Phil tried to move. Couldn’t.
Something round his neck restraining him, holding him back. His fingers went to it. Found cold, rusted metal. Sharp edges digging in. Tightly clamped, just enough space to breathe.
He tugged. Felt his throat constrict.
Put his hands behind his head, his neck, looking for something – anything – that could give him purchase. Found only rusted chain. Heard the clanking in his ears, the weight of it in his hands as he pulled. Pulled again.
Nothing. It wouldn’t budge.
His heart was hammering, chest beginning to ache. Like the other, more familiar metal band was wrapping itself round him, tightening, tightening…
He gasped, tried to hold down the pain, keep breathing…
Keep breathing…
Hands behind his head, he pulled the chain once more. Hard as he could. Felt nothing but the coldness of metal in his hands. Dead. Heavy. Unyielding. Felt his chest burning.
His eyes closed. Hot tears forming behind his eyelids.
Heard himself shout out:
No… no… let me… let me go, let me go…
No sound emerged. Shouting only in his head.
Please…
Nothing. Just his inner screams, inner pain.
He dropped the chain, opened his eyes. And saw what was before him.
And when he knew where he was, his heart thumped harder, chest ached fiercer.
He was in the cage. The cage of bones.
No…
Screamed, at the top of his lungs.
Silent.
Hands outstretched now, clamped tight round the bone bars. Pulling hard, harder…
He could feel the age in them, the smoothness. And the strength. Nothing gave. The cage held firm. He pulled again, pushed, rattled back and forth.
Nothing.
Another scream.
Another silence.
And then, at the far end of the cellar, a shadow amongst shadows, he saw someone. A figure moving closer. Slowly, slowly closer. Weak light glinting off metal. A sickle held in an outstretched fist. Moving slowly, rotating. Backwards… forwards…
Backwards… forwards…
Swinging slowly.
No… no… please no…
Silence. Impenetrable. Deafening.
Something else about the figure. A reason for its slow motion. It was dragging one leg. Throwing it out, limping painfully on it. But coming steadily forward.
Slowly… inexorably.
Phil’s hands went into overdrive. Pulling at the chain. Pulling at the bars.
Nothing. And nothing.
He stopped. Exhausted. And saw the face of the advancing figure.
Screamed again.
There was no face. Just sacking. Tatters. A rough scarecrow’s head, sewn crudely together to resemble a man’s. Slash for a mouth, but nothing for eyes. Just darkness. Two black holes.
Phil screamed once more.
He saw the rest of the figure now. Tattered from head to foot. Sacking. Hessian. Crudely stitched and sewn together. Patched. Filthy. A leather apron tied at the front. Old and dark-stained.
The sickle was raised. The moon blade shivering in the pale, weak light.
The tattered face loomed close, right up to the bars. Phil saw the eyes. Nothing there. Just deep, dark, empty black holes.
The blade glittered.
Was brought back.
Phil screamed.
The blade was brought down.
Phil screamed again, sobbing now.
Again. Again. Again.
Screaming, sobbing.
Silence.
‘Phil… Phil… ’
His heart was pounding, his chest burning. He couldn’t suck in enough air. His lungs didn’t feel big enough. Sweat covered his body, hot and prickly.
‘Phil… ’
He opened his eyes. Saw Marina’s anxious face, her eyes staring into his.
‘What… what… happened?’ His voice. He had found his voice.
‘You had a nightmare.’ Marina’s hand on his arm, rubbing slowly, her skin cool and soothing against his own, uncomfortably hot.
‘Nightmare… nightmare… ’ Gasping out words, gulping in air, struggling to sit up.
‘Just a nightmare. That’s all.’ Her hand stroking him. The feel of it reassuring. ‘Come on. Don’t talk. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.’
Phil turned his head, looked to where Marina was. The room was dark. But he could see her. The shape of her head. Her eyes. Her beautiful eyes shining out of the darkness.
‘Nightmare,’ he gasped.
‘That’s right.’ The stroke of her hand soothing, comforting. The closeness of her, their intimacy, reaching him. Calming him. ‘A nightmare. Come on.’
She pulled his body down to the bed once more. He felt her arms encircle his chest, her head on his shoulder. Legs pressed against his. A living, breathing cage of bones. Enfolding him. Protecting him.
‘Just a nightmare, that’s all.’
He nodded. She settled down with him. From the rhythm of her breathing and the weight of her arm, he could tell that she was soon asleep. He lay there awake. Staring ahead. Looking into the darkness. Wary for any shadows within shadows.
A nightmare. Just a nightmare.
Except it wasn’t. Phil knew that. He could feel it. He didn’t know how, but he could feel it.
No. Not just a nightmare.
It was so much worse than that.
Mickey sat in his chair, leaning back, toying with his pen, watching the rest of the team enter for the morning briefing. Bought-in large cappuccino resting beside him – four shots of espresso zinging him up to the hilt.
The bright late-September morning sun streamed through the blinds. Still clinging on to the idea of summer, not wanting to relinquish its grip, hand over to autumn in earnest.
Despite not finishing until late the night before, and being completely exhausted when he had finally hit the bed in his flat, Mickey hadn’t slept much. He hardly ever did when he was working a big case, and this one seemed to be developing into just that.
And then there was what he’d seen at the hotel. Those images would take some dislodging in his mind. The body of what had once been a man lay in a heap beside the far wall of the room. Butchered. The only word to describe it. The body sliced into, hacked to pieces, blood everywhere, the room redecorated in arterial sprays and splatters.
‘Someone must have really hated him, whoever he was,’ Mickey had said to Phil, looking from the doorway at the body. The SOCOs hadn’t allowed them anywhere nearer than that. They were going to be a long time with this one. This was, Mickey knew, a forensic worker’s dream.
Phil had kept staring. ‘Yeah. Whoever he was.’
‘Any ID?’
Phil had answered, never taking his eyes off the body. ‘Adam Weaver is the name in the wallet. But he signed in under the name Robin Banks.’
‘What?’ said Mickey. ‘He a Clash fan or something?’
‘Could be, who knows? He’d been booked in for a few days, had bought himself a bit of company last night.’ Phil pointed to the bathroom. ‘That’s who raised the alarm.’
‘Ah,’ Mickey had said, understanding.
‘Apparently,’ said Phil, ‘she was in the bathroom getting changed when there was a knock at the room door. After that she heard him screaming.’
‘And she didn’t look out?’
Phil shook his head. ‘Locked the bathroom door. Hid behind the shower curtain. Didn’t see a thing. Then phoned 999.’
Mickey frowned. ‘She had her phone in there with her?’
A ghost of a smile troubled Phil’s lips. ‘Taking photos for her boyfriend, apparently. Said it was an arrangement they had.’
Mickey’s turn to smile. ‘Classy. So he was here on business, then? Adam Weaver?’
‘What he said. We’ll get it looked into.’
Mickey looked again at the man lying on the floor. There wasn’t much of him left to recognise or make an identification from. But from the sweep of his grey hair, the first thing Mickey thought was, that’s the guy I saw yesterday. Then he shook his head. Seeing him everywhere now.
‘What?’ Phil looked at him. ‘What did you say?’
‘Er… nothing.’ Mickey hadn’t realised he had spoken his thoughts out loud.
Phil kept looking at him. Waiting.
‘Nothing.’
‘You had a thought there, Mickey. Your first response. Your copper’s intuition. What was it?’
Mickey tried to smile, laugh it off. ‘Well, I saw this guy. In the solicitors’ offices first. And I recognised him. Or thought I did. Couldn’t place him. Anyway, I didn’t waste too much time on it, kept going.’
He paused. Phil waited.
‘And then… ’ Mickey sighed. It felt ridiculous saying this aloud. ‘I saw him again. At the building firm. In a car with Balchunas. I asked Balchunas who he was. He got angry. Asked me to leave.’
‘And now he’s here. Dead.’
‘If it’s him.’
Phil looked again at the dead body. ‘D’you believe in coincidence, Mickey? When murder’s involved?’
Mickey didn’t reply. He knew a rhetorical question when he heard one.
Now he dropped the pen. Blinked. He had been slipping away. He took a mouthful of coffee. Two. Looked around the room once more.
The incident room of the Major Incident Squad was filling up. When a big investigation was under way, they moved into the bar. He could imagine, given the press of bodies in the room and the escalation in importance of what they were working on, that they would be in there soon.
They were all here. The Birdies, sitting together as usual. Milhouse, dragged blinking and squinting away from his computer, forced to interact with real people against his will. Anni. Sitting opposite Mickey. She looked up. Smiled. He returned it. Held it for a second too long. Just as she did.
Every time he saw her – which was just about every day – the word that came into his head was ‘nearly’. They had nearly gone out together. Nearly gone for a drink. Or dinner. Or the cinema. They had nearly kissed. They had nearly gone to bed together. Nearly. Always nearly. There was definitely an attraction there. No question. And it was reciprocated, too. But neither one of them would make the final move towards the other. As if something – fear of rejection, fear of losing friendship, fear of losing mutual respect if it went wrong, he couldn’t say what exactly – was holding them back.
Maybe it was all of those things. Maybe none, something he didn’t even realise. Whatever, it had kept their relationship as just good friends. Who smiled at each other and held it for too long.
Then Glass entered. Took his place before the group, plonking a heavy-looking file down on the desk, digging into his briefcase for something to supplement it. No banter, no chat, just business. All business, as usual.
And then Phil arrived. With Marina. Mickey frowned. The pair of them entered together but couldn’t have looked further apart. They sat down next to each other but still managed to maintain a distance.
Lovers’ tiff, thought Mickey, risking a glance at Anni. From the expression on her face, she had picked up on it too. That was the trouble with having relationships with people at work, he thought sadly: if they went wrong, the fallout was awful.
Another glance at Anni. From the way she looked at him briefly, then away, it seemed like she was having similar thoughts.
‘Right, good morning, everyone,’ said Glass. Getting attention just with his voice.
Everyone looked at him, waited.
Mickey took a mouthful of coffee. Another. Blinked. Felt the caffeine jolt through his body.
‘We ready? Let’s start.’
Another quick glance at Anni, who was staring straight ahead, eyes on Glass. Mickey did the same.
He was ready.
‘OK,’ said Glass, ‘I think the first thing I should say is that we are now dealing with two ongoing major crimes, and we will be investigating them simultaneously.’
Phil said nothing. Just waited his turn to speak. Before Glass arrived, Phil had always led the briefings. He wasn’t the most senior officer in the team, but as a reactive DI, his role was the most hands-on. Glass had changed that. He had stated, brooking no argument, that he should be the one to host the briefings. Even when he didn’t know directly what they were about.
‘Phil here,’ said Glass, pointing.
Phil looked up as his name was mentioned.
‘Detective Inspector Phil Brennan will be running both investigations.’ He looked at Phil, made a rising gesture with his hand, as if he was a stage illusionist performing an act of levitation. Phil rose, walked to the front.
He tried to push last night’s nightmare out of his mind. Keep his recent fears securely locked up. Concentrate on his team, on the job he had to do. Work through it, don’t give in to it.
He looked at the assembled faces, his gaze falling on Marina. The concern in her eyes for him, the worry. The love. He felt a thudding of shame from within his chest, pangs of guilt at the way he was treating her. Something was going wrong within him. Very wrong. He didn’t know what. And the one person who could help him… he couldn’t tell her. Because he didn’t know how to tell her. Because he didn’t understand it himself.
He knew what she must suspect. What she must think of him. And he had to do something about it. Before those feelings crystallised. Before she pulled away from him the way he had from her.
Before they fell apart.
Concentrate on the team, he thought once more. On the job. On the work before him. The rest will have to wait.
‘OK,’ Phil said, eyes scanning those before him, ‘as you’re well aware, last night there was a murder at the Halstead Manor Hotel. The photos are here if you’d like to see them and you haven’t had any breakfast. But I wouldn’t advise it unless you need to. Because someone did a very thorough and brutal job on the victim.’
Adrian Wren frowned, spoke.
‘Halstead Manor… Isn’t that the place that used to have that commune in it?’
‘Years ago,’ said Glass. ‘I was on the team investigating that. One of my first jobs as a uniform. I remember it well. But I doubt that’s relevant.’
Adrian nodded, as if a bet had been confirmed. Phil waited, made sure there was nothing else from Glass. Continued.
‘The victim’s name was Adam Weaver. However, he was signed in to the hotel as Robin Banks.’
A ripple of laughter.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Phil. ‘Adam Weaver was a businessman, living in Lithuania. We don’t know what he was over here for, but we’re in the process of investigating. We do know that he was on the board of the company who own the hotel.’
Phil was aware of Glass leaning forward, listening more intently to his words.
‘And there’s something else,’ Phil continued. He looked to his DS. ‘Mickey?’
Mickey cleared his throat. ‘Yeah,’ he said, not standing up but turning to address the rest of the group. ‘Adam Weaver. I think I saw this man yesterday. At the offices of Fenton Associates, the solicitors’ practice just beside the house where we found the kid in the cage. And then again later, at the building contractors. He was in a car with Karolis Balchunas, guy who runs the company.’
Anni looked up. ‘So the two things are related?’
Phil became aware of Glass scrutinising him. He ignored him.
‘We don’t know,’ said Phil. ‘But we’ve had a look into Mr Balchunas and he’s Lithuanian too. So are most of the staff he employs.’
Glass cleared his throat. ‘So a businessman living in Lithuania is murdered while visiting another Lithuanian businessman living here. How is that related to the boy in the cellar?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Phil. ‘But we’ll find out if it is.’
‘Looking at it logically,’ said Glass, ‘it sounds like a business rival waiting until Weaver’s out of the country to do the dirty deed, somewhere he can’t be investigated. I’m sure he had rivals in Lithuania. Like the Wild West over there.’
‘You might be right, sir,’ said Phil, clearly irritated at the interruption, ‘and we’ll be looking into it. That’s one avenue. The other is that it’s connected with what we discovered yesterday.’
Glass shrugged.
‘We’re keeping an open mind.’ Phil looked again at his DS. ‘Thanks, Mickey.’
Mickey nodded, making eye contact as he did so.
Phil knew what that look meant. Mickey was grateful to him for not mentioning the fact that he had recognised Weaver from somewhere else. That was an angle that the two of them had agreed Mickey should work on his own. If it panned out, great. Another lead. If it didn’t, well these things happened in police work.
‘Could it have been a professional hit?’ asked Anni.
‘Well,’ said Phil, ‘I have to say, there didn’t seem to be anything professional about it. It was one of the most horrific murders I’ve ever seen. Ferocious. You usually see something like that only if it’s personal. So we don’t know yet. Not until we have more information.’
‘What about leads? Clues?’ Adrian this time.
‘Nothing much,’ said Jane Gosling. ‘But someone answering the description of the tramp we pulled in yesterday was seen in the area.’
‘What?’ Phil looked at the assembled faces. ‘I thought he was still being questioned. On whose say-so was he released?’
Glass leaned forward. ‘On mine.’
Phil looked puzzled and a little angry. ‘Why?’
Glass held up his hands. ‘Did you think he was our murderer?’
‘No, but-’
‘Exactly. So I let him go.’
‘But he could have seen something. Could have known something.’
‘There was nothing more he could tell us,’ said Glass. ‘He was questioned thoroughly. I’m sure everyone who spoke to him agrees that whoever got that boy into the cellar was younger and fitter than the tramp. And more capable of planning. Our chap wasn’t even capable of being a fully functioning human being. And certainly not strong enough.’
‘Couldn’t he have been on drugs?’ said Mickey.
‘Almost certainly,’ said Glass.
‘Well you never know,’ continued Mickey, backing up his boss, ‘once they get something inside them… ’
Glass was clearly irritated at being questioned. ‘I let him go. It was my decision and I stand by it. We move on.’
‘And now,’ said Phil, ‘he turns up at a hotel where one of the guests is murdered.’
Glass’s voice was rising. ‘If it was the same man, Detective Inspector.’
‘Let’s follow it up. See if it was.’
Glass said nothing. But the silence made it clear what he thought of Phil’s words. Phil waited for another interruption, but none came.
‘Please continue, Detective Inspector.’
Phil continued.
‘So that’s where we are with it. We’re looking at Weaver’s life. Looking for enemies, both here and abroad. Friends also. We’re now following up on sightings of the tramp, too. We’re not letting anything go.’
‘Thank you,’ said Glass. He stood up, ready to take over.
‘I’m not quite finished,’ said Phil.
Glass sat down again, reluctantly.
‘I realise that we’re operating two cases simultaneously. I also know that usually they would both be upgraded, given a proper operating budget. Of course, in these straitened times, that might not be possible.’ He looked at Glass, who made no response. ‘Well, bearing that in mind, I’ve asked an old friend of mine to join us. A retired detective who’s put in a fair few years’ service. We’ve been trying to get him back to go over cold cases for ages, and he’s agreed to give us a hand working on these two.’
Phil looked at the double doors.
‘Don Brennan.’
On cue, Don entered.
And Glass’s agitation increased massively.
Phil noticed Glass’s response straight away. Don didn’t. He just walked into the room, smiled and nodded, found an empty chair, sat down.
‘Thanks, Don,’ said Phil, smiling. ‘Good to see you.’
‘Thanks for asking me.’
Phil was surprised. As soon as Don had entered the room, the years seemed to have fallen away from him. He was no longer Phil’s adoptive father and Josephina’s grandad, but a police officer again. Even his walk was different. Stronger. More purposeful.
And then there was the effect he had had on Glass. Out of character. Maybe Glass didn’t like Phil exercising his authority. Well, tough. Phil had already cleared it with him, mentioned Don by name. Glass had given the go-ahead. Perhaps he hadn’t been expecting such a public announcement.
Phil put it to the back of his mind, continued.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Anni. The boy?’
‘Yeah. Right.’ Anni stood up. Addressed the room. ‘Well I think we’re in this for the long haul.’ She looked down at her notes, looked up again. ‘There’s a child psychologist been brought in.’ She hesitated, looked at Marina. ‘Perhaps Marina could tell you the technicalities better than me.’
‘We’ll hear your impressions first, Detective Constable Hepburn,’ said Glass. ‘We can come to the technicalities later.’
Anni paused, looked apologetically at Marina, who shrugged, gave her a small smile. Anni, bolstered by this, continued. ‘As I said, there’s been a child psychologist brought in by Dr Ubha. Marina talked to the boy first, though.’
She raised her eyebrows, giving Marina a signal to speak. Phil knew what his DC was doing. A subtle dig at the DCI. With Anni’s gesture and Mickey backing him earlier, he felt a small swell of pride in his team.
‘Yes,’ said Marina, not standing, ‘I tried to talk to him. Very traumatised. In a very, very bad way. He’s been down there, or somewhere similar, for a long time. And from the way he was talking, I don’t think he was alone.’
Silence in the room. Marina continued.
‘He kept talking about his mother. Worried about her. Wanted to see her.’
‘Natural in a boy who’s been taken away,’ said Glass, interrupting.
Marina didn’t look at him, kept going. ‘True, but I got the impression they had been imprisoned together.’
‘We’ve checked missing persons lists,’ said Jane from the back. ‘Nothing. No one matching the boy’s description. Started on children’s homes, social services, nothing so far.’
