T
he shadows were lengthening in Don and Eileen Brennan’s kitchen. Outside, darkness descended like a grey blanket thrown over the sun.
They sat at the table. Silence between them like a huge block of ice.
A different silence from the next room. Peaceful. Tranquil. Josephina having a nap. The TV off.
Eileen sighed, reached for her tea. It had gone cold. She still drank it.
Don sat unmoving. The sun’s dying rays playing over his face, hollowing out his features, haunting him.
Eileen placed her mug gently down on the coaster. Flowers of the British Isles. A present from a friend’s holiday. She didn’t see the colours. ‘We have to … we’ve got to do something … ’
Her voice thrown out, dying away in the silence.
‘We can’t just let him … go on. Find out what it’s … ’
‘And what d’you suggest we do?’ Don turning, looking at her. Like an Easter Island head come to life. ‘What can we do?’
‘I don’t know. Just … something.’
‘You mean tell him?’
‘Yes, maybe.’ Eileen’s eyes widened. The dying daylight glinting, fearful.
Don shook his head. Pulling back from the dark. ‘I don’t think we could … We couldn’t … Not after what … ’
Eileen sighed. ‘Then what do we do instead?’ she said. ‘Because he’s going to find out, Don. Sooner or later.’
Don said nothing. His face halfway into the darkness.
Eileen leaned towards him. Breaking the ice between them. Her voice as low as the light in the room. ‘He’ll find out anyway. And he’ll know we haven’t told him. Then how will we feel? How will
he
feel?’
Don said nothing. Eileen watched him. Gave another sigh. She looked down at her mug once more. Made to drink from it. Remembered it was cold. Replaced it where it had been.
Silence. Darkness descended.
Then a cry from the other room. Josephina waking up.
Eileen looked at the doorway, back to Don. ‘And what about her?’
‘Don’t, Eileen.’
‘What about that poor little girl in there? Doesn’t she have a right to know too?’
‘Eileen … ’
‘What, Don, what?’
Josephina’s cries became louder.
‘I can’t. It’s too … I can’t. And you know it.’
‘Don. He has to know. That’s all there is to it.’
And louder.
Don put his head down, shook it slowly.
More cries. Eileen put her head to one side, eyes never leaving Don. ‘I’m coming, love. Grandma’s coming.’
The cries eased slightly. Eileen stood up.
‘It’s time, Don. And you know it.’
She left the room.
Don didn’t move.
The sun disappeared completely.
‘T
his is just preliminary,’ Marina said. ‘Just so we have something to go on for now. First impressions.’
‘Fine,’ said Phil. ‘Whatever you’ve got.’
‘Right. The boy hasn’t been here long,’ Marina said, turning, staring at the cage.
‘No?’
‘No.’ She pointed. ‘That’s a holding cell. He would have been transferred here. That cage has been like that for a long time. Very long time.’
‘How long?’
‘I’ll come to that. The boy was brought here for … something. Nothing good. This is a killer’s lair. However he dresses it up. It’s a slaughterhouse.’
She closed her eyes, turned on the spot, breathing in deeply.
‘The anticipation … he brings them here to … ’ Another deep breath. ‘He’s building the anticipation for himself. Letting it, letting it … the ritual. Yes. That’s it. It’s all about the ritual. Not just aspects he’s developed in his own mind, though … no … his own fetish, no … ’ Another breath. She dropped to her knees, looking round. ‘Something more than that … ’
Phil didn’t dare to speak. It was almost like Marina was in a trance, receiving communications from the spirit world. He knew how ridiculous that sounded, but still the image persisted.
‘Getting himself in the right place, the right … frame of mind, getting ready to enjoy it, but no. More than that. More. The flowers … Yes … The right … time … ’
She opened her eyes. ‘It’s about time. Ritual.’ She looked round at the bunches of flowers by the walls. ‘The flowers, they’re … it’s … a growth cycle. Living, blooming, dying. Perennials.’ She pointed to the wall. ‘And that design. You were right, it’s not a pentagram, not Satanic. It’s … I don’t know. Some kind of calendar? Could that be it?’
