Cage of Bones Read online

  She stood up once more, made her way to the shower. Thought of going for a run, channelling some of that anger, that energy. Decided against it. She would channel it another way.

  Real police work. Visit the mortuary, take a look at Faith Luscombe’s body. Check the CCTV cameras for New Town and roads leading out to Wakes Colne.

  Then pay a return visit to Donna Warren.

  Show her she wasn’t a fucking idiot.

  The water hit her, nice and hot.

  But it could never be hot enough for Rose.

  49

  ‘Hold your nerve. That’s all. Just hold your nerve.’ The voice on the other end of the phone sighed. Tried to keep its temper, not let its exasperation show.

  ‘But… ’ The Portreeve wasn’t happy.

  Another sigh.

  ‘You’ve got the easy bit,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘You’re doing nothing. Even the Teacher is doing more than you.’

  Silence from the Portreeve.

  ‘Bet you wished you hadn’t phoned me now.’

  No reply. The Lawmaker took that as a yes.

  ‘You didn’t tell me,’ said the Portreeve. ‘You sanctioned… what happened, and you didn’t tell me about it. Did you tell anyone else?’

  ‘The Teacher knew.’

  ‘And why didn’t the Teacher tell me?’

  ‘Because I said not to. I said I would talk to you. I knew what your reaction would be. And this is it.’

  ‘But this is a step too far. This is… implicating us too much.’

  ‘It isn’t. Weaver was becoming a liability. Unpredictable. We didn’t know what he was going to do next. He needed to be taken care of. What better way than this? Misdirection. No one will care about our shipment arriving now. Pressure’s off.’

  ‘And what about… There should be four of us. Who’s going to be the new Missionary?’

  ‘I would have thought that was an easy one. Our foreign friend is perfectly situated.’

  ‘But what if he… refuses?’

  ‘Refuses? Why would he do that?’

  Silence again from the Portreeve. ‘Look,’ said the Lawmaker, ‘you just keep doing what you’re supposed to be doing. Keep organising. I’m taking care of things here and the Teacher’s part comes in soon. Everything will go ahead as planned.’

  ‘And the boy? What’s happening with the boy?’

  The Lawmaker gave a laugh. It wasn’t pleasant. ‘All taken care of. It’s a beautiful plan. And we won’t be implicated in the slightest.’

  ‘Should I know about it?’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  The Portreeve didn’t reply.

  ‘Thought not.’

  Silence.

  ‘Look. Hold your nerve. You know what you have to do. Weaver will take the blame for everything. We’ll ensure that. And once that’s done, we’ll get the Gardener taken care of too.’

  ‘Should I not ask about that either?’

  ‘Up to you. But let’s be honest here. We don’t need him any more. Not with what’s happening. Or with what’s happened. He’s just… an irritant. He’ll be dealt with too.’

  ‘Be careful,’ said the Portreeve. ‘He’s dangerous.’

  The Lawmaker laughed. ‘So am I. Keep the faith. We’ll talk soon.’

  The phone went dead.

  The Portreeve sat staring at it. Wondering how such a mundane piece of plastic, metal and glass could have such a powerful effect on him.

  He stood up. Took a deep breath. Another. Hands flexing, expanding. And again. Another breath.

  Decided what to do.

  Another breath. Held, let out slowly.

  Decided there was no choice.

  There was no turning back.

  The Portreeve was ready.

  50

  The hotel stood in its own grounds. Sixteenth-century or thereabouts, Phil reckoned. A one-time country house for the landed gentry turned country retreat for the moneyed classes. It looked warm, seductive, nestled in amongst the trees, curving gravel drive before it. The kind of place that flattered a customer’s good taste for choosing it. The kind of place he would take Marina for a weekend.

  So why did it give him the same feeling he got when he had first looked at the house with the bone cage?

