Bermuda shut his eyes as they left the street, wondering what the hell had happened.
One thing he had been right about was the eyes that stared from the dark alleyway as the hooded creature watched with intent before disappearing into the dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Half of the street had been cordoned off, and a few unfortunate officers stood by the police tape, hands firmly being their backs. Despite the raincoats and the small plastic shower caps over their hats, they were defenceless against the rain.
The journalists had arrived, a crowd of them snapping their cameras and shoving a microphone under anyone’s chin, eager for any scraps from the table.
A few feet from them, Emma Mitchell lay slumped on the concrete, half-naked and heartless. The blood that had pooled around her had been washed away by the night. Only a faint tint of red remained, like lipstick on a collar. There was a sizeable dent in the car – the shattered bones of her hip would connect the two together.
SOCOs littered the area, dressed in their white boiler suits. Bermuda was pretty sure they wouldn’t get much – the elements would see to that. Cause of death was obvious too. Emma lay hunched over on her front, her body being slightly propped up by the open rib cage that had pierced the skin. Kevin Parker had ripped her heart from her body and she had felt every moment of it. Now she had been dropped on the street like a piece of litter, with a chest looking like the welcoming mouth of a Venus fly trap.
Beyond the hustle and bustle of the busy street, more SOCOs swarmed over what Bermuda assumed was the family home like an army of highly trained ants. Her husband, Mark Mitchell, had apparently returned home early and wished he had caught his wife with another man. What he interrupted instead had cost him his life, his head removed from his body after having his throat ripped out.
Again, by Parker’s bare hands.
The very idea sent a chill down Bermuda’s spine, as did the raindrop that slyly fell behind the collar of his dark shirt. He wrapped his arms around his chest and shivered, nodding respectfully at a few SOCOs who looked at him in wonderment.
A hulking presence loomed next to him.
‘This is a sad night.’
Argyle’s words were apt as he glanced up and down the crime scene. His grey eyes flickered over the movement, absorbing every minute detail and committing it to an alcohol abused memory. Bermuda watched him in awe, the dedication to his duty and the pain he felt when he saw what his own kind were capable of.
‘It sure is, Big Guy,’ Bermuda agreed.
Just outside the front door to the house, McAllister stood, deep in discussion with the head SOCO, Mullen, and DC Butler. It annoyed Bermuda to think that DCI Strachan was probably sat in the back of her warm car while her underlings ran the crime scene in the freezing rain.
That and the fact that Strachan was a first-class bitch.
Bermuda took a puff on his e-cig, coughing as he came to the end of the liquid and tasted nothing but burning. McAllister slowly made her way across the crime scene, carefully dodging past a few forensics specialists as they carefully scanned the pavement for anything of use.
They’d find nothing.
Argyle leaned down to Bermuda, his breath warm but odourless. ‘Is she the one you mated with?’
‘Argyle.’ Bermuda spoke from the side of his mouth as not to draw attention. ‘Not now.’
Argyle stood silently and obediently as McAllister approached. Bermuda wished beyond anything she would notice the hulking protector beside him, but it would do no good. He had met eyes with her a few times as they had scanned the crime scene. Wisely, he had stayed away from her. After half hour or so, she had offered him half a smile, a pitiful flick of the mouth to build a bridge.
Now she stood before him, her arms wrapped around her thin frame, struggling for warmth. Or to keep the anger in.
‘I think I owe you an apology.’ Her words struggled to find their way from her mouth.
‘No worries.’ Bermuda looked around dismissively. ‘We both drank too much, and I stuck my nose where it wasn’t wanted or invited.’
‘I shouldn’t have … I mean I …’ McAllister trailed off.
Bermuda sighed. ‘Look, we all got shit. I get it. But right now that woman right there is dead.’ He pointed at the crumpled, mutilated body of Emma Mitchell as a paramedic slowly placed a white sheet over her. ‘Kevin Parker is still out there, and we need to find him. So whatever shit we do have, or whatever problems we have, we need to put it to the side.’
