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

by Robert Enright

  One count of breaking and entering, along with scarring a police officer for life. One horrifying sexual experience with the lead detective of the case. Several dead bodies, a confrontation with the killer (who also tried to kill him), and also the destruction of an entire public transport method.

  ‘Not bad,’ he muttered to himself as he hauled himself to his feet, stretching his back as he walked across the room. The pain from colliding with the wall and the concrete had subsided. So had the ache in his jaw. He showered quickly, the soap sliding across the scars that he wore on his chest, a painful reminder of the dangers he faced.

  Of the Otherside.

  It was easy to forget sometimes just how thin the ice was that the truce sat upon. While Neithers such as Argyle, Denham, and Vincent were allies – even friends in some cases – it was easy to overlook the world they came from. The giant beast that had chased him through London wasn’t interested in being friends. Nor was the behemoth that had sent Bermuda crashing through a poop deck.

  Barnaby had tried to end the world.

  Kevin Parker was murdering women.

  The Otherside was dangerous, and what terrified Bermuda the most was he could feel it coursing through his veins like a drug. When he ran his fingers across the nail scratches on the Necropolis walls, he could feel it calling to him, trying to lure him back across the doorway.

  He marched out of the room once he was dressed. The traffic was roaring and echoing off the overarching buildings that lined the streets on either side. As impatient Glaswegians honked and hurled obscenities, Bermuda tucked his headphones under his hat and clicked play on his phone; the guitar riff for ‘Back in Black’ by AC/DC accompanied his footsteps.

  The sunshine was still painting itself across Glasgow, but the temperature was just above zero. His breath puffed out of his mouth like a cheap imitation of his electric cigarette. He strode past the homeless man who patrolled the street outside his hotel, the music drowning out the muffled yells and pointing.

  The man was trying to say something, but Bermuda didn’t have time this morning. He followed the cheap Christmas decorations that snaked around the lampposts, the trail of muted festive cheer leading all the way into the centre of town where he, for the third day running, stood in awe as the door revealed itself in the cardboard. A dark corridor and steep concrete steps later, and he was in the small, overly stuffed office of the BTCO. He could hear the clicking of Kelly’s nails on the keyboard, but couldn’t see which cubicle she was at.

  ‘Hello?’ he called out, sliding his hat from his head and pushing his hair off his skull.

  She shot up from behind a stack of papers, her eyes magnified by her thick glasses.

  ‘Bermuda!’ she exclaimed, scurrying out from the cubicle, a horrendous homemade Christmas jumper wrapped around her plump frame. ‘Welcome back. You have a message.’

  ‘Is it from Argyle?’ he asked, suddenly concerned for his friend’s whereabouts.

  ‘Oh no. Argyle is fine. He is resting in his quarters.’

  Bermuda chortled to himself at the idea of Argyle laid back on a bed, arms behind his head and listening to the soothing sounds of Enya.

  ‘No, you have a message from the London office.’ Kelly returned to her desk. ‘You can use the communications device in the conference room.’

  Before Bermuda could ask for directions she was gone again, her fingers clattering against the keys once more. He rolled his eyes and slowly wandered through the office until he found a modern-looking room with a screen attached to the wall. Making a logical guess, he entered, shutting the door behind him.

  An oval oak table sat in the centre of the room, with six high-backed leather chairs around it. They looked unused, which Bermuda wasn’t entirely shocked by, considering he was more likely to see a tumbleweed than another agent.

  Beside the screen was a small panel, a few buttons, and a flashing red light next to it. Beneath was a card reader, which Bermuda slipped his agent badge into. The scanner beeped his ID like a self-service check out.

  The screen burst to life and began dialling. On the third ring, Vincent appeared on the screen, turning in bewilderment like Nosferatu. His pale skin looked almost transparent, like it was stretched across his sharp, featureless face.

  ‘Jones.’ His greeting wasn’t the most exciting.

  ‘Hey, Vinnie. You rang?’

  ‘No, that would be Montgomery Black. He is currently indisposed, but he wanted to discuss the incident with you. According to him, you haven’t been careful.’

