by Paul Crilley
I look away as Parker slows to let them cross the street.
‘I’m . . . sorry,’ she says. ‘I know you and Armitage were close.’
‘She was a pain in the arse,’ I say softly.
Silence. Parker starts moving forward again. ‘Ranson’s already talking about her replacement.’
‘She’s only been dead a couple of hours! Who is it?’
Parker scowls as she slows down for some speed bumps. ‘Don’t know. Some guy from Cape Town.’
‘Christ.’
I hate Cape Town. Everyone raves about it, saying it’s the jewel of South Africa. The ultimate tourist destination, yadda-yadda-yadda.
It’s not. It’s where all the pretentious wankers move to when they get money. Where all the rich people live. Give me Durban any day. Durban is the soul of South Africa. Johannesburg’s the heart. Cape Town is the rectum, shitting out refuse and pretension in a never-ending stream of hipsters and writers and filmmakers.
Parker turns into a cul-de-sac. Armitage’s house is easy to spot. It’s the one with all the police vans parked outside. We park behind them and climb out. A crowd has gathered outside the perimeter of blue and white tape. They have their cameras out, taking pictures and recording everything that’s going on. Scum. Vultures hoping to profit on pain by selling their images to the papers. I’d arrest them all if I could.
‘Get this lot out of here,’ I snarl at a uniformed officer.
He looks at me fearfully, the fear of a rookie given instructions he has no idea how to carry out.
‘Tell them it’s a gas leak. Health and safety.’
I grab a paper suit from the back of Parker’s car, duck under the tape, and trudge up the path. Neatly trimmed hedges flank me on both sides, flowerbeds carefully tended. I remember how surprised I was the first time I came to Armitage’s house. Gardening was the last thing I thought she’d be interested in.
I pull on the suit and overshoes, Parker doing the same. I take a deep breath. Then we enter the house.
The sharp, tinny smell of blood hits me. I don’t stop walking, even though I want to. Too many people around. Can’t look weak. Along the hall, past Armitage’s stainless steel kitchen, into her minimalist lounge.
It used to be white and grey.
It’s red now.
I blink, look away. But no matter where I turn I see it. Dark blood, frozen rivulets, dark spatters. Across the LCD television. Across the white tiles. Even up across the ceiling.
‘Evidence?’
‘Nothing yet,’ says Parker.
‘Was it quick?’
‘No . . . She put up a fight. It starts in the bedroom, ends up here.’
I sigh, look around the room. ‘Did Jaeger say when she can tell us anything?’
‘She’s already done the post-mortem on the ramanga.’ Parker checks her watch. ‘She started on Armitage a couple of hours ago.’
I nod.
‘Uh, one thing before we go.’
Parker leads me to Armitage’s bedroom. I enter the room and look around. More blood.
Lots of it.
And also medical equipment.
Lots of it.
An EEG monitor. A dialysis machine. Monitors, tubes, drips, and various other medical paraphernalia.
‘Was Armitage sick?’
‘That’s what I was going to ask you,’ says Parker.
‘Not that I knew of.’ I check the readouts on some of the machines, but it’s pointless. I have no idea what I’m looking at.
‘No charts?’ I ask hopefully. ‘Files?’
Parker shakes her head.
‘And then . . . there’s that.’ She points behind me.
I turn around. The entire back wall of the room is covered in crucifixes. There had to be over a thousand.
I look at Parker. She just shrugs. ‘No idea. Didn’t even know she was religious.’
‘She’s not,’ I say.
We both stare at the wall.
‘Maybe we can access her work records,’ I say. ‘If she was sick the Division might have been paying for it.’
‘Maybe.’
There’s nothing more to be done here. I had to come. I knew there’d be nothing left for me to do, but I had to take a look for myself. I owed it to Armitage.
We leave the house and head back to Delphic Division. We use the front entrance, entering a huge, echoing foyer that looks like something from a seventies science fiction movie. All grey stone and high ceilings.
Through a second set of doors and into the corridor that leads to the central hub, then into our offices.
