A light flicked on in the neighbouring house, a curtain twitched across the road. No one raced from their homes. The only knight in shining armour she knew was being dismantled by Kevin Parker in the living room of their family home.
A home they had built together.
One she had destroyed with a single act of infidelity.
She had been out after work with the usual drinking crew, all of them working round the clock as part of a marketing team for a high-end insurance broker – nothing too fancy, but it paid well and had a good social crowd. Within their usual watering hole, weaving in and out of all the suits and after-work conversations, she had met Kevin Parker.
She had been blown away.
Foolishly, after a few hours of more drinking and overly flirtatious conversation, she had decided to heed her colleague’s advice and take advantage of her husband’s work trip.
When the cat’s away, etc.
But her husband had surprised her with an early train back, to stumble into the house just as Kevin Parker’s eyes had changed to black. When the monster that coursed under his skin like a wolf in sheep’s clothing leapt to the surface.
He had meant to kill her, she knew that.
As she ran from the house, she had seen Parker’s hand rip through the flesh of her husband’s throat, the love of her life gurgling blood as fear overtook him, his bladder emptying down his leg as the blood poured over Parker’s hand.
She was already up the garden path, racing through the cold rain as he wrenched her husband’s head from his shoulders and discarded both parts of him like yesterday’s trash.
With a snarl and the need for another heart causing him to shake, he set off after her.
Emma screamed helplessly again, her voice struggling against the downpour as she raced up the middle of the road, praying for a set of headlights to approach her. Her throat burnt with soreness, her vocal cords straining as she roared for a saviour.
Footsteps clattered behind her, and suddenly she felt the full force of Kevin’s hand on the back of her neck – and with the flick of a powerful arm, he sent her flying to her right, her hip snapping as it collided with the bonnet of a parked Mercedes.
The alarm began its usual song, a bright orange glow illuminating the pained face of Emma in intermittent flashes.
She mumbled quietly to herself, begging for her life. As he approached, her eyes fell to his hand; the blood that covered it confirmed what she knew. Mark, her loving husband, was dead.
All for nothing more than a cheap fuck with a handsome stranger.
She didn’t even resist as he wrenched her up from the ground, his phenomenal strength hoisting her high above his head like a makeshift umbrella. The rain washed away the urine that trickled down the inside of her thigh.
Her pleas were barely a whisper.
Kevin Parker pulled her closer to him, his face twisted, the teeth gritted together in fury. The eyes burnt through her, searching her soul for answers she would never have.
‘I must find her.’
His words were laced with malice and she muttered a feeble plea for her life.
A few neighbours watched in shock from their doors. Some spoke to the authorities. Others hid in fear. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed, announcing the arrival of police officers who would find nothing but a massacre.
Still holding her up to the starlit sky, Kevin Parker launched his right arm forward, the blood-soaked hand taking another bathing as it ripped through her skin and shattered her ribs, the bones ripping out of her chest like an overstuffed grocery bag.
His fingers latched around her heart.
Her eyes flashed in agony before rolling back into her skull.
He let her slide down his arm into a crumpled mess on the floor at his feet.
Slowly, Kevin Parker lifted his right hand and felt the final beat leave her heart. Then, as the panic levels rose in the surrounding houses and the shrill call of the sirens ripped through the night sky, he turned and lost himself in the shadows.
On the other side of Glasgow, two sets of feet were also stepping across rain-soaked pavement. Bermuda and Sam McAllister walked quietly, their hands stuffed in their pockets and their chins pressed against their chests, shielding their eyes from the bitter bite of the rain.
It had actually been a relatively peaceful evening.
Almost enjoyable.
After Brett had made his exit, the two of them had shared a few more drinks, burying the hatchet the last two days had created. They even joked about the shoddy sexual encounter they had shared, unbeknownst to them both that they’d be hunting a vicious serial killer together just hours later.
Bermuda had cracked that it was better than most second dates.
