The Darkness of Bones (10 page)

A
RRIVING AT THE
isolated cottage, shortly before ten, Jack proceeded to the front door. Heavy night rain was visiting, transforming the area into a mucky quagmire. A wire mesh fence surrounded the property, with a black iron gate punctuated by up-pointing bars with sharp tips.

A forensic team was gathering up numerous items for tagging, before placing them in plastic bags and containers. One of the bags contained parts of clothing.

The cottage had the musty smell of a place shut up too long. Lights were on, neutralising the dullness caused by the closed curtains.

Benson waved at Jack from a far room. He had a penetrating look on his face. Jack always appreciated that particular look of Benson’s. It reminded him of a bloodhound, finally getting a sniff of its quarry.

“Officially, you aren’t here. Understand? Wilson would have my balls in a sling.” Benson handed him a pair of latex gloves.

“Of course,” replied Jack, fingering the gloves, genuinely appreciative, knowing that his ex-partner was sticking his neck
out for him—again. He had debated with himself whether or not to tell Benson about the phone call. Reluctantly, he had decided that it was best to keep it to himself—at least for now.

“We got ourselves a real sicko,” said Benson, indicating with a nod a pile of magazines scattered on the floor of the bedroom. “Look at this fucking shit.”

From the seemingly endless collection, Jack lifted a magazine at random. The cover of the magazine was nondescript and innocuous, but when he opened it, its hideous contents were revealed.

Having glanced quickly at the first few graphic pages, Jack allowed the magazine to fall from his hands.

“Fucking child porn,” said Benson, opening cupboards and drawers, his back to Jack. “The place is coming down with it. We discovered some clothing—a little girl’s—hidden beneath the bed in the other room. Ominously, there were patches of dried blood on parts of the clothing. We’ll have to wait until Shaw gets working on it, see if he can tie them in with the remains you discovered. It doesn’t look good. We also found significant amounts of marijuana. By the looks of things, he’s gone through more grass than a ladybird’s arse.”

While Benson rummaged for the sinister, Jack concentrated on the normality of the room, searching for the mundane, taking in every detail, feeling for omitted parts, trying to avoid the most common mistake of getting to the end of the puzzle, just to find a piece missing.

Was this the place of a paedophile, a taker of children? Of course, there was no such thing as a
place of a paedophile
. Their dwellings were as mundane and ordinary as themselves. In fact, this was their strength—their complete ordinariness, their chameleon-like ability to fit into any surroundings, any
community. The image of a salivating loner was a dangerous myth created by the media to scare and sell. Granted, some of them did operate alone and were cunningly intelligent, but most were just everyday people, from all walks of life and associated with every profession, be it clergy, medical or judiciary. Even police officers.

Dotted about the walls were a few old wedding photos depicting the usual smiling groom and bride, surrounded by well-wishers and family. Another photo depicted the bride in white, from head to toe—a ghostly apparition in contrast to the charcoal grey of the groom. Two other people were in the photo. The best man and bridesmaid? The man had a patch covering one eye, but the woman was shying away, her gloved hand covering most of her face, leaving only the upper half to be scrutinised. The photograph stopped where the tip of the nose began. It was the eyes of the woman—not the patched eye of the man—that drew Jack in. The eyes had an animal intensity to them, as if they did not belong to the face.

Gardening was the theme in other photos: a woman—the bride, older now?—holding a silver cup and a plant proudly adorned with a winner’s rosette. Others were of two men, standing outside a barber’s shop. They were shaking hands, smiling for the camera. At least, one of them was smiling; the other—the one with the patch over his eye—looked quite dour. The men appeared eager, as if dreams were finally about to become a reality. In the background, attached to the shop’s window was a sign, proudly proclaiming: Grand Opening. “A Fine Trim”. A Cut Above the Rest.

Benson’s finger tapped the photo, breaking Jack’s thoughts “That’s the bastard.”

“What’s his name?”

“Harris. Joe Harris. He’s a local barber—though not the barber I go to,” added Benson, quickly.

“How did he come to your attention?”

Benson removed a box from beneath a table. “Hey presto!” He turned the box on its side, allowing its contents to spill freely on to the top of the table. “The sweet, the one with the barber-pole wrapping. Your magical sweet, Sherlock—which, as I told you before, you shouldn’t have touched: fucking with evidence.” Benson captured one of the sweets and unwrapped its swirling coat, before popping the sugary rock in his mouth. “I have to admit that these are fucking good. Try one?”

Jack shook his head.

