Bone Machine

by Martyn Waites

  Another glance between the two police. A more worried one this time. Nattrass came forward.

  ‘Don’t do that, Peta. Please.’

  Peta stopped, looked at her.

  ‘Yes, we are interested.’

  ‘And?’

  Nattrass turned to Fenton, who gave a sigh, an irritable nod.

  ‘You’re not suspects.’

  Without looking, she knew the Prof was breathing a huge sigh of relief. ‘Thank you. Apologies all round, I think,’ she said. She looked at Fenton. He couldn’t hold her eyes.

  ‘That was unprofessional of me under the circumstances,’ he said to the desk. ‘And I apologize unreservedly.’

  Peta gave a brittle smile. ‘So now we’re communicating. What next?’

  Fenton looked at the two of them, clearly unhappy at having his authority attacked in his own office, but not risking upsetting them any further. ‘It’s a good theory,’ he said. ‘I like it. Think it has weight. Leave it with us. We’ll follow it up.’

  ‘That’s it?’ said Peta.

  Fenton looked genuinely puzzled. ‘What were you expecting?’

  Peta let it go, said nothing.

  Fenton pointed to the papers on the desk. ‘May I?’

  ‘They’re to be returned to me afterwards,’ said the Prof, his voice slightly uncertain.

  Fenton nodded.

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ said Nattrass.

  She saw them to the main door. Outside, the rain was getting into its stride. Nattrass stopped and turned, offered her hand.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, her tone conciliatory. ‘To both of you. But especially you, Mr McAllister. And for what I said the other day. It was uncalled for. I’m sure what you brought us will be a big help.’

  The Prof shook hands without looking at her. Said nothing. Peta made goodbyes on his behalf. Nattrass turned and walked away.

  ‘Hate police stations,’ he said, once she was out of earshot.

  ‘I can see why.’

  ‘But thank you.’

  ‘No problem.’ Peta allowed herself a small sigh.

  Joe Donovan would have been proud of me, she thought.

  Nattrass made it back to the office as fast as she could. Fenton was waiting for her, poring over the Prof’s notes.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘Fucking dynamite,’ he said, more animated than he had been in front of the two members of the public. ‘That’s what I think. Worth having to kowtow to that old hippie to get this. Di, get a team in and on to this straight away. Don’t worry about overtime. Our academic friend has saved us the expense of calling in a profiler, so we can afford to be a bit more generous. As long as it gets results.’ He looked at the file, sifted through the sheets. ‘And I’m sure it will,’ he said, ‘I’m sure it will. Parameters, he said. The right parameters. Well, we’ve got them now. I feel sure of it. It’s only a matter of time, Di. Only a matter of time.’

  Nattrass turned, left the office. Buzzing once again.

  She could feel it too.

  The Historian was hunting.

  Down on the quayside, making one last desperate trawl. They were on to him, he could feel it. The net was closing in. He had always thought that phrase was just so much tabloid cliché. But that was exactly how he felt. Like an invisible net was encircling him, his would-be captors just waiting for him to step out of line, press the hidden switch that would activate the trap.

  When he realized that was what was happening, his first reaction was to do nothing. Stand immobile like a statue, play dead. Bury his head in the sand. Whatever, just wait for them to go away. But that was just as bad as doing something. That would be like waiting for them, welcoming them with a cup of tea, almost. Anything, looked at it that way, would be the wrong thing to do.

  And there was his work. His research. He had to finish it, had to find definitive answers. Yes or no. Yes or no. Had to. So the decision almost made itself. He prioritized. The work was the most important thing. It was what he had to do. It was what the spirits were telling him to do. Urging him on. He had to honour them. He had to keep going.

  So there he was, walking slowly along the quayside, pushing his wheelchair. People all around him, bar hopping, going to and from restaurants, Baltic and the Sage music centre. Relaxed, looking for pleasure, entertainment. And him standing out. The only one of them with a purpose, an agenda.

