Cage of Bones

77

It was the first time Brian Glass had ever killed anyone. He had been responsible for deaths, but not directly. Not with his own hands. He sat on the sofa in Donna Warren’s house, stared at the body on the floor. He had seen postmortems before, watched while body parts were removed and weighed, cut and prodded, listened while decisions were made as to causes of death. But that was all afterwards. This was now.

Now he had the body of Rose Martin on the floor in front of him. He stared at it, transfixed. Her middle section was a confusion of red, lumpy gore. He couldn’t identify organs or body parts; it was all just a mess. Her blood was all over the room. He knew that a blood-splatter expert could recreate what had happened from the various sprays and gushes, but right now he was content to just sit there and stare at it. Like an artist in his studio.

But it was the face that fascinated him the most. Minutes ago, it had been so full of animation. Eyes alight and burning with hatred, mouth spewing forth truths he hadn’t wanted to hear. And now this. Nothing. Mouth slack, empty of words and sounds, eyes dull and staring, like a gutted fish on a marble slab.

He didn’t feel bad about what he had done. On the contrary. He felt elated.

He just had to make sure he got away with it, that was all.

He rubbed his head. It was still sore from where Donna Warren had hit him. Tender to the touch. He had a bruise, a lump coming. At first he had been livid with rage that she – and the boy – had got away. He knew that following them wasn’t an option. Causing a scene in public, brandishing a knife on a street – even in New Town – would attract attention. So he had had to let them go. But now, sitting here, he thought that was the best thing that could have happened. Because now he had a scapegoat. Now he had a murderer.

He knew what to do. Leave the body to be found. By him, later. And then shift all the blame on to Donna Warren. Make his later visit an explanation for how his DNA came to be in the house; let his verbal testimony be enough to catch and convict her. Take charge of the interviews. Make sure they went his way.

Oh yes. This would be easy.

And he had planned how to explain his sudden disappearance from the hospital too. He was giving chase to the person who had abducted the boy. And he had lost him. Simple. In fact, once he was certain the 4x4 was well away, he had put in a call asking for assistance in finding it. Covering himself. Muddying the waters further.

And Phil… He had looked in no fit state to say anything against him.

Glass nodded. Good. All good.

He stared at Rose Martin’s body once again.

It was the first time he had killed someone.

But it wouldn’t be the last.

78

The night was moving in. Bringing with it the chill of autumn, the threat of winter. But inside Phil and Marina’s house in Wivenhoe, the windows were closed, the curtains and blinds drawn. The night was being kept at bay.

Or it should have been.

Because Phil could feel the night inside him. Deep within.

He sat in an armchair, staring straight ahead. Marina and Don stood in front of him, concern etched on their faces.

‘Shall I give you a hand upstairs with him?’ Don said. ‘Get him into bed?’

Marina looked down at Phil. His eyes were open, but there was no movement. Whatever he was seeing wasn’t in the room with them. It wasn’t even in the present. Her heart broke to see him that way.

‘No,’ she said, ‘leave him there.’

‘But he needs rest, Marina. He needs-’

‘Yes, Don,’ she said, voice low, but calm and firm, ‘he needs rest. But there’s something he needs before that. Answers.’

She locked eyes with the older man. He couldn’t hold her look, turned away.

‘He needs to confront this, Don. It’s gone on long enough. It’s gone on his whole life.’

Don shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. ‘I don’t want… I don’t want him hurt.’

Marina almost laughed. She gestured towards Phil. ‘Look at him, Don. D’you think he could be hurt any more than he is already?’

Don sighed, eventually shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I suppose not.’ He sighed. ‘Let’s do it. Let’s get him sorted out.’ Each word was dragged out of him, like a chained concrete block being picked up and moved.

Marina took a deep breath, then another. She sat down opposite Phil, took his hand in her own. It felt cool, dry. ‘Phil?’

His eyes flickered. Like a weak current of electricity had been passed between them.

‘Phil. It’s me. Marina. I want to talk to you. Can we do that? Can we talk?’

An imperceptible nod of the head.

‘Good.’ Still holding his hand. ‘I just want to ask… who did you see, Phil? In the car, who was it?’

‘The face… the face from my dream… ’ His eyes closed, face contorted, as if seeing it all over again.

‘OK. Good. The face from your dream. Good. What was he in the dream? What was he doing?’

‘He was… I was in the cage, the cage of bones, in the cellar… and he was… ’ He looked away, shook his head, as if trying to get the image out of his mind.

‘You’re doing fine, Phil. Just keep going.’

‘I was in the cage and he was coming towards me, and… those eyes… in the hood, those eyes… ’

‘What about those eyes, Phil?’

‘Dark… dark… like looking into something black and bottomless… ’

‘And he was hooded?’

Phil nodded. ‘And then… and then he was there, outside the hospital… there… real… ’

Marina looked at Don, who nodded too, grave-faced.

‘Don’s here, Phil. He’s going to talk to you. He’s got… things to talk to you about.’

She slid her hand from his, moved away. Don sat next to him. Leaned in to him.

‘Phil? It’s me. Don. I’ve got… I’ve got something to tell you. About the hooded figure. The man who kept you caged in your dreams. OK?’

Another imperceptible nod.

Don took a deep breath. Another. Ready as he would ever be. ‘He’s real, Phil. That’s why he was at the hospital. He’s real. And I know who he is.’

Phil opened his eyes, stared at Don. ‘How…? How…?’ His voice small, tiny, like a child’s. A lost child’s.

‘Because I know him, Phil. I’ve come across him before. And I’m going to tell you all about it. This is about you and your life. Are you ready for this?’

‘Will it… will it stop the nightmares?’

‘Hopefully.’

Phil swallowed. Hard.

‘Then I’m ready.’

79

The car drove through the night-time streets. Dwindling, emptying of people and traffic the further it moved away from the centre of town.

In the back, Donna tried to control her heartbeat. It was slamming against her chest, almost up into her throat. She hadn’t felt like this since Bench gave her some of that nearly pure charlie that time at a party. But that was a pleasant experience. Well, at least until the nosebleeds started. This was anything but.

Beside her, Ben sat staring out of the window. Not wanting to look at her, too scared to look at the men in front.

Donna had tried talking to them. No response. They had just pulled them into the car, driven away.

‘Wait,’ Donna had said, ‘there’s someone in my house. A copper. She’s been stabbed. You’ve… you’ve got to go back… ’

One of the men had turned round, stared at her. Anger in his red, painful-looking eyes. She recognised him as the one she had pepper-sprayed in the face.

‘Stabbed?’ he said. ‘Your speciality, is it?’

‘What? No, I… ’

He turned as far round in the passenger seat as he could go, looked her right in the face. Flecks of foam and spittle flew off his lips as he spoke. ‘You know what you did? You put my partner in the hospital. He’s fighting for his fucking life after what you did to him. D’you know that?’

A Scottish accent, she thought, her mind temporarily displaced by fear. She hadn’t been expecting that. She said nothing.

‘Bitch,’ he said.

‘Easy,’ said the driver. His voice was more dispassionate. She responded immediately to that, wanted to cling on to it. Dispassionate meant he wasn’t going to hurt her. Then her mind flicked over some of the punters she had had who had seemed dispassionate. At first. It wasn’t a comforting thought.

Donna was breathing hard, terrified. She wanted to say something that would make this man calm down, that would take away the imminent threat from him.

‘Please,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry.’

Her words just seemed to make him more angry. ‘You’re sorry? You’re fucking sorry? You humiliated me, you nearly killed him… ’

She sat back, eyes closed, preparing herself for a blow.

It didn’t come. She opened her eyes.

He had turned back round, was staring out through the windscreen. The driver was silent, just kept driving.

Donna said nothing.

And that was how it had been all journey.

Ben startled her away from her thoughts, pulling at her hand. She looked down at him.

‘I’m scared,’ he whispered.

Me too, she wanted to reply. But stopped herself. That was what she wanted to say, but not what he needed to hear. He was just a kid; he needed her to be strong. To tell him lies that he hoped would come true. Like Father Christmas and life is fair, that kind of thing.

She summoned up a smile. ‘It’s going to be all right,’ she whispered back. And squeezed his hand.

He looked up at her once more, his eyes meeting hers, trusting in her words.

And in that instant, her heart broke.

She looked up again, spoke to the men in front.

‘Where are we going?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ said the one with sore eyes, not even bothering to glance round this time.

She looked down at Ben once more, then out of the window. She didn’t know which was worse. This journey or the eventual destination.

She felt Ben’s hand squeeze hers all the tighter.

Wished she could believe in lies too.

80

‘There’s no easy way to do this, no easy way to tell you… ’

Don sighed. Felt Marina looking at him. Continued.

‘Right. There was a commune. This was in the seventies, round about then. You know the type. Hippy dropout place. All kaftans and cheesecloth and children running about naked. That kind of thing. Beads and badly played guitars and free love.’ His face darkened. ‘Or at least it was, in the beginning.’

He took a sip of coffee, continued.

‘The Garden. That was the name.’

Something flickered behind Phil’s closed eyes. ‘The Garden. But that’s-’

‘Don’t interrupt, Phil.’ Don’s voice was not harsh, just firm. ‘It’s better that I tell you this without interruption. And you just listen.’ He cleared his throat, continued. ‘Like I said, the Garden started off with the best of intentions, the way these things always do.’ He sighed. ‘But along the way, like always happens, that initial vision, such as it was, got corrupted.’

Another mouthful of coffee. He wished it were something stronger.

‘Brainwashing. That’s how the allegations went. Not just a commune, but a cult. And abuse. All kinds of abuse. Sexual, psychological, physical. That was bad enough. But then other rumours started. Even nastier ones. That the communists, for want of a better word, were being hired out. Pimped out, sold, even.’

‘In what way?’ Phil couldn’t help asking the question. He was too much of a detective.

Don didn’t seem to mind this time. ‘As sexual slaves,’ he said. ‘All ages. Rich perverts could get in touch, have a look at the menu, decide what they wanted. Sliding scale of payment depending on who they wanted and what they wanted them for.’

Another sigh. He shook his head.

‘We heard that some rich sicko wanted a couple of adults to chase on his estate instead of foxes. They never came back. Torn apart by hounds, we reckoned. And women. Lots of women. Some of them came back. But not all. And I doubt the ones that did were ever the same.’ His voice caught. ‘And the kids… ’

He took a moment, composed himself.

Silence thudded inside the house.

‘Anyway,’ Don said, clearing his throat, ‘a couple of them escaped. Man and a woman, with a couple of kids. Boy and a girl. Just… just young. They came to us. Not immediately, of course. Took them a while to trust us. We were the enemy, after all.’

No bitterness in his voice, just a wistfulness.

‘But they spoke to us. To me. I was a DI then. They wanted what was going on at the Garden stopped. Couldn’t bear to see their dream go sour. Couldn’t bear what was happening. It took a hell of a lot for them to get away. A hell of a lot. And they wouldn’t talk unless we guaranteed protection. So I did.’

More silence.

‘I arranged for the family to go into a safe house with twenty-four-hour protection. They were a really nice couple. A lovely family. I spent a lot of time with them. He had been a journalist before they joined the commune. She was gorgeous. And so were the kids.’ He nodded. ‘Yes. Especially considering what they’d been through. And when we got them there, they talked. Told us everything. Everything… ’

His voice tailed away, his words getting lost in memories. Not pleasant ones. He brought himself back, continued.

‘The Garden had started out OK. Guy in charge had genuinely believed he was doing some good. But then others got involved. Took over the running of it. They were… bad. Very bad. And that’s when everything changed.’

Another sip of coffee. It had gone cold. Don didn’t care.

‘So we made plans to raid the commune. Gary and Laura, that was their names, gave us as much detail as they could. Layouts, who lived where, access in and out, as much as they knew. But we had to be careful. There’d been the Jonestown massacre in America a few years before, and we didn’t want a repeat of that. We didn’t think it was likely, not in Colchester, but we couldn’t take any chances. They had them pretty brainwashed by now, half starved, ready to do anything they were told. So it took us a while to formulate a plan and get it implemented.’

He sighed again.

‘And when we did finally move on the Garden… it was deserted. Empty. Like they had all been… I don’t know. Beamed away to the mothership. Completely deserted. Like a landlocked Mary Celeste. We never found them. Not one of them. Ever.’

Don drained his coffee mug.

‘Well, Gary and Laura got to hear about this in their safe house. And they went ballistic. Were terrified. They said they had to be moved because they would be next. There was a penalty for giving up the Garden, and it was death. They were in fear of their lives.’ He paused. ‘And with good reason.’

‘What happened?’ asked Phil.

Don was reluctant to let the words leave his mouth. But he knew he had to. ‘They were killed. Murdered. In the safe house. Along with the uniforms who were watching over them.’

The silence in the house was pounding, turned up to ear-bleed level.

‘And the… ’ Phil’s voice was also unsteady, ‘the children?’

‘They were spared. Left there.’

‘Why?’

Don shook his head, trying to dislodge the memories. ‘I don’t know. To suffer? Because it was more cruel? I don’t know.’

‘What happened to them?’

‘They were put into care.’ Another sigh. Don really wanted a drink now. ‘But that wasn’t much better than the Garden had been. And they didn’t even have their parents with them.’ Don’s voice shook. He struggled to get it under control. ‘The girl… the little girl died. She wasn’t well. Wasn’t strong. She… she couldn’t last.’

Phil hesitated before speaking. Wanting to hear the answer, but dreading it also. ‘And… and… the boy?’

Don’s eyes locked with his.

‘I’m looking at him,’ he said.

81

Mickey Philips lay on his side, mouth open, gently snoring. Lynn Windsor propped herself up on one elbow, watched him sleep.

It had been a good night. She had to admit that. Her expectations hadn’t been high before he had called, but Mickey had surprised her. He was strong, manly; yes, she had expected that given the way he was and the job he did. But what she hadn’t expected was his tenderness. And his attentiveness towards her. His confidence as a lover. She had never come just by being touched, had always found it difficult. But the way Mickey touched her… And as for his oral skills… she had never felt anything like it. Probably the best orgasm she had ever experienced.

So she watched him sleep. Not with love or tenderness, but with regret. Because this was the first and last time she would have him here.

She moved the duvet back, slid slowly out of bed. Naked, she walked round to where Mickey had left his clothes, throwing them in a heap on the floor in a hurry to be with her. She worked her way through his pockets. Looking for something specific. Found it in his trousers.

His iPhone.

She had told him he had better switch it off; that they didn’t want to be disturbed. There had been a slight conflict in his features, but she had done something with her hips and arranged her underwear in such a way as to win the argument hands down. He had done what she had asked, Lynn watching, memorising his numerical pass code as he did so. Now she turned it on. Keyed in the number when asked. Waited. The icons came up. She went straight into his missed messages, his voicemail. Checked it. Several calls asking him to come back to work. There was an emergency. Lynn had smiled. She knew just what that would be. She deleted them all. Then she found his texts, started scrolling through.

There were plenty. She deleted all the ones from work, requesting he come back. Then she checked the others. Most were mundane, arranging drinks in the pub, five-a-side, that kind of thing. But one stuck out. Exactly the kind of thing she had been looking for. She read it:

Adam Weaver. Got some info on him. Business stuff. Import-export business with that Lithuanian bloke Balchunas. Harwich. Shipment coming in tonight. CALL ME NOW. IMPORTANT. AND BRING YOUR WALLET. Stuart

Anger stabbed at her, mingling with panic. Her face contorted with anger, eyes fiery slits.

How did he know? How? And who was Stuart? She felt herself breathing heavily, her hands shaking as she held the phone. She looked over at Mickey lying asleep in her bed. It would be so easy, she thought. Just to walk over there, cut his throat while he slept. No more Stuart, no more information he wasn’t supposed to have.

Mickey stirred in his sleep, turned over.

She looked again at the message, concentrated. Decided what she could do about it. Really do about it. Got it.

She worked quickly through his contacts. Stuart was listed as: Stuart CI. Confidential Informant. Not much of a code name. She deleted his number, put her own in, checking first that he didn’t have it. Then she got her own phone out and wrote him a text:

Adam Weaver. Got some info on him. Seriously gangstered up in Lithuania. Lots of enemies. Word is he was killed by Lithuanian hitman. Back in Lithuania by now. No need to call. Stuart

Pressed send. Heard his phone ping.

At the sound of the text coming through, Mickey stirred. Looking around, Lynn quickly replaced his phone in his trousers, remembering to turn it off again first. He turned over, opened his eyes.

‘What you doin’?’ Voice full of sleep.

‘Just going to the bathroom. Back in a mo.’

‘Don’t be too long.’

She quickly went into the bathroom, waited a while until she thought he would be asleep again. She still had to re-input his informant’s number in his phone, take hers out. She couldn’t do that if he was awake.

When she came back out into the bedroom, he was sitting up in bed, waiting for her.

‘Missed you,’ he said, pulling back the duvet.

She gave him a smile, slid in alongside him. Looked down at his erection. Summoned up a smile.

‘Don’t you ever stop?’ She giggled as she said it.

‘With you here? Nope.’

She felt his arms round her, his mouth on her body. He would never check, she thought. His phone. Never connect it with her. Or at least she hoped not.

She lay back, felt him work his magic on her body once more.

Abandoned all earlier thoughts she had had about him. Compartmentalised her rage at him, let it go.

It’ll be a shame to miss this, she thought. A real shame.

But some things are more important.

82

The boy was scared. Terrified. But back in the cage where he belonged.

The Gardener stood at the other side of the bars, studied him. Head to one side, beneath the hood he was smiling.

‘Back where you belong… Thought you’d got away, did you? Eh? No… you’re too important. Yes… Too important. The future of the Garden depends on you… Yes… ’

The boy pulled away, sat at the back, staring. Trying not to cry, not even to whimper.

The Gardener turned, surveyed the space. This was good. This was right. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before.

It had been a struggle, getting everything in, especially since he couldn’t go the other way, his usual way. The police still had that blocked off. But he already had enough of the things he needed to hand. Another tool set. Another workbench. Already there. And the walls had the symbols on them. Of course they did. That had been one of the first things he had done when he moved in.

The symbols. The cycle of life. The seasons of life. Birth to death to rebirth. And on. And on. Paul had taught him well. Made him understand.

Paul. He could hear him now, from where he was. Crying softly, pleading. He ignored him. Looked at the symbols.

Everything had its season, everything had its time. Everything in the garden lived, everything died. Paul’s words. And the Gardener had taken them to heart. Because the Gardener wanted the Garden to continue. And it had done. But not without sacrifices.

Every season. Every solstice. Every equinox. A child had to be sacrificed in order for the Garden to continue to flourish, to thrive. He had made the rest of the Elders understand that. If they wanted to do what they did with the Garden, he had to be responsible for making it grow, keeping it alive.

And he had done. For years. So many, he had lost count. Select an offspring, prepare it, sacrifice it. And keep the Garden alive.

The offering was never wasted. Blood and bone and flesh were reused, put back to work. It helped feed the Garden. It helped it grow. Made it strong. And it needed it now. More than ever. That was why this boy – this sacrifice – was so important. Because he had been there. Had seen for himself what was happening. The Garden was dying.

The rest of the Elders could talk, about new blood, about revitalisation, about all those things. But if he didn’t keep the sacrifices going, if he didn’t appease the earth the Garden grew in, it would never flourish again. And it had to.

It had to.

There was another reason for the sacrifices.

He enjoyed them.

Fed on the screams, the cries. Luxuriated in the blood. The power.

All seasons under his control. Birth, death and rebirth. All down to him.

At his behest.

He turned back to the boy, who cowered away from him. Chain rattling and clanking as he did so.

‘You should be honoured,’ he said. ‘You have been chosen. Soon. Soon… ’

He turned away once more.

Ignored the boy’s cries.

Ignored Paul’s.

Went to pick some flowers.

83

Phil felt numb. Like his body had become disconnected from his brain, the nerve endings deadened, unresponsive. The room seemed to tunnel away from him. He was viewing his partner and the man he had regarded as his father from the wrong end of a telescope.

The feeling didn’t last. The raging conflicting emotions that Don’s announcement had triggered in him had built up and were now unleashed, adrenalin crashing into his system, like the kind of rush he would get from a car crash.

He didn’t know who to look at, to speak to first. His eyes swivelled, settled on Marina.

‘You knew?’ he said, the adrenalin becoming knife-like, stabbing him, bleeding internal betrayal, ‘You knew?’

‘Just before you did,’ she said, eyes imploring him to believe her, not wanting to hurt him even more. ‘Don and I talked, just before we came to the hospital. I said you should be told.’

There was nothing more he could say to her. He turned to Don. He knew there were more subtle, complex emotions that his body and mind were struggling to get him to feel, but he couldn’t process them at the moment. For now he wanted to feel something direct, something visceral. He felt the anger rise within him once more.

‘You knew,’ he said, his voice dangerously low, ‘you knew all this time. All those years. All my life… ’ His hands twisted and twined. ‘And you never said anything… ’

Don sighed, shook his head. Looked at the floor, then back to Phil before continuing. ‘We thought it best… you didn’t know.’ His voice weary, tired.

Phil nodded, lips pulled tightly across his mouth. ‘Right. So… ’ Hands still twisting. ‘Every time… every time I asked about my parents, my real parents, you told me you didn’t know.’

Don said nothing, found the floor between his feet fascinating.

Phil kept going. ‘Every time… you talked me out of going. Out of going to look for them. Every time. When I was younger. Every time… ’

Don looked up. Pain in his eyes. He seemed to be hurting as much as Phil was himself. His face appeared frozen in pain, unable to release the words he wanted to say.

‘You always said I’d never find them,’ Phil continued. ‘That you’d tried and they didn’t want to be found. That they were nowhere in the system. Every time… You lied to me, Don… Lied to me… And a sister… a sister… ’

‘It was better you didn’t know… ’ Tears had sprung into Don’s eyes as he found his voice.

‘Better?’ Phil gave a harsh, bitter laugh. ‘Better? Shouldn’t that have been my decision?’

Don said nothing, mouth contorting once more.

Phil’s voice was getting louder. ‘Shouldn’t it?’

‘No.’ Don’s voice as loud as Phil’s. ‘Perhaps if it had been an ordinary adoption, yes. If there is such a thing. But not in this case. No.’

‘Why not?’ Shouting now.

‘Because you weren’t there… You didn’t see what I saw… ’ Don’s voice ragged, breaking. His hand went to his face, rubbing his eyes, tears streaming round the edges of his fists.

Silence fell once more, hitting the room with the force of a bomb. The three of them sat, barely moving. Questions rising like fearful bubbles in Phil’s mind, letting them pop, dissolve away, unanswered.

But not all of them.

He turned to Marina. ‘The nightmares,’ he said. ‘The designs on the wall. The cage. The guy in the mask.’ Hands twisting, locking and unlocking once more. ‘Why? Why all of that?’

‘Because they were real,’ she said, voice calm and low. Soothing him. ‘They were all part of your life. Aspects of your life.’

‘But I… I didn’t know. I couldn’t remember any of it… ’

‘No,’ she said, ‘you wouldn’t. You were very young at the time. Your mind was still forming. And if you’d been lucky, it might not have left any impression. But because the memories were so horrific, so traumatic, your brain just… shut them off. Buried them. Repressed them deep inside you.’

Phil nodded.

‘So why now… ’

‘Like I said, it was too horrific. Your mind buried the past, but you still experienced it. It couldn’t get rid of it completely. It can’t. Because it still happened to you. So the memories lay dormant somewhere within your mind. Buried at the back. Just waiting for some trigger, some event to spark them off again. And this was it.’

‘Right… ’ Phil’s mind was buzzing. Like a nest of wasps in his head. Marina spoke, cutting through the noise.

‘Can you remember your parents at all?’

Phil closed his eyes. All he could hear was the humming. ‘No… ’

‘Probably just as well,’ she said. ‘If you were there when they were killed… that won’t be a memory you’ll be in a hurry to access.’

The wave of anger was receding within Phil. But questions were still buzzing and fizzing, his head aching from everything he had to process. He didn’t know what to think, what to say. What question to ask first. Don and Marina said nothing. Waited.

‘The panic attacks,’ he said eventually. ‘Are they connected? Do they have anything to do with… all this?’

‘I would imagine so,’ said Marina. ‘Displacement. Because your childhood trauma was repressed, you’ve never dealt with it, never been able to confront it head on. It’s always been there; it’s just attacked you in different ways.’

‘And the job doesn’t help,’ said Don.

Phil nodded. His body seemed to be relaxing more now, the adrenalin leaching out of his system. He was starting to feel weary. Another question occurred to him.

‘The hotel. Why did I think I’d been there before?’

‘Because you had,’ said Don. ‘You used to live there. That hotel was where the Garden used to be.’

Phil sighed. Rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. Silence fell once more.

Eventually Don spoke.

‘I’m… sorry, son. I didn’t… didn’t know what to do for the best. Me or your mother.’ He corrected himself. ‘Eileen.’