As the evening progressed, the drinking slowed, and while both of them realised that the original attraction between them had been exacerbated by alcohol, they were both fighting on the same side. Bermuda was certain that what was killing these women wasn’t human, and when he began to relay this point to McAllister, he could see the scepticism in her eyes.
He had seen it a million times from hundreds of people.
After a few more drinks, McAllister had been more open-minded, the wine unlocking the sensibility and setting it free from her mind. She had asked for proof beyond a fingerprint she would have to investigate – that, according to the report, belonged to a hand that was last logged on record over eighty years ago. Despite his protests, she had struggled to believe a monster was quantum leaping through time to steal hearts.
It just wasn’t possible.
They marched in silence, both of them lost in the case, the feeling of helplessness at knowing that somewhere this evening, another woman would be found dead. The press were cottoning on now, with a story about to hit the morning papers it would bring even more pressure down on both of them. Bermuda weighed up who he would rather be facing, Montgomery Black or DCI Strachan, and decided that either one would be as enjoyable as sticking his bollocks in a blender.
McAllister stopped, the wind rushing through the hair that poked out from under her woolly hat so it sprayed out like tentacles.
‘This is me.’ Hands stuffed deep in her pockets, she motioned with a nod.
The house was quaint, slightly bigger than the one Bermuda had broken into with the help of Argyle on their first night in Scotland. The home that Nicola Miller was murdered in.
‘Okay. Cool.’ Bermuda offered a Doom Bar-infused smile. ‘It was good to clear the air.’
‘Do you want a tea or coffee or something?’
‘Umm, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’ Bermuda shuffled uncomfortably in the rain, and the lamppost above them shone down like a spotlight. Bermuda looked over his shoulder, almost positive that he could see something in the alleyway.
Something watching them.
‘Jesus, I’m not going to try to jump your bones, if that’s what you’re worried about.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘I’m sorry. I’d love one.’ He smiled again, trying to dispel the nervousness that was brewing.
Something was out there.
She strode through the gate, past the recycling bins that lined her front garden. Bermuda noted the number of empty wine bottles. McAllister had kept up with him throughout the evening, but the bottles were a sure sign that she didn’t just like the occasional glass of red with dinner.
The warmth of the house was welcoming, the nicely decorated hallway minimal but stylish. McAllister dumped her keys on a small wooden hallway table that was strewn with unopened letters and a dead plant. She whipped off her hat, releasing a nest of flat, wet hair. Staring into the mirror, she tried to fluff it up, but gave up with a shrug before tossing her coat over the bannister.
‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ Five of the most comforting words a human can say.
Bermuda shook himself out his coat before placing it over hers and ventured through the door to the dark living room. A flick of the switch and the room illuminated, again a
simple but fashionable look. A grey corner sofa rested across the far wall, with a large metal clock pinned above it. Opposite sat a modest TV on a stylish unit, surrounded by dead plants. A bookcase rested beside it, the shelves and books all wearing a thick coat of dust.
Bermuda looked over the photos that sat on the shelves – photos of McAllister as a child, presumably with a sibling. The standard picture of her with proud parents, the smart uniform suggesting it was the day she had marched out as a police officer. Next to the photo of her smiling folks, a photo frame lay face down. By the surrounding layer of dust, it had been for a while.
Bermuda flashed a quick glance over his shoulder. The faint clattering of crockery emanated from the kitchen and he quickly lifted the frame.
It was McAllister and a man kissing. On their wedding day.
Bermuda quickly placed it back and felt a tinge of guilt. McAllister hadn’t mentioned a husband, and he was almost positive she wasn’t wearing a ring. Knowing the full weight of a dysfunctional personal life, he turned towards the sofa just as McAllister entered with a tray.
It had two cups of steaming hot tea and a bottle of vodka, along with two shot glasses.
Bermuda flashed her a look with raised eyebrows.
