Philip Brennan 03-Cage of Bones

by Tania Carver

  But her jubilation was cut short. Rose Martin grabbed her ankle, caught it in mid-swing, twisted.

  Donna’s turn to scream. She felt her knee twist, heard cartilage rip, felt her leg go in the wrong direction. She tried to move with the twist, minimise the injury. She spun, hitting the floor hard.

  Saw Rose Martin claw herself up on to her knees, arm wrapped round her shattered ribs, moving towards her, intent on keeping going.

  Donna looked round the room for weapons, couldn’t see any.

  She felt for the kitchen knife. Lying there, she fumbled the blade from her pocket, hoped she had it to hand before Rose Martin started on her again. She pulled it free. Rose Martin was on her. Donna drew the blade back, gripping the handle, ready to stab.

  But didn’t.

  A scream rent the air. The two women paused, stared at the source.

  Ben was standing in the doorway. His face white, a horror-film death mask, he stared at the two women.

  Rose Martin pulled her blow. Put her arm down. Donna lowered the knife. Sat up on her elbows.

  ‘Ben. Come here … ’

  Ben didn’t move.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Rose Martin, looking straight at the boy but unable to hold his eyes. ‘I’m a police officer.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Donna, gasping for breath. ‘Like that’s gonna reassure him.’

  Rose sighed, looked at her. Donna looked back. The fight gone from the pair of them. A numb kind of embarrassment replacing it.

  Rose looked at the knife. ‘I think you’d better give that to me.’

  Donna glanced at it, then at Rose. Reluctantly handed it over. Rose pocketed it. Gripped the edge of the bed, tried to stand.

  ‘Want a hand?’

  Donna was trying to get up too.

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  The two women got painfully to their feet. Stood looking at each other.

  Donna’s first thought was to run, but she tamped it down. Yes, she had been about to attack a police officer with a knife. Yes, she had shattered her ribs. But that police officer had broken into her house and seriously assaulted her. So she imagined she wasn’t going down for this. And judging by the look on Rose Martin’s face, she was thinking something similar.

  Donna looked at Ben. ‘Go an’ put the kettle on. There’s a love.’

  The boy, still unblinking, disappeared from the bedroom.

  The two women looked at each other.

  ‘You set me up,’ said Rose Martin.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Donna. ‘I had to get away. As soon as I knew somethin’ bad had happened to Faith, just like she said it would, I knew I had to run.’

  Rose frowned. ‘What d’you mean, just like she said it would?’

  ‘She said that if something happened to her, if she died mysteriously, I was to take Ben and run. Because he’d be next. And then me.’

  Rose looked like she wanted to believe her, but seemed to have some way to go first. ‘So why are you back here?’

  Donna shrugged, attempted nonchalance. Failed. ‘Forgot somethin’.’

  ‘What?’

  She hesitated. And Rose was on her.

  ‘I said what?’

  Donna sighed. No point in lying now. ‘Faith left a book. A diary. Tellin’ everythin’ about who was after her, what had happened. She said it would be worth somethin’ to the right people.’

  ‘So where is it?’

  Donna shrugged again. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘You haven’t found it?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Rose Martin smiled. ‘Then I think we’ll look for it together, don’t you?’

  Donna knew she had no choice. She nodded.

  The two women, their bodies aching, their anger spent on each other, began the search.

  64

  The Gardener was out again. And it felt good. No, better than that. It felt right.

  He had waited until the policeman had gone, then made his appearance. Because he had work to do.

  Oh yes.

  And he was looking forward to it.

  The sacrifice was being returned to him. All he had to do was go and pick it up.

  He walked to the stretch of road, waited in the agreed place. Up the hill by the park. Under a tree. No one would speak to him, or even look at him. He was a non-person. Just like Paul was. But the Gardener didn’t mind that. In fact, he liked it. Fed on the energy of it. People ignored him. But he was more powerful than any of them realised. He was only letting them live as they walked past because it was too much trouble to kill them. He had the power of life and death over all of them.

