No Other Darkness (3 page)

Inside the forensic tent, it smelt green. Not of death, more like compost.

To Noah’s right, the open manhole sent up a solid column of curdled air. The ground was spongy under his feet. He was glad he’d left his jacket in the car; the polythene walls of the tent were starting to sweat, and so was he.

‘You’re looking at penicillin. It loves to grow on dead meat.’ Fran Lennox sent a grim smile across her shoulder. ‘This’s the stuff they feed you when you’re sick.’

‘Nice.’ Just looking at the narrow manhole made Noah dizzy; he couldn’t imagine how Marnie had felt down there in the dark with the bodies.

After Fran’s team arrived, Marnie had gone into the house, asking Noah to oversee the perimeter of the crime scene; a test for his resolve, he assumed.

Forensics had brought the bodies up, taking special care, carrying the children so carefully the penicillin was still intact, whiskers of mould reaching from the shrunken nostrils of the small faces. The bony shape of both skulls showed white and round through ruined scalps of skin.

‘The bunker wasn’t airtight?’

‘Good thing too; airtight would’ve rotted worse than this.’ Fran hadn’t taken her eyes off the bodies. ‘I had to open a sealed casket one time . . . Like soup in a satin bowl.’

Noah watched in silence as she took charge of preparations to remove the bodies to the pathology lab. His head was hurting. Not physical pain, more like the steady punching of a pulse. Sometimes in this job it felt like an affront to be alive.

The dead children were six, seven years old. Just little children. Mould had made them into old men with frail white beards.

A member of Fran’s team bagged the clothes from the bunker: trainers and jumpers. Navy anoraks, printed with camouflage. On the smaller body: the patchy remains of what looked like red plaid pyjamas.

‘Are they boys?’ Noah asked.

‘No way of knowing,’ Fran said. He heard the hurt in her voice, under its protective layer of morbid humour. ‘They’re pre-adolescent. No sexual dimorphism to speak of.’

Both bodies fitted in the single bag, with room to spare. It was too risky to try and separate them here. Fran would tackle that task back at her lab; her turn to keep vigil.

‘How long do you think they were down there?’

‘Who knows?’ Fran rested her hand lightly on the body bag. ‘I’d say they’ve been dead four years, maybe longer.’

The children had curled together, their bodies making a tight comma, the bigger child hugging the chest of the smaller one, an elbow reduced to a pitiful knot of bone that made Noah’s eyes ache. When Fran drew the zipper on the body bag, he blinked and felt the throb of tears behind his eyelids.

 • • • 

Outside the forensic tent, the Doyles’ garden was a bright assault of colour. The house had the surprised, scrubbed look of a new-build. Three floors, a pantiled roof ruined by
solar panels, a pair of green drums collecting rainwater. The garden had been dug over either side of a long lawn. For vegetables; Noah recognised the leaves of potato plants, radishes and beetroot.

‘Isn’t it awful?’ Debbie Tanner picked her way across the lawn to join him, her face mottled with dismay. ‘How old do you reckon they were? Six, seven? Little mites . . .’

‘Is there anything from Missing Persons yet?’

‘Ron’s still looking. Nothing from five years ago, but we haven’t much to go on yet.’

‘How’s the family holding up?’

‘Paramedics are checking them for shock, the dad especially. He says he’s just glad
she
didn’t see what was down there. Poor bloke’s in a bit of a state, been crying his eyes out. The boss is with them, working her magic.’

‘What magic?’ Noah knew what she meant, but he was intrigued to hear her describe what DI Rome did.

‘You know. Making them feel like there’s no one else that matters in the whole world but them and what they’ve seen. She’s brilliant. Most DIs don’t go near witnesses, or victims come to that. Not unless there’s been a complaint.
I
certainly never worked with one who did. I suppose she’s got a special empathy, after what happened.’