Phil was now beyond tiredness. He managed a weary smile. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I can still call her mother.’

Don nodded. Gave a small smile. Looked at Marina, who warily returned it.

‘It’s going to take me an awfully long time to come to terms with this,’ Phil said. ‘A hell of a long time. But I’ll try my best.’ He dredged up another smile. ‘Something Marina always says. Family is more than biology.’ He sighed. ‘Yeah… ’

He felt Marina’s hand on his. ‘I think it’s time for bed,’ she said.

Phil, almost asleep by now, just nodded.

84

Mickey keyed himself in, opened the office door, entered. He had left Lynn’s early, stopped off at his flat to change clothes and grab a quick shower. She had said he could have one at her flat, even offered to share it with him. He had been tempted. Very tempted. But had refused in the end. Night-time lust was one thing. But the morning mindset was something else. He even thought he sensed relief from Lynn that he had declined. Obviously she took her work seriously too. Something else they had in common.

As he had driven away, he had felt guilty for some reason. Not because of anything he had done, or that Lynn had done – he had thoroughly enjoyed himself. They both had. He kept re-enacting scenes over and over in his head, replaying the best bits – and there were many – on the drive to work. And in the shower before that. But something was niggling at him. Something still felt wrong.

He knew what it was, but he didn’t want to admit it to himself. He had slept with someone who was involved – even tangentially – in the investigation he was working on. And he could have compromised that investigation by doing so.

Pulling through the gates of the station and parking up, he tried to banish those thoughts from his head. Concentrate on the good bits instead. They should see him through the day. Or at least until he could see Lynn again. Not that they had made arrangements, but he was sure it was only a matter of time. It had to be.

Entering the office with takeaway coffee, he was immediately hit by the activity. The noise, the bustle. It hadn’t been like this the day before. What had happened? Had the investigation made a breakthrough in some way? And if it had, why hadn’t someone let him know about it? He looked round, hoping someone could tell him, bring him up to speed. Wondering what it was he should know.

He didn’t have to wait long. Glass had seen him enter, was striding towards him. Face like a lightning-struck tree.

‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ Said loud enough to make others stop what they were doing, stare at Mickey.

Mickey frowned. ‘Sorry?’

Glass crossed the office, reached him. ‘I said where the hell have you been? Don’t you answer your phone?’

‘Yeah, course. It never rang. It’s been on all night.’ His eyes darted away from Glass’s face, not wanting to be caught out in a lie. He knew he had turned it off the night before, at Lynn’s insistence. Something else to feel guilty about, if he allowed it. But he had turned it back on before leaving her flat this morning. And there’d been nothing showing. No missed calls, no voicemail, no messages. Except one from Stuart that he hadn’t had time to check. He took the phone out of his pocket, held it up for Glass to see. ‘No new messages, no missed calls, no voicemails. See? Nothing.’

Glass seemed to be temporarily lost for words. He stared at Mickey, narrowing his eyes. ‘You’d better not be lying to me, DS Philips.’

‘Why would I lie? What do I have to gain from that? I showed you the phone; nobody called me. Or if they did, they didn’t have the right number.’

Glass stared once more, unblinking, as if that was all the answer Mickey was going to get.

Mickey had to ask. ‘So what’s happened? What have I missed?’

Glass gave a snort masquerading as a laugh. ‘What haven’t you missed, you mean. Briefing room. Five minutes.’

He made to walk away. Mickey stopped him. ‘Where’s Phil?’

A smile twitched at the corners of Glass’s mouth. ‘Suspended, DS Philips. If you’d left your phone on, you would know.’ He walked off.

Mickey stared after him, mouth open, wondering whether he had just heard him right.

Phil? Suspended?

Shaking his head, he made his way to his desk. Sat down, still trying to get his head round the news.

He took a sip of his coffee.

Was struck by another thought. If they’d been calling him all night, even though his phone had been switched off, where had all the calls gone?

He shook his head, tried to get his mind in gear, prepare for the morning briefing.

85

Marina watched Mickey enter the briefing room. He looked over at her, frowning, quizzical. Questions in his face.

He knows about Phil, she thought. Knows he’s been suspended and wants to know why. But he doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t know the night I’ve just had…

Mickey sat down, still watching her. She returned his look, not able to say anything, not even sure what she was supposed to be conveying. She didn’t smile.

Glass entered. Brisk, businesslike. Placed a folder on the desk, stood before it, eyes sweeping the room. Marina detected a twitch of a smile at the corners of his mouth. It just made her despise the man even more. Especially in light of what Don had told her about him yesterday.

‘Right,’ said Glass, ‘let’s get started. Run through what’s been happening.’ His eyes locked on to Mickey’s. ‘Especially for those of you who don’t know.’

Marina saw Mickey’s face redden, his eyes harden. How to alienate your staff in one go, she thought. Very impressive people-management skills.

‘Finn, the boy who was found in the cellar on East Hill, was forcibly taken from the General Hospital yesterday evening. The person who abducted him… ’ he looked down at his notes, ‘Samuel Lister, was an executive at the hospital. No prior convictions, no previous arrests, nothing. Clean as. As you’re all probably aware, he handed the child over to person or persons unknown and killed himself in the car park.’

Marina watched Mickey’s response. He looked round the room, an undercurrent of desperation to his actions. ‘Where’s Anni?’

Glass stared at him.

‘Detective Constable Anni Hepburn. Where is she?’

Glass sighed as if Mickey was no more than an irritant. ‘Detective Constable Hepburn is undergoing treatment in the General for a gunshot wound received during the abduction of the boy.’

‘Is she OK?’

‘She’s well. The wound wasn’t serious, as far as we can gather.’

Relief flooded through Mickey’s body. He slumped back into his seat. Glass looked down at his notes once more, continued. ‘Jenny Swan, the child psychologist working with the boy, hasn’t been so lucky. She’s in intensive care. It’s touch-and-go. Right. Updates.’

‘What about the person who drove the boy away?’ said Jane Gosling. ‘Any news?’

‘Just getting to that.’ Glass looked towards Adrian Wren. ‘Adrian?’

Adrian Wren stood up. ‘Nothing much on CCTV,’ he said. He took out photos from a file on the desk before him, handed them round. ‘This is the image from the hospital’s cameras of the vehicle driving away. As you can see, it’s a green four-by-four, a Range Rover. Old, well-used. I’ve tried to get close-ups of the driver and any passengers there might be.’ He handed out another photo. Marina looked at it. The driver’s face was obscured. And where the passenger’s head should have been was just a shapeless, faceless mass of darkness.

The hood, she thought. He was wearing the hood.

‘It looks like he’s wearing something over his face,’ said Adrian. ‘Making sure we can’t see him.’

‘A hood,’ said Marina. All eyes turned to her. ‘It was a hood. I saw it first hand at the hospital. Looked like it was made out of sacking, hessian, something like that.’

‘That rules out a joke-shop mask, then,’ said Mickey.

‘We only had a partial on the number plate. We’ve put it through the computer but can’t get a match. We reckon the plates were stolen, if not the vehicle itself.’

‘What about CCTV from the town?’

‘We’ve looked. Nothing. Either they took a route out of town that avoided the cameras, or they’ve gone to ground somewhere. DCI Glass gave chase but lost them. He’s given a description of the car to all uniforms. We’ve had the helicopter out looking for it. Nothing. But we’re still looking.’

He sat down again.

‘Thank you, Adrian,’ said Glass. He turned to Mickey. ‘DS Philips. Your turn.’

Mickey stood up. Marina could tell he wasn’t happy. She wondered whether he would use this opportunity to say something, or whether he would just make his report.

He opened his mouth to speak.

She would soon find out.

86

Phil opened his eyes.

And in those first few, blissful seconds he was nothing. Could have been anyone, anywhere. His identity as yet unwritten, his mind still clinging to sleep, not yet caught up to his waking body. It didn’t stay that way for long. Within seconds he knew where he was, what had happened.

And who he was.

He groaned, turned over. Closed his eyes again.

He replayed the events of the previous night once more, stopping to examine them in close-up detail. Again and again, over and over. Trying to work out what he thought, what he felt. Whether everything being out in the open now was a relief to him, had put his mind at rest over his parentage, or whether it had just brought along another layer of problems, of uncertainties.

Eventually he sighed, opened his eyes. Can’t lie here all day, he thought, sitting upright. Then remembered he was suspended.

With another sigh, he flopped back down on the pillow. Found another level of unhappiness just for that. He checked the time. Realised Marina must have left him to sleep. He listened. No Josephina. He remembered. She had stayed at Don and Eileen’s last night.

Not wanting to spend the day lying in bed, he threw the duvet off, got up. His problems wouldn’t be solved by staying there all day. But he still needed somewhere to go, something to do.

He went into the bathroom, turned on the shower.

Smiled.

He knew where he could go first.

87

Mickey stood up. Looked round the briefing room. Too many empty chairs, he thought. Too many missing faces. Then looked at Glass. Too many faces here I’d rather not see.

He glanced down at his notes, back to the room.

‘Any news on the murder of Adam Weaver?’ Glass looked at him, waiting for an answer.

Mickey paused. Remembered the text message from Stuart. It didn’t seem right, he thought. He didn’t know whether that was because it wasn’t what he had expected to hear or because it wasn’t what he had wanted to hear. Perhaps both. It didn’t feel right. But it was what he had heard, so he had to share it with the team.

‘I’ve been asking around,’ he said to the room. ‘Put a few feelers out. And I’ve had something back from an informant.’

Glass leaned forward, interested.

‘Nothing much, just saying that he hasn’t heard anything locally about it. Reckons the word going round is that it was a hit. A professional hit.’

‘From here?’ asked Glass.

‘From Lithuania,’ said Mickey, trying to mask the disbelief in his voice. ‘That’s all he’s heard.’

Glass nodded. ‘That runs current with my thinking, too,’ he said. ‘If that’s the case – and it’s looking increasingly like it is – then I think we can safely say the killer is back in Lithuania by now.’

‘Yeah,’ said Mickey by way of agreement, ‘but it still doesn’t add up. The way he was killed, the murder weapon, none of it points to a professional hit.’

‘Why not?’ said Glass.

‘Because it was a knife, for a start,’ Mickey said. ‘You’d have to get close up to do that. And if you want to get close up, the other word that goes along with that is personal. A hitman would have used a bullet, done it from a distance. Quick and clean. Then gone.’

‘Maybe they do things differently in the east,’ said Glass, hint of a smile.

‘And there’s also the amount of blows. Nick Lines still hasn’t come up with a definite number. At last count it was about twenty. All this screams out that Weaver knew his killer. That it was personal.’

‘Yet all you’ve heard points to the contrary,’ said Glass. He seemed to be thinking, deeply. Came to a decision. ‘Right, DS Philips. If you’ve got intuition on something, I always think it’s best to let it play out. So keep looking into it.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘But don’t expect too much. And don’t stop looking into the other angles too.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘Thank you, DS Philips.’

Mickey, clearly unhappy, sat down. Jane Gosling leaned across to him. ‘Looks like someone’s going to get a free holiday in Vilnius,’ she said. ‘Toss you for it.’

Mickey smiled, sat back.

Glass was looking round once more. ‘Marina?’

Marina checked her notes, stood up. Mickey looked at her. She was well-dressed as usual, made-up. But she looked drawn, haggard. Like she had been up all night. Mickey remembered how she and Phil had looked when they came into work the previous day. Together, but apart. He didn’t like to speculate on what was going on between the two of them. But he didn’t think it was anything good.

‘OK,’ she said, ‘I’ve now made a full analysis of the markings on both the cellar wall and the house opposite. I’ve cross-referenced them with every existing bit of data I could get my hands on and I think I can state, quite confidently, that they are calendars.’

She handed out photos of the wall markings.

‘At first I thought they might be influenced by the zodiac, but that’s not the case. They’re seasonal.’ She held the photo up, pointed to the relevant section. ‘See here? This is the summer solstice. And here? The autumnal equinox. And so on. The way it’s been positioned on the wall has the equinox at the top. If you look closely, you’ll see that it’s been painted over. Made to rotate. Whichever event is happening is always the uppermost one.’

‘When’s the autumnal equinox, then?’ asked Mickey.

‘Good question,’ said Marina. ‘Now. Today’s the last day of it. And based on what we’ve discovered so far about the boy and what he’s told us about his life – which isn’t much, to be honest – I think it’s safe to say that we’ve got a serial killer operating here.’

88

Glass looked sceptical. ‘Without wanting to bring any of your calculations and conclusions into doubt, Ms Esposito, because I’m sure they’re all perfectly valid, I have to ask, are you sure about this?’

‘Yes. I am. I wouldn’t make a statement such as that lightly.’

‘I’m sure you wouldn’t, but a serial killer… ’

‘I’ve dealt with them before… ’

Mickey saw her hesitate. He could tell why. She didn’t want to use Glass’s first name, too familiar. Nor did she want to use his rank. Too formal. She settled for not saying his name at all.

‘So I do believe I know what I’m talking about.’

‘What’s the evidence?’

‘Well, circumstantial, I’ll admit. But we found that child in a cage on the equinox. The cellar was prepared and dressed for the enactment of a ritual.’

‘We’ve had preliminary DNA back,’ said Adrian. ‘That was definitely blood on the workbench and the tools.’

‘Thank you,’ said Marina. ‘It was set for a ritual murder. And based on calculations made using the calendar on the wall, whoever does this does it at regular intervals. Four times a year. Multiply that by however many years he’s been doing it… ’ She shrugged. ‘Serial killer.’

‘And why would he do it?’ asked Glass. ‘What would he get out of it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Marina. ‘This one seems a little hazy. Obviously the main reason is because he enjoys it. Whatever self-justification they use, however they dress it up, the bottom line is because it gives them a sexual thrill. But there’s something more to this one than that. The calendar, the tools… I think he believes he’s doing this for a reason. An important reason. Find that out and we’re well on the way to finding him.’

Glass nodded. ‘Good. Thank you.’

‘There’s something else,’ Marina said. ‘The window of opportunity. As I said, today is the last day of the autumn equinox. Finn, the boy, was abducted from the hospital last night. The killer wants this ritual to go ahead. We have to find where he is by midnight tonight to have any hope of seeing that boy alive again.’

Silence round the room.

‘He’ll have somewhere else,’ she continued. ‘Not the East Hill place, but somewhere like it. Find that and you find him. And hopefully the boy.’

‘Do we know where?’ asked Glass.

‘No,’ said Marina. ‘But I’m setting up a geographical profile. See what I can get from that.’

‘If he’s been killing all this time,’ asked Jane, ‘where are the bodies?’

‘Good question,’ said Marina.

‘We’ve had the radar out in the wasteland between the two houses,’ said Adrian. ‘Nothing yet, but they’re still trying. The bodies have to be somewhere.’

‘Thank you,’ said Glass.

Marina sat down. Mickey watched her. There was something she was holding back, he thought. Something she had kept to herself. He didn’t judge her for it, just wondered why. After all, he was doing the same thing himself.

‘Well, there we have it,’ said Glass. ‘That’s where we are at the moment. I want the boy to be our number-one priority. Find the car. Find him. Stop whoever this is from doing whatever it is he wants to do.’

Well put, thought Mickey, leaning back, arms folded.

‘I’ve put in a request for extra staff,’ Glass continued. ‘Hopefully they should be with us later today.’ He swept the room with his eyes once more, making sure he had made contact with everyone. ‘As most of you are probably aware, Detective Inspector Brennan is suspended from duty and will take no further part in this investigation. I realise that will come as something of a shock to you. But please believe me when I tell you I had no choice. He was insubordinate and his judgement just plain wrong. He could have put this investigation into severe jeopardy, and even worse, put your lives in danger. I’m afraid he left me with no choice.’

Glass sighed as he spoke, like he had just made the most difficult decision of his life. Mickey didn’t believe a word of it.

‘In the meantime, Detective Sergeant Philips will be running both investigations – and MIS – and reporting directly to me.’

Mickey looked up, unable to hide the surprise on his face.

‘Any questions?’

There weren’t.

‘Good.’ Glass stood up. ‘Everyone has a job to do. Let’s do it. And see if we can save that little boy’s life.’

The team stood up, started filing out. Glass stayed where he was.

‘Marina? Could I have a word, please?’

Marina nodded, turned to follow Glass.

Mickey didn’t know what that was about. But he doubted it was anything good.

89

‘Hey.’

Anni slowly opened her eyes, looked up. It took a long time for them to focus, but when they did, she managed a small smile.

Hi,’ she said, her eyes closing again.

Phil sat down on a bedside chair. Anni was in a private room in the General. Three quarters of one wall was given over to windows. It was tranquil, restful. Bright and airy. The opposite of Finn’s darkened room.

Phil had had trouble dressing to come out. His working clothes were far more casual than most people’s, so he could just have put them on. But if he did that, he would feel like a fraud for not going to work. So he had compromised. Jeans, Converses, jacket and T-shirt instead of collar and tie.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, his voice low, so as not to disturb her.

She opened her eyes once more. ‘Like I’ve been shot,’ she said, smiling again.

Phil returned the smile. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘Not much.’ Her speech was slurred. ‘Would be a lot worse if they hadn’t pumped me so full of morphine. Mmm… ’ Another dreamy smile, eyes closing once more.

Phil had spoken to the nurse on his way in. Anni had been rushed straight into surgery and operated on. The bullet had gone through her body, leaving a nearly clean trail. It had slightly nicked her shoulder blade. The bone fragments had been found, the wound patched up.

‘They say the bullet didn’t hit anything too important,’ she said, her voice dreamy. ‘But it’s going to hurt like hell once the drugs wear off.’

‘You’d better stay on them, then.’

‘Is that any kind of advice for my boss to be giving me?’ She managed a small laugh. ‘Should be… ashamed of yourself… ’

Talking seemed to become an effort. Phil sat silently beside her, waiting until she drew strength, felt like speaking once more.

Anni’s eyes opened again. Not without effort; a frown creased her forehead. ‘Where’s Mickey? Why hasn’t he come to see me?’

Phil found her concern touching. Knew that neither of them would ever admit how they felt about the other, no matter how obvious it was to everyone else on the team. ‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘I haven’t heard from him. Maybe he doesn’t know yet.’

Another frown. ‘You haven’t heard from him? Why?’

‘I’ve been suspended, Anni, remember? I’m no longer in charge of the investigation. Or MIS.’

Her eyes closed once more. ‘Oh. Right.’

‘That’s it? Oh right? I thought you’d be a bit more concerned than that.’

‘I am,’ she said. ‘Very. And I’m sure I’d show it if I wasn’t so heavily medicated.’

They both smiled.

‘Glass. Never liked that man.’

‘Have to agree with you.’

Another frown creased her forehead. ‘Jenny Swan… she was in the room too. He got her first. How is she?’

Phil rubbed his chin. ‘Not good. I spoke to the nurse. It’s still touch-and-go. Lister might have been a bad shot with you, but he was closer to Jenny Swan. She wasn’t so lucky.’

Anni managed a small nod. Said nothing.

They sat in silence for a while. Eventually Anni broke it.

‘She was reaching him. Finn. I’m sure she was.’

‘How?’

‘She’d managed to communicate with him, got him talking. Got him opening up.’

Phil said nothing. Waited. Anni marshalled her strength, kept talking.

‘Apparently he lived in the Garden… ’ she said.

‘Right,’ said Phil, a shiver running through him at her words. ‘But the Garden was a commune. It… it vanished years ago.’

‘Don’t know about that,’ she said. ‘He said that’s where he lived. The Garden.’

Phil tried to keep the eagerness, the desperation from his voice. ‘Did he say where it was? What it was like?’

‘Said it was… metal. All metal.’

‘Metal? What, you mean indoors?’

‘Always inside, he said. Never out. That’s one of the reasons he was so freaked out by coming here. Said he’d never seen outdoors before. I mean he didn’t say it like that, but that’s what he meant.’

‘My God… ’

‘Yeah. Said the light told them when to get up and when to go to bed.’

‘The light?’

‘Artificial light, we reckoned.’

‘Was he… I don’t know, underground? Did he give any clues as to where this place was?’

Anni shook her head. Her face creased. The movement had hurt her. ‘No. Just… said… there was a lot of coughing. People always coughing. Lot of… It sounded like they didn’t live that long.’

Phil sat back, trying to process what she had said, the words spinning round his mind.

He looked down at her once more. The effort of talking had severely weakened her. She was almost asleep. He didn’t want to stay any longer, hamper her recovery.

‘I’d better go,’ he said.

She gave a dreamy nod.

‘I’ll come back and see you, though.’

Another slow nod. ‘Bring Mickey… ’

‘I will.’

He stood up. Not knowing whether to give her hand a squeeze or even kiss her on the forehead. Just something, some human interaction to show that he cared. He squeezed her hand. She smiled. And slipped away into sleep.

He left her.

Walking back to his car, he realised he hadn’t checked his voicemail for a whole day. He took his phone out, called. Listened.

His eyes widened, face changed expression.

Then he ran to his car as fast as he could.

90

‘You wanted to see me.’

Marina had followed Glass into his office. Stood before the desk. He had sat down, looked at his computer screen, checked a file lying open in front of him. Trying to make her feel like a subordinate, she thought. Make himself feel superior. She didn’t have time for his games.

No reply.

She checked her watch, turned for the door. ‘You’re obviously busy,’ she said. ‘I’ll come back later.’

Glass looked up quickly. ‘No, no. We’ll do this now.’

She turned. Waited. His choice of words didn’t fill her with confidence.

‘Take a seat.’

‘I’d rather stand. I’m in the middle of something and have to get back to it.’

Glass had to concede defeat. But it was clear he didn’t like it. ‘As you wish. Now I’m a big admirer of your work, Marina. Excellent. Out there, in the briefing, the conclusions you reached, the empirical evidence you based them on, great. I know a lot of officers in the force can’t see the need for a psychologist, especially a full-time one, on the payroll, but I’m not one of them. It’s the way forward, definitely.’

He sat back. Marina, taking that as her cue to speak, did so.

‘Thank you.’

There’s a ‘but’ coming, she thought. He’s just preparing me for it.

‘However,’ he said.

A ‘however’ not a ‘but’. She raised her eyebrow. Glass didn’t notice.

‘I’m afraid I can’t have you on the team at the moment.’

Anger buzzed inside her at his words. She pushed it down, controlled it. Directed it.

‘Why not?’

He opened his hands as if that explained everything. ‘Because of who your partner is,’ he said. ‘You’re compromised.’

She tried to keep the anger down. Failed. ‘I’m sorry? Because of who my partner is? Would you say that to a male member of staff?’

Glass looked genuinely puzzled. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

She moved towards the desk, towering over him. ‘You wouldn’t say that to a male member of staff about his partner, because you’d assume he could manage to make decisions and reach independent conclusions without asking the little woman. But obviously you don’t think I can do the same.’

‘I never said-’

‘Doesn’t that sound like sexism to you? It does to me. And I’m sure my union rep would think so.’

Glass looked flustered. Clearly this wasn’t the way he had intended the meeting to go. Marina had the advantage. She pressed it.

‘Is my professionalism being called into question? Am I not doing my job at the level expected of me?’

‘Well, yes… ’

‘Yes. I would think so. Especially as you’ve just sat there and said as much before taking me off the investigation. If you think I’m not capable of doing my job, then fair enough, but-’

The door opened. Mickey entered. He looked between the two of them, sensed the atmosphere.

‘Sorry, sir,’ he said to Glass. ‘I’ll come back later.’

‘You may as well stay, Mickey,’ Marina said, turning to him. ‘Our leader here is just suspending me.’

‘What?’

‘Apparently I’m compromised. Not because of my work, you understand, but because of who I live with. That renders me incapable of working efficiently.’

Glass stood up. Clearly angry now. ‘I only said-’

Mickey cut him off. ‘No. I’m sorry, sir, but you’re wrong.’

Glass looked like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘What? What did you say to me?’

‘Marina is a very valuable member of the team, sir. Highly rated, with a proven track record.’

‘We can get another psychologist in, if that’s what you-’

‘We’ve done that before, sir. It didn’t end well. There’s no other psychologist I’d rather have working alongside me.’

‘Are you questioning my decision, DS Philips?’

‘I suppose I must be, sir.’

‘As your superior officer-’

‘With all due respect, sir, I’m in charge of this team. You put me in charge yourself. And as the leader of this investigation, I want Marina to stay. She’s too valuable to lose.’

Glass stared at the pair of them. Marina saw the anger in his eyes turn to hatred. His hands started twitching. She could well imagine what he wanted to do with those hands.

He couldn’t speak. Too angry. Instead he walked round the desk, pushed his way past and out the door. They watched him stride across the main office and through the double doors. He tried to slam them but they wouldn’t allow it.

Neither of them spoke for a few seconds. Then Marina turned to Mickey.

‘Thank you.’

He smiled, sighing with relief. ‘No problem. I’m not having him get rid of another one.’

‘Good.’

