Spectre's Rest Page 7

  After a few hundred yards they left the woods and the track straightened, leading up to a red brick gatehouse built in the Gothic Revival style with squat turrets set either side of a pair of huge metal gates. The structure was impressive, but showed signs of a lack of maintenance. The turrets’ conical roofs were green with moss, and streaks down the brickwork showed where the guttering was leaking rainwater.

  A screen of trees extended to the left and right of the gatehouse. Trev could just make out a tall wall standing behind it, topped with razor wire. Desai drew the van up to the gates. This close to them Trev could see patches of rust peeking through the black paint. If the condition of the gatehouse was typical of the whole facility, then Trev could understand why it was coming to the end of its useful life. They’re closing it down before it falls down, he thought, looking up at a pair of dirty CCTV cameras mounted in mesh cages above the gates.

  Desai honked the van’s horn. A door opened in the right-hand turret and a man dressed in a hooded waterproof stepped out. He hurried over to the van and Desai wound down her window.

  ‘Mishti Desai and Trevor Irwin,’ she said to the guard, handing him some paperwork. ‘Here to visit Grace Montano. We’re expected.’

  The guard scanned the paperwork and nodded. ‘The back doors open?’ he asked in a strong Welsh accent.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Desai said.

  The guard went to the rear of the van and opened the doors to check that there wasn’t anything or anybody in there that shouldn’t have been. Satisfied, he waved to the gatehouse and the black gates ground open.

  ‘Go up to the security check-in,’ he said to Desai, handing her a laminated security pass which she placed on top of the dashboard.

  ‘I know the drill,’ she replied with a smile. ‘Thanks.’

  She drove the van through the gatehouse. There was a second set of gates at the back of the building, and a chain-link fence stretched out to the sides, forming another level of security behind the wall that Trev had seen from the front. Like the wall, the fence was topped with spirals of razor wire. It didn’t hold Trev’s attention for more than a second, though, before his eyes were grabbed by Spectre’s Rest itself.

  The building was huge. Like its gatehouse it was pure Gothic Revival. It looked like somewhere Dracula might go for a weekend break. The central structure was a larger version of the gatehouse, with similar twin turrets. A square tower rose from the centre of the roof, topped with a pyramidal spire. Flanking the main building were two expansive wings with flat façades and steeply-pitched roofs. The bars on the arched windows reminded Trev that he was looking at a prison, and not some bonkers French château that had become lost in the English countryside and was too proud to ask for directions.

  The driveway cut through an expanse of open lawn. Anyone who escaped the building and tried to make a run for it would be clearly visible. Not that Trev would have fancied their chances of getting past the fence and the wall, anyway. Vampires and werewolves were quicker and stronger than ordinary humans, but they couldn’t fly.

  At the front of the main building the driveway ended in a T-junction. Faded white lettering on the road surface said “VISITORS” on the left fork and “STAFF” on the right. Desai turned left and they passed along the front of the west wing of the building. Trev stared past her at the weathered, pitted brickwork. Water ran down it in streams from the overloaded gutters and dripped from the rusting window-bars.

  ‘And to think people told me this place was creepy,’ Trev said.

  Desai snorted but didn’t reply.

  The road led around the side of the building, where they came to another chain-link fence and another gate. A stocky guard walked out from a wooden hut and checked Desai’s security pass and paperwork before inspecting the rear of the van. The apparently tight security gave Trev a little comfort before he remembered that the people administering said security were all in the employ of Seth Lysander.

  The visitors’ car park was on the other side of the gate. It was empty except for a silver hatchback in the far corner, which looked like it hadn’t moved for some time. Desai pulled the van into the space nearest the building and Trev followed her as she made a dash through the rain to a nearby door. A sign on the door read “ALL VISITORS MUST SIGN IN”. Desai spoke into an intercom and the lock buzzed open.

  Inside was a sparsely-furnished reception area. A woman wearing a navy blue Veil Security uniform sat at a computer workstation at one end of a long counter. There was a threadbare piece of tinsel along the top of her monitor and a small, forlorn plastic Christmas tree stood on the counter. By the look of it, it might’ve been as old as the prison itself. Festive cheer was tightly rationed at Spectre’s Rest, it seemed.

