Philip Brennan 03-Cage of Bones

by Tania Carver

  ‘How can I help?’

  Mickey’s hands fidgeted. He tried to find the words. Marina waited.

  ‘I’ve been … compromised.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Mickey heaved out a deep sigh. Started. ‘With … someone connected to the investigation.’

  ‘A suspect?’

  ‘No,’ he said, but sounded unsure. ‘A … I don’t even think she’s a witness. But she’s involved in some way.’

  ‘Who?’

  Mickey told her. All about meeting Lynn Windsor. Her phone call. Asking him to go round. Telling him she had something important for him to see. Asking him not to tell anyone else about their meeting.

  ‘And did she? Have something for you to see?’

  Mickey almost smiled. ‘Oh yeah, but it wasn’t anything to do with the investigation.’

  Marina gave a small smile, nodded. Mickey continued.

  ‘I spent the night,’ he said. ‘I know I shouldn’t have done, shouldn’t even have gone there. At least not without telling someone else first. And I shouldn’t have been … ’

  ‘Thinking with your dick?’

  Mickey reddened, studied the carpet. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Marina said. ‘You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.’ She smiled. ‘How d’you think Phil and I got together?’

  ‘I know,’ he said, nodding, ‘but it’s not just that. There’s something else.’

  Marina waited while Mickey found the correct words, got himself in the right state to voice them.

  ‘I think … I’ve been played.’

  Marina frowned. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Just … something that happened earlier today. This morning. I turned my phone off. Last night. When I was with Lynn. When I turned it on this morning, there were no missed calls from Glass.’

  ‘Should there have been?’

  ‘Yeah. He’d been calling me all yesterday evening. Trying to get me back to work after what happened at the hospital. Loads of calls, apparently. I didn’t get any of them.’

  ‘Curious.’

  ‘And that’s not all. I had a few texts. One was from an informant telling me, well, what I said in the briefing this morning. About Weaver being killed by a Lithuanian hitman.’

  Marina nodded. ‘And?’

  I’ve just been to meet with my informant. He never said that at all. Said there was some shipment coming in tonight and we needed to be on it.’

  Marina sat back. ‘But how did—’

  ‘That’s not all,’ said Mickey. ‘When I checked again, I found that the number the text had come from, although it had my informer’s name next to it, was Lynn Windsor’s.’

  ‘Get her in then. Get her questioned.’

  ‘But what about … ’

  ‘I don’t see that there’s a problem. Not in this instance. This wouldn’t have come to light if you hadn’t slept with her. She must have done all this while you were sleeping.’

  ‘She was walking around at one point … ’

  ‘Then bring her in.’

  ‘Can’t see Glass going for it, somehow.’

  ‘You’re running the investigation now, remember?’

  Mickey smiled, nodded. ‘True. If I bring her in for questioning, will you help?’

  Marina smiled. ‘It’ll be a pleasure.’

  Mickey stood up. ‘Then I’ll go and get her. Thanks for the chat.’

  ‘Any time,’ said Marina, watching Mickey leave the room.

  She stood up too. Took out her phone, thought about calling Phil. Replaced it. Best let him have a little space to himself. He’ll call me when he needs me, she thought.

  She went back to work.

  98

  ‘So have SOCA had their budget cut, then?’

  Phil was walking round the hotel room, picking things up, replacing them, grimacing with disgust at the dirt and mess in the place.

  ‘No one would look for us in a place like this,’ said Fennell.

  ‘Not unless they were mental,’ said Don.

  Phil laughed. ‘So why here?’

  Clemens shrugged. ‘We got a good deal.’

  Phil smiled. ‘Oh, I get it. That last Immigration raid. Were you lot behind it?’

  The two men said nothing.

  ‘Raid the place, close it down and just happen to get slipped a set of keys. Your own little base for your adventures. Very clever.’

  ‘Look,’ said Clemens, ‘can we get down to business?’

  ‘What, no cuppa?’ Phil examined the tea-making accoutrements. Grimaced once more. ‘Perhaps not.’ He sat in a chair by the window. Hoped it would hold his weight.

  ‘Tell me about DCI Glass,’ he said.

  Fennell obliged. ‘We’ve had Glass under observation for some time.’

  ‘He came to our attention a while ago. Picked him up on the radar because of his criminal activities.’

