by Steve Mosby
Confirm receipt (Mr Garland).
Confirm collection.
Do not open package.
That was it. Morgan took a deep breath, opened the driver's- side door and stepped out into the sun. The sand crunched slightly underfoot. The air was cool on his skin; without noticing it, he'd broken out in a sweat.
It was only five metres to the tree line. He walked round the back of the car, and kept a close eye on the undergrowth as he approached the bag. But the birds were singing - brightly, happily - and the air smelled clean and fresh again. Within the trees, nothing was moving.
The bag was small - a child's sports bag. The zippers were secured in place with a black plastic tag, one that would have to be cut in order to be removed. Morgan picked it up and it was much lighter than he'd expected, barely weighing anything at all. Whatever was inside felt fragile and weak, like a bundle of broken sticks, poking against the fabric.
Do not open it.
There was no danger of that. He didn't know what was inside, and he didn't want to know; he just wanted his paycheck and then to forget about what he'd seen here today. Instead, he took it back to the car. One phone call to confirm receipt, a call to his boss, then a short car journey, a shower, and he was done.
The bag went in the boot, out of sight. As he closed the lid over, Morgan thought of something and paused, looking down at it. Praying, he'd imagined. But it occurred to him that it hadn't been like that at all. It was more like the thing in the woods had been crouched down and embracing it.
Holding it close, and saying goodbye.
Garland folded his mobile shut and stood in the hallway for a moment. The man who'd called him had sounded a little… disturbed. But then, Banyard did have that effect on people. Garland didn't have much fondness for the man either, but his talents were indispensable for some tasks. Just as the organisation employed cleaners, it also required caretakers. They were usually local men with a natural affinity for the job at hand. Banyard was both, but he had a longer and more distinguished pedigree than most.
It was done anyway. The exchange had been made. All being well, at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon, this would be over. Then he could get out of this country and away from these people.
In the meantime, there was still a lot of work to do. The mystery man back at Ellis's flat had been asking about Sarah Pepper, and now he had a name to go along with that. Alex Connor. But he still needed to know where to find him. Garland slid the phone back into his suit pocket, and stepped through the doorway, back into the lounge.
'Sorry about that,' he said. 'Colleagues pestering.'
Julie Smith was sitting with the baby on the settee.
'It's fine,' she said, 'honestly.'
Garland leaned against the doorframe and smiled.
'Anyway,' he said. 'As I mentioned, it's your boyfriend I really need to speak to. What time will he be home?'
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kearney stood on the top-floor balcony of Block Three, Parkway Heights, looking down at the square below him.
About twenty years ago, there had been riots here. That was before his time, but he remembered watching the smoke and fires on the news: reporters in the thick of it with the police. The corridors had looked like the boiler room of a steam ship. Since then, it had been renovated and cleaned out - which really meant the people. Despite the council's best efforts, community spirit had failed to arise. Kearney doubted the square below had seen such a gathering of residents, not to mention emergency vehicles, since the bad old days.
Three fire engines were parked close up to the block. Two ambulances a little way back. Four police cars and a van. When he and Todd arrived, the thick smoke hanging above the block had been casting a shadow over the square, but it had cleared slightly now, and the red and blue flashing lights were weak in the sun.
Evacuated residents had joined the gawpers from the other blocks down below. Some of them were staring up, shielding their eyes against the sun so that they appeared to be saluting him. Those whose expressions he could make out looked more excited than concerned. But then, things always seemed like that on a sunny day, in the same way that a house felt more threatening at night. Nobody felt afraid.
Kearney turned his head to the right and watched another police van enter the square, curling steadily around until it came to rest beside the concrete playground. Then he looked up, squinting. The sky was so bright, the colour there so intensely pale, that he could see little sparkles in his eyes, like the air was sweating light.
To either side, everything was black and wet. The attentions of the fire crews had transformed the walkways and stairwells into temporary waterfalls. When the breeze picked up, it brought with it the scent of old bonfires and petrol, and just a trace - faint but unmistakable - of the two people lying dead in the blackened flat behind him. But if you didn't breathe in, and didn't look at the sludge on the floor, the sound of dirty water trickling down was soporific and almost peaceful, like being in a forest.
Todd leaned on the balcony beside him.
'Jesus.' He puffed up his cheeks, then breathed out slowly. The longest sigh Kearney had heard from him in a long time. 'It's a mess in there.'
'Yes. What do you think?'
'I think the Incident Commander is right.'
Kearney nodded. 'Arson.'
'No need to be rude about the guy, Paul.'
Kearney raised an eyebrow at him. Todd smiled in return, but he could tell his partner's humour was forced.
'Deliberate ignition, then.'
The fire had been under control when they arrived, but they'd had to wait for the nod before they could come upstairs. When the structure had been deemed safe, the Incident Commander had briefed them on the situation. The blaze had been mostly confined to the top floor, but had licked along most of the flats here. The damage was worst in the rooms directly behind them now, where the fire crew had found the remains of a can of lighter-fluid near the door.