‘He’s going to be in hospital for a while,’ said Anni. ‘He’s very weak. They’re working with him. Hopefully he’ll be able to tell us something, give us something to go on. And we’ve got some of his medical results back too.’ She sighed. ‘He’s malnourished to virtually Third World levels, and is a potential breeding ground for so many infections. The hospital have pumped him full of antibiotics. Wherever he’s come from, it’s left him in a hell of a state.’
Phil could tell, from the softness in her voice, that the boy had got to her. He wasn’t surprised. Seeing a child in that state would do the same thing to anyone with a spark of humanity.
‘We’ve also got back preliminary DNA results on him,’ Anni said. ‘No match. On anything. Not even a close match. It’s like he just… doesn’t exist. But since we don’t know who he is or why he was there, we have to assume that he matters to someone. We’re keeping a twenty-four-hour watch on his room.’
‘Thanks, Anni.’
‘There is one more thing.’ She took out a photo, placed it before her. ‘This was on his foot. Some kind of scar. Looks like a brand.’
‘What?’ said Mickey. ‘Like you do with cattle?’
‘Seems that way,’ said Anni. ‘I’ve started checking, seeing if any other bodies have turned up with similar markings. Nothing so far.’
She sat down.
‘Forensics from the cellar haven’t come back to us yet,’ said Phil. ‘They’re still doing tests to decide whether the bones are human or not, and same for the dried blood we found. So. Marina?’ He looked over at her. When his eyes hit, she jumped as if he had made physical contact. His heart broke a little more. ‘Would you like to give us your report on the crime scene?’
Marina stood up, eyes on her report. Phil was grateful for that. He was sure that everyone in the room knew something was up with them. Sure that everyone was watching and listening to them, and not for the right reasons.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Well, most of you know what was there apart from the boy. The cage. The implements. The flowers. I’ve been focusing on the Cabalistic markings on the wall. Checking them out. I think if we can understand what they mean, we can go some way towards understanding why the boy was there and who put him there.’
Glass nodded, listening.
‘All the evidence would indicate that it’s some kind of calendar. A growth cycle. The flowers point to that too. There seemed to be equinoxes, solstices marked. In fact, one’s happening about now. If that’s the case, then it looks like the boy is important. Very important. Whoever put him there has plans for him that include the equinox.’
‘D’you mean a sacrifice? Something like that?’ said Mickey.
Marina shrugged. ‘I couldn’t speculate, but it might well be. The boy was imprisoned, as if waiting for something. The cage was a holding cell. I think he was kept somewhere else beforehand. Only moved there for the ritual. The flowers point to that too. They’re very specific colours. Red, blue, yellow. My guess is they represent bodily secretions. Blue and red for blood, yellow for urine, and they’re all decaying, turning brown. I’ll let you work that one out.’
No one laughed.
‘But why there?’ Mickey again. ‘Why that place?’
‘I don’t know. It must have some significance to the person carrying out the ritual. I do think, though, that in finding the boy, we stopped a murder.’
Silence in the room.
‘Might he try again?’ asked Anni.
‘Very likely. As I said, there’s only a small window of opportunity in this equinox, if that’s what he’s working towards, and I strongly suspect he is.’
‘Will he try to get the boy back?’ asked Mickey.
‘He might. Or perhaps try to find another boy. We’ve got the rest of today and tomorrow. It’s my opinion that he’ll strike within that time.’
‘Where?’ Mickey again.
‘I don’t know. He operates from somewhere safe, somewhere that’s secure for him. Somewhere that means something to him. The cellar was laid out the way it was because of the ritual. And that’s important to him. He must have taken a long time preparing it, getting it just the way he wanted it. He’s going to be spending all his time between now and tomorrow night finding another place, getting it ready.’
‘And going after the boy?’ asked Mickey.
‘Or a boy.’
Silence round the room.
‘Something else,’ said Marina. Everyone listened. ‘He’s done this before. Solstices, equinoxes… four a year. And not just this year.’
Silence once more. Phil was thinking about comics. House of Mystery. House of Secrets. With a graveyard in between.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’ve got our work cut out for us. We’re up against the clock with this one. If Marina’s right, and from the look of the evidence we must assume she is, there’s going to be an abduction and murder before tomorrow night. We keep doing what we’re doing. Working on the boy, keeping him safe in hospital. Following the paper trail for the house’s ownership. And don’t forget about Adam Weaver. We’ve still got him to look into.’
He scanned them all once more. Had a sudden, intense flashback to his nightmare. That face, moving towards him, those dark, deep eyes, the blade coming down…
He jumped, shook himself out of it. Looked round. They were waiting for him to speak.
‘I want radar,’ he said. ‘On the space in between the two houses. Check for soundings. For bodies. That’s it. We can do this. Let’s go.’ Hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.
Dismissed, they all rose, made for the door.
Phil saw Marina stand later than the rest. Pack her things slowly. She’s waiting for me, he thought. She wants to talk. Now. About what’s wrong.
She began to move towards him.
Phil waited. Steeling himself.
A tap on his shoulder. He turned. Glass. ‘Phil? Word in my office, please.’
The DCI didn’t look pleased. He turned, walked out.
Phil, giving Marina only the smallest of smiles, followed him.
Donna opened her eyes. Tried to move her head. As she did so, a rod of pain pushed up through her spine. She gasped, cried out.
That was what she got, she thought, for sleeping inside a stolen car.
She turned over, groaning, rotating her shoulders as she did so, stretching her legs in the cramped space. Trying to coax her limbs into action, get the blood pumping again. Her body was now angled away from the window, into the car, looking towards the passenger seat. A pair of round blue eyes stared back at her.
Ben.
Scared, cold. Uncomprehending, but still trusting.
Donna didn’t know how that made her feel. She wasn’t the boy’s mother, so she shouldn’t have to feel responsible for him. But then she had dragged him away with her, so perhaps she should.
She sighed. All too fucking much.
He was still staring at her, shivering.
‘What’sa matter? You cold?’
He nodded, eyes unblinking, never leaving her face.
‘Told you to keep warm, didn’t I? Put more clothes on.’ She looked at him again. He seemed to be wearing all the clothes he had brought with him.
‘Auntie Donna… ’ His voice tremulous, wavering.
She cut him off. ‘I’ve told you before, Ben, I’m not your auntie.’ Another sigh. Irritation building with it. ‘I’m just Donna. Right?’
He nodded. ‘Donna… ’
‘What?’ The kid was becoming tedious.
‘When are we goin’ to see my mum?’
‘I’m… ’ She opened the car door. ‘I’m just goin’ for a smoke.’
She got out of the car, slowly unfolding herself out of her curled, cramped state. She shivered. Looked round. The September sun was rising high in the sky. Shining. She shivered again, pulled her jacket round her. Giving off light, but not heat.
She had no idea where she was. She had driven the car as fast and as far as she could from her house. But hadn’t known where to go. At first she had decided on a hotel; use the money she had taken from her attackers to pay for it. But that idea hadn’t lasted long. A hotel would be the first place they would look for her. Especially after she’d cut one of them. Her description would be out there, her face on all the news programmes, in the papers. The internet, even. So no. That was out.
But she had needed to go somewhere. Out of the town centre, through Stanway. She saw the sign for the turn-off to the zoo. Told Ben about it. He had asked if they could go there, and for a second she had thought seriously about it. Drive to the zoo. Catch the last hour before chucking-out time. Find somewhere to hide, spend the night there. Brilliant. Last place they would expect her to go. But that idea hadn’t lasted long either. Her mind had bombarded itself with all the things that could go wrong almost before she had thought of them.
So she had turned off at the new retail park roundabout, taken the road away from Colchester, down to the A12. To London and beyond. Resigned to putting as much distance between herself and the town as possible.
And on the way, going through Stanway, she had seen a turn-off. Between two tree-rich gardens in a row of nondescript houses. Wooded either side. On impulse, she had turned down it.
At first it was just a single-track country road. A few houses on one side, detached, exclusive-looking, she thought. The kind of thing she’d seen on Grand Designs. Big cars parked in front, 4x4s. Paula couldn’t understand that. All that money and they bought something hidden away, somewhere people couldn’t see. She wouldn’t do that, if she had the money. She’d buy the biggest, gaudiest house. Put lights on it. Round it. Make sure no one could miss the fucker. Make sure everyone knew she was minted. Wasn’t just some failure.
But anyway.
She had kept on down that road. Not looking back. Just seeing where it took her. The car swayed from side to side as the road became more uneven, as pockmarks turned to craters, tarmac ran out and became hard-packed dirt and stones. The trees thinned out too. Soon there were none. And the countryside opened up around them.
The road bisected two fields with a view of miles around. It was so pastoral and peaceful, so unlike Donna’s day-to-day life in Colchester, that she could have just parked up, stayed there. Looked out over the calm, serene landscape. Forever. But she didn’t. She kept going.
Trees began to multiply, and she was soon in a forest. The road stopped completely. And that was where she decided to spend the night.
Ben had complained he was hungry, so she had turned the car round, driven back to the retail park, ordered two McDonald’s. She knew she was taking a risk, but he was starting to complain and she knew he wouldn’t stop until he was fed, so it was a risk she had had to take.
Then back to the forest. And the night, with much pain and discomfort and hardly any sleep, became morning. Now she stood, smoking a fag, wondering just what the hell she had done.
Ben stared at her from inside the car, kneeling on the seat, face pressed against the window. She turned away from him. He opened the door, got out to join her.
‘Where’s my mum?’
Donna didn’t answer.
‘I want my mum. Where is she? You said we’d be meetin’ her.’
Had she? Had she said that? She wished she had brought something to drink. Or a bit of puff. Just to tide her over. Keep her going.
‘Where is she?’
God, that kid…
Donna had put up with him for the sake of Faith. She hadn’t thought of herself as gay. A lezzer. A dyke. A rugmuncher. She had done stuff, lezzie stuff before. Yeah, course she had. But that was for punters, for their enjoyment, their money. Not for fun. Faith had been her partner in all of that. Neither minded; they liked each other. Were good friends. Donna felt relaxed with Faith, open. Probably more so than with anyone else in her life. So when Daryl had been kicked to the kerb and Faith and Ben had nowhere to go, it had been the natural thing for them to move in with Donna. It was a small house. And Ben needed his own room. So it had been even more natural for Faith to move in with Donna. Share a room. Share a bed.
And do the kind of things they’d done for money, for the enjoyment of punters, for their own enjoyment. And if that made Donna a lezzer, a dyke, then so what? Whatever. Faith would never beat her up. Never take her money. Never force her out on the street to work while she sat at home or in the pub or spent the money she’d made trying to impress some slag.
And now Faith was gone. And Donna was all alone.
‘Where? Where is she?’
Donna turned, stared hard at the little boy. And something in her snapped. Some anger, long-dammed, needed sudden, sharp release. ‘She’s gone, right? Fuckin’ gone. She’s not comin’ back, ’cos she’s-’
She stopped. Looked at him. He was standing there like he had been hit. His mouth began to tremble, eyes began to tear over.
‘Look, I’m sorry, I… ’
The tears came. Huge, racking sobs came screaming out, totally unconscious and inconsolable, like only a child could do when faced with the biggest loss of his life. Donna realised that she felt exactly the same. And she could do nothing but join him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, gasping between sobs, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t… I didn’t mean to… ’
She hugged him. He let her. Reluctantly at first, then, realising he had nowhere else to go, collapsing into her.
‘I’m scared,’ he said eventually, once the tears had subsided.
‘So am I,’ Donna whispered. ‘So am I.’
He looked at her. ‘What are we goin’ to do now?’
It was almost too painful to return the look. But she had to. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I just don’t know… ’
Paul had done it. Gone and done it. And now he was sorry. Like he knew he would be.
He had gone back up to the cave. Let the Gardener out.
He had told himself he wouldn’t give in. Not this time. Wouldn’t listen to the crying and the promises. Oh no. No matter how much the Gardener screamed and sobbed. About how he was going to be good from now on, how he wouldn’t hurt anyone any more. If Paul would just let him out. He was sorry, so sorry…
Same old thing, same old words, same old pleas, time after time after time.
And it always worked.
Because the Gardener knew that Paul was weak. And he played on that weakness, wore him down with guilt until he opened the cave up, let him out again.
And of course the Gardener never kept any of his promises. As soon as he was out, he threw Paul inside and picked up where he had left off. And Paul would have to track him down, find him and haul him away again before he did more damage.
But now he had got him back inside the cave.
Now he could relax.
Paul knew what the Gardener had done this time. The Gardener had told him. Told him it was his duty. His divine duty. And that Paul should understand. And Paul would try to explain again.
‘No… you… What you do, it’s… it’s wrong. It’s… evil. Not what I meant. No, no, no… not what I meant… ’
And the Gardener, back in the cave, would pretend to listen. Then pretend to cry. And Paul would have to come away so he couldn’t hear it. Because God was love. And he was love. And he would let him out again.
So he sat outside the cave. And tried to relax.
Breathe in the air. Feel the sun on his face. Hear the river go past, lapping at the bank. Watch the water. See the leaves fall on it.
Relax.
Don’t think about the Gardener. Don’t think about letting him out.
Ignore his cries. Listen to the water.
Relax.
Just relax.
And don’t think about what the Gardener had done. And what he was going to do.
As soon as Paul let him out again.
Rose was angry. Really angry.
Anger was nothing new to her, but this kind was. Sudden and quick. And very, very deep. With a scattergun aim.
Glass had phoned her earlier in the morning. She had been up. It felt like she was always up. Since she had been put on long-term sick, she had had trouble sleeping. More than she had told Marina or any of the police doctors. Much more. Insomnia. Bad, verging on the chronic. She had tried over-the-counter remedies. Prescription pills from her GP. Drinking excessively before bed. Exercising until she was too physically exhausted to move. A long, hot, relaxing bath, even. And nothing had worked.
So she had learned to live with the lack of sleep. Learned to lie in bed at night staring at the ceiling, the walls. Closing her eyes, letting the film play on the backs of her eyelids. The same one. Always the same one.
That day in the boat, unable to move, those hands on her body… Fighting, losing…
Her eyes would open. And there would be the walls, the ceiling. Her bedroom. Just the silence, the shadows. And Rose. Alone. Always alone.
She had even tried to lose herself in sex. Not love – she didn’t want that level of intimacy, didn’t want anyone seeing behind the shield, couldn’t cope with it – but sex. Just to feel exhilarated, wanted. Alive. To have another body next to her to keep the shadows, the darkness at bay. To let her sleep. That hadn’t worked either. She had soon found that she couldn’t bear anyone to touch her. And she hated to have anyone next to her for the night. She would lie awake watching them sleep, wondering how long it would be before their hands were on her body, forcing her, fighting with her…
No.
So she had coped with the silence, the shadows, on her own. Alone. She had no choice. And if she was being honest with herself, she wouldn’t say she was cured. She would just say she was stronger. Better armoured.
And that was enough. It had to be.
But she was also angry. Especially after Glass’s call.
‘Just a catch-up. Checking in. Seeing how your case is progressing.’ As businesslike as ever, but did she catch a hint that he was thinking about her at home? Wondering what she was wearing, perhaps? She put it out of her mind. Just imagination.
She thought of the previous day. The fight in the pub. Obviously nothing had been said. She hadn’t been reported. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Just running down a few leads today. Ex-boyfriends, that kind of thing. Nothing concrete yet.’
She was sitting on the edge of the unmade bed. It seemed like this room, not even the rest of the flat, was her world. The TV in the corner, clothes, both clean and soiled, piled and thrown on the floor. Old mugs, ringed with coffee stains, sat on half-read paperback books. Plates with hard, curling crusts poked out from under the bed. She sighed.
‘Time scale? Any ideas?’
‘Early days,’ she said, kicking an empty white wine bottle under the bed, hearing it roll to a stop, clink against another one already under there. ‘But it won’t take long, I don’t think. Something’ll break soon.’
‘Good. Good.’
‘I thought we were meeting this morning? Having a proper catch-up?’
‘Yes… ’ Glass’s voice became cautious, guarded. ‘Bit difficult. All kicked off here.’
She stood up. ‘But I thought I was coming in to the station.’
‘No.’ Said quickly. Sharply. ‘Like I said, it’s all got busy here. A couple of cases taking up all the space, the manpower. I think it’s best we talk this way. For the time being.’
And that was when the anger started to rise. Because she realised as he spoke what he was doing. Sidelining her. And she knew who had all the office space, whose cases were getting the upgraded treatment. Oh yes. She didn’t even have to ask.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Fine. I’ll call when there’s news.’
And broke the connection. Threw the phone on the bed. Sat down beside it.
Phil Brennan. Fucking Phil Brennan again. Always him. Always. She had a special streak of hatred reserved just for him. Because he was everything she saw herself as not being. Successful. Popular. Promotable. Yes, she knew she had been promoted, but even so. It happened more easily for him. It always had.
She looked round the room again. Her world. Everything she had, all that she had to show for her life.
She had never wanted to be a police officer. Not really. It was something she had done to impress her dad. He had been a DCI in the Met. Well-regarded. Well-decorated. One of the finest thief-takers of his time. That was what everyone said about him. That was what he said himself. But with a few more profanities thrown in.
And she had looked up to him. Admired him. But from a distance. It had always been that way, even before the divorce. He had always been out. Working, or networking, he called it. His mother had come to resent it. Partying, she said. Getting freebies off slags. He had laughed it off at first, told her she didn’t know what she was talking about. It was the way the job worked, the culture. He had to go, had to be seen at those places, those parties. Her mother had said nothing then. Just glared at him in silent resentment. Let things continue that way.
She turned a blind eye to the whoring, the drinking. But she reluctantly accepted the unexpected presents, the bonuses. Holidays, home improvements, new cars. All on the sudden windfalls. She wasn’t stupid. She knew her silence was being bought. And she entered into that complicity, albeit grudgingly. As long as the two worlds were separate, then she didn’t need to know the other one existed.
The house of glass and cards held. For years and years. Until one world invaded the other. Until her mother found she had been given a dose of the clap.
She had confronted Rose’s father about it. How could he? How the hell could he? The money, yes, a blind eye. The drinking, she had said nothing. Even fucking those slags… that was one thing, but bringing it home, into the family, infecting her, that was… that was something else. That was intolerable.
Her father had tried shrug it off. Just one of those things. Her mother wouldn’t let him. Kept on at him. On and on, all those years of silent resentment, bottled hatred, slewing out. Shouting that she could see at last. That the scales had fallen from her eyes, that she was blind no more.
That was when he had walked out. But not before he had hit her. Hard. Smashed her to the ground, left her lying in teeth, blood and agony on the kitchen floor. Years of silent, pent-up hatred coming out of him, too.
And Rose had been left. Brought up along with her brother by her shattered mother. Now silent, withdrawn, almost catatonic for the rest of her life.
Rose should have grown up to hate her father. And she did. But she hated her mother more. The spineless way she had given up on life, the way she drifted through the years like a ghost that wasn’t yet dead. When she was finally diagnosed with cancer, she seemed to find it a relief. An excuse for her to stop living. And Rose never forgave her for that. Never stopped resenting her.
And never stopped trying to impress her father, either. That was why she had enrolled in the police force. Just to impress him. But it hadn’t worked. Living with his third wife, in declining health somewhere on the south coast, he hadn’t contacted her in years. She had thought he would reappear when she was in the papers following the Creeper incident, but no. Nothing. Maybe he had died too. She hoped so.