‘But,’ said Mickey with a smile, ‘it’s time to get back to work.’

Marina gave a mock salute. ‘Yes, sir.’

She walked out of the office, back to her own desk.

91

‘Here,’ said Phil. ‘This is the one.’

Phil stood on the pavement outside Donna Warren’s house. Don beside him. They both stopped, stared at it.

‘Looks empty,’ said Don.

‘Yeah.’ Phil walked up the front path. ‘I’ll knock anyway.’

He had phoned Don as soon as he had listened to his voicemail. He couldn’t believe who it was from.

‘Hi,’ she had started, clearly uneasy. ‘It’s… Rose Martin. Detective Sergeant Rose Martin, in case you’ve forgotten, which I doubt you have. Or I should say, Detective Inspector.’ Then a sigh. ‘If that’s actually real. Anyway. I’m… I need to talk to you. About Glass. Brian Glass. He’s your DCI now.’ Another pause while she tried to find the correct words. ‘Don’t trust him. Really. Seriously, don’t trust him. He’s dirty. Bent. And I’ve got evidence. There’s a book. It’s here. In my hand. It’s… you wouldn’t believe it. The stuff in it. You just… ’ Another sigh. Then a laugh. ‘I can’t believe I’m calling you. You, of all people.’ Another laugh. ‘Considering how much I fucking hate you. And you know that. That’s not news.’ Another sigh. ‘But you’re honest. And I can trust you. And I need someone I can trust.’ She paused again. When she spoke, it sounded like the words were reluctant to come. Her voice small and hesitant. Stumbling. ‘And you did save my life. And I never really thanked you for that. Not with everything… ’ She cleared her throat. ‘Anyway. I’m rambling.’ Then her voice stronger, back to business. ‘Listen. This is important. If you don’t hear from me again, come to this address.’ She gave out the address of the house they were now standing outside. ‘Meet Donna. Donna Warren. Talk to her. She’ll tell you everything. And she’ll have the book. It’s a cheap blue exercise book. You must get it. Read it.’ Another pause. ‘I’m going to call him now. Glass. Give him a chance to explain himself. To turn himself in. It not… ’ A longer pause. So long that Phil thought she must have hung up. When she spoke again, her voice was uneven. ‘Nice knowing you. Well it wasn’t, but you know what I mean.’ Then the sound of the line going dead. Quickly.

Phil had checked the time of the call, tried to remember where he’d been, what he’d been doing. He’d been at the hospital, talking to Samuel. He remembered that Glass’s phone had rung at the same time. He knew who that would have been. Glass had disappeared straight afterwards.

He had phoned Don.

‘Not gone in to work?’ he had asked him.

‘Reckon they can do without me for one day,’ Don had replied. ‘Reckon you might need me more.’

Phil hadn’t answered.

He had met Don on Barrack Street. Played him the voicemail.

‘What d’you think?’ he had asked him.

‘Sounds legit,’ the ex-copper had said. ‘On the level. She wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble of calling you, you especially, if it wasn’t important.’

Phil agreed.

‘And Glass… ’ said Don. ‘I reckon she’s right about him.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘I’ve got my doubts about him too. Had them for years.’

Phil had stared at him.

‘I was going to share them with you.’

‘When?’ said Phil, bitterness in his voice. ‘When I was older?’

‘Sorry.’ Don sighed. ‘Look, how are you? Bearing up, I mean.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Phil, clearly lying. ‘Jim Dandy.’

‘Maybe we should-’

‘We’ll talk later. Let’s deal with this first.’

He knocked on the door. They waited for a reply. There wasn’t one.

He tried again, harder this time. He received nothing but sore knuckles.

‘Not in,’ said Don.

Phil stepped away from the door, cupped his hands round his face, peered in through the filthy front window.

He straightened up, looked at Don.

‘We’d better break in,’ he said.

92

Mickey was back at his desk. Doing what he hated most. Paperwork. Or rather electronic work, as most of the things he was following up were all online.

He had kept his head down after Glass had stormed out, and in the absence of anything else happening, or any other leads to follow up, kept trying to track down the Shaw connection. Find out where it all intersected.

And then his phone rang.

At first he thought it must be Lynn. She probably wanted to tell him what a great night she had had, wondering when they might do it again. He was smiling as he went to answer it.

He took it out of his pocket, checked the screen. Number Unknown. His heart sank slightly, his hopes dashed, his fantasy put on hold. Probably a sales call, he thought, and made to answer it, ready to tell whoever it was that he wasn’t interested and to never call him again.

‘Detective Sergeant Philips.’

That should spook them, he thought. Make them hang up, even.

But it wasn’t a sales call.

‘What’s the matter with you, then?’

Mickey was taken aback. The voice was indignant, angry. But familiar.

‘Sorry?’ he said.

‘Sorry? Yeah, you fuckin’ should be.’

He placed who it was. Stuart. His informant. ‘What should I be sorry for, Stuart?’

‘For all the bloody effort I’ve put in for you, that’s what.’

Mickey was on the back foot, really confused now. Let him talk, he thought, fill him in. ‘Effort?’

‘Yeah, effort. It wasn’t easy finding out all that stuff, you know. Risked life and limb, I did.’

‘What stuff?’

‘What you asked me. You havin’ a thick day or somethin’?’

Mickey smiled. ‘You risked life and limb? To tell me Weaver was probably killed by some Lithuanian hitman?’

There was a pause.

‘What? What the fuck you talkin’ about? Hitman? I didn’t leave no message about no hitman.’

Mickey was interested now. He leaned forward, covering the mouthpiece so the rest of the office couldn’t hear what he was saying.

‘What message did you leave, Stuart?’

An angry sigh. ‘I left… You know what I left. You must have got it. What’s the matter? Can’t you work your phone now?’

Mickey took the phone away from his ear, checked the display. Number Unknown. He replaced it.

‘I think we’d better talk, Stuart.’

‘Damn right we should talk. That’s what I’ve been telling you, haven’t I?’

‘When?’

‘Soon as. Red hot, this is. As you should know.’

Mickey was standing up. ‘Usual place. Ten minutes.’

‘Gotcha. And bring your foldin’. You’re gonna need it.’

‘One other thing,’ said Mickey. ‘You calling me on a new phone?’

‘Yeah,’ said Stuart. ‘That’s right. Made of money, me. No, same old phone. You should know, you’ve got my number. Or you’re supposed to have.’

He hung up. Mickey broke the connection, looked down at his phone.

He knew something hadn’t been right with Stuart’s message. It wasn’t just his copper’s intuition; it was something definite.

He sat down again, checked his phone once more, writing down the number that Stuart had just called him on, checking it against the one in his phone’s memory.

They didn’t match.

Mickey sat back, rubbed his chin. Tried to think it through. He checked through all his other numbers, trying to find a match. Nothing. There had to be something. Maybe he’d entered Stuart’s number wrongly. No. Completely different number. And he’d called him on it yesterday. He hadn’t received any calls from Glass, either. All night. Admittedly, he hadn’t had his phone on, but they should have been there when he turned it on in the morning.

No. Couldn’t be.

Not wanting to believe what his intuition was telling him, he took out the business card Lynn Windsor had given him. Checked the mobile number on it against the one Stuart was supposed to have texted him on.

Direct match.

He sat back again.

No. Couldn’t be.

It felt like his whole world had undergone a seismic shift. This finding had taken him – and the investigation – into completely new territory. He had to do something about this, formulate some plan.

But first he had to go and meet Stuart.

Standing up, taking his phone with him, he left the office.

93

Phil looked at the lock on Donna Warren’s front door, tried to find a way to open it.

‘Think we’ll have to break it down,’ he said.

‘What, and alert the whole street?’ said Don. ‘Give it here.’

Phil stepped out of the way and allowed Don to move in front of the door. He fished inside his jacket pocket, brought out a small silver object.

‘What’s that?’ said Phil.

‘Lock pick,’ Don replied calmly. ‘We all used to carry them. Back in the day, as you youngsters are so fond of saying.’ He shook his head. ‘Call yourself a copper. You lot, I tell you. Don’t know you’re born.’

It didn’t take him long. Phil stood all the while looking up and down the street, checking for twitching curtains, interfering or challenging neighbours, someone calling the police.

Ultimately he decided they were safe. It wasn’t, he concluded, that kind of neighbourhood.

‘And,’ said Don, ‘we’re back in the room.’

The door opened. The two men entered, closing it quietly behind them.

‘Don’t touch anything,’ said Phil. ‘Don’t move.’

‘And don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs,’ said Don.

They stayed where they were, just inside the doorway. Phil saw close-up what he had glimpsed through the window. Rose Martin’s lifeless body sprawled on the floor.

‘Oh God… ’

‘She didn’t die easily,’ said Don. ‘They never do,’ said Phil, and sighed. ‘We’re too late. Too bloody late.’

He looked down again. The body had been there a while. It was starting to lose its resemblance to the person it had once been, her spirit having long since departed, turning into something else, just another collection of matter, another organic component of the planet.

‘That phone message,’ said Don. ‘She must have gone to meet him straight afterwards.’

Phil nodded, not taking his eyes off the body. ‘He ran out of the hospital when you turned up. When Lister killed himself.’

‘D’you reckon he did this?’

Phil sighed. ‘I wouldn’t like to think that another officer could be responsible. But… ’ He shrugged. ‘It looks that way. Circumstantially, anyway.’

He kept staring at the body.

‘Poor Rose… ’

‘Thought you didn’t like her.’

‘I didn’t. But that doesn’t mean… ’ Another sigh. ‘I saved her life once.’

‘She said.’

‘Why couldn’t I have done it again?’

Don turned to him. ‘Now don’t start all that.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘All that blaming yourself. That leads to a very dark place, believe me. And you don’t want to go there.’

You mean again, Phil said to himself. ‘No. Suppose not.’

‘There was nothing you could have done. She knew that what she was doing was risky. She shouldn’t have done it.’

‘No.’ Still staring. ‘But… why?’ Another sigh. ‘I don’t know. Maybe she couldn’t believe one of her work colleagues was a murderer either.’

‘Maybe. We’ll never know.’

Phil looked up. ‘What about the other woman? Donna Warren, was that her name?’

From where he stood, Don looked through into the kitchen. ‘Don’t think she’s here.’ He turned to Phil. ‘You don’t suppose she did this, do you?’

‘Do you?’

Don didn’t answer.

‘We both know who we’ve got in mind for this.’ Phil scoped the room once more, trying not to dwell on Rose’s body. ‘Can’t see this book anywhere.’

‘How did she describe it?’ said Don.

‘A cheap blue exercise book. Let’s look upstairs.’

They went slowly up the stairs. Careful not to touch the handrails or walls. Don following Phil’s indentations on the stair carpet. They went into the main bedroom.

‘Looks like there’s been a fight in here.’

Don scanned the room. ‘But no book.’

Phil turned to him. ‘You know what I think? We’re not going to find it. It’s not here.’

‘I agree. We’d better go.’

They turned round, made their way downstairs without touching anything once more. At the bottom, Don turned to Phil.

‘I think you-know-who must have it.’

Phil gave a grim smile. ‘You-know-who? Have we jumped into Harry Potter land now?’

Don frowned. ‘What?’

‘Never mind. You’re right. Glass’ll have it by now. We’d better-’

‘Is this what you’re looking for, gentlemen?’

They both turned, startled by the voice. Two men, suited and tied, were standing in the kitchen doorway. One was holding up a cheap blue exercise book in a plastic evidence bag. The other was holding a gun.

The one holding the gun spoke. ‘I think we’d better go somewhere a bit more private, don’t you?’

Phil shrugged. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘Move.’

They moved.

94

Mickey walked back on to the footbridge overlooking Balkerne Hill. It felt like more than a day since he had last been here. The air felt colder. The sky heavier, darker. The cars beneath seemed to be moving faster, louder. Everything seemed heightened to Mickey.

Once again, Stuart was waiting for him. His leather jacket pulled tight around his skinny frame, cigarette clamped in the corner of his mouth, sucking down smoke seemingly to keep himself warm.

He turned as soon as Mickey approached. Looked anxious. Scared.

‘So tell me what’s happened,’ said Mickey, coming to stand alongside him.

‘It was there in the text I sent you,’ said Stuart, sucking the final dregs of life out of his roll-up, flicking the butt over the railing.

‘Pretend I never got it,’ said Mickey.

Stuart frowned. ‘Did you or didn’t you?’

‘Just pretend.’

Stuart nodded, pointed to Mickey as if about to impart wisdom. ‘Ah, now, y’see, that’s why I never commit anything to paper. I mean, that’s bad enough, but electronics is worse, innit? I mean, you never know who’s listenin’ in. Someone could be listenin’ in to us now, couldn’t they?’

Mickey frowned, lost. ‘What? Who?’

Stuart pointed up to the clouds. ‘Up there. Satellites. They can beam right in from space with pinpoint accuracy, listen in to what we’re sayin’. Take photos an’ all. They can.’

‘Right. So what did this text say?’

Stuart sighed, shook his head. A teacher exasperated that his thick pupil had failed to grasp the lesson. ‘That I’d found out somethin’ about this Weaver guy. Like you asked me to.’

‘What did you find out?’

‘He runs this import-export company with this Lithuanian guy. An’ we all know what import-export means, don’t we?’

‘Covers a multitude,’ said Mickey.

‘Yeah. An’ none of it legal.’

‘What Lithuanian guy?’

Stuart screwed up his eyes, tried to think. ‘Bul… Bol… ’

‘Balchunas?’ said Mickey. ‘Is that the name?’

Stuart clicked his fingers. ‘Yeah, that’s him. Balchunas. Yeah. That’s the fella.’

‘And that’s it? That’s the big news?’

‘Course it’s not. Don’t be stupid. I heard they got a big shipment comin’ in tonight.’

‘Of what? Drugs?’

Stuart shrugged. ‘Dunno. Prob’ly. He’s into all sorts of iffy stuff, what I heard. But just a big shipment. That’s all I… my sources could tell me.’

‘And it was definitely tonight?’

‘Yeah.’ He rubbed his stubbly chin. ‘Worth a lot of money, I reckon.’

‘Thought you didn’t know what was in it?’

Stuart looked confused. ‘What? The shipment? No, I meant me. My information, what I’ve just told you. That’s what’s worth a lot of money.’ He shook his head as if he was dealing with an idiot.

‘So where’s this shipment coming in to? Did you hear that?’

‘Harwich. Well, the ship’s comin’ in there. Then they’re takin’ it to their lock-up. Well, I say lock-up. It’s this place they got outside of Harwich, along the coast. Huge, it is. Where their base of operations is.’

Mickey took out his notepad, started writing this down.

‘Can’t miss it,’ said Stuart. ‘Full of those metal containers, the ones that come off the ships and get put on to lorries, know what I mean? Piled up high, they are. Huge. Like a big tin city.’

‘And that’s definitely tonight.’ A statement requiring clarification, not a question.

‘Definitely. Stake my life on it.’ He reconsidered. ‘Well, sure as I can be. From what I heard. You know what these things are like, don’t you? You know what I mean.’

‘What about time? Did you hear anything about that?’

Stuart raised his hands as if in surrender. He made an incredulous face. ‘Come on, Mr Philips, do I look like I carry the shipping timetable on me?’

‘Take an educated guess.’

Stuart sighed. ‘When it’s dark. Best I can do.’

Stuart stopped talking. Mickey looked at him. Knew that was as much as he was going to get from him.

‘Thanks, Stuart.’ He took out some money, peeled off a couple of notes, handed them over.

Stuart took them, looked at them. ‘That it? I risked life and limb to get this for you, Mr Philips.’

‘Really? When it’s dark. Hardly the most accurate thing you’ve ever given me.’

Stuart sighed. Waited.

Mickey peeled off another note. Handed it over. Stuart took it, made it disappear inside his jacket like the others. Mickey had budgeted for the third note. It was a ritual they had got into. The way they transacted business.

‘Be a bit more specific next time,’ Mickey said, turning to go.

Stuart stopped him, hand on his arm. ‘Mr Philips.’

Mickey turned.

‘You want to watch yourself. They’re bad people, this lot. Very bad people.’

‘So why haven’t I heard of them before this, then?’

‘Because they’ve got some very heavy protection, I’ve heard. That’s what makes them so bad.’

‘I’ll be careful,’ Mickey said, and walked off the bridge.

Stuart stayed where he was. Lit another roll-up.

Stared down at the speeding traffic once again.

95

The place was at the bottom of North Station Road. It had been an old warehouse, converted to a hotel and Indian restaurant. But to Phil it still looked like an old warehouse. Stuck on a corner in between a car exhaust centre and another business in terminal decline, and opposite a row of greasy-looking fast-food outlets, it appeared that the minimum of renovation had been done.

The restaurant at the front was in darkness, the double doors locked. It looked to have been a long time since anyone had entered through them. Phil and Don, with the two suited men behind them, were marched down the side of the building and through a door marked ‘Welcome’ that clearly didn’t mean it. It was the hotel entrance.

‘Move.’

They moved.

The men hadn’t spoken all during the journey. Phil had resisted showing them his warrant card at the house. Depending on who they were – or who had sent them – that might not be the best thing to do.

He had tried to engage them in conversation in the car, get them to open up, find out where they were going. Nothing. No response. Instead he had sized them up. One more laid-back, treating it all as a job. The other one, with sore-looking red eyes, seemed more angry. Regarding the whole thing personally. He would be the one to look out for.

‘I know this place,’ said Phil, going through the double doors. ‘Been raided loads of times by Immigration. Well, not just Immigration. Plenty of agencies.’

‘Shut up and get inside.’ The red-eyed one becoming exasperated. Irritated.

Phil and Don entered. There was no one about. A dimly lit hallway and an empty reception desk. Red Eye indicated upstairs. Phil and Don shared a look. Knowing they had no choice, they climbed the stairs.

A vacuum cleaner had been left on the landing along with a pile of bedding and towels for laundry, very dirty, very worn.

‘Nice,’ said Phil. ‘Very ambient.’

Red Eye grabbed hold of him, turned him round. ‘That’s enough of your lip. Now get in there.’

He gestured towards a cheap, plain wooden door. Number six. Phil opened it, entered.

It was an unimpressive hotel room. Cheaply furnished, badly maintained. Worn carpet, dirty bedcover, threadbare net curtains. In one corner, made from plastic sheeting, was an ill-conceived en suite shower room, mildewed at the joints. On the bed was a woman, mixed race, light-skinned, cheaply dressed, with a small child clinging to her.

Red Eye closed the door behind them. He turned to the woman on the bed.

‘Recognise these two?’

The woman looked very scared as she answered. Scared but defiant. ‘Should I?’

‘You tell me. We found them breaking into your house.’

The woman’s eyes jumped wide in shock. Then she recovered, examined Phil. He knew she had identified him as police.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’

‘Good.’

Red Eye put his gun away, motioned Phil and Don to sit on the bed. They did so.

‘Right,’ said Red Eye, ‘you’re no friend of hers.’ It was clear from his tone what he thought of the woman. ‘That might be a good or a bad thing, depending. So who are you, then?’

‘I’m going to put my hand inside my jacket,’ said Phil, ‘and bring it out very slowly.’

The two men shared a look. It was clear they realised from his words what, if not who, he was.

He produced his warrant card. Showed it to them. ‘Detective Inspector Phil Brennan. This is Don Brennan, my… ’ He hesitated. Looked at the old man. Then back to the other two men. ‘Father. And an ex-detective. Brought in to advise on a current case. And you are?’

The two men looked at each other, then back at Phil and Don. They too reached into their jackets, produced warrant cards.

‘Detective Inspector Al Fennell,’ Red Eye’s partner said.

Detective Sergeant Barry Clemens,’ said Red Eye. ‘SOCA. Serious Organised Crime Agency.’

They put their warrant cards away.

Phil nodded. He had been expecting something like that, his suspicions having been raised on the journey. He hadn’t got a gangster vibe from them, or even a common criminal one. He’d wondered if they were from some special security outfit. He wasn’t far wrong.

‘Do you often kidnap fellow police officers at gunpoint?’ he said, feeling anger rise at his treatment. ‘Is that your standard operating procedure?’

‘You’d broken into a house we had under surveillance,’ said Fennell, his voice dispassionate, eminently reasonable. ‘We had no idea who you were. We brought you back here for questioning.’

‘SOCA?’ said Don. He turned to Phil. ‘Aren’t they supposed to tell you if they’re in the area?’

‘Yes,’ said Phil. ‘They are.’ He looked at the two men, clearly not happy. ‘So? I’m a DI in MIS. If anyone should have been informed about your presence it would have been me.’

‘Ordinarily, yes,’ said Fennell.

‘And if it had been any other kind of operation, you would have been,’ said Clemens.

‘But?’ said Phil.

‘This one’s different. More delicate.’ Fennell.

‘Especially,’ said Clemens, ‘given who you are and where you work.’

‘Not to mention who you work for.’

Phil frowned. They were confusing him. ‘Are you two a double act?’ he said. ‘The way you finish each other’s-’

‘Sandwiches,’ said Don.

The woman on the bed laughed. Phil smiled. Fennell and Clemens just looked irritated.

‘All right,’ said Phil. ‘Why should who I work for make a difference?’

‘Do you know Detective Chief Inspector Brian Glass?’ asked Fennell.

It wasn’t the question Phil had been expecting them to start with, but somehow it seemed like the right one. ‘Yes,’ he said, guardedly. ‘I do.’

Don wasn’t so guarded. ‘And he’s a bastard.’

Clemens smiled. It made his eyes water.

‘Then I think we’re all going to get along,’ he said.

96

‘The first thing we have to do,’ said the Portreeve, ‘is to welcome our new member.’ He pointed to the left. ‘The Missionary.’

The new Missionary smiled. ‘Is good to be here. Thank you.’

‘Unfortunately we don’t have time for any further pleasantries. Down to business. Thank you for coming to such a hastily convened meeting. I’m sure you think we could have done all this by phone, but with things getting to a critical point, it may be too risky.’

They were back in their usual meeting room, round the table. There was no water this time.

The Portreeve looked along the table. ‘Teacher?’

The Missionary laughed. The Lawmaker stared at him. He didn’t laugh any more.

‘Perfect from my point of view. Couldn’t have been better. In every respect. Mission accomplished. He took the bait and the information was successfully planted. And I quite enjoyed planting it too.’

The Portreeve shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

‘Sorry.’ The Teacher hesitated, then continued. ‘But everything went to plan.’

The Lawmaker leaned forward. Had picked up something in the Teacher’s hesitation. ‘You sure about that?’

‘Absolutely. Wouldn’t mind doing it again.’

The Lawmaker sat back. ‘That won’t happen.’

The Portreeve turned to the Lawmaker. ‘And you? How’s things at your end?’

The Lawmaker waited until he was sure he had their full attention, then began. ‘Fine, generally. The boy has been successfully returned. Our tracks have been well covered there. There’s no way Lister can be traced back to us.’

‘Shame to lose him,’ said the Teacher. ‘He was a good client.’

‘There’ll be others,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘The investigation is stalling. Into both Weaver’s death and the boy’s abduction. And it doesn’t look like the escapee, Faith Luscombe, is going to trouble us either.’

‘Care to elaborate?’ said the Portreeve.

The Lawmaker shrugged. Clearly not happy to elaborate but going along with the request. ‘One detective has been removed. There was a chance he could have been getting too close.’

‘Removed?’ The Portreeve.

‘Suspended. And another has been removed also.’

‘Suspended again?’

‘No,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘This was in a more permanent capacity.’

There was silence round the table. Just the hum of the air-conditioning.

‘Dead?’ The Portreeve spat the word out like it would contaminate his mouth.

‘Let’s just say permanently removed,’ said the Lawmaker, as nonchalantly as possible. ‘We don’t know who might be listening. She’d worked things out. Got too close. She had to go. Faith Luscombe’s partner has been blamed and framed. So… ’ The Lawmaker shrugged. ‘Every cloud… ’

The Portreeve leaned forward. ‘You’re sure about this? This isn’t going to-’

‘Come back and bite us on the arse?’ said the Lawmaker. ‘No. I’m sure of it.’

The Portreeve sat back, looking at the Lawmaker. Uneasy about the change that had come over him. He seemed calmer. Darker. As if during the events of the last few days he had really started to find himself. Discover his true personality. The Portreeve wasn’t sure he liked it.

Wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be next.

‘And the boy is back with the Gardener?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ said the Lawmaker, folding his arms. ‘I’ve been thinking about that.’

The others waited.

‘We discussed this earlier. I think it’s actually time to implement it.’ He gestured to the Missionary. ‘We have our new friend here. We have our new source of income just about to go online. We have no need of the, shall we say, old ways.’

Silence.

‘Go on,’ said the Teacher.

‘Let’s offer him up to the police. Let them have the collar. They catch a deranged serial killer, we have a diversion away from our shipment arriving.’

‘That sounds like a plan,’ said the Teacher. ‘But what if he talks when he’s been arrested?’

