Darkfall

by Stephen Laws

  Cardiff wiped the sweat from his face. His heart was hammering. He swallowed deeply, took a breath and stared out of the side window as the car swung into the forecourt of Fernley House.

  Pearce turned back to his own reflection in the side window and shook his head.

  A burnt-out case.

  Someone was moving out of the forecourt darkness to meet the car as it slid to a halt. The cars behind were also pulling up as Cardiff shoved open the door and climbed out, expecting that huddled form to be Sergeant Lawrence.

  But the figure was not in police uniform.

  He was dressed in a greatcoat, collar pulled up tight against his throat against the weather; hair dancing in the wind. The man had a beard, flecked white, and Cardiff cursed when he eventually recognised the face.

  “Evening, Mr Cardiff,” said Farley Peters, local columnist for the Evening Despatch. “Hell of a night to be on duty, isn’t it?”

  In disgust, Pearce and Cardiff climbed out of the car. Cardiff turned back to Evans.

  “Evans,” said Cardiff.

  “Yeah?”

  “Kindly escort Mr Peters from the premises before he gets in the way.”

  “On what grounds?” asked Peters, quick anger rising to the surface.

  “On the grounds that you’re a pain in the arse and I don’t want you interfering with us here.”‘

  “Well just give me a few details to be going on with. You can’t keep something like this quiet for too long. The place’ll be swarming with media people soon—even if it is Christmas Eve.”

  “You mean people like you, Peters? People who’ve got nothing better to do than monitor police shortwave radio broadcasts for juicy material—even on Christmas Eve?”

  “Come on, Cardiff. Just tell me . . .”

  “It’s a crank call, that’s all. Get him out of the way, Evans.”

  “You must be taking it seriously, Cardiff. I mean—all these coppers . . .”

  “And if he resists, charge him with obstructing the police in the course of their duties.”

  “Thanks for nothing . . .” began Peters as Evans bundled him away and Cardiff headed towards the reception doors, the others not far behind.

  “Happy Christmas,” Cardiff mumbled grimly.

  A vortex of ice wind was snapping at the base of the office block. It bit at their faces and hands as Cardiff and Pearce reached the doors.

  And then they were in the comparative warmth of the office block lobby and the nightmare was ready to escalate again.

  TWENTY

  “Okay, where is it?”

  Nervously, PC Simpson pushed open the door behind the reception desk and beckoned weakly.

  “Through here, sir.”

  Cardiff and Pearce walked past the old man slumped in the upholstered chair. Sergeant Lawrence was standing next to him, and the old guy was looking a little the worse for wear.

  “Mr Beaton?” asked Cardiff as he passed.

  “Yes sir,” replied Lawrence. “He’s a little . . .”

  “Emotional?”

  “Exactly.”

  Cardiff grunted as they walked briskly behind the reception desk. The other police officers were filing into the reception area, groaning at the cold as Cardiff stepped through the door into the waiting-room beyond.

  “Where?”

  “There’s a sort of cupboard room over on the left, sir. It’s in there . . . in a fridge,” said Simpson sheepishly.

  “The fridge.” Cardiff and Pearce crossed the room, entering the storeroom. There was a plastic sink unit in here, shelves laden with cleaning materials and Domestos bottles. A row of mops and brushes stood to attention next to a rack of cleaners’ smocks. The fridge lay beyond.

  “You said somewhere . . . cold, sir,” said Simpson.

  Cardiff opened the fridge door.

  The hand lay in a plastic tray surrounded by ice cubes . . . like some exotic dish prepared by a sadistic master chef. It was sliced cleanly at the wrist, dark meat and cartilage protruding from the skin. The fingers were curled inwards.

  Cardiff knelt down, inspecting it without touching.

  “A hand?” asked Pearce.

  Cardiff closed the refrigerator door and stood again.

  “It’s a hand,” he replied. “Now all we have to do is find out who it belongs to.”

  The reception door opened and Sergeant Lawrence leaned in.

  “Dr Craig’s here, boss.”

  “Yeah, I asked for him . . .”

