by Luca Veste
Louise didn’t reply, instead getting down on her haunches and lifting a few magazines up to inspect the covers. ‘These aren’t Razzle or Playboy though,’ she said, lifting one up and showing Shipley. ‘I don’t read Dutch or German, or whatever language these are in, but I don’t think you can get these in this country.’
She waited for Shipley to realise what she was showing him, then felt better when he shook his head in disgust. ‘Bloedschande. I know what that means.’
‘Go on . . .’
‘Incest. And these girls don’t look over the age of consent, if you ask me. I’m guessing they haven’t exactly been brought in legally.’
Louise nodded and leafed through a few more of the magazines, seeing similar images peering back at her. She created a pile of them and shoved them to one side. She moved further over and spotted something in the corner that must have shifted when they’d moved the bed. She lifted the photograph up, scanning the image. She recognised the place pictured.
‘What have you got there?’
Louise didn’t respond, instead looking more closely at the photograph. She turned it over, reading the words printed on the reverse, her heart beating faster as she did so. She tried to control her breathing, but was unable to stop the shaking that started up in her hand.
‘Come on, what are you looking at?’ Shipley said, harder now. He dropped to his haunches next to her, giving her no opportunity to hide the photograph.
‘Looks like the same guy from the pictures downstairs,’ he said, taking the photograph from her hands. ‘Bit older, of course. Probably quite recent as well.’
Louise continued to stay quiet, waiting for Shipley to turn over the photograph.
‘The place looks familiar, but I can’t work it out . . .’
‘South of the city,’ Louise whispered, then cleared her throat. ‘I mean, it could be anywhere, I suppose.’
‘No, I think you’re right,’ Shipley said, bringing the photograph closer to him. ‘not sure what’s significant about it.’ He turned the photograph over and froze.
Louise waited as Shipley read what was written there and then snapped his gaze towards her.
‘Well. This changes things a fair bit.’
On the reverse side of the photograph, in scribbled letters, the letters TBK, then, underneath, RD, and one word.
Real.
Eight
There was a moment just before it happened. A pause, just before he was taken, which could have changed everything that happened after. If he could go back to any moment in his life, it would be that one. The chance to change what was to come. An opportunity to save himself the pain and agony that followed.
It wasn’t the way he was supposed to die. Not in pain. Not this soon.
Carl Groves knew how people described him. He was a bum, a waste of oxygen, a stain on society. Someone to be ignored, rather than noticed. It didn’t matter what had happened in his life, he was to be judged on his current state and that was it. He was bothered by it less and less now. Screw everyone and their opinions. They were no better than him or any of the thousands of other people in the same position. They were all one bad decision away from being sat outside an ATM or shop begging for spare change. That was how easy it was for anyone to end up in the same hole he found himself in.
For Carl, things had taken a lot longer than one bad decision. For the most part, it was a range of terrible decisions, made by other people who were supposed to be looking after him, that had done the job.
That’s how he found himself at nineteen years of age, trying to scrape together a few quid so he could buy himself some tobacco and scratch the itch he’d been feeling since he woke that morning. The shelter he’d been staying at provided food – for what it was worth – and water, but he had spent his dole money within a couple of days, so was forced to do the usual. It always amazed him what people threw away in the street. In a hurry, trying to catch a bus, chucking half a cigarette away without thinking. A half-empty bottle of juice, or something more substantial, to tide him over until they served a meal back at the shelter.
Wandering through the streets wasted time. That was all he had, after all. Hours upon hours, with nothing else to do. No plans or places to go. No friends to meet up with. Nothing to do, other than walk. And walk. And walk.
Sometimes he wouldn’t have the energy to go as far as he’d like to, but almost every day he made the same circuit. The shelter was in a built-up area in the city, but if you walked five or ten minutes in any direction you were suddenly on country lanes, green fields and trees at each side. Barely any traffic, as he shuffled slowly alongside grass verges, stepping up any time a car passed him by.
It would fill his time every day, simply doing the same walk. Kicked out of the shelter at 9 a.m., back at five or six in the afternoon; he needed something to fill those hours.
Nineteen years of age and already the future looked bleak. It could have been worse though, he thought as he continued his usual walk. He could have been dead already. He had escaped abuse and violence; his mum hadn’t been as lucky. He hadn’t gone to the funeral. It was too difficult. Nobody should have to be fourteen years old and grieving for a lost parent.
He wasn’t sure how long his dad had got sentenced for. Wasn’t interested. He had left the city of his birth and moved south, to Liverpool, looking for a better life. Ended up on the streets, of course, as it was never easy to leave the past behind you.
There was still no moment other than that single instant of time, just when he sensed the change beside him. Just before the darkness came. Nothing before that he could have changed even if he had tried. His life was set from birth. He supposed he could have gone back and tried to stop his own arrival into the world, but that was a stretch. No, it wouldn’t have been any other point in time.
Carl could have been somewhere else. Anywhere else. Maybe, if his reflexes had been better, he could have seen it coming. As it was, as the sun dipped behind the clouds on its way to the other side of the world, he didn’t even see the darkness before it swallowed him whole.
