Philip Brennan 03-Cage of Bones

by Tania Carver

  But just because she hadn’t said anything didn’t mean she hadn’t been doing anything …

  Donna dropped the fag at her feet, ground it out.

  ‘Tell me about this book, Ben. Tell me all about it … ’

  And he had. As much as he had known.

  And that was why they had come back to the house.

  A few days ago, Donna would have said the book didn’t exist. Or if it did, it was just some fairy story Faith had made up. But after the things she had been through, the fear she had encountered, the loss … she was willing to believe anything now.

  She found a space down from her house, pulled in. Checked the street. Both directions. Nothing that looked suspicious. Nothing that screamed law. She had seen enough stakeouts – been caught in enough – to know what to look for. And she prided herself on her street sense. She knew just which punter to go with, which one to drop if she got a bad vibe about him, thought he would hurt her and not pay. And she was always right. Always.

  But she saw nothing on the street. Nothing – and no one – that got her senses tingling.

  She switched the engine off, turned to Ben. ‘Right then, kid. Where did your mum keep this book, d’you know?’

  He shook his head. Then thought a little. Eyes screwed up tight, trying to work it out. Bless him, thought Donna. The kid really wanted to help.

  ‘My room,’ he said at last. ‘Or yours. And Mum’s.’

  ‘Right.’ Another look up and down the street. ‘You stay here, then. Keep your head down, don’t talk to anyone. Don’t let anyone know you’re here, OK? Just be as quiet as you can.’

  ‘But I want to come with you.’

  ‘I know you do, kid. But it’s better if you stay here.’

  ‘Might them men be waitin’ in the house?’ Fear in his voice.

  Christ, she thought, I hope not. ‘No,’ she said, hopefully sounding more confident than she felt. ‘I’ll not be long. Soon as I get the book, I’ll be straight back out.’

  ‘’Cos I’m strong,’ Ben said. ‘If they attack you, I’ll defend you. I will.’

  Donna looked at the boy. Saw fear on his features. Bravery, too. He had lost his mother. And he didn’t want to lose her too. Emotions swirled round inside Donna. Loss. Responsibility. Protection. She had never felt like this before. All the things she had tried to avoid, to keep herself immune from. Here, now, all together. She was all over the place.

  She opened her jacket. The kitchen knife glinted. ‘Still got this. Don’t worry. You just keep your head down. Won’t be long.’

  She thought about kissing him, decided against it. She wasn’t ready for that yet. Even though her heart was saying she was.

  Donna crossed the street, found the front-door key and, with another quick look round, was in the house, door closed behind her. She stood with her back to it, listened. Nothing. Only the sound of the street outside, her own heavy breathing.

  She scoped the living room. Exactly as she had left it. Or it seemed to be. She looked for little things, ornaments, magazines, things only she would know the correct positioning of, indicators of whether someone had been there, moving things and trying not to let it show. She could find nothing out of the ordinary. She went upstairs.

  Towards their bedroom.

  Her bedroom. She had to get used to saying it.

  She stopped, looked round. Something felt wrong. She didn’t know what, but it wasn’t right. Fingering the knife in her pocket, she entered the room.

  Crossed to the chest of drawers, opened the top one. The underwear drawer she shared with Faith.

  Had shared with Faith.

  The things in it were always neatly rolled. Now, they were all over the place.

  She checked the top of the chest of drawers. Saw fingerprints in the dust. Clean smudges, small but unmistakable, telling her that someone had been there. She opened the second drawer. Same as the first. everything thrown around.

  Opened the third. Neat. Just like she had left it.

  She closed it again. Thought. Two messed-up drawers, one neat one. Someone was looking for something. Probably the same as her: the book. And they had stopped. Which meant one of two things. Either they had found it, in which case they must have left, or …

  They were still looking for it.

  And she had disturbed them.

  Donna turned, tried to get the knife out of her jacket pocket. Too slow. An arm gripped her round the neck, pulled her down; a hand pushed her arm behind her back up to her shoulder blades. She felt her bones creak.