  ‘Such as?’ asked Don.

  ‘Drugs,’ said Fennell.

  ‘People-trafficking. Sexual slavery,’ said Clemens.

  ‘Helping Eastern European criminal gangs get a foothold over here.’

  ‘Why d’you think he wanted the job here?’ said Clemens. ‘Colchester’s just next to Harwich. A nice little supply chain coming in from Europe.’

  ‘Forgive me if this is an obvious question,’ said Phil. ‘But if you’ve got all this on him, why haven’t you arrested him?’

  ‘Because these things take time,’ said Fennell.

  ‘Getting a case together, doing it surreptitiously so he doesn’t get wind of it, reeling in his known associates,’ said Clemens.

  ‘Making sure it’s watertight … All takes time.’

  ‘Plus,’ said Clemens, ‘we want him caught in the act.’

  ‘Preferably with his associates,’ said Fennell.

  ‘So when’s that going to happen?’ asked Donna. Phil could see she was determined not to be ignored, sidelined. He admired that spirit in her. ‘Today, tomorrow, when? You’re just going to let him go till then?’

  ‘Tonight,’ said Fennell.

  ‘There’s a new shipment coming in through Harwich,’ said Clemens. ‘We’re going to catch him there.’

  ‘Shipment?’ said Don. ‘Of what?’

  ‘People,’ said Fennell.

  ‘Girls,’ said Clemens. ‘Children. All from Eastern Europe.’

  Phil saw Donna’s head drop. Caught the look of despair in her eyes. She instinctively glanced towards the little boy. He looked exhausted. He had curled up on the side of the bed, was nodding off to sleep.

  Donna looked up again. Phil could see the anger in her eyes. ‘So that’s it, is it? You’re going to catch him at Harwich. What about what happened in my house? He murdered Rose Martin. He would’ve killed me an’ Ben as well. Why didn’t you get him then?’

  ‘We’re sorry about Rose Martin,’ said Fennell.

  ‘Sorry? Sorry? Sorry doesn’t cut it, mate. You just going to leave her there?’

  ‘Look,’ said Clemens, his own anger rising, ‘what happened to her was unfortunate. But we have to look at the bigger picture. You should too.’

  ‘You bastard, you … ’ Donna was off the bed and making her way across the room to Clemens. Fennell grabbed hold of her, restrained her.

  ‘Donna,’ he said, his voice low and reasonable, ‘calm down.’

  On the bed, Ben began to stir. He opened his eyes, saw what was happening, cowered back into the pillows.

  ‘You’re scaring the boy,’ said Phil, standing up. ‘Let her go.’

  Fennell looked round, saw Ben. Let Donna go. She returned to the bed, sat next to the boy, an arm round him. Fennell kept talking.

  ‘We did argue about what we should do with Rose Martin. We knew there would be enough of Glass’s DNA in the house to implicate him, no matter how he tried to clean up.’

  ‘And we also had a first-hand witness testimony,’ said Clemens. ‘Assuming you’d do it. So we weren’t too bothered about that. We th
ought it might pay off to keep watching the house. See who else turned up.’

  ‘And look who did,’ said Don.

  ‘But don’t worry,’ said Fennell, addressing Donna directly. ‘A forensic team will be in there very shortly.’

  ‘Our forensic team,’ said Clemens. ‘Not local. Wouldn’t want the possibility of accidental contamination, would we?’

  Phil stared at the man. He could understand why Donna would want to hit him.

  Silence fell while everyone regathered. Eventually Don spoke.

  ‘Glass,’ he said, nodding to himself. ‘Yeah. Always had him pegged as a bad ’un. Well, always suspected it, anyway.’

  ‘You knew him, then?’ said Fennell.

  ‘Back in his uniform days,’ said Don, ‘when I was a DI in CID. A thug. He was always a thug. But a clever one. An ambitious one.’

  ‘He still is,’ said Clemens.

  Don frowned. ‘But something happened to him after the Garden case. He wasn’t the same. He wasn’t better, far from it. He was worse. Even cockier. Even more happy to throw his weight around. Like he had protection. Couldn’t be touched.’

  ‘And then what?’ said Fennell.

  ‘That’s when his career took off,’ said Don. ‘And I hardly ever saw him again. We stopped moving in the same circles.’

