Bone Machine (29 page)

Pushing a wheelchair.

‘Yes!’

Both the operator and DC Stone cast her a quizzical look. She was too pumped with adrenalin to give a coherent explanation,
breathing too heavily to care if her words made sense.

‘Went through the witness statements. Found him there at every scene. Knew it. Knew it …’

The picture advanced, frame by frame. The overcoated figure pushed the wheelchair and its covered, seated occupant up to the
lamppost, then looked around.

‘Get a frame grab of that, get it blown up. See if we can get some detail off it.’ See if it resembles Michael Nell, she thought.

Stone nodded. The picture advanced.

The figure, satisfied that no one was watching him, pulled the covering back from the prone, broken body of Jill Tennant.

‘That poor girl …’ said the CCTV operator. ‘Got a kid about her age meself. Makes you think, all this.’

Nattrass nodded, urging him to keep going. He did so.

Jill Tennant’s body had been rigged to hang and tied with rope. The hatted figure threw the coiled rope up and over the curving
top of the lamppost, made sure it didn’t slide off and threw it around again to make a second loop. He pulled the rope tight,
heaved down. Jill Tennant’s body left the chair and began to be hauled up. It was slow going; he didn’t seem to be very strong
and the body looked heavier than anticipated.

‘Wimp,’ said Stone. No one argued.

He kept pulling until he had the body hoisted up.

‘Persistent wimp, though,’ said the operator.

Eventually the body hung there. He tied the rope off, stood back to check his handiwork, gave an admiring nod, turned and
quickly made his way back up the street with the wheelchair. He was soon out of shot and gone.

Nattrass sat back, heaved a huge sigh of bitter vindication. She turned to Stone.

‘See if there’s any footage from other cameras in the area. Try to get a picture of where he came from, where he went back
to. Get forensics on the moor over the road. Maybe he went that way, maybe he left tracks. Then if that’s the case
start a door to door with the houses over the other side of the moor. We’ve got a description now, maybe a face shot. Someone’ll
remember those clothes. Get him tracked down, get him found.’

She turned to the tape operator. ‘Thanks for your help. We really appreciate it.’

The man seemed to be in shock. He nodded numbly.

She looked again at the screen. At the figure, frozen before his victim. She tried to guess his features, see the expression
on his face. She was still breathing heavily.

‘We’ll get you, you bastard. We’ll get you.’

Peta looked at the empty coat stand. No hat, coat and scarf. No sign of the Prof.

The seminar room had a dark, depressing atmosphere. Some might have said funereal, but not Peta. Funerals, in her experience,
involved families consisting of relative strangers standing around in curtained living rooms eating curled sandwiches and
making the smallest of small talk.

Perhaps that’s just me, she thought. Or perhaps I haven’t lost anyone who was really close to me.

This room was nothing like that. There was a space where Jill should have sat, some empty chairs and the remaining ones filled
with students wearing numbed, fear-deadened expressions. Things like this didn’t happen to them. Or to their friends.

News of the discovery of a body was doing the rounds. Details were vague or non-existent but that hadn’t been allowed to get
in the way of a good story. By the time the news had Chinese-whispered its way around to Peta’s group of Jill’s fellow classmates,
the body was definitely that of Jill and all manner of unspeakable acts had been committed on her before she died.

Let them speculate, thought Peta. Can’t be any worse than what actually happened to her.

Peta felt like she had a rock inside her. Jill. She kept thinking of her. She hadn’t known the girl long but had come to really
like her. And now she was gone. Peta knew that, felt it. The same way Donovan had known the body in
Wales wasn’t that of his son. She had cried before coming to college, tears for Jill. Sadness had turned to anger, though,
and now it sat like a knotted ball of razor wire in the pit of her stomach. She was going to use that anger. She was going
to get payback for Jill.

The campus was awash on a sea of horror and revulsion, fear and excitement. And on a state of high alert. The extra security
guards were still throwing their weight around with extra gusto; stopping any infraction of imagined rules and regulations,
forcing people to take the most circuitous route possible, examining student passes with the same rigorous attention to detail
that they would use if they were trying to stop terrorists entering the UN building.

Peta had seen the guard she had had the altercation with a few days previously. He was stationed at a different doorway from
the one she wanted to enter. She looked at him and in return felt his eyes follow her across the quadrangle and into the main
building.

Sad little bastard, she thought. Probably how he gets his rocks off.

She turned the corner, didn’t give him another thought.

In the seminar room, they all waited. Conversation peaked and troughed about Jill until the subject was just about exhausted.
Peta tried not to join in, kept her feelings for the girl to herself. Then speculation turned to the no-show of the Prof.
They were collectively building up to nominating someone to go down to his office and see if he was there when the door opened
and in he came.

‘Apologies, apologies, one and all …’

He began the ritual of taking off his hat, scarf and coat.

