by Tania Carver
Next to him, Chloe was still trying to scream. Darren ignored her.
Yeah, he thought. Bit drastic but still.
The figure readied himself. Darren closed his eyes.
The crossbow fired.
Darren couldn’t help himself. He opened his eyes, looked. Saw Chloe and Shannon.
And began to scream.
He didn’t stop.
PART TWO:
THE SENTINEL
2
‘J
esus Christ…’ Detective Sergeant Ian Sperring bent down and hunched forward, hands on knees, his breathing becoming increasingly laboured as his bulk shifted, constricting the airways. He stared at the scene before him, mouth curled in distaste. He shook his head, closed his eyes. Stepped away. Breathing all the while through his mouth to minimise the smell. ‘Well, boss,’ he said, ‘reckon your mate’s a right nutter.’
‘He’s no mate of mine,’ said Detective Inspector Phil Brennan. He was younger than his junior officer by at least ten years and lighter than him by at least one hundred pounds. But whatever differences the two men had, either physical or professional, were negated by the sight before them.
Arc lamps cut through the darkness, illuminated the warehouse with a sense of unreality as if it was a film set, they were all actors and the scene before them only an elaborate piece of FX prosthetics. But it was all real. Deadly real.
All around them, paper-suited SOCOs went about their occult business, gathering clues in the dust, conjuring answers up from nothing.
Phil, similarly suited, had been gazing around the dilapidated warehouse, trying to get a sense of the place in connection with what had occurred here, to work out a reason why this particular building had been chosen. This particular area. This particular staging. And doing that, while absolutely necessary deduction and groundwork, also stopped him from actually seeing the sight before him.
Phil turned, faced Sperring. No longer able to avoid looking at the bodies.
It was like a warped version of a Renaissance Madonna and child tableau. The artist not depicting transcendence or rapture as his or her predecessors had done, just demonstrating… what? Phil scrutinised. Twisted rage? Madness?
The woman sat with her head back, flung into that final position by the shot, kept that way by the initial rigor, skin darkening. The baby taped to her lap now bloated from decomposition, an obese, purple cherub. Both faces retained lasting images of frozen horror. The woman’s fingers contracted into claws, gripping the arm of the stationary chair, an ultimately futile gesture of escape.
Phil had seen some unpleasant scenes since he had joined the West Midlands Major Incident Squad. This undoubtedly ranked as one of the worst. A nightmare dragged into the living world.
‘Definitely the work of a crossbow.’
Sperring and Phil turned. Esme Russell, the pathologist, joined them. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, her normally indestructible upper-class demeanour – all champagne picnics and gymkhanas – had taken a severe blow.
‘A crossbow?’ said Sperring, horror creeping into his voice once more. ‘A fucking crossbow?’
‘You sure?’ asked Phil. ‘You’ve not examined the bodies yet.’
‘Head start, I’m afraid,’ said Esme. ‘My brother used to take part in archery tournaments. Very good, actually, county level. Talk of the Olympics at one point. If it’s got a string and an arrow, he once said, then I’ll hit the target every time.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘Slightly arrogant, but he was right, usually.’
‘What, and you think he did this?’ said Sperring bluntly, trying to keep her on topic.
Esme reddened slightly. ‘No. Sorry. I’m just saying that even without a preliminary examination I recognise the work of a crossbow when I see one.’
While Sperring was still shaking his head, Phil was studying the scene. The Scene Of Crime Officers had surveyed the area and allowed them limited access by the common approach path, elevated metal plates that minimised crime scene contamination. He looked from where the woman and child were sitting to the empty chair next to them. The tape had been cut and the young man they had found there taken to hospital. He hadn’t regained consciousness yet.
Phil knelt down, carefully balancing on the metal plate, looked at the floor. They were in the Hockley area of Birmingham, fringed by the Jewellery Quarter and the gentrification of St Paul’s, surrounded by old redbrick buildings, the legacy of Birmingham’s reputation as a manufacturing powerhouse at the heart of the country a century ago. Now lying derelict and empty, waiting for someone to make imaginative use of them in a post-industrial twenty-first-century society. Waiting to turn them into desirable living spaces with overinflated price tags. Or a nightclub catering to the self-regarding cool and edgy crowd or a media start-up company, or a gallery.
