Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set

by Robert Enright

  Argyle?

  Bermuda scoffed; the senile old gatekeeper was certainly as bizarre as Monty had made out. It had probably been a long time since he had met a Neither, especially one with the reputation of Argyle. Bermuda said Argyle’s name a few times in the overly posh tones of Tobias, then stopped suddenly, checking the corners of the tomb in case he was there.

  The shadows offered nothing but cold silence. Rain dropped through a crack in the wall, splattering against the back of Bermuda’s neck. Wiping it away as he turned, Bermuda noticed the broken stones of one of the walls, the brick a shaky foundation on borrowed time.

  Everything here was dying.

  With a sudden chill tunnelling through his body like a starving termite, Bermuda wrapped his arms around his body and stepped back out into the world. Carefully treading through the slippery graveyard, Bermuda turned as he approached the gate, casting an eye back up to the tomb. The shadows of the Necropolis loomed from every angle, like thousands of ghastly fingers all reaching in from the edges of our world.

  He stepped through the gate and back onto the pavement, only then realising that he had been holding his breath.

  The entire walk back to his hotel was spent running through the case in his mind, trying his best to figure out how Kevin was selecting his victims and who he was looking for. He had spoken of a voice in the darkness, promising her return. They needed to know who her was.

  After a while the rain failed to register with him, his body soaked through to the core. He dipped into a coffee shop, stepping out a few moments later with a hot cup in his hand and a fresh stream of caffeine trickling down his throat. Checking his phone, Bermuda immediately ignored the fifty-seven missed calls that he assumed were from Montgomery Black, the impending bollocking and likely sacking the furthest thing from his mind.

  Veering into the town centre, Bermuda was surprised at the volume of the footfall, the downpour doing little to discourage shoppers from buying into the Christmas spirit. Trying his best to remember what day it was, Bermuda walked towards the dismantled tramline, his heart racing as he revisited yet another near-death experience.

  Another life owed to Argyle.

  Bermuda frowned, the amicable breakup with his partner still a very raw wound that he knew the Otherside couldn’t heal. Without his partner, Bermuda felt every shadow slowly stalking him, knowing that the Otherside could sense his vulnerability.

  Occasionally, he had spun his head quickly and thought he had seen a hooded figure in a dark alley. Or a featureless, white face watching from a building above.

  He was alone.

  Finishing the last of his coffee and dumping the disposable paper cup in the nearest bin, Bermuda scanned his eyes across the dislodged tram track. He recalled the venom in Parker’s eyes as he had held him close, the sheer desperation to get away. A desperate creature was a dangerous one – even he knew that.

  But why?

  Bermuda sighed, time slipping through his fingers like raindrops. The streetlights that lined the high street burst into life, casting bright orange glows amongst the grey. Shop fronts lit up, showing a library of discount posters, all of them offering the best deals in a hope of attracting customers.

  A busker wrapped in a thick coat strumming a guitar with frozen fingers, grateful for any coin that was tossed into his bag, suddenly found himself under a spotlight. A few passers-by watched as he strummed another Ed Sheeran rent-a-song.

  The lights bore down on parked cars, families strolling through the town, and on the other side of the road the streetlight cast a shine across a pop-up florist. The portly gentleman grinned as he wrapped a bouquet up in a few sheets of paper before handing them over to an overly ambitious young man.

  Flowers either meant an anniversary or a fuckup.

  Bermuda never remembered either.

  The new brightness brought a beautiful burst of colour to the otherwise dreary street, with Bermuda’s brain forcing him to look. The tulips. The daisies.

  The roses.

  Slowly, Bermuda began walking towards them, his mind trying its best to decipher a message at the back of his mind. Slowly, dots began to land on a canvas, with lines connecting them, an image gradually becoming clearer and clearer. Like a page in a child’s dot-to-dot, Bermuda connected them, his eyes widening in realisation.

  ‘Can I help you, lad?’ The florist offered a big, boorish smile.

