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.
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.
B
ermuda 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.’
The Absent Man: A Bermuda Jones Case File (The Bermuda Jones Case Files Book 2) Page 17