Chapter Five
Tuesday 11th November
Coleridge looked down at his breakfast and wondered if he’d ever been more miserable in his life.
Fifty years old, twenty-five on the force, and today he’d nearly cried when his boss shouted at him. It wasn’t like he’d called him a cunt or anything. Just a verbal punch to the balls, and one he probably deserved.
The tomatoes were squishy and had parsley on them.
Parsley. On a fried breakfast.
The fat on the bacon was white and not in the least crispy. The sausage was pink and sickly, full of chewy bits. Coleridge knew his own sausages had chewy bits, but his wife sliced his sausages down the middle and then fried them. The egg yolk was solid. He liked to dip his fried bread in his yolk. He picked up the fried bread and stabbed at the yolk.
His wife might be a bitch, but she could cook a mean breakfast. She used to, anyway. Not so much anymore. Quitting cow.
“I can’t watch you kill yourself no more,” she said. Like he was the one cooking all those fried breakfasts, all the steaks. More like she was looking for a reason, he reckoned. Might’ve had something to do with the sex. Seemed like he’d hit twenty stones and she’d lost all interest.
Couldn’t blame her, though. If some fat bastard nearly 300 pounds heavy wanted to jump Coleridge, he would’ve been pissed off, too.
Now she was hitting the springs with some swinger. Painter and decorator, apparently. Probably not an ounce of fat on him and a cock like a hammer. He could live without ever knowing either way.
The depression had set in soon after, only the psychologist the force made him see told him it had begun way before. Low self-esteem, she said, full of self-importance, brought about by childhood bullying. She saw it all the time in the force. People with low self-esteem as a child often sought out positions of power later in life. Like being a copper.
Coleridge didn’t feel so powerful. He felt like crying, but he didn’t really know why, because when he tried to reason out how he felt, he didn’t feel depressed. He didn’t even feel sad. He felt more like he was a little bit dead. Like his emotions had evaporated. He wasn’t even angry. She’d left him three months ago.
Maybe he was angry, but not at his stupid fucking wife. He was angry at the chef of this shitty bistro in this shitty seaside town. What kind of idiot thought parsley on a fucking breakfast made it posh? It was a fried breakfast. The meat was supposed to be crispy. It was supposed to have beans with it, mushy, from being cooked too long. The yolk on the egg should be nice and runny for dipping.
Someone slid into the seat opposite him. He looked up from his offensive breakfast.
“Coleridge.”
“Sam. You mind? I’m having my breakfast.”
“Don’t look like you’re doing much eating.”
Whenever he thought his day couldn’t get any worse, it always went and disappointed him all over again.
“You’re a long way from home,” he said.
“I go where the story is. And right now, you’re the story.”
“News to me.”
“I heard you got a bit of a break.”
“Did you? Well, I ain’t interested in sharing. And you know what? At the risk of sounding rude, how about you fuck off?”
“Ah, come on. If I was that easy I’d blow you for a bit of gossip. As it is, I’ll give you a hundred quid.”
Coleridge pushed his breakfast aside with a massive sigh. Held out his hand.
You could fuck up sausages, but you couldn’t fuck up money. It came out the same, however you cooked it.
Chapter Six
Sam pushed her hair back behind her ear and withdrew a cigarette from behind her ear. She pulled a gold lighter out of her handbag, along with a pad and a pen.
Coleridge didn’t know why she didn’t just keep her cigarettes in her bag if she had to go in there anyway.
Affectation.
Good word for a man without a breakfast.
He shook his head at her. She put the pad away with that knowing smile of hers that challenged you to find out what the hell she had to be so smug about.
“Off the record, right?”
“Does that even mean anything to you?”
“Nope.”
“You can’t smoke that in here,” he said, despite evidence to the contrary, as she was already tapping ash into his breakfast.
“The law doesn’t count when you’re with a copper.”
“I hadn’t heard that one.”
A waitress started their way, looking like she was going to make an issue of it. Coleridge caught her eye and flashed his credentials. She backed off, flicking blonde hair with gray showing at the roots, like she was pissed off but not paid enough to make an issue of it.
“So, I hear you’ve got a witch working on the case,” said Sam while he was watching the waitress’ back.
“Fuck sake, who’s talking? I don’t even know if she’s...ah, fuck off.”
“So you do have someone working on the case, not a witch.”
“Don’t play games with me, Sam. I haven’t had my breakfast, my boss wants my bollocks, and you’ve got about a minute before I stuff your money back in your push-up bra along with the bats you keep in there.”
“Fuck me, testy this morning, aren’t you?”
“And then some. What’re you after?”
“Last night?”
“What about it? Nice moon. Big. Hunter’s moon, is it? Winter’s on the air.”
“Don’t fuck about. You know what I’m talking about.”
Coleridge shifted uncomfortably, his gut rocking the table.
“What of it?” he said. “You know anyway.”
“Confirmation.”
“Not a fucking word, but yes, it’s the same guy.”
“How do you know?”
“Come off it, Sam. You know I’m not going to tell you that.”
“What’s the witch for?”
“She’s not a witch. Where’d you hear that?”
