Licence To Howl by Helen Harper
Chapter Eighteen
Tatton was already backing up,his hands in the air. ‘Nuh uh,’ he said. ‘No fecking way. Ye said this fecker was a murderer but I didn’t think I’d have to witness the evidence of that with me own eyes.’
Devereau’s nostrils flared. It wasn’t blood from Mike Lancaster, the Australian who Solentino had casually killed earlier, that he was smelling. It was too fresh and there was too much of it for that. With his toe, he nudged the door open further – and both he and Scarlett took a step back.
‘Jesus.’ Her face was pale. She shook her head. ‘Jesus.’
Devereau forced down the sudden rise of nausea and sniffed again. ‘I’m getting different blood types.’ He glanced at Scarlett. ‘Can you tell how many victims there are?’
She swallowed. ‘Four. Wait, no.’ She hesitated. ‘Five, I think. Maybe even six.’
There was jab of sharp pain between Devereau’s shoulder blades. ‘It doesn’t seem likely that Solentino killed six people inside his own damned apartment. He’s a psychopath but he’s intelligent. A massacre is not a smart move, not for someone who’s got to stay beneath the radar of the police. It doesn’t make sense.’
Scarlett’s voice was grim. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘It doesn’t.’
He motioned towards Tatton, who was by now several metres away. ‘Head back to the car,’ he said. ‘If we’re not there in ten minutes’ time, call the police.’
The leprechaun’s expression was darkly relieved. ‘Noted.’ He spun round and took off at high speed.
Devereau looked at Scarlett. ‘You can join him if you want.’
She threw him a scornful glance. ‘No chance. Let’s see what horrors are up there.’
With slow, wary steps, Devereau stepped across the threshold. Even from the ground floor, which was some distance away from Solentino’s apartment, the smell of blood was strong. Devereau marvelled quietly that the stench hadn’t woken up the other residents and then headed for the stairs. He strained his ears, noting the few snuffling sounds which had to be from people slumbering in other nearby apartments. There was nothing else to be heard and so, with Scarlett on his heels, he ascended the staircase.
The closer they got, the more the sickly iron rich scent filled the air. When they reached the second floor, Scarlett hissed his name. He turned and she gestured towards a dark smear on the banister. Blood. Devereau examined it carefully, making sure not to touch it directly with his own fingertips. It looked fresh. Very fresh. He steeled himself and nodded at her before continuing on upwards.
He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting to see when Solentino’s own front door came into view. If they went by sight alone, it would appear that nothing was amiss. The door was closed and there were no obvious signs of violence other than the now overpowering reek of spilled blood. His tongue wet his lips. Then he walked over to the door and carefully opened it.
It wasn’t locked. Instead it swung open at his first touch, creaking faintly as if in mild protest. Devereau inhaled – and then gagged. It wasn’t just blood he was smelling now. It was faeces and fear and anger and, if he wasn’t mistaken, intestines.
Scarlett touched his arm. Careful, she mouthed.
He nodded grimly before walking inside.
The first room they came to was the kitchen. It was devoid of either bodies or blood. Devereau moved past it and glanced in at the equally empty lounge before walking quietly into the dining room where Solentino had slit Mike Lancaster’s throat. The Australian’s corpse had gone – but there were three others. He and Scarlett moved swiftly from one to the other, checking for any signs of life. There were none. Devereau only recognised one of the unfortunate souls. It was Rick Moore, the American man who worked for Solentino. His eyes were wide and staring and he was sprawled on the floor with his head at an awkward angle. From the way he’d fallen, it appeared that he’d been trying to run. He hadn’t gotten very far. Devereau knelt down and gazed at his shattered skull. Moore had been shot once in the head. One bullet was all it had taken.
The other two bodies were also men of a similar age and build to Rick Moore. Devereau took out his phone and quickly snapped photos of each of their faces. Then he followed Scarlett out of the dining room and into the first bedroom.
There were three pairs of narrow bunkbeds, along with various suitcases in different stages of disarray. Scarlett was already kneeling by the only body. She glanced round at Devereau and shook her head to indicate that he’d already gone. ‘Rospo Accetta,’ she said quietly. ‘It looks as if he was fast asleep when it happened.’
