Philip Brennan 03-Cage of Bones (17 page)

47

P
aul 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.

48

R
ose 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.

49

‘H
old 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.

50

T
he 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.