleged kinky nude blood frolics in the Halls of Residence. Bikini Girl ran a lay-out of topless student vampire girls in dramatic poses.

Lately, St Bartolph's biggest stories came out of the formerly obscure School of Botany. After years of tedious, unfruitful research into fungus parasites on wheat, Professor Bowles-Ottery happened on a powerful, naturally-occurring hallucinogen. His ergot derivative was a hit with astral voyagers and hippies who dreaded missing the magic bus. The American SF legend E.B. Fern chewed Bowles-Ottery Pellets, known as BOP, like winegums. Fern came to London to take personal receipt of an unprecedented New Worlds advance, but got distracted by BOP. Moorcock had yet to see a word of Fern's serial Dr Shambleau, or: The Whores of Axos, though Fern had sent in seven rice paper Rorschach blots and said that was the first instalment.

Bellaver shut off the siren.

A young vampire doffed a tall hat and bowed, magnanimously letting them pass. He was dressed as an undertaker, ringmaster or conjurer, head-to-foot in black but for crimson cravat and scarlet sunglasses. The new-born looked like a cock: livid and healthy, sculpted raven hair, Kirk Douglas chin. All his teeth were fangs. Such a handsome lad would have no trouble glutting himself on the willing warm. He must miss mirrors, though.

'Want a suspect?' she asked Bellaver.

The policeman considered the mockingly gracious vampire. He wasn't impressed.

'What does that flash git think he's playing at?'

'He doesn't think he's playing,' she said.

Steiger drove them through the gap in the rag procession. The new-born buck swivelled, eyes on her. He all but licked his lips.

'Bring back National Service, I say,' muttered Bellaver.

That face  -  red, red mouth, as if stained  -  would stick in her mind. Who was the student leader? Greenwich's answer to Dany le Rouge?

The cop shop on the corner of Well Hall Road was a redbrick castle, built on the site of yet another London gallows. At least the condemned had a good view before taking the drop. Shooter's Hill was one of the highest points in London. You could see for miles and miles and miles. The late Count Dracula bought property here, following a fourteenth century instinct to put fortresses on top of mountains.

Steiger pulled up outside the police station in time for Kate to observe a textbook Good Cop/Bad Cop procedure. A growling, red-faced detective in a stained, wide-collared suit dragged a longhaired, complaining youth along the pavement. At the front doors, a grandfatherly uniformed sergeant offered the lad a cup of tea and his choice of biscuits.

'Get inside, you horrible hairy,' shouted the detective, Jack Regan. 'Or we'll have your lungs out for carrier bags.'

'Mind how you go on the steps, son,' said the uniformed man, George Dixon. 'You don't want to have a nasty accident.'

Kate guessed the youth was the aforementioned Timothy Lea. His muslin shirt was bunched up under his arms and around his neck because Regan had a big-handed grip on most of it. Lea's unbelted, bell-bottomed jeans flew at half-mast, exposing milk-chocolate-with-white-trim y-fronts. Barefoot, he bled from his soles, smearing the pavement. Regan and Dixon showed fangs.

'Get sticking plasters for his footsies and shove him in an interview room,' said Bellaver.

'I never done nuffing,' whined Lea.

'That's a double negative, son,' said Bellaver. 'You'd better sharpen up now you're assisting the police with our enquiries. If you never done nuffing, you must have done somefing. Stands to reason.'

Regan roughly yanked an arm. Dixon politely helped with the other. They could easily tear the poor kid in two. Regan's scowl and Dixon's smile were both hungry. The terrified Lea went whiter than a sheet fresh-washed in Omo. Bellaver and Kate followed them into the station. The local fuzz  -  all warm  -  kept out of B Division's way, not wanting to appear ticked off by an undead invasion. She spotted empty patches on a noticeboard and scrunched-up pro-Enoch posters in a wastepaper basket. Even before running into Desk Sergeant Tom Choley, Kate knew Shooter's Hill plods were not generally well-disposed towards 'the vampire community'. She'd lay odds that, around here, Drakky Bashing was considered high spirits rather than criminal assault.

Choley had to let vampire coppers pass unimpeded, but took against her. The desk sergeant's non-regulation hair crept over his collar. His smirk was highlighted by a beauty mark on his cheek. He had no crucifix to hand so he barred her way with a lengthy form. Bellaver was a smart cynic, Regan a canny thug and Dixon a born beat-walker; different methods, all good coppers. Choley was a proper pig  -  the sort of police who'd done well when Caleb Croft was in charge. A self-satisfied sadist, his position gave him enough power to be exactly as much of a monster as he dared. Without the guts to wade into a demo or kick in a villain's door, he could do his damage, and get sick jollies, from behind a desk. He behaved as if stripes made him untouchable. For all she knew, they did.

'What's the hold-up, Skip?' Bellaver asked.

Kate handed over her filled-in form. Choley picked up the paper by a corner, as if it were contaminated. He pinned a visitor's badge to her shirt, effecting an accidental nipple-knuckling in the process. He smiled. She thought about his soft neck and strong pulse.

