Callum puffed out his cheeks. ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘It was just a rumour, remember? I’m making no promises.’
‘OK. Right. Only … you know.’
A small hatchback sat in front of the garage, its boot gaping open like a hungry mouth. And as they sat there, parked on the road with the engine idling, a woman in a flowery pinny and yellow rubber gloves lurched out of the garage with a big bag and fed the hatchback with it. Wiped her forehead on the back of her arm, then went back inside.
Shannon nodded. ‘We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.’
‘No, I do. But …’ He cleared his throat. Took a deep breath. ‘But it’s R.M. Travis. The man’s a hero to millions of kids, he can’t be a serial killer.’
‘I was listening to Radio Four the other day: someone’s started a petition to get him on the New Year’s Honours list. Can you believe that?’ The car’s wheels crunched on the gravel driveway. ‘They’ll be a bit embarrassed if Pike’s telling the truth. Arise, Sir Murdering Tosspot!’
Callum shifted in his seat. ‘Maybe Pike’s lying?’
A modern extension poked out from one side of the building – a low long box fronted with floor-to-ceiling glass. It was a private library, lined with bookshelves, crammed with books, lit by artfully placed downlighters and standard lamps.
God … To own that many books.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he was.’ Shannon pulled up outside the front door. ‘That’s the thing about people like Gareth Pike: lying’s like breathing to them. It’s a way of life. I don’t think Pike would know the truth if it clambered up his bumhole and took up clog dancing.’
Callum undid his seatbelt. Grimaced. ‘OK. We can do this …’
‘Of course, maybe Pike gave you Leo McVey’s name because he was protecting Travis? Maybe they go way back?’
‘You think R.M. Travis is a paedophile?’
‘Wouldn’t be the first kiddy fiddler in line for a knighthood.’
Something deep inside his stomach lurched and gurgled. ‘Yeah, but …’ He hissed out a breath. ‘I loved his books, growing up. The home had a complete set. If it turns out he … you know?’
Shannon patted him on the shoulder. ‘Look at it this way, we—’
There was a knock on the driver’s window.
The woman in the pinny stared in at them, face creased and worried. Brown hair, greying at the roots. Bags under her eyes, going slightly jowly around the chin. Pale. As if she hadn’t seen the sun for years.
Shannon opened his door and she stepped back.
‘Can I help you?’ Voice brittle and sharp.
Callum climbed out. ‘We’re looking for R.M. Travis.’
She grunted. Then shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s late and my father’s not up to visitors. Please, he appreciates you reading his books, but he’s not well.’ She pointed down the drive towards the road. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got things to do.’
He produced his warrant card. ‘DC MacGregor.’
If anything, she went even paler. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Can I ask your name, Mrs …?’
‘Travis-Wilkes.’ She laughed, brittle and high-pitched. Wrung her rubber-gloved hands together. ‘And it’s Ms. Emma. Divorced, single, writer: seeks tall strong man for walks on the beach, cheese toasties, and vigorous lovemaking.’ She licked her lips. Cleared her throat. ‘Sorry.’ Pulled on a smile. ‘We get so many fans coming here. Well, not as many as we used to.’ A shrug. ‘It gets a bit much at times.’
‘You live here?’
‘As carer, nurse, archivist, biographer, and general dogsbody. You’ve no idea how much work’s involved in looking after someone else’s literary legacy. I haven’t written a single word of my own for years.’
‘We need to ask your father a few questions.’
The laugh sounded forced. ‘Good luck. He’s not having one of his better days.’ She brushed her fringe aside with the bright yellow gloves. ‘Half the time he thinks I’m my mother. The other half he hasn’t got a clue who I am.’ Emma pointed back towards the garage. ‘He switched off all the freezers last week. No idea why. You wouldn’t believe the smell.’
‘We’ll try not to take too much of his time.’
‘Wouldn’t be quite so bad if he didn’t have enough rubbish in there to survive a nuclear winter.’ Sounding more bitter with every word. ‘I swear on the Bonemonger’s grave, he hoards leftovers like some people hoard money. We’ve got pot roasts in there going back to Margaret Bloody Thatcher’s …’ Emma cleared her throat. Straightened her pinny. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about him like that. It’s been a long day.’ She sighed. Pulled on another smile. ‘Anyway, shall we?’
