Cage of Bones

by Tiana Carver

  ‘Boss? You OK?’

  Phil took a deep breath, another. Waited until he trusted himself to speak.

  ‘I’m fine, Mickey, fine.’ He put the panic attack to the back of his mind, along with the cage and the niggling, unreachable thoughts it had triggered. ‘Come on. We’ve got work to do.’

  8

  Donna felt an insistent prodding in her shoulder. She ignored it, turned over, hoping it would stop.

  It didn’t.

  ‘Donna …’

  The prodding again. More insistent this time, harder. The voice saying her name louder. ‘Donna …’

  Donna opened her eyes. Closed them again. ‘Just a few more minutes, Ben. Let Auntie Donna sleep.’ Christ, listen to her. Auntie Donna. Must be desperate.

  She closed her eyes, hoped he would do as he was told. Knew he wouldn’t.

  ‘’M hungry …’

  Anger coursed through Donna Warren’s body. Her first response was to lash out with a fist, smack this kid square in the face, remind him that life wasn’t fucking fair and that just because he was hungry didn’t mean he was going to get fed. Who did he think she was? His mother, for Christ’s sake?

  She closed her eyes tight, knowing at the same time that he wasn’t going to be fooled by that.

  Her arm snaked slowly out from under her, patted the other side of the bed. ‘Where’s your mother?’ Donna’s voice sounded slurred, like an old-school VHS tape at the wrong speed.

  But Ben understood. ‘Don’ know … Get up. ’M hungry …’

  Donna sighed. No good. She would have to get up. The anger subsided. Poor little bastard. Wasn’t his fault his mother hadn’t come home last night. No, but when she did turn up, Donna would be so fucking angry with her … Leaving her alone with her kid like that. Saying she wouldn’t be long.

  She swung out of bed, planted her feet on the floor. The cold penetrated her numbness. She gave a small shiver. Her head spun. Too much booze the night before. Cider and vodka cocktails. Home-made. With blackcurrant. Had seemed like a good idea at the time, especially with Bench and Tommer turning up, supplying the weed and the charlie. Faith should have been there. Didn’t know what she had missed. And she could have helped sort them both out, instead of getting all secretive on her and going out. As it was, Donna did the two of them herself. The drugs and booze needed paying for. Fair’s fair. She didn’t mind. Much.

  She looked at Ben, standing there in his washed-out Spider-Man pyjamas, knowing he wasn’t the first kid to have worn them. ‘All right …’ She pulled her dressing gown around her. ‘I’m comin’…’

  By the time she made her way downstairs, bones creaking like a woman at least ten, if not twenty, years older than the thirty-two she was, Ben was already down there. He’d probably been through the kitchen cupboards, seen what was there, helped himself, even. And he still wanted her to cook for him. Little bastard.

  She stopped in the living room, looked at the mess from the previous night. Just like them. Turn up, trash the house, piss off. But she couldn’t complain. She had helped them do it. And the place wasn’t exactly tidy to begin with.

  She reached the kitchen, looked in the fridge, found some bacon.

  ‘You wanna bacon sandwich?’

  Sitting at the table expectantly, Ben’s eyes lit up. ‘Yeah …’

  ‘Well make me one an’ all.’

  Ben frowned as Donna laughed at her own joke. ‘Put the kettle on. D’you know how to do that?’

  He nodded, took the kettle to the sink, filled it with water, crossed back to the counter, flicked the switch.

  ‘Good lad.’

  He smiled, enjoying the praise.

  Donna put the pan on the gas, started to cook the bacon.

  ‘Some Coke in the fridge. Get yourself some.’

  Ben did. Donna went back to cooking. He wasn’t a bad kid. She had known worse. She had been worse. But he still wasn’t her responsibility. And she would let Faith know in no uncertain fucking terms as soon as she bothered to turn up.

  She served up the bacon sandwiches, slathering margarine and ketchup on Ben’s white bread first. He wolfed his down. Donna lit a fag to accompany hers. Rubbed her eyes.

  ‘You got to go to school today?’ she said to the boy.

  He shrugged, nodded. ‘S’posed to.’

