Let The Bones Be Charred

by Andy Maslen

  She rode fast. Thirty-eight minutes later, having only once resorted to her blue flashers, she was heeling out the Triumph’s kickstand and leaning it over on the parking area beneath Lucian’s Docklands apartment building.

  Gareth opened the door and, after kissing her extravagantly on both cheeks, pushed a glass of red wine into her hand.

  ‘Château Musar, Lebanon’s finest and a fitting accompaniment to Lucian’s latest culinary extravaganza,’ he announced.

  She took a sip of the deep-red wine.

  ‘Mmm, lovely. Do you always speak like that, or do you put it on especially for me?’

  He widened his eyes and placed a hand on his chest as if fainting.

  ‘Stel! You wound me. It’s just the poetry in my Welsh soul,’ he moaned. ‘A boy can’t help his roots, can he?’

  Lucian appeared, dressed in soft, grey trousers and a loose-fitting sea-green shirt.

  ‘Stop bullshitting, Gar,’ he said, smiling. He came over and kissed Stella. ‘His parents have a house on Primrose Hill in Cowbridge. It’s the most expensive place to live in Wales.’

  Gareth looked offended. He pushed a hand through his hair and pouted.

  ‘I can’t help it if my mam and dad are minted, can I? I’m just a South Wales boy at heart. I reckon Barry’s more my spiritual home than Cowbridge.’

  ‘Of course it is. If by Barry you mean Manilow!’ Lucian said.

  Stella enjoyed listening to the two men banter. She could feel her shoulders unwinding after the ride, which had been fuelled by her anger at Roisin’s duplicity as much as 95 RON petrol.

  She sipped her wine and sat at the kitchen table. There, she pulled out the linguist’s report and read it while Gareth and Lucian continued to bicker.

  Something about the list of capitalised words was knocking at the doors of her consciousness, demanding admittance. But with the noise the boys were making she couldn’t focus. She took the report out onto the balcony and slid the double-glazed doors closed behind her.

  The apartment building faced the Thames and, apart from the occasional chug from one of the launches, the river was quiet. Holding the report in front of one of the lamps on the balcony, and trying to let her mind drift a little, Stella looked at the list.

  MALADJUSTED TORTURERS

  CHIMAERA

  MONSTERS

  ROB

  SEXUAL

  BREASTS

  EYES

  MORAL HIGH GROUND

  DEPRAVITY AND CORRUPTION

  THE FIRES OF HELL

  LIVES

  THE FOURTH HORSEMAN

  And then she saw it. The hidden message in the text. She gasped.

  ‘Shit!’

  She went back inside, grabbed a pen off the countertop separating the kitchen from the dining area and started crossing out words and letters.

  ‘What is it, dear girl?’ Gareth asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  She shook her head as she finished scribbling.

  ‘Not a ghost. A killer. Look.’

  Stella had altered the list so that the visible parts read:

  MALADJUSTED TORTURERS

  CHIMAERA

  MONSTERS

  ROB

  SEXUAL

  BREASTS

  EYES

  MORAL HIGH GROUND

  DEPRAVITY AND CORRUPTION

  THE FIRES OF HELL

  LIVES

  THE FOURTH HORSEMAN

  Gareth scanned the list, frowning. Then he looked at her.

  ‘Malachi Robey Lives,’ he said. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘They’re words from the letter Lucifer wrote to the Sun.’

  ‘Oh God, yes! I saw that. Dreadful stuff from start to finish.’

  ‘And Malachi Robey is our prime suspect. He was telling us his name in the letter. Crowing over it.’

  Then, feeling nauseous, she sat back and pulled her ponytail through her fist.

  ‘Oh, shit! Roisin said she got this on the fourth. Amy Burnside was murdered on the fifth. We could have prevented it!’

  Lucian came over and laid a comforting hand on Stella’s shoulder.

  ‘Are you sure? It would have been a long shot even then.’

  ‘I don’t know, Lucian,’ she said, suddenly exhausted. ‘Maybe we could have tracked him back to Monksfield in a day. Maybe not. Can I ask you two questions?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Can I stay here tonight, please?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Thanks. Then can I have some more wine, please?’

