Now, as he sat across the bar and watched the young women chatting enthusiastically as one of them showed off a pathetic new piece of jewellery, he knew they needed more.
They would require another.
He looked down at his fingers, the wrinkled knuckles stretched as he clasped his glass. The burning scotch that filled it would have little effect.
The barmaid had called it ‘classy’ when he had ordered it, more out of habit than desire. It was for appearances. The world saw him as one of their own and he would not pull back the veil just yet. There was no need.
There was no her.
He lifted the glass and relieved it of its contents, the liquid burning the back of his throat and disintegrating before it reached his stomach. The thumping noise from the speaker above was foolishly labelled music, a disgrace to the wonders he had heard when she was in his arms.
Where were the trumpets? The strings?
The sense of class?
He shuddered, looking at the scantily clad women that adorned the high seats, all of them leaning over cocktails with their bodies on show. Like a low-rent meat market. Beyond them, leering men looked on, all of them nothing more than cheap aftershave and misplaced machismo. Nothing like how men used to be.
How he used to be.
As he gently gestured for a refill to the waitress, a dark feeling crept into his mind, like a leak slowly filling up a bucket. What did he used to be? He had always been him. That nagging doubt, this vague recollection of dust and stone flickered and disappeared as quickly as a lightning bolt.
He was Kevin Parker.
A man who was doing what he could to bring back the one he loved. The one they had lied to. His concentration was broken when a napkin, shortly followed by a scotch, was placed in front of him by the waitress, her smile as fake as her tan.
‘Thank you,’ he uttered politely, a gentleman’s smile her tip. He reached for his wallet.
‘No need.’ She spoke through chewing gum. ‘It’s already been paid for.’
She directed his gaze to a smiling woman sat by the bar who looked over with interest. She was pretty, petite but not in a worrying way. Her auburn hair was pulled neatly into a bob, her large, blue eyes were framed with a gentle purple shadow. She wore a tight-fitting pair of jeans and a rose-patterned top.
He smiled, gently easing himself up off the chair and falling into the role of the grateful stranger. All he would have to do is be polite, compliment her a few times, and pretend to care what she said.
It was almost too easy.
He noticed her straightening her top and shuffling anxiously on her stool. He had to ignore the sharp prod of guilt that accompanied each step.
She didn’t deserve this.
But then again, neither had the one they took from him.
The young lady turned slightly, noticing his hesitation. ‘I don’t bite,’ she offered playfully, her smile revealing cute dimples.
‘Of course not.’ Kevin stumbled, looking towards the exit.
‘It was just a drink. You don’t have to stay.’
‘No, it’s not that.’ He offered her a weak smile before looking to the door again.
‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘Is there another woman?’
‘Why do you ask?’ His voice instantly hardened, and his back stiffened as well.
‘You keep looking at the door as if someone is going to burst in and catch you.’
His shoulders relaxed, and he chuckled, taking a sip of the drink she had bought him. She frowned, her delicately plucked eyebrows pulling her face inward.
‘There is no one.’ He took another sip. ‘Not anymore.’
‘Then have a seat …’ she gestured to him.
‘Kevin.’
‘Katie.’ She extended a small, open hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Kevin.’
‘Nice to meet you too, Miss …’ he raised his eyebrows, his smooth, chiselled face more welcoming.
‘Oh, Steingold. Miss Steingold. But like I said, Katie.’
‘Katie it is.’
She chuckled, looking slightly baffled by the strange behaviour of the handsome stranger. He was well-groomed and seemed to be in good shape. His suit, while custom made, seemed slightly too big for him.
‘You seem different,’ she stated abruptly.
‘Different?’ he questioned, finishing his drink and motioning for another. ‘You don’t know me.’
‘I mean different to all the other men in here. You actually seem like the type of person who can hold a conversation. Who is actually out for a drink, as opposed to a walking hard-on who is looking to get coked up and hope to avoid an STD.’ Her accent became stronger the more she ranted, the Glaswegian girl escaping slightly.