Only a dull thud. No instant pain, or scream of agony. A single flash of light suddenly encroaching on his world, then his legs giving way. Things had become blurry then, as something moved his body, dragging him away from the lane. Into the bushes and what lay beyond that.
He had tried to lift his head, but it didn’t respond. He remembered more flashes, more blows. There was a slow pulse in the back of his skull. Still no pain.
That would come later.
He had slipped into unconsciousness easily, without warning. When he came to, he couldn’t move. Every limb screamed as he tried to move it, every movement of his head sending shockwaves of pain flashing through him.
His head slumped forward; he was coughing with the agony of it. Bile rose in his throat, spewing out of his mouth without warning. His entire body was racked with hurt. He opened his eyes and tried to look around, but it had become dark while he’d been out cold.
Confusion surrounded him. Nothing made sense. What had happened, where he was. As his head cleared a little more, he tried to work out how he had ended up there. It didn’t help that he didn’t know where there was.
The sky above him darkened a little more, and then he realised a shadow had fallen across him. Only, that didn’t work logically, as it was dark. It was evening. No sun to make a shadow.
That was when the smell hit him.
He had experienced that odour before. On the streets in the city centre. In the middle of the night, trying to find somewhere he wouldn’t be moved on from. An alleyway in town, nearby clubs finally winding down their noise levels. Unsuspecting fellow young people, stumbling away in search of a taxi or night bus home. Never knowing what was only a few feet away.
That odour had been in the alleyway. The undiscovered body of someone who had finally given up. He had expected the body to be stiff as he rifled through pockets and took what he could, but it had been soft and pliable. There
a couple of days, he thought. The smell would soon lead people to him, but he had got there first.
Two quid and five cigarettes.
It was the stench of death. Standing over him. He couldn’t see the face, or any features at all. It was just darkness, looming, looking at him, as he lay helpless on the floor.
Hard floor. Ground. Outside. Wind brushed through leaves, so it was somewhere in the nearby fields, he guessed. The hidden countryside in the major northern city.
No one would hear him if he shouted. Not that he could. He realised his breathing was shallow, blocked from being able to take enough oxygen into his lungs.
Something had been placed over his mouth.
Why me? Carl thought. There were so many other people who deserved to be in this position, rather than him.
The shadow looming over him moved slightly, giving his eyes another chance to focus on his surroundings as much as they could. He squinted into the darkness, trying to hear any movement, but it was silent all around him. Only the wind, sporadically, rustling against whatever foliage was nearby.
The voice, when it came, was unlike any he had ever heard. It startled him, wet in his ear. Whispered, full of intent. Inhuman. Stripped of anything that was recognisable.
It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
A song exploded in his head. Back at the shelter, there had been talk of this . . . thing who lived in the woods. Of other homeless people going missing, never seen again.
Of a local myth, who was waiting for them in the darkness.
The Bone Keeper’s coming. The Bone Keeper’s real. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t feel . . .
He could feel the tears falling down his cheeks as the first cut was made. The skin on his stomach being sliced into, a stinging sensation that quickly grew. He opened his mouth to cry out, but something blocked his shout. He tried to struggle, but he was pinned to the floor, able to move only his eyes around to catch glimpses of what was happening to him.
He’ll snatch you up. And make you weep . . .
Carl could hear the voices of those other waifs and strays at the shelter. Talking late at night, in hushed tones, of the ghost that walked among them. The legend of their childhoods. Their voices had been light, but he knew now they’d been scared.
They had known to be afraid of what lay out there. Waiting for them.
He’ll slice your flesh. Your bones he’ll keep.
Nine
The room was cold, the single radiator not sparking to life for a reason Louise couldn’t work out. Not that it seemed to bother Shipley. He was sitting behind one side of the table, making notes in silence, an impassive look on his face. She leaned against the wall to his side, studying him in profile.
There’s trust between them. A bond. That’s how it works in the police. It doesn’t need to be voiced. They are there for each other, no matter what. They’re a team, a screwed-up family.
Not a family. A family has secrets.
They’re not supposed to have those.
Louise wondered if there was anything he was keeping from her at that moment. Everyone had secrets and she was curious to know what Shipley’s were. There was something going on behind those dark, almost Mediterranean features of his. He was pleasing to look at, the character in his face, the scars and marks telling their own stories. She looked for any tell, a moment when he would give himself away. A flash of clarity which would reveal his inner workings to her.
There was nothing, of course. She wasn’t Derren Brown.
Louise wondered if Shipley kept things from her, the same way she kept things from him. Whether that was just the human condition. Never telling the entire truth. Lies growing with little work, becoming the norm.
‘You’re staring at me again,’ Shipley said, without looking up from the notes in front of him. ‘It’s becoming disconcerting.’
‘Sorry, mind was wandering,’ Louise replied, lifting herself away from the wall and walking away to the small window. She faced away from him, hoping he didn’t see the blush rise to her cheeks. ‘Any plan for how we approach this with the mum?’