  He poured her another glass.

  Stella slept badly. She woke at six, left a thank-you note on the kitchen counter and slipped out, closing the door quietly behind her.

  She rode home, enjoying the relative freedom of the near-empty streets, showered and changed and was at the station just after seven, breakfasting on a takeaway coffee and a croissant.

  90

  THURSDAY 13TH SEPTEMBER 8.30 A.M.

  PADDINGTON GREEN

  Stella sat at her desk, waiting, pain gnawing at her gut. In front of her lay that day’s Sun. The headline told her all she needed – and didn’t want – to know. And she’d been right to seed the emerald ring story with Garry – even though she regretted the lie, she’d never really suspected him .

  The mole had taken the bait and stuck her head in the noose.

  TWISTED KILLER

  ROBEY TAKES

  ‘TROPHY’ FROM

  EACH VICTIM

  The tiny paragraph below the headline pulled the noose tight.

  Police believe that Malachi Robey, the man wanted for the ‘Lucifer’ killings, is taking a crucifix ‘trophy’ from each of his victims, the Sun can reveal.

  Beneath the newspaper lay the forensic linguist’s report and, beside it, the list of capitalised words with her own crossings out. Beside that lay a crime scene photo of Amy Burnside’s flayed body. She was staring at the dead young woman’s naked, blood-streaked eyes wishing she could turn back time.

  From across the incident room she heard Baz greeting Roisin, who’d just pushed through the double doors. She stood up and watched as Roisin made her way to her desk, which was about ten feet away from Stella’s. Then she called her over.

  ‘Rosh, have you got a minute, please? My office.’

  At the final two words, Stella saw a black cloud flit across Roisin’s usually untrammelled features. She also saw a couple of the other officers look up. Everybody knew Stella hardly ever used her office.

  ‘Sure, boss. Everything all right?’

  Stella didn’t trust herself to answer, so she gathered the documents from her desk and preceded Roisin into the office, sitting down behind the desk and allowing the DI to come in, close the door and take a seat opposite her.

  ‘Couple of things, Rosh,’ she said, so angry that her voice was trembling.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘First, I want you to tell me the truth. Have you been leaking details of the investigation to the Sun?’

  ‘What? No! I thought we all agreed it was Morgan.’

  ‘Yeah, we did. But I haven’t seen him around for the last few days and yet the Sun is still getting inside information.’

  ‘It could be anyone. Someone in Forensics, the exhibits room… there must be dozens of people. Why are you picking on me?’

  Roisin was doing a good job of looking indignant. It was time to pull the lever that would drop the trapdoor from under Roisin’s feet. Stella picked up the Sun and pointed to the paragraph of text.

  ‘See that?’

  Roisin leaned forward and read the twenty-six incriminating words.

  ‘That could have been anyone. You said yourself Garry knew, and you left a message with Forensics.’

  ‘I lied.’

  Roisin’s pale-blue eyes widened. Stella watched the colour drain from her face.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I lied, Rosh. Nobody knows about the crucifixes except Robey, me, and you. So unless you want to s
uggest he’s our mole,’ she paused, ‘or I am, then that leaves you. This is corruption, Rosh. You’ve been taking money from a journalist in return for confidential information. I could have you investigated by Professional Standards.’

  Roisin wasn’t done. Instead of admitting it, she seemed ready to brazen it out.

  ‘The Ghost Squad? You’ve got nothing to give them and I resent the accusation! Maybe one of the victims’ relatives mentioned it. You have no proof it was me. I’ve got a good mind to take this to my Fed rep.’

  Roisin put her hands on the arms of her chair, beginning to push herself out of it. Stella sat back in her chair, pulse racing. She hadn’t expected Rosh to go on the offensive. Time for the yank on the dangling legs before the hanged woman could climb back up through the trapdoor and escape.

  ‘Wait!’ she said, raising her voice. ‘Sit down. I said there were a couple of things.’

  Roisin subsided into the chair, which squeaked a tiny protest.

