Let The Bones Be Charred

by Andy Maslen

‘Yes, boss,’ he said, turning at once and tapping Will on the shoulder.

  After the briefing, Roisin drove her own car eastwards, heading for Holborn, the long, wide street that ran east towards the City of London. At the far end, she turned left into Hatton Garden, the centre of London’s jewellery quarter, and parked her car on a meter.

  She retrieved her brown leather briefcase from the passenger seat and walked back ten yards or so, then turned left into a narrow archway between two jeweller’s shops.

  Thirty feet further down the alley, she emerged into a tiny courtyard outside a pub named Ye Old Mitre. She politely excused herself as she squeezed through a knot of late-afternoon drinkers and entered the dark interior of the pub.

  At the wooden bar stood Andy Robbins. She tapped him on the shoulder and he turned, smiling.

  ‘Hello, Roisin. Red wine? Large one?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He turned back and when the barman approached ordered a glass of merlot for Roisin and a pint of Fuller’s London Pride for himself. With the weather so warm, most of the patrons had opted to stand outside: the pub had no air conditioning. It meant they had no trouble finding a table, although the pub was stiflingly hot.

  ‘Cheers,’ Robbins said.

  ‘Cheers.’

  He took his jacket off and draped it over the third chair at the table. His pale-pink shirt had turned several shades darker under the arms and on the chest.

  ‘I tell you what. If this heatwave doesn’t end soon, we may have to start running stories about climate change.’

  She snorted.

  ‘In the Sun? Jesus! Bit highbrow for your readers, isn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t be so sure. They’re not all white van man and his missus. Anyway, let’s talk about stories we’re actually running. I assume you’ve got something new for me?’

  ‘I have. The usual five hundred?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Good. So, we’re getting close. The prime suspect is a guy called Malachi Robey. He did eight years in Pentonville for rape. He’s a psychopath. The public warning goes out tonight. You know the last victim, Burnside?’

  ‘Yes. Not a Londoner though. You know why he killed her?’

  ‘She was the Head of RE at his old school. He went to Monksfield until he was expelled for raping a sixth-former. And how about this, you know he’s been strangling them with flax bell rope? Well, there are black and gold fibres in it. Guess what the school colours of Monksfield are?’

  Robbins smiled and gulped down some more beer.

  ‘Are they black and gold?’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘This is excellent stuff, Roisin. But I need a killer detail. Something nobody else’ll have, even after the press conference. Even if they go down to the school.’

  Roisin smiled.

  ‘And you can have it. For another five hundred.’

  Robbins didn’t even hesitate.

  ‘If it’s as good as I think it’s going to be, that won’t be a problem. What have you got?’

  Roisin sipped her wine.

  ‘Money first. Then story.’

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  Rosin smiled sweetly.

  ‘About as far as I could throw you,’ she said, poking a finger into his gut.

  ‘Fine. Meet me here tomorrow, same time.’

  While Roisin was meeting Robbins, Stella called in on Callie.

  ‘I think we’ve got a name for Lucifer,’ she said. ‘A prime suspect. His real name’s Malachi Robey.’ She gave Callie a brief summary of what they’d discovered so far. ‘Can you do a full-on public safety announcement? You know, the usual. “Extremely dangerous. Members of the public advised not to approach.”’

  ‘Sure. I’ll get onto Tim. You OK, Stella? You’re looking a bit grey round the edges.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.’

  ‘Aye, well, if ye’d take some time off like I keep telling you to, wee girl, maybe you’d be feeling a bit fresher. But,’ Callie continued, before Stella could reply, ‘I know that’s not going to happen until you’ve closed this one. But remember what I said right at the beginning? I think I said something about having a feeling this one could be a runner. You know, if it is you’re going to have to get some rest at some point. I don’t want one of my best officers switching off permanently because she’s too bloody stubborn to follow polite suggestions from her superior officer, eh?’

  Stella smiled. Nodded.

  ‘OK, boss,’ she said. ‘Message received and understood. I’ll try.’