She snapped off her gloves, stuffed them in the pocket of her pinny, and unlocked the front door. Ushered them into a wide hallway covered in framed book covers – most of their titles barely recognisable in foreign languages: ‘ÖFFNEN SIE DIE SÄRGE’, ‘ZACZAROWANY KRÓLIK RUSSELL’, ‘LES MONSTRES QUI SONT VENUS DINER’, ‘EL CUBO DE BASURA MILAGROSO DE IMELDA’…
‘I need you to understand, his grip on the real world is … tenuous.’ Down to the end of the corridor and left. More book covers. ‘He goes off on these rambling discussions where he’s playing all the parts. Arguing with himself. I used to just let him get on with it, then I sat down and listened to what he was actually saying.’ She looked over her shoulder as they passed a big kitchen with gleaming work surfaces. ‘I was trying to get him to talk about his childhood, but he was going on about how the Goblin Queen was rebuilding her army in the depths of the forest.’
A door at the end of the corridor opened on the library. The comforting smell of books mingled with the chemical floral whiff of air freshener.
‘It was like he was writing another Russell the Magic Rabbit book. Only instead of battering it out on his old Underwood, he was living it all in his head.’
The bookshelves weren’t just around the outside of the room, they made islands in the middle of the space too, dividing it up into discrete areas. Some with armchairs, others with little tables.
How rich would you have to be to own something like that? It was like Heaven, Nirvana, and Jannat ul-Khuld all rolled into one. A Valhalla for bibliophiles.
‘So I started recording him. Sometimes it’s about Russell, sometimes it’s Imelda, sometimes it’s Justin and Arya. Sometimes new stuff, sometimes just retreads of the books already published. The only person he never talks about is Ichabod Smith, for some reason.’
Over in the far corner, at a desk piled high with books and papers, was the bent-over figure of a man. White hair circled a shiny bald patch speckled with liver spots. He was curled around a piece of paper, one arm shielding it – like a small child trying not to let the cheat at the next desk copy off him – scribbling away.
‘Sometimes I wonder if it’s because, writing the books, the characters and worlds he created are more real to him than what happens out here with the rest of us. They say people with dementia find it easier to remember stuff from fifty years ago than this morning. He remembers them instead.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Dad?’
The man at the desk kept on scribbling.
Emma lowered her voice. ‘Just don’t be surprised if it all goes a bit surreal. Sometimes he’s him, sometimes he’s one of his creations. He was the Bonemonger for nearly a week once. That was … disturbing.’
Callum took out his phone. ‘Thanks.’
She walked over and patted her father on the shoulder. ‘Dad?’
He flinched. Turned, blinking up at her. ‘Sophie?’
‘No, Dad, it’s Emma. Remember? Emma?’ She turned and held out a hand. ‘These nice police officers want to have a chat with you. OK?’
‘I’m busy. Tell them to come back tomorrow.’ He went back to scribbling.
She pulled a face at Callum, mouthing, ‘Told you.’ Then back to her fa
ther. ‘Come on, Dad, it’ll only take a minute. Do you need anything? A cup of tea? Some juice?’
‘Sophie, I can’t find my hat.’
‘OK, I’ll leave you to it then.’ She kissed him on top of the bald spot. ‘I’ve got manky freezers to clean out.’ A small shudder, then she was gone.
Callum pulled out the chair on the other side of the table and sank into it. ‘Mr Travis.’
No response, just more scribbling.
He produced his wallet and opened it. Laid it on the table between them, turned so the MacGregor family photo was the right way up for Travis. ‘Do you recognise these people?’
‘There’s no point wriggling, little rabbit boy. You’re for the pot whether you like it or not.’
‘Look at the photograph, Mr Travis.’
‘Don’t eat me. Please don’t eat me.’
‘A mother, a father, and two little boys.’
‘Don’t be silly, I’m hungry. And you’re a tasty little morsel, all plump and delicious.’
‘Mr Travis!’
‘But you can’t eat me. I’m … I’m full of venomous poison. If you eat me, you’ll swell up like a massive balloon and pop!’
