Guy N. Smith - Sabat 2 - The Blood Merchants

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CHAPTER ONE
THE GIRL glanced behind her, saw only the darkness that hid twin rows of half
demolished terraced houses, strained her eyes until they hurt; certain now
that she was being followed. She listened, heard only the pounding of her own
heart, a roaring in her ears.
The footsteps behind her had stopped, like they had the last time, and the
time before; delicate tip-tapping that might have been the echoes of her own
hurrying feet, but she knew they weren't. She was breathing heavily, didn't
think she had the strength to run any further, wanted to scream out: 'For
God's sake, who are you? What do you want with me?'
She guessed who it was, knew only too well what he wanted. The sallow faced
punk with the corpse like appearance who had singled her out, bopped with her
at the disco, the flashing coloured lights reflecting his expression of lust,
eyes that bored into her, undressed her so expertly that at one stage she had
almost believed herself to be naked. I wanna fuck yah baby, I'm gonna fuck yah
baby! Bloodless lips seemed to mime the words and when the lights went up for
a few seconds she'd seen the bulge of an erection pulsing inside his tight
fitting trousers as though it was trying to fight its way out to get at her.
Once he'd come close, moved in on her, and touched her arm with fingers so
cold that she'd cringed. And that face had creased into a humourless,
lecherous smile.
Shanda had tried to get away from him, attempted to lose herself amid the
forest of cavorting bodies on the dance floor. But he was always there, a
hunter stalking his prey, moving cat-like with an eerie rhythm of his own that
defied the beat.
Shanda had glanced about, mutely seeking help from the other dancers, but they
didn't even notice her presence. 'Girls didn't ought to go to them discos
alone!' Her mother's words echoed their warning, had Shanda mentally
apologising, wanting to run from this dingy hall without stopping until she
burst into the tiny hall of her parents' council semi. 'Girls 'adn't oughta
walk 'ome in the dark, not in places like this. Wot wiv all these muggers and
sex maniacs on the loose, it ain't safe.'
Shut up, mother. For Christ's sake, shut up! He was there again, body arched,
swaying, increasing an imaginary tempo, an act of copulation that was
escalating into a frenzy, never once taking his eyes off her. I'm gonna fuck
yah,baby!
Shanda felt hysteria building up inside her, looked towards the dim neon exit
sign. One moment of indecision, saw him coming closer, stabbing his thighs in
a manner that could not be misinterpreted. And then she ran!
Out into the deserted street, brightly lit for the first hundred yards but
then petering out because the inhabitants of those derelict houses on either
side were long dead and didn't need to see any more. She crossed the junction
into the opposite street, her heels clattering on the broken paving stones,
stumbled once and twisted her ankle but she ignored the pain. He was coming
after her, a black wraith flitting in her wake. You only heard him because he
wanted you to ... because he was sure of his prey.
Shanda couldn't go any further. Her breath was like scalding water in her
lungs, her injured ankle making her drag her foot, threatening to throw her to
the ground at any second. Standing there waiting, suddenly wanting to get it
over and done with, to let him have his way and then perhaps he would let her
go.
Suddenly she saw him, a smirking white face that appeared to hover in the air,
bodyless; a floating, grinning skull. She tried to tell herself that it was
because he was dressed all in black and you couldn't see the rest of his body.
But she didn't believe it. He was some sort of evil entity, a spook like the
ones she'd scorned in the late night horror movies, but this time she wasn't
laughing. She wanted to scream but no sound came from her stricken throat.
Those eyes, oh Jesus God, those eyes! Bloodshot orbs in deep sockets, boring
into you so that he even got inside your mind and knew what you were thinking.
I don't hate you, really I don't. . . and if you just want lo do that with me
then that's fine by me. I don't mind, really I don't! Crying now.
He laughed, and this time she heard him; a sound that was hollow and mocking,
seeming to hang in the air. She shuddered, closed her eyes briefly but some
strange force jerked them back open and she saw that now he was closer, barely
a foot away from her. She could smell his stale breath, and was somehow unable
to withdraw her gaze from those searching eyes.
