by Emmy Ellis
“Right.” Shields whipped out a notebook. “Go for it.”
Langham said, “Louise is at the morgue, her scene still being searched. Mark Reynolds, I presume, is in the same place, his scene being inspected. The old woman, Reynolds’ gran. What’s the status on that?”
“She’s with Louise and Mark.” Shields jotted on his pad.
“And Ronan Dougherty?”
“Last I heard he was still in situ.”
Oliver studied Shields while the man’s head was bent. He looked for signs of discomfort, of guilt, but found none. Either he was one clever bastard at disguising how he felt, acting innocent, or he had nothing to do with this.
“And then there’s these two.” Langham wrote in his own pad. “Three, including the foetus. You dealing with them?”
He’ll say yes, because then he can visit Mrs Rosé. Can’t see him taking Langham’s word for it that the old bird doesn’t know anything. Shit.
“May as well, seeing as I was first on the scene.” He smirked, like Langham being out of the loop at that house with the truck in the middle of nowhere made him a lesser detective. “I’ll also put things in motion to find Glenn.” He chuckled. “Glenn Close. Jesus…”
Arsehole.
“Fine,” Langham said. “The truck men are being dealt with—must get an update on how that’s going. Any news on Jackson?”
“He’s being watched until the warrant comes through to search Privo,” Shields said.
The man appeared affronted, as if Langham questioning him wasn’t right. As if having to answer to him didn’t sit well. Of course it wouldn’t, Shields being Shields, but Oliver saw him through new eyes now. Wanted to find the buried nugget that proved he was in on this shit. He shook his head, thinking of the times Shields had accused him of having a hand in the murders Oliver had brought to their attention, when all along he was—possibly—involved in bollocks like that himself.
“So we’re up to date,” Langham said. “I’ll call in, see if there are any tox results back yet. Yep, I’ve got high hopes on that, but I want to know what the hell’s in those sugar strands that makes a person act like this.” Langham gestured to the house, arm raised, then let it slap back down to his side. “This has turned into a fucking nightmare.”
Shields turned away, muttered, “And it’ll only get worse.”
“What was that?” Langham said.
Oliver’s instincts screamed that Shields was guilty, but he shushed the roaming thoughts—the words sliding through his mind sounded too much like his own voice, not those of the dead. He couldn’t trust it.
“Let’s pray it doesn’t get worse,” Shields said, louder this time, then disappeared inside the house, that damn hanky covering his nose and mouth.
That’s not what you said the first time.
“Come on.” Langham strode towards his car, stiff-limbed, anger seeping out of him. He raked a hand through his hair, tightened it into a fist, and jerked open the driver’s-side door with a more-than-annoyed tug.
Oliver trotted to keep up then climbed inside.
Langham started the car. “If it isn’t him, if he isn’t involved, I’ll eat my fucking badge.”
“He said ‘sir’. Could have been talking to the chief.”
Langham let the engine idle, taking his phone out of his inside jacket pocket. Stared at Mrs Rosé’s phone number. Jabbed in the digits. “Mrs Rosé? Ah, hello again. It’s Detective Langham. I was at your house a short while ago. No, we haven’t found her. I’m calling on a different matter.” He glanced at Oliver, his face grim. “If another detective calls at your door, don’t answer. In fact, if anyone you don’t know knocks, ignore them. For now. Until I get back to you. Why? It’s better that you deal with me, seeing as I spoke with you. I’ll send someone out to keep an eye on you.” He waited a beat, then said goodbye, dropping his phone back into his pocket. “That’s her safe and sorted. Now, I think we need to visit Ronan Dougherty’s place, see him for ourselves, unless he’s been moved since Shields last got an update.” He clamped the steering wheel. “Fuck. The dodgy number plate. Must remember to run that through the computer.”
