Bone Machine (33 page)

He came to a set of double doors. Closed. He leaned in close, put his ear to them. Tried to make out what was being said.

Kovacs was at the far end of the room looking through the glass at one of his prize specimens. The snake was curled around
a tree, its flat, unblinking eyes staring back at him. It was hard to tell whether the snake was regarding him fondly, with
hatred, as a potential meal or not regarding him at all. Kovacs was dressed in his usual business suit, his tie removed, his
shirt buttoned up to the neck. He turned when he heard the doors open.

‘Derek.’ He frowned. ‘Why are you here?’

Dario and Katya Tokic stepped into the room, closed the door behind them. Kovacs’ eyes widened.

‘What are they doing here? Derek, remove them.’

Kovacs moved to a central antique table, made as if to press a button.

‘Don’t do that.’ Tokic pointed the gun at him. Kovacs stopped moving, looked at him.

‘I have men in this house. They will be here in seconds.’

Tokic couldn’t keep the grin from his face. It was the grin of the powerless suddenly given power. And revelling in all the
cruelty that comes with it. ‘They will not. I have dealt with them.’

Kovacs looked at Decca as if seeking confirmation. Decca nodded. Kovacs tried to keep his face from showing anger, or indeed
any emotion. He spoke. ‘What do you want?’ he said flatly.

‘Marco Kovacs,’ said Dario Tokic. ‘Where is he?’

‘Here,’ said Kovacs. He seemed to be having the same trouble as Decca in swallowing.

Tokic looked around. ‘Where?’

Decca pointed at Kovacs. ‘There. In front of you.’ Desperation was showing in his voice.

Tokic and Katya exchanged glances.

‘That is not him,’ said Katya. ‘That is not the man who killed our family.’

‘Who are you?’ asked Tokic, taking a step towards Kovacs.

‘Marco Kovacs. I am Marco Kovacs. A legitimate businessman.’

‘Marco Kovacs was a member of Arkan’s Tigers. Marco Kovacs was known as the Snake. A warlord. Marco Kovacs was the person
who tortured and killed our family. We know what he looks like. You know him. They show me photo of you and him. So who are
you?’

Kovacs looked as if he was about to expire before them. ‘I have told you. I am … am Marco Kovacs …’

Tokic stepped in front of him. He pulled his arm back, ready to bring down his fist holding the gun on to Kovacs’ face.

There was a noise. From behind the double doors.

Tokic stopped, arm aloft. He turned to Decca. ‘What was that?’

Decca shrugged. ‘I … I don’t know …’

Tokic turned again to Kovacs. ‘You have more than two bodyguards in this house tonight? The truth.’

Kovacs shook his head. ‘No, no. Just two …’

Tokic looked between Kovacs and Decca, deciding whether they were telling the truth. He turned to Katya. ‘Go and look.’ He
gestured with his eyes at the automatic she was holding. ‘Kill whoever is there.’

Katya nodded and left the room.

Tokic turned back to Kovacs. ‘Again. Who are you?’

Fuck, thought Amar. Fuck.

He had tried to straighten up. The door was heavy, old. Not much sound travelled through it. He had tried to move to the centre,
put his ear on the gap. In doing so he had caught his sleeve on the handle. Pulling it away had made the noise.

He heard footsteps coming towards him, looked around.

He couldn’t run back to the main door he would be seen. And shot, if the other two bodies were anything to go by. He looked
for somewhere else to go, a hiding place. Saw an entrance to what he presumed was a cellar under the staircase. He ran towards
it, pulled at the handle.

Locked.

He looked around again. The footsteps were getting nearer, the handle being turned.

An alcove, shadowed, just along from the cellar doorway. That would have to do. That was all there was. He ran to it, pressed
himself up against the wall, hoped to melt away into the darkness.

The door opened. Footsteps on the polished wooden floor. They came nearer.

Amar pressed himself harder into the wall.

Nearer.

