Eleven Days
Page 12
Rupert nodded and started typing. ‘Got it!’ he exclaimed, and then she saw the screen flashing in front of him and the slump of his shoulders.
‘The file’s right there on the mainframe but it’s locked.’
‘Isn’t that normal?’
Rupert shook his head. ‘No, I’ve only seen this before in extremely sensitive cases – child abuse scandals, financial embezzlement, that sort of thing.’
16
The rush of stale air made him feel dizzy. The door-flap had swung back on its hinges to reveal a narrow opening. Carrigan aimed the beam of his torch into the room beyond and saw a bed and a grey concrete wall. He looked behind him, distracted momentarily by some low growly sound, then crouched down and crawled through the gap.
The room was a disappointment. Whatever he was expecting to find in the few moments between the door swinging open and entering, it wasn’t there. The room was cool and had been preserved from the ravages of the fire. Dust motes danced and spun in the air as he straightened up and took in the space around him. It reminded him of an old prison cell but it had been years since they’d been allowed to be this small. The silence was absolute and his tinnitus sounded like a gale blowing through his ears, a series of high-pitched whines and crackles that even after twenty years he’d still not got used to. Sometimes, mostly in the lost hours of the night, he thought there were voices in the crackle, whispers between the sudden shifts of tone, a constant chattering of the dead broadcasting on some deep underground frequency.
He made sure the door-flap was still open and took out his mobile, switching to video so that he could film the room before disturbing the scene. It didn’t take long. The room was about ten feet by five and contained the bed, stripped of sheets and blankets, a framed religious sampler hanging on the wall above, a bookcase crammed with books and a small bedside table, empty of everything but dust.
His heartbeat was finally returning to normal as he put the camera away, realising that whatever answers he’d thought might be buried in this secret room were not to be found. He remembered having read how most older churches and monasteries had rooms such as these, called priest-holes, that had been used over the centuries to hide those hounded by authority for whatever heresies they’d committed or beliefs they’d held close. He looked around the bleak dim cell and a small part of him envied them the utter blinding certainty of their faith, a faith strong enough to endure such privation and hardship.
The bed was narrow and much used, the springs sinking deeply when he sat down on its edge. The pillow had been stripped of linen and he danced his beam across it, hoping to see some trace of former occupants, but there was none. He repeated the procedure with the mattress and, apart from a couple of dark stains which he’d have the SOCOs analyse, there was nothing that spoke of its purpose or inhabitant.
He checked under the bed but saw only balls of dust, spiralled and stacked up against the far wall. He looked at the sampler hung above the bed. Jesus in a circular field with a herd of stray sheep. The embroidery was amateur but there was something unsettling rather than comforting about the lone figure silhouetted against the hill, his face caught in the process of turning away. And then he looked closer.
Initially, he’d thought the figure was Jesus, but as he examined it carefully he saw that it depicted another face. It was a face he knew.
A cold tremor ran down his back. His breath stammered in his throat.
The face of the man in the sampler was the same face as that of the statue behind the pricket stand, next to the seat of fire. Carrigan snapped several photos of the sampler.
He turned from the image and approached the bookcase. Books and pamphlets had been jammed into every available space. He looked through the titles and saw books on the Bible, exegesis, commentaries, books on politics and memoirs of mystics and prophets. Many of the books were in Latin or Spanish. He took close-up photographs of spines and titles for Geneva to examine. Each book, he knew, would have to be meticulously looked through, sifted and examined and sniffed and rubbed to see if it would give up its secrets.
He left the bookcase and scanned every remaining inch of the room, the bare floor, the walls, under the mattress, the crevices between bed and corner, but there was nothing else, and he felt a wave of disappointment as he realised this room might not have been used for years. His eyes crinkled as the emergency lights stuttered and blinked outside. He briefly wondered if they were connected to a generator or battery and knew he might not have long before they went out completely.
He’d left the bedside table for last. It was a single wooden piece, nothing antique or fancy about it, a purely functional object with one large compartment and a smaller drawer above. There was a thin layer of dust coating the surface, no disturbances that would indicate something had been sitting on the table then taken away, no fingerprints or smudge marks. The main compartment was empty apart from what looked like mouse droppings in the corner but the drawer contained a Bible and a crucifix. He pulled his gloves tighter so they wouldn’t snag against the wood and lifted both items carefully out of the drawer. The lights stuttered outside and he turned his torch back on and aimed it at the crucifix.
The detail on the figure was astonishing and Carrigan could see the individual veins in Jesus’s arms, the fingernails on his impaled hand, the snarled lips revealing white teeth, a single tear rolling down his wooden cheek. He took out an evidence bag from his pocket and bagged the crucifix.
The Bible was old and covered in cracked red leather. Its animal smell seemed alien in this antiseptic room and he brought it a little closer to his nose, enjoying the warm familiar scent. It seemed an ordinary Bible and he quickly turned to the front but there were no personalisations or family history inscribed in it. He flicked through the pages, hoping something would fall out, a scrap of paper, a hidden snapshot, but there was nothing but dust.