‘With the star shape … ’
‘Overlaying that. But it’s not a pentagram. More a … logo, I think.’ Surprise in her voice.
She closed her eyes once more. ‘But the child … What does that mean? Readiness? Fruition? Is the child part of that growth cycle?’
She crossed to the bench.
‘The tools, gardening tools … symbolic, yes, symbolic … but what? Planting, getting ready to grow? Cutting down? Adapted to, to surgical instruments … Yes … flowers, nature, everything natural … pruning? Growth cycle, yes … ’
She turned to Phil, addressed him directly. ‘The cage. The bones. You think they’re human?’
Startled, it took him a few seconds to respond. ‘Well, we think there’s a good chance … ’
‘Right.’ She turned away again. ‘Old, some of them. Old. Been there years, decades, probably … yes … ’ She moved up close to the cage. Stared at it. ‘What does this mean? Planning. That’s what it means. Planning. Preparation.’ She closed her eyes. ‘A controlled – and controlling – intellect is at work here. He’s clever. He’s patient. A strategist. He’s been planning this for a long time.’
‘You think … he’s been doing this for a while?’
‘I do.’
‘How long?’
She straightened up. Opened her eyes wide. Stared once more at the bars of the cage. Like she was waiting for them to speak to her.
‘Years.’ She reached out, touched the bones. ‘Decades … ’ Incredulity, fear in her voice. ‘Never been caught … ’
She shook her head.
‘A record, would he keep a record … probably not. At least, not in the way we understand it. No, I don’t … unless … ’ She turned round once more. Looked at the back of the room. ‘The flowers … different blooms, different times of year … the flowers … Maybe they’re … I don’t know … ’
Then turning, back to the cage.
‘There’s a confidence about what’s been happening here. What he’s been doing.’ She reached out once more, touching the bones. ‘This … this is a progression. And that’s fine, that’s what an established pattern … what usually happens. But often in cases of a serial nature, the perpetrator begins to unravel the more he goes on. Like he wants to make mistakes, wants to be caught, stopped … ’ She stroked the bone bars. ‘But not here … ’ Stroking and stroking. Gently, slowly. ‘Here … is control. Ritual. Honed. Perfection. The quest for perfection … ’ Still stroking. Caressing. ‘Perpetrators often stop when they get older,’ she said, her voice almost at a whisper, ‘but not here. Not him. He’s been doing this a long time. For a reason.’
‘What reason?’
‘I don’t know. But he thinks it’s an important one. More than just for his own gratification.’
‘But I thought all serial killing had sex at the heart of it.’
‘Yeah, pretty much.’
‘So?’
I’m not saying he doesn’t get his kicks from this. Just that he’s gone so much further than that. And there’s something else.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t think he’s going to stop.’
‘U
nless we stop him,’ said Phil. ‘Catch him and stop him.’
‘Yes,’ said Marina, turning to him as if released from a trance. ‘There is that.’ She gave a small, tight smile. ‘But that’s your job.’
‘No pressure there, then,’ said Phil, looking to Marina like he was composed entirely of pressure. He looked to have aged years since she had seen him in the morning.
She had to say something, talk to him. ‘Look, Phil, what’s—’
‘Please,’ said Phil, his voice small, barely a whisper. ‘Not here. Not now.’
‘But when?’ She gently placed her hand on his arm. ‘What’s the matter?’
He sighed. Like Atlas shrugging. ‘I can’t … ’
‘Phil. This is me you’re talking to. Me.’ Eyes locked on his. ‘You can tell me.’
His eyes tried to stay on hers, kept jumping round like they were being electrocuted. ‘I … I can’t. Not now.’ Then another sigh. ‘I don’t even … ’ He snapped his head up. ‘No. Come on. Let’s … we’ve got work to do. Come on.’
