by Nick Brown
“A statement that affords you the ambience and comfort you need to be you in a successful modern world.”
To Viv, the flats seemed like a cross between a hotel and a banlieu or favela for yuppies.
The sky had grown dark and she hurried into the lobby where the agent, Tim, was waiting. He greeted her with a casual smile and a “hi”, seeming to suggest that this was where they both belonged. She turned her phone off and looked round at the lobby: it had a defined sense of dislocation, a transitory feel emphasised by the eye straining artificial lighting and the showroom furniture that no one ever sat on.
It couldn’t have been more mundane, yet for a moment she thought she saw a figure in a long black coat looking at them from a corner. But she hadn’t time to look because Tim was already well into his prematurely intimate and slick spiel, and by the time they moved towards the lift the figure had gone.
In the apartment, one of hundreds identical in the block, Tim was able to demonstrate how this development, catering to the successful, fast-moving modern professional, came with all the individuality that “you” deserved. The building noise from the Metro work site could have been a disadvantage but, according to Tim, this was the last piece of the jigsaw making it the perfect location for a fast-moving world, and if Viv was quick there was a window of opportunity for a fantastic deal. It was immediately available and seemed to make economic sense, so Viv duly went through the window.
Walking back to the car slightly dazed at her decision, she thought she caught a glimpse of Jimmy’s pale face staring out from the window of a bistro. But it couldn’t have been because he was meant to be looking after the weird Greek.
She thought about going back to the station but felt too awful. She’d been on the go for the best part of three days with only sporadic episodes of broken sleep. So she went home: let the chief take the heat like he was paid to do. The flat emptiness of the city centre rented apartment made her glad she was buying in Didsbury.
She tried to put the feeling of being watched out of her mind, rationalising that she imagined she’d seen Jimmy because it was when he’d first driven her past the Skendleby estate that she’d thought she’d seen that ragged figure flitting between the trees. She knew from her academic research that feelings of paranoia like this were often a symptom of having to deal with the type of things she had to deal with. But she couldn’t shift the unease.
She felt terrible and bloated. She thought she smelt and considered a bath, but instead took some tablets and tea to the bedroom, put on her pyjamas and wrapped herself in the duvet. After reading it twice but still unable to focus on a piece in The Guardian about the Hubble Space Telescope, she curled up into a ball of aching sweating misery and tried to sleep.
But sleep wouldn’t come and she found the illustration from the article of the furthest recordable frontiers of the universe stamped across the inside of her eyelids. So huge and real that what happened on this tiny planet, whose own galaxy was only a pinprick in the picture, was of no account, no more than the slightest tremor of an eyelash. The thought of insignificance conjured a worse image of the meagre broken body of the girl sprawled in the pit where it had been dumped.
There was something way beyond the ordinary in these killings, some dimension hovering just beyond her peripheral vision, something essential to understanding the case that she couldn’t quite capture. The nearest she could get to it was that somehow time and reason had slipped out of kilter, but that wasn’t much help. There was no motivation in these killings, at least not one a modern mind could comprehend. But in each case, a close link with the past and its legacy. Theodrakis had got this at once, but his only contribution had been to suggest they get the archaeologists to investigate the Davenport Chapel. No wonder it had taken him so long to crack the Samos case.
There was something more wrong about these killings than any she’d ever known, and this was beginning to frighten her. It was a horribly predictable modus operandi; a purposeful, almost clinical cutting and mutilation of each victim using a stone blade. Never any trace of sexual assault. That poor girl, alone in a strange country: she’d been left, used up and discarded like an old rag doll while the multiverse wheeled and expanded into the void, immense and uncaring. Viv began to sniffle and cried herself to sleep.
Chapter 11: Unwanted Connections
Gradually, through the fog of sleep, she became aware of shouting and banging at the apartment door. Bleary eyed, still half asleep, she stumbled over to open it, realising when she did so that she’d made a mistake. She found herself face to face with Anderson. One look told her that he was more embarrassed than her, if that were possible. She wouldn’t have wanted to come face to face with her subordinate in night attire at the best of times, and certainly not unwashed and wearing men’s pyjamas. Fortunately, there was no time for a further chapter in the comedy of manners.
“Ma’am, you’ve had your phone off so the Chief sent me to get you,” he said by means of apology, and before she’d unscrambled her brain quickly enough to reply he’d added, “You’re wanted at Skendleby Hall, there has been an incident.”
Before she mumbled that he could wait in the kitchen while she dressed he said, with unexpected tact:
“I’ll wait in the car if you don’t mind, I’ve got some reports to tidy up.”
Ten minutes later she joined him in the car and was surprised but pleased to be handed a black coffee in a Costa carton. She took a sip of the steaming liquid, and as the car pulled away, Anderson said:
“Bit unexpected this, isn’t it? We’re warned to stay away from Carver and now he wants us over there.”
“Any idea why?”
“He’s had some type of scare apparently.”
“Suppose that’s a bit of a break for us. Thanks for the coffee by the way, I needed it. Where’s Zorba?”
“Asleep in his hotel bed I hope.”
