Mimic

by Daniel Cole

  Managing an entire three hours of sleep, Chambers’ first stop on arriving back at work was the Forensic Lab, where Sykes was living up to his reputation, scoffing a bag of crisps while the decomposed remains from the allotment lay out on the table.

  One of their colleagues had run a check on the name from the ID badge, Christopher Ryan, and found a very likely match: a celebrated London-based artist whose modern-day subject matter created using traditional materials and techniques had gained him international recognition. His most famous piece – Strangers at a Bus Stop – was said to be lit with the beauty and skill of Caravaggio himself, while his painting of rioters torching a police car had invoked the atmosphere and theatrical staging of a Jean-Antoine Watteau.

  He had also been officially declared dead in absentia in 1995, having been missing for over six years by that point.

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ Sykes asked him, screwing up his crisp packet. ‘That it’s definitely him? I can’t.’

  Chambers sighed:

  ‘Someone’s going to speak to the family. We’ll get you some fingerprints.’

  ‘Fingerprints?!’ he laughed. ‘For what fingers? I’ll never pull anything useful off these!’

  ‘Blood then … or hair … or clothes,’ Chambers corrected himself.

  He was so tired.

  ‘Thank you!’ replied Sykes in exasperation. ‘Because if you were to ask me to ID him right this second, my best guess would be …’ he glanced down at the collection of bones, ‘… Skeletor.’

  Having had enough, Chambers headed for the door.

  ‘And for the Cluedo aficionados amongst us,’ Sykes called after him, ‘I think He-Man did it … in Castle Greyskull … with the Power Sword!’ Chambers slammed the door behind him, but Sykes’s voice carried out into the corridor: ‘Get me some DNA!’

  ‘Detective Chambers!’

  He barely made it two steps into the office before a small crowd had gathered around him:

  ‘The sword recovered from the grave was almost certainly taken from the damaged statue at the first murder scene,’ someone half-shouted.

  ‘Thought so.’

  ‘The contact details were out of date,’ another piped up, ‘but I’ve tracked down Christopher Ryan’s sister and I’m heading there now.’

  ‘Good,’ he replied. ‘Forensics need DNA samples. Ask her specifically about anyone new who came into his life and take some photos of Coates with you … And when you get back, I want everything you can find on him: financials, previous addresses, employment history … the lot.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the woman as a gawky man took her place.

  ‘We might have a lead on the orange van,’ he said, thrusting a printout into Chambers’ hand. ‘Came through the tip line – a garage owner who remembers fixing the damage described on the press release.’

  Glancing over it, Chambers handed it back:

  ‘Seven-year-old memories aren’t much use to us. Tell him to dig out his records. If he can’t give us a registration number, payment details, or an alternative name or address Coates was using, don’t waste any more time on it.’

  ‘I’ll call him now,’ said the man, making way for the next expectant face.

  ‘Three more possible sightings: Islington, Camberwell and Highbury.’

  ‘Prioritise Islington and Highbury as they’re relatively close to each other.’

  The officer nodded and hurried away, leaving just one left.

  ‘Yes?’ asked Chambers.

  ‘I was wondering if I could get you a coffee, sir?’

  ‘Oh, Jesus, yes! Thank you!’ he said, finally reaching his desk, a handful of colourful, and no-doubt important, sticky notes taking to the air like butterflies as he collapsed into his chair. ‘Shitty bloody things,’ he complained, leaning down to pick them up.

  Sitting in the shadow of the tower stacked precariously in his post tray, he was tempted to phone Marshall but didn’t want to disturb her if she was sleeping. Recalling that Winter had gone straight to his other job, he conceded that it fell to him to call Eloise, wanting to ask her about the man in the grave and whether she knew why Coates might have targeted him.

  He dialled the number and waited, letting it ring at least twenty times before giving up.

  ‘Hey!’ he called, waving someone over.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I need you to get on the radio. Find out who’s with Eloise Brown today. First, check all’s OK and then find out why the hell they didn’t pick up the phone when I called.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The gallery’s metal gates rattled shut, Eloise’s police escort watching, arms folded, as she threaded the chain through several times before ensuring it was locked.

