Bone Machine

by Martyn Waites

  ‘A big house?’

  ‘It is, yes.’

  Dario curled his lip. ‘Built on the blood of others. The lives of innocents. Built by fear.’

  Sharkey applied his legal smile. ‘Well, that’ll all be changing soon. Thanks to your testimony. And then you and your charming sister can get on with your lives.’

  Dario nodded. Donovan and Peta exchanged another glance.

  Tea and coffee arrived, they talked. Nothing of great importance, keeping it small, light.

  ‘Well,’ said Sharkey, looking at his watch, ‘I’m afraid it’s time for Mr Tokic to go.’ He stood up. ‘We’ll give you a moment alone together to say your goodbyes.’

  He rose and left the room. The others did likewise.

  ‘Touching scene,’ Sharkey said.

  ‘As if you give a toss,’ said Donovan.

  Sharkey looked hurt. ‘You constantly underestimate me, Joe. Those scenes are what makes our jobs worthwhile.’

  Donovan’s retort was halted by the ringing of his mobile. He flipped it open, checked the display. Not a number he recognized. Put it to his ear, listened.

  He turned, taking in the words, and saw Sharkey’s face looking at him. This wasn’t for his ears. He walked away from the lawyer, opened the front door, went outside. Crossed the cobbled road, listening all the while, nodding. He stood by the railings of the overgrown Victorian recreation ground. Looked back at the Albion offices. Listening to the voice in his ear all the while.

  His legs getting weaker with each word. Trying to process what he had heard already.

  The Missing Persons Hotline.

  They had found a body.

  A boy’s body.

  23

  ‘Where?’

  Donovan found his voice. Waited for the reply.

  ‘In Wales,’ said the voice on the other end of the line. A woman. Alison, she had given her name as. Professionally soothing. Concern and compassion in her tones. ‘Local police are still trying to establish the boy’s identity. They’ve reached out to us.’

  ‘And you think …?’ Donovan’s voice cold, croaking, like it had rusted over. ‘You think it might be my son?’

  ‘To be honest with you, Mr Donovan, it doesn’t look likely,’ said Alison as sensitively as she could. ‘But in cases like this, with an unidentified body, we ask everyone on our list of possible matches to give a DNA sample to—’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I was going to say,’ she continued smoothly, as if being interrupted was all part of the job, ‘to their local police, who’ll then get it transported down to Wales.’

  Donovan looked around, surprised to see the world still where it had been. Houses, offices, grass and railings. The street. The pavement. Air and clouds. Behind him, the stark children’s play area in among the overgrown grass. Deserted. Looked like no child had touched it for a while.

  Everything as it was. Donovan’s precarious tightrope act of walking through the real world still holding up.

  Just.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Donovan. ‘I’ll go down.’

  Alison sighed. ‘There’s really no need. Look, tests aren’t completed yet. We’re not even sure if the predictive computer ageing will come up with a positive match for your son. The DNA sample can be taken locally. You don’t need to upset yourself any further.’

  Upset yourself any further. He thought of the years he had spent not accepting his son’s disappearance, willing him to reappear, then looking for him, obsessively. All the while feeling his life, his remaining family, his work, his sanity, even, collapse around him. Upset himself any further. He didn’t think that was possible.

  ‘Does my wife know?’ he asked, throat as dry as glasspaper.

  ‘Not yet, Mr Donovan. If you’d like us to inform her instead—’

  ‘No, don’t. Not her. Not yet. I’ll go. I’ll do it.’

  Alison spoke again, counselling him.

  ‘And don’t say there’s no need to go. For me, there’s every need.’

  The deal he had made with himself. With David in dreams. Any lead, no matter how small, how seemingly pointless, he would pursue. Because it was his son. He owed it to his son.

  There, then gone.

  There, then gone.

  Gone.

  ‘Every need,’ he said again, almost to himself this time.

  Alison sensed that any more words would be wasted. She promised to email him contact details of the police detective dealing with the inquiry plus information on how he could be reached. She gave more professional solicitations, offered him the name of a good counsellor, which Donovan refused and rang off.

