Ritual (Brian McDone Mysteries Book 5)

by Ryan Casey

  “Carly and Harry were last sighted at the Christie Hospital in Manchester two days ago. For Carly’s chemotherapy appointment. Carly was three months pregnant.”

  The incident room went flat. Like a balloon of frustrated energy had burst from within. The c word. Chemo. The c word that led to the other c word, cancer.

  The word that no one joked about.

  The word no one messed with.

  Not to mention the p word.

  Pregnant.

  “So if you’d like to quit your jibes and get on with your investigation, you know where to start,” Marlow said. “McDone. Get a team together and head over to Ashgate Court in Fulwood. That’s where Harry’s been shacked up for the past year or two apparently.”

  He wiped away “Moley” from the whiteboard as subtly as he could, apparently feeling guilt himself. There was a first for everything.

  The incident room started to vacate but Brian remained still. He stared at the photographs of the bodies. The workings of his mind ticking away. So close to an inconsistency. So close to something that wasn’t quite …

  “The hair,” Brian said.

  Marlow turned. Frowned. “What about the hair?”

  Brian’s chest tightened. “The—the hair. I received in the envelope—”

  “The doll’s hair?”

  “It … If Carly Mahone was having chemo, she’d’ve been losing hair.”

  DCI Marlow stared into Brian’s eyes. And although he didn’t say anything, Brian felt an intensity within them. An intensity that made him want to turn away. To walk out of this room and get out of here.

  “It was doll’s hair. Forensics checked it. A coincidence. Now if you want to start actually making some progress in the first twenty-four hours of this investigation, I suggest you get on with it.”

  Brian didn’t move.

  He held his ground.

  Kept his nerve.

  What are you hiding?

  And then he remembered the threats of cuts and of crippling financial security and he turned and walked out of the incident room.

  Because the hair was doll’s hair.

  Forensics had tested it.

  It was a coincidence.

  Nothing more.

  He had to try believing that.

  Thirteen

  It was only a fifteen-minute drive to Ashgate Court in Fulwood but to Brian it felt like it lasted forever.

  The clouds were finally lifting, the warmth of a summer evening creeping its way inside his Vauxhall Corsa. A car that got him some jibes—boy racer, that sort of thing. But fuck it. He’d never been a car person. As long as it did the trick, he was just fine.

  It was more the company that troubled him.

  The smell of cheesy Wotsits engulfed the stuffy car as DC Annie Sanders crunched down on them. She wasn’t the talkative type—relatively new to the Preston Police. In her early twenties, pint-sized, shiny dark hair down to her shoulders. Attractive, sure.

  But she wasn’t talkative.

  And nowadays, that suited Brian just fine.

  DS Finch, however, had earned himself something of a tongue since his recent promotion.

  “Can you not drive a bit faster, Brian?” he said from the back of the car, his ginger hair stark in the cracked rear-view mirror, the one Hannah insisted on him replacing for “safety” reasons.

  “I can. But I’d rather piss you off.”

  “Don’t have to do much to piss anyone off.”

  “When did you actually grow your balls, Finch? Last year, was it?”

  Finch laughed and shook his head. Leaned back in the back seat of the Corsa and grabbed the handle above the window. “Swear you’re just jealous.”

  “Jealous of what? Of you?”

  “Of Marlow. Of anyone who’s a DCI or—or ranked above you.”

  “Which you aren’t, by the way.”

  “But one day I will be. One day I will be and probably when I’m a hell of a lot younger than you too. How’s that make you feel, ey? Gettin’ on seventy—”

  “I’m fifty-bloody-four,” Brian said, almost swerving the car into the opposing traffic.

  “Well, gettin’ on sixty then. How’s it feel that you never made it to the top? That you’ll always be remembered as the guy who was a DS for most his career then had a bit of late-career fucking DI bloom?”

  “Probably a hell of a lot better than you with that fucking annoying rat face of yours.”

  Brian turned. He had to look at Annie to confirm she’d actually spoke.

