Cage of Bones

on his manor. That the covert joint operation (he had stressed the word joint) would result in the rooting out and successful capture of a corrupt police officer. How such a superintendent would be looked on by the Home Office in the next round of budget cuts. When all this was pointed out, whatever misgivings the Super had were kept to himself.

Fennell had hung up, clearly happy with himself.

Yeah, thought Mickey, now we just have to carry all of that out. Because if we don’t, it won’t be the SOCA glory boys who’ll take the blame. Not once they’ve involved the locals.

The convoy drove along the A120 towards Harwich. There were two ports on the mouth of the River Stour. Felixstowe and Harwich. Most of the heavy cargo, Fennell had informed them all at the briefing, came through Felixstowe. And as a result it was the more carefully guarded of the two. Weaver and Balchunas’ cargo was coming in the Harwich side, where it would be less likely to be stopped and searched.

They would get in place for the shipment, identify it, follow it to the lock-up.

And then take them down.

The firearms unit was in the van behind. Mickey felt uncomfortable with them around. The cowboy outfit, Phil always called them. The shoot-first-fill-in-compliance-forms-later brigade. He must have caught Phil’s allergy to them, Mickey thought, smiling to himself.

They were approaching Harwich, going round the roundabouts, heading down to the port itself.

Mickey always found Harwich a strange place. Away from the front, there were rabbit-warren streets of old Georgian houses, interesting local pubs and even a converted lighthouse. But the front, and the port, was different.

They drove along the front and round to the side, the convoy coming to a halt in a car park by the edge of the water.

Mickey got out, walked down to the sea.

It was raining fully now, and dark. The only sound was the tide lapping against the shore, rough waves crashing in, fizzing out as they withdrew. Mickey pulled his coat around him. He could feel the cold, the damp penetrate.

Felixstowe on the opposite side was lit up against the night. Etched against the darkness, it was all looming boxlike cranes and blinking lights. It looked sinister, alien. The port itself resembled a grounded alien spacecraft, no longer needing to cloak itself, wounded but still dangerous. The cranes along the shoreline, dark and top-heavy on foursquare legs, looked like the walkers from the old Star Wars films. Like they were the advance guard from the ship, about to come stomping across the estuary, all blackened and rusting, guns blazing.

Mickey shivered. Hoped it was just the cold.

Clemens got out of the van, came and stood beside him. He shook out a cigarette, lit up. Offered the pack to Mickey as an afterthought. Mickey refused.

Clemens had been silent on the journey. Mickey didn’t know the man well enough to ask why.

‘Just heard,’ said Clemens, blowing smoke towards the other side of the estuary. ‘My partner. Slipped into a coma.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mickey. Then thought. ‘But isn’t Fennell your partner?’

‘Just drafted in. We know each other, have worked together before. But my other partner was sliced up a couple of days ago. He’s been fighting for his life since then.’

Mickey didn’t know what to say. Thought he wasn’t expected to say anything, just listen.

‘And you know who did it?’

‘Who?’

‘That slag back at the hotel. Her.’

Mickey said nothing. He could guess where this was going.

‘And she’s going to get away with it. Claim self-defence.’

‘Was it?’ asked Mickey. ‘Self-defence?’

Clemens sighed. Shook his head. Blew more smoke. ‘Didn’t expect you to understand. Met your boss. See where you get it from now. Be trying to turn you into a Guardian reader too.’

Mickey hadn’t taken to Clemens. Too quick to anger, too fast with his tongue. Looking for a fight. Not good traits to have in someone who was supposed to be watching your back. He would have to be aware of that.

He didn’t reply. Didn’t rise to it.

The two men kept looking across the water, not speaking, each in their own world.

Others came out of the van to join them.

Then Fennell arrived, putting his phone away.

‘Your boss said you were looking forward to doing some proper police work again,’ he said to Mickey. ‘Bit of thief-taking.’

Mickey gave a grim smile. ‘Beats paperwork, I suppose.’

‘Certainly does.’ Fennell looked at his watch. ‘Time to get organised.’

113

Phil tried to stand. Slowly, unsure of how much space there was between his body and the ceiling of the cave. Not much. Not enough for him to stand fully upright.

He checked himself out. No severe pains anywhere, nothing that indicated twisted ankles or broken bones. Just soreness resulting from the speed of the descent and the abruptness of the landing. He would hurt tomorrow.

If he could get out again.

He swung the torch around. The chamber he was in seemed to be a naturally occurring space that had been hollowed out further. Some of the rock looked smooth, age-worn; some looked hacked at, hewn.

He turned round slowly. Played the torch in front of him.

Someone lived down here.

A bed frame of twisted, heavy branches held a mattress made from hessian sacking, straw and leaves spilling from loose seams. Some old blankets, holed and mildewed, had been thrown on to it. The whole thing stank.

He looked more closely at the bed, trained his torch on it. There was what looked like another bed next to it, in the shadows. At the foot of it a small broken table. Probably liberated from the hotel’s bins, thought Phil. He shone the torch beam on the other bed. And recoiled as if he had been hit.

Laid out there were the remains of a mummified corpse. Clothing rotted away, skin like dusty old leather. Bones sticking through. But preserved, reverentially. Either side of it were candles.

Pulling his eyes away from the bed, he studied the small table. It had been painted with the same symbols as on the walls of the cellar at East Hill. The calendar. On it were several items, like the contents of someone’s pockets but decades old, laid out as if they were offerings on an altar. Phil moved in closer to look. A cigarette lighter. Some beads. A watch, the leather strap all eaten away. A wallet.

He reached forward and, fearful that it might crumble to dust in his hands, slowly opened the wallet.

There was still money in there. Single pound notes. Ten-pound notes. Fives. All decades old. A library card, long out of date. He screwed up his eyes, tried to make out the name. Did so.

Paul Clunn.

‘Oh my God… ’

Then: a noise. Echoing.

Phil turned, swinging the torch, catching his head on the low ceiling. He rubbed at it. Kept looking round. Listening. All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears.

He tried to blink the pain away, listen.

Nothing. No more sound. He shone the torch on the walls once more, this time noticing that the same design had been painted there. Old, the paint fading away to darkness.

It wasn’t Paul who lived down here. Phil was sure of that. Whoever it was, it wasn’t Paul.

The Gardener? Was it him?

He checked the entranceway he had come down. Looked for footholds. The rock was smooth, worn. The space just big enough for his body to pass through. He tried to climb up it. Couldn’t get a grip. Slid back down again.