Bone Machine
Authors: Martyn Waites
Tags: #Mystery, #Detective, #Hard-Boiled, #Thriller, #UK
Bone Machine
Joe Donovan [2]
Martyn Waites
UK (2013)
ritualistically mutilated, her eyes and mouth crudely sewn shut. Her
boyfriend is arrested and charged with the murder. He might have a
vicious temper and a history of violence towards women, but is Michael
Nell really a killer? Michael's lawyer doesn't think so. She's hired Joe
Donovan to prove his alibi.
Donovan's investigations lead him
into the murky world of people trafficking and prostitution. But when
the second body shows up, he realises it's not just local gangsters he's
up against - but a deranged serial killer. A killer obsessed with the
city's dark history. A killer who leaves clues pointing to his twisted
plan. And if Donovan and his team can't decipher those messages in time,
a killer who will kill again...
Martyn Waites was born and raised in Newcastle Upon Tyne. He has written nine novels under his own name and five under the
name Tania Carver alongside his wife, Linda. His work has been selected as Guardian book of the year, he’s been nominated
for every major British crime fiction award and is an international bestseller.
‘The leading light of a new generation of hard-hitting contemporary crime novelists’ –
Daily Mirror
‘Grips, and squeezes, and won’t let go. Waites’ lean, exhilarating prose is from the heart and from the guts, and that’s exactly
where it hits you’ – Mark Billingham
‘Brutal, mesmerising stuff’ – Ian Rankin
‘An ambitious, tautly-plotted thriller which offers a stark antidote to PD James’ cosy world of middle-class murder’ –
Time Out
‘If you like your tales dark, brutal, realistic, with a pinch of Northern humour – don’t wait any longer – Waites is your
man’ –
Shots
‘Breathless, contemporary and credible, a thriller with a dark heart and guts to spare’ –
Guardian
‘The book houses an audacious energy and if you’re in any way a fan of Ian Rankin or Stephen Booth, this mesmerising thriller
will be right up your street’ –
Accent
‘If you like gritty crime noir in the style of Ian Rankin, this is the book for you … Waites brings his characters to life
with skill and verve, with more than a few nasty surprises. A riveting whodunit you really won’t be able to put down’ –
Lifestyle
‘A reckless energy which demands attention and respect’ –
Literary Review
The Joe Donovan Series
The Mercy Seat
Bone Machine
White Riot
Speak No Evil
The Stephen Larkin Series
Mary’s Prayer
Little Triggers
Candleland
Born Under Punches
The White Room
Also by Tania Carver
The Surrogate
The Creeper
Cage of Bones
Choked
The Doll’s House
Published by Sphere
ISBN: 9780751554373
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Martyn Waites, 2007
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Sphere
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
For Linda
People: Detective Inspector Paul Bentley; Ali Karim; Councillor Nick Kemp; Deb Kemp; Chris Myhill, Area Manager, Gateshead
Libraries; Jane Shaw, Information Specialist, City Campus Library, Northumbria University; Penny Sumner; Kerry Ward, Marketing
Services Manager, Port of Tyne; Kate Lyall Grant, Digby Halsby and Tara Wigley at Simon and Schuster; Jane Gregory, Claire
Morris, Emma Dunford, Jemma McDonagh and Terry Bland at Gregory and Company; Linda Waites.
Books:
Mapping Murder
, David Canter;
The Shadow of the Gallows
, Barry Redfern;
Beyond the Grave: Newcastle’s Burial Grounds
, Alan Morgan;
Somebody’s Husband, Somebody’s Son
and
Happy Like Murderers
, Gordon Burn.
Music:
Calenture
, The Triffids;
I Am A Bird Now
, Antony and the Johnstons;
The Dirty South
, Drive By Truckers;
Winnemucca
,
Post To Wire
,
The Fitzgerald
, Richmond Fontaine.
She could no longer tell whether her eyes were open or closed. All was darkness.
She couldn’t open her mouth to scream. Or speak.
Couldn’t move.
She had to escape, had to run. She tried to pull her arms up. Move her legs. No good. He had tied them too tight. She moved
around, pushing, wriggling against whatever it was she was tied to. Rough and cold. Sharp. It hurt when she moved.
She lay back, breathing heavily. Forcing air through her closed lips. Her mum. Her dad. Her sister Catherine. Even her dog,
Barney. She had never wanted them so much in her life.
Her life. It seemed a thousand years away, something she had only dreamed.
She could have cried. But she was beyond tears. Remembered the pain the last time she had tried to force her mouth open. Sighed
a jagged sigh.
If only.