  Slowly, as if displaying incriminating evidence before a suspect, which she supposed she was, in a way, Stella moved the paper to one side and placed two of the three documents in a row facing Roisin.

  The report.

  And the photo.

  Roisin looked down reflexively, and Stella watched the way her eyes skittered past the picture of Amy Burnside’s flayed corpse before returning to her own.

  Breathing heavily, Roisin spoke.

  ‘Sorry, am I supposed to be seeing a connection here?’

  Stella placed the list of words on top of the other two documents. The version she’d amended at Lucian’s the previous night.

  ‘Read it for me, please, Rosh. Out loud.’

  Roisin frowned, then she looked down.

  ‘Mal,’ she paused. Then, ‘Oh, Christ! Malachi Robey lives.’

  She looked at Stella.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, OK? I just didn’t think it was relevant.’

  ‘Yes,’ Stella snapped. ‘You already told me that. I think your exact words were it wasn’t germane to the investigation.’

  Roisin looked away and shifted in her chair. The body language wasn’t hard to read. Nailed. But she still wasn’t ready to stop fighting. She scratched at her ginger hair, held back today in a bun, and Stella noticed that her narrow nostrils were flaring.

  ‘Look, first you accuse me of being the mole, now you’re saying I, what, obstructed justice? Just tell me, am I in trouble, or not? You’ve had it in for me since the day you came back from the dead, so if you want to assert your authority, please,’ she spread her hands, ‘be my guest.’

  Stella felt the power of speech momentarily desert her. Roisin was glaring at her, eyes narrowed, so that the shadows deepened their colour from pale blue to cobalt.

  Stella breathed in through her nose and let it out slowly.

  ‘You kept that report to yourself for over a week, which was bad enough. But here’s the thing, Detective Inspector Griffin. If you had thought that maybe, just maybe, it was germane to the investigation, and shared it, then someone, maybe me, maybe one of the babies, maybe even you, I don’t care, but someone might have joined the dots the way I did last night and decoded the message that Lucifer was Malachi Robey. And if we’d have done that, maybe we could have found out about him being at Monksfield, and gone down there and warned Amy Burnside, who therefore,’ she snatched up the photo of the dead woman and brandished it like a weapon, ‘might not have ended up with her skin draped over her arm like a fucking pashmina!’

  Stella sat back in her chair, breathing heavily, feeling her pulse in her throat and not liking the sensation of something living trying to push its way out from the soft place beneath her jaw.

  Suddenly, the fight seemed to go out of Roisin. Her eye muscles relaxed and she slumped back in her chair. Her eyes glistened and the tip of that long, narrow nose had reddened. She plucked at the sleeve of her shirt. She sniffed.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked in a quiet voice.

  ‘What would you do in my shoes, Rosh? What would you do?’

  Roisin shrugged, then pulled a tissue from her jeans pocket and blew her nose.

  ‘I don’t know. File a disciplinary report on me? Demote me? Kick me out of SIU? Report me to the Ghost Squad?’

  ‘Yeah? Well, maybe you would. Me? I’m a shit manager. I know that. The thought of taking this to Callie, or those numpties in HR, fills me with horror more than that does,’ she said, pointing at the photo. ‘So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to ask you to stay. For now. Because, believe it or not, I actually think you’re a good detective. A good detective with a thing for stabbing me in the back, but still. And I need you to help me catch Malachi Robey. But, just to be clear, I have never “had it in” for you. I know you thought the DCI’s job was yours but, guess what? It wasn’t! I earned it fair and square, more than you’ll ever know. And it was six years ago. So leave it, Rosh. Just leave it. Work the case. Then, if you want a transfer, I won’t stand in your way. But I need you to know something.’

  She paused, forcing Roisin to ask the question.

  ‘What?’

  Stella lunged forwards, causing Roisin to rear back in surprise. She lowered her voice.

  ‘Don’t ever get on my wrong side again. You really wouldn’t like the person you’d find there.’

  Stella didn’t bother with the old trick of looking down at paperwork. She just stared at Roisin until the DI got up and left.

  She blew her cheeks out and looked at the ceiling, rolling her head on her neck and listening to the joints crackle.

