“There’s time for that later, with a real woman,” Genord sniped with uncharacteristic impatience when Brodie continued to fondle the effigy.
“I better have her tonight.” Brodie sauntered to the back of the crypt, looking around as though he might find Ella there. From what Genord knew, the young fool had served time in juvenile detention for his transgressions with females. It was the only trait they shared in common. Unlike this stupid oaf, Genord had learned from his mistakes. The father would mourn the loss of his son, but where his empire was concerned, Genord was doing him a favour.
“One of the bottommost stones will depress and allow you to lift a section of floor.”
“Hey! I said I want her tonight.”
“Then perform your end of the contract.” Genord tantalised the dragon with images of a feed while the petulant boy struggled with the mechanism.
“There’s a chest of jewels on the river bed directly below. If you fetch it, half is yours.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“Probably more than your Daddy’s worth.”
“Yeah. Well, why aren’t you getting it yourself?”
“I suffer from bouts of pneumonia. It would do me little good to fetch it if I died from the effort.”
Brodie removed his leather jacket, boots, jeans, and socks, tossing them carelessly to the floor. He curled his toes over the edge and looked at the murky water. “How deep is it?” the boy asked.
The dragon was stirring. Genord required most of his concentration to hold it at bay. He had retained so little of his sacrifices’ spirits his control lacked the finesse he desired. He must be careful to stash a greater proportion of his final victims’ lifeforce. It would be cruel irony to have his beloved Gargouille resurrected to flesh and blood if he could not assert control.
“I said, how deep?”
“Approximately ten feet.”
You ill-mannered boy
.
Brazenly, Brodie dove in. Droplets splashed onto the marble. A red stain seeped through the water until it was awash with blood. The boy’s dazed spirit flittered around the opening. Genord seized it, revelling in the power that coursed through his veins. Alas, he needed this soul for his dragon. He eased it into the floor, used its power to twist and mould the stone into his latest trophy. The ground shook, the marble cracked, and a new tomb rose, its top assuming the lanky shape of the latest sacrifice. A pity the boy had not seen his memorial, but the police had left Genord little time for preparation. Perhaps it was just as well. He doubted the lad would appreciate the artistry. His caretaker’s hands would never rival Romain’s in skill, but his unparalleled mind was capable of creating works of art just as fine.
Art, however, was not his aim. Genord reached for the boy’s trapped life force and whipped it into the wooden torso that lumbered in the water below. He was careful to leave a smidgeon to languish in the tomb, a power to draw upon should any dare to challenge him.
WHEN ROB OPENED
the interview room door, Romain was wringing his hands while pacing back and forth. Small noises of alarm escaped from him every few seconds. He stopped when he saw Ella outside, but began rubbing his face and whimpering when Rob closed the door. Sighing, Rob called Ella into the room.
“He seems to like you. Just leave the questions to me,” he told her.
“Hello, Romain,” Ella said, sitting at a table identical to the one in the other room.
Romain uncovered his face. “Bitter.”
“Yes. I admit it. But right now I’m more concerned about Adam. Do you know where he is?” she asked, ignoring Rob’s instruction.
The mason’s mouth turned down. “Ella know.”
Ella closed her eyes, nodded, then opened them again. A mental institution beckoned. Her voiced cracked as she said, “Yes, but Detective Hamlyn doesn’t.”
Rob pulled out a chair and Romain sat, crouching to accommodate his hunched back. “Where is he?”
“Safe.”
Rob opened the file. Glancing sideways at Ella, he slid out a photo of Cecily Williams.
Romain grimaced. “Cecily.”
“Yes. Do you know what happened to her?”
“Safe.”
Ella reached for Romain’s hand. He jerked it out of her grasp with a cry. “I’m sorry,” she said, drawing back.
Rob took out a picture of Caroline Jones.
Romain pulled it from his hand and placed it next to the one of Cecily. “Safe.” He did the same with a photo of Bekka Todd. “Safe.”
Rob’s hand trembled a little as he withdrew Alicia Moffat’s photo.
“What about Matt Hayes?” she asked before he could turn it toward the mason.
Romain’s breathing became heavy. “Dead,” he wailed. He started rocking as Rob pushed Alicia’s photo across. “Dead. Dead.”
“Bekka,” she breathed.
Romain stilled. “Bekka no know.”
“You kept it from her?”
“Bekka help.”
“But she can’t do that if she’s grieving,” Ella said softly.
Romain’s face contorted as he pulled at his hair. Melanie Denham’s photo brought a stronger response. Romain rose and paced, tearing at his hair. Ella could not blame him. The photo reminded her so much of the gruesome death, she felt sick.
“It wasn’t your fault, Romain.” Getting him to reveal what he knew was going to be a challenge but no way was she going to tell Rob the whole story unless it came from the mason first.
With a glance at her, Rob returned the last two girls’ photos to the file. Ella went to the mason, who was facing into a corner, rocking.
“Romain. Romain! You need to answer the detective’s questions so you can get back to the church and stop Genord.”
Romain huffed. “Church. Help. You help Romain. Romain help girls.”
“That’s right, Romain.” She placed a tentative hand on his arm, breathing a sigh of relief when he calmed and let her guide him back to the chair.
“We want to help the girls. We want to help you,” Rob said. “Where are they?”
“No. Cecily help you. Cecily, Caroline, Bekka, Adam, help you. Ella help me.”
Rob looked at her. Ella dug into her bag, felt a pang of longing as her fingers brushed the last square of a chocolate bar, and brought out her notebook and pen. She tore some pages out and pushed them across the table toward the unlikely suspect.