  ‘He said that?’ Bermuda asked, a trail of apricot smoke filtering from his lips.

  ‘His wording was slightly more … colourful.’

  Bermuda smiled.

  ‘I needed to speak to you to tell you some bad news.’

  ‘Don’t you dare tell me I am being reassigned up here full time, Vinnie.’ Bermuda scowled. ‘I swear, I will kill you all.’

  ‘No.’ Again, very matter of fact. Suddenly, a sadness fell across Vincent’s face, which caught Bermuda off guard. ‘It is Mr Ottoway.’

  Bermuda, sat on the table cross-legged, looked up, concern hauling his eyebrows upward. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Jones, it is with great sadness that I inform you that Mr Ottoway has been battling cancer for a few years. He didn’t want it to be public knowledge due to the moral of the organisation.’ Vincent paused. ‘He has been taken into hospital.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Bermuda gasped.

  ‘We need you to continue the case. The Oracles have relayed worrying information that this Other may be more dangerous than we thought.’

  ‘Yeah, no shit,’ Bermuda responded, his mind flicking back to the moment Parker had introduced him to a stone wall.

  ‘I know how much Ottoway means to you, Jones.’

  Bermuda smiled to hide his anger, nodding gently as he pushed himself off the table. ‘I need some help.’

  ‘Anything.’ Vincent’s words were earnest and true.

  ‘I uploaded a print through the technician here in the Glasgow office – which, by the way, is horrible.’

  ‘Ah, Malcolm is one of our top technicians.’

  ‘How does everyone know Malcolm?’ Bermuda shrugged. ‘Anyway, run the print past the Oracles. Also, have them look for Kevin Parker. It’s a pretty common name, but go back like eighty years. Whoever this Other thinks he is, he isn’t from our time.’

  Vincent nodded firmly. ‘Consider it done.’

  ‘Also, I get this feeling that something is wrong. Argyle seems nervous. He wasn’t able to detect Kevin Parker, which is odd considering he is an Other. But there’s more.’

  ‘More?’

  ‘Yeah, I keep feeling I’m being watched. I don’t know.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Vincent took a moment. ‘There has been an increased level of Other detection within your area. More so than what yourself and Argyle would bring.’

  Bermuda shuddered at the reminder of his condition. Vincent realised but didn’t apologise.

  ‘I shall have the Oracles focus in and try to decipher why. Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah, pass on my best to Ottoway. Tell him I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Just focus on the case, Jones. Remember, two worlds—’

  ‘One peace,’ Bermuda interrupted. ‘Yeah, I get it.’

  ‘You seem to have recovered well,’ Vincent offered.

  Bermuda shrugged, the memory of falling from the Hammersmith flyover was still fresh in his mind. ‘Well, I have a slight advantage don’t I?’

  Suddenly, the door behind Vincent burst open and in stormed the irate figure of Montgomery Black. His glasses sat at the end of his hooked nose like an angry headmaster’s, his thinning white hair giving up the comb-over and flapping like a flag in the wind.

  ‘There you are!’ Black pointed a furious finger at the screen. ‘Do you have any idea just how much damage your little stunt on the high street has caused?’

  Bermuda began to make a crackling noise. ‘Oh no … crrrrk
kk … you’re breaking up.’

  ‘Jones! Are you even listening to me?’ Black’s face was turning red, a vein becoming worryingly visible.

  ‘I’m losing … crrrrkkk … you.’ Bermuda hopped off the table and approached the screen. ‘I’m going through a … crrrrkkk … tunnel.’

  ‘Jones!’ A fist thumped a desk in London. ‘This is a video call. I can see you.’

  ‘Sorry … crrrrkkk … horrible signal.’

  With that, Bermuda ended the call. He let out a deep sigh, knowing that poking a bees’ nest was usually a good way to get stung. Running up and booting it full pelt probably wouldn’t end any better.

  Nervously, he reached for his Tic Tacs, popping two into his mouth and making a hasty exit. Kelly offered a goodbye, but Bermuda had already stormed through the large iron door that separated the crazed woman from the real world. He stomped through the dark, taking each step in his stride.