The Lawmaker shook his head. ‘Credit me with some intelligence, please. He won’t be arrested. There’ll be a team of armed officers ready to take him down. And they will do.’

‘Sounds… excellent,’ said the Portreeve, unconvincingly. ‘You sure you can make this work?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘D’you know where he’ll be?’

The Lawmaker nodded. ‘The back-up location. The one Faith Luscombe was taken to.’

‘The one she escaped from,’ said the Teacher.

Anger flared in the Lawmaker’s eyes, just for a few seconds. But long enough to unnerve everyone else around the table.

‘It’ll be fine,’ the Lawmaker said.

‘So if the Gardener’s going,’ said the Teacher, ‘what about the Garden? Will that go too?’

The Lawmaker smiled. ‘I don’t think so. I think it’s about to be repopulated.’

‘Good,’ said the Portreeve, looking at his watch. ‘Then I’ll see you all later.’ He looked round the table, ensuring eye contact with everyone there. ‘And we mustn’t lose our nerve. We’re so close, and there’s so much at stake. We can all look forward to a prosperous tomorrow.’

The Lawmaker leaned towards him. Smiled. It sent a shiver down the Portreeve’s spine.

‘My nerve’s fine,’ he said. ‘How’s yours?’

The meeting was over.

97

Marina was standing at her desk in the main MIS office, bent over, the space before her spread with charts and maps. Mickey approached, hovered by her side, moving slowly from foot to foot. Said nothing. Eventually she looked up.

‘You all right there, Mickey?’

‘How’s it going?’

Marina sighed, straightened up. Pushed a hank of stray hair behind her ear. ‘Slowly. I’m seeing if I can create a geographical profile of our would-be killer based on the calendar and where we know he’s been.’ She looked down again. ‘Seeing if certain areas are more suited to different times of the year, that kind of thing.’

‘Any luck?’

She looked up at him. ‘Not yet. It takes a while to do this kind of profiling properly, and you need more information for effective triangulation. I was seeing if I could use the calendar as a short cut.’ Her hair fell down, and once more she pushed it back. ‘What can I do for you?’

Mickey looked round, as if nervous. Or fearful of eavesdroppers. ‘Can I have a word?’

‘Sure.’

‘Not here.’ Still looking round.

Marina did likewise. ‘Where, then?’

‘How about your office?’

‘Come on.’

She picked up her bag, walked out of the office, Mickey following her. Down the corridor, up the stairs.

‘How’s Phil?’ asked Mickey.

‘He’s… as well as can be expected,’ said Marina, not turning to him, her face in profile.

‘What a bastard.’

‘The situation? Or Glass?’

‘Both.’

‘Couldn’t agree more.’ Said quietly, more for herself, he thought, than him.

They reached her office. She unlocked it.

‘Take a seat.’

Mickey sat down in one of the two armchairs in the centre of the room. Marina took the other one. Crossed her legs, sat upright. Waiting. Then, realising that looked too formal, uncrossed them, leaned forward. Mickey could see she was trying not to make this chat into a therapy session. He hoped he could do the same.

‘How can I help?’

Mickey’s hands fidgeted. He tried to find the words. Marina waited.

‘I’ve been… compromised.’

‘In what way?’

Mickey heaved out a deep sigh. Started. ‘With… someone connected to the investigation.’

‘A suspect?’

‘No,’ he said, but sounded unsure. ‘A… I don’t even think she’s a witness. But she’s involved in some way.’

‘Who?’

Mickey told her. All about meeting Lynn Windsor. Her phone call. Asking him to go round. Telling him she had something important for him to see. Asking him not to tell anyone else about their meeting.

‘And did she? Have something for you to see?’

Mickey almost smiled. ‘Oh yeah, but it wasn’t anything to do with the investigation.’

Marina gave a small smile, nodded. Mickey continued.

‘I spent the night,’ he said. ‘I know I shouldn’t have done, shouldn’t even have gone there. At least not without telling someone else first. And I shouldn’t have been… ’

‘Thinking with your dick?’

Mickey reddened, studied the carpet. ‘Yeah.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Marina said. ‘You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.’ She smiled. ‘How d’you think Phil and I got together?’

‘I know,’ he said, nodding, ‘but it’s not just that. There’s something else.’

Marina waited while Mickey found the correct words, got himself in the right state to voice them.

‘I think… I’ve been played.’

Marina frowned. ‘In what way?’

‘Just… something that happened earlier today. This morning. I turned my phone off. Last night. When I was with Lynn. When I turned it on this morning, there were no missed calls from Glass.’

‘Should there have been?’

‘Yeah. He’d been calling me all yesterday evening. Trying to get me back to work after what happened at the hospital. Loads of calls, apparently. I didn’t get any of them.’

‘Curious.’

‘And that’s not all. I had a few texts. One was from an informant telling me, well, what I said in the briefing this morning. About Weaver being killed by a Lithuanian hitman.’

Marina nodded. ‘And?’

I’ve just been to meet with my informant. He never said that at all. Said there was some shipment coming in tonight and we needed to be on it.’

Marina sat back. ‘But how did-’

‘That’s not all,’ said Mickey. ‘When I checked again, I found that the number the text had come from, although it had my informer’s name next to it, was Lynn Windsor’s.’

‘Get her in then. Get her questioned.’

‘But what about… ’

‘I don’t see that there’s a problem. Not in this instance. This wouldn’t have come to light if you hadn’t slept with her. She must have done all this while you were sleeping.’

‘She was walking around at one point… ’

‘Then bring her in.’

‘Can’t see Glass going for it, somehow.’

‘You’re running the investigation now, remember?’

Mickey smiled, nodded. ‘True. If I bring her in for questioning, will you help?’

Marina smiled. ‘It’ll be a pleasure.’

Mickey stood up. ‘Then I’ll go and get her. Thanks for the chat.’

‘Any time,’ said Marina, watching Mickey leave the room.

She stood up too. Took out her phone, thought about calling Phil. Replaced it. Best let him have a little space to himself. He’ll call me when he needs me, she thought.

She went back to work.

98

‘So have SOCA had their budget cut, then?’

Phil was walking round the hotel room, picking things up, replacing them, grimacing with disgust at the dirt and mess in the place.

‘No one would look for us in a place like this,’ said Fennell.

‘Not unless they were mental,’ said Don.

Phil laughed. ‘So why here?’

Clemens shrugged. ‘We got a good deal.’

Phil smiled. ‘Oh, I get it. That last Immigration raid. Were you lot behind it?’

The two men said nothing.

‘Raid the place, close it down and just happen to get slipped a set of keys. Your own little base for your adventures. Very clever.’

‘Look,’ said Clemens, ‘can we get down to business?’

‘What, no cuppa?’ Phil examined the tea-making accoutrements. Grimaced once more. ‘Perhaps not.’ He sat in a chair by the window. Hoped it would hold his weight.

‘Tell me about DCI Glass,’ he said.

Fennell obliged. ‘We’ve had Glass under observation for some time.’

‘He came to our attention a while ago. Picked him up on the radar because of his criminal activities.’

‘Such as?’ asked Don.

‘Drugs,’ said Fennell.

‘People-trafficking. Sexual slavery,’ said Clemens.

‘Helping Eastern European criminal gangs get a foothold over here.’

‘Why d’you think he wanted the job here?’ said Clemens. ‘Colchester’s just next to Harwich. A nice little supply chain coming in from Europe.’

‘Forgive me if this is an obvious question,’ said Phil. ‘But if you’ve got all this on him, why haven’t you arrested him?’

‘Because these things take time,’ said Fennell.

‘Getting a case together, doing it surreptitiously so he doesn’t get wind of it, reeling in his known associates,’ said Clemens.

‘Making sure it’s watertight… All takes time.’

‘Plus,’ said Clemens, ‘we want him caught in the act.’

‘Preferably with his associates,’ said Fennell.

‘So when’s that going to happen?’ asked Donna. Phil could see she was determined not to be ignored, sidelined. He admired that spirit in her. ‘Today, tomorrow, when? You’re just going to let him go till then?’

‘Tonight,’ said Fennell.

‘There’s a new shipment coming in through Harwich,’ said Clemens. ‘We’re going to catch him there.’

‘Shipment?’ said Don. ‘Of what?’

‘People,’ said Fennell.

‘Girls,’ said Clemens. ‘Children. All from Eastern Europe.’

Phil saw Donna’s head drop. Caught the look of despair in her eyes. She instinctively glanced towards the little boy. He looked exhausted. He had curled up on the side of the bed, was nodding off to sleep.

Donna looked up again. Phil could see the anger in her eyes. ‘So that’s it, is it? You’re going to catch him at Harwich. What about what happened in my house? He murdered Rose Martin. He would’ve killed me an’ Ben as well. Why didn’t you get him then?’

‘We’re sorry about Rose Martin,’ said Fennell.

‘Sorry? Sorry? Sorry doesn’t cut it, mate. You just going to leave her there?’

‘Look,’ said Clemens, his own anger rising, ‘what happened to her was unfortunate. But we have to look at the bigger picture. You should too.’

‘You bastard, you… ’ Donna was off the bed and making her way across the room to Clemens. Fennell grabbed hold of her, restrained her.

‘Donna,’ he said, his voice low and reasonable, ‘calm down.’

On the bed, Ben began to stir. He opened his eyes, saw what was happening, cowered back into the pillows.

‘You’re scaring the boy,’ said Phil, standing up. ‘Let her go.’

Fennell looked round, saw Ben. Let Donna go. She returned to the bed, sat next to the boy, an arm round him. Fennell kept talking.

‘We did argue about what we should do with Rose Martin. We knew there would be enough of Glass’s DNA in the house to implicate him, no matter how he tried to clean up.’

‘And we also had a first-hand witness testimony,’ said Clemens. ‘Assuming you’d do it. So we weren’t too bothered about that. We thought it might pay off to keep watching the house. See who else turned up.’

‘And look who did,’ said Don.

‘But don’t worry,’ said Fennell, addressing Donna directly. ‘A forensic team will be in there very shortly.’

‘Our forensic team,’ said Clemens. ‘Not local. Wouldn’t want the possibility of accidental contamination, would we?’

Phil stared at the man. He could understand why Donna would want to hit him.

Silence fell while everyone regathered. Eventually Don spoke.

‘Glass,’ he said, nodding to himself. ‘Yeah. Always had him pegged as a bad ’un. Well, always suspected it, anyway.’

‘You knew him, then?’ said Fennell.

‘Back in his uniform days,’ said Don, ‘when I was a DI in CID. A thug. He was always a thug. But a clever one. An ambitious one.’

‘He still is,’ said Clemens.

Don frowned. ‘But something happened to him after the Garden case. He wasn’t the same. He wasn’t better, far from it. He was worse. Even cockier. Even more happy to throw his weight around. Like he had protection. Couldn’t be touched.’

‘And then what?’ said Fennell.

‘That’s when his career took off,’ said Don. ‘And I hardly ever saw him again. We stopped moving in the same circles.’

‘This Garden case,’ said Clemens to Don. ‘Tell us about it.’

99

‘Paul Clunn,’ said Don. That was his name. He founded the Garden.’

Phil listened once more. Tried not to think of the previous night.

‘A city worker who had either a vision or a nervous breakdown, depending how you look at it. Bought a country house and filled it with similarly afflicted souls.’

‘Was Glass one of them?’ said Clemens.

‘No,’ said Don. ‘I’ll get to him in a minute. Be patient.’

‘When was this?’ asked Fennell.

‘Late sixties, early seventies,’ said Don. ‘Places like that were popular for a time. This one followed the usual pattern. Surround some vaguely charismatic leader with a load of followers desperate to hear what they think is the truth.’

‘Strange name,’ said Phil. ‘Not the most charismatic.’

‘I’m sure he overcompensated,’ said Don. ‘Anyway, it was ensured that the followers renounced all their worldly goods on the way in. Apparently that led them to find enlightenment.’

‘And did it?’ asked Clemens.

Don shrugged. ‘As much as they could, I suppose. For a while, at any rate. The Garden certainly did. It became very wealthy.’

‘Not surprised,’ said Fennell.

‘We looked into their finances,’ said Don. ‘They invested the money in property mainly.’

‘Like the house at the bottom of East Hill,’ said Phil.

‘At one time,’ said Don. ‘Probably hidden by a paper trail now. But uncover that, and I’ll bet you’ll find it still leads back to the Elders.’

‘The Elders?’ said Phil.

‘Clunn didn’t do all this on his own,’ said Don. ‘He had helpers. Followers who shared his vision.’

‘Or breakdown,’ said Phil.

‘Right. But these were more than followers. They became the Elders. They all had titles. Clunn was the Seer. The visionary. There was the Portreeve. He was in charge, ran things on a dayto-day basis. Guy who did that was called Robert Fenton.’

‘Fenton?’ said Phil. ‘That name rings a bell… ’

‘He seemed all right,’ said Don. ‘Straight. Sharing in Clunn’s vision. And June Boxtree. She was the Lawmaker. Same for her. There was another one. The Missionary. Responsible for recruitment. Used to take the good-looking young ones out on a weekend, stand them on street corners rattling a tin, engaging passers-by in conversation. Getting them to come to meetings. He scarpered when the place was raided.’ Don smiled. It soon faded. ‘But the other two… ’ He shook his head. ‘Bad. Very bad.’

‘You remember all this well,’ said Clemens.

‘Like it was yesterday,’ said Don. ‘Every copper has his case, doesn’t he? The one that haunts him. The one that still has him waking up in the middle of the night. Well this was mine. I remember it all right. Every single detail.’

‘The other two?’ prompted Fennell.

‘Yes, the other two. One was called the Teacher. Gail Banks. A very nasty piece of work. A hard, cold woman. She hid her cruelty behind the Garden’s peace and love. If she’d been born earlier and Irish, she’d have run the Magdalene laundries. And she’d have loved it. As it was, her heyday was the late sixties. So she became the most militant of feminists.’

‘Accent on the militant,’ said Fennell.

‘Yes.’ Don nodded. ‘In the same way Hitler was militant. She was cut-price Germaine Greer. Having joyless sex with anyone just to prove a point. Or score one. Punishing the communists when they’d been bad. Especially the children. Especially the girls. But even her monstrousness wasn’t as bad as the other player.’

‘Who?’ said Fennell.

‘Richard Shaw.’

Phil couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Not Tricky Dicky Shaw? The gangster?’

‘The very same. Apparently when he came to the Garden he was genuine about it. Looking to change his life. Start over. That’s what he said, anyway. And he was believed, welcomed in. Gave another name, of course.’

‘Not Robin Banks, by any chance?’ asked Phil.

Donna, arm curled round the sleeping Ben, laughed.

‘No. George Weaver.’

Phil nodded. ‘Of course. Makes sense.’

‘We still don’t know if he was just hiding out, lying low. Or whether he was genuine. Doesn’t matter now. He told them he was an artist. Began to paint. And began to take an interest in horticulture. So he became one of the Elders too. Called himself the Gardener.’

‘This Garden place,’ said Donna, her voice quiet so as not to wake Ben. ‘Is it the same one as Faith talked about in her book?’

Don looked towards Fennell and Clemens.

‘We’ll come to that,’ said Clemens. He looked at Don. ‘Keep going.’

‘Well the next thing that happened was that Banks and Shaw took over the running of the place. Sidelined the rest of the Elders, kept the Missionary on the streets the whole time.’

‘And Clunn?’

‘Made sure he was always doped up, out of his head. Permanently. There were rumours of ill-health, but nobody believed them. That was just a smokescreen so they could take over. Do what they wanted. And they did. Then it turned bad. Really bad.’

‘How bad?’ asked Donna. Fearful, like she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

‘The communists were starved, driven half mad. They were pimped out to whoever wanted them, to do whatever they wanted with them. Some of them never made it back. Some of them wished they hadn’t.’

‘I’ve heard all this,’ said Phil.

‘Sorry,’ said Don. ‘That’s when we raided the place.’

‘And they were all gone,’ said Phil, finishing for him.

Don nodded. ‘They were gone. And that was the end of the Garden.’

Silence. Fennell and Clemens exchanged glances. Fennell nodded.

‘No it wasn’t,’ said Clemens.

100

‘The Garden didn’t die,’ said Fennell. ‘It continued.’

‘No it didn’t,’ said Don. ‘We searched for it everywhere. We hunted down the properties owned by the Garden, looked there. Checked them all out. We couldn’t find it anywhere. They sold the house, made it into a hotel.’

‘It kept going,’ said Fennell, brooking no argument. ‘And it’s still going now.’

‘Yeah,’ said Donna, ‘it is. Faith escaped from it. She wrote about it. That’s what’s in the book. She got away from them. Someone she’d been hired out to bought her off them. And Ben.’ Donna shuddered. ‘An’ he was just as bad. So she took Ben and ran. That’s how she ended up with me. Well, eventually.’

‘And she was trying to make a bit of money by selling the book to Glass,’ said Clemens. ‘The stupidest thing she could have done.’

Donna said nothing. Just glared at him.

‘So where is it, if it’s still going now?’ asked Phil.

‘We’re not exactly sure,’ said Fennell.

‘But it does still exist,’ said Clemens. ‘And in a lot of respects, it’s the same as it used to be. They still pimp out the communists.’

‘Except they’re not really communists any more,’ said Fennell. ‘More like prisoners.’

‘But they’re still sold and hired.’

‘You don’t know where from, though?’ said Phil.

Clemens shook his head. ‘We know it’s somewhere in the area. But we don’t know any more than that.’

‘And,’ said Fennell, ‘it’s still run by the Elders.’

‘What,’ said Don, ‘the same ones?’

‘No,’ said Fennell. ‘Not exactly. Tricky Dicky Shaw disappeared after the raid. June Boxtree was never heard of again. The first Missionary never went back. We don’t know what happened to him.’

‘What about the others? Robert Fenton?’ asked Phil.

‘Resurfaced eventually,’ said Clemens. ‘Retrained as a solicitor. Opened a practice in Colchester.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ said Don. ‘Wasn’t he arrested or anything?’

Fennell shook his head. ‘Some kind of deal was struck. You know the kind of thing.’

Phil looked at Don. He could tell his father wasn’t happy about that.

‘And the rest of them?’ said Don, bitterness showing in his voice.

‘Like I said, Tricky Dicky was never found. Paul Clunn disappeared too.’

‘Mind you,’ said Clemens, ‘he was so addled and mind-fucked by that time that he could have wandered off a cliff and not noticed. Probably thought he could fly.’

‘They didn’t replace Clunn when he went. Didn’t need to.’

Phil was thinking. The tramp. Paul? Hadn’t that been his name? ‘I think I’ve met him,’ he said. He told them of his encounters with the tramp. Most of them. Not what he had discussed with him.

‘I let him go,’ he said eventually. ‘Didn’t think he could have done it. Like you said, brain completely addled. But he did have moments of lucidity. Few and far between.’

‘What about Gail Banks?’

Phil could tell Don wasn’t taking the news well. He didn’t blame him. Something that had obsessed him all his working life – and beyond – reduced to these prosaic terms. He hoped that kind of thing wouldn’t happen to him. But knew it probably would. It happened to every decent copper.

‘Gail Banks?’ said Clemens. ‘Died of an Aids-related illness back in the nineties.’

‘So who are the Elders now, if the original ones are all dead or retired?’

‘Their titles are more code names now, really,’ said Fennell.

‘Something they use in case we’re listening in.’

‘And were you?’ asked Don.

‘When we could,’ said Clemens.

‘But that’s inadmissible in court.’

‘Which is why we want to catch Glass in the act,’ said Fennell.

‘Besides,’ said Clemens, ‘the names were something they could use in court anyway. Claim they weren’t really pimping and selling people to rich perverts, just playing at secret societies. Pathetic.’

Phil thought for a moment. ‘So how did you find out about all this? You were watching Glass.’

Fennell and Clemens both looked at him.

‘Oh,’ said Phil.

‘Exactly,’ said Clemens.

‘He’s one of them,’ said Don, the fact piling bitterness upon bitterness for him.

‘He’s their new Lawmaker,’ said Fennell. ‘That’s how we found out about them. Robert Fenton’s son, Michael Fenton… ’

‘Of Fenton Associates,’ said Phil.

‘The very same,’ said Clemens.

‘… is the new Portreeve,’ finished Fennell.

Don shook his head. He looked like he was broken, thought Phil. Like he had been betrayed by his memories.

‘What about the rest of them?’ said Phil. ‘The Missionary? All those.’

‘The Missionary, we think, was Adam Weaver,’ said Fennell.

‘Going out into the world, bringing back rich people. Or in his case, investors,’ said Clemens.

‘Until recently, obviously,’ said Fennell.

‘The Gardener,’ said Phil. ‘He’s still out there. Still going.’

‘We don’t know anything about him. Apart from his old name. And that won’t help us now.’

‘True,’ agreed Fennell. ‘Doesn’t matter, though. He’s not central to this investigation.’

‘But he’s still torturing and killing children,’ said Phil. ‘Doesn’t that count for anything?’

‘Yes, it does,’ said Fennell. ‘But not as part of this investigation. We’re after bringing down Glass and his people-trafficking scheme. That’s the main objective.’

‘Anything else,’ said Clemens, ‘is secondary.’

Phil said nothing. But he knew he had to do something.

‘What about the Teacher?’ said Don. ‘Used to be Gail Banks. Who is it now?’

‘Well,’ said Fennell, ‘Gail Banks had a daughter… ’

101

Lynn Windsor didn’t look happy to be there. In fact she looked furious.

Mickey watched her from behind the two-way glass of the observation room. Marina stood next to him.

‘I can see what you saw in her,’ she said.

‘Saw being the operative word. I think our relationship’s dead in the water.’

They both studied her once more. She was sitting behind the desk in the interview room, hands clasped before her on the table, back rigid. Anger and indignation keeping her upright.

Mickey had gone down to the offices of Fenton Associates, phoned her first, asked to meet her outside. He was hoping she would think it was something to do with the previous night, something he didn’t want her work colleagues to hear. She did. Came to the front of the building.

‘Hi,’ she had said, eyes as bright as her smile.

He imagined her preparing that smile while she walked down, checking in the mirrors to see that it had the correct wattage.

He had brought her straight down. ‘I need you to come down to the station.’

The smile had wavered. ‘Why, what’s wrong?’

‘Can’t say. I just need you to come with me straight away.’ He had pointed to his car.

The smile disappeared completely. He watched her face closely, saw calculation. Knew what would come next.

‘I think there’s a mistake,’ she said.

‘No mistake, I’m afraid. We need to talk to you at the station. Straight away.’

He wouldn’t let her go back inside the building, wouldn’t let her get her jacket, bag or phone. ‘Someone’ll call work, tell them where you are.’

The drive to Southway had been silent. He hadn’t even looked at her. Couldn’t bear to. He knew she would be hating him. He could tell by the way her chest rose and fell in his peripheral vision.

He had put the radio on to fill the silence. Radio One.

‘Love a bit of Lady Gaga,’ he had said, after attempting to sing along. ‘But I still don’t know what she really looks like. You see her with that many disguises on, when you actually see what she looks like, you just can’t recognise her, can you?’

Lynn hadn’t answered.

And now he was observing her. Beneath the anger he sensed fear. She looked isolated, cut off. Good. That was how he wanted her. Suffering. And it had nothing to do with the way she had played him the previous night, he told himself. Oh no. Purely professional.

‘Marina,’ said Mickey.

She waited.

‘Don’t tell Anni about this.’ He kept his eyes on the glass.

‘About you and Lynn Windsor?’

Mickey nodded. ‘Yeah. I don’t want her to… think less of me. She’s a good friend.’

‘Right. I won’t.’

‘Thanks.’ He sighed. ‘I phoned the hospital. She’s doing OK. Sleeping. I’ll try to get to see her later.’

‘She’d like that.’

‘So would I.’

They stared at Lynn Windsor some more.

‘Right,’ Mickey said, ‘how are we going to play this?’

‘Same as usual. I’ll be in here watching her. You get the questions going. I’ll chip in as and when.’

Mickey nodded. Placed his earpiece in. ‘Wish Phil was here. He’s better at this than me.’

Marina gave a smile. Mickey sensed a sad, faraway quality to it. ‘You’ll be fine. You always are.’

He nodded. ‘Right. In I go.’

He left the observation room. The door closed silently behind him.

Marina watched through the glass. Checked her mic. Everything was fine. She took a seat at the desk. As she did so, her phone rang.

She looked down at her bag, mentally chastising herself. She’d thought she had turned it off. Sighing, she picked it up, ready to kill it. Saw the readout. Phil. She looked at the window, saw Mickey enter the room. Looked at the phone.

Answered it.

‘It’s me,’ said Phil.

‘Hi,’ said Marina, distracted by watching Mickey sit down. Lynn Windsor stare at him with undisguised hatred. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine. Listen, I’ve got some things to tell you.’