He tried to stop breathing, willed himself invisible. In desperation he closed his eyes.

The footsteps stopped.

Amar opened his eyes. There was nothing else he could do.

Before him stood Katya. Pointing a gun at him.

Amar breathed out, accepting his fate. There was nothing he could do now.

Katya looked at him, shocked to see him there at first. Then she recognized him. The gun wavered.

Amar waited. Neither spoke.

Then a voice came from the double doors.

‘Katya. Find anything?’ Dario Tokic. Impatient.

Katya looked between the sound of her brother’s voice and Amar. She opened her mouth to speak. Amar held his breath.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Nothing.’

‘Get back in here, then.’

She turned, ready to go.

Amar looked at her, opened his mouth, whispered thanks, ready to come out. She shook her head, crossed to him again. Put her
mouth against his ear. Whispered gently. ‘Say nothing. Do nothing. Stay hidden. And you will live.’

He nodded. She gave a slight nod in return, turned, walked back down the corridor.

Closed the door behind her.

Amar, body shaking all over, let out a silent sigh.

‘Liar.’

Tokic picked up where he had left off. He raked the gun across Kovacs’ face. Kovacs twisted backward away from the blow, lost
his balance, fell to one knee. Blood was beginning to seep from the ragged wound on his cheek. ‘Who are you?’

‘I, I told you. Marco Kovacs … You bastard …’

Tokic looked around as if looking for something to earth him, something that would stop him exploding. He seemed almost incandescent
with rage. His eyes fell on the snakes. Rows of them. Behind glass. Behind mesh. Primeval forces of survival barely contained.
He smiled.

‘You have the key for these cages?’

Kovacs nodded.

Tokic looked around, let his eyes alight on a particular pit of snakes. ‘These are cobras, are they not?’

Kovacs nodded again.

‘Dangerous to man. Fatal. Am I correct?’

Kovacs said nothing.

‘Open the door.’

Kovacs didn’t move.

Tokic stretched out his arm, pointed the gun at him. ‘Open the door.’

Kovacs, his hands shaking, took a set of keys from a drawer in the desk. He crossed to the glass-fronted cage on unsure legs,
found the lock and, with a great, trembling effort, opened the door.

The snakes coiled and uncoiled, sensing something happening, or about to happen.

‘Now get in.’

Kovacs turned to him. ‘Please …’

The gun was waved once more. ‘In.’

Tears were starting to well in Kovacs’ eyes. He opened his mouth, ready to implore.

Tokic aimed the gun at his feet, shot. The bullet went into the polished wooden floor, throwing up splinters. Kovacs jumped
back, got his feet out of the way just in time. The snakes recoiled and reacted.

‘In.’

Kovacs, trying not to let the tears show, stepped inside.

Tokic walked over to the cage, closed the door behind him, turned the key in the lock and removed it. He stood before the
glass, watching. The snakes sensed another presence. Began circling it, deciding whether it threatened their territory or
not.

Kovacs pressed himself against the glass. ‘Please …’

‘Where is Kovacs?’ Tokic’s voice flat, inflectionless.

Kovacs shook his head.

‘You will be dead soon if you do not answer. If you do not tell me the truth. Where is Kovacs?’

‘At … at the dock. Waiting for a new shipment.’

Katya bristled as she heard the word. She knew what it meant.

‘Which dock?’

‘There is only one here. One that takes ships from Baltic. Tyne Dock. We know you knew. We moved the date forward. In case
you told authorities, tried to stop us.’

‘Why are you pretending your name is Marco Kovacs? Who are you?’

‘No one. No one. Just an accountant playing a part.’ The man calling himself Kovacs looked behind him. The snakes were becoming
interested in him. ‘Just a front man. An accountant from Belgrade. Please, I’ve told you, let me go. Please …’

‘Which one is Kovacs?’

‘He’s … he’s calling himself Christopher.’

Tokic frowned. ‘Why?’