She heard the chair scrape back a little, then a sigh from him. ‘Well, now she’s positively identified him, I guess we have to find out the usual. Let’s forget the woman—’
‘Caroline.’
‘Yes, I know her name, Louise,’ Shipley replied, a little abruptly. Louise could hear the grin behind the tone, however. ‘We’ve been to her house, looked into her life. We can’t find any connection to Nathan Coldfield at all. In fact, it doesn’t seem like she has any connection to anyone. She’s a loner. A boring life, exactly as she described. Just a lonely woman, who happened to stumble across something, by the looks of things. What I’m saying is, let’s treat this as we would any other murder. See who his closest acquaintances are, where she saw him last, etcetera. Then we can move onto the other aspects of this.’
Louise turned around, hoping the colour in her face had returned to normal. Shipley had already gone back to writing up what they’d learned up to then, so it mattered little anyway.
Nathan Coldfield’s mother had met her son’s body at the morgue near the city centre, IDing him within seconds, they had been told. They had also been informed that this was now a murder investigation, which wasn’t exactly surprising. Major Crimes Unit would be getting involved soon enough, Louise guessed. She thought that they would stay involved with the case, given the dwindling resources available across the city, but she could still feel the tension emanating from Shipley.
He didn’t want to be left behind.
They were waiting for Nathan’s mother to join them in the room, so they could question her further. Louise had done this numerous times before, but the atmosphere felt different now. More charged, less familial. It had been a while since they last investigated a possible murder, so she put it down to that.
The looming presence of a local legend didn’t help matters.
Louise pulled out her phone, flicking through various news stories, finding the scant information that had been released about the unfolding one she was a part of now. It was more newsworthy for the local press, but the national websites had smaller pieces, with little detail. Something told her that wouldn’t be the case for very long, though. She pressed the home button and clicked on one of the social media apps she kept on the home screen. Fake name on her account, like so many others in the police did these days. Twitter opened and she searched for mentions of the body’s discovery. Scrolled through a few tweets and then opened the search box again.
She typed The Bone Keeper and began scrolling.
‘Didn’t take long,’ she said to herself softly, still staring at the screen but sensing Shipley looking up at her. ‘It’s already being talked about on Twitter.’
‘I hate that thing,’ Shipley replied, but didn’t look back down at his notes. ‘What’s being said?’
‘Just a few mentions about the Bone Keeper possibly being responsible. People wondering if the guy was murdered in the woods because he stumbled into its home or something. Some jokes. Memes. Nothing substantial.’
‘That’ll change if it gets out that victims have talked about it.’
A knock disturbed them both, Shipley jumping to his feet as the door opened. Louise stuffed her phone back in her pocket as a uniform led Nathan Coldfield’s mother through without a word, knowing they were waiting for her. A thin-faced woman, who from the way she carried herself didn’t seem to have ever had anything good happen in her life. Light blonde hair, through which grey roots were showing. Lines creasing her face, yet her eyes were blue and welcoming.
There were a few pleasantries exchanged before they got to the point all parties knew was coming. Louise could see she was still in the shocked state most family members found themselves in after something like this had happened. Eyes widened, trying to take in everything around her, which would only be a blur in a few hours’ time. She was never surpr
ised by their varying reactions; everyone was different, after all. Barbara Coldfield was on the normal end of the spectrum, from what she could tell. The paleness, hands shaking almost imperceptibly, eyes that wouldn’t – or couldn’t – fix on them. They finally fell on the wall to the side of them, and she was seemingly lost in her own thoughts.
Louise preferred this type, for the most part. When they began to wail and cry and blame everyone in their path, things were more difficult. Similarly, when they had too many questions, for which she usually couldn’t provide an answer, it only served to make her uncomfortable.
‘Are you okay to answer a few questions, Mrs Coldfield?’ Louise said, leaning forward and closer to the older woman. ‘We won’t keep you much longer.’
‘It’s not like I have anywhere else to go,’ Barbara replied, eyes wandering slowly over to where Louise was sitting. ‘It’s not Coldfield anyway. Not anymore. But you can call me Barbara.’
‘Thank you, Barbara,’ Louise continued, putting on her usual soothing tone. It always seemed to work with people of a certain age. ‘Do you remember when you last saw Nathan?’
‘It’s been a few weeks. He’s in and out, if that makes sense. Towards the end of September, I know that much. If I’d known it was going to be the last time . . . I don’t know. Maybe I would have paid more attention to the date.’
Louise listened to Barbara’s soft Liverpudlian accent, wondering if she was from the city originally or had lived elsewhere in her childhood. It was difficult to tell now.
‘And you didn’t report him missing? Was this normal behaviour?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Barbara replied, her gaze drifting to the wall behind Louise, then back to her. ‘He would do this constantly. If he had ever gone missing, I’m not sure I would have noticed. Not for months anyway. Although . . . he did miss my birthday. Last week. He’s never done that before. Even with all his troubles.’