Let The Bones Be Charred

by Andy Maslen

  On the walk back to the tube station, she checked her phone for messages and emails. The subject line from one email, sent by an MJ Fox leapt out at her:

  Our US viewers need your help

  Curiosity aroused, she tapped the line to open the full message.

  Hi Sarah,

  We don’t know each other, but I am a massive fan of your media work. My name is MJ Fox. I made my money in investment banking in New York, but now I am turning my face from Mammon, and back towards God.

  I am about to make a bid for Twelve Saints Broadcasting out of Los Angeles. TSB is one of the top ten Christian media networks in the US.

  My vision is to broaden out the network’s appeal and get our viewers to think on a more global level about their faith. To do that, I really need a showrunner (that’s a term media folk use over here to mean the Big Boss – ha ha!) with international experience and a fresh perspective.

  I have listened to all your Thought for the Day slots, and believe me when I say, you are the answer to my prayers.

  Would you consent to meet me, and hear a proposal that I think will interest you? I am sure that money is not the reason you get up and go to work at the Church Times every morning, but I can promise you that, working with me, you would certainly not lack for material wellbeing, alongside the obvious, spiritual fulfilment.

  I will be totally frank with you. I took the chance you would agree to see me, and flew over from Memphis yesterday. I am staying at a small hotel in Victoria, which, to be honest, is not the sort of place I would willingly invite a tramp – is that the word? – let alone a respected broadcaster.

  You’ll understand that this type of situation is extremely sensitive. I need to keep everything ‘strictly on the QT’, as I believe you Brits say. One sighting of me in a restaurant or commercial premises could set the rumour mill turning. Is there any chance we could meet at your home?

  I have no plans to return to the US until I hear back from you, and am at your disposal, time- and date-wise.

  Praying for a positive answer!

  God bless.

  MJ Fox

  Somewhere around the second paragraph, Sarah had experienced a sense of profound calm descending. The outside world faded away. The screeching of car tyres beside her as two drivers narrowly avoided a collision barely registered. Her concerns about the rest of the day’s appointments dissipated like candle smoke in a side-chapel.

  When she reached the part about MJ’s need for privacy, what should have been the loud ringing of an alarm bell was reduced to a faint tinkling. She prided herself on having sensitive antennae when it came to weirdos, perverts and all the other species of predators a single woman living alone in London had to learn to avoid. But this just felt right.

  Back at the office, she Googled Twelve Saints Broadcasting and there it was. A financially-sound Christian media outfit based in Los Angeles. And yes, there were news reports about a possible bid, although none of the news items were able to confirm the identity of the bidder.

  She tried searching for ‘MJ Fox, Investment Banker’ and drew a blank. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe this American banker felt the same way about social media as she did.

  MJ had probably been listening live to her broadcast this morning. And, she supposed, American investment banks were probably pretty quick to clear their websites of staff who’d left Mammon for God.

  She tapped out a brief reply.

  Dear MJ,

  Thank you for your email. I’m flattered that I should have come to your notice.

  Yes. I would love to hear more about your proposal.

  I’d be delighted to meet you at my house.

  Would this evening be too soon? Say eight? I could probably rustle up supper.

  Kind regards,

  Sarah

  She inhaled deeply, let it out in a sigh, and hit SEND.

  The reply from MJ arrived moments later. Almost as if they were actually holding a conversation in real-time. Or as if Someone had been orchestrating the whole thing.

  Dear Sarah,

  Thank you so much!

  I am honoured.

  Where shall I present myself?

  God bless,

  MJ

  She sent her address then, smiling, went to find her news editor.

  At Paddington Green, Holt had just been released. The initial twenty-four hours were up and Callie had refused Roisin’s request for a twelve-hour extension to his custody. She’d listened first to Roisin, then Stella, then, feeling more and more like Solomon, given them her decision.

