Page 113 of Gates of Tartarus

Emlyn gets a call at breakfast that the police have found something at the site of the warehouse Ratko burned down. I’m supposed to be having a yoga and study sessionbut leap at this second chance to be proactive, todo, not just to respond. “Can I come? You never know – it might jog a vision or something.”

Emlyn looks at first as if he’s about to refuse, but my eager-beaver expression must convince him, and half an hour later we set off. It’s going to be a cold day – we might even get a hint of frost – so I throw on a thick, purple sweater that should clash with my hair but doesn’t, dark-brown cords, and my ankle boots. Emlyn’s in his usual blue suit and an overcoat. The site had been cleared for rebuilding, and the team was wrapping up their investigation, when one of the construction crew found something in the rubble. Most of it had been carted away, and the only reason the simple, gold-plated chain hadn’t been found before was because it had been buried under two cross-beams. It was an ID bracelet, formed of delicate links, with the name “Vicky” inscribed on the flat bar, a touch of sparkle added by a tiny zirconium crystal – the type you could pick up cheaply at any accessories store. I listen as Emlyn and the crew member talk. We have to assume that the bracelet belonged to one of the women held here – the warehouse had previously been used for office supplies, so the bracelet was unlikely to have fallen out of a crate – and I feel a deep sense of pity well up as I gaze around the lot. It’s no different from any other building site, but it seems a desolate place, made more so by the lowering skies. I think about the trafficked women, how frightened they must have been, how desperate, and wonder if we’ll ever be able to find them. We’re trying, but they seem to have disappeared into the dark runnels of the criminal underworld without a trace, the flotsam and jetsam of modern society. I walk as I think, picking my way over the cracked concrete and patches of dirt which weeds have already begun to colonize, a cluster of chickweed here, some groundsel there, a straggle of dead-nettle. It’s as I’m pausing, looking east towards the sewage works, that it hits me – a sharp bolt of fear that makes my stomach spasm and the blood run ice-cold in my veins. I gasp, looking around, but don’t see anything out of the ordinary, just a few builders in hardhats talking in the distance. Still, I make my way back to Emlyn, feeling clammy and unsettled. Remembering the last time I felt this way, I shudder, wondering... But Ratko is dead, I tell myself.He’s dead, and he can’t hurt anyone ever again. The builders are here, and the police, and it can’t be a premonition about random groups of people, otherwise I’d feel sick every time I left the house. A flash of backsight? Residual energy? As if the terror suffered by the victims had imprinted itself on the very earth, and I had awakened the ghosts. Or maybe there’s no need for a paranormal explanation, I think somberly, just imagination and a conscience.

There’s really not much more to discover. The agency will run the name through the system, but the odds of identifying the bracelet’s owner are slim. A first name isn’t really enough to go on, and if she’d been living away from family and friends for a while… well, would they even know she had a bracelet?

I’m quiet on my way back to Thames House, and Emlyn looks tired. “Our next-door neighbor was named ‘Victoria’,” he murmurs. “Eadric and I would play with her when we were kids. We called her ‘Tori’, and he had a crush on her when he was fourteen. She thought he was a complete pain and fancied the captain of the rugby team instead.” Emlyn sighs and shakes his head.

I nestle into him, seeking and offering comfort. “Cup of tea?”

He smiles wanly at me. “The English cure-all? Yes, why not?”

We go to the same café round the corner from the office, and Emlyn goes to place our order. I try to insist on paying, but he won’t hear of it. “I know what MI5 is paying you and how much you spend on your Kindle,” he teases.

He comes back shortly with a teapot and a plate ofmadeleineson a tray. The tea is steaming gently, delicate tendrils of vapor curling into the air, and my heart lifts. “Ooh, lovely. Earl Grey?”

“No, I’ve treated us to one of their exotic teas. Golden Monkey.”

I’m intrigued. “Golden Monkey?”

He nods, a strand of hair sliding across his forehead. “It’s a black tea from Yunnan province in China. The leaves are supposed to resemble monkey paws.”

I wrinkle my nose and peer into the pot. The leaves are streaked with pale-gold threads, and the water is a lovely amber color, but otherwise they look like any other tea. “If you say so.”

“I don’t see the resemblance myself,” Emlyn remarks, holding out the plate. “Madeleine?”

“Thanks. And how would you know? Been up close and personal with many monkey paws, have you?”

“Eadric and I had a Capuchin monkey when we were kids.”

I choke on my bite of cake, narrowly avoiding spraying the table with crumbs. “You had a monkey as a pet?”

He nods again.

“A monkey? As in ‘ooh-ooh, eee-eee’?” I feel a little deflated: my parents wouldn’t even let me have a dog. They worked just far enough away that no one would have been available to let it out during the day. And my mother is allergic to cats.

“For two weeks. Until he got loose right before a dinner party, swung himself off the chandelier, and launched into the buffet, breaking several antique crystal bowls. Eadric and I protested, but my parents decided he’d be better off and happier in a zoo. Olly’s now the proud father and grandfather of a large and flourishing tribe.”

I smile. “Olly?”

“Eadric named him.” Emlyn shakes his head. “I wanted to name him ‘Fernando’, since Capuchins come from South America, but Eadric insisted.”

“You were a good older brother, weren’t you?”

Emlyn shrugs. “I tried,” he says softly. I reach across the table, placing my hand on his, wanting to offer what comfort I can, and his eyes soften: “So, tea?”

Emlyn won’t let me add milk – it would spoil the taste – and I raise the cup a little apprehensively to my lips, thoughts of monkey paws not exactly inspiring. I take a sip, and my shoulders relax. The flavor is smooth and slightly sweet, with hints of peaches and honey. It goes beautifully with themadeleines. “Mmm, that’s nice.”

“I thought you’d like it.” He stretches a little and rolls his neck. “This was a good idea. I’m glad you suggested it, Maela.”

“Me too. After this morning, I thought we could use a pick-me-up.” I look at him. “What are the chances of finding Vicky and the others?”

Emlyn grimaces. “Not good, I’m afraid. Seventy-five percent of adults who go missing are found or return home within twenty-four hours. And only five percent go missing for more than a week. If she was taken by Kronos, as seems likely, and shipped overseas, and if Kronos is part of the Russian mafia…” He trails off.

“But what could Kronos want with these women? I hate to say it, but if they’re not being forced into sex work, what is Kronos doing with them?”

Emlyn looks at me and shakes his head again. “Nothing good.”

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