Higgins, Maskell and Harrison hadn’t believed his protestations of innocence. No, of course I can’t explain how that thing got there. And why the bloody hell would I have put it in the van anyway? Wild boars do not roam freely through the streets of Cambridge.
“Some sick joke played on me. After all, what was my last drop yesterday? The Catering Office of All Souls College. Hey, go easy on the speed, will ya?
“I had a run in with the Head Chef there, some horrible fat cunt called Cassell. Won’t go into the details…”
Andy smiled as he pelted down Hills Road. “Something to do with a dog’s full bladder, I’d imagine.”
“Round of applause. I’d left the van - open and unlocked - for about five minutes. Plenty of time for him and one of his lackeys to shove a dead boar in….”
“You’re joking. After the effort it took us to get the thing out of the van?”
Rob sighed as he lit a Mayfair. He didn’t notice Andy grimace at the smoke blown in his direction.
“I know, sounds bloody ridiculous. But I wouldn’t put it past All Souls to phone up and complain that I’ve nicked the meat for their feast tonight. Who’d be silly enough to eat that monstrosity, though? Jesus! Watch where y’going!”
The driver of the black Honda Andy had almost driven into shook his fist furiously and mouthed silent obscenities until Andy glared coldly at him.
Rob snorted and turned away. Boar…
He remembered that the boar used for the Founders Feast of All Souls was hung for several days beforehand. That would explain the God-awful stench - a creature already decomposing, a further night spent rotting away in his van. Even the subzero temperatures of a bitingly cold winter night had no slowing effect on its putrefaction.
But if that was the case, the fur and bristles would have been peeled away. The carcass would have been gutted and bled. No, this boar didn’t come from the kitchens of All Souls. And he had driven home last night. Parked up in the kitchen area while he went to see Dan and Emma, so he’d returned and driven back the way he had came in.
Through the woods of All Souls…perhaps it was there he’d hit it. Nah, that was ridiculous. Surely?
Shit, back to square one. Still none the wiser as to what happened last night. He tried to ignore the dream. The familiar surroundings of a dark, snowbound wood…
Rob leaned over Jasper and flicked the blower onto full blast. There were still some damp patches on his jeans. On closer inspection he realised that they weren’t all caused by water spraying from the hose. Some of the patches were dark red.
He shuddered, took a deeper drag on his cigarette and turned back to Andy. After the incident with the boar he had forgotten about the picture Andy had shown him.
“Andy, we don’t have a lot of calls today. I’m guessing that as All Souls is one my last calls you’re going to be good enough to stay with me all day, yeah? Good. That’s plenty of time for you to tell me what your involvement with my missing lodger is.”
* * * * *
“Hello, Cambridge Pet Crematorium. How can I help you?”
“Oh, good morning. I wonder if you could help me…” Mark Higgins’ throat was dry. This was ridiculous. But, Jim Maskell had recommended his previous employers - as long as his name wasn’t mentioned - as being the most sensible option.
“I have a large animal that needs removing from my premises. I believe you can transport large creatures, dispose of them?”
“Yes sir, we can. What type of animal is this? And will you be requiring individual or group cremation?” The young woman on the phone was courteous, efficient and professional. This made the whole episode even more surreal. I wonder what’s the strangest request they’ve ever received?
“I don’t care how you dispose of it, I just want it gone!”
A suspicious pause. “Where exactly is this creature, sir?”
He replaced the receiver without answering. He sat back in his swivel chair, gut straining against the buttons on his shirt. He massaged his smooth cheeks with his forefingers. Two circles clockwise, and then two circles anticlockwise, repeated until cramp or jaw ache sets in…
It was a habit he had developed recently when stressed. He’d tried to stop it, realising it made his cheeks even more flushed than usual, and was a sure sign to his staff that he was feeling under pressure.
But damn it, who wouldn’t be under pressure after what he’d had to deal with this morning? He stared at the replaced handset. He’d panicked, gone off on the wrong track. More concerned with getting rid of the animal as quickly as possible rather than thinking the situation through, considering its full implications.
