Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set

by Robert Enright

  ‘Just focus on the case, Jones. Remember, two worlds—’

  ‘One peace,’ Bermuda interrupted. ‘Yeah, I get it.’

  ‘You seem to have recovered well,’ Vincent offered.

  Bermuda shrugged, the memory of falling from the Hammersmith flyover was still fresh in his mind. ‘Well, I have a slight advantage don’t I?’

  Suddenly, the door behind Vincent burst open and in stormed the irate figure of Montgomery Black. His glasses sat at the end of his hooked nose like an angry headmaster’s, his thinning white hair giving up the comb-over and flapping like a flag in the wind.

  ‘There you are!’ Black pointed a furious finger at the screen. ‘Do you have any idea just how much damage your little stunt on the high street has caused?’

  Bermuda began to make a crackling noise. ‘Oh no … crrrrkkk … you’re breaking up.’

  ‘Jones! Are you even listening to me?’ Black’s face was turning red, a vein becoming worryingly visible.

  ‘I’m losing … crrrrkkk … you.’ Bermuda hopped off the table and approached the screen. ‘I’m going through a … crrrrkkk … tunnel.’

  ‘Jones!’ A fist thumped a desk in London. ‘This is a video call. I can see you.’

  ‘Sorry … crrrrkkk … horrible signal.’

  With that, Bermuda ended the call. He let out a deep sigh, knowing that poking a bees’ nest was usually a good way to get stung. Running up and booting it full pelt probably wouldn’t end any better.

  Nervously, he reached for his Tic Tacs, popping two into his mouth and making a hasty exit. Kelly offered a goodbye, but Bermuda had already stormed through the large iron door that separated the crazed woman from the real world. He stomped through the dark, taking each step in his stride.

  He thought about Ottoway, the man who had shown unwavering belief in him. He was dying and Bermuda knew there was a good chance he wasn’t going to see him before he made it back.

  The man had been the father figure Bermuda had never had, his own dad disappearing when he was younger and never coming back. From the stories of drink and drugs, Bermuda saw it as good riddance. But Ottoway would leave another hole in his life.

  Another glaring hole that he would never be able to fill.

  As the door revealed itself and presented the cold streets of Glasgow, Bermuda stepped out, feeling more alone than ever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  McAllister spun on her chair, immediately regretting it as the room whizzed by. She felt the effects of the hard drinking rumbling up her from her stomach and caught herself before she vomited over her desk.

  DC Butler had left a coffee on the side of her desk and she devoured it gratefully, the caffeine burning on its way down. It would bring her back from her hangover. She popped a few paracetamols into her mouth and dry-swallowed them, frantically searching her drawers for a bottle of water.

  ‘Everything okay, guv?’ Butler asked, taking his seat in the adjacent cubicle.

  They had been partnered for a few years now; he was aware of her heartache. A few years older than McAllister, Butler was as open about his failed boxing career as he was about his homosexuality.

  No one gave him any stick for it though. Not because the Glasgow Police Service was a beacon of equal opportunities, but more for the very real possibility that Butler would systematically smash your face in.

  Without even waiting for McAllister to answer, he tossed his bottle of Evian across the office. She caught it and knocked it back.

  ‘Rough night?’ His question was clearly rhetorical.

  ‘Yup. Two dead.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I was asking.’ The silence hung between them for a few intense moments. Butler shuffled forward slightly on his wheeled chair, his voice just above a whisper. ‘You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Sam.’

  ‘Doing what?’ Her green eyes lit up with fury.

  ‘Drinking yourself to death.’ Butler opened his hands and shrugged. ‘And maybe don’t keep fucking every random guy you meet.’

  ‘Pot. Kettle. Black.’

  He glared at her. She knew that was out of line. Butler had been in a committed relationship with Kieran for over ten years. That had come to an abrupt end when Butler had had an affair with a young officer who no longer worked in Glasgow.

  Temptation had taken everything from him.

  She wasn’t giving in to temptation. She was just surrendering to self-destruction.

  They both turned back to their desks, neither one even moving. After a few, guilt-ridden moments, McAllister turned again.

