Project Icarus - Disavowed Series 01 (2021)

by Shah, R D

  The mention of the number made Constable Dawkins look uneasy, and she quietly muttered one word, a word that in the modern vernacular could change the atmosphere quicker than someone farting at the dinner table. “Serial?”

  “We believe so… a bad one,” Munroe replied before checking himself. “Not that there are any good ones, but I need you to move all the officers out of the house and contact HQ to make sure they’re sending a forensics unit. We know what communication’s like.”

  Constable Dawkins was already nodding before he finished his sentence. “Of course, sir, immediately. I’ll have us patrol the front entrance. Quiet village like this is sure to notice a police presence soon.”

  “Good thinking, Constable, quick as you can.”

  Within twenty seconds the five police officers on site were all outside, making their way up to the property’s front entrance, leaving just Munroe and Regis alone in the now silent farmhouse.

  “How about you do the first floor and I take the ground?” Munroe said, pointing upstairs.

  Regis replied with a light nod but he looked unsure. “And what exactly are we looking for, Ethan?”

  Munroe motioned to the picture of his family, taped to the front door. “Not sure, but Icarus wanted me here for a reason, even if he did just try to kill me. So like I said, let’s take a look.”

  He knew that Regis would always support him, even if it wasn’t exactly procedure, but that was because the head of hostage negotiation knew Munroe would never ask him to cross the line. Sure, some lines were OK, but not the kind you couldn’t come back from.

  “OK, I’ll meet you back here in five.”

  With a nod Regis made his way upstairs while Munroe headed towards the open doorway at the far end of the hall, pausing for a moment before taking a step inside. The sight that greeted him was far less mundane than the rest of the house, perhaps even impressive. It must have been used as a dining room. A rectangular dining table ran the length of the room, with a total of six chairs sat around it, two along each side and one at either end. A creaseless white silk tablecloth covered it and five of the places had been set with ornate gold-rimmed china plates and silver cutlery laid out for a three-course meal. The starter, judging by the knife, was to be fish. Fine, sparkling crystal wine glasses with hollowed-out stems were placed on the right, just above the knife tips, and a rolled crimson red napkin held by a gold ring holder had been placed at an angle across each of the plates.

  Who’s coming for dinner?

  In the left-hand corner a pre-war drinks cabinet in a half-globe had been rolled back to reveal bottles of vodka and pear schnapps waiting for consumption, and in the right-hand corner was placed a more modern electric hostess for keeping food warm before service.

  The room was void of wallpaper, instead having been covered with cedarwood panels that had been lacquered for a darker colour. Brass uplighters, maybe French, lit up the ceiling, adding a cosy or gloomy atmosphere, depending on one’s taste, to the whole room.

  Munroe said nothing and immediately made his way to the hostess. He gently slid its top open, but whatever he expected to find was not there and he was met instead by empty grill trays.

  It was only now as he turned around that he noticed the anomaly that he had missed upon entering, and he took a few steps towards the curiosity, the set placing at the head of the table. While all the other placings looked fit for royalty, the head looked anything but. A cheap, scratched blue plastic plate sat between a white plastic fork and knife, and where the crystal wine glass should have been stood instead a single cracked, transparent plastic glass with a stem.

  The full meaning of this was lost on Munroe; the only thing he was sure of was that the person who laid this table had placed a setting for an unwanted dinner guest. But why?

  Munroe now turned his attention to the only other opening in the room, a thick wooden door with red hinge bolts at its edges and a round cast iron handle that would have looked more appropriate in a castle. Munroe moved over to it and twisted the handle.

  Locked.

  He pressed his palms against the door and lowered his ear to its surface and held his breath, listening for any sign of movement, but there was nothing except a kind of low-level humming. Any other place he would have assumed it was the boiler turning over, or maybe a washing machine or dryer in its final stages, but given the owner of this place was the suspect in five murders, all kinds of gruesome possibilities instead came to mind.