‘Some … some other business which … demanded my attention.’

He sat down behind the desk. Normally he would have been removing textbooks from his antique briefcase but he
made no effort to do so. Instead he looked out at his class. Individually. One by one his eyes fell on them, his lips moving
silently as if making an incantation, giving a blessing.

He came to Peta, looked straight at her. There was a well of sadness, tiredness there. And something else. Something she couldn’t
read. She tried to catch the words on his lips but failed. He moved on.

The move had spooked her. Glancing around, she knew she wasn’t the only one.

He reached the end of his students and with a sigh let his head drop until he was looking at the desktop.

‘I don’t believe,’ he began, addressing the veneered surface before him, ‘that under the present circumstances we may be able
to wring a useful lesson out of today. Neither you nor me. So take the rest of the day off. Go home. Reflect. Grieve. Get
drunk. Whatever.’ He sighed. ‘Imagine it’s half-term. Or a week of Sundays. It doesn’t matter which. Just … just go.’

He put his head up. He didn’t bother to hide the tears.

‘Go.’

Looking and feeling uncomfortable, the students rose and, not without hesitation, made their collective way to the door. Some
attempted to stop, talk to the Prof, but he seemed off in a place they would find unreachable.

Peta was one of the last ones to leave. She looked at him as if expecting him to say something. He said nothing. Just stared
ahead. She joined the exodus.

She walked down the corridor, heading towards the refectory. She could have a coffee, go to the library. Do some work. She
could phone Joe, see what was happening with him, maybe help him in his work.

But she didn’t.

She thought again of the Prof and how he had looked, his eyes when they locked with hers …

A well of sadness, of tiredness, and something else
…
something she couldn’t read
…

Something was going on with him, she thought. Her old police instincts told her so. But suspicions weren’t enough. She had
to find out what it was.

She felt that ball of razor wire in her stomach. That anger. And headed for the refectory. Not because she needed a coffee.
But because it had a clear view of the main door. The one the Prof would enter and exit by.

She would watch him leave.

And then perhaps engage in a spot of office-breaking again.

Katya was walking.

She had walked for most of the night, headed in the direction of the city. She had walked as cars had pulled into driveways,
come to rest for the last time that night, their engines cooling and ticking as she passed. As lights and TVs had been switched
off in houses and flats, generating a silence and stillness that sometimes reached her on the street. As buses with no destinations
had gone by, depot-bound.

The air had turned cold around her. Small predators moved in the bushes and hedgerows to the side of her. As the night wore
on, lone cars would slow as they approached her, hesitate and be gone again. She knew what the drivers were thinking, what
they were planning to do with her. She knew she was taking a risk just by walking lonely streets and roads by herself in the
dark. She knew there were other, bigger, predators out there. But she didn’t care. She was lit by an inner light, driven by
a sense of purpose. She knew she would reach her destination; no one would stop her from getting there. That wasn’t going
to happen tonight.

Just in case someone was tempted to approach her she
repeated her plan to herself, aloud, over and over in her native language, like a mantra. Something to ward off evil spirits.
Keep her heart and mind focused on where she was going, what she had to do.

The words were old, familiar. She drew strength from them, companionship. The words and what was behind them made her feel
she was no longer alone. Made her feel that others were walking with her. Offering her the rough magic charms of old comforts,
old protections.

And it worked. No one stopped. No one approached her. She was left alone.

Dawn broke like a sickly egg over the city skyline. By that time tiredness had come and gone, struggled to claim her as the
devil in the desert struggled to claim Jesus Christ. But she won. She spoke her mantra aloud, chased the demon of fatigue
away. It left with no claim on her. She had felt good after that struggle, calm. She had rewarded herself with a rest, watching
the sunrise.

Katya was sitting on a wall in one of the town’s suburban outer circles. She had taken her new trainers off, saw the damage
for herself in the morning light. Her feet had turned to lumps of painful stone, the skin rubbed away in places leaving her
socks soaked with blood and sweat. She found an unused tissue in her pocket, split it and inserted the halves into each sock.
It was temporary, it wouldn’t hold, but it would have to do. She rubbed them, tried to ignore the pain, concentrate on what
was important to her. Only a little longer and that pain would be gone.

Or at least transferred. Permanently transferred.

She pulled her trainers back on. Her feet cried out in silent agony. She ignored them. She had to keep walking. Time was precious.

Standing up, she resumed her walk. Not far now. Soon it would be time to make another call. Then they would meet.

Then, and not until then, so many souls could finally be at rest.

She smiled. Took herself once more to the place where pain couldn’t touch her.

And kept walking.

The day wore on. And Donovan and Turnbull found they were having very little luck.

‘Course, it’s the wrong time of day for this kind of stuff,’ said Turnbull knowledgeably. ‘Should be here at night. That’s
when most of them come out. When a man’s most base desires demand satisfaction.’

