“There’s the place, Rook Thomas,” said the driver, and they all peered out as the car cruised by. It did not look like the site of supernatural malevolence. A cheerful Italian restaurant with red, white, and green awnings, it had a warm glow coming from the windows. It looked like a very nice place to dine, apart from the flashing lights of the police cars outside and the solemn constables standing guard at the door. There was a small crowd gathered, and Odette supposed that at least some of them were from the press. A woman in a serious suit and a serious hairstyle declaimed in front of a television camera, and a couple of men with large zoom lenses took pictures from across the street.
“Oh, bugger,” said the Rook. “The Liars at the Rookery are going to have a hell of a time with this.” The car swept them past without pausing, and Pawn Wheatley smoothly took them around a corner to the service alley behind all the restaurants, where two more policemen were standing as sentries by a temporary barrier. They eyed the car suspiciously as it approached. Rook Thomas hurriedly dug into her purse and took out an extremely thick wallet. She flipped through the various card sheaths until she found what she was looking for and handed it to the driver.
“Evening, lads,” said Pawn Wheatley as he rolled down the window (which stuck halfway).
“Road’s closed, sir,” said one of the constables. “There’s a crime scene back there.”
“We know, Constable,” said the Rook. “We’re here with the investigation.” Thomas didn’t acknowledge the unprofessional mien of the car. “Wheatley, give him the card.” The policeman examined it briefly and looked at her.
“You’re a colonel in the British army,” he said dubiously. The Rook made a small sound that suggested to Odette that she had produced the wrong identification card. The officer’s gaze swept over the car, lingering on the Rook in her cocktail dress of sexy evil, which, Odette noticed, still had a couple of french fries on it. The suspicion lay heavy in the air, but Thomas rallied.
“Yes... I am a colonel. There are concerns that this may have military implications. Concerns at the highest levels.” The policeman glanced at the other occupants of the car. “These are my staff,” Thomas said haughtily. Odette prayed that he wouldn’t ask their ranks. “Look, use your little radio and call through to the officer in charge of the crime scene. Tell him that I’m here. We’ll wait.”
She sat back, folding her arms imperiously — a process that, because of the cramped environment, involved her inadvertently elbowing both Odette and Mrs. Woodhouse painfully in their breasts. The constable exchanged a long look with his colleague but apparently decided it would be more difficult to argue with them than to call his superior, and he turned away. There was some electronic chatter on the radio, and then he turned back.
To Odette’s disappointment, he was not profusely apologetic. But he did let them through. Down the service alley, two large police vans were lined up behind the Italian restaurant. Pawn Wheatley parked, and the passengers in the rear set about prying themselves out of the backseat.
As they all stretched the kinks out of their spines, they were approached by a pudgy man in Wellingtons and a rustling white hooded coverall that Odette recognized as made of Tyvek. The only visible part of him was his round face with its astonishingly luxuriant ginger mustache.
“Colonel Thomas, I presume?”
“Don’t even think about saluting, Gadenne,” said the Rook. “I managed to give them the wrong identification, and I thought that it would be even more ridiculous if I then found the card identifying me as a scene-of-crime officer.” She introduced Odette and the graaf, and Pawn Gadenne greeted them with the very particular British demeanor that translates as I am absolutely appalled to have you here, but I am also extremely well mannered and so I shall conceal that fact from you. After the courtesies were exchanged, he described the incident.
“It’s rather nasty, this one,” he said. “Sixteen people were in the upstairs dining room of the restaurant. Normal evening, lots of chatter. The waitress went downstairs to pick up a tray of drinks, came back two minutes later, and found all of them dead.”
“Hell,” said Rook Thomas. Odette was inclined to agree with her.
Pawn Gadenne continued, “They were all lying about with expressions and postures of agony. No one on the floor below had heard a single sound. No screams. No voices. Not even thuds of them hitting the ground.”
Odette felt the hairs on the back of her neck rising up. A real supernatural event had happened a few meters from where she stood. She looked up at the second floor of the restaurant. Floodlights were visible through the windows. Set up by the forensic team, I suppose.
“Was it one big party?” Rook Thomas was asking.
“No. Four groups, unrelated. Two couples out for romantic dinners. A gathering of five students, and a birthday group of seven. Some of them were already eating, some hadn’t even ordered yet.”
“All right, so the waitress found a roomful of abrupt corpses,” said Rook Thomas. “What did she do then?”
“Dropped the drinks, screamed, and almost fell down the stairs,” said Gadenne. “People rushed up to see what had happened, and the police were called.”
“Did they try to offer any medical attention? Did they touch the corpses?”
“Rook Thomas, when you see these bodies, you’ll understand why no one wanted to go near them,” said Pawn Gadenne. “The manager put his hand on one of them to feel for a pulse, and he said the skin was like leather.”
“Did anyone take pictures?”
“I gather some piece-of-shit student tried but a waiter punched him and smashed his phone.”
“Good,” said the Rook. “Well, that restores a bit of my faith in humankind.”
“We’re quite fortunate, really. Only six civilians and eight police officers saw the scene before we took over,” said Pawn Gadenne. “Of course, with this happening in the middle of London, it was inevitable that the press would materialize.”
“And what have you told them?”
“Nothing, yet,” said Gadenne. “The Liars are trying to invent something that won’t panic the populace or destroy the reputation of the restaurant.”
“Let me know what they come up with,” said the Rook. “Now, let’s go take a look at this.” Pawn Gadenne ushered them up into one of the vans where several people in coveralls were talking into headsets or bustling about with stainless-steel cases. When they noticed the Rook, they nodded to her respectfully but didn’t break off from what they were doing.
“We’ve swept for radiation and gas, of course,” said Gadenne. “Nothing. But you’ll have to wear Tyvek suits when you go in.” Coveralls were found for three of the party, Mrs. Woodhouse having decided that visiting roomfuls of corpses was not part of her duty statement. She did, however, produce from her voluminous handbag a pair of trainers for the Rook.
“Do you always carry running shoes around for her?” asked Odette in low tones.
“Her job requires her to dress like a professional,” said the EA quietly. “It also tends to abruptly require her to move around frantically. I’ve found that it’s best always to be prepared.” Her preparation, however, did not extend to carrying around a spare outfit, and so Rook Thomas was obliged to pull her coveralls up over her cocktail dress, which made for an interesting silhouette. Graaf Ernst, once he had taken off his coat and removed his tie, fit comfortably into one of the larger suits, but in order for Odette to put on the suit, her hideous dress of frumpitude had to be bunched up to the tops of her thighs, which left her with a gargantuan bulge around her hips.
“We haven’t detected any foreign materials in the air,” said Pawn Gadenne, “but we still insist on goggles and filter masks.” These were handed out, along with latex gloves. Well, now I’m actually starting to feel at home, thought Odette as she snapped the gloves on. She pulled the hood up over her hair, stood a little straighter, and waited as Pawn Gadenne crammed his voluminous mustache into a dust mask.