  The room was split in half by a metal cage wall with a door built into it; looking through the bars Trev could see another door in the far wall and a staircase leading upwards from the left corner.

  The woman at the counter took Trev and Desai’s details, and their weapons, and provided them with clip-on visitor passes. She showed the typical verve and enthusiasm of an employee who’s counting down the days until they’re made redundant. She made a phone call to announce the visitors’ presence and told them to wait.

  After an uncomfortable few minutes sitting on a sagging vinyl sofa with cushions that felt like they were stuffed with nails, Trev heard footsteps on the stairs. A man came down into the room and unlocked the cage door. He was dressed in a Veil Security uniform and was very tall and thin; almost stretched-looking, as if somebody’s reflection in a fairground mirror had come to life. He appeared to be around forty years of age, with thinning dark hair that had been cut close to the scalp and was now growing back. Like his body his pale face was long and thin, with small dark eyes closely set on either side of an aquiline nose.

  ‘Afternoon,’ he said. His voice was a deep rumble that seemed at odds with the scrawniness of his body. He shook hands with Desai.

  ‘Hi Jerry,’ she said. ‘Trevor Irwin, this is Jerry Phelps. He’s Veil Security’s team leader here.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Trev. He stepped forwards to shake hands. He noted that Phelps was wearing a duty belt which held a radio, pistol, expandable baton, pepper spray and vapour weapon hilt. Clearly Veil Security did not skimp on their employees’ equipment. Trev was a little jealous. At SmoothMove he didn’t even have his own stapler.

  Phelps nodded. ‘Likewise. If you’d like to come with me, we can go straight up to the Warden’s office.’

  ‘Grace Montano is a Custodian,’ Desai explained as they followed Phelps up the concrete stairs. ‘She’s in overall charge. Jerry co-ordinates the Veil Security personnel.’

  ‘Right,’ said Trev.

  ‘Not for much longer,’ Phelps said, looking back over his shoulder. ‘To be honest I’m looking forward to getting out of this place.’

  ‘Really?’ said Trev, eyeing the patches of damp on the walls. ‘But it seems so cosy here.’

  ‘Try working here for five years and see how cosy you find it,’ Phelps grumbled.

  ‘Have they set a date for the closure yet?’ Desai asked him.

  ‘Not officially,’ Phelps replied. ‘Assuming they don’t find much wrong with the new place it’ll be maybe six months, but if they have big problems it could be longer while we wait for them to sort everything out.’

  They reached the top of the stairs and entered a long corridor. There were rooms on either side which appeared to be administrative offices, but with few signs of life. Trev saw a couple of people seated at workstations in one of the rooms. The others, though, were dark and empty. Their feet echoed on the uncarpeted floor as Phelps led them towards the far end of the corridor.

  ‘There’s always some stuff wrong when you start up a new operation,’ Trev said. ‘The question is whether it’s loads of stuff, or shit-loads of stuff.’

  ‘Between you and the weather, I’m in a really cheerful mood now,’ said Phelps.

  ‘How many pris
oners are still being held here?’ Desai said, shaking her head at Trev.

  ‘Seventeen,’ said Phelps. ‘The worst of the worst. Grace calls them “The Irredeemables”.’

  ‘Sounds like a crap action movie,’ Trev said.

  ‘Does he just say the first thing that comes into his head, or what?’ Phelps said to Desai, jerking a thumb at Trev.

  ‘I’m starting to think so,’ she replied. ‘He probably thinks it’s endearing.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Phelps.

  ‘But it does sound like a crap action movie,’ Trev said. ‘Steven Seagal would be in it.’

  ‘So have you got them all locked up in the same area, or are they spread about?’ Desai said, ignoring Trev.

  ‘All the male prisoners are in the maximum security wing,’ Phelps said, ‘except for Corbyn. We’re keeping him apart from the others. Apparently he’s got some outstanding… issues with a couple of the other inmates.’

  ‘Issues?’ echoed Desai.