  Munroe pulled his head back from the door and reached up to the top of the doorframe and ran his finger along it but found only dust, which descended slowly to the floor below. He tapped his palm against the door mindfully before turning his attention to the splendour of the table settings, and it was then that something caught his eye. It was nothing more than a glint of light coming from just underneath the cheap plastic dinner plate, but he immediately moved over to it and gently nudged it aside to reveal the object.

  The small brass Yale key glinted under the light of the nearest wall lamp which reflected its light off the ceiling and down onto the dinner place below. The key had been perfectly positioned so the glint of the key could only be seen when one was located next to the door. With his forefinger Munroe guided it off the table. He then moved back to the door, slid it into the lock and with a turn it clicked open.

  Munroe had always had a strong sixth sense when navigating the world around him. It was nothing supernatural, as some believe, but rather an acute awareness of his surroundings that began with a tingling in his chest and cheeks. It had served him well in the military and more so as a hostage negotiator, and as he grasped the door handle he could feel that same tingling begin to well up inside him.

  Still holding the handle, Munroe positioned himself back towards the hinges of the doorway and then with his left hand pressed flat against the door’s surface he turned the handle and slowly began to pull it open, using the resistance as steady leverage. It was then he heard a click.

  The gunshot blast sent the door slamming back into Munroe’s shoulder hard as a plume of smoke erupted from the now open doorway. The noise was deafening and he winced as he pushed his body back against the wall, instinctively thrusting his foot against the door, sending it hurtling back into its frame. The door didn’t slam shut but instead bounced off the now bent locking mechanism, which had been hit during the impact, and slowly swung back towards him before finally coming to a stop.

  Munroe’s ears were ringing but he could hear the heavy scuffling overhead as Regis tore down the landing to investigate. He pulled off his jacket and threw it across the open gap in the door but nothing happened, no second shot, just silence. Trusting his instinct, Munroe grasped the door handle, pulled it back towards himself and cautiously leant around it to get a better look and saw what he’d expected to see.

  The nut-brown wooden handle of a sawn-off shotgun had been clamped between the jaws of a metal vice which was bolted to the inside wall. The barrel had been positioned directly at anyone entering and a filament line, probably from a fishing rod, had been set up to engage the triggers once the door was opened. Apart from this deadly mousetrap there was only an empty cupboard, and Munroe had already reached over and released the barrel to reveal two spent cartridges as Regis poked his head around from the entrance of the hallway.

  “You all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Munroe said, motioning towards the empty cupboard. “Our man had the door booby-trapped with a sawn-off. Don’t worry, it’s spent.”

  Regis, looking startled, entered the room fully. He had only just reached the cupboard to see for himself when the farmhouse’s front door burst open and Constable Dawkins, followed by two more uniformed officers, swept into the hallway.

  “Its’s all over, Constable, the owner set a booby trap,” Regis yelled with his hands raised calmingly. “Everyone back outside, please. Stay by the main entrance. If the neighbours weren’t curious, they will be now.”

  Constable Dawkins looked
pumped and ready to go but she immediately offered a nod, and after exhaling a deep breath she ushered the other two police officers back out of the front door, leaving the two men alone once more.

  “Christ,” Regis said, rubbing the top of his head reassuringly. “Why would he want you here just to have your head blown off by a shotgun?”

  This was the same question Munroe was asking himself. “I don’t know, but back at the house Icarus said something about being conflicted. Just before he attacked me. Something about not being in his nature.”

  Regis looked unimpressed by the insight. “Replace ‘nature’ with ‘in his right mind’ and it makes more sense.”

  “Perhaps,” Munroe replied, but he was now clearly more interested in the empty cupboard, and Regis also began staring awkwardly inside.

  “Why the hell would anyone set that up in an empty cupboard?”

  Munroe reached over and ran his palm against the nearest inside wall before moving on to the back. “Because it’s not empty. Feel that.”

  Regis reached inside and pressed his hand against the back wall.

  “The sides are cold but the back wall is warm… There’s something behind it.”

