The Absent Man: A Bermuda Jones Case File (The Bermuda Jones Case Files Book 2)

by Robert Enright

  He may have been in freezing Scotland. He may have had no clue what the hell had happened to that poor girl. He may have been missing his daughter’s birthday.

  But goddamn it, Bermuda was going to have a drink!

  ‘Mine’s a G’n’T.’

  The soft voice was laced with a thick Glaswegian accent and Bermuda groggily turned to his left. The woman smiled; her brown hair was messy and her eyes, a deep green, were vacant. She swayed next to him, her athletic body wrapped in a tight red dress. She definitely looked after herself, but her body seemed more practical than perfection.

  Bermuda was looking at her legs when a finger, adorned by a peach nail, beckoned him up.

  ‘Hey. No looking till you buy me a drink.’

  She was smashed. But hey, so was he. Bermuda ordered her a gin and tonic, with the bartender making it clear he wasn’t going to serve them beyond that drink. The lady retorted with a middle finger and then chuckled to herself, her concentration spinning as much as the room was. She rested her hand on Bermuda’s shoulder, steadying herself before knocking back the clear drink in one. The ice rattled as she slammed it back in the bar.

  ‘So, you gonna take me back to yours or what?’

  The question took Bermuda by surprise and he spluttered his drink, the dark brown ale splattering over his lap. He laughed as he turned to her, the sternness of her face telling him it wasn’t a joke. He took another sip.

  ‘I don’t even know your name,’ he offered. He took another sip.

  ‘Does that matter?’

  Bermuda looked straight ahead, weighing up the situation in his head. Every sensible part of his brain was being slowly silenced as well as the eradication of his self-respect. He shrugged and downed the rest of his pint. ‘Let’s go.’

  They stumbled through the door of his hotel room, with the lady staggering forward, laughing wildly as he fumbled with the door. A few of his clothes were draped across the well-made, adequate bed of the Premier Inn. She managed to make it to the dresser, beckoning Bermuda to her as he tried to wrestle control of the alcohol. She unbuckled his belt, and before he could move, she had him in her hand, guiding him to the bed where their clothes messily came off. With considerable effort, their lips locked, their naked bodies writhed over each other, and soon she was sat atop him. As they bounced on the bed with zero rhythm, Bermuda took stock of her body. Her slim figure showed a few scars, especially across the tops of her arms and legs.

  He ran a finger over them, her hand instantly shooting down and guiding him back to her body. She pushed down harder on him, a rage almost taking over her as she panted, her eyes closed, and teeth gritted. Bermuda reached up and held her shoulder, his quizzical fingers again finding the scars, this time that criss-crossed her bicep. She angrily slapped his chest.

  ‘Fuck off!’

  In a moment she was off him, trying to roll to the side, but her momentum soon sent her naked and sprawling to the floor.

  Bermuda chuckled, fumbling for a lamp and quickly casting a small glow over her crumpled, naked body. ‘Need a hand?’

  She reached up and slapped his face, her eyes watering with sheer venom. He shook it off, perplexed by the fury that resided in her. She marched around the room, collecting her discarded clothes and purse and slipping herself back into her underwear.

  ‘Look, let’s just calm down. Here, have some water.’

  Bermuda hand-poured some water into a glass and offered it, his voice calm as he tried to recover the situation. It had been a while since he had had sex, and this wasn’t exactly the ‘big finish’ he had in mind.

  The woman grabbed the glass and threw the water at him. Then the glass itself. It cannoned off his elbow, causing him to swear in pain.

  ‘Fuck you, you prick.’

  Her vicious words followed her like a trail of smoke as she slammed the door behind her. Bermuda stood, holding his fast-bruising elbow, naked and despondent. The moment had gone, and he woozily collapsed on the bed, wondering when he had become so terrible at sex.

  He was asleep within seconds.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The morning sun cut through the curtains, an unwelcome wave of brightness that caused Bermuda to stir. He moaned loudly, his hangover colliding off the sides of his skull like a cruel game of Pong. He slowly pushed himself to a seated position, the world swirling around and slowly coming into focus. The cheap, minimalistic furniture of the Premier Inn slid back into its correct position. The on-brand purple curtains stopped swaying and provided an inadequate shield to the outside world.

  He felt like shit.

  Bermuda took a deep breath, the memories of the night before returning to him in pieces, a jigsaw that had been placed in a blender. A few pieces fit. He recalled the freezing cold and breaking into a crime scene. There was definitely alcohol, the temptation of vomiting, and the brain-piercing headache was testament to that.

  The woman.

  Bermuda lifted the sheets, greeted by his naked body. The woman who he could vaguely remember, but whose name escaped him. Did he even ask for it? Did she want him to know? He fell back on his pillow, trying his level best to remember her face. An image of her naked body writhing on top of him appeared then vanished, an echo of a memory.

  She had fallen. He had laughed.

  With a deep sigh, he chalked it up as just another unsuccessful night, a never-ending cycle of sexual failure. He also scolded himself for thinking of Sophie as if his drunken escapade amounted to an act of betrayal. What they had had was tender. They had shared one night where it was more than sexual attraction.

  It had been real.

  Slowly, he hauled himself out of bed, his legs feebly shaking as he held himself up via the wall. The room was a mess, his clothes strewn over the floor, his case turned upside down. A glass, slightly cracked, lay on the floor.

  Had she thrown it at him?

  His feet slapped against the fake tiles of the bathroom floor and he turned the taps. Splashing water against his stubbled face, he slowly raised his eyes, which were bloodshot and heavy with sleep, to the mirror. He looked a mess. His hair, usually pushed to the side, had burst like a firework over his skull.

  His body, chiselled and muscular, was covered in ink, all the random scrawlings, incantations, and symbols that, through the years, had kept him safe from the world that framed his own. Three brutal scars burnt through them all, a painful reminder of how close they had come to claiming him.

  Bermuda stepped into the shower cubicle, the jet shower shooting out a hot stream of water that collided with his body, the warmth enveloping his body and washing away the sins of the night before. He stood for an eternity, allowing the drops to slap against him, the freshness wiping away the self-hatred and the drink-induced idiocy.

  Maybe Argyle was right. Maybe he should quit?

  As he scrubbed the soap across his chest, Bermuda’s mind fell back to a time before, when he was living the life he had always wanted.

  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 make
up 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.
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br />   ‘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.