Poison City (23 page)

Grimes is the person who puts up the bond, for a hefty fee, of course. In the process he’s earned a reputation as being a tough son of a bitch with knowledge of and contacts within the orisha world that are second to none.

The garage door slides up with a metallic rattle and he pulls Buno inside. We follow him into a large empty room then into a short hallway. There’s an old rusted bicycle with no wheels sitting on the floor. A sun-bleached photograph of a family on holiday hangs on the wall.

We enter his reception area. It’s so generic as to be almost invisible. Ancient aluminium chairs, a table with ten-year old magazines, and a wilted fern. His receptionist, Lydia, sits behind a desk covered with bulging folders. She’s holding a phone in the crook of her neck while she types on one of those old clickety-clackety keyboards. Her monitor is CRT, no fancy LCD screens for Harry Grimes. He’s a known cheapskate.

Grimes pushes Buno into one of the chairs. The metal legs creak then give with a groan, depositing Buno butt-first onto the floor.

‘Oh, for fuck— you know what? Stay there. OK?’

‘OK,’ says Buno.

The fact that Buno is being so obedient might impress Joe Average, but the truth is we gave Grimes the method for manufacturing these collars. He has a freelance conjurer on his payroll, and when he has to put up the bond for an orisha, the conjurer draws out some of the client’s spirit and attaches it to the collar. The client also has to enter into a binding magical spell that acts as a contract, giving command of themselves over to Grimes when the collar is in place.

’Course, none of them think he’ll get a chance to use it on them. Those that run off before their court dates think they’ll get the hell out of Dodge before Grimes even knows they’re gone. But he hasn’t lost a single orisha yet. Those that run are always caught, usually by freelance bounty hunters. I’ve taken on a few jobs myself when money was tight.

‘Yeah, I’m not sure about that, honey,’ says Lydia into the phone. ‘You say your bail has been set as “the dreams of the Djinn Al’aka as he sits trapped for a millennium in his bottle”? What’s that?
Two
millennia? Let me guess. The judge was that Victorian ghost? Mr Ravenhill? Yeah, thought so. Look, I’ll talk to Harry, see what he says, OK?’

She hangs up and looks at Harry. He shrugs. ‘Give me a few hours to call around.’ He glances at us. ‘You want tea? Coffee?’

I shake my head. Armitage does likewise and we follow him through a door behind Lydia’s desk.

The three of us can barely fit into the room. It’s more like a walk-in closet than an office. There are no windows, so the heat is stifling. Two desk fans placed in opposite corners of the room battle to push the turgid air around.

I look around for a place to sit. No chance. Filing cabinets are lined up around the walls and an old chipboard desk takes up the rest of the space. There are files everywhere: piled up to either side of his chair, on his desk, on top of the cabinets.

‘Christ, how can you work in here?’

Grimes looks around as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. He shrugs and sits down, reaching under his desk for a bottle of water. He gulps some of it down.

‘So,’ he says after he’s drained half the bottle. ‘Hot enough for you?’

Armitage smiles sweetly at him. ‘You know, I actually arrested someone who asked me that once.’

‘Did you now? And I take it you’re Armitage? His long-suffering boss?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Great. Now we all know each other. What can I do for you? You looking for more work?’

‘Uh . . . no.’ I throw a sideways glance at Armitage. The Division has a bit of a strict policy on moonlighting. ‘We were hoping you could tell us a bit about a class of orisha.’

‘Sin-eaters,’ says Armitage.

‘Sin-eaters?’

‘Yeah. You know the stories. They go to the house of the deceased—’

‘I know the stories,’ he says. ‘But that’s all they are.’

‘You mean you’ve never dealt with one?’

‘Never.’

‘But . . . somebody has to know
something
,’ says Armitage.

‘Well, sure.
Somebody
might. But not me.’

Shit. Another dead end.

‘Actually . . .’ says Grimes.

‘What?’

‘How do you feel about the fae?’

‘I find them very annoying, smug, and obtuse. Why?’

‘Because there’s one – a lore-collector. It’s a holy position among the fae. Her official title is the Lord High Lore-Keeper and Guardian of the Ancient Rites and Hidden Histories of Mankind.’

Armitage snorts. ‘Jumped up and full of themselves, the lot of them. What does everyone else call her?’

‘Gran.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’

‘Where is she?’ I ask.

‘The Sleeping Market.’

‘That’s started up again?’ I say in surprise. ‘Where?’

‘Warwick Junction. She’s there every night on Muti Bridge. Least, until they move on. But I reckon that will only be in the autumn. They like the sun too much.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem. You’ll have to get there before the normal markets close for the day, though. No way in once the gates are locked down.’

We leave Grimes’ offices and head back along Grey Street. I skirt around a shop owner pushing plastic crates of bread into his store, shaking my head at a dude trying to sell me an old Japanese knock-off cell phone.

My phone rings. Parker.

‘What’s up?’

‘There’s been another murder.’

I stop walking. ‘A sin-eater?’

‘Could be. Same MO.’

‘Where is it?’

‘The Oyster Box hotel. Out in Umhlanga. Victim’s name is Caitlyn Long.’

‘Isn’t the Oyster Box that five star place? Where all the Hollywood big shots stay when they come here?’

‘The very same. As you can imagine, they’re very keen to keep this as quiet as possible.’

I tell Armitage and we climb into her car.

‘Oyster Box, eh?’ she says, glancing over her shoulder, then pulling out into traffic. ‘I think this is going to be a long investigation. They might have to put us up for the night.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Good luck with that. I’m not a hundred per cent confident they’ll even let us in the front door.’

Immaculately scrubbed cobbles lead to an open air foyer outside the hotel. Huge ferns planted in intricately painted pots line the walls. Palm trees flank the building, flags on the roof fluttering in the warm breeze.