But not this building. Phil had assumed it had once been a warehouse but it could have been a factory, storage facility, anything. Now it was just rotting away. It only existed on three sides. Demolition had started on the back and the buildings adjacent to it, leaving it open to the elements, rendering it down to a pile of bricks and rubble, wooden boards asking the general public to keep out.
The shell that remained had three floors. The bodies had been found on the middle one. A plastic traffic barrier stood at the open back along with a loosely hanging tarpaulin sheet. Neither looked like they would stand up to the scrutiny of health and safety. The floor was wooden, the boards pitted and gouged from years of work, coming to an abrupt, jagged edge. Rusted metal pillars supported the ceiling. The window frames held only broken – if any – glass. The walls were tired, crumbling brick.
Still kneeling, Phil put on his reading glasses, bent in close, scrutinising the wood.
‘Mecca’s the other way,’ said Sperring, recovering enough to make a bad joke.
Phil ignored him. Studied the floor. Eventually he stood up, removed his glasses, looked at the other two.
‘I think you’re right, Esme,’ he said. ‘Look.’ He pointed to the floor. ‘See there, round the chairs? Very little dust. See over there? Directly facing the chairs? Very little dust. Signs of movement. See in between? Thicker dust.’
‘Meaning…?’ said Sperring.
‘Meaning someone stood there and…’ Phil crossed on the CAP, stood a couple of metres in front of the chair. He turned and faced the dead bodies. Pointed his finger at them. Pulled an imaginary trigger. First the woman then the child. ‘This high,’ he said, aiming. ‘Stable. Must have been mounted.’ He looked down at the floor once more. ‘Couple of nicks in the wood. Like something’s been moved. Into place, probably.’
Sperring frowned. ‘What about the bloke in the other chair, then?’
Phil turned, still imagining he had a weapon in front of him. Took aim. Remaining standing he then studied the floor once more. ‘Same thing here. Less dust, more movement where I’m standing. Then nothing between, then activity round the chair.’
‘Trying to cut him out and get him to hospital,’ said Sperring. ‘Couldn’t be helped.’
‘Definitely not,’ said Phil. The chair held not only cut tape but also the remains of bodily liquids and secretions. Its occupant had clearly been held there for some time. ‘But look. Something was mounted here. Right between the two seats. It could have been swung to one…’ He turned, faced the empty chair. ‘Or the other.’ He turned to the two dead bodies. ‘I hate jumping to conclusions, but I think you’re right, Esme. Crossbow looks the most likely. Tripod mounted, probably.’
‘So why not the bloke, then?’ asked Sperring.
‘Good question,’ said Phil. ‘How is he? D’you know?’
‘Alive, last I heard,’ said Sperring. ‘Just. At the hospital. DC Oliver’s with him, waiting for him to come round.’
‘Good,’ said Phil. ‘If there’s anything to be got out of him, Imani’ll do it.’
Sperring said nothing. Phil was aware he didn’t hold the DC in the same regard. He didn’t want to ma
ke an issue of it. Just mark it down as something else they disagreed about.
‘So I’ll say it again,’ said Sperring. ‘The crossbow’s mounted and pointing at both chairs. Can turn either way. But it’s only the woman and kid that get killed. The bloke’s left alive. Why? What’s your mate trying to tell us?’
Phil sighed. ‘He’s not my mate.’
‘Really?’ said Sperring. ‘Bet he thinks he is.’
‘Then he’s deluded.’
Sperring looked at the bodies once more, wincing as he did so. ‘Deluded? I’d say that’s the least of his troubles.’
3
T
he first of the calls came in the previous night on the non-emergency number to West Midlands Police.
