by Tiana Carver
They were.
‘Right. ‘Let’s go.’
Then Phil’s phone rang.
12
Rose Martin swallowed hard. Then again. Felt that rush, that tingle of adrenalin, that she hadn’t experienced in months. This was where she belonged. Back. Working.
Since the call, everything had felt good. Right. She had pulled up to the Road Closed sign on Colchester Road just outside the village of Wakes Colne, holding her warrant card up to the windscreen, being allowed access where all other vehicles were being turned away. She felt that indescribable power that being above civilians gave her. She had missed it.
She pulled her car up to the crime-scene tape, flashing her warrant card again, silencing the nearest uniform’s entreaty to turn away. Just ducking under the tape, walking along the closed-off country road, her heels echoing, had been thrilling. The trees either side of the road seemed to bend in, beckoning her towards the crime scene.
She looked ahead. A 4x4 had ploughed into the banked up roadside, its left front side crumpled. Behind it, blue-suited CSIs stood and knelt in the road alongside uniforms. All attention directed downwards. She speeded up. Eager to rejoin her clan, immerse herself in that life once more. Lead them.
Then she stopped dead. Looked at them once more. Crouching. Kneeling. The body. There would be the body.
Her chest was gripped by a sudden fear; her arms began to shake. Her feet wouldn’t move forward. She wanted to turn, run back to her car, put herself on the other side of the tape once more. Forget about it. Hide herself away.
Marina was right. She had said this would happen.
Marina. Rose closed her eyes, controlled her breathing. Nothing that woman or her bastard boyfriend had to say was of any relevance to her. She would prove them wrong. Show them that she was strong enough to return, cool-headed and unafraid of anything the job could throw at her. She would show them.
The shaking subsided. Her breathing returned to normal. She flexed her fingers, regaining control of her body, willing it. Yes. She would show them.
She started walking again, the viaduct behind her, the leaves on the trees slowly moving, rubbing together, like jazz brushes over drum skins. She moved slowly at first, then with purpose. She reached the gathering of uniforms and blue suits. Held up her warrant card.
‘DS Martin,’ she said, slightly too loudly, ensuring they all saw her ID. She cleared her throat. ‘What have we got here?’
A plain-suited man she hadn’t spotted stood upright. He crossed towards her. ‘Hello, Rose,’ he said. ‘Good to see you.’ He stretched out his hand for her to shake. She took it.
Her superior officer. Acting DCI Brian Glass.
Glass offered her a smile. A small one, as if rationed. A quick flicker across his lips, then gone. Back to business.
She knew him by reputation. A no-nonsense, by-the-book copper. Always well turned out, but not flashily so. Respectably suited, as if he dressed for court or cameras. Hair short and tidy but not severe, greying at the temples. Methodical, diligent, got results by hard work. Straight-backed, well-built; his aftershave could have been Eau D’Alpha Male. Tanned, healthy-looking. Very tanned, in fact, thought Rose. Not just a copper’s copper, but a copper copper.
She smiled inwardly at that thought. Noticed his eyes make a quick detour to her breasts. Smiling inwardly once more, she pushed them further out in as unconscious a way as possible. She knew what her weapons were. Wasn’t above deploying them strategically.
Another smile flashed across his lips. Appreciative, this time. And in that instant Rose knew that this was her case. She could ask of him anything that she wanted. And get it. Because underneath that straight exterior, he was just another bloke.
She had him. Right where she wanted him. Maybe not immediately, but she could work on him. And that work wouldn’t go unrewarded.
Yes. This was going to be a good case.
13
Phil walked away from the group, put his phone to his ear.
‘Phil? Just a quick call. About Josephina. Wondering what time you’ll be picking her up.’
He knew the voice straight away. Don Brennan, his adoptive father.
‘Hi, Don.’
Don Brennan picked up on the tone of Phil’s voice. ‘Sorry, you busy? This a bad time?’
Phil looked around. Orders given, his team were all moving away from him. He put his head down, covered the mouthpiece. ‘Kind of.’
