DI Witch-bitch Helen Crane was my nemesis in more ways than one: she was the ex of the satyr I’d promised myself not to think about; had a real downer on me because I was sidhe; and she was the one who’d stolen (as a teenager) the sapphire pendant trapping the fae’s fertility. I’d taken it back from her during the ToLA case. She hated me; the feeling was mutual. But I’d felt vindicated in my loathing when she’d proved to be dirty. Her disappearance was good news, sort of, as while I’d rather she paid for her crimes I was still ecstatic she was out of my life for good.
And with the Witch-bitch gone, Hugh had been made up, sort of, and was now (acting) Detective Inspector. Personally, I thought he should have got his full stripe or whatever it was, but he was a troll. Trolls might have been coppers since Robert Peeler started the Met back in the early eighteen hundreds, but it was only recently (after the Indigenous Alien Equality Act) that they’d been given the opportunity to move up out of the grunt ranks.
‘We’ve got three people missing, believed abducted,’ Hugh rumbled quietly, after we’d dispensed with the usual brief pleasantries.
‘Three?’ I frowned. ‘You said two on the phone; a woman and her son?’
‘Initially we weren’t sure about the third.’ Hugh pulled his notebook from the pocket of his sharply pressed white shirt. Hugh and neatness have always gone together like a goblin and his bling, but since his (sort of) promotion, he’d adopted a whole new level of smartness. He flipped a couple of pages: ‘The woman is Mrs Bandevi Jangali, aged thirty-seven; her son, Dakkhin Jangali, is aged six. Mrs Jangali is an environmental activist.’ He glanced down at me. ‘She’s here taking part in a conservation conference about tigers. Both Mrs Jangali and her son were having a private tour before the conference started. The third person is Mr Jonathan Weir, aged twenty-nine; he’s the publicity director for the zoo, and was escorting them.’
My heart went out to the woman, her kid and the zoo guy, and I prayed whoever had taken them was treating them okay. Or at least as ‘okay’ as the situation allowed. I’d learned enough from Hugh to know that the first hour was the most dangerous for any kidnap victim. The kidnappers would be high on nerves and adrenalin, and if things went pear-shaped, they were likely to cut their losses – a not-so-cheerful euphemism for cutting their victims’ throats, or the equivalent.
The question that jumped into my mind was, ‘Why pick here to snatch her? I’d get it if she was working in a country where the situation is volatile, but this is London.’
Hugh bared his pink granite teeth in a grimace. ‘Mrs Jangali is also the wife of the ambassador from Bangladesh: Mr Balinder Bannerjee.’
The diplomatic limos in the car park fell into place. Only— ‘Surely, she and the kid weren’t taking the tour on their own? Didn’t they have any security with them?’
Hugh nodded. ‘They were accompanied by their personal bodyguards. Two males. They weren’t harmed.’
‘So they’re suspects?’
‘It is possible they could be involved in some way,’ Hugh agreed. ‘Especially given Mrs Jangali’s connections and the professional way the abduction was implemented. We’re not looking at something random here. The victims were targeted.’
‘Is that good or bad for the victims?’
A small puff of anxious dust escaped Hugh’s headridge. ‘The negotiator, who’s on her way, tells me that this suggests the kidnappers are “contingent terrorists”. In other words, they’ve taken hostages because they want to negotiate something in exchange. It could be a ransom, the release of prisoners or publicity for some cause.’
Which explained the Media-blackout spell Mary was maintaining.
‘Okay’ I gave Hugh a quizzical look. ‘Want to tell me why I’m here?’
He consulted his notebook again, then snapped it shut. ‘There’s something off about the kidnap. The zoo’s got CCTV. The recordings show that Mrs Jangali, her son, their bodyguards and the zoo employee entered the exhibit here at 7.33 a.m. As soon as they’re inside, the recording freezes. For fifty-nine seconds. At 7.34 a.m. it starts up again. The three victims disappear from the screen and the bodyguards are left standing in the same position. Three seconds later, they look around, realise their charges are gone and call for backup.’
‘And they’re unharmed?’
‘Yes. Unharmed and with no memory of the missing time. There’s nothing to be seen on the rest of the zoo’s CCTVs. Or on any of the surrounding public CCTV. The three victims just vanish.’
‘Magic,’ I stated. ‘Some sort of Invisibility spell, a Transportation spell or a temporary Portal combined with a Freeze spell . . .’ I trailed off, wracking my mental files for anything else. ‘But to be honest, Hugh, it could be any number of spells and my knowledge isn’t the most comprehensive. I think your best bet is the Witches’ Council.’ I gestured towards Mary, who was standing to attention some feet away, and whose mother was on said Witches’ Council. ‘Oh, and the fae, or the Librarian. Any of them should be able to give you more info.’
Hugh nodded. ‘All avenues we’re following, Genny.’
‘Okay,’ I said, then something struck me. ‘Why take Jonathan Weir, the zoo employee? I mean, if they could keep the bodyguards out of the loop, why not him too?’
‘We don’t know, Genny. It’s another aspect that doesn’t seem to fit.’
‘Unless whatever magic was used didn’t work on him,’ I mused. ‘He could’ve been resistant?’
‘He’s not.’ Hugh flipped over a couple of pages. ‘His partner, David O’Reilly, is one of the zoo’s keepers. He’s stated for the record that Jonathan has no magical abilities.’
‘So, I take it you want me to try and gather up any magic that might be around?’ It was after all, my party trick.
He indicated the entrance to the exhibit. ‘I want you to come in and tell me what you see.’
‘See, as in magic?’
‘Yes, and as in anything else.’
I frowned. I doubted that I was going to find anything the WPCs hadn’t, and I was beginning to feel that Hugh had got me out here to leave no stone unturned, rather than in any concrete hope that I could do something. That was totally fine by me. He’d been my friend since I was fourteen: he’d put his job and himself on the line for me more than once. If he wanted me here to dot i’s and cross t’s then I would. A good result on this could mean a lot for his career and, more importantly, for the missing victims.
And even if there wasn’t anything for me to find, that didn’t mean I wouldn’t do my damnedest to actually discover a clue.
Chapter Thirteen
Inside the big cat exhibit, the roof made the corridor-like place look shadowed and dim after the bright sunshine outside. I wrinkled my nose; it stank of pine-scented cleaner cut with freshly butchered meat and wet fur. My sense of smell was definitely on overdrive, something I was beginning to suspect was down to drinking Mad Max’s combination of vamp/doggy blood. Ugh. Hopefully, it was the only side-effect and I wouldn’t start chasing sticks, or poodles wearing bridal veils.
I scanned for anything magical. To either side were U-shaped plate-glass windows, looking out over the tiger enclosure. It was more sparse English woodland than dense jungle and, despite a covered area near the first window, presumably for the tigers to sleep in as it was padded with straw, the big cat stars of the show were nowhere to be seen.
But as my eyes adjusted to the dimness, there were plenty of people to make up for the lack of tigers. Four WPCs and three uniformed trolls were stationed at intervals along the corridor, while another troll – Constable Lamber, his mottled beige head a pale beacon against a tall, frothy-leaved potted plant – stood to attention behind four males. The marked similarity of three of them with their short black hair, dark-skinned faces and closed-off expressions made me wonder if they were related: brothers or cousins, maybe. And all three were wearing the same long kurta shirts in a deep green, with heavy gold embroidery down the front and sleeves, over loose white trousers with more gold thread around the ankles – standard Indian dress, albeit more formal than I usually saw in Southall, London’s ‘Little India’.