The glass doors are watched over by a tall black man wearing a glaringly white colonial uniform. He looks nervous, ill at ease.

He glances at Armitage in her old coat and scuffed shoes and steps forward to block our way. We show him our IDs before he gets a chance to ask us to leave.

‘Where’s the manager?’ Armitage asks.

He doesn’t get a chance to respond. A short guy in a charcoal suit walk-runs towards Armitage and me. He peers around me, checking the parking lot. I follow his gaze.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Armitage. ‘No big nasty police cars to scare the rich guests.’

He bows slightly, managing to combine the bow with a cringe. ‘Ha-hah. Yes. No. Of course. No offence. Sorry.’ He straightens up and tries to smooth his suit. ‘Bit of a rough morning, as I’m sure you can imagine. Um . . . the name’s Mason.’

I nod. ‘Where’s the body?’

He winces at the word. ‘If you’ll just follow me. I’ll ah . . . take you to the unfortunate . . . guest. She’s in the presidential suite.’

He stands aside and gestures for us to enter. We walk through the doors, onto brown tiles. Cool air wafts over us, but from hidden air-conditioning vents, not the slowly circling ceiling fans. Ferns and greenery lurk in alcoves, concealed lighting illuminates oil paintings.

Mason takes us past the reception area, heading straight for an elevator. Two uniformed SAPS officers are standing discreetly in the shadows, almost swallowed up by the foliage of the pot plants. Armitage and I flash our IDs at them and the manager swipes a card over a sensor. The elevator doors open immediately and we step inside. The doors close and I feel a lurch as we get moving. I check out the wall. No buttons.

‘How does it know what floor to go to?’

‘This is a private elevator. For the Presidential Suite.’

Armitage whistles. ‘Not bad. How much would a night there set me back?’

‘Ah . . . the cost of a night’s stay is fifty thousand rand, madam.’

‘Shut the bloody hell up,’ says Armitage immediately.

‘Uh . . .’

‘What my esteemed colleague is trying to say is, that’s not cheap.’

‘Ah. I see. But that cost does cover many benefits. Access to our gym, our spa—’

‘For fifty kay a night, I hope it includes a half-naked male masseuse permanently on call. Because that’s the only thing that would justify that kind of money. So? Does it?’

She stares at the manager. I’m feeling kind sorry for the guy.

‘Does it what?’

‘Include a male masseuse.’

‘No.’

‘Bloody rip-off.’

The elevator
bings
softly and the doors slide open onto an opulent lounge. Mason is about to step out but I put a hand out to stop him. Armitage is already taking out the paper overshoes she grabbed from her car.

‘We’ll take it from here,’ I say. ‘How many people have been into the room?’

‘Well, the butler obviously. He’s
incredibly
traumatized. He’s going to need psychiatric leave. I don’t know where I’m going to find a replacement. Um . . . then me, of course. And the police, but there were only three of them.’

‘I’ll need the keycard.’

He hands it to me and I pull on my overshoes. Armitage is already standing in the lounge, staring around with an unimpressed look on her face. I follow after and swipe the card over the sensor so the doors slide shut in the manager’s face.

I take a deep breath and check out the surroundings.

‘It’s very . . . white,’ I say.

Everything looks like it’s just been freshly painted. White lounge suite, white wing-back chairs, gold-rimmed mirrors. Huge white pillars and a long white dining table –
two
dining tables.

‘Why do they need two dining rooms?’ asks Armitage.

‘No idea. I don’t even have one.’

‘Well, no, but you’re a savage, aren’t you?’

‘Thanks,’ I say absently. I walk across the diamond-shaped tiles and take the stairs to the upper level. It’s the bedroom with an adjoining sitting room. Two bathrooms – his and hers, I suppose. I enter the closest. A massive bath dominates the room, positioned in front of a huge bay window looking out over the ocean. I sniff the soaps. Wrinkle my nose at the pungent odour.

‘Out here,’ calls Armitage from the bedroom.

I retrace my steps. I see Armitage through the windows, out on the balcony. I step through the doors. The sea breeze hits me, fresh, warm, the smell of salt and seaweed. I take a deep breath and gaze out over the ocean. The red and white lighthouse that’s become a bit of a landmark around here stands proud against the sky.

Nice view.

‘If you’ve quite finished sightseeing?’

I reluctantly turn away. My eyes drop down to the body.

It’s a woman. She’s lying on the balcony in a pool of congealed blood. Her chest has been ripped out. But this time there’s something different. An odd, yellowish powder that coats the body.

I squat down and gently touch it. Fine. Like ash. I bring it up to my nose to take a sniff.

And end up hanging over the balcony puking my guts out into the bushes below the terrace. The powder smells like week-old corpses left out in the summer sun.

‘Come on, now, London,’ says Armitage disapprovingly. ‘You’re letting the side down.’

I wipe my mouth and turn back, leaning weakly on the balcony. I take a cautious sniff of the air. Nothing. But something that strong, it should stink out the whole place, shouldn’t it?

‘Bag some of that powder.’

‘Ooh, giving orders now are we?’

‘Please?’

Armitage salutes. ‘Yes sir.’

I take a deep breath, trying to clear my lungs of that stink. I nod at the body. ‘You think she’s a sin-eater too?’

‘If she is, she did a lot better at it than the first victim. To make this kind of money.’

I nod. Of course, she might not be a sin-eater at all. It could just be coincidence. Or maybe Lilith wanted her dead for some other reason.

‘Find her appointment book,’ says Armitage. ‘Her laptop. Whatever. Let’s see if we can find out why she was in town.’

My phone rings. It’s Jaeger. Her and Maddoc have arrived at the hotel. Armitage and I search around till we find the victim’s phone and laptop, then we head back down to the ground floor and hand the keycard over to the orisha.