Bone Machine

by Martyn Waites

  And that, in itself, had been thrilling.

  He had sensed it about to happen, felt that change come over her, and pulled out the knife for the final time. Climbed on to her and watched with intense fascination, like a Victorian botanist studying a rare species, cataloguing. Looking for signs of evolution.

  His fingers twitched, but he kept them still, pressed at either side of her head, resisting the temptation to help her along. His heart hammered fit to burst with excitement.

  As the end came, he had lowered himself down, pressed his face to hers. Ignored the last desperate attempts at escape, her body’s automatic flight impulse going through the motions, and felt her ragged, gasping breath in his mouth. He had grabbed her shoulders, held her firm, his thighs pressing against her hips. Skin on skin, his body wet from hers. His erection straining, begging to be let loose on her. Although it was difficult, he had resisted. Because he was a professional. He had a job to do.

  Reluctantly he had climbed off her, checked the camera was working, the power light staring unblinkingly at her, an impassive red eye capturing for ever her final moments.

  Watching and shooting, he had yearned to press his lips down on hers, feel the wet flesh strain against rough thread, try to catch the last of her life in his mouth, suck it out of her.

  But he didn’t give in to that impulse, strong though it was. Because this was work, this was science.

  When her body gave its final sigh, the air sliding and stuttering out of her for the last time, the voices in the shadows screaming for her release, the sight had given him the most intense, spontaneous orgasm he had ever experienced.

  He climbed on to her then and lay, spent. He wanted the moment to enfold him for ever, stay locked in the arms of that special embrace.

  Nothing else mattered to him. The noise of the city above had slipped below his senses, like a radio in a distant room that he couldn’t turn off. Usually it would irritate him, annoy him to anger, but no more. He was happy to let its empty-headed clatter continue. It wouldn’t touch him, couldn’t reach him. He had been as unmissed down here as he was invisible when above.

  And in the shadows they had been moving, their voices whispering. Squatting in their usual place at the corner of his vision. Behind his posed figures, out of the beams of the lights. The Historian had felt them, smelled them. But he had ignored them. They couldn’t reach him either.

  And yet …

  Her last sigh.

  And yet …

  The most intense orgasm of his life.

  And yet …

  The answers weren’t there. Only a sense of anticlimax. An absence where there should have been a resolute truth. Even after poring over the photographs, scrutinizing the tapes.

  Once the initial euphoria had worn off he had become angry with himself. It should have happened. The answers should have been there. The knowledge. But he was still in the dark. Just like all the other times. And he had thought that one would have been different. He would have to try harder. Do it again. Choose carefully and get it right next time. His studies had led him this far, his skills had become two well developed to stop now.

  He looked in the mirror, saw not his face but hers. Sewn up, ready to be received. Just before the life left her.

  That familiar tingling in his groin was still there.

  He thought again of those final few delicious seconds. Not of the lack of answers but of the physical act itself. The control over her body. The knife sliding in and out.

  Her last sigh.

  Heard echoes of the voices in the shadows. The souls. Telling him what they wanted next. Guiding him.

  He had to plan.

  And soon. Just in case Nell said anything.

  But not just yet. That familiar tingling in his groin. Her face; sewn up, ready to be received.

  He smiled. Closed his eyes. Not needing to view the tape to see it again.

  8

  The Café Roma was on the corner of Mosley Street and Dean Street, in the heart of Newcastle’s City district. A converted bank, its high-ceilinged, marble-pillared halls had been architecturally rendered modern and spacious, retaining knowing nods to its past. It was bright and cool, all blond-wood furniture and dark leather sofas, shining chrome and spotlit glass cabinets. Pale yellow and cream walls. Two brown wooden fans moved lazily overhead, their actions purely decorative.

  A single coffee shop with Starbucks empire aspirations, it serviced a steady Monday-morning stream of office workers calling in for their lattes and almond croissants to take away, shaking misty rainwater from their overcoats and umbrellas as they entered, while a few commuters sat reading papers, books and magazines, eking out their pastries, swirling foam in the bottom of their mugs and looking at their watches, counting down until their time became someone else’s.

