Philip Brennan 03-Cage of Bones (9 page)
T
he man behind the desk was nervous, Mickey thought. But he doubted it was because the police were there to see him. More to do with his firm losing money.
‘Look,’ Colin Byers said, sitting back, ‘it’s awful and all that, but I don’t see what I can do for you. I mean, we were just contracted for the demolition.’
‘But you can tell us who contracted you.’
Mickey Philips sat opposite the desk. George Byers Demolition was the first place on his list. It was a one-storey brick building on Magdalen Street in New Town. Low and open-plan, it sat between a car dealership and a fireplace and door reclaimer. It had a cracked concrete forecourt with lorries and vans on it, and the building itself was just like Mickey had expected. Office-surplus furniture, tabloids lying round, a calendar with a semi-naked girl on it. No finesse. Stripped to the bones.
Colin Byers looked like the product of his environment. The son of the owner of the company, as he had explained, and now running it since his father’s retirement, he was a heavy-set middle-aged man, thinning on top, wearing metalframed glasses and a maroon polo shirt with the company logo on it.
He sighed, scratched his ear. ‘Look, Detective Sergeant, all I can give you is the name of the buildin’ firm. We’re subcontractors. You’d be better off contactin’ the Land Registry.’
‘I have,’ said Mickey, strictly speaking telling a lie. He hadn’t contacted them; Milhouse had done it for him. ‘All they could tell me was that the property is registered to a holding company in London. We’re looking into that now. In the meantime, Mr Byers, I’d just like a little help. I appreciate you’ve got your job to do, but so do I. The sooner you talk to me, the sooner I’ll be off.’
‘Yeah. And I’m out of pocket now because of this.’ Byers sighed. Put his hands behind his head, smoothed down what remained of his hair. Came to a decision. ‘I know this one, as it happens. Took it myself. Lyalls. The builders. Wanted a couple of semi-derelict properties dismantled down East Hill. Area cleared for a new housin’ development. Easy job, really. Might be a bit of asbestos removal, uprooting some trees, landscapin’, nothing worse than that. And now this.’
Mickey made a note of the building company’s name.
‘So now we can’t work there, can we?’
‘It looks that way.’
‘How long you gonna be, then?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Mickey. The area’s going to be thoroughly searched. Could be days. Could be weeks.’
The expression on Byers’ face told Mickey what he thought of that.
‘Thanks for your time,’ Mickey said, and let himself out.
Outside he checked his pad, looking for directions. The day had turned colder, chilly autumn notes carried on the wind.
He turned right, going back to where he had parked the car. Magdalen Street was the main stretch of road linking New Town to the town centre. He walked past tattooists, Afro-Caribbean hair stylists and corner shops. Most of the people on the street paid him no mind, although a few gave him sharp, furtive looks then dodged out of his way. He recognised a few faces. Knew he had dealt with them on a professional basis.
He walked to where Magdalen Street turned into Barrack Street. The area became more run-down, the buildings less well-kept, the shops dirtier. He was standing at the lights, about to cross and head down Brook Street to find his car, when he spotted someone he knew.
Rose Martin, walking along the street opposite.
His first instinct was to turn round, walk as far away from her as possible. He hadn’t known her long, but the impression she had made on him wasn’t a good one. However, he couldn’t. Because she was looking straight at him. He would have to talk to her.
She crossed the road, approached him. Smiled.
‘Hello, Mickey. Long time no see.’
‘Didn’t know you lived round here, Rose.’
She gave a small, stifled laugh. ‘Me? Live round here? You’re joking, aren’t you? No. I’m working.’
‘Oh good,’ he said, relieved that she was no longer with the police. ‘What as?’
She frowned, gave him a quizzical look. ‘As a police officer. What else would I be doing?’
Mickey was lost for words. He knew what she had gone through, how she had been put on long-term sick. Everyone knew it. And most people never expected her to return.
‘That surprised you, didn’t it?’
‘Well, yeah … What happened?’
‘Glass brought me back.’
‘You’re not working on … ’
A dark cloud passed over her features. ‘No. Oh God, no. No, it’s a road accident. Well, we think it’s an accident. Dead woman.’ She gestured back the way she had come. ‘Lived down there. Prossie.’
‘Right.’
