Page 79 of Fortune's Ashes
‘I was a bit too busy getting myself here,’ she snapped. ‘I didn’t stop to chat along the way.’
‘Then why were all the clans here? Who told them that our main suspect was at this address?’
‘I don’t fucking know!’
I counted to ten in my head. ‘Can you find out?’
‘Why? You know, the real police are here now and they’re being very pushy. You’re not the only one in a difficult situation.’
‘Please, Buffy,’ I said. ‘It’s very important.’ I licked my lips. ‘In fact, it’s a matter of life and death.’
On the sofa, Stubman jerked. I eyed the gun hoping he had the damned safety catch on.
‘It’s always life and death where you’re concerned,’ she grumbled. ‘But fine. Give me a second.’
Her voice vanished. I heard some murmuring in the background but it was too faint to make out any words. Stubman’s nostrils flared. He stared at the gun in his hand. I wondered what the hell was going through his head.
Then Buffy returned to the line. ‘There was a tip-off,’ she said flatly. ‘Somebody called the Carr clan and told them that Simon’s killer was here. They gave Stubman’s name.’
It was interesting that the call had been placed to the Carr clan, who were arguably the most invested of all the werewolves. We’d made the link between Simon, Adele, Quincy and the more recent events, but apart from Lukas, Buffy and I, the only other person who would know of such a link would be the perpetrator. ‘I’m guessing,’ I said drily, ‘that the caller didn’t leave their name.’
‘You guess right,’ Buffy answered. ‘It was a man with a London accent, that’s all they know. The operator who took the message told Lady Carr, and she called in the other clans. Hey presto.’ She paused. ‘What does this mean?’
I didn’t answer her question. ‘Thanks, Buffy. I’ll talk to you again soon.’ I hung up, then I eyed Stubman. ‘Put the gun down,’ I said. ‘We both know you’re not going to shoot me.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ he said.
I nodded. ‘I know. Put the gun down.’
His movements were jerky, but he did as I asked and dropped the weapon onto the floor with a thud.
‘Do you know why I’m the main suspect for Alan Cobain’s death?’ I asked conversationally. Stubman stared at me. ‘It’s because somebody left an anonymous tip-off that I was there just before he was killed. Somebody left an anonymous tip-off with the werewolves about you. Do you know who might have done that?’
He didn’t answer.
‘I reckon,’ I said, ‘that it’s probably the same person who lured you out of here this afternoon and who knocked me unconscious when I tried to follow you.’
Stubman blinked several times.
‘They wanted me to think that you were the one who did it. They wanted to leave a trail of breadcrumbs because they needed somebody to take the fall. It had worked for them before, so they thought it would work for them this time.’
Stubman was the perfect patsy. A few well-placed whispers would stir his paranoia into thinking that the supes he hated so much were coming for him. It would have been easy to make him believe that we would attack first and ask questions later. His only recourse was to run and be hunted down, or to defend himself to the death.
But whoever had tipped him off hadn’t reckoned on Stubman’s true nature. Yes, he hated supes, and yes, he wore that hatred on his sleeve, but deep down he wasn’t a violent man and he had no reason to fight back. He had been a defeated man long before any of this had happened.
‘Whoever gave you that gun was someone you thought you could trust, but who actually wanted to frame you for murder,’ I told him. ‘And they wanted you to die before you could protest your innocence. If you had run, the werewolves and the vampires would have run after you. They’d have found you and,’ I added, because I knew it was true, ‘they’d probably have killed you, whether they meant to or not.’
Stubman’s eyes flashed towards the weapon again. His jaw was working; he didn’t want to believe me but he was starting to.
‘Is the person who gave you the gun the same person who sublets you this place?’ It would make a kind of twisted sense. If Stubman’s landlord had lived here thirteen years ago, he could well have met Quincy Carmichael thanks to their proximity. He wouldn’t have risked hanging around and being implicated in Quincy’s disappearance or the murders of Adele and Simon, but he would have wanted to keep a close eye on events. A trusted tenant was a great way to do just that.
Stubman swallowed. ‘I—’
My phone rang, interrupting him. He jumped and I swore. Then I saw the caller ID and instead of declining the call, I answered it. I raised a hand to Stubman to request his patience. ‘Phileas,’ I said. ‘I hope you’re calling at this late hour because you have something interesting to tell me.’
The gremlin solicitor sounded gruff. ‘I got your message earlier. When my sister died, I cleared out her house and put her things in storage. I always meant to get around to sorting them out but I never did.’
I tapped my fingers. ‘Did those things include files from Quincy’s old businesses?’
