The Color of Blood by Declan Hughes

neighboring houses; the greasy fat guy looked like he wished he could join them, but now I was standing in his way. He backed toward the house, but I moved quickly to put myself between him and the door.
    “Is this your house, sir?” I said.
    “No. Yes. No,” he said, his voice ragged with tension.
    “Which is it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Name?”
    “Sean Moon.”
    “What can you tell me about David Brady’s murder, Mr. Moon? What do you know about the disappearance of Emily Howard?”
    His pale green eyes burned red; I could smell the whiskey in his open pores; sweat coursed down his acne-ravaged brow.
    “I don’t know, I… I don’t know anything.”
    I heard muffled sounds from upstairs: thumping on a floor or a plasterboard wall, then a muffled scream.
    “They made me, I didn’t have any choice,” Sean Moon said.
    I pushed past him and went straight up the stairs. The back bedroom door was shut, but it wasn’t locked. I opened the door to find two people locked in a struggle on the bed. One was Emily Howard, and the other was the skinny blond boy who’d been in the film and in the photographs, the one with the eagle tattoo on his shoulder. I could see it now; he was bare-chested, wearing only a pair of jeans; Emily wore a short red kilt and a black bra. They didn’t notice me for a few seconds, and I didn’t announce myself. Their struggle wasn’t much more than a play fight; in fact, it looked like foreplay; either Emily was stronger than the boy, or he was letting her dominate; she had straddled his chest and pinned his arms behind his head when she saw me.
    “Who the fuck are you?” she said.
    “My name is Ed Loy,” I said. “Your father hired me to find you.”
    Using a hand flat on the boy’s hairless chest for balance, she swung a bare leg over his head and stood in front of me, head back, chest thrust forward. Her pupils were dilated until they seemed to stain her brown eyes black; her lips were so engorged they hung open; I could feel her hot breath in my face.
    “What are you, some kind of private dick?” she said, her voice a sustained jeer on the edge of a laugh. I nearly laughed myself, her derision was so incendiary.
    “That’s right,” I said.
    “Well you’ve found me. Now fuck off. Oh, no, wait, there’s one message you can take back to Daddy: tell him his nephew Jonny is here.”
    The boy flinched when she said this, and turned away toward the window. Emily either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. She didn’t look like she was on drugs; or rather, she did, but I didn’t believe she was. Her eyes had the recklessness I had seen in her mother’s, but none of the coldness; they were aflame with passion and young-girl bravado; something about them looked not entirely sane.
    “That’s right, Mr. Loy. I’ve been fucking my cousin Jonathan, Aunt Sandra’s pride and joy. Tell Daddy, tell Jonny’s mummy. Let them incorporate that into the illustrious fucking chronicle of the Howard family. Maybe then they’ll leave us both the fuck alone.”
    Emily’s voice was quite high by the end of this, teetering on hysterical. In the olden days, I suppose I would have slapped her across the face. It would probably’ve been easier for her than having to hear what I did say.
    “Emily, I’ve got some bad news. Your ex-boyfriend David Brady was found dead this morning. He was murdered.”
    Emily’s face went perfectly still, and her eyes rolled back in her head. The blood left her face, and she began to shake. I thought she was having a convulsion, so I reached my hands out to steady her. She slapped them away and began to pummel me with her fists, raining blows on my chest and face. I caught hold of her arms below the elbow until she stopped and stood still for a while, her breath coming in quick bursts until she went limp and dropped her head onto my shoulder and let the tears flow. Jonathan leapt to his feet and came around the bed toward us. I held out a hand to keep him at bay. In a