Philip Brennan 03-Cage of Bones (3 page)
W
henever Detective Inspector Phil Brennan thought he had seen every kind of horror that humans could inflict on humans, something would hit him with the force of a right hook to the gut to remind him that he hadn’t. And that he would never fail to be surprised and sickened, no matter how long he lived.
When he looked into that cellar and saw the cage, he felt that blow to the gut once more.
‘Oh my God … ’
As DI with Essex Police’s Major Incident Squad – MIS – he had witnessed on a regular basis the damaged and the deranged destroy themselves and others with tragic inevitability. Seen loving family homes mutate into abattoirs. Comforted victims whose lives had ended even though they still lived. Attended crime scenes so horrific they gave a glimpse of hell.
And this ranked as one of the worst.
Not because of the usual stuff. Gore and dismemberment. Emotion and anger made corporeal. A savage and senseless loss of life. Here, the passion and rage of murder was absent. Although he imagined it would have been there in time. No. This was a different kind of horror. A calculated, deliberate horror. Thoughtful and precise and vicious.
The worst kind.
Phil stood on the hard-packed dark earth and stared at it, shivering from more than just the cellar’s cold.
Arc lights had been hastily erected at either wall, dispelling the Hammer Films gloom, replacing it with deadeningly bright illumination that revealed everything, conversely making it all the more horrific in the process.
The blue-suited CSI team worked in the glare of the lights. They were all around him, attempting to spin samples and specimens into the slenderest of narrative threads, building the biggest story from the smallest particles.
Phil himself was similarly dressed, standing still and staring. Taking in what was before him. Trying to process it. Knowing he would have to hunt down the person responsible for it.
The cellar floor was strewn with flower petals. The arc lights showed up the varying colours: blue, red, white, yellow. All turning brown, curling, dying. All from different kinds of flowers. Around the walls were bunches of wilting blooms, bound together, placed in clusters at regular intervals, like little roadside memorials. The smell, in that small space, was overpowering.
Above them, daubed on the walls, were symbols. Swirling and Cabalistic. Phil had initially thought they were some kind of pentagram, an indication of devil worship. But he had examined them more closely and found that wasn’t the case. They weren’t like any Satanic designs he had come across. He couldn’t say what they were, but they made him feel uncomfortable looking at them. As though he had seen them before and knew what they were. And didn’t like them. He shuddered, kept looking round.
In the centre of the space was what looked like a workbench. Wooden surface, with adjustable metal legs. Old. Well used, but well looked after. Phil leaned forward, examined it. It had been kept clean, but the wood was stained darker in places, the surface scarred and chipped with blade marks and heavy, angry gashes. He suppressed a shudder.
And there, behind the bench, at the far end of the cellar, was the cage. He moved closer, stood before it like an astronaut confronted by an alien artefact, unsure whether to worship it or destroy it. It took up nearly a third of the cellar. Floor to wall to ceiling. The bones embedded, cemented. Bound tightly together with what looked like some kind of hide. Varying in size, but all quite long and substantial. Precisely worked and integrated. A solid construction, criss-crossing to form neat, even-sized squares. It had been there a long time. Some of the bones were worn and smooth, time-leached from white to grey. Some were much newer, almost white. And it had been well maintained over the years. Sections had been repaired, the newer, paler bones standing out, at odds with the rest. Old, splintered ones strengthened and bound. A smaller frame set into the larger one served as a door, hinged on one side by bindings, a chain and padlock securing it on the other side.
The bones … Their selection based on size and shape … The method of joining them together … He tried to imagine the work involved, the time taken, the kind of mind that had created such a thing … Failed. Shook his head, concentrated, examined it all the harder.
‘Built to last, that.’ A voice at Phil’s side. ‘British craftsmanship.’
He turned. DS Mickey Philips was standing next to him. The flippancy of his tone was only perfunctory. It didn’t reach Mickey’s eyes. He was equally awed and repelled by the structure.
‘Why bone?’
‘What?’
‘Must be a reason, Mickey. Whoever did this must be telling us something.’
‘Yeah. But what?’
‘I don’t know. But they could have used wood, metal, whatever. They chose bone. Why?’
‘Dunno. Why?’
‘I don’t know either.’ Phil’s eyes roved over the cage. ‘Yet.’ He looked round the cellar once more. Took in the flowers, the workbench. ‘This cage, this whole place … like a murder scene without the murder.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mickey. ‘Good job we got the call. Just in time.’
Phil looked at the stains on the workbench. ‘This time.’
They turned back to the cage. Eyes fixed on that, not on each other. Phil broke his gaze, turned to Mickey.
‘Where’s the child now?’
‘At the hospital, with Anni,’ Mickey said.
Anni Hepburn, Phil’s DC.