  ‘Yes, of the “he screwed them over in the past and they’ll kill him if they get their hands on him” variety,’ Phelps said. ‘No-one would shed a tear if that happened, but Grace doesn’t really want a riot on her hands at this stage.’

  ‘There’s never a good time for a riot,’ Desai said.

  ‘There hasn’t been a serious one here since Victorian times,’ Phelps replied, coming to a halt outside the final door. A brass plate mounted next to it read “HEAD WARDEN”. Rain lashed against the window in the end wall of the corridor, reducing the view to a smear of green. ‘If we can prolong that record for a few more months, I’ll be a happy man.’

  He knocked on the door.

  Nine

  ‘Come in,’ called a female voice from within.

  Phelps opened the door and ushered them into the room beyond. It was a spacious office with a carpeted floor and a single large window which, like all the others Trev had seen so far, was secured with a set of bars. Not even the Head Warden got to enjoy an unobstructed view.

  Grace Montano rose from her desk to greet her visitors. She was a well-built woman in early middle age, with olive skin and curly black hair that was pulled back into a short ponytail. She wore a dark green trouser suit and a white blouse.

  ‘Hi Mishti, good to see you again,’ she said. She had a firm voice with no noticeable regional accent.

  ‘Hello Grace,’ said Desai, shaking hands. ‘This is Trevor Irwin. Trev, this is Grace Montano.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Trev.

  Montano gave him a once-over as they shook hands. ‘You don’t look much like this troublemaker I’ve been hearing about,’ she said, sitting back down and indicating that the visitors should do the same. There were only two chairs, so Phelps propped himself up against a bookcase.

  ‘I’m not a troublemaker,’ Trev said. ‘I go out of my way to avoid trouble. It’s just that it seems very good at tracking me down.’

  ‘That’s not quite what I hear, but I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt,’ Montano said. She studied a sheet of paper in front of her. ‘Now, let’s talk about our mutual friend Corbyn. Do you have any idea why he asked to speak to you?’

  ‘Not a clue,’ Trev said. ‘He probably just wanted to drag me all the way out here as a bit of petty revenge for catching him.’

  ‘Unlikely, but I suppose we can’t rule it out,’ Montano replied. ‘He’s stated that he’ll only talk to you, and in a room with no others present and no recording equipment.’

  ‘Well that doesn’t sound dodgy in any way,’ Trev said. ‘And as an estate agent, I’m something of an expert in dodgy.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m happy about it either,’ Montano said. ‘But Feargal thinks that we should find out what Corbyn has to say, just in case it actually is something useful.’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of being alone with him,’ said Trev. ‘What’s that about? Sounds like he’s worked out a way of getting at me.’

  ‘He’d be shackled to the floor, hand and foot,’ said Phelps. ‘And there’d be guards outside the door.’

  ‘Is Trev allowed to be armed?’ said Desai.

  ‘Ah yes, about that,’ said Montano. ‘I can’t have a non-qualified person wandering around my prison with vapour weapons. They’ll be held in storage for the duration for your visit.’

  Trev held up his hands. ‘Hang on. I got permission from Deacon himself to bring them. If I’m going to be put in a room with Corbyn I don’t want to go in there unarmed, whether he’s chained up or not.’

  He felt the situation was sliding out of his control. It was all right for Phelps to say that Corbyn would be shackled to the floor, but what if Seth Lysander had arranged for one of his employees to slip the vampire the key that unlocked his restraints? Trev knew from personal experience how fast Corbyn was. If he got loose and attacked, the guards wouldn’t be able to get into the room and stop him before he’d done Trev some serious harm. Assuming they hadn’t been instructed to look the other way.

  Bloody hell. He was seeing conspiracies everywhere. If he continued down that path he was going to end up hiding in a cellar somewhere, posting wild accusations on internet forums in ANGRY CAPITAL LETTERS and wearing a hat made of tinfoil so that “They” couldn’t read his thoughts. In a way it sounded like fun, but he didn’t think it would pay quite as well as his current job.

  ‘Nobody’s going to force you to meet with Corbyn,’ Montano said. ‘Frankly I’d prefer it if we didn’t have to allow him his little circus. But while you’re on these grounds only qualified Custodians and Veil Security personnel are allowed to carry weapons. Those are the rules.’