  He pushed his way through them, not caring that they could see there was no one in the wheelchair, nothing but a bundle of old clothes wrapped around a dummy. Hurrying as he went, knocking the strollers left and right.

  He didn’t care. Let them see him, let them gawp. He didn’t care.

  He had the angry hiss of the spirits in his ears. Cajoling, shouting even. He had the weight of history bearing down on him.

  He had work to do.

  He moved past the end of Dean Street, past the old Guildhall, down under the High Level Bridge. The lights became more sporadic at this point, the crowd thinner. It would be easier to pick off the stragglers, the ones who might not be so easily missed.

  The bars and clubs petered out. Only one bar left and a hotel. A businessman’s hotel.

  He knew what kind of women hung around those places. He smiled to himself. Almost like old times.

  He stopped on a corner, the entrance to Long Stairs behind him. The winding, badly lit old stone steps that led from the quayside to the old Keep. He pulled the chair in and waited.

  But not for long. A girl came out of the hotel, made her way across the road. She seemed to be headed for the bar but stopped, looked around. As if she was waiting for someone.

  The Historian took her in. Blonde, slim, young. Whorishly dressed.

  She would do.

  He made up his mind, crossed to her. Satisfied there was no one else about. He would have seen them while he was waiting. He had to catch her while she was still undecided about what to do next.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said in his mildest, most inoffensive voice, making a big production out of pushing the chair up and over the pavement, hand already tightening on his hidden stun gun. ‘Could you help me, please?’

  The girl gave one last look around, shook her head, crossed to him.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, her accent Eastern European.

  He smiled, readied the gun.

  He had her.

  Peta stood on the steps of Market Street police station, looked at the rain, putting off moving out into it. She pulled her coat around her. The Prof stood next to her, unmoving.

  ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I feel I should apologize. For breaking into your office. And suspecting you of being a murderer.’

  The Prof laughed. ‘Forgiven.’

  She nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  He nodded in return.

  ‘Your mate’s going to be pissed off,’ she said. ‘Missing out on handing his theory over.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll get over it.’

  They both looked at the rain.

  ‘Listen,’ the Prof said. ‘Would you care to get something to eat? Or a drink, perhaps?’

  It was Peta’s turn to smile. ‘I would love to. But,’ she said quickly, before he got his hopes up, ‘I’m still working. I’ve still got a job to do tonight.’

  The Prof nodded. ‘How many knock-backs can one man take?’

  ‘It’s not that. I do have to work. Honestly.’

  ‘So,’ said the Prof to hide his obvious embarrassment, ‘what is it you do, exactly? As well as being a student, of course.’

  Peta smiled again, looked him in the eyes. ‘I’ll tell you sometime. Maybe when we go for that drink.’

  ‘Right.’ The Prof laughed, understanding her words. ‘Right.’

  ‘But I really have to go.’ She extended her hand. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  He shook it. ‘Tomorrow.’

  She turned, walked off into the rain, pulling the paper out of her pocket which had the address Donovan had given her.

  P
robably be no one there, she thought, not at this time. But still, worth a try.

  Just one last thing for the night.

  And then home.

  42

  Turnbull kept watching.

  They had trained the CCTV cameras on the warehouse section of the dock. One in particular. Kovacs’. As an importer-exporter he had his own dedicated warehouse on Tyne Dock.

  Turnbull and Grant had focused initially on the containers, thinking something was about to happen there, but when nothing did they turned their attention to the warehouses.

  They didn’t have to wait long.

  ‘Here we go,’ said Grant.

  They watched as a soft-top BMW pulled up to a stop outside the warehouse. Both men sat forward, as if that would make them see better. The driver got out, closed the door behind him. As he looked around, checking the area, they got a good look at him on the CCTV.

  Grant smiled.

  ‘Decca Ainsley.’ He laughed. ‘You’re nicked.’ He reached for his radio. ‘Time to rally the troops.’

  Turnbull put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Wait.’

  Grant looked at him. ‘What for?’