  He pulled the Audi up to the front, feeling and hearing the gravel beneath the wheels. He switched off the engine, silencing Band of Horses singing about monsters, and stared. It was like he had driven on to a film set. The hotel itself looked like some costume-drama backdrop, the police presence shifting the genre. Downton Abbey to Inspector Morse.

  The hotel unsettled him the more he looked at it. He replayed the meeting he had just had with Glass. That had been unsettling in its own way too.

  At first, Phil had just been relieved to get into Glass’s office, avoid Marina’s questions. But once inside, the look on the DCI’s face showed he had been called in for a specific reason. And he didn’t get the feeling it was an altogether good one.

  ‘Sit down, please, Phil,’ Glass had said, looking up from his computer screen.

  Phil had done so.

  ‘Right… ’ Glass stared at a file on the desk in front of him. Avoiding eye contact, Phil thought. Not a good start. He looked up. ‘I’m seeing the Super today. In Chelmsford.’

  Glass paused. Phil felt he was expected to say something.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yes.’ Glass continued. ‘I think he’s going to tell me officially that this job is mine. Full time.’ He leaned back in the chair. Phil could still see his predecessor sitting there.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Phil.

  Glass gave a tiny smile, a slight nod of the head, as if accepting his due. ‘Thank you.’ The smile disappeared. ‘That being the case, I thought we should have a little chat.’

  Phil thought he was expected to say something else, but decided against it. Waited in silence instead.

  Taking Phil’s silence for deference, Glass continued. ‘It seems like we’re going to have to work together, Phil. And I feel it only fair to warn you that I’ll be running things very differently from my predecessor.’

  Here we go, thought Phil. He tried for lightness in his response. ‘Anything I should be concerned about?’ he said.

  The smile again. Twice in one meeting from someone who normally rationed them, thought Phil. Not a good sign. ‘That depends. Clearly we’re going to have to work together. But as the senior officer, I have to tell you there are going to be some changes round here.’

  Phil felt a prickle of anger at Glass’s words. ‘Are you unhappy with my performance in some way?’

  ‘No. Not at all. You’ve got virtually a hundred per cent arrest rate.’

  Phil said nothing. It was true.

  Glass leaned forward. ‘But then this is MIS.’

  Phil’s anger was definitely rising now. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Glass sat back. ‘Clue’s in the name. Major incidents. They’re always the easy ones to clear up, aren’t they?’ He continued before Phil could reply. ‘For instance, murder. You find a body, you ask who killed them. The person with most to gain. You question them. They confess. Case closed. Not so difficult, is it?’

  ‘So what are you getting at?’ Phil said.

  ‘Just that. Cases like that don’t seem very major to me. Your team have a lot of resources. Others may get jealous.’

  ‘What are you talking about? We have the resources we need to get the job done. Have you seen the cases we’ve dealt with over the past few years? Have you seen the ones we’re dealing with now?’

  Glass put his hands up in what was supposed to represent mock-surrender, but it wasn’t in his physical repertoire. ‘All I’m saying is that you’re very well-funded. In such straitened times as these, that funding could be eyed jealously by others as a luxury.’

  ‘So… you’re reallocating the MIS budget, is that it? Where?’

  ‘Phil,’ Glass said, leaning forward, hands together in a gesture that looked
to be learned from management classes, ‘let’s not be hasty.’ He gestured to the file in front of him. ‘I’ve made a study of you and your team. Your results speak for themselves, of course, but… let’s be straight. You run your team as though it’s your own private fiefdom.’

  Phil couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘What?’

  ‘In the briefing just now. You questioned me. In front of the whole team.’

  ‘So? You’d let someone go – a witness, or even a suspect – and not informed me.’

  ‘Some would say that’s what the briefing was for. For everyone to catch up on developments.’

  ‘Something like that I should have known about. I should have been consulted. It wasn’t proper procedure.’

  Glass stared at him. ‘As I said. There will be some changes in procedure from now on.’

  ‘Including not keeping me informed of what’s going on? Taking decisions above my head about my investigations and not informing me?’

