Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set

by Robert Enright

  Angela, his then wife, joining him in the shower before work.

  Their daughter, asleep and loved.

  Now it was just monsters and failed one-night stands.

  With another heavy sigh, he turned the tap, the shower powering down, steam rising from his body like a hot pan. He stepped out of the cubicle and nearly fell to the floor.

  ‘ARGYLE!’

  Stood in the bathroom doorway, arms folded and with nobility oozing from him, was Argyle. He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ Never had he been more genuine.

  ‘Yes.’ Bermuda scrambled for a towel. ‘I’m naked, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Are you ashamed of your body?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what? Your genitalia? You humans have such a bizarre fixation with your anatomy.’

  ‘No … it’s just … weird!’ Bermuda pulled the towel tight, the absorbent material affixed like a sarong. ‘I don’t peep on you when you … do you even shower?’

  ‘My genetic makeup runs a self-sacrificing cycle where my stained or soiled genes are eradicated before they can come to pass, rendering my body completely clean, strong, and at optimum condition.’ He then looked at Bermuda, his grey eyes full of innocence. ‘Does this trouble you?’

  ‘No, it just makes you even stranger.’

  Bermuda pulled his toothbrush to his mouth and began to scrub his teeth, the sour taste of ale being rubbed clean from existence. Hopefully the rest of the failed sexual episode would join it. As his mouth foamed with toothpaste, he looked at his partner in the mirror.

  ‘Hang on.’ He spat. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘There has been another murder.’

  ‘I never pegged you as a Taggart fan,’ Bermuda replied, searching Argyle’s face for any recognition of the reference. None.

  ‘We need to get to the crime scene. Detective McAllister has asked for the specialist, which I understand is you.’

  ‘Oh, McAllister has actually shown up this time, has he? Well let me put on my Sunday fucking best.’

  ‘It’s Monday.’

  ‘I was joking!’

  ‘Oh.’ Argyle stopped in thought for a moment and then looked stone-faced. ‘Very amusing.’

  Bermuda shook his head and spat the rest of the toothpaste down the sink before reaching for his mouthwash.

  After freshening up, he slowly plodded back to the main room, demanding Argyle turn around while he slipped into a pair of jeans, and a denim shirt with a long sleeved T-shirt underneath for warmth.

  On went the coat, the thin lining of Argiln undetectable in the weight. He wrapped a thick woollen scarf around his neck and finished it off with some gloves and a wool beanie hat.

  ‘Let’s rock and roll.’ He puffed out his cheeks, the hangover latching to him like an overstuffed backpack, trying to haul him to the floor. They would walk out into the horrendous downpour and freezing wind and find a coffee. Then, hopefully, he could start feeling normal again and put his hangover and the horrors of his sex life behind him.

  For good.

  Sat in the back of the cab, Bermuda looked out at the ancient city of Glasgow. The tall, stone buildings lined the streets, their roofs arching over like demonic fingers, and their gothic aesthetic was as authentic as it was beautiful. Begrudgingly, he had to admit that the town held an aura, a sense of grandeur that a lot of cities, London included, couldn’t match. As the rain fell against the beautiful city, it shimmered.

  He sipped his coffee, the caffeine hug wrapping its arms around him and fighting away the hangover. He needed to concentrate, forget the crazy, nameless woman from the night before, and focus.

  Another woman had been found dead, her heart removed.

  This was the work of an Other. He could feel it.

  Somewhere in the dark shadows of this city was the killer, a creature from a different world that was brutally slaying these women. Why or how, Bermuda didn’t know. But just as he had promised the parents in the photo of the first victim, he was going to find out.

  The cab turned onto the road and immediately stopped. At both ends were police cars, a thin layer of police tape draped from tree to lamp post. Bermuda paid, not bothering for a receipt as he stepped out into the rain. A few more cars were dotted down the street, an ambulance and the white tent.