‘The night is still young.’ She smirked, placing the tray down on the white rectangular coffee table in front of them. She poured out two shots, knocking hers back instantly and hissing through her teeth as it burnt.
‘When in Rome,’ Bermuda muttered, whipping the shot back and letting the vodka burn the back of his throat. He coughed slightly before reaching for his tea. ‘You have a nice house.’
‘It’s okay.’ McAllister looked around with a look of disdain. Empty bottles lined the side of the sofa, and random items of clothing were dotted about.
Bermuda lowered himself down, gently pushing a work shirt over the arm of the chair. ‘You live alone?’ He was prying – the photo had piqued his interest.
‘Yup.’ The answer was stern enough to end that line of questioning. ‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’ Bermuda sipped the tea, hesitant to comment on the overbearing amount of milk.
‘You have a partner?’ She sipped hers without a problem. ‘Besides your imaginary friend.’
‘Argyle isn’t imaginary.’
‘No?’ She smirked. ‘Everyone has an invisible warrior, we just don’t like telling people.’
‘Fuck you.’ They both giggled. ‘No. I have an ex-wife who thinks I’m batshit crazy and a daughter whose heart I keep breaking. But beyond that, I’m pretty much a family man.’
She scoffed, her eyes focused on a random space in the carpet. Bermuda wanted to ask about the photo, but the tension had ramped up slightly. She twiddled a finger through her dark, knotted hair.
‘So, What’s the next move?’ He cut the silence.
‘No idea. We will run your print, see what comes up. Beyond that, there are no links between the victims, no witnesses to any of the attacks. The only difference we have seen is that it looked like Rosie tried to fight back – there were signs of a struggle with her. All that got her was a slightly more painful death.’
Bermuda grimaced inwards. The vision of the young woman having her heart wrenched through her spine would haunt him.
McAllister let out a deep sigh. ‘Beyond that, nothing. Our officers didn’t see the guy you were chasing, but a few witnesses did confirm he was by the station and threw you in front of the tram. None of them, however, made any sort of notion towards him being a … what do you call your shadow monsters?’
‘Others.’ Bermuda sighed. ‘And they are not shadow monsters. They are creatures that seek refuge from the Otherside.’
‘Right.’ McAllister didn’t even bother hiding the sarcasm in her tone. ‘Before we even touch on how you derailed a whole fucking tram, I need to take a leak.’
Bermuda chuckled. Sometimes a woman could really catch you off guard. McAllister was tough, he knew that. She had clearly been a prodigy in the police due to being a lead detective on a serial killer case at such a young age. Bermuda had guessed she was early thirties, but wouldn’t have been surprised if she was younger. The booze clearly didn’t help, and the confrontational behaviour married with the drinking told him there was a darkness there.
He knew, because he had lived it.
Her abrupt end to a conversation about having a partner told him that whoever had watched her walk down that aisle whenever that photo had been taken wouldn’t be waiting if she did it again. A flush echoed from upstairs, followed by hurried footsteps as McAllister bounded back into the room.
Bermuda stood up, pointing upwards. ‘Toilet upstairs?’
‘Yeah, to the left.’ She added extra emphasis with a hand gesture.
Bermuda nodded appreciatively before leaving as McAllister poured out another shot. He ventured up the cream carpeted stairs, past another few photos as well as vacant picture hooks. A logical guess would be they once proudly displayed the husband.
Empty bottles of wine greeted him on the landing floor. The bathroom door on the left-hand side was slightly open, the white and black lino covered by a fluffy, dirty, white bath mat. Two doors opposite him were closed completely, but the door to the right was slightly ajar. Bermuda glanced at the gap for a split second but was instantly drawn to the paper that scaled the wall.
It was of teddy bears.
Confusion gripped him, and like a tractor beam he was drawn to the door, pushing it open with measured care. It opened silently, the light from the landing gushing in like lowering a dam.