  A bulky man in a somewhat shabby overcoat, a trilby and a multi-coloured scarf pushed past Lawrence and into the ante-room. His face was florid, but not from the cold.

  “And here I am. Got the call. Not two blocks away. Handy, eh?”

  Cardiff gave a sour grimace and pointed backwards to the fridge. “It’s in there.”

  “Got a small army out there, Cardiff. All hands to the job, no doubt.”

  “Spare us,” said Cardiff, moving past him towards the main reception area again. Craig was carrying a specimen bag. With something approaching glee, he opened it, dropped it on the floor and swung open the fridge door as if expecting to make himself a snack. “Now then . . .”

  Back in the main reception area, Sergeant Lawrence and the six uniformed policemen were waiting for their next instructions. Beaton looked exhausted and on the point of sleep. He was rubbing his hand over his face. Cardiff had smelled the whisky and was prepared to listen to a bullshit story. Quite why Lawrence and Simpson had found record players still playing and disco lights spinning upstairs when everyone else had obviously gone home for Christmas or to the boozer to continue the parties, could no doubt be cleared up fairly easily. Maybe Beaton had got drunk and lonely and decided to set them all away himself. But the severed hand could not be ignored.

  “Okay,” said Cardiff briskly. “Barry . . . is there somewhere we can interview Mr Beaton properly? “

  “There’s a small office at the bottom of the corridor,” replied the Sergeant.

  “Good, Sergeant Pearce and I will take care of that. There are three keyholders for the building so we’re waiting to hear from them. In the meantime Barry, I want you and PC . . .”

  “Simpson, sir,” replied the Constable, still trying to forget the ghoulish look on the police surgeon’s face and trying to ignore the silly part of his mind that told him the bastard was going to eat that hand or something.

  “Okay . . . you and Simpson, and the other lads, I want a preliminary search of the floors starting at the top where the hand was found, usual procedures, photos then work your way down. Give HQ a situation report.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Hang on . . . better still. Simpson?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want you to take down the licence plate numbers of all the cars left in the car park at back. Radio ’em in and run a check on them all through the PNC. That’ll give us the names and addresses of our so-called missing persons while we’re waiting for the keyholders.”

  “Yes, sir.” Simpson headed for the outside doors while Sergeant Lawrence and the other uniformed officers headed for the elevators, just as Craig emerged from the ante-room.

  “Got to hand it to you, Cardiff. Interesting little case for Christmas Eve.”

  “You’re sick, Craig. Always said so.”

  “Only way to survive in police work. You should know that.”

  “You’ve got the hand, then?”

  “It’s in the bag—as they say. Male. Middle-aged I think. The fingers are calloused. Be able to tell more once I get it back.”

  Pearce was already helping Beaton to his feet, a little too forcibly for Cardiff’s taste.

  “Cardiff?” called Dr Craig.

  He looked back to the police surgeon who was following Simpson out into the storm.

  “Hands up!” Craig was pointing a finger at him with his thumb cocked, like a gun.

  “Sick, Craig. Just sick.”

  The police surgeon exited laughing and Cardiff turned
his attention to the old soak who was being helped towards him.

  “Now then, Mr Beaton,” said Pearce. “Let’s find that office, get a cup of tea on the brew. And then you can try and remember where you’ve misplaced all these people.”

  TWENTY ONE

  “Emergency, which service please?”

  “Police, please . . . and, I don’t know . . . maybe an ambulance . . .”

  “Your name and address, please.”

  “McNichol, 67 Collingwood Avenue, Jarrow. There’s a man . . . oh God...”

  “Connecting you.”

  “Area Operations. This is Nightingale Division. Message on screen: ‘Man fallen through greenhouse, presumed dead despatch nearest panda car and inform Duty Inspector at Jarrow station to attend scene with Patrol Sergeant.”‘

  TWENTY TWO

  Miriam stood in the doorway of the kitchen with Paul, near to tears. Those policemen hadn’t even wiped their feet and there was mud all over the passage and living-room carpets. Outside on the main street, blue lights spun on police panda cars and scratchy radio messages cut through the growing sound of the rain and the oncoming storm. She had seen the curtains twitching across the way, and it infuriated and distressed her. What would people be thinking? And on top of everything else, in all the upset, the turkey had been ruined.