  ‘Greg, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.’

  ‘Aye. I’m tougher than most. I’m just more concerned about your liver and the fact that you’re spending more time shagging that arrogant prick than communicating with Ethan.’

  ‘Ethan and I are through.’ The words came out broken.

  ‘Well, you will be if you keep straying.’ Butler shook his head. ‘I should know.’

  ‘I’m not screwing Jones.’ She sighed.

  ‘Then why the hell was he at your house last night when we turned up?’ Butler turned and face her, his eyebrows raised as if he had just solved a riddle.

  McAllister felt her hangover tap dance across her brain. ‘We were clearing the air. Look, we have a serial killer on the loose and not one lead. Despite how much of a prick he can be, Jones is here to help, and he at least has some theories on what is happening.’

  Butler sternly crossed his arms. If McAllister had to guess, she would have said he was jealous that she was listening to Bermuda over him.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘He thinks that this could be linked to a creature from a separate world to ours – one that his organisation monitors. That is why he is here.’

  Silence for a few seconds. Then Butler burst out into a deep, hearty laugh. McAllister sat unimpressed as her partner hunched forward, hands clasped to his muscular stomach as he roared at the implausible theory. A few colleagues looked over the office partitions that separated the desks, and after a few moments Butler began to reclaim his breath.

  ‘Ah, thanks for that, Sam. I needed that.’ He turned back to his desk, still chuckling at the idea put forward by his partner.

  McAllister tutted, pushing herself out of her chair and through the doorway next to their desks. The incident room was empty, the few chairs and desks unfilled as the team were out trying to solve the case. A huge whiteboard sat on the nearside, covered in photos of the victims. She could see the smiling face of Nicola Miller, the beautiful blue eyes of Rosie Seeley. These were mixed in with photos of the open chest cavity of Katie Steingold as well as the brutal slaying of Emma Mitchell and her husband Mark.

  A wall of death, staring back at her and mocking her inability to stop it.

  It was inhumane.

  As her eyes fixated on the sheer brutality that ended these women’s lives, she wondered if Bermuda Jones’s theory was that insane after all.

  Bermuda took advantage of the random sunshine to enjoy his coffee on a bench, the heart of Glasgow passing by. As he sat in the city centre, he watched as a construction crew got to work on the decimated tram tracks; the project to undo his and Argyle’s handiwork was well underway. A few Others slithered by, their movements ghostly as they filtered around the side of a building before disappearing into the alleyways.

  Bermuda kept checking the surrounding streets that wrapped around the shops, his paranoia telling him he was being watched.

  He had been sure he had seen a hooded figure.

  As he sunk the last of the caffeine into his body he pushed himself up, walking back past the station where he had confronted Kevin Parker and nearly lost his life. The whole memory flooded back, and he felt a shiver race through his body. If Argyle hadn’t been there yet again, Bermuda would have been killed.

  It was getting to a point where a simple thank you just wasn’t enough, yet Bermuda didn’t peg Argyle as the hamper basket type.

  Making his way ba
ck through the city centre, he saw a Santas of different heights, girths, and skin colour which was sure to confuse those children who still believed. A smile spread across his face as he mocked the notion of jolly old St Nick when he spent his life hunting monsters with a warrior from another world.

  Maybe he should leave out some carrots and milk.

  As his mind raced with possible theories of Kevin Parker’s motives, Bermuda’s autopilot brought him back onto the street of the Premier Inn. Without realising, he was approaching the concrete steps that led to the automatic doors. Sat beside them was the same homeless man as always, his possessions bursting out of a few plastic bags that sat scruffily beside him.

  Despite the sunshine, the wind carried a chill that nipped like a teething puppy. Bermuda stopped in front of the homeless man, who was mumbling under his breath as he played with the frayed threading of his tatty blazer.

  ‘Hello, mate.’ Bermuda spoke, aware of how cockney he sounded. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’

  The man looked up. His wiry hair looked like he had been recently electrocuted. His beard was wispy and greasy and clung to a thin, gaunt face.

  ‘Where’s the other one?’ He looked back at his blanket.

