Let The Bones Be Charred

by Andy Maslen

  She leaned closer to the crack between the two doors and heard Callie clear her throat.

  ‘Now, in setting up the Special Investigations Unit, I realised I would need to call on the very best detectives I could find. And… and there is one officer in particular whom I just couldn’t do without. She’ll be my right-hand woman as well as heading a team of her own as DCI.’

  Stella looked around the room and saw, with a sinking feeling, that a few of the detectives were looking round at DI Roisin Griffin, who was struggling to keep a smile off her face. Stella’s heart was bumping in her chest and she suddenly realised Callie would have to change her plan. There’s no way she’ll be able to keep order once I go in.

  Callie resumed her speech.

  ‘Now, some of you attended the memorial service for Stella last year.’

  Eyes that had been on her a moment earlier were now downcast.

  ‘And I know you thought you were doing right by her.’

  People looked up and frowned at her.

  Stella caught her eye again and thought, This isn’t going well at all. Abandon ship! Women and children first.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ Callie said with a sigh. ‘Look, there’s no easy way to say this. I, we – no – I lied to you. About Stella, I mean. She’s not dead.’

  The room erupted. People were shouting, launching questions at Callie. The cynics had pulled their feet off the desks and were leaning forwards, mouths open. Callie simply looked over at Stella and beckoned her in. Stella inhaled deeply, plastered on a smile she wasn’t feeling and stepped back into her old life.

  The noise hit her like a wave. A collective gasp immediately segued into laughs, shrieks and, from one or two of the younger women in the room, sobs. Everyone leaped out of their chairs, pushed away from walls or jumped down from desks and rushed towards her. Feeling she might be trampled to death before saying as much as ‘did you miss me?’, she did the only thing she could think of and held her hands out in front of her, palms outstretched like Moses parting the Red Sea.

  The noise decreased a little, but everyone was still talking at once. She was relieved to see that they were smiling or, in a couple of cases, laughing. Suddenly tongue-tied, despite having been awake half the night rehearsing possible openers, she said the first thing that came into her head.

  ‘If anyone’s been using my coffee mug, I’ll kill them!’

  Stella accepted hugs and kisses from every member of the MIC. They were firing questions at her and she gave them the answers she and Callie had cooked up between them the previous night.

  ‘Where were you, then, if you weren’t dead?’

  ‘It was a joint operation with Lothian and Borders Police. I couldn’t tell anyone for operational reasons.’

  – I was in the US, killing your and my former boss for his part in the murder of my husband and baby daughter.

  ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘Only last week.’

  – Three months ago, but I was undergoing intensive psychiatric care and psychotherapy to make sure I was sane.

  ‘Do you know what happened to The Model?’

  ‘Adam enjoyed his sabbatical with the FBI so much he asked them to make it permanent.’

  – He was trapped in his SUV as it sank beneath the freezing waters of a lake in Minnesota and I made sure he was dead by shooting him between the eyes.

  Shaking her head to free it of the vision of Collier with that obscene crater in the centre of his forehead, Stella ran on.

  3

  MONDAY 13TH AUGUST 12.05 P.M.

  After answering questions from a few more reporters, Niamh drove herself back to her house on Wimbledon Parkside. She arrived at ‘Valencia’ at five past twelve and parked her white convertible Mini on the gravel drive beside her husband Jerry’s dark-green Jaguar XJ saloon. He ran an insurance brokerage in the City of London and cycled down to the station every morning to catch the 7.38 to Waterloo.

  They’d bought the house in the nineties with the proceeds of a spectacular insurance deal Jerry had closed as a new partner in the firm. A tall yew hedge shielded the occupants from passing traffic, wide entrance and exit gates the only clue that a substantial house lurked behind the evergreen foliage. While she waited for the cloth roof to lock into place with its satisfyingly muted clicks, she checked her makeup in the rear-view mirror. Not bad for fifty-two, Niamh. Not bad at all.