  ‘Decca Ainsley? He’s nobody. And he’s done nothing. We can pick him up any day of the week. We want what’s inside. We want who’s inside. Just wait.’

  Grant looked at him, ready to argue. Although it was against his core instincts, Turnbull knew he was going to have to use diplomacy.

  ‘Get him and we’ve got nothing. The rest’ll probably run. Then wriggle out of it in court if we catch them. Just wait a little while and we’ll have them bang to rights.’ He smiled, said words that didn’t come naturally to him. ‘Patience. ‘It’ll be worth it.’

  Grant sat back, replaced the radio.

  ‘Fuckin’ better be,’ he said.

  Decca got out of the car, looked around. No one about. The rain had really started now. Coming down in wind-whipped lashes, catching exposed skin like a slap from icy stinging nettles. He pulled his leather jacket around him, made his way to the main door. Weighed up his options.

  He knew what was about to happen, tried to formulate the best strategy for his personal survival.

  He could run. Hope whoever survived wouldn’t come after him. Hunt him down. He rejected that idea. No good. Too many chances.

  He could walk away. Have nothing to do with any of it. Again, a rejection. Spend the rest of his life living looking over his shoulder. He doubted he could run far enough from Kovacs.

  Third option: he could walk in there, brave out the shit-storm that was about to hit. Find somewhere to hide, come out when the fighting was over. No good. Too many variables. Of the stray bullet variety.

  Last option: walk tall into there, tell Christopher what was about to happen. Make the signal to Dario and Katya, lure them in. Get him ready, prepared. Good one. Only problem with that: Christopher might make him fight back. Still, it was a chance he’d have to take.

  The only chance he had. Was that what Clint would do? No. But then Clint wouldn’t get his gun taken off him so easily either.

  He knocked. Waited. Heard a muffled response.

  ‘Decca,’ he said, looking up at the camera mounted above the door. ‘Open the fuckin’ door, it’s freezin’ out here.’

  The door opened. Too slowly, Decca thought, like they were taking the piss.

  Like they knew something was up.

  He swallowed the thought as the door rolled open. Went inside. It rolled shut behind him.

  He shook the water from his arms and head, tried not to let his nervousness show.

  The warehouse had a wide, central striplit area with shelves on all sides rising high up to the ceiling, going back deep into shadow. Filled with all manner of appliances Kovacs’ company imported: consumer electricals, household items. Restaurant fixtures and fittings. Anything and everything that could be bought and sold. All neatly racked, compartmentalized and catalogued. The whole thing screamed ‘legit’, invited inspections.

  In the centre of the space sat an articulated lorry rig, a container fixed to the back. Next to it a large, Transit-sized people carrier, the windows tinted to blackness. Decca knew the container would have been loaded on to the lorry from the ship earlier in the day then driven around to the warehouse and parked up until nightfall, when it could be safely dealt with. That was how they usually did it.

  Leaning against the shelves, not bothering to hide the guns they were carrying, were two of Kovacs’ most trusted thugs. Milo and Lev, Decca knew them as. Both Bosnian, he presumed, both wearing Kovacs’ unofficial henchman uniform of black-leather jacket, jeans, sweatshirt, steel-toe-capped work boots. Both swarthy and unshaven, with thick black hair. Like an evil Tweedledum and Tweedledee, distinguishable only by the fact that one’s mullet was slightly shorter than the other’s. Decca had tried, unsuccessfully, to hold conversations with them, but they had just nodded and smiled, claiming not to speak English. He had taken their claims at face value, but at times he had caught smirks and nods between them from the corner of his eye that made him think they understood more than they were letting on. He could work with them. But he didn’t trust them.

  ‘Where’s Christopher?’ he asked one of them. Lev, he thought. The one with the shorter mullet.

  Lev shrugged, made a vague gesture to the back of the warehouse which was both directional and dismissive.

  Decca swallowed hard. ‘Is he here?’

  An imperceptible nod. Mocking eyes fixing him with a condescending look.