After that Anderson drove in silence and Viv drank the coffee, both were uncomfortable: some unquantifiable intimacy had impinged their routine. The gates of the hall were open and as they wound their way along the drive they could see that Carver already had company: a couple of four wheel drive vehicles were parked up next to three squad cars. A harassed WPO greeted them at the door.
“I’d better warn you, Ma’am, he’s not in a good mood.”
She was right, he wasn’t, and he made this clear almost before they were through the door and into the lobby.
“Took you’re time, look I’ve had to bring in me own security.”
He pointed to two heavy, meat-headed men wearing bulging jeans and hoodies. They were standing either side of the entrance to the old Davenport drawing room, now a games room.
“And there are more outside. Now I have to pay for safety with me own money as well as pay the taxes what pay for you.”
Viv had dealt with his type before. She knew there was no point contradicting any of this, that it was best just to let him talk himself out. They walked into the games room where Carver threw himself onto a huge white sofa that looked to be covered in some type of antelope hide. She gazed around at the pool table and various game consoles scattered around and noted the absence of any staff. She wondered if they’d all made a run for it, scared they’d meet the same fate as Marika. Perhaps Carver picked up on this because he broke off from his tirade to remark:
“And the maids have done a flit, so I’ll have to get in a couple of girls from the club. Cost more they will, English girls more greedy, innit.”
When given a chance to speak, Viv asked:
“So what is it that actually happened last night, Mr Carver?”
When it came to specifics he was hesitant and Viv got the impression that beneath the aggression he was frightened.
“That hole you made in the pit: it came out of that, must of come out of that.”
“Sorry, you’ve lost me.”
“It was by the house, right by the house. But there’s no footage on the CCTV. The cameras cover all t
he grounds; I had them put in last Christmas when we had the problems. You can’t get anywhere near without them cameras picking you up. So it come up out of the hole, must have.”
He came to a stop and Viv thought for a moment that he might be on the brink of tears, but he managed to pull himself together and return to his default setting: aggression.
“I was told I’d have protection, told there weren’t nothin to worry about, that you lot had it covered. Well you bloody haven’t, have you? Well have you? I told you where the trouble was coming from, who the troublemakers were, but you did nothing. Now there’s a tunnel they come out of leading from the church, obvious, yeah - but you missed it.”
Before Viv could get her head round this thesis and reply, Anderson said:
“I know you’re shaken up, Mr Carver, but you can’t seriously think that the Reverend Joyce or Sir Nigel came crawling along a tunnel to attack you. Would you be frightened by either of them anyway?”
The words had the intended effect, Carver blinked.
“Well, who is it then? Who killed the girl and who was here last night? What are you going to do about it?”
This was easier to deal with. Carver reminded Viv of a sulky, spoilt child. She said:
“I can assure you, Mr Carver, that we’ll take every step to ensure your safety. Until we effect some resolution we’ll provide twenty-four hour protection.”
“What about the pit, the tunnel? I want that looked at then blocked off.”
“Consider it done. Now we need a full statement.”
Later, walking back to the car, Viv said to Anderson.
“Well, that’s moved things on, we’ve access to Carver and we can look at what’s under that pit: you’d better have the archaeologists standing by for that and arrange for Joyce and Davenport to be questioned, best do this by the book.”
Anderson started to say something about mending bridges with the archaeologists when they saw a figure running towards them.
Dressed in a lime green, skin tight designer tracksuit, blonde plait bobbing out of the back of a baseball cap, heavily made up and jogging like a show pony, the figure slowed as it approached. Viv noticed that the woman was wearing black woollen gloves with some flashy rings over them. She stopped by them and removed her headphone earpieces.
“Don’t know why I bother with all this, Si never takes no notice, is all for show with him. He’s never up for it, doesn’t really like women, hasn’t even tried it on with the foreign sluts who work here. He’d notice if I didn’t bother though. I could of done better, used to be engaged to a footbawla. Still, not done too bad here, have I?”
When the stream of consciousness slowed Anderson said:
“This is Mrs Carver, Ma’am.”
“Call me Suzzie-Jade, it’s more social, not that there’s much socialising in this dead shithole.”
Viv assumed she was referring to the area not the Hall, but it might have been both. She asked:
“Would you mind telling us if you saw the intruder last night?”
“Didn’t see nothing, went to bed early, bored out me head, took a couple of pills and went straight asleep. Freaked Si out though, never seen him this scared, not like the man I married really. Ok, see yu laitaa.”
Viv started to assure her that they now had full police protection but she didn’t seem that interested and jogged off towards the Hall.
*******
Inside the hall, in the state- of-the-art gym, Si had taken a drink into his top of the range Californian hot tub and was on the phone to Jed Gifford.
“Listen, Gifford, I don’t care what plans you’ve got, you get your arse over here right now and bring your shovel monkey with you. I’ll give you twenty minutes, no longer.”
He tossed the phone back into its niche in the tubs’ music centre and lay back against the jets as the old skool gangsta rap flowed through the speakers. Gradually, his heart rate slowed and he began to feel better. At least now he had a course of action. He hated waiting, always had. Waiting for his step mum to get home in the early hours of the morning while his baby half sister screamed the house down. Waiting for his dad to get out of prison - not that he saw much of him when he was out.
