The Absent Man: A Bermuda Jones Case File (The Bermuda Jones Case Files Book 2)

by Robert Enright

  Bermuda grimaced inwards. The vision of the young woman having her heart wrenched through her spine would haunt him.

  McAllister let out a deep sigh. ‘Beyond that, nothing. Our officers didn’t see the guy you were chasing, but a few witnesses did confirm he was by the station and threw you in front of the tram. None of them, however, made any sort of notion towards him being a … what do you call your shadow monsters?’

  ‘Others.’ Bermuda sighed. ‘And they are not shadow monsters. They are creatures that seek refuge from the Otherside.’

  ‘Right.’ McAllister didn’t even bother hiding the sarcasm in her tone. ‘Before we even touch on how you derailed a whole fucking tram, I need to take a leak.’

  Bermuda chuckled. Sometimes a woman could really catch you off guard. McAllister was tough, he knew that. She had clearly been a prodigy in the police due to being a lead detective on a serial killer case at such a young age. Bermuda had guessed she was early thirties, but wouldn’t have been surprised if she was younger. The booze clearly didn’t help, and the confrontational behaviour married with the drinking told him there was a darkness there.

  He knew, because he had lived it.

  Her abrupt end to a conversation about having a partner told him that whoever had watched her walk down that aisle whenever that photo had been taken wouldn’t be waiting if she did it again. A flush echoed from upstairs, followed by hurried footsteps as McAllister bounded back into the room.

  Bermuda stood up, pointing upwards. ‘Toilet upstairs?’

  ‘Yeah, to the left.’ She added extra emphasis with a hand gesture.

  Bermuda nodded appreciatively before leaving as McAllister poured out another shot. He ventured up the cream carpeted stairs, past another few photos as well as vacant picture hooks. A logical guess would be they once proudly displayed the husband.

  Empty bottles of wine greeted him on the landing floor. The bathroom door on the left-hand side was slightly open, the white and black lino covered by a fluffy, dirty, white bath mat. Two doors opposite him were closed completely, but the door to the right was slightly ajar. Bermuda glanced at the gap for a split second but was instantly drawn to the paper that scaled the wall.

  It was of teddy bears.

  Confusion gripped him, and like a tractor beam he was drawn to the door, pushing it open with measured care. It opened silently, the light from the landing gushing in like lowering a dam.

  An empty cot stood before him, the blanket neatly tucked down the sides, a row of teddy bears propped against the wooden bars. Their warm, comforting smiles and cuddly bodies were shrouded in darkness. A changing table was pushed to the far end of the room beneath the window; the brightly coloured curtains were drawn tight.

  The wardrobe was open, with a number of outfits all neatly ironed and hanging from their hangers like an up market boutique. Except every item of clothing was for a newborn baby.

  To the left of the cupboard was a chest of drawers, with more tiny clothes neatly folded, along with unopened packets of nappies and baby wipes – the essentials any new parent would need. As he ventured into the room, a memory crashed against him like a wave: the image of his Chloe, as delicate and tiny as a snowflake, crying in her cot as he came in to comfort her.

  Her knight in shining armour.

  His fist clenched involuntarily. The rage of being so far from what he treasured most was soul destroying, but this entire room was heartbreaking. He took one last look at the feeding chair in the corner, the cushions as crisp and plump as the day it was bought – a sure sign it had never been used.

  This wasn’t a nursery.

  It was a shrine.

  Bermuda turned to exit and came face to face with McAllister, her face twisted in fury while tears poured from her eyes. She wobbled slightly, undoubtedly from countless hits of vodka. He had no idea how long he had been in the room, but she had eventually come looking. And now, as she shook with venomous anger, he had never seen someone look so devastated.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing in here?’ Her words bubbled with menace.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I said the door on the fucking left.’ Her fists clenched till the knuckles turned white. Her nails punctured her hand, and a trickle of blood oozed through her bony fingers.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘GET OUT!’ she screamed at him and lashed out, her open palm slapping hard against the side of his face.

  Bermuda hunched his shoulders up, raising a forearm too as the drunken detective rained a few more desperate slaps in his direction, directing him to the stairs. With a shove, she followed him down while Bermuda quickly whipped the coat from the bannister before he got to the bottom.

  ‘Sam, I am so sorry,’ he tried to offer. He received another strike to the arm. Her face gleamed from the tears, the agony resting on her like a horrific Halloween mask.

  ‘Just get out.’ Her words were quieter; the will to stay angry was submitting to the sheer pain that was crippling her. She leant against the wall and howled one pain-filled scream before sobbing wildly.

  Bermuda watched without a clue – a crying woman was not exactly his forte.

  Especially one that was clearly in mourning.

  ‘I’m going to go.’ Bermuda’s words were weak. He felt pathetic.

  McAllister didn’t respond, she just cried silently, hunched down on the bottom step. She was drunk, but he had trespassed somewhere sacred.

  He had caused her this pain tonight.

  Guilt pressed down on his mind like a weight, and he reached for the door. Only as he began to turn the handle did he notice the blue lights flashing from the other side of the glass. As Bermuda pulled the door open, a police officer had his fist raised, ready to knock.

  It was DC Greg Butler.

  Both men looked shocked, with Butler instantly taking a stance that told Bermuda he was trained.

  McAllister stood up, wiping her eyes with the backs of her sleeves. She pushed Bermuda roughly to the side. ‘Butler.’

  ‘McAllister.’ He shifted his glance to Bermuda, pushing out his broad chest as a sign of strength. ‘Everything okay?’

  She nodded. All three of them didn’t believe her.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Bermuda asked.

  ‘Police business,’ Butler snapped.

  ‘Something tells me you didn’t turn up here because you boys are out of doughnuts.’

  Before Butler could react, McAllister slid her sleeves into her coat.

  ‘Take me to her.’ She stepped out into the rain, followed by Butler as they shuffled quickly to the car. Bermuda closed the door and followed. Another woman had been killed – that much was obvious. As he marched to keep up, he heard the faint words of Butler mention that the husband had been killed too.

  Two dead?

  Reluctantly Butler let Bermuda hop in the back of the car, and they sped off into the rain with the tension in the vehicle more volatile than the elements around them.

  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 i
n 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 wan
ted, 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.