by Alex Caan
CUT TO THE BONE
ALEX CAAN
Contents
Part One: The American
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Part Two: The Invisible Dead
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Part Three: Into the Woods
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Part Four: Heart of Darkness
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven
Chapter Seventy-eight
Chapter Seventy-nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-one
Chapter Eighty-two
Chapter Eighty-three
Chapter Eighty-four
Chapter Eighty-five
Chapter Eighty-six
Chapter Eighty-seven
Chapter Eighty-eight
Chapter Eighty-nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-one
Chapter Ninety-two
Chapter Ninety-three
Part Five: The Dirty Game
Chapter Ninety-four
Chapter Ninety-five
Chapter Ninety-six
Chapter Ninety-seven
Chapter Ninety-eight
Chapter Ninety-nine
Chapter One Hundred
Chapter One Hundred and One
Chapter One Hundred and Two
Chapter One Hundred and Three
Chapter One Hundred and Four
Chapter One Hundred and Five
Part Six: The Reckoning
Chapter One Hundred and Six
Chapter One Hundred and Seven
Chapter One Hundred and Eight
Chapter One Hundred and Nine
Chapter One Hundred and Ten
Chapter One Hundred and Eleven
Chapter One Hundred and Twelve
Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen
Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen
Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen
Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen
Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen
Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen
Chapter One Hundred and Nineteen
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-one
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
To MKAZURHZZI, because they asked.
PART ONE
THE AMERICAN
Chapter One
Ruby is running. Her eyes pop, bright like a cat’s. She is looking over her shoulder as she moves, which causes her to stumble. Her breathing is heavy; when she falls she moans, she cries out. There is blood on her face, there are cuts on her body. Her clothes are gone. She wears a sack, tied at the waist. Each time her bare feet step on sharp objects she whimpers. The scene is holding those watching it in thrall. The trees around her are black, dense. She falls again, to her knees.
Help me.
Who is she speaking to? Does she call on God? Or is someone there with her? Or is she simply pleading, hoping someone will hear, come to her rescue? Does she know they will be watching her?
Loud screams as someone grabs her. Ruby struggles and is dragged backwards, kicking out with her damaged heels. Ruby is gone. Only her screaming remains.
Ruby is seated in a chair. Her arms are strapped, her legs are bound. She looks straight ahead. Her mouth is taped.
Her eyes squeeze out tears that crawl down her cheeks.
Then there is darkness.
Ruby thinks she will die. She hopes she will die. Death seems like an end, like peace. Cessation of pain, no more fear.
The walls are coming in. The darkness has icy fingers. Her skin is on fire.
She wants her mother.
She can’t breathe.
She is drowning.
She opens her eyes. Her body has slumped forward, her face is half buried under putrid sludge. The tape on her mouth has been removed; she tastes foul liquid, and spits. She pulls herself out of the mire, and she screams. She knows no one will come. Because no one can hear her now.
Something grabs her ankle, tugs at her, pulls her into the darkness.
She tries to escape, tries to break free. She can’t; it has clamped its jaws on her soft flesh, gripping her bones, which it can crush.
She wants to die.
And then the rats come.
Chapter Two
Blood-red, rust-orange, liver-brown. A riot of colour pricking at her senses, unlocking her memories. Kate Riley was sprinting through a New England forest. It was fall. The world around her beginning to mulch and rot. She was alone, and then he was there. Out of nowhere he appeared, and she knew what would happen next.
Kate opened her eyes, stared into the darkness. Head against her pillow, her senses alert, her heart hammering. Familiar aftershock, from a familiar nightmare. She checked the baby monitor. It was silent. She checked her phone. Three missed calls. It was 2.38 a.m. She checked the caller ID. Unknown.
The phone rang again in her hand.
‘Riley,’ she said.
‘Detective Chief Inspector, it’s Justin Hope. Apologies for disturbing you at this hour.’
This wasn’t going to be good.
‘What’s the emergency?’ said Kate.
‘Missing girl. It’s sensitive,’ said Hope.
‘Message me the details. I’ll head out now,’ she said, pushing her
sheets back.
‘No, send Harris,’ he said, quickly. ‘He can open for us. He needs to get his fingers burnt.’
The garden was shadowy, dim and obscure. Kate kept her kitchen lights off, didn’t like the idea of being visible to anything out there.
Pitch black. Watched, but not seeing. That old paranoia.
