Ritual (Brian McDone Mysteries Book 5)

by Ryan Casey

  But he hadn’t. He’d stayed strong for Sam. Because he was a father. And above morals, justice, everything, his duty as a father was to look after his son.

  But now he sat in Chief Constable Jerry Matthews’ Blackburn office at the Lancashire HQ. Typical Matthews, choosing not to come to Preston to make shit easier for Brian, especially after everything that’d happened. Decent office, though. Although Blackburn was a bit of a shit tip in places, the police station was alright. A tall glass structure, built pretty recently. HQ used to be based in Hutton, but for some weird reason, somebody thought moving base was a good idea while in the midst of austerity.

  But hey. There was a good view of the surrounding hilly town from the fifth floor, where Matthews’ office was situated.

  Well, “good” was a subjective thing. Any view of Blackburn was hardly ideal.

  In similarly typical fashion, Jerry Matthews was late. Brian had been ushered into here by one of the other officers at HQ. Told to take a seat and wait. Read a book or something.

  Well unfortunately Brian didn’t have any books, and he’d be damned if he’d start reading on those bloody apps on his phone. Made his eyes itch like a motherfucker.

  Yeah. Showing his age once again, no doubt.

  He looked at his watch. Twenty past two now. He’d have to get back to Preston soon. Hoped to be out of here by half two, but Matthews wasn’t making life easy for him. He needed to go pick Sam up from Helena, one of Hannah’s friends. And he needed to go check on Hannah. He visited her every day since visitation opened four days ago. Made sure he spent as much time as possible with her.

  Because that was his duty.

  That’s what he wanted to do.

  Alas, Jerry Matthews wasn’t helping. Which kind of foreshadowed the inevitable sequence of events that lay ahead. Brian was going to be sacked. Released, his pension slashed. Or at the very best, he was going to be put on paid leave for a while, only when he returned from his leave he’d pleasingly discover that he was no longer surplus to requirements.

  But he was here. And that was something.

  In spite of everything he knew about the Children of the Light and the things they’d done, he was here.

  In spite of certainty over cover-ups—of Marlow burying whatever evidence he could to scupper the true investigation—he was here.

  Because his family’s safety was more important than any unresolved crime.

  He thought back to the Watson case. The truth he knew about police relations with Robert Luther’s BetterLives. The bitterness he’d felt when he chose not to expose that evidence simply because he was looking out for his family. Well he’d made that decision again. There were some things that were just too big to uncover. Some secrets that would never be unearthed, no matter how deep they were buried.

  The door to Jerry’s office clattered open. Almost made Brian jump out of his seat. He cleared his throat, sat upright, looked around at Jerry and did his best fake smile possible.

  “McDone,” Jerry said, nodding and smiling at Brian as he entered his office. He had a coffee in one hand and a black briefcase in the other. His glasses were steamed up, specks of rain clinging to the front of them. “Sorry about the delay. Take a seat. Please.”

  Brian returned to the chair with a little disgruntlement. In truth, he was pleased at finally stretching his legs. “It’s fine. Don’t sweat it.”

  “Right, right,” Matthews said, nodding. He pulled back his chair and sat in it, placed the briefcase by the side of his chair and moved documents out of the way of his descending coffee cup. He smelled of sweat, no matter how odious his aftershave was. “Got caught in traffic on my way down here. Something must’ve gone down out there.”

  “Long as the road out of Blackburn’s alright I’m not too fussed,” Brian said, attempting to make light of the situation.

  Matthews didn’t laugh.

  Hell, of course Matthews didn’t laugh.

  He opened up the briefcase and pulled out some documents and folders. “So, how are you?” he asked.

  Brian scratched the back of his hands. Small talk was something he’d hoped to avoid. “Yeah. I’m … I’m not so bad. Hannah’s doing better. Sam’s—”

  “Excellent,” Matthews said. He kept on shuffling papers around his desk. His hands shook. One of those fuckers that couldn’t even do the most basic of tasks at normal speed. “I’m really pleased to hear that.”

