Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets (14 page)

We park, without difficulty, outside the house belonging to the two lovebirds. Actually, I’d say that the brief parable of their ‘emancipated’ lives has made Gilder and Inla more like two poxy pigeons. A short flight of steps leads to an anonymous door, slotted between the bare, black and slimy-looking bricks of the walls. They must have been red once, but negligence and the additional precipitatio have taken their toll, one of which, aesthetic damage, is certainly one of the area’s least worrying issues. I close the car door and pull my raincoat over my head, running to shelter underneath the shabby canopy over the door.

Unfortunately it’s not enough. The rain and hailstones combine with a myriad of wet, dirty particles—in other words, all the splashes from the upper levels and the filthy water which commits suicide by throwing itself from the Eighth Level. Shitty floating dust which sticks to everything, making it look like it’s coated in a layer of engine oil. The so-called ‘additional precipitation’, in fact. And guess what? It causes cancer. After all, is there anything that doesn’t, nowadays?

I allow myself a snigger when the rumble of the Inspector’s Fiamma 1600 cuts out and he gets out without an umbrella or a hat. Disgustedly, Cohl looks up in an attempt to work out what is falling on his head.

“Come on, you moron!” I beckon him to come towards me. He complies, and tries to shield himself with his arms.

“For Mother’s sake, what’s this?”

“The sweat of the rich. Am I right in thinking you just blasphemed?”

“No, you’re wrong. I invoked. What do you mean by the sweat of the rich?”

“I knew it. You’ve never been here before.”

“No,” the kid admits.

“This is the filth from the upper levels, boy, the rain washes it down.”

“So it’s always like this here? Every time it rains?” he asks, incredulous.

“Sometimes it’s worse, if something breaks. But yes, this is what it’s like generally.”

“But it’s outrageous! I can’t believe there’s no way of fixing it”

“Ah, of course there is. Do you think the managers on the southern edge of the Tenth or Eleventh would live in these,” I motion to our surroundings, “conditions?”

“Then why—”

“Because no one gives a rat’s arse about the people who live here. I mean, if they were worth anything they wouldn’t live here in the first place.”

Nohl shakes his head and, following a fruitless search for a doorbell, knocks.

“The Spire will most likely answer the door in his bathrobe now you’ve knocked.”

“Well why don’t you come up with something then, Lieutenant,” he snaps back.

I jingle the keyring right in front of his nose, with the jimmy in plain view. It takes a few seconds before I hear the lock click open. I push the door open and I take a little bow for Cohl’s benefit, who is looking at me with a spark of admiration in his eyes.

“Do they teach that in the Federal Guard?”

“Nectropis teaches you that when you’re a kid.”

We go in armed, because if, on one hand, it’s true that Gilder going back home would be a really dumb move, on the other hand, twenty years in the force has taught me never to underestimate the stupidity of people. A flash of lightning gives us a first glimpse inside, apparently deserted, this is immediately accompanied by a clap of thunder which makes the windows vibrate. Quickly, we explore the house, turning the lights on along the way. The old light switch makes a loud
tlac
noise.

The only furniture in the hallway is a coathook, an empty umbrella stand and a phone, stashed in an alcove in the wall. The walls however are packed with paintings, particularly landscapes, they’re definitely painted by the same hand, but the styles vary wildly, as though the artist amused himself by experimenting with different painting techniques to suit his mood. Wonder if they’re worth anything. I don’t really know a lot about art. I stand there for a minute absorbed in my observation of a dark-hued canvas, in some way it looks familiar to me. It takes me a while to realise that it’s Nectropis, seen from the Lovl’Atheron tower, almost exactly the same spot I spat from yesterday.

Tlac
, the living room. Finely furnished, for a hovel. The energy-saving light bulbs in the wall lights are slow to do their job, they give the room, with the help of the storm, a ghostly feel. Not one but two bookcases, on opposite walls of the room, overflow with books. Armchair, sofa, table, ornaments, a nice rug. No television; pointy eared people don’t care for cathode entertainment, it seems. The lush, green houseplant in the corner looks as though it wants to get the hell out of this place, it’s on the verge of pulling up its roots and making a break for it. There’s a plethora of paintings here too, mainly portraits. A whole wall is devoted to the master of the house, in varying degrees of nudity, but what really grabs my attention is the missing painting right in the centre of the crowd of two-dimensional Gilders. On the opposite wall, there are lots of different subjects, I don’t recognise most of them. Apart from Valan, of course. The patriarch is rigidly immortalised on his bench viewed from below, severe lines and hard eyes. He’s almost as frightening as he is in the flesh, it has to be said: Inla was a dab hand with the brush, before she devoted herself full-time to death.