The flat itself had been gutted, first by the flames, and then by the high-pressure jets of water that had arced up from the fire engines below. Now, it looked more like a dark, dripping cave than the home it had been. The furniture was reduced to charred wreckage, with only a few burnt scraps of fabric still clinging to the blackened frames, and the floor was thick with mud. Old papers and shrivelled books were scattered in the sludge, and the air stank of ash and paraffin. In the far corner of the room, the television had melted like a candle. Yet it was so cold when Kearney had first stepped inside, his feet slopping through the filth, that he'd shivered. Now, ice-cold water was slapping down from the ceiling above, as steady and insistent as rain from a broken gutter.
The two bodies - believed to be those of Christopher Ellis and his girlfriend, Amanda Gilroyd - were lying, face to face, on the crusted metal bed frame. The heat had scorched and tightened them, baring their teeth so they resembled tiny, blind boxers squaring up for a fight. Angry. Then Kearney had noticed that Gilroyd's feet were curled over, almost delicately, like a newborn's.
He hadn't needed to cross the room to see the handcuffs binding their wrists and ankles. He also hadn't wanted to think too much about what they meant. It was both obvious and horrible. You wouldn't leave handcuffs on dead bodies.
He supposed there was at least one positive thing to hold onto - as far as they knew, the couple were the only casualties. The fire alarm for this level was next to Ellis's front door, and someone had activated it. They'd already spoken to the dead man's neighbours. When they'd heard the alarm and emerged from their flats, there were no initial signs of a blaze. The logical conclusion was that whoever had started the fire had also sounded the alarm.
Kearney lifted his arms off the ledge and turned round to face the doorway.
'Why set off the alarm?' he said. 'Why risk being seen?'
'Because he didn't want to kill anyone else.'
'Maybe.'
Kearney knew he was exhausted and finding it hard to thi
nk straight. It was mysterious that someone could have the will and… detachment to tie two people up and burn them alive, yet also feel the need to alert others, possibly even saving their lives.
'Then again,' he said, 'it means the alarm's going off and everyone's panicking, heading downstairs as quick as they can. They wouldn't be paying as much attention, would they? Maybe he figured it would make him harder to remember.'
'Also possible,' Todd conceded. 'But why burn the place at all?'
In this scenario, the usual reason was to cover up what you'd done so that a murder looked more like an accident. But the handcuffs ruled out that motivation.
Kearney said, 'Trying to hide something.'
'Evidence of something,'' Todd agreed.
'Something he couldn't be sure he'd found, so needed to make certain was gone.'
That was at the heart of what bothered him. The fire alarm - whatever interpretation he put on it - didn't indicate sloppy thinking. Nor did the handcuffs. Nor did the thoroughness of the job. All things considered, there was something coolly professional about this. Something organised.
He said, 'But how does Roger Timms fit into this?'
Two leads on the Butterfly case had brought them to what remained of Christopher Ellis's front door.
The first was that Ellis seemed to have acquired a painting from Roger Timms at the end of last year. There was nothing exceptional about that, but they'd not been able to find any record of what Ellis had bought. In addition, the amount Ellis had paid - five thousand pounds - was considerably greater than Timms's minor artworks generally fetched. So it must have been a privately commissioned piece. That in itself intrigued Kearney. Timms wasn't well known for accepting commissions from the general public. And for a man in Christopher Ellis's financial bracket, five thousand pounds was a huge figure to pay.
The second, and more important, connection was that Roger
Timms's phone records had been analysed, and Ellis's number had turned up a number of times over the past eight months. The pattern was interesting. There had been a degree of contact between them at the end of last year and the beginning of this - presumably arranging whatever Ellis had purchased - and then nothing at all until this week, when Timms had made a single, late-night call to Ellis's flat.
It was the final item on the account. From the evidence they had, Christopher Ellis was the last person Roger Timms had spoken to before he'd gone on the run.
Now, Ellis and his girlfriend were dead.
And something had been destroyed.
Todd said, 'I don't buy Timms for this.'
'It's not a coincidence.'
'Well, they do happen, Paul.'
Kearney was unconvinced. Todd gestured at the gaping doorway of the flat.
'Why would Timms be involved in this?'
'I don't know.'
'He wouldn't. What's the point? Imagine that Ellis is involved somehow. Let's say he knows something about the murders. Perhaps he's even the guy with the fingerprints we're after.'
Kearney said, 'Why would Timms care?'
'Exactly. It's not like we don't have enough on the guy.'
Even without what had been found in his basement, the evidence of Timms's involvement was hanging on walls in at least two different continents. Kearney couldn't see a single reason why he would waste time trying to cover his tracks right now.
'I agree,' he said. 'Timms is running.'
'As fast as he can.' Todd nodded to himself. 'So let's get crime scene into this shit-hole and then sub it off to someone else. Fast as we can.'
With that, he began walking back along the scorched concrete walkway, his shoes leaving tilted footprints in the wet sludge. But instead of following, Kearney stayed where he was, staring into the remains of the flat.
'Maybe he wanted his painting back.'
'Not good enough, Paul.'
Kearney almost smiled. This was a standard part of their routine. Just as Todd generally left the interviews to Kearney, he also recognised his partner was better at teasing out the connections. This was precisely the kind of challenge he often laid down. Come on, convince me. Despite the dismissal in his voice, Kearney knew what Todd really meant was: I'm frustrated here; although it pains me to admit it, I need your help.
A fleck of paper fell silently from the door frame.
'OK,' he called over. 'What about a third party?'
Todd stopped at least. But he didn't turn round.
'Go on.'
Kearney took one last glance into the flat, then sloshed up the walkway towards his partner.
'We've got Wells and Timms. But from the fingerprint, we know at least one other person is involved.'
'Yeah,' Todd said. 'Wells, Timms and Mister X.'
'So what if Ellis isn't Mister X?'
Kearney reached him, and they set off walking together.
Todd said, 'So what you're suggesting is we know about Wells and Timms, but not Mister X, whoever the fuck he is. And he's the one who came here and killed Ellis?'
'Yes.'
'What about your good friend Mister Why?' Todd pushed open the heavy fire door. 'You're forgetting about him.'
'Because Ellis knew who he was?'
They started down the sodden concrete steps, Todd leading the way. He didn't say anything, and Kearney wasn't sure whether that meant he was thinking the scenario over or if he'd not done well enough and Todd had dismissed it for the moment. For himself, the thought felt right but unfinished.
What did Ellis know that had been so dangerous? Nothing about Timms, because they already had everything they needed. So it had to be someone else's identity.
Had to be.
Because what else could Christopher Ellis have said that would be worse than what they already knew?
Of course, Ellis wasn't going to tell them anything now.
Back out in the square, the reality of that hit Kearney. The air down here was fresh and clean, but he suddenly found it hard to breathe. He didn't seem able to get enough of it into his lungs.
Something in his head began to thump.
A panic attack. The realisation came with a lurch that only made things worse. They came on at odd times. He didn't need to be thinking about anything specific. They just bubbled up from the anxiety seething deep inside him.
It began with this frantic feeling, like a spider was trapped in his windpipe, tapping its legs.
Calm down.
He forced himself to take slow, steady breaths, and tried to distract himself by scanning the crowds across the square, deliberately emptying his thoughts. But each person there seemed to be looking directly at him. Their faces reminded him of the children from his dream. Demanding answers. Resolution. Before it was too late.
We aren't going to find her.
The more Kearney fought it, the worse it became. He closed his eyes and stood very still, sweat beading on his forehead. More than anything else right now, he needed that familiar image of Rebecca Wingate not to come into his head. But trying not to remember something only makes you-
Then he thought: wait.
Something was wrong.
A second later, he realised it had been something in the crowd of people. He opened his eyes again and looked back at them, trying to work out what it was that he'd seen.
A few of them were looking at him, but most were just standing there, either talking, or else staring up at the remains of the flats behind him. His gaze flicked from face to face, and he couldn't find it. But now he felt more certain.
He'd recognised someone.
He started walking towards the crowd.
If he couldn't see the person, he could find him. His mind gave him a sense of the man's appearance, rather than an actual image. Long, blond hair. A rough beard. Tanned skin. Eyes that had been looking directly back at him for the split-second their gazes had met. Whoever the man was, he'd recognised Kearney too.
Where was he?
'Sir? You got a second?'
Shit.
>
Kearney caught himself mid-step, turning to face the uniform who'd just spoken to him. She was young and pretty, and he knew her vaguely, but only because Todd had made a comment about her once. And he couldn't remember her name either. Kearney glanced over at the crowd again - frustrated - then settled himself.
'This gentleman has something to tell you.'
From her tone of voice, she was obviously more than a little dubious about it, and when Kearney focused on the man standing beside her, he understood why. He was about seventy years old, wearing a baggy, old-fashioned, tweed suit with a stained grey jumper underneath.
Kearney could see the alcohol before he smelled it. It was there in his face: in the deep lines and pink eyes, and in the faint hint of jaundice to his skin.
The yellow man, he thought. That brought another irrational flush of panic, but this one was more easily contained. The old man in front of him was about as far from the threatening creature in his nightmares as it was possible to get.
'Yes, sir,' Kearney said. 'How can I help you?'
'I saw him.'
The voice came out through a web of phlegm, and the old man's eyes were gleaming as he jabbed a finger up at the block of flats.
'The lad up there. I saw him this morning.'
'You saw Christopher Ellis?' Kearney said. 'Or someone else?'
The man shook his head. 'Chris. We all did.'
'Where?'
'We noticed it, because there was trouble. He was in the pub with us, and there was trouble.'
Suddenly, this was more interesting.
Kearney nodded a thank you at the uniform, then stepped closer to the old man, giving him his full attention. The panic was still there, but he did his best to pull himself together.
There was still time. He had to believe that.
'What kind of trouble?'
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ellis was dead.
I made my way out of the square as quickly but as carefully as I could manage - not wanting to draw attention to myself, but needing to put as much distance between myself and that policeman as possible. I knew him, but I couldn't remember where from. I was fairly sure he'd recognised me as well.