  Glass’s voice dropped. ‘Detective Inspector, you may have had a certain amount of latitude and leeway from your former DCI, but you won’t be getting that with me. We do things by the book. My book. There’ll be no room for mavericks in my department. You or your team.’

  Phil’s voice was rising. ‘There are no mavericks on my team.’

  ‘That’s open to debate.’

  ‘No it isn’t.’ Phil leaned forward too. ‘What problems have you got with my team?’

  Glass looked at the file. ‘Their attitude borders on insubordination. I-’

  Phil jumped in over the top of him. ‘No it doesn’t. I encourage creativity and free thinking. And the results bear that out. More crimes are solved by taking a lateral approach.’

  Glass’s eyes hardened. ‘I can see where they get it from. You have a pernicious hold on them. Miss Jean Brodie syndrome.’ A quick glance down, then back up again. ‘They’re in thrall to you.’

  ‘Thrall?’ Phil nearly laughed out loud. ‘Are we in a nineteenth-century novel suddenly?’

  Glass’s voice became cold. ‘You’re dressed in a manner more like a student than a police officer. You’re insubordinate. You’re rude to your superiors. And from what I’ve seen, your procedures sail dangerously close to the wind.’

  ‘I get results. Virtually one hundred per cent. You said it yourself.’

  Glass sat back, his voice dangerously low. ‘Once I’ve spoken to the Super, I’ll be putting my stamp on this place. You can still get results. But we’ll get them my way.’

  ‘And if I don’t want to get them your way?’

  ‘No one’s irreplaceable.’

  Phil stared at him. Wanted to hit him. Instead, he spoke. ‘By the way,’ he said, suppressing any anger that could make his voice waver, ‘Mickey spoke to me earlier. Said you’ve brought Rose Martin back on board.’

  Glass looked momentarily wrong-footed, lost for words. He quickly recovered his composure. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s not on your team. That’s no business of yours.’

  ‘Yes it is. She was a DS on my team at one point and she’s been on long-term sick. There’s no way she’s ready to come back. No way she’s competent.’

  ‘I made the decision in consultation with her psychologist.’

  Knowing Marina, Phil doubted that. ‘Stevie bloody Wonder could see she’s not ready to return yet.’

  Glass looked like he wanted to hit him. ‘Thank you for your opinion. Noted.’

  Phil bit back his initial reply. ‘And you’ve promoted her to DI as well?’

  Glass’s face turned red. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Is it supposed to be a secret?’

  ‘What happens with other officers is none of your business.’

  ‘You’re making a big mistake.’

  The ghost of a smile. ‘Again, thank you for your opinion.’

  There was so much more Phil wanted to say, felt he needed to say. But he knew there would be no point. He would be going round in circles. He looked at his watch.

  ‘Am I keeping you from something important?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Phil, rising. ‘I’ve got one of those murders to solve. But don’t worry. They’re really simple. I’ll be done by lunchtime.’

  He turned, left the office before Glass could say anything else.

  And now he was staring at the hotel.

  Swallowing down the fluttering in his chest, he got out of the car. Tried to put his conversation with Glass out of his mind. Concentrate on his job. Took a couple of deep breaths, ducked under the tape, walked towards the main entrance, ID held aloft.

  Here we go, he thought.

  No one barred his way.

  51

  Completely different, thought Phil. Different shape, size, age, everything. Completely different to the house at the bottom of East Hill. The cage. Completely.

  But he still couldn’t shake the feeling.

  Giving himself a mental talking-to for being so stupid, he walked towards the hotel.

  It was a beautiful building, he admitted that much. He stepped through the front door, found himself in a wood-panelled reception area, stone-flagged floor. The wood was aged but well-preserved, the stone floor worn by centuries of feet. Clearly authentic, he decided. He flashed his card.

  ‘DI Brennan,’ he said to the girl behind the desk. ‘Is Jane Gosling here?’