‘I don’t see the point in the drugs they take or the behaviour they embody. There is a decorum lacking in today’s society and I refuse to condone or partake.’
She giggled slightly, sipping her gin until the straw roared against the bottom of her glass. The barman placed a fresh drink before them both. Kevin handed over a note, waving away the notion of being handed back change.
‘That’s a very generous tip,’ Katie exclaimed. ‘I wish you’d came into my shop.’
‘You will have to tell me where it is, so I can experience your hospitality.’
‘Hehe. You do talk funny, you know that?’
‘I merely speak properly.’ His words were smooth, his voice soft.
She took a sip of her drink before flicking her hair back, hoping he picked up on the body language. He remained stoic, and the difficulty she had reading him was becoming slightly arousing. She composed herself, sipping her drink before peering into his unflinching gaze.
‘You must have stolen a heart or two in your time, huh?’ She leaned slightly towards him as he grinned a perfect set of teeth.
‘You have no idea.’
His whispered response was lost on her as their lips pressed together. The thumping music slowly vanished and he could feel her heart racing.
Her heart.
With an excitement in her eyes, she left her chair, leading him by the hand towards the door. As they slithered through the dance floor, evading the drunken and the desperate, he gazed upon her one more time.
She would be dead by sunrise.
Hopefully this would be the last one.
‘McAllister has already left for the evening.’
The thick Scottish accent belonged to PC Billy Ferguson, a large, heavyset Scotsman with a thick ginger beard. He looked like he had leapt straight off a box of porridge. Bermuda sighed, the freezing wind jabbing at him with frozen fingers. The door to the flat was closed, police tape criss-crossed from the frame like a morbid gift. Ferguson had been sat in his car, heaters blazing as he watched the premises.
‘I need to see the crime scene.’
‘You press?’
‘No.’ Bermuda scoffed. ‘Even I’m not that much of a dick.’
‘You ain’t from round here, lad. You from London?’
‘For my sins.’ Bermuda clenched his fists, willing his hands back to life. The cold clung onto them, claiming them as its own.
‘What’s it like being a big southern softy in this weather?’ Ferguson smirked, his toothless grin a testament to a few scrapes. Bermuda got the impression he was not the sort of police officer who sought peaceful resolution.
‘It has its perks.’ Bermuda smirked. ‘Education, good looks, decent pay. What’s it like being Scottish?’
Ferguson’s brow furrowed, his thick ginger eyebrows almost covering his beady eyes. His police-issue raincoat was zipped up to the neck, the collar consumed by his mighty beard.
‘You wanna watch that mouth of yours.’ He shook his head, stepping past Bermuda and onto the two steps that led to the front door. ‘But you are not getting in this flat without a warrant or McAllister present.’
‘But I’m the specialist they were sending.’
‘You could be Angelin
a Fucking Jolie, I still can’t let you in.’ He broadened his shoulders, his imposing frame almost filling the doorway. ‘Now run along, before I lose my temper.’
Bermuda muttered under his breath, and a fresh army of raindrops clattered against him as the Glasgow night took a turn for the worse. Ferguson crossed his arms, the thick forearms resting on the slight paunch of his stomach. The rain covered everything in a beautiful shimmer.
The bitter cold almost froze it solid.
After a few moments of glaring, Bermuda slowly turned on the heel of his Converse and headed back down the small path, passing the metal gate and running a hand through his drenched hair. His entire body shook, the slight remnants of his injuries struggling to be heard over the numbing temperature. He almost chuckled – the thought of hurtling off of Hammersmith flyover made him remember how goddamn absurd his life was.
‘We need to get into the residence.’
Argyle’s words were calm yet firm, the voice of a soldier. Bermuda nodded, slapping two Tic Tacs into his mouth and hoping they didn’t freeze. The water bounced off of Argyles chest plate, the droplets exploding like fireworks on impact.
‘Well, Bonnie McHaggis over there won’t let us in.’ Bermuda patted Argyle’s exposed arm, the cold bouncing off his skin. ‘Let’s go before my testicles are lost forever.’
