Philip Brennan 03-Cage of Bones (21 page)

59

M
arina 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.

60

D
onna 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.

61

M
ickey 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 …