Devereau nodded briefly. It was bloody carnage. ‘Gunshot?’
‘Yep.’
He ran a hand through his hair and turned. There were more rooms – and no doubt more bodies – yet to go. The second bedroom was grander than the first, and included an ensuite bathroom. Judging by the lingering perfume and the strewn clothes, this was where Alina and Solentino slept. There was, however, no sign of either of them.
Scarlett tapped her fingernails against the next door. ‘This is the soundproofed room where we were kept.’
Devereau felt his stomach tighten and exchanged a glance with her. There had to be a reason why this particular door was closed. She bit her lip and turned the doorknob, revealing the scene inside.
Christopher Solentino was on his back on the middle of the floor. His arms and legs were spreadeagled and his lifeless eyes were tilted up towards the ceiling. They didn’t need to check his pulse. There was a blade sticking out of his chest, pinning him in place and his stomach had been slit open, revealing his guts. Devereau pushed away his nausea and edged over to examine the weapon. ‘Zombie knife,’ he said. A blade with a serrated edge that was designed not just to kill but to cause as much excruciating pain as possible.
‘Look at his fingers,’ Scarlett said softly.
Devereau glanced down. Every digit on his right hand had been sawn off. He swallowed.
‘The others were shot by someone who knew what they were doing and who wanted to kill quickly. They had to have used a silencer or the entire block would have been woken up. Solentino, however, was taken to the one room where his screams wouldn’t have been heard. And then he was tortured.’
Scarlett bobbed her head in grim agreement. She pointed towards the far wall, where the listening equipment was housed. ‘You see the blood there?’ she said. ‘It’s not his.’ She strode up to the arcing splatter that was gruesomely reminiscent of a Jackson Pollock painting and touched a dribble with the tip of her index finger before licking it delicately. ‘Alina Bonnet,’ she told him. ‘I’ve still got the taste of her in my mouth from earlier.’
Devereau’s jaw clenched. ‘No sign of her body,’ he said.
Scarlett shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
They both edged out of the room. Scarlett gestured towards the final door, where they’d both already surmised Solentino’s best secrets were hidden. Devereau tensed his body and took point, striding forward. He pushed open the door, revealing a small room lined with bookshelves and two desks. One wall had an empty pinboard, although there were scraps of torn paper still clinging to various drawing pins. It looked as if it had been cleared in a hurry. Devereau reached across and picked off one of the scraps. There were four letters scrawled across it. R. B. P. L. He squinted. The acronym meant nothing to him whatsoever.
A computer lay on the floor beside the nearest desk. Its screen was cracked. Devereau knelt down and squinted at the debris of the modem. He was no IT expert but he doubted if would ever yield any information. He ground his teeth. The eavesdropping bugs housed into the walls of the room where Solentino had met his end had probably been tied to this machine. Whatever had happened in there would remain a mystery because the computer looked completely destroyed, with shards of plastic and the telltale green of a smashed motherboard buried beneath the keyboard. Damn it all to hell.
The drawers of the second desk had been yanked open and obviously rifled through. ‘What’s the bet,’ he said, his voice vibrating with pent up rage, ‘that everything of value and every bit of information about what Solentino was planning has been taken?’
Scarlett folded her arms across her chest and swivelled slowly round the room, her dark eyes taking in every detail. ‘It certainly looks that way. I’m not sorry that man is dead but, Devereau, we have no idea who did this. Or why. If someone is muscling in on Solentino’s plans, whatever they are, this could be bad.’
A chill descended down Devereau’s spine. It wasn’t merely the devastating bloodbath and the trail of corpses which caused the sensation. They’d known that Solentino had been planning something terrible but at least they’d also known who their enemy was. Now they could only guess.
‘There’s no sign of Geraint Vissier,’ he said, referring to the Dutchman who’d also met with Solentino’s disfavour earlier that day. Maybe he’d decided after the lunchtime dramatics today that Solentino had to be stopped and had done what he could to stop the man in his tracks and therefore prevent any international atrocities from occurring. Unfortunately, the manner of Solentino’s death, not to mention the ransacked room, suggested such muted optimism could well be misplaced. It seemed likely that this was a coup rather than a conclusion.
