‘That print will take at least a day to process. We should return either to the latest scene or the tomb once again.’
Bermuda nodded in agreement, turning back to the eagerly smiling secretary. ‘Can you put that to the top of his list?’
She nodded enthusiastically. Bermuda offered her a warm smile and nodded to Argyle to head towards the door. She called after them.
‘If you are heading back to the Necropolis, tell Toby we all said hi. It’s been a while since we have seen him.’
Bermuda stopped and turned on his heel, his brow furrowed. ‘Is Toby still a BTCO employee? I kinda figured he worked at the Necropolis now.’
‘Oh, he does. He’s the groundsman. He used to be employed by us when the gateway was there. However, when they closed it down, he didn’t want to leave. It’s sad, really. Must be lonely.’
Her words trailed off sadly in understanding.
‘You ever think there was something a bit odd about him?’ Bermuda asked, revisiting his conversation with the ancient groundsman, how something didn’t sit right.
‘What do you mean?’ Kelly asked, her green eyes wide and innocent.
‘I don’t know. I mean, he looked a little a funny.’
‘Well he’s no Tom Selleck, let’s put it that way,’ she replied, raising her eyebrows suggestively.
Bermuda smiled inwardly, especially after his Magnum PI reference had fallen on Toby’s deaf ears.
Argyle stood patiently by the door.
‘Okay. Well, thank you for everything,’ he offered as he again turned to leave.
‘Although I am surprised that Toby didn’t mention the others,’ Kelly said, her eyes locked on her screen as her fingers tap danced across the lettered keys before her. ‘If you saw him earlier.’
‘Others?’ Bermuda asked, his voice rife with confusion. ‘Like Argyle?’
‘No. The other girls. Years ago.’
Bermuda looked blankly at her. ‘What other girls?’
Kelly looked at Bermuda and the blurry outline of his dominant partner. She sighed, locking her computer and pushing herself up off of her seat. ‘Follow me.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Kelly led Bermuda to a cubicle, and a crummy computer on a wobbly desk that was sprinkled with dust. She booted up the ancient machine, the insides churning against each other like a car trying to get out of gear. He stood back, awaiting the explosion.
Microsoft XP unsurprisingly flashed upon the thick, white-rimmed screen. Bermuda shook his head in amazement. At HQ, they had automatic doors and Oracles plugged into state-of-the-art computers. They had tomahawks forged on the Otherside and an ancient gateway which Bermuda constantly referred to as Stargate.
Here, they didn’t even have a supported OS.
Kelly clicked away on the keyboard without even a hint of realisation, her gentle humming strangely soothing. Bermuda felt an odd emotion.
Jealousy.
She was content – clearly happy with her role and what the world had given her. She had been pushed to the side with all the other freaks and weirdos that compromised the BTCO’s roster, but she took pride in it. She thought she had everything she needed.
His heart ached for Chloe.
For Sophie Summers.
For a cigarette.
He shook the incessant craving away, his fingers rapidly diving into his pockets to retrieve his e-cig while his mind tried to lock away Sophie’s beautiful face. After a few puffs, Kelly flashed him a smile.
‘Here you are. I have just logged you into the Nexus.’ She pushed herself up out of the chair, gently bumping into Argyle. He instantly moved.
Bermuda thanked her and took a seat, stretching his fingers until they clicked. The Nexus was a series of interlinking servers that channelled straight into the Archive. The Oracles, while linked to their computers, were linked to the Otherside, their knowledge of anything relating to their kind filtering through and being applied to the goings-on in the world. Should a child go missing, or a strange, heart-shaped hole appear in the chest of a young woman, they would calculate the possibility of Other activity and assign the case.
They watched both worlds.
The Nexus was a hard link straight into that data, a constantly updating, living server with knowledge bursting from the seams like an overstuffed mattress. Here, Bermuda could search anything, and the four naked, pale captives back in that wondrous library would filter through and send him what he needed.
Their own personal Wikipedia.
Just slightly more reliable.