Chapter Eleven
Ronan Dougherty looked disgusting. No other word for it. Not only had his arms been hacked off, but he’d been eviscerated, his insides outside, much like Glenn’s mother. They sat in a pile on his stomach, the skin pulled back like a half-peeled orange, forgotten by the person who had wanted to eat it. Blood coated the beige carpet beneath him, a living room carpet that, everywhere else, was clean and well cared for. Ronan’s place was tidy—a man who liked order, cleanliness—the surfaces recently polished, now marred by arcs of blood spatter that spoke of a frenzied knife attack. The way the red stuff had landed on the walls and ceiling indicated it was castoff, droplets flying off a knife before the blade had been plunged back into the body.
Alex had been angry here, unable to contain it, had stabbed and stabbed, possibly long after Ronan had died. Those drugs, God, they changed a human into a monster.
In his protective outfit, Langham sighed. “I’ve seen angry kills before, but this is something else. Think of Louise. Imagine what she’d have looked like if you hadn’t turned up. Yep, Alex went back, finished what he’d started, but her body wasn’t like this one. This resembles Glenn’s parents. It’s like Alex and Glenn killed Ronan together.”
“Maybe they escalate with each kill.” Oliver cocked his head, waiting for Ronan to make contact. He wasn’t sure if he could take that now, if he could listen to what the poor man had to say. He was tired. So fucking tired. “Maybe the drugs make them worse the longer they take them. Higher doses or whatever. Could produce differing results from the same killer.”
Langham stepped forward, then crouched beside the body. “The strands are here. Most definitely Alex’s work.”
Oliver stepped from foot to foot, his booties and white suit rustling. No way was he getting any closer to that body. Like Louise the second time around, Ronan had no face. His scalp had been treated like an orange, too, yanked back to expose a bloody, rounded dome of skull with a harsh, jagged divot in it.
“Blunt force trauma,” Langham said. “ Rectangular weapon. A gun handle?”
“But if Alex had a gun and just wanted to kill to stop Ronan speaking out, why not just shoot him?”
“Because the drugs make him want to kill in a frenzy, to obliterate the victim bearing any resemblance to a human being. I’m guessing, by the way, but that makes sense to me. Feels like I’m on the right track. If you just want to kill someone, to keep their mouth shut, you generally don’t see this kind of rage. Rage means emotion, a connection, that it’s personal.”
“So Alex took it personally that Louise and Ronan had made moves to expose him and the Privo shit, is that it?”
“Who knows?” Langham stood, stared down at the body. “He was messed up well before the drugs by the sound of it. Those strands, his gran—can’t have been a healthy upbringing, if he’s to be believed. The old dear might not have done any of it, like Mark said.”
Oliver thought about the similarities between himself, Alex, and Glenn. He could so easily have been them. Mean adults, being taunted by them all his life, not fitting in anywhere. But he hadn’t turned out bad, and who knew, maybe Alex and Glenn wouldn’t have if they hadn’t been force-fed drugs. Force-fed. Sounded more like they’d taken them willingly, so he couldn’t even blame that on whoever had given the strands to them.
Of course they’d have taken them willingly. Who wouldn’t mind eating a doughnut like that if one was offered? Who’d suspect the strands on top would contain something that would change their lives forever?
Not Oliver. He’d have accepted it like he’d accept a biscuit with his cup of tea. Not Alex, who may well have been given one when he’d gone to blackmail Jackson. And not Glenn, who’d been probably so starved of not only love but confections, that she’d gobbled it down eagerly.
Like Langham had said, this was a fucking
nightmare.
The medical examiner’s men loitered, waiting for Langham’s nod before they went about their business, removing the body and taking it to a place where the secrets hidden from the casual observer would be revealed. They had one hell of a job on their hands today, the amount of bodies turning up in the state they were. Murders weren’t unheard of here, but the volume, all at one time, was.
Oliver moved out of the way, standing close to the wall beside the door as Ronan’s body was taken out, prone on a stretcher, the sight of him covered by a sheet from prying eyes.
What a shitty way to die.
“It is, isn’t it?”
Oliver tensed. “Is that you?” He flapped one hand at Langham.
“Me? Yes, this is me.” The man chortled. “Didn’t expect to see myself being carried out like that, but there you go. Life’s full of surprises.”