  He glanced into Brian’s eyes. But Brian saw nothing in them. No genuine emotion or concern for Hannah, for Sam.

  And Brian figured maybe small talk was just a formality with Jerry Matthews after all. Probably for the best.

  “So, obviously we need to talk about the big old elephant in the room.”

  Brian smiled as well as he could. His mouth twitched at the sides. He wasn’t sure how long he could hold it.

  Jerry Matthews smiled back at him. “The case. The murders of …” He looked down at his papers. Paused for a few moments. “Of Carly Mahone. Harry Galbraith. The others. Of … of the suicide of Joe Kershaw and Geoff … of George Andrews.”

  He paused for another few moments. Glanced up at Brian and then flicked the documents back over. “You … you can forgive me for avoiding digging up all the details of this misunderstanding again, right?”

  Brian almost said no. He almost told Jerry Matthews to fuck right the hell off. Because that was the truth. He couldn’t forgive him for avoiding digging up the details. He couldn’t forgive him for allowing Marlow to just get away with his lax running of the investigation.

  He couldn’t, but he had to.

  So he nodded.

  “Good,” Jerry said. He opened up another few documents, leafed through them. “Of course, there’s things we are concerned about. Your off-record interviewing of Alison West just hours before she died. Your impromptu visit to the River Edge Methodist Church. And your attempts to split your fellow detectives last week. Hardly the actions of a professional officer with many years of experience.”

  Again, Brian wanted to counter what Jerry was saying. Wanted to tell him to stick his patronising tone up his ass and shit it out. But he figured that probably wasn’t a good idea when technically, he was here to beg for his job. “What can I say?” Brian said. “I made some errors of judgement. I apologise. It won’t happen again.”

  “Funny you should say that,” Jerry said.

  “How so?”

  Jerry kept on turning page after page. But this time, he looked at Brian when he spoke. “You said something similar several years ago. After your … your incident.”

  He glanced at Brian’s neck and Brian knew right away what he was on about. The attempted suicide. How reckless it’d made him in work. “This is … With all due respect, I’m not sure how that incident relates to right now.”

  Jerry let go of the papers. Intertwined his fingers. Looked right at Brian. “How are you? Mentally, I mean? Are you coping? Or do you feel similar to … similar to how you felt back then.”

  Brian couldn’t fake his smile any longer. “No. I feel just fine. Thanks.”

  Jerry smiled. “Good. That’s a relief. I just had to bring it up, you know?”

  “Right.”

  “Because if there’s anything affecting one of our officers. Anything they can’t get off their mind. I believe it’s important we’re transparent nowadays. Now more than ever.”

  Brian almost laughed. Was Matthews fucking with him or was he really so oblivious?

  From what he knew of him, the latter.

  “I think that’s a good way to be,” Brian said.

  Matthews smiled. “Glad you think so. Now, how’s about we get you back into work as soon as you’re available?”

  Brian didn’t process Jerry’s words. Not at first. “Did … I’m free to go back?”

  “As soon as your family are fit and able again, you’re free to return.”

  Brian almost swallowed his tongue.

  “I don’t see any reason why we should punish
you further. You made a mistake. Heck, you followed your intuition. It just led you in the wrong direction. It’s something that happens, even to the best of us.”

  Brian’s heart picked up. He wasn’t sure what to say. Wasn’t sure what to think. Jerry Matthews was giving him his job back. In the height of cuts, retirement package threatened by Marlow for weeks, and now he was being offered a chance to walk back into work whenever he fancied it.

  “Of course, we’ll make sure you get your full pay while you’re off looking after your family. You’ve spent a long time working in the force, Brian. The last thing we want to do is lose an officer of your calibre especially in your final years of employment.”

  Brian cleared his throat. Nodded. “Thanks. I—I appreciate that.”

  “Not at all,” Jerry said.

  He reached across his desk and held a hand out to Brian. “So we’re all sorted here?”

  Brian stared into Matthews’ eyes. He couldn’t believe his generosity, couldn’t understand his sincerity.