Debbie had found out details of Marnie’s past that Noah hadn’t known until she started sharing her knowledge around the station. He’d been with Marnie’s team less than eighteen months. Debbie’s stories dated back five years. Noah had warned her to be careful it didn’t reach DI Rome – the things she’d uncovered, or the fact that she was sharing the information freely with her colleagues – because no good could come of it. Marnie was entitled to her privacy, and even if she wasn’t, Noah knew she’d fight to protect it, the same way she’d fight to uncover the truth of what had happened to the children they’d taken from the bunker.

‘Any sign of the press yet?’

‘Not yet, but you know what they’re like. The OCU’s on his way.’ Debbie hugged her arms under her chest. ‘Kiddies are always headlines.’

Not these children, or not five years ago, otherwise Missing Persons would have given them names by now.

So who were they? And why had no one reported them missing?

The dirt from the Doyles’ garden had been trodden into the house, a dark trench from the garden through to the kitchen. The same dirt was under Terry’s fingernails, and his wife’s.

‘We’re putting in a vegetable patch, encouraging the kids to be self-sufficient.’ Terry wiped his hands on his jeans. They were raw, as if he’d washed them more than once since finding the pit. ‘I was on my own out there, thank God.’

Marnie needed to take his boots, and maybe his clothes, depending how close he’d been to the bodies. ‘You said there was nothing on the survey to suggest a bunker?’

‘Nothing. It’s why I thought it’d be safe to lift the manhole.’

‘How easy was it to do that?’

‘It wasn’t hard. I’ve lifted flagstones that weigh a lot more.’ He cringed, as if he was afraid she’d interpret this as machismo. He was a shade over six feet tall and slim, in good shape for a man in his early forties. ‘If I’d known what was inside . . . As soon as I saw them down there, I called the police. But I disturbed a crime scene.’ His mouth wrenched. ‘I’m so sorry. If I’ve made it harder for you to find who did that . . . I’m so sorry.’

‘It can’t be helped.’ Marnie picked up the mug of tea he’d made, asking the next question as gently as she could. ‘How far down did you climb?’

‘Four, maybe five rungs?’ His voice was ashy at the edges, fierce tears in his eyes, the kind you fight to hold in.

‘Did you – I’m sorry – did you touch anything, other than the ladder?’

He flinched. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘Good. I’ll have to take your boots, to rule out anything that might’ve been dislodged.’

He nodded his acceptance and she waited a beat, to let him know that this part of the interview was over. ‘You’ve done a lot of work out there.’ The earth had been dug over, more than once. ‘Is this the first time you’ve found anything unusual? I don’t mean the bunker. Other things, maybe clothes or jewellery?’

‘Nothing like that. We’ve been digging for a few months, getting it ready for the planting. The soil wasn’t worth much when we started. We’ve managed to make it better.’

‘How do you do that?’ Marnie asked. ‘Make soil better?’

‘It was mostly sand when we moved in. I guess it’s a cheap base for the developers to use, but it’s no good for growing anything. No nutrients, for one thing, and it won’t hold water. I had to put a lot of compost down, keep turning it during the winter.’ He mimed the action. She could see the strength in his wrists. ‘By spring we had a halfway decent bed for the veg.’

‘Terry’s a great gardener,’ Beth said. ‘He does most of the gardens in the street.’ It was the first time she’d spoken since the three of them had gathered in the kitchen. ‘It’s good for the kids to have a sense of permanence, and to be self-sufficient.’

‘Will we have to move out?’ Terry asked. ‘While you’re investigating?’

‘I’m afraid so. It’ll be for the best. Things are going to be busy here for a while. You won’t get much peace.’

The press were coming. She could feel the heat of their curiosity at her heels. OCU Commander Tim Welland was on his way too. In his words, ‘To check the fan’s working before the shit hits.’

‘If you can find us a place big enough to stay together as a family,’ Terry said. ‘I know we’re not conventional, but it matters. We’ve worked really hard for this.’

Not conventional?

Beth said, ‘Tommy’s sleeping. I managed to put him down for a nap.’ The toddler she’d held on her hip earlier. ‘Carmen will be home from nursery soon. One of the other mums brings her. I take her little boy in the mornings . . .’ She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Then there’s Clancy . . .’