An empty cot stood before him, the blanket neatly tucked down the sides, a row of teddy bears propped against the wooden bars. Their warm, comforting smiles and cuddly bodies were shrouded in darkness. A changing table was pushed to the far end of the room beneath the window; the brightly coloured curtains were drawn tight.
The wardrobe was open, with a number of outfits all neatly ironed and hanging from their hangers like an up market boutique. Except every item of clothing was for a newborn baby.
To the left of the cupboard was a chest of drawers, with more tiny clothes neatly folded, along with unopened packets of nappies and baby wipes – the essentials any new parent would need. As he ventured into the room, a memory crashed against him like a wave: the image of his Chloe, as delicate and tiny as a snowflake, crying in her cot as he came in to comfort her.
Her knight in shining armour.
His fist clenched involuntarily. The rage of being so far from what he treasured most was soul destroying, but this entire room was heartbreaking. He took one last look at the feeding chair in the corner, the cushions as crisp and plump as the day it was bought – a sure sign it had never been used.
This wasn’t a nursery.
It was a shrine.
Bermuda turned to exit and came face to face with McAllister, her face twisted in fury while tears poured from her eyes. She wobbled slightly, undoubtedly from countless hits of vodka. He had no idea how long he had been in the room, but she had eventually come looking. And now, as she shook with venomous anger, he had never seen someone look so devastated.
‘What the fuck are you doing in here?’ Her words bubbled with menace.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I said the door on the fucking left.’ Her fists clenched till the knuckles turned white. Her nails punctured her hand, and a trickle of blood oozed through her bony fingers.
‘What happened?’
‘GET OUT!’ she screamed at him and lashed out, her open palm slapping hard against the side of his face.
Bermuda hunched his shoulders up, raising a forearm too as the drunken detective rained a few more desperate slaps in his direction, directing him to the stairs. With a shove, she followed him down while Bermuda quickly whipped the coat from the bannister before he got to the bottom.
‘Sam, I am so sorry,’ he tried to offer. He received another strike to the arm. Her face gleamed from the tears, the agony resting on
her like a horrific Halloween mask.
‘Just get out.’ Her words were quieter; the will to stay angry was submitting to the sheer pain that was crippling her. She leant against the wall and howled one pain-filled scream before sobbing wildly.
Bermuda watched without a clue – a crying woman was not exactly his forte.
Especially one that was clearly in mourning.
‘I’m going to go.’ Bermuda’s words were weak. He felt pathetic.
McAllister didn’t respond, she just cried silently, hunched down on the bottom step. She was drunk, but he had trespassed somewhere sacred.
He had caused her this pain tonight.
Guilt pressed down on his mind like a weight, and he reached for the door. Only as he began to turn the handle did he notice the blue lights flashing from the other side of the glass. As Bermuda pulled the door open, a police officer had his fist raised, ready to knock.
It was DC Greg Butler.
Both men looked shocked, with Butler instantly taking a stance that told Bermuda he was trained.
McAllister stood up, wiping her eyes with the backs of her sleeves. She pushed Bermuda roughly to the side. ‘Butler.’
‘McAllister.’ He shifted his glance to Bermuda, pushing out his broad chest as a sign of strength. ‘Everything okay?’
She nodded. All three of them didn’t believe her.
‘What’s going on?’ Bermuda asked.
‘Police business,’ Butler snapped.
‘Something tells me you didn’t turn up here because you boys are out of doughnuts.’
Before Butler could react, McAllister slid her sleeves into her coat.
‘Take me to her.’ She stepped out into the rain, followed by Butler as they shuffled quickly to the car. Bermuda closed the door and followed. Another woman had been killed – that much was obvious. As he marched to keep up, he heard the faint words of Butler mention that the husband had been killed too.
Two dead?
Reluctantly Butler let Bermuda hop in the back of the car, and they sped off into the rain with the tension in the vehicle more volatile than the elements around them.
Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set Page 51