  ‘Thank you for this,’ said Eloise, picking up the canvas and carrying it over to the car. ‘It’s always exciting to sell one.’

  ‘What is it?’ the other woman enquired as they climbed in, Eloise holding it up proudly.

  ‘It’s an abstract painting of a famous abstract painting,’ she explained. ‘So, the museum, the people, the walls and frame have all been reduced to simple forms, while the painting within the painting has been returned to a naturalistic state.’

  The officer squinted at it: ‘And someone bought that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For money?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Three hundred pounds … including postage.’

  Shaking her head, the woman started up the engine:

  ‘Be worth a fortune when you’re dead,’ she said, at least twenty seconds passing before realising the comment could perhaps be perceived as a tad tactless: ‘… of old age.’

  ‘They were at the gallery,’ blurted an officer Chambers didn’t even recognise the moment he stepped out of his meeting with Wainwright.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You asked me to find out why Eloise Brown wasn’t at home earlier.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ he nodded, stopping just short of saying: was that you?

  ‘They went to her gallery.’ Chambers frowned. ‘Something about collecting a painting,’ she shrugged.

  Now even more confused, recalling the state of the unsanitary underground worksite, he thanked the officer and walked all of four paces before spotting his next intrusion:

  ‘Why is there a scarecrow at my desk?’

  ‘That’s no normal scarecrow,’ Lewis informed him. ‘That’s Detective Scarecrow from Harrow on the Hill. He was asking for Marshall, but I think you ought to speak to him,’ he told his friend with a significant look.

  ‘Like I don’t have enough to do,’ muttered Chambers, heading over to his dishevelled visitor.

  ‘Detective Chambers?’

  ‘The one and only … regrettably,’ he said, shaking hands and taking a seat.

  ‘Phillip Easton … Phil. I know how busy you must be right now so will get straight to the point. Does the name Popilopadopaluss mean anything to you?’

  ‘… Dinosaur?’

  ‘Human. Evan Ioannou Popilopidi …’ He gave up.

  ‘No. Why? Should it?’

  ‘I got the impression from your colleague that it might.’ Chambers looked lost. ‘See, I’m working this missing persons case and … it’s a bit of a strange one if I’m honest: an eight-foot-four Greek giant with learning difficulties.’

  ‘Giant?’ asked Chambers, sitting up, but at a loss as to why Easton had come to them with it. Details regarding the remaining sculptures were a closely guarded secret and, as far as he was aware, nothing had been leaked to the press.

  ‘So, it is one of yours?’ enquired Easton in interest.

  ‘Perhaps,’ replied Chambers. With another statue promised before then, the team had had little time to think about Robert Coates’s penultimate creation. ‘I’m going to need everything you’ve got. When he went missing. Where from. Any information you have on his—’

  ‘My apologies,’ the other detective interrupted him. ‘I
think we’ve got crossed wires. I’m not here to help you with your investigation. I’m here for you to help me with mine.’

  Folding his arms defensively, Chambers leaned back in his chair: ‘Go on.’

  ‘There was blood found where my missing giant was last seen. I called in a favour and got someone to work on it overnight.’

  ‘You got a blood match overnight?’ he asked sceptically.

  ‘OK. It was a big favour. And, of course, it helps that Narcotics officers get screened regularly.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked, not liking where this was going. ‘Whose was it?’

  ‘Trainee Detective Constable Jordan Marshall’s.’

  In panic, Chambers reached for the phone, but then paused:

  ‘When did you say you found the blood again?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ replied Easton. ‘But it was yesterday afternoon.’

  Pretty sure he’d spent an entire night with Marshall since then, Chambers summed up his melange of emotions, confusion and exhaustion quite succinctly:

  ‘Wait! What?!’

  Winter had jogged all the way up to the seventh floor and, if the stabbing pains in his chest were anything to go by, the spot where it all ended for him. Hoping that Eloise’s chicken korma hadn’t exploded when he’d stumbled (the first time), he composed himself and knocked on the door, the rumble of heavy rock music coming from the noisy neighbour’s opposite.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Who do you think?’