She rubbed the backs of her legs with her bare feet, trying to soften the goosed skin, warm herself up. There was a draught. Or maybe it was just her imagination, conjured up by the situation she was in.
The display on her phone showed 2.46 a.m. Her body, shivering and slow, still held on to its stolen sleep. But her mind was alert. She rubbed her face, gulped back freshly made black coffee, scalding her throat. Then dialled.
There was no answer. She let it ring. It was 2.51, her fifth attempt, when he finally picked up.
‘Harris,’ he said.
‘It’s DCI Riley,’ she said. ‘I’m texting you an address. Missing girl, name of Ruby Day. I need you to speak to the parents, get some background, open the investigation for me.’
She heard herself talking. It was the same clipped voice she put on for all work calls. Holding back the American teenager she had been, and forcing herself to speak with a British accent. It was an old trick, a politician’s trick. Speech alignment; copy someone’s way of speaking and they are immediately drawn to you.
‘How old is the girl?’ Harris asked.
‘Early twenties,’ she said.
‘Missing since when?’
‘Seven-thirty, or thereabouts,’ she said.
Silence. She knew what he was thinking. She had thought the same.
‘Are you serious?’ he said. ‘Why have we been called in? That’s, what, under eight hours?’
‘It came from Justin Hope. The call. He wants us there.’
‘I’ll head over. Text me the address now,’ he said.
‘And, Harris, I have no idea why Hope is involved, but he is. So let’s not give him a reason to screw us over, OK?’
‘No worries.’
Harris would hate it, of course. He thought being part of her team beneath him. This would irritate him further. Called out for a missing persons case. Not even a child, but an adult. Kate didn’t like Justin Hope being involved. Things were always murky when he was around. He spoke in riddles and myths. He spoke as though he was on a pulpit, as though they had been chosen to serve him. He liked to boast about his ‘team’, about relying on them. Conferring status on them, because they were his.
Kate imagined a small child squeezing a soft toy too hard to its chest. The toy inanimate but silently screaming.
DS Harris was new, only two weeks on Kate’s team, but he would learn the power dynamics quickly. And if he didn’t, Justin Hope would simply get rid of him.
Chapter Three
There had been demons in his brain, tearing at his throat, clawing at his skin. Blood was soaking him and his bed. His eyes had stung, and in his mouth was the taste of iron.
The spasm that had woken Detective Sergeant Zain Harris from his nightmare had caused a cramp he was massaging and walking off, so at first he didn’t hear Riley’s calls. When he was done speaking to her, he wished he hadn’t picked up.
He had showered after Krav Maga the night before, so made do with washing his face, applying deodorant and brushing his teeth. He pulled on jeans, a V-necked khaki T-shirt, and finished with a black jacket. Riley encouraged her team not to dress like accountants. He didn’t know if this look had the desired effect; this was the first time she had called him to be part of an investigation.
Investigation. It seemed like a loaded word, inappropriate. Woman in her twenties goes missing for eight hours. What was that about? Why was there a panic? She was probably at a party, or hooked up with someone at a party, or asleep from drinking too much at a party.
Is this what he had become? Some top brass lackey?
A quarter of a million people went missing every year. Ninety-one per cent turned up within forty-eight hours, ninety-nine per cent within a year. He didn’t get the urgency, or Justin Hope’s involvement.
Zain pulled open the drawer in the bureau behind his front door. He let his fingers rummage through the brown and white envelopes, containing bills mainly, until they grazed the metallic sachet.
Green pills in plastic bubbles on one side, smooth foil with Chinese writing on the back. It could be alligator testicles or snake venom for all he knew. The Tor site had simply told him what the pills did, not what the ingredients were.
He popped a tablet through the foil, the green pill falling into his hand. He placed it on his tongue, and swallowed. He felt it kick in as he slammed his front door behind him and headed to his car.
Driving through sparse traffic, turning off from Lower Marsh, he hit a block of buses at the top end of Waterloo Bridge. Traffic bottlenecked around Aldwych on the other side. It was late, or early, depending on your point of view. Why were so many people out? Maybe the missing girl was on one of these night buses. Or folded up in the back of a taxi.
His satnav was taking him down the official route, the big roads. Up Kingsway, towards Euston, through Bloomsbury. Then on to the A501, Euston Road followed by Marylebone Road. It was like a tourist trail, heading past Madame Tussauds, the green syllabub of the Planetarium, Baker Street, Regent’s Park. He should have navigated the smaller roads, cut straight through London’s heart.
