by Tania Carver
Deepak nodded towards the FSIs. ‘Unless they can tell us anything.’
‘True.’
Jessie examined the room once more and noticed a couple of circular marks in the dust on the sideboard. She looked down at the floor. Two ugly figurines lay there, one with its head broken off. Knocked off in the fight, she thought. She knelt down beside them. Glanced under the bed. Saw something …
She got right down, nose almost to the carpet. From her position she could smell how unclean the fibres were. How infrequently it had been cleaned.
‘Stinks down here … ’
‘I doubt housekeeping was top of his priorities, ma’am,’ said Deepak, watching her.
Jessie took out her phone, switched on the flashlight, ran it over the carpet. She ignored the debris and accumulated dust as best she could, concentrated.
‘Yes … ’
She sat up. Felt the room lurch a little as she did so. Last night’s alcohol making its presence felt again. Deepak watched her.
She stood up. ‘There was something under there.’ She pointed. ‘There’s a rectangular mark where something’s been taken.’
Deepak got down on the floor.
‘What d’you think?’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘Laptop? Old family bible?’
Jessie nodded. ‘It looks like — and I don’t think we’re jumping to conclusions here — someone broke in, tried to take his laptop, there was a struggle … ’ she pointed to the broken figurine, ‘and poor old Mr Hibbert got his neck broken.’
‘Then the burglar rearranged the body, hoping to make us think he’d gone peacefully,’ finished Deepak.
‘Exactly.’ She nodded. Looked at the body again. ‘Or … ’
Deepak waited.
‘This was done deliberately, the laying-out of the body. No burglar does that. It’s almost like he’s been left … ’
‘At peace,’ finished Deepak.
‘Right. So … why? Is this all coincidence? Stuart Milton, the fire yesterday, the missing girl, or just some opportunist targeting the house of a dying man?’
‘We don’t believe in coincidences, ma’am.’
‘No, Deepak, we don’t. But what—’ Before she could go further, Jessie’s phone rang. She checked the display before answering. Mickey Philips. She felt something flutter inside her as she put the phone to her ear. Probably last night’s alcohol again.
‘Good morning, DS James.’
‘Good morning, Mickey. And don’t be so formal. Call me Jessie.’
There was silence on the other end of the line. ‘Jessie … James?’
‘Yeah. Wondered when you’d make that connection. But don’t bother, I’ve heard all the jokes. And before you say it, Suffolk Police are not a cowboy outfit.’
He laughed. She liked the sound of it. Deepak turned away.
‘We’re at the house of a murder victim,’ she said, recovering quickly. ‘Just wondering whether it ties in with yesterday’s events.’
‘And does it?’
‘We don’t know yet.’ She told him of the connection.
‘Never ignore a coincidence,’ said Mickey. ‘As my boss always says.’
‘Your boss and I think the same. How is he?’
‘Still under sedation. But they’re hopeful, apparently.’
‘Fingers crossed, then.’
‘Yeah, fingers crossed. Got an update for you.’ He told her about Marina.
‘Well,’ said Jessie after he’d finished, ‘I think we can rule her out of Mr Hibbert’s murder.’
Mickey didn’t laugh. Jessie wasn’t sure if she had meant it as a joke.
‘OK. This is what we’re doing this end,’ she said. ‘We’re looking into Hibbert’s death. We’re going to look for the guy who called himself Stuart Milton, see if we can find him and also run the name, see what we get. We’ve got a team out searching for the missing girl and we’re trying to trace that car that was parked outside the cottage when it went up. We’re going house to house, door to door, giving it the full Hollywood.’
‘Great. I’ll keep looking for Marina, then.’
‘Stay in touch.’
She hung up. Deepak was staring at her.
‘What?’
‘Nothing, ma’am.’
She knew what he was thinking. He had his disapproving face on again. She ignored it. She had enjoyed hearing Mickey’s voice. He was a nice guy. But she shunted it off into a corner of her mind once more. She had work to do.
A murderer to find.
30
The Golem had moved rooms. He was still in the house and waiting for instructions, but claiming the time as his own.
It was something he had to do every day. Spend time alone to meditate. Recharge. Rediscover his past self, make peace with it and in doing so reveal his forward path. His employers all knew he did this. They accepted, understood and allowed him time, even building it into their schedules. He delivered a very specific service. He had to do it in his own way.
But there was another reason for wanting to be alone. He wanted to get away from the Sloanes. Or Dee Sloane in particular. He thought again of her bloodied teeth, her lithe body. Her need to be dominated, to be broken, and her desire for him to be the one to do it. It was something he could do easily. And enjoy it.
But he was working.
He shut the door behind him. It closed with a satisfyingly heavy click, shutting him off. He stood in the centre of the room. Slowed his breathing down. Took in his surroundings.
The room was virtually bare. A spare room that hadn’t been filled with anything. Considering their wealth, the Sloanes didn’t seem to have accumulated much debris or clutter in their lives. The Golem interpreted that as them living in the present, not allowing the past to weigh them down. He approved of that.
