filled with screaming headlines of Satanic rituals and vampiric sacrificial killings. More quietly and more firmly, orders came down to solve the mess quickly.
Which was why Blount and Rollins were following a probable senile lunatic through a forgotten Victorian cemetery in the rain. He might know something. He might even be their killer.
“I have made a lifetime study of vampires,” Dr Hoffmann had said, when he presented himself in Inspector Blount’s office. “Your murders are clearly attacks by a vampire. I think I can find him. And destroy him.”
Inspector Blount had just been upbraided with the others for lack of progress. He was having his tea and thinking of retorts he wished he had dared make. His assignment was to explore the Satanic youth gang element to the murders. Thus Dr, Hoffmann was sent to his office, and Inspector Blount was in a testy mood.
“A vampire? How many sugars?” He poured a cup for Dr Hoffmann. A nut case just might know something worth following with regard to other loonies of his acquaintance. Any sort of lead just now.
“Two, please. Yes, a vampire. Obvious, isn’t it.” Dr Hoffmann sipped his tea. “If I’m correct, and I think I am, judging from the localities of the deaths, it’s one Giles Ashton, entombed within the family crypt, St Martin’s, Battersea, in 1878. Months later, they opened his coffin clandestinely and drove a stake through his heart. There had been numerous deaths such as these in the vicinity. Described as anemia. Ashton had been known to explore the black arts. Died under strange and unspecified circumstances. After that, the deaths ceased.”
Inspector Blount finished his tea and wished it were a cup of single malt. At least he was pursuing his assignment by listening to this mad geezer. “How do you know all this, then?”
“I’ve spent my life studying vampirism.”
“Oh, yes. I forgot. So then. Why is this Giles Ashton suddenly on the prowl after all these years?”
“I think it’s those young punk would-be Satanists, raiding unfrequented cemeteries and robbing graves for skulls and other human remains. I think some of them broke into the Ashton crypt, opened his coffin, saw the stake through his heart, and removed it to see what would happen. It would have released him.
“I see.”
Dr Hoffmann examined his watch. “Just past midday. I have wooden stakes and mallet, garlic, crucifix, holy water, and consecrated host. We can find his crypt before darkness and destroy him before he kills again.”
Inspector Blount had just received a severe reprimand to produce results right now. His position was in jeopardy. The man was a senile fool, but if he did have any knowledge of Satanic rites near the murder scenes, Blount could truthfully report that he was following every lead. Perhaps the geezer might lead him to something important.
So Inspector Blount summoned Detective Sergeant Rollins, and the two of them followed Dr Hoffmann off into the rain and the weeds and the vandalized graves.
“Here it is!” Dr Hoffmann pointed to the mausoleum. It had been blemished with spray-paint graffiti; the door had been forced. In eroding marble letters, the name of Ashton could still be read upon the cornice.
Inspector Blount envisioned a gang of depraved teenagers, high on drugs, performing Satanic rituals here. Drinking the blood of their spaced-out sacrifices, leaving their bodies close by, too crazed to think of hi ding them. This might be the break.
“Vampires sleep by day,” Dr Hoffmann said. “Giles Ashton will be resting in his coffin.”
Inspector Blount had seen the movies. Let the old geezer go on about with it. He and Rollins should find evidence here. It was a large mausoleum, ideal for cult activities. In the semidarkness, Blount observed with disgust empty cans of Tennent’s Super, broken syringes, used condoms, dirty blankets, more graffiti. A large pentagram painted on the floor. Blount suspected that it wasn’t actually paint.
“Over here!” Dr Hoffmann pointed to a vandalized coffin. It bore evidence of having been forced open recently, and a verdigris-covered bronze tablet read: GILES ASHTON. 1830-1878. MAY HE REST FOREVER.
“Quick! Hand me my bag!”
Rollins did so, feeling like an idiot.
Dr Hoffmann removed a sharpened wooden stake and a mallet. “Now then. Remove the coffin lid, and you’ll find your killer.”
My God, the man is serious, thought Inspector Blount. Best to humor him, then get on with the serious detective work. He and Rollins lifted the coffin lid, as Dr Hoffmann stood poised to strike. The coffin was empty.
Dr Hoffmann stared at the empty coffin. “They must have