Author's note: thanks for your reviews. I'm glad you're enjoying it, although yesterday I did receive a complaint that I had too much plot and not enough Tommy and Barbara relationship. This is a story meant to be a bit of pre-Christmas fun, not ILM porn. And so, just for that, this chapter has even more of the case and less relationship… Patience people. Santa doesn't arrive in mid-December.
December 16, 1:20 pm
"So," Tommy said slowly, "he says a werewolf was chasing her?"
"Yep," Winston said, shrugging.
"Did he have a Chinese menu in his hand?" Barbara asked.
Tommy groaned, Winston laughed, and Michael looked quizzical. "What?"
"Don't worry, it was well before your time."
"Werewolves don't exist," Michael said, looking at each of them as if questioning whether they believed in the mythical creatures. "Herodotus was one of the first scholars to talk about men changing into wolves, and the tradition is widespread throughout Eastern Europe, but… they're not real."
"You know that for sure?" Winston said, raising his hands in the classical 'scare the devil out of people' pose.
"Winston, stop it," Tommy said. "It was probably a joke mask."
"Hands too, apparently," Winston added nonchalantly. "That's what convinced the cabbie it was real."
"And nothing to do with concussion or shock?" Barbara asked. "Although, it is a convenient way to hide from facial recognition cameras and leave no fingerprints. Thank you, Mr Werewolf, for making our job harder."
Tommy nodded. "I don't suppose he was wearing anything distinguishing?"
"Or she…" Winston replied. "The cabbie couldn't confirm the sex and thought it was about five foot six, which seems a bit short for a werewolf to me. But it was wearing a chequered suit in a bluey-grey tone."
"I'd like to meet his tailor…" Barbara sang.
They all turned to look at her. "Don't you start," Tommy warned.
"You hear him howling around your kitchen door, you better not let him in. Little old lady got mutilated late last night. Werewolves of London again. What if this is just random and has nothing to do with her past?"
"Then we have a random werewolf, or werewolf impersonator, who might be a serial killer. I know people will think we're mad, but issue a general alert for a werewolf in a blue-checked suit and suggest not to approach unless armed as the suspect may be dangerous."
"Um," Barbara said, "we should tell the AC first, or Hillier will go ballistic if he thinks we're playing some sort of practical joke."
Tommy raked his fingers through his hair. "I'll ring him in a minute. Michael, go through the CCTV footage around Soho and see if you can find this… suspect. Winston, ring the costume shops and see if anyone has sold or hired out a costume like this in the last, I don't, two or three months. Barbara, once I speak with Hillier, let's go back to Soho and see if any of the homeless there have seen anything.
December 16, 5:30 pm
The team gathered around the boards, each anxious to share what they had learned. Before Tommy started, he wanted to tie up loose ends. He looked at Winton and Michael. "Did either of you discover what happened to the Evers boy?"
"Dead end. Literally," Winston said. "Looks like he was badly hurt in the accident and only lived into his early teens. He never left the hospital."
"That's sad," Barbara said.
"Yes, but it rules out one motive. He clearly didn't have children seeking revenge, so it's something else this woman did that has made her a target. And we drew a blank in Soho. None of the people we spoke to remembered seeing anything like a werewolf. They do remember our victim singing and playing her fiddle, but the last time was at least half an hour before she was killed."
"I think that's credible," Barbara added, "as that witness said that after the singing, the victim and several of the homeless had a meal at one of the soup wagons that patrol the area. We tracked down the bloke running it, and he confirmed that the victim was at Golden Square and that she left about a quarter past ten." Barbara walked over to the map. "That's here, and she was killed here, on Great Windmill Street, at about ten forty as she ran out of Smith's Court. That's less than a quarter of a mile, so a maximum, a five-minute walk, even for an older woman. What was she doing in those missing twenty minutes?"
"I might have something," Michael said, "she turned into Farrier's Passage at 10:13 pm. Then she disappears. She doesn't emerge into Smith's Court and the alleyway until one minute and eleven seconds before she is struck. She dropped the fiddle about halfway along Smith's Alley."
Tommy used his fingers to enlarge the onscreen map. He approved of some elements of technology, although there was much he did not. "What's in that passage?"
Michael stepped forward, flicked up a file and played it. "Here, see… she went into one of these doors, but I can't work out which one."
They all stared at the screen. "What else do we know?" Tommy asked.
"The suit was made for a Mr W. Zevon by a tailor in Saville Row. It's expensive. Very bespoke because it has a hole in the trousers. Basically, the customer didn't want the back seam sewn up, so the tailor remembered it clearly."
"For the tail?" Barbara asked. "Werewolves have tails, don't they? Big hairy ones?"
Tommy shrugged. "It would make sense, but I think whoever bought it is playing games with us. Male buyer, Winston?"
"Yep. Paid cash, as you would."
"Cash because it can't be traced," Michael said to no one in particular.
"And because he used an alias. Warren Zevon was the singer of Werewolves of London, the song from earlier, and he died twenty years ago," Barbara said.
"Right," Michael said, clearly soaking in what it meant to be a detective and speculating about the crime and motives. "So, it's leaning towards being random, but… if she went into one of these flats, then maybe not."
"I don't think it's random. I think it's well-planned," Tommy said. "Someone has gone to a lot of trouble, and I suspect the werewolf may have had some meaning to Barbara.
"What, though?" Barbara asked.