  Munroe bent down on his haunches and rubbed at the wood tiled flooring with his fingers. “There are scratch marks,” he said with curiosity, and then stood back up and placed his hands back against the inner wall. “This opens outwards. Stand back, will you.”

  Regis seemed more than happy to pull back into the dining room as Munroe probed the back wall with his palms laid upon it, and after a firm push it fell inwards a few centimetres before swinging forwards towards him, revealing a hidden door.

  Turning back Munroe waved his hand at Regis. “Shift it, will you. I don’t fancy taking a shell in the face if he’s booby-trapped this one as well.”

  Regis needed no further encouragement and he moved off to one side. Munroe followed suit and then, gripping the top corner of the door, he gave it a pull. The whole frame swung back effortlessly on well-oiled hinges, allowing Munroe to peer into the darkness. A draught of warm air swept past them both, filled with the sweet scent of flower petals, and as Munroe’s eyes adjusted to the gloom he began to make out a single set of wooden stairs leading downwards into the depths of the farmhouse’s foundations.

  “Wait here,” Regis ordered gruffly as he headed back into the hallway. “I’d rather have Dawkins stationed up here, just in case.”

  Munroe gave little more than a casual nod as Regis took off. Regardless of the order, he pulled out his iPhone, lit up the torch and began to make his way downwards into the sickly sweet depths of Orchard Farm.

  The steps underneath him were solid, well-constructed and despite the eerie nature of this hidden hideaway Munroe felt no fear but rather apprehension. Apprehension of walking straight into another booby trap and taking a bullet to the chest, or even some machete sling-trap. These were the things that concerned him and as he reached the final step he felt a shiver of relief wash over him.

  The picture of his family pinned to the front door and Icarus’s knowledge of them still had him riled. What the hell did a psychopathic murderer have to do with his wife and child? Whatever it was he was going to find out, even if it meant beating it out of the man. Violence was not a natural state for Munroe, but he was more than capable of wielding it when the situation arose. But as he swept his torchlight across the room in front of him his welling anger began to dissolve and was replaced with a disconcerting feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  The room looked more like a morgue than a farm basement, with glossy grey tiles covering the floor, all the way up the walls to the ceiling. In the middle an uncomfortable-looking steel chair had been bolted to the floor and as he moved his torch over to the left towards it the silhouetted outline of something huge loomed out of the darkness. But as he reached it his torch gave out.

  “Shit.” How was it that his phone always seemed to die on him just when he needed it the most?

  He was still cursing this act of sod’s law when off to his left something flickered into life. Two orange balls of light that appeared to pulsate in tandem stared back at him, and for the first time Munroe felt the familiar warm feeling of panic attempting to hijack his senses. He buried it immediately and instead looked to the wall nearest him. The only light available was coming from the dining room at the top of the stairs, but after a few moments of sliding his palm back and forth he hit upon what he’d been looking for. A switch.

  With a single click, the tubed lighting above flickered into life and the room lit up in a yellow hue, revealing not some terrible demon with glowing eyes but instead something far more unnerving as far as he was concerned.

  The furnace looked for all intents and purposes like a huge oven encased in polished metal with two small round glass peepholes which were emitting the orange glow he had seen. But that’s where the similarities to any cooking apparatus ended, because at ten feet tall and eight feet wide this was no chef’s equipment but something far more disturbing. It was a cremator… still lit. And as Munroe scanned the rest of the room it suddenly seemed the most inoffensive thing down here. Cages, four of them and big enough to house a single person. Each had thick padlocks on them and although empty they all displayed dark stains and marks that he cared not to imagine how they got there.

  “A sadist’s playroom,” he said quietly and with disgust, and as he took note of the various knives, screwdrivers and drills hung from a work rack above the cages he could only guess how terrifying these ‘decorations’ must have been to anyone unfortunate enough to have found themselves locked up down here. There was also a wall cabinet that was gaining his interest as heavy footsteps on the stairs drew his attention; he turned to see Regis rushing down them only to come to a stiff halt as he saw the offerings of a sick mind laid out in the room before him.

