by Lucy Cameron
Louise screams he is a freak, and leaves. Anna shouts for her to come back. She doesn’t.
Harry only cries when Rhys gets home from work and puts the vole in the bin. Anna shakes her head and leaves. Doors slam.
Harry and Rhys sit in silence.
‘Why?’ Rhys looks down at him. He seems tiny. He shrugs, kicks his trainer on the edge of the bed. Sniffs. Wipes a trail of snot on the back of his hand.
‘He was my friend and then he died.’ There’s no eye contact. Harry picks at the edge of his sleeve.
‘Why really?’
‘I don’t know.’ Still no eye contact. The small tear-stained face. He shuffles across the bed. They cuddle in silence until long after it is dark. The room is grey shadows.
‘Dad?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you have to put him in the bin?’
21.
He lays awake, stares at Anna’s back. He lays awake and wonders if every creak is Harry off to find new friends. New dead friends.
When Anna returned, she said they needed to talk. Rhys agreed.
But she doesn’t want to talk now, says she can’t. Of course not. She will want to talk when he can’t. When she can scream that he’s a poor father. Now she wants to sleep. Or says she does. He knows she’s wide awake.
He lays awake and wonders how a picture in a book can move. He lays and stares into the dark, at least it’s better than the dream.
The front page of the morning newspaper is cruel. Spits jibes at the police. Demands to know why people are still dying. There’s a photo of the street outside Eddie and Cathy’s house. Hundreds of bunches of flowers. Shame people didn’t care more while they were alive. Didn’t notice their absence. There’s a sensationalised interview with the concerned neighbour. Rhys doesn’t read it.
Rhys can still feel the soft fur of the dead vole in his palm.
He doesn’t sit at his desk. That is where the book is. He makes sure he sits were he can see it. Keeps it on the edge of his vision the way arachnophobes do with house spiders they can’t catch or kill. It’s stupid and sensible all at once. No one will know. No one can tell.
Davies sidles over. Shoves a piece of paper in his face. Rhys has no idea what he’s looking at. A load of jumbled letters on a page. He rubs his eyes. The letters refuse to take order. Rhys wants to ask Davies what the fuck he’s doing? Wants to scream that they are not friends, not anymore. It doesn’t matter how much time passes, Davies cannot make up for what he did. Ignoring it won’t make it go away.
The operations room is hot. Too many bodies. Too many artefacts fighting for space. The radiator belches out heat. The dial that turns it down knocked off somewhere in the past. Rhys’s palms start to sweat.
‘Stop staring, man. Tell me what you think?’ Davies shakes the page. The letters swirl. ‘Will she like it or what?’
‘Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention please.’ Quinn is ready to begin. Davies sighs and sits. All focus to the front. ‘Today will be much the same as yesterday. We have contacted the colleagues of Jess Simmons, they should be in later to run through their statements.’ Jess, half of the first couple to die. ‘They don’t have long, apparently they’ve been asked to work double shifts up at the hospital.’
Rhys head snaps up, ‘Sorry what?’
‘Wakey wakey Detective Sergeant.’ Quinn’s stare is cold. ‘Keep up.’
‘What did you just say?’ Quinn shakes his head.
‘Jess Simmons’ colleagues will be in later to run through their statements. Well volunteered.’
‘After that? Sorry, I mean where did you say they worked?’
‘They are cleaners at the hospital. Why? If you like I could arrange for you to chase them round the corridors?’
‘Martin Cullen, Claudia Rose’s boyfriend worked there too.’ The air in the room shifts slightly. ‘Yesterday, when I was checking his statement, he’d done cash in hand work for a mate, painting up there.’
‘When?’ Rhys rises, digs the statement out of the pile. A low mutter of excitement breaks free at the back of the room.
‘At the time Claudia was murdered.’
Quinn picks up a marker, spits the lid onto the floor, draws on a whiteboard as he speaks,
‘Martin Cullen worked as a painter in St James’ Hospital in February, correct?’ Rhys nods.
‘Claudia used to take food up there for them apparently.’