  ‘This Garden case,’ said Clemens to Don. ‘Tell us about it.’

  99

  ‘Paul Clunn,’ said Don. That was his name. He founded the Garden.’

  Phil listened once more. Tried not to think of the previous night.

  ‘A city worker who had either a vision or a nervous breakdown, depending how you look at it. Bought a country house and filled it with similarly afflicted souls.’

  ‘Was Glass one of them?’ said Clemens.

  ‘No,’ said Don. ‘I’ll get to him in a minute. Be patient.’

  ‘When was this?’ asked Fennell.

  ‘Late sixties, early seventies,’ said Don. ‘Places like that were popular for a time. This one followed the usual pattern. Surround some vaguely charismatic leader with a load of followers desperate to hear what they think is the truth.’

  ‘Strange name,’ said Phil. ‘Not the most charismatic.’

  ‘I’m sure he overcompensated,’ said Don. ‘Anyway, it was ensured that the followers renounced all their worldly goods on the way in. Apparently that led them to find enlightenment.’

  ‘And did it?’ asked Clemens.

  Don shrugged. ‘As much as they could, I suppose. For a while, at any rate. The Garden certainly did. It became very wealthy.’

  ‘Not surprised,’ said Fennell.

  ‘We looked into their finances,’ said Don. ‘They invested the money in property mainly.’

  ‘Like the house at the bottom of East Hill,’ said Phil.

  ‘At one time,’ said Don. ‘Probably hidden by a paper trail now. But uncover that, and I’ll bet you’ll find it still leads back to the Elders.’

  ‘The Elders?’ said Phil.

  ‘Clunn didn’t do all this on his own,’ said Don. ‘He had helpers. Followers who shared his vision.’

  ‘Or breakdown,’ said Phil.

  ‘Right. But these were more than followers. They became the Elders. They all had titles. Clunn was the Seer. The visionary. There was the Portreeve. He was in charge, ran things on a dayto-day basis. Guy who did that was called Robert Fenton.’

  ‘Fenton?’ said Phil. ‘That name rings a bell … ’

  ‘He seemed all right,’ said Don. ‘Straight. Sharing in Clunn’s vision. And June Boxtree. She was the Lawmaker. Same for her. There was another one. The Missionary. Responsible for recruitment. Used to take the good-looking young ones out on a weekend, stand them on street corners rattling a tin, engaging passers-by in conversation. Getting them to come to meetings. He scarpered when the place was raided.’ Don smiled. It soon faded. ‘But the other two … ’ He shook his head. ‘Bad. Very bad.’

  ‘You remember all this well,’ said Clemens.

  ‘Like it was yesterday,’ said Don. ‘Every copper has his case, doesn’t he? The one that haunts him. The one that still has him waking up in the middle of the night. Well this was mine. I remember it all right. Every single detail.’

  ‘The other two?’ prompted Fennell.

  ‘Yes, the other two. One was called the Teacher. Gail Banks. A very nasty piece of work. A hard, cold woman. She hid her cruelty behind the Garden’s peace and love. If she’d been born earlier and Irish, she’d have run the Magdalene laundries. And she’d have loved it. As it was, her heyday was the late sixties. So she became the most militant of feminists.’

  ‘Accent on the militant,’ said Fennell.

  ‘Yes.’ Don nodded. ‘In the same way Hitler was militant. She was cut-price Germaine Greer. Having joyless sex with anyone just to prove a point. Or score one. Punishing the communists when they’d been bad. Especially the children. Especially the girls. But even her monstrousness wasn’t as bad as the other player.’

  ‘Who?’ said Fennell.

  ‘Richard Shaw.’

  Phil couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Not Tricky Dicky Shaw? The gangster?’

  ‘The very same. Apparently when he came to the Garden he was genuine about it. Looking to change his life. Start over. That’s what he said, anyway. And he was believed, welcomed in. Gave another name, of course.’

  ‘Not Robin Banks, by any chance?’ asked Phil.

  Donna, arm curled round the sleeping Ben, laughed.

  ‘No. George Weaver.’

  Phil nodded. ‘Of course. Makes sense.’

  ‘We still don’t know if he was just hiding out, lying low. Or whether he was genuine. Doesn’t matter now. He told them he was an artist. Began to paint. And began to take an interest in horticulture. So he became one of the Elders too. Called himself the Gardener.’