Marina felt torn once more. She wanted to talk to him – needed to – but he had picked a terrible time. She had to tell him that. He would understand. He was a professional.

‘Can we do this later? I’m sorry, but Mickey’s just got someone in the interview room and I’m working the obs.’

‘Who?’ Phil said. ‘Who’s he got?’

‘Lynn Windsor. The solicitor.’

She heard him cover the mouthpiece, say something she couldn’t catch. There was someone else in the room with him. He came back to her. ‘That’s good. Keep her there. I’ve got some stuff to tell you. And I’ve got to tell you now.’

‘Does it have to be now?’

‘Yes. It concerns Lynn Windsor. And Brian Glass. How they’re connected, and how dirty he is.’

‘Stay on the line,’ she said, heart suddenly racing. ‘I may need you.’

‘Pleasure to be back in business,’ he said.

102

Mickey sat down opposite Lynn.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘this is nice.’

‘Is this how you repay all the women you’ve slept with?’ said Lynn, with barely suppressed anger. ‘Haul them in for questioning?’

‘Not all of them. Only the special ones.’

‘What d’you want to know? Who else I’ve slept with? Did I use protection? Have I had a check-up recently? Bit late for all that now.’

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘too late.’

She looked at the machine next to her. ‘You going to record this? Because the first thing I’m going to say is that you slept with me. That anything I say consequently will be considered tainted testimony. That nothing will stand up in court.’

She sat back, pleased with herself.

Mickey smiled. ‘Absolutely. I wasn’t going to do this interview under caution, but if you’d prefer it that way, then fair enough.’

‘I would.’

Mickey readied the recorder.

‘You’re doing great, Mickey,’ said Marina in his ear. ‘Keep her like that. Keep her angry. She thinks she’s superior to you. Cleverer than you. She thinks she’s going to beat this. She’s so arrogant she hasn’t asked for a solicitor. Thinks because she is one she knows it all. Even criminal law. Keep her that way.’

Mickey gave a small nod, hoped Marina caught it.

‘Interview commencing at… ’ He started talking for the benefit of the recorder. He gave his name, Lynn Windsor’s name, cautioned her, stated the time. Got her to say she had turned down the offer of a solicitor. Then he was ready to start.

Her lips were curled at the edges. Ready for battle, thought Mickey. Ready to defeat him. He swallowed. Hoped that wouldn’t be the case.

‘Lynn, I-’

‘Can I just stop you there, Detective Sergeant,’ she said. She smiled. ‘I realise I’m under caution and this is a formal interview. I should also like to state, for the recording, that last night you came round to my flat and had sex with me.’

She sat back, knowing what the repercussions of her statement would be, waiting for his response. She smiled. Mickey took his time.

‘Yes I did,’ he said eventually. ‘I should say it was at your invitation. And that the sex was entirely consensual. And, I should add, highly enjoyable.’

She sat forward. That wasn’t what she had expected him to say. Her eyes darted around the room.

‘In fact,’ continued Mickey, ‘it was last night I wanted to talk to you about. You see, when I accepted your invitation to come over, I didn’t consider you to be involved in the investigation I’m currently working on. However, as a result of spending the night with you, I’m not convinced of that at all.’

He reached into his pocket, brought out her business card. He had put it in a plastic bag. Thought it looked more official that way. He placed it on the table between them.

‘Do you recognise this?’

She looked at it, looked back at him.

‘Do you?’

She nodded.

‘Can you speak up, please? For the benefit of the recording.’

‘Yes,’ she said croakily, her mouth suddenly dry.

‘And what is it?’

She cleared her throat. ‘My business card.’

‘Right. Your business card. And could you look at that card for me, please?’

She bent over, looked at it.

‘Could you confirm that’s your mobile number on it?’

‘Yes.’ Fear began to dance in her eyes. He knows, her expression said.

Mickey suppressed a smile, fed off it, became more confident. He was circling, closing in on her. But he didn’t want to get cocky, didn’t want to lose the interview and her too. So he kept it controlled.

‘Now, this is my mobile phone.’ He took his phone out, placed it on the table. ‘Could you tell me why your number appears in the address book?’

She shrugged. ‘You must have put it there. Intending to see me again. It’s not going to happen now.’

‘All right, I’ll rephrase the question. Can you tell me why your number is in my phone next to the name of one of my informants? And why the text message he sent me yesterday never got through? And why I received a different one instead with entirely different information in it? Can you explain any of that?’

Lynn Windsor said nothing. Just stared at him. Hatred burning in her eyes.

His mind flashed back to the way she had been the night before. It was hard to believe it was the same woman. He put the image out of his mind, concentrated.

‘So you don’t know how my informant’s text was intercepted and changed.’

‘No.’

‘And your number substituted for his.’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

She sighed. Aiming for irritated, unable to suppress the fear beneath it. ‘This is ridiculous.’ She was trying to inject strength into her voice, but it was too shaky. ‘This is pathological. You’re just… just… taking out your own guilt for sleeping with me on… on… like this.’

Mickey gave a pantomime frown. ‘I don’t feel guilty about what we did. Do you?’

Her eyes darted about the room once more, like sparrows trapped in a barn.

‘If you’re… if you’re quite finished, I’ll… I’ll go… ’

Her hands on the table, trying to stand. Wanting to walk out. Wanting it all to end.

‘Sit down, please, Lynn.’ Mickey’s voice strong, authoritative.

She sat down.

He heard Marina’s voice in his ear.

‘Right, Mickey, you’ve got her. Now. Trust me on this. Ask her about the Gardener.’

Mickey frowned.

‘The Gardener. Just ask her where the Gardener is. And how you can find him. Trust me. Do it.’

Mickey leaned forward across the table. Hands together, voice low, as if in conspiracy. Us against the world, his body language said. You’re in trouble but I’m the one who can get you out of it.

‘Lynn… ’

She looked up at him. Up close, he saw the depth of fear in her eyes. He was glad he wasn’t scared of whatever it was that was scaring her.

Or whoever.

‘Lynn… where can I find the Gardener?’

And the fear he had just seen in her eyes was nothing compared to the fear that was there now.

103

The Gardener straightened up. Looked round. Smiled.

The sacrifice chamber had been filled with flowers. Bunches had been made up, colours and scents carefully combined, positioned at the correct stations round the room. The rest had been strewn over the floor. The smell was becoming overpowering in the confined space. Decay had already started.

Good. That was just how the Gardener wanted it. Needed it.

For the sacrifice.

The candles were in place too. But he had resisted the temptation to start burning them early. The room was cold and dark. He had put on another layer. Navigated by torchlight.

He looked over to the cage. The boy was silent. Curled up in a corner, still wearing the thin back-tied gown from the hospital. Bruises on his hands and arms where needles had been yanked out. Head tucked in. Shivering.

It didn’t matter. Soon he would be beyond cold and beyond heat.

Soon he would be nothing more than the spark that kept the flame of the Garden alight. Keeping it alive.

Until the next sacrifice.

And the next.

He crossed to the workbench. Put the torch down. Picked up his first tool. A sickle. He didn’t need to touch it. He could see how sharp it was just by looking. By the way it caught the torchlight, sent it bouncing round the walls. He replaced it. Picked up the torch again.

Turned and left the chamber.

There was nothing to do now except wait.

For the right time.

Wait.

And savour.

104

‘The Gardener,’ said Mickey once more, ‘how can we find him?’

Lynn Windsor looked close to breaking down. She was shaking. Mickey had never seen anyone literally shake with fear.

‘I… I… ’

He pressed on. ‘Just tell me, Lynn. It’ll be so much easier for you if you do. Tell me. Where’s the Gardener?’

‘I… I… don’t know… ’

He sighed. ‘I think you can do better than that. You’re so unhappy, so scared. Just tell me and it’ll all feel much better. Come on.’

Heads nearly touching, hands nearly together, he was close to cracking her. He could feel it. One last try. A gentle push to take her over the edge.

‘Come on, Lynn… ’

Then he heard Marina’s voice once more. ‘Good, Mickey. Here’s something else. If that doesn’t work, ask her about the Elders.’

Mickey gave a puzzled frown to the window. Small, so only Marina could catch it.

‘Please. Trust me. Ask her about the Elders. Ask her where they are. She’s the Teacher. Tell her you know that.’

Marina’s voice disappeared. Mickey was left alone with Lynn Windsor. He didn’t understand what Marina had said. But what she had fed him seemed to be having the right effect. So he would continue, pretend he felt more confident than he did. Use the words. See what they did.

‘Lynn… what about the Elders? What would they say?’

Her head jerked up in shock. Her eyes, tearful, rimmed red and black from crying and make-up, locked on to his. Stared at him. Her hand reached out for his. Grasped it and clung on, like he was the last life raft on the Titanic.

‘The Elders, Lynn. Would they be happy to see you here like this?’

She was shaking now, like she was about to fall apart. Both psychologically and physically, thought Mickey.

‘That’s right about the Elders, isn’t it? You are the Teacher, after all.’

Mickey had no idea what he was saying, but he couldn’t believe the effect the words were having on her.

‘Come on. Just tell me… ’

She looked up once more, imploring him, her mouth moving but no sound emerging.

‘Come on, Lynn… ’ Mickey’s voice barely above a whisper. The intimacy between them even deeper than that they had shared the previous night. ‘Tell me. And it’ll be all over… ’

She reached forward for him, hands clinging desperately to him, working her way up his arms. Grabbing him, holding him, just about crawling over the table to be near him.

‘Please… ’ Her voice was broken, almost shattered in pieces. A vocal manifestation of her mental state. ‘Please, help me… help me… ’

‘I will,’ said Mickey, whispering once more, not wanting to break the moment. ‘I will. Tell me where the Gardener is and I’ll help you. I promise.’

She put her head on his arms, sobbing.

‘Tell me. Please.’

She looked up, mind made up, mouth open, ready to speak.

And then the door burst open.

‘What the fuck’s going on here?’

Mickey turned. DCI Glass was standing behind him.

And he didn’t look happy.

105

‘What the hell were you thinking of?’

Glass was in the observation room with Mickey and Marina. The room was so small, it was crowded with just one person in it. But three, standing there amidst all the old filing cabinets and broken office furniture, made it look massively overcrowded. It also made Glass seem even angrier. Mickey could almost feel the heat from the DCI’s words as they left his mouth.

Behind them, Lynn Windsor sat at the table. Sobbing, wiping her eyes with a tissue. Next to her, a consoling arm around her shoulder, was her boss, Michael Fenton. His head close to hers, whispering. The sound was switched off. They couldn’t hear what he was saying.

Mickey turned to Glass, realising that the question wasn’t rhetorical and he was expecting an answer.

Marina got there first. ‘In the absence of anyone else in the office, Mickey came to me,’ she said. ‘He had strong suspicions about Lynn Windsor. She’d been questioned already but he thought she would benefit from a more formal interview.’

Mickey studied Marina as she spoke. She was watching Glass’s responses, wary. As if she was measuring her words, careful of what she said to him. Mickey had found himself doing that with Glass because he didn’t trust him, but Marina’s actions confirmed that he was doing the right thing.

‘And what made you think that?’

Again, Marina spoke before Mickey could. ‘We received information that she was in some way connected with the abductor and would-be murderer of the boy taken from the hospital.’

‘What kind of information?’

‘Something to do with the Gardener?’ Marina kept her face as blank as possible while she spoke.

The effect on Glass was immediate. It was clear he knew what she was talking about. It was equally clear that he was trying to pretend he didn’t. He waited a few seconds, absorbing the information, letting his features settle down, preparing his response.

‘What… what d’you mean? Who’s the Gardener?’

‘He’s the person we believe is responsible for the boy’s abduction,’ said Mickey.

Glass turned to him. Face like stone, eyes like granite. ‘And what would make you believe that?’

‘Information received from an informant,’ said Mickey. ‘A confidential informant. It… involved Lynn Windsor. So I made the decision to bring her in for questioning.’

‘But how could she… how could she know anything? She’s a solicitor, for God’s sake.’

‘Yes,’ said Marina, ‘and solicitors never know anything, do they?’

‘But she’s not a criminal lawyer,’ Glass explained, as if they were two retarded children. ‘She’s one of the most well-respected solicitors in the area.’

‘And she may know something about the imminent murder of a child,’ said Mickey. ‘If we had got her to talk, we could have saved that boy’s life.’

‘She can’t know anything,’ Glass said.

‘And you’re sure of that, are you?’ said Marina.

Glass didn’t reply. Just glared at her.

‘You wouldn’t want to stand in the way of a murder investigation, would you?’ said Mickey.

Glass turned his stare on him.

‘Sir,’ Mickey added.

It seemed to Mickey that Glass was making a pretence of thinking. He came to a conclusion. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We can’t take the chance, can we?’

‘Good,’ said Mickey. He turned for the door. ‘I’ll just-’

‘No,’ said Glass, putting a restraining hand on his arm. ‘I’ll handle the interview. And it’ll be done properly this time.’

‘It was done properly last time,’ said Mickey. ‘Check the recording.’

Glass seemed to hesitate, stuck for what to do. He quickly made up his mind. ‘I’ll still handle the interview. But her solicitor will be present.’ He looked round the observation room. ‘And I’ll do it in private.’

‘Why?’ said Mickey.

‘In case she has anything of a… sensitive nature to reveal.’ He turned to go, turned back again. ‘Good, er, good work, DS Philips.’

He left the room.

Mickey turned to Marina, about to speak. She put her finger to her lips, looked at the door. They waited until Glass had entered the interview room and, along with Michael Fenton, escorted Lynn Windsor from the room.

Only then did Mickey speak.

‘What was all that about?’ he said. ‘And where did you get all that stuff from?’

‘I’ll tell you later. Somewhere more private,’ she said. ‘All I can tell you at the moment, the most important thing at this time, is that Glass is dirty. He’s as bent as they come.’

Mickey gave a small laugh. ‘I think I’d guessed that.’

‘And he’s in this all the way.’ Marina looked at her watch. ‘Coffee time. Come on. I’m buying.’

They both left the room.

106

Phil’s phone rang.

He thought it must be Marina calling him back, telling him what had happened in Mickey’s interview with Lynn Windsor. But it wasn’t. It was pathologist Nick Lines calling.

‘I’ve got to take this,’ Phil said to the others in the hotel room.

‘Phil, it’s Nick. How are you?’

‘Suspended, believe it or not. How are you?’

There was a pause while Nick took in what Phil had just said. ‘Sorry?’

‘Suspended. DCI Glass has suspended me.’

‘Why?’

‘God knows. You’d better ask him.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘It’s OK,’ said Phil. ‘It’s only temporary.’ I hope, he added mentally. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Well I’ve been trying to reach Rose Martin and can’t get hold of her.’

‘No,’ said Phil, ‘you won’t. Can I help?’

‘If you know where she is.’

Phil gave some thought to his answer. ‘I don’t think she’s going to be around for a while.’

‘Ah.’

‘Yeah.’ Let Nick think she was off the force again. Phil wouldn’t contradict him.

‘So can I help?’

‘It was just something she was looking into. She found a brand on the foot of a dead girl. She asked if I could find a match anywhere for it.’

Phil stole a glance at Donna, back to the phone. ‘And have you?’

‘Not on a dead person, no. But that case you were working on, that boy from the cage, the one in the hospital. I spoke to a friend at the General. Apparently he’s got one. I haven’t seen the photos, but you’ve probably got access to them.’ Then he realised what he had said. ‘Sorry.’

‘No problem. I’ll pass the message across.’

‘This suspension,’ said Nick. ‘You’re going to fight it, I take it?’

‘All the way.’

‘With all you’ve got going on at the moment, you’d think Glass would need all the help he can get. He’s making a big mistake.’

‘Well obviously I agree with you. But don’t worry.’ Phil looked across at Fennell and Clemens. They were sitting on the bed, making plans for the raid later that night. ‘I have a feeling our esteemed DCI won’t be around much longer… ’

107

Glass sat down at the table in the interview room. A different interview room. One with no cameras or voice relay. A totally private room. For an impromptu Elders meeting.

Opposite him were Lynn Windsor and Michael Fenton. Lynn looked shattered, like she was barely there. Fenton’s brow was furrowed. He had called Glass after Lynn had gone downstairs to meet someone and never come back. Mickey Philips had been identified, as had his car pulling away. The two Elders had arrived at the police station just in time.

Glass sensed that the others were on the verge of panic. He had to take control of the situation and do it quickly.

‘We need a story,’ he said. ‘And fast. Concentrate. Think.’

Lynn Windsor started to speak. ‘Look, Lawmaker-’

Glass cut her off. ‘There’s no need for that here. We’re perfectly safe. No one’s going to overhear us in this room. Talk freely. We need damage limitation. What have we got?’

Lynn tried to speak again. The words wouldn’t come. Clearly she couldn’t focus her mind. Her eyes dropped to the table, the floor. Yeah, thought Glass, be ashamed. He shook his head, turned away from her. Useless, he thought. She almost gave us up. And I had such high hopes for her. Not any more.

‘You mentioned giving up the Gardener,’ said Fenton. ‘You said if we gave him up it would deflect attention from the shipment coming in tonight. Can you still do that? How has this changed things?’

Glass turned back to Lynn. ‘What did he say to you?’

A weary, defeated sigh. ‘I’ve told you… ’

‘Tell me again.’

‘He said, tell me where the Gardener is. He said… ’ Another sigh. It was such hard work. ‘He said… that. Just that. Tell me where the Gardener is. Tell me where he is so we can stop him.’

‘And that’s it? Nothing else?’

She was about to speak, but stopped herself. She shook her head. ‘No.’ Her voice tiny, curled in on itself.

Glass studied her. ‘You’re lying. Tell me.’

Fenton leaned across the table. ‘Don’t talk to her like that… ’

Glass looked up quickly, his eyes flashing at Fenton. ‘Be quiet.’

Fenton caught the look. Was silenced.

‘What else did he say?’

Another sigh that carried the weight of the world. ‘He… he… called me… Teacher… ’

The other two sat back.

‘Oh my God… ’ Fenton’s hand went to his mouth.

‘Said… said… he knew about the Elders… ’

Glass felt the room zoom in and out of focus, like he was at both ends of a telescope simultaneously. He tried to blink everything else away. Concentrate. Focus.

‘That’s it,’ Fenton was saying. ‘It’s all over. Might as well make a run for it now.’ He made to stand up.

‘No.’ Glass leaned across the table, grabbed his wrist. Pulled him down again. ‘We stick together. We work this out.’

‘But they’re on to us… ’

‘No they’re not.’ Glass shook his head. ‘No they’re not. They can’t be. I’d have heard something. I’d know. And I’ve heard nothing.’

‘But he knew… ’

‘Yes, he knew,’ said Glass. ‘But that doesn’t mean he knows everything.’ He looked back at Lynn. Lifted her head up by the chin, made eye contact. ‘Did he mention the shipment? Tonight? Did he say anything about that?’

It took her a few seconds to focus. She shook her head. ‘No… ’

‘You sure?’ Searching her face for lies.

She shook her head once more. ‘No… he didn’t say… ’

‘Good.’ Glass let her head go. It flopped back down. ‘Good.’ He sat back, thinking. Then leaned forward. ‘Here’s what we do. We stick to the plan.’

‘But… ’

‘Listen. We stick to the plan. All of it. Where’s the Gardener? At the farmhouse?’

‘Probably,’ said Fenton. ‘That’s his other place.’

‘So he’ll be doing the sacrifice there. Good. Right.’ He slowly nodded his head. ‘This is what’ll happen. I’ll announce to the squad that I’ve received some information. That the Gardener is at the farmhouse. I’ll arrange for an armed response unit to accompany me. We’ll break into the place, stop him.’

‘But… isn’t that dangerous?’

Glass gave a grim smile. ‘For him, maybe. I’ll be armed too. I’ll make sure he doesn’t get out alive. We rescue the boy, come back to town, everybody’s happy. In the meantime, the shipment comes in at Harwich and everybody’s happy there, too. Perfect diversionary tactic. And an impressive collar for Essex Police too. Perfect.’

Fenton rubbed his chin. ‘It’s risky. The farmhouse is where clients pick up and drop off. What if they see the place on the news? What if they come forward?’

Glass laughed. ‘Come forward? After what they’ve done? I doubt it.’

‘Is there anything there that links the place to us?’

Glass thought. ‘It’s where I took Faith Luscombe. Intending to move her back to the Garden. So I may have left some DNA traces there, but only small ones. And this way is better. I’ll have a legitimate reason for being there. And I’ll be in charge of the investigation. I’ll be controlling everything. Don’t worry. Just keep calm, play your part and everything will be fine.’

Lynn’s head came up slowly. ‘This information… ’

Glass frowned. ‘What information?’

‘This information… about the Gardener… where did you get it from?’

‘Nowhere. There is no information.’

‘Did you… get it from me?’

He saw what she meant. Was she guilty, had she told them anything? What were the repercussions going to be for her? He thought. Came to a decision. Smiled at her.

‘It’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘You’ve got your solicitor with you, you’ll be free to leave here on your own recognisance. You’ll not be charged with anything. I’ll just say the information came from… an informant. Don’t worry. You won’t be implicated.’

She nodded her head, grateful to hear what she wanted to hear. She wasn’t aware of the silent exchange that passed between Fenton and Glass. Fenton’s look said that he understood perfectly what Glass was doing. Glass’s look asked whether Fenton wanted to challenge it. The way Fenton broke eye contact and looked away told him the answer was no.

Glass sat back. Looked at the other two. ‘So that’s it. Everything will go ahead as planned. Leave the Gardener to me. And hold your nerve. Everything will be fine if we all hold our nerve. Right?’

Fenton nodded.

Glass stood up, opened the door for them to leave. Fenton helped Lynn to her feet. As they passed the DCI on their way out, Glass whispered to Fenton, ‘Look after her. She’s very fragile. She may not last the night.’

Fenton, knowing exactly what he meant and wanting no part of it, hurried Lynn away down the corridor. Glass watched them go.

Smiling.

108

‘Can I have your attention, please.’

Glass stood before the team, knocking on the window of the office behind him to get everyone listening. Mickey and Marina were at the back of the room, having received a text while they were out of the building having coffee. Marina had filled him in on Phil’s phone call. Mickey had sat there. Jaw dropping further with each statement she made. He was so angry, felt so used and betrayed, that he hadn’t wanted to return to the station. Marina had insisted.

‘Let’s see what he has to say,’ she had said. ‘So we know what he’s doing and what we’re dealing with.’ Knowing she was right, Mickey had reluctantly agreed.

Now they stood there while Glass spoke. There was a gleam of triumphalism in his eyes.

‘I’ve received new information,’ he announced to the room, ‘about the abductor of the boy Finn from the hospital. I know where he’s taken him. If we’re in time, we can stop him.’

Marina and Mickey exchanged looks. This wasn’t what they had expected to hear.

‘He’s taken the boy to an abandoned farmhouse out near Wakes Colne on the way to Halstead. He intends to kill him. We have to make sure he doesn’t.

‘An armed response unit have been contacted and are on their way. I will personally be taking charge of this. I will lead the unit. This man is armed and dangerous. We’re taking no chances. Any questions?’

Mickey put his hand up. ‘Where did this information come from?’ Then adding, ‘Sir.’

Glass looked irritated by the question. ‘A confidential informant, DS Philips. I’m not at liberty to disclose that information.’

But Mickey kept going. ‘Was it the one I’ve just had in the interview room?’

‘Steady,’ Marina whispered to him.

Glass was clearly annoyed now but couldn’t show it with the whole room watching him. ‘As I said, DS Philips, I’m not at liberty to say.’

‘Will there be anybody from here on this team with you?’ Mickey asked. ‘We are MIS after all.’

‘No,’ said Glass. ‘I’m the only one here who is firearm-trained. I’m the logical choice. I also don’t want to give out a location for this farmhouse at the present time, as that information might leak and the abductor could run. And we wouldn’t want that.’ He looked quickly round the room, ready to stifle any more dissent. ‘If there are no further questions, I must prepare. This is going to reflect well on the whole department. A huge morale boost, a great collar. Thank you.’

He walked out from behind the desk, through the room, past Marina and Mickey and swept out of the office. Silence followed his departure.

Marina turned to Mickey. ‘Was that a “once more unto the breach” moment?’

People around her laughed. Mickey didn’t.

‘What was all that about?’ he said to her. ‘Where did he get that information from? Lynn Windsor?’

‘I don’t think it matters,’ said Marina. ‘He’s playing a different game.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I’ve got to make a phone call.’

‘Who to?’

‘To your boss. Your proper boss. I think the team need a real briefing. Come on. We can’t stay here.’

She turned and left. Mickey, confused but excited, followed.

109

The Hole in the Wall pub wasn’t one of Mickey’s favourite places to go in Colchester. In fact, it was one of his least favourite.