‘OK … but—’
‘How did he get here?’ Phil’s voice sudden, abrupt.
‘What?’
‘The boy. How did he get in here? If this was a holding cell, he can’t have been here for long.’
She looked at him. He had never closed her out like this before. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘OK. The boy. Well … OK. What I think. He couldn’t just walk in with him, in broad daylight, could he?’
‘I doubt it. And there’s a fence all the way round. No entrance.’
‘So the road is out. Unless it was at night, and that might have looked suspicious. There’s the other path down to the allotments; where does that lead?’
‘To a housing estate on the Hythe. But it’s badly lit, overgrown, lots of bushes. Mugger’s paradise. And it’s alongside the river.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘What, he came down the path?’
‘No. The river. This house backs on to the river. He could have moored a boat beside the house, got the boy out of there.’
Phil rubbed his chin, paced the cellar floor. ‘It would fit … ’ He turned to Marina. ‘What you said before. Nature. Cycles. Could the river have anything to do with that?’
‘Very possibly.’
‘Right … ’ More pacing. ‘Then there’s just one more thing.’
‘What?’
‘Where did he get the boy from?’
Marina gave a thin smile. ‘That’s for you to find out. You’re the policeman. I’m just the profiler.’
‘But you’ve spoken to him.’
‘I know. And he’s a long way from telling us anything useful.’
They stood in silence.
‘I’ll get an official report made up,’ she said eventually. Looked at her watch. ‘I’d better pick up Josephina.’
Phil told her he had spoken to Don. He and Eileen were holding on to her a bit longer.
‘Good. That helps.’
Another silence. Marina looked at Phil. His eyes were roving round the cellar. Not because he was looking for anything in particular, she thought, but because he was avoiding looking at her. Why? He wouldn’t talk to her, tell her what was wrong. Had coming down here, seeing the cage and the boy, upset him that much? Did he just not want to say that in front of his team? She hoped so. Hoped it was something like that.
Anything more than that, she didn’t want to contemplate.
She reached out her hand once more. Perhaps anticipating it, he turned.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go.’ Walked up the cellar steps. She stood for a minute, watching him go.
This wasn’t like him. Not at all. It must be something big for him to keep it from her, whatever it was.
After all, she was bound to him. She knew that, had never felt it for any other person. A real, true love. A soulmate’s bond. But with that came fear. Of something going wrong. Of one of them dying.
Or of some darkness enveloping them. They were two damaged souls who had recognised each other, clung together. What if that darkness returned? Resurfaced, destroyed everything they had in the present?
The tightrope fraying and fraying …
I
t was an ordinary meeting room. Air-conditioned. Blinds drawn. Rectangular table. Chairs set around it. Even a tall jug of water on the table, short glasses nestling next to it. An ordinary meeting room.
But no ordinary meeting.
The Elders had been meeting for years. Decades. Firstly, in the open air. Decisions made round a campfire. Then shifting inside, the smell of newly sawn wood permeating their meetings. The floors and walls bare and hard, the furniture functional. Then moving on to warm wood-panelled rooms. Old, oiled and polished wooden tables. Carved chairs. And ceremonial robes.
Those had been the best years.
And then the years in between.
And now this. Conference rooms. Board rooms. Ordinary rooms.
The faces had changed. But the names remained the same. And four. Always four.
The fifth … absent. As always.
There had been no welcomes beyond common courtesy. No catch-ups, no jokes. Just silence. Tension zinging in the air like taut steel cable in a high wind. The room cold from more than just air-conditioning.
One of them had to start.
‘I think I speak for everyone here,’ the Lawmaker said, ‘when I say, what the fuck did you think you were doing?’
The ice was broken but the room was still cold. The words expressed what the others had been thinking. They wanted answers.
‘Please,’ said the Portreeve, customarily positioned at the head of table, ‘try and keep emotion out of this. It clouds the issue.’ He turned to the subject of the inquiry. ‘But the Lawmaker is right and the point needs answering. What did you think you were doing, Missionary?’