Shannon sighed. ‘He’s not even in the room.’
‘You’ll pop and there’ll be bits of ogre all over the walls and ceiling. And … and your heart will turn black and the crows will take it away to the bonegarden.’
‘TRAVIS!’ Callum slammed his hand down on the tabletop.
The old man flinched, head snapping up like a trap. Eyes wide. ‘I don’t know you. Why are you here?’
‘Do you recognise them? This family, right here. Twenty-six years ago.’
‘Where’s Sophie? Where’s my wife?’ He blinked. Frowned at Shannon. Then back to Callum. ‘I don’t want to die.’
For God’s sake.
Now that he was sitting upright, the sheet of paper he’d been scribbling on was visible. He’d drawn a long-eared rabbit in the middle of it, then surrounded it with the same words over and over: ‘KILL AND EAT. DESTROY AND CONSUME. SIN AND INNOCENCE.’
McAdams was right – Travis was obsessed.
One more go. ‘Do you recognise this family?’
‘They’re happy little rabbits. Hopping in the sun. Look at their white tails flashing.’
‘Yeah.’ Shannon sucked air in through his clenched teeth. ‘I’d suggest throwing him down the stairs a few times, but I don’t think it’d help.’
‘They run and they frolic beneath the happy summer skies. Mummy Rabbit, Daddy Rabbit, and little Justin.’
Callum closed his wallet again. Stuck it back in his pocket. ‘You’re getting your books mixed up. Justin was a little boy, before he got cursed by the witch. He never had a rabbit mum and dad – they were people.’
‘Into the pot you go, little rabbits.’
‘Sorry.’ Shannon put his hand on Callum’s shoulder. ‘It was a longshot anyway.’
‘So I can’t touch Leo McVey, and R.M. Travis is …’ A sigh. ‘What’s the point? Even if it was him we couldn’t put him on trial. And no one’s sending him to prison like this.’
‘Please don’t eat us, we promise we’ll be good!’
Callum pulled himself to his feet. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Travis. I loved your books when I was growing up. But I don’t think I’ll be able to read one ever again.’
‘What’s the point of catching a rabbit if you don’t eat it?’
‘Come on.’ Shannon steered him away from the table. ‘We’ll go crack open a nice bottle of wine and bitch about the good old days.’
Travis scowled at them. ‘Who are you? What did you do with my hat?’
Never meet your heroes.
They made their way back through the house.
‘It was just a rumour anyway.’ Shannon gave Callum’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘Gareth Pike was actually there and he saw Leo McVey. So that’s what we focus on now.’
‘I can’t go near McVey without a warrant. And he’ll lawyer up, soon as I do.’
Past the fancy kitchen and all the framed foreign-edition covers.
‘So we go digging. My OAP network isn’t the spryest, but never underestimate the power of bloody-minded old codgers with a lot of free time on their hands. We’ll dig into McVey’s past till we find something. Then use it to squeeze him till he squeaks.’
They stepped out through the front door and into a thin drizzle.
‘Thanks, Bob. I appreciate it.’
‘We’ll get him. I promise.’ Shannon unlocked the car.
‘Yeah.’ Callum sagged. Then turned. ‘Suppose I’d better tell the daughter we’re away.’
The back of the hatchback was still gaping open, most of the boot packed with black plastic bags. Not the thin domestic ones – proper thick rubble sacks. Because who wanted their car full of manky rotting meltwater?
He stepped into the garage and the cloying smell of turned meat.
Pff … Place was bigger than his whole flat.
Well, what used to be his flat.
Shelves and storage on one wall, a dusty green Range Rover dominating half the space. White paint on the concrete floor. A rack full of golf bags and clubs near a door that had to lead back into the house. A large collection of tinned beans, hot dogs, peas, macaroni cheese, jars of pickled beetroot, onions, mustard … Callum picked a tin of peaches off the shelf and blew a blizzard of grey off the faded label. Best before June 2001. Yeah. Maybe not.
A row of chest freezers and a couple of uprights sat along the back wall. Some lying open, others still sealed shut.
