“Ah,” Dead Boy said wisely. “But that’s how they do it! It’s always the least likely suspect!”
“No,” I said.
He sulked. “It was the butler last time. With the Griffin.”
“We are changing the subject,” I said firmly. “What did King of Skin know about you? He said something about your girl-friend.”
Dead Boy scowled. “It’s not easy having a sex life when you’re dead. Most of the kinds of girls who do come looking aren’t the sort you want to encourage. So when I do find someone special, someone who can . . . reach me, she’s going to be very special. So I’m not going to talk about her. But, if I had wanted King of Skin dead, which I didn’t, because basically he was only an annoying little tit . . . If I had wanted to kill him, I’ve got more sense than to do it in front of a roomful of witnesses, and you. I’m dead, not stupid.”
“True,” I said.
Dead Boy looked at me thoughtfully, choosing his words carefully. “You do know it’s almost certainly Hadleigh Oblivion who did it?”
“What?”
“It’s common sense. Think about it. Who else here is powerful enough to kill King of Skin, in front of all these people, and not be noticed?”
“But . . . why would he want to?” I said. “He’s the Detective Inspectre; why would he lower himself to common murder?”
“Because King of Skin knew something about him. And he knew more about King of Skin than any of us. Maybe . . . King finally stumbled on a secret he should have kept quiet about.” Dead Boy looked over to the door, where Hadleigh was standing guard. “If it is him, can you arrest him?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m Walker. I can do anything. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s part of the job description.”
“Well, yes,” said Dead Boy. “Obviously. But this is Hadleigh Oblivion we’re talking about. The Detective Inspectre, whatever the hell that is.”
“I’ll have a word with him,” I said. “But for now, he’s just another suspect.”
“Along with me and Razor Eddie?” said Dead Boy.
“Very definitely including both of you,” I said.
“Ah,” said Dead Boy. “But what if it was both of us, working together? What would you do then?”
“Improvise,” I said. “And phone Suzie Shooter for backup.”
“The horror, the horror,” said Dead Boy. And went back to his vol-au-vents.
I was heading for Mistress Mayhem when I was interrupted by Bettie Divine. She planted herself right in front of me, hands on hips, and glared at me.
“You don’t really see me as a suspect, do you, sweetie? After all we nearly meant to each other? I’m not guilty of anything!”
“No?” I said. “What about the Schalcken affair?”
“A clear case of mistaken identity,” Bettie said briskly.
“The Lovett pie-shop fiasco?”
“I was misinformed. Anyone can make a mistake.”
“Big John . . .”
“They never proved anything! Look, the point I’m making is I’m not the kind to go around killing people! I’m not capable of it!”
“Anyone is capable of anything,” I said. “Given sufficient motivation. Now, if you want to make yourself useful, try turning that devastating charm on the assembled immortals and see if you can get someone to admit to something. If anyone can, you can. I have work to do.”
I passed her by and nodded politely to Mistress Mayhem. She was hugging herself tightly, as though against some chill, and she looked a lot younger than she had before. Almost like a teenager playing dress-up at her first adult party. She fixed me with a defiant gaze.
“I didn’t kill him. Didn’t even know the man. I never even met him before tonight.”
“He still knew things about you,” I said. “He knew you touched up your skin with dye to maintain that dreaded Kali connection. And he knew about the baby you would have had.”
She was shaking her head all through this, but the truth showed in her face. When I said the word baby, all the strength seemed to go right out of her. When she finally spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper.
“I never told anyone. How did he know? I was never even going to tell Jimmy. It would have upset him too much. But I am a descendent of Kali! I am! I could have killed that slimy bastard with a touch! If I’d wanted. Withered him like a flower, like Hadleigh did . . . They’re saying someone stuck a knife in him. Is that right?”
“He was stabbed in the back,” I said carefully.
“Well, I haven’t got a knife! Look at me! Where would I hide one in this outfit?”
She had a point.
“I’m talking to everyone,” I said. “Don’t take it personally. Did you come here with anyone?”
“No.”
“Then go talk with Dead Boy. He’s appalling company, and his conversation rarely ventures far from the inappropriate, but he’s got a good heart. He’ll look after you and make sure no-one bothers you.”
I steered her in Dead Boy’s direction, then stopped abruptly as a Neanderthal man came rolling through the crowd towards me. He was barely five feet tall, hunched right over but powerfully built. His heavy face was all bone and gristle, with massive lowering eye-brow ridges and hardly any chin. His knees splayed out, and his knuckles barely cleared the floor. He was wearing a shining white seventies disco outfit, complete with a big gold medallion on a chain hanging over his extremely hairy chest. He nodded amiably to me.
“Greetings, Walker. I am Tomias Squarefoot.”
“I know,” I said. “We met once before. Long ago.”
He shrugged calmly. “It is entirely possible. I am the oldest of the immortals. I have met pretty much everyone, at one time or another; but my memory is not what it was. I do not claim to speak for the immortals, but as the oldest here, I think I can represent them. And I think I can speak for all of us when I say it is clear that there is an obvious suspect.”
“Is there really?” I said. “News to me. Who did you have in mind?
“The young man who calls himself Rogue, of course,” said Squarefoot. “He appears out of nowhere, with no invitation, claiming to be part of the notorious Family of Immortals. A group famed for their duplicity, treachery, and general back-stabbing. Either he isn’t who he says he is, in which case what is he doing here, in this company? Or he is who he says he is, in which case, what is he doing here? What secret purpose has brought him to a Ball no other member of his family has ever graced with their presence? On top of that, do I really need to point out that we never had a death here, at any of our meetings, until he showed up?”
I turned to look thoughtfully at Rogue, standing on his own, some way off. He had a drink in his hand and looked far-away, lost in his own thoughts.
“All right,” I said to the Neanderthal. “You have a point. I’ll have a word. But only because you helped save my life, that time.”
Squarefoot shrugged his massive shoulders. “It is possible. I meet so many people; you must forgive me if you don’t stand out. All you mortals look the same to me.”
I nodded and moved away. He was right. It had been almost two thousand years since he helped save me from the Wild Hunt of the old god Herne. But I hadn’t forgotten.
Rogue saw me coming and took a long drink from his champagne flute before facing me, apparently completely unconcerned. I slapped the glass out of his hand, grabbed him, and turned him around and slammed him up against the wall. He hit hard enough to knock the breath out of him, but he didn’t complain or struggle. He simply stood there, entirely relaxed, as I frisked him from top to bottom, making a thorough job of it. I found all kinds of interesting objects in his pockets, the accumulated flotsam and jetsam of a very long life, but nothing that could have been used as a weapon. I stepped back, and he turned around, adjusting his clothing here and there, with neat fussy movements that were completely at odds with his teenage appearance.
“Typical mortal manners,” he murmured. “No respect for your elders. Be careful, young Walker, be very careful, lest I decide to teach you some manners. I could break and cripple you in a dozen awful ways, and there would be nothing you could do to stop me.”