  But when he did, he saw she was looking right back at him, orange dye around her mouth from her cheesy Wotsits; almost as orange as Finch’s hair.

  Finch, meanwhile, had gone all red and puffy, his pale pigments unable to cope with his embarrassment.

  He went quiet for a few seconds. He was grinning, but Brian could tell he was pissed off.

  And that delighted him greatly.

  “How’s—how’s it feel having a girl as a bodyguard?” Finch finally managed.

  “How’s it feel being a complete fucking sexist tool?” Annie cut in before Brian could even conjure up a reply.

  Again, Finch went quiet.

  Again, his pigments failed him.

  Brian looked at Annie. She smiled at him. Real warm, natural smile.

  “Want a crisp?” she asked.

  Finch reached forward and she snatched them away.

  “Ah. No crisps for you. Orange enough as it is.”

  “That’s—that’s low,” Finch said, his old stutter returning to the forefront.

  “Then it’s right level with you,” Annie said.

  Brian wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh so much. He could feel the urge to join in the fun and the banter tugging at his chest, trying to tear it open.

  But then he remembered.

  Cassy.

  Scott.

  Brad.

  Samantha.

  People he’d cared about. People in his line of work that he’d actually managed to get close to.

  People who’d gone, one way or another.

  All gone.

  So he didn’t take up Annie’s offer of a crisp.

  Instead, he looked back out the window. Saw Ashgate Court up on the right. Indicated to turn onto it. “Behave, both of you. You’re part of an inquiry team. Act like it.”

  He couldn’t bear to look at Annie Sanders as he pulled up on the kerb outside Harry Galbraith and Carly Mahone’s apartment block. Or rather, their old apartment block.

  He didn’t look because he knew exactly how she’d be looking at him.

  Looking at him like he was a spoilsport. Like he was a grumpy old cunt who really was just as sour as everyone whispered behind his back.

  Well that’s just how it had to be.

  Just how it had to be from this point on.

  Because the other way was dangerous.

  The other way killed people.

  He pulled up outside the apartments. Opened the driver’s door.

  “And please,” Brian said, still not looking Annie directly in her eyes. “Don’t bring those fucking rank crisps anywhere near my car again.”

  Fourteen

  There was something off about Harry Galbraith and Carly Mahone’s home.

  Sure, the apartment itself was nice enough. Spacious lounge area kept ultra-tidy and clean. Sun peeking in through the blinds of the balcony area, filling the room with warmth. Little modern kitchen area at the opposite side of the room, all so clean, all so pristine.

  But that was exactly what felt off about this place.

  It was all so pristine and clean.

  To the point that it didn’t feel lived in.

  “Check out the bathroom,” Brian said to Annie, his voice echoing against the cream painted walls. That echo, like the echo of a show house, a model home. Not the sound of somewhere homely.

  “Already tried,” Annie said. “Door’s locked.”

  “From the inside?”

  Annie shrugged. “
From somewhere.”

  Brian walked around the lounge area, the plastic gloves he had to wear for forensic reasons sticking to his palms with sweat. “No photo frames.”

  “Huh?” Annie said.

  Brian shook his head. “Just … just thinking aloud. No photo frames. No sign anyone even lived here. Nothing like that.”

  “I’ve seen weirder places,” Annie said, stepping up beside Brian, the smell of cheesy Wotsits still faintly on her breath, still making Brian heave.

  “Oh yeah?”

  She nodded. “Better this than crack dens. Places you can’t even walk around for fear you might pierce your foot with summat. Wanna check the bedroom?”

  Brian half-smiled. “Yeah. You … you take a look around here. See if I’ve missed anything.”

  “Not sure there’s much more to see.”

  “Just—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I geddit, grumpy.”

  Brian didn’t bother trying to banter with Annie.

  He just walked through to the bedroom area on the right to see if he could see anything else.