Emma Travis-Wilkes was bent over one of them, delving into its stinky depths. Divorced – and available – bum wiggling as she reached. A pair of rubble sacks sat on the ground beside her, one full and tied, the other still waiting for more rancid gifts.
He held up the tin of peaches. ‘I see what you mean about hoarding food.’
‘Gah!’ She straightened up with a start. A freezer bag splotched to the concrete at her feet, sending a spatter of brown liquid out as it split. She turned, stepped in front of it. ‘You startled me.’
‘Sorry. Just wanted to say we’re going.’
‘Right. OK. Well … thanks for letting me know.’ She eased the freezer lid shut behind her. ‘Sorry about the smell. How was he?’
‘Confused.’ Callum took a couple of steps closer. ‘Did he ever mention anything about a family of four? It would have been about twenty-six years ago. They were in a lay-by just outside the city.’
‘No nothing like that.’
‘What about Leo McVey. They used to be close, didn’t they?’
‘I … yes. They hung out all the time. Got stoned and drunk, trashed hotel rooms on every continent. Cocaine, groupies, and rock-and-roll. No wonder Mum left him.’
Another couple of steps. ‘Did he ever say something about McVey that made you suspicious, or worried about him? Something that didn’t sound right?’
‘No. Thick as thieves, that pair. Uncle Leo could’ve crapped in the fish tank and Dad would have sworn it was the cat. And you don’t want to hear the stories of when they went to Las Vegas.’ Emma snapped off her rubber gloves and closed the gap. Stuck her hand out. ‘I’m sorry you had a wasted trip.’
‘Me too.’ He handed her the peaches. Pointed at the rubble sack. ‘I can dump that in the car on my way past. I’m going that way anyway.’
‘No, you don’t have to—’
‘You wouldn’t believe how strange it was, questioning your father. I was such a huge fan when I was a kid.’ Callum marched over and grabbed the sealed rubble sack. Heavier than it looked. And the underside was pale and gritty with frost.
Eh?
Why would defrosted leftovers be cold enough to—
Something solid slammed into the back of his head and the world erupted like a million fire alarms had just gone off at once. Yellow and black spheres popped and crackled across the gara
ge. The freezers. The rubble sacks. He reached out to steady himself and the something solid slammed down again.
Then Callum’s knees buckled and the concrete floor welcomed him with open arms.
69
The tin of peaches gave a dull bang as it hit the concrete and buckled. Bright red covered the sell-by date, leaching colour back into the ancient label. It rolled around a lopsided circle and came to rest against Callum’s chest.
Garage floor should’ve been cold. All that concrete. But it wasn’t.
Warm and cosy.
Soft and comforting.
Emma’s boots appeared, right in front of his face. Then she squatted down. Stroked his forehead. ‘I’m so very sorry.’ Her bottom lip trembled, eyes sparkling as the tears welled up. ‘But I can’t.’
The boots faded into the distance.
He blinked.
She was unloading the golf bags from the rack by the door – dumping them on the ground. In the gap behind where they’d been was a tall thin metal locker, fixed to the garage wall.
Warm and comfy, lying sprawled on the cosy concrete floor.
She pulled a bundle of keys from her pocket, sorted through them and unlocked the door. Pulled out a shotgun. ‘It wasn’t meant to happen like this.’
A clack sounded as she broke the shotgun open. ‘But that’s life, isn’t it? One minute everything’s fine and the next you’re standing in front of the freezer, looking down at a human head. And it’s looking back at you. And everything you’ve ever known about everything is a lie.’ Emma wiped her eyes on her sleeve, then rummaged in a large leather satchel. Slid two red shells into the shotgun’s breech.
Flipped it closed again.
Clack.
A dull throb bloomed at the back of Callum’s skull. Spreading out in jagged waves.
‘But you just have to cope, don’t you? What else can you do?’ She nodded to herself. Then walked out through the open garage door.
Shannon’s voice came from outside, ramping up from normal person to police officer in the space of six words: ‘What the hell are you … No! Emma, don’t do anything stupid. We can talk about this. Put the gun—’
BOOOOOM …
The squeal of tearing metal, the patter of shattered glass hitting the gravel drive.
A Dark So Deadly Page 54