  87

  TUESDAY 11TH SEPTEMBER 11.30 A.M.

  CITY HALL

  ‘Hello, is that Craig Morgan?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Oh, great! Mr Morgan, my name is Lucy Sebastian. I’m a production assistant on Newsnight.’

  Morgan sat straighter in his chair. This is it!

  ‘How can I help you, Lucy?’

  ‘We’re planning tomorrow’s show and, given your recent remarks in the Standard about the mayor’s failure to resource the Metropolitan Police Service properly, and the Lucifer killings, of course, the producer asked me to invite you on as the main guest. In fact, we were really hoping you could persuade the psychologist to appear, too. Dr Trimmets, was it?’

  Morgan pumped his fist, grinning. Yes! This would put Remi Fewings so far into the shadows she’d need a searchlight to find her way out again.

  ‘I’d be delighted, Lucy, and I’m sure Dr Trimmets will need very little persuading by me, either. What time would you like us to arrive at the studios? I’m assuming it’s your central London building, Broadcasting House?’

  ‘Yes. We’d like you there for 10.00 p.m., if possible. So you have time for makeup and a relax in our green room, but please, let me send a car for you. Would 9.15 be OK for you?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Thank you.’

  Morgan gave the production assistant his address and then ended the call.

  Look out, Remi. I’m coming for you.

  He called Trimmets. Got voicemail. Spoke with a smile on his face.

  ‘Ade, it’s Craig. How do you fancy being on Newsnight tomorrow night? Be at my office at nine p.m.’

  88

  WEDNESDAY 12TH SEPTEMBER 9.00 A.M.

  PADDINGTON GREEN

  Once again, the Sun had printed details about Robey that went far, far beyond anything Callie had announced at the previous evening’s press briefing.

  In short, sharp sentences, it told its readers about Robey’s history, his criminal record and a telling detail about his favoured murder weapon that only police officers and staff knew about.

  Stella sat in her office, staring down at the blaring front-page headline. She could hear her back teeth grinding against each other.

  SERIAL KILLER

  ROBEY IS SICK

  SCHOOL RAPIST

  She re-read the article, wishing she still believed that Morgan was the leaker, then threw the paper across the room.

  ‘Arran, what have you got?’ Stella asked at the afternoon briefing.

  Arran slid forwards off his desk and cleared his throat, presumably not wanting a repeat of the toast-crumb incident. He pressed a button on a remote and projected a photo onto a newly cleaned whiteboard.

  ‘Meet Malachi Robey, aged thirty-five. Weird-looking little sod, isn’t he?’

  The photo he was projecting had been created by a specialist graphics artist at Scotland Yard, using the school photo supplied by Sylvia Royal as a source. The artist had manipulated the original image using software designed to mimic the likely effects of aging given a standard set of factors, from diet to use of alcohol, tobacco and illegal drugs.

  The face staring at them had an other-worldly quality. Photographic in quality but lacking any spark of humanity, which, Stella supposed, was hardly surprising given how little there had been to begin with.

  The adult Malachi Robey had darker hair than the teenager, and a few faint lines across that unusually high and w
ide forehead. The jaw was heavier, and dark stubble across the upper lip, cheeks and chin emphasised the planes of his face.

  The stare, so cold at fourteen, had, if anything emptied itself even further, so that Stella felt she was looking into a negative space where a person had been. What was that quote? Something about staring into an abyss? She made a mental note to look it up later.

  ‘I’ve had it printed up and distributed throughout the Met’s jurisdiction. If he turns up anywhere from Enfield to Croydon, Uxbridge to Upminster, someone’ll spot him and call it in.’

  ‘Thanks, Arran. Rosh, any news on that eyelash from the Lucifer letter? Or the text analysis? I thought we’d have had the results by now.’

  Roisin looked down for a second, then back up at Stella.

  ‘Still waiting. I’ll get onto them after this.’

  ‘OK, good. Baz, you’re up.’

