Blood Mist (Eve Clay)

by Mark Roberts

  White mimed stuffing his mouth with fast food, his fingers waving in front of his face as he made a greedy, choking noise. His fingers stilled. Silence returned.

  ‘And if that wasn’t bad enough, Mr Taylor, you then have the temerity to doubt what I do with my food.’ White pointed at the toilet. ‘No. I eat every scrap of food you provide, except for when I fast. Watch. Believe.’

  White picked up the raw pork chop and gripped the thick rind of waxy fat. With a swift turn of his neck he separated the fat from the pink meat and drew it into his mouth. He moved the sticky mound to his molars and chewed powerfully, the muscles in his face shifting every time he clamped his jaws together, his eyes fixed on Taylor’s.

  He drew the back of his hand across his mouth, its tattooed map of black stars brushing against his lips, and he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple pumping.

  White smiled. ‘Do you know which meat comes closest to the taste of human flesh? Pork.’

  White picked up the soft pink meat and ripped half of it into his mouth. As he chewed, he extended the remains of the meat to Taylor. A trickle of red saliva trailed from the corner of his mouth and, as he swallowed, Taylor watched passively.

  ‘You can go now,’ said White, cramming the rest of the pork into his mouth. ‘Go back to the Kingdom of the Blind, the world of mankind, mankind the least of all the species in Creation. Except for the few. The few who see.’

  The door opened and Taylor headed for it.

  ‘Mr Taylor!’

  Taylor stopped at the door, listened without turning.

  ‘Just for the record, animals do have souls and when the End Of Time comes their souls will co-exist in the next life alongside the souls of mankind. But in the next life, all will be reversed. Mankind will be the least of all species. Except for the righteous few. Mankind will serve its masters. The jackals. And their souls shall remember. The serpents. And they will be consumed with righteous anger. The vultures. And they will have no mercy. The pigs. Especially the pigs.’

  13

  2.45 am

  DS Karl Stone stared directly into the sorrowful eyes of Jesus Christ and wondered if the Crucifixion painting had a moralising influence on the staffroom of St Bernard’s RC Primary. He picked up a fat, dog-eared erotic novel that had clearly been all the way round the block and back. He guessed Jesus was just a part of the fixtures and fittings. As he turned the book over, he smiled. RRP £7.99. Batteries not included.

  Stone listened to the sound of three pairs of footsteps approaching the door and began examining Mrs Harry’s register. From a class of twenty-six children, only twelve had been present in school on the previous Friday. The majority presumably unwilling to take a chance on the much anticipated freak weather.

  Five girls, seven boys, one potential thief linked to a multiple murder where the blood was still wet.

  On the car journey to the school, Mrs Harry had been polite and cooperative. And site manager Mr Fitzroy had been more than helpful, despite having to open up the buildings a good four hours earlier than he normally would on a Monday morning. But as soon as head teacher Mrs Sweeney arrived – short and fat, with a body shape that reminded Stone of an outsized hornets’ nest – the dynamic shifted negatively. Dispensing silent, filthy looks, she quickly organised them into a gang.

  Stone kept his back turned but watched the reflection in the plate-glass window to his right as the door opened and Mrs Sweeney headed into the room carrying twelve red card files. She stopped, with Mrs Harry and Mr Fitzroy behind her.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Stone tried not to laugh at the barely concealed outrage in her voice. ‘Reading,’ he replied, looking at the photocopied class list.

  He turned slowly.

  ‘You’ve got the twelve files on the twelve children present in Mrs Harry’s class on Friday?’

  She placed them on the table.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll be taking the files with me, along with the register.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Yes, I know it’s a legal document and I’ll return it to school as soon as possible. Are you opening the school today?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tuesday?’

  ‘No. All schools are closed until further notice.’

  ‘Then there’s no panic.’ He turned his attention to Mrs Harry. ‘I want to talk to you on your own.’

  He thought of Bill Hendricks and the sort of evidence that he might find useful.