  The girl was very attractive, dressed in a smart dark uniform suit, white blouse beneath, cut to emphasise her cleavage. Dark hair pulled back, large earrings. Well made up. She creased her brow. Even her frown was pretty.

  ‘Is she… a guest… here?’ Voice heavily inflected.

  East European, thought Phil, but he couldn’t place her more specifically than that.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘she’s the police officer in charge of this murder investigation.’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ She looked round for another member of staff, beckoned over a young man with spiked hair and an eager face, told him to take her place behind the desk.

  ‘Come with me, please.’ She walked round to Phil’s side of the desk, went through another doorway that led to the main section of the hotel.

  Phil knew from the night before where the room was, but didn’t want to appear as the kind of arrogant policeman he hated, so he followed her. Tried hard to take his eyes from her pencil-skirted legs and spike heels. She walked like he imagined Marilyn Monroe must have walked. If she had been on sand, the dots of her heels would have been in a straight line.

  He picked his eyes up, looked round. The wood panelling and worn flags persisted. They reached a central area with a huge old fireplace, the fire unlit. Then up a wide, high staircase. The panelling gave way to plastered walls, stained-glass windows. Even a suit of armour.

  Phil looked through a set of double doors to an old wooden doorway that seemed even more aged than the rest of the hotel.

  ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘The chapel,’ said the girl.

  ‘Chapel?’

  ‘Yes. It was Knights Templar chapel. Very old.’ She looked round. ‘You would like to look in?’

  ‘Yeah. Please.’

  They crossed the floor. She opened the door. They stepped inside.

  The first thing Phil noticed was the cold. The walls were heavy old stone. The windows stained glass, the floor flagged. It was like stepping even further back in time. He could feel the history in the place.

  ‘Nice,’ he said to the girl. ‘How old is it?’

  ‘Oh, it is… very old,’ she said, turning her head quickly, favouring him with a quick smile. ‘I do not know… ’

  ‘Right,’ he said. He looked over at the far wall. A huge wooden door stood there, so old and heavy it looked like the chapel had been built round it. ‘Where does that lead?’

  ‘Nowhere. Is… blocked off.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Would you…?’ She pointed back the way they had entered.

  Phil followed her ou
t and up the stairs.

  They kept walking. ‘Can I ask, where are you from? That accent isn’t from round here.’

  Another smile. ‘Lithuania,’ she said. ‘I come here to work.’

  ‘Right. Enjoying it?’

  She didn’t turn round this time. ‘Is OK.’ Then perhaps thinking she should have said more, ‘Is fun.’

  ‘Good.’

  They walked in silence until they reached the room. ‘In here… ’ Her expression darkened as she showed him the doorway. He would have worked out which one it was. The only one with crime-scene tape across it.

  Phil thanked her, and she turned, walked away down the hall. Her heels perfect dots in the carpet once more. Phil turned to the doorway.

  ‘OK to come in?’ he called.

  ‘Get yourself suited first,’ came the reply.

  A plastic-wrapped bundle was thrown into the hallway. Phil undid it, put it on, zipped up. Entered.

  DS Jane Gosling was already in there, looking round. ‘See anything you like?’ she said.

  Phil noticed how different it looked from the previous night. The body was gone, for one thing. Down to the mortuary to be rendered down to its component parts, weighed and examined, quantified and analysed. Adam Weaver no longer a person, just a dead organism. A human watch, broken beyond repair, lacking a set of instructions as to why it had stopped ticking.

  Phil hated the aftermath of a murder scene. He often found it worse than when the body was still there. The absence of life more disturbing than the loss of it. A murder presented an end, but also a beginning. Because that was where his job started. But the aftermath showed that life went on. And in a way that was worse. Because one day that would be him.

  He shook his head. He had been having increasingly morbid thoughts since the birth of Josephina. Because her existence reminded him that one day there would be a world without him in it. But she would go on. He knew that was right, the way things were meant to be. But that didn’t make it any easier.