  In the corner sat a man. Middle-aged and balding, with his remaining hair razored short to his scalp, his clothes almost a parody of the office workers streaming in and out. His tailored suit was bright blue, with a white stripe way too wide to be pin, his shirt a vibrant, almost reflective yellow, his tie purple and floral, his shoes dark but highly polished. He sat with his Filofax and diary open before him, totting up rows of figures, making notes, stopping occasionally to sip from a small glass cup of espresso, watch the steady stream of customers coming in and out and throw appraising stares at the Eastern European girls working behind the counter. There was nothing lascivious or gratuitous in his look; his eyes spoke only of profit and loss, of commodity and expenditure. He watched not people on their way to work, but money pouring into his till. His eyes held no humanity, no warmth. They were reductive adding machines.

  They were the eyes of Marco Kovacs.

  He looked alone. He wasn’t. Sitting on the aisle opposite him and pretending to read the Sun was Christopher, his personal assistant. If there was any trouble, anyone giving him unwanted attention or approaching his table with aggression in mind, Christopher would be on to that person within seconds.

  Kovacs watched one of the staff in particular. Anita was in her late teens, blonde and pretty. Her uniform T-shirt and tight jeans accentuated her trim figure and pert breasts. Her smile, when she used it, combined with her lively personality, could be devastating. So devastating, hardly anyone noticed the now-faint cut lines on her arms. Her Lithuanian-accented English lent her an exoticism; most customers thought she was Russian. She was a head-turner. Kovacs knew she ensured repeat trade to the café.

  But that wasn’t why he was looking at her.

  He watched her. He totted up figures. He sipped coffee.

  Decca Ainsley pulled the soft-top BMW 5 Series noisily to the kerb, ignoring the double yellows, Roll Deep pumping on the sound system. He cut the motor, silencing the music. Gave his shoulders a couple of rotations, took a deep breath. Checked his reflection in the rear-view mirror, smiled.

  Diamond. That was how he thought of himself. Diamond. Hard and sharp-edged. Commanding respect and admiration. And the right kind of girl’s best friend.

  He got out of the car, looked around. Saw Marco Kovacs waiting for him through the window. He shivered, like someone had just walked over his grave. Kovacs was the big time. The real deal. He composed himself again. Quickly. Had to. He had a boss to impress.

  He straightened his jacket, thought: How would Pacino do this? De Niro? Or Clint? Above all, Clint. Just the name he drew strength from. Made him feel taller. Clint had been a better father than his real father. Taught him everything he knew. Kept the doubts suppressed, the fear in check.

  So Clint would be with him, guide his hand, give him the words.

  Gangster self in place, attitude worn heavier than jewellery or aftershave, he walked towards the door of the café.

  Someone slid into the chair opposite Kovacs. A young man dressed in casual Bigg Market best: artfully distressed jeans and long-sleeved dark shirt, open at the neck. A leather jacket thrown over it. His hair was dark and styled into elaborate spikes. He was finely featured an
d could have been handsome or pretty, even, had not his nose been broken too many times. He walked with a swagger, the arrogance of the supposed winner, and looked like the kind of person who would double-park his sports car outside. He clicked his fingers, gestured to the counter for a coffee, slid off his large brown shades, offered a smile. Anita smiled, broke off from her customer to prepare it. Kovacs looked up at him, nodded.

  Christopher shifted in his seat behind Decca, just reminding him he was there. Decca turned, gave a cautious nod. Decca still didn’t know what to make of Christopher. With his cropped head, scarred face, nose broken and reset and his body stacked and hardened from more than just gym workouts, he could have been taken at first glance for a typical thug – hired, unthinking muscle. But closer inspection of his eyes would reveal a different story. They were the most dazzling blue; they spoke of real intelligence. They looked as if they held secrets. He wasn’t known for saying much, not to Decca anyway, and Decca never knew how to talk to him, always felt uncomfortable with him. His heavily accented English when he did speak showed him to be Serbian, but Decca’s poor knowledge of geography and general ignorance meant he could be from just about anywhere.