‘Fast forward five months, that’s to July for the slower ones of you in the room. We have our first couple murdered. Jess and her husband Ron. Jess worked in the hospital to earn extra cash. She started at Christmas and never quite got round to leaving.’ The pen squeaks as Quinn draws a crude timeline. ‘Finally, thank god, a connection between two of our sets of victims. Same hospital. Overlapping time periods. It’s not much but it’s better than anything we’ve got so far.’
‘About bloody time,’ says a Constable at the back of the room.
‘What about Claire and Phil, our second couple murdered?’ Quinn looks around the room. Heads shake.
‘No link to the hospital that I’m aware of, sir,’ says Davies. Quinn draws a large question mark. It reminds Rhys of the one on the wall in Andrews’s front room.
‘Until yesterday we weren’t aware of this one, Detective Constable. This takes top priority,’ say Quinn.
‘Sir,’ Davies speaks again. ‘Eddie and Cathy’s son, Tony. Wasn’t the reason he moved up north to go to university to study medicine?’ A murmur ripples around the room like an inappropriate Mexican wave. More paperwork shifting. A nod of confirmation.
‘Okay, quieten down.’ Quinn raises his hands. ‘Morgan, you head over to the hospital with… actually on second thoughts, hospitals aren’t really your thing are they?’
‘Davies, you and a couple of Constables get over to St James’ I want as much information as possible on all of these people.’ A wave to the wall behind him. ‘What are their connections to the hospital? There must be a common denominator here. Really dig around for something on Claire and Phil. They are the only ones we have nothing hospital-or medical-related on. Yet.
‘Morgan. You call Tony. Get him back in here. Did he do work experience at St James, or even–’
The phone rings. Constable Robertson answers.
‘It’s for you, sir.’
‘Tell whoever it is I’m busy.’ Robertson shakes her head. Her skin has gone a mint green colour. Quinn takes the phone.
‘Hello? Yes… Bloody hell.’ Silent listening. Quinn hangs up. The room is airless. All eyes on Quinn. ‘Scratch that, Morgan. You’re with me.’ Heads swivel to Rhys. ‘They’ve found another pair of bodies, just as I thought it couldn’t get any worse. It bastard well does.’
22.
The remote country cottage is miles out of town. Isolated. Bleak. Rotting back into the landscape. It sits in several acres of land. Overgrown and unloved for what could easily be decades, dark and cruel, it growls out into the cold winter sun that has finally managed to force its way through the clouds.
A pothole-ridden dirt track fights its way through tumbledown drystone walls. There is no birdsong. No sense of life. Quinn crunches the gears and over revs into a clearing in front of the cottage. The oldest man in uniform Rhys has ever seen emerges from the gaggle of confusion at the front door. He comes towards them.
‘Bloody hell, it’s Egg.’ Quinn’s mouth drops open. ‘Thought they had retired that poor sod years ago.’ Quinn strides to the elderly man. Slams him hard on the back. The two men laugh, shake hands.
The remains of a rusty pickup truck stand to the left of the cottage, tangled in vines, fingers pulling it back into the land. Four windows run along the ground floor of the cottage. Black with grime and cobwebs. Several panes of glass are broken, one crack crudely fixed with parcel tape. Dead flies collect in piles having bounced their last, trapped behind the panes. Upstairs hang dirty nets.
The once-white paint of the cottage is stained and peeling. A
brown streak seems to split the facade in half, a groove worn by rainwater pouring from broken guttering. The roof of the cottage is dipped and rotten. Sinking back into the walls that sink back into the ground. The cottage must once have been beautiful, fairy tale. Now it is a thing of children’s nightmares. Specifically of the two boys Rhys sees huddled with a Constable next to the ambulance.
‘Morgan!’ Quinn bellows. Rhys joins him. ‘This is Egg.’ The old man extends his hand. Up close he’s younger than expected. Life has not been kind. Rhys nods an acknowledgment. ‘Egg here was first on the scene after one of the kids called it in.’ Egg is solemn and grey. Grown out of the landscape around them.
‘Local kids don’t come up here much.’ Egg speaks in monotone. ‘The couple who live, lived, up here were seen as, to use the kids turn of phrase, “mad freaks”.’ Egg looks at Quinn. ‘Mind you, who could blame them after what happened?’ Egg and Quinn nod.