‘In case … in case something like this happened.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Christopher. He’s the one you want. You will know him
when you see him. Now, please, I beg of you, let me go …’

Tokic turned to Decca. ‘Do you know where this Tyne Dock place is?’

Decca wasn’t sure but he nodded. He could see the
alternative in front of him. ‘Yeah, yeah. I can take you there.’

‘Good.’ Tokic looked at Katya, nodded. Katya looked away. ‘Let’s go.’

Decca turned around, saw the man he had known as Marco Kovacs pressed against the glass, the snakes slowly coming towards
him. ‘What about him?’

Tokic looked at him, unblinking. Decca had seen eyes like that before. On the snakes.

On Christopher.

That war must’ve really fucked them all up, he thought.

‘We leave him.’

Decca was about to speak. Tokic stopped him.

‘He made his choices. He takes the consequences.’ He waved the gun at Decca. ‘Go.’

Decca walked out. As he crossed the threshold, the first screams began to ring out. Decca didn’t look back. Decca knew that
could have been him there.

The double doors opened. Amar, still in the same hiding place, pressed himself against the wall, hoped none of them would
look his way.

They didn’t. He imagined rather than saw Katya look in his direction, but none of the others did. He listened until they were
outside the house and the car was revved up and away before moving.

He walked towards the double doors. They had been left open. He peeked in.

‘Oh, no …’

Marco Kovacs’ body was slumped against the inside of the cobra cage, snakes writhing and slithering all over him. Amar’s first
instinct was to cross to the man, open the door, help him. Another glance and he knew the man was beyond help.

He left the vivarium, consciously trying not to touch
anything. He walked down the hall, avoiding the bodies, and went outside. He saw the gates closing, breathed a sigh of relief.

Amar stood against the side of the house, ignored the security light coming on, dug into his pocket, brought out his mobile.
Dialled Donovan.

‘Joe?’ he said when it was answered. ‘We’ve got a fucking situation here, mate …’

Amar tried to keep himself together, told Donovan the facts he needed to hear, then hung up. He placed another call after
that, an anonymous 999 one, ringing off before they could get a trace.

Amar walked quickly towards the gate, looking for the manual switch at the side that would open it. He felt something on his
body, looked quickly up. The rain was starting again. He breathed a sigh of relief, hit the switch. The gates swung open.

He looked back at the house. It looked so ordinary, banal even. Hard to believe what horror had taken place there. He turned,
walked through the gates.

And stopped.

Dario Tokic was standing right in front of him, his automatic pointing directly at Amar’s stomach.

‘My sister means well. She has a good heart. But sometimes that is not enough.’

Amar opened his mouth, tried to speak. He didn’t get the chance.

Tokic fired.

Amar was flung backwards, hitting the glistening pavement with a wet thud.

Tokic turned, ran back to the waiting car. Amar watched him turn but didn’t see him reach the car. It was like a black-velvet
curtain had been draped over his vision.

Soon he saw nothing.

‘Come any closer,’ said Peta, body automatically falling into a tae kwon do stance, ‘and you’ll be sorry. I mean it.’

The Prof stopped moving, looked at her. There was anger in his eyes, and his hands were twitching, clasping and unclasping,
as if he couldn’t decide what to do with them.

‘Hmm,’ he said, as if assessing the situation. ‘I believe I should be the one saying that to you. This is my office. And you
appear to have forcibly let yourself in.’

‘Yeah?’ said Peta. She moved around to the front of the desk, facing him, controlling her breathing, finding strength and
focus for what she believed was coming next. ‘I think once people see what I’ve found that’s not going to matter at all.’

The Prof looked behind her, down at his desk. Saw what she had been reading. A wave passed over his face. Of shock, embarrassment,
even fear, Peta didn’t know. She couldn’t read it but it wasn’t what she had expected. Then his body posture relaxed. He smiled.

‘Ah. You found it, then.’