  SOCOs were on the scene which meant Bermuda was pretty sure he would get nowhere near the crime scene. As cool as it could be to say you worked for a specialist arm of law enforcement, it sucked when no one cared or believed you. As he scanned the crime scene, Argyle emerged next to him, his arrival as prompt and mysterious as always.

  ‘We need to examine the rooms.’ Bermuda spoke, turning to his partner. ‘Shall we try to do it without you needing to flip a car or manhandle a policeman?’

  ‘I merely follow your orders.’ Argyle nodded to the nearest police officer. ‘He wears a uniform. I do believe if you-’

  ‘Argyle, I’m not wearing a uniform.’

  ‘I wear my armour.’

  ‘Yeah, and you look like an extra in a Thor movie.’ Bermuda looked at the police officer, engaging eye contact.

  The officer, a young man with a warm smile, beckoned him over. He wore thin, plastic wraps around his uniform to counter the rain. His accent was lighter than most. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Yes, my name is Agent Jones. I believe DC Sam McAllister is waiting for me.’ He flashed his badge, resigned to defeat.

  ‘Aye. Get on in there and get dry.’ The officer lifted the tape and smiled, motioning for Bermuda to cross.

  Surprised and chuffed, Bermuda strolled through, making his way past a few other officers. The street was traditional suburbs, the pavement lined with cars and driveways, neat front gardens that, in the harshness of winter, were void of any life. Bermuda carefully approached the house, the white overalls of the Scene of Crime Officers were damp with rainwater as they scurried between the residence and their base tent. Behind him, Argyle manoeuvred between people, careful not to collide with them. He, like others of his kind, wore a latch stone, allowing them to interact with our world. The last thing they needed was someone colliding with an invisible brick wall.

  Bermuda approached the tent, flashed his badge, and to his surprise, was given a white suit and gloves. He changed quickly; the novelty of being respected was more than welcome.

  After a terrible night, this day was going pretty well.

  He made his way into the house which had been split into two flats. The door to the left led upstairs to another front door, which had been taped off. He took the door to the right, following the sound of police officers chatting, their voices muffled behind their white masks.

  The flat, similar to the one belonging to Nicole Miller, was decorated neatly. Pictures of fun memories and cherished moments hung from specially selected frames. The front room furniture was neat and tidy, a woman’s touch evident. Bermuda’s heart clenched slightly at the picture of proud parents and their daughter at her graduation. She was pretty, her brown hair framing her face. Her parents towered over her.

  ‘Are you the specialist? Agent Jones?’ One of the SOCOs’ voices broke his concentration.

  ‘Yep. That’s me.’

  ‘The gaffer wants a word.’ He pointed to the figure in the white overalls in the kitchen, hands on hips. He was a very slender man.

  ‘Detective McAllister?’ Bermuda asked, pointing to the person in the other room.

  ‘Yeah. Careful though,’ the young officer warned. ‘She’s pretty pissed off.’

  ‘She?’ Bermuda murmured to himself as he stepped through the doorway to the tidy hallway, allowing a few more SOCOs passed before emerging into the tiny kitchen. Every piece of cutlery and pan was in its predetermined place. A well-maintained kitchen. The complete opposite to the nuclear wasteland that resembled his own.

  ‘Detective McAllister?’ Bermuda asked, his voice twitching nervously.

  She turned and both of them gasped, her
eyes narrowing with anger. A few seconds felt like an eternity.

  He was looking at the woman from his hotel room.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ She spoke through gritted teeth, her anger seeping through on each word, her accent thick and intimidating.

  ‘I’m Agent Jones.’ Bermuda cursed his luck, yet again.

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘No. And you? Sam?’

  ‘Samantha.’

  ‘Well I get that now.’ Bermuda looked around, making sure there was no one in earshot. ‘Look, about last night.’

  ‘Forget it. A woman has died, and I’d rather think about the cavernous hole where her chest used to be than about your hands on my body.’

  ‘And there I was thinking we had something,’ Bermuda responded, his words dripping with sarcasm.