He felt humiliation needle him again. Seriously, this is what they were making him do? With his background, his skills, his experience? And why the hell was Justin Hope involved? What was so special about this girl? Was she the daughter of a friend? Was this Hope pissing over his patch, showing how much clout he had?
If it turned out to be a favour for one of Hope’s golfing buddies . . . Then again, Zain was in no position to argue. Not with his past. However he felt personally, this stint with Riley and Hope, it was a favour. Another loaded word that. It implied a debt would be called in to repay it.
Zain turned onto the A5, heading up the Edgware Road. The restaurants were mainly closed, but the shisha cafés and shawarma outlets were still open. He felt hungry, but decided he’d get something on his way back. This wouldn’t take long. He wouldn’t let it.
At least the car was running smoothly. Audi A6. Sleek, black. A gift from Hope for the newest member of his team. Being someone’s bitch had perks, then.
Eventually, beyond the flyover, he arrived at his destination. Windsor Court, a late-Victorian mansion block, red brick, white-framed windows. It sprawled across two buildings, with two entrances. There were metal posts blocking the driveways, no parking allowed. Zain drove his Audi onto the pavement at the front, got as close as he could.
He saw a sign for flat numbers 1–26 painted over one of the entrances that was lit up from the inside, so he headed for that door. There was a security panel listing flat numbers. He pushed at the button next to 1A.
A man’s voice, urgent, panicky. Was he expecting it to be his daughter?
‘This is Detective Sergeant Harris,’ said Zain. ‘I’ve a report of a missing –’
The door was buzzed open before he could finish.
Chapter Four
Kate watched the sleeping form. Still, dreamless. Vulnerable.
Ryan would be here in a few hours. Ryan – a stranger, to look after something so precious, so irreplaceable. Officially he was her housekeeper/sitter. Unofficially . . . what was the term for someone who guarded the thing you cared about most in the world?
Kate closed the door softly, padded back to her own bedroom. She slept with the door open, always. Just in case. Who needed the guilt if something went wrong? The baby monitor was top of the range, discreet, metallic. It looked like a digital radio. Kate turned it up; listening to the stillness she had just seen for herself.
She pulled back her bed sheets, crisp, smelling of pine and fresh air. One of Ryan’s jobs. Laundry, cleaning . . . minding. That was the term; it hardly seemed
big enough. As for the smaller tasks, Kate used work pressure, erratic hours, as justification for shirking them.
It had been true once. But since Justin Hope, things didn’t fit into that cliché anymore.
Hope was a trial run, an idea dreamed up by the prime minister and home secretary. The police crime commissioners, PCCs, had been successful nationally. Well, that was the spin, so they wanted to give London a taste. Westminster was created as the first PCC set-up, powers taken from the Met’s commissioner and given to Justin Hope. He had been an MP in a previous existence, a somebody at the Foreign Office, followed by the Ministry of Defence, then the Home Office and finally the Ministry of Justice.
On his appointment, lines were drawn hastily across London. The existing boroughs of Southwark and Lambeth had their prime landmarks taken. Hope was allegedly keen on jurisdiction over Thames House and Vauxhall Cross. Most of the existing City of Westminster being swallowed whole, he had an area of nearly thirty square miles to govern. Drawn up in seven days, again allegedly.
Unofficially, he had jurisdiction over all 609 square miles of London.
When Kate had been offered her role, she’d thought it would be a promotion. Not just in title terms – she was already a detective inspector, now bumped up to detective chief inspector – but in terms of casework. She’d imagined the PCC would want the biggest, most complex crimes himself. She in turn would be given the opportunity to really make a difference, utilise her skills.
Skills gained in the past, before she’d had to leave.
Who was she kidding? She didn’t leave.
Run away. Hide. Search for a new beginning. That was more like it. They said they’d find her a new state to live in, on the other side of the country from Massachusetts, somewhere she could start again. And she had tried it, for a year. A year that meant obscurity, nothingness: her career, her passion, all of it deadened.
She’d watched as they made plans for her, around her. Then she’d taken the initiative, taken control over her own life, and decided she would change country. She needed to get back to what she did best. Be a cop.
So London happened. And in London, she’d found she could start again. They’d snapped her up, dazzled by her Criminal Justice Ph.D. from Brown, her time with the United States Capitol Police, the Department of Homeland Security. Her fabricated references.