‘Speaking from experience here, are we?’ Donovan couldn’t keep from laughing.

‘Fuck off. You know what I mean.’

Donovan did, but he wouldn’t admit it to Turnbull. They were sitting in a café off the West Road in the west end of Newcastle.
Once-red moulded plastic chairs and well-worn Formica-topped tables, wiped down so often there was virtually no pattern left.
Dark walls and tinny Radio 2. Plates of sausages, chips, eggs, beans and bacon in various combinations set before them. Tea
so strong it turned stomachs to acid. Turnbull had begun tentatively but was now wolfing his food down, a hangover kill or
cure. Donovan was picking at his, risking the safest, most edible pieces, leaving the items of more dubious provenance alone.

They hadn’t had a successful morning. Donovan had a list of prostitutes Michael Nell had persuaded to model for him together
with photos. They had addresses, or approximations of addresses where the women worked or perhaps lived. The two of them had
knocked on doors, attempted to strike up conversations with whoever answered. They sensed Turnbull for police, even in the
clothes he was wearing, and
Donovan to have no legal authority. The brothels were on shift work. No one knew, or claimed to know, the pictured women.
Certainly no one could tell them where the photos had been taken.

And Donovan still hadn’t found his phone. He had picked up his old one from the cottage and, after hastily texting Peta, Amar,
Jamal and Sharkey his temporary number, was carrying it. They were used to it – he was always losing and misplacing his mobile.
He hated the things but had other things to concern himself with. He would worry about its whereabouts later.

‘It’s difficult,’ said Donovan, contemplating a chip. ‘I came out last night and couldn’t get anywhere.’

‘On your own?’ asked Turnbull, his mouth wrapped around a virtually whole sausage.

Donovan nodded.

‘Not surprised. Should have had Peta with you. Or that bird you had in the car that time. Eased your passage, so to speak.’

‘Maybe my head’s just not in the right place.’

Donovan wasn’t even aware he had spoken aloud until he saw Turnbull stop chewing and stare at him.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Nothing,’ said Donovan. ‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Yes, you did.’ Turnbull took a few gulps of tea. ‘Your head. Not in the right place. Why?’

Donovan sighed, found his half-eaten lunch fascinating. ‘Nothing. Doesn’t matter.’

Turnbull laughed. ‘Fuckin’ ’ell. After all the shit I came out with this morning? Thought we were helpin’ each other here.
Don’t have to like each other to do that.’

Donovan said nothing. Turnbull shrugged. ‘Please yourself, then. I don’t care.’

‘I’ve just got back from Wales. I thought I’d found David.
I thought I’d found my son.’ Donovan spoke without looking up.

Turnbull stopped eating, looked at Donovan. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘You mean … you mean dead?’

‘Yeah, I mean dead.’

Turnbull looked hard at him, the unasked question on his lips.

‘No,’ said Donovan, returning the stare. ‘It wasn’t him.’

‘Oh.’ Turnbull nodded. ‘They know who …’

Donovan shrugged. ‘Who knows? A boy washed up on the shore. Another unsolved mystery. Another report in another file somewhere.’
He stopped speaking, thought. About everything else that was causing him concern. Katya. Jamal. ‘And then to come back and
find the office ransacked …’

Turnbull put down his knife and fork. ‘What? Your office?’

Donovan had done the same thing again, speaking without realizing. He nodded.

‘You didn’t tell me that.’

‘We’re not married. I don’t have to tell you everything.’

‘But still …’ Turnbull started to question Donovan on the break-in. Proper copper’s questions. Donovan wished he had kept
his mouth shut.

He managed to tell Turnbull as little as he needed to know, keeping Decca Ainsley and his unidentified friend out of it. Turnbull
seemed satisfied by what he heard, finished his lunch, threw his knife and fork down with a clatter, wiped his mouth with
his waxy napkin, drained the toxic tea from his mug, sat back.

‘Feeling better?’ asked Donovan.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Much better. More like me old self.’

Great, thought Donovan.

‘You know,’ said Turnbull, sitting back and lighting
himself a fag with no regard as to whether Donovan had finished eating or if he was offended by it, ‘we’ve been going about
this all wrong. No wonder you weren’t gettin’ anywhere.’

‘And I suppose you know a way to do this that’ll get results.’

Turnbull grinned what he assumed was a supremely confident grin, completely unaware of the baked bean husks and lumps of unmasticated
sausage that lay nestling in the front of his teeth.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Stick with your uncle Paul, you can’t go wrong.’

‘I knew this was a bad idea,’ said Donovan. He stood up, began to pull on his leather jacket. ‘If you’re so sure of yourself,
then, you can get the bill.’

Donovan turned and walked to the door without looking back or stopping. Turnbull’s grin fell slightly, but he still made his
way to the till and paid, then followed Donovan outside.