deadeningly bright illumination that revealed everything, conversely making it all the more horrific in the process.
The blue-suited CSI team worked in the glare of the lights. They were all around him, attempting to spin samples and specimens into the slenderest of narrative threads, building the biggest story from the smallest particles.
Phil himself was similarly dressed, standing still and staring. Taking in what was before him. Trying to process it. Knowing he would have to hunt down the person responsible for it.
The cellar floor was strewn with flower petals. The arc lights showed up the varying colours: blue, red, white, yellow. All turning brown, curling, dying. All from different kinds of flowers. Around the walls were bunches of wilting blooms, bound together, placed in clusters at regular intervals, like little roadside memorials. The smell, in that small space, was overpowering.
Above them, daubed on the walls, were symbols. Swirling and Cabalistic. Phil had initially thought they were some kind of pentagram, an indication of devil worship. But he had examined them more closely and found that wasn’t the case. They weren’t like any Satanic designs he had come across. He couldn’t say what they were, but they made him feel uncomfortable looking at them. As though he had seen them before and knew what they were. And didn’t like them. He shuddered, kept looking round.
In the centre of the space was what looked like a workbench. Wooden surface, with adjustable metal legs. Old. Well used, but well looked after. Phil leaned forward, examined it. It had been kept clean, but the wood was stained darker in places, the surface scarred and chipped with blade marks and heavy, angry gashes. He suppressed a shudder.
And there, behind the bench, at the far end of the cellar, was the cage. He moved closer, stood before it like an astronaut confronted by an alien artefact, unsure whether to worship it or destroy it. It took up nearly a third of the cellar. Floor to wall to ceiling. The bones embedded, cemented. Bound tightly together with what looked like some kind of hide. Varying in size, but all quite long and substantial. Precisely worked and integrated. A solid construction, criss-crossing to form neat, even-sized squares. It had been there a long time. Some of the bones were worn and smooth, time-leached from white to grey. Some were much newer, almost white. And it had been well maintained over the years. Sections had been repaired, the newer, paler bones standing out, at odds with the rest. Old, splintered ones strengthened and bound. A smaller frame set into the larger one served as a door, hinged on one side by bindings, a chain and padlock securing it on the other side.
The bones… Their selection based on size and shape… The method of joining them together… He tried to imagine the work involved, the time taken, the kind of mind that had created such a thing… Failed. Shook his head, concentrated, examined it all the harder.
‘Built to last, that.’ A voice at Phil’s side. ‘British craftsmanship.’
He turned. DS Mickey Philips was standing next to him. The flippancy of his tone was only perfunctory. It didn’t reach Mickey’s eyes. He was equally awed and repelled by the structure.
‘Why bone?’
‘What?’
‘Must be a reason, Mickey. Whoever did this must be telling us something.’
‘Yeah. But what?’
‘I don’t know. But they could have used wood, metal, whatever. They chose bone. Why?’
‘Dunno. Why?’
‘I don’t know either.’ Phil’s eyes roved over the cage. ‘Yet.’ He looked round the cellar once more. Took in the flowers, the workbench. ‘This cage, this whole place… like a murder scene without the murder.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mickey. ‘Good job we got the call. Just in time.’
Phil looked at the stains on the workbench. ‘This time.’
They turned back to the cage. Eyes fixed on that, not on each other. Phil broke his gaze, turned to Mickey.
‘Where’s the child now?’
‘At the hospital, with Anni,’ Mickey said.
Anni Hepburn, Phil’s DC.
Mickey sighed, frowned. ‘Jesus, what a state that kid must be in… ’
Mickey Philips was still regarded as the new boy in the MIS, the team that Phil headed up. But he had been there long enough to earn his place. The more Phil worked with him, the more he found him a mass of contradictions. He looked the complete opposite of Phil. Always immaculately suited and tied, in contrast to Phil’s more carefree approach of jacket, waistcoat, jeans and casual shirt; his hair neatly razored short, unlike Phil’s spikes and quiff, and his shoes always polished, as opposed to Phil’s Converses or, if the weather was really bad, scuffed old Red Wings. A bull-necked nightclub bouncer to Phil’s hip university lecturer.
But there was something that set Mickey Philips apart from other coppers, and that was why Phil had wanted him on his team. He was one of the new breed of coppers, a graduate rather than a grafter, but he didn’t conform to type. Most of them Phil dismissed as promotion-hungry politicians, but Mickey wasn’t like that. He was tough when he had to be, aggressive even, but not brutal. He was also articulate and erudite, qualities that didn’t always go down well in the force, and he had done his best to hide them when necessary. It was only since working for Phil that he had felt relaxed enough to allow that side of him to show. And even then he tended to ration its appearances.
‘I’ll, er… go and see if I’m needed upstairs.’ The cage made Mickey visibly uncomfortable.
‘It’s a ritual,’ said Phil.
Mickey didn’t move. Waited for what Phil would say next.
‘Isn’t it?’ He gestured round. ‘All this. Deliberately set up for a ritual.’
‘The murder of that kid?’
‘I’d put money on it. And we’ve stopped it. Taken the would-be victim away, averted a death.’
‘Good for us.’
‘Yeah,’ said Phil. He didn’t sound convinced. ‘Good for us. Question is, what does this guy do next?’
Mickey said nothing.
‘I think we’re going to need some help on this one… ’
5
‘Come in. Sit down.’ Marina Esposito smiled. It wasn’t returned.
The woman across from her sat. The desk in Marina’s office was pushed back against the far wall. She had tried to make the room in the Southway police station as warm and characterful as possible: prints on the walls, easy chairs, rug on the floor. Not a luxury, thought Marina, but a necessity. No one ever came to see her because they were happy.
‘So… ’ She looked down at the file before her. She knew the woman’s name. Probably knew more about her than she realised. ‘How are you, Rose?’
Detective Sergeant Rose Martin gave a brisk smile. ‘Fine.’
‘You feel ready to return to work?’
‘Absolutely.’ She closed her eyes, rolled her neck round on her shoulders. Marina heard a faint clicking noise. ‘Been off too long. Starting to go mad watching daytime TV.’
‘
Marina knew just how long Rose had been off. She herself had been involved in the same case, five months previously. The Creeper, so christened by the media, was a murderous predator. He had kidnapped Rose, tied her up and subjected her to sexual torture. She had tried to escape, but it was only after the intervention of Phil Brennan that she was actually freed.
Rose had been under Phil’s command. But Marina knew he hadn’t wanted her, chosen her or even liked her. He had found her manipulative, devious and problematically aggressive. In the course of the Creeper investigation, Rose Martin had instigated an affair with his boss, the previous DCI, in order to further her career. He had been completely besotted with her. The decisions he had made at her request had resulted in his near-fatal stabbing, and he was subsequently invalided out of the force. Even worse, from Phil’s perspective, recklessly endangering the lives