“What guided you to this place, Harry?” asked Jack, impatience lining his forehead. This evening’s eerie phone call was still echoing in his head. He wanted to scream at Benson.

“Did you know that we have over one hundred and twenty barbers and hairdressers within a five-mile radius?” asked Benson, dislodging particles of the fragmented sweet from between his teeth.

“I do now.” Jack rolled on the balls of his feet, hoping Benson’s radar would pick up on his annoyance. It failed.

“We must have the most manicured inhabitants for miles,” smirked the burly detective, before returning to the subject. “Luckily for us, a few still live in that bygone era of customer care. Only about ten still hand out sweets and little toys to their younger clientele. Better still, the sweet was not manufactured in any factory.”

“Oh?”

“Nope. Our missing paedo fiend, Harris, and his late wife, Katrina, made these.” Benson held a sweet between his finger and thumb. “A secret ingredient. Harris even designed the
wrappers for them. What a guy.”

“How do you know all this? Did you receive a tip-off?”

Benson tapped the photo again. “A process of elimination. We finally got to shop nine on our list, “A Fine Trim”—a fine mess, more likely. His boss, Jeremiah Grazier—the one with the Long John Silver patch—told us that Harris hadn’t appeared for work in weeks. I was going to say this picture doesn’t do Grazier justice, but as they say, ‘What can’t speak, can’t lie.’ It was Grazier who told us how Harris’s late wife made the sweets just for the shop. Isn’t that nice?”

“He didn’t report it, or find it strange, his friend not showing up for work?” asked Jack, ignoring Benson’s flippancy.

“Apparently not. Harris has done this sort of thing before, according to Grazier, so it was nothing unusual.”

“What else did Grazier say?”

“Harris is a compulsive gambler and a bit of a drinker. No, let me rephrase that. Harris is an alcoholic. He drinks during the day to steady his hands when working. Fuck, can you imagine him giving you a shave? Anyway, Grazier hinted that Harris had been doing a lot of borrowing from loan sharks lately. He always seemed to be strapped for money, to cover the horses and dogs—probably flies going up the wall, as well.”

“Have you spoken at length with Grazier?”

“No. Not yet. Didn’t know we were walking into this sort of shit.” Benson nodded at the magazines.

“I want to be there when you question him.”

“What? Have you gone off the rail? I can’t have you in the interrogation room!”

“Not the interrogation room. The observation room is fine.”

“If Wilson even sniffed that I had permitted you to—”

“Wilson couldn’t sniff his arse unless someone stuck his
nose in it.”

“And that’s where you’re becoming a right pain. You know, you’ve been in the station more often now, since your retirement, than you ever were while on duty.”

“Nostalgia. I miss the old place. What time should I be there at?”

Resigned, Benson said: “Tomorrow at three. The barber’s shop doesn’t normally close early on Thursdays, but Mister Grazier said he would make an exception, said it would be a pleasure to tell us everything we need to know.”

“Very accommodating of him.”

“Well, he’s obviously an accommodating sort of person.” Benson smirked, tossing a large black Bible on the table. “I guess our Mister Harris is a bit confused as to which way he swings.”

Opening the book, Jack glanced at the inscription.
To my friend, Joseph. May the Lord be perpetually at your side
. It was signed
Jeremiah
.

“I take it this is from Grazier?” asked Jack, showing Benson the dedication.

“More than likely. Apparently Long John Silver went door to door, selling these things, years ago. Probably had a parrot on his fucking shoulder.”

“Where exactly does Grazier live?”

Removing a notepad from an overstuffed pocket, Benson flipped a few pages before scanning his illegible writing code. “He and his wife, Judith, own a large parcel of land, near the Cave Hill.”

“Cave Hill?”

“Yes. That wilderness area over near Barton’s Forest. Why? What’s that look for? What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” said Jack, wondering if it was something.

“
W
HAT WILL
I say to them if they ask me if I ever suspected that Joe … loved children?” asked Jeremiah for the tenth time in two hours. He sat on a chair, squirming uncomfortably, as if a tack had been placed on it.

“Tell them the truth,” said Judith, placing her hands on his shoulders. Immediately, he stopped fidgeting.

“What? What do you mean?”

“
Did
you ever suspect?”

“What? No …”

“Just tell the truth—when the truth is needed. Understand?”

“I’m confused. I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing, making them suspicious of us.”

“You won’t. They will try and trick you, but you’re too smart for them. Be humble. Keep most—but not all—of your answers short. Shrewdness shall be your fortress.”

“I wish you could be there. I would feel a lot better.”