  If only they knew it.

  Today was going to be special. The sacrifice would be returned and the ceremony could begin. And the future of the Garden would be assured.

  Then another thought came into his head. And when it did, his heart felt like a sinking stone inside his chest. He sighed, whatever happiness, energy he had been feeling draining out of him.

  He had nowhere to perform the sacrifice.

  The house was gone. All his tools, his ritual with it. The cage … the cage was gone …

  But there was another. He smiled to himself. Felt the stone lift in his chest. An even more sacred space. He had never attempted to do a sacrifice there before. But it made sense. It was the perfect place.

  Perfect.

  He was still thinking, still planning when his lift arrived. The driver had a baseball cap on and his collar turned up, but the Gardener still recognised him. He got in beside him.

  The Portreeve didn’t look happy. He looked scared.

  The Gardener said nothing to him. Just waited until he pulled away, then yanked his hood up.

  Smelled the rich, loamy smell. Felt comforted by it. Charged.

  Beside him, he felt the Portreeve’s fear increase.

  Good.

  Good …

  65

  Phil pulled up at the hospital. Parked, went inside. Flashed his warrant card at reception, asked where the boy under police surveillance was. Ignored the double-take the receptionist gave to his clothing.

  He thanked her, went on his way.

  He walked down corridors, mentally following the instructions he’d been given. As he rounded the final corner, he was expecting to find Anni, but was greeted instead by DCI Glass.

  Phil stopped walking. His heart sank. ‘Afternoon, sir,’ he said, as neutrally as he could.

  Glass turned, about to say something in return, stopped. ‘What … what’s that?’

  Phil kept a smile off his face. ‘What’s what, sir?’

  Glass pointed at him. ‘That … that … What are you wearing?’

  ‘I think you can see what it is, sir.’ Phil again kept his voice neutral.

  ‘A … a bow tie. An officer of mine is wearing a bow tie.’ Glass shook his head.

  ‘You said I needed to smarten myself up, sir. I thought a tweed jacket and bow tie would do the trick. They’re very fashionable at the moment, I believe, sir. Very on trend.’

  Glass’s lips became thin, bloodless. ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘Not at all, sir. It’s just the kind of thing that’ll play well in media briefings. The cameras’ll love it. Sir.’

  Glass’s face changed colour, deepened to an unattractive shade of heart-attack red. Well at least he’s in the right place, thought Phil. Glass moved in closer. No smile now, not even the pretence of one.

  ‘The cameras’ll love it, will they? The cameras’ll love it. No they won’t, Detective Inspector. No they won’t.’ His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. ‘Because you are going nowhere near a camera. You are going nowhere near a case in my department ever again. You are suspended from duty. Forthwith.’

  Phil felt anger rise within him. He knew the best thing to do would be to keep it contained, but he also knew that wasn’t an option. Not after what Glass had just said. ‘On what grounds?’

  A nasty smile smeared itself over Glass’s features. ‘I think that speaks for it
self. Insubordination. Incompetence. Negligence. Not following correct procedures. How does that sound so far?’

  Phil stepped in close to Glass. The DCI flinched. ‘Bullshit and you know it. All I have to do is phone the Super at Chelmsford. He knows me. He’ll back me up.’

  ‘He’ll also want to preserve the chain of command. He’ll want to be seen to be following grievance procedure. He’s open to scrutiny as well. He has his own job to think about before yours.’

  ‘So that’s it, is it? I’m out.’

  ‘You most certainly are.’

  A smile flitted across Phil’s features. ‘Then since I’m no longer a police officer, you won’t mind if I do this.’ He pulled his arm back, ready to punch the DCI.

  Glass stood his ground, stared straight into Phil’s eyes. ‘I’d think twice before you do that, if I were you.’

  ‘Why? You’re no longer my superior officer, and I’m no longer on the case.’

  ‘I’m thinking of your safety, Detective Inspector.’

  ‘My safety?’

  ‘Yes. You hit me and I’ll fucking kill you.’