Don’s voice changed immediately. ‘What’s happened?’
Don was an ex-copper. Responsible for Phil’s upbringing and for Phil’s career choice. He had also found it difficult to let go. Phil could understand that and tried to keep him informed as much as possible. When he could. He often joked with him, said that telling him about his day at work made him feel like the head of the CIA giving security briefings to a former US president.
Phil had suggested Don apply to work in the cold-case unit, but Don hadn’t been interested, said it wasn’t real police work, just an approximation of it. Something to appease the old-timers with. Give them a pat on the head and a sticker. Phil felt sure he would change his mind at some point.
Phil hesitated before speaking. He didn’t want to say too much about an ongoing investigation, but he also didn’t want to patronise the man he regarded as his father.
‘Someone been murdered?’
‘Wish it was that simple. I’m down on East Hill. We’ve found a child. It’s … not good.’
‘Abused?’
‘Probably. But alive. In the cellar of a house. In a cage.’
Phil expected Don to ask further questions but he was greeted with silence.
‘You there?’
‘Yes, yes … I’m still here. In a cage, you say?’ There was now no vestige whatsoever of the doting grandfather in Don’s voice. He was back in the day, back on the force. ‘What kind of cage?’
Again Phil hesitated before speaking. ‘It’s … bone. A cage made of bones.’
Phil heard nothing but the taut, static hum of silence.
‘Listen, Don, I’ll have to call you back later. Are you OK with Josephina for a while? I don’t know how long we’ll be with this.’
‘Yes, yes, fine …’ Don sounded distracted. ‘You just … just call whenever.’
‘Will do.’ Phil looked at his watch, at the house by the allotments. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll give you a ring later, OK?’
Don said that was OK and Phil broke the connection.
His father had sounded strange, but Phil didn’t have time to dwell on that now. He looked at the house once more. Made his way towards it.
14
Don Brennan was in the kitchen. Sitting at the table. He replaced the phone, sat staring at it. His hand absently rubbing the stubble on his chin.
A cage … made of bones …
He heard sounds from the living room. A cheerful children’s song being sung on the TV. His wife Eileen talking to Josephina. And Josephina herself answering, her phrasing still unformed, just enjoying the sounds she could make, the novelty of communication. Laughing like all life had to offer was good.
A cage … made of bones …
He didn’t know how long he sat there, lost in his own thoughts, memories, but gradually became aware of a shadow standing before him, blotting out the light coming in from the garden.
‘What’s the matter? You all right?’
He looked up. Eileen. She read his eyes. Knew something wasn’t right. Sat down next to him. Behind them, the TV continued to play cheerfully.
‘What’s happened?’
He sighed. ‘Just spoke to Phil. He’s at a house down on East Hill.’ He fell silent, unsure how to say the next words.
‘And?’ Eileen, eager for news, even if it was bad.
‘There was a cage in there. With a child in. A cage of bones …’
Eileen’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh my God … oh no …’
They sat there, not speaking, not moving, while g
arden sunlight cast shadows round them and a contented child played in the next room, unaware that the world could ever be a bad place.
15
‘Where’s the body?’ Rose Martin said, trying not to look at the ground.
Glass looked round, back to Rose. ‘Taken away. I didn’t think you needed to see it. Very nasty.’
A flame of anger flared inside her. He didn’t think she needed to see it? He didn’t? She took a moment, composed herself. It was probably the right thing, she thought. She didn’t need to see a body, not her first day back. And she could hardly have refused if it had been there. Instant loss of respect. She waited until the anger subsided before speaking. ‘Four-by-fours tend to do that,’ she said.
‘They will,’ Glass said, ‘especially when they’re the second car to hit.’ He turned to her. ‘I didn’t think you should see the results of that. Not on your first day back.’
She nodded. ‘Right. Thank you.’ Gave a small laugh. ‘Just what I was thinking.’