“Confidential.”
Coleridge shook his head. “Don’t make out like you’ve got any kind of morals.”
Sam shrugged as she stubbed her cigarette out in his tomatoes.
“That looks rank.”
“It looked worse before you stubbed your coffin nail out in it.”
“Not going to tell me how you know it’s the same guy?”
“No.”
“Not going to tell me about the witch?”
“No.”
“She getting anywhere you’re not?”
He sighed, his big chest heaving. “She only called yesterday, so I don’t know who’s talking, but they’re full of shit. She’s not working for us. She called. Once. That’s it. No story. Leave it alone.”
“As of when is she not working for you? As she’s on call? Like on a retainer?”
Fucking Harvey. Snide little bastard.
“As of fuck off. That’s as of.”
“Thanks for fucking nothing.”
Coleridge smiled. “Don’t mention it.”
“Can I have my hundred quid back?”
“Bye.”
Sam growled. “You got to give me something. Come on. I’m flying blind as you are. I write this up, people read it, you might get a few leads.”
It was true. He might. He thought about it. Felt the weight of the money in his jacket pocket.
“Alright. How’s this read? Man knows the victims. No sign of forced entry. No sign of a struggle. No leads. No suspects. No prints. No footprints. No DNA. No. Fucking. Nothing.”
“Shit, Coleridge, I know all that.”
“I know you do, Sam, because it’s fucking obvious. Thanks for the hundred quid.”
“Come on!”
Coleridge grunted. “You work it out. Connections. It’s not what he left.”
Sam frowned then smiled.
“The victims?”
He nodded. “You’re a bit slow, but have a sausage on me.”
“I’m not hungry, but thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Now, like I said, nice as it’s been to see you...”
“I know, I know.”
Sam smiled as she slid from the table. Coleridge noted she still had a great set of legs. Time would’ve been those legs might have worked more wonders than a hundred quid. That time was gone, though.
She blew him a kiss.
He gave her the finger, but when she’d gone, he smiled. Forgot how miserable he was, even if it was only for a minute.
Chapter Seven
Coleridge hated driving. Hated it with a passion. The wheel got stuck on his gut. The seatbelt dug into his chest and his shoulders. The belt ran along his chest at the perfect angle to remind him he now had man boobs. Bigger tits than his ex. Thinking about boobs wasn’t helping.
He needed to focus on the case. A killer who left no clues. No sign of entry, like he knew the people he killed. No fingerprints, like he wore gloves. No stray hairs, none of his own blood, no murder weapons...the list of things absent was endless. The list of things there were was pretty fucking short.
Dead bodies. That’s all they had. The night after he spoke to the medium there’d been another. Same as all the others. Plenty of blood. A body. A ravaged chest missing a heart. A neck missing a head.
Who the fuck wanted to take hearts and heads?
Coleridge shook his head and watched the road. His mind ticked while he drove. Half his attention was on the road, a quarter on the case. The rest was thinking where he was going to get something to eat. His stomach moaned at him, rumbling and burbling in protest. He couldn’t concentrate without a decent breakfast.
Ten miles out of Norwich he spotted a burger van at the side of the road. He pulled into the breakdown lane. Wendy’s Buns.
Nice.
Wendy was a tired looking guy, about fifty. He wore a hair net over thinning gray hair and smoked a thin hand-rolled cigarette.
“Morning. What can I get you?”
“Two half-pounders. Cheese. Bacon. Onions.”
“Tea?”
“Can of Coke and a coffee, please.”
The guy kept his coffin nail going with an occasional puff. He didn’t take it out the whole time he cooked. He scraped some grease off the hot plate, put some more on, stuck the patties and the bacon on the heat.
Coleridge could’ve talked to him, but now that he could smell food his brain kicked into gear.
He made an inventory in his head of things out of place at the murder scene. Walked through it again, start to finish.
The neighbor had called it in.
The autopsy was due this afternoon, but the coroner on the scene had estimated the time of death at between seven and eight in the evening.
The blood had probably still been warm when Henry Meakings’ son discovered the body.
Discovered Henry’s penchant for lesbian porn, too.
Bad night for Henry. Bad night for his son, too.
Porn on the PC. Online movie running in the background.
Coleridge had discounted the porn already. It wasn’t relevant. He knew it. Intuition, maybe, a hunch, maybe, but mostly just common sense. The other victims were clean. No dirty little secrets that they could find. Besides, Meakings was a medium, not a priest. He didn’t know if spiritualists had any rules about watching porn or fornicating or vibrators or anything like that.
He didn’t care.
He ran it again. Henry, sitting in front of the PC. PC in a small study upstairs. Blinds drawn, a house in a tightly packed-together neighborhood. Nobody heard a thing.
Again. Back to the start. Through the front door, straight into a small front room. Cards on the table, TV off, cup of coffee on a coaster. Into the kitchen, no food left out, tidy. Tidy throughout, everything put away, vacuumed. Smell of polish, hint of coffee. Non-smoker.
Short upstairs hall, clean toilet. One spare room, not dusty. Main bedroom, tidy. Sheets made.