  She ran LoveLife from a converted stable block that abutted the house. No secretary, no assistant, no marketing executive. She had people to organise her schedule, coordinate her social media campaigns, book meeting rooms or negotiate speaking fees, but they all worked from home, as did she. ‘Just as long as I have my iPhone, I’m fine,’ she liked to say to people who questioned her lack of in-house staff.

  She checked it now. One meeting scheduled for 1.00 p.m. with MJ Fox, CEO, GodsGyft. Then nothing until dinner with Father Reid from The Sacred Heart at 7.30 p.m. Plenty of time for a shower and a change of clothes, then a light lunch before her visitor arrived at the house.

  Even in the few steps it took her to reach the ornate oak front door from the car, the heat boiling off the pea shingle drive brought a light sheen of sweat to her top lip. Cream hydrangeas in rust-red glazed pots each side of the door were watered automatically by a computerised system Jerry controlled from an app on his phone, but even so, the flowers looked unhappy. Brown edges scarred a couple of the blossoms, and as she pulled a few dead leaves free they crackled between her fingers.

  She pressed her thumb to the pad to the right of the door and waited for it to open automatically on its silent, German-engineered mechanism.

  ‘Come on, come on, you stupid thing,’ she muttered, cursing Jerry and his obsession with automating everything in the house, ‘I’m getting heatstroke out here.’

  As soon as the door had swung open far enough to admit her, she stepped through into the deliciously air-conditioned interior of the house and practically ran up the thickly carpeted stairs, so eager was she to cool down under the stinging jets of her wet room shower.

  In her dressing room she stepped out of her skirt and hung it and the matching jacket on a hanger on the airing rail. The cream silk blouse went into the laundry hamper. Bra, knickers and tights she laid out on a second airer. The ‘Niamh Connolly look’ as she thought of it, and as one or two social media commentators had noticed, was part of her brand image, but in a summer like this one, extraordinarily uncomfortable. Freed from ‘the look’, she pirouetted clumsily in front of the full-length mirror, her arms stretched overhead to lift her breasts, before walking out of the room and into the en suite bathroom.

  A noise from downstairs stopped her in mid-stride. But as the house was empty, and Niamh Connolly was not an easily scared woman, she put it down to the air-conditioning system and turned on the shower. As she paddled around on the slate floor tiles, letting the temperature-controlled water jets sluice the heat of the day from her skin, she missed a second sound, this time from the stairs. A riser creaking as the summer heat dried the wood, perhaps.

  Twenty-five minutes later, she applied fresh daytime makeup, rather more subtle than her ‘TV slap’ as she called the matte foundation, eye-catching red lipstick and full-go eyes. She dressed in a pale-green linen blouse, a white skirt and soft loafers that matched her blouse, and misted her wrists, throat and cleavage with perfume. With the light fragrance of orange blossom coiling its way into her nose, she slipped on a pair of discreet emerald earrings and her beloved rose-gold Patek Philippe watch, a wedding present from her parents, and went downstairs.

  She sat at the kitchen table, a glass of sauvignon blanc to her left, scrolling through her messages as she forked tuna salad into her mouth, careful to avoid catching even a morsel of the food on her lips. Mostly they were emails asking her to speak, agree to an interview, or contribute to other pro-life charities. A death threat from some loony-left, women’s rights type that she moved to a folder headed ‘Crazies’. And a note from her lawyer
about the charity’s funds.

  Yes, well, that little problem should all be sorted once I’ve met the lovely MJ Fox, she thought, finishing the salad.

  A soft click from the hall made her turn round in her chair. It sounded like the latch on the front door engaging. But that wasn’t possible. She’d heard it close behind her on the way in, hadn’t she?

  She rose from her chair, dabbing her lips on the white napkin by her plate.

  ‘Jerry?’ she called, turning towards the kitchen door. ‘Is that you, darling?’

  She left the kitchen, feeling ridiculous as her eyes fell on a white marble rolling pin on the countertop and she briefly considered picking it up.

  The front door was closed. Of course it was. Silly fool, Niamh. You’re getting menopausal. Now, relax. You’ve ten minutes before MJ gets here.

  Someone tapped her shoulder.

