Cage of Bones

by Tiana Carver

  On the opposite side, a tree had been uprooted and fallen backwards. Probably in a storm or during a harsh winter. It was quite remarkable. The roots had fanned out into a large semicircle, making a natural bay for the water to run into. Or an animal amphitheatre, he thought, smiling. Where the woodland creatures could perform Tales of the Riverbank.

  He looked further into it. Saw the twisting roots, but became aware of something beyond them. He knelt down on his side of the bank, tried to peer closer. Tunnels. He could see tunnels. Probably an animal. Rabbits or badgers, something like that. A nesting habitat.

  Tunnels. Phil sat up straight. The word hit him with an almost physical power. Tunnels.

  Why? What did that mean?

  He didn’t know. But he thought he should find out. He stood up, brushing dirt from his jeans, looked around. Tunnels.

  Being guided by the word and his own instincts, he started to walk upstream.

  The natural footpath beside the river began to narrow and eventually petered out. Thorned brambles and branches barred the way forward. Phil peered through. He could see that the hotel’s land continued, the boundary in the distance. Pulling his jacket over his face, he plunged into the trees.

  The thorns pulled at his clothing and, where they could, his exposed skin. He felt the barbs dig in, rip flesh as he tried to pull away. Like being shot repeatedly with an air rifle. Branches slapped him, stung where they hit. But he kept going, driven by the thought – the memory – in his head that remained just out of reach.

  The forest became denser. Branches and leaves overhead blotting out the sunlight. To his right, the river seemed further away than previously, the bank more built-up, a steeper drop down to the water. He turned, moved towards it.

  As he did so, he checked the ground. There were indentations in the earth, the leaves. He knelt down, examined them. Footprints. Someone had taken the same route. And not so long ago, he reckoned.

  Phil looked upwards, around him. Examined his surroundings in closer detail. Branches showed signs of having been bent back and broken, some snapped off altogether. He looked at the tracks, the broken foliage. Followed the trail.

  It brought him to the river’s edge. He looked round. Listened. No sign of anything, no sound except the movement of the water. The hotel, the murder scene, seemed far away.

  He reached the edge of the bank. There was a drop down to the river, probably higher than he was tall. He looked down at the footprints. They went to the edge and stopped. Phil knelt down. There was scuffing on the ground, as though someone had climbed over the edge, taken some of the earth with them. He looked down. Saw only the river.

  He thought. A boat? Was that how they had got out of here? So why hadn’t the uniforms looked for signs? Had they just given up at the end of the footpath? He closed his eyes. Tried to think, imagine himself in the killer’s position.

  Come up the river by boat … moor it … climb up the bank, through the trees, down to the hotel … slip inside … up to the room … and out again the same way …

  Phil focused. Examined his theory further.

  The killer must have known the layout of the hotel. Known a way in, found the room and out again without being seen. Been confident enough of not being tracked into the forest. Sure enough of himself to get a boat away from the scene without being spotted.

  Something nagged at him.

  Tunnels …

  He knelt down again, looked over the edge of the bank. The noise of the water increased, mingled with the sound of rushing blood in his head as he leaned further over. He edged forward, scoping the bank side.

  Grabbing on to a protruding root, he swung himself over the edge, began to climb down. Jumped the last little bit of the way, got his feet wet in the shallow siding of the river. There was a tunnel right before him. Or at least a cave-like entrance. Dark, overgrown with the tendrils of weeds, roots sticking out at the entrance.

  He looked inside. Felt his heart miss a beat.

  A shadow detached itself from the dark. Became larger.

  Someone was coming towards him.

  Fast.

  55

  Phil braced himself, wanting to turn, run, escape. But knowing he couldn’t do that. Knowing that his training – his job – should leave him ready to handle whoever it was coming towards him.

  Out of the cave mouth flew a bundle of rags. It took Phil a few seconds, but he recognised it as Paul. The tramp he had interviewed the day before.