'Honey, you gotta beautiful body.'
She found herself nodding dumbly. Echoes of Mick, her last boyfriend's words,
but these had a sinister undercurrent. Then he was coming at her, seeming to
be airborne in slow motion, cold hands reaching out, pawing at her. She shrank
away, cringed, thought she was screaming but she could not be sure because he
had her by the throat in a suffocating, choking grip. She was falling, so
slowly, landing so gently, only aware of his weight on top of her but all she
could see was a shimmering white face through a blurred haze. She smelled his
breath, wanted to vomit, but she couldn't because her throat was squashed. Oh
God, do what you want and get it over, but don't kill me! Please don't kill
me!
Trying not to anger him, spreading her legs wide, doing everything to show
willing; but he didn't appear to notice. The kiss was vile, an open mouth that
stank of sewage and worse, a tongue that thrust like a cold slimy reptile.
Then the pain, her whole body shuddering, her limbs flaying in agony. It was
as though a huge needle had been injected into her neck, going deeper and
deeper; her throat and mouth were filling up with thick warm liquid, stifling
her screams, drowning her! And suddenly her attacker wasn't there anymore!
She struggled into a kneeling position, looking wildly about her but seeing
only darkness that could have hidden anything and everything. No lusting,
bodyless white face. Only herself, cramming fingers over a wound that went
right into her jugular vein, trying to stem the spouting blood.
Crawling, her sheer terror a red haze before her eyes, blood splattering on
the pavement and leaving a dark stream in her wake; weakening so that now she
was dragging herself along, knowing that nobody was going to find her before
she died. Amid her fear she kept asking herself one question over and over
again - why hadn't he raped her, taken advantage of her helpless body! He'd
been lusting for her in the disco and instead he'd just killed her.
Who was he! Barely human, a horrific face in the darkness, his body invisible.
Shanda collapsed, lay there in a spreading pool of blood, choking and crying,
two fingers wedged in the neat round hole in her neck. She'd seen it before on
those awful late night movies, the vampire making its kill, leaving a
bloodless corpse behind when its craving had been satisfied.
One last attempt at screaming as the full horror of what had happened dawned
on her, but she managed only a final death gurgle as she slumped down,
shuddered once and lay still. Somewhere far away an owl was hooting.
Less than half a mile from where Shanda lay dead in a pool
of her own blood, Stella Lowe had just begun her night's soliciting. Tall and
slim, in her early thirties, with long peroxide hair falling well below her
shoulders, she stood in the doorway of a boarded-up shop. Here there was
intermittent street lighting, lamps that had failed and not been repaired
because nobody complained, nobody cared. Within a couple of years all these
streets would have been demolished to make way for a new council estate; a
modern slum would replace the old one.
Stella lit a cigarette, tossed the empty packet out into the street. She felt
lethargic, didn't care if nobody came along. Mostly her customers were drunks
from the 'Tavern', guys who couldn't manage what they thought their bodies
cried out for, and then they got angry and blamed her for it. Christ, what did
they expect for three quid in an empty house, a fiver if she took them back to
her own room, but lately she was wary of taking men home. She'd been done
twice for soliciting and she didn't want the law watching her place.
'Jesus Christ, you made me jump!' She almost dropped the cigarette, caught it
just in time and stared at the big man who had approached unheard, his
plimsolled feet bringing him within a yard of her before she was aware of his
presence. She drew hard on her cigarette, tried to recognise the face that was
half bathed in shadow. It wasn't one of her regulars, that was a sure fact.
Dark haired, the features running to fat as they passed the mid-forties, hands
that twitched nervously as though for their owner this was a first time pick
up.
'I'm sorry,' the voice was cultured, no trace of an accent. 'I didn't mean to
startle you,'
'S'all right.' Stella was suspicious; gone were the days when you could
recognise a policeman whether or not he was wearing a uniform. Nowadays they
came in all shapes and sizes, even frequented brothels just for pleasure. But
one couldn't be too careful. 'Guess I was dreaming.'