  ‘Mrs Sweeney, would you please go and get me the literacy books of the twelve children present in Mrs Harry’s class on Friday morning. And any art work they’ve produced recently. We can’t waste time. Now, please.’

  ‘You bowl in here, issuing the orders in my school, and you haven’t even told me why you’re investigating my children.’

  At some point in the unfolding darkness, Stone had heard details of the case broadcast on the hourly Radio City news. What had happened was no longer a secret so he trumped the vexing little cow with the folded arms and the pout with, ‘Murder.’

  It was as if he’d poured a cup of ice-cold water onto her head. Her eyes filled with shock and the aggression and blood drained from her face.

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘No one blames the head teacher when one of their pupils in their school is implicated in murder. Murder, Mrs Sweeney, times six.’

  He watched the wheels turn in her head as anxiety creased her brow.

  ‘The books and any art work as well, but quickly.’ He eyed the clock on the wall; time was racing. ‘I really am in a hurry.’

  14

  2.50 am

  The door closed and, with Mrs Sweeney gone, Mrs Harry relaxed as she sat down next to Stone. He spread the files out on the table.

  ‘Back at yours, you didn’t tell us there were only twelve kids in on Friday?’

  ‘I could barely think straight. It’s the first time I’ve ever...’ She shrugged as the rest of the sentence evaporated.

  ‘Who do you think may have lifted your phone, Cara?’

  ‘No. None of them. They’re all good kids.’

  ‘OK, who’s the one you know least well?’

  ‘They’ve all been in the school since they were in reception, aged four. I know them all really well. They’re a mixture and they’ve all got their own funny little ways, but they’re not kids who’d get into any trouble. The ones who attended on Friday are either grammar-school material or the kids who are never, ever off.’ She dropped her voice a notch and went into confidential mode. ‘All the others had the sense to keep their children home. The parents of these kids sent them into school in spite of the weather. Can’t miss an educational trick. Or can’t wait to send them out of the door.’

  ‘Humour me, Cara. I want some snap comments from you. I’m not going to haunt you with your answers, I promise. I just want you to answer quickly. Instant judgement call. Their funny little ways?’

  ‘Like word association?’

  ‘Good analogy.’

  It was a tactic Hendricks had shared with the team in a brainstorming session. Mrs Harry was stuck in a room with the children for over seven hours a day and, he guessed, knew as much about them as many of their parents did.

  He copied her confidential tone and lowered his voice. ‘If you don’t know them, who does?’

  Stone laid out the files in two neat rows of six, their names and photos clear to see, and popped the nib of his Parker pen on his spiral-bound notepad.

  ‘Look at their names, make a mental snapshot of their faces.’

  She adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose and looked down at the table.

  ‘Cara, who’s your favourite?’

  ‘Melanie Waters.’ Instant response. He jotted down: FMW.

  ‘Biggest pain in the neck?’

  ‘David Jones.’ Same speed. PITNDJ.

  ‘Brightest?’

  ‘Imran Choudhary.’ No hesitation. BIC.

  ‘Quietest?’

  ‘Oh, two. Faith D
rake and Jon Pearson.’ QFD. QJP.

  ‘Are they friends?’

  ‘No. They have shyness in common, but I’m not aware of any friendship between them.’

  ‘Who are you most concerned about?’

  ‘Paul Peters.’ CPP.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He never wants to go out to play. He’d rather lock himself in a cubicle in the boys’ toilets. He claims he’s allergic to fresh air.’

  ‘This is starting to sound more and more like the class I was in when I was ten,’ said Stone. ‘Saddest?’

  ‘Donna Rice.’ SDR. ‘She’s prematurely middle-aged.’

  ‘Anyone with compulsive behaviours?’

  ‘Connor Stephens. He can recite the table of elements backwards, forwards and inside out. Should do very well in the entrance exam for grammar school.’ CBCS.

  ‘Well-balanced? Happy? No cause for concern?’

  She nodded as she scanned the folders, smiled and said, ‘Yes, well balanced, the rest of them. Tom Tanner, Ryan Nolan, Megan Odemwingie, Sally McManus... But none of them would have stolen my phone. Whatever their little quirks are, they’re not thieves.’ WBTTRNMOSMcM.