  ‘Thought you’d fuck me over, eh? Thought you were cleverer than me, you little whore, did you?’ Another pull on her arm. ‘Well, you feeling clever now?’

  Donna knew just who it was. That bitch policewoman.

  She pulled her arm further.

  Donna screamed.

  61

  Mickey stared at the photo. Stared, stared, stared … Got him.

  Adam Weaver’s identity had been in his mind constantly, yet just tantalisingly – and irritatingly – out of reach. But now he had him. Mickey had known it was only a matter of time. Known that once he’d started his mental Rolodex spinning, it would come to him eventually.

  And it had.

  He got up from his desk, wanting to punch the air. Do a lap of honour round the incident room. Down a large whisky.

  Glass stared over at him. Frowned. ‘Everything all right, DS Philips?’

  Mickey gave a small smile. ‘Everything’s fine, sir, thanks.’ Then felt he needed more. ‘Thanks for asking.’

  Glass’s eyes narrowed. Unsure of whether Mickey was taking the piss or not. Mickey just nodded at the DCI, then put his head back down, returned to what was in front of him. Adam Weaver. Well, well, well. Robin Banks indeed.

  He looked round the office once more, news almost bursting from him. He wanted to tell someone, needed to share it. But none of his usual confidants were around. Anni was off at the hospital; the boss was out. And he certainly didn’t want to share it with Glass. He looked at his watch, picked up his phone, went outside.

  Through the double doors, into the car park.

  Phil answered. ‘What you got, Mickey?’ Noise in the background. In the car, Mickey guessed. Listening to one of his God-awful CDs. Mickey tried to listen, make it out. He should know it; after all, he’d been subjected to the stuff enough times. Midlake? Band of Horses? Probably. Sounded a bit like them. You could hear the beard in the voice. Might even be Warren Zevon, although Mickey felt sure that was something Phil played just to annoy him. He couldn’t really like it.

  ‘I’ve got him, boss. Weaver. I’ve got him.’

  The music faded away. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Well I’m pretty sure, anyway. His real name’s Richard Shaw.’

  ‘Richard Shaw, Richard Shaw … I know that name … ’

  ‘Yeah, you probably will. When I was in the Met, I was on the team working a case against these north London gangsters. Was a big one, loads of us on it. Been trying to get a conviction for years. Eventually we caught one of the inner retinue, got him bang on. Made him a deal. He turned grass.’

  ‘Was it the Shaws who did the electric shock thing with an old field telephone?’

  ‘That was the Richardsons.’

  ‘The maniac with the hammer?’

  ‘That was the Richardsons too.’

  ‘What did the Shaws have? What was their USP?’

  ‘Fear, mainly. They used anything that came to hand. Everyone knew that if they stepped out of line, that was it, they were gone. Vicious bunch of bastards. Anyway, it looked like we had this case against them. Richard Shaw. And his old man, also Richard Shaw. Tricky Dicky, the old guy was called. Used to be a real big noise back in the day.’

  ‘And which one have we got?’

  ‘The son.’

  ‘Why’s he turned up here?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mickey, ‘that’s the thing. We were moving in on them, building this case, knowing we were only going to get
one shot at it, knowing it had to be a good one, the best – and then … nothing. They disappeared.’

  ‘What, the whole family?’

  ‘Whole lot. Just vanished. Like that. Thin air. And it wasn’t the first time.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘The father, Tricky Dicky, had pulled a disappearing act years earlier. He was vicious. A stone psychopath. At the time, everyone thought he’d been murdered.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘No body. No trace. Nothing. Which isn’t unusual, of course. But no one knew where he’d gone. And then his son did the same thing.’

  ‘What about Spain?’

  ‘Our first thought. But Shaw Junior and his crowd never turned up there. No one saw them. There wasn’t even any word about them arriving secretly. Nothing.’

  ‘So what, then?’

  ‘Well, rumour had it they’d been taken out of the country. But not Spain, like I just said. Other rumours had it that they were all dead. Young Richard had ordered a hit on whoever squealed, and anyone who got in the way was just collateral damage. But like I say, these were just rumours. No one knew where any of them had gone.’

