by Tania Carver
First day back on the job and she had been promoted. And because of that she didn’t care that Phil bloody bastard Brennan was taking precedence. She would show him. She would show all of them.
She walked over to the couple in the ambulance. Notepad at the ready.
She would show him. Show all of them.
16
The day fell away as Phil stepped carefully through the doorway of the run-down house.
The depressing ruin draped itself around him, sucking out the light. The floorboards creaked under his feet. He put his weight down slowly on each one, testing to see whether the wood had rotted, unsure if there was a cellar beneath and if so what it might contain.
The boards held. He moved slowly into the hallway. The smell struck him first. Neglect. Damp. Terminal decay. The close, fetid air clung to his face like a cold death mask. He pulled on latex gloves. Work-required, but in any case the thought of touching anything in this place felt like a contamination.
Phil couldn’t shake an irrational sense of unease. He analysed it: it didn’t make sense. He had attended much more dangerous crime scenes before. Some where his life had been in danger. A few that had been so bad his body had been crippled by panic attacks. So why was this – an empty old house – so bad? He couldn’t explain. But he knew he felt it.
Into what would once have been, he guessed, the living room. Nothing lived in it now. At least nothing human. Small shadows scurried away at the sides of his feet, disappeared down cracks, holes. He took out a pocket flashlight, swept it over the floor. Some of the boards were missing, rotted and caved in. But no cellar.
The room was empty of everything but detritus. Old pizza boxes and mouldering kebab wrappers were slowly breaking themselves down into compost. Rusting high-strength lager cans, empty bottles sticky with dust. Cigarette ends, both legal and illegal, were dotted around. Human consumption. And in the corner, the inevitable conclusion. Human waste. As old and atrophied as everything else in the room.
Damp cardboard and a festering, mouldering blanket had been a bed. Stained and crumpled pages from old, well-used porn mags at the side. Bedtime reading. From the patina of dust coating every surface, no one had been there for a while.
Two broken, unboarded windows on the far side of the room explained how the previous inhabitants had made their entrance and exit. Phil thought he heard something. A scuffling movement from somewhere. He straightened up, listened.
‘Hello?’
No reply. Just the dying echo of his voice through the ruin.
Heart beating faster, he turned right, into another room, that had once been a kitchen. Most of the cabinets were still in place, as was the remains of a cooker in the corner and an old fridge, the door open, hanging off. The walls, he noticed, had once been a cheerful yellow. But the vibrancy was gone, the fight given up. They were now streaked black with mould. A back door led out into a garden. He tried the handle. It didn’t budge. A thick wooden board had been nailed over the glass panels.
He swept the room with his flashlight, peered into the corners, the cabinets, even inside the oven. Nothing. He turned back into the main living room. Tried to imagine what the house had once been like. Couldn’t. The decay was too pervasive.
Turning left, he went into another hallway. Stairs led upwards. He took them.
Three doors presented themselves on a small landing. He chose the right-hand one. Found the wreck of a small bathroom. The sink smashed off the wall, the toilet pan cracked in two. The bath now a breeding ground for mould and mildew.
He opened the door on his left. The main bedroom. The room was completely bare. Peeling, damp walls, rotted wood, boarded windows. No furniture, just dirt and dust. The walls had been painted, not papered. Originally emerald green, it looked like. And the floor, too. Phil swung his flashlight again. There was something on the wall. He stepped in to examine it.
The same design they had found on the wall of the cellar beside the cage. Not a pentagram, but something … not right. And seeing it again, something clicked inside Phil. Something deep and hard, either lodging or dislodging. A tumbler in a vault combination falling into place.
He recognised it. He didn’t know what it was, but there was part of him that recognised it. Then the familiar constrictions started in his chest. Not a full-blown panic attack, just something low and rumbling. A sense of unease. He didn’t know what the symbol was, but it meant nothing good to him.
Trying to head the attack off, he backed out of the room. Tried the third door.
And immediately found himself thrown back out on to the landing.