If only
…
Before this, she would have thought herself too young for regrets. Wrong. She played that moment over and over again in her
head, each time with a different outcome. She wished she had ignored him. Wished she had never stopped to help. Not expecting
him to … Not someone like that …
They’d shown films at uni, first year, given them lectures. About rape. Strangers. Not making herself vulnerable, not
walking home alone at night. She had attended, taken everything in. Not been worried. That wouldn’t happen to her. She was
clever, sensible. Those kinds of things always happened to someone else. Not to her.
Never her.
Another wave of emotion built again within her, waiting to crash. Wave after wave of emotions had come smashing into her.
Like a crumbling sea wall in an El Niño storm, she hadn’t been able to withstand them. Self-pity. Panic. Regret.
Fear. She hadn’t really known what real fear was until she had found herself here. Then it had smashed into her like a runaway
bus, leaving her screaming in pain, lying shattered, helpless. Anger.
If only
…
She tried to scream again. Felt the pain in her face.
Tried to pull her body upright. Felt only the restraints digging into her.
And then, with a change in the air, a movement, a different smell – he was there. Speaking. His voice, how she hated it. Pouring
over her like thick, rancid oil. Telling her things were all right. That they would soon be better. Telling her she was going
on the most exciting journey of her life.
She had tried to talk to him at first, like they told her at uni. Reason. Make herself out to be a person. Get him interested
in her, see she was another human being, worth something. She had tried. Her immobile mouth was his response.
She tried to speak, shout at him, plead. That pain again.
She felt him climb on top of her. Heard a ripping sound. Felt something cold, sharp, against her skin. Her clothes. He was
cutting off her clothes.
A fresh wave of panic ran through her. She pulled, pushed. Struggled. Couldn’t move. His voice, excited now, building up in
pitch. Pouring over her, drowning her.
His hands on her.
She tried to scream. Couldn’t.
She felt every sensation a body could feel; simultaneously, she felt nothing.
Another attempted sigh.
If only
…
The night was cold, the winter wind carrying the threat of ice, the hardened slush on the ground showing the dirty reality.
Katya was glad she was indoors. As much as she could be glad about anything. She wasn’t yet used to the northern climate.
She wasn’t yet used to this life.
She looked around: an anonymous bedroom, sparsely and poorly furnished. A single bulb with a dust-magnet shade threw weak,
soul-sapping light over the bed and bedside table. The bed cover a cheap floral design, regularly turned and rotated to disguise
any stains, the carpet old and nylon, a swirling vortex of threadbare blue, the curtains thin and unlined.
The house was on a nondescript road in the west end of Newcastle. A street of poor families and slumming students. The kind
of place that, if you didn’t live there, you needed a good reason for coming to. Men, she thought, must want sex badly to
come here. Or not really want it at all.
Katya adjusted her plastic miniskirt, pulled up her stockings. The bra was pinching under her arms. Her garments were cheap,
nasty. She was told to wear them but hated them, tried to think of them as armour, something to put between her and the men.
But that didn’t work. She often didn’t have them on long enough.
She sat on the bed, sighed. Waited. The night shift. The worst of the lot once the pubs closed. Then out came the drunks,
the losers. Slouching towards her room. Those with
nowhere else to go or somewhere they couldn’t face going. The haters and hurters. Those who wanted to vent their failures
and frustrations on her. It was beginning to make her hate in return. She hated this world. She hated herself in it. She hoped
she would never accept herself in it.
She listened. There was a new girl in the next room. Or at least a different girl. She had tried to engage Katya in conversation
on the way in, all girls together. Blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, make-up garish and crude, like an Asian theatre
mask. To hide the natural features and be seen from a distance. Must have just stopped working on the street, Katya thought,
then chastised herself for that. She was starting to get used to it, think like one of them. The thought depressed her.
The girl had kept talking, chattering about how cold the weather was, even digressing to mention the missing student who had
been in all the newspapers for the last week or so. Katya just nodded, pretended she didn’t understand English. In fact, she
thought she had a pretty good understanding of English. But that was before she had ended up in Newcastle. She found the locals,
with their speedy, singsong dialect, harder to understand. She understood enough to know what they were calling her. Asylum
seeker scum. Fuck off back to your own country. She didn’t need a great grasp of the language or the dialect to understand
that.
Katya had nodded, ignored the girl, just waited for the previous tenant to finish off her client, vacate the room. She didn’t
want to talk, didn’t want to feel like one of them. It just reminded her how far she had fallen. So she had entered, the girl
taking the room next to her. Katya listened. No sound came through the wall. Unusual, she thought. The other girl’s door had
opened and closed a few times; she had heard it. Punters weren’t usually so silent. She shrugged, stood up. Not her concern.
