Philip Brennan 03-Cage of Bones

by Tania Carver

  ‘I’m … Don’t come any closer. You’ll do the same.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a … an entranceway here. A slope. I didn’t see it and I’ve just slid down it.’

  She saw the faint glow of torchlight against the darkness, went towards it. She reached the lip of the shaft Phil had fallen down. Knelt before it. It was just big enough for one person to go down, as long as they weren’t too wide. She could see him at the bottom, looking up. The sides, where the torchlight hit them, looked smooth. Too smooth to climb up again.

  ‘How are you going to get out?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe Paul’s down here. I’ll ask him.’

  ‘And maybe he isn’t.’ She sighed. ‘Have you still got that tow rope in the boot?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  ‘I’ll go and get it. Don’t wander off.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.’

  Marina stood up, made her way back out of the cave. She looked around, tried to get her bearings. The woods seemed scarier without Phil. Bigger, wilder. Things unseen lurking behind trees.

  Trying to swallow down the panic that was threatening to rise within her, and telling herself there was nothing to be scared of, she set off in what she hoped was the direction they had come from. Back to the hotel, back to the car.

  As quickly as she could.

  112

  The circus was on the move. Under cover of darkness and with the Super’s reluctant, angry blessing. Mickey sat in the first van of the convoy, up front with Fennell and Clemens. Body armour on over his day clothes, the two SOCA officers doing the same.

  The Super hadn’t been happy when Fennell had called him. Engaging in a clandestine operation on his turf without his consent was exactly the kind of thing to make him angry. But Fennell, displaying great political skill, had won him round. Reminded him what a feather in his cap it would be for a people-trafficking operation to be halted on his manor. That the covert joint operation (he had stressed the word joint) would result in the rooting out and successful capture of a corrupt police officer. How such a superintendent would be looked on by the Home Office in the next round of budget cuts. When all this was pointed out, whatever misgivings the Super had were kept to himself.

  Fennell had hung up, clearly happy with himself.

  Yeah, thought Mickey, now we just have to carry all of that out. Because if we don’t, it won’t be the SOCA glory boys who’ll take the blame. Not once they’ve involved the locals.

  The convoy drove along the A120 towards Harwich. There were two ports on the mouth of the River Stour. Felixstowe and Harwich. Most of the heavy cargo, Fennell had informed them all at the briefing, came through Felixstowe. And as a result it was the more carefully guarded of the two. Weaver and Balchunas’ cargo was coming in the Harwich side, where it would be less likely to be stopped and searched.

  They would get in place for the shipment, identify it, follow it to the lock-up.

  And then take them down.

  The firearms unit was in the van behind. Mickey felt uncomfortable with them around. The cowboy outfit, Phil always called them. The shoot-first-fill-in-compliance-forms-later brigade. He must have caught Phil’s allergy to them, Mickey thought, smiling to himself.

  They were approaching Harwich, going round the roundabouts, heading down to the port itself.

  Mickey always found Harwich a strange place. Away from the front, there were rabbit-warren streets of old Georgian houses, interesting local pubs and even a converted lighthouse. But the front, and the port, was different.

  They drove along the front and round to the side, the convoy coming to a halt in a car park by the edge of the water.

  Mickey got out, walked down to the sea.

  It was raining fully now, and dark. The only sound was the tide lapping against the shore, rough waves crashing in, fizzing out as they withdrew. Mickey pulled his coat around him. He could feel the cold, the damp penetrate.

  Felixstowe on the opposite side was lit up against the night. Etched against the darkness, it was all looming boxlike cranes and blinking lights. It looked sinister, alien. The port itself resembled a grounded alien spacecraft, no longer needing to cloak itself, wounded but still dangerous. The cranes along the shoreline, dark and top-heavy on foursquare legs, looked like the walkers from the old Star Wars films. Like they were the advance guard from the ship, about to come stomping across the estuary, all blackened and rusting, guns blazing.

