The Bone Field

by Simon Kernick

  ‘Henry,’ snapped Reedman, ‘sit down and stop talking now.’

  ‘I know they’d killed before Kitty and it wouldn’t surprise me if they’d carried on killing afterwards.’

  ‘Henry!’ Reedman shouted.

  I glared at Henry, tempted to reach over the table and wring the truth out of him. ‘How the hell do you know that? Because this isn’t some little game. We’re talking about murder victims. If you know something and you don’t tell us, we will dig up every last aspect of your past and we will find out what you did, and you’ll be locked up for a very, very long time.’

  Henry looked like he was about to burst into tears. ‘I didn’t kill anyone, I swear it.’

  Reedman reached across and pulled his client back down into his chair. ‘Just make the call, DS Mason,’ he said. ‘Please.’

  I got up, wondering what I was getting into here. ‘I’ll be five minutes,’ I said, and went out through the front door, leaving it on the latch.

  The night was chilly – it was still only mid-April – and clear. Reedman’s large detached home was set in a narrow stretch of greenbelt land just inside the M25 between RAF Northolt and Gerrards Cross, with fields to the back and front of the property. You could hear the drone of the traffic on the M25 and the stars were obscured by the wall of light to the east, but there was still something comfortably rural about the place. The house itself was set in about an acre of grounds with a long driveway leading down to wrought-iron gates, and was probably worth the best part of £3 million. But then you rarely come across a poor lawyer.

  I walked slowly round the side of the house and pulled out my phone, dialling my boss at Homicide and Serious Crime Command, DCI Eddie Olafsson, or Olaf as he was universally known behind his back. For the last six months I’d been working for one of the Metropolitan Police’s Murder Investigation Teams, based out of Ealing, having moved across from Counter Terrorism Command where I’d spent much of the previous fifteen years. Things had ended badly for me in CT and I’d been suspended for close to four months before finally being given a second chance as a detective sergeant in Olaf’s team, having been told in no uncertain terms that he was one of the very few DCIs who’d have me. When I’d told Olaf earlier about Reedman’s call asking me to meet up with him and Henry Forbes, he hadn’t been keen for me to go, given that we already had a big enough caseload, but he’d agreed because he was old enough to remember the Kitty Sinn case.

  As luck would have it our team were on twenty-four-hour callout all week so I wasn’t disturbing Olaf on a night of gallivanting, and he answered on the third ring.

  ‘So, did Henry Forbes have anything interesting to say?’ he asked me.

  I told him that he had claimed the remains found in the school in Buckinghamshire the previous week were Kitty Sinn’s, and that he could name several people involved in her murder. ‘And there’s something else too. He says there may be other bodies in there.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s not yanking your chain, Ray?’ boomed Olaf, who had a very loud voice.

  ‘No. He’s telling the truth. And he’s scared too. He says the people responsible will kill him.’

  ‘And he didn’t give you any details about how Kitty Sinn got all the way back from Thailand without being spotted, even though her face was all over the papers, and ended up buried in the grounds of a boarding school?’

  ‘No, nothing. His lawyer’s keeping him on a tight leash. He doesn’t want Forbes to say anything until he’s got him round-the-clock protection and a new identity, plus a deal which means he won’t serve any prison time for perverting the course of justice or anything like that. But the thing is, he must have been heavily involved in her murder otherwise there’s no way he’d know where she was buried.’

  Olaf made a low growling sound that I’d learned was his version of a sigh. He was a man who could do nothing quietly. ‘That’s what I’m thinking too,’ he said. ‘Well, the good thing is, it’s not our problem. It belongs to Thames Valley. I know the SIO running the case. I’ll give him a call now and tell him what you’ve just told me, and they can take it from there.’

  ‘Aren’t you intrigued as to what happened to Kitty Sinn?’

  ‘Sure I am. But not so much that I want it added to our caseload. I’d rather read about it in the Sunday papers.’