  ‘Wait,’ Phil shouted. ‘I just want to talk …’ He ran backwards, twisted and fell. The water splashed up around him, cold penetrating to his skin straight away like icy underwear. He looked round for something – anything – that he could use to defend himself. Pulled at a root that was sticking out of the face of the bank, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Paul didn’t stop.

  Phil managed to get to his feet again, felt the weight of the cold water in his sodden clothes dragging him down. If the tramp hit him, forced him into the water, he might not be in a position to fight back.

  ‘Please, I just want to talk … Please …’ He held his hands up, showing he had no weapon. ‘Please, Paul, please …’

  The figure paused.

  Phil pressed home the advantage. ‘I’m not armed, I’m just here by myself. There’s no one else with me. Come on, Paul. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk to you.’

  He hoped that would be enough.

  He looked at the tramp standing before him. Blinking in the sunlight, confused by Phil’s presence.

  ‘Why … are you here?’

  ‘I’m …’ Phil ran his hand through his hair, decided how to approach this. The truth. Try that. ‘Well, Paul, I’m here at the hotel.’ He gestured. ‘Back there. There’s been a murder. And I’m investigating it.’

  Paul looked at him, frowning. Phil couldn’t tell under the filth and hair, but there seemed to be some conflicting emotions moving across his features.

  ‘Murder …’

  ‘That’s right. A murder.’

  Paul began to nod. ‘Yes …’

  ‘Let’s …’ keeping his eyes on him all the time he was speaking, ‘let’s sit down, Paul. Get comfortable.’

  Not wanting to get his clothes any dirtier or wetter than they already were, Phil found a tree root to sit on. Brushed it before he sat. Paul settled on the ground.

  ‘So, Paul … twice in two days. What are you doing here? Long way out for you.’

  Paul looked round, brow furrowed as if listening, waiting for the trees to give him answers. ‘I … Heaven.’

  Phil nodded. Here we go again. ‘Heaven. How d’you mean?’

  Paul spread his arms out. ‘Here. Heaven. Can relax.’

  ‘Right. And how did you get here?’

  Paul looked at the river. ‘I was brought here. On the water.’

  ‘You mean you travelled on the river, yes? In a boat?’

  Paul looked at Phil then. Right in the eye, unblinking. ‘You think I’m mad, don’t you?’ His voice calm, controlled.

  The directness of the question threw Phil off balance. ‘Well, I …’

  Paul shook his head. ‘You don’t have to answer. I know you do. They all do. You all do. And that’s fine.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah. Fine. ‘Cos maybe I am.’ A laugh. Or at least an approximation of one. ‘Should be. Everything that’s … all that’s … you know …’

  Phil ignored the gathering cold in his clothes, leaned forward. ‘What d’you mean?’

  Paul looked round once more. ‘Heaven. This place. Heaven. Or it was. Until …’

  ‘Until what, Paul?’

  Paul snapped his attention back to Phil. ‘I told you. Yesterday.’ He turned away once more.

  Phil thought. What had Paul said? It had all sounded so rambling at the time. Allegorical, even. ‘You said that,’ said Phil. ‘But that’s all you said. Heaven until the bad men came.’

  Paul nodded. ‘I did. Yes. I did. Yes. I did. Evil. Evil. Yes.’

  �
��Was it here, Paul? Was it here that the bad men came?’

  Paul looked round once more, taking counsel from the trees, nodded slowly. ‘Yes. Here. Heaven up here. In the Garden.’

  ‘The garden? The garden of the hotel?’

  ‘It’s not a hotel.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘The Garden.’ Said like Phil was stupid for even asking. ‘Always has been. Always will be.’

  ‘Right.’ The Garden … Something in that name too, though Phil couldn’t quite place it. He took a risk. Abandoned his chosen line of questioning, his training, everything. Asked Paul a direct question.

  ‘Paul, when I came here last night, and again today, I felt something.’

  Paul gave him a sidelong look. Eyes narrowed. He said nothing.

  Phil continued. ‘I don’t know what, I can’t really explain it.’