  ‘He says get doors open,’ said the other one. Milo, thought Decca. His mullet was longer. ‘Get going.’

  Decca looked around, saw no sign of Christopher. ‘I want to speak to him. Now.’

  Milo detached himself from the shelf he had been leaning against, started a slow walk towards Decca. There was menace in it. Danger. He stood next to Decca, face to face. Close enough for Decca to know what he had been eating. Close enough to know it wasn’t very fragrant.

  ‘Open doors,’ he repeated.

  Decca swallowed hard. Opened his mouth to speak again then thought better of it.

  Milo turned, walked towards the back of the lorry, started to undo the locks.

  Third option, he thought.

  Everyone for himself.

  Michael Nell was becoming frantic.

  He emerged from the shadows feeling refreshed. His libido wasn’t diminished; if anything it was heightened. He couldn’t wait to see her. He hadn’t felt excitement like that for years. Like a kid with a new toy.

  But there was no sign of Anita anywhere.

  He checked his watch. Surely she should have finished by now? It couldn’t have taken him that long. He ran into the bar, had a look around. No sign of her. He stood in the middle of the road, literally not knowing which way to turn, barely aware of the rain lashing down on him. Taking ragged, panic-filled breaths. Running between the hotel and the bar.

  Had she run away? Was she still in the room? He didn’t know. And the not-knowing was beginning to consume him.

  He looked at the hotel doorway. Anita’s client was coming out, heading back to the bar across the road. He ran towards him. The man saw him coming, a look of fear spreading over his face. He turned, tried to make it back inside the safety of the glass double doors. Nell was too quick for him. He reached the man, grabbed hold of his jacket lapels.

  ‘Where is she?’ He almost spat the words into the man’s terrified face.

  ‘Whuh – who?’

  ‘You know who. The girl you’ve just fucked. Where is she?’

  ‘I … I don’t know. She came out ages ago. I … I let her go first. Phoned home afterwards, talked to my wife …’

  Nell let him go, turned away from him.

  Panic was rising, threatening to engulf him. He looked over to the badly lit street corner, an old, disused warehouse, which the quayside’s gentrification process hadn’t yet reached, bordering the steep incline of Forth Banks. Saw something lying on the pavemen
t, glinting in the meagre streetlighting. The rain making it glisten like a diamond. He crossed over, picked it up.

  Felt his legs go weak.

  Anita’s chain. The one he had given her.

  You belong to me now …

  He gripped it hard, felt the wet metal dig into the palm of his hand. Turned left and right, hoping for a glimpse of her, a clue to where she could have gone.

  He ran to the end of the block, looked up Long Stairs. No one there. He listened: no footfalls.

  He ran to the other end of the block, looked up the steep slope of Forth Banks.

  Saw a figure near the top, pushing a wheelchair. Hurrying.

  Like he was trying to get away. Make an escape.

  ‘Hey, stop …’ he shouted.

  The figure didn’t stop. If anything, he ran faster.

  Nell, with no option left, began to run up the hill.

  Nattrass was buzzing. Almost physically vibrating. So much and so fast she felt she could levitate from the earth.

  She stood in the incident room, the majority of the murder investigation team around her. They had come in bleary-eyed, disgruntled, several of them smelling of post-work alcohol. All of them resentful of the hours, all of them grateful for the overtime.

  She had talked to them, told them what they would be doing, set them in motion. Now there were no more bleary eyes, no more disgruntled faces. And they all had a better buzz than the alcohol had given them. They shared the same one as her.

  The anticipation of being close to catching a murderer.

  The righteous thrill of nailing a killer.

  And they would. Soon.

  She could feel it.

  They had taken the information the Prof had supplied them with, cross-referenced it with what she herself had learned, plus records they had already been working through. Sifting through names, addresses, looking for previous form in a specified geographical area. It felt to her like they were lining up the cross-hairs on the scope of a sniper’s rifle. Framing the suspect, just looking for the final trigger.