Bermuda took a few steps before turning back. Argyle stood staring at the burly police officer, whose glare was locked onto Bermuda like a missile.
‘But we need to get into that residence.’
‘Well next time, Argyle, make sure the person we need is actually here,’ Bermuda replied, frustration wriggling free through his words. ‘Or move that deep-fat-fried dick-head out of the way.’
‘I cannot harm humans. You know my job is to protect you, not instigate violence.’
Bermuda smiled. Even in the freezing cold downpour of a Glasgow night, Argyle never wavered.
‘I know, Big Guy. Let’s head back.’
Bermuda turned again, scolding the notion of a soulless Premier Inn bedroom, the same linen and layout in every room. The same plastic meals and tepid showers.
It had a bar though. Although he was pretty sure it wouldn’t have Doom Bar.
‘Did he threaten you?’
Argyle’s question was laced with innocence.
‘Who? PC Scotsman?’ Bermuda pointed sloppily with his thumb towards the law-abiding blockade. ‘No.’
‘Oh that’s a shame.’ Argyle turned, his face expressionless. ‘If he had, I would be forced to act.’
Bermuda frowned in confusion for merely a second before realisation kicked in, taking the form of a sly grin across his handsome face. ‘Argyle. You fiend.’
‘Did he?’ Ever the soldier, he turned his attention back to PC Ferguson, who rubbed his leather-clad hands together for warmth.
‘Yes he did,’ Bermuda lied. ‘He threatened me constantly.’
Argyle nodded, his powerful footsteps silent as he crunched through the puddles, the heavy downpour adding to his majesty. The rain clattered against his mighty frame, the streetlights making them glisten. The metal band that housed the Retriever dripped freezing droplets. His massive sword swung from his back, the blade slippery and bright.
He looked every bit the soldier.
Ferguson glared towards Bermuda, who was staring at him. Before he could confront the annoying Londoner, he suddenly felt himself hunching forward, his body uncontrollably folding onto itself.
‘Help me!’ he bellowed, his voice struggling over the orchestra of the rain. ‘Someone!’
Slowly, he found himself staring at his knees, his entire body hunched forward as much as possible. He swung his arms aimlessly, each swing whipping through the freezing air and colliding only with raindrops. Bermuda took a few steps towards the gate, stepping to the side to avoid the wild fists.
Bermuda chuckled. He had watched as Argyle had approached, and with one swift movement grabbed the back of Ferguson’s stab-proof vest. With effortless force, he had pushed Ferguson forward, arching his back and bunching him into a ball towards the wet pavement. His swings and cries for help were in vain.
Argyle slowly lowered his captive to the ground until his knees were firmly planted on the cold concrete, his head resting against them.
‘Keep him quiet, mate,’ Bermuda instructed as he pushed open the front door to the building and ducked under the yellow and black tape.
Argyle obliged, reaching down with his other mighty hand and clasping it tightly over Ferguson’s mouth. A passer-by stopped for a second on the street, observing the bizarre policeman hunched over in the rain.
He couldn’t see the hulking warrior who held him in place.
He hadn’t seen the BTCO agent who had snuck through the front door, either.
Once inside, Bermuda took his wet hat off, his hair slicked against his forehead. Drops from the drizzle snaked down his face before suicide diving towards the ground. The modest flat was homely, a ‘woman’s touch’ clearly evident. On the delicate dining table sat two cups, one full of coffee, the other, lipstick heavy, was almost empty. The cafetiѐre was clogged with slowly solidifying coffee, and the thought made Bermuda gag.
There were worse things in this flat than stale coffee.
He looked at the sofa, the cushions askew, their random scattering out of place in the neatness of the home. They had both been in here, their night winding down to what she must have believed would be a happy ending. They had established a trust, no matter how fresh, and that was duly betrayed.
A fatal consequence.
Slowly shaking his head, he looked around the room, the TV straight and well-polished. The photos that lined the unit, and the fireplace were also straight, all of them showing a pretty woman with a smile across her face.