  I was about to ask how best to handle the immunity issue when I heard Maurice Reedman’s front gates open with a loud metallic whine. A black 4×4 drove through them, moving very slowly, with its headlights off.

  Straight away my alarm bells rang. You only drive like that when you don’t want to be heard or seen.

  I was a good thirty yards away, round the side of the house, so I stepped into the shadow of an apple tree and watched as the car, a BMW X5, made its way down the driveway. The rear windows were blacked out but there were two men in the front. I couldn’t make out their faces from where I was standing. Then I realized they were wearing ski masks.

  ‘Oh shit,’ I hissed into the phone. ‘I think we may have a problem. Unidentified car just drove in with no headlights and men with ski masks inside. Can you send backup straight away. And make sure it’s armed.’ I rattled off Reedman’s address.

  ‘Don’t do anything stupid, Ray,’ said Olaf, still booming. ‘Help’s on the way.’

  I ended the call and flicked the phone on to silent, knowing I had to act fast. As the car pulled up in front of the house, I ran out from behind the apple tree, keeping close to the hedge at the rear of the property so I was out of sight, making for the conservatory doors. I had maybe thirty seconds to get Forbes and his lawyer out the back before the men in the ski masks came through the front. The rear garden was only about fifteen yards long and ended at a low back fence with open fields beyond. It was a possible escape route.

  My heart was beating hard as I reached the conservatory doors. I heard the BMW doors closing round the front of the house and remembered that I’d left the front door on the latch. These guys, whoever they were, could just walk in.

  I slipped inside, moving fast through the conservatory and the kitchen, not wanting to shout out in case the men in ski masks heard me. As I emerged into the hallway, I could hear Henry Forbes and Maurice Reedman talking animatedly. It sounded like they were arguing but I couldn’t hear what was being said.

  And then, when I was only a few yards away from the dining room, I heard the front door handle being turned.

  I darted into the nearest room as the door opened, knowing I was too late. I could still hear Henry and his lawyer talking, seemingly oblivious to what was about to happen.

  I cursed the fact that I was unarmed. For two years after an earlier attempt on my life I’d been one of the few police officers in the UK authorized to carry a firearm at all times, but this right had been taken away from me after my last major case for CT. Now all I had was my warrant card and some stern words, and somehow I didn’t think that was going to do either me or anyone else much good right now.

  I heard footsteps coming down the hallway, only a few yards away from where I was hiding. The room I’d darted into looked like a library with bookshelves lining two of the walls, and aside from a heavy glass ashtray on a coffee table next to a reading chair there was nothing I could use as a weapon. I stayed still, barely a foot from the door, prepared to ambush anyone who came through it, knowing there was really no more I could do.

  I could hear the intruders talking in hushed tones out in the hallway, their voices barely a mumble.

  Then I heard the dining-room door open and cries of shock and surprise coming from Henry and Reedman.

  ‘Hands in the air, now!’ yelled a voice.

  Loud. North London accent. Potentially an IC3. I slipped the phone from my pocket, opened up the microphone app, and pressed record.

  Very slowly, I put my head round the door. My view of the dining room was partly obscured by the staircase banister, but I could just about make out part of a masked man through the thin crack in the doorway. Muffl
ed voices came from inside and questions were being barked by the gunman I’d just heard speak. His voice was deep and resonant and I was pretty certain I’d recognize it again, but I was too far away to hear what he, or anyone else, was saying.

  I needed to get closer if I was going to record them, but I knew I’d be an obvious target if I came out into the hallway, especially with the front door wide open. There might be other gunmen outside, although I was probably a target in here too. For all I knew, either Reedman or Henry might have already told them I was here.

  I felt a powerful urge to run back the way I’d just come, leap the fence, and wait in the adjoining field for reinforcements to arrive, but I stopped myself. It felt like the coward’s way out and, whatever else my faults, I’m no coward.

  I took a step into the hallway and held the phone at arm’s length, hoping to pick up the gunmen’s voices.