Study. PC running. Henry facing the PC. Probably not doing anything other than watching. His clothes were on, his trousers up. Maybe just starting to think about scratching an itch. The killer comes in behind...then...
“Here you go.”
Coleridge blinked, remembered where he was. Cars rushed by. Another car had pulled up while he’d been daydreaming. His burgers, big things that would drip fat all over his shirt and tie, sitting on the metal shelf with napkins underneath.
“Thanks,” he said, and paid.
He got back in the car and ate, uncomfortably squashed against the wheel with his elbows in the most awkward position possible for eating a messy burger.
It hit him after the first burger hit his belly.
The cards.
Why had the cards been on the coffee table?
Chapter Eight
Back at the station in Norwich, Coleridge ignored his desk, his messages, and his co-workers. He headed straight down to the basement and the evidence room.
He signed in and went along the aisles, checking the labels on the boxes. He found the aisle, found the box.
Not much in there. They’d take the computer, check that out, but that’d go off to some nerds who knew what to do with a hard drive. Coleridge could barely type with two fingers. He wasn’t even sure what a hard drive was, unless it was something to do with porn. Crime scene people would be checking stuff over for fingerprints, checking clothes for fibers, anything that might have been touched.
The cards had been dusted. One set of fingerprints that matched Henry Meakings. Nothing from the killer. But that wasn’t what Coleridge was interested in.
He took the evidence bag over to a table with a harsh fluorescent light burning overhead and sat down. The chair groaned but held together beneath his burgeoning mass.
There was a picture of the Queen of Wands on the front. A few examples of other artwork on the back. Universal Tarot printed on the front.
He was slowly becoming an expert on Tarot.
Beth told him the card she’d seen had been Rider-Waite. Same as the Universal Tarot. The most widely used card.
All the murdered mediums had the same pack. Meakings’ pack was the only one out on show. In a scrupulously tidy home. One inconsistency.
Inconsistent because he’d used them and not put them away. Like he’d only just used them. Maybe telling someone’s fortune?
But then, what? Off to watch some porn with the killer?
Not unless the killer had put him there. But then he’d never bothered setting a scene up before.
Coleridge got it. Meakings had been watching porn. Knock at the door. Pause. Down to see who it was. Someone who could call on a moment’s notice, maybe. Finish up, or maybe get the cards out...back upstairs to turn off the PC, killer follows him up...
Could work. Did it matter?
Maybe. Maybe not.
It might be an answer, but it wasn’t the answer. Like the porn was a footnote. Something you could skip over when you were reading a book, if you wanted to, and still get the gist of the story.
The cards were part of the story. They weren’t a footnote. The more he thought about it, the surer he became.
Coleridge took the cards from the pack and checked them. It didn’t mean much to him. But the cards might still be in the order they were dealt. Might mean something to someone who knew. Like a medium.
Coleridge didn’t mind not knowing things. That’s what he was good at. But then he asked people who did know things, then he knew, too.
Beth Willis would know things.
He sat back and the chair complained loudly, but he didn’t hear it. He was listening for footsteps, breathing, conversation.
Nothing.
He slipped the pack back in the evidence bag. He rolled the bag tight around the pack, then put it in his pocket. He walked along the quiet aisles full of dead people’s things, people’s stolen things, people’s dirty secrets, past the desk at the f
ront of the evidence room after signing out.
Darkness had fallen while Coleridge was in the basement. He checked his watch as he stepped out into the night. Time yet. He walked across town toward his favorite restaurant, a little Italian eatery off Tombland Street.
An old drunk sat in a doorway, wrapped up tight. Rush hour traffic was dwindling. Drinking time was beginning.
He stopped in at a courier’s he used sometimes, like when he didn’t want things going through the office.
“It’ll be extra, you want it done tonight,” said the guy behind the counter. He had a piercing through his nose, circles of what looked like rubber through his earlobes that left massive holes. He wore a T-shirt with some kind of heavy metal design on the front.
Coleridge could’ve been an asshole. Kicked up a fuss. Shown his badge.
He figured tonight, in the morning, didn’t make much difference.
“Morning’ll be fine,” he said with a shrug. “Got a pen and paper?”
“There’s an office supply store down the road.”
There was a limit to patience, though.
He flashed his badge.
“Just give me a pen and a bit of paper, eh?”
The guy didn’t look happy about it. He shook his head and reached under the counter.
Coleridge wrote a note. Thought about what he was writing, what he was doing. Decided once and for all that it was worth the risk.
He went to the restaurant and ate mussels, calzone, spaghetti with anchovies and capers and some kind of creamy sauce. Washed it down with coffee.
Then he went home and slept under the pink duvet with flowers on it that his ex-wife had chosen and dreamed a black bird watched him from the window, only it wasn’t really a bird. It was something else. Something that frightened him, so he shifted and muttered in his sleep, but when he woke he didn’t remember, and his first thought was how much he hated his quilt cover.
Chapter Nine
Wednesday 12th November
The package came after Beth’s usual post. She ripped it open and took out a Ziploc bag. There was a pack of cards in the bag, and without even touching them she got a bad feeling.
The Love of the Dead Page 2