  ‘Until now.’

  ‘Until now.’

  ‘Brilliant work, Mickey. A real breakthrough. Well done.’

  Mickey smiled. ‘Thanks, boss.’

  ‘What you going to do now?’

  ‘Get back on it. Hunt down all the files I can about the Shaws. See if anything matches, if I can get a handle on what’s happening here.’

  ‘Good stuff.’ Phil gave a small laugh. ‘You must be keen. That’ll involve paperwork, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  It was well known just how much Mickey detested paperwork. Even among naturally report-writing-averse police officers, Mickey’s hatred of it was legendary.

  ‘What about you, boss?’

  ‘I’m just off to the hospital. See Anni. Find out what’s happening with the kid.’

  ‘Right. We’ll catch up later. Give my regards to Anni.’ Mickey didn’t know if Phil had heard, but he did hear the volume on the music being pushed back up as the call was broken. Midlake. Definitely. Or Band of Horses.

  Mickey turned, making his way back into the building. Nearly jumped out of his skin.

  Glass was standing right behind him.

  Mickey actually clutched his chest. ‘God … ’

  Glass smiled. ‘Just me.’

  Mickey said nothing. Tried to walk past him. Glass put a restraining hand on his chest.

  ‘Just a moment, Detective Sergeant.’

  Mickey stopped, waited. He really disliked the man. The previous one had been bad enough, but Glass … He should have been perfect. Mickey should have responded well to him. A straight-down-the line copper. No-nonsense. But he hadn’t. Maybe he had worked with Phil too long. Adopted his methods.

  ‘Who was that on the phone? DI Brennan?’

  Mickey knew it was a bad idea to lie. Even if he didn’t want to tell the truth. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Glass nodded, as if a suspicion was confirmed. ‘And why did you have to call him out here? Isn’t the office good enough?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. I had something to tell him. This felt like the best way.’

  ‘And what would that be, Detective Sergeant?’

  Mickey knew he was taking a chance with what he was about to say, but he said it anyway. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you, sir. DI Brennan asked me to look into an aspect of the investigation that was potentially … sensitive. I was following his orders.’

  Glass clearly didn’t like the answer but had to accept it. He nodded, face unhappy. ‘And where is DI Brennan now?’

  Mickey had to tell the truth this time. No option. ‘On his way to the hospital.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Mickey made to go. Glass stopped him again.

  ‘You’re a first-rate detective. Don’t let certain … associations come before achieving your potential. Do you understand what I’m saying, Detective Sergeant?’

  ‘I think so, sir. But I’d better get back to work.’

  He walked back into the building, trying to put the encounter, and Glass’s disturbing final words, out of his mind.

  Focus on finding out everything he could about Richard Shaw.

  Doing his job, he thought, would be the best way to achieve his potential.

  But Glass’s words were still in his mind …

  62

  ‘Don? You OK?’

  He kept advancing towards her. Marina felt her heart quicken. This wasn’t the Don she knew.

  ‘Don … ’

  He reached her. ‘What are you doing in here, Marina?’

  ‘Looking for you.’ Her voice a lot more level and calm than she felt.

  He looked behind her at the door. She caught the look, knew immediately what he was thinking. A self-locking handle. She hadn’t locked it. She made swift mental calculations, adding up whether she could turn, beat him to it.

  Get out into the corridor. Run.

  Then another voice entered her head. Muddied her thinking. But this is Don we’re talking about …

  ‘Did they send you?’ Don’s voice low, hard.

  ‘Did who send me, Don?’

  ‘Them,’ he said. ‘Glass and … and that lot.’

  ‘No. No one sent me. I just came looking for you. I wanted to talk to you.’

  He stopped. Frowned. ‘Why? What about?’

  ‘Phil,’ she said.

  At the mention of his adoptive son, Don sighed. The tension leaving his body, his shoulders sagging, legs bending. No threat in him any more. More like the old man she knew, Marina thought.

  ‘So you know, then.’ His voice tired.

