Cage of Bones

by Tiana Carver

  Phil led the way, Marina behind him. The arc lights had been left on, the trailing cables leading up the wooden stairs to outside generators. There was space for only one person at a time, so he moved carefully, aware of her behind him.

  He was angry with himself. What he had seen in the other house had spooked him, unsettled him, though he didn’t know why. But he knew the answer was within him somewhere. And until he found it, he couldn’t share it with anyone else. Not even Marina.

  He hated keeping anything from her. It broke his heart to see the concern on her face, knowing he couldn’t say anything. He just hoped she would understand. Later.

  He reached the cellar floor, Marina a few seconds after him.

  ‘This is it,’ he said. Waiting while she took it all in, trying to see it through her eyes.

  She looked round, her eyes widening as she saw the cage. ‘Oh my God …’

  ‘Exactly. My reaction too.’ That sense of unease returned as he looked at it once more. His mind was trying to subconsciously connect it with the diagram on the wall …

  No. He couldn’t see it.

  Marina gave another scan. ‘And the flowers? Was this how you found them?’

  Phil looked at the floor. Some of the petals had been gathered up, removed. A few had been trampled on by Forensics.

  ‘No, they were all over the floor. Strewn.’

  She smiled. ‘Strewn. I think you’ve won the award for most unexpected word of the day.’

  He reddened slightly. ‘What can I say? I’m honoured.’

  Her smile faded as she went back to work. Concentrating.

  ‘There were a few bunches, though.’ He pointed round the walls. The bunches were still there, where he had found them. Wilting, dying.

  ‘In those exact locations?’

  ‘Just about, yes.’

  She nodded, staying in the one place, looking round three hundred and sixty degrees. She took it all in. The flowers, the cage. The workbench. The gardening tools. The markings on the wall. Her lips began to move as she spoke to herself.

  Phil had seen her do this before. Mentally processing information, working out what she saw, interpreting the scene before her. He had never ceased to be amazed at how she did it, or the accuracy of her results.

  She walked round the cellar. Plastic gloves on her hands, paper booties over her shoes. She knelt down, examined one of the bunches of flowers. ‘Roses … red, blue, yellow …’ Then another. ‘Carnations, red, blue, yellow, same colours … and here, petunias, chrysanthemums, same colours …’ Looked round once more. ‘And left on the floor to decay. Go brown …’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Whoever did this either grew them himself or bought them somewhere. I’m leaning towards growing them himself. There’s a … horticultural sense to the place. Those gardening tools over there …’

  Marina crossed to the workbench. Looked down at it, the tools on the surface. ‘Has any of this been disturbed?’

  Phil crossed over, stood beside her. He could smell her perfume. Made him want to hold her. ‘I think one of the tools has been taken away for forensic examination. I asked them to leave the others for a bit.’

  She nodded, lips moving all the time. She picked up the scythe, examined it slowly. ‘They’ve been … adapted. They’re not for gardening. Not been used for gardening in a very long time.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  ‘And this workbench …’ She knelt down beside it, put her face to it. Sniffed the scarred, pitted surface, eyes closed. Remained in place afterwards. ‘Hmm …’ Did it once more. ‘Earthy … but more …’

  She stood up, dusting down her skirt. Turned, looked at the wall behind her. Crossed to it. Examined the painted design. Touched it.

  ‘We thought it was a pentagram at first,’ said Phil. ‘But it’s clearly not.’

  ‘No,’ Marina said, absorbed, her fingers, eyes following the lines of the design, ‘it’s not. More like a star. But I can see how you could make that mistake. Would be an easy conclusion to jump to … if you weren’t open-minded and imaginative …’

  Phil said nothing. Had she just paid him a compliment?

  She pressed her face to the wall. Sniffed.

  ‘Not paint. Not …’ She turned to Phil. ‘Has this been analysed?’

  ‘Not yet. They’ll have taken a sample. Don’t know when we can get results. Any ideas on what it is?’