He closed the blind, blocking out the day, removed his T-shirt and boots, sat down on the floor, straight-backed, and crossed his legs. He slowly inhaled through his nostrils, filtering out the smells around him, concentrating on only pure air. He brought up the image of the red spot like he had been taught. Focused on it, stared at it in his mind’s eye. The day died away around him. He heard only the symphony playing within himself.
He felt his heart valves open, the unclean blood being taken in, the locks and chambers filling, emptying, filtering, the good, purified blood punching its way round his system, cleansing him, renewing him, healing him.
When he had counted enough heartbeats, when he was sure enough blood had been circulated, he allowed the ritual to begin.
How many since last time?
Two.
Lives ended, souls freed?
As you say. It is for others to allocate specific names for things.
Names?
No.
Did they suffer?
No. It was over as quickly as possible. I am not a sadist.
Did they have families?
I do not know.
Will they be missed?
I do not believe so. I do not wish to believe so.
Are you ready to remove them from your heart and let them go?
I am.
Silence.
They are gone. You are cleansed, you are renewed, you are healed. You are once more at peace.
Thank you.
He stayed where he was, his consciousness focused only within himself. He saw his mother’s face and gave an involuntary gasp. His mother’s screaming face.
His other life. When he had a name. Before he was just the Golem.
He was back in the room as it shook from falling bombs. He heard more screams, more empty, hopeless prayers. His childhood, a time when hope of independence and self-determination for Bosniaks like his family soon turned into hate. When Milosevic’s Bosnian Serb army attacked them, turning neighbours to foes. Legitimising hatred. When being born in Srebenica was the worst thing that could have happened.
Ethnic cleansing. A simple, clean phrase that hid a horrific truth. Rape. Torture. Murder. It was wh
at the Serbs and the Yugoslav People’s Army had done to his family. The ones they hadn’t killed were herded into camps. The ones who survived the camps were damaged beyond belief.
Like him.
His mother, his sisters had been raped and mutilated before they died. His father murdered. And he felt that he had died along with them. He no longer felt human; he burned with a righteous anger and a hunger for revenge.
The war had ended in 1995. But it would never end for him. He rebuilt himself. Turned himself into a killing machine. Kept focused on tracking down the Serbs responsible for his family’s death. He popped pills, took vitamin supplements. Kept himself clean, fit. And as his body became bigger and harder, it also changed colour. He turned grey.
At first he hated it, couldn’t bear to look in the mirror. But gradually he came to accept it. He felt dead inside, and grey was the right colour for a dead man. The nickname soon followed. Golem. Made of clay, the mythical saviour of the Warsaw ghetto. He liked that. Kept it.
Eventually he was primed and ready to kill. And he did so. He couldn’t track down those responsible for his family’s death, so he attacked anyone who had been in the war on the side of the Serbs. It was messy, violent. And it didn’t bring him the peace he thought it would.
But it did bring him to the attention of people who could use his services. Drug barons. People-traffickers. Gangsters. At first he wanted nothing to do with them, but eventually he gave in. He was a killing machine with no one to kill. Why not get paid for it?
He didn’t enjoy it, though. He didn’t know if his victims deserved it or not. And it plagued him. So he sought help, and found it in meditation. And now he had reached a still point. A place within where he could do his job and absolve himself of guilt afterwards. A way for a dead man to live with himself.
There was a sound behind him. The door opened, closed again.
His mind tunnelled quickly back from the past, barrelled down towards the present. Refocused on the red spot … then out. Back in the world once more.
‘Hello.’
He turned, his vision jarred by his enforced return to the present, and saw who it was. Dee Sloane, standing against the door. Unbuttoning her blouse.
‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ She undid another button. Her eyes travelled down his body, roamed over his naked chest. ‘You’ve started without me.’ She moved nearer to him. Slowly, each spike heel hitting the floor with a deliberate crack, like a bolt from a predator’s crossbow hitting the bullseye.
He remained where he was. Tried not to respond to her.
‘I know what you wanted,’ she said. ‘I could see it in your eyes. You tried to hide it, but I always know when someone wants me.’
Her blouse fell to the floor beside him. He didn’t move his head upwards.
‘You do want me. I know you do.’
He stared ahead, aware of her hands clenching.
‘I meant what I said. I want you to dominate me. I want you to break me.’ The word hissed, whispered.
Her bra dropped to the floor beside her blouse. He still didn’t look up.
‘Don’t worry. Michael’s playing with the laptop. He’ll be ages. And he won’t mind. Anyway … ’ a finger traced its way along his naked shoulder, ‘you’re bigger than he is.’ The pressure increased. ‘Much bigger … ’
Her nails dug into his skin.
Her voice was down by his ear now, making the skin on his neck tingle. ‘I love not knowing what you’ll do to me next … the fear … it’s such a turn-on … ’
He grabbed her hand. Hard. She gasped. He turned his head upwards, locked eyes with her.
‘Leave.’
Confusion crossed her gaze. She blinked it away. Found a smile.
‘I said leave.’ His voice low and steady.
‘It’s OK. Michael is—’
‘Leave.’ A final command.
She dropped eye contact. Bent down, picked up her discarded clothes. He heard her heels clacking, the door opening and closing. Then silence once more.