  Decca turned his attention back to Kovacs, always aware that Christopher was behind him.

  ‘Got your message, chief. What’s up?’ His wrist jewellery clanked on the table as he put his sunglasses and mobile down.

  Kovacs said nothing. His eyes narrowed: his thoughts seemed to shift and reconfigure like sliding desert sands. Eventually he spoke.

  ‘I’ve been watching her.’

  The young man laughed. ‘Don’t blame you, boss. I’d like to do more than watch.’

  Kovacs continued as if clarifying rudimentary facts to a simpleton. ‘I’ve been watching her. And it’s time for her to go.’

  The young man looked momentarily confused, then grasped what was being said. ‘What for? She’s an asset to the business, yeah?’

  Kovacs closed his Filofax, leaned forward. ‘Think with your brain, not your dick, Derek. I know what you have been doing with her. Don’t bother to lie to me. Don’t pretend.’

  Derek bristled. He hated anyone using his real name. He was Decca. And Kovacs’ words, plus the knowledge behind them, made his face redden.

  ‘You’ve been fucking her,’ continued Kovacs. ‘And that’s OK.’ He shrugged. ‘We all do it. Who wouldn’t? What they’re there for.’ He leaned forward. ‘But she has a big mouth. Good if you want her to suck your cock, yes?’ He made a harsh, grating sound, like mashed gears. A laugh. It stopped as quickly as it had started. His features darkened. ‘Not so good if you want her to keep secrets you tell her. And I hear things. Know what I mean?’

  Decca swallowed hard. His throat was suddenly dry, his body suddenly wet with sweat. His earlier swagger rapidly diminishing. He tried to speak. Couldn’t.

  ‘She tells people that one day you will take over from me. That everything I have is to be yours. One day. And that day will be sooner rather than later. Yes?’

  Kovacs stared at Decca, unblinking. As emotion-filled as a snake curled around a tree. Decca felt his heart racing faster. Hoped it didn’t show.

  Kovacs waited. ‘Well?’

  Decca managed to swallow, find his voice. It sounded higher than usual. ‘She’s … I like her, boss. Maybe she’s got the wrong idea.’

  Kovacs said nothing. Decca began sweating. ‘OK. Maybe I tried to, you know … impress her.’ He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance, fear making it more like a spasm.

  Kovacs nodded slowly. ‘Impress her.’ The words were lightly spoken. Too lightly. ‘Impress her.’

  Decca nodded.

  ‘She,’ said Kovacs, stretching out the words so he wouldn’t be misunderstood, ‘is a whore. Nothing more, nothing less. And whores are for using. Not trying to impress.’ He shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, boss.’ Decca said the words to the table.

  Kovacs nodded. ‘She is nothing. And she is telling everyone she is something. And she is making me look a fool. Do you think I am a fool, Derek?’

  Decca shook his head. Hard. ‘No, boss.’

  ‘She is a whore. And a whore with ideas above her station is a liability. Nothing more, nothing less. Get rid of her.’

  ‘Please, boss, let me talk to her. I’ll get her to shut up, OK? Please, boss. Trust me.’

  A glaze of ice froze over Kovacs’ eyes. ‘Trust. You?’

  He needed to say no more. The two words carried more implicit threat than any number of descriptions of intended torture. Decca swallowed hard. Dropped his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, boss,’ he mumbled.

  Kovacs almost smiled. ‘You are a good worker, Derek. You have potential. I let you run this café and you do a good job for me. So I give you a chance. But you must decide who it is you want to impress. Some whore? Or me?’

  Decca thought. Decca nodded.

  Kovacs sat back. ‘Good.’

  Decca sighed. He looked as if he had been physically beaten up.

  Anita chose that moment to approach the table bearing Decca’s coffee. She gave both men a radiant smile, lingering longer for Decca.

  ‘There you are.’

  ‘Thanks, Anita.’ She turned and began walking back towards the counter. Decca was aware of Kovacs watching him. Felt his eyes boring into him like two diamond drills. ‘Anita?’

  She turned.

  Decca took a deep breath, sighed. ‘I’d like to see you later. When it’s quiet.’

