On the credit side that last attack, if it was an attack, had spent him: as the priest pressed the switch again John Gittings in his sustainable-hardwood casket rolled through the furnace doors into eternity without valediction. What happened next would be a combination of the banal and the unknowable. His body would burn: the rest of him would start out on a different journey, and there were no maps or roadside services. I was obscurely sorry that my last goodbye to him had taken the form of a psychic wrestling match: even sorrier, maybe, that he’d had me on the ropes.
When it was all over I asked Carla if she’d be okay going back without me. She was easy on that score, because she’d already decided to cut loose and take a cab: she found that a little of Todd’s company went a long way, and it didn’t help at all to know that he was going out of his way to be friendly. From her point of view he’d still played a major part in the nightmare of the last few days, and he stuck in her craw no matter what.
I gave her a hug, promised to be back in touch the next day to see how she was, and headed for the door. Todd ran an intercept, and I stopped because otherwise I’d have had to trample him. He gave me a firm handshake and a hard, speculative glance.
‘Thanks for all your help, Mister Castor,’ he said.
‘My pleasure.’
‘You feeling okay now?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Nervous condition?’
‘Something like that.’ I pushed on past him: I liked the man well enough, but I wasn’t interested in talking about it right then.
Juliet was leaning against the wall in between the Lion of Saint Mark and the Eagle of Saint John, looking like the odd one out in a police line-up. She checked her watch meaningfully as I appeared. It was kind of cute: it’s not like she gives a damn about time in the days, hours and minutes sense, but it’s exactly the sort of human mannerism that fascinates her – and watching her reproducing it is like hearing someone talk in a sexy foreign accent.
‘Pushed for time?’ I asked.
‘I’ve got other places to be, yes,’ she confirmed, kicking off from the wall and falling in beside me. ‘I came all the way over here because Sue said you sounded worried. She thought it might be something urgent. If it’s not, just tell me: I’ll go back to where I belong and you can send me a letter.’
‘Where you belong?’ I raised an eyebrow. That’s something of a loaded proposition when you’re an earthbound demon.
‘You know what I mean.’
We walked down the steps and out into bright, clear winter sunlight: the clouds had rolled away while we were inside and the day had taken on an entirely different cast. I welcomed it with something like relief.
‘It’s about a crime scene you read for Gary Coldwood,’ I said, as we walked down the curved drive back towards the street. Silence now from the gardens: the dead were in communion, maybe welcoming a newbie into their hallowed ranks.
‘Alastair Barnard,’ Juliet said.
‘Lucky guess.’
‘Gary called me. He said you were taking an interest in the case, and he reminded me that I’d signed a confidentiality agreement with the Met when I took their retainer.’
‘Good money?’
‘You did it for three years, Castor. I assume that’s a rhetorical question.’
‘So he told you not to talk to me?’
‘Not in so many words. But he’s concerned to do things by the book. He has a past association with you, and now you’ve taken on a commission from somebody – the accused man’s wife? – who has a real interest in sabotaging his case. He doesn’t want to make life difficult for you, but he doesn’t trust you overmuch.’
I laughed at that. ‘He’s right not to,’ I admitted. ‘But I like the delicate nuances there. He’s saying that he could make life hard for me if he wanted to.’
Juliet shrugged. ‘He’s a policeman.’
‘Say cop,’ I suggested.
‘Why?’
‘Just say it. For me.’
‘All right. He’s a cop.’
‘Better. It’s like looking at your watch when you want to say that you’re in a hurry. It sounds more authentic.’
She shot me a sardonic glance. ‘Thank you, Castor.’
‘It’s my pleasure.’
We came out through the gates onto the street, the noise from the building site making further talk impossible for a few moments. As we turned right and back up towards the main drag, a very tall and very lean man in a full-length tan Drizabone coat walked right in between us. Juliet kept on going but I swerved to avoid a collision, and was struck by the guy’s pungent smell, which sat oddly with the way he looked and walked.
I went on a few more steps, then stopped dead. Something about both the smell and the circumstances triggered a small avalanche in my memory: the tramp who’d accosted me in the street outside Todd’s office. He’d looked very different, but he had the same rancid sweat-and-sickness stink about him. There couldn’t be two smells that bad in the world: they’d have to meet and fight it out to the death.
I turned and looked back, but the guy was already out of sight – which was interesting, because the only place he could have gone was in through the crematorium gates. As Juliet stared at me, bewildered, I sprinted back the way we’d come, rounded the nearer gatepost and stared up the long, clear drive. There was no one in sight.
‘Did you leave something behind?’ Juliet asked.
I shook my head as I went back to join her. ‘Nothing I need right now,’ I said. ‘It’ll keep. Okay, you already did pretending that you’re worried about the time. You want to go and pretend you need to eat?’
She nodded. ‘Certainly.’ She put her hand in her pocket and drew it out with something small and dark glinting between her fingers. She pressed it with her thumb and the car that was standing beside her on the pavement – a very jaunty-looking little number that was wasp-yellow and sleek and elongated at the front end in a way that suggested a great amount of discreetly stabled horsepower – made a self-satisfied warbling sound. Juliet opened the door.
‘Get in,’ she said.
I stared incredulously at this transport of delight. I’m not a car fetishist by any means, but I know something way out of my price range when I see it. The badge on the bonnet bore the distinctive trident logo of Maserati – a sweet little touch for a demon’s wheels. It had a very low centre of gravity, the sculpted cowling underneath the front bumper almost touching the road. It had the look of a car that might have ‘Gransport’ in its name, and maybe ‘Spyder’ too.
‘Is there something wrong, Castor?’ Juliet asked, with an edge of impatience.
‘No,’ I assured her. ‘No, I’m fine. It’s just – you can drive now?’
‘Obviously. I’ve been living among human beings for more than a year, Castor. I’m not intimidated by your technologies.’
‘And – you drive this?’
‘It was a gift,’ Juliet said simply, sliding in behind the wheel with the sinuous grace of a cat curling itself up to sleep.
I didn’t ask. But don’t think I didn’t want to know.
9
It’s probably not a great idea to kid Juliet about her diet, considering I once came close to being an item on it. And what I said about pretending that she needs to eat wasn’t even strictly accurate, because she can take a certain amount of nourishment and even pleasure from things that you and I would call food. It’s just that when you strip away all the niceties and get down to basics, the fuel that drives her best – the stuff she’s made to run on – is the flesh and blood and souls of sexually aroused men. Her jaw-droppingly good looks are an adaptive mechanism along the lines of the sweet liquid in the calyx of a pitcher plant that tempts bees and wasps in with its scent and then digests them when they fall into it.