  He thought about Ottoway, the man who had shown unwavering belief in him. He was dying and Bermuda knew there was a good chance he wasn’t going to see him before he made it back.

  The man had been the father figure Bermuda had never had, his own dad disappearing when he was younger and never coming back. From the stories of drink and drugs, Bermuda saw it as good riddance. But Ottoway would leave another hole in his life.

  Another glaring hole that he would never be able to fill.

  As the door revealed itself and presented the cold streets of Glasgow, Bermuda stepped out, feeling more alone than ever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  McAllister spun on her chair, immediately regretting it as the room whizzed by. She felt the effects of the hard drinking rumbling up her from her stomach and caught herself before she vomited over her desk.

  DC Butler had left a coffee on the side of her desk and she devoured it gratefully, the caffeine burning on its way down. It would bring her back from her hangover. She popped a few paracetamols into her mouth and dry-swallowed them, frantically searching her drawers for a bottle of water.

  ‘Everything okay, guv?’ Butler asked, taking his seat in the adjacent cubicle.

  They had been partnered for a few years now; he was aware of her heartache. A few years older than McAllister, Butler was as open about his failed boxing career as he was about his homosexuality.

  No one gave him any stick for it though. Not because the Glasgow Police Service was a beacon of equal opportunities, but more for the very real possibility that Butler would systematically smash your face in.

  Without even waiting for McAllister to answer, he tossed his bottle of Evian across the office. She caught it and knocked it back.

  ‘Rough night?’ His question was clearly rhetorical.

  ‘Yup. Two dead.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I was asking.’ The silence hung between them for a few intense moments. Butler shuffled forward slightly on his wheeled chair, his voice just above a whisper. ‘You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Sam.’

  ‘Doing what?’ Her green eyes lit up with fury.

  ‘Drinking yourself to death.’ Butler opened his hands and shrugged. ‘And maybe don’t keep fucking every random guy you meet.’

  ‘Pot. Kettle. Black.’

  He glared at her. She knew that was out of line. Butler had been in a committed relationship with Kieran for over ten years. That had come to an abrupt end when Butler had had an affair with a young officer who no longer worked in Glasgow.

  Temptation had taken everything from him.

  She wasn’t giving in to temptation. She was just surrendering to self-destruction.

  They both turned back to their desks, neither one even moving. After a few, guilt-ridden moments, McAllister turned again.

  ‘Greg, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.’

  ‘Aye. I’m tougher than most. I’m just more concerned about your liver and the fact that you’re spending more time shagging that arrogant prick than communicating with Ethan.’

  ‘Ethan and I are through.’ The words came out broken.

  ‘Well, you will be if you keep straying.’ Butler shook his head. ‘I should know.’

  ‘I’m not screwing Jones.’ She sighed.

  ‘Then why the hell was he at your house last night when we turned up?’ Butler turned and face her, his eyebrows raised as if he had just solved a riddle.

  McAllister felt her hangover tap dance across her brain. ‘We were clearing the air. Look, we have a serial killer on the loose and not one lead. Despite how much of a prick he can be, Jones is here to help, and he at least has some theories on what is happening.’

  Butler sternly crossed his arms. If McAllister had to guess, she would have said he was jealous that she was listening to Bermuda over him.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘He thinks that this could be linked to a creature from a separate world to ours – one that his organisation monitors. That is why he is here.’

  Silence for a few seconds. Then Butler burst out into a deep, hearty laugh. McAllister sat unimpressed as her partner hunched forward, hands clasped to his muscular stomach as he roared at the implausible theory. A few colleagues looked over the office partitions that separated the desks, and after a few moments Butler began to reclaim his breath.

  ‘Ah, thanks for that, Sam. I needed that.’ He turned back to his desk, still chuckling at the idea put forward by his partner.

  McAllister tutted, pushing herself out of her chair and through the doorway next to their desks. The incident room was empty, the few chairs and desks unfilled as the team were out trying to solve the case. A huge whiteboard sat on the nearside, covered in photos of the victims. She could see the smiling face of Nicola Miller, the beautiful blue eyes of Rosie Seeley. These were mixed in with photos of the open chest cavity of Katie Steingold as well as the brutal slaying of Emma Mitchell and her husband Mark.

