Poison City (12 page)

But over the course of that week I came to realise, to wish, and eventually to believe, that there
had
to be something more out there. Had to be more to life than simply – you’re born, you live, you die. I couldn’t accept that this was the sum total of human existence.

I wasn’t talking about God, though. Fuck no. Any God who puts up with the shit that I’ve seen can fuck right off. I just felt there was something . . . else. And I didn’t know what.

A few months after that I met Becca. Then we had Cally and my world changed.
She
gave my life meaning.
There
was hope. And I realized that
this
was part of the reason we kept going. Our kids. We lived to protect them from the world.

Something I failed to do.

Christ, I would give anything to have Cally back. Switch places with her in a micro-second. Die every day for eternity if it only brought her back to us.

But failing that I decided I could only do what I believed was right in the face of evil. Because, yeah, that’s one thing I
did
come to believe in this job. Evil is real. I’ve seen it. I saw it that night in the cabin up in the mountains. I’ve seen it hundreds of times since.

The Devil is not some hideous monster ruling over the many courts of Hell.

He walks among us.

And I will not stand by and let him win.

So what do I believe now that I failed my daughter?

One thing.

I believe in justice.

Not the law. That’s a different thing. The law is man made.

Justice comes from the soul.

An hour later Anders arrives at the cell with his keys. He unlocks the door and holds out a form on a scratched Perspex clipboard. ‘Sign.’

‘What is it? Admission of guilt?

‘You’re being released.’

‘About time.’

I thrust the clipboard back at him, sending him stumbling back a few steps. I head down the hallway to the front desk and find Parker waiting for me. Her eyes are red. She doesn’t say anything, just folds her arms around me. I freeze. Physical contact has never been my thing.

But then I just let it happen, meld my arms around hers. It feels good. The human contact.

She breaks first, leaning back and looking at me. I look away, worried I’d see accusations there.
Why weren’t you with her, London? You should have been with her.

The desk officer tosses a brown A4 envelope onto the worktop. I take out my watch and my wallet. I check inside. Cards, driver’s licence, but no cash.

‘There was five hundred bucks in here,’ I say.

The desk sergeant looks down at his form. ‘Not according to this.’

He hands it over. Sure enough. An itemized list of the cards inside but next to the column for Cash was a big fat zero.

‘It was here.’

‘That your signature?’ The sergeant taps the bottom of the form.

It is. I hadn’t even bothered to read it. Had other things on my mind. I toss the clipboard back at his face. He flinches and catches it, half-rising from his chair. I stare at him, waiting, hoping he’ll do something. I want to lash out. To hurt, to cause pain. I don’t care who to.

‘Get out,’ he says.

I don’t answer, just head through the door and across the street into the parking lot. I wait for Parker to catch up.

She leads the way to her old silver BMW. I open the passenger door. The seat is covered in junk. Old CDs, newspapers, fast food wrappers. I sweep them to the floor and climb in, glumly staring out the window.

Parker climbs in the driver’s side and starts the car.

‘What happened?’ I ask.

‘No one knows. She didn’t log her actions. She was on her own time.’

‘It’s the same killer. The ramanga we saw yesterday.’

‘Yeah. Jaeger said.’

‘Where’s her body?’

‘In the Division mortuary. You want to see her?’

‘Not yet. Let’s check out the crime scene first.’

Parker drives deeper into Hillcrest, turning off the main road and heading into the suburbs. We drive past the library then a primary school. Parents arriving in their cars at the end of the school day. Kids screaming and laughing, running around. Enjoying their lives.

I look away as Parker slows to let them cross the street.

‘I’m . . . sorry,’ she says. ‘I know you and Armitage were close.’

‘She was a pain in the arse,’ I say softly.

Silence. Parker starts moving forward again. ‘Ranson’s already talking about her replacement.’

‘She’s only been dead a couple of hours! Who is it?’

Parker scowls as she slows down for some speed bumps. ‘Don’t know. Some guy from Cape Town.’

‘Christ.’

I hate Cape Town. Everyone raves about it, saying it’s the jewel of South Africa. The ultimate tourist destination, yadda-yadda-yadda.

It’s not. It’s where all the pretentious wankers move to when they get money. Where all the rich people live. Give me Durban any day. Durban is the soul of South Africa. Johannesburg’s the heart. Cape Town is the rectum, shitting out refuse and pretension in a never-ending stream of hipsters and writers and filmmakers.

Parker turns into a cul-de-sac. Armitage’s house is easy to spot. It’s the one with all the police vans parked outside. We park behind them and climb out. A crowd has gathered outside the perimeter of blue and white tape. They have their cameras out, taking pictures and recording everything that’s going on. Scum. Vultures hoping to profit on pain by selling their images to the papers. I’d arrest them all if I could.

‘Get this lot out of here,’ I snarl at a uniformed officer.

He looks at me fearfully, the fear of a rookie given instructions he has no idea how to carry out.

‘Tell them it’s a gas leak. Health and safety.’

I grab a paper suit from the back of Parker’s car, duck under the tape, and trudge up the path. Neatly trimmed hedges flank me on both sides, flowerbeds carefully tended. I remember how surprised I was the first time I came to Armitage’s house. Gardening was the last thing I thought she’d be interested in.

I pull on the suit and overshoes, Parker doing the same. I take a deep breath. Then we enter the house.

The sharp, tinny smell of blood hits me. I don’t stop walking, even though I want to. Too many people around. Can’t look weak. Along the hall, past Armitage’s stainless steel kitchen, into her minimalist lounge.

It used to be white and grey.

It’s red now.