He sighed. Looked down at his hands.
They were shaking.
31
The car bounced down the rutted track. Marina felt herself being thrown from side to side as she drove.
She pulled up at the bottom of the hill. The road stopped, turned into sand dunes. She switched off the engine, got out. It was a seaside scene, but even in the sun it looked bleak. Ancient beach huts, weathered, peeling and rotting, stood in front of the scrappy, sparsely sprouting dunes. The sand looked close-pressed, muddied. Damp and wet. She could imagine it sucking down unwary travellers. Dead and dying boats lay chained and marooned on the shore. Beyond, the river sluiced out to the North Sea.
She turned to her left, looked behind her. She knew there was a walled garden somewhere near with a rusting caravan behind it. She turned her head to the right. The farmhouse was derelict now, left for the elements to reclaim. It didn’t matter if it fell down; Marina would carry its ghosts within her for the rest of her life.
‘You bastard,’ she said aloud, ‘you fucking bastard … ’ Her voice was borne away on the wind.
It was here that she had almost died. It was here that she had been born.
Or reborn.
Three years ago a homicidal maniac had kidnapped her and hidden her in a basement underneath the caravan in the field, wanting her unborn baby, the child who would grow up to be Josephina. Phil, leading the hunt for the killer, had eventually traced him to this spot and come to rescue her. He had joined her in the cellar’s labyrinthine tunnels, trying to capture the madman. But ultimately it was Marina who had stopped his murderous spree and protected their unborn child. It was Marina who had killed him.
And that was when she had been reborn.
After that, she had known who she was. How much she would stand. The lengths she would go to to protect her own. She had thought the voice on the phone didn’t know that. Now, she had to concede, perhaps they did.
Then she heard it.
Love Will Tear Us Apart.
She grabbed the phone from her bag, put it to her ear.
‘You arrived?’ said the voice. ‘No trouble getting here?’
‘You bastard,’ she said.
Silence. Then: ‘What d’you mean?’ The tone was harsh but inquisitive.
‘You know what I mean. Bringing me here.’
Another silence. ‘I thought you would remember this place.’
‘Oh, you’re damn right I do.’
The voice sounded confused but tried to appear to be in control, without much success. ‘I’m … surprised it means that much to you.’
Anger was rising within Marina. ‘Funny fucker.’ Spat out.
‘You’re in Wrabness.’
‘I know I’m in Wrabness.’
‘And you’ve been here before.’
‘Well done, Einstein. It was all over the papers.’
Another silence. Marina began to think the voice had been cut off. Eventually it replied.
‘Just … You’ll be getting an email in a moment. It’ll tell you what to do next.’
‘So that’s all this is for, is it? A really unpleasant trip down memory lane?’
‘Look … ’
‘No, you look.’ The anger was welling in Marina, threatening to burst. ‘You blow up my family, kidnap my daughter and then bring me out here. I’ve dealt with some sick bastards in my time, but you’re … ’ She could no longer find the words.
‘Now listen.’ The voice was getting angry too. Marina listened. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about. Yes, you’ve been here before. That’s why you were chosen. That’s why we wanted you. But … ’ A sigh. ‘Read the email.’
The line went dead.
Marina held the phone in her shaking fist. Stared at it. She looked back at the crumbling farmhouse. Over to the broken wall, the rusting caravan. Then back to the river, the sand. Bleak, desolate. She shivered. Phil wouldn’t be coming to save her this time.
The phone pinged. She opened the email, began to read.
And, slowly, began to understand.
32
‘Jeff? Dead? Well, it was to be expected, I suppose. He was a very sick man.’
‘He was, Mrs Hibbert.’
‘Call me Helen. I’ve never liked being called Mrs Hibbert. Makes me sound like his mother.’ She took a deep breath, a mouthful of vodka and tonic. ‘And God, that’s one thing I never wanted to be like.’ Helen Hibbert shuddered at the thought.
Jessie James couldn’t see this woman as anyone’s mother. She would hate the competition for attention. In the car on the way over to Jeff Hibbert’s estranged wife’s flat, Jessie had put forward her version of what Helen Hibbert would be like. It was a game she often played with Deepak, a way to get him not to rely on profiles and generics, make his own mind up, think laterally, outside the box. She sometimes tried to make it competitive, put a bit of money on it, see whose description was closest. Loser bought lunch. He hardly ever bit. It didn’t stop Jessie from trying, though.
‘I reckon she’ll be like him,’ Jessie had said. ‘Middle-aged, dumpy. Short hair, cut like a bloke. Big lumpen face. Like a farmer’s wife. Or a farmer. Kitted out in Barbour’s finest.’
Deepak, driving, had surprised her by volunteering an opinion. ‘Dead wrong,’ he had said.
Jessie smiled, genuinely curious now. ‘Makes you say that?’
‘You’re thinking in terms of generics,’ he said. ‘Letting prejudices get in the way.’ He gave her a quick glance. ‘Ma’am.’
‘Oh, am I now? Well, what’s your highly individual, non-prejudiced opinion, then?’
‘Younger than him, definitely.’
‘You reckon?’
‘And blonde.’
‘Why blonde?’