His back and head hurt from contact with the bare wood, his chest from the force of the blow. It had knocked the wind out of his lungs. He tried to get his breath, gagged as he breathed in. The stink was awful. He opened his eyes. A vision of humanity – as wrecked as the house was – was on top of him. Screaming, hitting him about the head.
Phil didn’t have time to think, to do anything but react instinctively, use his urge for self-preservation. His arms were pinned at his sides, as much by his own body as by his assailant. He brought his knee up between his attacker’s legs, hard. The man gave a yelp of pain, like a wounded animal, drew back. Stopped hitting him as his hands went to his groin.
Phil knew this was only temporary, that his attacker would recommence soon, so he pressed the advantage. He brought his right fist up, straight into the man’s face. Felt it connect with nose cartilage. Saw blood spurt.
Glad he had remembered the latex gloves, he punched again. His assailant had no fight left in him. With another scream of pain, he dragged himself hurriedly off Phil, ran down the stairs. Phil got slowly to his feet, breathing in through his mouth. The smell was still in his nostrils.
He turned and, knowing that what he had seen on the wall would keep for later, gave chase.
The man was already out of the front door, running down the gravel drive, Phil after him, shouting for help. He reached the first house, headed towards the road. He saw the uniforms, the incident vehicles, the crowds ahead and turned. Made for the allotments.
Four uniforms gave chase. Phil joined them. Together they pursued what looked like a running bundle of rags
It was no contest. The officers brought him to the ground before he reached the allotment gates. Phil arrived in time to stand over them.
‘Right. Let’s get him on his feet.’
They helped the man to stand. Phil got a good look at him. He was older than expected. Although that might have been the long grey hair and beard. His clothing was in ruins and tatters, his features filthy and scabbed. His bleeding nose made him look even worse. And the smell. Like he was decomposing before them. Phil hadn’t thought it possible to decay that much and still live.
The fight had gone out of him now. He was whimpering.
‘Come on,’ said Phil, turning. ‘Let’s take him somewhere, have a chat.’
Phil hoped he had found the perpetrator, the child’s abductor. But looking at the wreck of humanity before him, he doubted it.
17
‘Please, Detective … Philips, is it?’
Mickey nodded. ‘Detective Sergeant Philips. Major Incident Squad.’
‘Right, Detective Sergeant.’ Her eyes widened slightly. ‘Sounds important. Please, take a seat.’
Mickey extended his hand, then, realising how awkward the gesture was, he quickly retracted it and sat, hoping she hadn’t noticed. The tiny smile on her lips told him she had. Not a good start.
He looked at the woman opposite him. Mid-thirties, he reckoned, well-built but curvy. Wearing a figure-hugging and enhancing black dress; long brown hair highlighted blonde. As he got settled, she flashed him a larger smile that had, he presumed, seen plenty of service on the local great-and-good cocktail circuit. And was used to seeing its magic work.
She held out her hand. ‘I’m Lynn Windsor,’ she said, her voice as confident as her smile. ‘Senior Partner, Fenton Associates.’
He stood
slightly, shook hands. She was good, he thought. Had managed a seemingly effortless domination of the situation. He had ground to gain.
They were in an office on the first floor of the Georgian house. Adrian Wren had been tasked with talking to the occupants, but word came through that someone of senior rank was required. Since Phil was indisposed, that was Mickey.
Walking through, Mickey had noticed that the inside of the building was as tastefully decorated as the exterior. The floors were wooden, the walls neutral. They held paintings that were clearly original, but not original enough to command huge sums, gallery space or column inches. The office furniture managed to look both expensive and minimal.
The ground floor was taken up by a firm of accountants. On the next two floors were Fenton Associates, solicitors, and above them on the smallest, cramped floor, a marketing company. There was an air of excitement in the law offices as suited and tied people, normally more at home with spreadsheets and files, craned their collective necks to see what was going on opposite. When Mickey entered, they transferred their attention to him.
