Bermuda stood, hands on his hips, surveying the scene, two Tic Tacs sloshing around his mouth like a washing machine. He was soaked through, a chill terrorising his body as he tried to focus.
Why here?
His eyes scanned the officers as they went about their duties, fighting a losing battle to recover any evidence on a crime scene that the rain had long since destroyed. The officers standing guard were wrapped in see-through plastic to protect their uniforms. The only thing more miserable than the weather were looks on the officers’ faces.
McAllister’s suit, a darker shade of grey, clung to her athletic frame; her brown hair had given up its fight with the elements a long time ago. Her green eyes, as fierce as they were striking, burnt holes through whoever was delivering her the inevitable news that they had recovered nothing of any help. She shook her head, sighing deeply as the officer shrugged and took his exit.
Bermuda squinted as the droplets attacked his eyeballs, trying to cast his gaze upon the tomb itself. The building was a miserable, dull, stone creation, long since abandoned. There was zero religious or historic significance to it, yet it was the second heart in two days to be delivered to its front door. Anymore and Deliveroo would be trying to get in on the action.
Chuckling at his own joke, Bermuda puffed his e-cigarette and squatted down by the wall where the heart was found resting, the bloodstains replaced by torrential rain. Slowly, Bermuda reached out his hand to the wall, gliding it carefully over the coarse stone, searching for anything that told him the BTCO was right.
That this murder was because of the Otherside.
McAllister turned, looking for the ‘specialist’ who had been nothing more than a smart-arse on the scene and a disappointment in the bedroom. She marched through the rain, nodding her gratitude to the SOCOs who greeted her with a respectful, ‘Ma’am’. She stopped, her eyebrows raising in confusion as she saw him, hunched down by the discovery point, running his hand over the wall.
Suddenly he stopped, shuddering as if someone had dropped an ice cube down the back of his shirt.
She approached, infuriated and intrigued in equal measure.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ she demanded as he turned up, his face taut with what she perceived as fear.
‘I’m just doing my job.’
‘Please explain to me how you contaminating my crime scene is in any way helping?’
‘Contaminating? With all this rain?’ He held his arms out to hammer home his point. ‘There is no crime scene.’
‘Two women are dead!’ McAllister snapped, taking a step forward.
‘And I’m your best chance at catching the creature responsible for it.’
‘Creature?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘You mean the person?’
Bermuda hesitated, taking a step back from the inevitable collision, and despite Argyle’s best efforts, he was pretty sure that McAllister would floor him in seconds. He took a puff on his e-cig and let the rain wash across his face.
‘Well?’ McAllister angrily asked.
‘Look, there is the possibility that there is something going on here beyond the usual human-on-human violence.’ He took another puff, knowing how absurd he sounded. ‘That’s where I come in.’
‘Sorry, but this doesn’t make much sense. I was told by Detective Inspector Strachan that a specialist named Agent Jones was being assigned to work the case with me. Then you turn up, looking like a man clinging desperately to his teen years, and all you have done so far is get in the goddamn way!’
‘Because you are all doing such a sterling job without me, eh?’ Bermuda snapped back, regretting it instantly.
‘I will find this killer and I will make him or her pay. What squad are you even with?’
‘I’m an agent with a government agency. That’s all I’m at liberty to say,’ Bermuda lied, doing his best to channel his inner Fox Mulder.
‘Well this is MY case. So do me a favour: keep your mouth shut and your hands in your fucking pockets.’
Before Bermuda and McAllister could pour more fuel on the fire, a young, pretty police officer approached, strands of ginger hair creeping from underneath the front of her police hat like spider’s legs.
‘Ma’am, we may have a witness.’ She was slightly out of breath, her enthusiasm catching up with her. ‘The groundsman.’
‘Did he see anything?’ McAllister asked, turning her back on Bermuda and their argument.
‘Not really, but he has asked to speak to the agent in charge.’