  For a few seconds, I didn’t move.

  And then two shots rang out, loud in the confines of the dining room, and Reedman cried out in pain.

  I knew it was him because the next second I heard Henry crying and begging for mercy, his voice becoming increasingly hysterical. My whole body tensed. They were going to kill him too. I’ve been a police officer a long time. Before that, I was a soldier. I’m used to standing up for the little guy. And now I was going to have to stand by while a man with a secret over a quarter of a century old took it to the grave with him.

  The gunman who was giving the orders yelled at Henry to shut up, and he immediately did. There was a long pause, then I heard more muffled talking.

  I took another step into the hallway.

  The first gunman said something to Henry. It sounded like ‘last chance to live’ but I couldn’t be sure. And then he said something else too, but his voice was quieter now and I couldn’t make out any of it.

  Henry stammered something in reply, which turned into a pleading wail at the end, and I knew that this was it, he was about to die, and that he knew it too. He started to speak again but his words were cut off by another three gunshots, a double tap followed a couple of seconds later by the coup de grâce.

  It was over.

  And that was when I heard it. The first haunting wail of a siren in the far distance.

  I could hear the two killers moving about in the dining room and it occurred to me that I should try to tackle them as they left the room. It was possible I could get hold of one of the weapons. I’ve been in firefights before and come out on top. But self-preservation stopped me. It was too risky.

  And yet I was tempted. God, I was tempted. To hit the first of those cowardly bastards as he left the room, give him a taste of his own medicine.

  I heard the whump of a fire starting within the dining room, and almost immediately smelled smoke.

  The siren was getting louder now, and it had been joined by a second. The idiots were going to get themselves caught without my help if they hung around much longer.

  ‘Go, go, go!’ I heard the main gunman shout as smoke began to billow out of the room.

  I retreated a couple of steps and was just about to dart back behind the library door when a third man in a mask appeared on the front doorstep, only a few yards away from me.

  ‘Oi!’ he yelled, just as a man with a shotgun came running out of the dining room.

  Adrenalin burst through me as I ran back inside the library, having the presence of mind to shove the phone in my pocket. I heard the one on the doorstep tell the other gunmen where I was and to hurry up, that the cops were coming. They were in a rush now. I had to hope they’d make mistakes.

  I grabbed the ashtray from the table and swung round as the guy with the shotgun appeared in the doorway. I threw the ashtray straight at his head and dived out of the way as he pulled the trigger.

  The ashtray hit him in the face and he stumbled backwards, putting a hand up to his nose and giving me a split second to charge him. I grabbed the shotgun with both hands, shoving it to one side as he pulled the trigger a second time, sending shockwaves up my arms. At the same time I drove my body into him, sending us both crashing out of the door and into the side of the staircase. I tried to headbutt him but he moved his head to one side, and I caught a glimpse of a thin white scar at the base of his neck running towards the collarbone. His skin was golden brown – mixed race or Asian – but I hardly computed this fact as I tried to stop him from tripping me up.

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see a taller gunman, the one who’d been questioning Reedman and Henry, pointing a semi-automatic pistol at me, but it was clear he couldn’t get a good shot in without risking hitting his friend, and I was hanging on to the shotgun like grim death. I think the third gunman was shouting something but I’d been temporarily deafened by the shotgun blast so I had no idea what it was.

  My assailant was strong and wiry and he gave me a hard shove, sending us both stumbling back into the library. I hit the bookshelves with a bang and a couple of books fell on my head. He shoved the length of the barrel against my neck, using it to throttle me. It felt burning hot from the discharge of shot but I ignored the pain, lashing out wildly, knowing I was fighting for my life.

  I managed to push him back and we struggled wildly in the middle of the floor. The shotgun went off again and this time the force of the discharge knocked me backwards. One hand slipped from the weapon, and the next second my assailant had slammed the stock against my jaw.