A heavy silence drapes across the room. There’s an emptiness that seeps into every corner, an Armitage-shaped hole that will never be filled. Everyone turns to look at us. No one says a thing. For all intents and purposes, Armitage was Delphic Division. She helped build it up. She recruited every officer in the room. There wasn’t a single person here who didn’t feel her loss as if it was a family member who had gone.
I glance up at the pulpit, half expecting to see her standing there waving her cigarette around while she debriefs everyone, ash raining down onto the desks below like snow.
I flop into my chair and stare at my monitor. Why the hell hadn’t I just answered the phone? Why hadn’t I stayed in?
Why, why, why? The questions everyone asks when something terrible happens. Why didn’t I leave the house when I meant to? Why did I go back for my sunglasses? Why did it have to rain? Why did God decide to take a dump on me? I played this game when Cally disappeared. It doesn’t end well.
My phone rings and I reluctantly pick it up. ‘Tau.’
‘London,’ says Jaeger. ‘I’m finished.’
Delphic Division has its own mortuary. It has to. The kind of bodies the unit deals with can’t exactly be taken to the morgue at the local hospital.
It’s nothing at all like the mortuaries you see in cop shows, though. You know the ones, with the mid-century cracked tiles, the exposed pipes, the old, porcelain tubs, all the moody lighting.
Our mortuary is state of the art. Brushed aluminium sinks and tables. Bright strip lights, plus a movable spot directly above the autopsy table that can be pulled down to inspect wounds more closely. One wall is floor-to-ceiling morgue drawers. The walls and floors are tiled. But the tiles are huge and spotlessly clean. Not a crack to be seen.
Jaeger is waiting for us. Her usual grin is absent. She just looks angry. Maddoc is standing in the corner holding a clipboard. She’s staring at the floor, not moving a muscle.
An involuntary shiver runs through me. I don’t like it when orisha act oddly. Most of them have adopted our mannerisms and behaviours so they can fit in. But when they get upset, all that falls away and I have no idea how to read them.
Two autopsy tables have been wheeled into place above drains in the floor. The ramanga – Jengo – and Armitage. Both bodies are covered.
I hover in the doorway, unwilling to enter. Parker keeps walking, then pauses and glances back at me. She reaches out her hand. I hesitate, then take it. Her fingers squeeze mine.
Goose pimples rise on my skin from the cold air. I shiver, wait for Jaeger to take the lead. I feel lost. Don’t know what to do. My eyes keep skittering away from Armitage. I find myself approaching Jengo instead.
‘You want to do this one first?’ asks Jaeger.
I nod, not trusting myself to talk.
‘Fine. Both injuries are identical anyway. Definitely the same attacker.’
Jaeger pulls back the pale green sheet and folds it over the ramanga’s stomach. Jengo’s head is absent. I look around and see it sitting on a table on the other side of the room. I feel like it’s watching us.
The hole in Jengo’s chest looks worse in the harsh fluorescent lights. Purple and deep red. Like meat at a butcher’s shop. The same smell as well.
‘OK, we’re talking major sharp force trauma to the chest. In both victims the chest plate has been ripped away. Crushed first. Then pulled out at the same
time the attacker scoops out the heart. One movement. Not easy.’
Jaeger points into the hole with a ballpoint pen, although I’m not exactly sure what I’m meant to be looking at.
‘Carotid and subclavian arteries are torn. Happened at the same time as the heart was taken.’
‘What was the murder weapon?’ asks Parker.
‘Well, we have a combination of sharp and blunt force trauma. It’s more of a chop wound—’
‘So an axe?’
‘Let me finish.’
‘Sorry.’
‘The pattern of the wound is similar to those seen in animal attacks. But the margins of the wound indicate someone used their hand to do this.’
Parker frowns. ‘A hand?’
‘Yes. Look inside. See those furrows at the top of the lungs? Nail markings.’
‘Are we talking claws?’ I ask.
Jaeger taps the pen against her teeth. ‘I wouldn’t think so. The furrows are too wide. But whatever caused this injury is phenomenally strong. There are no probing wounds. This was one confident strike, scoop out what you want, and bye bye vic.’
