by James Hazel
Priest turned around to the window behind him and stared at the doorway of the Piccolo Café. He had been thinking he needed a holiday. Somewhere warm, but not burning. A golden beach, crystal-clear ocean. Cocktails served by scantily clad maidens. Maybe once he had managed to ensure, somehow, that his nocturnal visitor wasn’t coming back for another drilling session, he’d swing by the travel agents and pick up a few brochures. That’s what a near-death experience does. Makes you think of all the things you’ve missed in life.
The alcohol swam around his head. He hadn’t felt this confused since his divorce. Dee Auckland seemed like a lifetime ago now, but it had been for the best. Mainly because he was socially retarded and she was a fucking nutter.
It wasn’t cold, but he found himself shivering.
From beneath some papers in the drawer where the whisky bottle had been stashed, Priest took out an old photograph. It was torn at the edges and creased across the middle. He should take better care of it, he thought. The three Priests – William, himself and Sarah. So much potential, faces full of naive wonder. It had all ended when William pleaded guilty to serial murder and they read the headlines the morning after the trial: Senior policeman’s brother modern-day Jack the Ripper.
That was when the questions had started. How had William, with his PhD in psychology, metamorphosed into such a vicious killer? How had he evaded detection for so long? Why had he killed? Why were none of the expert profiles right? What drove him to madness? Was he abused as a child or did he suffer a serious blow to the head?
Or was there evil in his blood?
Priest looked at his wrists where the flame had burnt him; a black, purulent mess that had started to blister and hurt every time he moved his hand. But underneath it, a network of veins carrying blood – the same blood that . . .
There was another knock at the door. Priest slipped the picture back into the drawer. Okoro’s bald head reappeared.
‘Priest. There’s a guy here to see you.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t know. But he’s got a pretty mean-looking badge.’
7
Neville McEwen was fatter than Priest remembered. The red-haired Scot bulged in every direction and was barely contained inside his ill-fitting suit. He had aged, too: years of alcohol and fags had turned his face a deep shade of purple.
Okoro showed him to the chair opposite Priest and took a seat in the corner of the room. Priest winced as the Scot sat down heavily. There’s only so much stress that chair can take.
Despite the extra pounds, Priest had recognised McEwen immediately. He’d been a detective sergeant when Priest had been fast-tracked to detective inspector. It had been no secret that McEwen had wanted the DI job and he’d been waiting an awful long time for it. Watching a man ten years younger and with only a quarter of the experience leapfrog him must have been upsetting for McEwen. Priest expected hostility – he’d probably put the fat bastard’s career back five or six years.
‘Charlie Priest,’ McEwen muttered. ‘Well I’ll be damned.’
Priest leant across the desk so he could hear better. The combination of sleep deprivation, whisky and probable concussion was starting to make his head spin and he recalled that McEwen had an unfortunate habit of slurring his words.
‘DS McEwen.’
‘It’s DI McEwen now.’
‘Oh. Well done, old chap.’
‘How long has it been?’ McEwen growled.
‘Long time.’
‘Aye. Long time.’
‘What can we do for you, Detective Inspector McEwen?’ asked Okoro from his sentry position behind the policeman.
McEwen didn’t look around. ‘I’m here to speak to the organ grinder. Not the monkey.’
Priest saw the choice of words register with Okoro. Twenty years ago, Priest suspected he might have reacted but Okoro had heard it all before. Priest clicked his tongue in the silence that followed.
‘You don’t look so good, Priest. Late night?’ asked McEwen.
‘I have difficult skin. Sometimes I look tired.’
‘Aye. Tired. Right. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may, Priest. Where were you last night?’
‘There’s no sergeant with you,’ Priest observed.
‘So?’
‘Just seems strange. That’s all.’
McEwen inhaled deeply. Sounded like a wind turbine starting up. ‘Where were you last night, Priest?’
‘At home.’
‘Any company?’
‘What’s this all about, Inspector?’ interrupted Okoro.
