11
The white tent had already been erected at the side of the house. Keeping their findings safe and onlookers away. Phil began stripping off his blue suit. Mickey did likewise.
‘Like a personal sauna, these things,’ Mickey said. ‘Must lose half a stone every crime scene I come to.’
Phil gave a distracted smile in acknowledgement, checked his breathing. Fine. He looked up. The ambulances and Police Incident Units were parked at the top of the path, the area taped off, so the gawpers had gathered on the bridge. Peering over, necks craning. Trying for a glimpse of something dangerous or thrilling or exciting. A vicarious kick out of being close to violence but far enough away to be untouched by it. As though his work was some kind of sporting spectacle.
‘Like they’re watching TV,’ said Mickey, reading his mind.
‘Our audience,’ said Phil. ‘As though this is all a kind of showbiz.’ Then he thought of the cellar. Laid out like a stage set. The analogy didn’t feel appropriate any more.
‘Boss?’
Phil turned. The Birdies had arrived. DC Adrian Wren and DS Jane Gosling. Inevitably paired together because of their surnames. And their physical appearance didn’t help: Adrian stick thin, Jane much larger. They looked like a music-hall double act. But they were two of Phil’s best officers.
Phil called them over. ‘Adrian, Jane, good to see you both.’
They nodded their greetings.
‘Right,’ he said, addressing the group. ‘The CSIs are going to take over this area. Having been down there, I think we’ve got our work cut out for us.’
‘In what way?’ DS Jane Gosling frowned.
He explained what he had seen in the cellar. ‘We don’t know what kind of bones the cage is made from. Hopefully we will soon.’
‘Could they be human?’ asked DC Adrian Wren.
‘Don’t rule anything out,’ said Phil. ‘Not until we know for definite. But some of them have been there for years. And the way it was laid out, there’s a sense of ritual interrupted. Whoever’s responsible, it looks like he knew what he was doing. Chances are he’ll have done it before. So we need to know who owns the house, what sort of history it’s got, what hands it’s passed through, everything.’
‘Might be able to help there,’ said Mickey. He flipped through his notebook. ‘One of the two guys who called it in. Gave me the name of the demolition firm. George Byers. Based in New Town. They’ll know who owns the place. Might have had some dealings with them.’
‘Good place to start.’ Phil looked behind him at the big Georgian building. Faces were at windows, necks craning to see what was happening. ‘Before you do, find out what that place is. Who works there, what they do, if they saw anything or anyone going to and from this house. Someone must have seen something.’
Mickey, making notes, nodded again. So did Adrian.
Phil was still aware of being watched. He looked the other way. A concrete path, chipped, cracked and sprouting weeds, sided by a chain-link fence struggling to withstand an assault from the bushes, trees and weeds threatening to spill out over it. The path led past another dilapidated house. ‘What’s down there?’
‘Council allotments,’ said Mickey, following his gaze.
Phil looked again at the house on the opposite side of the path. Saw that it was in fact a small row of terraced houses, two-storey, in a terminal state of disrepair. The roofs were down to skeletal frames, the meat of tiles and fat of insulation starved off them. The windows and doors boarded up, the wood warped, aged down to grey. Gutters and drains rust-stained. The outside walls graffitied and tagged, filthy. And all around the terrace, weeds and vegetation making a bid for reclamation.
‘Jane, stay here. Co-ordinate with Forensics. Sorry, CSIs. Wouldn’t want to upset them.’
Thin smiles. Forensics had recently been rebranded as CSIs in line with the TV series. Made them feel more glamorous. On the outside at least.
‘Anni’s at the hospital with the kid. He’s still sleeping. No response. She’ll be looking into missing children, children’s homes, runaways.’
Another look round. The gawpers were still on the bridge. Nearby, but a world away. And Phil reckoned that deep down, they knew that. When they had seen enough they could walk away, taking the frisson of adventure back with them to their normal world. Plus a sense of thankfulness that what was happening down there wasn’t happening to them. But Phil couldn’t walk away.
And neither could the boy in the cellar.
‘I’ll check that house over there.’ He looked round his team. ‘We ready?’
They were.
‘Right. ‘Let’s go.’
Then Phil’s phone rang.
12
Rose Martin swallowed hard. Then again. Felt that rush, that tingle of adrenalin, that she hadn’t experienced in months. This was where she belonged. Back. Working.
Since the call, everything had felt good. Right. She had pulled up to the Road Closed sign on Colchester Road just outside the village of Wakes Colne, holding her warrant card up to the windscreen, being allowed access where all other vehicles were being turned away. She felt that indescribable power that being above civilians gave her. She had missed it.
She pulled her car up to the crime-scene tape, flashing her warrant card again, silencing the nearest uniform’s entreaty to turn away. Just ducking under the tape, walking along the closed-off country road, her heels echoing, had been thrilling. The trees either side of the road seemed to bend in, beckoning her towards the crime scene.
She looked ahead. A 4x4 had ploughed into the banked up roadside, its left front side crumpled. Behind it, blue-suited CSIs stood and knelt in the road alongside uniforms. All attention directed downwards. She speeded up. Eager to rejoin her clan, immerse herself in that life once more. Lead them.
Then she stopped dead. Looked at them once more. Crouching. Kneeling. The body. There would be the body.
Her chest was gripped by a sudden fear; her arms began to shake. Her feet wouldn’t move forward. She wanted to turn, run back to her car, put herself on the other side of the tape once more. Forget about it. Hide herself away.
Marina was right. She had said this would happen.
Marina. Rose closed her eyes, controlled her breathing. Nothing that woman or her bastard boyfriend had to say was of any relevance to her. She would prove them wrong. Show them that she was strong enough to return, cool-headed and unafraid of anything the job could throw at her. She would show them.
The shaking subsided. Her breathing returned to normal. She flexed her fingers, regaining control of her body, willing it. Yes. She would show them.
She started walking again, the viaduct behind her, the leaves on the trees slowly moving, rubbing together, like jazz brushes over drum skins. She moved slowly at first, then with purpose. She reached the gathering of uniforms and blue suits. Held up her warrant card.
‘DS Martin,’ she said, slightly too loudly, ensuring they all saw her ID. She cleared her throat. ‘What have we got here?’
A plain-suited man she hadn’t spotted stood upright. He crossed towards her. ‘Hello, Rose,’ he said. ‘Good to see you.’ He stretched out his hand for her to shake. She took it.
Her superior officer. Acting DCI Brian Glass.
Glass offered her a smile. A small one, as if rationed. A quick flicker across his lips, then gone. Back to business.
