Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set

by Robert Enright

  ‘Another.’ Brett smiled.

  Reciprocating, Bermuda pushed himself up from the table and ambled through the Scottish crowd, making his way to the long bar, the draught pumps sticking up like a rib cage. Each one was adorned with a logo, the latest ales and craft beers which would eventually be filtered out by the usual suspects. Carlsberg, Fosters, Peroni. And of course, as he rested his forearms directly in front of it, Doom Bar.

  The barmaid, pretty and overworked, flashed him a warm smile, holding up three fingers to indicate his place in the queue. She glanced at his forearms, the black ink that peeked out from under the rolled-up sleeves of his black shirt.

  As the noise enveloped him, Bermuda cast his mind back to the previous afternoon. The searing pain needling its way into the back of his skull had subsided, but he wasn’t sure if that was due to the two pints already consumed or the other-worldly power that coursed through his veins.

  He had a feeling that McAllister may have believed him when he had left the awkward meeting in the interview room, but he had been more concerned with flipping Strachan the bird. From there he had ventured back to his Premier Inn room, the manmade ‘comfort’ welcoming him like a fart in an elevator.

  Then there was the heartbreak of breaking his promise.

  Chloe.

  He shook the pain away, annoyed that he hadn’t fully confronted it. Yes, he had let her down, but it was the job. He was making the world safe.

  After that he had grabbed a coffee from one of the many outlets that were rubbing shoulders on the high street, this time settling on a Costa. With that in hand, he had strode across the town centre to the BTCO HQ, pressing his hand on the metal letter box and marvelling as the symmetrical lines began to form in the wooden panel.

  A key he never knew he had.

  Once he had ascended the steep steps, he was welcomed into the rundown office by Kelly, who once again wore a goofy smile and overly large woollen jumper. Her eyes, magnified by her huge glasses, locked on him and never left.

  She had led him to a stairwell which went further underground, to a set of doors which hid agent housing. Behind door number one, like some bizarre game show, he found Argyle, sat quietly, cross-legged on the floor, his mighty blade resting on the unit before him.

  Apologising for breaking his meditation, Bermuda checked his partner was okay. The wound on the back of his head had completely healed.

  His arm and shoulder were successfully reattached.

  The only thing broken was his pride.

  Bermuda told him to rest up, and that they were banned from the Necropolis for now, which Argyle noted probably wouldn’t stop Bermuda due to his lack of respect for any type of authority. Bermuda agreed, but thought they had earned a day off.

  While he was there, Kelly, amongst her continuous offers of cups of tea, told him that Montgomery Black had called three times and had demanded that Bermuda contact him instantly. Something about ‘doing the complete opposite to what was ordered’.

  Bermuda gave it a miss.

  As he departed, Kelly slapped an envelope into his hand, telling him that Malcolm had completed the print, but as yet could find no match within the last fifty years. Surprised, Bermuda offered to thank the elusive technician, only to find he was nowhere to be found, again. With a strict instruction for them to widen the year range, Bermuda left with the print safely tucked in his jacket pocket.

  Which now sat over the chair opposite his best friend. It had been a mere moment after he had smashed his phone into his own reflection that Bermuda received a call from the hotel reception, telling him he had a guest. Expecting a furious ‘Monty’ or a grizzled Glaswegian police officer cracking his knuckles in anticipation, Bermuda was shocked as his best friend Brett had emerged from the waiting room.

  They had arranged for drinks that evening, and as the pretty barmaid held the card machine steady, Bermuda tapped his card, paid contactlessly, and then returned to their table, fingers clasped around fresh pints.

  ‘Cheers,’ Brett exclaimed as they tapped their glasses together.

  Brett had been Bermuda’s best friend since they went to Derby University and fully believed everything about ‘the Knack’. In fact, Bermuda sometimes got the impression Brett wished he could see the Otherside too.

  ‘Cheers, buddy.’ Bermuda took a swig. ‘So why the hell are you here again?’

  ‘We organised a drink.’ Brett also partook. ‘I thought you were a detective or some shit.’

