A Book of Bones

by John Connolly

  “Timmerman earned his name by crucifying Muslims and Croats during the war—he didn’t distinguish between men and women, apart from raping the women first—and brought his hobby with him when he came to the Netherlands. One of the first men he nailed to a wall after he got here was Jos, Anouk’s husband. Jos was only a driver—no rough stuff—but the Zemuns wanted to send a message about the new dispensation, and he was a soft target. They left him to die in a warehouse in De Heining.”

  Louis poured himself a little more coffee.

  “So I found Timmerman, and I executed him. Paulus, the man who drove us here, is Jos and Anouk’s nephew, and De Jaager is Anouk’s brother-in-law. De Jaager is mostly a facilitator, not a criminal, although it’s a subtle distinction. He puts the right people in touch with one another, and takes a commission.”

  “Have I forced you to renew an acquaintance you’d prefer to have left dormant?” Parker asked.

  “You’ve never forced me to do anything. I asked these people for their assistance, and they agreed to help. They could have refused, and no one would have held anything against anyone else. They’re taking a chance, just as I am, maybe as we all are. The Zemuns haven’t gone away, and they haven’t forgotten Timmerman.”

  “Do the Zemuns know about you?”

  “They know Timmerman was killed by an outside contractor, and that’s all. They’ve had a lot of time to ask questions, but I’d have heard if they were getting close.”

  “Is De Jaager the one you’re meeting later?”

  “Yes.”

  “But not here?”

  “No. He never comes here. Even Anouk doesn’t live in this place. No one does. It’s a shelter, a neutral zone. We can spend a couple of nights behind its walls, but then we’ll have to move.”

  “What about weapons?”

  Louis lifted his jacket. The butt of a little pistol poked from a discreet holster by his right side.

  “My room only had toiletries,” said Parker.

  “If you need one…”

  “I’ll ask.”

  Louis stood. “I’m going to rest for a couple of hours. You should do the same.”

  Parker nodded. “I’ll head up shortly.”

  He was left alone with only the music for company. He stood at the window and took in its framed view of Herengracht. He thought he might go for a walk later, find a place to get coffee or a glass of wine, and try to gauge the flow of the city. This was just his second trip to Europe, and while he had been in Amsterdam for only a few hours, already the United States seemed impossibly young. But he remained concerned for Bob Johnston, now alone in England.

  Anouk appeared in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “Not at all,” said Parker. “I’m done, thank you.”

  She touched the wedding rings on their chain.

  “Did he tell you,” she asked, “about this?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know about you, too.”

  “Good,” said Parker.

  “Yes,” said Anouk, as she began clearing away the remains of breakfast, “I think maybe you are.”

  CHAPTER LIV

  Sometimes, Hynes thought, the gods of policing—or, more likely, the more potent deities of criminality—found ways to scupper the best laid plans of ordinary, decent coppers. First of all, Gackowska’s car was involved in a collision in Gateshead, which delayed her arrival at the station by an hour, with the remains of her rear bumper poking up from the back seat when she did eventually appear, and her face a mask of fury. They’d planned to pick up Ryan Clifton at his home, before he headed off to school, but the accident put paid to that idea. Hynes and Gackowska instead drove straight to Larkin-Brook, only to discover that Clifton hadn’t yet made an appearance. This wasn’t an entirely unusual occurrence, according to the headmistress, although she didn’t sound particularly heartbroken at the prospect of Clifton’s absence. Hynes guessed that she probably had quite enough bastards to be getting along with, thanks very much, and one fewer would be a small but welcome mercy.

  They then headed for the Clifton home in Heron Hill, which was among the oldest of the suburban estates built by the city council after World War I in order to tackle overcrowding and poor housing. For many years it had been one of the more desirable places to live for working-class families, with its tree-lined streets and its gardens front and back, but it was a long time since anyone had clamored to be housed in Heron Hill. It was a black spot for dumping, with rubbish strewn over its neglected greens, and a nexus for every kind of antisocial activity imaginable: drug abuse, vehicle crime, criminal damage and arson, violence and sexual offenses, possession of weapons—and even, Hynes suspected, given the undeniable vigor, enthusiasm, and originality of its criminal element, some transgressions that had probably yet to be categorized. Any store in the area that stocked Lambert cigarettes, white cider, and lottery tickets was unlikely to struggle for custom. As for how the estate had come by its name, Hynes could only speculate, but he guessed that no heron with even a rudimentary instinct for self-preservation had alighted there in many years.

  Perhaps surprisingly, the Clifton residence was one of the better-maintained houses on its street, although it wasn’t exactly up against stiff competition. The windows were clean, the grass was mown, and someone had even made an effort to grow some flowers in the beds. A white van stood in the drive, its rear doors secured by triple external bolts, with a raised metal security post embedded in the concrete to prevent the vehicle from being stolen.