  ‘Can we just focus on the murder?’ McAllister spoke with authority; her eyes, bloodshot, told Bermuda she was battling her own hangover. They would thrash it out, he knew that much.

  Just not here.

  ‘Let me guess. Same as Nicole,’ Bermuda offered.

  ‘Aye. Single woman. Twenty-eight years of age. Lived alone. Regular social life, on the usual dating scene. Tinder. Bumble. The lot.’

  ‘Are they drugs?’ Bermuda asked.

  McAllister growled at him.

  ‘I’m literally adding to the tension aren’t I?’

  ‘I think it would be best if you didn’t say anything.’

  Bermuda bit his tongue not to liken it to last night, just nodding and following her through the hall to another door.

  ‘Are you squeamish?’ she asked, her eyes dead and her tone uncaring.

  ‘I need to see her.’

  McAllister shrugged and pushed open the door. Bermuda stepped in and instantly looked away. At Nicole’s flat it had been different – the darkness had surrounded him, the broken door lay in shards in the corner, and the bed was splattered in blood. It was haunting, but it was all past tense. It had all happened, and he had arrived at the end.

  This was in the midst of it.

  On the bed, Katie Steingold lay motionless, her eyes closed, her head slightly leant to the side. Her rose-patterned top was ripped open, a gaping hole in her chest. Her ribs were shattered or bent in, and one of her lungs lay flat and punctured. Her spine was shunted to the side, an agonising death.

  Her heart was clearly missing, the veins leading to it resting on her stomach like an overgrown weed.

  She had been brutally murdered.

  Seeing the body, Bermuda could feel a tear slowly forming in the corner of his eye. His fist slowly starting to clench. He had made peace with the Otherside, despite its efforts to kill him and those he cared about. He understood the need for the truce; despite his attitude, he agreed with the need for balance.

  This was different.

  This was a brutal killing of innocent women.

  McAllister entered the room, her anger obvious and worn with pride.

  ‘The bastard removed her heart, same as before. No fingerprints, no signs of struggle. No semen. Nothing. No leads to our man.’

  ‘If it is a man,’ Bermuda muttered, louder than he intended.

  McAllister shifted on her feet. Her default stance was threatening. ‘You think this was done by a woman?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Bermuda said, scanning the lifeless, heartless body before him. ‘I think it was something else.’

  Before McAllister could respond, her radio crackled into life, the rasping of the machine under her overalls. A seasoned pro, she grasped the button without looking.

  ‘Ma’am, we’ve found it.’

  She sighed, looking back at the dead body of Katie Steingold and aching to put it right. She looked at Bermuda, disgust at the night before battling her need to have someone by her side through this.

  ‘Let me guess. The Necropolis.’

  The voice on the radio confirmed it and she angrily slammed her fist against the wall of the room before storming out, barking out orders to the team that another team was needed at the Necropolis.

  She turned back to Bermuda, eyeing him up and down, not even hiding her disdain. ‘I guess you’ll be wanting to come along.’

  ‘What’s at the Necropolis?’ he asked as they burst through the front door of the apartment, removing their overalls and allowing the cold, harsh rain to attack their clothes.

  ‘Her heart,’ McAllister replied coldly.

  ‘Huh?’ Bermuda patted his coat for his e-cig. ‘How do you know that?’

  She turned and scowled at him through the cloud of smoke he produced. ‘Because it’s the same place he delivered the last one.’

  She motioned to some of her officers to get going, their cars revving to life as they left in a whirlwind of flashing blue lights and screaming sirens. Argyle, who had stood calmly to the side of the tent, approached Bermuda, his armour glistening in the wetness of the Scottish morning.

  ‘Where are we departing to?’ he asked, adjusting the Retriever that lay on his wrist.

  ‘The Necropolis.’ Bermuda turned to McAllister, who was one part angrily beckoning him to get in the car, one part curious as to who he was talking to. ‘Stay here and keep an eye on things.’

  ‘Why? What’s going on?’ Argyle asked, watching Bermuda race across the wet crime scene to the detective’s car.

