Geraint hadn’t been able to do much more about Serrin. Returning to Longstanton would be far too dangerous. Inquiries among his contacts in the Home Office revealed no dead elves washed up downriver or found floating in a lock. Then again, the body wasn’t likely to turn up as a statistic in official body counts if it had been Fuchi security that got Serrin. On that score, he could only hope against hope.
Francesca was coming home from Maudsley Hospital tomorrow night. He’d ordered some flowers delivered, and he intended to make a second trip to the ward this evening if he ever managed to escape the interminable wranglings of the House. Doctor van der Merwe, the smooth and unctuous South African doctor, had reassured him of Francesca’s progress in a tone of voice that strongly suggested he believed that most people had IQs smaller than their boot sizes, and that they needed medical matters explained in words of two syllables at most. Geraint’s testy reference to his own degree in neuropsychology hadn’t made a dent.
He got away from the House just after six, the guillotine on the bill promising a merciful release after tomorrow’s business. Knowing Francesca would ask what the police had to say, he decided to check with them again.
It was purely by virtue of his title that he caught a couple of minutes with Chief Inspector Swanson. Tweed-suited and smoking an especially malodorous pipe, the pudgy man sat behind his spacious desk, obviously irritated at having to deal with the nobleman.
“We’ll make all possible inquiries, of course,” Swanson said, “but forensics didn’t come up with much. Besides, we’re stretched on manpower right now. A gentleman like yourself would know about that, of course.”
Geraint didn’t take the edge of reproach well. He wasn’t responsible for the Home Office’s funding of the force, and it had already been a long and tedious day. He snapped back a rejoinder suggesting that the police weren’t doing all they could, and Swanson’s expression changed to one of cold formality.
"Sir," the man said archly, “my men have had to deal with eleven murders over this past weekend alone. We’ve got a racist troll butchering in the East End, and our men are out in cars trying to stop a riot developing. If half of what I’m told about the Squeeze is correct, we’ll be getting a regular wagonload of bodies across the river any day now. And, sir, in the case of Miss Chapman there is slight complication owing to gentlemen such as yourself. Because of her line of work, certain individuals have let it be known that overly enthusiastic inquiries might reveal rather embarrassing associations. That, of course, makes matters increasingly difficult for us. The disabling of the security monitors in her flat suggests that such an individual might have been involved in her demise, too. Now, sir, we’ll do what we can and I will notify you if we come up with anything. In the meantime, thank you for your statement, which has been most helpful.”
Swanson stood up and offered his hand in dismissal. Geraint should have realized the man’s predicament. Annie Chapman was a high-class prostitute whose clientele would have included nobles, members of parliament, and corporate high-fliers. Strings were being pulled to prevent any publicity involving them. No wonder the murder hadn’t made the news.
Feeling defeated and depressed, Geraint drove across the city to the hospital, where Doctor van der Merwe informed him that Ms. Young was in preliminary sedation before her final neuroconditioning session. Looking into the room, Geraint was pleased to see the fine bouquet of orchids and tiger lilies Simpson’s had sent over for him. They were her favorites.
Back home, Geraint restlessly took up the Tarot cards. He’d been avoiding them for days, afraid to ask. But as time passed and no sign of the mage was forthcoming, the cards were the only source of information he had. Closing his eyes, shuffling smoothly and silently, he felt himself drift a little, almost as if he could hear the soothing wash of the Thames far below his sealed windows. He stopped, cut the deck and half-fearfully turned over the top card. Feeling a wave of blessed relief to see that was not one of ill omen, Geraint realized just how much he’d been dreading what the cards would tell him.
The Wheel.
So, you will not answer me except as a riddle. Serrin is in the hands of Fortune, and I cannot read that fortune now. At least you leave me with room for hope.
He shuffled again, thinking about Annie, remembering her face on the telecom rather than the horror of the bedroom. He cut again and the great bony figure was no surprise to him.
Death.
Well, of course. He continued to shuffle, this time hardly aware of what he wanted to ask or know, his thoughts divided between concern for Francesca and his frustration at trying to get something, anything, out of the police. He cut to reveal another card and the dead girl’s face returned to his mind.
Death.
This time the card surprised him. It was very rare for the cards to repeat such an image. Another death? Fran? But when he registered no fear at the thought, he felt the card was not warning him of that. He was confused, for a moment afraid that it might mean Serrin, but the Wheel had already told him that was not the meaning either.
I’m just clutching at straws, he thought wearily. I can’t get this clear now. He tried to focus his mind by asking the deck for a card representing himself. That often helped to clarify matters.
The Fool.
It was the standard signal from the deck that Geraint should probe no further. But this time, just for once, he felt that the homed, green-clad man grinned at him for a reason. The Fool is all things, he mused. Right now, I can’t get anywhere with anything. I don’t know where Serrin is, my days are filled with meaningless routine, there’s nothing I can do for Fran, I get nowhere with the police. Looking at the card, he thought how it was a complete contradiction. But then, that was the way with card zero.
“Oh, rakk it!” he cursed aloud, thinking he should just get himself completely steamed. Drink a gutful of Aussie Shiraz and watch the second innings from Adelaide over the satellite.
The drink, yes, but Adelaide, no. That night Geraint was asleep before the fall of the first wicket.
12
His vision swam slowly in and out of focus as he coughed and spluttered, dimly aware that someone was trying to force a liquid down his throat. The stuff smelled like horse manure and tasted even worse. Feebly attempting to push the administering hand away, Serrin managed to prop himself up on an elbow and tried to take in his surroundings.
He was inside a decrepit wooden hut, unlit except for the last of the daylight filtering in from the mist. It was close to dawn or dusk, he guessed, but he couldn’t see much through the open doorway. The place looked as if it were built on wooden supports, and he was sure there was water right outside.
The woman sat back on her haunches, watching him attentively. She was dirty, unkempt, and wearing a simple garment tied around the waist with a length of thin twine. It looked like a piece of old sackcloth.
"How are you feeling?” Her voice was surprisingly deep for a woman’s, slow and languid.
“Oh, I think I’ll survive," he croaked, but he felt dreadful. "How did I get here? Last I remember, something that looked like the bastard offspring of the Loch Ness monster and Bigfoot was about to snack on me. It was a toss-up between drowning and being eaten alive.”
She smiled as if at a child. “Ramalan brought you here. He would not have harmed you. He is old now, and had already fed that day. Eels are plentiful this year. He was only just roused from sleep. He wanders a little in his dotage.” A wave of water lapped up to the doorway, almost washing into the hut. She smiled peacefully. “He is outside now. I think he will sleep again in two, three days. I must keep him closer in future. I never know what he may bring back, elf.”