He associated it with the remnants of the town’s counterculture: indie kids, real-ale drinkers and students. Arty types, attracted by the theatre across the road. All mismatched wooden furniture and vintage leather sofas that you could sink into. That was the trouble. Once you were sunk in there, that was the day gone. And before you knew it, your life. Sitting there with your mates, drinking, arguing about something you’d read in the Guardian, dissecting the latest book or film or album, sorting the world out before it was your round. Even as a student he hadn’t enjoyed places like this. They had made him feel uncomfortable. It was the waste. Talking when you could be doing something. But that, he thought, tipping his head back and putting the lager bottle to his lips, was just him.

Despite the alcohol, it wasn’t a social gathering. They had needed somewhere to meet, not too far from the station, just far enough to not be discovered. And the pub was perfect. The last place a clandestine police briefing would be expected to take place in.

Mickey looked round the table. Marina was sitting next to Phil, the pair of them looking a lot friendlier and more content than they had been recently. On the other side of Phil was Don Brennan. The older man looked thrilled to be back in the fray again. Rejuvenated. And enjoying the pint of dark beer that was in front of him. Across the table were two SOCA officers, Fennell and Clemens. Clemens seemed angry, itching to go. Fennell more measured. He, thought Mickey, would be the more approachable of the two. Although the way they sat, backs straight, wearing near-identical suits and ties, they could have been Mormons or Jehovah’s Witnesses.

It was late afternoon. The pub was in its post-lunchtime lull, before the evening busy spell. Darkness was creeping in through the windows. They had managed to secure the largest table, furthest away from the bar. They went overlooked and unheard. But they kept their voices down just in case.

Phil made introductions, looked round the table. ‘You’ll be wondering why I’ve gathered you all here,’ he said, smiling grimly. The smile dropped. ‘Everyone’s been brought up to speed. Everyone knows what’s happening. It looks like this is the MIS team, not what’s going on over in Southway.’

No one argued.

‘Now we know the shipment’s coming in tonight. But there’s been an added complication. Mickey?’

‘Glass won’t be there,’ he said. ‘He’s just announced that he’s found the whereabouts of the Gardener, and he’s leading a firearms team against him.’

‘And he has to do that tonight?’ said Clemens.

‘It’s a smokescreen,’ said Marina. ‘Something to divert attention away from his shipment arriving at Harwich. He establishes an alibi for himself and makes a high-profile arrest at the same time.’

And we miss out on him,’ said Fennell.

‘Not necessarily,’ said Phil. ‘You’ve still got his DNA all over Donna Warren’s house. As well as Donna’s first-hand testimony. You can get him that way. Plus the other Elders might want to roll over on him for a bit of leniency.’

Clemens shrugged. ‘Possible. But we would have preferred a clean arrest.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Phil. ‘But it’ll still stick this way. He won’t be able to wriggle out.

‘And speaking of the raid,’ he added, looking at the two SOCA officers, ‘I won’t be able to take an active part in it due to my suspension, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Clemens. ‘We didn’t invite you.’

‘He means,’ said Fennell, sugaring Clemens’ words, ‘that we haven’t made provision for you.’

‘No,’ said Phil, ‘but I think it’s time you got us locals involved, don’t you?’

‘What did you have in mind?’ said Fennell.

Phil pointed to Mickey. ‘The finest detective sergeant in the county. Mickey Philips. Take him with you.’

‘Well,’ said Clemens, ‘we don’t-’

‘I insist,’ said Phil.

The two SOCA men looked at him, then at each other.

‘It’s time to play nicely,’ said Phil.

Fennell nodded. ‘You’re right.’

‘Good,’ said Phil. ‘Give the Super a ring in Chelmsford, tell him what’s happening. Don’t worry. He won’t tell Glass. Not if he wants his career to continue.’

‘Right,’ said Fennell. He turned to Mickey. ‘We’ve got a firearms unit coming up from London. They’re on the way now.’

‘OK,’ said Mickey. ‘Let’s go and join them.’

‘Which is all fine,’ said Marina, ‘but it still doesn’t tell us where Glass is going to be. Where the farmhouse is. Or the Gardener. We don’t know any of that.’

Phil thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said, ‘but I think I know someone who could tell us.’

‘Who?’ said Clemens.

‘Remember I told you about that tramp? Paul?’

‘The one you thought might be Paul Clunn,’ said Fennell.

‘That’s him. If anyone knows where the Gardener is, and the farmhouse, it’ll be him. In his own addled way.’

‘And you know where he is?’ asked Marina.

‘I do. Want to come along?’

She did.

Phil smiled. ‘Better bring your boots.’

‘What about me?’ said Don.

Phil looked at him. Mickey was aware of something passing between them. He wasn’t sure what, though: he got the impression it could have been a father-and-son moment, or the sense of a baton being passed.

‘Could you look after Donna and the boy?’ asked Phil.

Don nodded. ‘I’ll call Eileen. Tell her we’ve got more coming round for dinner.’

‘Thanks, Don.’

Don nodded. Looked away.

And in that gesture, that sad, defeated, redundant gesture, Mickey saw his own future. He was sure that Phil saw his too.

‘Right.’ Fennell looked at his watch. ‘We’d better get going.’

Phil looked at Marina. ‘So had we. Good luck, everyone. We’ll need it.’

110

Lynn Windsor took a sip from her glass, looked out over the balcony.

It was dark now. She could see the lights along the other side of the river, the stream of car headlights heading away from the town centre. Beyond that she could see up the hill to the town centre. It should have been a beautiful sight. After all, she had paid enough for it. But she couldn’t enjoy it. Not tonight. She couldn’t enjoy anything tonight.

Another sip from the glass, larger this time.

Michael Fenton had been strange with her when he had driven her home. Distracted. Distant. But with a sadness to the distance. On the few occasions he had looked at her, it was with downcast, almost tearful eyes. She hadn’t been able to hold his gaze either. They both knew without saying it that what would happen next wasn’t going to be good.

He had let her out, driven quickly away. Started to say something, then stopped himself.

So she had come inside. Got changed, had a shower. Ignored the white wine in the fridge, gone straight to whisky.

And now she stood in her towelling bathrobe, drinking, watching. All those other people. In their cars, on the streets, the trains, in their own homes. All those ordinary lives. Those brief lives.

At one time she would have called them boring. Living life blindfolded, she would have said. Unable to experience everything, do everything. Limited, bound by convention. By fear. Lynn hadn’t been like that. She had prided herself on not being like that. She had wanted to experience everything, push herself to the extreme. She wanted to control, dominate. She wanted power, too. Had been brought up that way. Not just to feel superior, but to be superior.

She was her mother’s daughter in every respect.

And look where it had got her.

Her hand trembled as it held the glass. She took another sip. Made it a mouthful. Felt the liquid burn as it travelled down inside her.

It was no more than she deserved.

What she had done, the things she had been responsible for, the lives she had ruined, ended… Not her personally. Never her personally. But she had been there, in the background, pulling the strings. Dominating. Powerful.

Tears sprang into her eyes then. She looked down once more at the town. Thought of all the lives she had controlled, had taken. They could have still been here. They could have been like the people down there. Living their small, unimaginative lives. Beautiful lives, the kind she would never live.

Lynn thought of Mickey Philips. Of last night. He had given her a glimpse of another life. A better life. Happier. There had been a connection there, a real connection. And she had let it go. She’d had to. He would never have understood. Then she thought of that afternoon in the interview room. And how he had nearly reached her. A little bit more time… and that would have been that.

She might as well have done. Told him what he wanted. She knew what was going to happen now. Knew she couldn’t go back. She was tainted. No use. Just had to accept it.

Another mouthful. Her glass was empty. She reached down, tipped more in from the bottle. Replaced it on the deck. Heard a noise from behind her. She didn’t turn round.

‘I let myself in,’ a familiar voice said.

He joined her on the balcony. She turned. Saw Glass’s features looking out over the town. Another mouthful. It burned.

Neither of them spoke. For her, it was the silence of resignation. For him, she knew it must be the silence of anticipation.

‘I know what you’re here to do,’ she said, taking another mouthful, vision swimming from all the whisky.

He sighed. ‘This could have ended so differently, you know.’

‘I know.’ Another mouthful. Bigger this time.

‘I had high hopes for you. Such high hopes… ’ He stroked her shoulder.

She had felt his touch so many times before. Never tired of it. Now, she just wanted to fall into his embrace, sleep it all away.

She took another mouthful. The glass was empty. She refilled it.

‘Careful,’ he said, ‘you don’t want to drink it all. Lucky I brought you another.’

He placed an identical bottle next to the first one. Same brand, same size. She noticed he was wearing latex gloves.

‘And here,’ he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He took out a brown plastic bottle, rattled it. ‘Something to help you sleep.’

She took the bottle from him. Nodded.

‘I’ll wait while you do it,’ he said.

‘I thought you might.’ Her mouth was dry despite all the liquid she had been pouring down it. She twisted the top off the bottle, shook out a few pills. Took them one at a time, swallowing them down with a mouthful of whisky.

He watched her all the while.

The pills went down easily. So easily.

‘And another handful,’ he said.

She did as she was told. The amount of whisky getting larger with each pill.

Her tears were falling freely now. She could hardly see the town, between the blur of salt water in her eyes and the alcohol affecting her vision. And now the pills. Could hardly see anything at all.

Her sobs became vocal. He shushed her. Not unkindly; tenderly. Like a lover would. She tried to be as quiet as she could.

Soon the pill bottle was empty. She let it drop on the deck.

‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Won’t be long now.’

‘Will you… will you wait with me… ’

He looked at his watch. Back to her. She thought she saw a flash of irritation in his eyes. Blinked. It was gone.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait.’

He stood next to her, watching.

She began to feel tired. Her head spinning. She closed her eyes.

‘Take another drink,’ his voice said.

She did so.

‘Good girl.’

She closed her eyes once more. The town was slipping away. The balcony. The flat. Him. It was suddenly an effort to stand up. So she sat down. She heard glass breaking. Didn’t have the energy to find out what it was, where it was. She just wanted to rest.

Then it was too hard to sit. She needed to lie down. She did so. Heard his voice.

‘I’ll see myself out.’

From the other end of a long, dark tunnel. Didn’t have the strength, the words to answer him with. Let him go.

Tired. So tired. Sleep. She wanted sleep. It would be so peaceful.

So…

Lynn Windsor fell asleep.

111

‘You ready, then?’

Marina nodded and got in the car. They set off for Halstead.

Neither spoke. Johnny Cash: Unchained provided the soundtrack.

‘You OK?’ Marina asked eventually, her voice low.

Johnny Cash was singing about how everything was done with a Southern accent where he came from. Some beautiful guitar work accompanying him.

Phil nodded as he drove. ‘Working through it. You know.’ He turned to her. Smiled. ‘We’ll get there.’

She placed her hand on his thigh. He kept it there.

The drive out to Halstead was busier than they had expected, catching the tail end of the evening rush-hour traffic. With the darkness had come rain, blowing across the road in front of them, hitting the windscreen like sheets of diamond-hard static. Cars were moving slowly on the twisting country roads, taking time on the hills, avoiding skids and spills.

They followed the villages along the River Colne, eventually arriving in Halstead.

Phil came to the crossroads in the town centre, went right. As he did so, he looked down the hill leading to the old mill at the bottom that represented the town centre. It was an old market town, the original architecture maintained, a place of decent restaurants, bars and pubs, upmarket independent furnishing stores. He and Marina had driven out for Sunday lunch a few times, bought a couple of little things for their new house. The shops were still hanging on. A few more empty ones than previously, a few more charity shops sprung up. He saw Marina looking.

‘We’ll have to come back here one Sunday,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘When this is over.’

‘Yeah. When this is over.’

He drove out of the centre, down the hill towards the Halstead Manor Hotel. Pulled up in the gravel driveway. Johnny Cash was singing that it was so hard to see the rainbow through glasses as dark as his. Phil turned the music off. They looked at each other.

‘Ready?’ said Phil.

‘You sure this is going to work?’ said Marina. ‘Asking a mad tramp what’s going on?’

‘Let’s hope so,’ he said.

‘You sure he’s not the murderer?’

‘Wouldn’t I have brought him in if he was?’

Marina shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You haven’t been thinking straight these last few days.’

Phil sighed. ‘I know. But I looked at him, looked in his eyes. It’s not him, Marina. He’s damaged, yes, troubled. But not a killer. He wanted the Garden to be a place of healing. Retreat.’

‘And look what happened to that.’

‘Let’s go.’

They got out of the car. Seeing the rain start, they had both dressed practically. Jeans and boots. Waterproof jackets. Phil took a torch out of the boot of the car. ‘This way.’

They walked off behind the back of the hotel, started down the bank towards the river. Phil swung the torch around. Picked up marks on the ground.

‘Someone’s been here,’ he said.

‘There was a murder here,’ said Marina. ‘I should think there have been a lot of people tramping around.’

‘No,’ said Phil, pointing to the path they were following. ‘Look. There are fresh footprints. Fresh tracks. Someone’s been down here recently.’

‘Is that good?’ asked Marina.

‘If it’s Paul,’ said Phil, ‘yes.’

‘And if not?’

‘Let’s hope it’s Paul,’ he said.

They walked along the route as Phil remembered it. It was harder going in the dark, harder still in the rain. Secure footholds crumbled away to muddy nothing. Branches and trees used night as camouflage to entrap them. The two of them had to hold on to each other, help each other down and along.

‘Here it is,’ said Phil at last as they reached the river’s edge. ‘At least I think so.’

He swung the torch round. Listened. There was no sound except the rain hitting the water, the leaves. Like hot, sizzling fat or incessant machine-gun fire.

Along the muddy bank the torch picked out a larger area of darkness.

‘There.’

They began to walk towards the cave mouth.

‘This is it?’ said Marina, stopping in front of it. ‘The man who started the Garden. This is where he lives?’

‘Yep. When he’s not in one of his other properties dotted around town. All connected to the Garden, all derelict.’

She nodded. ‘I could get a PhD out of him alone.’ She peered into the cave mouth. ‘Well, that looks inviting. What do we do, call to him? Leave food outside?’

‘Or whisky,’ said Phil. He swung the torch into the cave, stepped inside.

‘Careful.’

‘I am.’ He walked on. ‘I think someone’s been here,’ he called back.

Marina heard his voice echoing round the stone mouth.

‘I think-’

Phil screamed. There was a clattering, smashing sound. Silence.

‘Phil? Phil?’ Marina ran into the cave mouth, still shouting. Panic rising inside her. ‘Phil… Phil… ’

‘It’s… all right… ’ His voice, distant, distorted. Echoing.

‘Where are you? Phil?’

‘I’m… Don’t come any closer. You’ll do the same.’

‘What?’

‘There’s a… an entranceway here. A slope. I didn’t see it and I’ve just slid down it.’

She saw the faint glow of torchlight against the darkness, went towards it. She reached the lip of the shaft Phil had fallen down. Knelt before it. It was just big enough for one person to go down, as long as they weren’t too wide. She could see him at the bottom, looking up. The sides, where the torchlight hit them, looked smooth. Too smooth to climb up again.

‘How are you going to get out?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe Paul’s down here. I’ll ask him.’

‘And maybe he isn’t.’ She sighed. ‘Have you still got that tow rope in the boot?’

‘Yeah, I think so.’

‘I’ll go and get it. Don’t wander off.’

‘Yeah, thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.’

Marina stood up, made her way back out of the cave. She looked around, tried to get her bearings. The woods seemed scarier without Phil. Bigger, wilder. Things unseen lurking behind trees.

Trying to swallow down the panic that was threatening to rise within her, and telling herself there was nothing to be scared of, she set off in what she hoped was the direction they had come from. Back to the hotel, back to the car.

As quickly as she could.

112

The circus was on the move. Under cover of darkness and with the Super’s reluctant, angry blessing. Mickey sat in the first van of the convoy, up front with Fennell and Clemens. Body armour on over his day clothes, the two SOCA officers doing the same.

The Super hadn’t been happy when Fennell had called him. Engaging in a clandestine operation on his turf without his consent was exactly the kind of thing to make him angry. But Fennell, displaying great political skill, had won him round. Reminded him what a feather in his cap it would be for a people-trafficking operation to be halted 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.

He looked round once more. Panic was beginning to set in. Phil hated confined spaces. Had always suffered from claustrophobia. Being underground just made it worse.

He tried once more to pull himself up the shaft. Thrust his elbows out, forced his body to move behind him. The space wasn’t wide enough. He tried again.

And his elbows jammed against the sides. He couldn’t move.

His breathing increased. He felt himself start to panic. He didn’t want to stay here, stuck. He didn’t know how long it would take Marina to return with the rope. There was only one thing for him to do.

He relaxed his arms. Felt able to move once more. Wriggled his body down the tunnel until he collapsed on to the floor, back in the same place he had started from.

He stood up as far as he could go. Looked around again. Whoever lived down here must have another way out, he reasoned. The entrance was only one way. He knelt down on the floor, played the beam of the torch round the base of the walls. Looking for cracks, other tunnels, anything.

There were a few. Most of them just looked like fissures, cracks in the rock. Not big enough to climb inside, just tapering away to nothing. But there was one that seemed to widen out into a tunnel. It was small, cramped. But big enough to get inside, pull himself along with his elbows. And push himself backwards if he had to.

Probably.

He heard the noise again. Echoing round the rock. It sounded like a cry.

Of pain. Of fear.

Was it an animal? Or a human? And more importantly, was it coming from the tunnel he was preparing to go down?

He had to find out.

He knelt down, stuck the torch between his teeth and, flattening down on to his stomach, pushed himself into the small space.

He remembered a similar situation a couple of years ago. He remembered what was waiting for him at the end of that tunnel. Felt his breathing increase at the memory, tried to control it. Save his energy for movement.

Then, not knowing whether he was going towards the sound or away from it, whether what was up ahead was worse than what he was leaving, he began to edge his way along.

114

The child was still shivering. Good. The Gardener liked that.

No he didn’t. He loved that.

Made him even more excited. Made the anticipation all the sweeter.

The child gripped the bars of the cage. Pulling on them, rattling them, trying to escape. No good. Too well made.

He laughed at the boy. It ended up as a cough.

Deep, racking, bent double while the painful, angry barks came from his body, gasping for breath as his lungs, his chest burned.

Eventually the coughing fit subsided. He had something in his mouth. Lifting the hood up, he spat on the ground. Looked at it. Black-dark and glistening.

Blood.

The cough had weakened him. It was getting worse. Taking more out of him. Putting his body through more pain. Each spasm taking longer to recover from.

He pulled the hood back in place, looked down at the altar. His tools were laid out in their usual precise manner. Candles lit now on either side. He drew strength just from seeing them. Stood up straight. Looked at the boy.

Smiled. No laughing this time.

‘Soon… soon… ’ He picked up the sharpened trowel. Played the candlelight off its gleaming blade. Sent mirror flashes of light on to the boy, who flinched each time the light caught him. That gave him an idea.

The Gardener smiled again. This was a good game. He angled the blade, caught the light, flashed it at the boy, who recoiled every time, moved away to a different spot in the cage. The Gardener giggled, changed the position of the blade, tried to catch the boy again. The boy whimpered, moved once more.

The Gardener loved this, could have played it for hours.

But he didn’t have hours. He looked at the chart. It had to be done soon. It had to be done now.

He advanced on the cage.

Ready for the boy now.

Ready for the sacrifice.

So the Garden could live again.

115

‘Wait for my signal. Have you got that? No one does anything until they get my signal. Understood?’

It was understood.

Glass had never felt so alive. He had forgotten just how good it felt to take down a villain. To feel the adrenalin and testosterone surge through his system, build up inside him like it was living lightning, ready to pulse from his fingertips, take out anyone who tried to stop him.

It wasn’t living lightning. But the semi-automatic in his hands was the next best thing.

The firearms unit was in front of him. They were standing in the overgrown back yard of the farmhouse. The night was sin-black, hiding them from any eyes that might be watching. The farmhouse was boarded up. No lights showing. It seemed uninhabited. But it wasn’t empty. Glass knew that. For a fact.

‘Right,’ he said to the unit. ‘The target is in that building. My information tells me he’ll be in the cellar. What plans we have indicate that that’s in the front of the house, with a door going down to it from the kitchen, which is in the middle. That’s where we’re headed.’

He turned to the firearms unit’s senior officer, Joe Wade. ‘Now, Sergeant Wade has briefed you all. You know where you’ve got to be. I’ll be going in through the front here with the A Team. Remember. This man is highly dangerous. Shoot to kill. And get that boy out alive.’ One more look at the men. They stood there, all in body armour, guns held before them, looking like shock troops sent from the future. Glass’s adrenalin and testosterone surged even more.

One more look at Sergeant Wade.

‘On your signal, Sergeant.’

Wade gave the order. The unit moved in, surrounded the farmhouse.

On Wade’s signal, the front and back doors were simultaneously battered down, the officers streaming in towards the middle of the house.

The only illumination inside came from the lights of the officers. Checking every corner of every room, securing each one before moving through the old house. It smelled of damp, abandon. The air stale, old. Dust rose as the officers tramped through.

Glass was loving it. What he was born for. A leader of men, gun in hand, ready for a righteous kill. As soon as he had picked up the gun, he had felt his finger begin to twitch. He had thought that itchy trigger fingers were an old cliché, but to his surprise he had found it to be actually true. And now, running through the farmhouse with the rest of the men, he wondered just how easy it would be to accidentally squeeze that trigger, take out one of the CO19 boys just for the hell of it.

He mentally slapped himself out of it. These were his own people. He had a job to do.

They reached the cellar door. Sergeant Wade looked to Glass, waiting for him to give the nod. Glass took a deep breath. Another. Nodded.

The door was battered to splinters. The unit rushed down the cellar steps. Glass followed. Finger wrapped round the trigger guard, hand ready to take off the safety, let it go.

But he didn’t.

He stopped, stood still. They all did.

The cellar was empty.

Glass shone his torch round. Nothing. Clean.

He walked over to one corner, scrutinised it with his torch. A small pile of bones was stacked neatly against the bricks. He examined the wall. There had been a cage here. He knew that, had seen it himself. A smaller one than East Hill, an abandoned one, kept in reserve. It had been removed.

His head moved frantically from side to side. He swung the torch wildly, checking if he was hiding somewhere, ready to spring out at them. Nothing.

Glass sighed. Looked at Wade. The unit were pumped up, minds engaged for action. They looked disappointed, angry. Like volcanoes denied the chance to erupt. Violent lovers spurned a climax.

Glass rubbed his face with the back of his hand. Felt anger well up inside him. He wanted to strike out, hit something. Or someone.

‘He’s not here… not here… ’

Wade looked around, checking for himself. He looked at Glass.

‘He’s not here, Sergeant… ’

‘I can see that, sir.’ Wade crossed to Glass. ‘I think you’d better have a word with your informant, sir,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Glass. ‘I’d better.’

‘Come on then, let’s go,’ said Wade.

The unit went back up the stairs, not wanting to believe they’d been denied action, swinging their guns around, checking just in case the target was waiting elsewhere in the house to surprise them.

They regrouped outside. Wade looked towards Glass.

‘What do we do now, sir?’

Glass thought. There had to be somewhere else, had to be… Think…

‘I… I don’t know, Sergeant… ’

Think… He had dismantled the cage… he would have put it somewhere else… Think…

Yes. He had it. He knew where it would be.

He turned to Wade. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant. You can stand your men down now. Thank you.’

Glass turned, began to walk away.

‘Where are you going?’ Wade called after him.

‘To talk to my informant,’ said Glass, without turning round. ‘See what he’s got to say for himself.’

He could still do it. Still make the kill, find the child.

Salvage something.

There was still time.

Glass hurried to his car, drove away as fast as he could.

116

‘They’ve loaded up.’ Fennell, his finger pressed to his earpiece, turned to the rest of the group. ‘The trucks have just left the port. They’ll be on their way past here soon.’

The convoy had split up, and they were now parked in a superstore car park on the outskirts of Harwich. The store was closed, the car park – and the roads around it – deserted. Rain was still falling, the lights in the car park throwing out sporadic pools, no match for it and the darkness. The van was in the shadows of the main building. They couldn’t be seen from the main road, but they had a clear view of the road coming up from the port.

Another van in the convoy had driven to the entrance of the import-export lock-up and was in place, waiting. Their target was a set of warehouses off a gated trading estate down past the oil refinery. They didn’t want to move too quickly, give themselves away.

The third van was in place outside the port itself. Sitting next to the high metal railings with a clear view across the half-empty truck park to the offloading ramps. It was one of them who had called.

As soon as Fennell spoke, the mood in the van changed. There had been forced humour, tension building inane, unfunny things to hilarious levels, making the most unamusing utterances amusing. But his words changed all that. Now they were focused, ready. No more laughing. No more speaking. A team with a job to do.

Mickey looked across at Clemens. At first glance he seemed as concentrated as the rest of them. Eyes – and mind – narrowed down to the task before them. But Mickey studied him further. He was lost somewhere, out on his own. Lips curled, a slight smile of anticipation on them.