'So was I,' he laughed, 'about finding someone like you in a hole like this.
How much?'
His directness took her aback. If she said three quid and he was a copper it
was an admission of guilt.
'I was just waiting for someone,' she tried to see into his eyes but they gave
nothing away.
'Somebody like . . . me!' He moved closer, felt for her hand.
'Could be.'
'Where do we go, then?'
Stella Lowe was trembling slightly. It wasn't like the usual pick up, a
customer trying to smother her with beery kisses and get his hands up her
skirt at the same time. So ... impersonal, calculated in the way one might
bargain over a fare with a late night taxi driver.
'There's a house just down the road,' there was a tremor in her voice. 'Last
one to be vacated. Even got a bed left in one of the upstairs rooms. No
sheets, though.' A joke which neither of them laughed at.
'It'll do.' The stranger had a firm grip on her wrist, started to pull her out
of the doorway. The price wasn't asked again; maybe he had no intention of
paying. Stella experienced a terrible foreboding and if she could have freed
herself from his hold she would have run as fast as she could in the direction
of the 'Tavern', given herself free to any of her regulars. Anything to get
away from this sinister automaton. She could not imagine his type even wanting
sex. But there was no escape; she was forced almost to run as he dragged her
along.
'Which house?' he grunted after a few minutes.
'That one . . . over there on the other side,' there was no point in telling
lies because he could have dragged her into any one of a dozen empty
tumbledown dwellings.
In silence they crossed the road and he pushed open the door of the house she
had indicated, scraping the warped wood back across the floor with one hand,
closing it with his shoulder after them. 'We don't want to be interrupted, do
we?'
She was trembling violently as they mounted the rickety flight of stairs. He
had her arm in a half nelson so that it hurt. 'Look, there's no need to twist
my arm. I'm not going to run off!' A token resistance that was meant to sound
angry but came out as more of a whine. She couldn't hide her fear any longer.
'Aren't you?' He flung her roughly back so that she sprawled on the bare
bedsprings, felt her dress snag on a loose wire and start to tear.
'Who are you?' She could see his face clearly for the first time, caught by a
shaft of street lighting that slanted in through a broken window; features
that were hard and cruel, sadistic. An expression that had her swallowing and
cringing.
'That doesn't matter. Suffice to say that you have been chosen to serve a
purpose, a cause of which you know nothing.'
'What. . . whatever do you mean?' Stella thought about screaming but it would
be futile. Nobody came along this street at night except the odd drunk who
would certainly not investigate female shrieks.
'Behold,' there was a maniacal gleam in his eyes, 'you gaze upon one of the
honoured disciples of Lilith, goddess of darkness.'
You're crazy, she thought. A sudden desperate idea had her unfastening her
dress, baring her white flesh. 'This is what you wanted, isn't it?'
'Yes . . . and no,' a whispered laugh, 'but not in the way you mean.'
'Then what the hell are you after?'
'Tonight,' his voice was so low that she had to strain her ears to catch the
words, 'the disciples of Lilith have gone abroad to seek the likes of you. You
should be honoured that you have been chosen.'
His sudden attack caught her unawares, a leap that brought him on top of her,
the springs groaning their protest. He seemed to be pinioning her with one
hand,
getting something out of one of his pockets with the other. She thought, oh
God, he's got a knife! The orange light infiltrating the room glinted briefly
on something but she had no time to see what it was; did not want to, turning
her head away and praying that the end would be quick.
Sudden agony that began in the flesh of her neck, burned right up into her
throat, cutting off the piercing scream. Her throat filling up, blood being
sucked out, filling again. Kicking wildly, her assailant seemingly impervious
to her puny feet hammering against his body; laughing. She felt her strength
waning, consciousness slipping from her. She thought she was screaming, at
least she was trying to.