  Donovan pocketed the phone, looked back at Albion. Sharkey standing in the doorway looking over at him, a puzzled expression on his face.

  Anger rose within Donovan on seeing the lawyer. He crossed the street, shouting as he went.

  ‘Where were you, ay? Where the fuck were you?’

  Sharkey’s initial look of surprise at the words soon became the look of a man waiting for an electric storm to break over him. He flinched in anticipation.

  Donovan reached him, his heart pounding, seemingly too large for his ribcage to hold. He could hear nothing but the blood in his head, the air in his lungs. He grabbed Sharkey by the lapels of his handmade suit.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?’

  Sharkey’s eyes darted about. Fear creased his face. ‘I don’t know what you’re—’

  ‘That was the Missing Persons Hotline. They’ve found a boy. I’m going to give a DNA sample.’

  Sharkey, for once, was genuinely at a loss for words. His jaws moved up and down, but no sound came out. Donovan pressed on.

  ‘So where were you, eh? You’ve got people on it. You’ve got people looking for him. Weren’t looking hard enough, were they? Eh? Eh?’

  His hand was back ready to strike the lawyer. It never connected. He felt a restraining arm around his. Peta was there, pulling him back as hard as she could.

  Donovan looked around. The whole team was there, staring at him, hardly able to believe what they were seeing.

  Donovan dropped his arm, the fight, the anger, leaving him as suddenly as it had come. He took his hands from the lawyer, who backed away as quickly as he could. A wave of emotion built up inside Donovan. He felt it about to break, didn’t want the others to witness it. He turned away.

  ‘Get him inside,’ he mumbled. ‘All of you, inside …’

  He staggered away from them and away, down the alley at the side of the offices, made sure they weren’t following him, that he was alone. Stood there, eyes seeing past the buildings in front of him, took a deep breath, let the tears come.

  ‘So why didn’t you tell me?’ said Decca, standing over the moon-faced man sitting on the sofa. ‘Didn’t you think it was that important?’

  Noddy looked up at him. Shrugged. Then went back to the TV. ‘Not really. Nothin’ to do with business.’

  ‘Not really?’ Decca looked around. The front room of the brothel Noddy ran looked no more cheerful in the daylight. Or what passed for daylight; the filthy windows and nets in the front room operating a strict selective policy as to what could be admitted. The room that Noddy called home was so lived in it was worn out. Fake veneer units, cheap, stuffing-spewing sofa and chairs, ten- or fifteen-year-old Argos chic. A tabloid on the arm of the chair, opened and folded to the form pages, spider scribbles in the margin. A TV, the screen reflecting greasy handprints and dust, dominated one corner, the racing turned down by Decca. Noddy trying to see around Decca, watch the race.

  Decca kneeled down, got right into Noddy’s face. ‘I’m talking to you.’

  Noddy’s eyes flicking between the two, torn as to which to look at. The racing won out.

  Decca stood up, angry. ‘Oi. I’m talking to you.’

  Noddy looked at Decca, a clear lack of respect in his eyes. ‘I’ve told you what happened.’ He pointed to the screen. ‘That’s that. Now I’m—’ />
  Christopher had him from behind, arm locked around his throat, pulling him up by his neck. Noddy’s eyes bulged out, his glasses dislodged themselves, his face going redder than an overweight businessman in a sauna. Decca smiled to himself. Fear, even reflected, was a powerful thing. He leaned over Noddy once again, eye to eye.

  ‘That’s better. Got your attention now, haven’t I?’

  Noddy made a strangulated noise in the back of his throat.

  ‘You a gambling man, Noddy, eh? That why you didn’t tell us about what happened at this place the other night? Eh? Thought we didn’t need to know?’

  Christopher pulled tighter. Noddy turned from red to purple.

  ‘So, what d’you reckon your chances are of walking away from this unharmed if we don’t get what we want out of you?’ Decca was pleased with that line, pleased with Noddy’s gurgling, red-faced reaction. ‘Let’s go over it again,’ he said. ‘Just to make sure we’ve got it right. This guy, Joe Donovan, and this whore come in to talk to a working girl. They say they’re from the police …’

  Noddy gesticulated that he was ready to talk. Christopher eased the pressure.