Janice Chisholm, the call-centre operative, vividly remembered taking it. She had just started on her shift as usual, paper cup of expensive take-out coffee on her desk, a chocolate brownie – greasing up the paper bag – for when she became hungry later and needed a break. She had been doing the job for months, was thoroughly and comprehensively briefed and trained. She knew all the procedures. How to make the reticent talk, keep the ramblers on track, assure the timid, calm the aggressive. It was a real skill, more than a person could be given training for. She enjoyed doing it, talking to the public, helping them. She felt that she was performing a valuable service.
But occasionally there would be calls that she remembered. For one reason or another. The genuinely distressing. The abusive. The sad. The odd.
The downright scary.
‘I want to talk to Philip Brennan. Detective Inspector Philip Brennan.’ The voice was muffled, the words difficult to hear.
‘Sorry?’ said Janice. ‘Could you speak up, please? It’s a little difficult to hear you.’
More noise from the other end, what she took to be heavy breathing, but no more words. She began to think she had a nuisance call on her hands. She got them sometimes. Timewasters, kids usually, making obscene remarks, asking her filthy things. Telling them that the call was being traced was usually enough to get them off the line. But this one seemed different. That was why she remembered it.
‘I want to talk to Detective Inspector Philip Brennan.’ Slower this time. No less muffled but enunciating more.
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment. I can’t transfer you directly. Is it to do with an ongoing investigation?’
Silence. Just more breathing. Janice began to feel unnerved.
‘If you’d like to tell me what it’s concerning,’ she said, ‘then perhaps I can get a message to him?’
The line went dead. Janice tried to put it out of her mind, took more calls. Genuine ones this time.
The second call came in just over an hour later. It had been a relatively quiet night until then. Janice had put herself on a break, started on her chocolate brownie. She heard Ann, her colleague two cubicles away, mention a familiar name.
‘I’m afraid that Detective Inspector Brennan isn’t based at this office. Could you tell me what it’s concerning and I could pass the message on?’
Janice immediately became interested. She gestured to Ann.
‘Just a moment…’ said Ann and transferred the call to Janice.
That wasn’t what Janice had intended but she was left with no option but to take the call. She swallowed the mouthful of brownie as quickly as she could.
‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I think we spoke earlier.’
That same heavy breathing. More frantic now, harder, rasping. ‘Detective Inspector Brennan. I need to talk to him.’
‘As my colleague just explained, he’s not actually here. He doesn’t work in this office. He’s —’
‘Put me through to him. Now.’
Janice sat back, silenced for a few seconds. She knew she was often dealing with people who were desperate but she still didn’t respond well to rudeness. ‘Please don’t take that tone with me. Or I’ll discontinue this call.’ She waited for a response. Heard only more breathing. She pressed the record button on her handset.
As she did so, the voice continued. ‘I need to talk to Detective Inspector Brennan. There is a life at stake.’
‘This is a non-emergency number,’ said Janice. ‘If it’s urgent why don’t you try 999? Would you like me to connect you?’
‘No.’ The voice sounded exasperated. ‘Detective Inspector Philip Brennan. West Midlands Major Incident Squad. Him and him only.’
Janice paused. Procedure and protocol were there to be followed. It had been drummed into them she didn’t know how many times. Under no circumstances were they allowed to directly connect callers with named police officers. Nine times out of ten they were fantasists or mentalists who had seen someone on TV and developed an unhealthy attachment to them.
Nine times out of ten.
‘I’m going to put you on hold,’ she said. ‘Just wait there, please.’
Without waiting for a reply she placed the caller on hold. Dialled Steelhouse Lane station. The call was answered. She identified herself, told the desk sergeant who answered about the call.
‘Sounds like some nutter,’ he said.
‘He does,’ said Janice. ‘But listen, I wouldn’t be bothering you if I thought that was the case. We get more than our fair share here, believe me.’
‘Just tell him you’re tracing the call,’ said the desk sergeant, not bothering to hide the boredom in his voice. ‘Or tell him his mum’s got his tea ready.’
‘Normally I would,’ said Janice, trying to ignore the dismissive, patronising tone. ‘I’ve done this job long enough to know when something’s up. And there’s something not right about this one. If he’s telling the truth, I’d hate to be the one who didn’t flag it up.’