His fingers clattered the keys, typing in the keywords of ‘heart’ and ‘stolen’. The office was cold, the outside freeze slowly filtering through the old walls that ached for a repaint. Behind him, Argyle stood protectively, arms crossed and his eyes locked on the screen. Human technology fascinated him.
All he knew was the sword.
The Oracles went to work, the screen resolution flickering like a satellite battling for reception. Their connection wasn’t the fastest, but he started to see the icons of articles appearing on his screen.
He clicked the first one, dated 18 September 1982, and began reading it out loud.
‘Police refused to rule out a ritual killing, as a young woman was found murdered in her house yesterday afternoon. The woman, who will remain nameless, was found by her husband with her heart missing. Police chief … yadda yadda …’
Bermuda clicked the next one.
‘Hunt for Heart Snatcher intensified when a third woman was found within the last week with her internal organ removed. Police are asking for anyone to come forward with knowledge.’
He clicked through a few more, the articles all dated from the early eighties. After a few moments, he turned and looked up into the grey eyes of Argyle, who had been watching in amazement.
‘We need to speak to Toby – see what happened all those years ago.’
Argyle nodded in agreement and turned, almost squashing Kelly, who stood shyly behind him. ‘Can I help you, Ma’am?’ he asked, his tone formal.
‘I was just watching him work. It’s a real honour.’
Bermuda disconnected, the computer shaking as it severed its ties with the all-powerful Neithers. Embarrassed, he pushed himself up. ‘It really shouldn’t be.’
‘But it is. You’re a legend.’
‘I’m not.’ Frustration grew in his voice as he slid his arms into his armoured coat, the material still damp from the weather, which was ready to welcome him again.
‘You are. You stopped Barnaby,’ she exclaimed excitedly. ‘You’re a hero!’
‘I’m not a goddamned hero!’ Bermuda snapped, causing Kelly to gasp. ‘A fellow agent died that night, because I goaded him again and again. I’m sorry but I don’t deserve whatever it is they tell you, okay?’
Kelly stood, tight-lipped, looking straight at the ground.
Bermuda looked at a disapproving Argyle and sighed. ‘Look, Kelly. I’m sorry,’ he offered. ‘I appreciate it, I really do. But when we are a team, there is no space for a hero. And we are a team, right?’
She smiled, eventually nodding and thanking him with her eyes.
He nodded and headed for the door, his mighty, armour-clad compadre in close pursuit. The metal door clattered behind them and Bermuda felt a calm wash over him like a cooling breeze, the need for some fresh air and a pale ale beginning to overwhelm.
They ascended the stairs in the dark, in silence for the majority. As they neared the reappearing door in the soggy cardboard that awaited them at the top of the stairs, Argyle broke the silence that flittered between their strides.
‘I believe you to be a hero.’
They stood as the daylight filtered through the slices that began to appear in the cardboard panel, the mystery of the Otherside slowly peeling it back and opening a doorway for them. As a show of appreciation Bermuda slapped his partner on the back, and the two of them set out into the rain with no clue how to stop the murderous rampage.
T
he police presence had all but evaporated by the time they returned to the residence of Katie Steingold. A panda car was parked a few cars down, a few strips of police tape criss-crossed the door like a disturbing Christmas gift. The bitter chill in the air danced along the wind, sending a shiver down Bermuda’s spine and causing him to lift the coffee to his lips. The warm caffeine trickled down his throat, sloshing into his stomach and becoming one with his many other vices.
He clenched his teeth, hissing slightly at the freezing gust that snapped at him. Argyle had met him at the scene as usual, perplexing Bermuda with his speed of travel. With a careful eye, Argyle glanced to the alleyway to the side of the house, the hooded figure he had seen long since gone. He checked the alley behind them – again there was nothing.
They had been there.
He was sure they were being followed, but he didn’t want to alarm his partner.
Not unless he had to.
Bermuda pulled him back to the freezing late afternoon in ‘bonny’ Scotland.
‘Why the hearts?’ Bermuda questioned, to himself more than Argyle.