“That would arouse suspicion in them. Why, they would ask, would a grown man want his wife to accompany him to the police station? Don’t you see?”

He nodded. “Of course. But—”

“Moreover, you know I don’t like people staring at me. They regard me as a freak.”

“Don’t. Don’t ever say that. It breaks my heart to hear you talk like that.” Jeremiah stood and faced Judith. “You are beautiful. You will always be beautiful. If they can’t see your beauty, then let them burn in hell.”

For the first time that day, a smile appeared on Judith’s face. But the smile had an edge to it: it was the kind of smile where the mouth lengthens but the eyes remain fixed and hard.

“I’ve been neglecting you lately,” she whispered in a low tone, close to his ear, awakening that tingling sensation between his legs. “I have a lot to make up for. Soon, we will be on our own again. You would like that, wouldn’t you, just the two of us?”

He gently kissed her hand. “More than anything.”

“Good. Now listen carefully. I will tell you what to say—exactly.”

J
ACK STUDIED
J
EREMIAH
via the two-way mirror, noting how the barber had placed his hands perfectly atop the table, his back straight and stiff. There was little doubt that the patch added a sinister look to the poor man’s appearance. Good job Jack never judged a book by its cover—unlike Benson. The burly detective already had himself convinced of Grazier’s wrongdoing—perhaps not in this particular case, but no doubt in other things that would eventually emerge.

“You only have to look at him,” quipped Benson, prior to entering the room. “He looks like somebody from
Treasure Island
or Doctor Hook’s Medicine fucking Show. I don’t know if he’s guilty, but he damn well should be, looking like that.”

Benson had an infallible belief that over twenty years of being a cop had provided him with an insight into people’s thoughts and state of mind—that by simply looking at the way the pupil of the eye changed when you asked the owner a question, you could determine guilt:
It’s all in the eyes. Fuck polygraphs. They can be manipulated. But the pupils? Ha! You can’t fuck with the pupils. Ever watch how a cat’s eyes become so dilated when it spies
on birds? That cat is thinking of how that little feathered pie will taste in its mouth.

“First things first, Mister Grazier. I want to thank you for coming in on such a cold Thursday afternoon,” said Benson.

“Anything to help the police, Detective …”

“Benson,” said Benson, removing his coat as if preparing for battle, his huge chest straining on the shirt. “Just for the record, Mister Grazier, why did you not notify the police about Mister Harris’s absence?”

“I thought Joe, perhaps, was on a drinking binge. He’d been having difficulties lately. It’s not unusual for him to disappear for weeks—or sometimes months—on end.”

“What kind of difficulties?”

“Drinking. Money …”

“Money?”

“He was doing an awful lot of gambling—more than he would normally do.” Jeremiah took a sip of water. “He likes the horses and always knows a man who knows a man who has something or other on the highest authority. Unfortunately, their tips weren’t tops. I think there were people … interested in him.”

“
Interested?
”

Jack smiled at the expression on Benson’s face.

“He owed money to people,” explained Jeremiah.

“I see.” Benson scribbled something down on a pad. “Do you know these
people?
”

“No; Joe did not divulge that information.”

“Best of friends, and he didn’t
divulge?
Didn’t you find that strange?”

Jeremiah shook his head. “He probably didn’t want me to get involved. I think they were loan sharks and such like-minded
and dangerous people.”

Removing a cigarette from its enclosure, Benson offered one to Jeremiah.

“No, thank you. I don’t smoke—can’t tolerate the smell. Don’t drink either.”

Undeterred and being an intolerant person himself, Benson removed a lighter from his pocket and struck the wheel a number of times before a tiny flame finally appeared.

“When I read about the evils of drinking and smoking, I gave up reading,” Benson smiled wickedly, snapping the lighter shut, seemingly pleased that Jeremiah jumped slightly.

“Has Mister Harris ever borrowed money from you, Mister Grazier?”

Jeremiah nodded. “A few times.”

“But this time he decided to go for loan sharks and other
like-minded
and
dangerous
people?”

“Apparently so,” replied Jeremiah.

“Why do you think that is?”

“I told Joe that I could no longer encourage his habit, and that I would cease lending him any more money.” Jeremiah shook his head. “I wish I had, now. I feel that in some way … I feel that I may have contributed to Joe’s absence.”

Jack noticed a little nervous tic below Jeremiah’s eye patch; how it twitched slightly each time he spoke. He wondered if this was an indication of annoyance at the way Benson was directing the questioning, or simply irritation caused by the leather against his skin? Or something else, something entirely different but relevant?