  91

  THURSDAY 13TH SEPTEMBER 10.00 A.M.

  LABOUR PARTY HEADQUARTERS

  Roly Fletcher scowled. He checked his watch again. Morgan was forty-five minutes late for their meeting. He pressed the intercom button on the desk phone.

  ‘Melissa, could you try Craig Morgan again, please?’

  ‘Of course,’ her buzzy voice answered.

  A minute later she poked her head around his office door.

  ‘Sorry, Roly. I tried his office number and his mobile. No answer. I left a message, but…’

  Fletcher smiled.

  ‘It’s fine. Thanks.’

  Once she’d disappeared and closed the door behind her, Fletcher called Kendra Fawcett.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked the moment she picked up. Ever efficient.

  ‘Craig Morgan’s up. Or rather, he isn’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s not up here, in my office. He was due three-quarters of an hour ago to discuss talking points. And he’s not picking up his phone.’

  ‘OK, leave it with me. I’ll make a few calls.’

  She rang back ten minutes later.

  ‘I spoke to Fiona. She’s at a conference in Milan but she spoke to him yesterday morning. Apparently Craig was going to be on Newsnight last night as the main guest. But I watched it; he wasn’t on. I called the BBC and they said they’d not invited him.’

  Fletcher experienced a flash of anger. He’d suppressed his doubts about Morgan. The man’s arrogance, his vanity, the odd questionable remark about women when the two of them were alone. He had drive, ambition and a true believer’s fervour for Fletcher’s political programme and that was what mattered.

  ‘I hope we haven’t backed the wrong horse, Kendra,’ he said, finally. ‘You need to find him and get him over here to explain himself.’

  At Paddington Green, Stella was having a better day than Kendra Fawcett. Lucian had just been to see her with the news that he’d managed to isolate two separate blood samples from Amy Burnside’s cottage. He’d driven them himself to the private forensics lab and they’d promised the results would be phoned through to Stella no later than nine the following morning.

  ‘I spoke to Prue Brundage. She said you two had spoken before?’

  ‘Yes. She called about the samples from the Connollys’ house.’

  Kendra failed in the task Fletcher had assigned to her.
Morgan hadn’t turned up to work. He hadn’t returned home, either. When his wife got back from her conference late on the Thursday night and couldn’t locate him, she called the police.

  He was formally recorded as a missing person – a MisPer in police parlance – at 11.57 p.m. on September 13th.

  92

  FRIDAY 14TH SEPTEMBER 6.00 A.M.

  Stella’s phone rang. She was already up, sitting at her kitchen table, writing in her journal.

  ‘DCI Cole?’

  ‘Yes, who is this please?’

  ‘It’s Mim. Professor Karlsson’s secretary?’

  Mim’s voice sounded tiny, shaky.

  Stella pulse jumped. She breathed in and out slowly through her nose, willing herself to project calmness into the little mic by her mouth.

  ‘Hello, Mim. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m sorry for calling so early, but I couldn’t sleep. I’m so frightened.’

  ‘What are you frightened about?’

  She could hear Mim’s breathing. Shallow, fast breaths as if she were panicking. Finally, Mim spoke, almost inaudibly.

  ‘I think my husband is Lucifer. I think he’s the one who’s been killing those poor women.’

  Stella’s heart was pounding. She forced herself to keep her voice steady.

  ‘Why, Mim? Why do you think your husband is Lucifer?’

  ‘I found him burning these bloody overalls in the incinerator in our back garden. And he came home the other day all covered in it. He said he’d got into a fight. But I don’t think he had because he hadn’t got any, you know, he hadn’t got any wounds. No cuts or bruises. Not even a scratch. And he’s been going on about the women when he sees the news. Calling them whores and all these horrible names. He said they deserved it because they were peddling lies. And, and…’

  ‘What, Mim?’

  ‘He’s got a special room in the house. I’m not allowed in it. It’s locked, but I know where he keeps the key. I went in it the other day when he was at work. Oh, it was so awful. Just all these gory pictures cut out of books of people being cut up and burned and tortured. The women’s names, you know, the ones on the news? He’d written their names under the pictures.’