A knock on the door.
“Come in,” he said wearily. He forced himself to sit up, removing his fingers from his cheeks.
“Did you have any luck with the Pet Crem, sir?” Terry Harrison looked behind him before he closed the door. The walls were thin here, so he was making sure he was out of earshot before he raised the issue.
“No Terry, I didn’t. Did you seal the warehouse door?”
“Yes, sir. It’s off limits to all the staff, now. No-one gets in.”
“Very well. Terry, stop calling me sir. It won’t get you any brownie points. And they’re not ‘the staff’ - they’re your colleagues.”
“Even Benson?” Harrison’s face went slightly pink with the admonishment. “Did you smell the booze on his breath? And he smokes in the van. Not only is that illegal, it’s bloody stupid. That van is dual-fuel, unleaded petrol - ‘
“And liquid petroleum gas. Thank you for reminding me.”
“He can’t be here for much longer, surely?”
“No, I think Mr Benson’s days are numbered.” He didn’t like to admit it, especially not to this backstabbing, careerist little shit. Rob Benson had his flaws but the customers liked him, his workmates liked him, he got all the work done and that was all Higgins had asked for.
Things were different now, though. The drinking was becoming a regular problem since his friend and lodger had disappeared. He was going off the rails, there was no doubt. And that little stunt at the kitchen of All Souls could have severe repercussions for the firm. The Colleges had their rivalries, but they all talked to each other in one way or another. Word would get around about the customer-facing representation of Granta Office Supplies. A borderline alcoholic, chain-smoking in the company van, accompanied by a ragged mongrel that pisses on client premises. No, the office supplies business was tough enough without losing clients due to the actions of a delivery driver.
But as for the dead boar in the van…Higgins knew that Rob was innocent of this. The look on his face had been as shocked and bewildered as those of his colleagues. So had someone put it in the van deliberately? A slight aimed at the company? If so, why, and by whom?
He noticed Harrison’s smirk.
“Damn it, what is it with you and Rob? It’s over this Emma girl, isn’t it?”
The smirk vanished. As suspected. How bloody childish can -
A short, strident tone from the phone on his desk. An internal call, the display telling him line 6 - warehouse. He picked up the receiver.
“Hello, Jim. Look, don’t worry, old sport. I’ve phoned Spicers, today’s delivery has been called off. We won’t get it until after Christmas.” Plenty of time to get rid of that bloody boar.
“I don’t think we need to sort anything out, Mark,” Jim Maskell’s voice sounded rather distant on the phone. As if he was calling from miles away rather than the other side of the building.
“How do you mean, old buddy?”
“I - I dunno how to describe it, boss. I think you’d better come and have a look-see fer yerself.”
“On my way.” Higgins put the handset down gently, almost gingerly, realising his hands were shaking. God, what now?
Terry Harrison followed him without being asked. Higgins stood back to allow him to peel away the hazard warning tape that had sealed the access door to the warehouse.
; When they entered, Higgins could see why Jim had sounded so strange on the phone. He was kneeling on the floor next to the boar’s pallet, shaking his head slowly.
“Just when you thought this shit couldn’t get any weirder…” Jim spoke to the two arrivals without looking up. Mark Higgins silently agreed as he watched Jim releasing handfuls of scooped-up dust and - what is that? Ash? - from the concrete slab floor.
The pallet was empty and the boar was gone. The black, four hundred pound mass of rotting, stinking fur and flesh had been replaced by a huge pile of finely ground particles and brittle, grey-white sticks. A closer look told Higgins that they were…
My God, it can’t be. They’re bones.
Even the stains of black blood and reddish slime on the floor had gone, along with the putrefying stench. The warehouse of Granta Office Supplies no longer looked or smelled like a slaughterhouse.
Now it looked like someone had emptied out the contents of a crematorium incinerator. Higgins shivered at the thought, telling himself that it was down to the chill breeze creeping in through the gap in the exterior doors.