Mickey sighed, frowned. ‘Jesus, what a state that kid must be in … ’
Mickey Philips was still regarded as the new boy in the MIS, the team that Phil headed up. But he had been there long enough to earn his place. The more Phil worked with him, the more he found him a mass of contradictions. He looked the complete opposite of Phil. Always immaculately suited and tied, in contrast to Phil’s more carefree approach of jacket, waistcoat, jeans and casual shirt; his hair neatly razored short, unlike Phil’s spikes and quiff, and his shoes always polished, as opposed to Phil’s Converses or, if the weather was really bad, scuffed old Red Wings. A bull-necked nightclub bouncer to Phil’s hip university lecturer.
But there was something that set Mickey Philips apart from other coppers, and that was why Phil had wanted him on his team. He was one of the new breed of coppers, a graduate rather than a grafter, but he didn’t conform to type. Most of them Phil dismissed as promotion-hungry politicians, but Mickey wasn’t like that. He was tough when he had to be, aggressive even, but not brutal. He was also articulate and erudite, qualities that didn’t always go down well in the force, and he had done his best to hide them when necessary. It was only since working for Phil that he had felt relaxed enough to allow that side of him to show. And even then he tended to ration its appearances.
‘I’ll, er … go and see if I’m needed upstairs.’ The cage made Mickey visibly uncomfortable.
‘It’s a ritual,’ said Phil.
Mickey didn’t move. Waited for what Phil would say next.
‘Isn’t it?’ He gestured round. ‘All this. Deliberately set up for a ritual.’
‘The murder of that kid?’
‘I’d put money on it. And we’ve stopped it. Taken the would-be victim away, averted a death.’
‘Good for us.’
‘Yeah,’ said Phil. He didn’t sound convinced. ‘Good for us. Question is, what does this guy do next?’
Mickey said nothing.
‘I think we’re going to need some help on this one … ’
‘C
ome in. Sit down.’ Marina Esposito smiled. It wasn’t returned.
The woman across from her sat. The desk in Marina’s office was pushed back against the far wall. She had tried to make the room in the Southway police station as warm and characterful as possible: prints on the walls, easy chairs, rug on the floor. Not a luxury, thought Marina, but a necessity. No one ever came to see her because they were happy.
‘So … ’ She looked down at the file before her. She knew the woman’s name. Probably knew more about her than she realised. ‘How are you, Rose?’
Detective Sergeant Rose Martin gave a brisk smile. ‘Fine.’
‘You feel ready to return to work?’
‘Absolutely.’ She closed her eyes, rolled her neck round on her shoulders. Marina heard a faint clicking noise. ‘Been off too long. Starting to go mad watching daytime TV.’
‘
Diagnosis Murder
’ll do that to anyone.’
Marina knew just how long Rose had been off. She herself had been involved in the same case, five months previously. The Creeper, so christened by the media, was a murderous predator. He had kidnapped Rose, tied her up and subjected her to sexual torture. She had tried to escape, but it was only after the intervention of Phil Brennan that she was actually freed.
Rose had been under Phil’s command. But Marina knew he hadn’t wanted her, chosen her or even liked her. He had found her manipulative, devious and problematically aggressive. In the course of the Creeper investigation, Rose Martin had instigated an affair with his boss, the previous DCI, in order to further her career. He had been completely besotted with her. The decisions he had made at her request had resulted in his near-fatal stabbing, and he was subsequently invalided out of the force. Even worse, from Phil’s perspective, recklessly endangering the lives of the team in the process.
But everything had been neatly brushed over. Spun out simplistically to give the media its heroes and villains. Phil the hero. Rose Martin the brave but tragic heroine. The Creeper the villain. DCI Ben Fenwick the unfortunate casualty.
Marina was professional enough not to take her partner’s word for things, to judge for herself. But she had been there. She knew the whole messy truth. And she had agreed with him about Rose Martin.
But she put all that to one side, remained impartial. Did her job.
Rose looked good, Marina had to admit. Tall, her dark hair curled and styled, she wore a blue two-piece suit, jacket and pencil skirt, spike heels and a cream silk blouse. Power-dressed, thought Marina. A strong physical presence in the room. Ready for a fight. But also rested, recuperated and rehabilitated. Ready to return to work.
On Marina’s recommendation.
Marina looked down at the file before her once more. Moved a heavy strand of hair that had fallen across her face back over her ear. She was slightly smaller than Rose Martin and dressed completely differently, but she didn’t allow the other woman’s strong presence to intimidate her. Marina, with her long, dark, wavy hair and Italian features, favoured lace and velvet, full peasant skirts and diaphanous blouses, cowboy boots and scarves. She knew she was often portrayed as a caricature, exactly what some on the force expected a psychologist to be like, but she didn’t care. Even played up to it sometimes, enjoyed it. Just because she worked for the police didn’t mean she had to think and dress like them. And besides, her record spoke for itself.
‘Right,’ she said, nodding, ‘been off too long. And what have you been doing with your time? Besides watching Dick Van Dyke?’