  The woman who answered the door carried the marks of tiredness and self-neglect that came from being part of the working poor. Her face had the wrinkles and lines of an older person, and her cheeks the gauntness of one who habitually went without. Her long hair was colored black from a bottle, and her face was too pale for her lipstick. Combined with heavy mascara and purple eye shadow, it lent her the appearance of someone who had gone ten rounds with the champ and emerged the loser. She was struggling to get her right arm into a coat while holding the door open with her left. Under the coat, she wore what looked like a store uniform. Her shoulders slumped as she saw the two police officers on her doorstep, marking them for what they were even before they displayed their warrant cards.

  “What’s he done now?” she asked.

  “What’s who done?” said Hynes.

  “Ryan. Why else would you be here?”

  “He hasn’t done anything,” said Gackowska, “not that we know of. We just wanted to speak with him. We thought he might be able to help us with some information. Are you his mother?”

  “For my sins. I’m also late for work. And Ryan’s at school, so you’d best look for him there.”

  “He’s not at school, unfortunately. We’ve already been and asked.”

  Mrs. Clifton’s features contorted with frustration.

  “There’s nothing I can do about that now,” she said. “I’ll talk to him when he gets home.”

  Hynes noted that she said “I’ll,” not “we’ll.” It made him wonder about Ryan Clifton’s father.

  “What about his dad?” he asked.

  “What about him?”

  “Is he still around?”

  Hynes had a momentary out-of-body experience as he both watched and heard himself say something he instantly regretted.

  “Yes, he fucking is still around,” said Mrs. Clifton. “He’s in bed, a-fucking-sleep, because he was working until all fucking hours last night. Show some respect, why don’t you?”

  Gackowska shot Hynes a look indicating that, should he have any more stupid questions he fancied asking, he might like to resist the urge until he was alone in front of a mirror.

  “I’m sorry,” said Hynes, and he was. He’d arrived on the Cliftons’ doorstep with a set of assumptions based on where they lived, and the character of their son. And, yes, 95 percent of the time he might have been correct, but that didn’t make the underlying attitude any
fairer. “No offense meant.”

  But the fire had gone out of Mrs. Clifton almost as quickly as it had ignited. She didn’t have the energy to spare for pointless anger.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, as she pulled the door closed behind her. “I’ve heard worse.”

  She bustled past them, and they followed.

  “Perhaps we could give you a lift to work,” said Gackowska, “to make up for it.”

  “To ask questions about Ryan, more like.”

  “That, too,” said Gackowska.

  Mrs. Clifton checked her watch, but there was a theatrical aspect to it. Hynes guessed that she was probably at least curious as to why the police wanted to speak to her son. Ryan Clifton might have been a nasty sod at times, but he was her nasty sod, and she was damned if she was going to let him be thrown to a pair of police wolves, not without good cause.

  “I work in Hillstreet,” she said, naming one of the big shopping arcades in Middlesbrough city center. “You can drop me off there.”

  Hynes opened the back door of the car for her, and Gackowska took the passenger seat, although it was she who had driven from the station. Being the passenger would make it easier for her to engage with Mrs. Clifton. While the woman was getting settled, Hynes made a quick call to Priestman, informing her of the situation. It wasn’t a disaster by any means, despite the earlier delay. Ryan Clifton, being absent, had no knowledge of the police’s interest in Karl Holmby, and they now had Clifton’s mother in the back of the car, so she couldn’t have alerted her son even if she’d wanted to—and so far, they saw no evidence of any such desire on her part. Had she wanted to warn Ryan, she could simply have declined the offer of a ride. Nevertheless, Hynes promised Priestman—who was already on her way to the university to question Karl Holmby—that they’d hold on to Mrs. Clifton for as long as they could.

  “We might even take her for tea and a bun, to kill some time,” he said. “She’s already late for work anyway. We’ll talk to her boss, just to make sure she doesn’t get any aggravation, or lose pay. She works in a supermarket. I expect she’ll be glad of the opportunity to skive off for an hour or two.”

  Priestman agreed that keeping Mrs. Clifton occupied was probably a good idea until they had eyes on Karl Holmby, and hung up. Hynes took a last look at Heron Hill. He smelled burning on the air. Someone was setting fire to refuse. He supposed it was better than dumping it, although he couldn’t be certain. He climbed in the car to find Mrs. Clifton glowering at him from the back seat.

  “Would you like me to turn on the siren?” Hynes asked, as they pulled away from the curb.

  “Fuck off.”

  He thought she might have been smiling as she spoke, but it was hard to tell.

  * * *

  PRIESTMAN, ACCOMPANIED BY NABIH Uddin, had more luck with Karl Holmby. Since the boy was over eighteen, the police were under no obligation to inform an appropriate adult of their intention to interview him, and so were free to turn up at the Teesside University campus, take a seat outside the lecture theater, and watch Holmby file in as part of a coterie of young men and women. Uddin had obtained Holmby’s photograph from his police proof-of-age card, and his appearance hadn’t changed since the picture was taken. Priestman thought he was good-looking in a pretty way, and carried himself with a certain confidence, an absence of awkwardness. As much as his height—he was six feet tall at least—this made him stand out from the crowd. It wasn’t hard to see why he might have caught Romana Moon’s eye.

