Page 46 of Licence To Howl
‘Nope. The lock mechanism was incorrectly inserted. It happens more often than you’d think.’ He nodded at the door. ‘Especially on old doors like this one.’
‘I’ll have to review me home security,’ Tatton muttered. He gestured to Scarlett. ‘Alright then, lovie. Let’s get on with this.’
Scarlett looped her arms round his neck and hopped up, her legs wrapping round his midriff. Tatton grunted slightly. ‘Which floor is it?’
‘Third.’
His nose wrinkled. ‘Now you tell me. Alright, let’s do this.’ His eyes rolled back into his head and the air around him took on a faint shimmer.
Devereau’s head jerked up. ‘Stop.’
Both Scarlett and Tatton glanced at him.
‘Dev,’ Scarlett said, ‘we’ve been through this. It’s the best –’ She stopped in mid-sentence and dropped down from Tatton, whose green eyes squinted at her.
‘What? What is it?’
Scarlett and Devereau exchanged glances. ‘Blood,’ she whispered.
Devereau nodded grimly. ‘A lot of it.’
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.