She stood up once more, made her way to the shower. Thought of going for a run, channelling some of that anger, that energy. Decided against it. She would channel it another way.
Real police work. Visit the mortuary, take a look at Faith Luscombe’s body. Check the CCTV cameras for New Town and roads leading out to Wakes Colne.
Then pay a return visit to Donna Warren.
Show her she wasn’t a fucking idiot.
The water hit her, nice and hot.
But it could never be hot enough for Rose.
‘Hold your nerve. That’s all. Just hold your nerve.’ The voice on the other end of the phone sighed. Tried to keep its temper, not let its exasperation show.
‘But… ’ The Portreeve wasn’t happy.
Another sigh.
‘You’ve got the easy bit,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘You’re doing nothing. Even the Teacher is doing more than you.’
Silence from the Portreeve.
‘Bet you wished you hadn’t phoned me now.’
No reply. The Lawmaker took that as a yes.
‘You didn’t tell me,’ said the Portreeve. ‘You sanctioned… what happened, and you didn’t tell me about it. Did you tell anyone else?’
‘The Teacher knew.’
‘And why didn’t the Teacher tell me?’
‘Because I said not to. I said I would talk to you. I knew what your reaction would be. And this is it.’
‘But this is a step too far. This is… implicating us too much.’
‘It isn’t. Weaver was becoming a liability. Unpredictable. We didn’t know what he was going to do next. He needed to be taken care of. What better way than this? Misdirection. No one will care about our shipment arriving now. Pressure’s off.’
‘And what about… There should be four of us. Who’s going to be the new Missionary?’
‘I would have thought that was an easy one. Our foreign friend is perfectly situated.’
‘But what if he… refuses?’
‘Refuses? Why would he do that?’
Silence again from the Portreeve. ‘Look,’ said the Lawmaker, ‘you just keep doing what you’re supposed to be doing. Keep organising. I’m taking care of things here and the Teacher’s part comes in soon. Everything will go ahead as planned.’
‘And the boy? What’s happening with the boy?’
The Lawmaker gave a laugh. It wasn’t pleasant. ‘All taken care of. It’s a beautiful plan. And we won’t be implicated in the slightest.’
‘Should I know about it?’
‘Do you want to?’
The Portreeve didn’t reply.
‘Thought not.’
Silence.
‘Look. Hold your nerve. You know what you have to do. Weaver will take the blame for everything. We’ll ensure that. And once that’s done, we’ll get the Gardener taken care of too.’
‘Should I not ask about that either?’
‘Up to you. But let’s be honest here. We don’t need him any more. Not with what’s happening. Or with what’s happened. He’s just… an irritant. He’ll be dealt with too.’
‘Be careful,’ said the Portreeve. ‘He’s dangerous.’
The Lawmaker laughed. ‘So am I. Keep the faith. We’ll talk soon.’
The phone went dead.
The Portreeve sat staring at it. Wondering how such a mundane piece of plastic, metal and glass could have such a powerful effect on him.
He stood up. Took a deep breath. Another. Hands flexing, expanding. And again. Another breath.
Decided what to do.
Another breath. Held, let out slowly.
Decided there was no choice.
There was no turning back.
The Portreeve was ready.
The hotel stood in its own grounds. Sixteenth-century or thereabouts, Phil reckoned. A one-time country house for the landed gentry turned country retreat for the moneyed classes. It looked warm, seductive, nestled in amongst the trees, curving gravel drive before it. The kind of place that flattered a customer’s good taste for choosing it. The kind of place he would take Marina for a weekend.
So why did it give him the same feeling he got when he had first looked at the house with the bone cage?
He pulled the Audi up to the front, feeling and hearing the gravel beneath the wheels. He switched off the engine, silencing Band of Horses singing about monsters, and stared. It was like he had driven on to a film set. The hotel itself looked like some costume-drama backdrop, the police presence shifting the genre. Downton Abbey to Inspector Morse.
The hotel unsettled him the more he looked at it. He replayed the meeting he had just had with Glass. That had been unsettling in its own way too.
At first, Phil had just been relieved to get into Glass’s office, avoid Marina’s questions. But once inside, the look on the DCI’s face showed he had been called in for a specific reason. And he didn’t get the feeling it was an altogether good one.
‘Sit down, please, Phil,’ Glass had said, looking up from his computer screen.
Phil had done so.
‘Right… ’ Glass stared at a file on the desk in front of him. Avoiding eye contact, Phil thought. Not a good start. He looked up. ‘I’m seeing the Super today. In Chelmsford.’
Glass paused. Phil felt he was expected to say something.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes.’ Glass continued. ‘I think he’s going to tell me officially that this job is mine. Full time.’ He leaned back in the chair. Phil could still see his predecessor sitting there.
‘Congratulations,’ said Phil.
Glass gave a tiny smile, a slight nod of the head, as if accepting his due. ‘Thank you.’ The smile disappeared. ‘That being the case, I thought we should have a little chat.’
Phil thought he was expected to say something else, but decided against it. Waited in silence instead.
Taking Phil’s silence for deference, Glass continued. ‘It seems like we’re going to have to work together, Phil. And I feel it only fair to warn you that I’ll be running things very differently from my predecessor.’
Here we go, thought Phil. He tried for lightness in his response. ‘Anything I should be concerned about?’ he said.
The smile again. Twice in one meeting from someone who normally rationed them, thought Phil. Not a good sign. ‘That depends. Clearly we’re going to have to work together. But as the senior officer, I have to tell you there are going to be some changes round here.’
Phil felt a prickle of anger at Glass’s words. ‘Are you unhappy with my performance in some way?’
‘No. Not at all. You’ve got virtually a hundred per cent arrest rate.’
Phil said nothing. It was true.
Glass leaned forward. ‘But then this is MIS.’
Phil’s anger was definitely rising now. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Glass sat back. ‘Clue’s in the name. Major incidents. They’re always the easy ones to clear up, aren’t they?’ He continued before Phil could reply. ‘For instance, murder. You find a body, you ask who killed them. The person with most to gain. You question them. They confess. Case closed. Not so difficult, is it?’
‘So what are you getting at?’ Phil said.
‘Just that. Cases like that don’t seem very major to me. Your team have a lot of resources. Others may get jealous.’
‘What are you talking about? We have the resources we need to get the job done. Have you seen the cases we’ve dealt with over the past few years? Have you seen the ones we’re dealing with now?’
Glass put his hands up in what was supposed to represent mock-surrender, but it wasn’t in his physical repertoire. ‘All I’m saying is that you’re very well-funded. In such straitened times as these, that funding could be eyed jealously by others as a luxury.’
‘So… you’re reallocating the MIS budget, is that it? Where?’
‘Phil,’ Glass said, leaning forward, hands together in a gesture that looked to be learned from management classes, ‘let’s not be hasty.’ He gestured to the file in front of him. ‘I’ve made a study of you and your team. Your results speak for themselves, of course, but… let’s be straight. You run your team as though it’s your own private fiefdom.’
Phil couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘What?’
‘In the briefing just now. You questioned me. In front of the whole team.’
‘So? You’d let someone go – a witness, or even a suspect – and not informed me.’
‘Some would say that’s what the briefing was for. For everyone to catch up on developments.’
‘Something like that I should have known about. I should have been consulted. It wasn’t proper procedure.’
Glass stared at him. ‘As I said. There will be some changes in procedure from now on.’
‘Including not keeping me informed of what’s going on? Taking decisions above my head about my investigations and not informing me?’
Glass’s voice dropped. ‘Detective Inspector, you may have had a certain amount of latitude and leeway from your former DCI, but you won’t be getting that with me. We do things by the book. My book. There’ll be no room for mavericks in my department. You or your team.’
Phil’s voice was rising. ‘There are no mavericks on my team.’
‘That’s open to debate.’
‘No it isn’t.’ Phil leaned forward too. ‘What problems have you got with my team?’
Glass looked at the file. ‘Their attitude borders on insubordination. I-’
Phil jumped in over the top of him. ‘No it doesn’t. I encourage creativity and free thinking. And the results bear that out. More crimes are solved by taking a lateral approach.’
Glass’s eyes hardened. ‘I can see where they get it from. You have a pernicious hold on them. Miss Jean Brodie syndrome.’ A quick glance down, then back up again. ‘They’re in thrall to you.’
‘Thrall?’ Phil nearly laughed out loud. ‘Are we in a nineteenth-century novel suddenly?’
Glass’s voice became cold. ‘You’re dressed in a manner more like a student than a police officer. You’re insubordinate. You’re rude to your superiors. And from what I’ve seen, your procedures sail dangerously close to the wind.’
‘I get results. Virtually one hundred per cent. You said it yourself.’
Glass sat back, his voice dangerously low. ‘Once I’ve spoken to the Super, I’ll be putting my stamp on this place. You can still get results. But we’ll get them my way.’
‘And if I don’t want to get them your way?’
‘No one’s irreplaceable.’
Phil stared at him. Wanted to hit him. Instead, he spoke. ‘By the way,’ he said, suppressing any anger that could make his voice waver, ‘Mickey spoke to me earlier. Said you’ve brought Rose Martin back on board.’
Glass looked momentarily wrong-footed, lost for words. He quickly recovered his composure. ‘What of it?’
‘Why?’
‘She’s not on your team. That’s no business of yours.’
‘Yes it is. She was a DS on my team at one point and she’s been on long-term sick. There’s no way she’s ready to come back. No way she’s competent.’
‘I made the decision in consultation with her psychologist.’
Knowing Marina, Phil doubted that. ‘Stevie bloody Wonder could see she’s not ready to return yet.’
Glass looked like he wanted to hit him. ‘Thank you for your opinion. Noted.’
Phil bit back his initial reply. ‘And you’ve promoted her to DI as well?’
Glass’s face turned red. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Is it supposed to be a secret?’
‘What happens with other officers is none of your business.’
‘You’re making a big mistake.’
The ghost of a smile. ‘Again, thank you for your opinion.’
There was so much more Phil wanted to say, felt he needed to say. But he knew there would be no point. He would be going round in circles. He looked at his watch.
‘Am I keeping you from something important?’
‘Yeah,’ said Phil, rising. ‘I’ve got one of those murders to solve. But don’t worry. They’re really simple. I’ll be done by lunchtime.’
He turned, left the office before Glass could say anything else.
And now he was staring at the hotel.
Swallowing down the fluttering in his chest, he got out of the car. Tried to put his conversation with Glass out of his mind. Concentrate on his job. Took a couple of deep breaths, ducked under the tape, walked towards the main entrance, ID held aloft.
Here we go, he thought.
No one barred his way.
Completely different, thought Phil. Different shape, size, age, everything. Completely different to the house at the bottom of East Hill. The cage. Completely.
But he still couldn’t shake the feeling.
Giving himself a mental talking-to for being so stupid, he walked towards the hotel.
It was a beautiful building, he admitted that much. He stepped through the front door, found himself in a wood-panelled reception area, stone-flagged floor. The wood was aged but well-preserved, the stone floor worn by centuries of feet. Clearly authentic, he decided. He flashed his card.
‘DI Brennan,’ he said to the girl behind the desk. ‘Is Jane Gosling here?’
The girl was very attractive, dressed in a smart dark uniform suit, white blouse beneath, cut to emphasise her cleavage. Dark hair pulled back, large earrings. Well made up. She creased her brow. Even her frown was pretty.
‘Is she… a guest… here?’ Voice heavily inflected.
East European, thought Phil, but he couldn’t place her more specifically than that.
‘No,’ he said, ‘she’s the police officer in charge of this murder investigation.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ She looked round for another member of staff, beckoned over a young man with spiked hair and an eager face, told him to take her place behind the desk.
‘Come with me, please.’ She walked round to Phil’s side of the desk, went through another doorway that led to the main section of the hotel.
Phil knew from the night before where the room was, but didn’t want to appear as the kind of arrogant policeman he hated, so he followed her. Tried hard to take his eyes from her pencil-skirted legs and spike heels. She walked like he imagined Marilyn Monroe must have walked. If she had been on sand, the dots of her heels would have been in a straight line.
He picked his eyes up, looked round. The wood panelling and worn flags persisted. They reached a central area with a huge old fireplace, the fire unlit. Then up a wide, high staircase. The panelling gave way to plastered walls, stained-glass windows. Even a suit of armour.
Phil looked through a set of double doors to an old wooden doorway that seemed even more aged than the rest of the hotel.
‘What’s in there?’
‘The chapel,’ said the girl.
‘Chapel?’
‘Yes. It was Knights Templar chapel. Very old.’ She looked round. ‘You would like to look in?’
‘Yeah. Please.’
They crossed the floor. She opened the door. They stepped inside.
The first thing Phil noticed was the cold. The walls were heavy old stone. The windows stained glass, the floor flagged. It was like stepping even further back in time. He could feel the history in the place.
‘Nice,’ he said to the girl. ‘How old is it?’
‘Oh, it is… very old,’ she said, turning her head quickly, favouring him with a quick smile. ‘I do not know… ’
‘Right,’ he said. He looked over at the far wall. A huge wooden door stood there, so old and heavy it looked like the chapel had been built round it. ‘Where does that lead?’
‘Nowhere. Is… blocked off.’
‘Right.’
‘Would you…?’ She pointed back the way they had entered.
Phil followed her out and up the stairs.
They kept walking. ‘Can I ask, where are you from? That accent isn’t from round here.’
Another smile. ‘Lithuania,’ she said. ‘I come here to work.’
‘Right. Enjoying it?’
She didn’t turn round this time. ‘Is OK.’ Then perhaps thinking she should have said more, ‘Is fun.’
‘Good.’
They walked in silence until they reached the room. ‘In here… ’ Her expression darkened as she showed him the doorway. He would have worked out which one it was. The only one with crime-scene tape across it.
Phil thanked her, and she turned, walked away down the hall. Her heels perfect dots in the carpet once more. Phil turned to the doorway.
‘OK to come in?’ he called.
‘Get yourself suited first,’ came the reply.
A plastic-wrapped bundle was thrown into the hallway. Phil undid it, put it on, zipped up. Entered.
DS Jane Gosling was already in there, looking round. ‘See anything you like?’ she said.
Phil noticed how different it looked from the previous night. The body was gone, for one thing. Down to the mortuary to be rendered down to its component parts, weighed and examined, quantified and analysed. Adam Weaver no longer a person, just a dead organism. A human watch, broken beyond repair, lacking a set of instructions as to why it had stopped ticking.
Phil hated the aftermath of a murder scene. He often found it worse than when the body was still there. The absence of life more disturbing than the loss of it. A murder presented an end, but also a beginning. Because that was where his job started. But the aftermath showed that life went on. And in a way that was worse. Because one day that would be him.
He shook his head. He had been having increasingly morbid thoughts since the birth of Josephina. Because her existence reminded him that one day there would be a world without him in it. But she would go on. He knew that was right, the way things were meant to be. But that didn’t make it any easier.
‘Catch me up, then,’ he said, focusing on the job in hand. ‘Any progress?’
‘Not a lot,’ said Jane. ‘We’ve canvassed the other rooms, asked the guests if they saw or heard anything suspicious. Nothing. Not until the girl started screaming.’
‘Staff?’
She shook her head. ‘Same thing. No one saw or heard anything. Until the screaming.’
Phil nodded, looked round once more. Saw the emptiness. Felt the absence. Tried to think in absolutes, not abstracts. Weaver’s suit jacket was still on the bed, his other clothes in the wardrobe. The woman’s underwear was discarded on the bed next to a selection of sex toys. The wrapping and packaging beside them showing they had just been bought for her.
Phil frowned. Something…
‘Jane,’ he said. ‘Where was the girl from? The one in the room here?’
Jane Gosling shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
‘What was her name?’
She checked her notebook. ‘Maria. And then… Oh God, I can’t read it. Here, have a look.’
Phil looked.
‘Luko… sevic… ius… ichius?’ Jane read. ‘Something like that. Eastern European, it looks like.’
‘D’you know where, exactly? What country?’
Another check of her notes. ‘Lithuania, she said.’ Jane looked at him, frowned. ‘Hey, why does that ring a bell?’
‘Because Weaver lived in Lithuania. And the staff here, the woman who let me up was Lithuanian. And the builder Mickey spoke to… ’
‘A pattern,’ said Jane. ‘Or a coincidence?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Phil. ‘Don’t know what it is yet.’ His eyes travelled round the room once more. He had to get out. ‘I’m just going to have a look round the grounds. See if anything comes to me.’
He left the room.
Outside, the air felt colder than the previous day. Summer losing the fight against autumn. The leaves starting to brown and redden. He walked round the corner of the hotel, by the kitchens. Past the bins and skips. Some outbuildings were dotted around. Old, but lacking the preserved charm of the rest of the place. Where the staff live, he thought. Behind them was the river.
He walked down to it, stood on the bank, staring at it.
Something else was hitting him. Hard. Not just a feeling, an emotion, but something more solid. More tangible. A memory.
His heart skipped a beat at the realisation of what it was. He looked up and down the river again, back to the hotel. Looked at the roof, the chimneys against the trees, the skyline.
And he knew what the memory was telling him.
He had been here before.
Samuel Lister walked down the hospital corridor. Enjoyed the looks he received. Smiles. All smiles. And the best thing was, even if they didn’t like him, they smiled.
He enjoyed everything about his job. Well, most things. Dealing with the staff under him, endless meetings, that kind of thing bored him. But the rest more than compensated for it. The lavish dinners and parties. The golf. The car he drove at the hospital’s expense. The money. Oh yes, the money.
And the perks. Those lovely little perks.
There was a lot to be said for being the hospital’s staff director and workforce manager.
Walking down the corridor, enjoying the sound of his heels echoing behind him, he planned his day. Meeting for the rest of the morning. Could he get out of it? What was it again? Budget strategy planning. Best not. Although anything that needed implementing could be done at a lower level. Middle management. That was what they were there for.
Then what? Lunch in town, discussing expansion plans with a friend on the council. All on expenses. Then perhaps a quick round of golf over at Colne Valley Golf Club. Yes. That sounded like not a bad day after all.
Lister nodded to a nurse. Smiled. She returned it, that kind of up from under thing with her eyes. He liked that. Made them look demure but knowing. Clean on the outside, dirty on the inside. Lovely.
He checked her out as she went past. Young, pretty. Not too curvy. Just his type. Budding. That was the word he used to describe them, budding.
He slowed down, watched her walk away, the slow, languorous swing of her narrow hips, her pert bottom. Budding. Lovely.
He waited until she had turned a corner, was out of view, then continued on.
Thinking of the nurse who had just passed, his mind hopped on, made connections. He wished it could be like the old days, he thought. When nurses’ uniforms were more like something out of Ann Summers, something that a young man could get quite worked up about, fetishise, even. Not like they were now. All functional and plain. Nothing to get worked up about. He should try and bring that up at a meeting. Claim it was for the good of the patients, the morale in the hospital.
He remembered a dentist friend he knew. Only employed fit, slim young dental nurses. Made them wear uniforms that were this side of a tribunal away from see-through. Made sure they co-ordinated their underwear too. White. Lacy. He had marvelled at his friend, asked how he got away with it. Got away with it? He had a list longer than the war dead on the Cenotaph in Whitehall of people wanting to be his patients. He had pointed to the Merc parked outside the restaurant they were in. That was paid for, he had said, entirely by middle-aged men’s fantasies.