‘Agent?’ McAllister raised her eyebrows. ‘Tell him that Detective McAllister will be with him momentarily.’
‘Sorry, Ma’am, but he asked for him by name.’
‘Who?’
‘Bermuda. Bermuda Jones.’
McAllister connected the dots, turning to Bermuda, who slowly stepped forward, ignoring every part of himself that wanted to rub it in her face. He greeted the young PC with his best smile, receiving one in turn that alluded to more if he pursued it. However, with the rain lashing against him and the death toll likely to rise, Bermuda put his libido at the bottom of the priority list.
‘Where is he?’ Bermuda asked, trying to sound authoritative.
‘He said to meet him in the tomb itself, says he doesn’t like standing out in the rain for too long.’
‘Thank you, Officer …’ Bermuda lingered.
‘Officer Stokes, sir.’ She beamed.
‘Don’t call him sir,’ McAllister interjected, stepping between the two and scowling at Bermuda. ‘I’m coming with you.’
‘No, he asked for me.’
‘Like I said, I’m coming with you.’
‘I know you don’t like me and you don’t know why I’m here. But like you said, there are two women dead in two days. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that there will probably be three in three by tomorrow. Right now, I have the faintest of leads that this might be in my area of expertise, and I can either spend the next thirty minutes failing to convince you that what I do is real. Or … you let me speak to Tobias Hendry in there and maybe, just maybe, we find out what the hell is going on.’
The two stared at each other, any lingering lust from the failed night of passion having evaporated.
McAllister looked him up and down one more time, disgust across her face. ‘Who the hell is Tobias Hendry?’
Bermuda turned to the young officer who took a second before she realised she was being silently asked.
‘The groundskeeper is called Tobias Hendry, Ma’am.’ She turned to Bermuda. ‘How did you know that? I didn’t mention a name.’
He answered her, but looked at a baffled McAllister. ‘Because I’m not here by accident.’
McAllister snarled in silence as Bermuda turned and trudged through the mud towards the grotty, cracked stone of the tomb, the elements lashing against the Glasgow Police Service. She dismissed PC Stokes, who scurried back towards her post, a fine officer who McAllister had high hopes for.
She took a few steps and then sighed deeply, the previous night’s hangover and lack of sleep hanging as heavy as her drenched clothes. The absurdly named ‘Bermuda’ Jones was already becoming an irritating problem that she was sure would do nothing but hinder the case. Government agencies were renowned for having their own agenda, and she didn’t trust him one bit.
She leant against a nearby tombstone, her eyes locked on the tomb that Bermuda had just entered, fighting back the urge to throw up. She would persevere, make it through this crime scene, and then report back to DI Strachan, determined to know what the hell Bermuda Jones was there for.
What did he mean by ‘what he did was real’?
Why was he sceptical that it was a human?
Infuriated by her lack of answers, McAllister stood on the spot, waiting for Bermuda to return, unaware of the hooded figures that were lurking in the shadows of the Necropolis, all of them staring at the same building she was.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Moments after his partner had
departed for the Necropolis with the brash McAllister, Argyle stood and watched the humans work. He marvelled at the fluidity of their actions, appreciating the skill and dedication they had to their craft. All of them were there to help, to try to uncover what had happened to the poor female who had suffered such a brutal slaying.
The rain was cold, yet fell to nothing against him as he slowly stepped amongst the scurrying hotbed of activity, careful not to cause a surprising, invisible blockade. It hadn’t been too long ago, during their pursuit of the terrorist Barnaby, that Argyle had collided with a small child by the surrounding grounds of the Cutty Sark. While lifting her into the air and causing widespread panic was misguided, he was thrilled to have seen those Morris dancers.
In a way, the white overall-clad officers at work reminded him of those majestic men – years of knowledge and practice resulting in a clockwork operation. A selection were dusting for prints while others were placing potential clues in see-through bags. Senior ranking officers were marking them down on clipboards while the medics had come and removed the body in a dignified manner.