  4

  TRANSCRIPT FROM METROPOLITAN POLICE DIGITAL, VOICE-ACTIVATED RECORDER, EXHIBIT NUMBER FF/97683/SC6 1/4

  Isn’t this funny? Who’d have thought I’d have you of all people in my little cabin? Are you sitting comfortably? Well, lying comfortably? Then I’ll begin.

  Niamh screamed when I touched her shoulder. I thought she was going to faint. That or wet herself. She whirled round. I kept my wide social smile plastered across my face and extended my hand. ‘Niamh?’ I asked. ‘I’m MJ. MJ Fox?’

  She took my hand – she had to. It’s like a bit of programming. Only the strongest-minded person can reject the offer of a hand to shake. ‘How did you get in?’ she asked me. ‘Our meeting’s not until one.’

  I went for a sort of ‘silly-me’ embarrassed look. ‘I know, and I’m sorry for startling you,’ I said. ‘The door was open, so I thought you were trying to get a through-breeze. I was just looking for your reception area when you appeared.’

  Niamh smiled. She was relaxed now. It doesn’t take much, believe me. She said we could talk in her office.

  ‘Lead the way,’ I said.

  She took me out through the French doors to a sort of converted stable block. I became all business. I said, ‘Listen, Niamh. It’s too hot to make small talk. Let’s cut to the chase.’ Then I told her this story about how I’d made a pile when I sold my Christian app company. I said I wanted to find a way to share my good fortune. We did a bit of dancing around each other – well, you have to make it feel real, don’t you? She looked as though she wanted to lean across the table and kiss me. Instead, she limited herself to a demure smile, looking up at me from beneath lowered eyelids, like Princess Diana used to do in her TV interviews.

  ‘That is more than generous, MJ,’ she said. ‘I hope I can find an appropriate way to thank you.’

  I said, ‘Oh, I’m sure something will come up. But really, you must think of it purely as a donation from one God-fearing individual to another.’

  Something about the way I said ‘God-fearing’ must have got to her: she frowned. Then it was gone. She dismissed the sensation that Mother Nature bestowed upon prey animals to give them a fighting chance against predators. I couldn’t really blame her. Niamh, I mean, not Mother Nature. After all, it isn’t every day an angel flies down and solves all your financial worries with a stroke of a pen. And who wants to think that the angel might be Lucifer and not Michael?

  When I judged the moment was right, I glanced over her shoulder, and put a frown on my own face. I said, ‘Is that someone in your garden? I thought I saw a man.’

  She twisted round in her chair to look. I’d read in the local rag that there’d been a rumour Irish travellers were on their way from Richmond, planning to set up their caravans on the common. Then I got out of my chair and stuck her.

  She cried out as the needle went in.

  ‘Ohh.’

  Like that, as if a wasp had stung her, or one of those big ones, you know, hornets. She made a feeble attempt to grab my wrist. But it was too late by then. ‘What have you done?’ she cried out. ‘Why are you hurting me?’

  I stood, keeping the pressure on the side of her neck. I came round the table and pushed down hard on her left shoulder. I pulled out the syringe and held it in front of her face where she could see it. She tried to stand, but I wasn’t going to allow that. Not yet. I confess I was grinning as I pushed her back into the chair.

  ‘Wha—’ It was really funny. You know, like she’d forgotten how to speak. She tried again. ‘Why you did, did do it me?’ It was worse than before.

  Now I was really smiling. I had her where I wanted her and I could afford to relax.

  I said, ‘I saw you on the TV again today. You say you draw your inspiration from God. Well, I am God’s messenger. He told me to tell you he really doesn’t care about you, or your cause. He told me to tell you it was time for you to learn something very, very important. He told me to tell you that he doesn’t exist.’ Then I led her back into the kitchen, where I dumped her in a chair.

  My special cocktail of Temazepam and Ketamine made her biddable but it hadn’t knocked her out. I spent ages researching the different tranquilising and anaesthetic drugs before I found the particular combination of effects I wanted. Then I stole some Temazepam from the university medical centre’s pharmacy. I laughed at the thought of all those panicky, screw-loose students they have to cope with. The Special K I bought on the street round the back of the yard.