  Mickey shivered. Hoped it was just the cold.

  Clemens got out of the van, came and stood beside him. He shook out a cigarette, lit up. Offered the pack to Mickey as an afterthought. Mickey refused.

  Clemens had been silent on the journey. Mickey didn’t know the man well enough to ask why.

  ‘Just heard,’ said Clemens, blowing smoke towards the other side of the estuary. ‘My partner. Slipped into a coma.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mickey. Then thought. ‘But isn’t Fennell your partner?’

  ‘Just drafted in. We know each other, have worked together before. But my other partner was sliced up a couple of days ago. He’s been fighting for his life since then.’

  Mickey didn’t know what to say. Thought he wasn’t expected to say anything, just listen.

  ‘And you know who did it?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That slag back at the hotel. Her.’

  Mickey said nothing. He could guess where this was going.

  ‘And she’s going to get away with it. Claim self-defence.’

  ‘Was it?’ asked Mickey. ‘Self-defence?’

  Clemens sighed. Shook his head. Blew more smoke. ‘Didn’t expect you to understand. Met your boss. See where you get it from now. Be trying to turn you into a Guardian reader too.’

  Mickey hadn’t taken to Clemens. Too quick to anger, too fast with his tongue. Looking for a fight. Not good traits to have in someone who was supposed to be watching your back. He would have to be aware of that.

  He didn’t reply. Didn’t rise to it.

  The two men kept looking across the water, not speaking, each in their own world.

  Others came out of the van to join them.

  Then Fennell arrived, putting his phone away.

  ‘Your boss said you were looking forward to doing some proper police work again,’ he said to Mickey. ‘Bit of thief-taking.’

  Mickey gave a grim smile. ‘Beats paperwork, I suppose.’

  ‘Certainly does.’ Fennell looked at his watch. ‘Time to get organised.’

  113

  Phil tried to stand. Slowly, unsure of how much space there was between his body and the ceiling of the cave. Not much. Not enough for him to stand fully upright.

  He checked himself out. No severe pains anywhere, nothing that indicated twisted ankles or broken bones. Just soreness resulting from the speed of the descent and the abruptness of the landing. He would hurt tomorrow.

  If he could get out again.

  He swung the torch around. The chamber he was in seemed to be a naturally occurring space that had been hollowed out further. Some of the rock looked smooth, age-worn; some looked hacked at, hewn.

  He turned round slowly. Played the torch in front of him.

  Someone lived down here.

  A bed frame of twisted, heavy branches held a mattress made from hessian sacking, straw and leaves spilling from loose seams. Some old blankets, holed and mildewed, had been thrown on to it. The whole thing stank.

  He looked more closely at the bed, trained his torch on it. There was what looked like another bed next to it, in the shadows. At the foot of it a small broken table. Probably liberated from the hotel’s bins, thought Phil. He shone the torch beam on the other bed. And recoiled as if he had been hit.

  Laid out there were the remains of a mummified corpse. Clothing rotted away, skin like dusty old leather. Bones sticking through. But preserved, reverentially. Either side of it were candles.

  Pulling his e
yes away from the bed, he studied the small table. It had been painted with the same symbols as on the walls of the cellar at East Hill. The calendar. On it were several items, like the contents of someone’s pockets but decades old, laid out as if they were offerings on an altar. Phil moved in closer to look. A cigarette lighter. Some beads. A watch, the leather strap all eaten away. A wallet.

  He reached forward and, fearful that it might crumble to dust in his hands, slowly opened the wallet.

  There was still money in there. Single pound notes. Ten-pound notes. Fives. All decades old. A library card, long out of date. He screwed up his eyes, tried to make out the name. Did so.

  Paul Clunn.

  ‘Oh my God … ’

  Then: a noise. Echoing.

  Phil turned, swinging the torch, catching his head on the low ceiling. He rubbed at it. Kept looking round. Listening. All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears.

  He tried to blink the pain away, listen.