  But he had to take it. He had to take it for Hannah’s sake. For Sam’s sake.

  People didn’t get many second chances in life. Now here he was being offered a third.

  Okay, maybe a fourth.

  Or a fifth.

  “Thank you,” Brian said again as he shook Jerry Matthews’ hand.

  “You’re welcome. We …”

  Jerry Matthews continued speaking. But Brian didn’t hear his words. They all just kind of melted away from Brian’s consciousness. Because only two senses dominated right now. Two senses heightened.

  Two senses sending fear tumbling through Brian’s body.

  Matthews let go of Brian’s hand but still he felt it.

  Felt the cold metal against his fingers.

  And then he saw it.

  Saw them clearly.

  The two rings on Jerry’s right hand.

  “Will that be all, Detective?” Jerry Matthews asked.

  “Yes,” Brian blurted out. Body shaking with adrenaline. “Yes.”

  He got up.

  Turned around.

  Walked out of Jerry’s office.

  But he still felt the cold touch of the rings on his hand.

  And in his mind’s eye, he still saw what was on the shiny gold rings.

  The sun. Two massive emblems of the sun.

  In the light of the sun, I give thee to the moon.

  “The man with the sun on his fingers.”

  Forty-Six

  “Shithead haven. Where better to spend a Wednesday morning?”

  Brian stood beside DC Annie Sanders. They were outside the high-rise apartment blocks down in Avenham. Shithead haven, Scrotesville, you call it whatever you want to call it. It’s a cesspit however you look at it.

  Four days had passed since Brian sat in Chief Constable Jerry Matthews’ office. But as he walked towards the apartment complex, sun blaring down on his irritated forehead, it didn’t feel like any time had passed at all. He’d been stuck in a blur. A complete mist of uncertainty, of disbelief.

  He was trying his best to put that meeting out of his mind.

  The rings on Jerry Matthews’ fingers.

  The man with the sun on his fingers …

  He was trying his best to get on with his job.

  “What is it we’ve got?” Brian asked. He caught a dull whiff of marijuana as he reached the entrance to the apartment blocks. Unsurprising.

  “Possible shooting,” Annie said, pulling open the door and gesturing for Brian to take the lead. “Neighbour called in and said they heard gunshots.”

  “Like you say. Perfect start to a Wednesday morning.”

  Brian took Annie up on her offer of going first and stepped onto the doormat.

  But before he could move any further, he felt Annie’s hand on his left arm.

  He swung around, probably a little more violently than he should have. “What?”

  Annie looked at him with narrow-eyed concern. “Are you … Hannah. And Sam. They doing okay?”

  Brian thought of Hannah lying there in that hospital bed. Thought of the bandages down her arms and legs. Thought of the sound she made whenever she inhaled; the pain that wracked her body. Pain that would never go away. “She’s out of critical care. Dunno how long it’ll be before she’s back up and walking and that. But yeah. Yeah, she’s okay. And Sam, yeah. He’s a good kid. Hannah wants to get his christening sorted sometime soon. Dunno if it’s a good idea right now.”

  Annie squeezed Brian’s forearm. Smiled. “I’d say it’s a perfect idea right now.”

  She looked at Brian for a few seconds. Sunlight twinkling in her eyes. Like she was waiting for him to say something else. Something about the Children of the Light case. Something on his mind.

  But he didn’t. Because he couldn’t.

  He still hadn’t figured out what he was going to do about them yet.

  Only that he was going to do something.

  They walked into the apartment complex. The narrow, filthy corridors were stuffy in the mid-summer heat. White walls covered in lurid graffiti and other questionable substances. A thick smell of urine right by the staircases. The sound of glass cracking under foot.

  “Which apartment is it?” Brian asked.

  “497. Fourth floor. Just … just watch yourself up there.”

  Brian made his way up the first few steps. “Nice of you to care.”

  “Oh I’m not on about you. I’m just worried in case someone shoots you and sends you flying back into me. Don’t wanna get crushed under your weight. No offence.”

  Brian’s cheeks tingled. “None taken.”