Oliver smiled at Ronan’s upbeat tone. “You sound all right about it.”
“Well, there’s nothing I can bloody do about it now, is there? No point pissing and moaning about something I can’t change. May as well get on with my lot and be done with it.”
“Good way of dealing with it, I suppose. Do you have something you want to tell me?”
“Damn right I do. That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it, a bit of gossip and all that?”
Oliver would have liked Ronan in life. “What can you tell me? What do you remember?”
“Well, after I started sticking my nose in where it clearly wasn’t wanted”—another chuckle—“I found out something a bit surprising. I mean, it all points to it being Jackson, doesn’t it? I thought the same, but the man hasn’t got any fucking idea what’s going on right under his nose.”
Oliver frowned. “But that doesn’t make sense. After we visited Privo—”
“Yep, I know. I tagged along for the ride there. He was getting rid of some other stuff. Been making drugs for a rival company, hasn’t he, the dirty bastard. He doesn’t own Privo, just runs the place. The owner leaves it to him, no questions asked, just rakes in the cash, thanks very much.”
“So he was removing other drugs? Totally unrelated to the strands?”
“Yep. Shitting himself, he is. Funny to watch. Anyway, the owner would be a bit pissed off about Jackson making money on the side, so Jackson’s covering his arse by removing them.”
“Does the owner have anything to do with the strands and what’s going on there?”
“Fuck, yes. She’s in on it.”
“She?”
“Yep, and you wouldn’t think it to look at her either. Not mentioning any names and all that, but some of us dead folks who’ve spoken to you haven’t been telling the truth. Put it this way, they haven’t lied, they just haven’t told you everything. Maybe they’re in denial, who knows?”
Oliver thought on who’d contacted him. Louise. Glenn’s mother. Mark Reynolds. “Who?”
“Ah, I wouldn’t like to say. It’d take the fun out of your investigation, wouldn’t it?”
“But by you not saying, you’re hampering it.”
“So what do the police do when they don’t have someone like you, who has someone like me filtering them information? They investigate, that’s what.”
Ronan’s voice faded.
“Come on now, Ronan. That isn’t fair. This isn’t a game. You can’t leave it hanging like this. Just give me a name. I can’t contact spirits—they have to contact me—so it’s not like I can burst into their death sleep or whatever and demand answers.”
“Louise.”
It came softly, a whisper of sound Oliver barely caught.
“You need to look into Louise.”
“Into? As in, literally inside her body?”
Ronan didn’t answer. His presence had gone, leaving Oliver battling a wave of fatigue.
“What did you get?” Langham asked, his face full of concern.
“Give me a second.” Oliver held up his hand. “I’m knackered.” He shook his head, willing some life back into his aching limbs. His broken finger throbbed so hard he had the urge to yank it off.
“Come on, into the car.”
Oliver followed Langham outside, leaving the other detectives to it. They took off their togs and, inside the vehicle, Oliver rested his head on the seat, eyes closing. It felt like he hadn’t slept in days, like the first call from Louise had been months ago. He berated himself for not asking Ronan about Shields being involved, but the conversation had taken on a life of its own.
Langham drove away, and Oliver kept his eyes shut until the car stopped again. He looked around—nothing but a dingy street, the walls of aged houses either side, the bricks uneven, knobbles and gouges spoiling them. Langham had parked, sandwiching the car between two others, and with no pedestrians in sight, it felt as though they were the only people on the planet.
“Talk to me.” Langham said.
“That was Ronan.”
“I gathered that. And?”
Oliver turned his head towards Langham. “He said someone lied to me. That we had to look into Louise. Whether he means inside her body or into her life, I don’t know.”
“Louise? Did she give you the impression she was lying?”
“No, she sounded genuine enough, but now I think about it, she was hesitant. And she didn’t give the right information. Remember? We thought she’d worked at Privo. She’d implied that. And she’d mentioned a ‘she’. I took it that she wasn’t too happy about her son being with her mother, but what if she meant someone else?”
