“But it has all the hallmarks of a Conquistador attack. The only difference was, it was unplanned. You just didn’t happen to have your armour handy. You seized the moment, thinking you’d rack up another dead priest to add to your total.”
“Pure supposition. Assuming I was the Conquistador, would I really do something so rash? Why?”
“Because you’re cocky. You’re out of control. You’re so far into this, you just can’t help yourself any more.”
“And I’m killing priests for what reason, precisely?”
“Because priests killed your wife and son.”
“ Sacrificed them. Crucial distinction.”
“Same end result, though. They wound up dead.”
“My wife put herself on the altar voluntarily. It was her decision. Nobody forced her to do it.”
“Except the voices inside her head.”
“Crudely put, but yes. You could, perhaps, call it suicide by theocracy. But then to hate the entire hieratic caste for it, to want to seek revenge on them — it’s not logical.”
“Is it not?” said Chief Inspector Vaughn. “Grief isn’t logical, though. It takes all sorts of strange forms. Grievance is one of them.”
“You sound like someone who knows whereof she speaks.”
Bullseye. A tiny flinch of the policewoman’s eyes. Stuart had at last scored a hit against her.
“You think grief would compel a man to dress up in armour,” he continued, “and visit vigilante justice on his nation’s ruling elite?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him. Past you. You fit all the criteria. You have the resources, the training, the capability, above all the motivation.”
“Ultimately a self-defeating course of action, though, wouldn’t you agree?” said Stuart. “Suppose I, as the Conquistador, manage to foment a revolution, as he intends to. The people rise up, stage a coup, throw off the shackles of imperial rule, declare an independent Britain. What then? I’m out of a job, for starters. What use is the obsidian trade in a country no longer run along Empire lines?”
“In answer to that, I’d say that you haven’t thought that far ahead. You want to satisfy your thirst for vengeance here and now. The rest — the further ramifications — can all take care of itself. You’re not bothered, so long as priests and acolytes and anyone else directly associated with the Empire die in their droves. Besides,” she added, “rich man like you, I reckon you’ve got enough money salted away in assets and savings that you could manage pretty well for yourself even without income from your company.”
“What this comes down to, Miss Vaughn, is that you’ve made your mind up about me. I’m the Conquistador, that’s decided, and you won’t be swayed from your opinion. Trouble is, other than the happenstance of me sharing a flight with His Holiness Marquand, there’s nothing to connect me to any of the Conquistador’s killings — and we’re not even sure Marquand was one of those. Therefore, unless you have actual concrete proof to back up these wild allegations of yours, I would ask you kindly to go away now and stop harassing me.”
The detective bridled. “You do not talk to a Jaguar Warrior in that way.”
“Oh, I think I do,” Stuart shot back.
“I could have you down the nick in three seconds flat. I could have a dozen of the burliest men on the force working you over, just on my say-so.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“You won’t, can’t, because you know it won’t fly. The Jaguars can get away with pretty much anything, but hauling in Stuart Reston for questioning? The Stuart Reston? On the flimsiest of hunches that he might be the Conquistador? I think not. I’m a public figure. I’m regarded as part of the state apparatus, much as you yourself are. Without something cast-iron against me, you’d risk making yourself and the force as a whole look pretty foolish. You’d be doing the Conquistador’s work for him. And once I got out of custody — and I would, you can be sure of that — I’d make sure the world knew all about it. A misstep like that, I doubt you’d ever recover from.”
“I have nothing to lose.”
“I think you do. Otherwise you’d have arrested me already.”
“All right. Granted. But…” Chief Inspector Vaughn leaned in close and lowered her voice to a lion-like growl. “You’d better pray I never get to the point where I do have nothing to lose. Because then, matey, you are well and truly buggered.”
Stuart stood his ground. The skirmish was over. He didn’t think he’d won but he had at least forced a stalemate.
“Perhaps you should leave now, chief inspector,” he said.
“Oh, I’m going,” she replied. “But this isn’t the last you’ll be hearing from me. Definitely not the last.”
She looked as though she was about to turn away. Stuart saw the punch coming. Her upper body tensed. She began to pivot on the ball of one foot.
He could have blocked it. He knew how. Every instinct told him to.
But a flash-thought said, It’s a test. She wants confirmation. You have to fail it.
So the punch landed, smack dab on his jaw, undeflected, and it was a cracker of a blow, carrying all her weight behind it, expertly swung. Stuart’s head exploded, and his legs crumpled. He had thought he would have to fake pain as he lay there on the floor of his office, so as to discourage her from giving him another wallop, but the pain was genuine and raw. His jaw fucking well hurt. Hurt like flames.
He looked up at her, wincing, smarting. “What the — what the hell was that for?”
“Just because. Think of it as a downpayment, Mr Tycoon. A promise of more to come.”
So saying, Chief Inspector Vaughn waltzed out. The door slammed behind her.
Stuart slowly picked himself up. He braved a smile, even though his jawbone was throbbing and it felt like there were splinters of glass embedded in it and smiling did nothing to alleviate the pain.
Being the Conquistador had just got rather more interesting.
EIGHT
Same Day
Well, that could have gone more smoothly, Mal thought as she drove across town.
She hadn’t intended to tip her hand to Reston that he was a person of interest in an ongoing investigation. She had let her temper get the better of her. If only he hadn’t been so arrogant, so infuriatingly, insufferably smug…
On the other hand, now he knew he was under suspicion. That could work to Mal’s advantage. He might just become a whole lot more reckless. He might, like a fox with the hounds on its tail, do something wild and impulsive which would leave him dangerously exposed.
He also might take fright and give up being the Conquistador altogether. Mal didn’t think this likely, but if she had managed to bring a halt to the Conquistador atrocities, in spite of there being no arrest and conviction, that would be something.
At least she’d got that punch in. Her knuckles ached agreeably. Never underestimate the cathartic power of a solid roundhouse right.
Back at the Yard, she went looking for Kellaway. She wanted to report her findings — her certainty that Stuart Reston was their man. Having filled the chief superintendent in on her progress with the case and lowered his blood pressure somewhat, she could then start digging into Reston’s recent past and trying to correlate his known movements with the timings of the Conquistador’s attacks. At present she had only her drug vision and Reston’s lofty, egotistical attitude to tell her she was right, and neither was irrefutable proof. She needed more. She needed hard facts to substantiate her gut conviction. Her pride demanded it.
Aaronson intercepted her en route to Kellaway’s office.
“I wouldn’t go see him now if I were you, boss,” he warned.
“Why ever not?”
“He’s… he’s just had some bad news.”
“How bad?”
“The worst. The commissioner called him upstairs a couple of hours ago. Since then, the word’s spread like wildfire. Chief super’s going to be striped.”
Mal reeled. “No. Fucking. Way.”
Her DS gave a sombre nod. “This afternoon, at five. He’s on the phone right now to friends and family, making his peace.”