‘Agreed.’ She nodded purposefully, her words picking up strength.
‘Good. Look, run that print and see what you can find. I’m going to head back to my office, see what I can dig up my end.’
She looked at him in surprise at the mention of an office.
‘I’ll meet up with you again tomorrow?’
‘Okay.’ She smiled, the first time it seemed genuine.
Just as Bermuda was about to turn and leave, DC Butler strode over, his suit soaked through and stuck to his impressive frame. He was built like a boxer and Bermuda was pretty sure he fought like one too. Training with Argyle aside, Bermuda didn’t fancy having his arse kicked.
He was too cold and too tired.
‘Everything all right, guv?’ Butler spoke to McAllister but stared at Bermuda, who couldn’t help but smile.
‘Just fine,’ she replied. ‘Jones was just about to leave.’
‘Aye, leave it to the real police, eh?’ Butler chortled.
Bermuda stopped and turned back, smiling. ‘Yeah. Keep an eye out, they’ll be here soon.’
Bermuda turned and walked off, triumphant, while McAllister smirked. Butler’s face went even redder, the anger joining the cold to flush his cheeks. The rain clattered both of them as they watched Bermuda walk away.
The other eyes that peered from the shadow belonging to two hooded creatures watched Bermuda and Argyle.
As they passed a group of reporters that Bermuda ignored, Argyle looked back to the crime scene, noticing Butler still staring angrily in their direction before being summoned away by McAllister. He turned back to his partner, confused.
‘That DC does not like you, does he?’
‘Not a lot of people do.’ Bermuda shrugged, popping two wet Tic Tacs into his mouth as he yawned, his body craving the apparent comfort of a Premier Inn bed.
‘He doesn’t wear a uniform like the other officers.’
‘That’s because he isn’t a police officer.’
Argyle looked back one final time. ‘Then what is he?’
Bermuda smirked. ‘A cunt.’
Kevin Parker had stood at a distance, the shadows cast down from the houses either side enveloping him and kept him hidden. The usual pathway through the tombstones was blocked. The entire Necropolis was swarming with humans, all of them in their thick vests, flashing their torches as they swept the area in pairs.
They were there for him.
He could feel his grip on the heart tightening, pressuring the muscle to bursting point.
He had to get through them. He could see the vehicles that had been carefully driven up the slanted graveyard to the tomb, the pinnacle of his journey. He needed to deliver this tonight. This would be the one.
They would return her.
He felt a twinge of pain course through his body, a horrible reminder of her face as they led her from him, trying desperately to look back over his shoulder as they chained him to the wall.
To the darkness.
His skin was crawling; the feeling it didn’t quite fit him was too familiar. This was his body.
He was Kevin Parker.
He looked around the quiet street, noticing a lot of passers-by staring up through the large iron gates that surrounded the land. The flashing blue lights were rhythmic, almost soothing.
On and off.
Blue then dark.
Ahead, he could hear a thudding noise repeating itself, a helicopter that hovered above them.
All of this for him.
They were trying to stop him.
Like that agent. The man who had been waiting in the tomb for him, the one who claimed not to be the voice in the dark. He was a man who wanted to stop him. Keep him from her yet again.
Jones.
Again, he felt the muscles in his arm tighten, the sensation travelling like an electric current to his fingers.
He felt hatred for that man.
Agent Jones.
The creature that had been guarding the door, he was not human. The broad shoulders, the shining armour. The giant blade that swung from his back like a pendulum in a grandfather clock. When he had smashed the rock over its skull, it had crumpled. Possibly died.
Caleb squeezed the heart again.
No, not Caleb. Kevin.
Kevin Parker.
A light burst down from the helicopter, illuminating random tombstones, basking them in an undeserved spotlight.
This was meant to be a quiet place.
A place where he gave them what they wanted, and they returned her to him.
These men were here now because of Agent Jones, who interfered. Who was trying to stop him from collecting the hearts that he needed to find her once more?
