Bedlam (10 page)

“She’s not dead,” McNeil ignored the warning look thrown his way by Dennis, “and you’ve all written her off. If that’s not mishandling, then I don’t know what is.”

Mather glared at Dennis. “I thought you had him under control.”

“I do. He is. Things are just a little tense at the moment. It’s the anniversary of Kit’s … disappearance. It’s a bad time for him and this recent case hasn’t helped. He’s been seeing a doctor, haven’t you, DS McNeil?”

McNeil smiled, which he guessed wasn’t the required response; he could tell by Dennis’ incredulous look and Mather’s indignant snort.

“From what I hear, that’s not all you’ve been seeing … bloody ghosts and ghouls. You’re a copper, for God’s sake. Forget the fairies at the bottom of the garden and the monsters under your bed, and pull yourself together.” The meds, designed to relax, merely compounded his disgrace as the smile slid into a smirk in response to Mather’s outburst. “You see what I mean? He thinks this is a damn joke. Have you been drinking, detective?”

“No, sir,” he slurred.

Mather squeezed back in his seat and McNeil watched distractedly as his complexion morphed through various fiery shades before gradually returning to a more usual florid. He reckoned Mather was employing some discreet inhaling and
exhaling therapy of his own, and while he did, an uncomfortable silence filled the office. The man hadn’t got to his position without developing a knack for wriggling out of tight situations. McNeil waited while Mather plotted.

“Damage limitation, that’s what’s needed here,” he finally announced, jabbing a finger at McNeil.
“You, detective, are going to smarten up and prepare for a press release, an interview with Ms Hell-hath-no-fury herself. In it you’ll recite words prepared for you by someone whose brain is not addled by heaven-knows-what and who understands the precarious relationship we enjoy with the tabloid vultures. This will ensure that every person who picks up the next copy of that bloody newspaper believes you to be a paragon of modern policing. I will not have sinners on my watch, DS McNeil. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

“Loud and clear … sir.”

“Good. Get on to that, DI Todd. I expect a draft document on my desk by close of business.”

Dennis stepped forward. “Me? You want me to write it?”

“He’s your boy, Dennis. Man up and take some responsibility. He messes in the nest, you clear it up. Maybe that’ll encourage you to keep a closer eye on him.”

Dennis shot a murderous look at McNeil.

“Oh, and while you’re here, how is the case going, DI Todd?”

“Slowly, sir.”

Mather scowled. “That’s not what I want to hear. Do we know how they died?”

“Their throats were slit.
Something small and sharp. Possibly a scalpel or cut-throat razor.” Dennis’ shot a quick glance at McNeil and his blood-stained collar. “There were other wounds, stab wounds. And, of course, the wounds to the throat were exacerbated by the meat hooks.”

McNeil’s lips twitched. “Meat hooks will do that,” he murmured.

Mather glared at McNeil. “And do we know how they got up there? What have forensics said?”

“Not a lot, sir. I’m still awaiting their report,” replied Dennis. “The meat hooks were suspended from ropes which were secured beneath the parapet. There was no sign of any ladder. We have no idea how the bodies were lifted.”

“They weren’t lifted. They were dropped,” McNeil interjected.

“Huh?”

McNeil shrugged. “Seems pretty obvious to me. They were dropped from above. You know, like concrete from a flyover, Pooh sticks from a bridge.” He closed his eyes as a sudden image flashed in his head. The men, drunk, half-dazed, the flash of a silver blade and then the sickening crunch of pointed metal as it severed larynx and embedded in spine. “Their heads were almost ripped off. What else could cause that kind of damage but the force of the drop?”

“But why?” asked Dennis.

“For kicks. To smash a car. To race sticks. To see what happens.”

“All that, just for kicks?”

“Yeah, to see what happens when you launch two dead guys two hundred feet with a hook through their necks.
Kind of bungee with extra ‘eeee’.”

Dennis nodded slowly, thinking it through. “The rope was fixed beneath the parapet. Why not just tie it off on the top of the bridge?”

“Maybe they prepared the ropes in advance and didn’t want them seen.”

“They?”

“One man couldn’t have subdued both victims, hauled up the ropes and then manhandled the bodies over the parapet.”

“What are you saying?”

McNeil shrugged. He didn’t really know what he was saying or where the words were coming from. He hadn’t given the victims any thought at all before he’d stepped into Mather’s office. He’d been too obsessed with Nell and Kit.

“I’m saying it looked staged.”

“So, in your opinion, totally unconnected to the girl. A coincidence?” cut in Mather.

“Maybe.
I don’t know.” He rubbed at his eyes. The heat in the room was dehydrating. He needed a drink, and at this point even water would have done. Richardson had said the meds would help him see things more clearly. McNeil didn’t think that included crime scene exclusives. “I’m just thinking out loud.”

Mather swung his gaze from one man to the other. “And the girl, has she given a statement?”

“She’s still confused,” said Dennis. “DS McNeil did obtain some vital information as to her attacker’s identity, and we’re following up on those leads.”

“Jacob…she said his name was Jacob,” muttered McNeil, his mind still on the image of the corpses swinging gently back and forth in the breeze. He imagined the wind strengthening, dashing the bodies like inanimate pendulums against the viaduct supports, boots ringing out dully against the iron work. The macabre beat aped his escalating heart rate. He’d heard that so
und before. Boots against wood - jerking - kicking - pounding, and then deathly silence.

He swallowed in an attempt to generate some saliva. He longed to loosen his tie, but instead ran a finger inside his shirt collar to relieve the constriction. When he pulled his hand away, his fingers were spotted with fresh blood. He shot a quick glance at Dennis and shoved his hand in his pocket.

“Jacob, who’s Jacob, the bloody milkman?”

McNeil refocused on Mather.
“No, sir. Jacob. The man she was running from.”

“Had a good conversation with her, did you?”

“Bits and pieces. As DI Todd explained, she was a little confused.”

Mather swung his gaze back to McNeil and narrowed his eyes. “Not the only one, by all accounts, eh?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir.”

“Exactly.
A word of advice, detective. Do not take me for a fool. If you’re up to something, I will find out. If, as I suspect, you’re simply not up to the job, then that will soon become apparent. But while you’re still here drawing a salary, I want you out there working for your money. I want you sober and civil, and most of all I want results. One wrong step, one more incident that finds its way into print and causes my blood pressure to peak, and I will have your badge. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

McNeil shrugged.

“That is not an answer, detective.”

McNeil pulled himself out of the chair and straightened up. “Yes, sir, I understand fully. Keep my mouth shut and do as I’m told.”

Mather extended a stubby finger, punctuating each sentence with a furious jab. “DI Todd, the responsibility for this officer remains entirely with you. Do not make me regret this. Now, get him out of here before I do something that risks my pension.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Thanks for that, Joey.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you?” hissed Dennis as he shouldered him into the lift. “You don’t bloody look it. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were half-cut.”

McNeil smiled stupidly and spread his arms wide. “Not guilty, Dennis, I haven’t touched a drop. Just drunk on life, I guess.”

“Well, it’s time you sobered up. I want you down at the hospital, and this time I want a proper statement. When you’ve done that, get yourself straight back here. No stops, no fights and no excuses.”

“What about you? I thought you were meant to be holding my leash.”

“Me? I’m going to be writing your speech, bailing you out when I should be catching killers. If there’s any sense in that, let me know, because I’m buggered if I can see it.”

“Hey, make sure it’s a good one.”

“You know, Joey, sometimes I wonder why I bother with you, or how you manage to wriggle out of tight spots with Mather, but then you come up with a cracker and it reminds me that inside that screwed-up mind of yours there’s a good detective just fighting to get out.”

“A cracker?”

“Launching Popeye and Jaimsey from the top. I like it. It’s worth further investigation. As you say, pretty obvious when you think about it. I’ll check with the lab and set the boys onto it while you go and visit at the hospital.” He patted McNeil’s shoulder, the closest he’d get to showing real affection. “Hang in there, Joey.”

McNeil smiled wearily. “I’m hanging, Dennis.”

They parted ways on the first floor. McNeil ducked his head and avoided conversation on the way down to the squad room, which wasn’t difficult as most people chose to give him a wide berth. The threat of guilt by association was a sure-fire way of sorting the men from the boys, the runners from the also-rans. So far only Dennis had stood up to the plate, albeit reluctantly. Nevertheless, he caught a few curious glances, which proved that the grape vine was thriving and his
bollocking by Mather was common knowledge. No doubt they were all wondering how he’d kept his job. He wondered about that, too. He’d expected a suspension at the very least; was hoping for it, if truth be told. Perhaps Mather was just letting out a little more rope in the hopes he would trip over it. The way he was feeling, he had no qualms about slipping his head in the noose.

He ducked into the men’s room, splashed water on his face and slaked his thirst. Glancing at the mirror above the basin he
understood why colleagues were avoiding him. His face was grey with fatigue. His eye, no longer swollen, had settled to an interesting palette, which bizarrely would have complemented his non-designer stubble if he’d been trying for the zombie look. But at least the bleeding had stopped, and in McNeil’s confused reality that was something to be thankful for. He just didn’t have the energy left to wonder about it.