Terry reached for Beth’s hand and held it. ‘We’re new foster parents.’ He forced a smile. ‘For our sins. If you could find us somewhere we can stay together . . .’

Marnie knew what Tim Welland would say. Her priority was protecting the crime scene; she owed her first duty to the dead, not the living. ‘How new?’

‘Since we moved here. It’s one of the reasons we wanted a big house.’

‘How many kids are we talking about?’

‘Just Clancy, for now.’ Terry squeezed his wife’s hand. Marnie would’ve missed it, if Beth hadn’t turned the flinch into a smile. ‘Clancy Brand.’

‘How old is Clancy?’

‘He’ll be fifteen in a couple of months.’

‘He’s not in school?’

‘He’s not . . . a hundred per cent at the moment,’ Terry said.

‘We kept him home today,’ his wife added. ‘In case it’s catching.’

The lie stained her neck dull red.

Some people could lie without colouring, but Beth Doyle wasn’t one of them. She was pretty, in a passive way. You’d struggle to remember her face when it wasn’t right in front of you. Soft mouth and eyes, the kind of fair hair that looks grubby unless it’s just washed.

‘So with Tommy and Carmen . . . Clancy makes three kids in the house?’

‘Four.’ Beth put a hand to her stomach. She wasn’t showing yet, the bump hidden under a denim smock.

‘Congratulations,’ Marnie said.

‘It’s a big house. It needs children. Everyone says we’ve too much love for three kids . . .’

They’d put their stamp all over the big house, judging by the kitchen: comfortable and chaotic, cup rings on the table where it looked like a grenade had gone off in a jar of Marmite; fall-out from the family breakfast. Children’s drawings were Blu-tacked to the walls, next to dirty thumbprints at toddler height. Marnie wasn’t a fan of mess, but mess meant living – risk, courage and failure, all the things that mattered.

A noise in the street brought Beth to her feet. ‘That’ll be Vic, with Carmen.’ She headed in the direction of the front door.

Terry stood and started clearing mugs from the table. Marnie helped, taking an abandoned plate of wrinkled orange segments to the pedal bin. ‘Compost.’ Terry intercepted the plate with a grimace. ‘Thanks.’ He deposited it in a green plastic container with a slatted lid.

He washed the cups, running hot water sparingly at first and then for longer, scrubbing at his already raw hands, strong wrists wringing repeatedly under the flood from the tap until they turned first white then red from the heat.

‘If you need to talk,’ Marnie said, ‘I know someone in Victim Support.’

‘Thanks.’ Terry stopped washing and reached for a towel to dry his hands. ‘I’ll be okay. I’m thinking the fewer strangers in the house the better, at least for a bit.’ He blotted at the wet between his fingers, his eyes blank and grieving.

The paramedics had given him the all-clear, but Marnie was familiar with the tricks shock could play, how it went into hiding only to jump out at you, repeatedly. ‘The person I’m thinking of is very good. He won’t ask questions. He’ll listen, if you need that. You’ve got a lot on your plate here. I can’t see you wanting to talk to Beth about what you saw.’

‘Not in her condition,’ Terry said mechanically.

‘I saw it too,’ Marnie said. ‘I know how hard this is.’

He nodded. ‘Thanks. If you could leave a number for Victim Support, I’ll make the call a bit later, when it’s quiet here.’

Marnie wrote down Ed Belloc’s name and number, handed it to Terry.

He folded the slip of paper once, and then again. ‘When you find out who they are . . . will you tell me their names?’ He folded the paper a third time, scoring the fold with his thumbnail. ‘Please. I’d like to know their names.’

Marnie nodded. ‘Yes.’

Beth came back into the kitchen with a scowling three-year-old in a pink duffle coat, yellow hair in fraying plaits, small mouth shut above an obstinate chin.

‘Carmen’s home,’ Beth said. ‘Here’s Daddy, see. Say hello to Daddy.’

Carmen marched across the kitchen to her father, buried her face in his shins and started to howl. Terry didn’t pick her up, squatting instead on his heels. ‘Did you have a hard day, honey-bee?’ He put an arm around her shoulders and stroked her hair in a steady rhythm.