But he’d seen enough of him to learn that there were only two types of people: winners and losers, mainly losers, and that if you wanted to stay a winner you didn’t take no prisoners. So he played hard, broke the rules; well, with his start in life he’d had to. He’d been a tough kid and it helped that he quite liked to hurt people, not that he did any of that himself these days. He was respectable now and delegated. It hadn’t been easy and he’d had to get out of London pretty quick, but he’d made it. He was established, owned a stately home, knew the people who counted, had a trophy wife.
The thought of this most recent acquisition soured his mood a bit: maybe she hadn’t been such a good bargain. He’d have to rethink that one before long. She cramped his style, but even in a city like Manchester that prided itself on its pluralist approach to sexuality, you still had to put up some sort of front, particularly when you had to mix and do business with some of the people he had to.
Gifford, trailed by the shovel monkey, real loser that one, was shown in by one of the meatheads. Si liked to receive people when he was in the tub like this. Got the idea from a Roman king or something like that he’d seen in a film. It made them uncomfortable having to stand there while he lay back with a drink. Gave them a good look at his shoulders, chest and arms, let them see how pumped he was. He been put through a lot these last few days and now someone was going to pay for it.
“What took you so fucking long, Gifford? I told you twenty minutes.”
Always a good start that line, even when they weren’t late. He could see Gifford hated it and wanted to react. He loathed being shown up, liked to play the bully himself. He responded peevishly.
“Weren’t my fault, couldn’t find Dave.”
Si chuckled to himself, it worked every time; he’d admitted to being late when he wasn’t. He snapped back:
“Wasn’t the shovel monkey I told, it was you. What I say you do, geddit? Good, now I’m giving you one chance to put right the damage you did when you found them bones.”
Si enjoyed letting them squirm for a moment, then dropped it on them.
“I bin thinking. All this trouble comes from one thing. One thing that’s holding up the development and causing all these problems here. So, if we get rid of it then the problems go with it.”
He paused for a moment, suddenly realising how right this was and wondering what had led him to think something so far outside his normal philosophy. It wasn’t the illegality that bothered him about what he was going to order the men to do. It was the fact that he was in some way buying into an equivalent of the poncy crap they spouted in the church. This was some type of change and he wasn’t in control, didn’t know where it was leading. For a moment he no longer felt like the Roman king or whatever, he felt hesitant. Then he remembered how all of this was getting to him, didn’t want them to see him indecisive. Anyway, wherever the idea had come from it was a good one, and besides, he’d gone too far to turn back.
He needn’t have worried about the effect of the pause on Jed and Dave. They understood what a right bastard he was and knew he was dragging things out cos it made it worse for them.
“So now, you’re going to take your JCB and demolish that mound the archaeologists messed around. Understand? You’re going to flatten it and anything that’s in it. I don’t want nothing left. No sign of where it was, like it never existed.”
Jed couldn’t help himself.
“No way. No one in their right mind’s gonna touch that bugger. It’s cursed, protected like, can’t be done.”
Si said nothing, just waited for Jed to continue.
“Anyway, it’s against the law, innit, criminal offence.”
Si couldn’t prevent himself laughing at this.
Jed snapped:
“No, won’t do it, can’t.
Get someone else.”
Then the bit Si always enjoyed the best. He said very slowly, like he was speaking to a child.
“You’ll do exactly what I fucking tell you. Know why? Otherwise I’ll withdraw my protection, Jed. Then that loan shark you’re so deep into will be able resume making his little visits. Know what I mean? Then there are those things the police were so interested in. Then there’s.........”
Jed had no choice and raised a hand in a gesture of surrender.
“Ok, we’ll do it, long as no one stops us.”
Si was disappointed not to be able to table his entire manifesto of threat, but he’d got his way, like he always did when people had no choice.
“Now, who could stop you when I own the land?”
They sloped out of the room, with Si’s final blessing following them:
“And make sure you don’t fuck it up.”
He turned the spa pumps back on and sunk back to enjoy his power. But he couldn’t, unease began to build and he could feel his gym built muscles tensing as his heart rate increased.
*******
To Dave, the noise of the JCB seemed enough to alert every copper for miles. He was sweating and wanted to run for home, but he was as scared of Jed as Jed was of Carver. So he tried to pretend it wasn’t happening, that it was just a bad dream and soon he’d wake up. But by the time the spluttering JCB chugged through the gate into the deserted archaeological site this was no longer possible. The wind had got up to gale force and a mass of grey clouds were chasing each other into increasingly ominous shapes. He looked up and said to himself, as much as to Jed:
“Jesus, look at that, they weren’t here before. Where have all them fucking crows come from?”
Chapter 12: Strange Bedfellows
Sitting in the car, engine turned off, wiping at the misted-up windows ineffectually with the back of his hand, Ed wondered again what he was doing here. The ‘here’ being illegally parked in front of Wrexham station. It had started to rain and the emerging passengers were swaddled in hats, scarves and hoods, or crouched under umbrellas. What if he missed her?