Lister smiled at the memory. He should definitely try something similar here.
His phone sounded, jolting him out of his reverie.
Probably Jerry, he thought, confirming this afternoon’s golf session.
He took the iPhone from his jacket pocket, opened it.
‘Hello.’
Nothing. Just crackling.
‘Hello?’ He sighed. Probably one of those automated things. Telling him not to hang up, press this button to be put through to a premium-rate line in Sri Lanka or something. He was about to switch off when a voice spoke.
‘Hello, Samuel.’
At first he couldn’t place it. Then he did. And it was like reality crumbled around him.
‘What… what d’you want?’ He stopped walking, cupped the phone in his hand so anyone passing couldn’t see him, hear him speak. ‘Why are you calling me?’
‘I need a favour, Samuel.’
‘You can’t have one.’ His throat was suddenly dry. His voice sounded uneven and cracked. An arid desert floor.
‘I can and I will.’
Lister sighed, looked round. Expected the rest of the world to have stopped just because his had. But it went on around him as usual.
‘No. You can’t. I’m… I’m going to hang up now.’
‘No you’re not, Samuel. People who say they’re going to hang up never do. They just… stay there. Waiting. Is that what you’re doing, Samuel?’
‘I’m… I’m hanging up. Now.’ Weakly, as he made no effort to end the call.
‘Oh. You’re still there, Samuel. Why would that be?’
Another look round. Surely everyone was staring. Pointing and laughing, wondering why the staff director and workforce manager was sweating and stammering in the corridor. But no one was pointing or laughing. In fact everyone was ignoring him, just getting on with their own lives.
‘I’m… I’m… ’
‘You’re going to do what I tell you, Samuel. You know you are. What you did came with a price. You know that. You were told that at the time. You agreed to it. Happily, if I remember. Well now it’s time to pay.’
‘I… I… What if I won’t?’
A chuckle. ‘Does that really need answering?’
Lister sighed. ‘I’m… I’m going to my office now. Call me back there.’
Without waiting for a reply, he broke the connection, pocketed the phone. Looked around once more.
His first thought was to run. Hard. Fast. As far away as quickly as possible. But he knew that couldn’t happen. He knew they would catch up with him wherever he went. Not even bother to catch up with him. Just say a few words to the right people, let things take their course.
Another sigh. Heart fluttering, he walked quickly to his office. People nodded, smiled at him on the way. He managed to return their greetings. How? he thought. How could he do that? Pretend everything was fine on the surface while inside he was consumed by turmoil? He knew how. The thought was sudden. It arrived with the heavy, final clunk of a key in a cell-door lock.
Because he had done already. Quite a few times. Kept his normal, everyday world going smoothly while under the surface he did… other things. And now they had caught up with him. When worlds collide.
He reached his office, went straight in, told his secretary to hold his calls. Closed the door behind him. Sat at his desk. Waited.
The call wasn’t long in coming.
‘What… what d’you want?’ He knew who it was without checking.
‘Just what I said, Samuel. You owe. Time to pay.’
‘I… I can’t… ’ Close to tears now. Ready to just give up.
‘You can. And you will.’
He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t think of an answer to give. There was no answer to give.
Silence.
Eventually, a sigh. ‘All right. What… what d’you want me to do?’
The voice on the phone told him.
And Samuel Lister knew that whatever happened next didn’t matter.
This was the end for him.
‘Well I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is, I’m afraid.’ Lynn Windsor turned her back on Mickey, began to walk away from him as if he’d been dismissed.
I don’t think so, thought Mickey, following.
He was back in the solicitors’ offices, following up his previous call. Finding out what he could about Adam Weaver. He wasn’t getting very far. Lynn Windsor was stonewalling.
‘Lynn, don’t walk away from me, please.’
She stopped, turned. Sighed, exasperated. Her face looked different from the previous day. Harder, set. No flirtation in her manner, just business to get on with. Once she had dealt with Mickey the irritant.
‘I need to talk to you. I need to talk to your boss. Adam Weaver. I saw him here yesterday, going into a meeting. I saw him again last night. And he was very dead.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Dead?’
‘Haven’t you seen today’s news? Read a paper?’
‘No… ’
‘He was found dead in his hotel last night. Murdered.’
She turned away from him. ‘Oh my God… ’
‘Yeah. So I’m following up every lead I can.’
Lynn Windsor’s head was down, eyes on the floor. Her shoulders heaved as she sighed. She looked up.
‘You’d… you’d better… better step inside my office.’
She entered her office. Mickey followed, closing the door behind him. They sat down at either side of the desk.
‘Right,’ she said. She leafed through a pile of papers in a distracted manner, not making eye contact with him. ‘Tell me again what happened and what you want.’
‘I want to know why Adam Weaver was here yesterday. Who he was seeing, what he was discussing, what business he had.’
‘He was seeing my boss. As to what they were discussing… ’ She shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t say.’
‘Could I talk to your boss, please.’ No question, just a statement.
‘He’s… not here at the moment. Out all day. Don’t know when he’ll be back.’ She looked up at him, eyes on him, darting quickly away. ‘Sorry.’
Mickey knew when he was being lied to. He also knew when stating that fact helped him and when it didn’t. He didn’t think now was the right time. Wouldn’t get results.
‘I will have to talk to him. At some point.’
‘Well I’ll run it by him, see if he’s OK with that.’
‘Lynn, it’s not a question as to whether he’s OK with it. This is a murder investigation. I can get a warrant if I have to.’
Yeah, he thought, I could. But it’s a hell of a lot of effort just to have a conversation. He was sure Lynn knew that too, but if she did, she wasn’t letting on.
‘I realise that,’ she said, ‘but it’s not my decision to make. As I said, I’ll put it to him.’
‘Thank you. Appreciated.’ He gave a smile.
She returned it. Briefly.
‘Of course, whether he’ll be able to tell you anything… I couldn’t say. Client confidentiality and all that.’
‘Of course,’ said Mickey. He sensed that was as much as he was going to get, dropped it. Gave her another smile. ‘Well, thank you.’
She smiled too, nodded.
Mickey looked at Lynn Windsor, head down, rearranging papers on her desk, toying with a paper clip in her fingers, and knew there was something wrong. Or at least something she was unhappy about. Tense.
‘You OK?’ he said.
She jumped. Dropped the paper clip. ‘Yes. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘I don’t know.’ He smiled, sat back. Not professional interest, the move said, more personal. ‘You just seem a bit… distracted.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ Head down once more. Another sigh. ‘I suppose… ’ She looked up again. ‘Just… split up with my boyfriend.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
She nodded. Looked at the papers on her desk. Looked up again. ‘Have you got… anyone, Detective?’
Mickey felt his cheeks reddening. Anni’s face came into his mind’s eye. ‘Erm, no. Not really.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Not really?’
‘No.’ Anni’s face disappeared. He felt the beginnings of an erection. ‘No. There’s no one.’
Lynn Windsor nodded. Sat back, crossed her legs. Smiled. Mickey’s eyes were immediately drawn to her breasts. He tried not to look. Failed. Kept his eyes glued to hers.
She smiled again, well aware of what he had just done. ‘I’ve still got your number… Mickey.’
He swallowed. His throat had gone dry. ‘Yeah, yes. You have.’
‘Shall I call you if there are… developments?’
‘I… ’ The room suddenly felt very hot. Uncomfortable. ‘Yes. That would be… I’d… yes.’
He couldn’t believe the way he was behaving. This was textbook, he thought. The kind of scenario every copper dreamed about. How many pub tales and fantasies had revolved around this kind of situation? And here he was, tongue-tied and blushing. Not very Sweeney.
‘Good.’ She smiled again. ‘I might just do that.’
He returned the smile. She looked away.
‘Well, I’d better get on with some work.’ She stood up. ‘Very nice to see you again. Good luck, and… I’ll be in touch.’
‘I… I look forward to it.’
Mickey got up and left the room.
Outside, he shook his head as he walked away.
‘I look forward to it,’ he said out loud. ‘Tit.
’ But he was smiling as he said it.
Phil walked the grounds of the hotel. He didn’t need a guide.
The place felt familiar to him, but it was a kind of dream familiarity. Like he had never visited in real life or during waking hours, but knew his way round none the less.
Phil was firmly a rationalist, didn’t believe in any kind of psychic phenomena. Even turned the TV off, swearing at it, when Most Haunted came on. But standing in the grounds, the trees around him, the river behind him, the way he was feeling now, what he was experiencing… he couldn’t say. All bets were off.
He put his palm on the nearest tree. A huge old oak. Felt… he didn’t know what. Rough bark, lichen, on a physical level. But beyond that, age, the centuries that the tree had stood there for. Something that had been living long before him and would continue to do so long after he had gone. A permanence. A rightness with nature.
Hand still in place, he closed his eyes. Tried to feel beyond that, reach for something else, some reason for the connection he was experiencing to this area, this place. Eyes closed tight, screwed up. He felt… he felt… nothing.
Opened his eyes again. Took his hand away quickly, hoping no one had seen him do it. The kind of behaviour Glass would use against him. Mark him down as a tree hugger, a liberal, even. A danger to the team. A maverick. Phil would have smiled if he thought Glass wouldn’t have meant it.
The hotel was beyond the trees. Beyond that was a golf course. Phil felt no affinity with that, no reason to go there. Strange. He wondered why. Apart from the fact that he hated golf. So following his instinct, he turned and walked down towards the river.
The water, flowing fast, clear, looked cold. The trees on both sides of the bank were losing their leaves, carpeting the forest floor or dropping into the water, the current bearing them away.
It was Phil’s favourite time of the year. He would have found the view beautiful, calming, restful. If not for the nagging inside his head.
And the murder inquiry.
He walked down to the river’s edge. The bank showed roots, twisted and gnarled, bare where the moving water had eroded the earth. Sticking out ready to catch the ankle of an unobservant walker.
On the opposite side, a tree had been uprooted and fallen backwards. Probably in a storm or during a harsh winter. It was quite remarkable. The roots had fanned out into a large semicircle, making a natural bay for the water to run into. Or an animal amphitheatre, he thought, smiling. Where the woodland creatures could perform Tales of the Riverbank.
He looked further into it. Saw the twisting roots, but became aware of something beyond them. He knelt down on his side of the bank, tried to peer closer. Tunnels. He could see tunnels. Probably an animal. Rabbits or badgers, something like that. A nesting habitat.
Tunnels. Phil sat up straight. The word hit him with an almost physical power. Tunnels.
Why? What did that mean?
He didn’t know. But he thought he should find out. He stood up, brushing dirt from his jeans, looked around. Tunnels.
Being guided by the word and his own instincts, he started to walk upstream.
The natural footpath beside the river began to narrow and eventually petered out. Thorned brambles and branches barred the way forward. Phil peered through. He could see that the hotel’s land continued, the boundary in the distance. Pulling his jacket over his face, he plunged into the trees.
The thorns pulled at his clothing and, where they could, his exposed skin. He felt the barbs dig in, rip flesh as he tried to pull away. Like being shot repeatedly with an air rifle. Branches slapped him, stung where they hit. But he kept going, driven by the thought – the memory – in his head that remained just out of reach.
The forest became denser. Branches and leaves overhead blotting out the sunlight. To his right, the river seemed further away than previously, the bank more built-up, a steeper drop down to the water. He turned, moved towards it.
As he did so, he checked the ground. There were indentations in the earth, the leaves. He knelt down, examined them. Footprints. Someone had taken the same route. And not so long ago, he reckoned.
Phil looked upwards, around him. Examined his surroundings in closer detail. Branches showed signs of having been bent back and broken, some snapped off altogether. He looked at the tracks, the broken foliage. Followed the trail.
It brought him to the river’s edge. He looked round. Listened. No sign of anything, no sound except the movement of the water. The hotel, the murder scene, seemed far away.
He reached the edge of the bank. There was a drop down to the river, probably higher than he was tall. He looked down at the footprints. They went to the edge and stopped. Phil knelt down. There was scuffing on the ground, as though someone had climbed over the edge, taken some of the earth with them. He looked down. Saw only the river.
He thought. A boat? Was that how they had got out of here? So why hadn’t the uniforms looked for signs? Had they just given up at the end of the footpath? He closed his eyes. Tried to think, imagine himself in the killer’s position.
Come up the river by boat… moor it… climb up the bank, through the trees, down to the hotel… slip inside… up to the room… and out again the same way…
Phil focused. Examined his theory further.
The killer must have known the layout of the hotel. Known a way in, found the room and out again without being seen. Been confident enough of not being tracked into the forest. Sure enough of himself to get a boat away from the scene without being spotted.
Something nagged at him.
Tunnels…
He knelt down again, looked over the edge of the bank. The noise of the water increased, mingled with the sound of rushing blood in his head as he leaned further over. He edged forward, scoping the bank side.
Grabbing on to a protruding root, he swung himself over the edge, began to climb down. Jumped the last little bit of the way, got his feet wet in the shallow siding of the river. There was a tunnel right before him. Or at least a cave-like entrance. Dark, overgrown with the tendrils of weeds, roots sticking out at the entrance.
He looked inside. Felt his heart miss a beat.
A shadow detached itself from the dark. Became larger.
Someone was coming towards him.
Fast.
Phil braced himself, wanting to turn, run, escape. But knowing he couldn’t do that. Knowing that his training – his job – should leave him ready to handle whoever it was coming towards him.
Out of the cave mouth flew a bundle of rags. It took Phil a few seconds, but he recognised it as Paul. The tramp he had interviewed the day before.
‘Wait,’ Phil shouted. ‘I just want to talk… ’ He ran backwards, twisted and fell. The water splashed up around him, cold penetrating to his skin straight away like icy underwear. He looked round for something – anything – that he could use to defend himself. Pulled at a root that was sticking out of the face of the bank, but it wouldn’t budge.
Paul didn’t stop.
Phil managed to get to his feet again, felt the weight of the cold water in his sodden clothes dragging him down. If the tramp hit him, forced him into the water, he might not be in a position to fight back.
‘Please, I just want to talk… Please… ’ He held his hands up, showing he had no weapon. ‘Please, Paul, please… ’
The figure paused.
Phil pressed home the advantage. ‘I’m not armed, I’m just here by myself. There’s no one else with me. Come on, Paul. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk to you.’
He hoped that would be enough.
He looked at the tramp standing before him. Blinking in the sunlight, confused by Phil’s presence.
‘Why… are you here?’
‘I’m… ’ Phil ran his hand through his hair, decided how to approach this. The truth. Try that. ‘Well, Paul, I’m here at the hotel.’ He gestured. ‘Back there. There’s been a murder. And I’m investigating it.’
Paul looked at him, frowning. Phil couldn’t tell under the filth and hair, but there seemed to be some conflicting emotions moving across his features.
‘Murder… ’
‘That’s right. A murder.’
Paul began to nod. ‘Yes… ’
‘Let’s… ’ keeping his eyes on him all the time he was speaking, ‘let’s sit down, Paul. Get comfortable.’
Not wanting to get his clothes any dirtier or wetter than they already were, Phil found a tree root to sit on. Brushed it before he sat. Paul settled on the ground.
‘So, Paul… twice in two days. What are you doing here? Long way out for you.’
Paul looked round, brow furrowed as if listening, waiting for the trees to give him answers. ‘I… Heaven.’
Phil nodded. Here we go again. ‘Heaven. How d’you mean?’
Paul spread his arms out. ‘Here. Heaven. Can relax.’
‘Right. And how did you get here?’
Paul looked at the river. ‘I was brought here. On the water.’
‘You mean you travelled on the river, yes? In a boat?’
Paul looked at Phil then. Right in the eye, unblinking. ‘You think I’m mad, don’t you?’ His voice calm, controlled.
The directness of the question threw Phil off balance. ‘Well, I… ’
Paul shook his head. ‘You don’t have to answer. I know you do. They all do. You all do. And that’s fine.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah. Fine. ’Cos maybe I am.’ A laugh. Or at least an approximation of one. ‘Should be. Everything that’s… all that’s… you know… ’
Phil ignored the gathering cold in his clothes, leaned forward. ‘What d’you mean?’
Paul looked round once more. ‘Heaven. This place. Heaven. Or it was. Until… ’
‘Until what, Paul?’
Paul snapped his attention back to Phil. ‘I told you. Yesterday.’ He turned away once more.
Phil thought. What had Paul said? It had all sounded so rambling at the time. Allegorical, even. ‘You said that,’ said Phil. ‘But that’s all you said. Heaven until the bad men came.’
Paul nodded. ‘I did. Yes. I did. Yes. I did. Evil. Evil. Yes.’
‘Was it here, Paul? Was it here that the bad men came?’
Paul looked round once more, taking counsel from the trees, nodded slowly. ‘Yes. Here. Heaven up here. In the Garden.’
‘The garden? The garden of the hotel?’
‘It’s not a hotel.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘The Garden.’ Said like Phil was stupid for even asking. ‘Always has been. Always will be.’
‘Right.’ The Garden… Something in that name too, though Phil couldn’t quite place it. He took a risk. Abandoned his chosen line of questioning, his training, everything. Asked Paul a direct question.
‘Paul, when I came here last night, and again today, I felt something.’
Paul gave him a sidelong look. Eyes narrowed. He said nothing.
Phil continued. ‘I don’t know what, I can’t really explain it.’
‘I think you can.’ Paul’s voice had changed. He spoke with sudden sanity, clarity. Noticing this, emboldened by it, Phil went on.
‘I felt like… like I’d been here before. Like I knew my way round.’
‘Go on.’
‘But I couldn’t. I’ve never been here in my life. How could that happen?’
‘Perhaps you have been here before. But perhaps you don’t remember it.’
‘How can I not remember it?’
Paul leaned forward. A light danced in his eyes. A charismatic light. Not mad; deeply sane. Phil found it comforting. He was surprised, to say the least. ‘Perhaps you choose not to remember it. Or part of you has chosen not to remember it, and the other part is trying to break through.’ He sat back.
Phil thought about the words. They made sense. Sitting here, he thought, wet through, by a river in a forest with a tramp, the words made sense.
‘You have to listen to yourself,’ Paul went on. ‘Trust yourself. The answer is there.’
‘Where?’
Paul leaned forward. Placed his index finger on Phil’s chest. Pushed slightly. Phil felt the equivalent of a mild electric shock pass through his body. ‘There.’
Paul sat back once more. Said nothing further.
Phil felt like he was on the verge of something. Answers. ‘I’ve been having these dreams… The cage in the cellar… in the dream, I’m in it… ’
Paul’s features clouded. ‘No. No… ’ His voice small, head shaking with it.
Phil pressed on. ‘Are those… those dreams… are they part of it?’
‘No… Don’t… No… I don’t want to talk about that.’
‘But… ’
‘Navaho. They say dreams are a way of keeping in touch. You dream of someone, you’re keeping in touch.’
‘But I’m… ’
‘You’re dreaming of someone. Don’t. You don’t want to meet them. Not now. Not ever. Not since the Garden got replanted.’ Paul stood up. ‘I have to go now.’
Phil stood also. ‘Please. Don’t go. I need to… I have to talk to you. About the murder at the hotel. About yesterday.’