That breeze played over the arched collection of bones in the centre of the pile of gnarled and curled sticks that must have been the beast’s ribcage. The ash fell gently from the bones. Jim tentatively touched one of the ribs. It disintegrated, transformed by a single touch into yet more ash.
The breeze grew stronger. The ashes became swirling patterns writhing across the warehouse floor as the wind sighed through the gap in the doors, a mournful lament for the beast that had passed on in more ways than one.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the depths of a freezing Cambridge winter, Philip Lotson’s dreams turned to the gloriously hot summer they had all enjoyed six months previously.
He smiled in the warm, enveloping pleasure of the memory and kicked his legs under the duvet. Kelly murmured sleepily, a frown creasing her sleeping features, and rolled over.
And in the dream his wife turned to him and kissed him gently on the cheek, smiling as his beard scratched her pert lips. She leaned over and Phil felt the punt sway threateningly.
“Steady on, Kelly!” He laughed, clutching the wet side of the punt. She laughed with him and threw her arms around his neck. The punt rocked again. In the seat opposite them Nick rolled his eyes and clucked his tongue, embarrassed by the unrestrained display of affection his parents were showing to the world. He looked knowingly at the punt chauffeur and shook his head.
Phil tilted his head and looked back, seeing the amusement on the inverted face of the chauffeur. The pole shifted from one hand to another, raised to a near horizontal angle as he steadied the vessel in the water.
“Not embarrassing you are we, Nicky?”
Their son just rolled his eyes again, further embarrassed by being called Nicky. He reached for another Alpen bar from the cool-box.
“Not too many of those, son,” Phil warned. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
Nick laughed as he peeled the wrapper from the cereal bar. “Only one thing’s making me sick at the moment.” He puckered up his lips and made wet kissing noises, laughing at the face his father made.
“You wait till you’re older and you get married. Then you’ll know what real sickness is.” That earned him a playful slap.
Phil wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. It was going to be a scorching hot afternoon. He was pleased his schedule had allowed him this rare opportunity to spend a day out with his family. Kelly had gently pushed him, reminding him that the holidays his academic calendar provided shouldn’t all be spent locked in his study at home or the aisles of the university libraries, working tirelessly on his books.
Take some time out for once, she’d told him as she entered his study that morning. You delivered the last book well ahead of schedule, they’re not going to push you this time. It was rare enough that Kelly managed to get any time off from the payroll company what with the staff shortages, and Nick was spending too much time glued to his Xbox 360 and the satellite sports channels when he should have been out in the fresh air - especially on rare, glorious days like this one. Phil had tried to put her off, claiming he was on a roll with the book.
She shook her head, pushed his swivel chair back from the desk and climbed on top of him. Her hands had snaked around his shoulders and pulled him closer, burying his face in her cleavage. One hand strayed lower, unbuckling his belt. He had groaned in pleasure as her fingers went to work, buried his face deeper in her breasts.
It had been two hours before they were ready to leave.
In front of them the river flowed lazily, winding its way along the backs of the college buildings. Sunlight glinted on the rippling waters and the dampened gunwales of the passing punts. One vessel came too close to theirs, dangerously overfilled with Italian language-school students clutching bottles of Stella and Apple Sourz.
“Bloody idiots,” Phil heard the young Scudamore’s punt chauffeur remark. “That’s going to tip over at any moment…”
Should’ve taken the guy’s advice and gone Grantchester Meadows way, he thought ruefully. Every bugger goes down the Backs on a day like this. Thank God Kelly insisted on a chauffeur.
Their own punt turned gracefully into the bend of the river, the vessel tilted to create a keel and plying a straighter course than Phil could ever have managed.
The Bridge of Sighs rose above them. Sunlight caressed the panes of glass lovingly, turning them into dazzling panels of pure silver. They darted forth in straight lines, a contrast to the shimmering shadows of the waters that rippled along the ancient masonry of the bridge and college buildings.
He blinked his eyes against the brightness, wishing he’d brought his sunglasses. The sunlight was getting brighter. He opened his eyes and blinked again, trying to shift the red blotches that stained his vision.
