Poison City (36 page)

‘And me?’

‘You’re still wanted.’ She frowns. ‘Which makes it odd that they let you go tonight.’

‘You know how it is,’ I say quickly. ‘Police and government agencies never communicate. The locals won’t know anything about the SSA situation yet.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Anything in the press?’ I ask, hoping to distract her. ‘About last night?’

She grabs a newspaper from her desk and tosses it to me. There’s a picture of the manor house burning, flames reaching up against the night sky. The headline reads, ‘Manor Inferno’.

I scan the article. Something about an electrical fault. A few fatalities, their bodies burned beyond recognition.

I toss the newspaper back onto her desk. I hadn’t really been expecting anything else.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ says Armitage. ‘This case . . . it’s getting messy. These people – they’ll do anything to protect their secrets. I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole division gets closed down. Either that or we get taken out. No investigators, no investigation.’

‘So – what? You saying we should give up?’

‘Christ, no! I was murdered because of this case. You don’t think they’ll just find another house to throw their little parties?’

‘So what are you suggesting?’

‘We might need to take it off the books. We try and put some names to the faces we saw outside the house. When they took their masks off.’ She sighs and rubs her face. ‘We might have to target them one by one, see if we can pin specific crimes onto them. Maybe put them under surveillance. Catch them when they try to do it again.’

‘You’re talking serious operational manpower there.’

‘I know.’

‘And you think we can do that on the down-low?’

She shrugs. ‘What other choice do we have? Slow and steady wins the race. As long as we catch them. As long as we stop them killing again, who cares how long it takes?’

‘I suppose.’

She gets to her feet. ‘I want a full report on my desk first thing in the morning. Let’s get cracking on these names, eh? Let’s focus on the SSA guy. What was his name? Dillon? If we can find something on him, we get them off our backs.’

I get to my feet, head to the door. I hesitate, turn back. ‘Armitage?’

‘What is it, pet?’

‘Just . . . see you round, OK?’

She waves me away. ‘Aye. See you round. First thing tomorrow.’

I leave her office and close the door behind me. First thing tomorrow? I don’t know what the world will look like first thing tomorrow.

It’s for the best,
says a voice in my head.

Here’s the thing with the Delphic Division evidence room. It’s filled with insanely dangerous occult artefacts: grimoires, hoodoo spells, desiccated Indian magi, Cthulhu demi-gods trapped within tetrahedron prisms, that kind of stuff.

Which means it’s not really open to the likes of me. Only the higher ups have access. I’m not even talking about Armitage here. If she wants to get into the room she has to fill out Requisition Permission Forms, in triplicate, which then have to be approved by someone even higher up than her.

In our case, that means Ranson.

His office is on the top floor, in the biggest room of the building. His door is always locked, but right now I don’t have time to worry about that.

I insert a screwdriver between the doorjamb and the lock, putting all my weight behind it. The lock gives with a satisfying crack and the door flies open.

I glance around the corridor to make sure no one has seen me, then slip inside and push the door closed again. It won’t stay shut so I grab his desk chair and push it up against the door to keep it in place.

I pause and look around. It’s five times the size of Armitage’s office, decked out with all the modern stylings. A glass-topped desk with chrome legs. A single painting on the wall covered with Impressionist swirlings, teal and blue, like the colours they use in movie posters. Metal book shelves with books arranged by size. An expensive looking filing cabinet made from brushed aluminum.

I head around his desk and open the top drawer. Locked. Nothing my trusty screwdriver can’t deal with.

The drawer reveals lots of official forms. Nothing interesting. The next drawer is filled with the usual office detritus that collects over the years. Paperclips, rubber bands, pens and post-it notes. The third one down is filled with car magazines.

I check the other side of the desk. Nothing at all in the top two. And stationery supplies in the bottom one. I slam it shut in frustration and hear the sound of something metal sliding around inside. I frown, pull it open again and look beneath the envelopes.

There’s a small key hidden there. I take it out and examine it. It looks like a safe key.

I look around. Only one place to hide a safe in here.

I lift the painting away from the wall.

Nothing.

I swear and let the painting drop back into place. A floor safe? Could be. I move slowly around the room, testing the carpet to see if it lifts up anywhere. No luck. It’s stapled down all around the wall.

That only leaves the filing cabinet.

I pull the top two drawers open. Personnel reports. I resist the urge to look for mine. It won’t be complimentary.

I try the bottom drawer and it slides slowly open to reveal that it’s been modified to hold a small gun safe. I insert the key and open the door. A Glock firearm and suppressor sit next to a key ring filled with keys, some money, and Ranson’s passport.

I take the gun and the keys, screwing the suppressor onto the front of the barrel. My guns are still with the police. Lilith hadn’t bothered to get those back for me.

I’m closing the filing cabinet drawer when I hear a scraping sound from behind me. I turn around to find Ranson trying to get into the office, his head half-through the door, peering down in puzzlement at the chair stopping his door from opening.

He throws his weight behind the door, shoving it open, and enters the office.

That’s when he spots me.

His eyes go wide. He tries to duck back into the corridor but I’m there in three strides. I hit him in the face with the butt of the gun and shove the door closed. He drops to his knees, blood dripping into his expensive carpet.

‘Christ, but that felt good,’ I say, ramming the chair back against the door. ‘You have
no
idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.’

‘Have you lost your mind?’ he shouts, his hand pressed against the wound.

I grab him by the arm, try to pull him up. He jerks away, then falls back with a cry of pain. I frown, put my hand around the back of his neck and drag him to one of the two chairs in front of the desk. He cries out again as I do this. He’s cradling his right arm, not even bothering with the cut over his eye.