  Christ, what an upheaval. Donna’s head was ringing. The sandwich and the fag hadn’t helped. ‘Well you’ve got a day off today.’

  Ben smiled.

  Sooner Faith came back, sooner she could go back to bed. Once she’d given her a bollocking, of course. Made sure she knew she owed Donna for this.

  She sipped her tea, dragged smoke deep within her lungs. Started to feel human again.

  Unaware that Faith wouldn’t be coming back.

  Unaware of the large black car sitting outside her house.

  Waiting.

  9

  ‘So … let me get this straight. He was found in a cage?’

  DC Anni Hepburn stared straight at the bed, nodded.

  ‘Of bones?’

  Anni nodded again.

  Marina Esposito looked at the woman speaking, gauging her response to the words. Hoping it tallied with her own.

  ‘My God …’

  It did.

  The child was lying on the bed before them. An undernourished, skeletal frame, his closed eyes black-rimmed, haunted-looking. He carried an ingrained residue of filth in his skin and hair. His already pale skin was bone-white where a patch on his arm had been swabbed clean and a feeding drip inserted. His broken fingers had been temporarily splinted and set. He was sleeping, heavily sedated, in the private hospital room. The lights had been taken right down so as not to sear his eyes when he woke up. The machines and monitors provided the only illumination.

  Beyond formal questions of process and procedure, Marina didn’t know what to think. Didn’t want to allow herself to conjecture. So she stuck with formality.

  ‘Dr Ubha.’

  The doctor drew herself away from the child in front of her. Marina could tell this was already out of the woman’s frame of reference.

  ‘What’s been done for the boy so far?’

  Dr Ubha seemed relieved to receive questions she could answer. ‘The first thing we did was to stabilise the patient. Checked his height and weight. Treated his cuts and abrasions. Set his broken fingers. Then we took samples.’

  ‘Samples?’

  ‘Blood, hair, fingernail scrapings.’ She swallowed, eyes flicking back to the boy in the bed. ‘Anal. We should have the results later today or tomorrow.’

  ‘What’s your first opinion?’ said Anni.

  Dr Ubha shrugged. ‘Impossible to say at the moment. I need to get a full blood count, check for markers of infection, nutritional deficiencies … he needs a bone density scan, his hips, his joints …’ She sighed. ‘His teeth are in terrible shape. He must be in a lot of pain.’

  ‘Apparently he bit one of the demolition team,’ said Anni.

  Dr Ubha raised her eyebrows. ‘It’s a wonder his teeth didn’t fall out.’

  ‘Anything for us to go on?’ asked Anni.

  Dr Ubha shook her head once more. ‘Nothing much beyond what you see before you. He’s been in that cage, or something like it, for quite a while. It’s a long time since he’s seen daylight, had decent food, anything like that. We’ll have to wait until he comes round to see how socialised he is. My guess is, not too much. There is something, though. Something odd.’

  ‘You mean odder?’ said Anni.

  ‘Yes. Right. I see what you mean.’ Dr Ubha pointed to where his feet were under the covers. ‘There was something on the sole of his right foot. We thought it was a scar at first, but when I looked at it more closely, it seemed to have been deliberately made.’

  ‘Deliberately scarred?’ said Marina.

  Dr Ubha nodded. ‘Looks that way. Like a … brand.’

  ‘A brand?’ said Anni. ‘Like you’d do with cattle?’

  Dr Ubha s
aid nothing. Shook her head. ‘Never seen anything like this before.’

  Marina looked at the child in the bed. Her hand went to her stomach as she thought of her own. She had vowed never to get pregnant. The tough upbringing she had endured plus the horrors she saw on a regular basis as part of her job all reminded her that bringing a child into the world – the world she worked in – was one of the stupidest, most selfish things a person could do. And then she found herself pregnant. It was unplanned, unwanted. And to make matters worse, the father wasn’t her partner; it was Phil Brennan. Everything about it had been wrong. But now, nearly two years on, things were different. Her life had changed for the better. Phil was now her partner. Their daughter was nearly one. And it took something like the sight of the boy in the bed to remind her that while bringing a child into the world might not be the most stupid, selfish thing imaginable, it was one of the most terrifying.