  Swinging the door open, O-R-B-F regarded him with contempt:

  ‘Have you done something different with your hair?’

  ‘No. Leave me alone.’

  ‘She’s in the shower,’ said the miserable woman before taking another sneering look at him. ‘Just a word of advice: this is never going to happen. She’s like an eight-and-a-half, a nine maybe, and you’re like a two … in the right light … which is very low light.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m funny … on occasion.’

  ‘Good point. I was just thinking what to book for my sister’s hen do – The Chippendales or Jasper Carrot. Hmmm.’ She rubbed her chin: ‘Which one? … Which one?’

  ‘Oh my God, just go!’ snapped Winter. ‘Be sure to give Adolf and Vlad the Impaler my regards when you get home!’

  ‘Just trying to stop you embarrassing yourself,’ she said as she headed out.

  ‘And for your information – Eloise is clearly a stone-cold ten!’ he shouted after her, slamming the door.

  ‘I’m a what?’ she asked from the bathroom doorway, her wet hair wrapped up in a towel.

  ‘Nothing,’ he smiled bashfully. ‘So … food then?’

  8.00 p.m. – ‘Here we go again,’ sighed Chambers, pulling the car door closed while the day shift snuck through a fire exit. ‘Get any sleep?’

  ‘Some,’ replied Marshall. ‘I was going over old files in case there was anything we missed. You?’

  ‘A little.’ He hesitated. ‘I had a visit from a Detective Easton today, who was actually looking for you. He’s investigating the disappearance of an eight-foot-something giant.’

  ‘A giant?!’ Disturbing images of Robert Coates’s promised sculpture filled her mind.

  ‘Ever been to Thornbee’s in Harrow?’

  ‘No. What is it?’

  ‘The last known location of the missing man … Your blood was discovered at the scene.’

  ‘My blood?’ She looked dumbfounded. ‘That’s … That’s impossible.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Chambers knowingly, having had hours to think on it. His eyes flicked down to her hand.

  ‘The figurine I broke!’ gasped Marshall, catching up. ‘And he … kept my blood from it?’ she asked, disgusted. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But you’ve got to look at this from where I’m sitting.’

  ‘Come on, Chambers. You can’t!’ she told him, pre-empting what he was about to say.

  ‘I’ve got a missing giant, when we know he needs one. And I’ve got your blood where it shouldn’t be …’

  ‘You need me on this!’

  ‘… when we know he has two female figures yet to cast.’

  ‘Chambers!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m putting you on desk duty after tonight and assigning an officer to your home.’

  Shaking her head, Marshall stared out at the three mounds of ash, feeling as though she knew every bump and curve of their silhouettes by now, the only focal point in an otherwise featureless vista.

  ‘I’ll help you with Easton,’ said Chambers, ‘come with you to the interview. We’ll sort that mess out in no time.’

  ‘Thanks, but I can take care of myself.’

  Giving up, he pulled a blanket over his shoulders and settled into his seat for the night.

  8.33 p.m. – Bored of the silence, Chambers risked switching the radio on, turning the volume down until it was barely audible over the wind.

  ‘… Ioannou Papadopoulos – last seen yesterday morning at his place of work: the Thornbee’s Garden Centre in Harrow. Anyone with any information should contact the …’

  ‘Sounds like Wainwright’s done her bit,’ he commented, receiving nothing back from Marshall. ‘Probably the right move. If the public are ever going to find anyone for us, it’s going to be an eight-foot giant with a cartoon bumblebee on his back.’ He twisted the dial, finding them a UB40 song to listen to. But reminding him of Eve and their fight on the phone the previous evening, he switched it off again, preferring the silence after all.

  9.10 p.m. – ‘I do get it, by the way,’ blurted Marshall, making Chambers jump, having not uttered a word in over an hour. ‘If I was in your shoes, I’d take me off the case as well.’

  ‘I’m not taking you off the case.’

  She looked at him impatiently.

  ‘OK. I’m sort of taking you off the case.’