They stood there looking at each other. Nothing more to say.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’d better get on. Nice to see you, Mickey. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other soon.’
God, he hoped not. ‘Yeah. Sure, Rose.’
She was turning to go, stopped. ‘Oh, and it’s Detective Inspector now. I’ve been promoted. Bye.’
She smiled, turned and walked away.
Mickey was left standing there, absorbing that last piece of information. The pedestrian crossing sounded. He just stared at it, unmoving.
‘Detective Inspector … Jesus Christ … ’
‘S
o how is he?’
Marina walked up to the tape at the bottom of East Hill, phone clamped to her ear. She heard Anni’s voice.
‘Asleep again. Didn’t stay awake much after you went. He’s exhausted.’
‘Did he say anything more?’
‘Nothing. I’m still here, but if he’s not moving, I might leave a uniform to look after him, or get someone from, I don’t know, Family Liaison? I’m at a bit of a loss.’
‘He needs a psychologist.’
‘Yeah, well he had one. Very briefly. But she had to go.’
Marina smiled. ‘We’ll talk later.’
She pocketed the phone, held up her ID, ducked under the tape.
She felt the eyes of the crowd on the bridge watching her as she did so. Knew that media crews would be in there too. They would all be wondering who she was, what she was doing there. She felt like a celeb on a red carpet. It gave her quite a thrill. Probably more than she would have liked in light of what she was there for.
Of course the media crews might know who she was, she thought. A couple of high-profile cases would do that.
She looked round, scanning the area for Phil. Didn’t see him. There was an air of quiet urgency about the place. The white tent was up and blue-suited CSIs were going about their work with a calm, concentrated commitment. Uniforms were there too. She spotted Adrian Wren, waved at him, moved over to ask where Phil was. Before she could do so, another figure detached himself from a conversation with two uniforms and turned to her.
‘Marina. Good to see you.’ Brian Glass was smiling, holding out his arms as if welcoming her to his party. He looked round, then back to her. ‘I’m afraid Phil’s busy at the moment. Was it him you were looking for?’
When Glass had first arrived at Southway, Marina had done her best to like him. But he hadn’t made it easy. He was the kind of copper she hated working with. The kind that was all business. There was a strand of officer, she had reasoned, and unfortunately it was a dominant one in the force, that had a little more of their personality surgically removed with each higher rank they made. And Glass was no exception. There was no spark, no inner life to the man that she could detect. She had told Phil that Glass reminded her of a supporting CTU character in an episode of
24
; there to wear a suit and give orders but have no discernible characteristics beyond that.
Still, he had made encouraging noises about her work and the job of the psychologist in the police force in general. At least to her face. In times of budget cuts, plenty of higher-ups thought a psychologist was not a necessity but a luxury. That anything she offered could be outsourced, bought in when needed at a fraction of the cost. Irrespective of the results she achieved, the standard of the work she did. So she was polite to him, but wary. It seemed like a healthy way to proceed.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I was looking for Phil.’
‘Can I pass on a message?’
He was making her feel like she was being troublesome, the interfering wife bringing her husband’s forgotten packed lunch to work for him. Not, she thought, because he was belittling her on purpose, but just because he was innately sexist that way.
‘I’ll wait,’ she said. ‘He wants me to look at the crime scene with him. See if I can help him with leads.’
‘Good, good. Fine. All offers of help gratefully received.’ He brought his brows together in a thoughtful manner. ‘What’s happening with the boy? The one from the cellar?’
‘Anni’s with him now. He came round. I talked to him but didn’t get much. He kept asking for his mother.’
‘His mother?’
She nodded. ‘As far as I could tell. But wherever he’s been, he’s been there a while. He can barely speak. Hardly communicate. There’s a lot of damage there. A hell of a lot. It’s going to be a while before we can get anything coherent from him.’
He nodded. ‘Right. Good. Good work, Marina.’
She said nothing.
‘Keep at it.’ A smile. Marina imagined he thought it was the kind Churchill must have given to rally the troops.
‘I will,’ she said. He made to walk away. She stopped him. ‘Oh, by the way, I’m glad I caught you. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.’
He looked at her quizzically. Waited.
‘Rose Martin.’
His attitude changed, his voice guarded. ‘What about her?’