  The gloom of the room was getting to her. ‘Shall we step outside?’

  10

  The antiseptic air in the corridor and the harsh overhead strip lighting felt warm and welcoming in contrast to the dismal darkness of the boy’s room. Judging from the way the other two women were unconsciously gulping in deep breaths, Marina reckoned they must have felt it too.

  Marina had come straight away, as soon as Anni had hung up. No further appointments for a while, and the tone of Anni’s voice told her that this was not only urgent but important. More important than yet another assessment of whether some stroppy, self-deluded officer was fit to return to active duty.

  Marina enjoyed working with Anni. She knew how hard it was to be a woman and have any success in the force, but to be a black woman in an area where there were hardly any took real determination. And Anni had plenty of that. But she was also bright enough not to let it show.

  It was clear she was on Phil’s team. The denim jacket, cargo trousers and dyed blonde hair said that she had embraced the unorthodoxy and creativity he encouraged. From that had come confidence. But not arrogance. And that, Marina had discovered, was a rare trait in a police detective.

  Phil’s team. When she thought about it, Marina reckoned she must be a part of that now. Especially as the police force was now her official employer.

  Josephina, the daughter she and Phil Brennan shared, was approaching her first birthday. And, both of them being working professionals in fulfilling careers, they had agreed to share parenting duties equally. Feeding, cleaning, upbringing. They wouldn’t fall into outmoded patriarchal systems. They were a partnership; they would do things together.

  It hadn’t lasted. Not because of any stubbornness or ideological need, but just because of circumstances. They had fallen into the pattern of most first-time parents. One working, one staying at home. Phil had kept working. He did his share but he still walked out the door in the morning, had something else in his life, could compartmentalise. Marina had tried, and found that she couldn’t. Work had been too demanding. So she had stayed at home with the baby. And she had begun to resent him for that.

  So when the vacancy for an in-house criminal psychologist with the police force based in Colchester came up, she had jumped at the chance. She knew she could do this job. She had expected resistance or antagonism from Phil, put off telling him. She needn’t have worried. He was totally supportive, even gave her a reference. And when she was offered the job, he was the one who sorted out daily childcare for Josephina with his adoptive parents, Don and Eileen Brennan. They had been thrilled to have the baby with them.

  So it was a winner all round. Marina and Phil kept both their careers and their relationship going, Don and Eileen felt involved and needed and Josephina got more than her share of attention. And evenings together felt, to Marina and to Phil too, she knew, even more special with just the three of them.

  ‘I’m a working mother with a career and a family,’ Marina had said to him, smiling. ‘I’m having it all, the Daily Mail’s, worst nightmare. Worth doing just for that.’

  Phil had laughed, agreed. Marina smiled at the memory.

  Things were going well. Too well. This had never happened to her before. Something had to come along and spoil it. Something always did.

  ‘You OK?’ Anni’s voice.

  Marina turned, blinked, pulled out of her reverie. Back to the corridor. ‘Yeah, fine. Just thinking.’

  Anni turned to the doctor. ‘I brought Marina in because she’s a psychologist.’

  ‘And I think we’ll need you,’ said Dr Ubha.

  ‘I’m not a child psychologist, though,’ said Marina. ‘I’m with the police.’

  Dr Ubha glanced at the closed door. ‘With what’s happened to that poor boy, I think we’ll need you anyway.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Anni. ‘You should be on the team for this one. Even if you can’t help with the boy himself, you can help find who put him there. You know what makes this kind of person tick.’

  Marina nodded. Josephina’s smiling face came into her mind. She blinked it away. Swallowed hard. Concentrated. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘I need to start checking on missing children,’ said Anni. ‘Go at it that way. And check that, that …’ she could barely bring herself to say the word, ‘that thing on his foot. See if there’s been anything similar anywhere else. If you can stay here and—’

  A noise emanated from the boy’s room. A scream. The three women stared at each other.

  ‘He’s waking up,’ said Anni. ‘Come on.’

  They ran back inside the room.

  11

  The white tent had already been erected at the side of the house. Keeping their findings safe and onlookers away. Phil began stripping off his blue suit. Mickey did likewise.