'I am a disciple of Lilith' His words hit her like physical blows as she
weakened fast, gargling her own blood, suddenly aware that he was no longer on
top of her. She couldn't see, her sight was gone, just a crimson darkening
haze over her eyes. It sounded as though a tap nearby had been turned on and
with a stab of horror she realised that it was her own blood spouting up and
splashing on the floor.
Oh Jesus, the bastard had cut her throat I Instinctively, just as Shanda had
done, Stella Lowe attempted to plug the neat little hole with her fingers, but
nothing could stop her life spurting away. Her body heaved as she tried to
rise, swaying gently under the momentum of the rusty springs; a bizarre
twitching of every limb, blood dripping everywhere.
Her ears picked up one final sound, the door scraping open and shut, padding
footsteps receding into the dark night.
The disciple of Lilith was returning from whence he came. And somewhere an owl
was hooting.
CHAPTER TWO
SABAT WAS in bed when the telephone on the wall table close by began bleeping.
He cursed fluently, raised his naked body to a sitting position and reached
for the receiver with his left hand, his right hand continuing to do what it
had been doing for the last twenty minutes.
'Sabat.' He spoke abruptly, reluctantly trying to shake off a mental picture
of a blonde girl who wore black boots, with bra and suspenders to match, and
had an inexhaustible repertoire of pleasurably painful things to do to a man,
one of the few women who had ever dominated his own strong personality.
'McKay speaking. Sorry to disturb you.'
Not half as sorry as I am, you bastard. He grinned in the darkness, suddenly
tense and alert. The police were always a matter for concern, particularly in
the early hours of the morning. Detective Sergeant McKay of the CID, late of
the SAS, would not be phoning him unless it was something desperately urgent.
Tire away,' Sabat murmured, and added beneath his breath, 'what I was doing
can wait.'
'Sabat,' the other spoke hesitantly, a tone of embarrassment creeping into his
commanding voice, 'do you believe in... vampiresT
'Now I know you've gone crazy.' Sabat brushed slender fingers through his long
dark hair, habitually stroked a long wide scar, a souvenir of his own SAS
service. 'You've been hitting the bottle again, Clive.'
'No, I haven't. I'm perfectly sober, overworked and over tired but I'm sane
and sober. Look, this is no leg pull, you know me better than that. It's
desperately urgent and the Chief himself said that you're maybe the one man
who can help us. Can we talk somewhere?'
'You'd better come round.' Sabat finally abandoned all his erotic thoughts and
swung his legs off the bed. McKay was genuine. Al. He might be barking up the
wrong tree but he was realistic. Sabat had known him too long to doubt him.
'I'll be round in quarter of an hour then.'
Sabat hooked the receiver back on its cradle and switched on the light. Slowly
he began to dress, pulling on dark serge trousers, and instinctively checking
the pocket of his jacket to ensure that the small .38 revolver which he always
carried was still there. These last few months he hadn't gone anywhere without
a gun. He was a target for vengeance that might come in a number of different
ways and he was learning to live with it.
He sat on the edge of the bed staring fixedly at the white wall, saw in his
mind a wooded mountainside, a wide clearing which even the birds and beasts of
the wild shunned. For it was there that his own brother, Quentin, had sought
refuge, a man so imbued with evil that he was known throughout half the
countries of the world as 'Satan's henchman'; pursued by the forces of the law
who secretly hoped that they would not catch up with him, relentlessly hunted
by Mark Sabat. And it was in this clearing that the Final confrontation had
taken place. Sabat shuddered, recalled how his own extraordinary powers of
exorcism had" been overshadowed by those of the most evil man known to
mankind; the exhumed corpses lying beside the three open graves, further proof
of what Quentin was about to do, a master of voodoo, a houngan in exile
attempting to raise his own followers from the dead, an invincible army to do
his bidding.