  ‘Mrs Harry, I need a favour.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to help if I can.’

  ‘We’ll need to talk with you again. There are probably going to be a lot of questions to ask. Based on what you’ve told us, one or more of your twelve could be a direct link to an horrific crime.’

  Her shoulders sagged and he drew a finger round in the air to indicate the whole school set-up.

  ‘I get the picture entirely, Mrs Harry, and pardon my French but your head teacher’s a bitch. She won’t know anything about you helping us because we’ll come and visit you in your home. No police station. No lights in your face. No Mrs Sweeney Todd the Fourth.’

  Mrs Harry smiled, but laughter, even at her boss’s expense, was beyond her.

  She looked at him directly and said, ‘You know, you look nothing like a police officer.’

  ‘What do I look like?’ He smiled.

  ‘An undertaker.’ She trusted him and he had her on a hook.

  He leaned in a little closer and said, ‘I know. It wrong-foots criminals all the time.’

  Mrs Harry looked uncomfortable in the silence that followed as they waited for Mrs Sweeney to return.

  ‘So, are you doing a project with your class at the moment?’ asked Stone.

  ‘Local history.’ Mrs Harry lit up. ‘They were allowed to choose the topic. As a class they decided on Williamson Tunnels in Edge Hill.’

  ‘Spooky and full of mystery. I like it,’ said Stone. ‘Is that work in their literacy books?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Whose idea was it to do Williamson Tunnels?’

  ‘A few of the girls. The boys were miffed because they couldn’t do Everton and Liverpool, but once I got them down there—’

  The door opened and Mrs Sweeney entered with a plastic box full of exercise books. Mr Fitzroy followed, carrying a large black artist’s folder.

  ‘We’re done for now,’ Stone whispered to Mrs Harry.

  ‘You’ll be wanting to interview me to assist you with your investigation?’ said Mrs Sweeney.

  ‘Not at the moment,’ said Stone. ‘But there is something you could do to help.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You can help me carry all these materials to my car.’

  15

  4.30 am

  On either side of The Serpentine, lights were on in downstairs rooms. From darkened bedrooms, neighbours watched police officers moving in, out and around the crime scene.

  A little way down the winding road, Clay saw a silver Audi pull over on the other side of the scene-of-crime tape. A short woman with a shock of frizzy red hair got out from the driver’s side, the form of her body obscured by a padded coat. She strode beneath a streetlight, straight towards Clay, as if there wasn’t a minute left to live. From the knowing way she took in the whole scene with a swivel-necked glance, Clay guessed the woman was a police officer.

  The woman stopped at the tape and, showing her warrant card, said, ‘Detective Sergeant Deborah Abbott. Victim Liaison, Durham Police.’

  To Clay’s eyes, she looked like the unit’s head girl.

  ‘DCI Eve Clay. I’m leading the investigation.’

  As Clay reached in her pocket for her own warrant card, DS Abbott said, ‘It’s OK. I recognise you.’

  Clay glanced at the car. ‘Where’s Sandy Patel?’

  ‘He wanted to come here, but his old school friend talked him out of it. He’s with Tom Price and his family, 132 Menlove Avenue.’

  ‘How was he on the journey down from Durham?’

  ‘It’s been a long drive, DCI Clay. He’s swinging between despair and denial.’

  ‘Is he acting?’

  ‘I don’t think he has any involvement in what’s happened here,’ said DS Abbott.

  ‘Is there any mileage in talking to him now?’ asked Clay.

  ‘No!’ Abbott was adamant. ‘He went to pieces when he saw his friend.’ Abbott looked at the house and said, ‘In my opinion, you’d be better trying him first thing in the morning.’

  Clay dipped under the tape to follow Abbott across the snow to her Audi but paused in her tracks when she heard someone saying ‘Eve?’

  She turned and saw Terry Marsh. His voice was little more than a whisper.

