The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(52)

‘It’s very good of you to come along this evening. I know how busy you all are.’ She was looking at us all, the grizzled old supervisors, the green young agents, sizing us up, taking our measure. ‘Indeed, that’s really why I’ve brought you here. But before I go on, may I just thank the heads of DEPRAC for inviting me to host this occasion. This hall has seen so many important nights. My grandmother, Marissa, often used it to …’

Her grandmother, Marissa. This was the crux we were fumbling towards. I frowned. Even from a distance Penelope was clearly in radiant shape. She certainly didn’t look eighty-plus years old.

‘Skull,’ I whispered, ‘do you see her?’

‘It’s so difficult from down here. My view’s partially blocked. I’m looking through people’s legs. And there’s one agent there who keeps jiggling around with her particularly enormous—’

‘Can you see her or not?’

‘Yes. It’s her. It’s Marissa. Clear as day.’

I shook my head in doubt. I turned to Lockwood. ‘What do you think?’

But I was alone by the pillar. Lockwood was gone.

He did this sort of thing all the time. I shouldn’t have been surprised, or particularly worried – but that evening my nerves were brittle. Cursing inwardly, I looked for him at the back of the room, but he was nowhere to be seen.

‘I say I know how busy you all are’ – Penelope wasn’t wasting time; she was already coming to the nub of the matter – ‘but “busy” isn’t really strong enough, is it?’ she went on. ‘“Overworked” would be nearer the truth. We are all of us struggling to keep afloat in the supernatural flood that threatens to drown our great country.’ A slender arm was elegantly out-flung. ‘See these pillars here? These famous pillars, from the earliest days of our battle with the Problem? Nine notorious relics! When my grandmother subdued such ghosts as Long Hugh Hennratty and the Clapham Butcher Boy, she thought she was winning the war. When she compressed the Morden Poltergeist into its silver teapot, she never imagined that two generations later such feats would be a nightly business for so many brave and selfless young people. We might all fill a hundred such pillars, and there would still be no end to the terrors we face. And at what cost!’

Another sip of water; a toss of her long black mane. She had some kind of gold necklace on – laced with diamonds, probably. It sparkled in the spotlight. Everyone waited grimly. We knew what was coming.

‘We all remember the difficulties of the Black Winter,’ Penelope said; ‘the longest and worst in the history of the Problem. Mortality rates spiked – particularly among operatives in smaller agencies, where resources are so tight.’ Her dark eyes flashed at the silent crowd. ‘Think back just for a moment. How many of your young heroes perished in those months, trying to make our country a safer place?’

‘None of ours did,’ I said, under my breath. ‘Lockwood and Co. was just fine, thanks.’ I glanced around; predictably, Lockwood had not returned.

‘A new winter is coming,’ Penelope Fittes went on, ‘with forecasts suggesting that it will be no better than the one before. Do any of us want to see a whole new line of little tombs behind Horse Guards Parade? Do you want any of your employees to lie there? Of course not. And you’re quite right. Such mortality rates can’t be permitted again. But I am pleased to report that DEPRAC has been giving the matter some thought, and they have come to a decision.’ Penelope Fittes glanced up at the banner by her side. She waved a gracious hand in its direction. ‘Yes, they are calling it the “Fittes Initiative”. Rather than let DEPRAC close you all down, I have agreed that each small agency, for the duration of the winter, will come under the protection of the combined Fittes and Rotwell Group. We will provide extra manpower, money and resources, and oversee difficult operations for you. The arrangement will start at the end of October and last until March, when it will be reviewed to see …’

The crowd emitted a long, soft sigh. They understood what she was really saying. Like it or not, we were coming under her control. It wasn’t hard to imagine it becoming a permanent arrangement at winter’s end.

A movement at my side caught my attention. Was it Lockwood? No. It came from within the silver-glass pillar. Looking round, I was disconcerted to see the wide, translucent head of the Clapham Butcher Boy pressed right against the glass, jowls wobbling, slack mouth gaping. The thing would have been staring straight at me if the eyes hadn’t been plucked out. I jerked back in consternation.

‘Hey, fish-face, find your own human!’ the skull’s voice called. ‘You do attract them, don’t you, Lucy?’ it continued. ‘Even behind that thick prison, even dumb and sightless as he is, he knows. He smells someone who’s been to the Other Side.’

I shuddered. ‘How can it know that?’

‘You carry the taint of it. It can’t be shaken off. It’s with you always. Lockwood too. But neither of you are anything compared to Marissa there. She stinks of it.’

‘The Other Side?’

‘She may look good to you, but whatever she’s been doing to look so young, it isn’t yoga, I can tell you that.’

‘Hey, Lucy.’ Another movement: not the Butcher Boy this time, but Lockwood – much as before, but with a touch of pink in his cheeks and sweat beading just beside his ear. He still held his glass of juice; he took a sip. ‘Did I miss anything?’