Carmen wept into his chest. Tears of outrage, Marnie guessed, from the angry noise she was making. Terry looked
a question across at Beth, who shook her head defeatedly. He kept stroking the child’s hair. ‘Honey-bee, it’s all fine now. You’re home now.’

Beth said, ‘Let’s you and me go for a walk, yes? Let’s put our wellies on and find some puddles to jump in . . .’ She reached for the boots that Terry had taken off.

‘Sorry,’ Marnie reminded her. ‘I have to take those.’

‘Oh. Yes.’ Beth looked around for another pair of wellingtons.

When she tried to take the child from Terry, Carmen stiffened and started to scream, the kind of noise that made car alarms sound sweet.

She was still screaming five minutes later, when Marnie left the house.

In Blackthorn Road, Noah was making small talk with a PCSO, who was describing in forensic detail how much better crime-scene tape used to be, back in the day. ‘Wouldn’t wipe my arse on this new stuff . . . ’

When Marnie came out of number 14, Noah headed in her direction.

‘How’re they doing? How’s Terry?’

‘In shock, trying to cope . . .’ She turned to look at the Doyles’ house. ‘I left him Ed’s number. What did Fran say?’

‘That she’ll call as soon as she has something. They’re too young for her to tell if they’re boys or girls.’ He paused. ‘I think from the clothes, they’re boys. What’d you think?’

‘Boys,’ Marnie said, ‘but I may be wrong.’ She was studying the house.

Noah had done the same. The back of a house was only half the story; they needed to see the face it showed to the street. Houses are among the biggest lies we tell ourselves, hadn’t he read that somewhere? Most weren’t about the necessity of living; they reflected money or taste or aspiration. Mortgages meant you didn’t have to
have
, you just had to
want
.

Number 14 Blackthorn Road was bland and unsmiling, its broad shoulders shrugged up against the house to its left. It was an end-of-terrace, where the weight of the other houses rested. The front door had been painted white, ruined by the weather. Fingerprints stained the area around the lock. A trio of wheelie bins was parked to the left of the door. As lies went, number 14’s was a modest one. The terrace was aggressively uniform, in the manner of most new-builds. Seven houses on each side. Number 14 was a little larger, but not by much. Every house had three floors, the third being a faux attic conversion. They didn’t look like they’d been standing more than a couple of years.

‘What was here, before the houses?’ Noah asked.

‘Fields,’ Marnie said. ‘And beech trees.’

The beech trees had survived, flanked at the foot of the Doyles’ garden. The houses weren’t built when the children were buried in the bunker.

Noah said, ‘You were here, eighteen months ago . . .’

‘When the houses were brand new, yes.’

‘Did you meet whoever was living in number 14?’

‘No one was living here. It was the last house to be sold.’

‘The last?’ Noah looked at her in surprise. ‘It’s a good size. End terraces usually go first. Was it a lot more expensive?’

‘No, just a lot less finished.’ Her voice was dry. ‘It was the developer’s show home. They cut corners to get it ready in time. Then someone noticed the ventilation pipes weren’t connected. The overflow fed into the walls instead of outside. Little things like that.’

‘That and the bunker in the garden . . . You think the developers knew about it?’

‘Someone did.’

‘They built the houses . . .
over
the boys?’

‘If they’re boys,’ Marnie said. ‘Yes.’

A movement at the window on the third floor made them look up, too late to see anything other than the curtain dropping back into place.

‘Clancy,’ Marnie said, in the same dry voice as before. ‘The Doyles are fostering him. He was watching me in the bunker, too.’

‘Yes, I saw him at the house . . .’ Noah hated the feeling of being watched. He imagined Marnie felt the same.

They looked at the window for a minute, but the curtain didn’t move again.

At his side, Marnie shivered. ‘Come on. Before the ghosts get the better of me.’

She started walking in the direction of the squad car, carrying the wellington boots she’d taken from Terry.

Noah followed. ‘Ghosts?’

‘This road,’ she swung back to look at him, ‘is full of ghosts. Can’t you feel them?’