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“Wallet was hidden. You checked inside for cash and cards?”
She flipped the wallet open. No bills, but the credit cards were still there. Barbara slipped them out. As she did, a couple of business cards fluttered to the floor. She picked them up,
Revere and Ransom, the header read on the first, in fancy gold-and-blue writing. Real Estate Agents, Ontario.
Interesting. Maybe the Doc was in the market for a move. She looked at the second card. White with a black Gothic-style print: Be Damned Tattooists. That name again.
Barbara showed the card to Tucker. “I saw a sticker for this same tattoo shop in the toilets at Harty Snacks Café. And Marcus Anderson had a Helsing tattoo.”
“The Doc look the sort to have tattoos?”
She thought about the smart, silver-haired man. “Not really.”
Tucker rubbed at his chin, looking thoughtful. In contrast to Nicholls’s impatient efficiency, there was a steadiness to him. Not slow, just measured.
“Anything else strike you as odd about this place?” he said.
Barbara looked around the bedroom. Sterile, she thought. “Well, it’s all too damn neat.”
“Exactly,” he said. “The Doc was dealing in vampyr artifacts. Where are they?”
It was a good point. They’d searched the house. “You think someone took them?”
“Or the Doc stored his stock somewhere else. Keeps his hands and his home clean. A second property or a storage unit maybe?”
Barbara considered, and then something came to her.
“He rents out his old house to Marcus’s teacher, Kurt Mowlam,” she said. “And I saw Mowlam and Dalton arguing in the Roadhouse Grill the other night.” She smiled at Tucker. “You are not so rusty after all, sir.”
He tapped his head. “Just getting those cogs moving again.”
She slipped the cards back into the Doc’s wallet. “Okay. Let’s take what we have here back to the police department. We’ll make some phone calls and—”
Her phone buzzed. She rolled her eyes and pulled it out of her pocket. “Hello?”
“Barbara, it’s Rita.”
“Hi, Rita.”
For once, there was no preamble. “Marcus’s parents are back. They’re ready to talk to you.”
Her Captor was happy today.
The girl could tell even before she heard the tread of their footsteps on the stairs. Lighter, relaxed. Not heavy and fierce.
She had heard her Captor singing and smelt the aroma of freshly baked cookies. The girl liked the smell, even if she couldn’t eat them. Her Captor often seemed to forget this, because they entered carrying a plate, along with the girl’s usual jug of sustenance.
“Hello, dear. How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
She wasn’t fine. The heavy manacle had rubbed at her ankle and chafed the skin. But she didn’t want to complain and spoil her Captor’s mood.
Her Captor knew her though. They glanced at the manacle.
“We’ll need to get some antiseptic on that. But don’t worry. It won’t be for much longer.”
The girl felt her spirits lift.