I nod, take a deep breath, then turn to face Armitage.
Jaeger starts to pull the sheet down, but I stop her when it gets to her neck. I don’t need to see the wound. Don’t need to see her unclothed. Let her have some dignity.
I stare down into the pale face of a person who used to be my friend.
Blood spray covers her neck and chin. At least her head is still attached. The killer didn’t feel the need to decapitate her. Probably because she wasn’t a vampire.
‘What were you doing, you stupid cow?’ I whisper.
‘She seemed . . . agitated. Excited,’ says Jaeger.
‘What?’ I look up, confused. ‘When?’
‘Last night. She wanted me to get started on the ramanga’s post-mortem straight away. She stayed to watch.’
‘She was here? After hours?’
Jaeger nods.
‘When did she get excited?’ asks Parker.
‘When we emptied the contents of the victim’s stomach.’
‘What was in it?’
‘Goat. Salad leaves. Beer. And a coin.’
‘A coin?’
Jaeger nods. ‘An old-fashioned one. She took it with her when she left. This was about nine o’ clock.’
Right when Armitage first tried to call me.
‘Where are her possessions?’
Jaeger nods at a stainless steel table behind me. A clear plastic evidence bag sits in a tray. I open it up and tip the contents out. A box of cherry cigars. Her old pocket watch. (Really, who uses a pocket watch? What a poser.) Her purse. I open it up and look inside. Some money, business cards, a shopping list (Washing powder. Cake. Socks. Condoms – multi-pack. Massage oil.) I grin and shake my head, imagining her walking up to the checkout with those items in her basket.
I turn to Jaeger. ‘Where’s the coin?’
Jaeger points to a second metal tray on her desk.
I pick it up and examine it. It’s not really a coin. It looks more like a token of some sort. Like the sort you used to get at games arcades. But Jaeger’s right. It’s old.
‘Why is it in the tray?’ asks Parker, peering over my shoulder. ‘Why not with her possessions?’
‘Because it was in her stomach,’ says Jaeger.
I look at her. ‘In her stomach?’
Jaeger nods.
‘So . . . the killer made Armitage and Jengo swallow it before killing them?’ says Parker.
‘No. That’s a different coin.’
I frown, confused. ‘So . . . you find a coin in Jengo’s stomach. Armitage takes it, disappears somewhere, then she turns up dead with the same type of coin in her stomach?’
Jaeger nods.
‘And you’re sure they’re different?’ asks Parker.
Jaeger goes to her desk and picks up a photograph. She shows it to me. It’s similar, but the two are clearly different. The patina and colouring are distinct.
‘So the killer forces them into the victims’ mouths?’
‘Or Jengo and Armitage both swallowed them voluntarily,’ says Parker.
‘Why would they do that?’
She thinks about it. ‘To hide them from their killer?’
I study the coin again, but it still doesn’t reveal any secrets. ‘Can I take it?’
Jaeger point to an itemized list on her desk. ‘Sign it out first.’
I check the list and sign my name against ‘Stomach contents: coin – unmarked’.
‘What do we do with the body?’ asks Jaeger.
‘Keep it here. I don’t think she has any next of kin, but I’ll look into it.’
Jaeger nods. ‘Have you had a chance to look at the footage yet?’
‘What footage?’
‘From the kraal. We think the Chief’s CCTV picked up the perp.’
I stare at her, eyes wide with shock. ‘You’re kidding me. We have footage of the killer?’
‘Possibly. Not sure if it’s him or not. I uploaded it to the server couple of hours ago.’
I hurry back to my desk and log in to the Division intranet. I find Jaeger’s file and open it. Parker peers over my shoulder.
Four different images flicker to life. Different angles from the Chief’s cameras. Jaeger has trimmed them down to the exact point where the suspect comes into view.
My breath catches in my throat. My skin goes cold, prickling. Hair standing on end. Like seeing a ghost in an empty window smiling at you.
I stare at the image before me, my mind catching up with what I’m seeing. It . . . it can’t be. Can it?