‘Oh, yeah.’

The Prof sighed, expelling it as a laugh. He shook his head. ‘Should we both sit down? Talk things through like rational adults?’

‘That won’t work,’ she said. ‘Don’t try and be my mate. You think I’m stupid? Is that what you did with the others?’

The Prof frowned. ‘Others?’

‘Your victims. The ones in the folder. Jill.’ Peta felt her voice wavering. She tried to calm herself, channel her emotion
as a thin blade of anger straight at the Prof. ‘For fuck’s sake, she was your student. She was my friend.’

The Prof smiled again, shook his head. ‘Peta, I assure you. The deaths of those girls are tragic events in the extreme. Tragic.
And believe me when I say I had absolutely nothing to do with their deaths. And certainly not that of Jill. Certainly not.’

The look on his face suggested the mere thought appalled him. Peta wasn’t convinced.

‘Then why are you keeping a file on them? Why do you seem to know so much about them? And the murderer. The Historian. That
you, is it? Bigging yourself up with some grand name?’

The Prof shrugged. ‘I had to give him a name. Something that seemed fitting. In keeping with what I sensed he was trying to
achieve. It was purely a research tool based on standard FBI procedure. It wasn’t my intention to create melodrama.’

‘Fitting.’ Peta nodded. ‘Fitting. What, like a … an alter ego? A secret identity? It’s not you that does this, it’s the other
fella?’

Another sigh. ‘It isn’t me, in whichever manifestation you claim I have assumed, that’s responsible for these murders at all.
Allow me to explain.’

Peta didn’t speak, didn’t move.

The Prof gestured to his desk. ‘May I come in? Sit down? It would be easier to talk if I were at my desk.’

Peta kept staring at him.

The Prof sighed. ‘I’ll put the big light on. You can keep the door open. Make a run for it at any time. I won’t stop you.’

‘That’s kind of you.’

‘If I had a gun I would gladly let you hold it on me. Well, perhaps not gladly.’

Peta remained unmoving.

The Prof sighed again. ‘I’m afraid I’m at a loss as to what more I could say to reassure you. But if you indeed think I’m
responsible for these girls’ deaths, why aren’t you on the phone to the police now?’

‘Perhaps I’ve already phoned them. Perhaps they’re already on their way.’

‘Perhaps. But I doubt it. You would have mentioned it sooner. Look, Peta, I’m as upset as you about Jill’s death. I honestly
am. It cuts into me. Really.’ He gestured to the file open on the desk. ‘That’s why I’ve been trying to do something about
it. Now, please. Allow me to explain. I shall abide by whatever constraints you impose.’ He gestured again at his desk. ‘Please?’

Something in the sincerity of his words touched Peta. She didn’t feel able to trust him, but she decided she would at least
hear him out. ‘Go that way,’ she said, pointing at the wall furthest from her. The Prof squeezed himself around the corner
of his desk, trapping himself against the bookcase in the process. He extricated himself, took off his hat, coat and scarf,
hung them up, sat at his desk. Peta stood before him, one eye on the open door.

‘Why don’t you sit down? You’ll find it much more comfortable.’

‘That what you said to all of them? That how you lulled them into a false sense of security?’

The Prof looked pained. ‘Please, Peta, can’t we move beyond that? I am not a murderer.’ He shook his head. ‘A sentence I never
believed I would have to utter.’

Peta looked around, checked for accomplices, tricks and traps, checked she had a clear path to the door.
Satisfied there was nothing there, she sat. But perched warily on the edge of the chair, ready to run at any moment.

‘Thank you,’ said the Prof. He turned his attention to the file open on the desk before him. ‘This, you may have gathered,
is a psychological profile of our killer. I’ve been building it.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m a psychologist. It’s … what I do.’

‘Why didn’t you take this to the police? They’ve been in here. They’ve questioned you. You’ve had the perfect opportunity.’

