espressos.
Thank God it’s got sat nav, she thought, and keyed in the coordinates. She was ready to go.
She just had one phone call to make first.
51
‘So who called it in?’ Mickey Philips asked the uniform next to him, walking down the common approach path towards the crime scene. The morning was white, fogbound. The mist curled round him like a character in a Steve Ditko comic.
The circus had arrived before him. The house and grounds had been cordoned off behind black and yellow crime-scene tape, fluttering in the breeze like disgruntled wasps. Through the fog, the white-suited forensics team were treading carefully and warily, sticking to the square metal stepping stones of the CAP, not wanting to tread on the wrong thing, explode some hidden time bomb. They never failed to remind Mickey of a team of scientists in some Hollywood blockbuster, trying to halt the spread of a deadly virus or chemical spillage. The most visible symbol to observers that something in their ordered world had gone very wrong.
Ahead of them, two white plastic tents had been erected, both to preserve the crime scene and to obscure the view of any TV news crews. Mickey had noticed a couple getting into place as he pulled up. Finding good positions for their cameras and reporters. White mist, white tents, white-suited people. Wouldn’t make for the most dynamic TV pictures.
Since Mickey was with the Major Incident Squad, he tried to avoid the crews. If they recognised him as he approached, they might think there was a story to be had, and that would make his job even more difficult.
The uniform by the inner cordon checked his notes, hurried to keep up with him. ‘Someone out walking their dog. Proper angry old man. Saw a lump on the lawn.’ He pointed to the first white tent. ‘Thought it was someone asleep. A tramp, he said. Went to … ’ He checked his notes. ‘Berate the person, as he said.’
‘Berate? He used that word?’
The uniform nodded. ‘His exact word.’
‘Go on.’
‘Right.’ He looked down at his notes once more. ‘He then realised they were dead dogs. Went up to the house to complain, found the body. And here we are.’
‘Given a statement?’
‘Yep. Got it. Very angry. Apparently there should be a law against killing dogs, he reckons.’
‘Whereas doing it to people is fine. Thanks.’
The uniform went back to his duties.
Mickey reached the first white tent. He pulled on the offered white paper suit, shoe covers and gloves. He asked if it was OK to enter, was given an affirmative. The corpses of the two dogs took centre stage. Forensics had positioned a workbench at the side. The bodies had been marked, catalogued, inspected. The surrounding area cordoned off, subject to investigation. Mickey always regarded a crime scene as a spiral. Start at the edge, work inwards to the centre — the crime itself. And once that story was told, a conclusion could then be worked towards.
‘What have we got?’
Jane Gosling, another MIS DS, turned to him. He knew her well. Pleasant temperament, passionate about amateur dramatics. He made a mental note: must get round to seeing her in something. Only polite.
‘Two dead dogs,’ she said, deliberately stating the obvious. She was a large woman, and although she filled out the white suit, she carried herself with a grace that belied her size.
‘Great observation,’ said Mickey, bending down. ‘You’ll go far.’
Jane joined him. ‘This one here … ’ she pointed to the dog on the right, ‘seems to have taken a punch to the neck. Then a boot to the head. Or something heavy.’
‘And that’s what killed it?’
‘Not sure. The head’s at an angle; looks like its neck’s been snapped.’
‘Jesus. And the other?’ He indicated the second dog. ‘Someone’s had a right go at this one.’
‘They have. Blood all over its face. What we think is that it attacked someone and they fought back.’
‘Must have been a hell of a fighter. More than one of them?’
‘Don’t know. Yet. We’re still examining the footprints around the area. We’ve only found one set so far.’
‘One person did this? Jesus … ’
‘And look at the dog. What’s been done to it. It looks like it attacked someone.’ She gestured with the tip of her pen towards its mouth. ‘See there? Bits of flesh on its fangs.’
‘Should be able to get some good DNA off that.’
‘Hopefully. All that blood can’t be the dog’s own.’
He felt himself staring at it, appalled but fascinated. ‘But … what happened? It looks like its head’s been ripped apart.’
‘It has. Something very strong’s been put in its jaw. And the jaw’s been pulled apart.’
‘And that’s what killed it?’
‘It’s got a broken neck too. That seems the most likely. At this stage. But it would have died from the injuries anyway.’
Mickey shook his head. ‘I don’t get it. Why rip a dog apart, leave it for dead, then put it out of its misery?’
Jane stood up. ‘Beats me. But if it’s just one person who’s done all this, we’ve got a maniac on the loose.’
‘A very strong maniac.’
‘Right.’
Mickey straightened up. ‘Thanks, Jane. Carry on.’
He made to leave the tent. Jane placed a hand on his arm, stopped him. ‘Any news?’
He knew what she was talking about. ‘Phoned the hospital before I came here. Said he’d had a good night. He’s stable. Wouldn’t tell me anything more.’
Jane sighed. ‘What they told me. We’ve been playing this game a long time. Don’t know if that’s a good sign or a bad one.’
‘No,’ said Mickey. ‘Not so much fun being on the other side for once, is it?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Body’s in the next tent. Good luck.’
Mickey stepped back into the fog. Not thinking about Phil or Anni. Just concentrating on the job in hand.
Going to inspect the body.
52
The two laptops lay side by side. Perfectly squared off. Different makes, models, but both holding secrets waiting to be uncovered.
Michael Sloane stared down at them. Smiled. He loved the precision of their placing, the symmetry they created. Two rectangular puzzle pieces just waiting to be unlocked. They held full specifics of the operation against him: intercepted and recorded conversations, dealings he didn’t want made public, methods of permanently dealing with opponents. Not to mention all their plans of revenge in full detail.
‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘Worth dying for. Obviously.’
He turned. The Golem was standing behind him. To attention, face as impassive as ever, an automaton waiting for a command. But Sloane sensed there was something more to him. It seemed like his mind wasn’t there. He moved towards him. ‘Why are you standing there?’
