asked.
“Shouldn’t be too long. Do you want to take a quick shufti inside?”
“Sure, why not?”
One of the chaps led the way up the steps to the frontdoor, which was propped open with a dog-eared telephone directory. Six pint-bottles of lumpy-looking milk stood on the doorstep, the family’s last delivery. I followed the chap into a high, airless hallway, which had a wide staircase on the left-hand side.
“House was shared, you see,” the chap told me. “Mister and missus and three children lived on the ground floor, while the grandparents lived upstairs.”
Although the house was detached, it stood only six feet from the house next door and the windows were all glazed with yellow and green glass, so the hallway was deeply gloomy, like an aquarium. On the wall hung a damp-spotted print of a miserable-looking maiden, by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
“Window cleaner looked in and saw the bodies,” said Terence. “Otherwise, who knows, it might have been weeks.”
We went through to the dining room, which was thick with the smell of decaying food and human blood, and noisy with the buzzing of hundreds of flies. Dark brown woolen drapes had been drawn across the bay window, but enough sunlight penetrated the room for me to be able to see what had happened here.
The dining chairs had been set back against the walls, presumably so that the family could stand around the dining table and help themselves to the buffet. Plates and cutlery were scattered on the mustard-yellow carpet, as well as trodden-in sandwiches and cakes. On the sideboard stood bottles of Scotch whiskey and Gordon’s gin and Emva Cream sweet sherry, as well as six or seven bottles of light ale and Mackeson’s stout. I was reminded that the British liked their beer warm.
The words H APPY B IRTHDAY J ACKIE had been cut out of colored paper and stuck on to the mirror.
“Difficult to tell how the buggers got in,” said Terence. “Back door was locked, and all of the main windows were closed.”
I stepped carefully across the dining room and drew back the drapes. Three of the small upper windows were open. Even a child would have found it impossible to climb through them, but a
strigoi mort
could slide through the narrowest of gaps. Once inside, he would have opened the front door for any
strigoi vii
who might have accompanied him. It wasn’t easy to tell how many
strigoi
had been here, because there was so much blood and so much mess, but they usually went out feeding in threes.
I looked back at the dining table. All the food had been splashed with dark brown blood—the birthday cake, the sausage rolls, the mashed-sardine sandwiches—and now flies were crawling all over it so that the whole table looked as if it were rippling.
I went to the door. There were bloodstained fingerprints on either side of the doorjamb. “You say that one of the bodies was found upstairs?”
“Eleven-year-old boy, yes.”
“See these fingerprints? My guess is, the kid was trying to escape, and somebody blocked the doorway to stop the Screechers from going after him. Unsuccessfully, of course. Because, look.”
I pointed to some smudges of blood on the wallpaper. They ran diagonally up the wall, each one higher than the next, until they reached the ceiling. I stepped back into the hallway and looked up. The smudges continuedacross the ceiling toward the staircase, and up the sloping ceiling above the stairs, too.
“Footprints,” I said. “The boy tried to get away and one of the
strigoi
chased him.”
“On the
ceiling
?” said Terence. He looked at the chap and the chap raised his eyebrows and puffed out his cheeks, but didn’t say anything.
“You have to understand what we’re up against here,” I told him.
The other chap came in from outside. “Your dog handler’s here,” he told us. “Bit of all right, as a matter of fact.”
Bullet
I went out on to the porch—not only to greet my dog handler but to breathe some fresh air. During the
“Shouldn’t be too long. Do you want to take a quick shufti inside?”
“Sure, why not?”
One of the chaps led the way up the steps to the frontdoor, which was propped open with a dog-eared telephone directory. Six pint-bottles of lumpy-looking milk stood on the doorstep, the family’s last delivery. I followed the chap into a high, airless hallway, which had a wide staircase on the left-hand side.
“House was shared, you see,” the chap told me. “Mister and missus and three children lived on the ground floor, while the grandparents lived upstairs.”
Although the house was detached, it stood only six feet from the house next door and the windows were all glazed with yellow and green glass, so the hallway was deeply gloomy, like an aquarium. On the wall hung a damp-spotted print of a miserable-looking maiden, by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
“Window cleaner looked in and saw the bodies,” said Terence. “Otherwise, who knows, it might have been weeks.”
We went through to the dining room, which was thick with the smell of decaying food and human blood, and noisy with the buzzing of hundreds of flies. Dark brown woolen drapes had been drawn across the bay window, but enough sunlight penetrated the room for me to be able to see what had happened here.
The dining chairs had been set back against the walls, presumably so that the family could stand around the dining table and help themselves to the buffet. Plates and cutlery were scattered on the mustard-yellow carpet, as well as trodden-in sandwiches and cakes. On the sideboard stood bottles of Scotch whiskey and Gordon’s gin and Emva Cream sweet sherry, as well as six or seven bottles of light ale and Mackeson’s stout. I was reminded that the British liked their beer warm.
The words H APPY B IRTHDAY J ACKIE had been cut out of colored paper and stuck on to the mirror.
“Difficult to tell how the buggers got in,” said Terence. “Back door was locked, and all of the main windows were closed.”
I stepped carefully across the dining room and drew back the drapes. Three of the small upper windows were open. Even a child would have found it impossible to climb through them, but a
strigoi mort
could slide through the narrowest of gaps. Once inside, he would have opened the front door for any
strigoi vii
who might have accompanied him. It wasn’t easy to tell how many
strigoi
had been here, because there was so much blood and so much mess, but they usually went out feeding in threes.
I looked back at the dining table. All the food had been splashed with dark brown blood—the birthday cake, the sausage rolls, the mashed-sardine sandwiches—and now flies were crawling all over it so that the whole table looked as if it were rippling.
I went to the door. There were bloodstained fingerprints on either side of the doorjamb. “You say that one of the bodies was found upstairs?”
“Eleven-year-old boy, yes.”
“See these fingerprints? My guess is, the kid was trying to escape, and somebody blocked the doorway to stop the Screechers from going after him. Unsuccessfully, of course. Because, look.”
I pointed to some smudges of blood on the wallpaper. They ran diagonally up the wall, each one higher than the next, until they reached the ceiling. I stepped back into the hallway and looked up. The smudges continuedacross the ceiling toward the staircase, and up the sloping ceiling above the stairs, too.
“Footprints,” I said. “The boy tried to get away and one of the
strigoi
chased him.”
“On the
ceiling
?” said Terence. He looked at the chap and the chap raised his eyebrows and puffed out his cheeks, but didn’t say anything.
“You have to understand what we’re up against here,” I told him.
The other chap came in from outside. “Your dog handler’s here,” he told us. “Bit of all right, as a matter of fact.”
Bullet
I went out on to the porch—not only to greet my dog handler but to breathe some fresh air. During the
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