'Unless he's here for some other reason.'
'Then it's our job to find out what that reason is. You're in a good position. You're forcing Raffmir to come to you. He wants something too, maybe for Altair, maybe for himself. Make him come to you. When you find out what he's after, I want to know.'
'What about Blackbird?'
'I'll put any help I can in, but it's hard to protect a moving target.'
'It's harder to hit one too.'
'That depends what you're hitting it with. Try and persuade her to come back here.'
'She's not going to want to do that, Garvin.'
'Talk to her. If she comes back to court I can protect her, and Deefnir will have to come back here to get to her. She'll see the sense in that.'
'Maybe. It didn't stop them last time.'
'I'll ask Amber to sleep with Deefnir if necessary. Just get her back here.'
'I'll do what I can.'
'Report later. Meanwhile get on with the assignment. Don't worry about Deefnir, Slimgrin will handle it. And if Raffmir comes to you, find out what he wants.'
'OK, but warn Slimgrin.'
'I will. Be careful, Niall. Whatever they're up to, they've been planning this for some time. They've got us on the back foot. Now they think they're in the driving seat and we'll see where they're going.'
'I'll report later.'
'Do.'
I lifted my hand from the misted glass. Part of me still wanted to go to London, though by the time I reached Claire's flat, whatever was going on would have already happened. I felt helpless and frustrated. Maybe Raffmir's plan was simply to make me feel as miserable and impotent as possible. If so, it was working.
I thought about Garvin's instruction to do my job. Then I thought about Blackbird and what she was doing now. Deefnir had been unable to breach their defences, so he had simply undermined them. Once outside the flat, they would be vulnerable. With glamour, Deefnir could be anywhere. He could be the fireman offering blankets or the kindly neighbour offering sweet tea and sympathy. It wouldn't be hard to get close.
The image of Blackbird wrapped in a blanket and clinging resolutely to a horseshoe came into my head. If Deefnir went for her, I could see her beating him to death with the damn thing. Would there be headlines tomorrow – Pregnant Woman Arrested in Horseshoe Assault?
Despite my worries, I smiled. I could just see that happening.
I knew Blackbird was resourceful, intelligent and very determined. I also knew she was heavily pregnant and without any power. I could disobey Garvin and go to London, but would I be making the situation better or worse? If Deefnir was using Blackbird to draw me in, then he needed her as bait. He wouldn't move against her until I was there. By riding in unprepared, I could trigger the trap that would fall on both of us. On the other hand, if he was really after the baby then I should be there to protect my unborn son, shouldn't I?
I was torn between helping Blackbird, trying to find my daughter and dealing with Raffmir and his friends. The suspicion that Raffmir was leading me on with speculation and half-truth was probably well founded but, as Garvin had said, they were here for a reason. Could that reason have anything to do with Alex? Did he really have a way of finding her?
Eventually I came to the conclusion that if Blackbird needed me, she would have said. It wouldn't matter what Garvin wanted, or anyone else for that matter; if she needed my protection she would let me know. She had surrounded herself with iron, which I could no more abide than Deefnir could. Ironically, her protection against the wraithkin would work just as well against me. I had to trust that she knew what she was doing. I knew she would protect our baby whatever happened.
I was sure Raffmir would appear as and when it suited him, and be as cryptic as ever, but he was the best lead I had on Alex so far. There must be a better way of finding Alex, surely? Perhaps the truck that was parked outside the hospital would provide a lead? Not for the first time I wished I had noted the registration number, but at the time my head had been full of Alex and the accident, not tracking rogue trucks.
It was a clue, though, and I would have to find a way of linking it to other clues. With enough information, maybe I could piece it together and get a lead on her location. If I could find her I was sure I could help her. In the meantime Garvin had given me an assignment. Perhaps I should get on with it.
The church wouldn't be open yet, nor would the library. Breakfast was served after seven, so I made myself go down and eat plastic sausages and limp bacon and drink cups of thin coffee. Martha asked me if I wanted seconds, but I patted my stomach and shook my head.
'Thanks, but I'd better get going.'
I went back upstairs and cleaned my teeth. The grease sat heavy in my stomach and I made a mental note to ask her for cereal the next day, or toast. The rain threw itself against the window, driven by the blustery wind. The taste of summer in yesterday's sunshine was a fond memory.
Emptying out the black holdall revealed a dark grey coat at the bottom, light but silk-lined and waterproof. It would serve to keep the worst of the rain off. I shrugged it on to my shoulders, pocketed my keys and collected my sword. It slid into the shape of an umbrella in my hand, though it was too windy to be useful in that capacity. Still, no one would question my carrying it on a day like this.
The harbour was deserted. The spray from incoming waves kicked up against the outer wall of the harbour, only to be hurled at the town by the wind. I walked down the front, turning up my collar and putting my back to the worst of the weather. I could see the clouds sliding into the hills above us. It made the town look cut off, as if reality stopped where the mist began.
Walking up the hill I debated how to approach the subject of the missing young women with Greg. Maybe I needed a new approach. So far he'd helped me find Karen, if only to persuade me from getting further involved. He'd said we would talk again this morning after I'd slept on it. Well, I had slept, but it hadn't made things easier. For a moment I thought about Debbie. If my dream wasn't a dream, did that mean that she'd woken to find her sheets covered in blood, her body marked with punctures and arms covered in scratches? What would she make of that? Would finding that her dreams had leaked into her life change her? Would it make her less willing, less wilful? Whatever choices she'd made, she was still someone's daughter. There were parents who missed her terribly or there wouldn't be the posters and the appeals for information, would there? How would news of their daughter's new lifestyle be received?
The church of St Andrew stood against the wind, and not even a window rattled. The rain ran down the roof and into the gutters, but it did no more than stain the stone a darker shade of brown. I hurried under the porch out of the rain. No one had been to open the church yet, but now that I knew what I was doing it was a simple matter to get inside. I closed the door behind me but didn't relock it. I wanted Greg to know there was someone waiting.
The board pinned with photos looked more colourful in daylight. Anything from hair ribbons to teddy bear keyrings had been pinned to it, filling in the gaps left by lack of news. I picked out an early photo of Debbie astride a new blue bike. Her hair was longer and she was leaner than she was now, but I thought I could see a girl who would pedal to see what was around the next bend, over the next hill, or maybe that was just my knowledge of her colouring my perceptions. In the photos, though, her evolution was revealed. In later ones her hair was blonde, not brown, and shorter. As she got older, she wore more make-up and her choice of clothes drifted into darker fashions. The girl with the bike had become a girl with few limits and a determination to wring every last drop from life. I pinned it back.
Yesterday these girls had been blank faces. Now they were people. Helen's uncomfortable smile revealed a shyness and a hesitancy. Other photos revealed a plain simplicity to her. She looked straightforward and honest, with none of the artifice that Debbie had adopted. I wondered how that had translated into becoming a mother. Had she planned it or had things simply got out of hand? It was hard to imagine her getting carried away with some boy and ending up pregnant. Maybe the baby wasn't hers? Maybe she was looking after it for someone else? With that thought came the memory of that quiet reassurance and rhythmic suckling. 'Mummy's coming…' No, the baby was hers. The photo, though, revealed nothing of that.
There were pictures of Karen there, though they tended to be at the back, covered by newer postings. As a girl, Karen had looked a lot like her sister, Shelley, reminding me to find a way to pass on Karen's message to her