  His stare level, icy. Phil didn’t doubt the sincerity behind his words.

  ‘I’ve read your file, Brennan. I know you’ve got previous where this is concerned. I know you’ve struck your superiors before and got away with it. Well not this one. Hit me and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.’

  Phil stared at him.

  Glass smiled. ‘That’s better. Now run along home. The proper police have got work to do.’

  Phil felt suddenly ridiculous standing there in a bow tie, even more so with the rage he was feeling inside him. He wanted so much to punch Glass. So, so much.

  Glass laughed. ‘Don’t. Hit me, you go down. And you don’t get back up again.’

  Anni came round the corner, stopped dead when she saw the two men before her.

  ‘Boss? What … what’s happening?’

  Phil turned. Tried to speak. No words came out.

  ‘I’ve just relieved DI Brennan of his position,’ said Glass. ‘From now on, you answer directly to me, Detective Constable Hepburn. Clear?’

  Anni turned to Phil. ‘What the hell’s happened? Has he gone mental?’

  ‘Keep talking like that, DC Hepburn,’ said Glass, ‘and you’ll be next.’

  Anni stared at the DCI, then shook her head, restraining herself.

  Glass caught the look. ‘Just get him out of here,’ he said, turning and walking away, shoulders and back bunched with tension.

  Anni looked back at Phil. ‘And what are you wearing?’

  ‘A bow tie,’ he said, then sighed. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’ Another sigh. He looked directly at Anni, turning his back on Glass, his voice a whisper. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me … ’

  Any kind of answer was cut short by a sound from the boy’s room. Phil knew immediately what it was. Not a car backfiring, he thought; that’s just a cliché. It was followed by a scream.

  He and Anni looked at each other.

  ‘Was that …?’

  ‘This way,’ said Anni. ‘Come on.’

  She ran round the corner, Phil following. The door to the boy’s room was open. Darkness inside.

  ‘I was only away for a couple of minutes,’ Anni said. ‘I left Jenny Swan, the psychologist, in there with him. He should be … ’

  She stopped talking as they entered the room. Jenny Swan was lying on the floor, unmoving. Blood pooling underneath her head. On the bed, the boy was backed up to the headboard, as far as he could go without burrowing into the wall behind him. Screaming. Screaming for his life.

  Before him, standing at the side of the bed, was a man Phil hadn’t seen before.

  The man realised he wasn’t alone, turned.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t come any closer. I mean it … ’

  And that was when Phil saw the gun.

  66

  Mickey leaned back, fingers interlaced behind his head, stretched his body. Felt the pull of the muscles down his arms, his sides. He flexed, stretched again. Took a deep breath, let it go. Relaxed again.

  He hated paperwork. Loathed it. Despised it. Some people, Milhouse for one, were natural-born desk jockeys. They loved nothing better than sitting in front of a computer screen, trawling through virtual facts and figures in an unreal world, emerging with something real and concrete at the end. Mickey couldn’t do that. He was built for action. He hated to admit it, knew the admission made him sound like some musclebound thug, the kind that volunteered for riot-squad work, but it was the truth. Not the riot-squad stuff; he couldn’t stand the kind of officers that arm of the job attracted. Just the action element. Thief-taking. Catching criminals. That kind of thing. Proper police work. Not sitting here in front of a screen, getting eye strain.

  But he had found out some interesting things. He had to admit that. The time hadn’t been wasted.

  So that was something.

  And the office felt better when Glass wasn’t there. Mickey had had reservations about him before the chat outside. An instinctive distrust of the man. Or a dislike. For Mickey, the two things were often the same.

  But Glass’s words kept running around his mind. Was the DCI right? Had he allied himself too closely with Phil? Would it impact on his career? He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about things like that.

  He rubbed his eyes, looked again at the screen. Richard Shaw. Tricky Dicky. Hadn’t been so clever about hiding his paper trail as he thought he had. Certainly not if Mickey could find it.

  He rubbed his eyes again. Couldn’t stand another second looking at this screen. He needed to get out.