I grab his jacket, pull it back over his shoulder. He tries to fight me but I push the gun against his head.

‘Seriously, Ranson. You do not want to fuck with me today.’

He stops resisting. I pull the jacket off his arms, let it fall back over the chair.

‘Unbutton your shirt.’

Ranson glares at me, but he does as he’s told.

‘Arms out.’

He pulls his arms out of his shirt sleeve. There’s a transparent bandage over his upper arm. I can see a wound beneath it, a line of red that has been stitched together.

A bullet wound.

I take a step back, realization dawning. ‘You were there,’ I whisper. It was him. The one I shot in the arm. He was the one holding the girl down.

‘Yes, I was there, you fucking imbecile. Do you have any idea how much damage you’ve done?’

The last pieces slot into place. It was Ranson who deleted the sin-eater references from GHOST. Ranson who turned the SSA onto us. Probably on the instructions of Stefan.

I can’t believe it. How could I have worked under someone for so long and not know?

I look at the keys I took from his safe. ‘One of these opens our gun lockers.’

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me defiantly.

‘You killed Becca.’

I barely recognize my voice. It’s a hoarse growl. I grab him by the neck, pushing the gun against his head. For the first time I see fear in his eyes.

‘No! Not me. I just got the gun. Dillon killed her. The SSA guy. I swear it!’

I hit him in the head with the gun. He squeals and tries to shield himself but I keep hitting him. Blood flows over my hands, down his face. He moans, begs me to stop. It’s only with a supreme force of will that I do.

He looks at me in a daze. His left eye is ruptured. A flap of skin hangs over his forehead like a fringe of hair.

‘You . . . don’t know what you’re doing,’ he mumbles. ‘I . . . have friends. Powerful friends. They’re going to catch you. They’re going to hunt you down—’

I punch him in the mouth as hard as I can. His teeth tear into my knuckles. He falls to the floor, moaning, cradling his jaw.

I stare down at him, my breath coming in great heaving gasps. At the mess of his face.

I did that. I’m becoming just like them.

No. Not like them. I’m getting justice for all the people they’ve fucked over. That’s what I’m doing.

A tiny voice in my head argues with me. That’s not for you to decide, it whispers. But I shake it off. It is. It’s for me to decide when this conspiracy spreads to judges and politicians, to those who are supposed to protect the innocent.

I hold out the keys to him. ‘Which one opens the evidence room?’ He doesn’t answer. I slap him. ‘Which one?’

He points weakly at an intricately cut key. ‘Wuh . . . won’t do any guh-good.’

‘Why?’

‘Eye scan. Bio . . . Biometrics.’

I stare at him.

There’s a line here.

If I cross this point there’s no going back. I mean, after last night, there’s really no going back anyway, but this . . . it’s a
personal
line in the sand. If I do this, then it’s over for me. I have no moral high ground anymore.

I stare at Ranson, crying and threatening me with alternating breaths. This . . . parasite. This murderer. The things he’s done. The things he’s done and doesn’t even remember!

This is where Lilith’s justice comes in. No one else will do what has to be done. It’s down to me.

I shoot him in the chest. He jerks, then lies still. I look around on his desk and find a letter opener, then I crouch down next to his body, push his head to the side so his good eye is staring at me.

Then I get to work.

The evidence room is down one of the corridors that branch off from the Hub. The Hub itself is covered by Eshu’s cameras, so I know as soon as I make a move I’ve got to be quick. Eshu’s sort of a friend, but even he’ll be wondering why I’m making my way towards the Evidence Room when I’m not supposed to be able to gain access.

I consider writing a note and leaving it on my desk. Because, let’s face it, this is the last time I’ll be stepping foot inside Delphic Division. What with me murdering my boss and everything. But I decide against it. What’s the point? Everyone will make up their own minds anyway.

I’m sad about Armitage, though. I want to explain everything to her, but I have no idea how to make her understand.

I don’t think anyone will understand.

I’m stalling.

When I realise that I make a move, head out of the office and into the Hub. No hesitation. Straight into the corridor that leads to the evidence room. I use my body to block the door and hold Ranson’s eyeball against the sensor. A panel opens up and I use the key to unlock the door.

I step inside and close the door behind me. A large room with floor-to-ceiling metal shelving recedes into the distance, all of them filled with neatly labelled plastic containers. I scan the ceiling. Cameras in each of the corners. Shit. Have to move fast. I check the closest boxes, moving by date until I find our case number. I cut the cable ties and unclip the lid.

The box is filled with transparent bags. The first hold Jengo and Caitlyn Long’s clothing. Another bag holds her personal appointment diary. Another her handbag. But no soul.

I frown. Where else would Armitage put it? I check the box behind it. It’s also labelled with our case number. I cut the ties and pull the lid off.

Miscellaneous effects. The ramanga’s ID book. His wallet.

And, at the very bottom, a small plastic box.

I pick it up and shake it. What sounds like a marble rattles around inside. I check it just to make sure. A round ball, smaller than Armitage’s soul had been. This one is a muddy brown colour.

I smile grimly, excitement and hope stirring to sluggish life.

I drop Jengo’s soul into my hand and close up the boxes. I walk calmly to the door. Nearly there. Nearly clear.

I pull the door open.

Armitage is standing in the corridor, five paces away. Her hands sunk into the pockets of her old mac.

I freeze, my hand resting on the door. I search her face, trying to read her, see what she knows.