  Bermuda stared at him, the answer dropping on him like an anvil.

  Without answering, he slowly backed away before turning on his heels and running off into the gloomy Glasgow evening.

  ‘How’s it going, Greg?’

  McAllister leant against Butler’s desk, one arm folded across her stomach and the other lifting a warm cup of coffee to her mouth.

  She wished it was something stronger.

  ‘Aye, can’t complain.’ Butler didn’t look up from the mountain of paper before him, different sheets laid out in no obvious system. It drove McAllister mad how messily Butler worked, but then she shrank under the blanket of hypocrisy when she thought of her own life.

  ‘What’s our play?’ She took another sip as he dropped his pen and looked up.

  ‘We don’t have one.’

  ‘We need one.’

  ‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘We also need a fuck-tonne more funding and a pay rise for putting up with all of this shit, but it ain’t coming anytime soon. At least that prick has been sent back to London.’

  McAllister frowned at the thought of Bermuda leaving even though she agreed his theory was bizarre. As a dedicated detective, she had scolded herself many times over for entertaining his wild stories of other worlds and a scorned monster who was killing for the return of a woman.

  But what else did they have?

  Glancing beyond Butler’s desk, she saw Strachan stood in the incident room, pointing to the pictures of the deceased and their brutal murder scenes, the whiteboard covered in different-coloured inks that all pointed to a massive question mark.

  No one had a clue how to catch Kevin Parker.

  All the proof they had, besides the bodies, was a fingerprint from decades ago and a photo that proved he was alive almost a hundred years ago.

  All of it came from Bermuda.

  And none of it made any sense.

  Realising Butler had returned to his work, McAllister gently rubbed the bridge of her nose, annoyed at the unravelling of her career. She had lost Ethan after the devastation that had fallen upon them. The loss of their child had broken their marriage and her resolve, and she now relied upon bottle after bottle of wine. But her career was different. She had always been at the front of the line, fast-tracking to detective and proving herself to be one of the brightest minds in the service. Strachan had already earmarked her for the sergeant’s chair.

  Putting forward theories of the boogie man was not going to help her cause.

  Throughout it all, Butler had been her rock. He knew the shattered life she kept hidden away, the devastating self-hatred that led to such destructive behaviour. On more than one occasion, he had covered for her with Strachan or collected her, drunk and disorderly, from a bar where she had overstayed her welcome.

  He had been her friend.

  Yet now, after the altercations with Bermuda and her propensity to believe his wild theories, she could feel him pushing her away.

  She was alone.

  Suddenly, a wave of sadness rose inside her like an elevator and she pushed herself off of her partner’s desk and headed to the bathroom. Keeping her head down to hide the tears building in her eyes, she passed the other cubicles and the incident room – where her superiors were undoubtedly discussing her failings – until she hit the corridor. Throwing open the door, she entered the bathroom and quickly shut it, leaning against the door for a few moments as she struggled to catch her breath.

  McAllister leant down, checking under the doors, and was relieved to see no evidence of any occupants. Splashing some lukewarm water onto her face, she angr
ily scowled at her reflection: deep sunken eyes on a sleep-deprived face, with a mess of thick hair perched on top.

  She looked like hell.

  As the water droplets slithered down her pale skin, McAllister let out a deep breath. She felt calmer, the numbing feeling of isolation slowly rising from her like steam. She hated second-guessing herself. Having built a career as a strong detective, her conviction had always been heavily praised by DCI Fowler and above.

  She had laughed off Bermuda’s original theories. Her life as a detective was surrounded by hard evidence and pure fact, not wild speculation and proof of existence beyond our world. Yet the nagging doubt hung from her brain like a sloth, pulling her back to the idea.

  Kevin Parker was not of this world.

  The evidence and the facts that she lived by backed that theory. Bermuda had been removed from the case and admonished, sent back to London to face the superiors of his secret organisation which, if Bermuda’s descriptions of the other world were correct, would be a horrifying experience.