  ‘No,’ said Noddy, his voice sounding like Lemmy after a European tour with Motorhead, ‘No. They said they were part of an investigation. A murder investigation.’

  ‘Murder. Now Gyppy and Weird Beard and Chainsaw and probably every other pimp in Newcastle know about it, but you didn’t think murder was serious enough to tell us?’

  ‘Nothin’ to do with us. Keep out of it, I’d say. It’s that student, not one of ours.’

  His flickering eyes told Decca there was more to Noddy’s evasion than just wanting to watch the racing. Decca thought hard. Then had an idea.

  ‘You were gonna keep the information, weren’t you?’ he said, looking down at Noddy. ‘Keep it and take it to the media, is that it?’

  The racing commentary played quietly beneath their words. Pounding hooves building up tension in the small room. Noddy, struggling hard, resisted the temptation to look at the TV. To look anywhere.

  Decca leaned in. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Noddy, shaking. ‘We thought with all the papers an’ TV an’ that, we could make a bit o’ money, like.’

  ‘We? Who’s we?’

  ‘Me an’ Sharon.’ Noddy’s eyes lit up as a desperate, duplicitous thought struck him in such an obvious fashion that he should have had a light bulb above his head. ‘It was Sharon’s idea. All of it. I just … went along with it.’

  ‘Sharon.’

  ‘Sharon. Sharon Healy. One o’ the freelancers.’ Noddy rubbed his neck. ‘The S&M queen. That’s who they wanted to see.’

  Decca looked around, as if expecting her to walk into the room. ‘And where is she now?’

  Noddy shrugged. It seemed to hurt him. ‘Dunno. Doesn’t come on until tonight.’

  ‘You’ve got a phone number. An address.’

  Noddy nodded, coughing, his hands massaging his throat, his face reddening again. He pointed into the back room. ‘The table. By the phone.’

  Decca walked into the back room. It was equally as depressing as the front one. He leaned over the table, rummaged through a pile of old newspapers, porn magazines, bills and junk mail until he found an address book, held it up.

  ‘This what you mean?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Noddy, breathing roughly. ‘They’re all in there. In case we’re raided, then I just say they’re friends o’ mine.’ He almost smiled. ‘Clever, eh?’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  Decca leafed through. Found Sharon Healy’s name written in semi-legible script, a half-formed row of numbers next to it. He keyed the number into his mobile with her name next to it, wrote the address down as a text message for himself. Went back into the front room, faced Noddy.

  ‘Now what was so hard about that?’

  The race had finished. Noddy said nothing. He looked between Decca and Christopher. No idea whether he was a winner or a loser.

  Decca and Christopher moved to the door. Decca turned. Noddy had been reaching for the paper. His hand froze in midair, his face looked up, fearful. Decca liked that. Prepared a suitable line to exit on.

  ‘There was no need,’ said Noddy. ‘No need for that.’

  Decca looked at the man. Tears began to well.

  ‘No need …’

  Decca opened his mouth to speak his prepared line, but it wouldn’t come out.

  Christopher left the house.

  Decca, with one last look at the crying man, followed him.

  The pub was a squat, squalid square-roofed construct on an inexorable downward slide that no amount of lottery makeover money could ever halt. It sat at the bottom of a long, characterless bank in Bensham, among a run-down pit of half-demolished warehouses, neglected old terraces and closed garages that seemed a world away from the Sage Music Centre and Gateshead Hilton that nestled on the south bank of the Tyne less than a mile away. The wooden slats that ran along the front of the pub had been painted black and white, probably in allegiance to the football team over the river but now probably all that was holding the place together.

  Decca hated the area on principle. It was the kind of area he was from. The kind that he would do anything to avoid going back to.

  He parked the car in a patch of rubbled gravel that claimed to be a car park and got out. He looked around, worrying about what would happen to his car, saw Christopher getting out of the passenger seat, drawing any potential young criminal’s eye, and felt his worries abating.