  ‘I’m guessing … something of the earth … a plant concoction? Bodily fluids, even? All mixed together? I don’t know … something along those lines, though, I’d guess …’

  Marina straightened up, looked round once more. Crossed to the cage. Examined it closely. Turned, looked behind her at the bench, then over at the flowers bunched round the walls. Then the design on the wall. She began to walk towards the bunches of flowers, taking slow, deliberate steps to get to each one. Her mouth moving all the time, brow furrowed as if performing advanced mathematical calculations.

  She stood in the centre of the cellar, stretched out her arms as far as she could, rotated them, straining her fingertips. Half pagan priest, half yoga teacher. Holding her breath as she did so.

  Phil watched her all the time. Fascinated. He loved this woman so much it scared him sometimes.

  Right,’ she said. ‘Here goes.’

  26

  The shadows were lengthening in Don and Eileen Brennan’s kitchen. Outside, darkness descended like a grey blanket thrown over the sun.

  They sat at the table. Silence between them like a huge block of ice.

  A different silence from the next room. Peaceful. Tranquil. Josephina having a nap. The TV off.

  Eileen sighed, reached for her tea. It had gone cold. She still drank it.

  Don sat unmoving. The sun’s dying rays playing over his face, hollowing out his features, haunting him.

  Eileen placed her mug gently down on the coaster. Flowers of the British Isles. A present from a friend’s holiday. She didn’t see the colours. ‘We have to … we’ve got to do something …’

  Her voice thrown out, dying away in the silence.

  ‘We can’t just let him … go on. Find out what it’s …’

  ‘And what d’you suggest we do?’ Don turning, looking at her. Like an Easter Island head come to life. ‘What can we do?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just … something.’

  ‘You mean tell him?’

  ‘Yes, maybe.’ Eileen’s eyes widened. The dying daylight glinting, fearful.

  Don shook his head. Pulling back from the dark. ‘I don’t think we could … We couldn’t … Not after what …’

  Eileen sighed. ‘Then what do we do instead?’ she said. ‘Because he’s going to find out, Don. Sooner or later.’

  Don said nothing. His face halfway into the darkness.

  Eileen leaned towards him. Breaking the ice between them. Her voice as low as the light in the room. ‘He’ll find out anyway. And he’ll know we haven’t told him. Then how will we feel? How will he feel?’

  Don said nothing. Eileen watched him. Gave another sigh.

  She looked down at her mug once more. Made to drink from it. Remembered it was cold. Replaced it where it had been.

  Silence. Darkness descended.

  Then a cry from the other room. Josephina waking up.

  Eileen looked at the doorway, back to Don. ‘And what about her?’

  ‘Don’t, Eileen.’

  ‘What about that poor little girl in there? Doesn’t she have a right to know too?’

  ‘Eileen …’

  ‘What, Don, what?’

  Josephina’s cries became louder.

  ‘I can’t. It’s too … I can’t. And you know it.’

  ‘Don. He has to know. That’s all there is to it.’

  And louder.

  Don put his head down, shook it slowly.

  More cries. Eileen put her head to one side, eyes never leaving Don. ‘I’m coming, love. Grandma’s coming.’

 
The cries eased slightly. Eileen stood up.

  ‘It’s time, Don. And you know it.’

  She left the room.

  Don didn’t move.

  The sun disappeared completely.

  27

  ‘This is just preliminary,’ Marina said. ‘Just so we have something to go on for now. First impressions.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Phil. ‘Whatever you’ve got.’

  ‘Right. The boy hasn’t been here long,’ Marina said, turning, staring at the cage.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ She pointed. ‘That’s a holding cell. He would have been transferred here. That cage has been like that for a long time. Very long time.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I’ll come to that. The boy was brought here for … something. Nothing good. This is a killer’s lair. However he dresses it up. It’s a slaughterhouse.’

  She closed her eyes, turned on the spot, breathing in deeply.