‘I didn’t do it. But I’m not sorry he’s dead.’ More nods. ‘Bad thing. But I’m not.’ He walked along the side of the river, heading upstream. ‘I’m going now. Please don’t follow me.’
Phil tried going after him, but Paul was soon lost in the foliage, and Phil became stuck, entangled in the thorny branches of a low-hanging tree. By the time he had extricated himself, Paul had gone.
Phil looked at the mouth of the cave where Paul had been sitting. Saw the remains of a campfire in the entrance. A few trails of dead smoke rising up from it, scuff marks in the earth at the sides where he had kicked dirt over it to damp it down. The ground here looked flattened, like Paul came here a lot.
Phil looked inside the cave, but saw nothing. Only darkness.
Finding nothing more, and remembering that Glass didn’t think Paul was a suspect, Phil turned. Made his way back to the hotel.
As he walked, he heard Paul’s words zinging round his head.
They should have made things clearer.
But Phil just felt more confused than ever.
Don Brennan walked down the corridor at Southway, the years falling away with every stride. It felt good to be back. Very good.
He had dressed for the occasion. Pulled his good suit out of the wardrobe, a deep blue worsted, unbagged it and was surprised to find it still fitted him. The trousers a little tight in the waist, perhaps, pulling the legs up a tiny bit short, the cuffs resting on the tops of his shoes, and skinnier than he would have liked, and the jacket straining to be fastened, but it was nothing too noticeable. He would just have to keep his jacket open, that was all. And, he thought with a smile, from what he’d seen, the drainpipe look was back in again.
When he had left the house that morning, Eileen had given him the kind of smile he hadn’t seen in years. Proud that he was going to work. To be useful. Then the expression on her face had clouded over, as she was reminded of the reality of the situation. Of why he was going back.
‘Are you sure there isn’t another way?’ she had said.
He had told her there wasn’t. And that she knew there wasn’t.
She had nodded. ‘Just be careful. That’s all. I want you to come home safe.’ She had reached out to him, stroked his lapel. ‘I want all of my family safely home.’
‘That’s why I’m doing this,’ he had replied.
She had kissed him then, holding his arm as if not wanting to let him go, but eventually relenting, knowing she had no choice.
And he had walked out of the door. And back on to the job.
It had changed. He couldn’t deny it. But the principle seemed to be the same: catch the villains. Or at least he hoped it was. The team seemed so hidebound by compliance rules and procedures that he was surprised any policing got done. Even on what was fast becoming a high-profile case. It had been going that way when he retired; now a copper could drown under the amount of forms he had to fill in.
The overuse of computers didn’t faze him, though. He had one at home, used it a lot. Eileen was always on at him. Spending more time with the machine than he did with her. Colchester’s premier silver surfer. And he was. Paying bills online, ordering the weekly shop, forwarding email jokes. Even making his own Christmas and birthday cards.
The one thing that really bothered him above all else was the jargon. He knew that all workplaces developed their own ways of speaking, so that to outsiders it could sound like a convention of evangelical Christians. But this was something else. The terminology from his era was still pretty much intact, but it had been allied to a kind of management speak. When Glass had started to talk in the morning briefing about goal orientation and – that most hateful of words – solutions, Don had wanted to stick his fingers down his throat. But he hadn’t. At least not yet.
He gave a grim smile. Glass. I’ve got your number, sunshine, he thought.
He turned another corner, looked round. Should be just about here, he thought, if they hadn’t moved it.
He saw the door ahead of him. Felt a quickening in his heart rate, mirrored it in his step. He reached the door. Tried the handle. Locked.
He had expected as much.
He reached into his pocket, took out his key ring. A quick glance round to see if anyone was coming – no, thankfully not many people ventured into this area of the building – and he slipped the key in.
Please still fit, please…
It did. The key turned. The door opened.
He had had the key cut when he was still on the force. The records room was always difficult to get anything out of. Chits had to be completed, requests made, and, like the slowest library in the world, eventually someone would turn up with the correct box. Or more often than not, the incorrect one. So he and a few of his colleagues had got their own keys cut. Not strictly legal, or even following procedure, but when they were working a case, it could often mean the difference between catching a criminal and letting them go. And it could all be covered up afterwards. So no harm done. Not really.
Criminal records were now on the Police National Computer and just a click away. As were police personnel records. But previous case files, especially ones that went back over thirty years, were kept here. And that was what he wanted.
Don slipped inside the room, closed the door behind him. Found the light switch. And once the overhead strips had come to life, looked around.
Rows and rows of metal shelves piled with boxes and boxes of files. Supposedly in order, but Don could tell from the way some boxes were sticking out at angles or had their lids missing or had just been left in haphazard piles in the aisles, their paper cascading all around them, that it wasn’t necessarily so.
Still, he had to believe that what he was looking for was accessible. Otherwise he was in for a long day. And probably night.
He could have told them in the office that he was coming here. That he wanted to cross-reference something with the cases they were working on. But he hadn’t. He didn’t know who on Phil’s team he could trust. He knew who he couldn’t. That was a given. But until things became clearer, he was on his own.
He put on his reading glasses, walked up to the nearest shelf. Scrutinised the date that had been written there. Began walking.
He resisted the temptation to look in any of the other boxes apart from the one he was searching for. There was a sizeable part of his life in this room. Memories of a career held in paper and cardboard. Maybe he would take a look. But that was for another day. For now he had something specific to do.
It took some searching, but eventually he found it. A small shiver of triumph ran through his body as he did so. He took the box down, placed it on the floor. Squatted down beside it. Opened it. Took out the file on top, started to read.
Felt that surge of adrenalin course through him again.
Yes. This was it. This was the right box. Oh yes.
He read on. Closed the folder, took out another one.
And felt the adrenalin surge even faster.
Smiled.
‘Gotcha,’ he said out loud.
He was about to take out another folder, go through that, when the door swung open.
Marina walked into the main MIS office. It didn’t feel right somehow.
Usually when the team were working on big cases, they based themselves in the bar, extra bodies were drafted and briefed, overtime allocated. The whole thing upgraded. But not this time. It seemed to Marina that Glass was actively working against that. Trying to keep two investigations going in as small a way as possible. It went beyond budget balancing and penny-pinching, she thought. It was as if Phil’s team were being punished for something.
The team were still working hard – possibly even harder, if the activity in the office was anything to go by – but there seemed to be something missing. And Marina reckoned she knew what that was.
Phil. Or his leadership, at least.
He was absent from the office in more ways than one. She still didn’t know what was wrong with him. She had thought at first it must be their relationship. Some problem with that. With her, even. But seeing him at work showed it went deeper than that. He was distracted, mumbling when he should be giving clear orders. Absent when he should be present.
And she couldn’t work like this any longer.
She took out her phone. Hit speed-dial. Waited.
He picked up.
‘Hey,’ she said, ‘where are you?’
‘Home,’ he replied.
‘What? What are you doing there?’
‘I, uh… ’ His voice trailed away.
‘You what?’
‘I got wet. Needed to change my clothes.’
She asked the obvious question next.
‘Chasing a suspect. Up at the hotel. Well, I thought he was a suspect. But he… yeah… ’
Marina sighed. ‘Phil. We need to talk.’
Silence.
‘We do.’ She turned away from the rest of the office, cupped her hand over the mouthpiece so no one could overhear. ‘Whatever’s going on, you need to talk to me about it.’
More silence.
Her voice dropped further. ‘I thought it was about us. Just about us. But I’ve seen how you are at work. And Phil, it’s not right. You need to talk to me. Whatever’s going on, you need to talk to me.’ Her voice even lower. ‘We’re in this together. Remember?’
A sigh. She waited.
‘Yeah,’ he said, eventually. ‘You’re right, I… ’ Another sigh. ‘I don’t know… I just… don’t know… ’
‘Well at least we’re communicating,’ she said.
She heard him laugh. ‘Yeah.’ Then another sigh. ‘Oh God… ’
‘Look. We don’t have to talk about it now. Let’s do it later. OK?’
‘Marina, you don’t understand. It’s… I don’t know.’
‘OK. We’ll talk it through. Get it sorted.’
There was another silence on the line.
‘Glass was on at me earlier,’ he said.
‘Joy,’ she said. ‘What did he want?’
‘Well, amongst other things, I’m not smart enough. I need to dress more like a copper.’
‘How horrible.’
‘That’s what I thought. So I’m having a look through the wardrobe now. Trying to find something… ’ He tailed off again.
‘Phil? You there? Phil?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Oh, that’s just perfect.’
‘What is?’
He gave a little laugh. ‘Glass should be careful what he wishes for. He might just get it. Or my version of it, anyway.’
Marina smiled. This was more like the old Phil back again.
‘Can’t wait to see it.’
Another silence. Then, at last: ‘I think I’m… ’ his voice shrinking with each word, ‘I’m… cracking up… ’
Marina felt her heart break. ‘Oh, Phil… ’
‘I just… I’m… I’m losing it… ’
She started to talk again, but he cut her off.
‘I’ve got to get ready. Get back to work. I’m going to the hospital to check on the kid. See Anni. Anything to avoid Glass. I’ll… I’ll see you later.’
And he hung up.
Marina was left with a dead handset. She slipped it into her pocket, didn’t move. The office was still in full swing, activity all around her, but she couldn’t move. Stood still as a statue.
Then she snapped herself out of it. No. She had to do something.
She had to find Don, talk to him. Maybe he could help her, shed some light on what was wrong with Phil.
She left the incident room.
Set off down the corridor looking for him.
Rose Martin had driven up and down the street three times. Not because she was practising any kind of surveillance. Just because she couldn’t find a parking space. And now that she had finally found one – at the opposite end of the street, nearly round the corner, useless if she did want to do surveillance – she was angry.
Very angry.
She had done some checking before coming back here. Found out a few things about Faith Luscombe. She had gone into the town centre, to the main CCTV control room. Asked to see footage from two nights previous of New Town. Specifically the corner Faith Luscombe had been working from.
Nothing. No cameras on that stretch. Probably why Faith had chosen it. From what Donna Warren had told her, Rose had worked out what time Faith had been there, and from her ultimate destination had worked out the route the car would have taken out of town. That kind of requisitioning would take time, she was told. She gave her best smile, flashed a bit of cleavage and said she would be very grateful if it was done as quickly as possible. They would see what they could do.
Her next stop had been to see Nick Lines at the mortuary. He hadn’t been pleased to see her, although with his bald head and cadaverous appearance, he never looked pleased to see anyone. She asked to look at Faith Luscombe’s body.
‘If you’re sure,’ he had said. ‘It’s not pretty.’
‘I can take it,’ she had said, not sure if she could.
He was right. It wasn’t pretty. Rose struggled to keep her eyes on it.
‘Is there… anything you’ve picked up about it?’
‘We haven’t done a post-mortem, if that’s what you mean,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t requested. Cause of death was being mangled by two cars. No surprises there.’
‘So nothing unusual?’ She felt her heart sinking. She had been sure there would be something. Hoped there would be something.
‘Just this,’ he said, pointing to the sole of her right foot. ‘This mark. Looks like a brand.’
‘A brand? Like a cow?’
‘Could be,’ he said. ‘Some of the extreme body modification crowd go in for it too. One step up from the ubiquity of tattoos. And much more painful, of course.’
‘Would she have been into that, d’you think?’
He frowned. ‘Not sure. If it had been on her arm or body, I’d have said yes. Show it off, flaunt it. But on the sole of her foot? I don’t know.’
‘Have you seen anything like it before?’
‘Never. Not like this, anyway.’
She thanked him for his time and asked for a photo of the brand. Then went to see Donna Warren once more.
She turned the ignition off, sat there in silence for a few seconds. Counting her breaths. Slowly in, two, three, four, slowly out, two, three, four. Controlling herself. Like Marina had encouraged her to do. She didn’t want to give the woman credit for anything, but this had helped. Simple really; she should have thought of it herself. Take a few seconds, breathe, calm herself down. Then, if there was still some residual anger hanging round in her system, channel it into whatever she was about to do. Simple.
Especially when it involved Donna Warren. Channelling rage in her direction would be a pleasure.
Rose hated being made a fool of. Always had done. Refused to put up with it. All the way through training at Hendon, she had worked hard to make sure she was never the butt of jokes. Never bullied or picked on. She always stood up for herself, always gave as good as she got. Sometimes too much so. When her attitude began to be commented on, to threaten her future plans, she knew she had to rein it in, find new coping mechanisms. And she had done. It was obvious, really. Subsume the rage, channel it. Into career advancement. Into making sure she was better than the rest of her year at everything she did. Into being the youngest DI in the Met. The highest flyer.
But it hadn’t quite worked out that way.
And none of it was her fault.
She checked her wing mirror, looked down the street at Donna’s house. Studied it. Sat like that for several minutes. There was nothing to see. No one came or went; she didn’t see anyone at the windows or the door. Nothing.
Rose ran a few options through her mind. Quickly rejected all but one.
She nodded to herself. Got out of the car, locked it, began walking down the street. Hyper-vigilant all the time.
She needn’t have been. No one watched her, approached her, moved away from her. The only other people she saw were a young couple, both wearing tracksuits but, from the unfit, lumpen shape of their bodies, going nowhere near a gym. They were coming down the road pushing a buggy with a child inside it, bulging Aldi bags hanging from the handlebars.
Rose smiled to herself. I might have a few issues, she thought, but at least I’m not as bad as them.
She approached Donna’s front door. Stood before it. Before she could raise her hand to knock, she felt that old familiar rage bubbling up inside her. Looked at her hand. It was shaking. She put it in her jeans pocket, breathed in slowly once more. Out once more.
When she was composed, she knocked.
As soon as her hand was away from the door, her stance changed. She was ready. When the cheap whore arrived, opened the door, Rose would be on her. Inside, door closed behind her, and then her lesson could start. See what happened when you played Rose Martin for an idiot. See how far that attitude got her. She wouldn’t do that again in a hurry. No. She’d be begging and pleading for another chance, screaming how sorry she was. How she’d never do it again. Yeah. Just wait. Just you see.
Nothing. No answer.
Sighing in irritation, Rose tried the door again. Waited.
Nothing.
Another angry sigh. Not in. After all that, not in.
Rose looked round, hoping to see Donna walking towards her. Didn’t happen. Even the lumpen couple and their child had disappeared. No one about.
Rose turned back to the door. Smiled.
She could still give Donna a surprise. In fact, this way, the surprise would be that much bigger. A much better way to show Donna just who was in charge. She would be terrified.
Giving a last check over her shoulder, making sure there was no one about, no one watching her, Rose turned back to the door. Took out a set of lockpicks in a leather case.
Got to work on Donna’s front door.
So happy with herself, she could have whistled.
Marina found the door to the records room. Turned the handle. Open. She went inside.
‘Don? You in here?’
No reply.
She looked down the first aisle. It was exactly as she had expected it to be. Long rows of shelving piled with old cardboard boxes. Dark in there, especially for daytime. Bad, infrequent overhead lighting. Several of the tubes were buzzing, flickering. Strobing the room.
Like in a horror film, she thought.
Then mentally pinched herself. Don’t be so stupid. This was Southway police station in Colchester. Not The Living Dead at the Manchester Morgue.
She paused, listening. Called again.
‘Don? You there?’
A noise. Down at the end of one of the aisles. Someone was in there with her.
‘Don, it’s Marina. Are you… ’
A figure detached itself from the shadowed end of the aisle. Moved towards her.
‘Don? Is that you?’
The figure moved into a pool of flickering light.
Marina let loose a breath she didn’t realise she had been holding. ‘It is you. I thought for a minute it was… ’ She stopped, sentence unfinished. ‘What have you got there, Don? What are you doing?’
Don was frantically stuffing something inside his jacket. From the look on his face, it appeared that he wasn’t pleased to be caught doing it.
‘Marina… ’ The flickering overhead light picked out his eyes, lit by a strange cast. Not a pleasant one.
Marina was beginning to get scared. This wasn’t the kindly old grandfather who looked after her daughter. This was… someone she had never seen before.
‘Don, what are you… ’
Papers successfully hidden inside his jacket, he advanced towards her.
Donna turned the car off Barrack Street into her own road. Slowly eased it along, looking for a parking space. One foot hovering over the accelerator, ready to drive off, speed away at the first sign of trouble.
Ben sat next to her, silent but full of unanswered questions. He had started asking them as soon as she had stopped crying and let him go, standing outside the car earlier that day. She hadn’t had the strength to argue, shout or contradict him. She had even tried to answer him, although what she could tell him was limited. But something the boy had said had made her think. At first she had dismissed it, but once she had stopped and thought, she realised that what he had said might be important.
‘Have you got her storybook?’
‘No,’ Donna had said straight away, not knowing what he was talking about. ‘No storybooks.’
‘Mum always had her storybook.’ Ben had sat down on the ground on his own. Kicking at the hard-packed dirt of the forest floor with the heel of his shoe, working up a cloud of dust and grit. ‘She wrote in it all the time. Said it was her life story. Said it was important to someone.’
‘Yeah, well we don’t have it, so it can’t be.’
More kicking, more dust. ‘Said it was important, though. Said someone would want to read it one day and pay her for it.’
‘Yeah.’ Donna had lit up a fag, ignoring the boy. Just about everyone she knew thought their life story was fascinating. Thought it was so unique someone would pay a lot of money for it. Well Donna had read misery memoirs. Knew there was nothing unique about them. W. H. Smith had a whole section of them. Tragic Lives. Why the hell would anyone want to read about someone else’s tragic life? Losers.
But no wonder Faith wanted to write about hers. There must be a lot of money in that kind of shit.
‘That’s where she went, isn’t it?’ Ben had stopped kicking the dirt. He looked up at Donna. ‘When she went out. She was going to sell her storybook.’
Donna had been about to answer the boy, give him some dismissive reply, not even diverting breath from her fag. But she stopped. Thought about what he had said.
‘She told you that? She was going to sell her storybook?’
Ben nodded, head down, fascinated once again by the dust.
Donna didn’t move. Stared straight ahead. Thinking. About what the boy had said. About what it meant. About all the vague stories Faith had told her in their time together: her childhood, her escape, her life with Ben. All the drunken stoned hints she’d dropped about her plan, how she was going to get revenge and make money in the process. About how she would sober up and pretend she had never said anything.
But just because she hadn’t said anything didn’t mean she hadn’t been doing anything…
Donna dropped the fag at her feet, ground it out.
‘Tell me about this book, Ben. Tell me all about it… ’
And he had. As much as he had known.
And that was why they had come back to the house.
A few days ago, Donna would have said the book didn’t exist. Or if it did, it was just some fairy story Faith had made up. But after the things she had been through, the fear she had encountered, the loss… she was willing to believe anything now.
She found a space down from her house, pulled in. Checked the street. Both directions. Nothing that looked suspicious. Nothing that screamed law. She had seen enough stakeouts – been caught in enough – to know what to look for. And she prided herself on her street sense. She knew just which punter to go with, which one to drop if she got a bad vibe about him, thought he would hurt her and not pay. And she was always right. Always.
But she saw nothing on the street. Nothing – and no one – that got her senses tingling.
She switched the engine off, turned to Ben. ‘Right then, kid. Where did your mum keep this book, d’you know?’
He shook his head. Then thought a little. Eyes screwed up tight, trying to work it out. Bless him, thought Donna. The kid really wanted to help.
‘My room,’ he said at last. ‘Or yours. And Mum’s.’