  Bermuda yelled back before he opened the door. ‘I have no fucking idea.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  He had delivered it. Just like the others.

  Every time he felt his hand in the warmth of their chest, he imagined her face. Although the light of this person had died, it would illuminate his path. His steps were calm and measured, meandering through the random tombstones, needless memorials to those who had long since passed.

  What did they care?

  Humanity had always been an odd concept even though he himself was human. He had the memories, a life spent beside her, his beautiful world that was taken from him. He remembered their love but dare not think her name.

  Was there more?

  Was there another place in his heart, filled with warmth for another creature, one he did not meet nor recall? He shook the notion, allowing the freezing rain to collide with his skin, the sensation of the chill dancing across his skin.

  His human skin.

  His hands dripped blood, the last remnants of Katie Steingold. She would be discovered soon enough, eyes wide in fear, her chest a cavernous hole of broken bones and ripped muscles. He had tried to make it quick, hoping she felt as little as possible. Her sacrifice, while final, needn’t have been excruciating.

  The Necropolis was filled with death; Kevin could sense it in the air as he headed to the exit, his ill-fitted suit flapping in the wind, his tie waving proudly like a flag. He had left the heart in the same place, by the door to the tomb, and made haste to the shadows.

  Surely this would be enough?

  They said they would return her soon.

  As he began to question his deal, he thought back to their first meeting. He remembered his arms held high, metal clasps around his wrists that latched him to the heavy chains bolted to the stone wall. His body, naked and beaten, was being left to rot.

  A human body needs care.

  The man who had approached him seemed familiar, as if they had met some place in time, in an era that didn’t exist, in a world that didn’t match.

  He had told him he could see her again.

  All they needed Kevin to do was bring them the heart of the woman. That was the mission.

  That was all it would take.

  As the final drops of Katie’s blood left his fingertips, he stopped. The Necropolis, a beautiful monument of death, bled behind him like a sinister watercolour painting. Kevin Parker lowered his gaze to his hands, stretching his fingers and staring at his palms.

  They had held her so tightly. She had loved him, as he had her, and he remembered twirling her on the dance floor, their fingers interlocking as they ma
de love. His hand resting on her stomach.

  The hands that they had wrenched from her, the image of the dark figures pulling her down the corridor from him, his chilling screams of anguish echoing like a howling wind.

  The hands that he would murder those responsible with.

  The very hands he was using to kill these women.

  For a brief instance, a twinge of guilt passed through him; the thought of removing a love from a life as he had felt was not an easy task. However, he needed her back. He had spent so long in the dark, rotting away to a pointless end.

  The man had saved him.

  Offered him a purpose.

  He recalled the promise, to deliver every heart for hers. That was all. That was the bargain. With the sense that he would soon hold her again, smell her scent and feel even a shred of meaning, it was worth it.

  Shaking off any notions of guilt, Kevin Parker stood straight, allowing the freshness of the morning to collide with him. The sun would soon rise and the heart would be found, as always, by the old groundsman, with his pitiful existence of watching over the dead.

  The police would arrive, hopefully after they had found and respectfully tended to the body of Katie Steingold.

  An integral sacrifice.

  Her death, unlike her life, would have a meaning.

  That meaning would soon be upon him.

  As the wet leaves danced across the graves of the departed, Kevin Parker walked through the cold metal gate of the Necropolis, taking one moment to pause and turn back.

  His handsome, chiselled face was splattered with raindrops.

  His hands now blood-free.

  The heart lay on the cold concrete, blood pooling slowly around it.

  She would be with him soon.

  He strode up the street and to the shadows, allowing the darkness to take him.

  The rain had upgraded from a cold drizzle to a freezing shower, relentlessly assaulting the tombstones that shot from the ground like blunt stone spikes. A scattering of police cars at the entrances to the graveyard were blocking the civilians from entering. A team of white-clad SOCOs scurried around the tomb where the heart had been found; the organ itself had been removed with expert precision.