  ‘The anticipation … he brings them here to …’ Another deep breath. ‘He’s building the anticipation for himself. Letting it, letting it … the ritual. Yes. That’s it. It’s all about the ritual. Not just aspects he’s developed in his own mind, though … no … his own fetish, no …’ Another breath. She dropped to her knees, looking round. ‘Something more than that …’

  Phil didn’t dare to speak. It was almost like Marina was in a trance, receiving communications from the spirit world. He knew how ridiculous that sounded, but still the image persisted.

  ‘Getting himself in the right place, the right … frame of mind, getting ready to enjoy it, but no. More than that. More. The flowers … Yes … The right … time …’

  She opened her eyes. ‘It’s about time. Ritual.’ She looked round at the bunches of flowers by the walls. ‘The flowers, they’re … it’s … a growth cycle. Living, blooming, dying. Perennials.’ She pointed to the wall. ‘And that design. You were right, it’s not a pentagram, not Satanic. It’s … I don’t know. Some kind of calendar? Could that be it?’

  ‘With the star shape …’

  ‘Overlaying that. But it’s not a pentagram. More a … logo, I think.’ Surprise in her voice.

  She closed her eyes once more. ‘But the child … What does that mean? Readiness? Fruition? Is the child part of that growth cycle?’

  She crossed to the bench.

  ‘The tools, gardening tools … symbolic, yes, symbolic … but what? Planting, getting ready to grow? Cutting down? Adapted to, to surgical instruments … Yes … flowers, nature, everything natural … pruning? Growth cycle, yes …’

  She turned to Phil, addressed him directly. ‘The cage. The bones. You think they’re human?’

  Startled, it took him a few seconds to respond. ‘Well, we think there’s a good chance …’

  ‘Right.’ She turned away again. ‘Old, some of them. Old. Been there years, decades, probably … yes …’ She moved up close to the cage. Stared at it. ‘What does this mean? Planning. That’s what it means. Planning. Preparation.’ She closed her eyes. ‘A controlled – and controlling – intellect is at work here. He’s clever. He’s patient. A strategist. He’s been planning this for a long time.’

  ‘You think … he’s been doing this for a while?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘How long?’

  She straightened up. Opened her eyes wide. Stared once more at the bars of the cage. Like she was waiting for them to speak to her.

  ‘Years.’ She reached out, touched the bones. ‘Decades …’ Incredulity, fear in her voice. ‘Never been caught …’

  She shook her head.

  ‘A record, would he keep a record … probably not. At least, not in the way we understand it. No, I don’t … unless …’ She turned round once more. Looked at the back of the room. ‘The flowers … different blooms, different times of year … the flowers … Maybe they’re … I don’t know …’

  Then turning, back to the cage.

  ‘There’s a confidence about what’s been happening here. What he’s been doing.’ She reached out once more, touching the bones. ‘This … this is a progression. And that’s fine, that’s what an established pattern … what usually happens. But often in cases of a serial nature, the perpetrator begins to unravel the more he goes on. Like he wants to make mistakes, wants to be caught, stopped …’ She stroked the bone bars. ‘But not here …’ Stroking and stroking. Gently, slowly. ‘Here … is control. Ritual. Honed. Perfection. The quest for perfection …’ Still stroking. Caressing. ‘Perpetrators often stop when they get older,’ she said, her voice almost at a whisper, ‘but not here. Not him. He’s been doing this a long time. For a reason.’

  ‘What reason?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he thinks it’s an important one. More than just for his own gratification.’

  ‘But I thought all serial killing had sex at the heart of it.’

  ‘Yeah, pretty much.’

  ‘So?’

  I’m not saying he doesn’t get his kicks from this. Just that he’s gone so much further than that. And there’s something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s going to stop.’

  28

  ‘Unless we stop him,’ said Phil. ‘Catch him and stop him.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marina, turning to him as if released from a trance. ‘There is that.’ She gave a small, tight smile. ‘But that’s your job.’

  ‘No pressure there, then,’ said Phil, looking to Marina like he was composed entirely of pressure. He looked to have aged years since she had seen him in the morning.