“Family feuds, happen all the time.”
“So what d’you reckon Ronan was on about?” Oliver sighed out the words.
“Louise has probably got something on her body, some evidence, something that will help us. If being dead is like I imagine it to be, you can float about all over the damn place and find out information. He’s probably done that. Whatever, it all helps—any information helps.”
“There’s a lot we need to do. Coppers all over the place, all dealing with different victims. What started out as a case between me and Shields has expanded. Possibly too many chefs in the kitchen, but what can we do?”
Oliver didn’t know. “And shit, I forgot to say. Jackson isn’t in on it.”
Langham frowned. “You’re kidding me. That man looked guilty as fuck.”
“He is guilty, but not of drugging Alex and those kids. He’s working for the competition, using Privo as a place to mass produce drugs for them. That was what he was getting rid of.”
“If we’d known that before… What a waste of time and resources. Give me a sec.” He grabbed the radio, asking for, then being connected to the detective dealing with the Jackson side of things. “Yeah, you got Jackson at the station now? Okay, is he talking? Ah, right. A lot of denial. That’s because he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. Ask him questions leading to an answer on whether he’s making a quick quid on the side. See if he grabs the chance to admit to that—it’s got to be better for him than taking the blame for this other shit. Yeah, right. That’s what I thought.” He relayed what Oliver had told him. “Okay? So go with that. Thanks.”
“A massive can of worms.” Oliver sighed.
“It is. I need my bed.”
Oliver needed his, too. Speaking to so many dead people in one day had taken its toll. Zapped the energy out of him. He could just close his eyes now… “Too much to do, though,” he slurred, giving in and allowing his eyes to shut.
“Yep. We need to run that Mercedes plate. Need to find out who owns Privo. Need to deal with Louise.” Langham sounded as weary as Oliver felt. “So, after we do that, we go to the morgue.”
“What?”
“You heard me. You need to get your feet wet there sometime. We have to see Louise. And you wanted it this way, wanted in on everything this time.”
Oliver had—did—but the thought of seeing Louise in such a sterile place, tools poking into places they had no right to be, had his guts rolling over. “Right. Yeah.”
He remained silent as Langham drove them back to the station. They strode inside and went into Langham’s office. He sat at his desk, tapping the keys and moving the mouse. Threw himself into his chair, which scooted backwards a bit, banging into a metal filing cabinet behind.
“It isn’t Shields,” Langham said. “Yet I could have sworn it was.”
“Who is it, then?”
“A woman, same surname. Cordelia. Fifty-four. Lives in that big house up by the river. You know the one?”
Yeah, Oliver knew it. Reminded him of a mansion every time he saw it, with those white walls and fake Greek columns holding up a veranda that skirted halfway up the property and all around. He’d often wondered who lived there, and now he knew, although the name didn’t ring any bells.
Langham grimaced. “So now we need to know why a man was driving Cordelia’s car, why he visited Glenn, and why the fuck he took that little girl away.”
Oliver nodded. The day was pushing into evening. Time was pressing if they wanted to visit Louise then Cordelia Shields. “Morgue first?”
“Yeah, morgue first. I’m beginning to think this day will never end.”
“Me, too.”
Chapter Twelve
The overhead lights gleamed onto the metal table holding Louise’s remains, the glare bright enough to hurt Oliver’s eyes. To actually be here, with different scents combating for dominance—the tart stench of disinfectant, the whiff of dead bodies, his fresh sweat—gave him a sense of disembodiment, like he viewed it on a screen, wasn’t really there with a room along the corridor holding drawer upon drawer of corpses. Who the fuck would choose this as a profession? Who would want those smells inside their noses even after they went home, those odours seeping deep into their skin so they were never free of them despite bathing? He wanted a shower so badly, so God knew what the ME felt like. Maybe he was used to it. Maybe even liked it.
That ME, a kind-eyed, black-haired, rotund man of about forty, tended to Louise with such care and respect that Oliver changed his mind about him and his job. Someone had to do it.