“You said he had a problem with drink. How so?” Benson glanced about for an ashtray. Finding none, he flicked the ash on the floor, close to Jeremiah’s shining leather shoes.

“Ever since Katrina, his much-loved wife, passed away, Joe has been drinking excessively. More so than usual. Over the last few months, he had become quite irritable, not himself, even becoming agitated and angry with customers. A couple of times, I had to let him go home early, as his behaviour was becoming increasingly detrimental to the shop’s image.”

“Have you any idea what may have sparked this
behaviour?
” Benson tilted his head slightly. He seemed to be studying the leather patch adorning the face opposite.

“I … no …”

Sensing a potential withdrawal, Benson changed direction. “Look, Mister Grazier, I’m all for the sanctity of friendship, but there are times when not
divulging
information can get you into a whole lot of trouble. Trust me on this.” Benson appeared to glance at the two-way mirror—much to Jack’s chagrin. “What do you think—
intuitively
—may have contributed to Mister Harris’s irrational behaviour?”

Bringing the water to his lips, Jeremiah took a good long sip. “Intuitively? Hmm. Well, I … we … we had police officers visit us, last week, asking questions about … about that little girl who went missing, a few years ago. Just routine questions, mind you, the same ones being asked of all the businesses in the area, I’m sure. But … I don’t know … it just seemed to upset Joe, once the officers had left. I think he was upset that someone could harm the little girl. He seemed to be obsessed with her.”

Jack could see Benson’s left eyebrow move slightly as the large man’s bulk moved somewhat towards Grazier.

“Did Mister Harris know Nancy McTier?”

“Nancy McTier? Oh! The little girl? To be totally honest, I don’t know.”

“Did you know her?”

“Me?”

“Had you seen her about, in the street, running errands, skipping—that sort of thing?”

“No.”

Benson scribbled on the pad. “Did Mister Harris say anything to you after the officers had departed? Please take your time, Mister Grazier. It could be very important, what you tell us next.” Benson’s voice was a whisper.

Jeremiah nodded. He seemed to be studying a missing fragment of paint on the wall directly behind Benson’s massive shoulders.

“He went straight to the first-aid cabinet—he has a little bottle of whiskey concealed there—and almost finished the bottle in one gulp. Then he said a profanity.”

“Pardon?” Benson’s face wrinkled into a puzzled look.

“He …” Jeremiah took another sip of water. “He said the ‘f’ word.”

“The f word?”

“He said, ‘Oh f.’”

“You mean fuck, Mister Grazier? He said, ‘Oh fuck’?”

Jeremiah’s face reddened. “Yes … that’s exactly what he said.”

Benson scribbled hurriedly on to the pad before diverting the conversation.

“You cut children’s hair. Is that correct?”

Jeremiah half nodded. “Adults get their hair cut, as well, in the shop—not just children.”

“Turns apiece, or did Mister Harris tend mostly to the children?”

“I … well … Joe mostly took care of the children. I have to admit that I don’t have a great deal of patience with
young people. Must be getting cranky in my old age.” Jeremiah attempted a weak smile. Benson didn’t acknowledge it. “Joe knew … Joe knew their football teams, the latest music trends. He was …
is
good at that sort of thing. I think the younger clientele felt more comfortable with him, I have to admit.”

“Did he know them all by name?”

“Name? Oh, yes. I suppose. Knew most of their birthdays, that sort of thing. Always had a toy or a card with a few coins in it ready for the lucky child. He is very thoughtful that way.”

“Is he indeed?” Benson glanced at the two-way, before continuing. “What was Harris in prison for?”

“What?” Jeremiah seemed taken aback by the curve of the questioning. “That was a very long time ago. I … I really can’t remember.”

Smiling like a fox with its mouth on the chicken’s neck, Benson produced a slip of paper from a folder. “No? Let me refresh your memory, Mister Grazier. Does indecent exposure conjure up any memories?”

“Indecent …? Oh! But that was when he was at college. A prank. He did a bit of streaking. Everyone was at it those days.”

“Were they indeed? You also?”

“Me? No, certainly not,” replied Jeremiah, looking slightly miffed. “No, it wasn’t something … I didn’t do that sort of thing. Joe thought streaking hilarious.”

“Mrs Wilma McKenna, 26 King’s Court, mustn’t have had a sense of humour,
in
those days
. She almost died when Flasher Harris swung his fishing rod at her window, the tiddler dangling from it.”

Jeremiah said nothing.

On a roll, Benson continued. “Did you and Mister Harris do much socialising?”

“Socialising?”

“Go out for a drink, a meal, perhaps?”