  She had to say something, talk to him. ‘Look, Phil, what’s—’

  ‘Please,’ said Phil, his voice small, barely a whisper. ‘Not here. Not now.’

  ‘But when?’ She gently placed her hand on his arm. ‘What’s the matter?’

  He sighed. Like Atlas shrugging. ‘I can’t …’

  ‘Phil. This is me you’re talking to. Me.’ Eyes locked on his. ‘You can tell me.’

  His eyes tried to stay on hers, kept jumping round like they were being electrocuted. ‘I … I can’t. Not now.’ Then another sigh. ‘I don’t even …’ He snapped his head up. ‘No. Come on. Let’s … we’ve got work to do. Come on.’

  ‘OK … but—’

  ‘How did he get here?’ Phil’s voice sudden, abrupt.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The boy. How did he get in here? If this was a holding cell, he can’t have been here for long.’

  She looked at him. He had never closed her out like this before. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘OK. The boy. Well … OK. What I think. He couldn’t just walk in with him, in broad daylight, could he?’

  ‘I doubt it. And there’s a fence all the way round. No entrance.’

  ‘So the road is out. Unless it was at night, and that might have looked suspicious. There’s the other path down to the allotments; where does that lead?’

  ‘To a housing estate on the Hythe. But it’s badly lit, overgrown, lots of bushes. Mugger’s paradise. And it’s alongside the river.’

  ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘What, he came down the path?’

  ‘No. The river. This house backs on to the river. He could have moored a boat beside the house, got the boy out of there.’

  Phil rubbed his chin, paced the cellar floor. ‘It would fit …’ He turned to Marina. ‘What you said before. Nature. Cycles. Could the river have anything to do with that?’

  ‘Very possibly.’

  ‘Right …’ More pacing. ‘Then there’s just one more thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where did he get the boy from?’

  Marina gave a thin smile. ‘That’s for you to find out. You’re the policeman. I’m just the profiler.’

  ‘But you’ve spoken to him.’

  ‘I know. And he’s a long way from telling us anything useful.’

  They stood in silence.

  ‘I’ll get an official report made up,’ she said eventuall
y. Looked at her watch. ‘I’d better pick up Josephina.’

  Phil told her he had spoken to Don. He and Eileen were holding on to her a bit longer.

  ‘Good. That helps.’

  Another silence. Marina looked at Phil. His eyes were roving round the cellar. Not because he was looking for anything in particular, she thought, but because he was avoiding looking at her. Why? He wouldn’t talk to her, tell her what was wrong. Had coming down here, seeing the cage and the boy, upset him that much? Did he just not want to say that in front of his team? She hoped so. Hoped it was something like that.

  Anything more than that, she didn’t want to contemplate.

  She reached out her hand once more. Perhaps anticipating it, he turned.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go.’ Walked up the cellar steps. She stood for a minute, watching him go.

  This wasn’t like him. Not at all. It must be something big for him to keep it from her, whatever it was.

  After all, she was bound to him. She knew that, had never felt it for any other person. A real, true love. A soulmate’s bond. But with that came fear. Of something going wrong. Of one of them dying.

  Or of some darkness enveloping them. They were two damaged souls who had recognised each other, clung together. What if that darkness returned? Resurfaced, destroyed everything they had in the present?

  The tightrope fraying and fraying …

  29

  It was an ordinary meeting room. Air-conditioned. Blinds drawn. Rectangular table. Chairs set around it. Even a tall jug of water on the table, short glasses nestling next to it. An ordinary meeting room.

  But no ordinary meeting.

  The Elders had been meeting for years. Decades. Firstly, in the open air. Decisions made round a campfire. Then shifting inside, the smell of newly sawn wood permeating their meetings. The floors and walls bare and hard, the furniture functional. Then moving on to warm wood-panelled rooms. Old, oiled and polished wooden tables. Carved chairs. And ceremonial robes.

  Those had been the best years.

  And then the years in between.

  And now this. Conference rooms. Board rooms. Ordinary rooms.

  The faces had changed. But the names remained the same. And four. Always four.