  ‘Will and I have been through the leavers’ lists from Monksfield and the list Professor Karlsson’s secretary sent us. A complete bugger of a job, but nobody’s a good fit for Lucifer. All alibied or basically just completely wrong for him.’

  ‘Thanks, Baz, and the rest of you. It’s a big box we can tick so nothing wasted there. Cam, how’s it going with the list from the radio show?’

  ‘Yeah, all done, basically. I spoke to each one in person.’

  ‘How did they take it?’

  ‘Actually, pretty well. I don’t know if it’s a God-thing, but they mostly seemed to feel that as long as they stayed with other people, He’d look after them.’

  ‘Wow, OK, I was not expecting that. I guess there’s something to be said for going to Church after all.’

  Once the group had disbanded, Stella stood before the whiteboard.

  First she looked at the dates of death. Dr Craven had sent her his estimate for Amy Burnside that morning.

  Niamh Connolly: 13th August

  Sarah Sharpe: 17th –18th August

  Moira Lowney: 23rd August

  Amy Burnside: 5th September

  The list of similarities among the four murdered women was a long one.

  Tortured according to chapter order of early draft of Prof Karlsson’s book.

  Strangled with flax bell rope supplied by Sherborne Ropes.

  Pubic hair removed.

  Drugged with Ketamine and Temazepam (injected in neck)

  All Christians.

  All except Amy Burnside = public profile.

  ‘Everything all right, boss?’ Garry said, coming to stand by her side.

  ‘Yeah. I was just thinking about Amy Burnside. He did her last, but she looks like the lynchpin for the whole series. She represented the school that expelled him. The school where he committed his first rape.’

  ‘That we know of.’

  ‘OK, yeah, good point. That we know of. Why didn’t he do her first?’

  Garry shrugged.

  ‘Honestly? I don’t know. I mean, who knows how these nutters think? Maybe he wanted to get some practice in first. He certainly went to town on her more than the others. Maybe he woke up one morning going, “I know, I’ll drive down to my school and butcher whoever’s the current Head of RE.” Maybe she was his grand finale?’

  Stella shook her head, looking at the list of chapter titles from Karlsson’s book. Someone had helpfully added colour photocopies of the illustrations of the martyred saints. She pointed to the illustration on the far right of the board.

  ‘Look. Saint Lawrence. They roasted him alive. Apparently halfway through he said, “I’m done on this side, you can turn me over now.’’’

  Garry nodded appreciatively.

  ‘Good line. For a bloke being grilled alive. We’d better hope we find Robey before he turns some lady vicar into kebabs then, boss.’

  Roisin re-read the email she’d received the previous day from the private forensics lab. In a few short sentences it informed her that they had been unable to extract enough DNA to build a profile. Dead end.

  She went to tell Stella, wondering if she could find a way to lay the blame at Lucian’s door. He’d been the first one to suggest not fast-tracking it, hadn’t he? But the boss had left for the evening. So she parked it for another day.

  She checked her watch. She had her meeting with Andy Robbins to look forward to.

  The same drinks in front of them as the previous evening, Roisin and Robbins sat in a dimly lit corner.

  ‘Have you got it?’ she asked, without preamble.

  Robbins nodded before opening his laptop bag for her to see the open-ended padded bag filled with banknotes.

  ‘He’s been taking their crucifixes as trophies. You know that’s what serial killers do, don’t you?’

  Robbins smiled and nodded. He looked around, then took the fat envelope out of his bag and passed it under the table to Roisin, who slid it into her briefcase.

  Later that evening, a glass of wine at her elbow and the day’s reports in front of her, Stella looked up the quote she half-remembered. She read it aloud.

  ‘“He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.” Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche. Well, that’s cheery.’

  She finished her wine and went back to the details of the latest monster she was fighting.

  Then she stopped.

  ‘Our abyss is that letter,’ she said aloud. ‘And I want to gaze into it.’

  She called Lucian and started speaking as soon as he answered.

  ‘Hi, Lucian, sorry to call you at home.’