‘Right.’ Another look up and down the street. ‘You stay here, then. Keep your head down, don’t talk to anyone. Don’t let anyone know you’re here, OK? Just be as quiet as you can.’
‘But I want to come with you.’
‘I know you do, kid. But it’s better if you stay here.’
‘Might them men be waitin’ in the house?’ Fear in his voice.
Christ, she thought, I hope not. ‘No,’ she said, hopefully sounding more confident than she felt. ‘I’ll not be long. Soon as I get the book, I’ll be straight back out.’
‘’Cos I’m strong,’ Ben said. ‘If they attack you, I’ll defend you. I will.’
Donna looked at the boy. Saw fear on his features. Bravery, too. He had lost his mother. And he didn’t want to lose her too. Emotions swirled round inside Donna. Loss. Responsibility. Protection. She had never felt like this before. All the things she had tried to avoid, to keep herself immune from. Here, now, all together. She was all over the place.
She opened her jacket. The kitchen knife glinted. ‘Still got this. Don’t worry. You just keep your head down. Won’t be long.’
She thought about kissing him, decided against it. She wasn’t ready for that yet. Even though her heart was saying she was.
Donna crossed the street, found the front-door key and, with another quick look round, was in the house, door closed behind her. She stood with her back to it, listened. Nothing. Only the sound of the street outside, her own heavy breathing.
She scoped the living room. Exactly as she had left it. Or it seemed to be. She looked for little things, ornaments, magazines, things only she would know the correct positioning of, indicators of whether someone had been there, moving things and trying not to let it show. She could find nothing out of the ordinary. She went upstairs.
Towards their bedroom.
Her bedroom. She had to get used to saying it.
She stopped, looked round. Something felt wrong. She didn’t know what, but it wasn’t right. Fingering the knife in her pocket, she entered the room.
Crossed to the chest of drawers, opened the top one. The underwear drawer she shared with Faith.
Had shared with Faith.
The things in it were always neatly rolled. Now, they were all over the place.
She checked the top of the chest of drawers. Saw fingerprints in the dust. Clean smudges, small but unmistakable, telling her that someone had been there. She opened the second drawer. Same as the first. everything thrown around.
Opened the third. Neat. Just like she had left it.
She closed it again. Thought. Two messed-up drawers, one neat one. Someone was looking for something. Probably the same as her: the book. And they had stopped. Which meant one of two things. Either they had found it, in which case they must have left, or…
They were still looking for it.
And she had disturbed them.
Donna turned, tried to get the knife out of her jacket pocket. Too slow. An arm gripped her round the neck, pulled her down; a hand pushed her arm behind her back up to her shoulder blades. She felt her bones creak.
‘Thought you’d fuck me over, eh? Thought you were cleverer than me, you little whore, did you?’ Another pull on her arm. ‘Well, you feeling clever now?’
Donna knew just who it was. That bitch policewoman.
She pulled her arm further.
Donna screamed.
Mickey stared at the photo. Stared, stared, stared… Got him.
Adam Weaver’s identity had been in his mind constantly, yet just tantalisingly – and irritatingly – out of reach. But now he had him. Mickey had known it was only a matter of time. Known that once he’d started his mental Rolodex spinning, it would come to him eventually.
And it had.
He got up from his desk, wanting to punch the air. Do a lap of honour round the incident room. Down a large whisky.
Glass stared over at him. Frowned. ‘Everything all right, DS Philips?’
Mickey gave a small smile. ‘Everything’s fine, sir, thanks.’ Then felt he needed more. ‘Thanks for asking.’
Glass’s eyes narrowed. Unsure of whether Mickey was taking the piss or not. Mickey just nodded at the DCI, then put his head back down, returned to what was in front of him. Adam Weaver. Well, well, well. Robin Banks indeed.
He looked round the office once more, news almost bursting from him. He wanted to tell someone, needed to share it. But none of his usual confidants were around. Anni was off at the hospital; the boss was out. And he certainly didn’t want to share it with Glass. He looked at his watch, picked up his phone, went outside.
Through the double doors, into the car park.
Phil answered. ‘What you got, Mickey?’ Noise in the background. In the car, Mickey guessed. Listening to one of his God-awful CDs. Mickey tried to listen, make it out. He should know it; after all, he’d been subjected to the stuff enough times. Midlake? Band of Horses? Probably. Sounded a bit like them. You could hear the beard in the voice. Might even be Warren Zevon, although Mickey felt sure that was something Phil played just to annoy him. He couldn’t really like it.
‘I’ve got him, boss. Weaver. I’ve got him.’
The music faded away. ‘Tell me.’
‘Well I’m pretty sure, anyway. His real name’s Richard Shaw.’
‘Richard Shaw, Richard Shaw… I know that name… ’
‘Yeah, you probably will. When I was in the Met, I was on the team working a case against these north London gangsters. Was a big one, loads of us on it. Been trying to get a conviction for years. Eventually we caught one of the inner retinue, got him bang on. Made him a deal. He turned grass.’
‘Was it the Shaws who did the electric shock thing with an old field telephone?’
‘That was the Richardsons.’
‘The maniac with the hammer?’
‘That was the Richardsons too.’
‘What did the Shaws have? What was their USP?’
‘Fear, mainly. They used anything that came to hand. Everyone knew that if they stepped out of line, that was it, they were gone. Vicious bunch of bastards. Anyway, it looked like we had this case against them. Richard Shaw. And his old man, also Richard Shaw. Tricky Dicky, the old guy was called. Used to be a real big noise back in the day.’
‘And which one have we got?’
‘The son.’
‘Why’s he turned up here?’
‘Well,’ said Mickey, ‘that’s the thing. We were moving in on them, building this case, knowing we were only going to get one shot at it, knowing it had to be a good one, the best – and then… nothing. They disappeared.’
‘What, the whole family?’
‘Whole lot. Just vanished. Like that. Thin air. And it wasn’t the first time.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘The father, Tricky Dicky, had pulled a disappearing act years earlier. He was vicious. A stone psychopath. At the time, everyone thought he’d been murdered.’
‘But?’
‘No body. No trace. Nothing. Which isn’t unusual, of course. But no one knew where he’d gone. And then his son did the same thing.’
‘What about Spain?’
‘Our first thought. But Shaw Junior and his crowd never turned up there. No one saw them. There wasn’t even any word about them arriving secretly. Nothing.’
‘So what, then?’
‘Well, rumour had it they’d been taken out of the country. But not Spain, like I just said. Other rumours had it that they were all dead. Young Richard had ordered a hit on whoever squealed, and anyone who got in the way was just collateral damage. But like I say, these were just rumours. No one knew where any of them had gone.’
‘Until now.’
‘Until now.’
‘Brilliant work, Mickey. A real breakthrough. Well done.’
Mickey smiled. ‘Thanks, boss.’
‘What you going to do now?’
‘Get back on it. Hunt down all the files I can about the Shaws. See if anything matches, if I can get a handle on what’s happening here.’
‘Good stuff.’ Phil gave a small laugh. ‘You must be keen. That’ll involve paperwork, you know.’
‘I know.’
It was well known just how much Mickey detested paperwork. Even among naturally report-writing-averse police officers, Mickey’s hatred of it was legendary.
‘What about you, boss?’
‘I’m just off to the hospital. See Anni. Find out what’s happening with the kid.’
‘Right. We’ll catch up later. Give my regards to Anni.’ Mickey didn’t know if Phil had heard, but he did hear the volume on the music being pushed back up as the call was broken. Midlake. Definitely. Or Band of Horses.
Mickey turned, making his way back into the building. Nearly jumped out of his skin.
Glass was standing right behind him.
Mickey actually clutched his chest. ‘God… ’
Glass smiled. ‘Just me.’
Mickey said nothing. Tried to walk past him. Glass put a restraining hand on his chest.
‘Just a moment, Detective Sergeant.’
Mickey stopped, waited. He really disliked the man. The previous one had been bad enough, but Glass… He should have been perfect. Mickey should have responded well to him. A straight-down-the line copper. No-nonsense. But he hadn’t. Maybe he had worked with Phil too long. Adopted his methods.
‘Who was that on the phone? DI Brennan?’
Mickey knew it was a bad idea to lie. Even if he didn’t want to tell the truth. ‘Yes, sir.’
Glass nodded, as if a suspicion was confirmed. ‘And why did you have to call him out here? Isn’t the office good enough?’
‘Don’t know, sir. I had something to tell him. This felt like the best way.’
‘And what would that be, Detective Sergeant?’
Mickey knew he was taking a chance with what he was about to say, but he said it anyway. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you, sir. DI Brennan asked me to look into an aspect of the investigation that was potentially… sensitive. I was following his orders.’
Glass clearly didn’t like the answer but had to accept it. He nodded, face unhappy. ‘And where is DI Brennan now?’
Mickey had to tell the truth this time. No option. ‘On his way to the hospital.’
‘Thank you.’
Mickey made to go. Glass stopped him again.
‘You’re a first-rate detective. Don’t let certain… associations come before achieving your potential. Do you understand what I’m saying, Detective Sergeant?’
‘I think so, sir. But I’d better get back to work.’
He walked back into the building, trying to put the encounter, and Glass’s disturbing final words, out of his mind.
Focus on finding out everything he could about Richard Shaw.
Doing his job, he thought, would be the best way to achieve his potential.
But Glass’s words were still in his mind…
‘Don? You OK?’
He kept advancing towards her. Marina felt her heart quicken. This wasn’t the Don she knew.
‘Don… ’
He reached her. ‘What are you doing in here, Marina?’
‘Looking for you.’ Her voice a lot more level and calm than she felt.
He looked behind her at the door. She caught the look, knew immediately what he was thinking. A self-locking handle. She hadn’t locked it. She made swift mental calculations, adding up whether she could turn, beat him to it.
Get out into the corridor. Run.
Then another voice entered her head. Muddied her thinking. But this is Don we’re talking about…
‘Did they send you?’ Don’s voice low, hard.
‘Did who send me, Don?’
‘Them,’ he said. ‘Glass and… and that lot.’
‘No. No one sent me. I just came looking for you. I wanted to talk to you.’
He stopped. Frowned. ‘Why? What about?’
‘Phil,’ she said.
At the mention of his adoptive son, Don sighed. The tension leaving his body, his shoulders sagging, legs bending. No threat in him any more. More like the old man she knew, Marina thought.
‘So you know, then.’ His voice tired.
‘Know what? Don, I wish I did.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I wish he’d tell me what’s wrong. There’s something going on with him. Something… not right,’ said Marina. ‘At first I thought it was us. Me. Me and him, I mean, our relationship. But it’s not that. It’s more than just that.’
He moved nearer to her. The overhead light flickering, glinting off his eyes.
Marina moved backwards. ‘Were you going to hurt me when I came in here, Don?’
He looked surprised. ‘Hurt you? Good God, no. Why would I want to hurt you, Marina?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me. It looked like I’d interrupted you in the middle of something that you didn’t want me to know about. Looked like you were pretty angry about it.’
‘Oh. That.’ Don gave a shamefaced smile. ‘Sorry.’ He patted his side, beneath his jacket. ‘Needed a bit of… extra reading. Not strictly speaking legal extra reading.’
Marina returned the smile. ‘I see. Just don’t do it again.’
‘I’m sorry. I won’t. But you have to be careful in here. Have to know who you can trust and who… who… you know.’
‘And who can you trust, Don?’
‘I’m sorry. Of course I can trust you. I’m sorry.’
They stood looking at each other, saying nothing. The only sound in the records room the fizzing and spitting of the overhead strips.
‘You wanted to talk to me about Phil,’ said Don eventually, his voice carrying the weight of the world within it.
‘Yes, I do.’
He shook his head. ‘Where to start?’ He gave a quick look round as if fearful of being overheard, leaned in close to her. ‘D’you know anywhere round here that does coffee? Good coffee, I mean. Not the failed biological warfare experiments they serve in the machines in here.’
‘Yeah. I do. Want to go?’
‘I think that’s a good idea. And then I can tell you. About Phil… ’
Donna screamed.
Felt her arm being wrenched from its socket, pushed hard up her back. Heard – and felt – the tearing sound through her body. She screamed again. The pain increased.
‘Yeah,’ said the copper’s voice between gasps, ‘that’s it. On your knees now, bitch.’
And that did it. That one word.
Bitch.
Donna hated it. Refused to hear it. Certainly wouldn’t let a punter get away with saying it, no matter how much he paid her. Well, maybe she had done in the past, when she’d been desperate, but she had insisted on extra. Up front. And hated herself for it afterwards. Told the john there were plenty of girls who made a living that way, but she wasn’t one of them.
Bitch.
She hated it. Wouldn’t take it. It was one of the two things she couldn’t abide, the other being a slap in the face. Anyone did that to her, she would turn round, punch them out. Same as the word. Bitch.
It worked on her like spinach on Popeye. Gave her super strength. Made her super angry.
Super fucking angry.
She felt Rose Martin pushing her down, felt her knees start to buckle.
‘That’s it, you fucking bitch, go on-’
And the world turned scarlet, spun off its axis.
Donna didn’t kneel, didn’t go anywhere near the floor. She lifted her right foot, brought it down as hard as possible on Rose Martin’s right instep.
The policewoman screamed.
Donna felt the grip loosening. She wouldn’t get another chance. Leave it too long and it would just make her angry. She stamped down again, harder this time. Caught the copper’s shin as she did it.
Another scream, another loosening of her grip.
Donna pushed down with her arm, as hard as she could. Got it loose, bent it back, shoved her elbow with all her strength into Rose Martin’s ribs. Caught her right on the diaphragm. Felt the air huff out of her.
Donna turned quickly, saw Rose Martin preparing to come back at her. Without thinking too much about it, she reached over to the bedside table, picked up the lamp. It was small, light and cheap, but it would have to do. She swung it as hard as she could. It connected with Rose Martin’s cheekbone. She followed through, put all her strength into the shot. Saw the copper’s head snap back, her body spin round.
Rose Martin hit the side of the bed, fell to the floor.
Donna threw the lamp aside, brought her leg back, took aim, let loose a kick. Rose Martin screamed. Donna heard and felt ribs splinter and crack. She swung her foot back, ready to do it again. Feeling the adrenalin course through her, loving the sense of power it gave her. She smiled. Kicking a copper. Brilliant.
But her jubilation was cut short. Rose Martin grabbed her ankle, caught it in mid-swing, twisted.
Donna’s turn to scream. She felt her knee twist, heard cartilage rip, felt her leg go in the wrong direction. She tried to move with the twist, minimise the injury. She spun, hitting the floor hard.
Saw Rose Martin claw herself up on to her knees, arm wrapped round her shattered ribs, moving towards her, intent on keeping going.
Donna looked round the room for weapons, couldn’t see any.
She felt for the kitchen knife. Lying there, she fumbled the blade from her pocket, hoped she had it to hand before Rose Martin started on her again. She pulled it free. Rose Martin was on her. Donna drew the blade back, gripping the handle, ready to stab.
But didn’t.
A scream rent the air. The two women paused, stared at the source.
Ben was standing in the doorway. His face white, a horror-film death mask, he stared at the two women.
Rose Martin pulled her blow. Put her arm down. Donna lowered the knife. Sat up on her elbows.
‘Ben. Come here… ’
Ben didn’t move.
‘It’s all right,’ said Rose Martin, looking straight at the boy but unable to hold his eyes. ‘I’m a police officer.’
‘Yeah,’ said Donna, gasping for breath. ‘Like that’s gonna reassure him.’
Rose sighed, looked at her. Donna looked back. The fight gone from the pair of them. A numb kind of embarrassment replacing it.
Rose looked at the knife. ‘I think you’d better give that to me.’
Donna glanced at it, then at Rose. Reluctantly handed it over. Rose pocketed it. Gripped the edge of the bed, tried to stand.
‘Want a hand?’
Donna was trying to get up too.
‘I’ll manage.’
The two women got painfully to their feet. Stood looking at each other.
Donna’s first thought was to run, but she tamped it down. Yes, she had been about to attack a police officer with a knife. Yes, she had shattered her ribs. But that police officer had broken into her house and seriously assaulted her. So she imagined she wasn’t going down for this. And judging by the look on Rose Martin’s face, she was thinking something similar.
Donna looked at Ben. ‘Go an’ put the kettle on. There’s a love.’
The boy, still unblinking, disappeared from the bedroom.
The two women looked at each other.
‘You set me up,’ said Rose Martin.
‘Sorry,’ said Donna. ‘I had to get away. As soon as I knew somethin’ bad had happened to Faith, just like she said it would, I knew I had to run.’
Rose frowned. ‘What d’you mean, just like she said it would?’
‘She said that if something happened to her, if she died mysteriously, I was to take Ben and run. Because he’d be next. And then me.’
Rose looked like she wanted to believe her, but seemed to have some way to go first. ‘So why are you back here?’
Donna shrugged, attempted nonchalance. Failed. ‘Forgot somethin’.’
‘What?’
She hesitated. And Rose was on her.
‘I said what?’
Donna sighed. No point in lying now. ‘Faith left a book. A diary. Tellin’ everythin’ about who was after her, what had happened. She said it would be worth somethin’ to the right people.’
‘So where is it?’
Donna shrugged again. ‘Dunno.’
‘You haven’t found it?’
‘Not yet.’
Rose Martin smiled. ‘Then I think we’ll look for it together, don’t you?’
Donna knew she had no choice. She nodded.
The two women, their bodies aching, their anger spent on each other, began the search.
The Gardener was out again. And it felt good. No, better than that. It felt right.
He had waited until the policeman had gone, then made his appearance. Because he had work to do.
Oh yes.
And he was looking forward to it.
The sacrifice was being returned to him. All he had to do was go and pick it up.
He walked to the stretch of road, waited in the agreed place. Up the hill by the park. Under a tree. No one would speak to him, or even look at him. He was a non-person. Just like Paul was. But the Gardener didn’t mind that. In fact, he liked it. Fed on the energy of it. People ignored him. But he was more powerful than any of them realised. He was only letting them live as they walked past because it was too much trouble to kill them. He had the power of life and death over all of them.
If only they knew it.
Today was going to be special. The sacrifice would be returned and the ceremony could begin. And the future of the Garden would be assured.
Then another thought came into his head. And when it did, his heart felt like a sinking stone inside his chest. He sighed, whatever happiness, energy he had been feeling draining out of him.
He had nowhere to perform the sacrifice.
The house was gone. All his tools, his ritual with it. The cage… the cage was gone…
But there was another. He smiled to himself. Felt the stone lift in his chest. An even more sacred space. He had never attempted to do a sacrifice there before. But it made sense. It was the perfect place.
Perfect.
He was still thinking, still planning when his lift arrived. The driver had a baseball cap on and his collar turned up, but the Gardener still recognised him. He got in beside him.
The Portreeve didn’t look happy. He looked scared.
The Gardener said nothing to him. Just waited until he pulled away, then yanked his hood up.
Smelled the rich, loamy smell. Felt comforted by it. Charged.
Beside him, he felt the Portreeve’s fear increase.
Good.
Good…
Phil pulled up at the hospital. Parked, went inside. Flashed his warrant card at reception, asked where the boy under police surveillance was. Ignored the double-take the receptionist gave to his clothing.
He thanked her, went on his way.