I rewind the footage and freeze it. My heart is hammering erratically. I feel dizzy as I stare at the screen.
At the face of Armitage’s murderer.
At the face of the big man from the mountains. The guy with the shaved head and beard who ran out the back way with the other perp.
It’s him.
One of the people responsible for Cally’s death.
Chapter 7
Seven-thirty that night and I’m walking along the esplanade.
The cicadas are out, hiding in the trees along the sidewalk, their shrill shrieks a summer chorus as the sun drops behind the tankers and container ships queuing up on the horizon.
I pass a guy pushing a mobile ice cream fridge along the street. He nods at me, eyebrows raised. I usually buy a Cornetto from him but tonight I shake my head. I need something stronger. I need to sit down. Stop moving so my brain can catch up with everything that’s happened.
My heart is still hammering. I’m excited. Nervous. Terrified. This is the first real lead I’ve ever had. The first clue that the man actually exists. That he wasn’t a figment of my own imagination. (Because believe me, it’s something I’ve considered every day since that night in the mountains.)
I’ve already printed a copy of the perp’s face and circulated it to all the law enforcement agencies throughout the country, marking it as highest priority.
Never mind wondering how he connects with the ramanga, what his motive is for killing him. I’ll figure that out later. (I know why he killed Armitage. She got too close.) Right now I just have to focus on catching him. Making him talk.
Making him tell me where Cally’s body is buried.
After that I can get him for Armitage. For the ramanga. But Cally comes first.
The Cellar is a pub that was built below street level. Hence the incredibly original name. I hurry down the stairs and shove the reinforced door open. My feet immediately stick to the linoleum, and that’s about as classy as you’re going to get in the Cellar.
A pool table takes up the space to my left. An old jukebox straight ahead, one that still plays records. Booths around the walls to give the drinkers their privacy. Old movie posters hang on the walls. Plan 9 from Outer Space. The Maltese Falcon. Metropolis. That kind of thing.
Charlie is leaning against the bar that runs along the wall to my right.
Charlie is a retired cop. Bald, with a trimmed grey beard. His face is weathered, lined and creased by the wind. He goes surfing every morning. Apparently he’s out in the water from sunup to midday. Crazy bastard.
He’s chatting to Mick, the old guy with one leg who I suspect actually lives here. He has a little dog that never leaves his side. Some kind of Jack Russell hybrid. It sits on the stool next to him, looking between Mick and Charlie like he’s following the conversation.
The rest of the pub is empty.
‘London Town,’ says Charlie. ‘Back again?’
‘Charlie.’ I nod at Mick, and, before I can stop myself, at the dog. ‘Glenmorangie. Double.’
Charlie pours the drink and slides it to me. No ice. No water. Just as God intended. Down in one go.
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Rough day?’
I gesture for a refill, which he does without any more questions. That’s why I like it here. It’s never full, and no one talks to you when you don’t want to talk.
I take my drink to a booth with a torn Blade Runner poster hanging above it. I slide in and stare at the TV mounted above the bar. The sound is down and some soccer game is playing. I sip my drink this time, letting my brain do its own thing. Not trying to pin anything down. Not yet. I don’t have nearly enough information to make any deductions. I know from past experience that it’s best just to stay out of my brain’s way for a few hours.
After the third double whisky I’m feeling maudlin. Armitage was such a huge part of my life over the past five years I’m finding it hard to accept I can’t just pick up the phone and call her.
I stare at my phone, sitting in a little puddle of sticky . . . something on the counter.
It’s the suddenness that always gets me. That instantaneous severing of life. And everyone is supposed to just . . . adapt. Immediately. It makes you think in clichés. Life is short. You never know what’s around the corner, live each day like it’s your last, yadda-yadda-yadda.
But I’m feeling even worse because my grief is mixed with hope. A combination that feels . . . wrong. Hope is something I haven’t experienced in a long time. But I felt it flicker to reluctant life when I stared at that bearded face on my computer monitor.
Could this be it? Am I finally going to find him?