It was a house of secrets. Dark secrets, old secrets.
Bad secrets.
Cam knew it as soon as he saw it. Felt it, sensed it. Not just derelict but desolate, collapsing under the weight of its own despair. A solid shadow, deeper than black.
The old house was on a patch of ground just by the river, opposite the Old Siege House pub and restaurant at the bottom of East Hill in Colchester. Beside where an old mill had been converted into a set of fancy apartments. It was an area of old buildings, some dating back to Elizabethan times, mostly all sympathetically restored. The area had managed to retain some character and the properties were starting to go for inflated prices. There was a demand for more of the same. Or at least a cheap contemporary copy.
But first the area had to be cleared. And that was where Cam came in.
His back to the morning traffic, walking down a single-track road, he had felt good. His first job after three months claiming Jobseeker’s Allowance. A labourer with a building and demolition company. Seventeen years old, one of the few from his class to actually get a job. Not what he wanted; he loved reading and wished he could have gone to university, studied English. But he was realistic. Kids like him didn’t go to university. Especially not now. Still, he should be grateful to be working, to be busy. Happy to be anywhere except at home watching Jeremy Kyle become Cash in the Attic.
He had passed an old brick wall on his right, behind which a grand Georgian house had been renovated, turned into offices. All gleaming white sash windows, polished brass plaques, ornamental trees guarding the huge front door before the curling gravel drive. Cars for the office staff were parked on his left, their engines still ticking, cooling.
Cam imagined himself driving a car like that one day, working in an office like that one day too. Having a secretary, even playing golf. Well maybe not the golf. But something like that. Perhaps they would love his work at the demolition company so much he’d be promoted. Move on up the company until he was top man.
Cam smiled. Walked on.
Then the trees overhead closed in, darkening the morning, chilling the air, and Cam’s smile faded. The traffic noise diminished, absorbed by the trees. Old and thick-trunked, they deadened the mechanical rushing sounds of vehicles, replaced them with the natural white noise of rustling leaves. Cut off from the road, the noise of the leaves increased, shushing and whispering all around him. The sunlight barely glinted through the dark overhead canopy. Cam’s smile disappeared completely. He shivered. Felt suddenly alone.
Beyond the cars was a wasteland. Poured concrete posts, heavy, moulded from old oil drums. Chained together, bordering a weed-infested gravel patch. The first line of defence, keeping people away from the building.
Then the fence.
He stopped before it. Sturdy, heavy mesh panels anchored into solid concrete bases. The surrounding bushes and weeds had grown through and around it, pulling it towards them, trying to claim it for themselves. ‘Dangerous: Keep Out’ and ‘Do Not Trespass’ notices were attached to it by plastic ties, barely visible amongst the green. Warnings to the curious. Cam didn’t look at them. He was just glad he wasn’t doing this at night. Place was creepy enough in the daytime.
Behind the fence was rubble and weeds, fighting for space, dominance. And beyond all that was the house itself. Cam took a good look at it.
A solid black shadow, absorbing the daylight, holding it within. Giving away nothing. Then he saw something rise from the side of the building, slap down again with a leathery sound. Like huge crow’s wings. A horror-film monster. He jumped, gasped.
Cam turned, thinking of running away. Stopped. Tried to get hold of himself. This was ridiculous. It was morning, and it was just an old house. He looked at it again. Studied it, confronted it. Hoped his scrutiny would take its power away.
It was more like an old barn or storage house. And it was old. Very old. Black wooden slats cladded the exterior, most of them askew or collapsing with age and disrepair, leaving exposed lath-work and bare brick underneath. What he had taken for crow’s wings was a huge sheet of black plastic attached to one side of the building. A cheap makeshift repair, now tattered and useless, left hanging beyond its useful life.
There were huge gaps in the roof tiles, exposing the aged, water-damaged skeletons of beams and joists. At the far end was a one-storey extension, blackened plasterwork, rotted wooden window frames. A crumbling brick wall exposed a flat concrete area. Beyond that was the River Colne, dirty brown, plastic debris and greasy scum bobbing slowly along. 5
So close to the road, the town, and he could have been anywhere. Or nowhere.
Just a house, Cam told himself. Just a house. Nothing more.
‘What you waitin’ for?’ A voice behind him, loud and angry-sounding.
Cam jumped, startled. He turned.
‘Come on, get a move on. We’re on the clock here.’ The newcomer looked at his watch to emphasise the point. ‘Shift it.’
‘Sorry… ’ Cam found his voice. ‘Sorry, Gav… ’
His boss had been following him down the path. Cam was so wrapped up in the house that he hadn’t even noticed. Galvanised into action by Gav’s words, pleased to have some reinforcements, he pushed and pulled at the fence, tried to get it to budge. Sharp branches slapped at his face and limbs. Leathery green tendrils seemed to wrap themselves round his arms and legs, tugged at him. Cam felt panic, unreasonable but insistent, rise within him. He gave one final heave and eventually, sweating from the exertion, his knuckles red and sore from the metal and green from the foliage, he managed to make a gap wide enough to squeeze through.
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Gav behind him. ‘Just make enough room for yourself, you skinny little bastard. Selfish twat.’
Cam thought of answering, explaining his sudden panic, his irrational, instant fear of the building before them, apologising even. Had the breath in his mouth ready, but didn’t use it. Gav was just joking. In his own way. Funny and charming, he thought himself, while other people just found him loud and offensive. Plus he wouldn’t understand why Cam was so suddenly scared. But then Cam didn’t understand it either.
Just a simple job, Gav had said. A two-man crew, do a recce, decide how best to demolish the place, plan it, do it. Clear the land to cram in yet another development of boxy new houses and flats. The last thing Colchester needed, Cam thought, more boxy new houses and flats. But he tried to have no opinion on it. Because he needed the job. And because some of those boxy little houses weren’t bad. He quite fancied living in one of them.
Cam heard the fence rattle and clang behind him, felt it vibrate and shake. He also heard curses and expletives, as Gav forced his steroid-pumped body through as loudly as possible. Cam, reluctant to enter the house alone, waited for him. The other man joined him, stood beside him looking at it.
‘What d’you think?’ Gav said, sweating from the exertion.
‘Like the House of Secrets,’ said Cam, instantly regretting it.
Gav turned to him, a sneering smile on his lips. ‘The what?’
Cam began to stammer. ‘Th-th-the House of Secrets. It’s from a comic.’
‘Bit too old for comics, aren’t you?’
Cam blushed. ‘Read it when I was a kid. It was a… a horror comic. These two brothers. Cain and Abel. Abel lived in the House of Secrets. Cain lived in the House of Mystery. With this graveyard between them.’ He paused. Gav hadn’t said anything, so he continued. ‘Cain was always killin’ Abel. But he was always back to life for the next issue.’
He expected Gav to say something, insult him in some way. Take the piss. But he didn’t.
‘Cain and Abel,’ said Gav. ‘That’s the Bible, that. First murderer, first victim.’
Cam just looked at him, eyes wide in surprise.
‘What? Just ’cos I work in demolition doesn’t mean I’m thick.’ Gav looked away from Cam, beyond the fence, across the path.
‘Hey look,’ he said, pointing. He laughed. ‘There’s another. That must be your House of Mystery.’
Cam looked. Gav was right. There was another building further down the road in even worse repair than the one they were standing in front of. It looked like a row of old terraced houses, boarded up and falling apart, the foliage reclaiming it. Eerie and isolated. Even the graffiti that covered it looked halfhearted.
And in between, thought Cam, the graveyard.
They stood in silence. Cam eventually found his voice.
‘Creepy place,’ he said, ‘innit? Like… like somethin’s happened here.’
‘What, like an old Indian burial ground or somethin’?’ Gav laughed. ‘You’re too sensitive, you. An’ weird.’ He sniffed. ‘Now come on,’ he said. ‘We better get crackin’. ’Cos it’ll be bloody murder if you don’t get a move on. We ain’t got all day. Let’s get inside.’
Gav stepped in front of Cam, crossed towards the boarded-up doorway. Cam followed reluctantly. As he did so, he saw something on Gav’s face that he hadn’t seen before. Something that the mouthing off and bravado didn’t cover.
Fear.
Up close, the house looked – and felt – even worse.
The back wall was covered with tarpaulin panels. Over the years, the edges had peeled away from the wood and brickwork, and now they resembled a line of hooded cloaks hanging on a row of pegs, just waiting to be worn to some sacrificial black mass.
Cam shivered again.
In amongst the cloaks were the remains of a doorway. Frame rotted, eaten away from the ground up, paint flaked off and blown away. The door it held looked flimsy enough too, missing paint showing wood that looked like shredded wheat.
‘Go on, get it open.’
Gav’s voice behind Cam.
Cam reached out, turned the handle, pushed. Nothing. Pushed again, slightly harder this time. Still wouldn’t budge. And again, more force this time. Nothing. He stopped, turned to Gav. Hoping that would be the end of it. That they could leave now. Return to the sun, the warmth.
Gav had other ideas. ‘Useless twat, give it here.’
He twisted the handle, pushed. Hard. Nothing. Anger, never far from the surface of Gav’s steroid-addled psyche, was rising within him, reddening his face, making him tense his arms. He stepped back, shoulder-charged the door. A splintering sound, but it held firm. The sound was encouragement enough. Gav did it again. And again.
The door resisted, but eventually, with a loud crack and a shriek of breaking timber, gave.
Gav stood there, bent double, hands on knees, panting.
‘Go on then, kid… in you go… ’
Cam looked between Gav and the darkness. Reluctantly, he entered.
It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the gloom after the bright morning sunshine outside. And once they had, it was pretty much as he would have expected. Razor blades of dusty light cut through the gaps in the wood and brickwork of the walls, illuminating a desolate, dank space.
The boards beneath Cam’s feet creaked as he put pressure on them. He was wary about entering further in case the floor gave way beneath him. A shadow loomed behind him.
‘Come on, get movin’.’
Cam stepped further into the house.
‘Jesus Christ… ’ Gav again. ‘That smell… ’
Cam hadn’t noticed he had been holding his breath. He let the air out of his lungs, breathed in. And immediately gagged. The stench was awful, almost physical in its putrid power.
‘God… ’ said Gav. ‘Smells like someone died in here… ’
‘Don’t say that.’
Gav looked at him, about to make a joke. But Cam could tell he was becoming just as scared. Gav said nothing.
‘Let’s look around.’ Cam was surprised at the strength in his voice, the bravery of the statement. But it had nothing to do with bravery. He just wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. The sooner this house was demolished, the better.
Cam, still wary of the floorboards, moved further into the room. The smell was overpowering. Cam hated to admit it, but Gav had been right. It smelled like someone had died in there.
There was a set of stairs off to the left of the room, leading upwards. They looked, if anything, even riskier than the floorboards. Directly ahead was a doorway through to another room. It had no door, and Cam was aware of quick, darting movements in the shadows at his feet as he moved slowly towards it. Rats. He hoped.
The remains of a kitchen were decaying in the next room, cabinets empty, doors missing or hanging by half-hinges, lino underfoot broken and missing.
‘Anything there?’ said Gav from the main room.
‘Kitchen,’ said Cam. ‘Or it was once.’ At the far end of the room was another doorway. Cam moved towards it. There was a door in this one. Closed. And it looked newer, sturdier than the rest of the inside. He reached down. The handle looked newer too.
Heart skipping a beat, he turned it.
A sudden light came from behind him. He jumped, screamed, shut his eyes.
‘It’s a torch, you soft bastard,’ said Gav.
Cam forced his heart rate to slow down. Gav swung the torch round the main room. The small black shadows scuttled away. They were rats. But something else had been there. Among the debris of the falling-apart building, the bricks, old concrete and cement, pieces of wood and broken furniture, were more recent leavings. Pizza cartons. Fast-food wrappings. Newspapers. Gav shone his torch down on them.
‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘The date. Couple of weeks ago. Recent… ’
The bad feeling Cam had been harbouring increased. ‘Let’s get out of here, Gav. Come on. This… this isn’t right.’
Gav frowned angrily, fighting the fear inside himself, not wanting to show it. ‘Bollocks. Just some old tramp or somethin’ been dossin’ down here. Come on.’ He pointed to the door. ‘What’s in there?’
‘Toilet?’
‘Open it.’
Cam, sweating now, turned the handle.
It wasn’t a toilet. It was another flight of stairs, this time leading down. The darkness sucked away what light there was like a black hole.
‘Gav… ’
Cam stood back to let Gav see. Gav drew level. The two of them in the cramped kitchen filled it, made the place seem claustrophobic. Gav shone the torch into the dark stairwell. The two of them looked at other.
‘Go on then,’ said Gav, licking his lips.
Dry from the steroids, thought Cam. Or fear.
Cam opened his mouth, wanted to complain, but knew it would be no use. Putting his hand out to steady himself against the wall, he began to make his way downwards.
The wall was clammy, cold. He felt damp flaking plaster and paint beneath his palm. The steps creaked as he placed his feet on them, felt soft at times.
He reached the bottom. Felt hard-packed earth beneath his boots, a low ceiling above his head. The smell was worse down here; corruption allied to a pervasive dampness that made his skin itch and tingle unpleasantly.
He crouched and looked round. Saw shadow on shadow. Behind him, Gav started to move down the stairs, swinging the beam of his torch as he did so. Cam caught flashes of illumination, made out something at the far end of the cellar.
‘What… what’s that?’ He pointed. Gav stopped descending, stayed where he was on the stairs.
‘What’s what?’
‘Over there, it’s… ’
Something glimpsed in the beam’s swinging light. Quickly, then gone. A construction of some sort, criss-cross.
And behind it, within it, some kind of movement.
‘Come on,’ said Gav, ‘let’s get out of here.’
‘Just a minute.’ Cam surprised himself with the strength in his voice. His heart was hammering, blood pounding round his body, but fear or no fear, he wanted to know what he had seen.
‘What d’you mean, just a minute? Come on, we’re goin’.’
‘Wait.’ Cam’s voice, stronger now. ‘Point the torch over there, in the corner.’
‘Why?’ Panic creeping into Gav’s voice now.
‘Because there’s something over there.’
Gav, grumbling, reluctantly did so. The beam illuminated a cage, built into one whole wall of the cellar. The bars were the colour of stained teeth, tied together with what looked like strips of old leather.
‘Jesus… ’ Gav tried to back away, found he couldn’t move. ‘A cage… What’s… what’s a cage doin’ down here?’
Cam didn’t answer. He didn’t know the answer. Fascinated, he started to move towards it.
‘Where you goin’?’
‘Just… I saw something… ’ Cam kept walking. Slowly. ‘Keep the torch pointed at the cage. Let me see… ’
Something moved in the corner. Shifted. A shadow with substance and bulk.
‘There’s somethin’ in there… ’ Gav, no longer hiding the fear in his voice.
Cam stopped walking. Stood rooted to the spot, staring. He glanced round, back to Gav.
‘Keep the torch there.’
Cam reached the cage. Extended a hand, touched it. The smell was worse in this corner. Animal waste, plus corruption. The bars themselves stank. Cam leaned in close, smelled them. Like old bones in a butcher’s shop.
He froze.
Old bones. That was exactly what they were.
‘Come on! I’m goin’.’
The beam wavered as Gav turned, indicated the way back upstairs.
‘Give me a minute,’ Cam shouted back.
‘I just want to-’ He didn’t get to say what he wanted to do. With a clanking rattling of chains, the thing in the cage sprang at the bars, roaring. It grabbed Cam by the arm, the neck.
Cam screamed, tried to pull away. Couldn’t. The grip was too strong.
He tried to shout for Gav to help him, but the words came out as one solid block of noise.
The pain increased. He looked down, saw that the thing in the cage had sunk its teeth into his arm.
Cam screamed even louder.
Suddenly he was in the dark. Gav had left him, run back up the stairs, taking the torch with him.
Cam felt the teeth bite further into his arm, accompanied by a snarl, like a hungry dog feasting. He grabbed his own neck, felt fingers digging in, tried to prise them away.
The snarling increased.
Cam pulled harder on the fingers. Felt something snap.
An animal howl of pain. The grip on his arm loosened slightly.
He pulled another finger back. Heard another snap.
The grip on his arm slackened, the pain eased.
Realising that he wouldn’t get another chance, Cam pulled as hard as he could. His neck was freed, then his arm. Not bothering to look behind him, he ran for the stairs.
All the way up, not caring if they gave way underneath him, just desperate to be out of the house.
Then, once upstairs, straight through the kitchen, the main room and out of the door.
And running.
As far away from the house as possible.
Because, before Gav had taken the torch and run, Cam had seen what was there.
A child. A feral child.
In a cage of bones.
Faith ran.
Through the trees, into the forest. Squinting at the sudden daylight, pushing herself as hard as she could, running as fast as she was able. The ground hard and uneven beneath her bare feet, her chest hammering. Arms windmilling wildly, breath barked out in ragged, harsh bursts. Anything to gain momentum, move faster.
Get away from him.
Escape from him.
She ran on. Not knowing where she was going, not stopping to think. This way and that. Wherever there was a clearing between the trees, a space large enough to force herself through, she went. Just trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and…
Him.
Her feet were cut by branches and stones, the soles searing anew with pain each time she landed them hard on the forest floor. Branches and vines slapped at her. Stung. Brambles and thorns tore at her skin, tried to slow her down, pull her back. Claim her for the forest. She ignored them, fought them off. Told herself she felt nothing. No pain, no agony. She would have time for that later. Once she had put distance between herself and…
Faith reached a clearing, slowed down. Hands on thighs, bent double, head down, she gulped in air as hard as she could. No good. She tried, but her body couldn’t do it. Her lungs were burning, seared, but not big enough to take in the amount of air she needed. She cursed herself for being so unfit. For smoking and drinking and not taking any exercise. A pleading mantra ran through her head:
Pleasegodletmegetoutofthis… pleaseplease… please… Ipromise… please… IpromiseIpromise… I’llbeI’llbe… anythingjust…Iwon’tIwon’t… please…
Eyes screwed tight shut, she concentrated.
Pleasepleaseplease…
She saw Ben in her mind’s eye. Her son. Smiling at her. Like an image from a different world. She’d left Donna to look after him. Gone to work.
And how had she got from there to here? How had she got into this? How? She knew. She had thought she had been clever. Standing in New Town, her usual spot. Making it look like a pick-up, like work. Knowing it was anything but. Feeling a bit protected thinking he’d be on CCTV somewhere.
And then the drive. Faith was used to getting into men’s cars. She knew the risks. But with the insurance she’d put in place, she’d doubted there was much risk in this one. Not for her, anyway. Because Donna would know what to do. Faith could count on Donna.
But he had hit the town limits and kept going. She had asked him where, and he had told her. Somewhere private. Somewhere they could talk. Where he could get what he wanted and she could get what she wanted.
Yeah, she had thought. Heard that one before.
But it hadn’t worked out like that. Not at all.
He had taken her somewhere private, all right. Then… nothing. Until she woke up. In that place. That horrible place. Like something from a horror film. Cold. And dark. And…
Oh God.
The bones. She remembered the bones.
And in that moment she knew where he had taken her.
Back there. Back home.
And she had let him. She was so cross with herself for allowing herself to make such a stupid, simple mistake that her anger gave her the energy to attempt to escape. And she had. She wasn’t stupid. She knew what he had done. One look at that place told her that. If she stayed, she would have no future.
So she had run. Not stopping to look back, or pause to check where she was. Not even noticing she was naked. Just ran. Out into the forest, the open. It was daylight by that time. She had been there all night.
Faith straightened up. Listened. Tried to hear something beyond her own ragged breath. Some sound of her pursuer.
Nothing.
Her body relaxed. Air came more freely into her. Her heart rose slightly. She began to feel the pain in her body. Feel normal again.
Then she heard it. The crack of dry twigs. Footfalls. Heavy. Not caring whether she heard or not. Knowing he was going to find her. She couldn’t stay where she was. She had to keep moving.
Looking round, she quickly decided where the sound was coming from, turned and headed in the opposite direction.
Her feet hammering down hard on the earth, pain starting anew, body racked and burning, feeling worse for stopping, not better.
And on. Running, running, running. Arms pumping, legs pounding. Not stopping. Not looking back. Moving forward, ever forward. Her son in her mind’s eye. Running towards him.
And then… other sounds. In front of her, not behind her.
She slowed, nearly stopping. Listened again, tried to make them out over the top of her laboured, painful breathing.
She knew what the sounds were. She smiled.
Traffic.
She was near to a road.
Smiling, she ran all the harder.
Then: another sound. Behind her this time.
She risked a glance over her shoulder. And there he was.
Faith hadn’t expected him to move so fast, given the size of him. But he was barrelling towards her, knocking branches out of the way as though they weren’t there. Like that Vinnie Jones character in the X-Men film she had watched once with her son.
‘Oh no, oh God… ’
She ran all the harder. Away from him. Towards the traffic.
The forest floor began to slope downwards. There was an incline leading towards the road. Faith ran down it. Brambles and thorns were thick here. They tore at her, attempted to hold her back. She ignored them, refused to feel her arms, legs, as they were ripped open. Some snagged her, refusing to give way. She kept on running, letting them gouge out large lumps of bleeding flesh.
No time for that. Only for escape. Escape…
The road was in sight. The cars speeding past. She could see them. And, in a few seconds, touch them. Her feet ran all the faster.
And then, just as she was about to break free from the thorns, he was on her.
She screamed, tried to pull away. Felt his hot breath on her neck. His strong, meaty, sweaty grip on her shoulders. Fingers like heavy metal bolts digging into her skin.
She screamed again. Knowing she couldn’t match him in strength, she became an eel, twisting and writhing away from his grip. Something she had picked up years ago, used when a customer tried to get a bit too handy. There was another move she knew too.
Squirming and turning in his grasp, she managed to bring her heel up, right into his groin. He might be big and strong, she thought, but there was no way he wouldn’t feel that.
And he did. Grunting, he loosened his grip slightly.
It was all Faith needed. She pushed her body sharply back against him, knocking him off balance, releasing his grip further, then ran.
Towards the road.
She reached the kerb, glanced back. He was following. She allowed herself a small smile of triumph.
She had escaped. Got away. Yes, she-
Didn’t see the VW Passat coming round a blind corner, straight towards her.
Too fast to stop or change direction.
It hit her, sending her body into the windscreen, shattering it, then over the roof of the car, landing in the road behind, her pelvis shattering, twisting the lower part of her body away from the top. The next car, a BMW 4x4, tried to swerve and missed her torso, but wasn’t as lucky with her legs. The thick tyres crushed them as the driver slammed on the brakes.
Faith had no idea what had happened. No time to think. All she saw was daylight, the sky far away, yet near at hand. Then her son’s face once more, smiling at her. Like an image from another world.
And a few seconds later, it was.
Whenever Detective Inspector Phil Brennan thought he had seen every kind of horror that humans could inflict on humans, something would hit him with the force of a right hook to the gut to remind him that he hadn’t. And that he would never fail to be surprised and sickened, no matter how long he lived.
When he looked into that cellar and saw the cage, he felt that blow to the gut once more.
‘Oh my God… ’
As DI with Essex Police’s Major Incident Squad – MIS – he had witnessed on a regular basis the damaged and the deranged destroy themselves and others with tragic inevitability. Seen loving family homes mutate into abattoirs. Comforted victims whose lives had ended even though they still lived. Attended crime scenes so horrific they gave a glimpse of hell.
And this ranked as one of the worst.
Not because of the usual stuff. Gore and dismemberment. Emotion and anger made corporeal. A savage and senseless loss of life. Here, the passion and rage of murder was absent. Although he imagined it would have been there in time. No. This was a different kind of horror. A calculated, deliberate horror. Thoughtful and precise and vicious.