Slowly he edged his way from the darkness, ducking behind a few parked cars that were littered with raindrops. His hand was red, the dried blood of Emma Mitchell crusted to his arm like a cheap tattoo.
He tried his best to feel remorse for the death of both her and her husband.
He felt none.
With a watchful eye, he waited until the gate was completely clear and laid the heart at the threshold, hoping that it would still be enough. That they would still collect.
In an instant, he was back in the shadows, hoping beyond hope that this would be the one. That she would be returned. Then, with a crooked snarl across his handsome face, he made a silent promise regarding Agent Jones.
That he would kill him.
Despite the bitterness of winter, the sun decided to make its unwelcome return three hours into Bermuda’s slumber. The beams cut through the curtains he had roughly drawn when he had stumbled in and slashed across his face. His head pounded slightly from the alcohol, the heaviness of the evening keeping him firmly against the pillow as he blinked himself awake.
What had been a nice evening with his friend had turned into a decent drink with a colleague. Eventually, it had descended into emotional breakdowns with a side of violent outbursts.
Oh, and a double murder.
Without looking, he slapped his hands slapped across the bedside table, clattering his phone and watch to the floor before he clasped the plastic bottle. The water was room temperature and populated with bubbles, but he drained it like a vampire.
Slowly, he pushed himself to a seated position, his heavily inked body hunched over as he stared at the floor. It had been three days that he had been in Glasgow, but it felt like a lifetime. As he puffed his e-cig, which had been topped up with a fresh apricot flavour, he recounted the trials of his trip so far.
One count of breaking and entering, along with scarring a police officer for life. One horrifying sexual experience with the lead detective of the case. Several dead bodies, a confrontation with the killer (who also tried to kill him), and also the destruction of an entire public transport method.
‘Not bad,’ he muttered to himself as he hauled himself to his feet, stretching his back as he walked across the room. The pain from colliding with the wall and the concrete had subsided. So had the ache in his jaw. He showered quickly, the soap sliding across the scars that he wore on his chest, a painful reminder of the dangers he faced.
Of the Otherside.
It was easy to forget sometimes just how thin the ice was that the truce sat upon. While Neithers such as Argyle, Denham, and Vincent were allies – even friends in some cases – it was easy to overlook the world they came from. The giant beast that had chased him through London wasn’t interested in being friends. Nor was the behemoth that had sent Bermuda crashing through a poop deck.
Barnaby had tried to end the world.
Kevin Parker was murdering women.
The Otherside was dangerous, and what terrified Bermuda the most was he could feel it coursing through his veins like a drug. When he ran his fingers across the nail scratches on the Necropolis walls, he could feel it calling to him, trying to lure him back across the doorway.
He marched out of the room once he was dressed. The traffic was roaring and echoing off the overarching buildings that lined the streets on either side. As impatient Glaswegians honked and hurled obscenities, Bermuda tucked his headphones under his hat and clicked play on his phone; the guitar riff for ‘Back in Black’ by AC/DC accompanied his footsteps.
The sunshine was still painting itself across Glasgow, but the temperature was just above zero. His breath puffed out of his mouth like a cheap imitation of his electric cigarette. He strode past the homeless man who patrolled the street outside his hotel, the music drowning out the muffled yells and pointing.
The man was trying to say something, but Bermuda didn’t have time this morning. He followed the cheap Christmas decorations that snaked around the lampposts, the trail of muted festive cheer leading all the way into the centre of town where he, for the third day running, stood in awe as the door revealed itself in the cardboard. A dark corridor and steep concrete steps later, and he was in the small, overly stuffed office of the BTCO. He could hear the clicking of Kelly’s nails on the keyboard, but couldn’t see which cubicle she was at.
‘Hello?’ he called out, sliding his hat from his head and pushing his hair off his skull.
She shot up from behind a stack of papers, her eyes magnified by her thick glasses.
‘Bermuda!’ she exclaimed, scurrying out from the cubicle, a horrendous homemade Christmas jumper wrapped around her plump frame. ‘Welcome back. You have a message.’
