Nightingale lament n-3 Read online

  I walked out of the secret vault, leaving the dead past behind, and used my talent one last time to find the self-destruct mechanism for the power plant. I knew there had to be one. Vincent was always very jealous about guarding his secrets. I allowed myself enough time to get clear, then set the clock ticking. I told the security men outside to start running, and something in my voice and my gaze convinced them. I was three blocks away when the whole of Prometheus Inc. went up in one great controlled explosion. I kept walking and didn't look back.

  Not exactly my most successful case. My client was dead, so I wasn't going to get paid. Walker was probably going to be pretty mad that the power plant was gone, and God alone knew how much damage its loss was going to cause the Nightside. But none of that mattered. Melinda Dusk and Quinn had been my friends. And no-one kills a friend of mine and gets away with it.

  Two - Between Cases

  Everyone needs somewhere to go, when it all goes pear-shaped. A bolt-hole to shelter in, till the shitstorm passes. I usually end up in Strangefellows, the oldest bar in the world. A (fairly) discreet drinking establish­ment, tucked away in the back of beyond, at the end of an alley that isn't always there, Strangefellows is a good place to booze and brood and hide from any num­ber of people, most of whom wouldn't be seen dead in such a dive. It was run with malice aforethought by one Alex Morrisey, who didn't allow any trouble in his bar, most especially from me.

  I found a table in a corner, so I wouldn't have to watch my back, and indulged myself with a bottle of wormwood brandy. It tastes like a supermodel's tears and is so potent it can catch alight if someone at the next table strikes a match. I kept my head well down and looked about me surreptitiously. If anyone had no­ticed me come in, they were keeping their excitement well under control. Certainly no-one was rushing for the exit to tell on me. Perhaps word hadn't got around yet as to how royally I'd screwed up this time. There were any number of people who weren't going to be at all pleased with me for knocking out twelve percent of the Nightside's electricity supply. Not least Walker, who'd got me the job in the first place. I faked a care­less shrug. If they couldn't take a joke, they shouldn't hire me.

  It was a quiet night at Strangefellows, for once. All the lights were out, and the whole place was illumi­nated by candles, hurricane lamps, and the occasional hand of glory. It gave the place a pleasant golden haze, like an old photo of better times. Alex explained when I got my drink that the power was down in various spots all over the Nightside, and I just nodded and grunted. Alex was severely pissed off by the inconve­nience and loss of takings, but that was nothing new. Strangefellows's owner and bartender was a thin pale streak of misery who only wore black because no-one had come up with a darker colour yet. He wore a snazzy black beret to hide his bald patch and designer shades to tone down the perpetual glare with which he regarded the world.

  He's a friend of mine. Sometimes.

  Music was playing from a portable CD player, rising easily over the bare murmur of conversation from the few regulars nursing their drinks in the back booths. Most of the bar's usual crowd were probably out and about in the Nightside, taking advantage of the black­outs to do unto others and run off with the takings. It would be a busy time for the Nightside's fences, before the lights went on again. Alex's pet vulture was perched over the till, cackling to itself and giving the evil eye to anyone who looked like getting too close. The bar's muscular bouncers, Betty and Lucy Coltrane, were occupying themselves with a flex-off at the end of the bar, frowning seriously as muscles distended and veins popped up all over their sculpted bodies. Pale Michael was running a book as to which one would pass out first.

  And my teenage secretary, Cathy Barrett, was danc­ing wildly on a tabletop, to the music of Voice of the Beehive's "Honey Lingers." Blonde, bubbly, and full of more energy than she knew what to do with, Cathy ran the business side of my life. I'd rescued her from a house that tried to eat her, and she adopted me. I didn't get a say in the matter. Dancing opposite her on the tabletop, in a leather outfit, cape, mask, and six-inch stiletto heels, was Ms. Fate, the Nightside's very own transvestite su­perhero, a man who dressed up as a superheroine to fight crime and avenge injustice. He was actually pretty good at it, in her own way. Cathy and Ms. Fate danced their hearts out, pounding their heels on the table to "Mon­sters and Angels," and I had to smile. They were the brightest things in the whole bar.