She missed her home. Her old country. The way it used to be, before the bombs started dropping, the soldiers started arriving.
Before her neighbours used the war to legitimize long-pent-up hatreds for anyone they decided they could no longer tolerate.
Before most of her family was killed, her home destroyed. She tried not to think of the past too much. It was another time.
Another place.
She sighed. Two. Only two punters so far for the night. The first bad enough, the second even worse. Sweaty, ugly, nondescript
men. She had given them the talk, remembered the script, but they hadn’t been interested. Just unloaded their lust, paid and
left. And with every punter she serviced, a little more of her died. Soon, she thought, she would be able to stick a knife
through her hand and feel nothing. Her heart, even. Maybe she should; take a blade to her arms, cut. Just to see if she can
still feel. Still hurt.
She shook her head, stood up. Not wanting her thoughts to go down that route. She walked around the room, aware she was pacing
like a caged animal at the zoo. A depressingly appropriate analogy, she thought.
She pulled the curtains aside, looked out of the window. The black Peugeot 406 was still parked across the street where she
knew it would be. She could just make out the two burly silhouettes in the front seats. Making sure she worked, didn’t run.
Protecting their investment. Making sure she handed over every penny she made.
Katya could feel them watching her. She shivered from more than the cold. She would have to go with a punter soon, repellent
as that was to her. Because if she didn’t, the treatment she would receive later would be even worse.
She looked up the street. A lone boy, a light-skinned black teenager, was practising stunts on his BMX. It was late for him
to be out, and he seemed underdressed for the time of year, but then she doubted this was an area where they
cared too much about things like that. Further down the street towards the city centre, a drunk was making his comically tortuous
way up the road, his lack of progress heightened by the icy pavement. Her heart sank. He could be her next punter.
As she was thinking this, a car pulled up in front of the house. She tried to identify the make and model. It was dark, a
soft top; she could see that much. Maybe a Saab, or a Mercedes even. As she watched, a man got out of the driver’s side, locked
the door and made his way to the house. Tall, his hair perhaps slightly longer than was fashionable, wearing a brown-leather
jacket, jeans and boots. He was quite attractive, she thought. For a fraction of a second she found herself hoping he would
come to visit her.
She heard him knock on the door. Heard the door open, Lenny the landlord talk to the punter. She listened closely, imagined
she heard Lenny, his snivelling little voice, his oily skin, pocketing the money, directing the punter upstairs. He was a
creep. She had seen him peering around the door when she was working, getting his thrills from watching. She had been told
about him, warned. Found the warnings accurate.
The knock at the bedroom door made thoughts of Lenny dissipate.
Her stomach lurched. Even if he was attractive, she didn’t want to have sex with him. That should be her decision.
Katya felt bile rise from her stomach to her throat, swallowed it down again. She breathed deeply, tried to compose her features.
She had no choice. Slowly, like an invalid who had just regained the power of movement, she made her way towards the door.
Inwardly screaming, crying tears of rage, pain and loss, outwardly her face displaying all the emotions of a prison wall.
She reached the door, opened it.
He had kind eyes, she thought. A shy smile. He couldn’t keep eye contact with her. She stood aside, let him in. He walked
slowly into the room, looked around. The first one to do that, she thought. He didn’t seem to like what he saw. He sat down
on the bed. Katya stood, looking at him. He still hadn’t looked properly at her yet. He said nothing.
Katya began to get nervous. Perhaps this man was a psychopath, a killer. Perhaps he was the one who had taken this student
they were all talking about. Or, worse, perhaps he was police, immigration, ready to deport her, stick her on the next plane
back.
She swallowed hard. Tried to talk. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Joe,’ he said after much deliberation.
She nodded. ‘Good. So … Joe … what can I do for you?’ The words sounded hollow and false, like a serial adulterer’s promise.
‘Depends,’ Joe said eventually.
He turned, looked at her. His eyes were kind – she was right – but there was something more in them. A sense of loss, a glimpse
of darkness even.
Katya looked at him, tried to smile. ‘On … what …?’ she asked haltingly.
The man sighed, shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t do this.’ He put his hand into his inside jacket pocket.
Katya felt her heart skip a beat. This was it, she thought. He was going to produce his warrant card. Or his knife.
He looked at the door before speaking, checking no one was listening. ‘Is your name Katya?’ he asked, his voice low.
Katya couldn’t get her breath. ‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘it’s not. My name is Mandy. Mandy.’
‘Look,’ said Joe, a sense of urgency creeping into his
voice, ‘I’m not police, I’m not immigration. I’m not here to harm you. Honestly. Now please. Is your name Katya?’
She found herself nodding. It was as if he had read her mind.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ve got something for you. From Dario.’