Tommy stretched his arms up over his head. This was becoming more frustrating with every piece of information they uncovered. "Winston, any details on the purchaser?"
"The tailor said he was five seven, thickly built and had a heavy Eastern European accent."
Tommy raised his eyebrows. "I don't suppose he knew what sort of Eastern European accent?"
"Maybe Armeanian," Michael suggested. "They believe women who have committed deadly sins are condemned to spend seven years in wolf form. The condemned woman is visited by a wolfskin-toting spirit, who orders her to wear the skin, which gives her cravings for human flesh, eating her own children and then the children of strangers. She prowls at night but reverts to human form each morning. Maybe this chap was bringing Barbara her skin."
"Whoa," Barbara said. "This is getting… weird. Too weird. We don't have a werewolf devouring children. Where did you learn this stuff?"
"Medieval myths and legends at uni," Michael replied, and Tommy smiled. The poor lad had completely missed Barbara's meaning, which was probably fortunate.
"Michael might be on to something, though," Tommy said. "We might have a symbolic werewolf, and remember Barbara Evers was struck by a car. Whoever this is may not have intended to kill her. He may have just wanted to send a message or frighten her." Tommy turned to Winston and Michael. "Get me a list of the occupants of those flats. Let's see if anything sticks out."
"I have that," Michael said, "here." He pulled up a list of six names. "Mr and Mrs James live on the first floor. Mr Peterson on the second floor. On the other side, there's Mr Domitian… oh, it's him. It must be."
"Why?" Winston asked.
Tommy immediately understood. "Domitian was a Roman Emporer who sought to control people's morals, especially of the elite. He was anti-corruption, so unpopular with the Senate, but well-liked by the people. It would make sense."
"So, in keeping with the Santa theme," Barbara said. "But he could have used a Santa costume and blended in. Why the werewolf?"
"Don't werewolves tear out the throat of their victims?" Winston suggested, "So he knew she had done something… one of these deadly sin things… and he was silencing her."
Tommy nodded. "That's a fair assumption as to his motive. But he wants us, or someone, to understand it too."
"Not enough for the victim to know?" Barbara asked.
"Maybe. Maybe not."
Barbara turned to Michael. "Dare I ask what constitutes a deadly sin?"
"Roughly the same as ours — murder, adultery, not worshipping the gods the right way, not protecting nature, dishonesty, disloyalty to the family. The usual sort of stuff."
Barbara sighed. "Well, if this Barbara stole her identity, she'd be capable of any of them."
Tommy put up his hand. "Okay, we have a dead woman who stole a dead child's identity. We have a werewolf in a tailored suit prowling Soho with possible links to Armenian mythology, and we have a Roman Emperor who might have taken on the form of a werewolf in order to punish our victim. Do we have anything that makes sense in 21st-century London?"
Barbara grunted, stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the encroaching darkness. "Hillier will have the men in white coats on standby if we take this to him."
Winston laughed. "Personally, I could do with the rest. This is doing my head in."
Tommy looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost seven o'clock. "Look, it's late. Let's go to the pub and grab something to eat. If we let it settle, it might make more sense. If not, we'll go over it all again in the morning."
December 16, 7:25 pm
Winston nudged Barbara in the ribs. "Michael's besotted with you. He's all, 'Sargeant Havers this, Sergeant Havers that. Poor lad's young enough to be…"
Barbara scowled at him. "Don't even say it. Age is just a number. Maybe I'd like a toy boy for Christmas."
She could feel heat boring into the back of her skull. She turned to see Tommy glaring at her. "I thought you had other plans for Christmas," he said icily.
"I do, but never say never." Barbara instantly regretted her remark when she saw the look on her boss's face. Damn it.
Michael came back to the table, juggling 5 beers. "Here you go. Here's yours, Sergeant Havers."
The bench shook as Tommy stood. "I need the bathroom," he declared.
Barbara winced. "We'll be waiting," she said as cheerily as she could, hoping to sound like nothing had happened. Then she caught the scowl from Michael. Oh, bloody hell. Men and their fragile little egos. The look the men exchanged was not lighthearted but more like two lions sizing up to fight over territory. Or mating rights. Well, she wasn't a lioness and wasn't interested in mating with either of them. At least not in this mood.
Tommy returned and slid along the bench until their legs touched. It was possessive, not affectionate, and she was about to skol her drink and bid her farewells when Winston swore. "Look at that," he said, pointing to the television in the corner.
They all turned as the publican turned up the volume. On the screen was a picture of a werewolf standing erect with red eyes, a huge chest, and saliva dripping from its red tongue. "Channel London News has learned exclusively that the Metropolitan Police have issued an alert for a werewolf prowling the streets of Soho at night."
"If I find the officer responsible for the leak…" Tommy said. He stopped when the next image came on the screen.
"Bloody hell," Barbara exclaimed. "That's him."
The screen had footage of a werewolf, minus the glaring eyes and saliva, but wearing the blue chequered suit, calmly walking up Rupert Street towards the Gielgud Theatre. People were stopping and staring before running away. Clearly, the costume was convincing.
"This footage," the narrator continued, "was shot only twenty minutes ago and shows that London is in the grip of a terrifying new crime wave. Save your throats, people. Run! Run from the city. Don't let your children outside, as werewolves eat them."
"Oh, for…" Tommy's curse was cut short by the shrill ring of his phone. He glanced down at the screen. "It's Hillier."
* Lyrics from 'Werewolves of London', Warren Zevon, 1978.