  ‘No. I meant why are you here in Glasgow?’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, I had a few days free before we go on tour. We are hitting up a few nights in Warsaw, Budapest, and Sofia. It’s going to be messy. But figured before I left I should come up here and see Elaine.’

  Bermuda nearly spat his drink out. ‘Elaine?’ He wiped his mouth. ‘Shit man, it's serious then.’

  Brett rolled his eyes. As the lead singer of the thrash metal band Frozen Death Cull, Brett had always thought monogamy was a sort of wood. But during Bermuda’s quest to stop Barnaby six months previously, Brett had met a beautiful nurse named Elaine. Despite being Scottish, which Brett never let go, he seemed fairly taken with her. He nervously tucked his long brown hair behind his ear and stroked the thick brown beard that hung from his chin like a sloth.

  ‘Shut up.’ A measured response.

  ‘Nah, cheers to you.’ Bermuda offered his glass. ‘It’s about time you found a bonny lass.’

  ‘Eurgh, thanks for reminding me about the Scottishness, BJ.’

  Bermuda hated the nickname – it was too sexually recognisable for his liking. Within the next few moments, the glasses were empty, and Brett was at the bar, heartily chatting with a burly Scotsman and drawing a deep, booming laugh from him. Bermuda was happy for the company. Everyone he had met so far had been too keen, wanted to smash his face in, sexually aggressive, or creepy and dangerous.

  Pretty much like back home.

  Brett settled down opposite him again, passing him another pint of beer and disregarding any notion that they may have a problem.

  ‘Hey, here’s a question.’ His words were slightly jumbled, the beginning effects of the ale. ‘Is Argyle here?’

  ‘In Glasgow?’ Bermuda hiccupped.

  ‘No, here. Now. I miss our beers together!’

  ‘You’ve never spoken one word to him,’ Bermuda stated.

  ‘Yeah, but I have through you. I know, I know, he’s not allowed to reveal himself to me and like you say, the guy has a stick shoved so far up his arse it wraps around his tongue, but I like it when he is here.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess I feel safer with a sword-wielding warrior at our table.’

  ‘Hear, hear.’ They tapped glasses. ‘To answer, no, he is back at our base in town.’

  ‘The BTCO has a base in Glasgow?’

  Bermuda smiled at Brett’s knowledge and interest. It made him feel less crazy. ‘Yeah, apparently. Am trying to find one in Tenerife next.’

  Brett chuckled and took a big gulp of his ale. Someone slotted a coin into the jukebox and coaxed it to life, but then let the entire pub down by selecting an Abba song. Bermuda shook his head, storing the Swedish mega-band into his own personal room 101. The grimace on Brett’s face told Bermuda that his friend agreed.

  ‘So, what you doing here in Glasgow then? It clearly isn’t for the ladies.’

  ‘Your girlfriend is from here – you know that, right?’

  ‘Yeah, but she is unique,’ Brett retorted, saving his skin.

  ‘Something weird, man. Something is killing one woman per night at complete random and then removing their heart.’

  ‘Like a game of Operation?’ Brett offered, his fingers wrestling a packet of tobacco from his pocket and instantly reigniting Bermuda’s cravings.

  ‘No. More like a test of strength. It’s ripping them out with its bare hands.’

  Brett made a disgusted face.

  ‘The thing is, I think it has a reason
for doing it. I met it last night, and it seemed human. But there is something underneath. It kept talking about being trapped in the dark, how whatever held it prisoner had taken someone from it and had requested the heart of these women.’

  ‘Wait, if you met it last night, why didn’t you arrest it?’ Brett asked, running his tongue down the cigarette and clasping it shut.

  ‘Because it seems human. Like, it’s a human body and called itself Kevin Parker. Also, it nearly broke my jaw and pushed me in front of a tram. I’d have died last night if once again Argyle hadn’t saved my life.’

  Brett nodded and sipped his beer. Bermuda could almost see the lightbulb ping above his head.

  ‘Wait, a tram? Did Argyle derail that tram last night? It was all over the news.’

  Bermuda sighed and nodded his head, lifting his glass again.

  ‘Man. Argyle is a fucking boss.’