He walked down corridors, mentally following the instructions he’d been given. As he rounded the final corner, he was expecting to find Anni, but was greeted instead by DCI Glass.
Phil stopped walking. His heart sank. ‘Afternoon, sir,’ he said, as neutrally as he could.
Glass turned, about to say something in return, stopped. ‘What… what’s that?’
Phil kept a smile off his face. ‘What’s what, sir?’
Glass pointed at him. ‘That… that… What are you wearing?’
‘I think you can see what it is, sir.’ Phil again kept his voice neutral.
‘A… a bow tie. An officer of mine is wearing a bow tie.’ Glass shook his head.
‘You said I needed to smarten myself up, sir. I thought a tweed jacket and bow tie would do the trick. They’re very fashionable at the moment, I believe, sir. Very on trend.’
Glass’s lips became thin, bloodless. ‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘Not at all, sir. It’s just the kind of thing that’ll play well in media briefings. The cameras’ll love it. Sir.’
Glass’s face changed colour, deepened to an unattractive shade of heart-attack red. Well at least he’s in the right place, thought Phil. Glass moved in closer. No smile now, not even the pretence of one.
‘The cameras’ll love it, will they? The cameras’ll love it. No they won’t, Detective Inspector. No they won’t.’ His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. ‘Because you are going nowhere near a camera. You are going nowhere near a case in my department ever again. You are suspended from duty. Forthwith.’
Phil felt anger rise within him. He knew the best thing to do would be to keep it contained, but he also knew that wasn’t an option. Not after what Glass had just said. ‘On what grounds?’
A nasty smile smeared itself over Glass’s features. ‘I think that speaks for itself. Insubordination. Incompetence. Negligence. Not following correct procedures. How does that sound so far?’
Phil stepped in close to Glass. The DCI flinched. ‘Bullshit and you know it. All I have to do is phone the Super at Chelmsford. He knows me. He’ll back me up.’
‘He’ll also want to preserve the chain of command. He’ll want to be seen to be following grievance procedure. He’s open to scrutiny as well. He has his own job to think about before yours.’
‘So that’s it, is it? I’m out.’
‘You most certainly are.’
A smile flitted across Phil’s features. ‘Then since I’m no longer a police officer, you won’t mind if I do this.’ He pulled his arm back, ready to punch the DCI.
Glass stood his ground, stared straight into Phil’s eyes. ‘I’d think twice before you do that, if I were you.’
‘Why? You’re no longer my superior officer, and I’m no longer on the case.’
‘I’m thinking of your safety, Detective Inspector.’
‘My safety?’
‘Yes. You hit me and I’ll fucking kill you.’
His stare level, icy. Phil didn’t doubt the sincerity behind his words.
‘I’ve read your file, Brennan. I know you’ve got previous where this is concerned. I know you’ve struck your superiors before and got away with it. Well not this one. Hit me and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.’
Phil stared at him.
Glass smiled. ‘That’s better. Now run along home. The proper police have got work to do.’
Phil felt suddenly ridiculous standing there in a bow tie, even more so with the rage he was feeling inside him. He wanted so much to punch Glass. So, so much.
Glass laughed. ‘Don’t. Hit me, you go down. And you don’t get back up again.’
Anni came round the corner, stopped dead when she saw the two men before her.
‘Boss? What… what’s happening?’
Phil turned. Tried to speak. No words came out.
‘I’ve just relieved DI Brennan of his position,’ said Glass. ‘From now on, you answer directly to me, Detective Constable Hepburn. Clear?’
Anni turned to Phil. ‘What the hell’s happened? Has he gone mental?’
‘Keep talking like that, DC Hepburn,’ said Glass, ‘and you’ll be next.’
Anni stared at the DCI, then shook her head, restraining herself.
Glass caught the look. ‘Just get him out of here,’ he said, turning and walking away, shoulders and back bunched with tension.
Anni looked back at Phil. ‘And what are you wearing?’
‘A bow tie,’ he said, then sighed. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’ Another sigh. He looked directly at Anni, turning his back on Glass, his voice a whisper. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me… ’
Any kind of answer was cut short by a sound from the boy’s room. Phil knew immediately what it was. Not a car backfiring, he thought; that’s just a cliché. It was followed by a scream.
He and Anni looked at each other.
‘Was that…?’
‘This way,’ said Anni. ‘Come on.’
She ran round the corner, Phil following. The door to the boy’s room was open. Darkness inside.
‘I was only away for a couple of minutes,’ Anni said. ‘I left Jenny Swan, the psychologist, in there with him. He should be… ’
She stopped talking as they entered the room. Jenny Swan was lying on the floor, unmoving. Blood pooling underneath her head. On the bed, the boy was backed up to the headboard, as far as he could go without burrowing into the wall behind him. Screaming. Screaming for his life.
Before him, standing at the side of the bed, was a man Phil hadn’t seen before.
The man realised he wasn’t alone, turned.
‘Stay where you are,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t come any closer. I mean it… ’
And that was when Phil saw the gun.
Mickey leaned back, fingers interlaced behind his head, stretched his body. Felt the pull of the muscles down his arms, his sides. He flexed, stretched again. Took a deep breath, let it go. Relaxed again.
He hated paperwork. Loathed it. Despised it. Some people, Milhouse for one, were natural-born desk jockeys. They loved nothing better than sitting in front of a computer screen, trawling through virtual facts and figures in an unreal world, emerging with something real and concrete at the end. Mickey couldn’t do that. He was built for action. He hated to admit it, knew the admission made him sound like some musclebound thug, the kind that volunteered for riot-squad work, but it was the truth. Not the riot-squad stuff; he couldn’t stand the kind of officers that arm of the job attracted. Just the action element. Thief-taking. Catching criminals. That kind of thing. Proper police work. Not sitting here in front of a screen, getting eye strain.
But he had found out some interesting things. He had to admit that. The time hadn’t been wasted.
So that was something.
And the office felt better when Glass wasn’t there. Mickey had had reservations about him before the chat outside. An instinctive distrust of the man. Or a dislike. For Mickey, the two things were often the same.
But Glass’s words kept running around his mind. Was the DCI right? Had he allied himself too closely with Phil? Would it impact on his career? He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about things like that.
He rubbed his eyes, looked again at the screen. Richard Shaw. Tricky Dicky. Hadn’t been so clever about hiding his paper trail as he thought he had. Certainly not if Mickey could find it.
He rubbed his eyes again. Couldn’t stand another second looking at this screen. He needed to get out.
Mickey smiled to himself, took his phone out. Perfect, he thought. Just the excuse.
‘I want to meet,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘Now.’
Fifteen minutes later, he was on the footbridge overlooking Balkerne Hill. On one side was the old Roman wall bordering the town centre. The Hole in the Wall pub built into the corner. On the opposite side, the upmarket suburb of St Mary’s. Beneath him, traffic roared down the dual carriage-ways in and out of the town.
‘Hello, Stuart,’ he said.
Stuart was already there, staring down at the road. He looked up as Mickey approached.
‘You know I don’t like meeting in broad daylight,’ he said, eyes darting round, checking for spies. ‘Especially not somewhere like this.’
Mickey smiled. ‘Perfect place, Stuart. Beats hanging round in some back alley or the corner of a dodgy boozer. Up here… no one’s looking. You’re ignored. You’re safe.’
Stuart, Mickey could tell, didn’t look convinced.
‘So what did you want to see me about?’ he said, a sigh of resignation in his voice.
Mickey looked at him. Stuart had been an informant longer than Mickey had been in Colchester. He had provided information for the previous DS in MIS and had seemed perfectly happy to let the arrangement continue with his successor. Today he looked rough. But then, Mickey thought, he always looked rough.
Stuart was tall and thin, and his black Cuban-heeled suede boots had seen much better days. Probably when John Lennon was divorcing Cynthia. His jeans were also black, drainpipe-cut, barely clinging to his drainpipe legs. A once-black T-shirt now gone grey, proclaiming the name of some band Stuart was keeping the faith for. One that had split up, re-formed, split up again and had three of its founder members die through various forms of self abuse. A black waistcoat and the same black leather jacket he always wore, so old it had come back into fashion at least three times without him noticing it. And his hair was a filthy nest of artificially blackened spikes. He looked old enough to have been a mod, but dressed as if the last tribe he had followed had been punk, and seemed to have lost the energy to reinvent himself since.
He claimed to be a poet. Although Mickey had never heard of him having anything published. He claimed he used to be a rock star. Although no one could ever remember him doing any gigs or releasing any records. He had always endorsed the sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll lifestyle. Well, the drugs at any rate, thought Mickey. Still, he seemed to know everyone in the area, some good, most bad, and had a knack of finding things out from circles Mickey could never get into.
‘Tricky Dicky Shaw,’ said Mickey.
Stuart frowned. ‘Tricky Dicky Shaw… there’s a blast from the past… ’
‘His son’s been in town,’ said Mickey. ‘Calling himself Adam Weaver. Just been killed at the Halstead Manor Hotel.’
‘Heard about that,’ said Stuart. ‘Any idea who did it?’
‘I was going to ask you that.’
‘Oh. Right.’ He nodded. ‘Tricky Dicky Shaw… well I never… ’
‘D’you think you could have a bit of a nose-around? Find something out for me?’
Stuart shrugged. ‘Sure. See what I can do.’ He screwed up his face again. Concentrating. ‘Adam Weaver… that name rings a bell.’
‘Good. Give you something to go on.’
‘When d’you want to hear something?’
‘When you’ve got something to tell me. Sooner rather than later would be good, though.’
‘Right you are, Mr Philips.’
‘OK. Call me when you’ve got something.’ Mickey turned to walk away. Stuart stopped him. Mickey turned.
‘Couldn’t give me a bit in advance, could you? On account?’
Mickey sighed. He had been expecting this and come prepared, but it was a ritual he had to go through. He dug into his pocket, pulled out a tenner. ‘Here you go.’
‘Much appreciated, Mr Philips. Hey, have I ever told you you’ve got the same name as the guy who discovered Elvis and Johnny Cash?’
‘Only every time we meet, Stuart,’ said Mickey with a weary smile. ‘And it’s only the surname, as you know. Ring me when you’ve got something.’
‘Right you are.’
Mickey walked off. It wasn’t a car chase, he reasoned, but it beat doing paperwork.
The Minories café was tucked away at the back of the art gallery of the same name at the top of East Hill, opposite the castle, in a sprawling Georgian building. With its stripped wooden floors and mismatched furniture, not to mention the huge cakes and quiches, it was a favourite lunch haunt of Marina’s. Now she was there with Don, because it was the place where they were least likely to come across police officers.
They had taken a seat at one of the outdoor tables, the weather being just warm enough to allow it. They had sat as far away as possible from anyone else, mindful that they didn’t want anyone overhearing their conversation.
Marina stared at her empty coffee mug, the dregs drying round the rim like geological strata, dating the time they had sat there. She blinked as if coming out of a trance, leaned back, looked round.
The garden, with its odd assortment of architectural features, its archways and vaults dotted about seemingly at random, always reminded her of a mini Portmeirion. But she wasn’t noticing that now. She was taking in what Don had said, letting the words settle.
‘Oh my God… ’
What he had told her had made the day fall away. It had been like hearing the most unreal and unfamiliar things in the most real and familiar of settings. That had just heightened the effect of what he had said.
‘Oh my God… ’ she said again. There were no other words to express what she had just heard.
‘I’m sorry you had to hear it like this,’ Don said, eyes on his own coffee mug. Not empty like Marina’s, since he had been doing most of the talking, but cold. Unwanted. ‘I’m sorry you had to hear it at all, really.’
‘No, no, it’s… ’ She shook her head. ‘Poor Phil… ’
‘I always knew I’d have to tell him one day. Well, I thought I would. But I hoped it would never come to it.’ He leaned forward, placed his hand on hers. She left it there. ‘I certainly never imagined it would all come out this way. Never in a million years.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘I thought all that was over. In the past.’ He sighed. ‘I wished it was.’ Shook his head. ‘I really… ’ Sighed again.
Marina wanted a cigarette. She hadn’t smoked for years, not since she was a student trying to impress other students. But whenever she got stressed, she could feel the burning smoke being pulled down her throat, entering her lungs. Soothing her, comforting her. She knew the effect was imaginary, illusory, and had resisted it. But it was calling her now. More strongly than she had felt for years.
Don sat back. Removed his hand from hers. ‘So anyway. Now you know.’
‘Yes,’ she replied blankly, not fully engaging with the words, ‘now I know. And it explains a lot.’
‘How so?’
‘Phil’s behaviour. He thinks he’s cracking up. Seeing things that aren’t there, being… I don’t know, haunted by ghosts he doesn’t understand. By ghosts he thinks don’t exist.’
‘Oh they exist all right,’ said Don. ‘They’re all too real.’
‘Poor Phil… ’ Marina shook her head.
‘The question I suppose I should ask,’ said Don, ‘is now that you know, what are you going to do about it?’
‘That’s one question,’ said Marina, ‘yes. Probably the most important question. But there’s another.’
Don waited.
‘What does it mean for this case?’
Another sigh from Don. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘That’s where this comes in… ’
He took the stolen report from inside his jacket, laid it on the table before them. They both looked at it, Marina frowning.
‘I think we’d better get more coffee,’ said Don. ‘This might take some time.’
Mickey was back in the office, printing out copies of his findings on Richard Shaw, looking at his watch, thinking it would be time to go home after he had done that, when his phone rang.
He checked the display. A number without a name attached. He answered.
‘Detective Sergeant Philips.’
‘Oh,’ said a voice on the other end. ‘Oh. Very formal.’
Female and familiar, Mickey thought. And in those few words, holding a lot of promise.
‘Who is this?’
‘Oh, sorry. I should have said. I just automatically assumed you would know. Sorry. It’s Lynn. Lynn Windsor.’
As soon as she said her name, Mickey received a mental image of the solicitor. It was an image he was happy to look at.
‘How can I help you, Lynn?’
‘Well I don’t know, exactly… ’ Her voice dropped, as if she wanted to say something private but was afraid of being overheard.
‘Take your time,’ he said. Then realised he was smiling. Very unprofessional, he thought, but he made no effort to stop.
‘I’ve… ’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I don’t know… ’
‘It’s all right,’ he said, sensing that she needed encouragement. ‘Take your time.’
She sighed. ‘I’ve… ’ Her voice dropped even further. ‘I’ve discovered something. Something… ’ Another sigh. ‘Look, it’s probably nothing. Nothing important. But I just thought, you know, what with everything that’s been going on in the last couple of days… ’
‘You’ve found something you think is important and you want me to take a look at it.’
The relief in her voice was palpable. ‘Exactly. Look, I’m sorry, it’s probably nothing, like I said, but I just… Can I see you? Tonight?’
If the smile Mickey had experienced on hearing her voice hadn’t been professional, the erection he felt stirring certainly wasn’t. ‘Yeah, sure… when and where?’
I think it would be better if you came round to my flat,’ she said, voice low and breathless. ‘Will that be OK?’
‘Sure… ’
‘I’ll give you directions.’
She did so.
‘See you soon,’ she said. ‘Oh, one thing, Mickey… ’
‘I’m still here.’
Her voice took on a breathy aspect. ‘Don’t tell anyone. Please.’
His own voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘Well it’s not correct procedure, strictly speaking… ’
‘Please, Mickey. Please. I’m taking a… a big risk coming to you about this. If anyone finds out about it… ’ Another sigh.
‘Well… ’
‘Please, Mickey, I’m begging you.’ And she was. Her voice was doing exactly that. ‘Keep this to yourself. If anyone else found out about this… please… ’
He sighed. ‘OK.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘Good. You won’t regret it.’ And she rang off.
Mickey pocketed his phone. Sat staring at the screen.
Wondering whether he had just done the right thing.
Wondering if he was about to make things worse.
‘Found it.’
Donna stopped what she was doing, looked up. She had been sitting on the bedroom floor, pulling out drawer after drawer, rifling through the life she had spent with Faith. She hadn’t been enjoying it. It was like a betrayal of trust, no matter that Faith was dead. She felt like a horrible, venal relative, tearing up the family home looking for a will, seeing what she could get out of it for herself.
Which in a way was exactly what she was doing.
Except, she kept telling herself, it was the only way she could keep both herself and Ben alive. And if she made a little money from it too, so much the better. She was sure that was what Faith would have wanted. It was what she had been doing herself. When she died.
Donna had been getting sidetracked, seeing clothes Faith would never wear again, remembering times when she had worn them. Places they had gone together. Fun they had had. If she had kept on like that, she would have found herself tearing up. So when Rose shouted, she was glad of the distraction.
She looked up, felt the pain in her knee, tried to ignore it.
Rose was in Ben’s room. The boy had been exiled to the living room, stuck in front of a DVD. Donna had thought that was for the best. She didn’t want him to see the two of them tear the house apart.
Rose entered the bedroom holding aloft a blue exercise book. Donna looked at it. She could remember Faith buying it, coming home from Wilkinson’s with it. I’m writin’ my life story, she had said, and they had both laughed. And that had been the last Donna had thought of it.
Until now.
Rose sat on the edge of the bed, one arm wrapped protectively round her damaged ribs. ‘Have a look at this,’ she said. ‘See if it means anything to you.’
Donna pulled herself off the floor, sat next to the police officer.
Rose opened the book. The two women started to read.
They didn’t move.
‘Oh my God… ’ Rose was stunned.
Donna said nothing. There was nothing more to say. They read on.
‘Just put the gun down,’ said Phil. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’ He looked down at the prone figure of the psychologist, wanted to amend his words: don’t do anything even more stupid. But didn’t think it would help.
‘Too late for that,’ said the gunman. ‘Much too late.’
Phil realised just how terrified the gunman was. And a man carrying a gun with that level of fear was a perfect recipe for disaster.
‘Come on,’ he said, edging forward incrementally, his voice low and reasonable. ‘Just put it down. Let’s talk.’
Phil became conscious of Anni at his side. The one team member trained in hostage negotiation. He stepped back, allowing her to move forward. Looked at her, gave an imperceptible nod. She returned it, acknowledged it with her eyes.
‘What’s your name?’ she said, edging nearer to the gunman.
The man looked confused, head turning from one of them to the other, then back to the child, screaming in the bed.
‘I’m Anni,’ she said. ‘Tell me your name and we can talk.’
The man opened his mouth as if to speak, jaws working, lips moving, but no sound emerged.
Phil watched as a rivulet of sweat formed on the man’s forehead and ran over his eyebrow, down the side of his face. He shook his head, clearly irritated by it, waving his gun as he did so. Phil’s fingers curled to a fist, opened once more. His body tensed, ready to grab the man.
And then his phone rang.
The man swung the gun on him. Phil stared down the barrel as it shook.
‘I’m turning it off,’ he said, taking the phone from his pocket, making a clear show of pressing the button. ‘See,’ he said, dropping it back into his pocket. ‘It’s off.’
Anni stared at him. He moved back.
‘Come on,’ said Anni, eyes never leaving the man, voice never wavering. ‘Just tell me your name, then we can get all this sorted out.’
His mouth moved again. Phil was reminded of a cow chewing the cud.
‘S-s-s… Samuel… ’
Anni summoned up a smile. ‘OK, Samuel.’ She slowly took the lapels of her jacket between finger and thumb, opened it slowly. ‘I’m unarmed, Samuel, look. No gun.’ She let the jacket drop back into place. ‘And my colleague’ – she nodded towards Phil – ‘he’s not armed either. Just his phone. So you put your gun down, OK? Then we can talk.’