‘Is it from Argyle?’ he asked, suddenly concerned for his friend’s whereabouts.
‘Oh no. Argyle is fine. He is resting in his quarters.’
Bermuda chortled to himself at the idea of Argyle laid back on a bed, arms behind his head and listening to the soothing sounds of Enya.
‘No, you have a message from the London office.’ Kelly returned to her desk. ‘You can use the communications device in the conference room.’
Before Bermuda could ask for directions she was gone again, her fingers clattering against the keys once more. He rolled his eyes and slowly wandered through the office until he found a modern-looking room with a screen attached to the wall. Making a logical guess, he entered, shutting the door behind him.
An oval oak table sat in the centre of the room, with six high-backed leather chairs around it. They looked unused, which Bermuda wasn’t entirely shocked by, considering he was more likely to see a tumbleweed than another agent.
Beside the screen was a small panel, a few buttons, and a flashing red light next to it. Beneath was a card reader, which Bermuda slipped his agent badge into. The scanner beeped his ID like a self-service check out.
The screen burst to life and began dialling. On the third ring, Vincent appeared on the screen, turning in bewilderment like Nosferatu. His pale skin looked almost transparent, like it was stretched across his sharp, featureless face.
‘Jones.’ His greeting wasn’t the most exciting.
‘Hey, Vinnie. You rang?’
‘No, that would be Montgomery Black. He is currently indisposed, but he wanted to discuss the incident with you. According to him, you haven’t been careful.’
‘He said that?’ Bermuda asked, a trail of apricot smoke filtering from his lips.
‘His wording was slightly more … colourful.’
Bermuda smiled.
‘I needed to speak to you to tell you some bad news.’
‘Don’t you dare tell me I am being reassigned up here full time, Vinnie.’ Bermuda scowled. ‘I swear, I will kill you all.’
‘No.’ Again, very matter of fact. Sudden
ly, a sadness fell across Vincent’s face, which caught Bermuda off guard. ‘It is Mr Ottoway.’
Bermuda, sat on the table cross-legged, looked up, concern hauling his eyebrows upward. ‘What about him?’
‘Jones, it is with great sadness that I inform you that Mr Ottoway has been battling cancer for a few years. He didn’t want it to be public knowledge due to the moral of the organisation.’ Vincent paused. ‘He has been taken into hospital.’
‘Fuck.’ Bermuda gasped.
‘We need you to continue the case. The Oracles have relayed worrying information that this Other may be more dangerous than we thought.’
‘Yeah, no shit,’ Bermuda responded, his mind flicking back to the moment Parker had introduced him to a stone wall.
‘I know how much Ottoway means to you, Jones.’
Bermuda smiled to hide his anger, nodding gently as he pushed himself off the table. ‘I need some help.’
‘Anything.’ Vincent’s words were earnest and true.
‘I uploaded a print through the technician here in the Glasgow office – which, by the way, is horrible.’
‘Ah, Malcolm is one of our top technicians.’
‘How does everyone know Malcolm?’ Bermuda shrugged. ‘Anyway, run the print past the Oracles. Also, have them look for Kevin Parker. It’s a pretty common name, but go back like eighty years. Whoever this Other thinks he is, he isn’t from our time.’
Vincent nodded firmly. ‘Consider it done.’
‘Also, I get this feeling that something is wrong. Argyle seems nervous. He wasn’t able to detect Kevin Parker, which is odd considering he is an Other. But there’s more.’
‘More?’
‘Yeah, I keep feeling I’m being watched. I don’t know.’
‘Hmmm.’ Vincent took a moment. ‘There has been an increased level of Other detection within your area. More so than what yourself and Argyle would bring.’
Bermuda shuddered at the reminder of his condition. Vincent realised but didn’t apologise.
‘I shall have the Oracles focus in and try to decipher why. Anything else?’
‘Yeah, pass on my best to Ottoway. Tell him I’ll be back soon.’
Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set Page 52