I indicate the bedroom to Cohl, which is briefly lit by another lightning flash.

This time the sound of the light switch is swallowed by the crashing storm outside. The double bed is unmade, the wardrobe doors are wide open and half empty. Some drawers in a smaller piece of furniture are sticking out, with the odd sock hanging over the edge like an accidental parody of the City. On top of the drawers are various framed photographs of the two of them, in classic couple poses; also here, the biggest one has left its silver frame an orphan. Underneath the bedside lamp sits a weighty novel, the reader will have to resign to the fact that he’ll never find out how it ends. Despite a few rebellious pages which have hidden the bookmark, the volume is still open. I close it.

“Well, I’d say that nobody’s been here for a few days.”

“Gilder packed his bags in a hurry and ran away.”

I turn round to examine the room more closely. Clearly something isn’t quite right.

“Something isn’t quite right,” I repeat out loud, pointing to the empty frame on top of the chest of drawers—why would Gilder murder his lover, then come back home to get a photograph and a painting, which were probably keepsakes to remind him of Inla?

“Remorse, maybe.”

“You think so, eh?” I scratch my chin contemplatively. “Well then, why didn’t he turn himself in?”

Cohl shrugs his shoulders. “There’s no guarantee that remorse is enough to convince someone to march into jail.”

“True.” I’m forced to agree, even though I still smell a rat. “Let’s finish the search.”

We recross the living room to inspect the other rooms. The bathroom is clean and tidy, though someone left the toilet seat up, the toilet paper is nearly finished and there are only condiments, water and a frozen steak in the fridge. The rabbit must have gathered up all his carrots to make a packed lunch for his escape, I suppose. Or perhaps Inla was murdered just before he went shopping. Thinking about it, the hare was dressed a little too smartly for a housewife when they did her in. What was she doing? Rummaging around in the cupboard I come across a bottle of whiskey, which I immediately turn into an empty whiskey bottle. I leaf through the calendar hanging on the wall, a free gift from a discount sandwich place, and I discover a big fat ‘X’ on the first Tuesday of November, so, a couple of weeks from now; an event so important that it doesn’t require any written explanation, such as ‘dentist 4.00p.m.’ or ‘birthday whatshisface’. The classic ribbon at the finishing line, a special mark used not for remembering something but to calculate the distance of a goal at a glance. Apart from that date the calendar is clear.

Whatever it was, Inla never made it, and judging by how things are going at the moment, Gilder hasn’t got much of a chance either. If the elf really is the murderer why didn’t he finish me off when he had me in the palm of his hand?

The last room is almost certainly the only one of its kind in a one-kilometre (horizontal) radius. An elegant study, the shelves are piled high with dusty books, strange stills and unusual devices. There’s a shelf above the writing desk with a collection of the most common substances used for spells stored inside recycled pickle and tomato sauce jars. In one corner there’s also an easel and some canvases, stacked between a stool and the wall.

“And what’s this?” asks the Inspector, fascinated.

“A wizard’s workshop, of course. As well as Inla’s creative space. Off the top of my head I’d say thirty, forty thousand crowns’ worth of equipment.”

Nohl whistles.

“It’s not a lot really. The more valuable stuff is missing, and these books…” I quickly trace my finger underneath the embossed titles on the spines.“Yeah, they’re nothing special. Mid-level grimoires at the most.” I continue until I get to an empty space. I stroke the wood to see if there’s any dust. Just as I thought.

“The rare ones were here. I suppose the more expensive reactants have disappeared, too. After all, we already knew that Gilder is armed and dangerous.”

“My back reminds me every time I bend over.”

“All right, all we can do is turn the place inside out, seeing as we don’t have any other leads. Seeing as you understand sweet fuck all about magic, you take the living room and I’ll start here.”