Sabat smelled again the cloying putrefaction of open graves, experienced once
more his own despair when he had fallen into one, looked up and seen his
brother preparing to pulverise him with a woodcutter's axe; the stench of
burned cordite, the .38 bucking in Sabat's hand, Quentin writhing on top of
him, the final shot splitting that awful skull, stringing blood and brains on
the damp walls of the grave like an old man's mucus.
It should have ended there and then, Sabat clambering out of the oblong hole,
walking dazedly back down the mountainside. But it hadn't; somehow Quentin's
own soul had merged with his own, good and evil in continual conflict inside a
living entity, a man possessed, fighting within himself for survival. And
still fighting.
And that was how it was now. Sabat, one time priest, latterly an SAS agent,
until his indiscretion with that blonde Colonel's wife who wore black boots
and liked to see her lovers cringe before her, had resulted in his recent
return to civilian life, now found himself the victim of a dual role. At times
the evil in him was too strong to resist and Quentin Sabat lived again; on
other occasions the forces of evil were thwarted by his ruthlessness, his own
desire for revenge on them. The pendulum swung and Mark Sabat could never be
sure of himself, an exorcist, one with unbelievable psychic powers which might
one day prove to be his own undoing. And now something was happening again!
Sabat heard a car draw up outside in the deserted north London mews,
anticipated the ringing of the front door bell, opened the door to admit a
tall, dark skinned, cleanshaven man with an angular face that rarely smiled.
Right now Detective Sergeant Give McKay had little to smile about.
Thanks,' he accepted the whisky which Sabat handed him, an expression that
could have been embarrassment on his suntanned features as he said, 'this is
absolutely confidential, of course.'
'Everything with me is confidential,' Sabat replied. 'It works both ways.'
'Which is why I can ask you if you can throw any light on the disappearance of
the Reverend Spode?'
'Is that what you've come to interrogate me about?' Sabat's tone was sharp,
his dark eyes blazing like chips of flint. 'If so, I would have thought it
would've kept for a more sociable hour.'
'No, no,' McKay sipped his drink, knowing better than to sit down in Sabat's
house without being invited to do so. 'I just asked, that was all. Personal
curiosity.'
'Which killed the proverbial cat.' Sabat's features relaxed, the eyes
softened. 'But, for your personal information, the Reverend Spode, who wasn't
very reverend at all, brought the wrath of his secret gods down on his own
head. Shall we say they spirited him away to a hell that is worse than hell?'
'Enough said,' the other seated himself at Sabat's gesture, 'but I think this
latest business is going to push Spode's disappearance into the oblivion
files. Jesus, I've come straight from the police mortuary. Even the Chief
nearly spewed his guts up. Four corpses, three hardened pros and a teenage
girl.'
There'll always be a ripper at large.' 'This is no ripper, Sabat. Just one
wound in each body, a neat round hole going through the neck into the jugular
... through which their blood has been sucked out!'
Sabat stared, refrained from saying anything so idiotic as 'you must be
joking'. Instead he grunted 'all their blood?'
'No. Maybe a pint or so, it's hard to tell because three of them crawled along
the pavement leaving a ghastly crimson trail in their wake. The fourth had
been killed in a deserted house and the room resembled an abattoir, blood all
over the walls and ceiling.'
'Definitely not a vampire then, even if such things existed. They don't spill
blood around, just leave an anaemic corpse behind. Interesting, though.'
'You can say that again. The Chief's got to make a statement to the Press
shortly and he's in a right stew. Another ripper would be bad enough but this
could spread hysteria throughout London, maybe even further.'
'This doesn't sound my line.' Sabat produced a meershaum pipe from his pocket.
An intermittent smoker, he often mixed cannabis with his short stranded
tobacco; tonight, however, he stuffed the bowl with an aromatic commercial
brand. It was not wise to divulge too many of his secrets to the law.
'Perhaps and perhaps not. But it's going to cause us a lot of embarrassment.
There'll be a public outcry when the real facts are known and the Chief hopes
it can be cleared up quickly. And that means you, Sabat!'