The office was almost empty and he managed to reach his desk without incident or further interrogation. Most of the team was out chasing up leads and taking statements. It was what he should be doing, what he’d promised Dennis he would do when he’d played his repentant card outside Mather’s office. He was sorry that he’d caused trouble for Dennis - that bit was true - but the part where he’d promised to concentrate on the job and forget about Kit was a lie, and Dennis had known it. All the same, he’d given him the benefit of the doubt and accepted his excuse that he needed to spruce up a little before he attempted round two with Nell. The fact that it was actually round three and he was dreading it was neither here nor there.

Whether he was willing to admit it or not, he was obsessed by two young women, Kit and Nell, neither of whom were dead, and while he’d been banging heads trying to prove it, the rest of the team had been busy doing the day job, knocking on doors, calling in favours and collecting the evidence which was currently displayed on a six by eight whiteboard. A collection of crime scene photos took centre stage. McNeil wasn’t sure which was more disturbing, the apocalyptic devastation beneath the viaduct or the view from the parapet looking down. All sense of perspective had been distorted by the angle of the lens and the closer he looked at it the more intense the illusion became.

The bottomless pit, pushing him over, pulling him in.

He recalled Nell’s words:
could she really have stepped out into the abyss and survived?
He almost believed it. Nothing about her made any sense. He let his eyes stray to the photos taken before he’d arrived at the scene, before it was realised that she was not a body, not a corpse, but a surviving victim.

The photos were ugly disrespectful close-ups of bloodied and battered flesh. All the same he was drawn to them with morbid fascination in the same way that he was drawn to her. He angled his head to see her more clearly. Hesitantly, he reached out to trace the outlines with his finger. “Who are you?” he murmured. He studied her face, pale, mud-splattered and blood-stained. Dead - but not quite.

Was that how he would find Kit?

For the first time since her loss, since the day she had disappeared from his life, he experienced a gut wrenching moment of doubt.
It welled up inside, a thousand tormentors fighting to be heard, chiding him, baiting him and sneering at his impotence.

Was he too late?

As he stared, his focus blurred and the image distorted. The track marks on her arms became isolated stations on an underground map of indigo veins, the slight wounds on her neck now vicious tears in smooth alabaster flesh. Blood pulsed from every wound as if a beast had gorged upon her. The horror stunned him. He shook his head, squinting in an attempt to clear his vision, but just as in the tattoo shop, the images played with his mind and mocked at his uncertainty, until it was no longer Nell who lay stretched out, broken and discarded in the mud, but his beloved Kit. Her outstretched hand beckoned him, the tattooed serpents leapt out from her wrist and twisted in his direction, tongues darting, eyes gleaming.

“Damn you,” he hissed. “Damn you to hell, whoever you are.”

He yanked his hand away, ripping the photo from the board as he staggered back. Colliding with a chair which clattered to the floor, he allowed the image to slip from his grasp. At the far end of the room the few remaining occupants looked up from their computers and exchanged concerned looks.

Get a grip
, he muttered,
get a fucking grip
. He stooped and picked up the photo. His palm burned and his chest tightened. Instead of reattaching the image to the board, he slipped it into his breast pocket and sucked in a frantic breath.

Inhale, exhale.

He’d overstayed his welcome, the meds were wearing off and anxiety was seeping back in. He needed to locate what he’d actually come for and get out, before Mather decided to wind in the rope and leave him to dangle just like Popeye and Jaimsey.

His computer access to Kit’s file was blocked. He knew that already. He’d tried before. There was only one alternative and that was to look at the paper files in storage. Armed with the crime reference numbers, he made his way to Records.

Charlotte, the civilian record keeper, looked up as he entered the room. She was young and attractive, and McNeil wasn’t so messed up that he hadn’t noticed. He just wasn’t in the market.

“Hi, Joey.
I haven’t seen you in a while. You look a little rough. Are you okay?” Her voice was soft, her concern genuine. She reached out to comfort him as if he was recently bereaved and he stepped away. She meant well but he didn’t want it, not from her. It was one thing keeping up a front with people who didn’t care, but he knew how easy it would be to be felled by a kind word. And he couldn’t afford to fall until he found Kit.

He dragged out a smile for her instead. “I’m fine, Charlotte, just had a rough couple of days.”

“You’re not kidding. You’ve got a hell of a shiner there. I’ve got nail varnish in exactly the same shade.”

