Dracula Cha Cha Cha

Raiding Shooter's Hill Lost Property again, Kate acquired a tatty floral parasol which meant she could go out in the prenoonday sun.

Her car was parked at St Bartolph's.

She avoided conversation with any of her colleagues in the press and set off on foot.

As was embarrassingly obvious, her red thirst was more than rising. She'd seen so much blood  -  vampire and human  -  spilled last night that her need was as sharp as her teeth.

In a newsagents, she bought three half-pints in 9d cardboard Tetra-Paks. The shop kept vampire stock in the chill cabinet with the milk and fizzy pop, which meant a frustrating wait for breakfast to warm up enough to be drinkable. Cold blood was like an electric shock to the fangs and gave her brain-freeze. So as not to seem too obsessively bloodthirsty, she also bought an Aztec bar and tinted clip-ons for her foraged glasses.

The papers were out, but she was too depressed to want to read their coverage of the night's grief. As she fondled a Tetra-Pak to warm the contents, she lingered by the rack outside the shop and took in headlines. Early editions led with the policeman killed on campus, implying a student riot. The mid-morning papers came in with the story of Craven and Rogers. A warm teenager killed by a vampire policewoman while in custody.

She bit off the corner of the tetrahedonal carton and sucked.

The newsagent's boy, who was restocking the paper rack, looked alarmed. He also looked delicious.

She squeezed the Tetra-Pak and gulped down blood.

It came from cows, but Unigate did something to make it taste human. Cheap stuff had a vaguely sweet aftertaste, from the anticoagulants put in to make it keep. When in funds, she'd sometimes treat herself to Gold Top at ten bob a half-pint. It was milked from human donors ('fresh from the neck').

By the time she was back at St Bartolph's, she'd glutted herself and was almost floating.

A lone policeman, Fred Regent, guarded last night's scorched, bloody battlefield. He had his helmet on but was in shirtsleeves. Some hippy-dippy had braided together a necklace of buttercups and daisies and hung it around his neck.

She told him he could have to wait to be relieved. Bellaver might have forgotten he was stuck here.

'I'm not surprised, Katie,' he said. 'I heard what happened with Donna.'

She gave Fred her Aztec bar out of pity. He told her she had a little smear around her mouth.

She warned him not to accept funny cigarettes and found her Mini in the car park. Students favoured Mini Coopers, Mini Mokes and Mini Vans. Her plain red car stood out amid psychedelic paint jobs, artificial eyelashes for headlamps and made-up vampire coats of arms. A Volkswagen bug covered with staring x-ray eyes had 'the BOPMOBILE' written on its bonnet.

A rack of scooters would make her Hells' Angel ex-boyfriend sneer. Among the Vespas and Lambrettas, like a wolf in the flock, was a motorcycle Frank would grudgingly approve  -  a chopped Norton Commando, with stars and stripes on the petrol-tank.

An American flag on a British bike?

'Had to leave my Harley in California,' said the owner, stepping out of the shadows under a tree. 'Namaste, Lady Kate.'

James Eastman. His face and arms were greased against the sun.

'Like to take a ride?'

She smiled but turned him down. She'd had enough wind in her face with Frank. She said it was a cool bike, though.

Eastman took a cigar from his top pocket, punctured the end on a fang, and lit up with a Zippo. He must go through several packets a day to cultivate his throaty growl.

'How you hangin'?' he asked, concerned. 'I heard what went down at pig plaza after we split. Heavy scene.'

'You could say that.'

'When the buzz hit the wires, I thought you were the sister who'd iced the FVK. Righteous.'

Kate was slightly shocked anyone would think that.

'I like to think I have more self-control, but your Professor Croft would say I'm delusional.'

'Big Daddy? He's not my professor, he's my... hah, nothing.'

Kate's reporter senses prickled. Though he ran with the crowd, Eastman wasn't a proper Black Monk. Was he an exchange student? Had he turned before he got to the UK or been bitten here?

There weren't many American vampires outside isolated townships in New England and ghettos in New Orleans, Las Vegas and San Francisco. Whenever the craze was about to catch fire, some national insanity came along to discourage it  -  from Prohibition in the 1920s to the Un-Human Activities Commission of the 1950s. Times were a-changing, but Yanks still trained cheerleaders in stake-twirling gymnastics and recited pledges before star-spangled crosses. As a nation, America remained afraid of vampires.

'Why are you really here, lady?' asked Eastman. 'It's the murders, isn't it?'

'What murders?'

He wasn't fooled. 'The dead girls. You're here for them, right? The trail leads to St Bartolph's, like drops of blood. I grok you're hanging with the fuzz, but you're no pig. I read up on you. Big Daddy never tells the whole story, but I know all about the Terror. Do you think the vampire killer is on campus? Wild.'

She remembered thinking the clues pointing here were contrived, like a paper chase. Eastman wore a St Bartolph's scarf like a neckerchief, tight about his throat and tucked into his sleeveless denim jacket.

The Black Monks hunted in a pack. Eastman was a solo act. Laura and Carol had been bitten, but only once. Kate could do the sums.

'You take care, Lady Kate,' said the American. 'World needs more suckers like you. And fewer like Big Daddy. Dig?'

'Ah, dug. Thank you, I think.'

Eastman walked away, shoulder muscles bunching and unbunching. She decided she liked being called Lady Kate, but not enough to rule out James Eastman as a suspect.