'I was under the impression,' Sabat blew smoke rings up towards the ceiling,
'that the police force resented my investigations. Only a short time-ago I was
being warned off, threatened with dire proceedings for obstructing police
investigations.'
'That was because of Plowden. He didn't want anybody to steal his thunder and
as a result the Spode case has remained unsolved . . . officially.'
'So all is forgiven,' Sabat laughed. 'Well, fill me in on the details, Clive.
Where were the murders?'
'Every one within a quarter of a mile of each other. An area in the process of
demolition in the East End.' McKay moved to a wall map. Sabat's room resembled
a wartime commanding officer's H.Q.; various coloured drawing pins, the
meaning of which was known only to the man himself and McKay knew better than
to ask. 'Dockland. Maybe it's a Triad job.'
'Doubtful,' Sabat replied. 'However, we mustn't rule out any possibility. I'd
like to see the bodies, though.'
"That can be arranged right away,' McKay drained his glass.
'One thing,' Sabat hesitated. Til need a free hand. Working incognito, no
publicity and no questions.'
'That's why we're calling you in.'
'Good. Let's get moving then.'
Tell me,' Sabat had the appearance of being totally relaxed in the passenger
seat as McKay sped south-eastwards across deserted London suburbs. 'Is Colonel
Vince Lealan still in the Service?'
'I ought not to tell you.'
'But you will because we were once both SAS agents and we've shared
confidences before.'
'True enough.' McKay brought the car to a halt at a set of traffic lights and
there was a brief awkward silence whilst he waited for them to change to
green. 'They kicked him out less than a year after he got you booted out. If
they'd court-martialled him he'd've been sent down for a spell but conclusive
evidence was lacking and they couldn't afford the publicity anyway. You asking
about him or Catriona?'
'Both.' Sabat saw the blonde in sparse black garments again, remembered how it
had been between them and felt a slight stirring in the lower regions of his
body. Catriona had hurt him in a lot of ways, but he was still hungry for
punishment - her kind of punishment.
'The Colonel was a Liberation Front sympathiser. The Home Secretary had banned
a demonstration but old Vince really stuck his neck out. Maybe he did it
deliberately, fancied that under his leadership a fascist group might even
come to power. He let them hold the demonstration in his own grounds at his
place in Sussex. He was a bloody fool to show his hand like that although we'd
suspected where his sympathies lay for some time. The Front were getting
dangerous and had to be stamped on but you know yourself how tricky the law is
in any democratic society, everybody entitled to their own views no matter how
dangerous those views might be to democracy itself. The Front was watched
closely and about a week after the demonstration at Lealan's place we got a
tip-off about an armaments cache. It should really have been a police job but
the Home Secretary decided to send the SAS in; it was a golden opportunity to
destroy this cancer once and for all. But the bastards had been tipped off and
there was only one source from which that tip off could have come. That was
the end for Lealan as far as the Service was concerned.'
'And the Liberation Front?'
'They just seemed to evaporate into thin air, taking their armaments with
them. Lealan's still active, we think, but since I came out of the Service and
into the CID I haven't heard anything and I'm not likely to.'
'And Catriona?'
'Christ, Sabat, you'd still have been in the Service if you'd left her alone.
She's still with old Vince but I doubt if he'll ever cure her of her sadistic
delights. Maybe he's the whipping boy these days, although he never seemed the
masochistic type.'
They drove on in silence. Just thinking about Catriona had given Sabat an
erection and he promised himself that one day he'd look her up. He also had a
score to settle with the Colonel himself which he'd never got round to. But
they'd both keep. One day.. .
The small police mortuary was crowded; white-coated pathologists and a huddle
of Special Branch officers crowded round the slabs. A path opened up for Sabat
and he recognised the Assistant Commissioner, his normally ruddy complexion a
pasty grey, his eyes red rimmed as though he had not slept in forty-eight
hours. He nodded to Sabat, a kind of 'see-for-yourself gesture.