No one offers an explanation.
‘The ginger one…’ Egg nods towards the boys. ‘…is new in town. For a laugh his new mates decided he should be the one to take the plunge and break in.’
‘Good mates.’ Rhys looks to the boys.
‘I was thinking the word “bastards” is a better fit,’ says Quinn.
‘So Ginger there breaks in,’ Egg continues. ‘Not a hard task when you realise the front door is rotten. Him and his mate start to have a sniff around. Normally sniff would be a keyword but not in this case.’ Rhys glances at Quinn, ‘because all they found were bones.’
‘Bones? How does this link to our case?’ Is this a waste of time? Rhys thinks of the crammed operations room. Should someone else have come here? Movement in the bushes to the left catches Rhys’s eye. He stares hard at the dense mass of green leaves. Nothing. Probably a bird. Or a cat.
‘Morgan?’ Quinn bellows next to Rhys’s ear. Rhys jumps slightly ‘Sorry to bother you, but if we could have your attention that would be much appreciated.’ Rhys blinks rapidly.
Egg continues,
‘From what little information has been released to us through the official channels, the formation and condition of the bones seems to link to the other bodies you’ve found.’
‘In what way?’
‘The way the bones in the bathtub are… piled… have fallen…’ Egg shrugs. ‘It looks like they were once suspended there. That and the fact there’s a meathook in the ceiling.’ Rhys grimaces. Bones in a bathtub, not the kitchen. ‘We also found a skeleton under the stairs. I’m no expert but this one looks like it’s been broken.’
‘Broken? What does broken mean?’
‘Several of the bones look like they have been broken.’ Egg makes a snapping gesture. ‘And there appear to be no hands.’
‘Shit.’ The three of them stand in silence.
The movement is there in the bushes again. This time Rhys doesn’t turn. It’s just birds, birds and cats. No one else looks either.
‘Winters and his CSI lads and lassies are on their way,’ says Egg.
‘Oh, good. I’m glad.’ Quinn’s tone says otherwise. He turns to the cottage.
‘When he gets here we should find out more.’ On cue, a police car pulls into the clearing. Quinn heads for the cottage, shakes his head.
Rhys opens the car door for the large man.
‘Rhys Morgan, right?’ Rhys nods. ‘Hello, again.’ This time there is no handshake. Winters looks towards the cottage, towards Quinn who pulls on a white paper boiler suit. Winters sags. ‘Oh good, always a pleasure to work with the delightful Detective Inspector.’
‘You don’t get on?’
‘It’s a long story.’ Winters doesn’t elaborate. The Crime Scene Investigator’s van pulls into the clearing.
‘Morgan,’ Quinn’s voice bellows across the clearing. ‘You stay out here and talk to the kids.’ Quinn pulls up the boiler suit’s hood and disappears into the cottage.
‘Look, we didn’t do nothing wrong.’ The one in the cap is older. Cocky. Predictable.
‘You broke into someone’s house.’
‘Yeah well, kind of, but not really. Not like they give a shit, is it?’ The boy stares up at Rhys from under the peak. It is okay to be confident now. Daylight is still with them. Soon it will be dark. The shadows will start to dance.
‘Tell me what happened.’ Rhys’s eyes itch. The headache is staring across his forehead. The boy in the cap shrugs.
‘Best ask him, innit.’ He thumbs over his shoulder to his mate. ‘Like I told that old guy, I waited outside till I heard him screaming like some girl, then we called you.’
‘Did you go inside the house?’
‘Yeah, but only to the doorway, like, to see why he was screaming. When I saw them bones, I was like, no way, shit, I ain’t stupid, I seen police stuff on telly, didn’t want to contaminate no crime scene.’ His smile is smug.
Sitting by the ambulance, the ginger-haired boy stares vacantly ahead. He shivers even though he is wrapped in the bright foil blanket.
‘So, is it true?’ The boy in the cap pulls Rhys’s attention. ‘That there are more bones upstairs?’ He tilts his head. Rhys sees his soft baby face, a few rouge hairs trying to sprout through his chin. The small, dark eyes stare at him. ‘You can tell me, innit, like coz I’m involved. I’m like a key witness. Were they…’ he pauses, lowers his voice, ‘… like, murdered?’