  Nothing. No more sound. He shone the torch on the walls once more, this time noticing that the same design had been painted there. Old, the paint fading away to darkness.

  It wasn’t Paul who lived down here. Phil was sure of that. Whoever it was, it wasn’t Paul.

  The Gardener? Was it him?

  He checked the entranceway he had come down. Looked for footholds. The rock was smooth, worn. The space just big enough for his body to pass through. He tried to climb up it. Couldn’t get a grip. Slid back down again.

  He looked round once more. Panic was beginning to set in. Phil hated confined spaces. Had always suffered from claustrophobia. Being underground just made it worse.

  He tried once more to pull himself up the shaft. Thrust his elbows out, forced his body to move behind him. The space wasn’t wide enough. He tried again.

  And his elbows jammed against the sides. He couldn’t move.

  His breathing increased. He felt himself start to panic. He didn’t want to stay here, stuck. He didn’t know how long it would take Marina to return with the rope. There was only one thing for him to do.

  He relaxed his arms. Felt able to move once more. Wriggled his body down the tunnel until he collapsed on to the floor, back in the same place he had started from.

  He stood up as far as he could go. Looked around again. Whoever lived down here must have another way out, he reasoned. The entrance was only one way. He knelt down on the floor, played the beam of the torch round the base of the walls. Looking for cracks, other tunnels, anything.

  There were a few. Most of them just looked like fissures, cracks in the rock. Not big enough to climb inside, just tapering away to nothing. But there was one that seemed to widen out into a tunnel. It was small, cramped. But big enough to get inside, pull himself along with his elbows. And push himself backwards if he had to.

  Probably.

  He heard the noise again. Echoing round the rock. It sounded like a cry.

  Of pain. Of fear.

  Was it an animal? Or a human? And more importantly, was it coming from the tunnel he was preparing to go down?

  He had to find out.

  He knelt down, stuck the torch between his teeth and, flattening down on to his stomach, pushed himself into the small space.

  He remembered a similar situation a couple of years ago. He remembered what was waiting for him at the end of that tunnel. Felt his breathing increase at the memory, tried to control it. Save his energy for movement.

  Then, not knowing whether he was going towards the sound or away from it, whether what was up ahead was worse than what he was leaving, he began to edge his way along.

  114

  The child was still shivering. Good. The Gardener liked that.

  No he didn’t. He loved that.

  Made him even more excited. Made the anticipation all the sweeter.

  The child gripped the bars of the cage. Pulling on them, rattling them, trying to escape. No good. Too well made.

  He laughed at the boy. It ended up as a cough.

  Deep, racking, bent double while the painful, angry barks came from his body, gasping for breath as his lungs, his chest burned.

  Eventually the coughing fit subsided. He had something in his mouth. Lifting the hood up, he spat on the ground. Looked at it. Black-dark and glistening.

  Blood.

  The cough had weakened him. It was getting worse. Taking more out of him. Putting his body through more pain. Each spasm taking longer to recover from.

  He pulled the hood back in place, looked down at the altar. His tools were laid out in their usual precise manner. Candles lit now on either side. He drew strength just from seeing them. Stood up straight. Looked at the boy.

  Smiled. No laughing this time.

  ‘Soon … soon … ’ He picked up the sharpened trowel. Played the candlelight off its gleaming blade. Sent mirror flashes of light on to the boy, who flinched each time the light caught him. That gave him an idea.

  The Gardener smiled again. This was a good game. He angled the blade, caught the light, flashed it at the boy, who recoiled every time, moved away to a different spot in the cage. The Gardener giggled, changed the position of the blade, tried to catch the boy again. The boy whimpered, moved once more.

  The Gardener loved this, could have played it for hours.

  But he didn’t have hours. He looked at the chart. It had to be done soon. It had to be done now.

  He advanced on the cage.

  Ready for the boy now.

  Ready for the sacrifice.

  So the Garden could live again.

