my family doesn’t know much about what goes on inside that group. Though given the kind of work they do, it’s probably just as well. I can’t believe anything could happen here, though. Not inside the Wulfshead, with all its famous defences and protections.”
“Maybe his people just wanted an excuse to get him out of the way for an evening,” said Molly.
“Now that I’ll buy,” I said.
Perhaps fortunately, Molly’s sister Isabella called out to us, so we went over to join her and Louisa at the end of the long bar. Isabella was wearing her usual tight blood-red leathers, plus a black choker round her throat that positively bristled with pointy steel things. She’d dyed her spiky hair a flaming red to match her leathers. Her face had the same beauty as Molly’s, but in a harsher style. Louisa was wearing a pastel-coloured Laura Ashley outfit, finished off with white plastic stilettos. She was the baby of the family, and her sweetly pretty face looked pleasant enough, until you made the mistake of looking into her eyes. And saw just how deep they went. Louisa was the really dangerous Metcalf sister, and it showed. Her hair was currently peroxide white and fluffed out like a dandelion.
“We could have made it to the funeral,” said Isabella, “but we thought it more tactful not to.”
“You thought that,” said Louisa, sipping delicately at her Bacardi Breezer. “I’ve never gotten a handle on this whole tact thing.”
“Trust me,” said Isabella, “we’ve all noticed.”
“One Metcalf witch was enough,” said Molly. “To say good-bye.”
“We can say our good-byes to Jack more properly here,” said Isabella. “Over drinks.”
“Over many drinks,” said Molly.
“I want a mouse!” Louisa said loudly.
“You’ve already had three,” Isabella said crushingly.
Louisa looked at her sister with big, pleading eyes, until Isabella sighed deeply and produced a small white mouse from out of nowhere. It peered around from Isabella’s hand, twitching its whiskers in a charming sort of way. Louisa made delighted sounds, snatched the mouse away from Isabella, crushed it in her hand, and greedily inhaled its essence. Blood dripped thickly between her fingers. She smiled dazzlingly back at all of us—and when she opened her hand, it was empty.
“Can’t take you anywhere,” said Isabella.
“Did the two of you know Jack well?” I said, just a bit desperately.
Isabella and Louisa smiled. I decided I really didn’t like those smiles.
“Your uncle Jack got around,” said Isabella. “And not just as a field agent. That man knew how to have a good time. He had his own life, outside your family.”
“So everyone keeps telling me,” I said. “I’m starting to feel like an underachiever.”
Molly quickly cut in, launching into some seriously sisterly discussions, about people and places of interest only to them. I took the hint and moved off on my own. If there’s one thing I understand, it’s the importance of family secrets. The club seemed more packed and crowded than ever. There was still no sign anywhere of Charles or Emily. I’d been sure they’d turn up for Jack’s wake, even if they couldn’t show their faces at the funeral.
While I was looking around, I suddenly spotted a distinguished-looking old gentleman making his way steadily through the crowd towards me. I didn’t recognise him. He was average height, average weight, in a smart city suit, and he looked professionally anonymous. He seemed old enough to have been a contemporary of Jack’s, but a very well-preserved one. His faultless civilised smile was undermined only by his cold eyes, which wanted nothing to do with it. He seemed polite enough, and not obviously dangerous, but I tensed despite myself as he drew nearer. I can always recognise another agent when I see one.
The old man came to a halt a respectful distance from me and gave me a polite bow. Molly drifted forward to stand beside me. I’d been concentrating so much on the new arrival, I hadn’t even noticed her, but she’d noticed what was happening. The old man inclined his head to Molly, a bow carefully calculated to be polite without being in any way deferential. He turned his attention back to me, and when he finally addressed me his English was the perfect kind you learned only from books; it had no discernible accent.
“Do I have the honour of addressing the estimable Eddie Drood? And the illustrious Molly Metcalf? Good! Good . . . I am Nicolai Vodyanoi. Retired, ex-KGB, a counterpart of your dear departed uncle Jack. Back during the Cold War.