‘You’ve returned her to work. I don’t think she’s ready.’
He straightened up. Expression closed. ‘In your opinion.’
‘In my professional opinion as her psychologist, yes. She’s still exhibiting signs of stress, of trauma. She’s not emotionally ready to handle the demands of her job. At least not back on the front line.’
‘Well, thank you for your comments, Marina,’ he said, nodding. ‘You know I value your input greatly. I’m sure you’ll put them all in your report. I’ll read them then.’
Marina felt her face redden, her hands shake. She controlled her anger, kept talking. ‘With all due respect, Brian, you’ve put her back on front-line duty and I hear you’ve promoted her too.’
He held his hands up as if in surrender. ‘That wasn’t my doing, I’m afraid. The ball was in motion before I got here.’ He looked at her, and she detected sincerity in his gaze. Or a good facsimile of it. His voice dropped. ‘Look, Marina. Sometimes I have to make decisions that are unpopular, or that people who don’t have full access to the facts may find … contentious. Rose Martin is a fine officer. In my opinion’ – he highlighted the words, as if he had spoken in italics – ‘she is fit to return to work. The case she is working is fairly routine. I’m sure she’ll be fine. And with budget cuts, we need all the bodies we can get.’
He smiled, as if that was the final word.
‘Fine. Well I just wanted you to know that I have officially voiced concerns, that’s all.’
‘Noted.’ He smiled. ‘That’s what we pay you for.’
Any further conversation was abruptly halted. Phil Brennan was walking towards them.
‘Ah,’ said Glass. ‘Here he is. I’ll leave you to it. Good luck.’ He walked away.
‘Tit,’ Marina said. Then felt guilty. He wasn’t that bad. There had been worse DCIs.
Forgetting Glass, she turned, smiling, to face Phil. Her heart still rose when she saw him. Even here, even like this. Or perhaps even more so. After all, they had met during a case, so it seemed like a natural habitat to them. Working together. Just like old times. It felt right.
And sometimes she just couldn’t believe her luck that she had him.
But as soon as he approached and she saw him clearly, her smile faded.
‘P
hil?’ Her hand straight on his arm, concern in her eyes. ‘You OK?’
He shook his head as if coming out a trance, seeing her for the first time. ‘Marina. Hi.’ He stopped before her.
Her voice dropped. ‘What’s the matter? You look like you’ve, I don’t know. Seen a ghost.’
His eyes went out of focus for a few seconds before zoning back in on her. ‘No. I’m … I’m fine. Just … fine.’
She was about to ask him again, but he spoke before she could.
‘We’d better get a move on,’ he said, not bringing his eyes into contact with hers. ‘I’ve asked the forensic teams to give us a few minutes alone in there. I’ll come with you, show you round. Tell you whether they’ve moved anything, what was in the original places. That sort of thing.’
‘Fine … ’ She was still looking at him, curious. Phil was a man of raging emotional torrents – because of his upbringing, both good and bad. It was one of the things that had first attracted her to him. The damage she felt an immediate connection with. The passion he had she wanted to share with him. But she knew that because of his job, for the most part he kept his emotions tightly bound. Didn’t let anyone glimpse inside.
But he had never done that to her before. Never kept her out. And that was what she felt he was doing now.
One last attempt. ‘Phil?’
‘I’m fine.’ He pulled his arm away. ‘I’m fine. I’m just … tired.’
She looked at him, said nothing. Felt the tightrope she was on begin to waver.
‘Right,’ he said, clapping his hands together as if to break a spell, ‘you up for this?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be? It’s my job.’ Frosty. Clearly unhappy. If Phil picked up on that, he didn’t acknowledge it. ‘OK. Good. Come on then, let’s go.’
He turned, walked towards the house. She followed. Putting her relationship aside, ready to enter the house as a professional.
Compartmentalising.
She would deal with the rest later.
‘W
atch your step down here. It’s pretty rickety.’
Phil led the way, Marina behind him. The arc lights had been left on, the trailing cables leading up the wooden stairs to outside generators. There was space for only one person at a time, so he moved carefully, aware of her behind him.
He was angry with himself. What he had seen in the other house had spooked him, unsettled him, though he didn’t know why. But he knew the answer was within him somewhere. And until he found it, he couldn’t share it with anyone else. Not even Marina.