  A wall of death, staring back at her and mocking her inability to stop it.

  It was inhumane.

  As her eyes fixated on the sheer brutality that ended these women’s lives, she wondered if Bermuda Jones’s theory was that insane after all.

  Bermuda took advantage of the random sunshine to enjoy his coffee on a bench, the heart of Glasgow passing by. As he sat in the city centre, he watched as a construction crew got to work on the decimated tram tracks; the project to undo his and Argyle’s handiwork was well underway. A few Others slithered by, their movements ghostly as they filtered around the side of a building before disappearing into the alleyways.

  Bermuda kept checking the surrounding streets that wrapped around the shops, his paranoia telling him he was being watched.

  He had been sure he had seen a hooded figure.

  As he sunk the last of the caffeine into his body he pushed himself up, walking back past the station where he had confronted Kevin Parker and nearly lost his life. The whole memory flooded back, and he felt a shiver race through his body. If Argyle hadn’t been there yet again, Bermuda would have been killed.

  It was getting to a point where a simple thank you just wasn’t enough, yet Bermuda didn’t peg Argyle as the hamper basket type.

  Making his way back through the city centre, he saw a Santas of different heights, girths, and skin colour which was sure to confuse those children who still believed. A smile spread across his face as he mocked the notion of jolly old St Nick when he spent his life hunting monsters with a warrior from another world.

  Maybe he should leave out some carrots and milk.

  As his mind raced with possible theories of Kevin Parker’s motives, Bermuda’s autopilot brought him back onto the street of the Premier Inn. Without realising, he was approaching the concrete steps that led to the automatic doors. Sat beside them was the same homeless man as always, his possessions bursting out of a few plastic bags that sat scruffily beside him.

  Despite the sunshine, the wind carried a chill that nipped like a teething puppy. Bermuda stopped in front of the homeless man, who was mumbling under his breath as
he played with the frayed threading of his tatty blazer.

  ‘Hello, mate.’ Bermuda spoke, aware of how cockney he sounded. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’

  The man looked up. His wiry hair looked like he had been recently electrocuted. His beard was wispy and greasy and clung to a thin, gaunt face.

  ‘Where’s the other one?’ He looked back at his blanket.

  ‘Other one?’ Bermuda questioned, before reasoning that the man spent most of his time inebriated. Having spent many evenings drowning his sorrows at the Royal Oak under the watchful eye of Paul back in Bushey, Bermuda was more than familiar with double vision.

  Now, as the day slipped seamlessly from morning to afternoon, Bermuda politely smiled and turned, ready to leave the man to his sobriety. As he took two steps away, the man spoke again.

  ‘The one with the sword.’

  Bermuda froze. Slowly, he turned back, meeting the keen eyes of the homeless man. ‘Excuse me?’ he spluttered.

  ‘The one with the sword.’ The man gestured. ‘And the armour. He stands there, by the stairs, and keeps a vigil.’

  ‘Argyle?’ Bermuda asked, completely flabbergasted.

  ‘If that’s his name. Is he not here?’

  ‘You can see him?’ Bermuda ignored the original question. He knew people had ‘the Knack’, but never in his near four years as an agent had he met someone that he didn’t know about.

  ‘Aye.’ The man slowly scrambled to his feet. ‘My name is Gordon Foster. And yes, I do see monsters.’

  He offered a grubby hand which Bermuda, still speechless, shook instantly. The sun shone down, casting both their shadows high against the wall behind them. Bermuda slowly began to come round and stumbled over a few words. Gordon smiled a row of faintly yellow teeth.

  ‘I think we should have that coffee now.’

  The waiter at Costa looked at Gordon with unease as he approached the table. The idea of a homeless man sat in their store obviously wasn’t what their ‘all welcome’ sign on the front window was intended for. Bermuda glared at the waiter as he plonked two large coffees down as well as a toasted panini.