  ‘Kate Patel died trying to defend Freya, her youngest child. Judging by the blood splatter on the walls, door and frame, they killed her in Freya’s bedroom doorway, the room next to Alicia’s. The drag mark on the carpet from Freya’s room to the staging of the bodies, it’s clearly Mrs Patel.’

  Clay called the order of death. Kate Patel fourth, then Freya in her bedroom, Alicia last. Kate’s eyes removed before Freya and Alicia were murdered. ‘Anything else?’ she asked.

  ‘Waiting for forensic analysis of what we’ve pulled to come back, but judging by the height of the child and the fact that the blood’s mainly on one bedroom wall, she wasn’t attacked as she stood up. There were splinters of what looked like skull and brain tissue in the blood on the wall. I’m pretty certain the murder weapon was metal.’

  He took out his iPhone. Clay’s stomach tightened in the brief moments before he turned the screen towards her, showing her an image of the little girl’s bedroom wall.

  ‘DCI Clay?’ DS Abbott called as she got into the Audi.

  As Clay walked towards Abbott, she imagined how the scene in the bedroom would have played out.

  She pictured the child being dragged from her bed, waking up to bloody mayhem.

  Abbott was sitting in the car.

  A pair of hands held the child by the feet, upside down against the wall.

  The car window slid down.

  The little girl’s face, staring at the upside-down monsters as the metal bar flew at her head.

  Abbott handed Clay a folded piece of paper. ‘This is Sandy’s mobile number and the landline for Tom Price’s home on Menlove Avenue.’

  ‘Thanks for all you’ve done,’ Clay said. ‘Safe journey back to Durham.’

  She tapped the number into her iPhone and listened to it ringing as the Audi rounded the corner onto Aigburth Road and disappeared into the fog. She wished she could just drive away too.

  There was something hypnotic in the ringtone that made her think of the musical mobile that hung above Philip’s bed. For a moment she pictured herself watching Philip fall asleep in the blue light of his night-light, Thomas standing behind her, his arms around her.

  Someone picked up at the other end and she snapped out of it.

  ‘Hello?’ It was a mature man, his tone sombre. In the background it sounded like someone was being tortured.

  ‘Hello, my name’s DCI Eve Clay. Is that Mr Price?’

  ‘The boy’s in pieces, absolutely distraught.’

  ‘I can hear that. I do need to speak to Sandy. I’ll come to your house later this morning, at nine.’
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  ‘We’ll do everything we can, DCI Clay, to calm him.’

  ‘Thank you. Please don’t let him out of your sight, Mr Price. Nine o’clock.’

  He hung up, but the unrestrained screaming continued ringing in Clay’s ears for a long while after.

  16

  6.15 am

  As night crawled towards dawn, it was as cold in the incident room of Trinity Road police station as it was on the street outside. For although it was a new building, the central-heating system was a joke with two punchlines: ice-cold and red-hot.

  Clay kept her coat on and sat down at her desk. With one hand wrapped around a mug of black coffee and her iPhone in the other, she watched her breath in the glow of the desk lamp, the only light on in the empty room.

  She felt the hinge of her jaw shivering but didn’t know if it was the cold or what she had just received on her iPhone: switchboard had sent her the complete version of Alicia Patel’s 999 call to the emergency services.

  Her phone buzzed and vibrated. She looked at the screen.

  A text from Hendricks. Something very strange on Mrs Patel’s body.

  Clay put the mug on her desk and gazed deeply into the darkness beyond the reach of her desk light. She pressed play on Alicia Patel’s 999 call.

  The call transferred to the police operative.

  The sound of Alicia Patel’s feet scrambling up the stairs. Behind her the perpetrators running after her. On the landing above, her mother screaming, ‘Get in your room, Alicia, get in your room, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Hello, where are you calling from?’ The operator calm but loud against the din in the house.

  It sounded like Alicia had just made it onto the landing as she shouted back, ‘38, The Serpentine, off Aigburth Road.’

  They were on the landing too, but they must have stopped because their feet were still and their mouths were silent.