‘Worked out.’ Rose Martin kept eye contact. ‘Kept fit. Active. Anything to stave off the boredom. I’m itching to get back.’
‘Itching.’ Marina nodded once more.
‘Look,’ said Rose, irritation creeping into her voice, the shield of her features slipping. ‘I got over … what happened fairly quickly. Dealt with it. Months ago. I’ve been ready to return to work for ages.’
‘You realise that when – or if – you do return, it may not be back on the front line?’
Rose bristled at the suggestion. ‘There’s no reason why not.’
‘I’m just advising you. Be aware of the possibilities.’
‘But I’m ready to go back. I can feel it. Look, before all this, I’d taken the inspector’s exam and passed. I was waiting for promotion. If they knew what was good for them, I’d be back straight away as a DI. I should be. I’ve spoken to DCI Glass and he agrees with me.’
Interesting, thought Marina. DCI Glass was Ben Fenwick’s replacement. She wondered in how many ways.
She nodded once more, said nothing. Rose Martin’s attitude was typical of a lot of officers she saw. They felt they could handle themselves. Reached a point where they found their convalescence too constricting, where they knew they were ready for the challenge of the job, raring to go once more. And if any problems came up, if they had flashbacks, they could always rely on their old inner strength to pull them through.
Even in the comparatively short time that Marina had been doing the job, she had seen too many of them try that, only to crash and burn. Their inner strength had deserted them at the first opportunity. They had crumpled, folded. Been back at square one.
She leaned forward in her armchair. ‘Look, Rose. I don’t want to seem negative, but it’s easy to think you can just walk back into work like nothing’s happened and pick up where you left off.’
Rose leaned forward too. ‘I know myself. I know how I feel. I know when I’m damaged and when I’m good. And I’m good now.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Never is, is it?’ Rose gave a harsh laugh. Nodded. ‘This is about Phil Brennan, isn’t it? I know what he thinks of me. And if anyone’s blocking me coming back, it’ll be him.’
Marina sighed. Didn’t bother to hide it. ‘I’m a psychologist, Rose. Bound by the oaths of the medical profession. Do you really want me to add “paranoid delusions” to your file?’
Rose Martin sat back, stared at Marina.
Marina leaned forward once more. ‘Look, Rose. Over the last five months, you’ve refused to talk to me. Ignored all attempts to let me help you.’
‘Because I didn’t need help. I’ve coped on my own.’
‘So you say. You wouldn’t even attend the anger-management course I recommended.’
Rose Martin’s eyes flashed at the words. ‘I didn’t need your help,’ she repeated.
Marina sighed. ‘I just wanted to say, I know how you feel.’
Rose snorted once more. ‘Is this the bit where you try to be my friend? Tell me you’re the only person who understands me?’
Marina looked at the notes in her lap, deciding. She looked up again. ‘No, it’s not, Rose.’ Steel in her voice hiding a battened-down anger at the other woman’s manner. ‘This is the bit where I put professionalism aside for a while and deviate from the script. Forget that I’m a psychologist and you’re a police officer. Where we talk as one human being to another.’
Rose said nothing.
‘I do know what you’re going through, Rose. Because the same thing happened to me. It was before your time here, but the circumstances were very similar. If you don’t believe me, check it out.’
Marina paused, tried not to let the memories overwhelm her. She continued.
‘And I did what you did. I thought I could cope. Just get on with things again, live my life like nothing had happened. I tried. And I couldn’t.’ She bit back the emotion in her voice.
The shield slipped. Rose frowned, interested. ‘What happened?’
Marina shrugged. ‘I coped. Eventually. Took a while. Longer than I thought it would. Longer than I felt it should have done. It wasn’t easy. But I got there. In time.’
The two women sat in silence together. Then Rose’s phone rang.
She answered it, even though Marina had started to speak, to tell her it should have been switched off. Marina watched the other woman’s face. It changed from initial hostility to polite interest. A smile then split her features as she listened. She took a notebook and pen from her bag, wrote something down. Hung up. Turned to Marina.
‘That was DCI Glass. He has a case he needs me to work on.’
Marina nodded, noting her words.
Needs
. ‘Right. When would this be?’
‘Straight away. Shortage of staff. He thinks I’m ready.’
‘Does he?’
Another smile from Rose Martin. Triumphant. Adrenalised.
Marina shrugged. ‘You’d better go, then.’
‘Don’t you have to write a report on me?’
‘Doesn’t seem a lot of point now, does there?’
Rose left the room.
Marina shook her head, clearing Rose Martin out of it. She checked when her next appointment was, looked at her watch. Thought about what she’d be having for lunch. Wondered what her daughter Josephina was getting up to with her grandparents. Then her phone rang.
She answered. DC Anni Hepburn.
‘You busy?’ Then, before she could answer, ‘You want a distraction?’
Marina leaned forward. ‘What’s up?’
Anni’s voice became hesitant. ‘I’m at the hospital. The General. And I could do with a bit of help … ’