He left it for the SOCOs, then turned back to inspect the door mechanism. There was a small lever about halfway up the wall. He cranked the lever and saw the cogs and pulleys shift, lurch and lock. Whoever had stayed here had not been a prisoner.
He took one last look at the room, then crouched down and rolled through the narrow opening. He was almost all the way out when a stray hair caught on one of the springs and he let out a sharp exhalation as he felt it tear away from his scalp. He got to his feet on the other side of the door, massaging his head, and then he quickly got back down, poking his flashlight into the opening.
His hair had been snagged by one of the levers on his way out; it was probably an occupational hazard of moving through this constricted space. He leaned further in, aiming the light into the skeletal mechanism, probing the cracks and shadows. He only noticed it because of its colour, so startling in that murky darkness, and it took him a few seconds before he realised he’d been holding his breath.
He stared at it, unable to trust his own eyes. He took out his phone and snapped a photo of the single strand of hair. It was about three inches long, fine and slightly curled, and it was a bright shocking pink, the colour of candy floss or a young girl’s lipstick.
It was caught between two cogs and he gently pulled the hair from its place, careful not to snag or break it, and eased it into an evidence bag. He held up the bag and stared at it. The length and colour indicated that it was probably female. Best of all, it looked like the root was still attached. The SOCOs might be able to get a DNA print off it. He was thinking about this and the caretaker’s description of the new girl when the lights went off.
The basement was plunged into darkness. Carrigan snapped his head up and got to his feet, keeping his torch shielded. He placed the evidence bag in his jacket pocket and wondered where the battery for the lights was and whether there was a back-up he could engage so that he could further investigate the hidden room, but then he heard the unmistakable creak of the floorboards above him and knew that someone else was in the house.
He slowly made his way across the basement, keeping
the light dim and pointed downwards, avoiding the tombs and scattered debris, trying to make as little noise as possible. He heard nothing else from above and chided himself for having been so easily spooked. It was probably just the floorboards warping and settling as they cooled from the heat of the fire.
He reached the stairs and looked up. At that exact moment the door at the top of the staircase opened and bright white light spilled down into the basement.
A man was standing at the top of the stairs, his body filling the doorframe. He seemed just as surprised to see Carrigan as Carrigan was to see him. For a moment that seemed to stretch much longer they both stood there as if not quite believing in the other’s presence. Carrigan had just enough time to note his black suit and the jagged scar pulling down one side of his mouth before the man turned and ran.
Carrigan leaped up the stairs two at a time, his momentum such that by the time the wood broke and fell away beneath his feet he was already onto the next one and he knew that if he hesitated for even a fraction of a second he would end up crashing back down into the basement.
The last piece of staircase splintered and cracked as he grabbed onto the doorframe and steadied himself. He looked to his left and saw the man with the scar running down the corridor, then stopping abruptly and turning to face him. There was something strange in the man’s expression, and then Carrigan watched his eyes drift, looking at something behind him. Carrigan turned and saw the other man coming towards him, swinging something in his raised arm, a gaudy eagle tattooed on his neck, and then his vision exploded in starshower and light-dazzle. He waited for the floor to break his fall but there was no floor, only the black rush of the stairs like a gaping throat, swallowing him up and folding him into darkness.
II
‘One cannot be in the world without getting a little dust on his shoulders.’
St Francis of Assisi
17
He dreamed they were together again. They were sitting on a bench in Hyde Park watching the children play by the pond. Louise was holding his hand and whispering in his ear. Her skin was cold and dry and he had to keep leaning closer because it was so hard to make out what she was saying. The kids were laughing and yelling, their parents chatting on mobile phones as dogs dipped their noses into the rippled water. Louise was telling him to look up at the sky, you need to look up, but he didn’t want to take his eyes off her, things he’d forgotten – the slight crinkle under her right cheek, the slope of her jaw, the way her shoulders dropped when she spoke – came rushing back to him. He saw her watching the children, one small boy walking unnoticed into the pond until he disappeared beneath the calm green water, and then he turned back and she was gone and the children were gone and the sun was gone. Even the grass was gone. All that was left were her shoes, Louise’s shoes, lying neatly side by side on the gravel path, cracked and worn and drenched in blood.
He snapped awake, his tongue dry and bitter, his heart thudding away in his chest. The sky gone, the park gone. He stared up at the sterile white ceiling, the riverine cracks and fissures, the dangling tubes and cables, and then he felt her hand and it was warm and soft.
‘You were dreaming. The doctor said the painkillers would do that.’
Geneva was sitting on a stool beside the bed. Her hair was loose, falling around her neck in yellow folds, and her eyes had a funny squint to them as if she’d just emerged from a place of total darkness.
‘What happened?’ He looked around the room, the white walls and beeping machines, the tubes snaking up from under the sheets, the concern darkening Geneva’s face.
‘A neighbour saw two men running out of the ruins. She called us and we found you lying on your back in the basement.’
He was sitting up now, the tubes gurgling and sending fluids through his system, a glass of water next to him.
‘What were you doing there?’
