in him? - he supposed by now his guardian-angel talent would be howling for him to run the fuck away from the man!
'It just doesn't bear thinking about,' he said, quietly.
'Well, if you must,' the Necroscope told him, 'then think of it this way: Jakes was only doing what he'd always done in life, and what he did best. He considers himself fortunate to have had another crack at it, and to have done it well. I say we should all be so lucky ...'
'All I know,' Darcy answered, 'is that when I'm dead and gone, all I will want to do is lie very still!'
'Yes, but that's for now,' Harry told him without emphasis, but with a strange light in those eyes that knew so much.
Darcy was scarcely listening to or looking at him, which was probably as well, but was still considering recent events. The dead thief and murderer in the garage, for instance. Harry was right: so far the police hadn't found the murder weapon - but they did have the actual instrument of death, the short, hardwood bolt. They had spoken to him about that, and it was worth mentioning at least.
'Are you sure you don't want to say anything else, Harry?' he said. 'About this crossbow thing, maybe? I mean, a crossbow is in any case an odd sort of weapon. But forensic are looking at it and they're puzzled by the fluke, the arrowhead.'
This was something new. Harry cocked an eyebrow. 'So what about it?'
Darcy shrugged. 'It's a steel arrowhead, as you'd expect. But silver-plated? You kill werewolves with silver, don't you?'
Harry was good at hiding his thoughts, his emotions, and this time his surprise. And coming to him as an extra surprise, it seemed he was getting good at telling lies, or half-truths, too! Never to the dead . . . but to the living? 'I didn't know what I was going up against,' he said. 'Oh, sure, we had decided that this was the work of a ... what, a lycanthrope? Some kind of lunatic? But what if we were wrong? There are strange things in the world, as we know only too well.'
Darcy nodded. 'You did kill him, then? Hence the missing weapon?'
The Necroscope looked away, finally muttered, 'He's dead, isn't he?' But now it was definitely something he would have to look into ... eventually.
He stood up a little unsteadily, and said, 'I seem to be more tired than I thought - yet how am I supposed to sleep? I have a lot on my mind, going round and round. Sometimes I can't remember a time when I didn't have! A pity we can't just switch ourselves off, like machines.'
Darcy gave a smal start, as if he'd just remembered something, and said, 'But we can! What, do you think that as head of this bloody outfit I leave sleep to chance? God, I'd never get any!'
Harry looked at Darcy as he opened a desk drawer, took out a smal botle, stood up and went to a water dispenser. 'Do you have any alergies?' He dropped a single white pill in a glass and filed it with water. The tablet dissolved in a moment.
'No,' Harry shook his head. 'No alergies that I know of. But... sleeping pills?'
'Just one,' Darcy told him. 'Does the trick for me every time. Just switches me off.'
Harry took the glass. 'Maybe this once,' he said, tilting his head back and downing the water. But as he drank, he didn't notice the fact that the Head of E-Branch seemed to be holding his breath ...
After the Necroscope left to go to his own room, Darcy caled a Branch 'specialist' on his home number. Not an esper as such, still this was a man with an extraordinary talent. 'Doctor Anderson?' Darcy inquired, when finaly the 'phone was picked up. 'James Anderson? This is Darcy Clarke ... "
And in a moment, answering the tinny, tired voice at the other end of the line: 'Yes, I do know what time it is, Anderson, and I'm sorry it's so late. But this is important. Do you remember that Keogh thing we spoke about? Wel, it's come up.'
And in another moment: 'Just two minutes ago, yes.'
And finaly, before puting the 'phone down: 'Good, I'll be expecting you.'
After that there was nothing for Darcy to do but wait for Anderson to get there. That and to suffer feelings of disgust, self-loathing, like his substance had devolved to so much quaking, treacherous scum on