The worst kind.
Phil stood on the hard-packed dark earth and stared at it, shivering from more than just the cellar’s cold.
Arc lights had been hastily erected at either wall, dispelling the Hammer Films gloom, replacing it with deadeningly bright illumination that revealed everything, conversely making it all the more horrific in the process.
The blue-suited CSI team worked in the glare of the lights. They were all around him, attempting to spin samples and specimens into the slenderest of narrative threads, building the biggest story from the smallest particles.
Phil himself was similarly dressed, standing still and staring. Taking in what was before him. Trying to process it. Knowing he would have to hunt down the person responsible for it.
The cellar floor was strewn with flower petals. The arc lights showed up the varying colours: blue, red, white, yellow. All turning brown, curling, dying. All from different kinds of flowers. Around the walls were bunches of wilting blooms, bound together, placed in clusters at regular intervals, like little roadside memorials. The smell, in that small space, was overpowering.
Above them, daubed on the walls, were symbols. Swirling and Cabalistic. Phil had initially thought they were some kind of pentagram, an indication of devil worship. But he had examined them more closely and found that wasn’t the case. They weren’t like any Satanic designs he had come across. He couldn’t say what they were, but they made him feel uncomfortable looking at them. As though he had seen them before and knew what they were. And didn’t like them. He shuddered, kept looking round.
In the centre of the space was what looked like a workbench. Wooden surface, with adjustable metal legs. Old. Well used, but well looked after. Phil leaned forward, examined it. It had been kept clean, but the wood was stained darker in places, the surface scarred and chipped with blade marks and heavy, angry gashes. He suppressed a shudder.
And there, behind the bench, at the far end of the cellar, was the cage. He moved closer, stood before it like an astronaut confronted by an alien artefact, unsure whether to worship it or destroy it. It took up nearly a third of the cellar. Floor to wall to ceiling. The bones embedded, cemented. Bound tightly together with what looked like some kind of hide. Varying in size, but all quite long and substantial. Precisely worked and integrated. A solid construction, criss-crossing to form neat, even-sized squares. It had been there a long time. Some of the bones were worn and smooth, time-leached from white to grey. Some were much newer, almost white. And it had been well maintained over the years. Sections had been repaired, the newer, paler bones standing out, at odds with the rest. Old, splintered ones strengthened and bound. A smaller frame set into the larger one served as a door, hinged on one side by bindings, a chain and padlock securing it on the other side.
The bones… Their selection based on size and shape… The method of joining them together… He tried to imagine the work involved, the time taken, the kind of mind that had created such a thing… Failed. Shook his head, concentrated, examined it all the harder.
‘Built to last, that.’ A voice at Phil’s side. ‘British craftsmanship.’
He turned. DS Mickey Philips was standing next to him. The flippancy of his tone was only perfunctory. It didn’t reach Mickey’s eyes. He was equally awed and repelled by the structure.
‘Why bone?’
‘What?’
‘Must be a reason, Mickey. Whoever did this must be telling us something.’
‘Yeah. But what?’
‘I don’t know. But they could have used wood, metal, whatever. They chose bone. Why?’
‘Dunno. Why?’
‘I don’t know either.’ Phil’s eyes roved over the cage. ‘Yet.’ He looked round the cellar once more. Took in the flowers, the workbench. ‘This cage, this whole place… like a murder scene without the murder.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mickey. ‘Good job we got the call. Just in time.’
Phil looked at the stains on the workbench. ‘This time.’
They turned back to the cage. Eyes fixed on that, not on each other. Phil broke his gaze, turned to Mickey.
‘Where’s the child now?’
‘At the hospital, with Anni,’ Mickey said.
Anni Hepburn, Phil’s DC.
Mickey sighed, frowned. ‘Jesus, what a state that kid must be in… ’
Mickey Philips was still regarded as the new boy in the MIS, the team that Phil headed up. But he had been there long enough to earn his place. The more Phil worked with him, the more he found him a mass of contradictions. He looked the complete opposite of Phil. Always immaculately suited and tied, in contrast to Phil’s more carefree approach of jacket, waistcoat, jeans and casual shirt; his hair neatly razored short, unlike Phil’s spikes and quiff, and his shoes always polished, as opposed to Phil’s Converses or, if the weather was really bad, scuffed old Red Wings. A bull-necked nightclub bouncer to Phil’s hip university lecturer.
But there was something that set Mickey Philips apart from other coppers, and that was why Phil had wanted him on his team. He was one of the new breed of coppers, a graduate rather than a grafter, but he didn’t conform to type. Most of them Phil dismissed as promotion-hungry politicians, but Mickey wasn’t like that. He was tough when he had to be, aggressive even, but not brutal. He was also articulate and erudite, qualities that didn’t always go down well in the force, and he had done his best to hide them when necessary. It was only since working for Phil that he had felt relaxed enough to allow that side of him to show. And even then he tended to ration its appearances.
‘I’ll, er… go and see if I’m needed upstairs.’ The cage made Mickey visibly uncomfortable.
‘It’s a ritual,’ said Phil.
Mickey didn’t move. Waited for what Phil would say next.
‘Isn’t it?’ He gestured round. ‘All this. Deliberately set up for a ritual.’
‘The murder of that kid?’
‘I’d put money on it. And we’ve stopped it. Taken the would-be victim away, averted a death.’
‘Good for us.’
‘Yeah,’ said Phil. He didn’t sound convinced. ‘Good for us. Question is, what does this guy do next?’
Mickey said nothing.
‘I think we’re going to need some help on this one… ’
‘Come in. Sit down.’ Marina Esposito smiled. It wasn’t returned.
The woman across from her sat. The desk in Marina’s office was pushed back against the far wall. She had tried to make the room in the Southway police station as warm and characterful as possible: prints on the walls, easy chairs, rug on the floor. Not a luxury, thought Marina, but a necessity. No one ever came to see her because they were happy.
‘So… ’ She looked down at the file before her. She knew the woman’s name. Probably knew more about her than she realised. ‘How are you, Rose?’
Detective Sergeant Rose Martin gave a brisk smile. ‘Fine.’
‘You feel ready to return to work?’
‘Absolutely.’ She closed her eyes, rolled her neck round on her shoulders. Marina heard a faint clicking noise. ‘Been off too long. Starting to go mad watching daytime TV.’
‘Diagnosis Murder’ll do that to anyone.’
Marina knew just how long Rose had been off. She herself had been involved in the same case, five months previously. The Creeper, so christened by the media, was a murderous predator. He had kidnapped Rose, tied her up and subjected her to sexual torture. She had tried to escape, but it was only after the intervention of Phil Brennan that she was actually freed.
Rose had been under Phil’s command. But Marina knew he hadn’t wanted her, chosen her or even liked her. He had found her manipulative, devious and problematically aggressive. In the course of the Creeper investigation, Rose Martin had instigated an affair with his boss, the previous DCI, in order to further her career. He had been completely besotted with her. The decisions he had made at her request had resulted in his near-fatal stabbing, and he was subsequently invalided out of the force. Even worse, from Phil’s perspective, recklessly endangering the lives of the team in the process.
But everything had been neatly brushed over. Spun out simplistically to give the media its heroes and villains. Phil the hero. Rose Martin the brave but tragic heroine. The Creeper the villain. DCI Ben Fenwick the unfortunate casualty.
Marina was professional enough not to take her partner’s word for things, to judge for herself. But she had been there. She knew the whole messy truth. And she had agreed with him about Rose Martin.
But she put all that to one side, remained impartial. Did her job.
Rose looked good, Marina had to admit. Tall, her dark hair curled and styled, she wore a blue two-piece suit, jacket and pencil skirt, spike heels and a cream silk blouse. Power-dressed, thought Marina. A strong physical presence in the room. Ready for a fight. But also rested, recuperated and rehabilitated. Ready to return to work.
On Marina’s recommendation.
Marina looked down at the file before her once more. Moved a heavy strand of hair that had fallen across her face back over her ear. She was slightly smaller than Rose Martin and dressed completely differently, but she didn’t allow the other woman’s strong presence to intimidate her. Marina, with her long, dark, wavy hair and Italian features, favoured lace and velvet, full peasant skirts and diaphanous blouses, cowboy boots and scarves. She knew she was often portrayed as a caricature, exactly what some on the force expected a psychologist to be like, but she didn’t care. Even played up to it sometimes, enjoyed it. Just because she worked for the police didn’t mean she had to think and dress like them. And besides, her record spoke for itself.
‘Right,’ she said, nodding, ‘been off too long. And what have you been doing with your time? Besides watching Dick Van Dyke?’
‘Worked out.’ Rose Martin kept eye contact. ‘Kept fit. Active. Anything to stave off the boredom. I’m itching to get back.’
‘Itching.’ Marina nodded once more.
‘Look,’ said Rose, irritation creeping into her voice, the shield of her features slipping. ‘I got over… what happened fairly quickly. Dealt with it. Months ago. I’ve been ready to return to work for ages.’
‘You realise that when – or if – you do return, it may not be back on the front line?’
Rose bristled at the suggestion. ‘There’s no reason why not.’
‘I’m just advising you. Be aware of the possibilities.’
‘But I’m ready to go back. I can feel it. Look, before all this, I’d taken the inspector’s exam and passed. I was waiting for promotion. If they knew what was good for them, I’d be back straight away as a DI. I should be. I’ve spoken to DCI Glass and he agrees with me.’
Interesting, thought Marina. DCI Glass was Ben Fenwick’s replacement. She wondered in how many ways.
She nodded once more, said nothing. Rose Martin’s attitude was typical of a lot of officers she saw. They felt they could handle themselves. Reached a point where they found their convalescence too constricting, where they knew they were ready for the challenge of the job, raring to go once more. And if any problems came up, if they had flashbacks, they could always rely on their old inner strength to pull them through.
Even in the comparatively short time that Marina had been doing the job, she had seen too many of them try that, only to crash and burn. Their inner strength had deserted them at the first opportunity. They had crumpled, folded. Been back at square one.
She leaned forward in her armchair. ‘Look, Rose. I don’t want to seem negative, but it’s easy to think you can just walk back into work like nothing’s happened and pick up where you left off.’
Rose leaned forward too. ‘I know myself. I know how I feel. I know when I’m damaged and when I’m good. And I’m good now.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Never is, is it?’ Rose gave a harsh laugh. Nodded. ‘This is about Phil Brennan, isn’t it? I know what he thinks of me. And if anyone’s blocking me coming back, it’ll be him.’
Marina sighed. Didn’t bother to hide it. ‘I’m a psychologist, Rose. Bound by the oaths of the medical profession. Do you really want me to add “paranoid delusions” to your file?’
Rose Martin sat back, stared at Marina.
Marina leaned forward once more. ‘Look, Rose. Over the last five months, you’ve refused to talk to me. Ignored all attempts to let me help you.’
‘Because I didn’t need help. I’ve coped on my own.’
‘So you say. You wouldn’t even attend the anger-management course I recommended.’
Rose Martin’s eyes flashed at the words. ‘I didn’t need your help,’ she repeated.
Marina sighed. ‘I just wanted to say, I know how you feel.’
Rose snorted once more. ‘Is this the bit where you try to be my friend? Tell me you’re the only person who understands me?’
Marina looked at the notes in her lap, deciding. She looked up again. ‘No, it’s not, Rose.’ Steel in her voice hiding a battened-down anger at the other woman’s manner. ‘This is the bit where I put professionalism aside for a while and deviate from the script. Forget that I’m a psychologist and you’re a police officer. Where we talk as one human being to another.’
Rose said nothing.
‘I do know what you’re going through, Rose. Because the same thing happened to me. It was before your time here, but the circumstances were very similar. If you don’t believe me, check it out.’
Marina paused, tried not to let the memories overwhelm her. She continued.
‘And I did what you did. I thought I could cope. Just get on with things again, live my life like nothing had happened. I tried. And I couldn’t.’ She bit back the emotion in her voice.
The shield slipped. Rose frowned, interested. ‘What happened?’
Marina shrugged. ‘I coped. Eventually. Took a while. Longer than I thought it would. Longer than I felt it should have done. It wasn’t easy. But I got there. In time.’
The two women sat in silence together. Then Rose’s phone rang.
She answered it, even though Marina had started to speak, to tell her it should have been switched off. Marina watched the other woman’s face. It changed from initial hostility to polite interest. A smile then split her features as she listened. She took a notebook and pen from her bag, wrote something down. Hung up. Turned to Marina.
‘That was DCI Glass. He has a case he needs me to work on.’
Marina nodded, noting her words. Needs. ‘Right. When would this be?’
‘Straight away. Shortage of staff. He thinks I’m ready.’
‘Does he?’
Another smile from Rose Martin. Triumphant. Adrenalised.
Marina shrugged. ‘You’d better go, then.’
‘Don’t you have to write a report on me?’
‘Doesn’t seem a lot of point now, does there?’
Rose left the room.
Marina shook her head, clearing Rose Martin out of it. She checked when her next appointment was, looked at her watch. Thought about what she’d be having for lunch. Wondered what her daughter Josephina was getting up to with her grandparents. Then her phone rang.
She answered. DC Anni Hepburn.
‘You busy?’ Then, before she could answer, ‘You want a distraction?’
Marina leaned forward. ‘What’s up?’
Anni’s voice became hesitant. ‘I’m at the hospital. The General. And I could do with a bit of help… ’
Paul had left him in the cave. Stuck in as far as he could push him. Tried to push everything in after him. Stopper him up. He hoped he would never come out.
Right at the far end, the black, dank far end. With the crying and the sobbing and the wailing of the lost souls. With the hideous dirt-encrusted earth creatures. The back of the cave. Away from the light. As far away from the light as he could get.
It was Paul’s turn to be out. To put his face to the light. Close his eyes. Breathe in the air. Remind himself of what was important. That he could still live like this. That he could still live with his face to the sun if he wanted to. Close his eyes. Breathe. Relax. He still could. He just had to believe in it enough.
Not be dragged back. Into the cave again.
Into the dark.
He closed his eyes. Sat on the floor. Back in place. His sacred space. His special place. He tried to relax. Couldn’t.
Because of the noise out there. The people. What were they doing? Rushing round, talking in loud voices, their cars screeching, their voices coming through the air. Talk. Talking, talking. Always talking. Not saying anything. Like radio static. Just noise. Horrible noise. Giving him a headache.
And then he had seen the boy.
Dragged out of the sacrifice house. Kicking, screaming. Pulling, pushing. Crying.
And Paul had hid his face in his hands. Put his arms round his head, over his ears. Blocking out the sound. The noise of the boy. The crying boy.
‘No… no… ’
Because that wasn’t what it was about. Never had been. Never. No… Not that. He had tried to stop that. Tried to…
And look where it had got him.
The boy had kept screaming.
Paul sang to himself, chanted words, rocking back and forward, warding off the noise, keeping the bad spirits away. Songs from the old days. The happy days. Good-times songs. Community songs. Together songs.
But it didn’t work. He still heard the boy’s cries. Imagined his tears. Felt his fear.
Eventually the noise stopped. The boy stopped screaming. Or stopped screaming outside. Just the blue suits and their noise left.
He dared to watch. Gave a small peek. Saw them going into the sacrifice house.
Knew what they were going to find.
Ducked back down again, heart pounding.
Knew what they were going to find. Knew…
And knew something else too. They would keep looking. Come to his house next. Find him. And then… And then…
He couldn’t have that. Not that. No.
So he curled up, small as he could. Back to a child, back in the womb.
Back when he was happy.
Curled up. And hoped they wouldn’t find him.
At least he wasn’t in the cave.
That was something.
‘Right,’ said Phil. ‘Plan of action.’
He wanted to go above ground, feel sunlight on his skin, breathe in clean air. But he couldn’t. Not yet.
He turned to Mickey. ‘What did we get from the guy who called it in?’
Mickey checked his notes. ‘Two of them. Demolition team. House was going to be turned into a housing estate. They’ve both been taken to hospital. Kid who got bitten needed some attention. Kept going on about old comics. Shock, probably.’
Phil frowned. ‘Comics?’
‘House of Secrets and House of Mystery,’ said Mickey, not needing to look at his notes. ‘Two brothers who keep killing each other. With a graveyard between them.’
‘Right. We need… ’
Phil trailed off, his eyes drawn back to the cage. The deliberate horror transfixing him. The cage, the flowers, the symbols on the wall, the altar-like bench… Arc-lit, the cellar held a palpable sense of anticipation, a stage set waiting for actors, unaware that the performance is cancelled. His gut churned in repulsion. But there was something else, some other feeling it invoked within him. Fascination. The workmanship, the craft, the dedication… the cage was a beautiful piece of work.
He moved closer, wanting to feel the worn bone beneath his fingers. To touch it, explore it, caress it even. But to simultaneously run as far and as fast as he could from it. He kept staring, riveted, head spinning in wonder, stomach churning in revulsion. Acting on something he couldn’t explain or identify within him, he reached out a latex-gloved hand.
‘Boss?’
Phil blinked. Mickey’s voice called him back.
‘Look. You’ll want to see this.’
A uniform was pointing to a corner, shining his flashlight on it. Phil and Mickey stepped closer. Hidden behind a bunch of flowers were gardening tools. A trowel, a small hand fork and a scythe.
‘Oh God,’ said Phil.
Mickey peered in closer. ‘Have they been sharpened?’
The tools were old, well-worn. Phil checked the edges. They were silver bright. Razored sharp. They reflected the beam of the flashlight, glinting round the cellar.
‘Get Forensics to examine them,’ Phil said. ‘That brown staining? I reckon it’s blood.’
‘You think he’s done this before?’ said Mickey.
‘Looks that way,’ Phil said. He turned. Away from the tools, the flowers, the cage. ‘Right. A plan. We need a plan.’ He could still feel the cage’s presence behind him. Like a pair of unblinking eyes boring into him, giving him the mental equivalent of an itch between his shoulder blades, something he couldn’t identify and reach, couldn’t satisfy…
‘Are the Birdies here yet?’ Phil asked.
‘Should be up top,’ said Mickey.
‘Let’s go then.’
He gave one last look at the cage. Tried to see it as what it was. A hideous, horrific prison. He looked at its floor. In the corner was a bucket, the stench coming off it in waves indicating that it had been the boy’s toilet. Beside that were two old plastic bowls. Both filthy and scarred, one with the traces of something inside it, smeared round the rim. Bones sticking out of it, smaller ones than those of the cage. Food. The other contained some dark, brackish water.
Phil wished his partner were there. Marina Esposito, police psychologist. They had worked on several cases together, where their professional relationship had developed into something more intimate. But that wasn’t why he wanted her now. She would be able to help with the investigation, track down the perpetrator. Help him work out why someone had done this. And that, he hoped, would make it much easier to turn that ‘why’ into a ‘who’.
He kept staring at the cage. It stirred something within him, something he couldn’t name or identify. Like a memory remaining annoyingly out of reach. But not good. He knew that much.
He thought harder. It was coming to him, reaching through the fog of his memory like a ghost from a horror film…
Then he felt it. That familiar tightening round his chest. Like his heart was being squeezed by an iron fist. And he knew he had to get upstairs as quickly as possible.
He ran ahead of Mickey, exited the house. Out into the open air. The daylight, the sunshine he had craved. He didn’t even feel it.
Phil stood against the side of the building, waiting for the feeling to subside. Why? he thought. Why now? Nothing had happened; he hadn’t done anything to exert himself. Why here? Why now?
He took a deep breath. Waited a few seconds. His panic attacks had become much less frequent recently. He put that down to his newly settled home life with Marina and their daughter Josephina. His job hadn’t got any easier, less distressing or less involving. But now he had people he loved and who loved him. And a happy home to go to at the end of the working day. That was as much as he had ever asked for and more than he ever thought he would get.
Because Phil had never believed in long-term happiness. His own upbringing – children’s homes and foster homes, fear and violence – had put paid to that. He wasn’t taking anything for granted and didn’t know how long this would last, but he was enjoying it. Every nerve-racking second. If this was happiness, then it was the happiness of the tightrope walker managing to keep his balance.
He opened his eyes. Mickey was standing before him, concern on his features.
‘Boss? You OK?’
Phil took a deep breath, another. Waited until he trusted himself to speak.
‘I’m fine, Mickey, fine.’ He put the panic attack to the back of his mind, along with the cage and the niggling, unreachable thoughts it had triggered. ‘Come on. We’ve got work to do.’
Donna felt an insistent prodding in her shoulder. She ignored it, turned over, hoping it would stop.
It didn’t.
‘Donna… ’
The prodding again. More insistent this time, harder. The voice saying her name louder. ‘Donna… ’
Donna opened her eyes. Closed them again. ‘Just a few more minutes, Ben. Let Auntie Donna sleep.’ Christ, listen to her. Auntie Donna. Must be desperate.
She closed her eyes, hoped he would do as he was told. Knew he wouldn’t.
‘’M hungry… ’
Anger coursed through Donna Warren’s body. Her first response was to lash out with a fist, smack this kid square in the face, remind him that life wasn’t fucking fair and that just because he was hungry didn’t mean he was going to get fed. Who did he think she was? His mother, for Christ’s sake?
She closed her eyes tight, knowing at the same time that he wasn’t going to be fooled by that.
Her arm snaked slowly out from under her, patted the other side of the bed. ‘Where’s your mother?’ Donna’s voice sounded slurred, like an old-school VHS tape at the wrong speed.
But Ben understood. ‘Don’ know… Get up. ’M hungry… ’
Donna sighed. No good. She would have to get up. The anger subsided. Poor little bastard. Wasn’t his fault his mother hadn’t come home last night. No, but when she did turn up, Donna would be so fucking angry with her… Leaving her alone with her kid like that. Saying she wouldn’t be long.
She swung out of bed, planted her feet on the floor. The cold penetrated her numbness. She gave a small shiver. Her head spun. Too much booze the night before. Cider and vodka cocktails. Home-made. With blackcurrant. Had seemed like a good idea at the time, especially with Bench and Tommer turning up, supplying the weed and the charlie. Faith should have been there. Didn’t know what she had missed. And she could have helped sort them both out, instead of getting all secretive on her and going out. As it was, Donna did the two of them herself. The drugs and booze needed paying for. Fair’s fair. She didn’t mind. Much.
She looked at Ben, standing there in his washed-out Spider-Man pyjamas, knowing he wasn’t the first kid to have worn them. ‘All right… ’ She pulled her dressing gown around her. ‘I’m comin’… ’
By the time she made her way downstairs, bones creaking like a woman at least ten, if not twenty, years older than the thirty-two she was, Ben was already down there. He’d probably been through the kitchen cupboards, seen what was there, helped himself, even. And he still wanted her to cook for him. Little bastard.
She stopped in the living room, looked at the mess from the previous night. Just like them. Turn up, trash the house, piss off. But she couldn’t complain. She had helped them do it. And the place wasn’t exactly tidy to begin with.
She reached the kitchen, looked in the fridge, found some bacon.
‘You wanna bacon sandwich?’
Sitting at the table expectantly, Ben’s eyes lit up. ‘Yeah… ’
‘Well make me one an’ all.’
Ben frowned as Donna laughed at her own joke. ‘Put the kettle on. D’you know how to do that?’
He nodded, took the kettle to the sink, filled it with water, crossed back to the counter, flicked the switch.
‘Good lad.’
He smiled, enjoying the praise.
Donna put the pan on the gas, started to cook the bacon.
‘Some Coke in the fridge. Get yourself some.’