Shaking his head, Jeremiah said, “No, I don’t drink. I told you that already. And I rarely saw Joe outside of business hours.”

“Where did he go to have a drink—that’s if he went out, of course, and didn’t have the medicine cabinet strapped to his back?”

Jeremiah seemed to be pondering the question. “I think the bar was called ‘The Bunch of Grapes’, though I’m not certain about that. We never really discussed his problem.”

“I see,” said Benson, scribbling on the pad. “Talking about
problems;
does Mister Harris have any other
problems
that you are aware of?”

“What kind of
other
problems?”

“Anything. Women, say. Does he have any girlfriends—someone we could call? Perhaps he’s staying with a woman, as we speak?”

“No, Joe hasn’t any girlfriends—at least none that I’m aware of. He mostly likes being on his own. After Katrina died he seemed to …”

“Seemed to …?”

Jeremiah took another sip of water. “He sort of lost interest in women.”

Benson scribbled on the pad and, without looking up, said to Jeremiah, quite casually, “Did Mister Harris have an interest in children?”

“What?”

“Did he ever take any of the children out to the local McDonald’s, places like that?”

“I really don’t know. What kind of question is that? What’s this all about? Why do you want to know if he took children
to McDonald’s?” Then, as if a great revelation had entered his head, Jeremiah looked shocked. “No! You think … you think Joe had something to do with that little girl’s disappearance, just because I said about him acting strangely when the officers came to the shop? No, that’s not possible. You’re deliberately trying to put words into my mouth. What I meant to say was that he was probably agitated to think something had happened to her. He always suspected someone from that flea-pit of a boarding house just opposite us. You’re deliberately taking my meaning—”

“Please calm down, Mister Grazier. I’m simply making sure that we have covered everything. I don’t want to be calling on you again, interrupting your work.”

Jeremiah closed his eyes slowly, before opening them. He appeared to become slightly agitated. “You’re trying to make him a scapegoat, aren’t you?”

Benson stood, his great size covering the seated Jeremiah in shadow.

“Coffee, Mister Grazier?” asked Benson, turning his back, walking towards the coffee-pot in the corner.

“No … no, thank you.”

Jack almost missed it, the sleight of hand, as Jeremiah moved—almost imperceptibly—like a shadow on a wall. His long, bony fingers stretched just enough to touch Benson’s writing pad. They did not move the pad, simply rested upon it, like a tarantula waiting for its prey.

“Would it be possible to go to the bathroom? All this water I’ve been drinking …” Jeremiah looked sheepishly at Benson.

“Yeah, I’m not surprised. You must have a bladder the size of a fridge. Go straight out the door, turn left, then second on your right. You can’t miss the smell. Some dirty bastard usually leaves a large turd floating in there.”

Waiting until Jeremiah had left the room, Benson made his way to the two-way mirror.

“Well? What do you reckon? Is he shitting himself, or what?” Benson grinned while continuing the one-way conversation at the two-way.

Jack sat on the toilet, waiting. He felt unclean, sneaky. The door opened and he knew immediately that it had to be Jeremiah, having rushed a few seconds ahead of him. He listened, like a pervert, as Jeremiah unzipped himself then began a soliloquy.

“Take a deep breath. Easy … Judith is with you …”

Jack listened intently to Jeremiah trying desperately to control his breathing. For the next few seconds, ramblings uttered from Jeremiah’s mouth. Then nothing. Not a sound. No piss hitting the urinal, not even a fart.

Abruptly, the silence was broken by the sound of a zip snaking closed, followed by tap water running. The hand dryer gushed out its hot spurt of air and, a few seconds later, the door opened and closed, leaving a telling tranquillity.

Moving quickly, Jack hoped to get back before Benson started the interrogation. He opened the toilet door, clumsily banging into Jeremiah, almost tumbling over him.

“Oh, sorry about that,” mumbled Jack, cursing his stupidly at believing Jeremiah had already left.

“That … that’s okay,” said Jeremiah, looking slightly rattled.

“Did you get a load off your mind?” asked a grinning Benson as Jeremiah walked through the door of the interrogation room. To Benson’s delight, Jeremiah looked shaken.

Seemingly mortified, Jeremiah ignored the remark. The sudden and odd appearance of the man in the toilet had frightened him. A few seconds later, he re-seated himself, before
clearing his throat with a cough. “I know you’re only doing your duty, Detective Benson, and I apologise for my outburst earlier. It’s just such a preposterous idea. Joe wouldn’t hurt a fly. Really. He’s a very kind-hearted person.”