‘Do we think that Mr Motorcycle was Vissier?’
Devereau’s mouth flattened. ‘There’s no telling. We obviously didn’t meet all of Solentino’s team earlier today. There could be other players we still don’t know about.’
‘The motorcyclist isn’t here,’ Scarlett pointed out. ‘He was wearing full leathers and none of the corpses match his body shape. In fact –’
There was a sudden noise from out in the hallway. Both Devereau and Scarlett froze. It had sounded like the front door.
Motioning to Scarlett to remain where she was, Devereau turned and moved swiftly to the wall. He pressed his back against it and then craned his neck to catch a glimpse of who was out there.
A shadowed figure stood stockstill, framed by the outer doorway. Mr Motorcycle. The man himself. Devereau held his breath, watching as he took a step forward. He was still wearing the helmet but his visor had been raised. His features weren’t clear and Devereau couldn’t yet tell who it was. A surge of adrenaline zipped through his veins. All wasn’t lost. They still had someone they could question.
Mr Motorcycle’s shoes squeaked as he edged further along the marbled floor. He turned his head and glanced in at the dining room. Then he made a muttered hiss. Devereau sniffed the air. Whoever the man was, he reeked of terror. That was hardly surprising. Devereau looked at Scarlett and raised his eyebrows. She nodded once. A second later, he threw himself out of the room and down the hallway towards the helmeted figure.
The motorcyclist had lightning speed reactions. A split second after Devereau had begun to move towards him, he twisted and pelted for the front door, escaping through it and slamming it closed behind him. Devereau was forced to fumble with doorknob to wrench it open again. The action cost him vital seconds. By the time the apartment’s front door was open again and Devereau sprinted out with Scarlett right behind him, Mr Motorcycle had already reached the first floor.
Devereau’s feet skidded as he swerved and leapt down the first flight of stairs. His target was one step ahead of him, however, vaulting over the banister itself and landing on the floor of the small lobby. He groaned but picked himself up quickly enough. Devereau threw himself after the man and, a breath later, felt a rush of air as Scarlett darted past him, her own speed overtaking his own. She reached the lobby before he did, ducking her head down and yelling as she ran out onto the street. But Devereau could already hear the roar of an engine. As he passed through the front door, he initiated the transformation from man to wolf then, as the motorbike screeched away in a cloud of choking white smoke, he bounded after it on all fours hoping that Scarlett make her way to the car where Tatton was waiting. On two feet she was faster than him but she couldn’t match the speed of a wolf without mechanical aid – and Devereau wasn’t going to let Mr Motorcycle get away. He couldn’t.
His muscles bunched up as he focused on releasing all his remaining energy. The streets in this part of Rome were narrow and twisting, and it was far easier for an animal on all fours to navigate them at speed than it was for even a motorbike. When the bike reached the first corner and was forced to slow down, Devereau sped up, his claws clattering against the hard cobbles. He threw everything he had at sustaining his momentum. Until the motorcyclist reached one of the wider roads, Devereau had the edge.
He ignored the dirty water that splashed into his eyes when his front paw landed in the centre of a muddy puddle and strained himself to catch up. Faster. Further. He was less than three metres behind the motorbike’s tail-light. One jump and he might manage to grab the rider and haul him off. But adrenaline only takes you so far and Devereau had already fought hard this night. He’d pushed past the pain of his earlier injuries but it didn’t take long for the searing jabs of agony to attack his hind legs. When the road beneath his paws changed from smooth tarmac to uneven cobbles and he lost traction, he knew deep down that he wouldn’t catch up. He still tried – he wasn’t a quitter – but the motorbike pulled away spluttering fumes in its wake. Devereau gritted his teeth, biting back the pain, and limped after it. Alas, it did no good. In less than twenty seconds the bike had rounded another corner and disappeared.
Under normal circumstances, Devereau was gallingly aware that he could have caught up to the bastard. He had it in him. Usually. He blinked away involuntary tears of pain. The after-effects of his six fights in the Colosseum were simply too much. He snarled to himself and felt his hind legs give away. He’d pushed his body too hard. It appeared that even a werewolf could only take so much.