  What if he was right?

  McAllister rolled her eyes and reached for her phone, her loneliness taking control of her hands, her head and heart wrestling for control. Neither won as she began typing, repeating Bermuda’s words in her head like a mantra.

  ‘Don’t let the things you can’t control destroy the things you can.’

  Slowly, with tears falling between her eyelashes, her unpainted nails clattered the bright screen of her phone. McAllister took a deep breath as she dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand and read the message.

  Ethan. I miss you. Xx

  Guilt and pain combined in her chest, shaking her body like an earthquake. The world had moved them in different directions; the devastating loss of their child had brutally ruptured their life together. God knew what he had been doing.

  She had been self-destructing.

  And then some.

  McAllister scowled in the mirror. The once proud, tough female detective she had built herself to be was nowhere to be seen. She looked frail and beaten.

  She looked alone.

  Determined to be that woman again and get her life back, she pressed send. Instantly, she slammed the phone facedown on the sink, splashing tepid water over her face and running some through her matted hair. She pulled it into a ponytail before straightening her jacket.

  She was going to take her life back.

  And catch Kevin Parker.

  As her mind raced to think of a new angle to take on the case, a vibration echoed through the bathroom. McAllister stopped dead.

  Slowly, she turned the phone.

  It was Ethan.

  Miss you too. Xx

  McAllister let out a small sigh. Just the idea of hearing from him brought back a joyful feeling she had long since forgotten. Almost instantly, the gaping hole she had been trying to fill with drink and random men began to shrink.

  They had a lot to talk about.

  None of it would be nice.

  With a steely determination, McAllister pulled the door open and marched back towards her office, phone in hand. She would organise a time to meet Ethan, then she would bring Kevin Parker to justice. As she pushed through into the office, her entire concentration was broken by the huge commotion at the other end, the clattering of bodies as paper flew through the air and everyone watched open-mouthed.

  McAllister’s eyebrows raised with surprise as the person wrestled Butler out of the way and made a march towards her.

  It was Bermuda.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘McAllister!’ Bermuda called out as DC Butler manhandled him to the wall, slamming his face against the plasterboard with a sickening thud.

  The detective was certainly strong, and from the roughness of his actions, Bermuda ascertained he was champing at the bit to meet him again. Butler, with years of training, roughly pulled Bermuda’s arms behind his back, clutching his wrists before slamming his face against the wall again.

  ‘This is a police station, you little prick.’ His words oozed with Glaswegian menace. ‘You know, where the real police work.’

  ‘Look, mate, I know you can’t stand me, but I need to talk to McAllister.’

  ‘What? More stories of ghosts?’

  The surrounding group of officers laughed, all of them clearly behind Butler. Bermuda was used to resistance from the police, but not to the point of tasting the paint of the walls.

  ‘I know how to find him!’ Bermuda spoke, his cheek pushed against his teeth and the taste of blood filling his mouth.

  ‘Look, pal, you got more chance of finding Santa.’ Butler shook him again, rubbing his face against the rough wall. ‘Just as fucking make-believe as your monsters.’

  ‘Let him go.’

  Butler turned in surprise but made no effort to stop the pressure against Bermuda’s neck. Bermuda, unable to turn his head, rolled his eyes.

  He could recognise the voice of DI Nicola Strachan anywhere.

  ‘Ma’am?’ Butler asked. His upset at not being able to take Bermuda apart was evident.

  ‘Take him to the incident room. DCI Fowler wants to speak to him.’ She turned sharply, her fierce eyes latching onto McAllister and digging in. ‘You are not to speak to this man under any circumstance. That is a direct order.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ McAllister spoke, her feet planted and her words directed to them. The rest of the office slowly returned to normal as Strachan, with a sneer across her sharp face, turned back to Butler, allowing him a few more moments of retribution.

  ‘DC Butler,’ she eventually ordered. ‘Incident room.’