McEwen ignored him. ‘Have you heard of Ellinder Pharmaceuticals International?’
‘Drug company?’ Priest suggested.
‘Aye. Clue’s in the title, right? The CEO – Kenneth Ellinder – ever heard of him?’
‘Nope.’
‘His son, Miles, was found dead last night in one of the company’s warehouses.’
‘OK.’
‘The name Miles Ellinder mean anything to you, Priest?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘Uh-huh.’ McEwen sniffed loudly again and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He finished by clearing his throat, hacking up a ball of phlegm and swallowing it back down. He placed a photograph on the table – a headshot of a man in his thirties with slicked black hair and dead eyes.
Priest swallowed. The man in the picture wasn’t wearing a policeman’s uniform but he did resemble his visitor from last night.
‘This is Miles Ellinder,’ McEwen said. ‘Does his face mean anything to you?’
‘Afraid not. Are we through?’
‘No, far from it. Miles Ellinder’s body was found by a caretaker early this morning. Purely by chance. He found a door leading to a basement open and followed it down. And there he was, dead. We’re treating the death as suspicious.’
Priest shrugged. ‘OK.’
‘Know why we’re treating the death as suspicious?’
‘No.’
‘Sure you don’t.’
McEwen produced another picture from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He slapped it down on the table. Priest stared long and hard. It took a while for the image to make sense, like a magic eye puzzle. Then it dawned on him that what he had registered the first time around was exactly what the picture showed. Sweet Jesus. Priest was vaguely aware of Okoro getting up and leaning over the desk to look. He wanted it to change. He wanted the true image to reveal itself, but the more he looked, the more the scene crystallised.The reality was inescapable. For a moment, he thought he might be sick.
‘Any further thoughts, Priest?’ McEwen said with a sneer.
‘That’s no way for a man to die,’ Okoro said quietly.
McEwen picked up the photograph. It had been on the table for only a few moments but it was enough to burn the image into Priest’s mind.
‘How do you know it’s Miles Ellinder?’ Priest asked. The picture was clear but the body was a good ten feet away from the camera and the head was turned slightly to the side. Priest hadn’t been able to tell whether or not this man was the same as the fake copper, or even if he was the man in the first picture McEwen had produced.
‘The family identified him. There’s no doubt,’ McEwen grunted. ‘He was impaled. There was a metal shaft welded to the warehouse floor. Purpose built. Thrust up his rectum to the nape of his neck, although they probably only partially lowered him on to the shaft, which they’d greased up first. Then gravity did the rest. He might have died quickly if he was lucky. But he wasn’t lucky. Pathologist said he was probably writhing around for up to an hour. The pole missed most of the vital organs. It was pretty carefully planned. Quite a show.’
McEwen leant as far forward as a man his size could and fixed Priest with a penetrating stare.
‘Does his face look familiar to you, Priest? Huh? The pole up his arse, maybe? That familiar?’
Priest didn’t reply.
McEwen looked unimpressed. ‘If you don’t know Mr Ellinder
, then perhaps you can tell me how he came about one of your business cards?’
McEwen took out a clear plastic evidence bag and threw it at Priest, who only needed to glance at the blue script to know it was his. He remembered the fake copper had picked up one of his business cards and pocketed it before producing the drill.
‘No idea.’ Priest shook his head.
‘You’ve no idea?’
‘I do a lot of business, Inspector. I give out a lot of cards.’
‘A client of yours, maybe? Of one of your associates?’
‘I know all the practice’s clients. This man wasn’t one of them.’
‘You’re not being particularly helpful, Priest.’
‘I’m answering your questions. How do you know he had it on him?’
‘His clothes were dumped in a corner. Looked like he was wearing a copper’s beat outfit. Probably a replica. Nothing else – no wallet, no phone. The caretaker who found him recognised him. Right now the only lead I’ve got is you.’
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, there’s nothing I can help you with.’