Sabat saw and grimaced. As McKay had said there was just a single wound in
each of the naked corpses as though a .22 slug had drilled its way through the
flesh. But one glance was enough to show Sabat that it was something much more
sophisticated than gunplay. He leaned over the body of Shanda, fingered the
circular incision gently; a needle of some kind, going in deep, drawing off a
quantity of blood and leaving the rest to spout in a crimson fountain. But for
God's sake why!
Sabat knew better than to voice any theories he might have had in official
company. That was their job but he didn't have any, anyway. Not yet. Was it
just a senseless maniacal attack by some psychopath seeking gruesome publicity
or was there a more insidious motive? He had to find that out.
Thanks,' he inspected the other corpses, turned back to Detective Sergeant
McKay. 'Now if you'd like to take me home 1 '11 get to work on it.'
Sabat was glad to be back in the car again, not because bloodshed and
mutilation revolted him (he enjoyed it for the right reasons under the right
circumstances), but because he resented official company. The police worked
within a framework; Sabat was a free agent, neither laws nor boundaries
hindering him. Judge, jury and executioner amalgamated into one.
Back outside the Hampstead house, McKay sat with the engine running, possibly
wondering what he should say. His companion was not one with whom to engage in
idle chatter.
'OK, I'll see what I can do.' Sabat flicked the door catch.
'You know where to contact me.'
'I do, but don't rely on hearing from me. But I'll sort something out.'
And then Sabat was gone, the pre-dawn darkness swallowing him up. McKay sighed
as he let the clutch in. He knew his man only too well; Sabat had his own
brand of justice and this case's conclusion might never reach the official
files. Perhaps the AC preferred it that way, the end justifying the means.
Sabat returned to the interrupted pleasures of his bed, recaptured the mood
that only the thought of Catriona Lealan could fire him with, and then slept
the deep sleep of exhaustion. He awoke an hour before dark as surely as though
some alarm clock was incorporated into his system.
He felt refreshed, invigorated as he stretched his naked body, flexed his
muscles. He never slept in pyjamas, likening them to going to bed in a suit, a
hindrance to a lot of enjoyable bedtime pursuits.
For some minutes he lay and mulled the recent events over in his mind.
Certainly the killings were not the work of mythical vampires although the
victims bore marked similarities to the work of these living dead creatures.
He wondered if that was the impression the killer or killers were trying to
create. Again, if so, why! That was something he had to find out and he wasn't
going to discover the answer by lying in bed.
Fully dressed in his dark attire he went downstairs to the kitchen and helped
himself to a plate full of coleslaw from the fridge. Although not strictly a
vegetarian he attributed his physical fitness to a diet of natural foods,
nothing stodgy to create surplus flesh on his lean body, fat to slow his
reactions, dull his thinking. For tonight he must venture into the playground
of blood and death, a redlight area where hideous danger lurked in the
shadows.
It was dark as he left the house, drove his Daimler in a south-easterly
direction, not hurrying because the night was young and he had plenty of time.
The evening traffic thinned, the street lighting became more sparse as he left
the city behind him and entered the suburbs that had changed little except for
decay over the past half century. Yet Sabat's itinerary was by no means
haphazard; this was no casual foray in the hope of happening upon a clue which
would lead him to the perpetrators of these vile murders. He had a destination
in mind and after an hour or so he pulled the car to a halt in a street where
the terraced houses were three storeys tall, an area that had withstood change
and progress, brothels which paid for their own upkeep.
摘要：

CHAPTERONETHEGIRLglancedbehindher,sawonlythedarknessthathidtwinrowsofhalfdemolishedterracedhouses,strainedhereyesuntiltheyhurt;certainnowthatshewasbeingfollowed.Shelistened,heardonlythepoundingofherownheart,aroaringinherears.Thefootstepsbehindherhadstopped,liketheyhadthelasttime,andthetimebefore;del...

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Guy N. Smith - Sabat 2 - The Blood Merchants.pdf

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