  ‘He’s a skanky wee shite and if there were any way that was an arrestable offence, I’d say lock him up and do what ye like with him. But, sadly for us, it’s not. I read his little storybook, well, as much of it as I could stomach. Did you know he’s got similar tales in there about the defence secretary, that wee girl off the telly who won the dancing show and Willow Heatley off breakfast TV? I’m sorry, Roisin, but there’s nothing concrete. I’m not going to waste more time on Mister Holt because, unless he confesses, the CPS will just roll their eyes and tell us to piss right off. Politely, of course. You find some evidence, re-arrest him and I will come down and watch while you book him in.’

  At 6.00 p.m. Sarah Sharpe tidied her desk, making sure every piece of paper had been initialled, signed, acted upon, passed on to one of her staff, or filed away. She closed every program on her laptop and shut it down. Then she zipped it into its bag, slung it across her chest, picked up her handbag and closed her office door behind her.

  ‘Bye, Georgia, bye, Tom,’ she said to a couple of staff members still at their desks.

  With the friendly goodbyes hanging in the air, she left the office and took the stairs, practically running down to the ground floor. In her head she was planning a simple but nicely cooked meal that would impress an American investment banker-turned-Christian media network owner.

  By the time she’d reached the tube station, she’d decided. Roast cod served with green beans and boiled new potatoes. The fish was a subtle touch, she thought. A nod to MJ’s being a fisher of men – and women.

  The ingredients were all laid out on her kitchen counter, the oven was up to temperature, a bottle of wine was cooling in the fridge and the table was laid by 7.30 p.m. Anxious, despite telling herself she had nothing to be nervous about – MJ had approached her, after all – she poured a glassful of vodka, added ice and downed half of it in a single gulp. As the fiery spirit cooled and then burned her throat, she sighed out a breath.

  She went upstairs and changed into a plain navy linen dress and a pair of low-heeled navy pumps. To avoid giving the impression she was a nun, she added a splash of colour: a bright yellow string of beads at her neck that lay neatly across her chest.

  She looked at herself in the mirror above the hall table and smiled.

  ‘MJ! How lovely to meet you!’ she said to the slender, soberly-dressed woman facing her. ‘Come in, please. I hope you’re hungry. No, too effusive. Dial it down a bit, Sar.’

  She tried again.

  ‘MJ. Please, come in. It’s been a hot one, today. Would you like a drink?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Might be a teetotaller.’ She smiled at her reflection again. ‘Would you like something to drink? Better.’

  Her attempt at a third variation was forestalled by the doorbell pealing. Despite the fact she was expecting her visitor, the sound made her jump. She turned to the front door, and, huffing a quick breath into a cupped hand and sniffing, she opened the door.

  33

  TRANSCRIPT FROM METROPOLITAN POLICE DIGITAL, VOICE-ACTIVATED RECORDER, EXHIBIT NUMBER FF/97683/SC6 2/4

  I need the toilet.

  I don’t care. Hold it or piss yourself, it’s all the same to me.

  Why are you keeping me alive? You’d killed the other ones by now.

  You know why. You’re my confessor. I’ll kill you when I’m good and ready, believe me. Sarah did a double-take when
she opened her front door and saw me standing there with my best social smile firmly in place. I can understand why. But that’s what I think is so clever about, what would you call it, my MO? I have the element of surprise right from the start. They can’t catch up and by the time they realise the trouble they’ve let themselves in for, it’s far too late.

  I stepped across the threshold, dragging my wheelie suitcase behind me. I said, ‘Sarah Clarke. The editor of the Church Times and, soon, I fervently pray, the showrunner for Faith Across the Globe, our flagship show.’ Talk about slapping it on with a trowel!

  She made some stumbling attempt to welcome me and offer me a drink. I had to interrupt her when she started reciting all the different cordials she had. I said, ‘I could kill for a glass of white wine.’ Then I winked! Can you believe it? I was playing her like a violin. Off-balance from the very first second. ‘Of course,’ she said, plastering a smile onto her sanctimonious little spinster face. ‘I have a very nice Chablis chilling in the fridge.’