‘You know it won’t take me long to get a warrant for this place, Priest. Little piece of paper that lets me look through every file, every drawer, every safe and every toilet bowl. Shame to have to do it. It would leave a fuck of a mess.’
‘Come on, Inspector, we both know this is a waste of time,’ said Okoro. ‘You’re ahead of the game right now but how long will it be until the media gets hold of this? A matter of hours, probably. Perhaps you should be pursuing a more tangible line of enquiry?’
‘That’s interesting advice.’ McEwen turned round to Okoro for the first time. ‘But the new assistant commissioner was keen for me to pursue this line of enquiry.’
Priest sighed. ‘McEwen, the AC isn’t going to be interested in me, I can assure you.’
‘That depends on who the AC is.’ McEwen’s face contorted into a half-smile. It was a disturbing sight. There was something reptilian about his thin lips.
‘McEwen, I haven’t been in touch with Met politics for a decade. I don’t know who the current AC is.’
McEwen actually laughed. ‘She knows you very well, Priest. In fact, she told me personally to get over here and put you through the grill. I guess the last thing you knew, she was in Manchester. But now she’s back. One rank higher and I bet still with no love lost. Dee Auckland.’
Priest felt something attach itself to the inside of his throat. ‘I’m happy for her promotion,’ he said. It was a problem. There was rarely a good outcome involved where his ex-wife was concerned.
‘Aye. And she’s happy to be back. She’s taking a personal interest in this. For PR reasons, of course. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Anyway’ – McEwen rose to his feet – ‘best be off. I’ve got a magistrate to see about a warrant. You boys take care of yourselves.’
Okoro stood up as well and, as McEwen turned to leave, there was a brief moment when the two heavyweights stared at each other before Okoro opened the door and motioned for McEwen to negotiate his way through it. ‘Thank for your time, McEwen,’ he said pleasantly.
Priest stayed rigid in his chair. If he got up, his legs might not support him properly.
McEwen was halfway through the open door before he turned back to Priest. ‘What do you know about mayflies?’ he said.
Priest blinked, twice. ‘Little bugs, aren’t they?’
‘They don’t live very long. Not long at all.’
Priest considered letting it go but it was too obscure to ignore.
‘Why do you mention mayflies?’ he asked reluctantly.
McEwen’s face broke into the toadlike grin of self-satisfaction again. ‘They made him swallow one before they stuck a pole up his arse.’
*
From the window, Priest watched McEwen fall into his Volvo and set off down The Nook towards the river. In the distance, he could hear the traffic building along the Strand – the drone of idle engines punctuated with the horns of anxious Londoners and the blare of sirens. He could feel himself slipping. It was as if the ghosts in his head were converging upon him all at once, their hollow screams echoing in the void. I’m not part of the real world. I’m one of the ghosts. He tried to ground himself, but his head was throbbing.
Okoro had taken the seat in front of Priest’s desk again.
‘You didn’t tell him, then,’ Okoro pointed out.
‘No.’
‘A little risky, Priest.’
‘Why?’
‘Something about perverting the course of justice.’
‘Mm. It’s bought us time. He won’t get a warrant request past the local bench so we’ve slowed him down. That might give us a few days’ head start.’
‘To do what?’
‘To find out what the bloody hell is going on.’
‘It’ll be nice to reacquaint yourself with your ex-wife.’
‘No it won’t, Okoro.’
‘She still pissed at you?’
‘I’d imagine so.’
‘They’ll track your movements from here.’
Priest nodded. He’d already factored that in. He felt tired, drained to the point of depletion. He was worried about Sarah. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt like he should pay her a visit. Even if just to mention that his psycho ex-wife was back in town. It wasn’t a surprise to him that she’d been promoted and transferred again. I wonder who she’s pissed off now.
