A glance through the Twilight was no help. I spotted weak traces of Others – Light Ones and Dark Ones, but that was the specialists from the Watches who had investigated the crime scene. There were no signs of a ‘vampire trail’. But I could sense emanations of death – and they were very clear, as if only an hour or two had elapsed, not five days. Oh, the boy had died a very bad death …
‘Who does the sound effects?’ I asked. ‘There must be some kind of gasping and groaning, terrifying howls? Your tourists don’t ride in total silence, do they?’
‘It’s a recording,’ Jean said sadly. ‘The speakers are over there, and over there …’
‘And doesn’t anyone in here keep an eye on the tourists?’ I asked. ‘What if someone feels unwell?’
‘We watch them,’ Jean admitted reluctantly. ‘You see that little hole in the wall across there? There’s always someone standing there and watching.’
‘In the dark?’
‘They use a night-vision device,’ Jean said, embarrassed. ‘An ordinary video camera in night mode. You stand there and watch the screen …’
‘Aha …’ I nodded. ‘And what did you see when Victor was being killed?’
Either he was feeling calmer now, or he didn’t see any point in pretending, but he didn’t try to deny anything. He just asked:
‘What makes you so sure I was there?’
‘Because you’re wearing a vampire costume. What if one of the customers is recording in night mode too? That’s what the makeup’s for, right? I think each one of you has his own role to play, and during the show you were wearing that costume and you were somewhere nearby.’
Jean nodded.
‘That’s right. I was there. Only I didn’t see anything, believe me. They all just sat there. Nobody attacked any of them, no one went anywhere near them.’
I didn’t bother to mention that you can’t catch a hungry vampire (and he would have to be very hungry to hunt as brazenly as this) on tape in night-video mode. Night mode uses infra-red, and a hungry vampire is no warmer than his environment. There might just be a few slight traces on the tape.
‘Was everything being recorded?’
‘Of course not. Why waste the tape?’
I squatted down and dabbled my hand in the water. It was cold and musty. It looked as though nobody had bothered to change it… but then, if the investigation wasn’t over yet, that was only natural…
‘What do you see?’ Jean asked curiously.
I didn’t answer. I was looking at the water through closed eyes. Looking with the Twilight vision that pierces through reality to the essence of things.
The trough filled up with hazy crystal forms. There were crimson threads showing through the crystal, and an orange sludge swirling on the bottom of the trough.
There was human blood in the water.
A lot of blood.
About four litres.
That must be where the powerful emanations of death were coming from. Blood preserves its memory longer than anything else in the world.
If the police had only bothered to make a proper analysis of the water they would have realised that all of Victor’s blood was simply drained into the channel. And there were no vampires involved in the crime.
But the police hadn’t been looking for vampires. And maybe they had carried out an analysis. If they hadn’t, it was only because they had no doubt what the result would be. A quick slash of a knife across the throat, and the blood glugs over the side of the boat… Only an Other could come up with the idiotic idea of looking for vampires in a tourist attraction!
‘The case just opened up,’ I muttered, getting up off my knees. ‘Dammit …’
Yes, it was a vicious killing. And the murderer certainly had a black sense of humour. Only that was no concern of ours. Let the Edinburgh police conduct the investigation.
So just why had the boy been killed? A pretty stupid question. There are far more reasons for death than there are for life. He was a young guy, passionate and keen, his father was a businessman and a politician. He could have been killed for something that he’d done, or for something his father was involved in, or for no reason at all.
Yes, Geser and Zabulon had both been caught out. They’d seen danger where it didn’t exist.
‘Thanks for you help,’ I said to Jean. ‘I’ll be going now.’
‘So you are from the Russian police!’ Jean exclaimed happily. ‘Did you spot anything?’
I smiled suggestively and shook my head.
Jean sighed.
‘I’ll show you out, Anton.’
Not far from the Dungeons I found a nice little pub called the Corncrake and Pennant. Three small communicating rooms, dark walls and ceilings, old lamps, glass mugs for the beer, pictures in frames, knick-knacks on the walls. A bar with ten beer pumps and a vast array of bottles – there were at least fifty sorts of whisky. Everything that the phrase ‘a Scottish pub’ brings to mind, and exactly what the foreign tourist expects when he hears that phrase.
Remembering what Semyon had said, I ordered haggis and soup of the day. And I took a pint of Guinness from the woman behind the bar, who was large and well-built, with muscular arms from constantly working the beer pumps. I walked through to the end room, the smallest, where I found a free table. A group of Japanese were having lunch at the next one. And there was a plump elderly man with a moustache who looked like a local, drinking beer at another table. He looked rather dejected, like a Muscovite who has accidentally found himself in Red Square. There was music coming from somewhere, too – fortunately it was melodic and not too loud.
The soup turned out to be simple meat broth with croutons, and the haggis was nothing more than a local version of liver sausage. But I drank the soup and ate the haggis, with the chips that came with it, and felt that I had fulfilled my obligations as a tourist.
I liked the beer best. As I was finishing off the mug, I phoned home and had a chat with Svetlana. I told her that I wouldn’t have to stay away for very long, because everything had been resolved very quickly.
I got myself another pint of beer before calling the head of the Edinburgh Night Watch. I found Foma Lermont’s number in the phone book and dialled.
‘Hello, how can I help you?’ someone answered politely after the phone had rung a couple of times. The interesting thing was that they answered in Russian.
‘Good afternoon, Thomas,’ I said, deciding not to use the Russian name Foma after all. ‘My name is Anton Gorodetsky – I’m a colleague of yours from Moscow. Geser asked me to give you his warmest greetings.’
It all sounded very much like a bad spy story. I pulled a wry face at the thought…
‘Hello, Anton, I’ve been waiting for your call. How was your flight?’
‘Great. I’m staying in a very nice little hotel. It’s a bit dark, but it is right in the centre. I’ve had a stroll round the old town and some of the surroundings.’ I was getting carried away – it seemed highly amusing to speak in Aesopian language. ‘Could we get together?’
‘Of course, Anton, I’ll just come across. Or perhaps you might join me? I have a nice cosy spot here.’
I raised my eyes and looked at the elderly gentleman sitting by the window. A high forehead, pointed chin, intelligent and ironic eyes. The gentleman put a mobile phone away in his pocket and gestured towards his table.
Yes, he and Geser had a lot in common, all right. Not in the way they looked, but in the way they behaved. Thomas Lermont was probably just as good as Geser at putting his subordinates in their place.
I picked up my glass and joined the head of Edinburgh’s Night Watch at his table.