  She watched me pull a carving knife from the stainless-steel block on the countertop. Then I started cutting her shirt off her. I leaned over her and she whimpered as I unsnapped the catch on her bra.

  I put my briefcase on the table. She watched me lift the lid and reach inside. When my hand reappeared with my chosen instrument for her punishment, she managed to squeeze out a pathetic little whimper. As I began, her bladder let go, but that was OK. The smell doesn’t bother me. Never has.

  5

  MONDAY 13TH AUGUST 8.00 P.M.

  WIMBLEDON

  Jerry Connolly returned from another successful day in the City at 8.00 p.m. He’d been out for a few cocktails with a couple of the partners and was feeling more than a little drunk. He didn’t bother calling out as he entered the hall. Niamh was very good at keeping him apprised of her many and varied social engagements. He expected she’d be deep in conversation with that sanctimonious old alkie Father Reid over a decent bottle of claret that Jerry’d no doubt be paying for.

  Hope you get your fair share, darling, he thought, grinning lopsidedly as he made his unsteady way into the kitchen, thinking of opening a bottle of something cold from the wine fridge. As he entered the room, he staggered a little. Then he stopped. His wife was leaning back in one of the chairs wearing what appeared to be a scarlet fringed bikini top above her skirt, which was white with a splotchy scarlet pattern of poppies

  ‘Oh, hello, darling. I thought you were having dinner with Father Reid. Why are you dressed for the beach?’

  Then reality asserted itself, in the most violent, horrifying way imaginable. The rough red ovals on her chest weren’t the top half of a bikini at all. The poppies weren’t flowers. And the floor and walls were spattered, streaked and puddled with red.

  Jerry finally saw the plate on the table. He made a sound halfway between a groan and a cry. A hoarse, cracked sound in the still of the house that made the wine glasses ring on the dresser shelves.

  He staggered back against the wall, his eyes roving all over the kitchen, anywhere but the grotesque tableau in front of him. He sat down heavily on the floor, his legs sliding out in front of him until his heels clicked on the limestone. He dragged his phone out.

  ‘Emergency: which service do you require: police, fire, ambulance or coastguard?’

  ‘It’s my wife,’ he answered in a croak. ‘My wife. She’s, someone has…’

  ‘What about your wife, sir? Do you need emergency assistance?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course I do! She’s dead, Goddammit!’

  ‘Forgive me, sir. You sound as if you’ve been drinking. Are you sure she’s dead? Could she be asle
ep?’

  Collecting himself, and drawing on all his mental strength as a former Guards officer, Connolly tried one final time, articulating each word as if teaching English to a foreigner.

  ‘Someone has removed my wife’s breasts and put them on a plate on the kitchen table. So I am fairly sure she is not sleeping. Now, could you please send an ambulance and the police?’

  He swept his free hand over his face, which was wet with cold, greasy sweat. He gave his name and location and after agreeing that he would wait for the police to ‘attend’, he ended the call and closed his eyes.

  Silently, he began to cry.

  6

  TUESDAY 14TH AUGUST 10.00 A.M.

  Sweating from her run round Regent’s Park, Stella stuck her front door key in the lock and once again was delighted with the smooth action as the internal mechanism rolled over, the pins lifted and the door opened. Not a crunch, not a squawk, not a refusal to move: it just opened. Unlike the crappy old five-lever mortise on her house in West Hampstead. That had been an exercise in Zen meditation every time she wanted to go out or come in. A jiggle, a lift, a fraction of a twist to the left before a firm turn clockwise and a muttered prayer.

  The old house, she’d realised soon after moving in, had been nothing more than a bolthole. A refuge from the crushing grief she’d felt after Richard and Lola had been murdered. The fact that she’d been practically psychotic with grief hadn’t helped. First, she’d conjured her dead baby daughter back to life again and imagined she’d hired a nanny to look after her. Then her hyper-violent, vengeful alter ego ‘Other Stella’ had emerged from the mirrored door of her wardrobe to point out the truth: Lola was dead and the ‘baby’ she was cuddling was nothing more than Lola’s teddy bear, Mister Jenkins.