  115

  ‘Wait for my signal. Have you got that? No one does anything until they get my signal. Understood?’

  It was understood.

  Glass had never felt so alive. He had forgotten just how good it felt to take down a villain. To feel the adrenalin and testosterone surge through his system, build up inside him like it was living lightning, ready to pulse from his fingertips, take out anyone who tried to stop him.

  It wasn’t living lightning. But the semi-automatic in his hands was the next best thing.

  The firearms unit was in front of him. They were standing in the overgrown back yard of the farmhouse. The night was sin-black, hiding them from any eyes that might be watching. The farmhouse was boarded up. No lights showing. It seemed uninhabited. But it wasn’t empty. Glass knew that. For a fact.

  ‘Right,’ he said to the unit. ‘The target is in that building. My information tells me he’ll be in the cellar. What plans we have indicate that that’s in the front of the house, with a door going down to it from the kitchen, which is in the middle. That’s where we’re headed.’

  He turned to the firearms unit’s senior officer, Joe Wade. ‘Now, Sergeant Wade has briefed you all. You know where you’ve got to be. I’ll be going in through the front here with the A Team. Remember. This man is highly dangerous. Shoot to kill. And get that boy out alive.’ One more look at the men. They stood there, all in body armour, guns held before them, looking like shock troops sent from the future. Glass’s adrenalin and testosterone surged even more.

  One more look at Sergeant Wade.

  ‘On your signal, Sergeant.’

  Wade gave the order. The unit moved in, surrounded the farmhouse.

  On Wade’s signal, the front and back doors were simultaneously battered down, the officers streaming in towards the middle of the house.

  The only illumination inside came from the lights of the officers. Checking every corner of every room, securing each one before moving through the old house. It smelled of damp, abandon. The air stale, old. Dust rose as the officers tramped through.

  Glass was loving it. What he was born for. A leader of men, gun in hand, ready for a righteous kill. As soon as he had picked up the gun, he had felt his finger begin to twitch. He had thought that itchy trigger fingers were an old cliché, but to his surprise he had found it to be actually true. And now, running through the farmhouse with the rest of the men, he wondered just how ea
sy it would be to accidentally squeeze that trigger, take out one of the CO19 boys just for the hell of it.

  He mentally slapped himself out of it. These were his own people. He had a job to do.

  They reached the cellar door. Sergeant Wade looked to Glass, waiting for him to give the nod. Glass took a deep breath. Another. Nodded.

  The door was battered to splinters. The unit rushed down the cellar steps. Glass followed. Finger wrapped round the trigger guard, hand ready to take off the safety, let it go.

  But he didn’t.

  He stopped, stood still. They all did.

  The cellar was empty.

  Glass shone his torch round. Nothing. Clean.

  He walked over to one corner, scrutinised it with his torch. A small pile of bones was stacked neatly against the bricks. He examined the wall. There had been a cage here. He knew that, had seen it himself. A smaller one than East Hill, an abandoned one, kept in reserve. It had been removed.

  His head moved frantically from side to side. He swung the torch wildly, checking if he was hiding somewhere, ready to spring out at them. Nothing.

  Glass sighed. Looked at Wade. The unit were pumped up, minds engaged for action. They looked disappointed, angry. Like volcanoes denied the chance to erupt. Violent lovers spurned a climax.

  Glass rubbed his face with the back of his hand. Felt anger well up inside him. He wanted to strike out, hit something. Or someone.

  ‘He’s not here … not here … ’

  Wade looked around, checking for himself. He looked at Glass.

  ‘He’s not here, Sergeant … ’

  ‘I can see that, sir.’ Wade crossed to Glass. ‘I think you’d better have a word with your informant, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Glass. ‘I’d better.’

  ‘Come on then, let’s go,’ said Wade.

  The unit went back up the stairs, not wanting to believe they’d been denied action, swinging their guns around, checking just in case the target was waiting elsewhere in the house to surprise them.

  They regrouped outside. Wade looked towards Glass.