  In the back garden, policemen and men in civilian clothes were lifting sheets of cracking glass from the ruin of the greenhouse. Rain glinted on bright-yellow police mackintoshes and waterproofs. Apart from the huddle of figures around the greenhouse, another half-dozen men in Waterproofs were searching the rest of the garden, torch beams scanning the soaking grass. A sergeant, standing nearby, conferred with the police pathologist, who was kneeling down and examining what lay beneath the detritus. The pathologist shook his head. ‘

  One of the overcoated men began to take flash pictures of what they’d uncovered. The stark white flashes momentarily lit up the garden and its occupants brilliantly, like silent thunderflashes from the oncoming storm. The Sergeant and the man bending over the body exchanged words, lost in the sounds of the wind and the rain. Moving away from the scene of the examination, the Sergeant reached into his inside overcoat pocket and spoke into his radio.

  “Foxtrot Four. Sit rep. We’ve definitely got a dead’un. Need Superintendent at Jarrow informed.”

  The senior officer-in-charge—the McNichols hadn’t caught the Superintendent’s name—took the Sergeant by the sleeve and said something. The Sergeant listened and then continued with his situation report. “Scene of crime officers almost complete. Search pending. Over.” The Superintendent moved back to the pathologist, gesturing to the other uniformed men nearby. They started to move the body and search the pockets.

  The McNichols watched it all from the back door overlooking the garden. Paul suddenly became aware that his wife was shivering. They were getting wet and chilled. Paul saw the Sergeant begin to move towards them as he closed the door, and guided Miriam back into the kitchen. He seated her at the table. “I’ll make something hot. Tea, maybe.”

  Miriam buried her face in her hands and began to weep. He moved quickly to her and consoled her while the kettle began to hiss on the bench. The kitchen door opened again and the Sergeant came into the room. Not wanting to be seen weeping in company, Miriam dried her tears on her sleeve and rallied.

  “You okay, love?” asked the Sergeant, now self-consciously aware of the muddy boot prints on the linoleum and well aware of the hell his own wife would give him if he didn’t wipe his feet. Six foot four inches tall and hard as nails, the Sergeant nervously wiped his shoes on the mat.

  “Yes . . . yes . . . It’s just such a terrible thing to happen.”

  “I know, I know . . . but it’s nearly all over now.”

  “Tea?” asked Paul.

  “Yeah . . .” replied the Sergeant, looking through the kitchen curtains at the scene outside. “Thanks. Just a cup.”

  “So who is it? Do you know? What’s happened?” asked Paul, pouring another cup.

  “Don’t know who he is. But it’s a bloody peculiar one.”

  “Peculiar?”

  “Well, you’ve seen your greenhouse. It’s demolished. That fella, whoever he is, didn’t just come flying over the fence. He fell. Fell from a helluva height. Terrible.”

  “From a height? But I don’t understand that. How? There’s nothing over us, unless he fell out of. . .”

  “That’s what they think.”

  “What? What do you mean?” asked Miriam.

  “He must have fallen out of an aeroplane or something. Body’s in a terrible state.”

  “Oh dear . . .” Miriam began to feel the tears welling up again. “Why are those other men searching the garden? What are they looking for?”

  “He’s not . . . well, the guy out there in your greenhouse. Well . . . he’s not . . . complete.”

  “Complete?”

  “They can’t find his right hand.”

  Miriam dissolved into tears again while Paul poured the tea.

  TWENTY THREE

  “. . . and then your policemen came,” finished Beaton. “That’s it.”

  Cardiff exchanged a look with Pearce.

  “How much have you been drinking?”

  “Look . . . I’ve had a little, that’s all. It’s Christmas Eve.”

  Beaton looked up with haggard eyes and could see the blank look on the faces of his interrogators. “Why in hell would I make something up like this?”

  “How much?” repeated Pearce.

  “I don’t know. Maybe three-quarters of a bottle.”

  “That’s a lot of booze, Mr Beaton,” said Cardiff.

  “I’m telling you. I came out of the basement after that . . . that . . . noise. And they were all gone.”

