Necropolis

fault."
    "Is anyone hurt?" one of the officers asked.
    "Our driver is in shock," Richard said.
    The right-hand side of the Jaguar had taken the full force of the impact, and it looked as if the driver might have also broken his arm. He was only semiconscious and in pain. One of the officers helped him out and laid him on the pavement, and they waited about fifteen minutes for an ambulance to arrive.
    Meanwhile the other officer began questioning the BMW driver — "Mr. Smith." He had no ID.
    "I was on my way to Chislehurst. I'm a piano teacher. I pulled out without looking. I can't tell you how dreadful I feel…"

    Matt watched as they Breathalyzed him, and it almost made him smile, seeing the man blow into the machine. His breath wasn't human, and if he'd drunk a crate of whiskey, it was unlikely that it would register. Meanwhile their driver was loaded into an ambulance and driven off to the hospital. Thirty minutes or more had gone by, and Richard was desperate to be on his way, but the police weren't having any of it. They would have to take a statement down at the station.
    It was almost four o'clock by the time the police finished with them. Even if they had wanted to go to Heathrow, it would have been too late. Scarlett would already be in the air, on her way to Hong Kong.
    Richard had called the Nexus to let them know; he hoped they would be able to catch her in time.
    They left the police station and dropped into a local café, but Matt refused the offer of a drink. He was angry and depressed. The Old Ones were outmaneuvering him at every turn. They seemed to know exactly what he was going to do, and the trap they had set had been childishly simple. He didn't mention the taxi that he had seen pulling out of Ardbeg Road, but it had already occurred to him that Scarlett might well have been inside it. Their paths had finally crossed…but seconds too late.
    "Let's go to her house," Matt suggested.
    "Why?" Richard didn't even look up from his tea.
    "I don't know. She could still be there. But even if she isn't, now that we've come this far…"
    Neither Richard nor Jamie spoke.
    "I'd just like to see where she lives," Matt said.
    The three of them walked back to Ardbeg Road. It reminded Matt a little of the street where he had once lived. All the houses were terraced with bay windows, neat front gardens, and shrubs to hide the trash cans. Scarlett's was about halfway down.
    They rang the bell, not expecting it to be answered, but after about half a minute, the door opened and they found themselves being examined by a short, stern-looking woman with tied-back black hair and eyes that seemed to be expecting trouble.
    'Yes?" she said. She had a Scottish accent.
    "We're looking for Scarlett Adams," Matt said.
    "I'm afraid you've missed her. She left this morning."
    Richard moved forward. "Do you live here?" he asked.

    'Yes. I'm the housekeeper. Are you friends of Scarlett's?"
    "Not exactly," Matt said. "We've just arrived from America. We were hoping to see her."
    "That's not going to be possible. She's going to be out of the country for a while."
    "Do you know when she'll be back?"
    "It could be a week or two. I'm very sorry, if you'd been here just a few hours ago, you'd have caught her. Do you want to leave a message?"
    "No, thank you."
    "Right."
    The woman closed the door.
    And that was it. There was nothing more to be done. For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Richard sighed.
    "Anyone fancy a trip to Hong Kong?" he said.
    FOURTEEN
    Puerto Fragrante
    Originally, there had been twelve members of the Nexus — the organization that existed only to fight the Old Ones. Professor Sanjay Dravid had been the first to be killed, stabbed at the Natural History Museum the same night that he had met Matt. Later on, a man named Fabian had also died. That just left ten — powerful people who lived all over the world.
    They had all flown in to meet Matt and Jamie and at half past seven that evening, they came together in the secluded, wood-paneled room that was their London base.
    The building, which the Nexus owned, stood between two shops, and there was nothing, no name or other marking, to suggest that it was anything but a private house. The room itself, up on the first floor, was equally plain. It could have been the meeting place of some small business, perhaps a firm of expensive lawyers. There didn't seem to be much there —just a long table with thirteen antique chairs, a handful of telephones and a computer, and a