  ‘Other one?’ Bermuda questioned, before reasoning that the man spent most of his time inebriated. Having spent many evenings drowning his sorrows at the Royal Oak under the watchful eye of Paul back in Bushey, Bermuda was more than familiar with double vision.

  Now, as the day slipped seamlessly from morning to afternoon, Bermuda politely smiled and turned, ready to leave the man to his sobriety. As he took two steps away, the man spoke again.

  ‘The one with the sword.’

  Bermuda froze. Slowly, he turned back, meeting the keen eyes of the homeless man. ‘Excuse me?’ he spluttered.

  ‘The one with the sword.’ The man gestured. ‘And the armour. He stands there, by the stairs, and keeps a vigil.’

  ‘Argyle?’ Bermuda asked, completely flabbergasted.

  ‘If that’s his name. Is he not here?’

  ‘You can see him?’ Bermuda ignored the original question. He knew people had ‘the Knack’, but never in his near four years as an agent had he met someone that he didn’t know about.

  ‘Aye.’ The man slowly scrambled to his feet. ‘My name is Gordon Foster. And yes, I do see monsters.’

  He offered a grubby hand which Bermuda, still speechless, shook instantly. The sun shone down, casting both their shadows high against the wall behind them. Bermuda slowly began to come round and stumbled over a few words. Gordon smiled a row of faintly yellow teeth.

  ‘I think we should have that coffee now.’

  The waiter at Costa looked at Gordon with unease as he approached the table. The idea of a homeless man sat in their store obviously wasn’t what their ‘all welcome’ sign on the front window was intended for. Bermuda glared at the waiter as he plonked two large coffees down as well as a toasted panini.

  Gordon didn’t bat an eye as he began shovelling the hot bread into his mouth, long strands of cheese latching to his beard like spider’s web. Tatty plastic bags sat on the other chair at the table which was surrounded by empty tables as the public backed away from them.

  ‘Thanks, lad.’ Gordon spoke, breadcrumbs crashing to the table. ‘This is bloody delicious.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  They sat in silence as Gordon demolished the hot snack, even taking the time to pick the crumbs off the tray and pop them into his mouth, like the final sock into a full washing machine. Once it had been swallowed, he reached his freshly washed hands around the mug and drew the coffee in.

  ‘Smells good.’ He smiled. ‘Not like that shite from Starbucks.’

  Bermuda chuckled, as he was sure all the high street coffee shops tasted exactly the same. ‘Tell me about yourself, Gordon.’

  Gordon took a few more sips of his coffee and then placed it down carefully. He sat back, the buttons on his tatty shirt opening slightly, showing thick spools of chest hair.

  ‘I wasn’t always a gross mess.’ He smiled with self-deprecation. ‘Aye, I had a family once. A wife, beautiful lady named Linda. We were married for, oh it must have been twenty years. University sweethearts. You know how it goes.’

  Bermuda nodded but refused to interrupt. He gently sipped his coffee as the eccentric man continued.

  ‘We tried but couldn’t have kids, so we focused on our work. She was a scientist and worked for University here in town. I worked for the Herald.’

  ‘The paper?’ Bermuda interjected, the logo of the paper appearing in his mind’s eye.

  ‘The very same. Usual puff pieces for a few years, but then I started getting meatier stories. Some real investigative journalism. That was when I really had to confront my problem.’

  ‘Your Knack?’

  ‘My what?’ Gordon sipped his coffee with confusion spread across his face thicker than his messy beard.

  ‘Sorry, the Knack. The ability to see the Otherside.’

  Gordon’s eyes were blank.

  ‘Creatures and beasts, usually confined to the shadows. Creatures like Argyle.’

  ‘Aye, you boys call it ‘the Knack’?’

  ‘I work for an organisation that monitors that world and their impact here. We get advances in medicines and science, et cetera, and they get to escape their world. It’s a shaky truce, but it exists for now.’

  ‘For now? You don’t like it?’