  ‘It’s just … you know what this means to me.’

  ‘I do. But I’d rather have you angry with me than dead. It’s not worth your life, no case is.’

  Marshall raised her eyebrows: ‘That’s rich, coming from you.’

  Looking affronted, he then thought about it and nodded: ‘Yeah. Fair enough.’

  10.04 p.m. – The first patters of rain struck the windscreen.

  ‘Perfect,’ yawned Chambers, conscious that aside from their car sinking in the mud and getting drenched every time he had to relieve himself, the entire team’s visibility would be impaired. He wound down the window and stuck his hand out. ‘It’s only spitting,’ he assured Marshall moments before the heavens opened, a deluge of biblical proportions threatening to wash them all away. Swiftly winding the window back up, he reached for the radio: ‘Alpha to all units: receiving? Over.’

  A static hiss.

  ‘… Alpha to all units: receiving? Over.’

  This time, a single broken transmission answered him: ‘Ch--ie re--ing --ver.’

  ‘Alpha to last speaker: you are broken and unreadable. All units: we are blind down here. Repeat. We are blind … Out.’

  He placed the handset back in its cradle and leaned forward in his seat, attempting to peer through the torrents of water washing over the glass.

  ‘See anything?’ asked Marshall.

  ‘I think … it’s raining,’ he deadpanned, when the radio crackled loudly:

  ‘L--ts -- Tu-- t-- Li----.’

  ‘Guess they didn’t hear me say “out”,’ huffed Chambers. He grabbed the handset: ‘This is Alpha: you are broken and unreadable. Over.’

  ‘--i-- on --rn the Li-- --n.’

  He turned to Marshall for help, who gave him a ‘don’t look at me’ shrug in response.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he muttered, hitting the transmit button once more: ‘This is Alpha: we do not read you. Repeat message. Over.’

  Straining to hear anything over the downpour, he turned the volume knob all the way up as they both leaned in close to the speakers …

  ‘Tu--n th-- li--s on!
… Turn the lights on!’

  ‘Shit,’ he spat, firing up the ignition and flooding the building site with the car’s full-beam.

  Marshall was already gone. Leaping out after her, he dashed through the sparkling rain as the floodlight overhead burst to life like a white sun in the darkness.

  ‘Got anything?!’ he yelled over the roar of the rain.

  ‘Nothing!’ Marshall shouted back before looking down at the river of black dirt washing over her feet, her gaze following it uphill to the three large mounds of ash. Struggling to see as freezing water streamed down her face, her eyes began to climb the dissolving peaks … all the way up to the headless bust erupting from the central mountain of earth, blackened wings billowing in a two-thousand-year-old wind, the absence of arms creating an inhuman silhouette.

  Before she could even say anything, Chambers had raced over to the nearest mound, desperately digging the dirt away by hand.

  ‘There could be others!’ he yelled while Nike’s sullied robes continued to emerge from the filth. ‘Check the last one!’ he ordered the first of his team to reach them. ‘Check the last one!’

  Giving the bemused officer a subtle shake of the head, Marshall made her way over to her superior, now on his hands and knees as he clawed away at the earth. She crouched down beside him.

  ‘Why aren’t you digging?!’ he asked her. ‘Help me!’

  She placed a calming hand on his shoulder:

  ‘She’s been here for at least two days, Chambers, right in front of our faces. And if there is anyone else buried here, then they’re already dead too.’

  He looked at her blankly at first, but then comprehension dawned as he sat back on his knees, partially submerged by the flood. Gazing up at the decapitated goddess like a grovelling worshipper seeking favour, he admitted: ‘I’m so tired.’

  ‘Me too,’ Marshall told him. ‘Me too.’

  He looked down at himself in surprise, sodden to the bone, his clothing and shoes most likely unsalvageable.

  ‘We can finish up here,’ she said, the body not yet even fully revealed. ‘We’ll check for other victims and get forensics on scene. Why don’t you go and dry off?’ She held a hand out to him.

  Nodding, he reached out and took it, Marshall heaving him onto his feet: