Operation WetFish, Vampire Detective: Ultimate Omnibus Volume 1 of 4 (Operation WetFish, Vampire Detective Ultimate Omnibus) Read online

  OPERATION WETFISH:

  VAMPIRE DETECTIVE

  ULTIMATE OMNIBUS

  VOLUME 1 of 4

  Adam Carter

  Copyright 2017, © Adam Carter. All rights reserved. No content may be reproduced without permission of the author.

  Originally published as singly as Operation WetFish books 1 – 13.

  For Paul

  OPERATION WETFISH

  BOOK 1

  THE POWER OF LIFE AND DEATH

  CHAPTER ONE

  “You got a lot of friends here, punk. But I got all night and get my jollies beating up lowlives, so bring it on.”

  The bar was filled with the stench of cigarette smoke, spilt beer and fear. There were forty-seven patrons presently, one man behind the bar, two young women indecently dressed and probably underage. Of the forty-seven patrons, forty-six were on their feet, drawing knives, knuckle-dusters, pieces of wood; but no firearms. The forty-seventh patron was leaning over the bar, his face pressing into the sticky mixture of months’ old beer whilst trying not to have a heart attack.

  And in the middle of it all, holding the head down, was a single man wearing a deep brown trench coat and a scowl darker than the pits of Hell. His craggy features made him look older than his thirty years, and his cold intense eyes were enough to send any villain scurrying for the shadows. He slowly surveyed the room, noting the eager heavy-set crowd moving in towards him, the two thin men to the back waving chairs only half-heartedly, the guy arguing with himself in the far corner, waving a knife at his reflection in the window and probably off his head on crack.

  His visual inspection over, the man in the trench coat used his spare hand to produce a leather wallet from an inside pocket. “Charles Baronaire,” he declared. “Police. Special branch.” A cruelly knowing glint sparkled in his eye. “Real special.”

  “Guy’s a cop,” someone at the back shouted as though Baronaire was trying to hide it.

  “You’re in trouble now, pal,” someone else told him.

  “We’re surrounded!” someone wailed.

  Baronaire couldn’t understand why some people always had to panic.

  The first gorilla attacked him, swinging a lead pipe. Baronaire had no idea where the guy had got something like that, had visions of the internal plumbing of the bar having taken a battering. The man was at least seven foot tall, not too far off in width either. His shirt was two sizes too small, his muscles could likely crack walnuts just by flexing. And the guy was so hairy it was offensive.

  The lead pipe came down with the force of a train hitting a wall, aimed perfectly for the centre of the officer’s head.

  Baronaire caught the pipe, a loud thunk filling the bar as it slammed into his palm. His muscles held, and a vibratory jolt shuddered up the gorilla’s arm. Baronaire fixed him with a steely glare. “I’d place you under arrest for attempted murder of a police officer,” he said calmly, “but I’m supposed to be keeping a low profile.”

  He snapped the pipe upwards, snatching it from the huge man’s hands and slamming it into the side of his head. The gorilla of a man went down hard, blood spraying into the air, adding to the already heady scent. Baronaire allowed himself a small smile as he soaked in the new taste. He heard a whimper from the bar: he hadn’t relinquished his hold upon the man he held against it.

  There was silence as the gorilla fell into a table, sending half-empty pint glasses flying in the air. He lay groaning, but did not move.

  Baronaire’s nose wrinkled. The taste of blood was souring.

  “I wouldn’t mind wrapping this up,” he said. “My perp’s just wet himself and I could do without holding onto him much longer in case my trench coat gets stained.”

  The momentary silence ended as the entire bar surged for him. Baronaire had hoped his little display of strength would prove enough to keep this from becoming a bar brawl, but he’s also asked his DCI for a police horse to ride, and he wasn’t holding out much hope for that either. Releasing the man at the bar, Baronaire span, his hand slamming into the stomach of the first attacker. Knives came at him, clubs and dusters, but he saw each attack before the men wielding the weapons even knew they were committing themselves. Baronaire moved like liquid lightning through the common room, each punch, every kick, counting. Bodies flew in every direction: the lights were violently shaking from a man he had launched into the air.

  Thirty seconds later the silence had returned. Baronaire stood in the centre of the room, looking about in case there was someone else who wanted to give him a try, but anyone still conscious was clever enough to keep their heads down.

  He caught sight of his prey trying to crawl behind the bar to a back exit and said calmly, “Wouldn’t do that.”

  The man froze and Baronaire grabbed him by the back of his shirt, hauling him to his feet and turning him about, shoving him over the bar. He was a small man, balding, with nervous eyes. He also stank of his own urine, which was more than enough reason for Baronaire to want to end this quickly.

  “What! What!” the man was yelling, cowering behind the bar now.

  Baronaire noted the barman lay slumped over the bottles of spirit, his jaw broken, but the two girls working the bar were huddled together in the corner, their eyes wide, tears leaving ugly black smears down their faces where their heavy make-up was running. He could smell their fear, and as he closed his eyes he could see their naked, terrified bodies in his arms, trembling at his touch.

  He opened his eyes and looked upon them directly. He wasn’t that far gone yet. Besides, now he could smell them he knew they were minors. “Get out,” he told them both stonily. “Go sort your lives out. And ...” he added when they jumped to their feet and were halfway across the room already. They stopped, still clinging to one another in terror. “And stay off the cocaine,” he told them. If there was one scent he couldn’t stand, it was narcotics.

  The small man behind the bar was wailing once more, and Baronaire reached over and took him by the scruff of his neck. “Right. Now we’re alone, Sam. Anything you tell me, no one’ll know where it came from.”

  “I don’t know anything, I swear!”

  “Hector Doldress.”

  “I don’t know, I swear!”

  “Of course you know the name, he’s been in the news all month.”

  “I ... never met the guy.”

  Baronaire closed his eyes and inhaled deeply; he knew how unnerving that was. He didn’t have to be a detective though to know this guy was lying through his teeth. “Maybe I believe you,” he said, his eyes snapping open. “How about that? But you know his lawyer, Nields. Jacob Nields. He’s your lawyer as well. Got you off some nasty charges in the past, hasn’t he? I want Nields. I get Nields taken down, Doldress goes down with him.”

  The small man in his grasp was on the verge of passing out, but Baronaire would not allow him the luxury. Hector Doldress was a despicable man, but he was rich and he was always going to get off the charges. He had been arrested for the murder of a prostitute. Doldress was a sick man, paid women for him to do sick things to them. His wife, it turned out, knew all about his little habits, but so long as he wasn’t doing them to her she turned a blind eye. The guy had made his fortune selling shares and the wife was sticking around for the money. Over the years Doldress’s habits were becoming sicker and sicker, his demands on the girls more and more intense. But he had the money and if there was one thing money could always find it was a hand willin
g to take it.

  One day Doldress had gone too far and the girl he was with paid more than money for it. She was found dumped in the river – an amateur move, but Doldress had clearly panicked. The autopsy revealed she had officially died of asphyxiation, but there were burn marks across her entire body, and even greater damage to specific areas, to suggest the girl had been tortured beforehand.

  It had taken a long investigation to prove the torture had been paid for, if not solicited, and DNA evidence, eye-witness accounts and even video evidence had placed Doldress at the centre of it all.

  Then his lawyer had stepped in and the case was thrown out.

  So it had come to the desk of Detective Chief Inspector Edward Sanders, and Sanders had passed the assignment onto Baronaire. Baronaire had read the file, disgusted at how a human being could become worse than a beast, and had gone after Doldress the only way he knew how. Doldress was untouchable, all men with money were. But if he could get some dirt on the guy’s lawyer, it would throw into question the validity of Doldress’s innocence. And then there would either be a retrial, or else Baronaire would be able to come up with a more permanent solution.

  Either way, he needed that information, and he needed it before anyone else showed up in the bar.

  “Please, I don’t know anything,” the small balding man was all but crying. “Why would Nields tell me anything?”

  Baronaire lifted him into the air with one hand. It would have been clear to anyone watching that the weight meant nothing to him; but there was no one conscious to watch. Sam Fowler was a deadbeat, but Baronaire would be damned if he would also be a dead-end. “You’re afraid of Nields, Fowler,” Baronaire told him. “That’s fine. But you should be more afraid of me. Start by telling me how a little nobody like you can afford a high-class lawyer like Nields.”

  “I ... I ... Guy’s my cousin, officer. His dad told him to look after me, yeah?”

  “We’re getting somewhere. Tell me something to bring him down.”

  Fowler was trembling and Baronaire maintained his stone face at his victory. “All right, all right,” Fowler croaked. “He’s got a coke obsession, ‘kay?”

  “Not enough. That won’t even get him struck off. I need something to make the public question Doldress’s innocence, and for that I need his lawyer to be involved in something worse.”

  “Like what, man?”

  “He ever killed anyone? Had anyone killed?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You’re his cousin aren’t you?” Baronaire could see he was getting nowhere, so changed direction. “These hookers Doldress went to. Nields ever indulge?”

  Fowler’s eyes were frantic now. “I don’t know. They’re friends, they go ‘way back, back to school I think. Used to see Doldress hang around sometimes, but I don’t know what they get up to together.”

  “Where’d Doldress get his girls?” Baronaire was banking on Doldress always using the same source, what with his eccentric habits.

  “That I know,” Fowler said, seeming excited that he could actually give Baronaire something. “Arlene’s. You know Arlene’s?”

  “Sure. Strange you know that, considering you never met Doldress before.”

  Fowler realised he had been caught out, and whimpered. “Please don’t kill me, I got kids, man. For God’s sake.”

  Baronaire tossed him into the vodka and vanished. There was nothing more he could get out of Fowler anyway. And if he had any follow up questions he knew he could always find him. Unobserved now, if not alone, Baronaire willed his body to relax and felt himself grow lighter, less substantial, and a second later there was nothing left of the man or his trench coat.

  Baronaire reappeared in the driver’s seat of his car, his hand already on the wheel. He had something to go on, but things were really not looking up for him.

  “Get anything?”