‘Do we still need these stupid names? Can’t we all talk properly for once?’ A shake of the head from the Missionary.
‘We need them,’ said the Portreeve. ‘You know we do.’
‘They’re practical as well,’ said the Teacher. ‘Stops anyone listening in from gathering evidence against us. Should that arise.’
‘So I say again, Missionary,’ said the Lawmaker, ‘what did you think you were doing?’
‘You know we need money,’ said the Missionary. ‘For this deal to go ahead. And we need this deal. Otherwise we’re all … well, you know. So I just thought I’d dispose of one of the old properties. We don’t use it any more; valuable real estate, that.’
The Lawmaker leaned forward. ‘And you didn’t think to tell any of us about this?’
‘I didn’t think it was important.’
The other three stared at the Missionary.
Not used to begging, the Missionary gave a good approximation of it. ‘Look, I was miles away. I didn’t want the deal to go south; what was I supposed to do? I did what I thought was best for all of us. Thought I’d get a thank-you. Didn’t think I’d get this.’
They kept staring at him.
‘I mean,’ the Missionary said, ‘I didn’t think he’d still be at it, did I? Not now, not after all this time.’
‘Really?’ The Teacher spoke. ‘Are you that naïve? Or just stupid?’
‘How was I supposed to know?’
‘Did you think he’d just stop? That he’d ever change? You of all people should know better.’
The Missionary sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I just … didn’t think.’
The Teacher leaned forward. ‘The cage is still there.’
The Missionary shuddered. ‘Yeah. Well … I thought he’d have … others.’
‘He does,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘Reserve ones.’
‘Then why couldn’t he have—’
‘Because everyone has their favourite.’ The Portreeve spoke in a voice to end all argument. ‘He’s no different in that respect. All part of the ritual.’
‘I didn’t think there still was a ritual. I thought, you know, the deal going through and all that, looking to the future … ’
‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘We need to know what’s happening now. We need damage limitation. We need a plan.’
‘You’re right,’ said the Portreeve. ‘Progress report. Suggestions.’
‘I see it like this,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘There are three distinct areas we need to look at. One. What’s going on with the police investigation into the cage and the boy. Two. Making sure none of this impacts on the shipment arriving safely. Three. Making sure the ritual goes ahead.’
The Missionary looked confused. ‘The ritual’s still going ahead? After all this?’
‘Has to,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘Too important not to. For him. He’s very angry at what happened. Very angry.’
‘The Missionary shuddered. ‘Right. Yes. Couldn’t we just … ’ Knowing what the answer would be, he let the words trail away.
The Teacher didn’t speak, just stared at him.
The Missionary sighed once more. ‘God, what a mess.’ Then looked up, eyes dancing. ‘Wait. Does it have to be that one? Couldn’t he use another one?’
‘You know better than to ask that.’ The Portreeve shook his head. ‘It has to be the chosen child. The ritual demands it.’ Leaning forward. Ghost of a smile. ‘Or would you like to suggest your idea to him yourself?’
‘So we have no option,’ said the Teacher. ‘We need to get the child back.’
‘And,’ said the Portreeve, ‘the police investigation has to be controlled.’
All eyes turned to the Lawmaker. Who gave a slow, weary smile. ‘All down to me, then. Again.’
‘Is the woman still a threat to us?’ asked the Teacher.
‘No,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘She met with a nasty accident this morning.’
‘Good,’ said the Teacher. ‘One less problem to worry about. It is, isn’t it?’
‘It’s being taken care of. I don’t think there’ll be repercussions.’
‘Christ, what a mess,’ said the Missionary.
‘Of your making,’ said the Teacher.
‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘We need to think, to plan. Come on, focus, concentrate. This is the most important thing you’ll do all year.’
They all sat back, thinking.
The only noise in the room the low murmur of air-conditioning.
Then, focused and concentrated, they began to talk.
Eventually, they had their plan.