The Prof gave a shy smile, verging on embarrassment. He focused on the desk instead of Peta’s eyes. ‘The police and I … we
haven’t always viewed life from the same perspective. Suffice it to say I doubt I’d make their approved list of registered
profilers.’

‘Why not?’

A small smile played at the corners of the Prof’s mouth. ‘You may find it hard to believe, but I wasn’t always the shining
example of academia you see before you. I am that most tediously clichéd of people. A man with a past.’

Peta, despite the situation, smiled, then checked herself straight away. The Prof affected not to notice, continued.

‘I used to embrace what might accurately be described as the most chemically enhanced of lifestyles. And embraced it both
fully and enthusiastically. Dropped out of university, much to my parents’ horror, to embark on what I believed would be a
quest for even greater knowledge. A Tyneside Carlos Castaneda, if you will.’

‘And did you find it?’

The Prof’s gaze became distant. Beyond, even, his kitsch film posters. ‘Those are stories I would like to be permitted to
tell on other days. Suffice to say, I found a world I never
knew existed. And soon became a part of. In fact, sold up here and moved there.’

He settled back, into his story now. Peta responded in kind, relaxing her body posture slightly, then again checked herself.

‘And lived there for years. Surviving by doing odd jobs, sometimes selling small amounts of dope, speed. Purely among friends,
to make ends meet, you understand. But always careful to operate below the radar. Known but never touched by the police. Now,
in this world I also got to know a lot of things, became a repository for a lot of certain kinds of information. Information
that certain people wanted to know. And would pay handsomely for.’

‘You mean you were a police informer?’

‘Sometimes. If that information did no harm to myself or my friends. If I believed it contributed to society’s greater good.
But I lived in a two-way world. Others were given information too. People whom the police would perhaps find conflicts of
interest with. Again, a moral decision.’

Peta got the picture. A low-level druggie who had moved on and justified his actions by retaining a selective, self-justifying
memory of those times. Whatever gets you through the night, she thought.

‘What stopped all that, then? How did you get from there to here?’

‘I had what might be described as a life-changing experience. A chemically unenhanced one, I might add. I was assisting a
journalist friend of mine with some kind of … exposé, I suppose you would call it, on some very nasty dealers who had moved
in to town. Providing him with background and suchlike.’ The Prof sat back, looked at the ceiling. Back in time, back in his
story. ‘Unfortunately they found out about what I had learned and whom I was telling it to. And decided to make an example
of me.’

He leaned forward, placed his deformed right hand, the hand he usually kept hidden, on the table.

‘They left me, among other things, with this.’

Peta leaned forward, examined it. ‘Jesus …’

He nodded, looked at it as if seeing the wounds being recreated anew. ‘Not an experience one would forget in a hurry. Or ever
want to repeat.’ He withdrew his hand, hiding it once more. ‘Of course, the police were unhappy because I refused to tell
them who had done it. Or why. My personal morality forbade it. They never forget a thing like that. Or forgive. So, I sensed
the end of one chapter in my life had come, and another was about to start. I made peace with my family, resumed my studies
as a mature student.’

Peta knew that feeling.

‘And worked hard. Very hard. As religious converts are the most fervent. Perhaps I was, to all intents and purposes, born
again. And I enjoyed it. Discovered an aptitude for it. That led to working my way into this job. A job which I love more
than anything else on this planet.’ He steepled his fingers, became thoughtful. ‘But your past stays with you. We are all
the sum of our actions. Especially where the police are involved. Because they believe we can never change. Detective Inspector
Nattrass mentioned as much when she spoke to me.’ He sat back, looked at Peta. ‘So that is a rather long answer to why I will
never make the police’s list of approved psychological profilers.’

He stood up. ‘And with that established, let us move on to important things. Tea? Or would you prefer coffee? Or something
stronger?’

Peta looked at him. He smiled.

‘I am not a murderer.’