‘Hearts are the life force of you humans,’ Argyle offered, both men staring at the flat. ‘The easiest way to kill you is to remove it.’
Bermuda shook his head, taking another sip from the red corrugated Costa cup. ‘No, that’s not it. If he wanted her dead, he could have choked her or snapped her neck. He’s strong – strong enough to punch a hole through a rib cage.’
Bermuda took a few steps towards the gate, the metal creaking as he pulled it to the side. A gentle rain clattered against the stone steps as he ascended to the front door, his eyes fixed on the unwelcoming tape.
Do Not Cross.
Bermuda crossed.
He pushed the blue front door gently, the warmth of the house beckoning him inside. With a cautious step he crossed the threshold, slowly wandering through the quaint hallway. To his right was the homely living room where he could imagine the young lady cuddled up in a blanket, binge-watching Netflix and relaxing in the wonderful life she had made for herself.
A life that had been taken.
Snatched from her chest in front of her own eyes.
He shuddered, a bolt of anger rode through his body, and his knuckles clicked as his fists clenched. To the left was the kitchen where he had met McAllister. Well, where he had been introduced to her, merely a few hours after their drunken liaison had turned into a myriad of expletives and hurled objects.
Another wonderful night in the life of Bermuda Jones.
Slowly he gazed around the kitchen. A row of brightly coloured mugs hung from a specially designed rack. A matching kettle and toaster sat proudly next to it. The cleanliness alone was alien to Bermuda, but the regiment and order of it was baffling. No matter how hard he tried, his kitchen always looked like someone had let off a bomb in a coffee shop.
He reappeared into the hallway, noting that Argyle was stood in the front room, arms folded and surveying everything. It reassured him.
He wasn’t alone.
With slow, soundless steps, Bermuda climbed the stairs, his mud-spattered Converse squelching slightly from the rain. The landing was small but proudly displayed a photo frame branching out to hold multiple photos – family, friends, and memories all pinned to one wall. All belonging to a person who would no longer remember them. To the right, the bedroom was shut tight, another cross of brightly coloured police tape tacked to the frame.
Bermuda ducked under and pushed open the door.
Thankfully Katie had been moved, her body respectfully taken to a police morgue for an autopsy from a leading forensic pathologist – although Bermuda was sure the gaping hole in her chest was an answer enough. Slowly he entered the room, careful not to touch too much, even after forensics had dusted every nook and cranny.
They would find nothing.
Hopefully Malcolm wouldn’t take too long with that print. An image of Kelly spinning on her chair while her mystery technician readjusted his telescope gave him a brief moment of joy. A smirk almost came across his face.
The bloodstained bed and walls before him brought him back to reality with a bump. And what a reality it was. This other-worldly creature was preying on the women of Glasgow, wrenching out their still-beating hearts in their own homes.
They must have known him.
Or at the very least trusted him.
Bermuda drew his lips tight, his brow furrowing with frustration at the helplessness. This man could strike at any moment at any woman in the city. He had been assigned to stop him, but all he could do was wait for a technician he had never met to provide a print he might not be able to match.
Perhaps Vincent had a book back at the HQ that had everyone’s finger prints, an Argos-esque solution to their identification problems. It could sit proudly next to the tome, where their two known Exceptionals were documented.
Perhaps this was the other Exceptional?
Bermuda hoped against hope that wasn’t the case. The one Exceptional he knew about was Barnaby, and he came a doorway away from ending the world as he knew it.
If this creature – this heart-stealing Absent Man – was even a tenth of what Barnaby stood for, then everyone was in trouble.
Bermuda almost jumped out of his skin as his thoughts were pierced by an unfriendly tone drenched in a thick Scottish accent.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
He spun. The angry, snarling face of DS Sam McAllister glared at him as she stood in the doorway, her fists clenched and pressed against her hips. Her suit hung tightly to her skinny frame, and her hair was wet and messy.