All the time edging closer, closer… ‘I’m… I’m finished,’ said Samuel, more sweat springing from his features. ‘Whatever happens, I’m finished… ’
‘It’s not that bad,’ said Anni. ‘Not yet. We can still salvage the situation.’ Edging closer, closer… ‘Come on, Samuel… ’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t understand… I have to do this. If I… if I don’t do this, I’ve lost everything. I’m finished. Either way, I’m finished… ’
‘Why, Samuel? Why are you finished? You don’t need to do this.’
‘I do!’ Shouted. ‘I’ve got to… got to… ’ Tears sprang from his eyes, mingled on his cheeks with the sweat.
Phil risked a look at the boy on the bed. He had stopped screaming, was staring, wide-eyed, between the adults in the room. Phil kept focused, kept his attention on the gunman.
‘Who says you have to do this, Samuel?’ Anni was asking. ‘Who? Taking the boy isn’t your idea, I can see that. So whose is it? Who’s told you to take him?’
‘The… the Elders… ’
‘The Elders?’ said Anni. ‘Why do they want the boy?’
‘They… they need him for the… the… sacrifice… Oh God… ’ Fresh tears came, along with sobs.
His gun arm wavered. Phil edged ever closer.
Suddenly the gunman looked round, saw what Phil was doing. Swung his gun wildly in his direction. ‘Get back! Get back! Don’t make me shoot you too… please… ’
‘Just keep calm, Samuel,’ said Anni, trying not to let the tension show in her voice. ‘Keep calm. Everything will be fine if you keep calm… ’
He swung back towards her. ‘No it won’t, no it won’t… it’ll never be fine again. Nothing will ever be fine again, don’t you see? Nothing… ’
Anni was still moving forward. ‘Come on, Samuel, give it up now and we can get some damage limitation in place. Come on… ’ She edged closer, closer…
There was a commotion at the door behind them. Glass came running in, saw what was happening. Phil turned to him, mouth open, ready to shout at him to stay back, but the DCI ran forward.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he shouted at Phil, grabbing him by the lapels, trying to wrestle him out of the room. ‘I thought I told you to leave… ’
Phil, stunned by his superior officer’s reaction, couldn’t immediately fight back. He allowed his legs to be taken away, fell sideways to the floor, Glass still hanging on to him.
Anni, trying not to be distracted by what was happening, kept her attention on the gunman and the child. Samuel, staring wildly at what was going on before him, didn’t know what to do. He raised his hand, pointed the gun at Anni.
Phil looked up, over Glass’s shoulder, saw what was going to happen. Tried to call out.
Too late. The gun went off.
Anni spun round, a bright crimson flower bursting from her upper chest.
‘No!’ screamed Phil, trying to throw Glass off him. The DCI wouldn’t move.
‘Oh my God… ’ Samuel stared at the gun in his hand, at Anni lying on the floor pumping blood, at the boy in the bed. ‘What have I done? No… ’ More tears began to well. A look of resignation came into his eyes. He turned to the boy, grabbed him from the bed. ‘Come on, you’re coming with me… ’ Pulled him along with him, tubes and needles snapping off as he did so, the boy screaming.
Samuel made it out of the door and away down the corridor.
Phil managed to throw off Glass, stood up. He looked down at Anni, who was still breathing, looked to the empty bed. A hand grabbed his ankle.
‘No you don’t… ’
Phil turned round, aimed a kick at Glass’s head.
‘Fuck off,’ he shouted.
Glass fell backwards, hand to the side of his head. Phil looked again at Anni. She had her right hand over the wound, was squeezing hard to staunch the blood. Phil knelt down beside her.
‘Go… ’ she managed to say. ‘Go and get the boy… ’
Phil nodded, stood up.
On the floor behind him, Glass’s phone began to ring. Phil ignored it.
He ran out of the room and down the corridor.
Rose closed the blue exercise book. Sat back. Said nothing. Next to her on the edge of the bed, Donna did likewise. The sound of children’s TV crept up the stairs, inconsequential and incongruous after what they had just read.
‘My God… ’ Donna’s voice was small, cracked. ‘She never… she never said… I had no idea… ’
‘Why would you?’ said Rose. Earlier, there would have been anger behind the words, sneering, snarling. Contempt. But now there was nothing of the sort. Just genuine enquiry, genuine concern. The words in the book had knocked all that out of her. ‘If this is true… ’
Donna looked at her. ‘You doubt it? Of course it’s true. Faith wouldn’t have lied. Not about that. Someone knew, didn’t they? Someone else believed it, tried to stop her. And now she’s… she’s… ’
Donna had felt numb while reading the book. Too emotionally stunned to feel anything. Faith’s words had shocked her into immobility. But now, the book finished, the words permeating her brain, she felt the tears well up behind her eyes.
She didn’t try to stop them. Fight them back. They weren’t a sign of weakness. Not this time. They were a sign of solidarity. Faith deserved her tears. Especially after what she had endured.
She felt an arm round her shoulders. Rose. She should have been surprised at the other woman’s touch, especially given what she knew about her, but she wasn’t. No one could have read that account and not been touched.
They sat like that for what seemed an eternity. Charlie and Lola on the TV downstairs were having the kind of happy, perky life that no child in this house had ever had.
Eventually Donna leaned forward. Took a tissue from her pocket, blew her nose, rubbed her eyes. She looked at Rose.
‘What… what should we do?’
Rose stared straight ahead. Eyes on the window, the street; beyond the window, the street. Donna was aware of a kind of steel entering her gaze. A calculating anger. The light glinted off the knife she had taken from Donna, nestling in her inside pocket.
‘Make a couple of calls,’ she said, ‘then we call him.’
Donna frowned. ‘D’you think that’s a good idea? What… what if it was him who… ’
‘One of those calls is insurance. Then we call him. If it was him… ’
Rose took the knife out of her jacket pocket. Played the light off it. Watched it glinting and sparkling. She looked at Donna.
‘Let’s just call him. See what he has to say.’
Donna nodded.
Stared ahead at what Rose had been looking at. Thought she could see it.
Or something like it.
Mickey pressed the buzzer. Waited.
The flat was a new-build, one of many that had sprung up in the town centre in recent years. He lived in one like it. But not too like it. This one was much more upmarket than his. Next to the River Colne, down by Hythe Quay. Mickey remembered the place well. He had encountered a very nasty murderer on the other side of the river less than a year ago.
A voice came over the intercom. ‘Hello?’
Mickey paused. Who was he? Mickey Philips, was that too informal? DS Philips, was that too formal? What?
‘DS Philips… Mickey Philips.’
Compromise. Both.
‘Oh, hi, Mickey.’ Lynn Windsor’s voice, full of light and warmth. ‘Buzzing you in. Come on up. Third floor.’
Mickey walked up the stairs. This place was definitely more upmarket than his own flat. Carpeted, the fixtures and fittings all top quality. It hadn’t just been built; the block had been designed.
And it was a world away from the dead bodies he associated with the area.
Or at least he hoped so.
He reached Lynn Windsor’s flat. Held his knuckle up, ready to knock on the door. Hesitated. Was this right? He wasn’t following procedure. If anything went wrong, he would be in trouble. But what could go wrong? He was here to talk, that was all. Just talk. She had some information for him. That was it. Just talk.
He repeated the phrase to himself while he stood there. Saying it over and over in his head. Hoping to convince himself that it was true.
The door was opened from the inside. He put his hand down, feeling stupid.
‘Hi,’ said Lynn Windsor. ‘I thought I heard you there. Come in.’
She opened the door wide. Mickey stepped inside and she closed it behind him.
He looked down the corridor towards the living room. The lights were down low. There was music playing. He didn’t recognise it. Something slow, languorous. But with a beat behind it, a rhythm. Sexy, he thought. Seductive.
‘Go on in,’ she said from behind him.
He was aware of her perfume, her breath on his neck. He walked down the hallway. Entered the living room. It looked like something out of House Beautiful magazine. The corner unit, the lighting. The TV and music system were state-ofthe-art. The pictures on the wall. Even the books on the bookshelf looked perfect.
‘Nice… er, nice place you’ve got here.’
‘Thank you. I can’t take much credit for it, I’m afraid. This is how it was when I moved in.’ She laughed. ‘I feel like I’m just squatting. Drink?’
‘Erm… ’
‘I’ve got some beer in the fridge.’
‘Yeah. Yeah. Beer’s fine.’
She walked off into the kitchen, called back to him. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
He tried to. Perched himself on the edge of the sofa.
Lynn re-entered holding a bottle of beer. ‘Bottle OK, or would you prefer a glass?’
He told her the bottle was just fine.
She sat down near him on the sofa. He looked at her properly for the first time that evening. Her hair was up and she was wearing a long silk robe, as if she had just come out of the shower. He guessed by the structure of her body beneath the silk that she was wearing something fitting under it. She gathered her legs up beneath her, curled herself comfortable. Picked up her glass of clear fizzy liquid. Ice cubes chinking.
She reached across, met his bottle with her glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
They drank.
Mickey put his bottle down on a glass-topped side table, conscious of the wet ring he would leave. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you wanted to see me. You’ve got something to tell me?’
She looked down at her drink, smiled. ‘I do.’
‘What is it?’
She placed her drink on a similar side table. Turned to him. Eyes locked on his. He felt an erection beginning an involuntary stir.
‘There’s lots to tell you. But there’s something I have to do first.’ She edged nearer to him on the sofa.
‘What?’
‘This.’
She leaned across, took his face in her hands, kissed him full on the mouth.
He tried not to respond. Told himself afterwards that he’d really tried. But he didn’t. As soon as her mouth was on his, his tongue was in her mouth. Locked with hers, exploring.
He felt her body pressed against his, felt his erection spring right up.
She pulled back from him, smiling all the while.
‘That’s better,’ she said.
She pulled at the silk tie of her robe. Slid it apart. He saw what she was wearing underneath. It took his breath away.
‘I hope you don’t think I was being presumptuous,’ she said, working the robe slowly over her shoulders, letting it fall down her back. Knowing his eyes were devouring her black-underwear-clad body, her stockinged legs. ‘But I think you feel the same way about me as I do about you, don’t you?’
‘But… don’t you have… have something to tell me…?’
‘Later,’ she said. ‘First, this. Is that OK with you?’
Mickey didn’t answer. Just pulled the silk robe all the way off her.
Made no pretence at not responding any more.
Didn’t think about anything but devouring Lynn Windsor’s body.
Phil ran down the corridor, fast as he could. But Samuel was quicker. Whoever he was, thought Phil as he ran, the man certainly knew the layout of the building.
He had picked up the child. The boy was so small and thin, he had fitted under his arm. Allowed Samuel to move more quickly.
Phil reached the end of the corridor, found himself at a crossroads. He stopped, looked round, bent double, hands on knees, while he caught his breath. The corridors all looked alike to him. He hadn’t been reading the ward signs as he ran, just following Samuel. He didn’t know whether he had been down here before. He looked to his right, his left, straight ahead. Couldn’t see any sign of the man or the boy. He listened. Hoping to hear screams, commotion. Follow the trail.
Nothing. Except his own ragged breathing.
Then: a scream. From the corridor on his left. He looked down there, could see nothing. The scream continued. Accompanied by the sound of running feet. Chest aching, Phil gave chase.
He ran, seeing the main entrance up ahead. People were milling about, staff, patients and visitors alike. Screams and sobbing. Phil ran to the doors. He was grabbed by a security guard.
‘Stay inside, please, sir, it’s not safe.’
Phil tried to shrug him off. The security man tightened his grip.
‘I said stay inside. The police have been called.’
Phil fumbled in his jacket pocket, flashed his warrant card.
‘Sorry, sir… ’ The guard let him go.
Phil ran through the double doors. Samuel was standing outside the building, the boy in front of him. Whenever someone made a move towards him, he brandished the gun.
‘Get back,’ he was shouting, ‘get back, please… ’ He sounded exhausted, tearful.
Phil stepped in front of him. Samuel immediately swung the gun towards him.
‘Please, just… just leave me alone… ’
‘Let the boy go,’ said Phil, moving towards him. ‘Come on, Samuel, just let him go… ’
The gun was still pointing at Phil. ‘No… stay there… ’ Pleading with him.
He’s weakening, thought Phil. I can take him.
He walked towards the gunman.
‘Get back!’
‘It’s over, Samuel. It ends now.’
‘I’ll… I’ll shoot you… ’
‘No you won’t.’ Phil kept walking, across the car park.
‘Yes, yes… I will… ’
Phil stopped. A 4x4 was racing towards them, showing no signs of slowing down. He jumped back, out of the way. Samuel stayed where he was. The 4x4 screeched to a halt, the passenger-side door opening. Phil saw movement.
The boy had gone.
He ran forward. The driver’s face was hidden. The passenger looked back at him.
Phil saw who it was. And felt like the life had been punched out of him. ‘No, no… ’
He fell to his knees, unmoving, as the 4x4 revved up, sped away.
Behind him, Glass ran out of the building, made straight for his own car. Drove away. Phil didn’t even notice he had gone.
In front of him, Samuel raised the gun, placed it beneath his chin.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry… ’
Fired.
The car park came alive with screams.
But Phil didn’t notice. All he could see was the face of the passenger. The rough sacking hood. The dark, bottomless eyes.
The man who had haunted his dreams.
He was real.
There was a knock at the door. Donna and Rose exchanged looks. They knew who it would be.
‘I’ll go,’ said Donna.
She stood up from the sofa where the two women had been sitting, crossed to the front door. Opened it. DCI Brian Glass swept in.
‘Where is she?’ He ignored Donna, looked round the room.
‘I’m here,’ said Rose, standing up. Trying to ignore the pain. ‘And I know what you’ve done.’ Her voice hard, cold. Like Donna imagined an executioner’s would sound. ‘I know everything.’
Glass stayed where he was. Sighed. He looked at his watch. ‘I don’t have time for this.’
‘Yes you do,’ said Rose. ‘Because it’s all here.’ She held up the notebook.
Glass said nothing. Just stared at her. Undisguised hatred in his eyes.
Feeding on his hatred, Rose smiled. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t work it out? Is that it? You didn’t think I’d investigate?’
Glass said nothing. Stood there. Donna watched him. She had seen plenty of men like him before. Violence came off him in waves like aftershave.
Rose continued. ‘Give the dead whore to the basket case, is that what you thought? The fuck-up. The mental patient. Give her a promotion too, but don’t tell the rest of the station. Keep it between the two of us. That way you could always deny it later. Claim it was just… just a sign, a sign of how fucking… delusional I was… ’
Glass sighed. ‘I don’t have time for this.’
‘Oh you do,’ said Rose, and the knife was suddenly in her hand. ‘You fucking do. You’ll stand there and you’ll listen. Because I’ve worked it all out. Who was Faith running from? Who was she meeting out in the woods at Wakes Colne? You. Now how do I know that? Checked the CCTV. No cameras on the street where you picked her up, but I gave them your registration number and they’ve got a perfect chain of you leaving the town centre and driving down Colchester Road out to the Wakes Colne woods. With a female passenger.’ She smiled. ‘Yeah. You’re logged. You’re in the system. You and Faith.’
Glass stared at her, his breathing low, shallow.
‘She was trying to get money out of you, wasn’t she? Taking the book to you before taking it somewhere else. And you didn’t want that, did you?’ Rose moved in closer to him, the blade dancing before him. ‘Did you?’
Glass swallowed. ‘No.’
‘No. That’s right. So you tried to kill her. What the hell, eh? Another dead whore, no one would lose sleep over her. Put much effort into looking for her killer. Just another punter that got a bit too handy, right?’
He said nothing.
‘Except she ran, didn’t she? Got away from you and ran. And if those two cars hadn’t been coming round the corner when they were, she would have got away, wouldn’t she? Exposed you to the world.’
Glass’s eyes didn’t leave the blade. He licked his lips.
‘How am I doing so far?’
A flicker of a smile. ‘Pretty good. Not everything, but not bad.’
‘Enough, though, eh?’ She nodded. ‘Enough to implicate you.’ She laughed. It hurt her ribs, but she didn’t notice. ‘Give it to the headcase to investigate. Couple of days of getting nowhere, then it could be all dropped. And that would have been that.’ She brought the blade up close to him. ‘But it didn’t work out like you planned, did it?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘it didn’t. But there’s still time to remedy the situation.’
While she was still wondering what those words meant, Glass reached out, twisted her wrist with one hand, grabbed the knife with the other. Rose screamed, tried to get the knife back. Glass was too quick for her. And too strong. Before she could make a grab for him, he had pushed forward with the knife, stabbing her.
She looked up, surprised. He pulled the blade out, did it again. And again. And again. Face a mask of hatred.
Donna screamed.
On the stairs behind her, Ben screamed too.
Glass turned to the pair of them, the blade swinging before him.
Donna stood up, calculating the distance between herself and the front door. She knew she wouldn’t get there in time. She still had her coffee mug in her hand. Not stopping to think, and trying to ignore the knife, she stepped up to Glass, swung the mug into the side of his head. Caught him behind the ear. He sighed, went down.
She turned to Ben.
‘Come on, run… ’
He raced down the stairs and the pair of them were straight out of the door.
Behind them, Rose had her arms stretched over her stomach.
‘No… no… no… ’
She watched, fascinated, as the blood pumped out of her. Cradled her own glistening innards.
She didn’t have time to cry.
Didn’t have time to feel anger or injustice at what was happening.
All she had time to do was die.
Grabbing Ben’s wrist, Donna ran. She didn’t know where; just as far away as possible from what was happening behind her.
She reached the end of the road. Two men stood blocking her way.
She stopped running. Recognised them.
‘Oh no… no… ’
The two men from the car. The ones she had injured.
‘No… ’
They were on her.
The one with the bandaged face smiled. Grabbed her tight.
‘Now we’ve got you,’ he said.
Donna wanted to scream, cry, fight.
But she didn’t.
She just stood there.
No fight left in her.
The circus had arrived at the hospital.
Police cars, incident support units, the full works. The only things missing, for obvious reasons, were ambulances.
The car park had been taped off, the front of the building likewise. Samuel’s body was still lying there waiting to be examined.
Don and Marina got out of their car, ran to the front doors. Phil was sitting on the steps. Marina sat down beside him.
‘Phil?’
He just stared straight ahead. Didn’t even acknowledge she was there.
‘Phil, it’s me. Marina… ’
She held his hand, stroked it. Nothing. She glanced back at Don, a look of mutual concern flashing between them. She tried again.
‘Phil… ’
No good, she thought; he was catatonic with shock.
Don sat on the other side of him.
‘Phil, it’s me. Don. Phil, son, are you… are you there?’
Nothing.
Marina kept stroking his hand. She leaned into him.
‘Marina… ’ His voice small, as if coming from the far end of a long, dark tunnel.
Marina squeezed his hand harder. ‘Yes, Phil, I’m here.’
He turned to her. And she saw something in his eyes she hoped she would never see again. Pain. Hurt. And a total lack of hope.
‘He’s real, Marina. The man from my dream. He’s real. He was here… ’
She held his hand even harder.
‘Oh God… oh God… ’
Not letting him go.