  So she poured us both a drink and, by the way, I could smell vodka on her breath, so I was fairly sure the old Temazepam/Special K cocktail was going to work beautifully. ‘I’m cooking us fish,’ she said, turning to the oven. ‘I hope that’s OK?’ I said, ‘Fine by me. Just as long as you haven’t invited another four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine guests.’

  It was a lame enough little joke but poor old Sarah laughed as if I was the world’s funniest comedian. Then I stuck the needle in. Us being in the kitchen made the whole process remarkably easy. I caught her as her knees sagged and gently manoeuvred her into a chair. We went through the whole, ‘what did you just do?’ routine then, and when her eyes got that druggy look, I explained.

  I said, ‘I listened to you on the radio this morning. I liked the point you made about the followers of Jesus. You said that they knew the truth: that there are worse kinds of suffering than not being noticed. And you know what? You’re absolutely right. There’s the suffering of a small boy being tortured by his mother, for one thing. And then there’s the kind of suffering you are about to experience directly.’

  It took a while to get her undressed. She’d gone quite floppy so it was the Devil’s own job. Eventually I managed. Then I began. Despite my little Mickey Finn and the vodka playing together like good children, she managed a scream after the first bolt. Nothing that would alert her neighbours but I didn’t want to take any risks, so I used a strip of her dress to gag her. After that it was plain sailing all the way.

  Cleaning myself up took a while, and I was careful to wash and dry my wine glass before replacing it on the shelf in the cupboard. There wasn’t as much blood this time, but I’d still been careful not to stand in it or get my fingers on anything that might leave a print. Then I left. Simple as that.

  34

  TUESDAY 21ST AUGUST 7.38 P.M.

  Gaynor Marzano stood outside her friend’s front door, sweating despite being clad in the thinnest of badminton gear: loose black cotton shorts and a dusty-pink vest top over her sports bra. Her racket in its teal-and-black plastic cover lay across her back and she could feel the patch of sweat where the head was resting against her exposed right shoulder blade. She checked her watch: 7.38 p.m.

  ‘Come on, Sarah, we’re going to lose our court,’ she said to the closed front door, trying not to allow the irritation she was feeling to grow any stronger.

  She rang the bell again, listening intently for the sound of badminton shoes slapping on the tiled hallway beyond. Nothing. She pulled out her phone and hit redial but, again, it went straight to voicemail. Gaynor didn’t bother leaving a second message.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Sar, come on! What are you doing?’

  Exasperated, she knelt at the letterbox and lifted the sprung outer flap of brightly polished brass, intending to yell words of encouragement to her friend, who, she knew, could get side-tracked as easily as Gaynor’s teenage daughter. She pushed her index finger against the inner flap and drew in a breath, ready to shout.

  The gust of hot, putrid air seemed to enter her nose and mouth simultaneously and lodge there like slime. She reeled backwards, gagging, before turning to vomit into a flower pot beside the front door.

  When she’d finished, she pulled a tissue from her shorts pocket and blew her nose before crumpling it and dropping it to the ground. She spat on top of the mess and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

  ‘What is that?’ she asked the glossy painted panel of wood facing her. Somewhere, deep down, she realised she knew.

  Her walk from Farringdon tube station to work at Bart’s Hospital took her through Smithfield meat market. Once or twice that hot summer, she’d had to reverse at high speed after coming across a barrel of offal already starting to rot in the early morning heat. The smell emanating from her friend’s letterbox was worse. Much worse. A smell akin to gangrene which, as a nurse in a geriatric ward, she’d come across more than once in her career.

  With a deep sense of foreboding gathering in her chest like a lump of undigestible food, she lifted the outer flap once more and placed her eyes to the narrow gap, holding her breath. Index finger trembling, she pushed the inner flap up and held it while she lowered her head until she could see in.