  ‘Know what? Don, I wish I did.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I wish he’d tell me what’s wrong. There’s something going on with him. Something … not right,’ said Marina. ‘At first I thought it was us. Me. Me and him, I mean, our relationship. But it’s not that. It’s more than just that.’

  He moved nearer to her. The overhead light flickering, glinting off his eyes.

  Marina moved backwards. ‘Were you going to hurt me when I came in here, Don?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Hurt you? Good God, no. Why would I want to hurt you, Marina?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me. It looked like I’d interrupted you in the middle of something that you didn’t want me to know about. Looked like you were pretty angry about it.’

  ‘Oh. That.’ Don gave a shamefaced smile. ‘Sorry.’ He patted his side, beneath his jacket. ‘Needed a bit of … extra reading. Not strictly speaking legal extra reading.’

  Marina returned the smile. ‘I see. Just don’t do it again.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I won’t. But you have to be careful in here. Have to know who you can trust and who … who … you know.’

  ‘And who can you trust, Don?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Of course I can trust you. I’m sorry.’

  They stood looking at each other, saying nothing. The only sound in the records room the fizzing and spitting of the overhead strips.

  ‘You wanted to talk to me about Phil,’ said Don eventually, his voice carrying the weight of the world within it.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  He shook his head. ‘Where to start?’ He gave a quick look round as if fearful of being overheard, leaned in close to her. ‘D’you know anywhere round here that does coffee? Good coffee, I mean. Not the failed biological warfare experiments they serve in the machines in here.’

  ‘Yeah. I do. Want to go?’

  ‘I think that’s a good idea. And then I can tell you. About Phil … ’

  63

  Donna screamed.

  Felt her arm being wrenched from its socket, pushed hard up her back. Heard – and felt – the tearing sound through her body. She screamed again. The pain increased.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the copper’s voice between gasps, ‘that’s it. On your knees
now, bitch.’

  And that did it. That one word.

  Bitch.

  Donna hated it. Refused to hear it. Certainly wouldn’t let a punter get away with saying it, no matter how much he paid her. Well, maybe she had done in the past, when she’d been desperate, but she had insisted on extra. Up front. And hated herself for it afterwards. Told the john there were plenty of girls who made a living that way, but she wasn’t one of them.

  Bitch.

  She hated it. Wouldn’t take it. It was one of the two things she couldn’t abide, the other being a slap in the face. Anyone did that to her, she would turn round, punch them out. Same as the word. Bitch.

  It worked on her like spinach on Popeye. Gave her super strength. Made her super angry.

  Super fucking angry.

  She felt Rose Martin pushing her down, felt her knees start to buckle.

  ‘That’s it, you fucking bitch, go on—’

  And the world turned scarlet, spun off its axis.

  Donna didn’t kneel, didn’t go anywhere near the floor. She lifted her right foot, brought it down as hard as possible on Rose Martin’s right instep.

  The policewoman screamed.

  Donna felt the grip loosening. She wouldn’t get another chance. Leave it too long and it would just make her angry. She stamped down again, harder this time. Caught the copper’s shin as she did it.

  Another scream, another loosening of her grip.

  Donna pushed down with her arm, as hard as she could. Got it loose, bent it back, shoved her elbow with all her strength into Rose Martin’s ribs. Caught her right on the diaphragm. Felt the air huff out of her.

  Donna turned quickly, saw Rose Martin preparing to come back at her. Without thinking too much about it, she reached over to the bedside table, picked up the lamp. It was small, light and cheap, but it would have to do. She swung it as hard as she could. It connected with Rose Martin’s cheekbone. She followed through, put all her strength into the shot. Saw the copper’s head snap back, her body spin round.

  Rose Martin hit the side of the bed, fell to the floor.

  Donna threw the lamp aside, brought her leg back, took aim, let loose a kick. Rose Martin screamed. Donna heard and felt ribs splinter and crack. She swung her foot back, ready to do it again. Feeling the adrenalin course through her, loving the sense of power it gave her. She smiled. Kicking a copper. Brilliant.