  The timetable for Holmby’s course was available online, so they knew he had most of the rest of the day free after a morning exam. They might have approached him at home before he left for college, but they did not want to disrupt his education unnecessarily, or tip off his family to any police interest. He would be easier to handle alone. As with the Harris interview, Priestman could have left the Holmby questioning to Uddin and another officer—it wasn’t as though she didn’t have enough on her plate—but based on what Hynes had learned about him, she was keen to talk to the boy herself. And if nothing else, she had learned the virtue of patience during her years on the force. It was impossible to commit murder without leaving evidence, however minor, and one piece inevitably led to another. They would find Romana Moon’s killer. They just needed a break, and Karl Holmby might provide it.

  She made some calls while they waited, as did Uddin. He was still working on the prayer beads, and with the help of the neighborhood inspectors, and PCs on the ground, had collated a list of some of the more vociferously misogynistic members of the local Muslim communities, who were currently in the process of being interviewed. In addition, he had also obtained descriptions of a handful of white males whom store owners recalled purchasing misbaha, along with some names. The individuals in question were converts to Islam, but so far all had alibis for the night of Romana Moon’s death. The descriptions of the remaining men were so generic as to be almost useless.

  Uddin remained skeptical that the killings were the work of a Muslim, and was leaning toward the theory that someone in the white community was trying to foment unrest. Like other forces, Northumbria had a Prevent team tasked with working closely with communities to identify those at risk of radicalization, but a good part of the team’s time and resources was being eaten up in monitoring potential right-wing activists, particularly in the poorer parts of south Durham, including some of the former mining towns. Back in 2010, a trucker from Burnopfield, a member of a group called the Aryan Strike Force, had been jailed for ten years for making ricin, a potent toxin, in his kitchen, and the northeast accounted for almost a quarter of right-wing referrals under the Prevent program. Killing a white girl, and trying to frame a Muslim for the crime, might have been regarded as a serious escalation, were it not for the fact that the Burnopfield trucker had enough ricin in his home to kill nine people.

  The exam finished shortly after eleven, with Holmby being one of the first out the door. He saw them coming, and, like Ryan Clifton’s mother earlier, didn’t need a uniform or warrant card to identify them. He seemed to lose some of his height along with a little of his confidence, as though one were a function of the other.

  “Karl?” said Priestman. “My name is DI Priestman, and I’d like to talk to you about Romana Moon.”

  She didn’t get any further, because Karl Holmby’s face crumpled and, like Simon Harris before him, he started to cry over the dead woman.

  CHAPTER LV

  Hynes and Gackowska took Mrs. Clifton to the Teahouse on Grange Road. By the time they reached their destination, she had given Gackowska permission to call her Tina, but when Hynes did the same, she swore at him again. Hynes, being built of stern stuff, elected not to take it personally. He ordered tea and scones for three, and made sure to keep the receipt, adding by hand the quid he’d thrown in the tip jar. He’d never get that quid back, of course, but it was the principle of the thing.

  Tina Clifton called her workplace in their presence, informing her boss that she’d be late, and explaining why. Gackowska then took the phone, and stressed that Tina Clifton was in no trouble of any kind, but was proving hugely helpful with information pertaining to an ongoing investigation. She also added that Tina was the kind of employee the store should be happy to have, and a credit to the whole team, which Hynes thought was overegging the pudding, but seemed to please Clifton.

  Once they were settled, he decided to stay quiet and let Gackowska do the heavy lifting. They learned that Tina Clifton had two children, of whom Ryan was the younger. The daughter, Becca, was in Australia, and unlikely to be returning anytime soon.

  “I’m glad,” said Tina Clifton. “I miss her a lot, but she’s better off out there.”

  Hynes wasn’t about to argue. He’d never been to Australia, but couldn’t imagine there were many parts of it less appealing than Heron Hill.

  “And Ryan?” said Gackowska.

  If it were possible for someone to weep briefly on the inside but remain dry-eyed without, Clifton m
anaged it. A lifetime of memories crossed her face in an instant.

  “Ryan’s not so bad, or not as bad as they say,” she said.

  “ ‘They’?”

  “Oh, you know: the teachers at his school, the guidance counselors. They don’t hold out much hope for him. They don’t even like him very much.” The tremor in her voice was barely detectable, and she conquered it quickly. “He’s dyslexic, which doesn’t help, and he’s angry, but they’re all angry at that age, I suppose. I know I was. Still am, probably, but it’s worse for boys. My Becca was a monster all the way through to her late teens—Jesus, the fights we had—but I could see the woman in her, even then. Ryan, though, he’s still a kid, and behaves like one. He and his dad go at it hammer and tongs. Sometimes I think the best thing for Ryan would be to join his sister in Australia, even if it was only to work in a bar for a year, or pick fruit, or whatever it is you do over there if you’ve got no skills. I’m afraid his dad might kill him otherwise.”

  She caught the frown on Hynes’s face.

  “I’m only joking,” she said.

  “Is there physical violence between them?” Gackowska asked.

  “What do you think?”

  They dropped the subject.

  “Ryan has been in trouble with us in the past,” said Gackowska.

  It was all relatively minor—criminal damage, trespassing, possession of cannabis resin, a controlled substance, although not with intent to supply—but they were familiar with the pattern, and how it could escalate.