  She turned on her heels, which clapped against the lino covered floor as she headed to the room.

  ‘There’s a good dog,’ Bermuda needlessly added, ensuring another painful slam against the wall and a twisting of his wrists.

  Butler manhandled him through the door and shoved him angrily into a desk. The wood clipped Bermuda in the thigh and he hunched over, gently massaging his wrists.

  ‘Prick,’ Butler muttered before offering a respectful salute to the two other officers.

  Bermuda slowly stood straight, his wrists burning. The shutters covering the large window were pulled to, blocking out the rest of the office. Three rows of desks sat in neat rows, usually full of detectives and officers getting the latest details of a case. The incident board behind him was three whiteboards pressed together, all of them decorated with smiling photos of the brutally slain, and the evidence of the slaughter below them.

  Random scribblings of useless facts surrounded them, all of them leading to the name KEVIN PARKER in the centre of the board. Next to it were the CCTV footage and the photo he had provided, along with the fingerprint.

  Bermuda smiled, knowing he had provided their only hard evidence, despite their constant reminders of his lack of police training.

  A gentle cough caught his attention and his focus turned to the tall man clearing his throat.

  ‘Let me guess – Alex Fowler, right?’

  ‘That’s Detective Chief Inspector Fowler to you.’ Fowler’s voice was as authoritative as it was calm. His greying hair sat like a cloud atop his cleanly shaven face. He stood proudly, his tunic immaculate and his hat resting neatly under his arm.

  ‘No it’s not.’ Bermuda slammed his last Tic Tacs into his mouth. ‘Your boy out there keeps telling me I’m not a real detective.’

  ‘You’re not,’ Strachan interjected with disgust in her voice.

  ‘She has a point,’ Fowler interjected before Bermuda could respond. ‘You are not technically supposed to be here. Now before you go waving your little badge at me, I will stop you. I have never heard of your organisation, and believe me, I’ve heard of everything in my nineteen years.’

  ‘Have you heard her laugh?’ Bermuda chucked a thumb in Strachan’s furious direction.

  ‘Very funny.’ Fowler’s voice was cold. ‘Now you have already been informed by McAllister that we have requested your removal from th
e case, and I spoke with a Montgomery Black, who agreed this would happen. I don’t know how things work in your little ghost-hunters club, but here in the GPS we respect the chain of command.’

  ‘I do. Just not when it’s wrong.’

  ‘An answer for everything,’ Fowler uttered under his breath. ‘Well, considering your blatant disregard for the order and your trespassing here today, I have no choice but to raise a formal complaint with the London Metropolitan Police Service.’

  ‘For what?’ Bermuda stepped forward, his patience finally thinning.

  Fowler, not to lose authority, stepped forward too. ‘For assaulting my officer.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Bermuda chuckled.

  ‘I will not. We have a number of witnesses swearing that you kneed him in the stomach in retaliation to being asked to leave the crime scene this morning.’

  Bermuda shook his head at the obvious lie. The smirk on Strachan’s face, mirrored by Fowler, told him that he couldn’t undo this one.

  After a few moments, Strachan leant forward. ‘Maybe you should run along now?’

  ‘Agreed.’ Fowler spoke, his stare unwavering.

  After a few more moments, a smile cracked across Bermuda’s face, splitting his stubble. He shrugged, turning to the door as Fowler sent a victorious nod in Strachan’s direction. As he passed the whiteboard, Bermuda picked up a black marker pen and flicked the cap off. As it clattered to the floor, he stopped near a poster on the wall of a body lying face down on the floor, a message about ‘good crime scene etiquette’ framing it.

  Quick as a flash, he wrote the letter E on the elbow and an A on the buttocks. He tossed the pen back across the room to a bewildered Strachan. Fowler stepped forward, scratching his head.

  ‘What on earth is that for?’

  ‘E is for elbow. A is for arsehole,’ Bermuda said, opening the door. ‘For the next time you guys realise you haven’t got a fucking clue.’