Until a few minutes ago, Priest had assumed Dee was still a commander at the Manchester Met, the position she had left him for when she had walked out five years earlier. At that point she had declared him ‘mentally ill’, which Priest couldn’t argue with. He did, after all, have dissociative disorder, which was a pathological condition. He had tried to explain it to her; the feeling of detachment that could descend on him at any moment. At best, it was like a sudden twist to his surroundings – like the onset of a migraine in which reality holds more or less firm but in a distorted, disconnected way. A dream in which the dreamer knows full well he is actually asleep. At worst, he could experience moments of complete derealisation, as if he was catapulted out of his body into a strange, alien world in which he would view himself, or a twisted parody of himself, trying hopelessly to interact with his surroundings. Moments like those, although rare, could last for minutes or hours; a nightmare in which the dreamer has no idea whether he is asleep, awake or even alive.
It was hard to function in a world that was often only semi-real and sometimes completely -unreal. And so what if he was habitually inappropriate, flippant and occasionally downright rude? He didn’t mean to offend. Huge chunks of his existence could cruise by like the blurry moving images of an old slideshow; sometimes it was only the reactions he provoked in others that made him feel properly human.
Not that Dee had been able to relate to any of that. Priest had met earwigs with more empathy.
Her final taunt – you’re mentally ill – had stuck with him and made him realise what he had secretly always known: people with dissociative disorder make rotten husbands, but sociopathic control freaks make even worse wives.
A polite cough alerted Priest to the fact that Georgie was standing in the doorway. How long had she been standing there? By the look on Okoro’s face – who was used to indulging Priest’s silent moments of internal contemplation – a few minutes at least. She was wearing a pleated skirt and white blouse, her ginger hair tied back. She stood a little gawkily, her uncertainty obvious.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I knocked but I wasn’t sure if you’d invited me in or –’
‘It’s OK, Georgie,’ said Okoro. ‘Come in. Priest was away with the fairies again.’
‘Thanks.’ She stepped into the office and looked at Priest. ‘Oh. You don’t look so good, Charlie.’
Priest nodded slowly. He supposed she was right. He hadn’t showered this morning. His suit was crumpled and he wasn’t wearing a tie. He probably resemble
d an extra from a zombie film.
‘Yes, well, it’s been a busy morning. Now, Georgie, you know how good you are at assimilating large quantities of disturbing information quickly? Well, it’s a quality you’re going to need over the next five minutes.’
‘Great!’ She produced a counsel’s notepad and pen and looked up eagerly.
She’s far too keen. Priest gave her an edited account of the last twenty-four hours, including the drill and McEwen’s visit but excluding the nature of Miles Ellinder’s death. There were certain details that she didn’t need to know right now. When he had finished, there was a short pause during which he was unable to distinguish the hum of the traffic outside from the blood rushing past his ears.
After a short moment, Georgie put her pen down. ‘Oh my God!’ she said. She was shocked, obviously, but she couldn’t hide an underlying sense of excitement.
He looked at her and, for the first time in several days, smiled. Georgie had stood head and shoulders above the other candidates he had interviewed for the associate’s position a year before. On paper, she hadn’t been much different to the other hopefuls. Solid first degree from Oxford, a masters in philosophy from King’s – like Priest – a distinction in her professional qualifications. In practice she was resourceful and dedicated. But there was something that set her apart that Priest had latched on to; a reservoir of energy hidden behind her emerald eyes.
‘For obvious reasons, Georgie, this is currently on a need-to-know basis. OK with that?’
‘Of course! Top secret.’ She paused and he could see her struggling with the question. ‘But how did you escape from the chair?’
‘I burnt through the binding with a cigarette lighter.’ Priest held up his wrist, which resembled a badly barbecued kebab.
‘Does it hurt?’ asked Georgie with genuine concern.
‘Yes, it hurts like fuck, Georgie. As perhaps you might expect.’
Georgie nodded and made another note in her book. ‘Hurts like fuck’, presumably.
‘OK, now that we’ve established that burning your own skin to escape a drill-wielding madman is a distressing experience, down to business. What do we know about Ellinder Pharmaceuticals International?’