The sun sets as Rhys speaks briefly to the other boy. The boy looks at him with dead eyes. His voice is flat. The trace of an accent. Somewhere southern. Rhys can’t place it.
‘It was his idea. I went along with it. Said the couple that lived here were right freaks. No one had seen them for ages. We should investigate. I should investigate if I wanted to fit in round here.’ His eyes fix on Rhys but he doesn’t see him. ‘We get here. The house is quiet. I knew it was wrong but…’ He lets the sentence hang. Shrugs. ‘So we look around. Nothing moves. Nothing. He says it’s time. I have to go in. So I did.’
‘Do you always do what other people tell you?’ Rhys is not sure why he asks such an obvious question.
‘No. But you know what it’s like, to have moved, you know? It’s best to just do what’s needed to fit in.’ The kid looks at the ground, scuffs the dirt with his trainers.
‘How did you get into the house?’
‘Through the front door. It’s all rotten so it only took one little shove.’
‘Tell me exactly where you went inside the house.’
‘Through to the back. To the kitchen. Then back round to the living room.’
‘What made you open the cupboard under the stairs?’
‘Dunno.’ His shrug seems genuine.
‘What happened when you opened the door to the cupboard under the stairs?’
‘I saw the bones.’ The kid starts to shake.
‘Did you touch the bones?’
‘No.’
‘Did you go upstairs?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?’
‘Yes.’ The ginger-haired boy sniffs. Tears are in his eyes. ‘I didn’t touch them, I promise.’ His eyes plead. ‘The… the head, it rolled out. The teeth kind of chattered like it was laughing.’ The tear rolls down his cheek. He rubs it quickly away with a grubby hand. Rhys knows this is not possible. The night dance has already started.
Car headlights illuminate the clearing. An old Volvo crunches to a halt. A woman in leopard print leggings climbs out. Heads for the Constable stationed near the cottage door.
‘I got a call about my son.’ The ginger-haired boy looks up. ‘What the bloody hell has he been up to this time?’ She takes out a cigarette.
‘I’m afraid you can’t smoke here, Miss.’
‘Little shit. Probably on the rob, was he? Wait until I get my hands on the little bastard.’
‘You can’t smoke here.’ The woman looks from the cigarette to the Constable with distain, pushes the cigarette back into its packet.
‘Mum.’ The ginger-haired
boy comes alive. He throws the foil wrap to the floor and runs to her. She allows herself to be embraced.
‘What the bloody hell have you been doing?’ She holds him at arm’s length. Rhys crunches across the gravel.
‘Hello. I’m Detective Sergeant Rhys Morgan.’
‘And?’ She stares up at him.
‘And your son has been involved in an incident.’
‘You best not have been talking to him without a lawyer. I knows about this stuff you know. I’ve seen it on the telly. Frighten a false confession out of him before a respectable adult arrives.’ The woman looks about twenty, which of course is not possible.
‘Mrs…?’
‘Miss. Miss Elaine Rowe.’
‘Miss Rowe, your son is not in trouble. He has discovered something relevant to an ongoing investigation.’
‘I don’t care what he’s discovered. You ain’t talking to him without a lawyer. We done? I need to get my son home. He’s obviously traumatised.’ Rhys sighs.
‘Miss Rowe. As I said, your son is not in any trouble. There’s no need for a solicitor.’ She doesn’t know whether to trust him. ‘What does need to happen is for you to go with your son to King’s Mill station where a formal statement will be taken.’
‘What, now?’ Her stare is cold.
‘Yes please. This is an ongoing murder investigation.’ Elaine’s eyes widen. Murder always peaks their voyeuristic curiosity. ‘Detective Constable Dan Davies will be waiting for you. Ask for him when you get to reception. Do you need a lift?’ Elaine looks at him like he is stupid. She turns and pulls the ginger haired boy toward the car.
‘We best get this over with then. You’d better not be involved in anything here, Jamie. I’m fed up to the back teeth of having to move you around.’
‘I’m not involved with anything.’
‘And I had to borrow Uncle Bob’s car to get here. You best remember to show him you’re grateful.’
‘He’s not my uncle.’