  She smiled. ‘OK.’

  ‘OK.’ Decca nodded.

  Anita turned and went back to work.

  ‘Good,’ said Kovacs. ‘And I never want to hear another of your whores saying the same thing. Do we understand each other?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Good.’ Kovacs leaned forward, opened his Filofax. ‘Make sure you wait until the rush dies down and you have someone to replace her. I don’t want to lose money.’

  He nodded. ‘What … what should I do with her?’

  ‘What you like. Sell her to Lenny or Noddy. Put her in one of the houses. Make money from her.’ Kovacs smiled. It was as cold as Antarctica. ‘Or you could put her into my efficient disposal scheme.’

  Decca flinched. Hoped Kovacs didn’t see it. He had heard rumours of such a scheme but not much more. Only enough to know that he wanted nothing to do with it. ‘No, no. That’s OK. I’ll deal with her.’

  ‘Good.’ Kovacs’ face was stone again. ‘I never want to see her again. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, boss. I understand.’

  ‘Then go to work.’ Kovacs put his face back in his book of figures. ‘And tell her to get me another coffee. This one’s cold.’

  Decca picked up his mobile and sunglasses, stood up. Kovacs kept looking at him. Decca tried to walk away, Kovacs called him.

  ‘Derek?’

  He turned.

  ‘She was right. All this could be yours.’

  Decca looked at him with a kind of joy rising in his heart. He didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kovacs, ‘it could all be yours. All you have to do is take it away from me.’

  Decca felt himself reddening. He hurriedly made his way to the counter and from there to the door of his office.

  Kovacs allowed himself a small, thin smile. He looked at Christopher, who returned it. Then Kovacs continued working, oblivious to all around him.

  His mobile rang. Grumbling, he picked it up. Listened. Once more his eyes narrowed.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good.’

  He listened, thought.

  ‘Yes, I heard. Lenny’s arm is broken. Maybe. But leave it for now. This is more important.’ He listened again. ‘No … do nothing. Yet.’ Kovacs looked at Decca’s car parked outside, back to Christopher. ‘I will put someone on to it. Find out if she was important. In the meantime do nothing. Everything goes ahead as planned.’

  He hung up, sat back.

  The morning rush hour was beginning to die down. Be
hind the counter, Anita caught his eye, smiled at him. Showed him she was making his coffee.

  Kovacs didn’t smile back.

  9

  DI Diane Nattrass sat back in her chair, kept her face impassive. On the other side of the table sat Michael Nell and his solicitor, Janine Stewart. Provided by his father. Gathering information and saying nothing: waiting for the right moment to speak. DS Paul Turnbull was talking.

  ‘So, Michael. Ashley’s dead. And we’ve seen your photos. Anything to add?’

  Nell said nothing, stared at the desk.

  ‘What was it, eh? A game that got out of hand?’ His voice sounded calm but was threaded with dangerous undercurrents. ‘You liked it rough, that it?’

  Nell shrugged. Stared. Nothing but contempt and hatred in his eyes.

  ‘For the tape, please,’ said Turnbull. ‘Was that gesture a yes or a no?’

  Nell shrugged again. ‘Yeah.’

  Turnbull sat back, folded his arms, looked at Nell. The young man was sweating, terrified, but determined not to show it. Turnbull wanted to rub his eyes. He and Nattrass were tired, they stank of sweat and caffeine. He wanted to go home. Open a couple of cans. Have a bath. Sleep.

  But not yet.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘He’s cracking, looking confused. Trying to hide it. Go at him again, on the rough-up angle.’ The voice in Turnbull’s ear that of DS Shaw, the Interview Adviser from the Crime Management Team. Shaw would watch through the two-way mirrored glass, be in radio contact with Turnbull and Nattrass. They had agreed their strategy beforehand. Give him the minimum amount of information. Get him to commit himself.

  ‘So you and Ashley, you were having a bit of a session, that it? Both like it rough? Nothing wrong with that.’ He continued, his voice taking on a matey tone. ‘You like violence, Mick? Am I right? Think it’s – what did you call it? – transgressive?’