Bermuda sighed. ‘I dunno,’ he offered, his hands out in a pathetic shrug. ‘Maybe there was something we had missed.’
‘Oh, good point. My team of expertly trained SOCOs have already swept this house like Cinderella’s, but the super-agent may just find something they didn’t.’
Bermuda forced a smile, refusing to rise to the goad.
She glared at him with disgust, stepping to the side as a clear indication for him to leave. He held his hands up in surrender, trying to edge past her in an overly elaborate way which she found as annoying as he did amusing. As Bermuda ducked under the tape, he wondered if antagonising the lead detective was a smart move.
Sleeping with her certainly wasn’t.
Just as Bermuda was about to embark on a revolutionary journey into his poor life decisions, McAllister emerged into the hall, slamming the bedroom door shut. She descended the stairs at pace, ushering Bermuda towards the front door and effectively frog-marching him from the property. As he passed the living room, he locked eyes with an apologetic-looking Argyle. Bermuda scowled at his partner as he was hurried through the door and into the unforgiving elements. As the wind clattered against him and dampened the side of his face, he turned to the furious McAllister.
‘Look … we completely got off on the wrong foot.’
‘We don’t need to address it. We were drunk. It was shite. End of discussion.’
‘Thanks.’ Bermuda swallowed his pride. ‘But if we are going to work together, we should at least find some sort of common ground.’
Taken aback by his level of maturity, Bermuda instantly wondered if Montgomery Black had assigned him for this entire reason: for Bermuda to mature, become the agent they all knew he could be. As his trail of thought started to venture to whether ‘Monty’ in fact wore a wig, Bermuda realised his thoughts of maturity were slightly premature.
‘We are not working together,’ McAllister stated, not even looking at him. Her eyes gazed beyond the parked cars to the road. ‘You have been sent here by a department we have never heard of. I have zero intention of seeing you again after today.’
Argyle eased his way under the police tape, his mighty frame gently grazing one of the strips, ripping it from the doorframe. McAllister, damp and frustrated, let out a sigh and reached for it.
‘With all due respect, that isn’t your call to make,’ Bermuda insist
ed, refusing to raise his voice and, in doing so, the tension.
A car slowly pulled up and stopped in the road opposite the house. McAllister reset the police tape and ensured the door was locked. She turned, facing Bermuda and admitting to herself that he wasn’t the worst-looking one-night stand she had had.
Just the most irritating.
She barged past him. ‘I know it’s not.’ She nodded to the car ahead. ‘It’s Strachan’s.’
DI Nick Strachan was McAllister’s superior and who Bermuda assumed had been handed the order by the BTCO. It couldn’t have been easy for Strachan. Spending your whole life working up a chain of command, dedicating yourself to your profession, and then being dictated to by an organisation that you realised you weren’t ‘important’ enough to have heard of. Bermuda expected what he always expected when he met senior people within the many police services he had pissed off.
Pure resentment.
Bermuda had managed to read the file Vincent had given him on his arduous train ride and got the impression that Nick Strachan wasn’t thrilled at their involvement. In fact, the file quoted him saying they were a ‘Saturday morning cartoon!’
With a sigh, he watched as McAllister strode through the drizzle, turning from the gate and heading towards her own car parked further down the street. Slowly, footsteps approached, and Argyle blocked some of the water from attacking Bermuda.
‘You had one job, Argyle.’ Bermuda spoke, staring ahead at the car.
‘I apologise,’ Argyle instantly replied, conflicted to tell his partner why he had been distracted.
Bermuda chuckled and looked up at his partner. ‘Meh … on the law of averages, I’d say you are owed a fuck-up now and then.’ He flashed his partner a smile. ‘Right … now for a bollocking.’
With a surprising spring in his step, Bermuda bounced down the path, through the gate, and towards the black BMW car that waited. The rain clattered the roof and Argyle watched as his partner flung the door open and lowered his drenched body into the warmth of the vehicle. He solemnly lowered his head and vacated the premises also, sure as he could be that he had seen the cloaked figure again.
Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set Page 45