  ‘Yeah, well instead of a get well soon card, apparently Monty back home is after my ass for destroying more public property. I guess he has a point. I should probably be a little more discreet.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Brett chimed in. ‘Blowing up Big Ben and derailing trams hardly emanates secret organisation. So, what you going to do?’

  ‘About?’

  ‘About this heart-stealer? This Kevin Parker.’

  ‘Find him. Catch him. Send him back to the Otherside.’ Bermuda took a final swig and emptied the glass. ‘Simple.’

  Brett patted him on the shoulder as he stood, popping outside to the heated smoking area to quench his nicotine addiction. Bermuda watched on enviously before pulling out his e-cig and taking a long, thoughtful puff. A cloud of berry-filled smoke bellowed out, encasing him like a game show prize reveal.

  He staggered to the bar slightly, requesting their fifth pint of the evening. The pretty barmaid began pulling them and he looked around the room. Everyone seemed in high spirits, groups of lads sharing banter while a clutch of girls surrounded two tables and watched on in a mixture of attraction and disappointment. They could do a lot worse than take one of them home.

  They could end up with him.

  Furiously, he scolded himself for his self-pity. Sure, the job had pulled him further away from his daughter again, but he would make his way back to her. He always would.

  He was away. Not gone.

  Just as he was pulling his mind away from the fracture of his relationship with his daughter, his mind flickered to Sophie Summers. Brett had met her that spring, even secretly texting her to bring the two of them closer together. He was thankful that his friend hadn’t brought her up or made any jokes.

  He still missed her.

  She had rightly decided she was better off without him, but now, sat drinking with his best friend, his mind went back to that London evening, where they had shared wine and thoughts about both worlds.

  Where she finally believed him.

  A thick Scottish accent caught him by surprise.

  ‘Disaronno and Coke. Double.’

  Bermuda turned, and his drunken eyes slowly returned to clarity. DC McAllister stood before him, dressed in a nice black top and a well-fitted pair of jeans that hugged her slim frame. Her hair, usually a bird’s nest in a blender, was slightly curled and cascaded down her sharp face like a waterfall.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ Bermuda sneered, clearly at his most charming.

  ‘Look, I think we need to clear the air between us. I mean, we probably couldn’t have got off on a worse foot, and if we are going to work together, then I think maybe we should bury the hatchet?’

  Bermuda sized her up for a moment as the barmaid placed the two beers next him. McAllister offered an awkward smile.

  ‘Can I have a double Disaronno and Coke as well, please?’

  McAllister nodded her thanks and then pointed to the table.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll bring it over. My friend is outside but will be back in a minute.’

  ‘You have friends?’ she smiled.

  ‘Shocking, isn’t it?’ Bermuda tapped his card on the machine that was presented to him. It beeped with success. ‘You?’

  ‘Sort of. It’s a long story.’

  ‘Well, we aren’t planning on leaving until they kick us out, so feel free to share.’

  The two of them left the bar and headed to the table, the group of girls and guys and smashed together like a bizarre cocktail and one of them nearly knocked the drinks from Bermuda’s grip. A harsh scowl drew a whimper of an apology and Bermuda settled back down at the table, McAllister sliding herself into the chair next to Brett on the opposite side.

  They sat in silence for a few moments; the notion of being civil to each other was completely alien. Bermuda took the first step.

  ‘So, What’s up?’

  ‘First off, I wanted to apologise for the whole sex thing.’

  ‘Wow, you sound like me after my school prom.’ Bermuda sipped his ale through his smile.

  ‘I mean, I know we were drunk, but I shouldn’t have acted like that and—’

  ‘Forget it. Water under the bridge.’ Bermuda waved his hand, dismissing it entirely.

  ‘Thanks. And I know I haven’t made life easy for you since you got here. I was angry about what happened, but also that higher-ups have sent you here. It feels like they don’t believe I can catch this bastard. I’ve spent a long time on the force, Jones, and believe me, I’ve dealt with a fair share of shit and my fair share of discrimination. I wasn’t going to give up this case if my life depended on it.’