  Every floor they passed, eyes watched them. Accusing eyes. Paranoid eyes. Eyes that told them they weren’t welcome here; that police law didn’t apply in here. Brian used to hate them. Used to hate good-for-nothings like this. But now he wondered. Wondered if perhaps they’d just been screwed over by a system.

  Screwed over, just like Carly Mahone. Just like Harry Galbraith. Just like Jodie Kestrel and Julia Patricks and Alistair Crowley and everyone else who’d been fucked over by the Children of the Light, by Jerry Matthews and the police who covered up for them.

  He wondered if perhaps, just perhaps, he wasn’t so different to these people after all.

  “Fourth floor,” Annie called. Made Brian jump a little.

  But she was right. They were on the fourth floor. The site of the shooting.

  And right at the end of the long, trashed corridor was apartment 497.

  “I suppose now wouldn’t be a very gentlemanly time to say ‘ladies first’,” Brian said.

  “No,” Annie said, patting Brian on the back. “No it wouldn’t. Age before beauty.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  She jabbed Brian in the back and he really felt his age.

  He walked slowly down the corridor of the fourth floor. Stared at apartment 497. There were cracks in the front of the wooden door. Holes, holes that could only have been pierced by the blast of a gun.

  “Subtle,” Annie said.

  “Often subtlety doesn’t come too easy to these people.”

  Brian heard glass or plastic crack under his foot. In the corner of his eyes, he saw someone peek out of their apartment. The heat grew more intense. Flies buzzed around the flickering halogen light bulbs.

  He just wanted to get this done with.

  Get it done with so he could get back home.

  Get back to Sam and Hannah.

  Get back to—

  The door to apartment 497 creaked open.

  Brian stopped. Backed away. Banged into Annie in the process.

  His heart pounded. He waited for the blast. For the splatter of a bullet in his chest. For the ambush. For …

  There was no gun. There was no bullet or dramatic blast in his chest.

  There was just a tall, skinny ginger guy with freckles on his face. Standing at his door wearing thin-rimmed glasses he must’ve got when he was about twelve, and a black Halo T-sh
irt, the emblem fading with excessive washing.

  Didn’t smell like he did much washing.

  “I—I haven’t done anything.”

  Brian inhaled a deep breath. Walked up to the guy, feeling a little more confident now, but hesitant in case this was just some sort of ambush. “You’ll let us be the judge of that. Can we take a look around?”

  The kid—well, young adult, probably in his twenties—stared up at Brian as he stood by the door. Sweat covered his top lip. Slight smell of milk from the room. Sour milk. Tears welling up in the kid’s eyes, BO smell getting stronger.

  “I … I didn’t—”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Brian said.

  He walked into the guy’s room. Pretty unspectacular living quarters. More like living eighths. Little lounge area with a scruffy kitchen stuffed into the corner. Sofa stretching out into a bed. Tiny bathroom with a toilet that must surely be physically impossible to sit on squeezed inside it.

  “Mind if I take a look around?” Brian asked.

  The kid scratched his arms. Shook his head. Clearly frightened. Clearly not used to any kind of police discipline.

  Annie grilled the guy while Brian searched under the sofa bed, behind the television, on the shitty excuse for a balcony attached to the side of the window, offering a wonderful view of … oh, more apartment blocks.

  “It’s just my games,” the guy—apparently called James MacPearce—argued as Annie continued to quiz him. “Just sometimes—sometimes I put the volume up too loud. I swear.”

  But the way he was looking from the bathroom to Brian and back again told Brian everything he needed to know.

  Brian walked inside the bathroom. Or rather, leaned inside it. Could barely fit into it. There was a shoddy excuse for a bath in there, a shower-head covered in mildew. A dirty sink. A toothbrush so scruffy it resembled a toilet brush.

  And the less said about the underside of the toilet, the better.

  Brian stared at the toilet. Stared at the drum cover. Now where would an amateur hide a gun? He wouldn’t throw it out the window. Too worried about fingerprints. No, he’d hide it.