  I topped up my glass with the murky purple liquor and drank to the memory of Melinda Dusk and Quinn. It was good to know they were finally at rest, together, their murders avenged. I don't have that many friends. Either my enemies kill them, or I do. Morality can be a shifting, treacherous thing in the Nightside, and both love and loyalty have a way of getting drowned in the bigger issues. My few longtime friends have all tended to be dangerous as hell in their own right, and more than a little crazy. People like Razor Eddie and Shotgun Suzie . . . both of whom have tried to kill me in the past. I don't hold it against them. Much. It's a hard life in the Nightside, and a harder death, usually. I sipped my drink and listened to the music. I wasn't in any hurry. I had the rest of the bottle to get through.

  I've never found it easy to mourn, though God knows I've had enough practice.

  I looked around the bar, searching for something to distract myself with. A sailor had passed out at the main bar, and the tattoos on his back were quietly arguing matters philosophical over the low rumble of his snores. A mummy at the other end of the long wooden bar was drinking gin and tonics while performing nec­essary running repairs on his yellowed bandages. Roughly midway between the two, an amiable drunk in a blood-stained lab coat was endeavouring to explain the principles of retro-phrenology to a frankly disinter­ested Alex Morrisey.

  "See, phrenology is this old Victorian science, which claimed you could determine the dominant traits of a man's personality by studying the bumps on his head. The size and position of these bumps indicated different personality traits. See? Now, retro-phrenology says, why not change a man's personality by hitting him on the head with a hammer, till you raise just the right bumps in the right places!"

  "One of us needs a lot more drinks," said Alex. "That's starting to make sense."

  Cathy suddenly slammed down into the chair opposite me, breathing harshly and radiating happy sweat. She flashed me a cheerful grin. She'd picked up a fresh flute of champagne from somewhere and drank from it thirstily. Cathy always drank "champers," and nearly always found a way to stick me with the bill.

  "I love to dance!" she said cheerfully. "Sometimes I think the whole world should be put to music and choreographed!"

  "This being the Nightside, someone somewhere is undoubtedly working on that very thing, right now," I said. "Where's your partner, the Dancing Queen?"

  "Oh, he's nipped off to the loo, to freshen her make­up. You know, John, I could see you brooding from right across the room. Who died this time?"

  "What makes you think someone died?"

  "You only drink that wormwood muck when you've lost someone close to you. I wouldn't use that stuff to clean combs. I thought the Prometheus gig was a straightforward deal?"

  "I really don't want to talk about it, Cathy."

  "No, you'd rather sulk and be miserable and pollute the atmosphere for everyone else. If you're not careful, you'll end up like Alex."

  Cathy could always make me smile. "There's no danger of that. I'm not in Alex's class. That man could brood for the Olympics, and pick up a bronze in self-pity while he was at it. He's why there's never been a Happy Hour in Strangefellows."

  Cathy sighed, leaned forward, and gave me her best exasperated look. "Get another case going, John. You know you're really only happy when you're working. Not that that's much healthier, given the cases you spe­cialise in. You need to get out more and meet people, preferably people who aren't trying to kill you. You know, I found this really great new dating site for pro­fessional singles on the Net the other day . . ."

  I shuddered. "I've seen some of those
. Hi! I'm Trixi, and I've got diseases so virulent you can even catch them down a phone line! Just give me your credit card number, and I guarantee to make your eyes water in under thirty seconds! No, Cathy! I'm quite happy with my solitary brooding. It builds character."

  Cathy pouted, then shrugged. She never could stay unhappy for long. She finished off the last of her cham­pagne, hiccuped happily, and looked hopefully round the bar for another dancing partner. I'd never admit it to her, but she was mostly right. My work was all I had to give my life meaning. But since my last successful case earned me a quarter of a million pounds, plus bonuses, I could afford to be more particular about what work I chose to take on. (I located the Unholy Grail for the Vatican, and faced down Heaven and Hell in the process. I'd earned that money.) Maybe I should start looking for a new case, if only to take the taste of Prometheus Inc. out of my mouth.