The poor woman had had her heart pulled from her chest, which had distressed Bermuda immensely. Perhaps, Argyle mused, it was because of Bermuda’s love for his daughter, and how she was a similar species to the recently deceased. That relationship, which he viewed from afar, was another reason his loyalty to Bermuda was unquestionable.
Despite all the wisecracks and the negativity, Bermuda cared. He had precious things tying him to the world, and Argyle had seen first-hand that when something came along that threatened it, Bermuda would give everything to protect it.
Mr Black at the BTCO called him an irritant.
Sir Ottoway called him ‘the balance’.
Argyle saw him as a hero.
Stepping through the house, Argyle looked at the belongings of the young girl, trinkets that lined her living room that she had at some point felt a connection to. The symmetry was impressive, each item clearly purchased with a designated spot in mind. A shelf sat above the sofa, with moments of her life captured that had been worth framing.
As Argyle continued to slide through the crime scene, he made his way to the bloodstained room, the walls and bedsheets still thick with her blood. A few officers were dusting a corner table, their brushes sweeping around the splatter. Her wardrobe was open, revealing rails of pretty clothes that would soon be moved on. Rain clattered against the window and Argyle directed his grey eyes to the road below.
That was when he saw the cloaked figure.
Stood in the alleyway opposite, it was too tall to be human. Its powerful figure was cloaked in a long, black robe, the hood flipped over a shadow-covered face.
The face was a perfect, featureless white.
Argyle quickly wormed back through the flat, accidentally colliding with a young officer, sending her sprawling into the wall. As her colleagues gasped in shock, he burst through the door, the rain beating against him as he stared across the street.
The hooded figure was gone.
With careful steps, Argyle walked across the road, a car narrowly missing him. His hand reached over his shoulder, his mighty fingers grasping the handle of the blade that clung to his spine. He approached the alley, his mind flickering back to a time when his partner entered one similar while he lifted a car and confused a crowd of people.
Now, cold rain clattered against the walls, the shadows thick and dark. Careful step after careful step, Argyle walked further into the dark.
Something scurried nearby. A rat.
An empty packet of crisps fluttered down and beyond him.
He heard a noise behind him and turned.
There he was.
The cloaked figure.
Beyond the crime scene he had just ventured from, between the two buildings, the figure stood, intimidating with its stillness. A few police officers walked past, none of them aware of the ensuing stare down of another world. The figure, shrouded in darkness, stood deathly still, and Argyle took a few steps back towards the entrance of the alleyway.
A footstep behind him.
He spun on his heels, and at the other end of the alleyway a cloaked figured loomed. Drawing his sword instantly, Argyle stepped back, ready to attack. He glanced back across the street to the original figure, but it was gone. He turned back to the alley ahead.
The figure was gone.
Neither of them were anywhere to be seen and Argyle, with a calmness that defied the situation, slowly sheathed his sword, glancing with worry in both directions. After a few moments, and secure in the knowledge they had gone, Argyle stomped from the alleyway, making his way towards a place called the Necropolis.
Every one of Bermuda’s footsteps echoed as he stepped through the large door to the tomb, a faint splash as a hidden drip continued its eternal plunge. The room smelt damp, the blistering storms outside rotting away at the ancient brick, the moisture bursting out in a foul odour. He was surprised how large it was inside; the spacious room was cordoned off in certain places, a few numbered boards marking potential points of interest.
As he entered, a couple of SOCOs nodded respectfully and exited, a sign of respect that was usually absent. Looking around at the dank, grey room, Bermuda drew on his e-cigarette, a cloud of strawberry-infused smoke wafting towards the brick ceiling. The only light was struggling to get through the doorway behind him.
‘Mr Jones?’ A voice creaked from the corner like an eerie rocking chair.
‘The one and only,’ Bermuda responded.