  ‘Like a personal sauna, these things,’ Mickey said. ‘Must lose half a stone every crime scene I come to.’

  Phil gave a distracted smile in acknowledgement, checked his breathing. Fine. He looked up. The ambulances and Police Incident Units were parked at the top of the path, the area taped off, so the gawpers had gathered on the bridge. Peering over, necks craning. Trying for a glimpse of something dangerous or thrilling or exciting. A vicarious kick out of being close to violence but far enough away to be untouched by it. As though his work was some kind of sporting spectacle.

  ‘Like they’re watching TV,’ said Mickey, reading his mind.

  ‘Our audience,’ said Phil. ‘As though this is all a kind of showbiz.’ Then he thought of the cellar. Laid out like a stage set. The analogy didn’t feel appropriate any more.

  ‘Boss?’

  Phil turned. The Birdies had arrived. DC Adrian Wren and DS Jane Gosling. Inevitably paired together because of their surnames. And their physical appearance didn’t help: Adrian stick thin, Jane much larger. They looked like a music-hall double act. But they were two of Phil’s best officers.

  Phil called them over. ‘Adrian, Jane, good to see you both.’

  They nodded their greetings.

  ‘Right,’ he said, addressing the group. ‘The CSIs are going to take over this area. Having been down there, I think we’ve got our work cut out for us.’

  ‘In what way?’ DS Jane Gosling frowned.

  He explained what he had seen in the cellar. ‘We don’t know what kind of bones the cage is made from. Hopefully we will soon.’

  ‘Could they be human?’ asked DC Adrian Wren.

  ‘Don’t rule anything out,’ said Phil. ‘Not until we know for definite. But some of them have been there for years. And the way it was laid out, there’s a sense of ritual interrupted. Whoever’s responsible, it looks like he knew what he was doing. Chances are he’ll have done it before. So we need to know who owns the house, what sort of history it’s got, what hands it’s passed through, everything.’

  ‘Might be able to help there,’ said Mickey. He flipped through his notebook. ‘One of the two guys who called it in. Gave me the name of the demolition firm. George Byers. Based in New Town. They’ll know who owns the place. Might have had some dealings with the
m.’

  ‘Good place to start.’ Phil looked behind him at the big Georgian building. Faces were at windows, necks craning to see what was happening. ‘Before you do, find out what that place is. Who works there, what they do, if they saw anything or anyone going to and from this house. Someone must have seen something.’

  Mickey, making notes, nodded again. So did Adrian.

  Phil was still aware of being watched. He looked the other way. A concrete path, chipped, cracked and sprouting weeds, sided by a chain-link fence struggling to withstand an assault from the bushes, trees and weeds threatening to spill out over it. The path led past another dilapidated house. ‘What’s down there?’

  ‘Council allotments,’ said Mickey, following his gaze.

  Phil looked again at the house on the opposite side of the path. Saw that it was in fact a small row of terraced houses, two-storey, in a terminal state of disrepair. The roofs were down to skeletal frames, the meat of tiles and fat of insulation starved off them. The windows and doors boarded up, the wood warped, aged down to grey. Gutters and drains rust-stained. The outside walls graffitied and tagged, filthy. And all around the terrace, weeds and vegetation making a bid for reclamation.

  ‘Jane, stay here. Co-ordinate with Forensics. Sorry, CSIs. Wouldn’t want to upset them.’

  Thin smiles. Forensics had recently been rebranded as CSIs in line with the TV series. Made them feel more glamorous. On the outside at least.

  ‘Anni’s at the hospital with the kid. He’s still sleeping. No response. She’ll be looking into missing children, children’s homes, runaways.’

  Another look round. The gawpers were still on the bridge. Nearby, but a world away. And Phil reckoned that deep down, they knew that. When they had seen enough they could walk away, taking the frisson of adventure back with them to their normal world. Plus a sense of thankfulness that what was happening down there wasn’t happening to them. But Phil couldn’t walk away.

  And neither could the boy in the cellar.

  ‘I’ll check that house over there.’ He looked round his team. ‘We ready?’