  ‘I think it’s very dangerous. Six months ago, an Other nearly brought this world to its knees. I watched him kill a colleague of mine like he was swatting a fly. Eventually we managed to stop him, but he was pure evil – an evil that I don’t think is worth keeping the door open for.’

  Gordon polished off his coffee and looked at Bermuda with pleading eyes. Bermuda smiled and motioned to the young waiter for another. Despite the man scrunching up his face, the bistro machine roared into life.

  ‘Like this bastard killing those women.’

  ‘You know about that?’ Bermuda sat forward on his chair, needlessly lowering his voice.

  ‘I am homeless, Bermuda. Not crazy.’ Gordon suddenly shuffled in agitation. ‘Linda told me I was crazy. Told me that science dictated that there were no monsters in the dark. That the creature that lived in our back garden couldn’t exist due to its nutritional needs not being met. No matter what I told her, or my boss, they just labelled me crazy. One by one, they turned their backs on me.’

  Bermuda felt sympathy rattle through him like a lightning bolt. He could relate to this man. One wrong turn and he could have been looking in a mirror.

  ‘But I’m not crazy. I know I’m not and you have confirmed it.’

  The waiter, with a slightly friendlier demeanour, placed another coffee down in front of Gordon, and a few extra dipping biscuits. He collected the tray and left. Neither of them even registered it.

  ‘So, what do you know about the killings?’ Bermuda spoke in hushed tones.

  ‘He’s been here before. About thirty years ago. I didn’t cover it then, I was still relatively new, but I had access to the stories. It was fascinating. Every one of them had their heart removed.’

  ‘Yeah, sounds like our guy.’

  ‘But it isn’t a guy. It’s one of those … what do you call them?’

  ‘Others,’ Bermuda stated with a tinge of hatred.

  ‘That’s it.’ Gordon turned and started rummaging through one of his bags. ‘Look at this.’

  He removed a large folder, a thin, worn string holding it together as papers hung out of the side like an overstuffed sandwich. It slapped down on the table, shaking both cups of coffee, before Gordon rummaged through its contents.

  ‘I did some digging. Despite them telling me that I was crazy and it couldn’t be possible, I tried to find further proof – further evidence that it wasn’t human.’

  Gordon was frenzied, flicking page after page of scrambled notes over, so indecipherable they reminded Bermuda of the books back
in the archives. Eventually he stopped and slapped a newspaper article in front of Bermuda.

  It was dated July 12, 1926. The grainy paper had withered – a gentle rub and it would smudge like a moth. The ink on most of the article itself had run, pooling together like that blood from Emma Mitchell’s chest. The photo and the headline were still, all things considered, in decent condition.

  The article was from the New York Post.

  The headline announced the opening of a new nightclub, one of many to hit the famous city during the well-documented ‘boom’ period, where flapper girls and mob bosses ran roughshod over the country and every bank was setting the economy up for the biggest crash since Nicholas Cage’s career.

  The photo was grainy but sure enough, a host of scantily clad women stood in a row, ready for the can-can theme to kick in. The apparent owner, fat and well-groomed, stood with a beaming smile as he shook hands.

  With Kevin Parker.

  Bermuda sat upright, like he had just sat on a pin. Parker’s face, this time twisted into a happy grin, was clear as day. The suit looked the same, just without the extra trimming of blood. On his arm was a beautiful woman, her dark skin only highlighting her beauty. She clung lovingly to his side as his arm protectively ran around her waist, clutching her floral dress.

  Was that the one? The one he must find?

  The spoons on the table began gently rattling the saucers, and it was only then that he realised he was shaking.

  ‘That’s him,’ he finally managed to gasp.

  ‘Yup.’ Gordon nodded firmly. ‘That right there is the man you are after.’

  ‘I have to go.’ Bermuda fished into his pockets and pulled out his wallet. He removed the final few notes, a measly twenty-five pounds, but he slapped it down on the table.

  ‘I don’t need your money, Franklyn. Your time has been enough.’

  Bermuda refused to collect it. He gently folded the picture and slipped it into the inside of his pocket. He then leant forward, his palms against the table. ‘Gordon, don’t go too far, okay? When all this is done, I will come back for you.’