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

by Robert Enright

  McAllister pushed the seat back and stood up, massaging her temples. The hangover would go, slowly but surely, but that wasn’t the issue. It was Agent Jones. As annoying as he was handsome, she scolded herself for letting him get under her skin. Their one-night stand, as drunken as it may have been, was ill advised and was only adding to the fact that he was possibly the most irritating man she had ever met.

  There was something not right about him.

  He didn’t think the killer human? It was something else?

  Not from our time?

  As she angrily ran through the vague comments he had made, her sometimes-partner DC Greg Butler tapped her on the shoulder, causing her to jolt and spin.

  ‘Woah, easy, guv.’ He opened his palms in surrender. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Aye.’ She looked around the room, losing herself in the hustle and bustle. ‘I’m grand.’

  ‘Do you need anything?’ he offered, his admiration for the dedication and toughness of his colleague apparent.

  ‘Yes actually, I do.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Bring me any files we have from the archive room for murders in Glasgow in the 1980s that involve any damage or removal to the heart of the victims.’

  ‘Aye.’ Butler made the note in his book. ‘A hunch, guv?’

  ‘Yeah, sort of.’ She shook her head. ‘A really annoying hunch.’

  After returning to the Premier Inn for a shower and a change of clothes, Bermuda sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand. The screen was smiling at him, his daughter’s beautiful face etched across the glass. His thumb hovered over the button. He chuckled to himself as his body was gripped by fear. He had come face to face with many monsters, been hurled through the roof of a boat, willingly driven off the edge of the Hammersmith flyover, and even fought the most dangerous creature in two worlds to the death at the top of Big Ben.

  Yet nothing scared him more than calling his ex-wife.

  He pressed the call button. It only took a few rings.

  ‘Franklyn.’ The voice was deeper than usual.

  ‘Angela. You sound different.’

  ‘It’s Ian.’ Angela’s husband and Chloe’s stepdad. Although he wasn’t a laugh riot, Bermuda respected the man for being everything he wasn’t. He was a good husband, and regrettably, a wonderful role model for his daughter.

  ‘Hey, Ian. Is my daughter there?’ Bermuda asked, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying hard not think of the life he could have had.

  ‘Let me check with Angela.’

  ‘I don’t need permission,’ Bermuda snapped. ‘Sorry, mate.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Ian’s voice was soft and reassuring. ‘I’d just rather leave this between the two of you.’

  ‘It’s my daughter’s birthday, for crying out loud. Let me talk to her.’

  The words registered with no one as Ian had obviously passed the phone across. A stern cough, like a head teacher ready to dress down a naughty student, echoed down the line.

  ‘Franklyn. What do you want?’ Yep. She was pissed.

  ‘Hey, Ange. Can I speak to our daughter please?’

  ‘Why?’ Angela sounded angrier than usual. ‘She’s upset as it is.’

  ‘I know, but she knew I couldn’t make it to her party. We spoke before I left.’

  ‘But you couldn’t call her first thing? Like you promised.’

  The pain in the back of Bermuda’s head returned, stabbing at the top of his spinal cord and at his heart at the same time. He was pretty sure it was guilt.

  ‘Ah fuck.’

  ‘Yeah, fuck, Franklyn!’ She angrily continued. ‘Why do you make promises to her that you never keep?’

  ‘Look, about this morning, I was—’

  ‘Drunk? Hungover? Fighting monsters? Which of your wonderful list of character defects do you want to select?’

  The words cut through him like a knife through butter. Not because they were harsh. Because they were true.

  ‘I was unconscious.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ Angela applauded sarcastically, the faint sound of clapping echoing around her voice. ‘Why this time?’

  ‘Would you believe me if I told you I derailed a tram?’

  The phone went dead. Bermuda sat still for a few moments, the dial tone echoing in his ear like a life support flatlining. A symbol of his relationship with his daughter.

  A single tear slid up and over his eyelid and cascaded down his stubbled cheek.

  He had done so much over the past six months, from the moment Angela and his best friend, Brett Archer, had duped him into ‘fixing her car’. That moment, outside his local watering hole the Royal Oak, seemed so long ago. He met his daughter properly for the first time, falling in love with her as she accepted him as her father.

  Since then, Angela had been begrudgingly indulging him and his ‘curse’, agreeing to let Bermuda and Chloe meet in secret, out of the eyesight of the world.

  It wasn’t our world he was worried about.

  Knowing that the Otherside both craved him and hated him in equal measure, Bermuda had pushed his family away to protect them, especially since he had escaped the mental institute and joined the BTCO. With enemies in both worlds, the last thing Bermuda wanted to give them was leverage. He would never forgive himself if anything, from this side or the other, hurt his Chloe.

  But the need to be her father had led them down a path where Angela let them speak, even spend the odd day together.

  He finally had a daughter.

  But now, as the rain slammed against the window of his lonely hotel room, his bloodshot eyes met his own reflection, and in a snap of pure self-loathing he launched his phone at his own face. The mirror cracked, and a few small pieces of glass clattered on the small dressing table. His phone burst into a number of pieces, random segments of technology joining the shards of glass and inevitable hotel bill.

  His daughter had been heartbroken.

  He had done the one thing he promised he wouldn’t.

  He had hurt her.

  Bermuda’s teeth gritted together and his fists clenched, the angry tension tunnelling through his muscles until he erupted in a furious roar that almost shook the room. After a few moments he stopped to catch his breath as angry tears rolled down his cheeks and splattered the carpet below. Calming himself with deep, long breaths, Bermuda wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

  ‘I need a drink,’ he said to no one.

  And at that moment, for the first time he could remember, fate conspired in his favour as the hotel phone rang.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘This town is a shit-hole.’

  Bermuda chuckled as he tipped his head back, allowing the last remnants of his Doom Bar to bubble in his throat. Brett Archer, his best friend, did likewise. The busy pub, the one where he had met McAllister two nights previously, was rammed with the locals, the noise levels consistently rising as everyone got a little drunker, and ergo everyone spoke louder.

  They both put their empty pint glasses down on the table between them at the same time, the force shaking the menu holder and the promise of cheap, barely edible food.

  ‘Another?’ Bermuda offered.

  ‘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.’