Ben did. Donna went back to cooking. He wasn’t a bad kid. She had known worse. She had been worse. But he still wasn’t her responsibility. And she would let Faith know in no uncertain fucking terms as soon as she bothered to turn up.
She served up the bacon sandwiches, slathering margarine and ketchup on Ben’s white bread first. He wolfed his down. Donna lit a fag to accompany hers. Rubbed her eyes.
‘You got to go to school today?’ she said to the boy.
He shrugged, nodded. ‘S’posed to.’
Christ, what an upheaval. Donna’s head was ringing. The sandwich and the fag hadn’t helped. ‘Well you’ve got a day off today.’
Ben smiled.
Sooner Faith came back, sooner she could go back to bed. Once she’d given her a bollocking, of course. Made sure she knew she owed Donna for this.
She sipped her tea, dragged smoke deep within her lungs. Started to feel human again.
Unaware that Faith wouldn’t be coming back.
Unaware of the large black car sitting outside her house.
Waiting.
‘So… let me get this straight. He was found in a cage?’
DC Anni Hepburn stared straight at the bed, nodded.
‘Of bones?’
Anni nodded again.
Marina Esposito looked at the woman speaking, gauging her response to the words. Hoping it tallied with her own.
‘My God… ’
It did.
The child was lying on the bed before them. An undernourished, skeletal frame, his closed eyes black-rimmed, haunted-looking. He carried an ingrained residue of filth in his skin and hair. His already pale skin was bone-white where a patch on his arm had been swabbed clean and a feeding drip inserted. His broken fingers had been temporarily splinted and set. He was sleeping, heavily sedated, in the private hospital room. The lights had been taken right down so as not to sear his eyes when he woke up. The machines and monitors provided the only illumination.
Beyond formal questions of process and procedure, Marina didn’t know what to think. Didn’t want to allow herself to conjecture. So she stuck with formality.
‘Dr Ubha.’
The doctor drew herself away from the child in front of her. Marina could tell this was already out of the woman’s frame of reference.
‘What’s been done for the boy so far?’
Dr Ubha seemed relieved to receive questions she could answer. ‘The first thing we did was to stabilise the patient. Checked his height and weight. Treated his cuts and abrasions. Set his broken fingers. Then we took samples.’
‘Samples?’
‘Blood, hair, fingernail scrapings.’ She swallowed, eyes flicking back to the boy in the bed. ‘Anal. We should have the results later today or tomorrow.’
‘What’s your first opinion?’ said Anni.
Dr Ubha shrugged. ‘Impossible to say at the moment. I need to get a full blood count, check for markers of infection, nutritional deficiencies… he needs a bone density scan, his hips, his joints… ’ She sighed. ‘His teeth are in terrible shape. He must be in a lot of pain.’
‘Apparently he bit one of the demolition team,’ said Anni.
Dr Ubha raised her eyebrows. ‘It’s a wonder his teeth didn’t fall out.’
‘Anything for us to go on?’ asked Anni.
Dr Ubha shook her head once more. ‘Nothing much beyond what you see before you. He’s been in that cage, or something like it, for quite a while. It’s a long time since he’s seen daylight, had decent food, anything like that. We’ll have to wait until he comes round to see how socialised he is. My guess is, not too much. There is something, though. Something odd.’
‘You mean odder?’ said Anni.
‘Yes. Right. I see what you mean.’ Dr Ubha pointed to where his feet were under the covers. ‘There was something on the sole of his right foot. We thought it was a scar at first, but when I looked at it more closely, it seemed to have been deliberately made.’
‘Deliberately scarred?’ said Marina.
Dr Ubha nodded. ‘Looks that way. Like a… brand.’
‘A brand?’ said Anni. ‘Like you’d do with cattle?’
Dr Ubha said nothing. Shook her head. ‘Never seen anything like this before.’
Marina looked at the child in the bed. Her hand went to her stomach as she thought of her own. She had vowed never to get pregnant. The tough upbringing she had endured plus the horrors she saw on a regular basis as part of her job all reminded her that bringing a child into the world – the world she worked in – was one of the stupidest, most selfish things a person could do. And then she found herself pregnant. It was unplanned, unwanted. And to make matters worse, the father wasn’t her partner; it was Phil Brennan. Everything about it had been wrong. But now, nearly two years on, things were different. Her life had changed for the better. Phil was now her partner. Their daughter was nearly one. And it took something like the sight of the boy in the bed to remind her that while bringing a child into the world might not be the most stupid, selfish thing imaginable, it was one of the most terrifying.
The gloom of the room was getting to her. ‘Shall we step outside?’
The antiseptic air in the corridor and the harsh overhead strip lighting felt warm and welcoming in contrast to the dismal darkness of the boy’s room. Judging from the way the other two women were unconsciously gulping in deep breaths, Marina reckoned they must have felt it too.
Marina had come straight away, as soon as Anni had hung up. No further appointments for a while, and the tone of Anni’s voice told her that this was not only urgent but important. More important than yet another assessment of whether some stroppy, self-deluded officer was fit to return to active duty.
Marina enjoyed working with Anni. She knew how hard it was to be a woman and have any success in the force, but to be a black woman in an area where there were hardly any took real determination. And Anni had plenty of that. But she was also bright enough not to let it show.
It was clear she was on Phil’s team. The denim jacket, cargo trousers and dyed blonde hair said that she had embraced the unorthodoxy and creativity he encouraged. From that had come confidence. But not arrogance. And that, Marina had discovered, was a rare trait in a police detective.
Phil’s team. When she thought about it, Marina reckoned she must be a part of that now. Especially as the police force was now her official employer.
Josephina, the daughter she and Phil Brennan shared, was approaching her first birthday. And, both of them being working professionals in fulfilling careers, they had agreed to share parenting duties equally. Feeding, cleaning, upbringing. They wouldn’t fall into outmoded patriarchal systems. They were a partnership; they would do things together.
It hadn’t lasted. Not because of any stubbornness or ideological need, but just because of circumstances. They had fallen into the pattern of most first-time parents. One working, one staying at home. Phil had kept working. He did his share but he still walked out the door in the morning, had something else in his life, could compartmentalise. Marina had tried, and found that she couldn’t. Work had been too demanding. So she had stayed at home with the baby. And she had begun to resent him for that.
So when the vacancy for an in-house criminal psychologist with the police force based in Colchester came up, she had jumped at the chance. She knew she could do this job. She had expected resistance or antagonism from Phil, put off telling him. She needn’t have worried. He was totally supportive, even gave her a reference. And when she was offered the job, he was the one who sorted out daily childcare for Josephina with his adoptive parents, Don and Eileen Brennan. They had been thrilled to have the baby with them.
So it was a winner all round. Marina and Phil kept both their careers and their relationship going, Don and Eileen felt involved and needed and Josephina got more than her share of attention. And evenings together felt, to Marina and to Phil too, she knew, even more special with just the three of them.
‘I’m a working mother with a career and a family,’ Marina had said to him, smiling. ‘I’m having it all, the Daily Mail’s worst nightmare. Worth doing just for that.’
Phil had laughed, agreed. Marina smiled at the memory.
Things were going well. Too well. This had never happened to her before. Something had to come along and spoil it. Something always did.
‘You OK?’ Anni’s voice.
Marina turned, blinked, pulled out of her reverie. Back to the corridor. ‘Yeah, fine. Just thinking.’
Anni turned to the doctor. ‘I brought Marina in because she’s a psychologist.’
‘And I think we’ll need you,’ said Dr Ubha.
‘I’m not a child psychologist, though,’ said Marina. ‘I’m with the police.’
Dr Ubha glanced at the closed door. ‘With what’s happened to that poor boy, I think we’ll need you anyway.’
‘I agree,’ said Anni. ‘You should be on the team for this one. Even if you can’t help with the boy himself, you can help find who put him there. You know what makes this kind of person tick.’
Marina nodded. Josephina’s smiling face came into her mind. She blinked it away. Swallowed hard. Concentrated. ‘What can I do?’
‘I need to start checking on missing children,’ said Anni. ‘Go at it that way. And check that, that… ’ she could barely bring herself to say the word, ‘that thing on his foot. See if there’s been anything similar anywhere else. If you can stay here and-’
A noise emanated from the boy’s room. A scream. The three women stared at each other.
‘He’s waking up,’ said Anni. ‘Come on.’
They ran back inside the room.
The white tent had already been erected at the side of the house. Keeping their findings safe and onlookers away. Phil began stripping off his blue suit. Mickey did likewise.
‘Like a personal sauna, these things,’ Mickey said. ‘Must lose half a stone every crime scene I come to.’
Phil gave a distracted smile in acknowledgement, checked his breathing. Fine. He looked up. The ambulances and Police Incident Units were parked at the top of the path, the area taped off, so the gawpers had gathered on the bridge. Peering over, necks craning. Trying for a glimpse of something dangerous or thrilling or exciting. A vicarious kick out of being close to violence but far enough away to be untouched by it. As though his work was some kind of sporting spectacle.
‘Like they’re watching TV,’ said Mickey, reading his mind.
‘Our audience,’ said Phil. ‘As though this is all a kind of showbiz.’ Then he thought of the cellar. Laid out like a stage set. The analogy didn’t feel appropriate any more.
‘Boss?’
Phil turned. The Birdies had arrived. DC Adrian Wren and DS Jane Gosling. Inevitably paired together because of their surnames. And their physical appearance didn’t help: Adrian stick thin, Jane much larger. They looked like a music-hall double act. But they were two of Phil’s best officers.
Phil called them over. ‘Adrian, Jane, good to see you both.’
They nodded their greetings.
‘Right,’ he said, addressing the group. ‘The CSIs are going to take over this area. Having been down there, I think we’ve got our work cut out for us.’
‘In what way?’ DS Jane Gosling frowned.
He explained what he had seen in the cellar. ‘We don’t know what kind of bones the cage is made from. Hopefully we will soon.’
‘Could they be human?’ asked DC Adrian Wren.
‘Don’t rule anything out,’ said Phil. ‘Not until we know for definite. But some of them have been there for years. And the way it was laid out, there’s a sense of ritual interrupted. Whoever’s responsible, it looks like he knew what he was doing. Chances are he’ll have done it before. So we need to know who owns the house, what sort of history it’s got, what hands it’s passed through, everything.’
‘Might be able to help there,’ said Mickey. He flipped through his notebook. ‘One of the two guys who called it in. Gave me the name of the demolition firm. George Byers. Based in New Town. They’ll know who owns the place. Might have had some dealings with them.’
‘Good place to start.’ Phil looked behind him at the big Georgian building. Faces were at windows, necks craning to see what was happening. ‘Before you do, find out what that place is. Who works there, what they do, if they saw anything or anyone going to and from this house. Someone must have seen something.’
Mickey, making notes, nodded again. So did Adrian.
Phil was still aware of being watched. He looked the other way. A concrete path, chipped, cracked and sprouting weeds, sided by a chain-link fence struggling to withstand an assault from the bushes, trees and weeds threatening to spill out over it. The path led past another dilapidated house. ‘What’s down there?’
‘Council allotments,’ said Mickey, following his gaze.
Phil looked again at the house on the opposite side of the path. Saw that it was in fact a small row of terraced houses, two-storey, in a terminal state of disrepair. The roofs were down to skeletal frames, the meat of tiles and fat of insulation starved off them. The windows and doors boarded up, the wood warped, aged down to grey. Gutters and drains rust-stained. The outside walls graffitied and tagged, filthy. And all around the terrace, weeds and vegetation making a bid for reclamation.
‘Jane, stay here. Co-ordinate with Forensics. Sorry, CSIs. Wouldn’t want to upset them.’
Thin smiles. Forensics had recently been rebranded as CSIs in line with the TV series. Made them feel more glamorous. On the outside at least.
‘Anni’s at the hospital with the kid. He’s still sleeping. No response. She’ll be looking into missing children, children’s homes, runaways.’
Another look round. The gawpers were still on the bridge. Nearby, but a world away. And Phil reckoned that deep down, they knew that. When they had seen enough they could walk away, taking the frisson of adventure back with them to their normal world. Plus a sense of thankfulness that what was happening down there wasn’t happening to them. But Phil couldn’t walk away.
And neither could the boy in the cellar.
‘I’ll check that house over there.’ He looked round his team. ‘We ready?’
They were.
‘Right. ‘Let’s go.’
Then Phil’s phone rang.
Rose Martin swallowed hard. Then again. Felt that rush, that tingle of adrenalin, that she hadn’t experienced in months. This was where she belonged. Back. Working.
Since the call, everything had felt good. Right. She had pulled up to the Road Closed sign on Colchester Road just outside the village of Wakes Colne, holding her warrant card up to the windscreen, being allowed access where all other vehicles were being turned away. She felt that indescribable power that being above civilians gave her. She had missed it.
She pulled her car up to the crime-scene tape, flashing her warrant card again, silencing the nearest uniform’s entreaty to turn away. Just ducking under the tape, walking along the closed-off country road, her heels echoing, had been thrilling. The trees either side of the road seemed to bend in, beckoning her towards the crime scene.
She looked ahead. A 4x4 had ploughed into the banked up roadside, its left front side crumpled. Behind it, blue-suited CSIs stood and knelt in the road alongside uniforms. All attention directed downwards. She speeded up. Eager to rejoin her clan, immerse herself in that life once more. Lead them.
Then she stopped dead. Looked at them once more. Crouching. Kneeling. The body. There would be the body.
Her chest was gripped by a sudden fear; her arms began to shake. Her feet wouldn’t move forward. She wanted to turn, run back to her car, put herself on the other side of the tape once more. Forget about it. Hide herself away.
Marina was right. She had said this would happen.
Marina. Rose closed her eyes, controlled her breathing. Nothing that woman or her bastard boyfriend had to say was of any relevance to her. She would prove them wrong. Show them that she was strong enough to return, cool-headed and unafraid of anything the job could throw at her. She would show them.
The shaking subsided. Her breathing returned to normal. She flexed her fingers, regaining control of her body, willing it. Yes. She would show them.
She started walking again, the viaduct behind her, the leaves on the trees slowly moving, rubbing together, like jazz brushes over drum skins. She moved slowly at first, then with purpose. She reached the gathering of uniforms and blue suits. Held up her warrant card.
‘DS Martin,’ she said, slightly too loudly, ensuring they all saw her ID. She cleared her throat. ‘What have we got here?’
A plain-suited man she hadn’t spotted stood upright. He crossed towards her. ‘Hello, Rose,’ he said. ‘Good to see you.’ He stretched out his hand for her to shake. She took it.
Her superior officer. Acting DCI Brian Glass.
Glass offered her a smile. A small one, as if rationed. A quick flicker across his lips, then gone. Back to business.
She knew him by reputation. A no-nonsense, by-the-book copper. Always well turned out, but not flashily so. Respectably suited, as if he dressed for court or cameras. Hair short and tidy but not severe, greying at the temples. Methodical, diligent, got results by hard work. Straight-backed, well-built; his aftershave could have been Eau D’Alpha Male. Tanned, healthy-looking. Very tanned, in fact, thought Rose. Not just a copper’s copper, but a copper copper.
She smiled inwardly at that thought. Noticed his eyes make a quick detour to her breasts. Smiling inwardly once more, she pushed them further out in as unconscious a way as possible. She knew what her weapons were. Wasn’t above deploying them strategically.
Another smile flashed across his lips. Appreciative, this time. And in that instant Rose knew that this was her case. She could ask of him anything that she wanted. And get it. Because underneath that straight exterior, he was just another bloke.
She had him. Right where she wanted him. Maybe not immediately, but she could work on him. And that work wouldn’t go unrewarded.
Yes. This was going to be a good case.
Phil walked away from the group, put his phone to his ear.
‘Phil? Just a quick call. About Josephina. Wondering what time you’ll be picking her up.’
He knew the voice straight away. Don Brennan, his adoptive father.
‘Hi, Don.’
Don Brennan picked up on the tone of Phil’s voice. ‘Sorry, you busy? This a bad time?’
Phil looked around. Orders given, his team were all moving away from him. He put his head down, covered the mouthpiece. ‘Kind of.’
Don’s voice changed immediately. ‘What’s happened?’
Don was an ex-copper. Responsible for Phil’s upbringing and for Phil’s career choice. He had also found it difficult to let go. Phil could understand that and tried to keep him informed as much as possible. When he could. He often joked with him, said that telling him about his day at work made him feel like the head of the CIA giving security briefings to a former US president.
Phil had suggested Don apply to work in the cold-case unit, but Don hadn’t been interested, said it wasn’t real police work, just an approximation of it. Something to appease the old-timers with. Give them a pat on the head and a sticker. Phil felt sure he would change his mind at some point.
Phil hesitated before speaking. He didn’t want to say too much about an ongoing investigation, but he also didn’t want to patronise the man he regarded as his father.
‘Someone been murdered?’
‘Wish it was that simple. I’m down on East Hill. We’ve found a child. It’s… not good.’
‘Abused?’
‘Probably. But alive. In the cellar of a house. In a cage.’ Phil expected Don to ask further questions but he was greeted with silence.
‘You there?’
‘Yes, yes… I’m still here. In a cage, you say?’ There was now no vestige whatsoever of the doting grandfather in Don’s voice. He was back in the day, back on the force. ‘What kind of cage?’
Again Phil hesitated before speaking. ‘It’s… bone. A cage made of bones.’
Phil heard nothing but the taut, static hum of silence.
‘Listen, Don, I’ll have to call you back later. Are you OK with Josephina for a while? I don’t know how long we’ll be with this.’
‘Yes, yes, fine… ’ Don sounded distracted. ‘You just… just call whenever.’
‘Will do.’ Phil looked at his watch, at the house by the allotments. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll give you a ring later, OK?’
Don said that was OK and Phil broke the connection.
His father had sounded strange, but Phil didn’t have time to dwell on that now. He looked at the house once more. Made his way towards it.
Don Brennan was in the kitchen. Sitting at the table. He replaced the phone, sat staring at it. His hand absently rubbing the stubble on his chin.
A cage… made of bones…
He heard sounds from the living room. A cheerful children’s song being sung on the TV. His wife Eileen talking to Josephina. And Josephina herself answering, her phrasing still unformed, just enjoying the sounds she could make, the novelty of communication. Laughing like all life had to offer was good.
A cage… made of bones…
He didn’t know how long he sat there, lost in his own thoughts, memories, but gradually became aware of a shadow standing before him, blotting out the light coming in from the garden.
‘What’s the matter? You all right?’
He looked up. Eileen. She read his eyes. Knew something wasn’t right. Sat down next to him. Behind them, the TV continued to play cheerfully.
‘What’s happened?’
He sighed. ‘Just spoke to Phil. He’s at a house down on East Hill.’ He fell silent, unsure how to say the next words.
‘And?’ Eileen, eager for news, even if it was bad.
‘There was a cage in there. With a child in. A cage of bones… ’
Eileen’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh my God… oh no… ’
They sat there, not speaking, not moving, while garden sunlight cast shadows round them and a contented child played in the next room, unaware that the world could ever be a bad place.
‘Where’s the body?’ Rose Martin said, trying not to look at the ground.
Glass looked round, back to Rose. ‘Taken away. I didn’t think you needed to see it. Very nasty.’
A flame of anger flared inside her. He didn’t think she needed to see it? He didn’t? She took a moment, composed herself. It was probably the right thing, she thought. She didn’t need to see a body, not her first day back. And she could hardly have refused if it had been there. Instant loss of respect. She waited until the anger subsided before speaking. ‘Four-by-fours tend to do that,’ she said.
‘They will,’ Glass said, ‘especially when they’re the second car to hit.’ He turned to her. ‘I didn’t think you should see the results of that. Not on your first day back.’
She nodded. ‘Right. Thank you.’ Gave a small laugh. ‘Just what I was thinking.’
He smiled again. ‘No problem. Body’s in the mortuary if you need to see it. Give Nick Lines a call.’
His hand touched her shoulder. Just briefly, then away. Her anger flared again. Should she make something of it? Ask him whether he would have done that to a male colleague? No, she decided. She didn’t want any trouble. Not yet.
But it meant he knew. Of course he knew; everyone at the station knew. And he’d made up his mind based on that. The affair with Ben had ended up common knowledge. No doubt, she had thought, rumours would do the rounds about the speed of her return being because she was now Glass’s lover. Let them. She could take it.
And if this new boss thought he had a chance with her as well… She could play her part, play along. Let him think he had a chance, even. See what she could get out of it. A tactical deployment of weapons.
‘So what have we got here?’ Rose said, snapping on her latex gloves.
‘Road accident,’ said Glass, looking down at where deep black tyre tracks had come to a sudden, unexpected halt, the back of the 4x4. ‘Woman ran out in front of that car over there,’ he said, pointing to a VW Passat stuck in the banked side of the road, ‘then this one came along, finished the job. Dead virtually on impact. Woman who was driving’s in a right state.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Rose, not doing so. ‘She over there?’ She pointed to the ambulance parked at the side of the road.
‘They both are.’
A blonde woman who looked like a dishevelled footballer’s wife was sitting in the back of the ambulance. Blanket draped over her shoulders, she was staring off into the middle distance, but her eyes appeared more inward-looking than they had probably ever been in her life.
Next to her was a middle-aged man, dressed in a business suit and looking equally dishevelled. Neither of them was looking at each other.
‘They been any help?’ asked Rose.
‘Both said the same thing. This woman came running down the bank out of the trees. Didn’t stop. Probably going too fast. First car, the man, couldn’t swerve out of the way, tried to stop but there wasn’t time so just ploughed into her. Up and over the bonnet. Four-by-four hit her when she landed. Finished the job.’
Rose looked down at the ground once more. It was dark from more than just tyre tracks. She swallowed hard, pleased there was no body to see. Tried not to let the sight of the blood that was there disturb her. Questions, she thought. Keep it at bay with questions.
‘Happened this morning, you said?’
Glass nodded.
‘What time?’
‘Early. Very early. About sunrise, not much after. Six-ish.’
‘And what were our drivers doing out at that time?’
A smile crossed Glass’s features. ‘Lovers. They’d spent the night together. At a motel. He was off to work, she was off to get the kids up for school. Told poor old hubby she’d been with a sick friend all night.’
Rose smiled too. ‘So, the victim. Do we know who she is yet?’
‘One of the uniforms found a Visa Electron card in the woods. Name of… ’ he checked his notebook, ‘Faith Luscombe.’
‘Faith Luscombe… ’ Rose took out her phone, turned to Glass. ‘You checked her out?’
‘First thing I did. She’s known to us. Got a record. Soliciting.’
‘Where?’
‘Colchester. New Town.’
‘Bit out of the way, up here.’
‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘She was naked when she met her death. Might have been working.’
‘Could be,’ said Rose. ‘Out here with a client, parked up in there somewhere, got a bit rough, she ran away… ’ She looked at the steep bank. ‘Down that slope, into this car. Then that one.’ She suppressed a shudder. ‘Makes sense. So we should be looking for a clearing up there, a car. A place where she was running from. Any other witnesses.’
Another touch of her shoulder. ‘That’s what you’re here for.’
‘Right,’ she said.
‘We know how she died,’ he said, taking his hand away. ‘What we need to find out is how she got here. Throw some light on the matter.’
‘We’ll need to get in the woods, have a comb through.’
‘Uniforms have done that already. That’s how the card turned up.’
‘I’ll need to get them in there again. See what else we can find.’
Glass pulled a slightly pained expression. ‘Well… that might be difficult. We’re down on numbers at the moment. Budget cuts for one thing. And we’re a bit stretched. What with all that activity down on East Hill.’