Silence. Then a sigh. ‘All right then…’ A shuffle of papers, the click of a mouse. ‘Gone home. Shift’s finished. Doesn’t he want to talk to anyone else?’
‘Has he got a mobile? Can you not connect him?’
Another sigh from the desk sergeant, as if he’d been asked to paint the Forth Bridge singlehandedly. ‘All right then – but you owe me for this one.’
‘What happened to the satisfaction of a job well done?’
A laugh. ‘Maybe they do things differently where you work. Just a minute.’
Janice was then put on hold. She waited. Eventually another voice came on. Younger than the desk sergeant, from somewhere else in the country. London? Somewhere like that? Not Birmingham, that was for sure.’
‘Phil Brennan,’ said the voice.
Janice introduced herself. ‘I wouldn’t normally bother you, Detective Inspector, and I know it’s not procedure but…’ She told him about the voice.
‘Thanks, Janice,’ he said. ‘You never know. Put him through.’
She did so.
And that was the end of her involvement. Until she saw the news the next day. Saw Detective Inspector Phil Brennan being interviewed, talking about one of the most horrendous double murders he had ever seen and appealing for witnesses, for someone, anyone, who knew anything to come forward.
She watched the news the day after that. And the next day. And…
She thought of the voice she had spoken to on the phone.
And began to tremble.
4
A
pair of uniforms had been dispatched immediately to the address the voice provided. A derelict building on Legge Lane, Hockley .
‘Be quick,’ the voice had told Phil, ‘he doesn’t have long. And he wanted to live. He chose to live. So we have to grant him his wish, don’t we? What kind of a society would we be living in if we didn’t?’
‘Who are you?’ Phil had asked. ‘And what’s all this about?’
‘Yes, of course I’ll tell you that. Don’t worry, you’ll find out. All in good time.’
‘Who are we looking for?’
‘You’ll recognise him.’
A shudder ran through Phil at those words. He immediately thought it must be someone he knew. A frien
d, even. ‘Who?’ he had asked, quicker this time.
‘Just go to the address. Look for yourself. Everything will make sense then. Everything will fall into place.’
‘What will?’
‘Justice. Fairness. That’s what it’s all about. And I hope we’re on the same side when it comes to that. I really do.’
‘You got a name?’
There was a pause and Phil expected either a flippant answer or no answer at all.
‘Nemesis,’ the voice said, unmistakably proud.
Phil tried asking more questions but was soon left holding a dead phone. He called the station, got through to the desk sergeant. Asked him if he’d heard any of that. He hadn’t. Told him to dispatch two uniforms to the address given and that he was on his way. ‘Get Sperring up. Tell him to meet me there.’
‘I’m sure he’ll thank you for that, boss,’ said the desk sergeant, laughing.
‘I’m sure he will.’
Phil hung up, checked the time. Nearly midnight. Checked the other side of the bed. Empty. He didn’t like it when Marina wasn’t there. Often woke up with her pillows hugged in close to him. He had never told her that. Didn’t want to appear foolish. Besotted. But that was what he was. After all this time he was still in love with his wife. Still got butterflies when he saw her, still got hard when she moved her body next to his in bed. He had never admitted that to anyone but judging from what he’d heard some of his colleagues say on the subject what he felt was unnatural. He didn’t care. He was glad of it. He knew what a mess he had been before she had come into his life. He didn’t want to go back to that again.
He stood up, began to dress. A plaid western shirt with white pearl studs, selvedge jeans, Red Wing boots, his leather jacket. He deliberately didn’t wear the dull, accountant-like suit that most of his peers were encouraged to dress in, seeing that as just another extension of a uniform. Neither was his hair parade-ground neat. He encouraged his team to do the same. Be expressive, he always said. It encourages you to think creatively. And thinking creatively solves crimes. They didn’t all agree with him – some remained almost pathologically opposed to his ideas – but he was tolerated. As long as he got results.