  The bedroom was nearly as creepy as the lounge. Blue bed sheets perfectly made. No faint hint of perfume in the air. No slight taste of sweat that came with every lived-in property. No dirty laundry. No pieces of jewellery scattered around the floor. Nothing.

  He walked over past the dressing table, which housed a solitary mirror. Outside, he could hear the distant chatter of DS Finch’s voice, as he and DC Chambers—another new recruit Brian knew jack all about and didn’t really want to—spoke to neighbours.

  He stood in front of the tall oak wardrobe. Stared at it. He wasn’t sure why he felt uneasy, but something just unsettled him about this place. He was expecting to walk in here and find the usual sentimental items lying around. Signs that this was just a clear-cut double-homicide. Something clean and straightforward.

  But this place was just wrong.

  And the hair.

  The “doll hair”.

  Carly Mahone’s chemo treatment.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Something just wasn’t adding up.

  Brian put his hands on the handles of the wardrobe and expected to find nothing in there. Expected to find it empty, just like everywhere was in this damned weird apartment.

  His heart picked up.

  He counted down from three.

  And then he pulled.

  He was surprised to be met by a wardrobe filled with clothes. Clothes belonging to a man, belonging to a woman. That familiar smell of perfume drifted out, filled the room with a glimmer of personality, a fraction of life.

  This place was lived in. After all his fears, it was lived in. It was—

  A hand on his arm.

  Brian flinched. Jumped. Swung to his left.

  “Shit. Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

  Brian put his hands on his knees and shook his head, heart pounding, catching his breath. Opposite him, Annie giggled.

  “Shouldn’t fucking do that,” he said.

  “Oh, lighten up.”

  “You’ll not be saying that when I have another fucking heart attack!”

  “Well, hey,” Annie said, jabbing Brian in his left arm. “Least you’ll die to the delightful sound of my laughter.”

  “Can hardly imagine anything worse,” he said.

  Annie rolled her eyes and grinned. “Find anything in here?”

  Brian got his breath back. Shook his head. “Just clothes. Either they’re clean freaks or they didn’t spend much time here. You?”

  Annie shrugged. “Nothing at all. Power’s all cut off too. To the telly. Even to the fridge. Which is—”

  “Also empty?”

  “Right.”

  Brian nodded. Looked around the bedroom. It felt like it was watching him. Like the walls were cradling him, wrapping their arms around him, getting ready to squeeze the life out of his body.

  “We should go see how Finch is getting on,” Brian said, walking past Annie. “Not much else to look at here.”

  “Didn’t think you’d be so eager to get back to your bezzie.”

  “Trust me,” Brian said, “I”m not.”

  He walked across the blue carpet and towards the apartment door.

  “He’s such a dick,” Annie said. “But seriously. Don’t use his dickishness as an excuse to ban Wotsits. That won’t work well for any of us.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be a quiet one?” Brian said.

  “I speak a lot when I’m nervous. Mustn’t be comfortable around you.”

  “Charming.”

  “Thanks. I reckon you—”

  “Ssh,” Brian said.

  He stopped. Held a hand out in Annie’s face.

  “Hey, that’s not—”

  “Be quiet,” he said, turning to the bathroom door. “I … I can hear something.”

  “Hear what?”

  “I don’t fucking know so that’s why I need you to be quiet for a second.”

  He stared at the bathroom door and listened. Wasn’t sure if he was imagining things or not, but he swore he’d heard something. Something moving. Something scratching. Something …

  And then he heard it again.

  Rattling.

  Scratching.

  And a squeak.

  His stomach turned and his muscles loosened. He looked at Annie and he knew from the wideness of her brown eyes that she’d heard whatever it was too.

  “You said you couldn’t get in here?” Brian asked, reaching for the handle.

  “I tried but—”

  “Then we’ll just have to pretend this door was knackered when we got here,” Brian said.

  He stepped back.

  Lifted his foot.

  Booted the door.

  A searing pain split through his knee. The door didn’t budge. Fuck. He used to be able to kick. He used to be able to kick hard. Fucking joints. Fucking arthritis. Fucking—

  “I’ve got it,” Annie said, patting Brian on his shoulder.