  He was beginning to enjoy having a henchman. When this was all over he’d have to get himself one. But one he could get on with. One that talked English. One that talked.

  They walked into the pub. It was exactly as he had expected it to be. A place for drinking, for escape. Although the drinkers must have been escaping something very bad to seek refuge there. It smelled of stale beer, fried food, dead tobacco air. Monday afternoon. The lunchtime rush long gone. Decades gone.

  Decca looked around. There she was by the pool table. Bending her bulk over, lining up a shot. Chatting to the fat, bald, middle-aged man standing next to her. Giving him a lascivious look. An audience of unattractive, badly dressed, unwashed men who seemed to be more drunk than the hour should have allowed for, and she played up to them. She took a long time lining up her shot, wiggled her large arse as she did so.

  Decca walked over to her, spoke before the cue connected with the ball.

  ‘You workin’, Sharon?’ he said. He ran his eye up and down her ample figure, took in her Newcastle United top from several seasons ago and black stretch leggings. ‘You don’t look dressed for it.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ she said without looking up. She took her shot. Missed. ‘Now look what you made me do. Bastard. Who are you?’

  ‘You know who we are,’ said Decca, feeling anger rise at being ignored. ‘You work for me.’

  Sharon looked up. Her eyes darted between Decca and Christopher. Her attitude of seconds previously dropped away.

  ‘We want to know why you didn’t tell us about your little visitation last week.’

  She looked around as if her audience would give her help. None was forthcoming. With little option, she seemed to arrive at a swift realization that truth would be best. She placed the cue at the side of the table, waited for her opponent to line up a shot. He alone had briefly seemed to be about to jump to Sharon’s defence, defend her honour, but one look at Christopher had decided him against it. Instead he held his eyes on the table, found the old, scarred, once-green felt intensely fascinating.

  ‘Noddy thought we could make some money out of it,’ she said.

  ‘Noddy said it was your idea.’

  Sharon gave an angry sigh. ‘Noddy would.’

  ‘Shall we go somewhere quiet an’ talk about it?’ asked Decca.

  ‘Let’s talk here,’ said Sharon, fear giving her voice an angry edge.

  Decca shrugged. ‘Let’s sit down, at least.’


  They found a booth away from the table. Split faux leather and a table with uneven legs. Their arrival had given a focus to Sharon’s male audience that they might not have otherwise had. They all tried to crane their necks to see what was going on. Christopher’s bulk blocked out their view of her, like an eclipse of their sun.

  She told him everything. The visit from Donovan and the girl. Russian, she thought. Something like that. Used to be on the game.

  She told Decca what Donovan and the girl had wanted. To talk about Michael Nell. Even asked her to sign a statement if it came to that.

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘I said I would. So long as I wouldn’t be implicated in any way.’ Sharon looked at the pool table. It seemed several miles away, well out of reach. ‘But it was that girl.’

  ‘What about her.’

  ‘I’ve worked with her before. Stroppy lass. Wouldn’t do what she was told. Didn’t think she’d last five minutes.’

  ‘Did she say what she was doing with this Donovan?’

  Sharon shook her head.

  ‘Do you know how we can contact this Donovan bloke?’

  Sharon was about to shake her head but remembered something. ‘I’ve got his card.’

  She shouted at one of the men to pass her handbag over. He did so, approaching the table timidly, gingerly stretching his arm around Christopher’s muscle-hardened bulk. She took the bag, began rummaging through it.

  Decca threw a look at Christopher, who didn’t return it. He might as well have not been there for all the interaction Decca got from him, he thought.

  Sharon brandished a dirty, bent business card.

  ‘Here. It’s got his address and phone number on. Give him a ring.’

  Decca looked the card over, saw a company name: Albion. An address and phone number. He pocketed it.

  ‘Thanks.’ He looked back at Sharon. ‘You want a lift? We’re goin’ back over to the town.’

  She looked between the two of them. From her expression, she didn’t like what she saw.

  ‘I’m not on until later.’

  Decca and Christopher didn’t move.

  ‘You got everythin’ you want?’

  Decca nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  Her eyes were on the scarred table. ‘Then leave me alone. Please.’