He hated keeping anything from her. It broke his heart to see the concern on her face, knowing he couldn’t say anything. He just hoped she would understand. Later.
He reached the cellar floor, Marina a few seconds after him.
‘This is it,’ he said. Waiting while she took it all in, trying to see it through her eyes.
She looked round, her eyes widening as she saw the cage. ‘Oh my God … ’
‘Exactly. My reaction too.’ That sense of unease returned as he looked at it once more. His mind was trying to subconsciously connect it with the diagram on the wall …
No. He couldn’t see it.
Marina gave another scan. ‘And the flowers? Was this how you found them?’
Phil looked at the floor. Some of the petals had been gathered up, removed. A few had been trampled on by Forensics.
‘No, they were all over the floor. Strewn.’
She smiled. ‘Strewn. I think you’ve won the award for most unexpected word of the day.’
He reddened slightly. ‘What can I say? I’m honoured.’
Her smile faded as she went back to work. Concentrating.
‘There were a few bunches, though.’ He pointed round the walls. The bunches were still there, where he had found them. Wilting, dying.
‘In those exact locations?’
‘Just about, yes.’
She nodded, staying in the one place, looking round three hundred and sixty degrees. She took it all in. The flowers, the cage. The workbench. The gardening tools. The markings on the wall. Her lips began to move as she spoke to herself.
Phil had seen her do this before. Mentally processing information, working out what she saw, interpreting the scene before her. He had never ceased to be amazed at how she did it, or the accuracy of her results.
She walked round the cellar. Plastic gloves on her hands, paper booties over her shoes. She knelt down, examined one of the bunches of flowers. ‘Roses … red, blue, yellow … ’ Then another. ‘Carnations, red, blue, yellow, same colours … and here, petunias, chrysanthemums, same colours … ’ Looked round once more. ‘And left on the floor to decay. Go brown … ’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Whoever did this either grew them himself or bought them somewhere. I’m leaning towards growing them himself. There’s a … horticultural sense to the place. Those gardening tools over there … ’
Marina crossed to the workbench. Looked down at it, the tools on the surface. ‘Has any of this been disturbed?’
Phil crossed over, stood beside her. He could smell her perfume. Made him want to hold her. ‘I think one of the tools has been taken away for forensic examination. I asked them to leave the others for a bit.’
She nodded, lips moving all the time. She picked up the scythe, examined it slowly. ‘They’ve been … adapted. They’re not for gardening. Not been used for gardening in a very long time.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
‘And this workbench … ’ She knelt down beside it, put her face to it. Sniffed the scarred, pitted surface, eyes closed. Remained in place afterwards. ‘Hmm … ’ Did it once more. ‘Earthy … but more … ’
She stood up, dusting down her skirt. Turned, looked at the wall behind her. Crossed to it. Examined the painted design. Touched it.
‘We thought it was a pentagram at first,’ said Phil. ‘But it’s clearly not.’
‘No,’ Marina said, absorbed, her fingers, eyes following the lines of the design, ‘it’s not. More like a star. But I can see how you could make that mistake. Would be an easy conclusion to jump to … if you weren’t open-minded and imaginative … ’
Phil said nothing. Had she just paid him a compliment?
She pressed her face to the wall. Sniffed.
‘Not paint. Not … ’ She turned to Phil. ‘Has this been analysed?’
‘Not yet. They’ll have taken a sample. Don’t know when we can get results. Any ideas on what it is?’
‘I’m guessing … something of the earth … a plant concoction? Bodily fluids, even? All mixed together? I don’t know … something along those lines, though, I’d guess … ’
Marina straightened up, looked round once more. Crossed to the cage. Examined it closely. Turned, looked behind her at the bench, then over at the flowers bunched round the walls. Then the design on the wall. She began to walk towards the bunches of flowers, taking slow, deliberate steps to get to each one. Her mouth moving all the time, brow furrowed as if performing advanced mathematical calculations.
She stood in the centre of the cellar, stretched out her arms as far as she could, rotated them, straining her fingertips. Half pagan priest, half yoga teacher. Holding her breath as she did so.
Phil watched her all the time. Fascinated. He loved this woman so much it scared him sometimes.
Right,’ she said. ‘Here goes.’