He tried to think back and the memories rushed him like a storm – fragments and pieces coalescing into sequences and stagger-frames, into things he’d rather not remember. ‘I thought . . . I wanted . . .’
‘Never mind for now,’ Geneva said and handed him the glass of water. It was too cold but he drank it anyway, enjoying the sudden icy shock to his mouth. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘Just over thirty-six hours. The doctor said you took quite a beating.’ She stopped and looked at the flowers and cards sent over by the department, each one more depressing and inappropriate than the last. ‘What happened, Jack?’
The use of his first name startled him, or was it just the way she’d said it, he wasn’t sure. He tried talking but his mouth felt as if it had been filled with sand and he gulped the water greedily, half of it running down the front of his gown. He gave her a brief rundown of what he’d found in the convent, the secret room, the pink hair, and the men who’d been waiting for him, the one with the eagle tattoo and the one with the scar on his mouth. He leaned forward suddenly, his bones popping and cracking, a wave of nausea washing over him. ‘My jacket . . .’
She put a hand on his shoulder and gently pressed him back down. ‘Don’t worry about your clothes, the doc—’
He turned and something cracked loudly in his neck as he grabbed her wrist. ‘It’s not the damn clothes, there was evidence in there.’
‘The crucifix? Yeah, I saw that,’ Geneva replied. ‘Thought you’d gone all religious on me, then I noticed the other bag. I sent them both to the lab. Quinn’s fast-tracked it, we should get the results soon. There’s also been some new developments regarding the nuns.’
‘What?’
‘Later. You need to rest.’
He let go of her hand and closed his eyes and saw the pink sky, the pregnant clouds, the eager smiling children, but however hard he tried he couldn’t bring Louise’s face back into focus. ‘I need to get out of here,’ he said, raising himself from the bed, then collapsing back down as the world gave way to rushing emptiness.
‘Inspector Carrigan?’
She was shaking him but the dream refused to loosen its grip. He felt her hand, then tried to focus on the words emerging from her mouth. His eyes blinked open and he saw the long sad face of ACC Quinn leaning over him. ‘Good to see you back in the land of the living.’
Carrigan looked around but Geneva was nowhere to be seen. He reached for his glass of water but it was gone.
‘How are you holding up?’ The ACC was attired in full dress uniform, hands planted deep in pockets, his hair slicked to the side, shiny and glossed, making it look as if it had been painted on.
‘Better when I get the hell out of here.’
‘Yes, quite,’ Quinn replied. ‘Not the best time for the investigating officer to get himself hospitalised.’
Carrigan looked around but Branch was nowhere to be seen. He wondered why the ACC was visiting him alone. Quinn kept standing despite the fact that there was a stool right next to the bed. ‘Now tell me,’ the ACC said. ‘What happened in there?’
Carrigan shrugged or at least tried to, but his shoulders felt as if they’d been crushed to dust, muscles he didn’t even know existed glowing hot with needle-prick pain.
‘I know you’re still recovering, probably nursing a bad headache, but I’m sure you’ve had worse. The quicker we know what we’re dealing with the better, right?’
Carrigan managed to nod. He told Quinn about the room he’d found, the single strand of pink hair, the men. ‘After I heard about the cocaine in the chapel I started wondering if maybe we’ve been thinking about this all wrong.’
‘Cocaine?’ Quinn repeated, his top lip trembling, his face deathly pale and bulge-eyed. Branch had obviously not updated him on this part of the investigation.
‘Yes.’
‘And what, exactly, does this have to do with the fire?’ The words came out slow and measured but there was an undertone to them that Carrigan noted.
‘We don’t know that it does,’ he answered. ‘That’s why we need to investigate the convent further.’
‘Are . . . are you suggesting I ignore evidence?’ Carrigan tried sitting up but the effort was too much.
‘You’re an intelligent man, I think you know what you need to do.’
‘What I need to do is get a warrant to see the full diocese files on the Sisters of Suffering,’ Carrigan said, propping himself up on the bed. ‘Something was going on at that convent. Five of the nuns bear identical torture scars. We have reports of strange visitors when there shouldn’t have been any visitors. The nuns were involved in a lot more than just prayer and good deeds. We’re only beginning to scratch the surface. The chances of this being a random fire are diminishing by the day.’
Quinn studied him silently for a long moment, his shadow blocking all light from the window. ‘Absolutely not,’ he replied. ‘That’s just the kind of thing I’m talking about, Carrigan. Being a policeman isn’t only about solving cases and you should know that by now. It’s about understanding how to handle all aspects of the case. The days of steaming like a bulldozer through the victims’ private lives are over. A policeman who wants to stay in the Force needs to realise this.’ Quinn looked down at the dull and grimy floor. ‘Perhaps it’s better if you rest. I can always pass this case on to another DI.’
Carrigan started to say something but the blackness came again like a dark blanket and this time he welcomed its arrival.
He woke to the smell of coffee. He kept his eyes shut for a few seconds in case the smell was only some stray linger from the dream. He took deep breaths, savouring the aroma. And then he heard her cough and knew it was real.