“Phil, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just a bit dazzled, that’s all.” He rubbed his eyes. Hell, the redness was getting worse now. Everything seemed to be tinged with red. The walls of the colleges, the grassy banks, the waters of the Cam…
He sat bolt upright as he realised why everything was hued in that colour. The punt rocked violently and the chauffeur cursed as he tried to steady the vessel once more.
The redness wasn’t caused by sun-damaged retinas. He knew that now. The crimson hue lapping at the Bridge of Sighs was cast by the waters themselves. Water that clung to the hulls of the punts like scarlet treacle, clinging possessively to the upraised spruce poles as they were lifted from the water with each forward stroke. The sun continued to shine from a cloudless July sky, making the river of blood they were floating on gleam and glisten sickeningly. He cried out, a strangled sound that refused to leave his throat. Kelly and Nick looked at each other nervously.
She put a worried hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong, hun?”
“The river! Can’t you see…” his voice trailed off as he stared into her bewildered eyes.
“What about the river?”
He couldn’t speak. Why can’t they see it? It can’t be just me, surely? He twisted around and looked up at the punt chauffeur. The young man stared down at him warily.
“Try and keep still, sir. Carry on moving like that and you’ll have us all overboard.”
Phil swallowed nervously at the thought of plunging into that. He forced himself to keep still, closing his eyes tightly. The sun beat down on his closed lids, as if trying to force them open.
“Just try and relax, okay sir? Enjoy the ride…”
Phil kept his eyes shut, teeth clenched in fear. The sunlight ceased its assault on his eyes for a brief moment as they passed underneath the kitchen bridge of St John’s, and then it began again.
The river bent to the right sluggishly and Phil could feel the punt slowing as its navigator fought against the viscous fluid. He opened his eyes and looked up. To his left, Trinity Hall and Clare College. To his right, the Garret Hostel. Keep looking up, don’t look down, don’t look down
…
Kelly and Nick were ignoring him. With strange, faraway expressions on their faces they were fumbling inside the cool-box, pulling out cling film-wrapped pieces of pastry. They unwrapped them hurriedly, cramming the pies into their mouths with ravenous haste. Chewing noisily, swallowing each mouthful with none of the delicacy they normally used when eating.
Pies? he wondered, trying to concentrate on what his wife and son were eating and not the river of blood that carried them. They didn’t eat pies or pastries; Kelly wouldn’t allow them in the house, or indeed anything with cholesterol and saturated fat. He was lucky enough that she allowed him the hot cross buns he devoured daily.
A piece of pie filling slipped out of Nick’s mouth. He frowned in annoyance before picking it up from his lap and thrusting it back into his already full mouth. Phil could see that it was meat of some kind. The smell hit him. Sharp, gamey meat that didn’t look - or smell - cooked properly. As Kelly chewed her portion a few drops of blood emerged and dribbled down her chin. She continued eating, oblivious. Phil’s stomach heaved. He was thankful they didn’t offer him any.
He became aware of a sound behind him, like curtains moving in the breeze of a newly opened window. He turned around - slowly this time, remembering the chauffeur’s admonishment.
The punt chauffeur’s clothes had changed. Gone was the regulation uniform of waistcoat and straw boater. Now he was clad head to toe in robes of dark material that rippled in the still, oppressive afternoon air. No breeze.
The robes were topped with a heavy hood that covered the young man’s face completely. It was only when he lowered his head and stared at his passenger that Phil could see the face had changed.
Most of it was cast in shadow. Shadow that dulled the white glare of fleshless cheekbone and grinning, lipless mouth. Shadow that could not match the blackness of empty eye sockets staring directly at Phil. The mouth opened slightly, words emitted like a breeze rustling autumn leaves in a graveyard.
Relax, sir. Enjoy the ride.
Skeletal fingers gripped the pole, thrusting into the water and moving the punt faster along the river. The chauffeur was in a hurry to get to their destination.
The Caretakers (2011) Page 6