  "I'm bored," Cathy announced, slapping both hands on the table to prove it. "Bored of sitting around your expensive new office with nothing to do. It's all very comfortable, I'm sure, and I love all the new equip­ment, but a growing girl can't spend all her life surfing dodgy porn sites on the Internet. Like you, I need to be doing. Earning my keep and smiting the ungodly where it hurts. There must be something in all the messages I've taken that appeals to you. What about the case of the missing shadows? Or the guy who lost his adoles­cence in a rigged card game?"

  "Hold everything," I said sternly. "A disturbing thought has just occurred to me. Who's looking after things in my expensive new Nightside office, while you're out cavorting and carousing in dubious drinking establishments?"

  "Ah," said Cathy, grinning. "I got a really good deal on some computers from the future. They practically run the whole business on their own, these days. They can even answer the phone and talk snotty to our cred­itors."

  "Just how far up the line did these computers come from?" I said suspiciously. "I mean, are we talking Ar­tificial Intelligence here? Are they going to want pay­ing?"

  "Relax! They're data junkies. The Nightside fasci­nates them. Why don't we ask them to find something that would interest you?"

  "Cathy, I only took on the Prometheus case to keep you quiet..."

  "No you didn't!" Cathy said hotly. "You took that on because you wanted Walker to owe you a favour."

  I scowled and addressed myself to my drink. "Yes, well, that didn't actually work out as well as I'd hoped."

  "Oh God," said Cathy. "Am I going to have start locking the doors and windows and hiding under the desk again, when he comes around?"

  "I think it would be a better idea if we both stayed away from the office completely, just for a while."

  "That bad?"

  "Pretty much. Let Walker argue with the computers and see how far it gets him."

  There was a sudden flare of brilliant light, and a man fell out of nowhere into Strangefellows. He crashed to the floor just in front of the bar, his New Romantic silks in shreds and tatters. Static sparks discharged from every metal object in the bar, and the air was heavy with the stench of ozone—the usual accompanying signs of time travel. The newcomer groaned, sat up, and wiped at his bloody nose with the back of his hand. He'd clearly been through a hell of a fight recently, and just as clearly lost. I knew him, though if I met him in the street, I tried very hard not to. He was Tommy Oblivion, a fellow private investigator, though he spe­cialised in cases of an existential nature. He lurched to his feet, leaned his back against the bar for support while he pulled his ragged silks around him, then saw me watching him. His battered face purpled with rage, and he stabbed a shaking finger at me.

  "You! Taylor! This is all your fault! I'll have your balls for this!"

  "I haven't seen you in months, Tommy," I said calmly.

  "No, but you will! In the future! Only this time I'll be ready for you, and better prepared! I'll have guns! Big guns!"

  He continued to spit abuse at me, but I couldn't be bothered. I looked at Alex, and he gestured at his two bouncers. Betty and Lucy hurried forward, glad of an excuse for a little action. Tommy made the mistake of threatening them, too, and the two girls briskly knocked him to the floor, kicked him somewhere painful, and then frog-marched him out of Strangefel­lows. Cathy gave me a hard look.

  "What was that all about?"

  "Beats the hell out of me," I said honestly. "Presum­ably I'll find out. In time."

  "Excuse me," said a voice with a cultured French accent. "Have I the honour of addressing Mr. John Taylor?"

  Cathy and I both looked round sharply. Standing right before us was a short, comfortably padded, middle-aged man in an expertly cut suit. He looked supremely elegant, not a hair out of place, and his smile was so­phisticated charm itself. There was no way he could have entered the bar and approached my corner table without being seen, but there he was, large as life and twice as French. He nodded courteously to me, smiled at Cathy, and kissed her proffered hand. She gave him a dazzling smile in return. I decided not to like him, on general principles. I really don't like being sneaked up on. It's bad for my health. I gestured for the Frenchman to pull up a chair. He studied the empty chair solemnly for a moment, then produced a blindingly white hand­kerchief from an inner pocket and flicked the seat of the chair a few times before deigning to sit on it. I gave him my best intimidating glare, to remind him who was boss around here.

  "I'm John Taylor," I growled. "You're a long way from home, m'sieu. What can I do for you?"