Being a vampire was like having a loaded gun on your hip. Every irritation was a reminder you were lethal. It'd be so easy to let the teeth slide out...

She kept her mouth shut.

The palaver with Choley took up enough time for Timothy Lea to get settled in an interview room.

Bellaver and Kate examined him through a one-way mirror. Left alone by the vampire sergeants, Lea had reverted to a sullen composure. He wasn't under arrest, so his pockets hadn't been emptied. With a pencil-stub, he drew a naked, headless, limbless woman on the table top. Not the first art on this classic theme scratched into the surface.

The Super had Lea's thick folder.

'Student?' she asked.

Bellaver snorted. 'Not our Timmy. Chucked out of school for being a useless herbert. String of mickey mouse jobs, off the books. No PAYE for Timmy. Window cleaner, driving instructor, holiday camp... pop performer, it says here. Not in any hit parade I know. If they needed a picture of a long-haired layabout for an encyclopedia, Timmy Lea would pose for it. Fall asleep halfway through the sitting.'

'Anything violent?'

'Not him. Too much like hard work. He's soft as cottage cheese. Strictly rubbish crime. Hopes to get away with it with his cheeky grin. Tried being a drug dealer, but hasn't the head for sums. That's modern crookery for you. Got to be good at arithmetic or you get docked more than a gold star when it comes to settle-up time. He's not even much of a ponce. Only had the one girl. Lord knows how he'll get by without Carol to bring in the readies.'

Timothy Lea seemed very young to her. She wasn't fooled by his pose. The lad was scared to his bones.

'Let's have a chat with the specimen, shall we?' Bellaver proposed.

Bellaver held the door open for her.

At the sight of Kate, Timmy shrank like a salted slug. She glanced over her shoulder, into the mirror where she didn't reflect. No doubting what she was now.

'Relax, Timothy,' said Bellaver. 'You're not here to be bitten. This is Miss Katharine Reed. She is a civilian observer. Not a policewoman.'

Kate tried to seem even less threatening than usual.

Sergeant Dixon came in with a mug of tea and a plate of custard creams. Bellaver confiscated them at once and sat opposite Lea.

'If it's about those pills I sold that geezer in the Winchester,' the youth blurted, 'they were Trebor mints coloured with purple pencil, not BOP. Just a giggle.'

'A hilarious prank, I'm sure,' said the Super, dunking a biscuit. 'But of no present interest. You are well acquainted, as they say in the papers, with a Miss Carol Thatcher.'

'What about Carol?'

No one had told him. Kate had a conscience pang. Timmy Lea wasn't a vampire, so he wasn't a suspect.

And he didn't even know the girl was dead.

'You and Carol came to the Smoke eighteen months ago,' said Bellaver, reading from the file. 'From somewhere called Oakham. Her dad's a mortician, which will be handy. She'll get a cut rate. Since then, she's been a busy little tart. Made many friends. Paying friends. Businessmen, actors, politicians, oil sheiks. Wad of fivers in an envelope, shoved into your hot little hand while she earns it on her back? She's "modelled" for the Neville Hetherington and Sybil Waite Agencies. Names well known to the Vice Squad. Still, what's a few mucky pictures between friends, eh? You put her in blue films. Sixth Form Girls in Chains. The Science of Sex. Bathtime with Brenda. Can't say I've seen those at the Essoldo, but my tastes run more to musicals. Me and the Mrs thought Half a Sixpence was smashing. For a complete nit, you were doing nicely with your pet scrubber, weren't you?'

Lea said nothing, but fairly eloquently. Bellaver shut the file.

'That's in the dim and distant, Timmy. Not at all what concerns us, though I suppose we could bung the file over to Obscene Publications for a larf. No, we're interested in the last few hours. Would you be aware of Miss Thatcher's movements over the weekend?'

Now, Timmy had more than an inkling. He looked at Bellaver, at her, at the mirror.

'Where's Carol? What's happened?'

Now, he knew.

'Do you recall who Miss Thatcher was  -  ahem  -  with between the hours of two o'clock this morning and sun-up? Come on, lad, you must keep a diary. Little black book of names and times and places? Standard business practice in your line.'

Timmy was bled-white pale.

'Carol went on from the party last night,' he said. 'It was a scene, man. Not a thing. You dig?'

'I don't speak Raver. Do I need to get a translator in? Katie, have you the foggiest what Mr Lea means?'

'Who was Carol with when you saw her last?' she asked.

Damn. Bellaver had made her Nice Cop.

She didn't like being included in this. It might yield results, but she was uncomfortable with cruelty.

'A crowd, you know,' Timmy said, relieved to talk with someone  -  anyone  -  who wasn't a policeman and might conceivably take his side. 'People, you know. That photographer bloke? Some of his birds.'

'This photographer?' said Bellaver. 'Presumably, he has a name.'

Timmy was distracted. He would soon ask questions himself, but now he had to concentrate. He can't have had much sleep. And he'd been on the piss last night. Dope, too. If it was a scene, not a thing.

'Nolan,' he said. 'Thomas Nolan.'