‘Dario?’ She started to stand, almost shouted.
Joe quietened her down, putting his hands on her shoulders. Guiding her back to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.
‘Don’t shout,’ he said, removing his hands once he knew she wouldn’t shout again. ‘Yes. Dario. But you have to come with me.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
She almost laughed at the absurdity of the suggestion. ‘I can’t. No. Impossible.’
‘It’s not impossible. You just have to come with me.’ Joe’s voice was calm, trustworthy even. ‘Just come downstairs with me.
Get into the car and we’ll drive away.’
‘You make it sound so easy.’
‘It is.’
Panic crept into her voice. ‘They’re watching, they won’t let you go. They will do terrible things to you.’
Joe smiled. ‘You don’t think I came here on my own, do you?’
Katya frowned. Joe stood up, looked again around the room.
‘D’you need to get anything?’
Katya shook her head. She felt like she had stumbled into a dream.
Joe leaned across to a chair in the corner, lifted Katya’s plastic coat, handed it to her. ‘I think you’ll need this.’
Numbly she nodded, put it on over her working clothes. Belted it tight.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Come on, then.’
He opened the bedroom door, held it open for Katya to exit first. She smiled at him as she passed. It felt like the first
act of kindness anyone had done for her in a long time. If her heart hadn’t been beating so fast, she might have shed a tear.
Joe walked to the next bedroom, knocked on the door. Katya frowned at him. He just smiled.
‘Are you decent?’ he said as he opened it.
‘Very funny,’ came the reply from inside. It was the girl who had tried to talk to her earlier. She sounded different. Not
such a thick accent. She came to the door, closed it behind her.
‘Ready?’ said Joe.
She nodded.
‘Peta – Katya, Katya – Peta,’ he said, gesturing quickly with crossed arms to the two women. ‘Time for proper introductions
later. Come on.’
He walked briskly down the stairs. At the bottom, Lenny, the weasel-faced landlord, appeared. His eyes widened as he saw the
three of them coming towards him.
‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?’ he said, twisting his already rodent-like features into a more feral look. ‘Get
back upstairs. Now.’
Joe walked right up to him, using his height against him, face impassive. Lenny flinched, stepped back.
‘We’re leaving. All of us. Problem?’ Joe’s tone of voice left no doubt that he hoped there would be.
Lenny tried to laugh. It sounded more like the cry of a sick horse. ‘Try it. Step outside. See what you get.’
‘OK.’
Joe brushed Lenny aside, opened the door. As he stepped through, Lenny made a grab for Peta, the last in line.
‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ he said, his sweaty hand clamped to her wrist.
Peta turned. She twisted her arm, shrugged off Lenny’s grasp and forced his arm behind his back so quickly that Katya barely
registered that she had done it. There was no mistaking the snapping sound, though.
Lenny gave out a shrill howl. Peta took her hand away, allowing him to crumple to the floor.
‘Pick on someone your own size next time,’ she said.
And then they were in the street, the door closed behind them, Katya staring at the other woman in admiration and amazement.
Joe pointed his keys at the Saab, walked briskly around to the passenger door.
‘You be careful,’ said Peta, standing aside. ‘That car’s my pride and joy. Harm that and you’ll get the same treatment as
our friend back there.’
Joe smiled. ‘I don’t doubt it.’ He looked up at Katya, then across the road, then opened her door before walking around to
the driver’s side. ‘I think you’d better get in. Before the party gets gate-crashed.’
Katya followed his gaze. Her two minders were out of the Peugeot, angrily slamming the doors behind them, setting off across
the street.
Panic welled inside her. Touching the door handle, Katya froze.
‘Come on,’ said Joe from inside the car. ‘We’d better get going.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t worry about them, just get in.’
Katya snapped out of her trance, did as she was told as Joe locked the doors. She looked at her two minders while Joe found
the key.
They were unable to cross the street. The boy on the BMX had chosen the moment of their crossing to practise his stunts in
front of them. They were dodging about trying to get around him. She heard the threats, recognized them
from her own language. The boy wouldn’t move; whichever way they went, he went. Their voices rose, the threats intensified.
Another voice joined the fray. The minders, in trying to dodge the boy, had bumped into the drunk man making his way up the
street. The man, angry at having his progress impeded, was letting them know what he thought of them. One of the minders threw
a punch at the drunk. Katya, having felt the power behind that punch on many occasions, feared the worse for the man. However,
what happened next surprised her. The drunk stood his ground, slipped out of the path of the punch with almost nonchalant
ease, twisted his body so that he fell against her minder, taking the man’s legs out from under him and leaving him on the
pavement. The BMX boy was still zigzagging interference in front of the other one.