Cohl nods without any argument and disappears into the other room while I pounce on the writing desk. There’s no gold ink amongst the ink that’s left, but a close examination of the tiny fractures on the surface of the wood reveals it’s been used in the past. It’s not exactly hard evidence as a lot of magic inscriptions use that particular pigment, but at least it’s something, a rare certainty in the midst of all this chaos. The certainty of uncertainty, in other words: Gilder could also have sent the envelope to me.

Despite my lack of faith in the potential of a closer inspection of the place which had already been cleaned by the fugitive, a second drawer in the desk contains an absolute bomb, a breakthrough. Nexus tickets, prepaid, no specified date. Three of them. Just left there.

“Hey kid!” I shout, interrupting the beginnings of his noisy activity.

“What is it?” He stops at the door. I wave the receipts under his nose.

“Three people… so we still don’t know about all the people involved in this business,” reasons the Inspector, following a quick examination of them.

“I reckon,” I continue enthusiastically, “that the ‘x’ was for these.”

“One way,” he murmurs.

“Of course, so it’s only logical that there’s nothing left. The lovebirds wanted to leave Nectropis. They’ll know more at Nexus, at least when the tickets were booked. Maybe we’ll find out who the gooseberry is. But, if we remove the possibility that there were four tickets, this means that—”

“—Gilder doesn’t want to escape the City!” we conclude in unison.

“You stay here, see if there’s anything else.”

“You call and let me know, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, darling.”

I happily sing along to the song on the radio, tooting my horn every now and then just to feel like I’m a part of this wonderful traffic jam. While I’m preparing another line, a middle-aged woman, stressed-out by the daily slog, stares at me in shock from her vehicle and makes her little boy look away when I flip her the finger before returning to the task in hand. I must admit: now we’ve got past the ‘go ‘round and ask questions pointlessly’ stage, the case is getting interesting, and has made me rediscover the joy of finding things out. A double discovery, let’s say. Finding those tickets made me feel useful for once. For this reason, congratulating myself, I’m on my third snort since I left Cohl in the middle of the additional precipitation.

“
Na, nana na…”
I croon off key, with an ecstatic smile on my face and a snow-capped nose. So, it might be revenge. It makes more sense. Scene: female hare with two male rabbits full of sperm; she chooses THE SPIRE, so then the rejected rabbit, now unable to fuck her head off, settles for inserting half a millimetre of steel into her heart. The other one loses it and starts to hunt him down with his own personal shiny skewer.

However, following this same logical thread, the envelope doesn’t tie in. What if, on the other hand, Gilder has only stayed behind to make sure that his friend’s murderer gets caught? Wait, the contract works both ways, then that could well be his reason for staying in the City. Maybe he didn’t expect me to find him so soon. But if he’s innocent, why didn’t he go directly to the police?

I rest my eyes for a moment, the excitement’s worn off a bit now. In the end, finding those tickets has only opened up new questions. This fucking business seems to be going on for ever, and it certainly doesn’t help that the last few hours of sleep were the consequence of having seven shades of shit beaten out of me. A blow job and a bed, sheer bliss. Onirò invigorates the energy in my body, and when I open my eyes the other cars are moving alongside me, leaving a long gap in my lane. I slowly realise that the last honking was at me. In the car behind me there’s a guy wearing a jacket and tie. He’s walloping the steering wheel like a madman, the cigarette in his mouth is bobbing up and down. When he can’t stand it any longer he lowers the car window, and sticks his head out into the rain to shout at me to make me move, all this is accompanied by a barrage of colourful insults.

I put the car into reverse. Bam.

The motorist is beside himself, and gets out of the car in a rage. I get out too, with a gun in my hand.

“What the fuck do you want?” I face him.

“Um. Nothing…” he gulps.

“Ah, nothing? So you’re pissing me off just to pass the time? Eh?”

He doesn’t say a word, he doesn’t know what to say. He’s floundering and looking for something to hang onto, something which inevitably, he won’t find.

“Well? Aren’t you going
waaa
anymore?! Do you like it if I do it? Eh?
Waaaa
!” I roar at him, purple in the face.