  Baronaire kept his eyes ahead. His companion was a tall thin man of gentlemanly appearance. His hair was receding, his tidy beard trim and centring about the chin only. His eyes were electric, his smile usually genuine. He wore casual attire, and whenever he was made to wear a suit he claimed it itched terribly. The two men were polar opposites, but personality clashes were the least of their worries.

  “Nice to see you backing me up in there, Jeremiah.”

  Jeremiah shrugged, leaning back in his seat. “Like you need backup to take out a bunch a thugs, Charles. So, what happens if that pub has CCTV?”

  “I’m camera shy.”

  “I know that, but if the tape’s reviewed they’re going to see a bunch of guys sounding off in a one way argument to nobody; then get flung about by an invisible man.”

  “Then they should call HG Wells and see if he has an alibi for tonight.” Baronaire started the car.

  “We heading back to Sanders?” Jeremiah asked.

  “No. I got a lead, we’re checking that out first.”

  “Sanders won’t like that. You know he doesn’t like his officers running off half-cocked. Especially the two of us.”

  “Sanders’ll be happy when we wrap this case up.”

  Jeremiah said nothing. It wasn’t in his nature to argue with Baronaire. Besides, he knew it never did any good. He simply sat back to enjoy the ride. It had been a while since the two of them had gone out on assignment together. Somehow Jeremiah was looking forward to this.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “We’re here to look at the books,” Baronaire said. The two men had parked close to Arlene’s and Jeremiah was already leaning out the window with a huge smile plastered across his face. The neighbourhood was upmarket, the houses large and well protected against burglars. There were at least three politicians who lived upon an adjacent street to this one, although of course they had houses elsewhere they claimed for. Baronaire wondered whether they would ever get caught out about doing that, but it wasn’t his place to care about such things. He was well aware his car stood out amongst all the others in that it didn’t sparkle and was clearly worth about as much as a hubcap in this neighbourhood. With any luck, however, they would not be here long.

  Baronaire noted Jeremiah hadn’t replied. “Books, Jeremiah? We need to see the records?”

  “Yeah, I heard ya, Charles.” A girl of around twenty strolled past the car on Jeremiah’s side. She was wearing a short, tight skirt, her shirt was cut obscenely low, and her long hair was immaculately brushed. Like a prize horse, Baronaire reflected. “Sometimes,” Jeremiah grinned, “I love my job.”

  Baronaire turned to him from his seat behind the wheel. “For one thing, we’re here on business, Jeremiah. For another, we’re still keeping a low profile, and ... and that girl smelled funny.”

  He stepped out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Jeremiah met him on the pavement. “Smelled funny?” Jeremiah asked, raising his eyebrows. “You mean the peroxide.” He shrugged. “Kinda grows on you.”

  “Well not tonight it doesn’t.”

  It was the height of summer, so the darkness was taking forever to set in. Baronaire knew they could not act without darkness to act as cover, but the more they waited the less certain he was becoming that this was such a good idea. He could control himself, he was reasonably certain of that; but Jeremiah was another matter entirely. It had been a while since Sanders had paired the two of them, and while Jeremiah was relishing every moment, Baronaire was quickly beginning to be reminded why he hated the partnership.

  “I need you out here watching the door,” Baronaire decided.

  Jeremiah’s face fell. “You what? Hold on a ...”

  “I’m in charge. I’ll radio if I need a distraction.”

  “You mean, like, me storming in there and demanding a refund?”

  Baronaire glanced at him strangely. “If that floats your boat, Jerry.”

  “There you go again with the Jerry.”

  “Just keep your radio on.”

  Baronaire did not wait for the inevitable argument and headed around the back. Arlene owned a large ho
use, with three storeys and a multitude of rooms. That the local residents did not realise the place was a brothel was ludicrous to even consider, but perhaps that was the attraction. Rich folk liked to distinguish themselves from the lower classes by always calling things by different names. Escorts; that’s what these girls were. Or call girls, he suspected. Prostitute and hooker were words likely not used around here. But then Baronaire supposed people did that in all walks of life. He knew people back at the office who were convinced Star Wars wasn’t a kids’ film, just because they happened to like it. People liked to believe they were better than everyone else, liked for others to see them as better. They didn’t seem to realise that anyone looking in just thought they were idiots.

  Call a spade a spade, and if you can dig with it, dig with it.

  Baronaire reflected he should have been a psychologist.

  He came to an electric fence, but passed through the bars without any problems. He was halfway to the house, keeping to the shadows, when he heard the barking. Stopping entirely, he waited for the beasts to come. There were three of them, all Dobermans, and as they barrelled around the corner, jaws slavering for the flesh of the intruder, Baronaire wondered whether breaking in was going to prove any challenge at all.

  The dogs ground to a halt several metres before him, lowering their heads and whimpering. Two turned and fled back to their kennels, but he needed the third one for a few moments. He stared stonily into the beast’s eyes and the animal cowered, but the message was through. It bolted from Baronaire, running to the electric fence, where it barked furiously at something on the other side; barking at nothing. Baronaire intently watched all the windows in view and within moments someone from the second storey peered out. The window opened and a woman of around forty years, garbed in a dressing gown, leaned out.

  “Stop that!” she shouted at the dog. “What’s all the racket, Butch?”