  Mickey smiled to himself, took his phone out. Perfect, he thought. Just the excuse.

  ‘I want to meet,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘Now.’

  Fifteen minutes later, he was on the footbridge overlooking Balkerne Hill. On one side was the old Roman wall bordering the town centre. The Hole in the Wall pub built into the corner. On the opposite side, the upmarket suburb of St Mary’s. Beneath him, traffic roared down the dual carriage-ways in and out of the town.

  ‘Hello, Stuart,’ he said.

  Stuart was already there, staring down at the road. He looked up as Mickey approached.

  ‘You know I don’t like meeting in broad daylight,’ he said, eyes darting round, checking for spies. ‘Especially not somewhere like this.’

  Mickey smiled. ‘Perfect place, Stuart. Beats hanging round in some back alley or the corner of a dodgy boozer. Up here … no one’s looking. You’re ignored. You’re safe.’

  Stuart, Mickey could tell, didn’t look convinced.

  ‘So what did you want to see me about?’ he said, a sigh of resignation in his voice.

  Mickey looked at him. Stuart had been an informant longer than Mickey had been in Colchester. He had provided information for the previous DS in MIS and had seemed perfectly happy to let the arrangement continue with his successor. Today he looked rough. But then, Mickey thought, he always looked rough.

  Stuart was tall and thin, and his black Cuban-heeled suede boots had seen much better days. Probably when John Lennon was divorcing Cynthia. His jeans were also black, drainpipe-cut, barely clinging to his drainpipe legs. A once-black T-shirt now gone grey, proclaiming the name of some band Stuart was keeping the faith for. One that had split up, re-formed, split up again and had three of its founder members die through various forms of self abuse. A black waistcoat and the same black leather jacket he always wore, so old it had come back into fashion at least three times without him noticing it. And his hair was a filthy nest of artificially blackened spikes. He looked old enough to have been a mod, but dressed as if the last tribe he had followed had been punk, and seemed to have lost the energy to reinvent himself since.

  He claimed to be a poet. Although Mickey had never heard of him having anything published. He claimed he used to be a rock star. Although no one could ever remember him
doing any gigs or releasing any records. He had always endorsed the sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll lifestyle. Well, the drugs at any rate, thought Mickey. Still, he seemed to know everyone in the area, some good, most bad, and had a knack of finding things out from circles Mickey could never get into.

  ‘Tricky Dicky Shaw,’ said Mickey.

  Stuart frowned. ‘Tricky Dicky Shaw … there’s a blast from the past … ’

  ‘His son’s been in town,’ said Mickey. ‘Calling himself Adam Weaver. Just been killed at the Halstead Manor Hotel.’

  ‘Heard about that,’ said Stuart. ‘Any idea who did it?’

  ‘I was going to ask you that.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ He nodded. ‘Tricky Dicky Shaw … well I never … ’

  ‘D’you think you could have a bit of a nose-around? Find something out for me?’

  Stuart shrugged. ‘Sure. See what I can do.’ He screwed up his face again. Concentrating. ‘Adam Weaver … that name rings a bell.’

  ‘Good. Give you something to go on.’

  ‘When d’you want to hear something?’

  ‘When you’ve got something to tell me. Sooner rather than later would be good, though.’

  ‘Right you are, Mr Philips.’

  ‘OK. Call me when you’ve got something.’ Mickey turned to walk away. Stuart stopped him. Mickey turned.

  ‘Couldn’t give me a bit in advance, could you? On account?’

  Mickey sighed. He had been expecting this and come prepared, but it was a ritual he had to go through. He dug into his pocket, pulled out a tenner. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Much appreciated, Mr Philips. Hey, have I ever told you you’ve got the same name as the guy who discovered Elvis and Johnny Cash?’

  ‘Only every time we meet, Stuart,’ said Mickey with a weary smile. ‘And it’s only the surname, as you know. Ring me when you’ve got something.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  Mickey walked off. It wasn’t a car chase, he reasoned, but it beat doing paperwork.

  67