Nicole Miller was a recently divorced schoolteacher. That was all he had to go on. She was a few years younger than Bermuda, and she had no history of trouble. No potential enemies. A scumbag ex-husband, but no one who would want to hurt her.
To kill her.
He sighed, the feeling in his numb fingers slowly returning as he pulled his e-cig from his pocket. A sudden clatter, like someone spilling dry rice on a metal floor, caused him to startle, the rain raising its ferocity as it lashed the streets outside. He thought of Argyle and how long he could hold that officer down before a passer-by intervened or his fellow officers noticed his silence.
He needed to hurry.
With careful steps, not wanting to contaminate the scene, Bermuda edged through the front room, a small flash of blue and then fruit-flavoured smoke as he drew on his e-cig. Through the door to the hallway, he noticed the kitchen, the streetlight outside illuminating the modest appliances. The silver fridge glistened, the random, colourful scribblings of toddlers displayed proudly.
To the left of the kitchen was the bathroom. To the right was a hole where the bedroom door had been. The wooden frame was fractured, shards of wood sprinkled the floor like a bed of hay, and the hinges where wrenched beyond repair. Through the darkened doorway, he could see a remnant of the door, broken and shattered from a collision that was too strong to be human. He could imagine her fear.
She was found on the bed in her underwear, undoubtedly waiting for him to enter. She must have been terrified.
Bermuda took a deep breath and walked into the room, staring ahead at the broken door panels that were scattered across a dressing table, a few more roughly resting against the wardrobe.
He slowly turned to look at the bed.
Nicole was no longer there, the coroner respectfully having moved the young lady to be cleaned up. Her family would still need to identify her body, but there was no confusion as to the cause of death.
The blood that still adorned the walls and doused the bedsheets confirmed what Bermuda had been told.
Nicole Miller’s heart was ripped from her chest.
There was no weapon. No signs of cuts or restraints. Just a handprint on her throat and a ho
le in her body. A hand had ripped through flesh, bone, and muscle to wrench her life from its cage.
Something had brutally killed her.
Bermuda took a moment, the gentle rattling of rain against the window echoing loudly as he imagined the scene, the beastly Other leering over the scantily clad woman before ending her life.
Before committing the biggest crime an Other could.
Killing a human.
Punishable by deportation, and then, ultimately death.
Slowly, Bermuda’s fingers began to curl, squeezing into a fist as his rage began to bubble. He thought of her family, the pictures of proud parents stood beside her that mounted the fireplace. A father, just like he was, would now be mourning his daughter, having to plan a funeral he could never have comprehended. With a silent nod of the head, Bermuda promised Nicole’s family he would find her killer.
Her family.
Suddenly, his head snapped back to the front room, and he dashed through the hallway. As he did, he could hear the crackle of a police radio through the rain-covered window. They wouldn’t receive a response, which meant another officer would be sent. He listened carefully.
‘ETA three minutes.’
With the final grains of sand in his hourglass losing their battle with gravity, Bermuda took out his e-cig and flashed the light over the mantelpiece that adorned the fireplace. Everything was meticulously straight.
Except one photo.
It was of Nicole, her face a picture of happiness as her parents framed her, their pride leaping from the photo. She wore a dark gown and a square hat, the family celebrating her graduation. The start of a long and happy life.
A life snatched away.
The frame had been placed back on the ledge, almost straight. But as the light from outside shone through, Bermuda looked carefully down the line of the shelf. It was off. It had been placed back without care. Carefully reaching into his pocket, Bermuda pulled out a small leather pouch, another toy from the BTCO. Unlike with his tomahawk, Bermuda was at least entrusted with some tools of the trade.
He unclipped the pouch and pulled out a thin white sheet with a pair of tweezers. It looked like a sheet of paper made of smoke, the material so thin you could see straight through. Durable but extremely malleable, the element known as ‘mundra’ was sourced from the Otherside and combined with flour, which Bermuda found incredibly strange.
Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set Page 40