  Bermuda took a careful sip of his Doom Bar, letting the bitter taste accompany her words. She continued.

  ‘But you were right. As much as it pains me to say it.’

  ‘Sorry, I was what?’

  ‘Right.’ McAllister sipped her own drink. The red nail polish on her fingers was recent.

  ‘I’ve been called many things in this world, but right usually isn’t one of them.’ Bermuda took a triumphant swig. ‘By the way, what was I right about?’

  ‘The murders. It’s happened before. I had a fellow DC, a good guy, hunt through some archives for me. I’ve spent the whole afternoon reading through some chicken scratch reports from the eighties of a murdering bastard ripping hearts from the victims. They even labelled him the Heart Snatcher.’

  ‘Sounds like a crap rom-com novel,’ Bermuda chortled, refusing to share that he had nicknamed Kevin ‘the Absent Man’. He fished into his pocket and tossed an envelope across the table which slid to a stop before McAllister. ‘Here.’

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked, her eager fingers ripping the top open.

  ‘It’s that print. It was lifted off of a photo from Nicola Miller’s flat.’

  ‘How did my guys miss this?’ McAllister muttered to herself.

  ‘Because the guy you are looking for looks human, thinks it’s human, and even calls itself a human name.’ Bermuda shook his head. ‘But it isn’t human. It’s something else, something so fucked-up it would make your head spin. When that fucked-up shit happens, that’s when they send for me.’

  McAllister’s hand shook slightly as she knocked back the last of her drink, the ice shaking gently as she dropped it back down. Her eyes were wide, a cocktail of fear and amazement, when suddenly the blustering wind flew through the pub, a sea of groans and complaints turning the freezing air even colder.

  Brett approached the table with confusion plastered across his wet face.

  ‘Hello.’ He offered a hand to McAllister, who half stood to greet him. ‘I’m Brett.’

  ‘Sam.’ She shook, firmly.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ He turned to Bermuda and winked.

  ‘It’s not like that. I mean, we did sleep together, but it was sort of an accident.’ Bermuda looked to McAllister, who had suddenly become the poster child for ‘if looks could kill’. ‘Anyway, Detective McAllister here is working the case with me.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a detective?’ Brett took a massive gulp of his ale, quickly playing catch-up. ‘I won’
t hold it against you.’

  McAllister chuckled, a pretty smile spreading across a face that Bermuda had pinpointed as looking predominantly sad – that despite all of her bravado, something dark and upsetting simmered just below like underlay on a fresh new carpet.

  ‘So What’s BJ done?’ Brett asked, jabbing a thumb in Bermuda’s direction.

  ‘Umm … it may sound crazy, but I think we may be dealing with something more than human?’ McAllister offered, throwing a hopeful glance in Bermuda’s direction.

  Bermuda shuffled on his seat, offering her a comforting smile.

  Brett lifted his pint glass and downed the rest of his pint, winking at them both before leaping to his feet and snatching his coat up. Before he left, he smiled at McAllister.

  ‘Believe me, if you think it is completely batshit crazy and there is no way it can be true … if they called Bermuda in … then it’s true.’

  Brett offered them both a smile before dramatically bowing before them. He flung open the door and ventured out into the freezing darkness, with the night’s wind dancing back through the pub and running a chill down everyone’s spine as if a herd of Others had just run through the building.

  After a few awkward moments of silence, McAllister lifted her head, looking Bermuda dead in the eye. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  Bermuda finished his pint and set the glass down firmly. ‘Oh, we’re going to need another drink.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The piercing scream that ripped out of Emma Mitchell’s throat was haunting, like a wolf howling at the moon.

  Her bare feet slapped the concrete that led her to the end of her front garden. The gate was rocking furiously in the wind and collecting whirling leaves. The rain was relentless, almost as frenzied as the creature back in the house. Tears ran from her eyes, merging with the rain and completely drenched her cheeks. Half of her clothes were on the floor of the living room, her underwear-clad body shaking in the cold of the night.

  That didn’t matter.

  It had Mark.

  That creature.

  She scolded herself as she fumbled with the wooden gate, screaming for help at the top of her voice.