“Can you show Detective Hamlyn where Cecily is?” she asked.
Romain sat, took the pen and sketched, shading paper after paper. Trust him to stack each fresh page on top of the completed ones, preventing them from seeing his work. Ella tried to sneak a peek by leaning over his shoulder. Rob warned her off with a gesture.
“He might miss important details if you distract him.”
It felt like a new moon before Romain put the pen down. He held the papers in both hands and flashed the crooked tooth grimace she had come to understand was his twisted face’s version of a smile.
“May I see?” Rob asked without making any forward movement.
Romain held the papers to his chest, as though the pictures were his most precious possession. “Mine.”
“I only want to take a look.” Rob extended his arm. “Thank you,” he said when Romain offered the sketches. He spread them on the table. Simple but well done, they depicted the most familiar of the grotesques at the church. Rob tapped the picture of the eagle-headed grotesque whose wings ended in talons.
“That’s the grotesque the blood at the church came from,” Ella said quietly.
“Car-o-line,” Romain said with a little nod.
Rob took a sharp breath. “This one,” he said, indicating a winged mammalian animal.
“That’s the grotesque I stabbed at my house.”
“Cecily,” Romain said with a soft smile. “Ella hurt Cecily.”
“I didn’t know, Romain,” she said.
Rob’s only reaction was a blink. “Cecily,” he said, pushing the sketch toward Romain, who nodded. “And this one?” He indicated the sketch of a lizard.
“Bekka.”
Rob’s hand was unsteady as he lifted the top edge of the final sketch. Genord had been right. The squat, horned creature was ugly. A nervous laugh escaped her.
“Ella. Ella safe.”
“Is this creature Ella?”
“Yes. Ella. Ella. Ella.”
His expression bland, Rob pointed at her. “Who is this?” he asked.
“Ella.”
“This isn’t getting us anywhere.” Rob rose. “I’ll see if a psychiatrist can get anything more out of him.”
“He’s telling you the truth.” Rob stared at her. When he didn’t say anything, she went on. “Romain turned me into that grotesque. You were standing in front of me, on the roof. You said you would take the mason into the station for questioning because he might know something.” She recounted every detail of the conversation. When she had finished, he stared at her for a full minute.
“Genord must have drugged you and hidden you nearby,” he said at last. “I’m taking you to the hospital for a blood test.”
“Rob, I talked to them. You need to let Romain go. He’s the only one who can stop Genord.”
Rob blinked, raised his hands, dropped them, spluttered and took a deep breath. Then he ripped another page from her notepad. He was nowhere near as masterful as the mason, but his quick strokes produced the head and neck of a beast anyone who had witnessed the fight at the canal would recognise. He pushed it across the table.
Romain’s breathing turned shallow. “La Gargouille,” he said of the serpentine creature emerging from the water.
“What is this? Or should I ask
who
is this?”
The door to the interview room burst open. A woman whose appearance showed no concession to the ungodly hour walked in. Ella guessed who she was even before she opened her overeducated mouth.
“How dare you interview this man without a guardian or council present? I assume he is not under arrest. Anyone with a modicum of intelligence can see he does not have the mental capacity to orchestrate the crimes in question.”
In the corridor, Chief Inspector Roan was not looking hopeful.
“Mr Romain is merely helping us with our enquiries,” Rob said.
“If you are not going to charge him with an offence, I’m taking him home.” She marched to the other side of the table and took Romain’s arm. The gesture immediately sent Romain into a panic. He knocked her away and started scraping the pictures toward him.
“Your client does not like to be touched,” Rob said.
“Obviously.” She turned to Romain. “When you are ready.”
“Ms Jerome, did this man threaten you in any way?” Roan asked.
“As I told you, he saved my life twice.” She was not going to fail those girls again.
His only hope of holding his suspect dashed, Roan tensed so much she could see a pulse beat in the vein on his forehead.
“Romain, go and help the girls,” Rob said, refusing to meet anyone’s eye.
The mason was still clutching the sketches. “Help Cecily.” He loped after the lawyer. One of the papers fluttered to the floor.
Rob picked the sketch up. It was the dragon.
“Do you believe us?” Ella asked.
“DNA evidence doesn’t lie.”
“So you’ll arrest Genord?”
“He did this?”
“Not exactly. Look Rob, if you send me to a psychiatrist I’m going to deny I ever said this but Romain turned the girls into grotesques to protect them from Genord, who was going to sacrifice them to that.” She waved at the sketch in his hand.
Inspector Roan came in and closed the door. “Do you want to fill me in, Detective Sergeant?”
Rob and Ella exchanged wary looks.
Rob caught himself tapping his thigh. “At this stage, all we have are a couple of rather improbable theories.”
“I’m going to surmise what Ms Jerome just said is a result of shock. Get a team of snipers, biologists, zoo personnel, whoever you need down to the Port River and shoot whatever is down there.”
“You can’t do that!” Ella blurted.
The Inspector, not bothering to hide his annoyance, rounded on her. “Do I need to remind you your involvement in this case is a privilege, Ms Jerome, because with the trouble you’ve caused us I am on the verge of locking you up for obstruction of justice.”
Ella shook her head. “Chief Inspector Roan, those grotesques are protecting us from the ravenous beast in that river.”
“You mean there’s something else down there?”
“This,” Rob said, passing him the sketch of the dragon. “And from its size, it’s probably what killed those girls.”
“What the hell is that?”
“A dragon.”
“Get back to the
Informer
, Ms Jerome. As for you, Detective Hamlyn, are you going to listen to someone whose faculties are not all intact?” Roan tossed the sketch onto the table.
“Our own observations actually, sir.”