  He saw her lift her foot and shit, it all dawned on him. Damage to property. He couldn’t break the rules. Neither of them could. He should just wait. Call someone. Get a proper warrant. Or he was at risk. His future was at risk.

  Fuck.

  But before he could even open his mouth to speak, Annie’s foot was on the door.

  The wood cracked.

  The door split open.

  It took a few moments for Brian’s thoughts to catch up with what was in front of him. ’Cause all he got at first was a smell. A thick, sour smell creeping out of the pitch-black darkness of the bathroom.

  Along with squeaking.

  Rattling.

  Scratching.

  “Holy …” Annie said, covering her mouth and nose with her hand. She backed away. So pale she looked like she might puke. Can always tell an amateur from their potential to puke.

  But even as a professional, when Brian saw what was in front of him, he couldn’t help but feel sick.

  Not just because of the things in the cages.

  Not just because of the things pinned to the walls on crosses.

  Still rattling away.

  Still scratching.

  But because of what it meant. The undeniable truth. The unavoidable reality that always caught up with Brian. Always.

  The reality that this was no normal case.

  Fifteen

  After so many years on the job, there were few things that got to Brian these days. Dead kids. Yeah, they were shocking, but they came with the territory. Never nice finding them all curled up and rigid as rubber dolls, but it was just something you had to learn to live with. An off-switch you had to flick in your mind. A desensitisation button. Because you couldn’t let your discoveries affect you in that way. If you let them get to you, they’d break you down, chew you up, spit you out and shit on you.

  But what Brian was staring at right now—what was in the bathroom in front of him—got to him. It got to him because it seemed so out
of place. Because it threw a spanner in the works of the idea that Harry Galbraith and Carly Mahone were just normal victims.

  It was impossible to switch off from. Just another thing to add to the desensitisation list until eventually the list became full, bursting at its seams, and all that was left of you was a blank emotionless shell of someone who used to be a human being.

  “I can’t be here,” Annie said, hand over her mouth as she crouched beside the bathroom door. She’d gone completely pale. Not typical for officers on the job to turn that way but fuck, this warranted it.

  Brian figured he was probably just as pale too.

  Pale with the sight of the blood smeared across the white bathroom walls.

  Of the thick layers of crusty shit scattered around the bathroom floor.

  And of the cages.

  The bathroom was so filled with caged animals that it looked a hell of a lot bigger than it probably was. The bathtub was stacked with rusty metal cages. Inside, cats. Rats. Mice. Most of them dead.

  Most of them.

  Some of them still scratching at the cages with worn-down nails.

  With bloodshot fear, with pure animalism in their eyes.

  Just begging to be let out.

  Begging to be released.

  Brian chanced a step closer to the bathroom entrance. Truth be told, he didn’t want to go inside. It was like an entrance to an abyss carved into the middle of a normal, everyday apartment.

  Dead mice scattered around the floor.

  A cat nailed to a crucifix above the brown, cracked toilet.

  Sickness built up in Brian’s chest.

  “Fuck,” he said, shaking his head. “Sick fuckers.”

  He moved his head closer to the door but he couldn’t bring himself to step into the bathroom. The stench was appalling. Imagine the worst smell you’ve ever smelled—rotting milk, decaying flesh—and multiply it by a million and you still couldn’t come close to understanding how bad the bathroom stank. It was so bad that the air was thick—actually thick with all the fumes, all the ghastly fumes creeping into Brian’s lungs, then back out again.

  “We need to get someone down here,” Annie said. “Not a lot we can do on our own. Fuck’s sakes.”

  Brian brought himself to look around the bathroom walls with his burning, stinging eyes. Blood smeared all over. Animals rattling at the cages. He wanted so much to just go in there and let them out. But the sad part was he couldn’t, not yet. ’Cause this was part of the evidence. It was a fucking crime scene in itself.