His lips twitched in genuine amusement. “They say purple is the new black.” Maybe she wasn’t aware of the stories about
him that were circulating the station, or perhaps she didn’t care. Either way, he got the feeling that, like Dennis, she was a runner and he was glad of it.

“What can I do for you, Joey?” she asked.

He didn’t have clearance for the records he wanted, and although Charlotte was an angel with more than a soft spot for him, she was also a stickler for procedure, more through fear of the consequences than any love for rules and regulations, but there was no way she’d accept his need to look at anything related to Kit.

“I need to look at the evidence collected from the Bedlam crime scene.”

“Oh my goodness, that’s a terrible case. I don’t know how you boys cope with stuff like that. It’d give me nightmares.”

McNeil nodded. He knew all about nightmares. “There are some sick individuals out there. That’s for sure.”

“I heard what you did.” She gave him one of her smiles and he wondered if she really was as coy as she made out, or whether she was actually making a play and he was just too stupid to see it. “Lucky you turned up,” she continued. “That poor girl! Can you imagine everyone thinking you’re dead when really you’re not?”

McNeil forced a return smile and swallowed the irony. “The sooner we get the
man who did it, the sooner the girl can get her life back.” He made a show of checking his watch, anxious to get a move on before Dennis realised he wasn’t where he was meant to be.

“Sorry, Joey, I’m just about to lock up and nip out for a break. Can you come back in thirty minutes?”

“It’ll only take me five minutes. Dennis is waiting.”

Charlotte hesitated. “I’m not even sure we have that stuff down here. It should all be up in the incident room.”

“Mather sent me down here. There’s something missing, probably got mixed up. He’s fit to burst an artery up there in his ivory tower.” He leaned in a little closer, all the better to sugar coat his white lies. “I told him how efficient you were, how you knew where everything was, that I’d be back before he could water his plants. I kind of need to keep in his good books.”

“Well, I could go for coffee later
… You could join me.”

“No, you go and have your break. I’ll keep an eye on things here.” He smiled, used a little of the charm that hadn’t been out of the tin for so long he wasn’t even sure it still worked.

“I’m not supposed to leave the office unmanned. You know that.” She was wavering and he squeezed a little harder.

“It won’t be. I’ll be here. I’ll close the door behind me and no one will be any the wiser. It’ll be our little secret.”

“I’d still need to check you into the log.”

“Okay, let’s do that now and then you can shoot off for that coffee.” He reeled off the Bedlam crime number and signed his name alongside the entry she made in the log.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked “Anything at all?” She sounded hopeful, and he didn’t want to be responsible for raising or dashing her hopes.

“No, Charlotte, that’s fine. I’ll let DCI Mather know how helpful you’ve been.”

*  *  *

If the thickness of the file was an indicator of the lengths to which the investigating team had gone, then Kit’s file didn’t say much about the effort expended to find her. McNeil shook his head in dismay. It seemed he was the only one who had taken her disappearance seriously. He flicked through it quickly, scanning the various statements. He slowed when he came to the one provided by John Bales, the man who had failed to show up to their pre-arranged meeting. He wanted to know why, and to find out he needed the man’s address.

He pulled out the statement. Attached to it by a paperclip was a photo of Bales. McNeil paused. It wasn’t a holiday snap. It was the standard photo taken by a booking officer. Bales looked shifty, and as was now obvious, Bales also had a record. Perhaps even more pertinent, McNeil had seen the man quite recently. Well, to be precise, a black and white image of the man, on the front page of the ‘Herald’. He was one of the two men who had hauled him out of Minkey’s. If Bales had been in the bar all night, why hadn’t he made his presence known? McNeil checked his watch. He didn’t have time to check the computer for Bales’ past history. Charlotte would be back soon.

He crossed to the door, cracked it open and checked that the corridor outside was still empty. While he waited for the photocopier to do its stuff with Bales’ statement, McNeil turned to the rest of Kit’s file, and he was drawn reluctantly to the statement provided by Kit’s father, the Reverend George Robinson
Foulkes. The reverend had strongly disapproved of his daughter’s relationship. McNeil had always known it, despite Kit’s protestations to the contrary. The statement removed any lingering doubt. Having already lost one daughter tragically in childhood, Foulks believed his remaining daughter had wasted her life, and ultimately lost her life, because of him. Although it fell short of actually accusing him of being party to her disappearance, the implication was there. To Rev. Foulkes, there had only been one person responsible for the loss of his daughter. McNeil’s gut twisted.

Perhaps the reverend wasn’t so far off the mark.