Mickey looked at Fennell. The other man was talking into his mic once more. Mickey felt he should have a quiet word, warn him that perhaps Clemens’ head wasn’t in the right place for this. That he could become a liability. But there was no way he would get a chance now. He just hoped someone else would pick him up on it.

And in the meantime, he would just have to watch him.

Fennell turned to them all once more. ‘Any questions?’

‘Yeah,’ said Mickey. ‘Do we know who’s there? Balchunas? Anyone else?’

‘We don’t,’ said Fennell. ‘But we can expect him. And maybe Fenton, I don’t know. Anything else?’

Mickey again. ‘What the trucks are actually going to do once they’re inside the gates, do we know that?’

Clemens turned to him. Sneered.

Mickey ignored him.

‘Good question,’ said Fennell. ‘No, we don’t. If things go according to plan, we step in, catch them in the act. Simple.’

‘And if they don’t?’ someone else said.

‘We improvise,’ said Clemens. ‘We do whatever we have to do to get them.’

‘Right,’ said Mickey.

Fennell turned back, in conversation once more. Mickey looked at Clemens again. His finger was never far from his trigger.

Fennell closed off his earpiece, turned to the rest of them. ‘The trucks will be passing us at any moment.’

They watched. Several seconds later – although it felt like minutes – two trucks carrying metal containers passed them.

‘There we go,’ said Fennell.

They let a certain amount of counted time pass, then followed at a distance.

117

Donna walked to the window, pulled back the curtain, looked into the street. Satisfied there was no one watching her or the house, she let the curtain drop, returned to her seat.

‘It’s all right,’ said Don, ‘you’re safe here.’

She nodded. Wanting to believe him. Knowing it was going to take more than words to make her feel that. Especially after what she had been through these past few days.

They had eaten, Eileen making a huge bowl of pasta carbonara. Both Donna and Ben had had thirds. She thought Ben would have just kept going if it hadn’t run out. And it was good, too. Proper food, she thought. The kind she only ever saw on TV, or other people eating in a restaurant.

And wine with it. Not the cheap stuff from Ranjit’s on the corner that she glugged by the bottleful and that left her burning inside for days afterwards, but proper stuff. Good stuff.

She had wanted to drink all of that, too. But had stopped herself. Made do with just one and a half glasses. Didn’t want her hosts staring at her.

Don’s wife had been very kind to her. She didn’t seem to mind the fact that Don had invited her and Ben along both for dinner and to sleep the night.

‘It’s no trouble,’ she had said. ‘We’re always looking after Phil’s daughter. And we used to do this a lot. Take in children, especially. When we were fostering.’

Donna had nodded. ‘Right.’

She could remember what foster homes were like. Or the ones she had been in when her mother couldn’t cope. Nothing like this one.

She had given a small smile. ‘Don and Donna,’ she’d said. ‘I could be your daughter.’ Her voice had trailed away.

Eileen had made a fuss of Ben. Got him something to drink, asked him if he wanted a bath, what his favourite TV show was, all of that. He was wary at first, not wanting to answer in case it was a trick. But Eileen had spoken to him clearly and honestly, and he had responded. He was now curled up in a bed upstairs, fast asleep.

And now she was sitting with Don and Eileen, in their living room, sipping from another bottle of wine. The room felt lovely. Warm. Safe. The armchair nearly big enough to sleep in. Donna could have done.

She could get used to this, she thought. Just stay here. Always.

She felt herself tearing up. Didn’t want to cry. Struggled to hold it in.

She looked across at Don. He seemed friendly too. He had the feel of an ex-copper about him, but he didn’t shove it in your face the way some of them did. Like some of her clients did, even. But now he seemed on edge, distracted.

‘You heard from Phil?’ Donna asked.

Don looked up, startled, as if she had woken him from a dream. ‘No. No. I don’t… don’t expect to. Not tonight.’ He slumped back into his own thoughts.

Eileen leaned forward. ‘So, Donna… what about you? What are you going to do next?’

Donna had thought about that. She had followed Ben upstairs, had a bath after him. Lay there thinking. She couldn’t go back to the way things had been. Not any more. Not after what she had just been through. She didn’t want to go home, either. Not after everything that had happened there.

Maybe it was time to get herself sorted, she had thought. Get her head, her body straightened out. Maybe.

‘I don’t know, Eileen,’ she said. ‘I can’t… I don’t want to go home. Not after… you know.’

Eileen nodded.

‘And there’s Ben… ’ She sighed. ‘I suppose he’s… ’ She trailed off.

‘You’re all he’s got,’ said Eileen.

She was right. He was Donna’s now. Whether she liked it or not. Her responsibility. And she had to act responsible.

Donna smiled. ‘Maybe I’ll write about what’s happened,’ she said. ‘Get it turned into a film.’

Eileen smiled along with her. ‘That would be fun.’

‘Yeah,’ said Donna, nodding, ‘maybe I’ll do that.’

Don stood up, went to the kitchen. She heard the fridge door open and close. Heard him rummaging around in a drawer for a bottle opener. The glug of beer into a glass. He returned with a pint, took a large mouthful, set it on the table beside him.

‘Don’t get drunk,’ said Eileen.

‘I’m not going to get drunk,’ said Don, a trace of irritability in his words.

Eileen turned to Donna. Dropped her voice. ‘Don’s never left the police force. Not in his heart. It’s difficult when he knows there’s something big going on. Still wants to be there. In on the action.’

‘I can hear you, you know.’

Eileen turned to him. Smiled. ‘I know you can.’

Donna saw love in that smile. Silence fell.

‘Well I don’t know about you,’ she said, ‘but I’m glad I’m not there. Too much excitement. And not the right kind, you know what I mean?’

‘I quite agree,’ said Eileen.

Don sighed.

‘Let’s see what’s on the telly,’ said Eileen, searching for the remote.

They heard a cry from upstairs. Donna stood up, ready to run.

‘It’s all right,’ said Eileen. ‘It sounds like Josephina turning over in her sleep. Nothing to worry about.’

Donna sat down once more. Eileen was still looking for the remote. She found it, but before switching on the TV, she turned to Donna. ‘You responded like a mother,’ she said.

Donna stared at her. ‘What? What you on about?’ But she knew. She could feel her face reddening at the words.

Eileen smiled once more. ‘That’s what a mother would do. Her first thought. Protect her child, whatever.’

Donna took a mouthful of wine. Another. Until she had drained the glass.

She thought about Eileen’s words. Her own actions.

‘Yeah,’ she said, heart full of love, full of fear. ‘Maybe I’ve… maybe I’ve gained a son.’

She stopped speaking. Felt herself tearing up once more. Wouldn’t allow it to happen. Forced herself under control.

Eileen looked away. Fumbled with the remote, turned the TV on. Spooks. Impossibly beautiful spies saving the world in implausibly ridiculous ways.

‘Oh,’ she said, more to fill the silence than anything else, ‘I like this. Although I thought it was better when that handsome one was in it.’

‘Yeah,’ said Don, bitterness curling the edges of his words, ‘let’s watch someone else save the world, shall we?’

The three of them fell into silence once more.

Eileen looked over at Don. She felt for him. Donna could see why. It couldn’t be easy to feel redundant. Especially when he’d been in the bar with the rest of them earlier on. Especially when it was all he wanted to do.

‘So you’ve gained a son?’ said Don, quietly, apology in his eyes as he looked at Donna.

She nodded.

‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Very good. You look after him, mind.’

‘I will.’ And she knew, as she said the words, that she would.

Don sighed. ‘I just hope I’ve still got one… ’

The three of them fell back into silence and watched while the impossibly beautiful people saved the world.

118

Phil clawed his way down the tunnel. Slowly, elbows tucked underneath his body, arms and shoulders scraping the sides as he pulled himself along, his body being dragged over the uneven, jagged rocks. The ceiling was low. He could barely bring his head up to look forward.

Someone had been along this tunnel before him. That didn’t make it any easier, though. The rocks were centuries old, not about to be smoothed down any time soon.

The tunnel twisted, turned. Phil, torch clamped between his teeth, had no option but to follow it. He noticed other fissures in the walls as he went, the beam of light swinging from side to side as he turned his head in the cramped space. Some were larger than others; a couple looked big enough to get his body into. He wondered whether he ought to try one of them.

Then he stopped. The tunnel forked before him. Two rocky pools of darkness ahead, leading off in different directions. He tried to look behind him. Couldn’t. Wondered if he could crawl backwards, shuffle back the way he had come. Marina might be there by now, Calling down to him, throwing a rope for him to climb up.

He tried. Elbows moving in reverse, pushing his body backwards over the rough rock, away from the light in front of him, back into the darkness. His shoulders hitting the low ceiling as he went, scraping pain down his back, gasping, crying out.

He stopped, unable to move any further. Flattened his body out, dropped. Sighed. Dust flew up in front of him.

He tried not to panic. No good; he could feel it bubbling up inside him. He hated confined spaces, felt claustrophobic even in a lift. Why had he done this? Why had he subjected himself to it?

Because he’d heard a cry, the rational side of his brain told him. He’d heard something that sounded like a person in pain. Or an animal.

Or a child.

And finding the skeleton back there had given him no choice.

He sighed once more, craned his head upwards as far as he could, looked in front of him.

The torch fell from his mouth, slick with saliva. He groped round for it in the semi-darkness, his hand still tucked under his body, unable to move too much. Found it. Tried to wipe away the grit and dust the handle was now coated with, replace it in his mouth.

He looked ahead once more. The fork in the tunnel. Which way to go.

He closed his eyes, listened. Any sound, any cry…

Kept listening.

Heard nothing.

Panic attacked him once more, clawing at him, making his body want to get up, jump around, stretch. Kick out at being enclosed. Scream.

He bit down on the torch handle to stop himself from doing that. Let out a strangled cry instead, forced his body to remain still. Not to kick. He wouldn’t just injure himself; he could bring the whole cave roof down on his head.

The wave of panic subsided. He lay still, breathing deeply, not caring about the grit, the dust he was inhaling. He moved forward towards the fork, still listening.

Nothing.

He tried something else. Taking the torch from his mouth, he turned it off. Lay there in absolute silence, pitch blackness.

Maybe this is what it’s like to be dead, he thought. Lying all alone, still, cold, in the darkness. In nothingness.

No. That wasn’t death, he thought. That was just self-pity. He wasn’t dead yet. He had a job to do. He listened once more. Waited while his eyes focused on the darkness, studied the two tunnels ahead of him. There was a faint, flickering light coming from the one on the left. That was the one to aim for.

Turning the torch on once more, he crawled towards it with renewed vigour.

It was even narrower than the previous tunnel. Lower. Phil struggled to pull himself along. Started to worry whether it was going to get narrower still, whether he would just end up wedged inside it. Whether that was the sound he had heard: a child or an animal that had gone exploring and become trapped down here, stuck immovably in the rock. Wondered whether that would be his fate.

Tried to shake those thoughts from his head, keep going.

He felt air on his face. A small breeze, blowing towards him. It didn’t last long. There was something at the end of the tunnel. Adrenalised by this, he tried to ignore the pain of the rock as it gripped him harder, squeezed him tighter, and began to move faster towards the air, the flickering light.

He rounded another corner. And saw the exit ahead of him.

Smaller than the entrance, but he could still get through it, if he pushed himself. He had to. He reached it. Pulled himself through. Ignored the pain screaming from his shoulders, his ribs, the jagged rocks as they cut into him through his clothes; just kept going. He managed to pull his legs out. And he was free.

He lay on the stone floor, gasping for air, willing his injured body to mend.

Eventually he opened his eyes. Looked round.

And felt his body shiver.

It looked like a chamber dug beneath a graveyard. Skulls and bones lined the walls. He wasn’t sure if they had been piled there or if they were actually the walls themselves. There were a lot of them. The floor he was lying on was flagged, old. He recognised it, but couldn’t place it. It was strewn with flowers.

He pulled his body into a sitting position, ignoring the pain as he did so. He knew what he would see next. Wasn’t disappointed. An altar. And beyond it, a cage of bones.

And in the cage was Finn. Cowering, terrified.

Phil tried to pull himself to his feet, cross the floor to help the boy. He stood up, head throbbing, spinning. Heard a noise behind him.

He turned.

And there was the figure from his dream.

A hood of sacking and a stained leather apron. In his hand, something sharp and gleaming.

Moving quickly towards him.

Phil raised his hands, tried to stop him, tried to cry out. But his body wouldn’t move, his mouth wouldn’t work. He wanted to fight him off, call for help.

Nothing.

The figure was in front of him now. Eyes like darkness. Eyes like death.

He raised his hand.

And Phil was back in blackness again.

119

‘Here it comes… ’

Fennell’s voice once more.

The van had followed the two trucks as they made their way to the lock-up. Not wanting to raise suspicion, they had driven past as the trucks turned in, went through the gates.

Now they were parked up down the road, waiting for the other van to arrive.

The road was deserted. Nothing out but the rain and them.

The two other vans arrived. Clemens caressed the trigger of his gun. Mickey tried not to look at him.

Instead he looked at Fennell. ‘What’s the signal?’

‘Wait for it,’ Fennell said. ‘We’re just checking everyone’s in position… ’

Mickey said nothing. Around him he was aware of the rest of the team, all pumped up and ready to go. Guns ready. Heads focused.

He tried to look out through the windscreen, see what was going on beyond the gates. All he could see was a high metal fence topped with razor wire, arc lights aiming inside the compound. There was a large warehouse in the centre, where the two trucks had gone. The rest of the space was taken up with metal containers. Hundreds of them, piled tall and wide, like a modernist architect’s dream city. Multicoloured high-rises.

The door of the warehouse was still open.

‘Not yet… ’ said Fennell. ‘Wait… ’

Mickey kept watching. A green 4x4 drove up from behind a stack of containers. He frowned. A green 4x4… Why was that…

He knew. Finn, the boy, had been abducted from the hospital in a green 4x4. He would bet anything that this was the same one. He told Fennell.

‘Good,’ Fennell said. ‘A bit more evidence.’

Still no one spoke. Everyone watched.

Waiting for the signal.

120

‘Phil? Phil… ’

Marina stood at the mouth of the cave, called inside. It had taken her longer than she realised to reach the car and get the rope. The forest had been treacherous, the rain making it much harder. She had slipped down bank sides, been hit and scratched by branches and walked round in circles twice. But she had made it back to the hotel and the car eventually and had returned with the rope.

And now there was no reply.

‘Phil… ’

Nothing.

‘Stop messing about. Come on, Phil.’

Still no reply.

Marina was getting worried now. Maybe something had happened to him down there. Maybe he had hurt himself.

Maybe he had been attacked.

Wrapping the rope over one shoulder, she knelt by the opening, peered down. She had expected to see Phil’s torch down there, but there was nothing. She couldn’t see a thing. She was about to straighten up, take out her phone and try to call him, when she felt something being pressed into the back of her neck.

Something hard and metallic.

She knew a gun when she felt one.

She also knew the voice that went with it.

‘Well, well, well,’ it said. ‘Fancy meeting you here… ’

121

Phil opened his eyes. And felt panic begin to overwhelm him.

He was in the cage.

His nightmare had come true.

He looked round. Next to him, Finn was curled as far into the corner as he could go. The boy’s eyes were staring, vacant. Shock, thought Phil. He didn’t blame him.

Phil’s head was spinning from where the Gardener had hit him. He felt dizzy, nauseous. His body was tired and sore from the crawl through the tunnel. And the panic was still rising within him. Knowing it wouldn’t be of any help to give in to it, he tried to tamp it down, control it. Do something constructive instead.

He looked through the bars of the cage. The Gardener was at the altar. Head down, waving his hand over twin candles at either side, reciting some kind of invocation. He hadn’t noticed that Phil was awake. Good.

Finn managed to focus, stared at Phil. Moved further away from him.

‘It’s OK,’ whispered Phil, ‘I’m a friend. I’m here to help you. Get you out.’

He saw the boy mouth the word ‘friend’. Hoped he could live up to the description.

Phil grabbed hold of the bars of the cage. Twisted.

Nothing.

He kept going, twisting, pulling as hard as he could.

Nothing. The bone wouldn’t give.

Again. Harder this time, forcing it.

And there it was. A crack. The smallest of splinterings in the bone. But something to work on. He kept twisting.

The Gardener looked up. Saw what he was doing. Picked up one of the blades from the table, came towards him. Phil took his hands off the bars, stayed where he was.

Up close, the Gardener’s mask looked terrifying. It was the absence of humanity, of features to talk to. Like a horror-film scarecrow come to life. Probably why he had done it in the first place, thought Phil.

Phil was determined not to be scared, intimidated by the figure before him. After all, he had seen him without his mask, talked to him, even.

If his guess was right.

‘I assume,’ he said, his voice louder and more confident than he felt, ‘that the mummy on the bed back there is Paul Clunn?’

The Gardener stopped moving. Put his head on one side, listening. Phil kept talking.

‘His body. I found it back there. Was he your first? Is that when you decided you liked it?’

The Gardener remained still, said nothing.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Phil, voice still loud. ‘Lost for words? Not like you.’

‘You don’t know me… ’ The voice coming from underneath the hood was low, growling. Like he was perpetually trying to clear his throat and failing.

‘Oh yes I do,’ said Phil. ‘I do.’

‘Who… I’m… ’

‘The Gardener, yeah, I know that. But that’s just the hood, isn’t it? That’s just your mask. You put that on and you’re him. Take it off, and you’re-’

The Gardener stepped forward, raised his hand. The blade clutched in his fist gleamed.

Phil jumped back. His heart was racing, pounding in his chest. He had been close to death before, but this was different. This was a death he had dreamed about. A death foretold. This was something he had to stop. No matter how terrified he was.

And he was very scared indeed.

Not just because of the maniac holding the knife. But because of what he represented. He was a nightmare. He had power over Phil.

And Phil had to stop that.

‘You going to cut me now, is that it?’ he said, hoping his voice didn’t display the shake in his body. ‘That the way you deal with everything?’

The Gardener grunted, slashed the air in front of the cage. On the floor beside him, Phil heard Finn flinch, whimper.

‘Very good,’ said Phil, mock-applauding. ‘Very good. That all you can do?’

The Gardener stepped right up to the bars. ‘I can kill you… ’

‘Yeah,’ said Phil, aiming for nonchalance, hoping his voice could carry it off, ‘but where’s the fun in that? Tell you what, let’s have a little chat first. Yeah?’

And before the Gardener could reply, he reached his hand through the bars and pulled the hood off his head.

The Gardener drew back, shocked. And Phil stared at him.

Paul. The tramp.

But younger-looking. Mad, wild eyes.

And angry.

With a scream, he flung himself at the bars, blade outstretched.

122

The warehouse doors clanked into life, began rolling down.

‘Wait for it… ’ Fennell was staring at them.

Along with everyone else.

‘Right,’ he said into his mic, ‘into positions, first wave. Disable CCTV.’

As Mickey watched from the van, two armed officers moved to either side of the main gates, reached up, cut the wires on the CCTV cameras.

‘Good.’

The warehouse doors kept closing.

Mickey looked over at Clemens. He was staring at the warehouse but seeing past it.

The warehouse doors closed. Fennell turned to the team.

‘Ready? Go, go, go… ’

Adrenalin pumping, the driver switched on the motor, turned the engine over. Full beams. The other vans did likewise. Turned towards the gates.

Aimed straight for them.

123

‘Just stand up,’ said Glass. ‘Slowly.’

Marina, her back to him still, started to straighten up.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I didn’t think I’d find you here, Dr Esposito. The last person, in fact. Where’s your boyfriend?’

Marina nodded towards the mouth of the cave. ‘Down there.’

Glass laughed. ‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ said Marina. ‘Really.’

‘Well I don’t reckon much for his chances, then.’ Glass laughed. Stopped suddenly. ‘No,’ he said, more to himself than her, ‘he might get the collar. No, I can’t let… ’

Marina straightened up fully. Turned. Glass hadn’t noticed the handful of dirt, gravel and stones she had picked up. But he did when she flung it in his eyes.

He screamed, hands going to his face.

‘Bitch!’

With his eyes closed and still holding the gun, he tried to find her.

‘Come here… ’

Marina looked round quickly, assessing her options. If she ran, he would find her. No matter how much she had slowed him down, he would catch her. She wasn’t good in the woods, in the rain, in the dark.

That left only one option.

She looked straight ahead and, not giving herself enough time to think, jumped straight down the opening into the cave.

124

The Gardener lunged for Phil, blade out.

Phil knew he had to do something, tried a gamble. He stepped back. Held up the hood. ‘Careful. You don’t want this damaged, do you?’

The Gardener stopped. Stared at him. Eyes glowing with a deep, dark hatred. ‘Give me that.’

‘What, this?’ Phil had thought the hood would be important to him. He held it higher up and further back. ‘You want this?’

‘Give it to me!’ The Gardener screaming, madness and rage in his voice. ‘Give it to me… ’ He broke down into a coughing fit.

Phil watched him. He didn’t look well. It seemed like it was only madness and hatred that was keeping him going.

‘Let me out of here,’ said Phil, his voice as calm and reasonable as he could make it, ‘and we’ll talk.’

Coughing was his only answer. The Gardener bent double, back heaving.

Eventually he straightened up. There was blood round his mouth. He ignored it, simply wiping it away on his sleeve. Stared at Phil.

‘Stay there,’ he said. ‘Give me my face back… ’

‘No,’ said Phil. ‘Talk first. Mask later.’

The Gardener continued to stare, mouth open, breathing heavily, wheezing like a Tardis. Bloodied strings of saliva crisscrossed his lips, oscillated with each breath.

‘I know who you are,’ said Phil.

The Gardener said nothing.

‘Richard Shaw, right? Tricky Dicky Shaw. Psychotic ex-gangster.’

The Gardener cocked his head on one side, frowned, as if remembering a song he hadn’t heard in years.

‘Well you might not be a gangster, but you’re still psychotic. What happened?’

‘Richard Shaw… is dead… ’

‘No,’ said Phil. ‘Paul Clunn is dead.’

‘No… ’ The Gardener shook his head. ‘Richard Shaw… no longer exists.’

‘Neither does Paul Clunn. I’ve seen the body.’

‘Paul was the best man I ever met. He… he saved my life… ’

‘And that’s how you repaid him.’

No… ’ His head shaking more violently now. ‘No… When Richard Shaw came here, came to the Garden, he was… destroyed. He needed help. Rebuilding. He was seeking the truth. And he found it. Paul showed him.’

‘And you killed him.’

Another shake of the head. ‘No. No. No. Wrong. All wrong.’

‘What happened, then?’

‘Took his soul. He lives.’ He hit his chest. Winced in pain, coughed. ‘In here. Keep him in the cave. In here.’

‘Of course. The cave. It’s inside you.’

‘He saved my life. Was a… a visionary. Made me an artist. And he was… he was… dying. Cancer. We tried to save him. Gave him drugs, chanted… But no. Nothing. That was why he did the Garden. He knew. Knew he was dying. Wanted to… to… make a difference… ’

The Gardener’s eyes were shining. Lost to the present. Phil waited, knew there would be more.

‘He spoke to me alone. Asked me to… to… to kill him. To pass him over, he said. Be one with the earth. The Garden was in good hands, he said. The Elders… So I did. I made sure he didn’t suffer. Did what he wanted. And I cried. Killing him. And then… ’ He turned his head upwards. Phil saw tears in his eyes. ‘Then here he was… in me… ’

Phil had no idea whether what the Gardener was telling him was true. He didn’t care. He just wanted to get out of there and take Finn with him.

‘Paul… was the greatest man who ever lived. He showed Richard Shaw what he could become. Opened the light that shone inside him. Turned him into… me. The Gardener.’

‘How?’

‘Told me I had to look out for the Garden. Tend it. Whatever happened, I had to tend the Garden.’

‘And this is your idea of tending the Garden. Killing the people in it.’

Another shake of the head, but more to himself this time. Like he was explaining it to himself. ‘No… no… you don’t understand. I had to. Sacrifice. There had to be… sacrifice. To the earth. The seasons. For the Garden to grow.’

‘So you sacrificed children all this time. You killed children.’ Phil couldn’t keep the anger and disgust from his voice. He looked down at Finn, saw the boy huddled shivering in the corner. Eyes wide, staring. Face wet from crying.

‘No,’ said the Gardener, ‘they’re passing over. Not killed. Just passing over.’

‘Where?’

‘The earth. Part of life itself. The glorious cycle. Paul went first. He knew. Made it right for the rest to follow… ’

Phil couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘And that’s how you justify it, is it? How many have you killed, Dicky?’

‘Don’t call me that!’

‘How many? You’ve been doing this for years, haven’t you?’

‘Needed to. To keep the Garden flourishing… ’

‘For years. And you’ve never been stopped, never been caught.’

‘No.’ The Gardener shook his head. A smile played on his lips. ‘I grew my own.’

Anger rose within Phil. ‘For sacrifice? You had children bred to kill?’