  “Doesn’t sound very good, does it?” said Pearce. “Lots of booze. Strange noises. Seeing things . . . or should I say not seeing things.”

  “Sounds like delirium tremens to me,” said Cardiff.

  “What?”

  “Delirium tremens, Mr Beaton. The shakes. Pink elephants and psychedelic crocodiles.”

  Beaton groaned and held his head in his hands. “I need a drink.”

  Cardiff stood up. “I think it’s time we had a look at where the funny noises came from.”

  TWENTY FOUR

  Light from the opened door spilled down the stairs and into the basement. Cardiff could barely see the boilers. He flicked the light switch, but nothing happened.

  “It won’t work,” said Beaton. “The bulb blew out when that noise began. Wait a minute . . .” The caretaker fumbled in the darkness at the outside wall until his fingers found a wooden plinth. There were half a dozen rubber-encased torches hanging there. He unclipped one and stepped forward, swinging the beam slowly around so that Cardiff and Pearce could see the layout. After thirty seconds or so, he switched off and turned away.

  “Wait a minute,” said Cardiff, taking his arm. “We want to take a look down there.”

  “Not bloody likely,” said Beaton, stepping back and pulling out of Cardiff’s grasp. “Not after what I’ve been through. I’m not going down into that Hellhole again.”

  “Our engineers have examined the boilers. They’re switched off and there’s no danger.”

  “Some bloody engineers. Couldn’t even put a new bulb in.”

  “Mr Beaton, I Want you to come downstairs and show me exactly where you were and what you were doing when the noise started.”

  “I’ve told you . . .”

  “You don’t really want your employers to know that you were drinking on duty, do you?” said Pearce.

  Beaton scowled, hesitated . . . and then pushed past, switching on the flashlight again and stomping down the stairs. Cardiff and Pearce followed, their shoes crunching on the broken glass from the exploded bulb.

  “How much bloody evidence do you want?” grumbled Beaton as he made his way down. “Watch your step on that last step there, unless you want to
break your neck. That’s where I puked up. Maybe you want to scrape it up and put it in a plastic bag for analysis, then?”

  Be nice, Mr Beaton,” said Cardiff. “This won’t take long.”

  At the foot of the steps, Cardiff took the torch from him and swung the beam around the basement. The light reflected back from the dull copper boilers and pipes and then lingered on Beaton’s broken whisky bottle. The caretaker saw the look on Cardiff‘s face and said: “I didn’t drink it all. The rest of it spilled out, that’s all.”

  They walked into the centre of the basement, their figures stark against the backdrop of the light from above, still spilling down the stairs.

  “And you were sitting here when the noise started?” asked Cardiff, pointing with the torch at the small wicker chair which lay overturned beside one of the boilers.

  “Yeah . . .” said Beaton, wiping a nervous arm across his mouth and with his eyes scanning the stark shadows thrown by the beam. “Just there. Thought my eardrums would bust.” Outside, thunder grumbled in the sky again; seeming to shake the foundations . . . and Beaton flinched back in alarm.

  “Just the storm,” said Pearce, moving to the chair and setting it upright. He tapped with his knuckles against the nearest boiler. The sound echoed.

  “Keeps on like this, we’ll be snowbound.”

  Beaton snorted in derision. “Seen the human filth out there on the streets? Nothing white ever sticks here.”

  “Must get hot down here, Mr Beaton. Sitting right next to the boiler like that. Make you feverish, does it?”

  “No. And I haven’t seen any pink elephants down here, either. Now is that it? I want to get out of here. It gives me the creeps.”

  Something flashed at the windows near the ceiling and the sky grumbled again. Cardiff guessed that those windows were at street-level up above. Rain and slush were streaking across the panes.

  “Mr Beaton. Are you sure it wasn’t just the thunder that you heard?” asked Cardiff, “Perhaps . . . you know, a really loud thunderclap?” Cardiff kicked a nearby boiler. It made a hollow booming sound. “Peculiar acoustics in here. Could have made a lot of echoes. Or at least it could have sounded like a lot of echoes after you’d had a few drinks.”