  This time I lost my grip entirely and fell to the floor, hitting the shelves en route.

  I lay on my back, looking up.

  The gunman in the ski mask looked back down at me. I noticed then that his jacket had ridden up above the gloved hand revealing the edge of a black, sleeve-like tattoo on his left forearm. I didn’t really look at it though. I was too busy looking at him. He stared back down at me, breathing heavily, his eyes very big, very dark and very cold. The end of the barrel was only a few feet from my face.

  I was filled with a leaden feeling of resignation. Death has never been too far away from me, right from my earliest days, so it came as only the smallest of surprises that it had come for me now.

  He smiled beneath the ski mask and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  He looked momentarily confused, and for a second neither of us moved. Then my survival instinct and training kicked back in. Using my hands to push myself up, I lashed out with my foot, kicking him in the shin, and tried to scramble to my feet.

  This time he wasn’t hanging about. He kicked me in the gut, sending me sprawling again, then turned and ran out of the door.

  The smell of smoke was getting stronger. It reminded me of a time long ago when I’d been trapped in a house fire, and the terror I’d felt then. I had to get out.

  Feeling battered and bruised, I got to my feet and stumbled out into the hallway, the buzzing in my ears beginning to subside enough that I could hear more sirens, closer now.

  The front door was wide open, and as I watched, the black BMW made a rapid three-point turn on the front lawn before roaring off up the driveway and out of view.

  I felt a desperate urge to run straight out into the fresh air but the need to gather evidence, or at least preserve it, stopped me and instead I ran back into the dining room, pulling up my shirt to shield my face from the worst of the acrid black smoke.

  Maurice Reedman was propped up against a glass cabinet on the other side of the table, his eyes closed. He’d been shot twice in the face. Henry Forbes was lying on his back on the floor on the opposite side of the table to where he’d been sitting earlier. His upper torso was on fire where accelerant had been poured over him, yet there was no fire anywhere else in the room, meaning he’d been targeted specifically. The flames were already beginning to die down – the human body doesn’t burn especially well and it was clear that Henry’s assassins hadn’t used much fuel – so I ran into the downstairs toilet, grabbed the hand towel and placed it under the cold tap. When it was wet enough, I went back in and threw
it over Henry’s upper body, crouching down and using my hands to pat out the fire, conscious that there was a slight chance he was still alive.

  But as the fire died and I felt for a pulse, there was nothing. Henry’s blackened face was expressionless and his eyes were closed. There was a hole in his forehead, and two more in his chest. He was gone.

  And so was his secret.

  Wrinkling my nose against the stench of burned flesh, I stood back up and looked down at his corpse. It seemed the fire had been concentrated on the right side of his upper body. His shirt was partially burned away and the skin beneath was charred and blistered, but something caught my eye. It was a marking on the underside of his upper arm that appeared to be part of a tattoo. Half of it had been burned away, but I could see that at one point it had been a black star-like shape, with three curved lines inside it.

  Two things immediately struck me as a little odd. One, the tattoo was in a place on his arm where it would almost certainly never have been seen, even by him. And two, he just hadn’t seemed like the kind of guy who’d have tattoos.

  I pulled out my phone and crouched down to take a quick photo of it before getting back to my feet and walking out of there, needing to get away from the sight and smell of the bodies.

  Which was when I heard frantic shouts of ‘Armed police!’ coming from the doorstep.

  The cavalry might have arrived but, not for the first time in history, they were a few minutes too late.

  Two

  Half an hour later I was sitting on the bonnet of my car in Maurice Reedman’s driveway when Olaf pulled up in his Audi estate, parked on the lawn, and got out, looking pissed off.

  The place was already crawling with uniformed cops and ambulance crew and Olaf moved among them, his phone to his ear, barking out orders and trying to bring some order to the situation with his own unique brand of charm.

  After a few minutes of letting everyone know who was boss, and organizing a perimeter, he spotted me and marched over, shoving the phone in the pocket of his coat.