‘So, Detective Philips, your uniformed officers have been questioning my staff. I presume it’s in connection with whatever’s going on down there.’ She pointed to the window.
‘That’s right.’
‘And what is that, exactly?’ Taking charge again.
‘I’m afraid I can’t say at the moment.’
‘Oh please, Detective Philips. We’re all legal professionals here.’
Mickey thought for a moment. ‘Fenton Associates. I’ve not heard of you before.’
‘No reason why you should,’ said Lynn Windsor. ‘We’re corporate, not criminal. We cover most of East Anglia. Specialise in blue-chip companies.’ She smiled again. ‘We don’t bail out New Town drug dealers.’
Mickey smiled. ‘Must be why we’ve never met before.’
‘Must be.’ She straightened up. He tried hard not to look at her breasts. Failed. ‘And what do you do, Detective Sergeant? Catch criminals? Solve murders?’ Her smiled widened, became more teasing. ‘Deal with major incidents?’
Mickey felt uncomfortable. She had him again. He was sure he was blushing. ‘That sort of thing, yeah.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Keep up the good work.’
‘Er, thanks … ’ Mickey looked down at his notepad, tried to hide his discomfort. ‘You, er, wanted to see me, Ms Windsor?’
She sat back, smiling. Thinking. Those breasts of hers were large, Mickey noticed once more. ‘Call me Lynn, please. Sounds like you’re talking to my mother. And I can call you …?’
‘Mickey.’ He looked quickly away, hoping he hadn’t been caught staring. If he had, she didn’t let on.
‘So,’ she said, ‘you want my help and the co-operation of my staff, but you won’t tell me what’s happened.’
‘I’m afraid … ’
The smile dropped. She became businesslike. ‘I appreciate what you’re saying, but perhaps you should see things from my side.’
Mickey waited.
‘What if one of my staff has seen something? Something that places them in danger?’
‘Might they have done?’
Lynn Windsor shrugged. Mickey tried not to watch her breasts move as she did so. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps they could identify someone who might later come back to harm them. Or say something that could inadvertently incriminate them even though they’re innocent?’
Mickey gave a small smile. ‘You’ve been watching too much TV.’
‘Really? You’re saying that never happens in real life?’
‘Not as often as you think. Not really.’
She leaned back, eyes on him all the time. Mickey felt like he was being appraised. Like there was more to this conversation than the words on the surface. But he didn’t know what.
‘I’m a solicitor and you’re a police officer,’ she said. ‘We both know it does happen. Before any of my staff speak, I would need guarantees of protection.’
‘You can have them,’ he said. ‘If it comes to that. But I doubt it. It’s just routine questioning.’
‘And we can’t ask what’s going on? We heard a lot of screaming down there earlier today. What was that?’
He opened his mouth to reply.
‘You can’t say,’ she said. ‘Right.’ She sat forward, steepled her fingers. Eyes never leaving him. Mind seemingly made up. ‘All right, then. Ask me what you want to know.’
He asked her. Had she seen anyone entering or leaving the crumbling building? Only occasional workmen. They had erected the fence, put up the signs. Had there been anyone there recently? Not that she had seen. What about the other houses? The ones down below? Her expression changed.
‘Ah.’ She sat back. ‘There was … someone down there.’
‘Who?’
‘A tramp, I think. A homeless person. Someone was living in that derelict house, the one at the end of the garden. We would find evidence that someone had tried to break into this building at night. We assumed it was him. We initiated legal proceedings, got him to leave. Then we contacted the council, asked them to board it up. That seemed to take care of the problem.’
Mickey glanced at his notebook, ready to ask another question. Lynn Windsor silenced him. ‘I’m afraid that’s all the time I can spare today. I have a client coming in.’ She stood up, came round the desk. Smiled once more, held her eyes on his. ‘But if there’s anything I can do to help … ’ She handed him her card. ‘Anything further you want to ask me … ’
He stood, went to take her card. Noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Was about to speak when his eye was drawn to someone walking past the office window. A tall man, middle-aged, well-dressed. He didn’t look happy. Another middle-aged man was ushering him quickly into the next office along.