Peta weighed things up in her mind, made a judgement call. ‘Tea, please. That would be perfect. But keep your hands where
I can see them.’

He didn’t seem to be much of a murderer, she thought. But she would keep a clear getaway to the door just in case.

Anita closed her eyes. Pretended she was somewhere else. Someone else. The girl she used to be. The girl she thought she should
have been. The girl, when all this was over, that she perhaps could be.

She stood in the bath, scrubbing away at her skin. The bath was as new and clean as the rest of the hotel. It suited her mood.
It suited her. What she had become. What she was now.

But at least she had made Michael happy.

‘That’s it,’ he had said on her return to the room. ‘You just had to let him fuck you. You didn’t have to enjoy it. Or even
look at him. You’ve just paid our rent and stopped any awkward questions.’ He had smiled then. ‘You’re contributing.’

She stepped out of the bath, towelled herself dry. She looked at herself in the mirror. At her bruises. Scars. Badges of love,
Michael had called them. Forget-me-nots. And his words as he had delivered them, his actions. Pleasure and pain intermingling
until she didn’t know what hurt and what felt good. Just taking his word for it.

She dropped the towel, dressed in the clothes Michael had left out on the floor for her. Her whore’s clothes. She looked again
in the mirror.

‘You ready yet?’ he called from the bedroom.

‘Nearly …’ It wouldn’t do to keep him waiting.

‘Hurry up. You’ve got to go out.’

She stepped out. He looked at her, ran his gaze appraisingly up and down her body. Smiled.

‘Perfect,’ he said.

His eyes gave him away. They contained more than just lust for her, she could see that. Love, whole oceans of it.
That was what made him different. What made her stay. She stroked the metal of the necklace he had given her. Smiled. Why
she would continue to please him.

He got up from the chair, crossed to her. He grabbed her, roughly put his mouth over hers. His hands all over her, pulling
her into him, trying to consume her.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he gasped. ‘I love you.’

She kissed him back, started to enjoy herself.

‘My whore. My beautiful whore. My slut. I love my slut …’

He pressed even harder. She pressed back. His fingers exploring, grabbing, twisting. She felt herself falling, giving in to
it.

‘Michael, I have … I have to, to go …’

He pushed her back on to the chair he had been sitting on. It was old and worn, hard and unyielding. He pressed himself down
on her.

‘In a while,’ he said. ‘In a while.’

She gave herself up to him willingly.

‘There is something I haven’t told you.’

Peta replaced her mug of tea on the desk, readied herself to run.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Not a bad thing. It’s just … the night of Jill’s … When Jill disappeared. I was supposed to … to
be seeing her.’

Peta relaxed, nodded. ‘Wilco,’ she said. ‘The Wilco gig.’

He looked surprised, nodded. ‘Right. Ah, yes, of course. Because I … Yes.’

‘Because you asked me to go.’

‘Yes.’ The Prof blushed. Sipped his coffee. ‘The police, they know. I told them. It was a social affair. Many of us there.
Not just … the two of us.’ He gave a weak smile. ‘You might have enjoyed it.’

Peta nodded, said nothing.

They sipped their drinks. Peta pointed to the file. ‘So this is your profile of the killer?’

The Prof nodded.

‘Why the Historian?’

‘In good time. Now, I’m sure the police have come up with their own profiles. I have a contact on the investigation, left
over from the old days. In a lowly position, I’m afraid; just one of the foot soldiers. He has provided me with access to
information not available to the press or the general public.’

‘Why?’

‘So I could come up with a profile. Present it to him.’

‘And he would take the credit?’

The Prof nodded. ‘If it was right. If I was wrong …’ The Prof shrugged. ‘No harm done. Having said that, some of this is still
guesswork. Educated mostly, because that’s what I do, but occasionally requiring a leap of faith. This is what I’ve come up
with. The killer knew all his victims. Perhaps not closely, but he was certainly in some form of contact with them.’

‘So he works at the university?’