Rose nodded, kept her face straight. Felt anger welling up inside again. Phil bloody Brennan. Once more, he had taken priority. She tamped the anger down, forced a smile. She knew how to get her own way.
She moved close to Glass. Arched her back once more. ‘Oh come on, Brian, I’m sure you could get some extra bodies in to help here… ’
Glass looked at her, face flat, expressionless. ‘DS Martin, I would if I could. But it’s just not possible. If you want to look in the woods again, you’ll have to do it yourself. Personally, I would accept what the uniforms found for now and move on.’
Rose backed off. Angry with him, angry with herself. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Fine. You got an address for her?’
He gave it to her. ‘And the name of the person she lives with. Donna Warren.’
‘Do we know her?’
‘Oh yes. Faith’s partner in crime.’
‘OK.’ She made a note.
Glass looked at his watch. ‘Better get a move on. I don’t think anyone’s going to be losing sleep over some prostitute who got herself killed, so let’s get this one wrapped up soon as, eh? Shouldn’t take you too long.’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll just have a word with our couple over there, then get over to New Town.’
Glass stayed where he was. Rose thought something else was expected of her.
‘Thanks for this opportunity… ’ she almost called him Brian, ‘DCI Glass. I-’
He cut her off. ‘There’s something else.’ His face impassive.
Her heart skipped a beat. She waited.
‘I’m promoting you.’
She wasn’t sure she had heard him properly. ‘What?’
‘I’m promoting you. Provisionally, anyway.’
‘I… ’
‘You had applied for promotion before your… absence. I’d like to put it through.’
‘I don’t know what to say… ’
‘Thank you would be nice.’
She laughed, grinned. ‘Thank you.’
He didn’t. ‘You’re welcome. Right, DI Martin, this arrangement will become permanent once you’ve completed this assignment.’
‘Right.’
He looked straight at her, eyes boring into hers. ‘To my satisfaction. Understand?’
And suddenly she understood. Do what he wanted. That was what he meant. And she would. She wanted that promotion. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘I know you won’t,’ he said, and turned away.
First day back on the job and she had been promoted. And because of that she didn’t care that Phil bloody bastard Brennan was taking precedence. She would show him. She would show all of them.
She walked over to the couple in the ambulance. Notepad at the ready.
She would show him. Show all of them.
The day fell away as Phil stepped carefully through the doorway of the run-down house.
The depressing ruin draped itself around him, sucking out the light. The floorboards creaked under his feet. He put his weight down slowly on each one, testing to see whether the wood had rotted, unsure if there was a cellar beneath and if so what it might contain.
The boards held. He moved slowly into the hallway. The smell struck him first. Neglect. Damp. Terminal decay. The close, fetid air clung to his face like a cold death mask. He pulled on latex gloves. Work-required, but in any case the thought of touching anything in this place felt like a contamination.
Phil couldn’t shake an irrational sense of unease. He analysed it: it didn’t make sense. He had attended much more dangerous crime scenes before. Some where his life had been in danger. A few that had been so bad his body had been crippled by panic attacks. So why was this – an empty old house – so bad? He couldn’t explain. But he knew he felt it.
Into what would once have been, he guessed, the living room. Nothing lived in it now. At least nothing human. Small shadows scurried away at the sides of his feet, disappeared down cracks, holes. He took out a pocket flashlight, swept it over the floor. Some of the boards were missing, rotted and caved in. But no cellar.
The room was empty of everything but detritus. Old pizza boxes and mouldering kebab wrappers were slowly breaking themselves down into compost. Rusting high-strength lager cans, empty bottles sticky with dust. Cigarette ends, both legal and illegal, were dotted around. Human consumption. And in the corner, the inevitable conclusion. Human waste. As old and atrophied as everything else in the room.
Damp cardboard and a festering, mouldering blanket had been a bed. Stained and crumpled pages from old, well-used porn mags at the side. Bedtime reading. From the patina of dust coating every surface, no one had been there for a while.
Two broken, unboarded windows on the far side of the room explained how the previous inhabitants had made their entrance and exit. Phil thought he heard something. A scuffling movement from somewhere. He straightened up, listened.
‘Hello?’
No reply. Just the dying echo of his voice through the ruin.
Heart beating faster, he turned right, into another room, that had once been a kitchen. Most of the cabinets were still in place, as was the remains of a cooker in the corner and an old fridge, the door open, hanging off. The walls, he noticed, had once been a cheerful yellow. But the vibrancy was gone, the fight given up. They were now streaked black with mould. A back door led out into a garden. He tried the handle. It didn’t budge. A thick wooden board had been nailed over the glass panels.
He swept the room with his flashlight, peered into the corners, the cabinets, even inside the oven. Nothing. He turned back into the main living room. Tried to imagine what the house had once been like. Couldn’t. The decay was too pervasive.
Turning left, he went into another hallway. Stairs led upwards. He took them.
Three doors presented themselves on a small landing. He chose the right-hand one. Found the wreck of a small bathroom. The sink smashed off the wall, the toilet pan cracked in two. The bath now a breeding ground for mould and mildew.
He opened the door on his left. The main bedroom. The room was completely bare. Peeling, damp walls, rotted wood, boarded windows. No furniture, just dirt and dust. The walls had been painted, not papered. Originally emerald green, it looked like. And the floor, too. Phil swung his flashlight again. There was something on the wall. He stepped in to examine it.
The same design they had found on the wall of the cellar beside the cage. Not a pentagram, but something… not right. And seeing it again, something clicked inside Phil. Something deep and hard, either lodging or dislodging. A tumbler in a vault combination falling into place.
He recognised it. He didn’t know what it was, but there was part of him that recognised it. Then the familiar constrictions started in his chest. Not a full-blown panic attack, just something low and rumbling. A sense of unease. He didn’t know what the symbol was, but it meant nothing good to him.
Trying to head the attack off, he backed out of the room. Tried the third door.
And immediately found himself thrown back out on to the landing.
His back and head hurt from contact with the bare wood, his chest from the force of the blow. It had knocked the wind out of his lungs. He tried to get his breath, gagged as he breathed in. The stink was awful. He opened his eyes. A vision of humanity – as wrecked as the house was – was on top of him. Screaming, hitting him about the head.
Phil didn’t have time to think, to do anything but react instinctively, use his urge for self-preservation. His arms were pinned at his sides, as much by his own body as by his assailant. He brought his knee up between his attacker’s legs, hard. The man gave a yelp of pain, like a wounded animal, drew back. Stopped hitting him as his hands went to his groin.
Phil knew this was only temporary, that his attacker would recommence soon, so he pressed the advantage. He brought his right fist up, straight into the man’s face. Felt it connect with nose cartilage. Saw blood spurt.
Glad he had remembered the latex gloves, he punched again. His assailant had no fight left in him. With another scream of pain, he dragged himself hurriedly off Phil, ran down the stairs. Phil got slowly to his feet, breathing in through his mouth. The smell was still in his nostrils.
He turned and, knowing that what he had seen on the wall would keep for later, gave chase.
The man was already out of the front door, running down the gravel drive, Phil after him, shouting for help. He reached the first house, headed towards the road. He saw the uniforms, the incident vehicles, the crowds ahead and turned. Made for the allotments.
Four uniforms gave chase. Phil joined them. Together they pursued what looked like a running bundle of rags
It was no contest. The officers brought him to the ground before he reached the allotment gates. Phil arrived in time to stand over them.
‘Right. Let’s get him on his feet.’
They helped the man to stand. Phil got a good look at him. He was older than expected. Although that might have been the long grey hair and beard. His clothing was in ruins and tatters, his features filthy and scabbed. His bleeding nose made him look even worse. And the smell. Like he was decomposing before them. Phil hadn’t thought it possible to decay that much and still live.
The fight had gone out of him now. He was whimpering.
‘Come on,’ said Phil, turning. ‘Let’s take him somewhere, have a chat.’
Phil hoped he had found the perpetrator, the child’s abductor. But looking at the wreck of humanity before him, he doubted it.
‘Please, Detective… Philips, is it?’
Mickey nodded. ‘Detective Sergeant Philips. Major Incident Squad.’
‘Right, Detective Sergeant.’ Her eyes widened slightly. ‘Sounds important. Please, take a seat.’
Mickey extended his hand, then, realising how awkward the gesture was, he quickly retracted it and sat, hoping she hadn’t noticed. The tiny smile on her lips told him she had. Not a good start.
He looked at the woman opposite him. Mid-thirties, he reckoned, well-built but curvy. Wearing a figure-hugging and enhancing black dress; long brown hair highlighted blonde. As he got settled, she flashed him a larger smile that had, he presumed, seen plenty of service on the local great-and-good cocktail circuit. And was used to seeing its magic work.
She held out her hand. ‘I’m Lynn Windsor,’ she said, her voice as confident as her smile. ‘Senior Partner, Fenton Associates.’
He stood slightly, shook hands. She was good, he thought. Had managed a seemingly effortless domination of the situation. He had ground to gain.
They were in an office on the first floor of the Georgian house. Adrian Wren had been tasked with talking to the occupants, but word came through that someone of senior rank was required. Since Phil was indisposed, that was Mickey.
Walking through, Mickey had noticed that the inside of the building was as tastefully decorated as the exterior. The floors were wooden, the walls neutral. They held paintings that were clearly original, but not original enough to command huge sums, gallery space or column inches. The office furniture managed to look both expensive and minimal.
The ground floor was taken up by a firm of accountants. On the next two floors were Fenton Associates, solicitors, and above them on the smallest, cramped floor, a marketing company. There was an air of excitement in the law offices as suited and tied people, normally more at home with spreadsheets and files, craned their collective necks to see what was going on opposite. When Mickey entered, they transferred their attention to him.
‘So, Detective Philips, your uniformed officers have been questioning my staff. I presume it’s in connection with whatever’s going on down there.’ She pointed to the window.
‘That’s right.’
‘And what is that, exactly?’ Taking charge again.
‘I’m afraid I can’t say at the moment.’
‘Oh please, Detective Philips. We’re all legal professionals here.’
Mickey thought for a moment. ‘Fenton Associates. I’ve not heard of you before.’
‘No reason why you should,’ said Lynn Windsor. ‘We’re corporate, not criminal. We cover most of East Anglia. Specialise in blue-chip companies.’ She smiled again. ‘We don’t bail out New Town drug dealers.’
Mickey smiled. ‘Must be why we’ve never met before.’
‘Must be.’ She straightened up. He tried hard not to look at her breasts. Failed. ‘And what do you do, Detective Sergeant? Catch criminals? Solve murders?’ Her smiled widened, became more teasing. ‘Deal with major incidents?’
Mickey felt uncomfortable. She had him again. He was sure he was blushing. ‘That sort of thing, yeah.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Keep up the good work.’
‘Er, thanks… ’ Mickey looked down at his notepad, tried to hide his discomfort. ‘You, er, wanted to see me, Ms Windsor?’
She sat back, smiling. Thinking. Those breasts of hers were large, Mickey noticed once more. ‘Call me Lynn, please. Sounds like you’re talking to my mother. And I can call you…?’
‘Mickey.’ He looked quickly away, hoping he hadn’t been caught staring. If he had, she didn’t let on.
‘So,’ she said, ‘you want my help and the co-operation of my staff, but you won’t tell me what’s happened.’
‘I’m afraid… ’
The smile dropped. She became businesslike. ‘I appreciate what you’re saying, but perhaps you should see things from my side.’
Mickey waited.
‘What if one of my staff has seen something? Something that places them in danger?’
‘Might they have done?’
Lynn Windsor shrugged. Mickey tried not to watch her breasts move as she did so. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps they could identify someone who might later come back to harm them. Or say something that could inadvertently incriminate them even though they’re innocent?’
Mickey gave a small smile. ‘You’ve been watching too much TV.’
‘Really? You’re saying that never happens in real life?’
‘Not as often as you think. Not really.’
She leaned back, eyes on him all the time. Mickey felt like he was being appraised. Like there was more to this conversation than the words on the surface. But he didn’t know what.
‘I’m a solicitor and you’re a police officer,’ she said. ‘We both know it does happen. Before any of my staff speak, I would need guarantees of protection.’
‘You can have them,’ he said. ‘If it comes to that. But I doubt it. It’s just routine questioning.’
‘And we can’t ask what’s going on? We heard a lot of screaming down there earlier today. What was that?’
He opened his mouth to reply.
‘You can’t say,’ she said. ‘Right.’ She sat forward, steepled her fingers. Eyes never leaving him. Mind seemingly made up. ‘All right, then. Ask me what you want to know.’
He asked her. Had she seen anyone entering or leaving the crumbling building? Only occasional workmen. They had erected the fence, put up the signs. Had there been anyone there recently? Not that she had seen. What about the other houses? The ones down below? Her expression changed.
‘Ah.’ She sat back. ‘There was… someone down there.’
‘Who?’
‘A tramp, I think. A homeless person. Someone was living in that derelict house, the one at the end of the garden. We would find evidence that someone had tried to break into this building at night. We assumed it was him. We initiated legal proceedings, got him to leave. Then we contacted the council, asked them to board it up. That seemed to take care of the problem.’
Mickey glanced at his notebook, ready to ask another question. Lynn Windsor silenced him. ‘I’m afraid that’s all the time I can spare today. I have a client coming in.’ She stood up, came round the desk. Smiled once more, held her eyes on his. ‘But if there’s anything I can do to help… ’ She handed him her card. ‘Anything further you want to ask me… ’
He stood, went to take her card. Noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Was about to speak when his eye was drawn to someone walking past the office window. A tall man, middle-aged, well-dressed. He didn’t look happy. Another middle-aged man was ushering him quickly into the next office along.
‘Who’s that?’ said Mickey. He was sure he recognised him.
Lynn Windsor’s gaze followed his. ‘One of our clients.’ Her smile had disappeared. ‘I’m afraid I have work to do. You’ll have to leave.’
‘What’s his name?’
Lynn Windsor’s smile returned. But it was hard, professional. No warmth to it. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give that out. Some of our clients prefer to remain anonymous. We have to respect their wishes.’
‘Right… ’
She placed her hand on the small of his back, ushering him out of the office. At the doorway she stopped. Body blocking his view of the next office along. ‘Do you have a card? Some way for me to get in touch with you?’
‘Uh, yes… ’ He dug into his jacket, handed one over.
‘Thank you. If I think of anything else, can I call you?’ Eyes full on him. ‘Or you can call me… ’
Mickey was flustered once more. ‘Yeah… sure.’
Another dazzling smile. ‘I’d like that.’ She turned, motioned to a pretty girl seated at a desk. ‘Stephanie will see you out.’
Mickey said goodbye and left.
Head spinning from the encounter. Hoping he would see her again. Wondering just who the man was. He couldn’t think of where he had seen him.
But he knew it wasn’t good news.
At least he had stopped screaming, thought Anni. That was something.
The boy from the cage lay in front of them. Completely still, eyes wide open, staring straight ahead. Like an animal hiding in plain view, frozen. Thinking that if he couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see him.
Anni tried another smile. ‘What’s your name?’
Nothing. Just those eyes, unblinking.
Dr Ubha was standing behind them both, monitoring the situation. She had been first in the room when they heard the screaming. Had ducked to avoid a plastic tumbler aimed at her head. When they had stepped into the darkened room, they had seen a water jug lying on its side where he had thrown it, the floor wet. He was kicking, thrashing, trying to pull the feeding drip from the back of his hand, escape from the tightly made bed covers.
Dr Ubha went straight up to the boy. On seeing her approach, he forgot the drip and, eyes brimming with panic and fear, grabbed her arms to fight her off. Anni had been at her side in an instant, ready to assist, but the doctor, sensing that the boy’s reaction was born of terror rather than aggression, had pulled away from him and stepped back. Once she did that, his hands had dropped.
Seeing he had no means of escape through the door with the three women there, he had backed himself up against the headboard of the bed, tried to push himself through it. Gasping and sobbing as he did so. But, Anni had noticed, there was no violence. And he hadn’t spoken. Just the staring. And silence.
Realising he wasn’t going to attack again, Anni exchanged a glance with Marina and moved forward, making to sit in the chair beside the bed. The child pushed himself even further back, whimpering once more, trembling now in fear. Eyes moving from staring at nothing to being directly on Anni. She stopped, chilled when they met hers. She had come across people in distress through her work, on an almost daily basis. But she had never encountered such depths of terror in anyone. She flinched inwardly, not wanting to think about what the boy had seen, experienced.
‘OK… ’ Eyes averted from his, she backed off. Took a chair from behind her and slowly brought it up to the bottom of the bed. The boy didn’t take his eyes off her all the time she was moving. She sat. Looked at him. Managed to smile.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Anni. What’s your name?’
Nothing.
‘You do have a name, don’t you?’
Nothing. Just those eyes, that stare…
Anni could cope with traumatised women, rape victims, abused wives, but children were a blind spot. She had been trained to deal with them and always followed her training, but it wasn’t something that came naturally to her. Usually she found something she could relate to, some shared commonality on which to start a dialogue, build a relationship. It could be anything from difficulties with siblings or school to football or even Doctor Who. Anything. But it was all book-learned, not natural. And he kept staring at her. Those eyes… Maybe if she had children of her own. That might be different. But she didn’t, and although her sister had a couple, she lived in Wales and they weren’t close.
She felt another chair being pulled up next to her. Marina sat down. Anni immediately felt more relaxed.
Marina smiled at the boy. ‘Hello.’
Anni didn’t know how she had managed it, but something in Marina’s smile connected with the boy. He didn’t reply, but neither did he look as scared as he had done.
‘I’m Marina.’ She gave another smile. If she had seen the depths of fear in his eyes, thought Anni, she wasn’t letting it show. ‘Don’t worry. You won’t have to remember all these names. How are you feeling? Do you hurt anywhere?’
The boy forgot his need to escape and shifted slightly as if testing his body in response to the question. He held up his bandaged hand.
‘Yes, you’ve broken your fingers. But they’ll mend.’
He still didn’t speak, but he didn’t express any great discomfort either. He looked at the tube going into the back of his hand. Frowned. Moved his other hand towards it.
‘I think it’s better if you leave that where it is,’ Marina said, her voice calm and warm yet authoritative. ‘It’s feeding you. Making you big and strong.’
The boy’s hand fell back.
‘It’s a little bit uncomfortable. But it’ll make you feel a lot better, I promise you.’ Another smile. Reassuring. ‘That’s better.’ Marina leaned forward towards the boy, not threatening his space, just showing she was interested in him. ‘Now, I’ve told you my name, Marina, why don’t you tell me yours?’
The boy’s eyes darted between the three women.
‘We’re not going to hurt you. But it would be nice if I knew what to call you, don’t you think?’
Again the boy’s eyes darted. But this time the fear seemed to be lessening. Like he was deciding whether he could trust them or not. He began moving his mouth. At first Anni took it for another unconscious fear response, but she quickly realised that he was trying to form sounds, words.
She waited, hardly daring to move, while the boy’s mouth twisted.
‘Fff… ’ His front teeth looked rotten, painful as he placed them on his lower lip, tried to make a sound. ‘Fff… Ffinnn… ’
They waited. He offered nothing more.
‘Finn?’ said Marina. ‘You’re called Finn?’
Another glance between the three of them. Then a small nod of the head.
Anni let out a breath she was unaware of holding. She stole a glance at Marina, saw a glint of joy, triumph in her eye.
‘Well hello, Finn,’ said Marina, still smiling. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
The boy seemed to relax slightly. His mouth kept twisting, trying to form more words, or just repeat the same one.
‘Ffinn… Finn… ’
‘Very good,’ said Marina, an encouraging teacher. ‘So where are you from, Finn?’
More tortuous mouth-twisting. ‘Thhh… Gahh… denn… ’
Anni and Marina stole a glance at each other. ‘The… Garden?’ said Marina. ‘Is that where you’re from?’
Another nervous look between the pair of them, then a nod.
The Garden, thought Anni. Her mind was immediately working. Checking through a mental Rolodex for a match. Children’s homes, care homes, residential, secure units, YOIs, anything that would match… The Garden… She came up with nothing.
Marina was about to ask another question, but Finn’s mouth was twisting again. She kept silent, waited.
‘Mmm… mmoth… eh… moth… er… ’
‘Mother?’ said Marina. ‘Your mother?’
Another nod.
‘What about her? Is she… is she looking for you?’
Finn frowned. A dark shadow covered his face. His mouth twisted once more. ‘Thh… thhuh… god… thuh god… nerrr… ’
‘The gardener?’ said Marina. ‘Your mother is the gardener?’
Finn shook his head viciously. ‘Nnnuh… nnnuh… ’ The darkness was seeping back into his eyes. The terror.
‘Your mother,’ Marina persisted, trying to head off those dark thoughts. ‘Tell me about your mother, Finn. Is she… is she in the Garden? Would we find her in the Garden?’
Finn’s eyes snapped open wide once more. The terror dissipating. He nodded.
‘Right. Where is the Garden, Finn?’
He twisted his mouth, searched for words.
They waited.
And Marina’s phone went.
Finn jumped, screamed, pushed himself back into the headboard.
‘It’s all right,’ said Marina. ‘All right… ’ Although inwardly she was cursing. She stood up, walked into the corridor to take the call.
Anni remained with Finn. She tried the smile Marina had used. Hoped it would work. ‘Hey, it’s OK, Finn. It’s just a phone. Just a phone call.’
The boy was calming down. Anni was stunned – had he never seen a mobile phone before? Or any phone? ‘It’s OK,’ she said once more, hoping her words would soothe.
Marina pocketed her phone, motioned to Anni from the doorway. ‘That was Phil. He wants me at the crime scene.’
‘Didn’t you tell him what was happening here?’
‘I did, but… ’ She shrugged.
‘You’re doing great. He was just about to tell us where he was from.’
‘Perhaps. If he knows, which I doubt. Anni, he can barely speak. I mean, I’m doing the best I can, but I’m limited. This isn’t my area. They really need a professional child psychologist to come in and work with him. It’ll take time.’
Anni looked once more at the boy lying there. A lost boy. Her heart went out to him.
‘I’d better go,’ said Marina. ‘Keep talking to him. Ask about his mother. But don’t let him talk about this gardener, that seems to upset him.’ Then she too looked at Finn. ‘I’ll just say goodbye to him first.’
Phil was getting nowhere.
He stared at the wreck of a man in front of him, exasperated, lost for words. Tried again. ‘OK… look.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. You’re not in any trouble. We just need some help.’
The man stared off over Phil’s shoulder. Seeing something Phil couldn’t, something that wasn’t even in the room. Phil tried not to let his exasperation show.
They were sitting opposite each other on folding chairs in the back of the incident support van. Phil hadn’t noticed how cramped those vans were. Or how badly ventilated. But he did now. With a vengeance.
The tramp smelled like parts of him were dying. Like he was decomposing before Phil’s eyes. When he stood up, Phil wouldn’t have been surprised if he left some body part behind. His clothes were just the tattered ghosts of the garments they had once been. Shirts, T-shirts and vests had been wrapped around him, the layers solidifying into one filthy mass. His trousers were ill-fitting and torn, scabbed and ulcerated legs peeking out from beneath. His boots were holed, his feet sockless.
And his face. Phil was usually good at spotting people’s ages and backgrounds. Physical tics and tells always gave them away. But he had no idea with this man. The lines on his face were deepened and ingrained by dirt, like permanent comic-strip etchings. His skin was reddened by various abuses. His hair long, greying and filthy, like his beard. Ravaged, scarred and weather-beaten, he could have been anything from forties to seventies.
Phil tried again, his voice as calm and unthreatening as possible. He didn’t think it a good idea to tell the tramp he was the prime suspect in a kidnapping and possible murder inquiry. ‘So what’s your name?’
The tramp swivelled his head towards Phil, eyes coming slowly into focus. He stared blankly ahead.
‘Do you have a name? What would you like me to call you?’
‘Paul.’
Result. ‘Paul. Good. I’m Phil.’ He leaned forward. ‘Right, Paul, what were you doing in that house? Is that where you live?’
‘I live… By God’s grace, I live… ’
‘Right. And by God’s grace, do you live in that house? The one where I found you?’
A sigh, as if mention of the house brought with it a great burden on his soul. ‘My… house.’
‘Your house. Right.’
His voice rose. ‘In my house there are many mansions… ’ Here we go, thought Phil. This was what he had dreaded. ‘There are. Yes. So you live there, where I found you?’
Another blank look, then Paul put his head back as if remembering. Then a nod.
‘Good. That’s fine. That’s great. Maybe you could help me, Paul. You know the house opposite yours? The one we’ve been going in and out of all day?’
Paul’s face darkened, eyes came together. Fear crept over his features.
‘What’s the matter, Paul? Is there something wrong with that house?’
He shrank back from Phil, as if trying to physically get away from his words. ‘No… no… There was… there was… evil in there… ’
Phil leaned forward. This was it, he thought. Getting somewhere. Even if the tramp was addled. ‘Evil? What kind of evil?’
‘There was… No. I can’t… can’t say… ’
‘Why can’t you say? Paul, why can’t you say?’
‘Because he’ll… come back and I… No… he’s evil, evil… ’
‘Evil? The man in the other house is evil? The house we were in?’
Paul’s brow creased. He seemed confused by the question but continued anyway. ‘A man. With a dream. Of love. The love of creation… Of creation… ’
Phil leaned back, suppressed a sigh. He had thought he was going to be given a lead. Instead it was just a story from the tramp’s damaged mind.
‘Was this man evil? Is he the one you meant?’
Paul stared off somewhere, kept talking as if he hadn’t heard Phil.
‘This man… he… he shared that love with others… And it was good… But then… the bad, the evil… men… came… ’
Paul stopped talking. Phil leaned forward once more. ‘Where did the bad men come, Paul? To the house? The house you live in? Or the one opposite? Which one d’you mean?’
Another frown. ‘The bad men… Serpents in paradise… ’ Paul frowned once more, face screwed up as if he was about to cry. ‘I just… just want to see the sun… ’ He trailed off into a troubled silence, chewing his lower lip with rotted teeth, head moving slowly from side to side, body beginning to rock back and forth.
‘But… what about the evil?’ Phil knew his words weren’t reaching him.
Paul’s voice, although as broken and ravaged as the rest of him, held traces of education and perhaps erudition. The echoes of someone else, the person he had once been. Phil reflected on that, knew that was why he didn’t allow his first response, to dismiss the story as just a deranged ramble, to take hold. Paul’s words nagged at him. He thought of the designs on the wall of the house and in the cellar. They looked to have been drawn by two different hands, but they were the same kind of design. Something mystical, but not quite a pentagram. And now Paul’s words. Serpents in paradise…
Again something gnawed at Phil. Something he couldn’t quite reach.
He tried a different line of questioning. ‘That design on the wall of your house,’ he said. ‘Did you draw that?’
Paul stopped rocking, looked at him quizzically.
‘On the wall. That design. What does it mean, Paul?’
‘It’s… life. It’s… everything… ’
He fell back into silence. Rocking backwards and forwards, mouth moving with words he wouldn’t speak.
Phil tried to talk to him again but got no response. He sensed he would get no more from him for a while now. He stood up.
‘Just stay here a minute, please, Paul. I’ll be back soon.’
He turned, left the van, glad of the fresh air. He popped a mint into his mouth to take away the smell. One of the Birdies could chat to Paul next. See how they got on with him.
Phil didn’t think the tramp was the man they were looking for. Instinct told him that, and he had learned to rely on instinct. He thought Paul might know something, but whatever that was wasn’t going to be unearthed quickly. If at all.
He checked his watch. Time for Marina. Good. He was looking forward to seeing her.
And also not. Because something was wrong. Inside of him. That house… it had touched something deep within him, something dark, twisted. Unpleasant.
Something soul-deep that he couldn’t understand.
But something he didn’t want Marina to see.
Not until he understood it better himself.
So he waited for her. In trepidation.
As soon as the door opened, Rose knew she had been sized up, made.
Copper. Filth.
But that was OK. Because Rose had made equally strong, instant assumptions about the woman before her too.
Druggie. Whore.
She held up her warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Rose Martin. Donna Warren?’
The woman gave a grudging nod of acknowledgement.
‘Could I come in, please?’
The woman’s attitude was aggressive, confrontational. Strong as a physical barrier. Her body language tensed and rigid, preparing to fight.
That’ll all change when she hears what I have to say, thought Rose.
‘I ain’t done nothin’. I ain’t been out.’
Rose looked round. A small, shabby house in a nondescript street just off Barrack Street in New Town. Terraced houses squashed together, old cars and vans bumper to bumper either side of the road. The street was gated on one side by a convenience store, its windows barred, a chalkboard advertising the latest cheap deals on full-strength lager and cider. And opposite that a fried chicken and pizza fast-food restaurant, closed, the smell of cheap stale oil perfuming the air. Gang tags adorned the walls. A big, dark sedan, expensive-looking, sat incongruously amongst the MOT failures and dodgers that filled the street. The local drug dealer’s, Rose assumed.
She felt anger rise at this woman’s attitude.
‘Could I come in, please? It’s best if we talk inside.’
Without removing her gaze and without seeming to move, Donna Warren let Rose in. Closed the door behind her.
The inside didn’t look any better. Rose had felt nothing but disdain for this woman since knocking on her door, but now she felt that disdain was justified. The place was a mess. The front door led straight into the living room. A sofa sat against one wall, old with ingrained dirt; the armrests were shiny and threadbare and had been used as ashtrays. Pizza cartons sat open and festering on the sofa. Stained mugs and empty bottles lay on the floor. Dirty ashtrays with dead fag and spliff ends were dotted about. And in amongst all this were a scattering of children’s toys, old, used, broken. Underneath, the carpet was filthy. A big old silver box of an off-brand TV dominated one corner. DVDs spilled out underneath it.
Rose wasn’t asked to sit down. She didn’t want to. She stood, facing Donna Warren. The woman had her arms folded across her chest. Rose looked at her.
She had been on plenty of police training courses. Diversity. Ethnicity. Equality. Treating everyone she came into contact with as a police officer with respect no matter what the circumstances or how the individual behaved. She had nodded along with the rest of them, paid lip service to the idea, as was expected of her. But she hadn’t believed it. Not one word of it. Because, as the sort of people she came into contact with realised, that respect had to be earned. And they did very little to earn it.
Like Donna Warren. The hardness of her features, the tension in her posture. Her Primark clothes and her home-dyed hair. Her indiscriminate racial origins, her mongrel skin colour. She reeked of substance abuse and her body looked well-used and sold. Rose wondered just how desperate a man would have to be to pay to have sex with Donna Warren.
‘Had a party in here?’ she asked.
‘What d’you want?’ Donna Warren’s voice was still strident, but now there was a slight shake to it. Like she’s worked out why I’m here, thought Rose.
‘You might want to sit down.’
Donna Warren remained standing.
Rose made a play of checking her notebook. ‘Does… Faith Luscombe live here?’
‘Yes.’ Another waver to her voice. ‘Have you… where is she?’
Rose looked at her notebook. Donna Warren spoke before she could say anything further.
‘Have you run her in again? That it?’ Her voice getting stronger, feeding on the anger of her words. ‘Come to take her kid away, that it?’
‘She’s got a child?’ said Rose.
‘Little boy. I’m looking after him.’
‘Well you might have to look after him a while longer.’ Rose hated the next bit. Even with people like Donna Warren. She slipped into the voice she had been taught to use on another course. ‘I’m afraid Faith’s dead.’
‘What? What you talkin’ about, dead?’ Donna spat the words out rapidly, another shield. ‘She’s not dead.’
‘I’m afraid she is, Donna. Would you like to sit down now?’
Donna was about to sit down, then stopped herself. ‘What for? Ain’t gonna bring her back, is it?’
‘No. But we could talk about it.’
Donna, not wanting to give ground or show weakness before a police officer, reluctantly lowered herself into an armchair. Rose perched on the edge of the sofa, hoping she wouldn’t stain her clothes or catch something.
‘What… what happened?’
‘She was hit by a car. Out in Wakes Colne. On the way to Halstead.’
Donna frowned. ‘Wakes Colne? Halstead? What was she doin’ out there?’
‘I don’t know, Donna. Perhaps you could tell me.’
Donna looked at her, about to speak. Then changed her mind.
Rose tried to prompt. ‘It’ll help if you can tell me where she was last night.’
‘Help how? Won’t bring her back, will it?’
Stupid bitch, thought Rose. She was getting angry all over again. She felt like getting up and leaving, but stopped herself. This was a chance, a case. She could prove she was fit to return to work, that she was worthy of the rank of DI. She stayed where she was, bit back her natural reaction, kept her voice calm and consoling.
‘I know this is difficult for you, Donna, but if you could cooperate with me, it would be a great help.’
Donna said nothing.
‘Where was Faith last night, Donna?’
Rose watched the battle being fought on Donna’s face. Talk or not talk. Go against years of conditioning, of not helping the police, in order to help her friend. She didn’t let it show, but she quite enjoyed seeing it.
‘Please, Donna. I know you haven’t had good experiences with the police in the past-’
‘You know that, do you?’
‘Yes. I know that. I’ve read your record. And I’ve read Faith’s too. But this isn’t about that. This is about finding out what she was doing in Wakes Colne last night.’
Silence from Donna. Rose waited.
‘Tell me,’ Donna said eventually, her voice weary. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘She was killed early this morning. She ran out of a clump of trees on to the road. By the viaduct. She was hit by a car. She died almost instantly.’ She thought it best not to mention the second car.
Donna’s eyes glazed over. She blinked. Hard. Her lower lip trembled. Her breathing changed.
Here it comes, thought Rose.
But it didn’t. Donna took control of herself, looked up. Shields down, composure regained. Still blinking, but clearly willing the tears not to fall.
A tiny part of Rose admired her for it.
‘What was she running from?’ Donna’s next words.
Rose’s grudging admiration for the woman increased slightly. Whatever else she was – and a glance round the living room showed that – she was bright.
‘Well that’s what I hoped you might be able to help me with.’
Donna said nothing, retreated into silence.
Rose leaned forward, nearly toppled off the edge of the sofa. Hid her irritation. ‘Come on, Donna. Just tell me. Was she out working? Seeing punters? Scoring? What?’
At the mention of scoring, Donna gave Rose a fierce deathray stare. ‘She wasn’t an addict.’ Her voice rising, a growl at the edges.
Course she wasn’t, darling, thought Rose. ‘I’m not saying she was, Donna. I’m just asking you where she went last night.’
‘She was getting help, that’s what she was doin’. She wasn’t a junkie.’
‘Getting help? Last night?’
Donna paused. ‘No. Not last night. She was goin’ to get help. St Quinlan’s Trust. Down there. Had a place booked.’
Rose felt a tiny victory inside. She had caught Donna in a lie. She tried not to rub it in. ‘So she did have a problem with drugs?’
‘No.’ Another pause from Donna. ‘She has a kid. She was usin’. Just a bit, on an’ off. Wanted to get clean, properly clean, for him.’
Rose nodded. ‘Right. And where is this child now?’
Donna nodded towards the stairs.
Silence fell once more.
‘So,’ said Rose. ‘Last night. Where was Faith? Not at St Quinlan’s, I take it?’
Donna shook her head. ‘She went out. One last time, she said. I told her not to bother. But no. One last time. Just to make a bit. Tide her over. Till she got clean an’ could get a job.’ Donna’s head dropped, her shoulders slumped. ‘One last time… ’
Rose waited while Donna composed herself. She felt nothing positive for the woman before her. She didn’t see her as someone who had lost a friend. She felt no sympathy. Rose had a strict definition of right and wrong. If a woman sold her body – for whatever reason – that was disgusting. If she willingly offered herself up to the kind of man who did what he did with her, then she had no one to blame but herself for what happened. And Rose felt nothing for that woman but anger.
Then she thought of her ex-lover, DCI Ben Fenwick. She hadn’t found him particularly attractive, but she’d still slept with him. Willingly offered herself up to him. But that was different, she told herself. She had something to gain from that.
She shook the thought from her head. It only made her feel more angry.
Donna was getting a grip on herself. It took longer this time, was more of an effort. But she managed it. Thinking she might not make such a good recovery next time, Rose hurried her questioning along.
‘So do you have any idea who she could have seen last night?’
Donna shook her head.
‘Did she have regulars? Did she say anything about seeing one of them?’
‘No. Nothin’ like that. Just said she was goin’ out. Makin’ a bit of money.’
‘And what did you do last night?’
Donna sat immediately upright. ‘None of your fuckin’ business.’
I’ll bet, thought Rose. ‘What about boyfriends? Pimps? Anyone like that?’
Something passed across Donna’s eyes. Too quick for Rose to read it. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘There was an ex. Used to turn her out sometimes. Make her go out to work. He was the one got her on the pipe, know what I mean?’
Rose felt that familiar burn inside. She was on to something. ‘Got a name?’
‘Daryl. Daryl Kent.’
‘And where can I find him?’
‘What, now? The Shakespeare. He’s always there. Playin’ pool.’
‘Right.’ She stood up. Glad to have a focus for her anger. ‘I’m sorry, Donna. Did Faith have any family?’
Donna shook her head, kept her eyes averted. ‘She had me. I’m all she’s got. An’ Ben.’ Voice small, cracked.
‘Family Liaison’ll be in touch soon.’
Donna shrugged: whatever.
‘I’m… sorry.’ The word dredged reluctantly from her.
Donna said nothing. Crossed to the door, opened it.
Rose left.
Out on the street, she gulped in what passed for clean air off Barrack Street then set off walking to meet Daryl Kent. The big car was still parked opposite. She ignored it.
Just glad to get away from the place.
The man behind the desk was nervous, Mickey thought. But he doubted it was because the police were there to see him. More to do with his firm losing money.
‘Look,’ Colin Byers said, sitting back, ‘it’s awful and all that, but I don’t see what I can do for you. I mean, we were just contracted for the demolition.’
‘But you can tell us who contracted you.’
Mickey Philips sat opposite the desk. George Byers Demolition was the first place on his list. It was a one-storey brick building on Magdalen Street in New Town. Low and open-plan, it sat between a car dealership and a fireplace and door reclaimer. It had a cracked concrete forecourt with lorries and vans on it, and the building itself was just like Mickey had expected. Office-surplus furniture, tabloids lying round, a calendar with a semi-naked girl on it. No finesse. Stripped to the bones.
Colin Byers looked like the product of his environment. The son of the owner of the company, as he had explained, and now running it since his father’s retirement, he was a heavy-set middle-aged man, thinning on top, wearing metalframed glasses and a maroon polo shirt with the company logo on it.
He sighed, scratched his ear. ‘Look, Detective Sergeant, all I can give you is the name of the buildin’ firm. We’re subcontractors. You’d be better off contactin’ the Land Registry.’
‘I have,’ said Mickey, strictly speaking telling a lie. He hadn’t contacted them; Milhouse had done it for him. ‘All they could tell me was that the property is registered to a holding company in London. We’re looking into that now. In the meantime, Mr Byers, I’d just like a little help. I appreciate you’ve got your job to do, but so do I. The sooner you talk to me, the sooner I’ll be off.’
‘Yeah. And I’m out of pocket now because of this.’ Byers sighed. Put his hands behind his head, smoothed down what remained of his hair. Came to a decision. ‘I know this one, as it happens. Took it myself. Lyalls. The builders. Wanted a couple of semi-derelict properties dismantled down East Hill. Area cleared for a new housin’ development. Easy job, really. Might be a bit of asbestos removal, uprooting some trees, landscapin’, nothing worse than that. And now this.’
Mickey made a note of the building company’s name.
‘So now we can’t work there, can we?’
‘It looks that way.’
‘How long you gonna be, then?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Mickey. The area’s going to be thoroughly searched. Could be days. Could be weeks.’
The expression on Byers’ face told Mickey what he thought of that.
‘Thanks for your time,’ Mickey said, and let himself out.
Outside he checked his pad, looking for directions. The day had turned colder, chilly autumn notes carried on the wind.
He turned right, going back to where he had parked the car. Magdalen Street was the main stretch of road linking New Town to the town centre. He walked past tattooists, Afro-Caribbean hair stylists and corner shops. Most of the people on the street paid him no mind, although a few gave him sharp, furtive looks then dodged out of his way. He recognised a few faces. Knew he had dealt with them on a professional basis.
He walked to where Magdalen Street turned into Barrack Street. The area became more run-down, the buildings less well-kept, the shops dirtier. He was standing at the lights, about to cross and head down Brook Street to find his car, when he spotted someone he knew.
Rose Martin, walking along the street opposite.
His first instinct was to turn round, walk as far away from her as possible. He hadn’t known her long, but the impression she had made on him wasn’t a good one. However, he couldn’t. Because she was looking straight at him. He would have to talk to her.
She crossed the road, approached him. Smiled.
‘Hello, Mickey. Long time no see.’
‘Didn’t know you lived round here, Rose.’
She gave a small, stifled laugh. ‘Me? Live round here? You’re joking, aren’t you? No. I’m working.’
‘Oh good,’ he said, relieved that she was no longer with the police. ‘What as?’
She frowned, gave him a quizzical look. ‘As a police officer. What else would I be doing?’
Mickey was lost for words. He knew what she had gone through, how she had been put on long-term sick. Everyone knew it. And most people never expected her to return.
‘That surprised you, didn’t it?’
‘Well, yeah… What happened?’
‘Glass brought me back.’
‘You’re not working on… ’
A dark cloud passed over her features. ‘No. Oh God, no. No, it’s a road accident. Well, we think it’s an accident. Dead woman.’ She gestured back the way she had come. ‘Lived down there. Prossie.’
‘Right.’
They stood there looking at each other. Nothing more to say.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’d better get on. Nice to see you, Mickey. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other soon.’
God, he hoped not. ‘Yeah. Sure, Rose.’
She was turning to go, stopped. ‘Oh, and it’s Detective Inspector now. I’ve been promoted. Bye.’
She smiled, turned and walked away.
Mickey was left standing there, absorbing that last piece of information. The pedestrian crossing sounded. He just stared at it, unmoving.
‘Detective Inspector… Jesus Christ… ’
‘So how is he?’
Marina walked up to the tape at the bottom of East Hill, phone clamped to her ear. She heard Anni’s voice.
‘Asleep again. Didn’t stay awake much after you went. He’s exhausted.’
‘Did he say anything more?’
‘Nothing. I’m still here, but if he’s not moving, I might leave a uniform to look after him, or get someone from, I don’t know, Family Liaison? I’m at a bit of a loss.’
‘He needs a psychologist.’
‘Yeah, well he had one. Very briefly. But she had to go.’
Marina smiled. ‘We’ll talk later.’
She pocketed the phone, held up her ID, ducked under the tape.
She felt the eyes of the crowd on the bridge watching her as she did so. Knew that media crews would be in there too. They would all be wondering who she was, what she was doing there. She felt like a celeb on a red carpet. It gave her quite a thrill. Probably more than she would have liked in light of what she was there for.
Of course the media crews might know who she was, she thought. A couple of high-profile cases would do that.
She looked round, scanning the area for Phil. Didn’t see him. There was an air of quiet urgency about the place. The white tent was up and blue-suited CSIs were going about their work with a calm, concentrated commitment. Uniforms were there too. She spotted Adrian Wren, waved at him, moved over to ask where Phil was. Before she could do so, another figure detached himself from a conversation with two uniforms and turned to her.
‘Marina. Good to see you.’ Brian Glass was smiling, holding out his arms as if welcoming her to his party. He looked round, then back to her. ‘I’m afraid Phil’s busy at the moment. Was it him you were looking for?’
When Glass had first arrived at Southway, Marina had done her best to like him. But he hadn’t made it easy. He was the kind of copper she hated working with. The kind that was all business. There was a strand of officer, she had reasoned, and unfortunately it was a dominant one in the force, that had a little more of their personality surgically removed with each higher rank they made. And Glass was no exception. There was no spark, no inner life to the man that she could detect. She had told Phil that Glass reminded her of a supporting CTU character in an episode of 24; there to wear a suit and give orders but have no discernible characteristics beyond that.
Still, he had made encouraging noises about her work and the job of the psychologist in the police force in general. At least to her face. In times of budget cuts, plenty of higher-ups thought a psychologist was not a necessity but a luxury. That anything she offered could be outsourced, bought in when needed at a fraction of the cost. Irrespective of the results she achieved, the standard of the work she did. So she was polite to him, but wary. It seemed like a healthy way to proceed.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I was looking for Phil.’
‘Can I pass on a message?’
He was making her feel like she was being troublesome, the interfering wife bringing her husband’s forgotten packed lunch to work for him. Not, she thought, because he was belittling her on purpose, but just because he was innately sexist that way.
‘I’ll wait,’ she said. ‘He wants me to look at the crime scene with him. See if I can help him with leads.’
‘Good, good. Fine. All offers of help gratefully received.’ He brought his brows together in a thoughtful manner. ‘What’s happening with the boy? The one from the cellar?’
‘Anni’s with him now. He came round. I talked to him but didn’t get much. He kept asking for his mother.’
‘His mother?’
She nodded. ‘As far as I could tell. But wherever he’s been, he’s been there a while. He can barely speak. Hardly communicate. There’s a lot of damage there. A hell of a lot. It’s going to be a while before we can get anything coherent from him.’
He nodded. ‘Right. Good. Good work, Marina.’
She said nothing.
‘Keep at it.’ A smile. Marina imagined he thought it was the kind Churchill must have given to rally the troops.
‘I will,’ she said. He made to walk away. She stopped him. ‘Oh, by the way, I’m glad I caught you. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.’
He looked at her quizzically. Waited.
‘Rose Martin.’
His attitude changed, his voice guarded. ‘What about her?’
‘You’ve returned her to work. I don’t think she’s ready.’
He straightened up. Expression closed. ‘In your opinion.’
‘In my professional opinion as her psychologist, yes. She’s still exhibiting signs of stress, of trauma. She’s not emotionally ready to handle the demands of her job. At least not back on the front line.’
‘Well, thank you for your comments, Marina,’ he said, nodding. ‘You know I value your input greatly. I’m sure you’ll put them all in your report. I’ll read them then.’
Marina felt her face redden, her hands shake. She controlled her anger, kept talking. ‘With all due respect, Brian, you’ve put her back on front-line duty and I hear you’ve promoted her too.’
He held his hands up as if in surrender. ‘That wasn’t my doing, I’m afraid. The ball was in motion before I got here.’ He looked at her, and she detected sincerity in his gaze. Or a good facsimile of it. His voice dropped. ‘Look, Marina. Sometimes I have to make decisions that are unpopular, or that people who don’t have full access to the facts may find… contentious. Rose Martin is a fine officer. In my opinion’ – he highlighted the words, as if he had spoken in italics – ‘she is fit to return to work. The case she is working is fairly routine. I’m sure she’ll be fine. And with budget cuts, we need all the bodies we can get.’
He smiled, as if that was the final word.
‘Fine. Well I just wanted you to know that I have officially voiced concerns, that’s all.’
‘Noted.’ He smiled. ‘That’s what we pay you for.’
Any further conversation was abruptly halted. Phil Brennan was walking towards them.
‘Ah,’ said Glass. ‘Here he is. I’ll leave you to it. Good luck.’ He walked away.
‘Tit,’ Marina said. Then felt guilty. He wasn’t that bad. There had been worse DCIs.
Forgetting Glass, she turned, smiling, to face Phil. Her heart still rose when she saw him. Even here, even like this. Or perhaps even more so. After all, they had met during a case, so it seemed like a natural habitat to them. Working together. Just like old times. It felt right.
And sometimes she just couldn’t believe her luck that she had him.
But as soon as he approached and she saw him clearly, her smile faded.
‘Phil?’ Her hand straight on his arm, concern in her eyes. ‘You OK?’
He shook his head as if coming out a trance, seeing her for the first time. ‘Marina. Hi.’ He stopped before her.
Her voice dropped. ‘What’s the matter? You look like you’ve, I don’t know. Seen a ghost.’
His eyes went out of focus for a few seconds before zoning back in on her. ‘No. I’m… I’m fine. Just… fine.’
She was about to ask him again, but he spoke before she could.
‘We’d better get a move on,’ he said, not bringing his eyes into contact with hers. ‘I’ve asked the forensic teams to give us a few minutes alone in there. I’ll come with you, show you round. Tell you whether they’ve moved anything, what was in the original places. That sort of thing.’
‘Fine… ’ She was still looking at him, curious. Phil was a man of raging emotional torrents – because of his upbringing, both good and bad. It was one of the things that had first attracted her to him. The damage she felt an immediate connection with. The passion he had she wanted to share with him. But she knew that because of his job, for the most part he kept his emotions tightly bound. Didn’t let anyone glimpse inside.
But he had never done that to her before. Never kept her out. And that was what she felt he was doing now.
One last attempt. ‘Phil?’
‘I’m fine.’ He pulled his arm away. ‘I’m fine. I’m just… tired.’
She looked at him, said nothing. Felt the tightrope she was on begin to waver.
‘Right,’ he said, clapping his hands together as if to break a spell, ‘you up for this?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be? It’s my job.’ Frosty. Clearly unhappy. If Phil picked up on that, he didn’t acknowledge it. ‘OK. Good. Come on then, let’s go.’
He turned, walked towards the house. She followed. Putting her relationship aside, ready to enter the house as a professional.
Compartmentalising.
She would deal with the rest later.
‘Watch your step down here. It’s pretty rickety.’
Phil led the way, Marina behind him. The arc lights had been left on, the trailing cables leading up the wooden stairs to outside generators. There was space for only one person at a time, so he moved carefully, aware of her behind him.
He was angry with himself. What he had seen in the other house had spooked him, unsettled him, though he didn’t know why. But he knew the answer was within him somewhere. And until he found it, he couldn’t share it with anyone else. Not even Marina.
He hated keeping anything from her. It broke his heart to see the concern on her face, knowing he couldn’t say anything. He just hoped she would understand. Later.
He reached the cellar floor, Marina a few seconds after him.
‘This is it,’ he said. Waiting while she took it all in, trying to see it through her eyes.
She looked round, her eyes widening as she saw the cage. ‘Oh my God… ’
‘Exactly. My reaction too.’ That sense of unease returned as he looked at it once more. His mind was trying to subconsciously connect it with the diagram on the wall…
No. He couldn’t see it.
Marina gave another scan. ‘And the flowers? Was this how you found them?’
Phil looked at the floor. Some of the petals had been gathered up, removed. A few had been trampled on by Forensics.
‘No, they were all over the floor. Strewn.’
She smiled. ‘Strewn. I think you’ve won the award for most unexpected word of the day.’
He reddened slightly. ‘What can I say? I’m honoured.’
Her smile faded as she went back to work. Concentrating.
‘There were a few bunches, though.’ He pointed round the walls. The bunches were still there, where he had found them. Wilting, dying.
‘In those exact locations?’
‘Just about, yes.’
She nodded, staying in the one place, looking round three hundred and sixty degrees. She took it all in. The flowers, the cage. The workbench. The gardening tools. The markings on the wall. Her lips began to move as she spoke to herself.
Phil had seen her do this before. Mentally processing information, working out what she saw, interpreting the scene before her. He had never ceased to be amazed at how she did it, or the accuracy of her results.
She walked round the cellar. Plastic gloves on her hands, paper booties over her shoes. She knelt down, examined one of the bunches of flowers. ‘Roses… red, blue, yellow… ’ Then another. ‘Carnations, red, blue, yellow, same colours… and here, petunias, chrysanthemums, same colours… ’ Looked round once more. ‘And left on the floor to decay. Go brown… ’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Whoever did this either grew them himself or bought them somewhere. I’m leaning towards growing them himself. There’s a… horticultural sense to the place. Those gardening tools over there… ’
Marina crossed to the workbench. Looked down at it, the tools on the surface. ‘Has any of this been disturbed?’
Phil crossed over, stood beside her. He could smell her perfume. Made him want to hold her. ‘I think one of the tools has been taken away for forensic examination. I asked them to leave the others for a bit.’
She nodded, lips moving all the time. She picked up the scythe, examined it slowly. ‘They’ve been… adapted. They’re not for gardening. Not been used for gardening in a very long time.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
‘And this workbench… ’ She knelt down beside it, put her face to it. Sniffed the scarred, pitted surface, eyes closed. Remained in place afterwards. ‘Hmm… ’ Did it once more. ‘Earthy… but more… ’
She stood up, dusting down her skirt. Turned, looked at the wall behind her. Crossed to it. Examined the painted design. Touched it.
‘We thought it was a pentagram at first,’ said Phil. ‘But it’s clearly not.’
‘No,’ Marina said, absorbed, her fingers, eyes following the lines of the design, ‘it’s not. More like a star. But I can see how you could make that mistake. Would be an easy conclusion to jump to… if you weren’t open-minded and imaginative… ’
Phil said nothing. Had she just paid him a compliment?
She pressed her face to the wall. Sniffed.
‘Not paint. Not… ’ She turned to Phil. ‘Has this been analysed?’
‘Not yet. They’ll have taken a sample. Don’t know when we can get results. Any ideas on what it is?’
‘I’m guessing… something of the earth… a plant concoction? Bodily fluids, even? All mixed together? I don’t know… something along those lines, though, I’d guess… ’
Marina straightened up, looked round once more. Crossed to the cage. Examined it closely. Turned, looked behind her at the bench, then over at the flowers bunched round the walls. Then the design on the wall. She began to walk towards the bunches of flowers, taking slow, deliberate steps to get to each one. Her mouth moving all the time, brow furrowed as if performing advanced mathematical calculations.
She stood in the centre of the cellar, stretched out her arms as far as she could, rotated them, straining her fingertips. Half pagan priest, half yoga teacher. Holding her breath as she did so.
Phil watched her all the time. Fascinated. He loved this woman so much it scared him sometimes.
Right,’ she said. ‘Here goes.’
The shadows were lengthening in Don and Eileen Brennan’s kitchen. Outside, darkness descended like a grey blanket thrown over the sun.
They sat at the table. Silence between them like a huge block of ice.
A different silence from the next room. Peaceful. Tranquil. Josephina having a nap. The TV off.
Eileen sighed, reached for her tea. It had gone cold. She still drank it.
Don sat unmoving. The sun’s dying rays playing over his face, hollowing out his features, haunting him.
Eileen placed her mug gently down on the coaster. Flowers of the British Isles. A present from a friend’s holiday. She didn’t see the colours. ‘We have to… we’ve got to do something… ’
Her voice thrown out, dying away in the silence.
‘We can’t just let him… go on. Find out what it’s… ’
‘And what d’you suggest we do?’ Don turning, looking at her. Like an Easter Island head come to life. ‘What can we do?’
‘I don’t know. Just… something.’
‘You mean tell him?’
‘Yes, maybe.’ Eileen’s eyes widened. The dying daylight glinting, fearful.
Don shook his head. Pulling back from the dark. ‘I don’t think we could… We couldn’t… Not after what… ’
Eileen sighed. ‘Then what do we do instead?’ she said. ‘Because he’s going to find out, Don. Sooner or later.’
Don said nothing. His face halfway into the darkness.
Eileen leaned towards him. Breaking the ice between them. Her voice as low as the light in the room. ‘He’ll find out anyway. And he’ll know we haven’t told him. Then how will we feel? How will he feel?’
Don said nothing. Eileen watched him. Gave another sigh. She looked down at her mug once more. Made to drink from it. Remembered it was cold. Replaced it where it had been.
Silence. Darkness descended.
Then a cry from the other room. Josephina waking up.
Eileen looked at the doorway, back to Don. ‘And what about her?’
‘Don’t, Eileen.’
‘What about that poor little girl in there? Doesn’t she have a right to know too?’
‘Eileen… ’
‘What, Don, what?’
Josephina’s cries became louder.
‘I can’t. It’s too… I can’t. And you know it.’
‘Don. He has to know. That’s all there is to it.’
And louder.
Don put his head down, shook it slowly.
More cries. Eileen put her head to one side, eyes never leaving Don. ‘I’m coming, love. Grandma’s coming.’
The cries eased slightly. Eileen stood up.
‘It’s time, Don. And you know it.’
She left the room.
Don didn’t move.
The sun disappeared completely.
‘This is just preliminary,’ Marina said. ‘Just so we have something to go on for now. First impressions.’
‘Fine,’ said Phil. ‘Whatever you’ve got.’
‘Right. The boy hasn’t been here long,’ Marina said, turning, staring at the cage.
‘No?’
‘No.’ She pointed. ‘That’s a holding cell. He would have been transferred here. That cage has been like that for a long time. Very long time.’
‘How long?’
‘I’ll come to that. The boy was brought here for… something. Nothing good. This is a killer’s lair. However he dresses it up. It’s a slaughterhouse.’
She closed her eyes, turned on the spot, breathing in deeply.
‘The anticipation… he brings them here to… ’ Another deep breath. ‘He’s building the anticipation for himself. Letting it, letting it… the ritual. Yes. That’s it. It’s all about the ritual. Not just aspects he’s developed in his own mind, though… no… his own fetish, no… ’ Another breath. She dropped to her knees, looking round. ‘Something more than that… ’
Phil didn’t dare to speak. It was almost like Marina was in a trance, receiving communications from the spirit world. He knew how ridiculous that sounded, but still the image persisted.
‘Getting himself in the right place, the right… frame of mind, getting ready to enjoy it, but no. More than that. More. The flowers… Yes… The right… time… ’
She opened her eyes. ‘It’s about time. Ritual.’ She looked round at the bunches of flowers by the walls. ‘The flowers, they’re… it’s… a growth cycle. Living, blooming, dying. Perennials.’ She pointed to the wall. ‘And that design. You were right, it’s not a pentagram, not Satanic. It’s… I don’t know. Some kind of calendar? Could that be it?’
‘With the star shape… ’
‘Overlaying that. But it’s not a pentagram. More a… logo, I think.’ Surprise in her voice.
She closed her eyes once more. ‘But the child… What does that mean? Readiness? Fruition? Is the child part of that growth cycle?’
She crossed to the bench.
‘The tools, gardening tools… symbolic, yes, symbolic… but what? Planting, getting ready to grow? Cutting down? Adapted to, to surgical instruments… Yes… flowers, nature, everything natural… pruning? Growth cycle, yes… ’
She turned to Phil, addressed him directly. ‘The cage. The bones. You think they’re human?’
Startled, it took him a few seconds to respond. ‘Well, we think there’s a good chance… ’
‘Right.’ She turned away again. ‘Old, some of them. Old. Been there years, decades, probably… yes… ’ She moved up close to the cage. Stared at it. ‘What does this mean? Planning. That’s what it means. Planning. Preparation.’ She closed her eyes. ‘A controlled – and controlling – intellect is at work here. He’s clever. He’s patient. A strategist. He’s been planning this for a long time.’
‘You think… he’s been doing this for a while?’
‘I do.’
‘How long?’
She straightened up. Opened her eyes wide. Stared once more at the bars of the cage. Like she was waiting for them to speak to her.
‘Years.’ She reached out, touched the bones. ‘Decades… ’ Incredulity, fear in her voice. ‘Never been caught… ’
She shook her head.
‘A record, would he keep a record… probably not. At least, not in the way we understand it. No, I don’t… unless… ’ She turned round once more. Looked at the back of the room. ‘The flowers… different blooms, different times of year… the flowers… Maybe they’re… I don’t know… ’
Then turning, back to the cage.
‘There’s a confidence about what’s been happening here. What he’s been doing.’ She reached out once more, touching the bones. ‘This… this is a progression. And that’s fine, that’s what an established pattern… what usually happens. But often in cases of a serial nature, the perpetrator begins to unravel the more he goes on. Like he wants to make mistakes, wants to be caught, stopped… ’ She stroked the bone bars. ‘But not here… ’ Stroking and stroking. Gently, slowly. ‘Here… is control. Ritual. Honed. Perfection. The quest for perfection… ’ Still stroking. Caressing. ‘Perpetrators often stop when they get older,’ she said, her voice almost at a whisper, ‘but not here. Not him. He’s been doing this a long time. For a reason.’
‘What reason?’
‘I don’t know. But he thinks it’s an important one. More than just for his own gratification.’
‘But I thought all serial killing had sex at the heart of it.’
‘Yeah, pretty much.’
‘So?’
I’m not saying he doesn’t get his kicks from this. Just that he’s gone so much further than that. And there’s something else.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t think he’s going to stop.’
‘Unless we stop him,’ said Phil. ‘Catch him and stop him.’
‘Yes,’ said Marina, turning to him as if released from a trance. ‘There is that.’ She gave a small, tight smile. ‘But that’s your job.’
‘No pressure there, then,’ said Phil, looking to Marina like he was composed entirely of pressure. He looked to have aged years since she had seen him in the morning.
She had to say something, talk to him. ‘Look, Phil, what’s-’
‘Please,’ said Phil, his voice small, barely a whisper. ‘Not here. Not now.’
‘But when?’ She gently placed her hand on his arm. ‘What’s the matter?’
He sighed. Like Atlas shrugging. ‘I can’t… ’
‘Phil. This is me you’re talking to. Me.’ Eyes locked on his. ‘You can tell me.’
His eyes tried to stay on hers, kept jumping round like they were being electrocuted. ‘I… I can’t. Not now.’ Then another sigh. ‘I don’t even… ’ He snapped his head up. ‘No. Come on. Let’s… we’ve got work to do. Come on.’
‘OK… but-’
‘How did he get here?’ Phil’s voice sudden, abrupt.
‘What?’
‘The boy. How did he get in here? If this was a holding cell, he can’t have been here for long.’
She looked at him. He had never closed her out like this before. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘OK. The boy. Well… OK. What I think. He couldn’t just walk in with him, in broad daylight, could he?’
‘I doubt it. And there’s a fence all the way round. No entrance.’
‘So the road is out. Unless it was at night, and that might have looked suspicious. There’s the other path down to the allotments; where does that lead?’
‘To a housing estate on the Hythe. But it’s badly lit, overgrown, lots of bushes. Mugger’s paradise. And it’s alongside the river.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘What, he came down the path?’
‘No. The river. This house backs on to the river. He could have moored a boat beside the house, got the boy out of there.’
Phil rubbed his chin, paced the cellar floor. ‘It would fit… ’ He turned to Marina. ‘What you said before. Nature. Cycles. Could the river have anything to do with that?’
‘Very possibly.’
‘Right… ’ More pacing. ‘Then there’s just one more thing.’
‘What?’
‘Where did he get the boy from?’
Marina gave a thin smile. ‘That’s for you to find out. You’re the policeman. I’m just the profiler.’
‘But you’ve spoken to him.’
‘I know. And he’s a long way from telling us anything useful.’
They stood in silence.
‘I’ll get an official report made up,’ she said eventually. Looked at her watch. ‘I’d better pick up Josephina.’
Phil told her he had spoken to Don. He and Eileen were holding on to her a bit longer.
‘Good. That helps.’
Another silence. Marina looked at Phil. His eyes were roving round the cellar. Not because he was looking for anything in particular, she thought, but because he was avoiding looking at her. Why? He wouldn’t talk to her, tell her what was wrong. Had coming down here, seeing the cage and the boy, upset him that much? Did he just not want to say that in front of his team? She hoped so. Hoped it was something like that.
Anything more than that, she didn’t want to contemplate.
She reached out her hand once more. Perhaps anticipating it, he turned.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go.’ Walked up the cellar steps. She stood for a minute, watching him go.
This wasn’t like him. Not at all. It must be something big for him to keep it from her, whatever it was.
After all, she was bound to him. She knew that, had never felt it for any other person. A real, true love. A soulmate’s bond. But with that came fear. Of something going wrong. Of one of them dying.
Or of some darkness enveloping them. They were two damaged souls who had recognised each other, clung together. What if that darkness returned? Resurfaced, destroyed everything they had in the present?
The tightrope fraying and fraying…
It was an ordinary meeting room. Air-conditioned. Blinds drawn. Rectangular table. Chairs set around it. Even a tall jug of water on the table, short glasses nestling next to it. An ordinary meeting room.
But no ordinary meeting.
The Elders had been meeting for years. Decades. Firstly, in the open air. Decisions made round a campfire. Then shifting inside, the smell of newly sawn wood permeating their meetings. The floors and walls bare and hard, the furniture functional. Then moving on to warm wood-panelled rooms. Old, oiled and polished wooden tables. Carved chairs. And ceremonial robes.
Those had been the best years.
And then the years in between.
And now this. Conference rooms. Board rooms. Ordinary rooms.
The faces had changed. But the names remained the same. And four. Always four.
The fifth… absent. As always.
There had been no welcomes beyond common courtesy. No catch-ups, no jokes. Just silence. Tension zinging in the air like taut steel cable in a high wind. The room cold from more than just air-conditioning.
One of them had to start.
‘I think I speak for everyone here,’ the Lawmaker said, ‘when I say, what the fuck did you think you were doing?’
The ice was broken but the room was still cold. The words expressed what the others had been thinking. They wanted answers.
‘Please,’ said the Portreeve, customarily positioned at the head of table, ‘try and keep emotion out of this. It clouds the issue.’ He turned to the subject of the inquiry. ‘But the Lawmaker is right and the point needs answering. What did you think you were doing, Missionary?’
‘Do we still need these stupid names? Can’t we all talk properly for once?’ A shake of the head from the Missionary.
‘We need them,’ said the Portreeve. ‘You know we do.’
‘They’re practical as well,’ said the Teacher. ‘Stops anyone listening in from gathering evidence against us. Should that arise.’
‘So I say again, Missionary,’ said the Lawmaker, ‘what did you think you were doing?’
‘You know we need money,’ said the Missionary. ‘For this deal to go ahead. And we need this deal. Otherwise we’re all… well, you know. So I just thought I’d dispose of one of the old properties. We don’t use it any more; valuable real estate, that.’
The Lawmaker leaned forward. ‘And you didn’t think to tell any of us about this?’
‘I didn’t think it was important.’
The other three stared at the Missionary.
Not used to begging, the Missionary gave a good approximation of it. ‘Look, I was miles away. I didn’t want the deal to go south; what was I supposed to do? I did what I thought was best for all of us. Thought I’d get a thank-you. Didn’t think I’d get this.’
They kept staring at him.
‘I mean,’ the Missionary said, ‘I didn’t think he’d still be at it, did I? Not now, not after all this time.’
‘Really?’ The Teacher spoke. ‘Are you that naïve? Or just stupid?’
‘How was I supposed to know?’
‘Did you think he’d just stop? That he’d ever change? You of all people should know better.’
The Missionary sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I just… didn’t think.’
The Teacher leaned forward. ‘The cage is still there.’
The Missionary shuddered. ‘Yeah. Well… I thought he’d have… others.’
‘He does,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘Reserve ones.’
‘Then why couldn’t he have-’
‘Because everyone has their favourite.’ The Portreeve spoke in a voice to end all argument. ‘He’s no different in that respect. All part of the ritual.’
‘I didn’t think there still was a ritual. I thought, you know, the deal going through and all that, looking to the future… ’
‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘We need to know what’s happening now. We need damage limitation. We need a plan.’
‘You’re right,’ said the Portreeve. ‘Progress report. Suggestions.’
‘I see it like this,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘There are three distinct areas we need to look at. One. What’s going on with the police investigation into the cage and the boy. Two. Making sure none of this impacts on the shipment arriving safely. Three. Making sure the ritual goes ahead.’
The Missionary looked confused. ‘The ritual’s still going ahead? After all this?’
‘Has to,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘Too important not to. For him. He’s very angry at what happened. Very angry.’
‘The Missionary shuddered. ‘Right. Yes. Couldn’t we just… ’ Knowing what the answer would be, he let the words trail away.
The Teacher didn’t speak, just stared at him.
The Missionary sighed once more. ‘God, what a mess.’ Then looked up, eyes dancing. ‘Wait. Does it have to be that one? Couldn’t he use another one?’
‘You know better than to ask that.’ The Portreeve shook his head. ‘It has to be the chosen child. The ritual demands it.’ Leaning forward. Ghost of a smile. ‘Or would you like to suggest your idea to him yourself?’
‘So we have no option,’ said the Teacher. ‘We need to get the child back.’
‘And,’ said the Portreeve, ‘the police investigation has to be controlled.’
All eyes turned to the Lawmaker. Who gave a slow, weary smile. ‘All down to me, then. Again.’
‘Is the woman still a threat to us?’ asked the Teacher.
‘No,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘She met with a nasty accident this morning.’
‘Good,’ said the Teacher. ‘One less problem to worry about. It is, isn’t it?’
‘It’s being taken care of. I don’t think there’ll be repercussions.’
‘Christ, what a mess,’ said the Missionary.
‘Of your making,’ said the Teacher.
‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘We need to think, to plan. Come on, focus, concentrate. This is the most important thing you’ll do all year.’
They all sat back, thinking.
The only noise in the room the low murmur of air-conditioning.
Then, focused and concentrated, they began to talk.
Eventually, they had their plan.
Donna put the mug to her lips. Too hot. She set it back on the table at the side of the sofa. Took the cigarette from the ashtray, placed it between her lips, dragged down. Heard the paper curl and burn, felt the smoke fill her body. Took it way down. Blew out a stream of smoke, clouding her view of the living room. She held it in her fingers, looked at the glowing tip. The alcohol and drug tremble in her hands was subsiding, the tea and nicotine helping. She took another drag, curled her legs beneath her, looked at Ben playing on the floor.
Escape. That was what she was thinking about. Escape.
And Faith.
And the lies she had told the police bitch.
Escape. Donna knew all about it. Wrote the fucking book on it. If there was anything she was an expert in, that was it.
Escape.
That was how she had ended up where she was. How all the girls had ended up there, if they were honest. Which they weren’t, most of the time. Not to people who didn’t matter. And they were the ones they dealt with most of the time. Punters. Police. Council. Sometimes all three.
But escape. Running away. They were all running away from something. Herself included. Abusive husbands. Rapist fathers. Or fathers, uncles and friends. Families that weren’t. Running. Always running.
That was why they were all such fucking messes. Herself included. Running away, needing to escape.
Escaping into anything. A different life. Being a different person. Different name. And the ways of escape. Pills. Booze. The rock and the pipe. The herb. Lovely, all of it. Comedowns could be a bastard, but so what? Just score some more. Get high again.
Escape.
Another mouthful of tea. Cool enough to drink. Another deep draw.
Faith always said she was running. Escaping from something. Always had her stories. Donna never paid much attention. She had her own stories. Sometimes she told them. And when she did, she always changed them. Never the same one twice. But they were always the truth. At least they were at the time.
But Faith’s stories. The same every time. Running from something big. Had to escape. Couldn’t say anything, but had to escape.
Donna had never really listened. If it’s that big, she had said, why don’t you go to the papers? The TV? Get yourself on there?
Faith had just laughed. You think they’re not in on it? It’s huge, I’m telling you. Massive. They’re all in it together.
Donna had laughed then.
Keep me head down. Best way. Keep meself safe. And Ben. Especially Ben. ’Cos that’s who they want really. If somethin’ happened to me, it would be him they’d want.
And that had been that. Donna had let her go on. Silly girl. Silly little stupid messed-up girl.
Lots of the girls talked like that. Booze fantasies. Crack dreams. Spliff psychosis. And they were all true, the stories, all real. Donna never paid it much mind. Her stories were true too. When she was telling them.
But Faith… she hadn’t let up. Ever.
If somethin’ happens to me, she had said one night, eyes pinwheeling on skunk and vodka shots, anythin’, an accident, anythin’. Somethin’ happens… it’ll be them. After me. They’ll have got me. An’ if they do that, an’ if that happens… You’ve got to promise me… promise me…
Donna had taken a hit off the skunk and promised her.
Haven’t told you what yet. Promise me… you’ll look after Ben. Don’t let them take Ben. Whatever you do, don’t let them take Ben.
Donna had thought she was talking shit, but looking in her eyes, her bloodshot, broken eyes, she had seen that her best friend was completely serious.
So she had promised her. Whatever.
Faith had seemed relieved. They will come, you know. In a big car. Two of them. Both men. Wearin’ suits. Like Jehovah’s Witnesses. But they’re not. They’re not…
And then the drunken tears had started.
Promise me… promise me…
And Donna had promised once more.
She sucked the fag down to the filter, crushed it in the ashtray.
That copper. Martin. Hard-faced bitch. Fancied herself too. But she wasn’t as hard as she thought. Donna was good at reading people. She had to be in her line of work. Too many girls had got into the wrong car only to be found up in the woods at the Stour estuary with their brains smashed in by a claw hammer. So she had taught herself to read people. And Martin had been easy.
Easy to read.
Even easier to lie to and get away with it.
There was something behind her eyes. Some kind of damage. Hurt. And anger. Lots of anger. Donna would put money on there being a man behind it. Which was why she had sent her after Daryl.
She smiled.
Wished she could be there when Martin stomped in, accused him of being a pimp, of having something to do with Faith’s death. Oh, that would be priceless. Because Daryl was their pimp. Or used to be. Pimp and ex. She hoped he would get into something with Martin. Knew he would. Hoped that the bitch copper was angry enough and psycho enough to make something of it.
She wouldn’t like to put money on the outcome of that one.
She smiled, took a mouthful of tea. Grimaced. It was cold. She uncurled from the sofa and crossed to the window. Looked out.
And there it was. A big car. On the opposite side of the road.
A shiver ran through Donna. Her stomach flipped over.
Coincidence, she thought. The council out looking for benefit fiddlers again.
She looked closer. Two men sitting in it. Both wearing suits. Neither Jehovah’s Witnesses.
They were looking at her house. They were waiting.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
Her hands began to shake from more than last night’s booze and drugs. She had to do something. Anything.
Ben was still playing on the floor. Absorbed in his own world of make-believe. She looked again at the window, then down to the boy.
Thought of her friend. That silly girl. That silly little stupid messed-up girl.
Tears sprang to the corners of her eyes. She hadn’t grieved for Faith. Her best friend. Her lover. And she wouldn’t now. Things like that didn’t touch Donna. She told herself so all the time. She was too hard for that. She had to be.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand, ran her hand down her jeans.
‘Come on, Ben, get your stuff together. We’re goin’ out.’
‘We goin’ to see Mum?’
Donna felt the tears threaten again, pushed them back down. ‘No. We’re not. We’re… goin’ out.’ She forced a smile. ‘It’ll be an adventure. We’re runnin’ away. Come on.’
The little boy stood up, went upstairs. Donna looked round, tried to think what to do next. They had to get away. Far away. They needed a car…
She smiled. Went into the kitchen. Took out the biggest, sharpest kitchen knife she had. She never used it for cooking. But it came in handy to scare off psycho punters.
A car. She knew just how to get one…
The pub had large rectangular windows. Huge, bare. Inviting passers-by to look in, saying to the world: we have nothing to hide. Nothing untoward goes on in here. We’re a friendly, happy place. Come on in.
Rose Martin knew that was nowhere near the truth.
The Shakespeare liked to think of itself as one of the roughest pubs in Colchester. Villains and criminals were drawn to it like the terminally self-deluded and desperate were to X Factor auditions. And like those X Factor auditionees, the pub’s clientele were a similarly hopeless and pathetic bunch. Petty and low-level, bungling and inept. The pub nurtured these no-hopers, fuelled their delusions, lubricated their lack of success until failures talked themselves into winners. Kings of a cut-price castle. Until the real world hit them like an icy blast from the North Sea.
Until closing time came.
Rose Martin had dealt with this place many times in a professional capacity, both in uniform and out. Mopping-up operations on a weekend, banging heads together, proving she was a tougher uniformed officer than her male colleagues. Or then with CID, chasing after one of the failures who believed – wrongly, of course – he was ready to move up a league.
She knew this place.
As she walked in, she felt the adrenalin rise within her. An old response kicking in, her hands automatically clenching into fists, body going into fight-or-flight.
Fight, definitely.
She had also attracted attention. Made immediately as filth. May as well have a big neon sign round her neck. The solitary drinkers dotted round the place had either looked up at her as she entered or put their heads down, eyes averted. On tables of two or more, hands had swept the surface, gone underneath, where they would stay until she had left. A gang of lads clustered round the pool table stopped playing, stared. Gripped their pool cues like tribal warriors holding spears.
She moved further into the pub. The air was rank. Cigarette smoke no longer disguising wood ingrained and rotted by stale beer, or a toilet that hadn’t been recently cleaned, or a deep-fat fryer that hadn’t changed its oil since Tony Blair was prime minister.
The walls were drab, bare. Chairs that had survived being used as Saturday-night brawling weapons clustered round old, scarred tables. Vinyl banquettes lined the walls, a patchwork of gaffer-covered slashes.
Rose walked up to the bar. The barman was large and neckless. His stubble-shaved head went straight into his faded Hawaiian shirt. His face was as open and welcoming as an evangelical church to a married gay couple.
She showed him her warrant card. She needn’t have done. ‘I’m looking for Daryl Kent. He in? I was told he’d be here.’
The barman appeared to be thinking. Weighing up being a grass against not co-operating with someone who could get his pub investigated. He settled for nodding in the direction of the youths playing pool.
‘Which one?’ she said.
‘Dark lad. White hoodie.’ His lips didn’t move as he spoke.
She nodded by way of thanks and crossed the floor to the pool table. Spotted Daryl Kent straight away. He was mixed race and angry about it. Or at least angry about something. His eyes narrowed, features set into a scowl. Body tensed, ready to leap, begging for trouble.
‘Daryl Kent?’
He checked his gang first, a quick look either side. They moved in closer behind him, pool cues gripped tight. He looked back at Rose. ‘Who’s askin’?’
She showed him her warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Rose Martin.’
‘Five-O.’ Pleased with himself, like he’d just unravelled Fermat’s Last Theorem.
She waited. ‘Daryl Kent.’ A statement not a question.
A small nod. ‘Yeah.’
‘Can we talk?’
Another look round. ‘Talk here. My bredrin’s safe.’
Rose inwardly rolled her eyes. Talking like a New York gangster or a Jamaican yardie when he had probably been no further than Marks Tey.
‘You were Faith Luscombe’s boyfriend. Right?’
He shrugged.
‘That a yes?’
‘Yeah. Some. Not no more. Bitch was skanky.’
‘Certainly isn’t no more, Daryl, because she’s dead.’
It was like she had slapped him. Suddenly a different persona appeared. Shock passed over his features, followed by fear. Suddenly she sensed he was uncomfortable with his bredrin around him.
‘Seriously?’ His voice small, incredulous. A child’s response.
‘Seriously. Where were you last night, Daryl? Or this morning?’
He backed away from her, into the pool table. Fear spreading over his features. ‘Naw, naw… not me. You ain’t stitchin’ me up for it.’
‘Where were you, Daryl?’
Another look at his bredrin. They had dropped back away from him. Suddenly not that close. Rose was enjoying herself now. Putting this arrogant twat in his place.
‘With my… my new woman.’
‘What, your mum?’ She couldn’t resist it.
His bredrin sniggered. Daryl became angry.
‘Not my mum. Cheeky bitch. My new woman. Denise. Was round at her place.’
‘Right. And do you pimp her out as well?’
‘What?’ Shock and incredulity.
‘Get her to have paid sex with other men and then take her money off her? I thought you of all people would know what a pimp does.’
‘I ain’t no pimp.’
‘No?’ Rose’s anger was increasing. ‘I hate liars, Daryl. I really do. Such a lack of respect, being lied to. But you know what? I hate pimps most of all. Scum. Lowest of the low. Cowards, living off women. Too lazy to get themselves work.’
‘I ain’t no pimp!’
‘Liar.’
‘No I ain’t… ’ Another look round to his bredrin, who weren’t helping him. They had drifted away from him now. He was on his own. His anger increased. Rose saw his lips move, eyes dart. Trying desperately to think of a comeback. ‘But if I was a pimp,’ he said, ‘I’d turn you out. Show you some respect for talking to me like that.’
And that did it. All the excuse she needed.
She was on him. One arm locked round his neck, the other pulling his own arm up behind his back, stretching it as far as it would go. He cried out in pain. She felt his muscles tearing, heard something pop.
‘Take it outside,’ the barman said from the safety of the bar.
‘Fuck off,’ said Rose, then turned her attention back to Daryl. ‘Now, where were we? Oh yes. Liars and pimps. I hate both of them. And that’s you, Daryl. Now talk. You were Faith’s boyfriend. Did you pimp her out?’
‘No… ’
She pulled harder. He screamed. ‘Did you?’
‘No… ’ he gasped out.
It sounded like the truth, she thought reluctantly. He was too weak to keep lying while she was doing this. She kept going. ‘Where were you last night?’
‘With Denise, I told you… ’
She pulled again.
‘All right, all right… at home. At my mum’s… ’
‘That’s better.’
‘Wait… wait… ’
Rose waited.
‘Did… Donna send you? Did… she tell you that? Bitch… ’
A sudden realisation hit Rose. She had been played. Read, wound up and sent after Daryl. Donna had played her.
‘Why’s she a bitch, Daryl?’ Wanting to let go of him, not knowing how to. Not knowing how to let herself go.
‘Because… she hates me. Always hated me… hated me bein’ with Faith, mad lezzer wanted her for herself. An’ she got her an’ all… ’
Played.
It was a hateful feeling.
She gave him one last twist. He cried out and she let him go. He slumped to the floor beneath the pool table, gasping and crying. ‘You’re a psycho, a fuckin’ psycho… ’
‘And you’re still scum,’ she said, and walked out.
Away down the street, not knowing where she was going, just moving, letting the adrenalin subside.
Played. She couldn’t believe it.
Dissatisfied and unfulfilled. That was how she felt. She had been made a fool of. Hadn’t learned what she wanted to know. And she had assaulted an innocent man. Well, she doubted he was innocent. But he was in this instance.
That didn’t bother her. That wasn’t upsetting her. She was only angry about being lied to. She could have kept on hurting him. Making him scream.
In fact, she had wanted to.
And she didn’t know how she felt about that.
So she just kept on walking.
Mickey hadn’t had much luck or help at the demolition firm and it seemed to be continuing at the building firm. He was becoming irritated.
He leaned across the desk. ‘Look, I realise your boss isn’t here; you’ve said that enough times. I just want to know when he’ll be back and when I can talk to him.’
The girl behind the desk just stared once more.
He was in the offices of Lyalls, the building contractors. He had checked them out. Once one of the East of England’s biggest firms, when the credit crunch hit they had found it hard going and the original owners had sold the company. But judging by the billboards and the blown-up photos adorning the walls of the reception area in the offices on Middleborough, they were still fronting, still looking prosperous. Still claiming to be responsible for the majority of new build going on in the town. Despite the fact that most of the projects had been completed a few years ago.
However, thought Mickey, whatever success the company had had didn’t stretch to them hiring a receptionist capable of independent thought.
She was pretty enough, beautiful even. He gave her that. In fact his first instinct had been to try and use whatever charm he had on her, but after her first, smiley response, all rictus grin and dead eyes, he had tried a more formal approach. That hadn’t worked either.
It was clear that whatever gifts she did possess were restricted to applying perfect make-up and choosing and wearing the right clothes, which, while looking suitably corporate, accentuated her gym-trim figure and showed just enough cleavage to distract from the fact that she was there primarily to stonewall.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Can’t say. Sometimes Mr Balchunas is out all day.’
‘And sometimes he isn’t. Right. Is there anyone else I can talk to? Anyone else who can help me?’
‘Umm… ’ She shook her head.
‘OK.’ Mickey took out a card, handed it to her. He spoke slowly. ‘Can you make sure he gets this, please? Tell him to call this number when he gets back.’ He underlined it with his finger to make sure she understood him. ‘Tell him it’s important.’
He waited until she had nodded, then turned, left the building.
Outside, he checked his watch. Back at the station, Milhouse was ploughing his way through computerised lists trying to find names behind the holding company that owned the property. Mickey seemed to be having no luck using up shoe leather. Time to call it a day, he thought.
As he did so, a car pulled up. Jag, chauffeur-driven. The suited driver got out, opened the back door. A small, dark man got out. Small but, Mickey noticed, compact. Solid. And well-dressed. Like a street fighter who had learned how to use his skills in business. He still looked like he could handle himself. But not at the moment. His eyes darted round nervously. They alighted on Mickey.
‘Mr Balchunas? Karolis Balchunas?’
The man jumped. ‘What? Yes, who are you?’ Spoken with an accent. Mickey couldn’t place it.
He showed his warrant card, gave his name. ‘Could I have a quick word, please?’
The man’s distress increased. Mickey sensed Balchunas was about to fob him off, brush him aside, but he stood his ground, took strength from stillness, didn’t move.
It worked. Balchunas sighed. ‘Come in, please. But I’m very busy, I can’t give you long.’
‘This’ll only take a few minutes, sir.’
Balchunas turned, entered the building, Mickey following.
He turned as the car pull away. And stopped.
There was another passenger. He ducked his head away as if not wanting to be seen, but too late. Mickey had glimpsed him. And recognised him.
The man from the solicitors’ offices. The one he knew but couldn’t give a name to.
Mickey’s stomach gave a small lurch. Something was happening here. He didn’t yet know what, but there was a pattern emerging.
Hurrying, he followed Balchunas inside.
Anni couldn’t concentrate. She was sitting outside the boy’s room, waiting. It wasn’t a skill she was proficient at at the best of times. And this wasn’t the best of times.
She felt out of her depth on this one. That was why she had called Marina in. But now Marina had left, and in her place was a child psychologist Dr Ubha had brought in. Jenny Swan seemed a pleasant enough woman, middle-aged, dyed blonde hair, curvy and handsome-looking. Probably a stunner in her youth, now more like a trendy grandma.
Anni had briefed her as much as she could, told her it was still early in the investigation and he was going to take a lot of working with. Jenny Swan had nodded as Anni talked, took it all in, asked questions.
‘I think it’s better if I work with him alone.’
Anni had nodded. ‘Fine.’ She felt happier about that.
Jenny Swan had then walked through the door to the room, smiling at the boy as she went in, putting him at ease as much as she could.
The door had closed behind her and Anni had been left outside.
When Anni had been in the room while Marina was talking to the boy, she had felt distinctly uncomfortable. She had been trained to work with abused children – her remit as a reactive DC in the Major Incident Squad encompassed that. But this boy was especially difficult. She felt it strongly from him, like a kind of chemical repellent.
All her usual tricks had failed. She could find no commonality with this boy. Nothing she could get a handle on. Nothing she could find to engage him with. Like he was from a completely different tribe. Or race, even. Species.
He gave her the creeps. She felt guilty admitting it, but it was true.
Anni knew what traumatised kids were like. She’d worked with enough of them. They weren’t the airbrushed, doe-eyed victims the tabloids liked to portray. They were fractured, damaged individuals, sometimes irredeemably so. Occasionally they could be helped, put back on track with the right care and support, but she had seen too many of them go straight from hellish childhoods to secure units to young offenders institutions to adult prisons. Their crimes escalating each time, externalising the abuse they had suffered, taking it out on someone else.
But this boy… he was beyond even that. From what she had seen of him, he was a breed apart and she couldn’t begin to get a handle on him.
The door opened. Jenny Swan emerged, closed it quietly behind her.
Anni stood up. ‘How is he?’
The strain was showing on her face already. ‘Not… happy. He’s calmed down since he first came here and is communicating, after a fashion. I think your colleague helped to open him up.’
‘Did he tell you anything? Anything we could use?’
She looked momentarily unhappy about Anni’s question, the conflicting interest showing in her eyes. ‘I… it’s too early to say. Nothing yet, I don’t think.’
‘He talked about his mother before.’
‘And now. He’s very concerned that she should be safe.’
‘Did he manage a description, anything like that? Talk about a place where she might be?’
‘The garden, that’s all he said. She’s in the garden.’
Anni nodded. Nothing more than Marina had got out of him. ‘Thank you, Jenny.’
Anni turned away, checked her watch. There should be a uniform coming to relieve her soon for the night shift.
‘Oh, there is one other thing.’
She turned, waited.
‘Wherever this boy has been, wherever he’s been kept, it’s far away from the rest of society. And I don’t need an examination to know he’s been forced to do things against his will.’
‘Such as?’
Jenny sighed. ‘I… wouldn’t like to speculate. But my guess is something horrific. Sustained and repeated, too. And something else.’
‘What?’
‘Wherever he’s been kept, he and his mother, they weren’t the only ones.’
Anni frowned. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Exactly.’
Balchunas sat behind his desk. The room, like the reception foyer, was covered with photos of developments. Amongst these were framed certificates, citations and awards. Statuettes sat on a shelf over the filing cabinets, in front of photos of Balchunas shaking hands with politicians and celebrities. He looked the same in every photo – beamingly thrilled to be there; they looked the same in every photo – bemused and startled.
Balchunas fidgeted. He couldn’t get comfortable, shuffling round on the seat, making the leather squeak. He picked things up off the desk, played with them, put them down again. He fiddled with cuffs, the edges of his shirt. In response, Mickey sat as still as possible. Waited.
‘I can’t give you long, I’m afraid, Detective… I’m sorry, what was your name again?’
‘Detective Sergeant Philips. That’s all right, Mr Balchunas, I won’t need long. Just a couple of questions.’
‘Fire away.’ His smile was shaky, his voice resigned.
‘You know about the discovery at the property at the bottom of East Hill? On the land you were going to build a new housing estate on?’
Balchunas sighed, fidgeted some more. ‘Yes, yes, terrible business. Shocking.’ His eyes strayed away from Mickey, on to a photo of Karolis Balchunas shaking hands with Boris Johnson. In the flashlight, only one of them seemed pleased about it.
‘I’d just like to know who owns the property, the land that you’re building on. Is that you?’
‘No, no. Not us. We’re just the contractors. We just build. Sometimes we own the land, but not in this instance.’
‘So who does?’
‘I… don’t know.’
‘You don’t know.’
‘No.’ Shaking his head, building the point emphatically. ‘No. I don’t.’
Mickey frowned. ‘Do you often build properties and not know who owns the land?’
More shuffling, more fidgeting. ‘No… ’
‘Then why in this case?’
‘I… look. Have you tried the Land Registry? They would know.’
‘And you wouldn’t?’
‘I could find out. It would take time… ’
Mickey leaned forward. ‘Mr Balchunas, is there something you’re not telling me? Because if there is, I may see it as obstructing an investigation.’
Anger flared in Balchunas’ face. His cheeks flushed. Fists clenched. ‘Who’s your superior officer, Sergeant?’ His voice suddenly strong, clear.
Mickey didn’t answer straight away. Just nodded to himself. This was following a pattern. Whenever he questioned anyone who had money, who perceived themselves as having status or influence, that line always came up. But only when they were asked something they didn’t want made public knowledge. A fact they were ashamed of.
Or of losing control over.
‘Can I take it you’re not going to answer the question, sir?’
‘Are you going to answer mine? I have friends in the police force, Sergeant. High-ranking ones. Important ones.’ He gestured towards his framed photos. Unfortunately he alighted on Philip Glenister posing as DCI Gene Hunt.
Mickey thought of giving Phil’s name, the person he regarded as the boss, but didn’t think that was senior enough to impress Balchunas. So gave him another.
‘DCI Brian Glass.’
Balchunas sat back, face impassive. ‘I’d like you to leave, Detective Sergeant. I’m a busy man. I have work to do. Especially in light of what’s happened today. I could stand to lose an awful lot of money.’
‘I appreciate that, Mr Balchunas, but-’
‘I am not legally obliged to tell you anything. Any further questions can be put to me through my solicitors.’
‘Who are?’
‘Fenton Associates.’
Fenton Associates. Lynn Windsor’s firm. Based at the Georgian house at the bottom of East Hill.
‘Right, sir.’ Mickey stood up, turned to the door. Turned back. ‘Just one more thing.’
Balchunas waited, seemingly holding his breath.
‘The person in the back of your car.’
Fear flashed across his eyes once more.
‘Person?’
‘Yes. The man in the car with you. You got out, it drove away. With him in it. Who is he?’
Balchunas’ mouth moved but no sound came out.
‘Mr Balchunas?’
‘There… there was no other person. There was just me.’
‘You’re lying to me. Sir. There was a man in the back of that car. And I’d like to know who he is.’
Balchunas stood up. Anger in his eyes. ‘Get out. Now. Or I will have you reported to your superior. I’ll have my solicitor on you for harassing me. Go on. Get out.’
Mickey felt anger of his own rising. Tamped it down. ‘I’m going, Mr Balchunas. But I doubt this is the last you’ll hear from me.’
Mickey left.
Outside, walking down Middleborough, he tried to piece things together. Couldn’t. There was something just out of reach, something he couldn’t quite get.
But he knew that if he could remember who that man in the car was, it would all become a lot clearer.
Paul was shaken. He had to sit down.
They had let him go. They’d had to. Couldn’t even keep him as a witness, because he’d seen nothing. Or at least nothing he wanted to tell them. Because if he did, he would have to think about things too much and it would all start to fall in. No more sun on his face, no more breathing in the open air. No more relaxing. No. It would be back in the cave for him and he didn’t want that. Didn’t want that ever again.
But they had kept on. And on and on. And on. They had told him things, waited for him to respond. To make their minds up about whether he was telling the truth from what he said and the way he said it. And he didn’t want that. He couldn’t have that.
Because if they didn’t like what he said or the way he said it, they would put him in a cell and never let him out again.
And that would be as bad as the cave.
Or nearly as bad. At least he might be on his own there. Just Paul. No Gardener. That would be something.
But he had said nothing. Given them nothing. Because they were the dogs. The earth. He was the wind. The butterfly.
‘I’m the butterfly… ’
He hadn’t realised he had spoken aloud. People tried to pretend he hadn’t said anything, that they hadn’t seen him. Just glimpsed him out of the corners of their eyes and hurried on by. Made him invisible.
He didn’t care.
He walked up the street. Shops and people with bags. Going into shops to get more bags. And more. Hurrying before the shops closed, said they couldn’t have any more stuff till tomorrow. They would wait and then start again. That was their lives.
But not his. Never his. Because he had a joy within him they would never have. Could never know.
He said all this to himself as he walked up the street. Words coming out between his ruined teeth. Words only he knew the meaning of. Words they would never understand.
Up the street and away.
He could hear the cave calling. Knew who was there. What he would do. But Paul was soft. That was his trouble. He would go in, see if he was all right. See if he had changed, if he was ready to come out and be nice. Go from Cain to Abel. And sometimes he would say he was. But he was tricking Paul. Being nice just to get out. Then he would be the same as he always was. Bad. Bad man. Evil. The serpent in paradise. And he would throw Paul in the cave. And Paul would sit there in the dark. Crying, wailing. Feeling guilty for what he had done. Trying to find his way out. To see the sin and breathe the air. But there would be no way out. Not until the Gardener decided to let him out.
And Paul fell for it every time.
Every time.
Like this time. He knew he would fall for it. He always did. Because he was weak. He used to think it wasn’t weakness, it was meekness. For they shall inherit the Earth. But he had tried that. And look what had happened. That was where the Gardener had come from. And the rest of them.
So he hurried away from the people.
Because as hard as he tried to resist it, the cave was calling.
And he knew he would have to open it.
Donna closed the door behind her, hard. It felt loud. Final.
She looked down at Ben standing beside her. The little boy was wearing all his best clothes, his new – or new to him – coat on and fastened up to the neck. He looked up at her, eyes uncomprehending but trusting. A shiver of maternal feeling ran through Donna. It was one thing to look after herself. But now she had him to think about.
‘You all right, then?’ she said to him.
He nodded.
‘You remember what to do?’
Nodded again. ‘What you do,’ he said. ‘What you tell me to do.’
She managed a grim smile, hoped it didn’t scare him. ‘Good. Come on.’
She had packed a holdall with as much stuff as she could manage. She slung it over her shoulder, kept it in place with one hand, held Ben’s hand in the other. She looked over at the car. It was still there, the two men sitting in the front, pretending not to look at her.
Donna set off down the road, away from the main entrance on to Barrack Street. It was starting to get dark. The grey in the sky deepening, the sodium lights casting the street in pools of orange.
They passed the car, Donna looking through the windscreen at the two men. Both big, both wearing suits.
Just like Faith had said.
She swallowed hard, gave Ben the signal and started to run.
Initially, nothing happened. Then she heard car doors opening, slamming closed. Feet running behind her. They were coming.
Still gripping Ben’s hand hard, Donna ran down the road and round a corner. There were no houses down here. It was a walkway, a cut-through to another street. Bushes pushing against a chain-link fence on one side, the high wall of a graffitied garage on the other.
She raced down the cut, still holding the bag on her shoulder. Glad she was wearing trainers. Ben was running as fast as he could, trying to keep up with her. They reached a corner, ran round it. Stopped.
It was a longer alley, bushes on both sides, fast-food debris, plastic bottles lying around, broken glass sparkling like uncut diamonds in the weak reflected light of the occasional street lamp. It was deserted.
‘Get behind me. Quick.’
Ben obeyed, holding on to Donna’s leg, gripping it tight.
‘Don’t cling on to me, just stand there.’
He dropped his hands, did as he was told.
Donna waited, flattened against the fence, chest heaving from the exercise. If she got out of this, she told herself, she would never smoke again. Or cut down at least.
All she could hear was her own breathing.
She felt inside her jacket pocket, did an inventory with her fingers. All there. Good. She took out a small cylinder, held it tight in her hand.
Then she heard them, above her own ragged breathing, the pounding of feet on tarmac. She braced herself. Knew she would get only one chance at this, had to do it properly.
The first one arrived. She didn’t even stop to look at him, see if she recognised him. She just pointed her pepper spray, let him have it full in the eyes.
It took him a couple of seconds to realise what had happened, but once the shock subsided and the pain kicked in, he flung his head back, clawing at his eyes. He dropped to his knees, head forward. Gasping, screaming.
The other one arrived then. She turned to him, ready to give him the same treatment. But he was too quick for her. He had quickly sized up the situation, decided the same thing wasn’t going to happen to him. He looked straight at her, anger in his eyes. Punched out his fist. Knocked the can flying from her hand.
Advanced on her.
He smiled. He had her.
Or so he thought.
Heart beating so fast she thought her chest would explode, she reached into her pocket for Plan B. Brought it out.
The kitchen knife.
Gripped it tight. Felt the heft of it in her hand, saw the light glint off the long, sharp, heavy blade.
Didn’t hesitate. Just thrust it outwards, sliced at him. As hard and as fast as she could.
He stood there, shocked, unmoving. Looked down at his chest. Blood began to seep through his white shirt from his left shoulder down to the top of his belt. He looked at her, surprise on his face.
Donna was shocked at the sight too. Couldn’t quite comprehend that she had actually done that, that she was responsible for it. But she recovered quickly. Saw that it had only slowed him down, not stopped him. Slashed him again.
The blood began to pump now, more quickly, soaking the white fabric to a deep red.
Donna looked at the knife, at the man in front of her. He was starting to topple forward, falling to one knee, his hand trying to hold himself together. He looked up at her. The smile was a distant memory. Incomprehension had given way to shock, which had now given up its place for terror. Fear in his eyes.
And Donna felt a surge of strength. She knew now what it must be like to be a man. To have that sense of control, that power. It was a new feeling to her. And she loved it.
She looked at the knife again. She wanted to slash him once more, keep slashing, until there was nothing left of him but ribbons of blood and flesh. Make him answer. Make him pay for the years of pain and abuse she had suffered at the hands of men.
The knife went towards him once more.He cowered away.
She stopped herself. Reminded herself she was doing this for a reason, a purpose.
‘Give me your car keys. Now.’ Shouting, adrenalin raising her voice.
He did so, taking the keys out, throwing them on the ground.
‘Pick them up, Ben.’
She looked behind her at the little boy. He was standing there, hands covering his face, shaking.
‘They’re bad men, Ben,’ she urged him. ‘They’re going to hurt us. We have to do this. Quick.’
He didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ she said, and bent down herself to pick the keys up. ‘Now your wallets. Just the cash.’
Neither of them moved; they just lay there, groaning.
‘Now!’ She brandished the knife once more. It worked.
They both dug into their pockets, flung their wallets on the ground. She bent down, took the cash out. Didn’t look at it as she pocketed it, but it felt like a couple of hundred there.
‘Now phones.’
They did so. She picked them up, threw them over the hedge.
‘Right,’ she said to Ben. ‘Come on.’
She grabbed his hand, pulled him along with her. It was like dragging a small slab of granite.
They ran back the way they had come. The car was still parked there. Donna ran towards it, threw the holdall on to the back seat. Told Ben to get in the passenger side. He did so, moving numbly.
Donna got behind the wheel.
Drove away as fast as she could.
The phone rang. And the rest of the world fell away as the Teacher heard the voice.
‘You’re not supposed to call. Not here.’
‘I know,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘And I wouldn’t be. Unless it was important.’
The Teacher sighed. ‘What? I thought we had it all arranged. A plan.’
‘We did. But things have changed since then. Very quickly.’
The younger one’s heart skipped a beat. ‘How?’
‘The investigation seems to be picking up things we don’t want it to. Talking to people we’d rather they didn’t.’
‘Can’t you fix it?’
‘Of course. But it takes time. And there’s been an added complication. The woman who died.’
‘The accident.’
‘Right. Her… partner, shall we say… has disappeared. Taken that boy with her.’
‘But she doesn’t-’
‘We don’t know what she knows. We can’t take the chance.’
The Teacher sighed. ‘We should stick to the original plan. Let the others do their part.’
‘I agree. But there’s more we could be doing.’
The Teacher felt the chill in the words. Knew that further argument was futile. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘We stick to what we’ve already arranged. As far as that goes.’ The Lawmaker’s voice dropped, became conspiratorial. ‘But I think our Missionary friend may have made his final mission.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘I think he’s been recognised. Even after all this time. And if that’s the case, it won’t take them long to put a name to the face. And then… well. Do I need to tell you?’
Silence.
‘It won’t be a question of damage limitation any more. It’ll be the end. Of everything. We don’t need the Missionary any more. He’s done his part, the deal’s been struck. We’ve already got our new partner, could even be the next Missionary. So the current one would just be… in the way.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
A chuckle. ‘That’s what I like about you. So pragmatic. The Missionary is removed. Permanently.’
‘How? Not one of us, surely.’
‘Of course not. But I imagine the Gardener isn’t too happy at the moment. Waiting for his ritual to go ahead, not knowing whether he’s going to get his victim returned to him or not, he’s going to have a lot of pent-up energy. He’s going to need a release.’
‘But on the Missionary… ’
‘Poetic, don’t you think?’
‘Would he do it?’
The Lawmaker laughed. What do you think? The Missionary will be on… gardening leave. Permanently.’
The Teacher thought about it. ‘Does the Portreeve know?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Will he know?’
‘Eventually. They’ll all find out.’
‘So why tell me?’
‘Because the Portreeve is the past. And you’re the future. And it’s always wise to invest in the future.’
The Teacher could find no words.
‘We’ll talk tomorrow. Remember, you still have a part to play.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten.’
‘Looking forward to it?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘We’ll speak soon.’
The phone went dead.
The Teacher put the phone away. The real world, held in abeyance for the duration of the call, started up again.
But it didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel right.
It felt like an illusion.
It felt like… nothing at all.
Phil ducked under the tape, dodged the waiting news crews, walked away from the crime scene. His Audi was parked on the opposite side of the road.
Marina was going back to the station in her own car. Just as well, he thought. He had felt uncomfortable around her. And he had felt bad keeping what he was feeling from her. The trouble was, he still didn’t know what exactly he was feeling. Just that it wasn’t good.
As he reached his car, he heard his name being called. He turned. Saw Don Brennan walking over the bridge towards him.
‘There you are,’ said Don.
‘Don.’ Phil walked away from the car to join him on the bridge. With the lack of action, bodies or blood down below, the gawpers had thinned out. ‘What brings you here?’
Don shrugged, smiled, tried for casual. ‘Oh, you know. Just out for a walk. Bit of exercise.’
‘And you ended up here.’
Another smile. ‘Can’t keep away, can I?’
Phil looked at the man he regarded as his father. He was in his sixties but kept himself fit. He hadn’t succumbed to the expanding waistline and strawberry nose that cursed so many ageing coppers, those who couldn’t deal with the lack of focus and direction once the pension cheques started and the excitement of the job abruptly ceased. He played tennis, badminton. Still had a full head of hair, now white. Still dressed well. Not for him the beige windcheater and elasticated trousers. Instead, a plaid shirt, tweed jacket and jeans.
Don looked down at the house, the white tent. ‘Brings it all back,’ he said, smiling with the corners of his mouth.
Phil waited. He doubted this was just an accidental meeting.
Don looked away from the crime scene, back at Phil. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Early days,’ said Phil. ‘You know how it is.’ He was going to add or was, but decided to leave it. Sure that Don didn’t need any more reminding.
Don nodded. ‘Kid in a cage, wasn’t it? That what you said?’
‘That’s right,’ said Phil.
‘What, down there? In that house?’ Don looked once more at the crime scene.
‘That’s the one,’ said Phil, his eyes following.
‘Any leads? Anything?’
‘Nothing yet. Early days, like I said.’ Phil turned back to Don. ‘Are you really just here by chance, Don?’
Don looked down at the bridge’s stone balustrade, his own hands. Then back up to Phil. ‘I just thought… you know, you’re always saying I should come back, get in with the cold-case squad, that kind of thing… ’
‘Yeah. We’ve talked about this before.’
‘I know that. And I’ve always said no. But… ’ His eyes flicked down to the crime scene. Phil could tell he was tempted to keep looking, but he brought his gaze back up. ‘Well, I was thinking. You were saying about how short-staffed you were. Cuts and that.’
‘Yes.’ Phil could see where this was going.
‘Well I just thought… ’ He shrugged. ‘You could use all the help you can get.’
‘You want to work this case? With me? Be on the team? That what you’re saying?’
Another shrug. ‘If you’ll have me.’
‘And what would you do, exactly?’
‘You know. Filing. Office stuff. Bit of legwork.’ He looked away again. Phil couldn’t see his eyes. ‘Check out the files, the archives, see if this kind of thing’s happened before. Any connections… ’
He didn’t look back at Phil. Phil couldn’t read his expression.
‘D’you think it has?’ said Phil. ‘Does it remind you of anything?’
‘Don’t know. I could have a look.’ He tapped his head, looking at Phil at last. ‘Get the old brain cells going again.’
Phil didn’t know what to say. He was sure from his body language that Don had some ulterior motive. But he also knew that if he asked him, he would just deny it. Still, something about this case was stopping Phil from thinking straight. It might be good to have someone he could trust and rely on alongside him.
‘You sure you can stand working with me?’
Don gave a small laugh. ‘Why wouldn’t I? Taught you everything you know.’
Phil smiled. ‘OK. I’ll have a word with Glass, see what he says.’
Don frowned. ‘Glass? Brian Glass?’
‘That’s him. D’you know him?’
‘Years ago. He was uniform when I was CID.’ He nodded, memories screening behind his eyes like old movies. Again the sides of his mouth curled into a smile. Not a happy one, Phil thought. ‘Yeah, I remember him. Doubt he’d remember me, though.’
‘We’ll see. I’ll give him a call.’
Phil detached himself from the side of the bridge. Looked at Don. ‘I’ve got to go. Marina’ll pop round for Josephina in a while, yeah?’
He went back to his car.
Head like a badly tuned radio.
Darkness had fallen. And cold with it: the air catching the breath unexpectedly after a warm day. And with the cold, fog. Drifting, swirling, rendering the world in dark, Impressionistic hues.
But the Gardener didn’t notice any of that. He didn’t care. He was out of the cave. That was all that mattered.
He stood by the gates, staring upwards. Breath a cloud of steam, his personal fog machine.
Out again. That stupid weak fool Paul. The Gardener laughed. He loved the man really. Paul had saved his life. Stepped in at a time when it was all falling apart. Showed him there was a different way. A better way. A purer way. And he would always be grateful to him for that. Always.
But he was a fool. And a soft-headed, soft-hearted one too. He had hope. Even now. Even after everything that had happened. And that was why he would never win. He would put the Gardener in the cave. Yes. But he would let him out again. Always.
Yes. Always.
The Gardener nodded to himself. Eyes never leaving the house before him.
Big. Old. Lights on in lots of rooms. Making it look inviting. Warm. Big gravel drive curving round before it. Grounds at the side. Grass. Trees. Deer in the trees. He had seen them. They had seen him too. Run from him. Scared.
Good. They should be.
He had received the call. Been told what to do.
He hated being told what to do. Hated it. Especially with what had happened today. The sacrifice house gone. The boy taken. How had that been allowed to happen? Didn’t they know how important it was? To him? To them? All of them?
They had said they did. And that they would make everything all right. Get the boy back. Use the other sacrifice house. They had better, he had told them. They had to.
Or it would be their turn next.
They knew that. But first they wanted him to do something for them. And for himself too.
They had told him what it was.
And he had smiled.
He would have done it anyway if they had asked. Enjoyed it. But he didn’t tell them that. Made them bargain. Give him what he wanted. Needed. It was only right.
And they would keep their promises.
As he would keep his.
He looked up at the building once more. Saw what it once had been. Heard the voices of ghosts, glimpsed them all around. Then saw it for what it had become. And the voices stilled. Now there was… nothing.
He moved towards it. Knew the secret way in. Knew everything about the place.
Pulled his hood on. Felt his breath against the inside. A truer skin than his own flesh.
Felt inside his pocket for the blade.
Smiled inside the hood.
Like God had kept his promise to Abraham, he would make sure they kept their promise to him.
And he would enjoy it while he did it.
He took a sip of his drink. Rolled it round his mouth. Good. Fine. Smiled. Took another one. Settled back in his chair. Relaxed.
They’d never find him here. Here of all places. Never think to look.
Not that they were looking for him.
Nah. Everything was fine.
Or it would be.
Bit of a misunderstanding, that was all. Just like he’d told them. Needed the money for the deal to go through. No problem. It would all be sorted out soon. Because no matter what the filth had found – or thought they’d found, because they didn’t have a clue yet – it could all go away with money. Just like the old days. Bung a bit here and there, a few favours, pay for some blind eyes, that was it. Bish, bosh, and free to go about your business. Didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Especially now. Not with-
‘Robin?’ A voice from the bathroom. He’d almost forgotten she was there.
‘Yeah?’
‘I am nearly ready.’
‘Can’t wait to see you, sweetheart. Bet you look spectacular.’
She should. Money he’d paid for her. And she’d better be spectacular an’ all. Because East Europeans were always the best. Had a reputation to keep up.
Another mouthful of whisky. God, that was smooth. Just slipped down like silk on fire. No after-burn at all.
He smiled, gave a small laugh to himself. Robin. A little joke he played with himself. His nom de plume. His alias. Robin Banks. Still made him laugh to think of it. Irony and all that.
He put the whisky on a side table, stretched out in the seat, hands behind his head. Ankles crossed. He looked down his body. Bespoke Savile Row suit. Hand-made Italian leather shoes. Silk socks. Shirts from Jermyn Street. If you’re going to do it, do it properly.
He sighed. He’d fronted it round the table, stuck it out when their questions had got a bit too close. Tried to play it down, look relaxed. But he needed that deal to go through. Desperately. Things had reached the end the way they were, no question. But it would take a bit of vision to move on to the next step. And vision, unlike cash, was one thing he had plenty of.
But there was still that niggling doubt, that feeling that it was all a house of cards that could come crashing down any second.
He brushed all that away. Didn’t need doubts. Never had them, never had need of them; too old to start entertaining them now.
But still…
He sighed. ‘You ready in there yet?’
‘Nearly… ’
‘Well hurry up. Any longer an’ I’ll have had too much to drink. An’ if that happens, that’s your fuckin’ tip gone, darlin’.’
He heard an angry slamming of cosmetics from behind the closed door. He smiled. Good. Get ’em angry. Fire ’em up. He liked it when they had a bit of spirit to them. Made it more memorable.
And made his job easier, if he was honest. At his age, that was a relief.
‘Now come on. I’m takin’ my little blue pill. Don’t wanna waste it.’
He slipped the pill into his mouth, swallowed it down with a shot of whisky. Hoped he’d timed it right. One time, he’d got it all wrong. Barely able to get hard when the bird was there, walking around like a fucking flagpole all the next day.
He put the glass back on the table. Noticed it was empty. Picked up the phone, called room service. Asked for another bottle.
Sat back. Waited.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Blimey, that was quick.’
He levered himself out of the chair, legs stiff, crossed the room. Opened the door.
‘Must be some kind of record,’ he started to say. ‘I only just-’
And stopped.
‘Oh no. Oh no… ’
He had seen who it was.
And what he held in his hand.
‘Oh no… not you, no… ’
The figure advanced into the room. Slammed the door behind him.
‘Look, I’m sorry, right… ’ He backed away from the intruder. ‘I didn’t know you were still… in there… ’
The figure kept advancing towards him. He could hear that broken, ragged breathing, smell that rotted, loamy smell. Hadn’t encountered either for years. The memory made him shiver.
‘Come on, not me… I mean, not me… ’
The figure kept advancing. He was pushed against the far wall.
This is it, he thought. This is the end. Unless I do something. Unless I find some way of fighting back.
He reached across to the table, found the empty whisky bottle. Picked it up by the neck, swung it at his assailant.
Who ducked. The bottle missed his head, glanced off his shoulder. A grunt, a huff, but nothing else. Still advancing.
And then he felt his erection starting. Thanks a fuckin’ bunch, he thought. What perfect timing. He pulled at his crotch, trying futilely to rearrange himself.
If his assailant noticed, he didn’t show it. Just swung the blade up above his head.
‘No… no… ’
Brought it down.
Hack.
And again.
Hack.
And again.
Hack.
Until soon all that was left of him was his erection.
The figure turned, left.
Not noticing the muffled screams and sobs coming from the bathroom.
Dissolving away into the night.
Marina heard the door, opened her eyes. Checked the clock. Blinking green numerals told her it was nearly half one. Phil coming home.
She hadn’t slept.
The call had come earlier. Marina had picked Josephina up from Eileen, brought her home. She had felt something strange about Eileen’s mood, a diffidence, a reserve. A fear, even. But hadn’t felt it was quite her place to ask if there was anything wrong.
So home after that, feeding the baby, playing with her, putting her to bed. Then starting on her report of the cellar. And that was when the phone had rung. Phil.
‘Listen,’ he had said, voice sounding remarkably like Eileen’s, ‘I’m going to be late.’
Marina didn’t know why, but she had expected this kind of call. Something to keep him out. Something to keep him away from her.
‘OK.’
She heard the hum of atmospherics coming down the phone line. A swirling silence between them.
‘There’s… there’s been a murder. Out at the Halstead Manor Hotel. Nasty one too.’
‘What happened?’
‘One of the guests. Carved up. Really badly. It’s… I’m there now.’
‘Right. So… what time will you be home?’
‘Late. I can’t see… ’ A sigh. ‘Late. This is a bad one.’
More atmospherics.
‘Well I’ll… will you have eaten?’
‘I’ll grab something on the way. Don’t worry. About me.’
Silence then, as she bit back what she wanted to say. The atmospherics, the swirling, came from her inside her own head this time.
I do worry, she wanted to say. Especially now. Since you’ve pulled so far away from me so suddenly. I should worry. I do worry.
‘OK.’ All she could manage.
More silence. The phone line. His and hers.
‘I’ll not wait up for you, then.’
‘Best not to.’
Silence. Rising to deafening.
‘OK. See you later,’ said Marina. ‘Or not.’
They said their goodbyes. Hung up on each other. Marina put the phone down, looked round the living room.
They were really starting to make it theirs. It had been painted, furniture moved in. Old stuff discarded, new stuff chosen together. No longer living out of boxes, they’d arranged and shelved their books and CDs, integrating them all together. Marina had joked that Phil would want everything placed alphabetically. He had laughed and replied no. Let’s arrange them as if they’re at a dinner party.
‘Put books together by writers we think would get on. Same with CDs. A kind of thematic consistency.’ He had smiled at her as he said the words, gently teasing, the kind of thing she would say to him.
And that was how they had arranged things. Spent the best part of a day doing it.
And at the end she had loved him even more.
But that was then. This was a new Phil. A closed, cold Phil. A keeper of secrets. A non-communicator. She wasn’t used to this. She was throwing herself out there, at him, and he was ignoring her. Pretending she wasn’t there. It unnerved her, unsettled her.
Scared her.
And now here he was, coming in.
She heard him climbing the stairs, quietly. Heard the door to Josephina’s room open, knew he was checking in on her. Then the door of their bedroom opened.
What to do? Pretend to be asleep, or talk to him?
She lay on her side, away from him, as she always did.
She heard him undressing, using the bathroom. Felt him get into bed next to her. Expected to feel his body up against her, arm round her waist, the way they always slept.
Felt nothing.
She wanted to move, turn to him, ask what was wrong, where he was.
But didn’t. Just stayed where she was. And she knew why. Not because she was scared of asking the question.
Just of hearing the answer.
So she lay there, awake. Pretending to be asleep. And knew that Phil was doing exactly the same.
And the night dragged on.