  He nodded easily, entirely unimpressed. "I am Charles Chabron, for many years one of the most re­spected bankers in Paris. And I have come a very long way to meet with you, Mr. Taylor, and inquire whether I might hire your professional services."

  "Who recommended me to you?" I said carefully.

  He flashed his charming smile again. "An old friend of yours who does not wish to be identified."

  He had me there. "I get a lot of that," I admitted. "What is it you want, Mr. Chabron?"

  "Please, call me Charles. I am here because of my daughter. You may have heard of her. She is currently the new singing sensation of the Nightside. She calls herself Rossignol, though that is of course not her real name. Rossignol is merely French for nightingale. She first came to London, then the Nightside, some five years ago, determined to make for herself a career as a singer. And this last year she has been singing very suc­cessfully to packed houses in nightclubs all over the Nightside. I understand there's even talk of a recording contract with one of the major companies. Which is all well and good.

  "However, since she took up with her new manage­ment, a Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish, she only sings at one nightclub, Caliban's Cavern, and she has . . . changed. She has broken off all contact with her old friends and family. She does not answer phone calls or letters, and her new management won't let anyone get near her. They say they do this at her explicit request and justify it in the name of protecting her from over-zealous fans of her new fame. But I am not so sure. Her mother is frantic with worry, convinced that the Cavendishes have poisoned our daughter's mind against her family, and that they are, perhaps, taking advantage of her. And so I have come here, to you, Mr. Taylor, in the hope that you can establish the truth of the matter."

  I looked at Cathy. The music scene was her special­ity. There wasn't a club in the Nightside she hadn't drunk, danced, and debauched in at one time or an­other. She was already nodding.

  "Yeah, I know Rossignol. And the Caliban club, and the Cavendishes. They run Cavendish Properties. They have a collective finger in practically every big deal in the Nightside. They were big in real estate, until the market crashed just recently, after the angel war. Lot of people lost a lot of money in that disaster. Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish moved sideways into entertainment, repre­senting clubs, groups, people . . . nothing really mega yet, but they've quickly made themselves a power to be reckoned with. Other agents cross themselves when they see the Cavendishes coming."

  "What sort of people are they?" I asked.

  Cathy frowned. "If the
Cavendishes have first names, no-one knows or uses them. They don't get out much, preferring to work through intermediaries. Not at all averse to playing hardball during negotiations, but then, nice people don't tend to last long in show business. There are rumours they're brother and sister, as well as husband and wife . . . Cavendish Properties is based on old money, going back centuries, but there's a lot of gossip going round that says the current owners are hungry for money and not too fussy about how they acquire it. There's also supposed to be a scandal about their last attempt at building Sylvia Sin into a singing sensation. But they spent a lot of money to cover it up. But there's always gossip in the Nightside. They could be on the level with Rossignol. I just hope her agent checked the small print in their contract carefully."

  "She has no agent," said Chabron. "Cavendish Prop­erties represents Rossignol. You can understand why I am so concerned."

  I looked at him thoughtfully. There were things he wasn't telling me. I could tell.

  "What brought your daughter all the way to London, and the Nightside?" I said. "Paris has its own music scene, doesn't it?"

  "Of course. But London is where you have to go to be a star. Everyone knows that." Chabron sighed. "Her mother and I never took her singing seriously. We wanted her to take up a more respectable occupation, something with a future and a pension plan. But all she ever cared about was singing. Perhaps we pressured her too much. I arranged an interview for her, with my bank. An entry-level position, but with good prospects. Instead, she ran away to London. And when I sent peo­ple to track her down, she disappeared into the Night­side. Now . . . she is in trouble, I am sure of it. One hears such things ... I wish for you to find my daugh­ter, Mr. Taylor, and satisfy yourself on my behalf that she is well and happy, and not being cheated out of anything that is rightfully hers. I am not asking you to drag her back home. Just to assure yourself that every­thing is as it should be. Tell her that her friends and her family are concerned for her. Tell her... that she doesn't have to talk to us if she doesn't want to, but we would be grateful for some form of communication, now and then. She is my only child, Mr. Taylor. I need to be sure she is happy and safe. You understand?"