‘Jones is a terribly common name.’ The voice was posh, a surprising English accent hidden away in the dark corners of Scotland’s most famous graveyards. The man slowly trundled from the darkness of the side room, emerging into the struggling light. He was old – easily eighty years old, with skin that hung from his bones in a worryingly unnatural way. Bermuda could see the struggle he had walking. Years of working the grounds had broken the man’s body.
He didn’t look human at all.
The old man sniffed; the lingering aroma of Bermuda’s cigarette clung to the airless room.
‘What on earth is that smell?’
‘Strawberry.’
‘Never mind.’ He extended a bony hand, the skin tightly wrapped around the knuckles twisted and wrinkled. ‘May I call you Bermuda?’
‘You may.’ Bermuda smiled. ‘Can I call you Toby?’
‘Tobias.’ He grinned, shocking Bermuda with immaculate teeth. ‘I am glad you have come. Is your partner not with you?’
‘Argyle? He is doing his own investigating. Figured I could handle you on my own.’
The old man chuckled. ‘I still have some fight in these old bones. They haven’t put me out to pastures just yet.’
‘You are a friend of Montgomery Black?’
‘Ah yes, Mr Black.’
‘What’s that like? You know, knowing him on any level where he is not a complete dick-head?’
Tobias frowned, slowly moving towards the doorway, the rain hurtling itself over the threshold.
‘Montgomery Black was one of the finest agents the BTCO had ever had. He was the one who established a gateway here in the Necropolis many years ago. Before you were even born.’
‘What happened to it?’ Bermuda asked, realising he should be taking notes, patting his jacket for his pad. ‘Why did the gateway close?’
‘Oh, it was a long time ago. An unfortunate death of a young woman.’ Tobias shook his head with regret. ‘They decided to reduce the number of gateways, rendering London the only port for this side of Europe. Those were dark days.’
Bermuda scratched words onto his pad, trying his best to remove the image of Montgomery Black wandering around 1950s Glasgow like Magnum PI, moustache and all. He chuckled out loud, drawing a confused look from his elder.
‘I was offered the chance to move on or go to London. But this is my home. I offered to stay stationed here in Glasgow, at the office in town. Then, as age crept up on me and stole my wife, I
came here. The dead are silent, but they never leave you. Here, I am never on my own.’
A jolt of sympathy ran through Bermuda for the old man, who had found peace and acceptance where everyone else found the afterlife. As he scribbled notes down, he cast an eye at him, again perturbed by the way his skin hung from him.
Age had not been kind.
‘Why did you ask for me?’ Bermuda asked, breaking the silence.
‘Because Agent Jenson is currently in the Bahamas.’
‘Lucky bastard!’ Bermuda muttered, angered by the notion that other agents received annual leave. ‘But why did you request me?’
‘Ah, I see.’ Tobias lowered himself onto a small stone border that framed the wall. It felt like an eternity as he lowered himself. ‘We needed someone here quick and someone who would see the job through. Now despite what Black thinks of you on a personal level, he does speak highly of your work. He says that you and Argyle are quite the team.’
‘Well, we’re no Magnum & Higgins.’
The blank stare told Bermuda that the joke was very private. He nodded, indicating for Tobias to continue.
‘There is something wrong here. Something dark that has been let out over this city.’ Tobias stared out over the Necropolis, the beauty of the grounds encased in a wet curtain. ‘This creature is not of our world, Bermuda, but I am not sure it is completely of theirs.’
‘What, like a Hovis situation?’ Bermuda asked,
Tobias’s confused glare encouraged clarification.
‘You know, a best-of-both kind of deal.’
‘Or the worst?’ Tobias questioned, his sombre words drifting out of the door to the tomb.
Bermuda frowned, the feeling that something wasn’t quite right was settling uncomfortably on him like an ill-fitting shirt. An unnerving silence sat between them.
‘Why does he take the hearts?’ Bermuda broke the tension with a forceful tone.
‘The hearts? I don’t know. Trophies?’
Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set Page 43