  ‘This Garden place,’ said Donna, her voice quiet so as not to wake Ben. ‘Is it the same one as Faith talked about in her book?’

  Don looked towards Fennell and Clemens.

  ‘We’ll come to that,’ said Clemens. He looked at Don. ‘Keep going.’

  ‘Well the next thing that happened was that Banks and Shaw took over the running of the place. Sidelined the rest of the Elders, kept the Missionary on the streets the whole time.’

  ‘And Clunn?’

  ‘Made sure he was always doped up, out of his head. Permanently. There were rumours of ill-health, but nobody believed them. That was just a smokescreen so they could take over. Do what they wanted. And they did. Then it turned bad. Really bad.’

  ‘How bad?’ asked Donna. Fearful, like she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

  ‘The communists were starved, driven half mad. They were pimped out to whoever wanted them, to do whatever they wanted with them. Some of them never made it back. Some of them wished they hadn’t.’

  ‘I’ve heard all this,’ said Phil.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Don. ‘That’s when we raided the place.’

  ‘And they were all gone,’ said Phil, finishing for him.

  Don nodded. ‘They were gone. And that was the end of the Garden.’

  Silence. Fennell and Clemens exchanged glances. Fennell nodded.

  ‘No it wasn’t,’ said Clemens.

  100

  ‘The Garden didn’t die,’ said Fennell. ‘It continued.’

  ‘No it didn’t,’ said Don. ‘We searched for it everywhere. We hunted down the properties owned by the Garden, looked there. Checked them all out. We couldn’t find it anywhere. They sold the house, made it into a hotel.’

  ‘It kept going,’ said Fennell, brooking no argument. ‘And it’s still going now.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Donna, ‘it is. Faith escaped from it. She wrote about it. That’s what’s in the book. She got away from them. Someone she’d been hired out to bought her off them. And Ben.’ Donna shuddered. ‘An’ he was just as bad. So she took Ben and ran. That’s how she ended up with me. Well, eventually.
’

  ‘And she was trying to make a bit of money by selling the book to Glass,’ said Clemens. ‘The stupidest thing she could have done.’

  Donna said nothing. Just glared at him.

  ‘So where is it, if it’s still going now?’ asked Phil.

  ‘We’re not exactly sure,’ said Fennell.

  ‘But it does still exist,’ said Clemens. ‘And in a lot of respects, it’s the same as it used to be. They still pimp out the communists.’

  ‘Except they’re not really communists any more,’ said Fennell. ‘More like prisoners.’

  ‘But they’re still sold and hired.’

  ‘You don’t know where from, though?’ said Phil.

  Clemens shook his head. ‘We know it’s somewhere in the area. But we don’t know any more than that.’

  ‘And,’ said Fennell, ‘it’s still run by the Elders.’

  ‘What,’ said Don, ‘the same ones?’

  ‘No,’ said Fennell. ‘Not exactly. Tricky Dicky Shaw disappeared after the raid. June Boxtree was never heard of again. The first Missionary never went back. We don’t know what happened to him.’

  ‘What about the others? Robert Fenton?’ asked Phil.

  ‘Resurfaced eventually,’ said Clemens. ‘Retrained as a solicitor. Opened a practice in Colchester.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Don. ‘Wasn’t he arrested or anything?’

  Fennell shook his head. ‘Some kind of deal was struck. You know the kind of thing.’

  Phil looked at Don. He could tell his father wasn’t happy about that.

  ‘And the rest of them?’ said Don, bitterness showing in his voice.

  ‘Like I said, Tricky Dicky was never found. Paul Clunn disappeared too.’

  ‘Mind you,’ said Clemens, ‘he was so addled and mind-fucked by that time that he could have wandered off a cliff and not noticed. Probably thought he could fly.’

  ‘They didn’t replace Clunn when he went. Didn’t need to.’

  Phil was thinking. The tramp. Paul? Hadn’t that been his name? ‘I think I’ve met him,’ he said. He told them of his encounters with the tramp. Most of them. Not what he had discussed with him.

  ‘I let him go,’ he said eventually. ‘Didn’t think he could have done it. Like you said, brain completely addled. But he did have moments of lucidity. Few and far between.’