  ‘I think you can.’ Paul’s voice had changed. He spoke with sudden sanity, clarity. Noticing this, emboldened by it, Phil went on.

  ‘I felt like … like I’d been here before. Like I knew my way round.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘But I couldn’t. I’ve never been here in my life. How could that happen?’

  ‘Perhaps you have been here before. But perhaps you don’t remember it.’

  ‘How can I not remember it?’

  Paul leaned forward. A light danced in his eyes. A charismatic light. Not mad; deeply sane. Phil found it comforting. He was surprised, to say the least. ‘Perhaps you choose not to remember it. Or part of you has chosen not to remember it, and the other part is trying to break through.’ He sat back.

  Phil thought about the words. They made sense. Sitting here, he thought, wet through, by a river in a forest with a tramp, the words made sense.

  ‘You have to listen to yourself,’ Paul went on. ‘Trust yourself. The answer is there.’

  ‘Where?’

  Paul leaned forward. Placed his index finger on Phil’s chest. Pushed slightly. Phil felt the equivalent of a mild electric shock pass through his body. ‘There.’

  Paul sat back once more. Said nothing further.

  Phil felt like he was on the verge of something. Answers. ‘I’ve been having these dreams … The cage in the cellar … in the dream, I’m in it …’

  Paul’s features clouded. ‘No. No …’ His voice small, head shaking with it.

  Phil pressed on. ‘Are those … those dreams … are they part of it?’

  ‘No … Don’t … No … I don’t want to talk about that.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Navaho. They say dreams are a way of keeping in touch. You dream of someone, you’re keeping in touch.’

  ‘But I’m …’

  ‘You’re dreaming of someone. Don’t. You don’t want to meet them. Not now. Not ever. Not since the Garden got replanted.’ Paul stood up. ‘I have to go now.’

  Phil stood also. ‘Please. Don’t go. I need to … I have to talk to you. About the murder at the hotel. About yesterday.’

  ‘I didn’t do it. But I’m not sorry he’s dead.’ More nods. ‘Bad thing. But I’m not.’ He walked along the side of the river, heading upstream. ‘I’m going now. Please don’t follow me.’

  Phil tried going after him, but Paul was soon lost in the foliage, and Phil became stuck, entangled in the thorny branches of a low-hanging tree. By the time he had extricated himself, Paul had gone.

  Phil looked at the mouth of the cave where Paul had been sitting. Saw the remains of a campfire in the entrance. A few trails of dead smoke rising up from it, scuff marks in the earth at the sides where he had kicked dirt over it to damp it down. The ground here looked flattened, like Paul came here a lot.

  Phil looked inside the cave, but saw nothing. Only darkness.

  Finding nothing more, and remembering that Glass didn’t think Paul was a suspect, Phil turned. Made his way back to the hotel.

  As he walked, he heard Paul’s words zinging round his head.

  They should have made things clearer.

  But Phil just felt more confused than ever.

  56

  Don Brennan walked down the corridor at Southway, the years falling away with every stride. It felt good to be back. Very good.

  He had dressed for the occasion. Pulled his good suit out of the wardrobe, a deep blue worsted, unbagged it and was surprised to find it still fitted him. The trousers a little tight in the waist, perhaps, pulling the legs up a tiny bit short, the cuffs resting on the tops of his shoes, and skinnier than he would have liked, and the jacket straining to be fastened, but it was nothing too noticeable. He would just have to keep his jacket open, that was all. And, he thought with a smile, from what he’d seen, the drainpipe look was back in again.

  When he had left the house that morning, Eileen had given him the kind of smile he hadn’t seen in years. Proud that he was going to work. To be useful. Then the expression on her face had clouded over, as she was reminded of the reality of the situation. Of why he was going back.

  ‘Are you sure there isn’t another way?’ she had said.

  He had told her there wasn’t. And that she knew there wasn’t.

  She had nodded. ‘Just be careful. That’s all. I want you to come home safe.’ She had reached out to him, stroked his lapel. ‘I want all of my family safely home.’