I blink, look away. But no matter where I turn I see it. Dark blood, frozen rivulets, dark spatters. Across the LCD television. Across the white tiles. Even up across the ceiling.

‘Evidence?’

‘Nothing yet,’ says Parker.

‘Was it quick?’

‘No . . . She put up a fight. It starts in the bedroom, ends up here.’

I sigh, look around the room. ‘Did Jaeger say when she can tell us anything?’

‘She’s already done the post-mortem on the ramanga.’ Parker checks her watch. ‘She started on Armitage a couple of hours ago.’

I nod.

‘Uh, one thing before we go.’

Parker leads me to Armitage’s bedroom. I enter the room and look around. More blood.

Lots of it.

And also medical equipment.

Lots of it.

An EEG monitor. A dialysis machine. Monitors, tubes, drips, and various other medical paraphernalia.

‘Was Armitage sick?’

‘That’s what I was going to ask you,’ says Parker.

‘Not that I knew of.’ I check the readouts on some of the machines, but it’s pointless. I have no idea what I’m looking at.

‘No charts?’ I ask hopefully. ‘Files?’

Parker shakes her head.

‘And then . . . there’s that.’ She points behind me.

I turn around. The entire back wall of the room is covered in crucifixes. There had to be over a thousand.

I look at Parker. She just shrugs. ‘No idea. Didn’t even know she was religious.’

‘She’s not,’ I say.

We both stare at the wall.

‘Maybe we can access her work records,’ I say. ‘If she was sick the Division might have been paying for it.’

‘Maybe.’

There’s nothing more to be done here. I had to come. I knew there’d be nothing left for me to do, but I had to take a look for myself. I owed it to Armitage.

We leave the house and head back to Delphic Division. We use the front entrance, entering a huge, echoing foyer that looks like something from a seventies science fiction movie. All grey stone and high ceilings.

Through a second set of doors and into the corridor that leads to the central hub, then into our offices.

A heavy silence drapes across the room. There’s an emptiness that seeps into every corner, an Armitage-shaped hole that will never be filled. Everyone turns to look at us. No one says a thing. For all intents and purposes, Armitage
was
Delphic Division. She helped build it up. She recruited every officer in the room. There wasn’t a single person here who didn’t feel her loss as if it was a family member who had gone.

I glance up at the pulpit, half expecting to see her standing there waving her cigarette around while she debriefs everyone, ash raining down onto the desks below like snow.

I flop into my chair and stare at my monitor. Why the hell hadn’t I just answered the phone? Why hadn’t I stayed in?

Why, why, why? The questions everyone asks when something terrible happens. Why didn’t I leave the house when I meant to? Why did I go back for my sunglasses? Why did it have to rain? Why did God decide to take a dump on me? I played this game when Cally disappeared. It doesn’t end well.

My phone rings and I reluctantly pick it up. ‘Tau.’

‘London,’ says Jaeger. ‘I’m finished.’

Delphic Division has its own mortuary. It has to. The kind of bodies the unit deals with can’t exactly be taken to the morgue at the local hospital.

It’s nothing at all like the mortuaries you see in cop shows, though. You know the ones, with the mid-century cracked tiles, the exposed pipes, the old, porcelain tubs, all the moody lighting.

Our mortuary is state of the art. Brushed aluminium sinks and tables. Bright strip lights, plus a movable spot directly above the autopsy table that can be pulled down to inspect wounds more closely. One wall is floor-to-ceiling morgue drawers. The walls and floors are tiled. But the tiles are huge and spotlessly clean. Not a crack to be seen.

Jaeger is waiting for us. Her usual grin is absent. She just looks angry. Maddoc is standing in the corner holding a clipboard. She’s staring at the floor, not moving a muscle.

An involuntary shiver runs through me. I don’t like it when orisha act oddly. Most of them have adopted our mannerisms and behaviours so they can fit in. But when they get upset, all that falls away and I have no idea how to read them.

Two autopsy tables have been wheeled into place above drains in the floor. The ramanga – Jengo – and Armitage. Both bodies are covered.

I hover in the doorway, unwilling to enter. Parker keeps walking, then pauses and glances back at me. She reaches out her hand. I hesitate, then take it. Her fingers squeeze mine.

Goose pimples rise on my skin from the cold air. I shiver, wait for Jaeger to take the lead. I feel lost. Don’t know what to do. My eyes keep skittering away from Armitage. I find myself approaching Jengo instead.

‘You want to do this one first?’ asks Jaeger.

I nod, not trusting myself to talk.

‘Fine. Both injuries are identical anyway. Definitely the same attacker.’

Jaeger pulls back the pale green sheet and folds it over the ramanga’s stomach. Jengo’s head is absent. I look around and see it sitting on a table on the other side of the room. I feel like it’s watching us.

The hole in Jengo’s chest looks worse in the harsh fluorescent lights. Purple and deep red. Like meat at a butcher’s shop. The same smell as well.

‘OK, we’re talking major sharp force trauma to the chest. In both victims the chest plate has been ripped away. Crushed first. Then pulled out at the same time the attacker scoops out the heart. One movement. Not easy.’

Jaeger points into the hole with a ballpoint pen, although I’m not exactly sure what I’m meant to be looking at.

‘Carotid and subclavian arteries are torn. Happened at the same time as the heart was taken.’

‘What was the murder weapon?’ asks Parker.

‘Well, we have a combination of sharp and blunt force trauma. It’s more of a chop wound—’

‘So an axe?’

‘Let me finish.’

‘Sorry.’

‘The pattern of the wound is similar to those seen in animal attacks. But the margins of the wound indicate someone used their hand to do this.’