‘Who’s that?’ said Mickey. He was sure he recognised him.
Lynn Windsor’s gaze followed his. ‘One of our clients.’ Her smile had disappeared. ‘I’m afraid I have work to do. You’ll have to leave.’
‘What’s his name?’
Lynn Windsor’s smile returned. But it was hard, professional. No warmth to it. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give that out. Some of our clients prefer to remain anonymous. We have to respect their wishes.’
‘Right … ’
She placed her hand on the small of his back, ushering him out of the office. At the doorway she stopped. Body blocking his view of the next office along. ‘Do you have a card? Some way for me to get in touch with you?’
‘Uh, yes … ’ He dug into his jacket, handed one over.
‘Thank you. If I think of anything else, can I call you?’ Eyes full on him. ‘Or you can call me … ’
Mickey was flustered once more. ‘Yeah … sure.’
Another dazzling smile. ‘I’d like that.’ She turned, motioned to a pretty girl seated at a desk. ‘Stephanie will see you out.’
Mickey said goodbye and left.
Head spinning from the encounter. Hoping he would see her again. Wondering just who the man was. He couldn’t think of where he had seen him.
But he knew it wasn’t good news.
18
At least he had stopped screaming, thought Anni. That was something.
The boy from the cage lay in front of them. Completely still, eyes wide open, staring straight ahead. Like an animal hiding in plain view, frozen. Thinking that if he couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see him.
Anni tried another smile. ‘What’s your name?’
Nothing. Just those eyes, unblinking.
Dr Ubha was standing behind them both, monitoring the situation. She had been first in the room when they heard the screaming. Had ducked to avoid a plastic tumbler aimed at her head. When they had stepped into the darkened room, they had seen a water jug lying on its side where he had thrown it, the floor wet. He was kicking, thrashing, trying to pull the feeding drip from the back of his hand, escape from the tightly made bed covers.
Dr Ubha went straight
up to the boy. On seeing her approach, he forgot the drip and, eyes brimming with panic and fear, grabbed her arms to fight her off. Anni had been at her side in an instant, ready to assist, but the doctor, sensing that the boy’s reaction was born of terror rather than aggression, had pulled away from him and stepped back. Once she did that, his hands had dropped.
Seeing he had no means of escape through the door with the three women there, he had backed himself up against the headboard of the bed, tried to push himself through it. Gasping and sobbing as he did so. But, Anni had noticed, there was no violence. And he hadn’t spoken. Just the staring. And silence.
Realising he wasn’t going to attack again, Anni exchanged a glance with Marina and moved forward, making to sit in the chair beside the bed. The child pushed himself even further back, whimpering once more, trembling now in fear. Eyes moving from staring at nothing to being directly on Anni. She stopped, chilled when they met hers. She had come across people in distress through her work, on an almost daily basis. But she had never encountered such depths of terror in anyone. She flinched inwardly, not wanting to think about what the boy had seen, experienced.
‘OK … ’ Eyes averted from his, she backed off. Took a chair from behind her and slowly brought it up to the bottom of the bed. The boy didn’t take his eyes off her all the time she was moving. She sat. Looked at him. Managed to smile.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Anni. What’s your name?’
Nothing.
‘You do have a name, don’t you?’
Nothing. Just those eyes, that stare …
Anni could cope with traumatised women, rape victims, abused wives, but children were a blind spot. She had been trained to deal with them and always followed her training, but it wasn’t something that came naturally to her. Usually she found something she could relate to, some shared commonality on which to start a dialogue, build a relationship. It could be anything from difficulties with siblings or school to football or even Doctor Who. Anything. But it was all book-learned, not natural. And he kept staring at her. Those eyes … Maybe if she had children of her own. That might be different. But she didn’t, and although her sister had a couple, she lived in Wales and they weren’t close.