  ‘Which is why Deacon was happy to let me bring The Twins,’ Trev said. ‘He knew they’d be confiscated as soon as I got here.’

  ‘I can’t comment on that,’ Montano said.

  ‘You must have known as well,’ Trev said to Desai.

  She shrugged. ‘I knew the rules. I thought maybe Feargal had arranged an exemption for you.’

  ‘No exemptions,’ Montano said.

  Trev gave her his best pleading look. She remained unmoved. ‘Fine,’ he muttered.

  ‘Good,’ said Montano. ‘Now, do you still want to go through with this meeting with Corbyn? As I said, it doesn’t bother me in the least if you don’t.’

  Trev chewed his bottom lip. He wasn’t comfortable with the idea of meeting Corbyn on terms the vampire had specified, but he didn’t particularly want to admit it. It would be embarrassing to go back to Birmingham and tell Deacon that he’d been too scared to sit in the same room as a bloke who was chained to the floor.

  He blew out a breath through his nose. ‘Set it up,’ he said.

  The interview room was a windowless box with two chairs and a table in it, all bolted to the floor. Trev sat and waited for the guards to fetch Corbyn. His left knee bounced against the underside of the table. It’ll be fine, he told himself. Just make sure they search him and check his restraints before they leave us alone.

  The metal door clanked open and Phelps walked in. Behind him came Corbyn, flanked by two burly male guards. The vampire was wearing a set of bright yellow overalls and, as Phelps had promised, shackles on his wrists and ankles. The guards seated him opposite Trev and secured the shackles to a ring in the floor. Phelps made a show of checking the restraints, presumably for Trev’s benefit. Corbyn sat and stared at the table while this was taking place, his expression unreadable.

  ‘Have you searched him?’ Trev asked the guards.

  ‘Of course,’ Phelps replied. ‘Don’t worry. We’ve done this before.’

  He finished his inspection of the shackles and stood up to leave. ‘There’s a panic button on the wall if you need it,’ he said, pointing to Trev’s right. ‘Otherwise just knock on the door when you’re finished and we’ll let you out.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Trev.

  Phelps and the two guards left the room and closed the door behind them. Corbyn raised his eyes from the table and looked at Trev. A
tiny flicker of a smile passed his lips.

  ‘All right, so you’ve got me here,’ Trev said. ‘What have you got to say?’

  ‘I want to do a deal,’ Corbyn said.

  ‘Go on,’ said Trev, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘I’ve got information,’ Corbyn said. ‘I want to know what it’s worth to you.’

  ‘Me specifically, or the Custodians?’

  ‘Both,’ said Corbyn. ‘I’m sure it would be of use to the Custodians, but it does involve you in particular.’

  ‘Really,’ said Trev, keeping his poker face intact. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this in Birmingham, instead of setting a banshee on me?’

  Corbyn frowned. ‘At the time I believed I had other arrangements in place.’

  He was hoping Lysander would get him out, Trev thought. Sounds like he wasn’t as useful as he thought he was.

  ‘Right,’ he said aloud. ‘Well whatever it is, I doubt it’ll be earth-shattering enough to get you your freedom in exchange.’

  Corbyn made a see-saw gesture with one hand. His chains rattled. ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

  ‘You’re full of shit,’ Trev said. ‘If you had some ace in the hole, you’d have played it long before now.’

  ‘As I said, I believed I had other arrangements in place.’

  ‘So what’s the information?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you that,’ Corbyn said. ‘I need some sort of agreement from the Custodians first.’

  ‘Yeah, best of luck with that,’ said Trev. ‘But why call me all the way out here? Grace Montano’s a Custodian. You could have talked to her.’

  ‘I don’t trust anyone in this prison,’ Corbyn said, ‘or the majority of the Custodians.’

  ‘You haven’t given them much cause to trust you, either,’ Trev observed, ‘and you haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘You’re in a rather unique position,’ Corbyn replied. ‘You’re inside the organisation, but you’re not actually a member so you don’t have to follow the chain of command. And you have the ear of Feargal Deacon. I want you to go straight to him with this.’