  ‘Whoa there, boyo! It’s Gareth. Lucian’s cooking.’

  Stella smiled.

  ‘Oh sorry, Gareth. And could you not call me “boyo”, please? I am a girl, you know.’

  ‘And a very beautiful girl, you are, too, Stel. Just a term of endearment from the Valleys, nothing more.’ Gareth had thickened his accent to almost music hall proportions, making Stella laugh.

  ‘OK, fine. Well, boyo, do you think I could have a quick word with Lucian, please?’

  ‘Fine. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, that’s me,’ he said with an audible flounce in his voice. ‘Luce, it’s your girlfriend on the phone!’

  Stella heard noises she imagined as a knife being placed on a chopping board and hands being wiped, then Lucian came on the line.

  ‘Hola! What’s up?’

  ‘The Lucifer letter. Where is it?’

  ‘The original’s in my office and I sent a copy to a linguist I know. She said she’d prioritise it. She sent her report to Roisin last week, I think. Did Rosh not send it to you?’

  Stella felt a cold fire ignite in her chest. Rosh was playing games. In the middle of a serial killer manhunt. She forced her voice to stay level.

  ‘Oh, yeah. I think I saw it. Must have been a heavy email day. I’ll go and recheck my inbox. Thanks, Lucian. What are you cooking?’

  ‘It’s a tagine of lamb with apricots, served with wild rice and bitter greens. Hungry? There’s plenty to go round.’

  ‘Oh, now you’re making me sad! I’d love to, but…’ She thought of Callie’s parting shot. ‘Actually, no. I mean, yes. Yes, please. Give me forty minutes.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Don’t kill yourself on the bike – it’ll be an hour at least.’

  Before leaving, Stella called Roisin.

  ‘Oh hi, boss. Still working?’

  ‘Nope. Just heading out for dinner. One thing, Rosh.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did that forensic linguist send you her report on the Lucifer letter yet?’

  Please, please don’t say no, Rosh. Please don’t lie to me.

  89

  WEDNESDAY 12TH SEPTEMBER 8.00 P.M.

  LISSON GROVE

  Stella listened to her heart beating, loud in her ears. She’d thought she could trust Roisin, thought her professionalism would overcome her jealousy. But was I right, Rosh?

  ‘Yeah, she did. To be honest, it wasn’t really
any use. It was a box ticked, for sure, but no real insights, you know what I mean? More hedging than a maze.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Shame. So, when did she send it to you?’

  The hesitation lasted two full seconds. Stella counted.

  ‘Uh, last week, I think. Let me check, I’ll have to put you on speaker while I find the email. OK, here we are,’ Roisin said, her voice tinny as it emerged from the phone’s speaker. ‘Yes, here we are. Tuesday the fourth.’

  ‘Rosh, that was over a week ago. Why didn’t you show me?’

  ‘Like I said, it’s pretty thin. Look, boss, we can all see how hard you’re driving yourself. First in, last out most days. I can’t remember the last time you took a day off. I just thought as it wasn’t germane to the investigation, I’d—’

  Stella had had enough.

  ‘Not germane? The only direct link to Lucifer? Seriously, Rosh, that is complete bullshit and you know it. Why did you hold it back?’

  Roisin raised her voice.

  ‘I just said, I wasn’t holding it back. In my judgement, it wasn’t great product.’

  Stella could hear the anger, but she knew the sound of a junior officer on the back foot as well. And that’s where Roisin was now. She shook her head, fighting down an urge to start in on Roisin about loyalty and playing as a team, not as individuals.

  ‘Well please would you email me a copy right now? You know, for a second opinion on the product.’ Stella couldn’t help the jab at Roisin’s spy talk.

  ‘Of course. It’s on its way. Was there anything else, boss?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night.’

  I hope you get nightmares.

  Her phone pinged a few seconds later. She printed out the report, folded it in four and stuck it her pocket, then grabbed her jacket and helmet and her bike keys and headed out.