He smiled again. ‘No problem. Body’s in the mortuary if you need to see it. Give Nick Lines a call.’
His hand touched her shoulder. Just briefly, then away. Her anger flared again. Should she make something of it? Ask him whether he would have done that to a male colleague? No, she decided. She didn’t want any trouble. Not yet.
But it meant he knew. Of course he knew; everyone at the station knew. And he’d made up his mind based on that. The affair with Ben had ended up common knowledge. No doubt, she had thought, rumours would do the rounds about the speed of her return being because she was now Glass’s lover. Let them. She could take it.
And if this new boss thought he had a chance with her as well … She could play her part, play along. Let him think he had a chance, even. See what she could get out of it. A tactical deployment of weapons.
‘So what have we got here?’ Rose said, snapping on her latex gloves.
‘Road accident,’ said Glass, looking down at where deep black tyre tracks had come to a sudden, unexpected halt, the back of the 4x4. ‘Woman ran out in front of that car over there,’ he said, pointing to a VW Passat stuck in the banked side of the road, ‘then this one came along, finished the job. Dead virtually on impact. Woman who was driving’s in a right state.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Rose, not doing so. ‘She over there?’ She pointed to the ambulance parked at the side of the road.
‘They both are.’
A blonde woman who looked like a dishevelled footballer’s wife was sitting in the back of the ambulance. Blanket draped over her shoulders, she was staring off into the middle distance, but her eyes appeared more inward-looking than they had probably ever been in her life.
Next to her was a middle-aged man, dressed in a business suit and looking equally dishevelled. Neither of them was looking at each other.
‘They been any help?’ asked Rose.
‘Both said the same thing. This woman came running down the bank out of the trees. Didn’t stop. Probably going too fast. First car, the man, couldn’t swerve out of the way, tried to stop but there wasn’t time so just ploughed into her. Up and over the bonnet. Four-by-four hit her when she landed. Finished the job.’
Rose looked down at the ground once more. It was dark from more than just tyre tracks. She swallowed hard, pleased there was no body to see. Tried not to let the sight of the blood that was there disturb her. Questions, she thought. Keep it at bay with questions.
‘Happened this morning, you said?’
Glass nodded.
‘What time?’
‘Early. Very early. About sunrise, not much after. Six-ish.’
‘And what were our drivers doing out at that time?’
A smile crossed Glass’s features. ‘Lovers. They’d spent the night together. At a motel. He was off to work, she was off to get the kids up for school. Told poor old hubby she’d been with a sick friend all night.’
Rose smiled too. ‘So, the victim. Do we know who she is yet?’
‘One of the uniforms found a Visa Electron card in the woods. Name of …’ he checked his notebook, ‘Faith Luscombe.’
‘Faith Luscombe …’ Rose took out her phone, turned to Glass. ‘You checked her out?’
‘First thing I did. She’s known to us. Got a record. Soliciting.’
‘Where?’
‘Colchester. New Town.’
‘Bit out of the way, up here.’
‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘She was naked when she met her death. Might have been working.’
‘Could be,’ said Rose. ‘Out here with a client, parked up in there somewhere, got a bit rough, she ran away …’ She looked at the steep bank. ‘Down that slope, into this car. Then that one.’ She suppressed a shudder. ‘Makes sense. So we should be looking for a clearing up there, a car. A place where she was running from. Any other witnesses.’
Another touch of her shoulder. ‘That’s what you’re here for.’
‘Right,’ she said.
‘We know how she died,’ he said, taking his hand away. ‘What we need to find out is how she got here. Throw some light on the matter.’
‘We’ll need to get in the woods, have a comb through.’
‘Uniforms have done that already. That’s how the card turned up.’
‘I’ll need to get them in there again. See what else we can find.’
Glass pulled a slightly pained expression. ‘Well … that might be difficult. We’re down on numbers at the moment. Budget cuts for one thing. And we’re a bit stretched. What with all that activity down on East Hill.’