  At first she didn’t recognise the thing lashed to the bannisters as human, let alone her friend. Blackish-green and swollen to grotesque proportions, it fulfilled none of the criteria Gaynor normally used when she thought, ‘human being’.

  Then her training kicked in, along with a dawning horror.

  She didn’t scream. Nurses tended not to, in her experience. She’d been out with a friend when a bus had been blown to pieces on a London street a few years earlier and they’d both rushed to help, not that there was much they could do, while all around them members of the public were screaming. She and Moses kept their heads, and did what they could until the ambulances arrived.

  She realised her phone was still clamped in her left hand. She called the emergency services and explained what she needed, where she was and what she could see through her dead friend’s letterbox. Then she slumped with her back to the front door and, dry-eyed and shaking, set about waiting for the ambulance. And the police.

  The first uniformed officer to arrive at 63 Finstock Road was a police constable, fifty-three, cropped greying hair, dark eyes beneath neatly trimmed black eyebrows, more of a gut than his wife was happy with, and the measured pace of a man who knew not to hurry when he didn’t have to. He was running now, red-faced and panting as he turned into the front garden path.

  Dave Harris had been a uniformed constable all his career, almost twenty years since leaving the Navy. ‘I’m not bright enough to be a sergeant,’ he’d quip if anyone teased him about his lack of career progress. ‘Too much law to learn.’ But the truth was, Dave liked walking the streets of Ladbroke Grove and Notting Hill. No, that was a lie. He didn’t like it. He loved it.

  He reckoned he knew a few hundred people personally, by name. The people he could nod to or exchange a few words with in the street ran into the thousands. And he knew Gaynor.

  Seeing her white face and her oddly disjointed posture, he crouched before her.

  ‘Hey, Gaynor. What’s happened? Is it Sarah?’

  She looked into his eyes and, in that split second, he knew he’d be calling in a suspicious death inside of three minutes.

  Gaynor nodded.

  ‘She’s dead. Has been for a while.’

  She got to her feet and stood aside. Dave wasn’t a detective, but given his many years of service he reckoned that meant he’d seen more dead bodies than most CID officers.

  The Regent’s Canal was part of his beat and he’d stumbled upon a handful of floaters over the years, not to mention the stabbing victims dead in a pool of their own blood round the back of one of the rougher pubs in the area, or the domestics – wives and girlfriends, mostly – stabbed, bludgeoned or strangled by their husbands, boyfriends, pimps or, just very occasionally, teenag
ed sons.

  So before he put his eye to the letterbox he pulled out his handkerchief, an old-school cotton square with DH embroidered in the corner in royal-blue thread, folded it into eighths, and clamped it over his nose. Then he looked.

  He nodded. Even through the folds of white cotton, ironed to wrinkle-free perfection by his wife, he could detect the sweet-sour top notes of the smell of death. It stung his eyes. He felt a fleeting pang of sorrow for Sarah Sharpe. A nice woman. Living alone, apart from her cat, Gavin. Another murder on his patch. Another set of relatives to be informed, comforted and interviewed. He turned away and spoke into his radio.

  ‘Control from PC 562 Harris. Suspicious death at 63 Finstock Road. Ambulance on its way,’ he looked at Gaynor for confirmation: she nodded. ‘We’re going to need the on-call police surgeon and CID. CSI, too. Over.’

  ‘OK, Dave. Wheels in motion. Out.’

  He touched Gaynor on the elbow.

  ‘Can you stand, love? Let’s get you down the path, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ she said, getting to her feet and preceding Dave down the path to the gate, which swung open on silent hinges.

  35

  TUESDAY 21ST AUGUST 8.06 P.M.

  Stella was sleeping when the ring of her force mobile jerked her out of a dream. Instinctively, she checked the time and made a mental note: 8:06 p.m. She’d been asleep for an hour, give or take. Not bad, she reflected, after having been up for twenty-three hours straight. She grabbed the ringing and vibrating phone, which had almost reached the edge of her bedside table.