  “Oh God,” Regis said, jogging down the final few steps to join Munroe. “Is that a cremator?”

  Munroe gave a slow nod and then began to make his way over to the bolted metal chair facing the cages. “Icarus has been a busy boy,” he said, tapping the back of it with a closed fist, “and with front row seats… Who is this guy, Mike?”

  “I have no idea, but I can tell you what he is… A seriously disturbed individual.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant, why does a man who enjoys showing off his work need a crematorium that’s big enough to turn a coachload of people to dust?” Munroe turned his attention back to the white cabinet with glass doors, and one of the bottles sitting on the shelf inside that he had noticed before Regis entered. “And how about that?”

  Munroe walked over to the cabinet and pulled open the door before pointing to a glass bottle with a label covering it in large, bold printed lettering. “That’s scopolamine, if the label’s correct. And this one is amobarbital and Christ, he’s even got 3-quinuclidinyl.”

  If Regis knew what Munroe was getting at he certainly wasn’t showing it, and he was now looking at his colleague with great scepticism. “I don’t know what’s weirder, Ethan. Icarus’s basement or your knowledge of medicine.”

  Munroe ignored the comment and instead tapped at the nearest glass bottle. “They’re truth serums, Mike. This is very specific stuff. So, like I said, who is this guy, and what the hell has it got to do with my family?”

  Regis didn’t have an answer and Munroe knew it. The question was rhetorical, but none of this felt right and his antennae were setting off alarm bells.

  “I have to speak with him.”

  “No, you want to speak with him, there’s a difference.”

  Munroe could see the worry in his superior’s face. This was all becoming very personal – it wasn’t how one conducted an investigation. But regardless of Icarus’s knowledge of his family he couldn’t help but feel he needed to be involved. It was almost like a calling from a silent voice, familiar, like a kind of déjà vu.

  Munroe stood up straight and took a deep breath. “I’m not angry,
Mike, I’m calm,” he said, raising his hand up momentarily to show he didn’t have the shakes. “But I can’t help but think that shotgun up there was meant for me, like the photo on the front door. Whatever game this Icarus is playing, he appears to have factored me into it. So,” Munroe took a step forward and shrugged, “let’s find out what it is.”

  A few moments passed as Regis considered it and then finally he gave a nod. “OK, but we’re not even going to try and go in the interview room. We can watch and supply questions.”

  “Good. So, where is he?”

  “He was taken to Charing Cross, but he’s being moved to Walworth Police Station in the next hour. If we get going we can probably follow the transfer van after it sets off. But we do things my way, no ifs or buts. You’re very close to this, Ethan. Last thing we need is it interfering with the case.”

  It was exactly what Munroe wanted to hear, and he was already heading back up the stairs as Regis called after him.

  “You said those truth serums were specific. Why do I get the feeling you know more than you’re letting on?”

  Munroe didn’t feel like making wild allegations with such little proof on hand but considering the leeway his boss was giving him he knew the least he could do was throw him a bone. He came back down the stairs, not wanting any of the constables upstairs to hear him. “Look, I don’t know anything for sure, but when I see this place and the drugs, I don’t see a serial killer’s lair or playroom.”

  “So then, what do you see?”

  “I see something I’ve seen before, but not for a long time,” Munroe replied, feeling vulnerable at even having to admit he knew these things. “I see a wet room, Mike. Interrogation and elimination. And a professional one.”

  Regis was now staring at him suspiciously, and even though Munroe wasn’t looking at him directly he could feel the man’s eyes burning into the side of his face. As he looked anywhere but towards Regis he noticed a line on the far wall. It was easy to miss, just a thin gap, and Munroe walked over and ran his fingers over it. “Our boy’s got a thing for secret doorways,” was all he said as Regis ambled over to join him. “See that gap, the craftsmanship is solid but you can just see it there.”