Rose nodded, kept her face straight. Felt anger welling up inside again. Phil bloody Brennan. Once more, he had taken priority. She tamped the anger down, forced a smile. She knew how to get her own way.
She moved close to Glass. Arched her back once more. ‘Oh come on, Brian, I’m sure you could get some extra bodies in to help here …’
Glass looked at her, face flat, expressionless. ‘DS Martin, I would if I could. But it’s just not possible. If you want to look in the woods again, you’ll have to do it yourself. Personally, I would accept what the uniforms found for now and move on.’
Rose backed off. Angry with him, angry with herself. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Fine. You got an address for her?’
He gave it to her. ‘And the name of the person she lives with. Donna Warren.’
‘Do we know her?’
‘Oh yes. Faith’s partner in crime.’
‘OK.’ She made a note.
Glass looked at his watch. ‘Better get a move on. I don’t think anyone’s going to be losing sleep over some prostitute who got herself killed, so let’s get this one wrapped up soon as, eh? Shouldn’t take you too long.’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll just have a word with our couple over there, then get over to New Town.’
Glass stayed where he was. Rose thought something else was expected of her.
‘Thanks for this opportunity …’ she almost called him Brian, ‘DCI Glass. I—’
He cut her off. ‘There’s something else.’ His face impassive.
Her heart skipped a beat. She waited.
‘I’m promoting you.’
She wasn’t sure she had heard him properly. ‘What?’
‘I’m promoting you. Provisionally, anyway.’
‘I …’
‘You had applied for promotion before your … absence. I’d like to put it through.’
‘I don’t know what to say …’
‘Thank you would be nice.’
She laughed, grinned. ‘Thank you.’
He didn’t. ‘You’re welcome. Right, DI Martin, this arrangement will become permanent once you’ve completed this assignment.’
‘Right.’
He looked straight at her, eyes boring into hers. ‘To my satisfaction. Understand?’
And suddenly she understood. Do what he wanted. That was what he meant. And she would. She wanted that promotion. ‘Don’t worry,’ she sai
d. ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘I know you won’t,’ he said, and turned away.
First day back on the job and she had been promoted. And because of that she didn’t care that Phil bloody bastard Brennan was taking precedence. She would show him. She would show all of them.
She walked over to the couple in the ambulance. Notepad at the ready.
She would show him. Show all of them.
16
The day fell away as Phil stepped carefully through the doorway of the run-down house.
The depressing ruin draped itself around him, sucking out the light. The floorboards creaked under his feet. He put his weight down slowly on each one, testing to see whether the wood had rotted, unsure if there was a cellar beneath and if so what it might contain.
The boards held. He moved slowly into the hallway. The smell struck him first. Neglect. Damp. Terminal decay. The close, fetid air clung to his face like a cold death mask. He pulled on latex gloves. Work-required, but in any case the thought of touching anything in this place felt like a contamination.
Phil couldn’t shake an irrational sense of unease. He analysed it: it didn’t make sense. He had attended much more dangerous crime scenes before. Some where his life had been in danger. A few that had been so bad his body had been crippled by panic attacks. So why was this – an empty old house – so bad? He couldn’t explain. But he knew he felt it.
Into what would once have been, he guessed, the living room. Nothing lived in it now. At least nothing human. Small shadows scurried away at the sides of his feet, disappeared down cracks, holes. He took out a pocket flashlight, swept it over the floor. Some of the boards were missing, rotted and caved in. But no cellar.
The room was empty of everything but detritus. Old pizza boxes and mouldering kebab wrappers were slowly breaking themselves down into compost. Rusting high-strength lager cans, empty bottles sticky with dust. Cigarette ends, both legal and illegal, were dotted around. Human consumption. And in the corner, the inevitable conclusion. Human waste. As old and atrophied as everything else in the room.
Damp cardboard and a festering, mouldering blanket had been a bed. Stained and crumpled pages from old, well-used porn mags at the side. Bedtime reading. From the patina of dust coating every surface, no one had been there for a while.