  ‘That’s why I’m doing this,’ he had replied.

  She had kissed him then, holding his arm as if not wanting to let him go, but eventually relenting, knowing she had no choice.

  And he had walked out of the door. And back on to the job.

  It had changed. He couldn’t deny it. But the principle seemed to be the same: catch the villains. Or at least he hoped it was. The team seemed so hidebound by compliance rules and procedures that he was surprised any policing got done. Even on what was fast becoming a high-profile case. It had been going that way when he retired; now a copper could drown under the amount of forms he had to fill in.

  The overuse of computers didn’t faze him, though. He had one at home, used it a lot. Eileen was always on at him. Spending more time with the machine than he did with her. Colchester’s premier silver surfer. And he was. Paying bills online, ordering the weekly shop, forwarding email jokes. Even making his own Christmas and birthday cards.

  The one thing that really bothered him above all else was the jargon. He knew that all workplaces developed their own ways of speaking, so that to outsiders it could sound like a convention of evangelical Christians. But this was something else. The terminology from his era was still pretty much intact, but it had been allied to a kind of management speak. When Glass had started to talk in the morning briefing about goal orientation and – that most hateful of words – solutions, Don had wanted to stick his fingers down his throat. But he hadn’t. At least not yet.

  He gave a grim smile. Glass. I’ve got your number, sunshine, he thought.

  He turned another corner, looked round. Should be just about here, he thought, if they hadn’t moved it.

  He saw the door ahead of him. Felt a quickening in his heart rate, mirrored it in his step. He reached the door. Tried the handle. Locked.

  He had expected as much.

  He reached into his pocket, took out his key ring. A quick glance round to see if anyone was coming – no, thankfully not many people ventured into this area of the building – and he slipped the key in.

  Please still fit, please …

  It did. The key turned. The door opened.

  He had had the key cut when he was still on the force. The records room was always difficult to get anything out of. Chits had to be completed, requests made, and, like the slowest library in the world, eventually someone would turn up with the correct box. Or more often than not, the incorrect one. So he and a few of his colleagues had got their own keys cut. Not strictly legal, or even following procedure, but when they were working a case, it could often mean the difference between catching a criminal and letting them go. And it could all be covered up afterwards
. So no harm done. Not really.

  Criminal records were now on the Police National Computer and just a click away. As were police personnel records. But previous case files, especially ones that went back over thirty years, were kept here. And that was what he wanted.

  Don slipped inside the room, closed the door behind him. Found the light switch. And once the overhead strips had come to life, looked around.

  Rows and rows of metal shelves piled with boxes and boxes of files. Supposedly in order, but Don could tell from the way some boxes were sticking out at angles or had their lids missing or had just been left in haphazard piles in the aisles, their paper cascading all around them, that it wasn’t necessarily so.

  Still, he had to believe that what he was looking for was accessible. Otherwise he was in for a long day. And probably night.

  He could have told them in the office that he was coming here. That he wanted to cross-reference something with the cases they were working on. But he hadn’t. He didn’t know who on Phil’s team he could trust. He knew who he couldn’t. That was a given. But until things became clearer, he was on his own.

  He put on his reading glasses, walked up to the nearest shelf. Scrutinised the date that had been written there. Began walking.

  He resisted the temptation to look in any of the other boxes apart from the one he was searching for. There was a sizeable part of his life in this room. Memories of a career held in paper and cardboard. Maybe he would take a look. But that was for another day. For now he had something specific to do.

  It took some searching, but eventually he found it. A small shiver of triumph ran through his body as he did so. He took the box down, placed it on the floor. Squatted down beside it. Opened it. Took out the file on top, started to read.

  Felt that surge of adrenalin course through him again.

  Yes. This was it. This was the right box. Oh yes.

  He read on. Closed the folder, took out another one.

  And felt the adrenalin surge even faster.

  Smiled.

  ‘Gotcha,’ he said out loud.

  He was about to take out another folder, go through that, when the door swung open.