‘The Garden has to survive. You don’t understand… ’

‘Oh I understand that bit. I understand why you think you were doing it. But it wasn’t just that, was it?’ Phil grabbed the bars of the cage. Knuckles white. ‘You do it because you enjoy it.’

Another smile from the Gardener. Eyes wet and glittering and insane. ‘You’ve got to enjoy your work… ’

His words hit Phil almost physically. Like he had been punched in the stomach, the head. He thought of the calendar, the solstices and equinoxes marked. A sacrifice for each one. Four a year. And all those years…

He couldn’t come up with a number. Didn’t want to come up with a number.

All those bodies, those unmarked children’s graves…

While he was distracted, the Gardener made a grab for the hood. Phil noticed what he was doing in time, jumped back.

‘Stay where you are,’ he said. ‘Get back.’

‘Make me… ’ The blade shining in the light.

Phil picked up the hood, held it above his head. Began to pull it down. The Gardener saw what he was doing.

‘No… no… you can’t… can’t wear it… only… only me… ’

‘You killed your own son,’ said Phil, the hood on top of his head. ‘Adam Weaver. So don’t give me that bullshit about the Garden. You killed your own son.’

‘No! He was Richard Shaw’s son. Long ago. But not any more. He wanted the Garden ended. They told me. He had to be stopped. No son.’

‘So you killed him.’ Phil pulled the hood down further.

‘No!’

The Gardener jumped forward again. Phil wasn’t so fast this time. The Gardener made a grab for the hood, slashing through the bars with his blade. He caught Phil on the back of the hand. Phil let go of the hood. The Gardener grabbed it before it could fall to the floor. Scuttled away from the cage. Pulled it over his head once more.

Phil looked down at his hand. Blood was pouring out. He had to do something. Quickly.

‘The boy,’ said the Gardener, pointing his blade at Finn. ‘Now. It’s time.’ He swung the blade at Phil. ‘You, afterwards.’

Phil thought desperately. He located the spot in the bars that he had cracked with his twisting. Grabbed hold of it again. Tried to ignore the pain in his hand, his body. Twisted. Kept twisting.

It cracked once more. Louder this time.

‘No… ’

The Gardener turned, moved towards him.

Phil stared at him, watching him advancing. Saw his nightmare made real. Saw his past, his haunted childhood before him. Looked down at Finn. Knew that it could have been him there. If Don and Eileen hadn’t saved him. He could have been one of the dead children. Unknown in life, lying in an unmarked grave.

He thought of his own daughter. Of Josephina.

He looked at Finn once more. He had to do something.

For the boy.

For himself.

For the past and the future.

He lifted his leg, aimed a kick at the weakened bar. It cracked. Again. It cracked further. Again. The whole thing was splintering now.

The Gardener tried to push himself against the bars, stick his blade into the space Phil had created. Phil grabbed his wrist, twisted. The Gardener screamed, held on to the blade. Another twist. The blade dropped.

With his other hand, Phil punched the Gardener. The air knocked out of him, the man staggered back. Phil picked up the blade, forced himself through the gap he had made.

The Gardener had recovered, stood before him by the altar.

‘You’re going to die,’ he shouted from beneath the hood.

Phil saw the curved, razor-sharp shape of a sickle in his hand.

The Gardener ran towards him, arm raised, screaming.

125

The van sped towards the gates. The driver changed up, increased speed.

Mickey, along with the rest of the team, braced himself for impact.

Bull bars connected with metal. The van bumped from the impact. The driver put his foot down, kept going. The gates gave. The team cheered, Mickey included.

They were in.

The other two vans followed.

The first van came to a halt before the warehouse’s closed doors. The second one drove round the back; the third stayed just inside the gates, blocking any exit.

The men piled out. Ran towards the warehouse. Dim light came from the windows at the front and sides, seeping round the blinds. There was a normal-sized door by the side of the main entrance. The enforcer was brought out of the van; a heavily gloved officer took up position. Brought it back. Forward. Again. Again.

The lock broke, the frame splintered.

They were in.

Mickey ran in with them. Inside was a wide strip-lit area. On either side were rows and rows of shelves rising high to the ceiling, going back deep into shadow. Filled with all manner of appliances, consumer electricals, household items, sports equipment. All compartmentalised and catalogued. It screamed ‘legit’. Perfect cover.

The two trucks sat in the main area. In front of them was the green 4x4. A couple of leather-jacketed, mulleted, heavy-set men were opening the doors on the back of the containers. Out stepped young women, some no more than children, blinking and squinting into the artificial light. Dressed in filthy clothes, some in rags. All thin, pale.

Mickey paused, stared.

The girls screamed when they saw the police, ran back inside.

The two men had pulled out their weapons, but they soon realised they were outnumbered. They slowly put their hands in the air.

Clemens stepped forward. Grabbed the nearest heavy, smashed the butt of his gun into his face. The man grunted, staggered back, hands to his face, blood fountaining from where his nose had suddenly split. Clemens followed him, did it again. The man went down, whimpering.

Clemens turned to the other man, who held his hands out before him, backed away.

‘Stop it… ’ Fennell was staring at Clemens. He backed off, panting for breath, chewing his lip, smiling.

Mickey looked round. Couldn’t see Balchunas or Fenton.

Fennell was shouting orders.

‘Fan out, find the ringleaders. Don’t let them get away.’

The team did so. Officers running down the aisles, all round the shelves.

Mickey joined them. He glimpsed a shadow flitting from one side of a row to the other, at the far end of the warehouse. Ran down after it. Reached the end of the row. Looked round the corner.

Nothing.

Checked along to his left, his right. His left once more.

Saw the shadow again.

Ran towards it.

As he approached the end of the next row, squinting against the gloom, he didn’t see the cricket bat being swung towards him until it was almost too late.

He managed to twist his body out of the way of the shot, letting it connect with his shoulder rather than his head, the intended target. He let out a gasp of pain, grabbed where he had been injured. Dropped his gun.

The bat came at him again.

He opened his eyes just in time to see it coming, managed to scramble out of the way. Then turned to see who his attacker was.

Balchunas. Eyes wide with fear and desperation. Panic and anger. Not good combinations.

‘Get back… let me… let me go… bastard… you bastard… ’

He swung again.

This time Mickey was ready for him. He waited until the bat had been swung and was out of the way. Then grabbed Balchunas’ arm, pulled it backwards. Balchunas screamed. Mickey kept pulling. Balchunas dropped the bat; Mickey forced his arm behind his back.

As he did so, he felt the Lithuanian being pulled away from him.

‘I’ve got him.’

Mickey turned. Clemens was standing next to him, twisting Balchunas’ other arm. The Lithuanian tried to drop to his knees, whimpered.

‘Please, no… no… stop… please… ’

Mickey let go. Stepped back. Was about to argue when movement caught his eye. A back door was opened and closed again quickly. He saw in silhouette who had gone through. Fenton. He looked at Clemens.

‘Look after him. If you injure him, I’ll have you.’

Before Clemens could answer, Mickey was off.

Out of the warehouse, into the night.

After Fenton.

126

The sickle came down towards Phil’s face.

He jumped backwards, got out of its path. The Gardener was breathing heavily from the exertion.

Phil dodged round him, ran to the altar. Picked up another blade, turned. Just as the sickle came towards him once more. It caught his arm, cutting through his jacket. He felt a slash of pain as it sliced into his flesh. Blood started to seep through the edges of the tear.

The Gardener advanced. His madness gave him strength, negated the age difference. Phil moved behind the altar, picked up a candle, threw it at the Gardener’s face. It hit the hood, fell to the floor. Sputtered, went out.

Loss of blood was starting to make Phil light-headed. He had to focus, concentrate. Just to stay alive.

The Gardener swung, missed.

Phil used that to his advantage, went on the offensive. Swung his own blade. Connected with the Gardener’s chest. The Gardener screamed, clutched himself where blood started to seep through. He screamed in rage, came at Phil again.

Phil upended the altar, threw it into his path. The Gardener stopped.

In the cage, Finn began to scream. The Gardener turned.

‘Shut up… shut up… ’

Phil was weakening. Stars dancing before his eyes. He couldn’t see straight. He needed to rest.

The Gardener was weakening too. Phil could see it. But he wouldn’t stop. He came at Phil again.

Phil tried to move out of the way, but was too tired.

The blade came towards him.

Phil couldn’t move.

127

‘Phil?’

Marina looked round the chamber. Took her iPhone from her pocket, turned on the flashlight.

‘Phil?’

There was no sign of him. She shone the torch round, listened. Looked behind her. Glass hadn’t followed. That was something. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t. She had to do something. Make a decision. Another look round.

‘Phil?’ Louder this time.

Nothing. She shone the torch once more, found the bed. Crossed to it. Made the same discovery Phil had made.

‘Oh my God… oh my God… ’

She looked round once more, frantically this time. She knew, rationally, that the skeleton couldn’t hurt her, wouldn’t rise up and chase her, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t scared by it.

Or by the person who had done that.

She tried to find another entrance or exit to the chamber. Felt all along the walls, the floor. Found a tunnel. She knelt down, listened.

Heard voices. Screaming, shouting.

‘Phil… ’

Giving a quick glance behind her to make sure Glass wasn’t following her, and wanting to get out of the chamber as quickly as possible, she crawled inside.

128

Mickey ran. Through puddles and potholes. The rain was still lashing, the lighting in this part of the yard pooled and sporadic. He viewed the night like a static-filled TV screen.

He ran away from the warehouse, down an alleyway between the stacked containers. Fenton still ahead of him. The night, the rain, covering him. Fenton ducked round a corner. Mickey increased his speed.

He ran round the corner. Stopped.

No sign of Fenton.

Mickey slowed, stopped running. Looked round.

The area had opened out, enough space for a truck or two to get between the stacked containers. Open ground. Nowhere he could hide.

But he had gone. Disappeared.

Mickey looked up, thinking he might have climbed above him, tried to escape that way. Squinting against the rain, hand shielding his eyes from the lights. Couldn’t make out anything. No figure was there.

He looked round again. There was nowhere Fenton could have gone. Nowhere.

Mickey sighed. Shook his head.

Impossible.

He looked again. Walked down the side of the containers. On his left-hand side, at the base of the biggest stack, there was a shadow that didn’t seem to belong. Mickey moved closer. Stopped beside it.

It was a slight shadow, and if he hadn’t been looking, he would have missed it. He moved nearer, examined it. A doorway had been cut into the metal side of one of the containers. Secured with two bolts. Padlocked. The bolts were undone, the padlock open. The door hung slightly ajar, casting the shadow.

This was where Fenton had gone. He had tried to close the door behind him but couldn’t bolt it.

Mickey opened the door, stepped inside. Gun drawn. Ready.

He was completely unprepared for the sight that greeted him.

129

Phil froze as the blade came towards him.

Finn screamed. ‘No… no… he’ll kill you… no… ’

The boy’s voice undid the spell. Phil jumped, moving quickly out of the way as the sickle cleaved the air he had just occupied.

His head spun. His arm was beginning to feel numb.

The Gardener came again.

Phil pivoted once more, moved just in time.

He couldn’t keep this up. He was weakening, blood loss making him faint. Adrenalin was pumping hard round his system but that just speeded up the rate at which he was losing blood.

He stumbled, almost fell. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t allow himself to. Willed himself to keep upright.

The Gardener was coming again. Nearly as bloodied as Phil was, but still going. Phil knew that this time would be it. Either he would go, or the Gardener would.

He tried to stall him.

‘Take your hood off… ’

The Gardener ignored him.

‘Take it off. I want to see your face… ’

The Gardener made a sound that could have been laughter or could have been him clearing his throat. Still holding the sickle with one hand, he reached up, tugged the hood from his head.

‘That’s better. I can see you now.’

The Gardener threw the hood to the floor. Smiled. ‘I’ll get you this time.’

‘You’ll have to,’ said Phil, hoping he could remain upright long enough to finish this. ‘It’s getting late. The equinox is nearly over. You’re going to miss it… ’

Enraged, the Gardener moved swiftly forward.

‘Phil… look out… ’

A voice. Behind them. Phil recognised it straight away.

The Gardener turned, surprise etched on his features.

Phil didn’t stop to think. He was on him straight away. He sliced the blade across the Gardener’s throat. Jumped quickly back as the blood arced out of his neck, spraying him.

The Gardener dropped the sickle, put his hands to his throat. Gurgling sounds coming from his mouth. He tried to stop the flow of blood by pushing his fingers into the wound. Pushing and pushing. More gurgling. The blood spurted faster. Harder.

Phil watched him. No emotion in his face.

The Gardener sank to his knees, hitting the flagged floor with a thud. He looked up at Phil, eyes asking for an explanation.

Phil had none to give. Just stared at him.

The Gardener pitched forward. Head hitting the stone with a thud. He lay there, eyes wide, staring, as the blood slowed to a trickle, stopped altogether.

Phil sighed. Felt his legs give way.

Marina ran to his side. ‘I’ve got you,’ she said. ‘I’ve got you.’

He put his arm around her, let her take his weight. He looked at the cage, at the boy inside it. ‘You… you saved my… my… life… ’ Phil smiled.

Marina walked him across to Finn.

‘Let’s get you out of here… ’

Finn had stopped crying, stopped screaming. There was disbelief in his eyes.

He wouldn’t – couldn’t – believe it was all over.

It wasn’t.

130

Mickey stopped dead. Stared.

The breath knocked from his body.

Inside the container was like a shanty town. Old mattresses were spread over the rusted wet metal floor. Stained, disgusting and damp, they had old blankets on them, people lying there.

And what people. Filthy. Emaciated. Barefoot. Wearing clothes that were little more than rags. Strings of low-wattage bulbs hung from the ceiling, some blown, casting pale, depressing pools, a shadowed glow.

Mickey walked further into the container. The few people there stared at him, pulled away from him. No one spoke. He stepped into the centre. Peered ahead. It wasn’t just one container. He could see where the back wall had been cut from the first container, the jagged, rusted edges welded to the next one along. Light bulbs were strung through there too. More mattresses, more walking-dead people.

He felt like one of the Allied soldiers at the end of the Second World War, walking into Belsen.

He realised, horrified, where he was.

In the Garden.

He walked slowly ahead, looking around all the time. Looking for Fenton, eyes, senses taken by what was before him.

The smell was appalling. Human decay, human waste. The noise, a low moaning, keening. The terminally unwell, too tired to cry out. Adults shielded children as he passed. He communicated terror by his presence. Another smell in the background: food. A rotting vegetable soup smell. Like reheated three-day-old kitchen waste.

He moved forward, eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom. He knew there would be no point asking if Fenton had come in here. He didn’t even know if they could speak English.

Finn came from here. Poor kid, thought Mickey. Poor, poor kid.

He stepped through into the next container. This one had a square hole cut into the ceiling. A metal ladder had been placed there. Mickey, looking around and not seeing Fenton, climbed upwards.

He came out on another level, much the same as the ground floor, though this one was slightly better. Washing was strung out – old, worn, but with a semblance of being clean – and the mattresses weren’t quite so stained as the ones down below. But then these ones didn’t have pooling rainwater soaking through them. Water ran down the walls, though. Mickey felt the damp in his chest immediately.

He looked round. The same layout as downstairs, but still no Fenton. He was about to begin walking round that floor when he felt a tugging on his leg.

He froze, stared down. A woman, huddled and scared, was looking up at him. Flinching away, too frightened to make direct eye contact. His first response had been to pull away. But he fought it. Stayed where he was. The woman didn’t want to hurt him. She was telling him something.

She pointed to a ladder in the next container along. With her fingers mimed travelling upwards. Mickey did the same. She nodded.

He knew where Fenton had gone.

He forced a smile, nodded. Mouthed a thank-you to her.

She just cast her head down as if expecting a blow from him.

Mickey moved quickly to the bottom of the next ladder. Started to climb.

Ready for Fenton.

He reached the top floor. There were no lights here, so he had to wait a few seconds, allow his eyes to get accustomed to the gloom. He focused. It was deserted, no people up here. As if it took too much effort for them to get this far. He saw that the bulbs stretched out as on the other floors, but a constant stream of water had rendered them useless. But possibly live, so he kept away from them.

The rain was battering the metal ceiling. If I had to live here, thought Mickey, it would drive me mad. He thought of the inhabitants downstairs. It explained a lot.

He took his torch out, swung it round, checking out the layout. He caught water coming in, so hard and persistent it seemed like it was raining inside.

And then, several containers along, water shining and splashing all around, he saw a shadow move.

Fenton.

Mickey quickly made his way through the cut-out walls, splashing in rusty brown puddles, careful not to touch the electric wires hanging from overhead.

He saw the shadow flit around another corner. Shone his torch at it.

Dead end.

He had him.

‘Fenton… ’ Mickey’s voice echoed off the metal walls. ‘Give yourself up. I’m armed and you’re surrounded. You won’t get out of here.’

Nothing. The rain the only response.

Mickey lowered his voice, tried a calmer approach. ‘Come on, Michael. It’s over. Let’s talk, hey?’

He heard a scream.

The shadow had detached itself from the back wall and was coming straight towards him. Mickey didn’t have time to react before Fenton was on him, punching and clawing at his face and head, screaming all the while.

He closed his eyes as Fenton’s fingers tried to push inside his eye sockets, gouge out his eyeballs. His turn to scream.

He wrapped his hands round Fenton’s wrists, tried to prise his hands away. He couldn’t. He worked his way along, grabbed hold of Fenton’s fingers, tried to pull them out. They wouldn’t budge.

He felt Fenton’s thumb sink into his left eye socket. The pain was becoming intense. He needed to do something drastic. Taking Fenton’s index finger with both hands, he pushed it back as far as it would go, heard the snap.

Fenton let out an animal howl. Mickey felt the pain in his eyes stop. He grabbed Fenton’s neck with his left hand, punched his face as hard as he could with his right.

Fenton fell backwards.

Mickey scrambled to his feet, eyes still stinging. Fenton was backing away from him.

‘Get off me! Get away from me!’

‘Come on, Michael, let’s go… ’ Mickey, walking towards him.

Fenton turned, got to his feet. Made a break back the way he had come. Mickey reached out for him, but he was beyond his reach.

Fenton turned to see if Mickey was behind him, turned back again. And tripped over the welded metal ridge between the containers.

Mickey reached out for him, but Fenton fell backwards, away from him.

‘No,’ called Mickey, ‘don’t-’

As Fenton fell, he reached up for something to steady himself. Found the soaking wet electrical cable running along the ceiling. He pulled, it detached itself and he slipped back, taking it with him as he went.

‘No… ’

Mickey stepped back. Well away from Fenton now.

The cable, worn and uninsulated, hit the pools of water in the container. Fenton, holding on to it, screamed.

Mickey couldn’t watch.

He turned away, the stench of burning flesh and singeing hair in his nostrils. Heard the wire sparking and humming.

He ran for the stairs.

Wanting to put as much distance between himself and Fenton – and the Garden – as possible.

131

‘Come on,’ said Phil, ‘let’s… let’s get you out of here… ’

With Marina supporting him, he crossed to the cage. He was still carrying the blade he had used on the Gardener. Now he dropped it, began untying the binding, opening the door. Finn just stared at him, eyes wide. Phil smiled. It was an effort.

‘Told you I was a friend,’ he said. ‘Told you I would get you out.’

For the first time, there was the ghost of a smile on the boy’s face. Terrified to believe the words, desperately hoping they were true.

Phil fumbled with the bindings, had to stop.

‘I’m sorry, I… ’

‘You’ve lost a lot of blood, Phil,’ said Marina. ‘You’re going to pass out. Here. Let me.’

She moved in front of him, took over the untying. Phil held on to the bars to steady himself. Tried hard to keep his eyes open. He felt like he wanted to sleep. His body telling him to just let go, drift away. He moved about, blinked, fought it.

Caught a glimpse of movement at the far end of the chamber.

Blinked again. Saw what it was.

Glass. Standing there holding a gun.

He blinked again. Hallucinating, he thought.

‘Stand away from the cage,’ Glass said.

Marina turned also. Stopped what she was doing.

‘How did you get in here?’ she said.

‘Through the door,’ said Glass, as if explaining a simple fact to a dull child. ‘This chamber is directly beneath the chapel in the hotel. It was used for… oh, I don’t know. Hiding Cavaliers from Roundheads. Something like that.’

‘And the Gardener was here all the time,’ said Marina.

‘Ever since the Garden was forcibly evicted,’ said Glass. ‘And all down to me, too. If it hadn’t been for me, they wouldn’t have had anywhere to go.’

‘You arranged for their disappearance.’ Marina staring at him.

He gave a small, bobbing smile. ‘I did. Went to them, told them what was going to happen. Offered them an escape route. And gave them my terms and conditions.’

‘Which were?’

‘I wanted to be one of them. An Elder. Because I could see the potential even then. They soon came round to my way of thinking.’

‘And that’s it, is it?’ said Marina. ‘All this? Just for money?’

Glass shrugged. ‘And power. And influence. The usual stuff.’

‘You sold out your job. Yourself. Just for that.’

‘Oh, please. What would I have become if I hadn’t done that? Don Brennan? Old and redundant. Nothing. Him?’ He gestured to Phil. ‘No. The Elders allowed me to become the person I always knew I could be. Always should have been. They made me. They created me. But I don’t expect you to understand. Your mind’s too small. Boring. That’s what you psychologists do. Make the spectacular mundane.’

She was about to answer, but he cut her off.

‘I’m not here to talk about the past. I’m all about the future. Mine in particular.’

‘Not… mine?’ said Phil with an effort.

‘You don’t have one,’ said Glass. He looked round. Saw the Gardener lying on the floor, blood pooled round his body. ‘You got rid of him. Good. Saved me the trouble. Of course, I can’t let you leave here. Not alive.’

Phil tried to come up with an answer, couldn’t get his mind to work fast enough. Marina spoke once more.

‘Let it go, Brian,’ she said. ‘It’s over. Finished. You’re finished.’

‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘Move away from the cage. Or I’ll shoot you.’

‘Why? You’re going to do that anyway. It’s over, Brian. There’s a team of SOCA officers at the warehouse now, intercepting your incoming shipment. Mickey’s with them too.’ Marina looked at her watch. ‘Should be all wrapped up about now.’

Glass looked like he was about to explode. ‘You’re lying… ’

‘Yeah, that’s right, Brian. I’m lying. I’m making all of that up. I’ve plucked that information from thin air and flung it at you just to get a response. That’s what we psychologists do.’

Glass started to breathe heavily. He looked around as if trapped. ‘But I can still… still take the… the credit for this… I can… ’

He pointed the gun at the Gardener, then at Marina and Phil. His earlier composure had slipped away following Marina’s words.

‘Bastards, you bastards… ’

Hand shaking.

‘You’ve… you’ve ruined everything… ’

He moved closer to them. Stepped across the body of the Gardener, round the upended altar, right in front of them.

Phil was aware of some movement behind him. He couldn’t focus strongly enough to make out what it was.

‘Put the… put the gun down, Glass… ’ he said.

‘Shut up.’ Moving nearer.

‘Why not just run?’ said Marina. ‘Start now. We won’t try to stop you.’

‘Oh you won’t, will you? Well that’s good of you.’

Marina tried to move away from the cage, take Phil with her.

‘Stay where you are.’ The gun trained on her, finger tightening on the trigger.

‘Make your mind up,’ said Marina. ‘Move away from the cage, stay where you are… Honestly, Brian, what d’you mean? Which one is it?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Come on, Brian, be consistent. Man of action like you. Natural-born leader. Should be able to speak your mind and get people to do it.’

She moved once more. Nearer to him.

‘Is this right?’ she said. ‘Or should I move back again?’ She took a pace backwards. ‘You tell me, Brian, which is it?’

Phil watched her, puzzled. She seemed to be deliberately trying to provoke Glass. He didn’t know why. She couldn’t get the gun off him; she wasn’t physically strong enough to overpower him. And Phil couldn’t do anything. She was going to get herself killed.

He opened his mouth to say something, didn’t get the chance.

Glass was staring at Marina, trying to think what to do, angry at her interruptions. He didn’t see Finn creeping up behind him.

The boy had slipped out of the cage. That had been what Phil had heard behind him. Marina had seen Finn, known what he was doing. Let him.

Finn had picked up the blade Phil had dropped, crept round behind Glass. While the DCI was looking between the pair of them, while Marina’s words had been throwing him off balance, the boy had moved.

‘So what’s it to be, Brian? Come on, make a decision. Haven’t got all night.’

‘Shut up… shut up… ’

Finn slipped his arm round Glass’s body. Pushed the razor-sharp blade between his ribs, as far as it would go. Hard.

Glass’s eyes widened. Two white-rimmed bullseyes. He dropped his gun. Finn pulled the blade out, did it again. Glass jumped. And again.

And now Glass screamed as he realised what had happened to him. Screamed and kept screaming.

Marina looked at Finn. He had the blade raised once more, ready to stab him.

‘No more, Finn,’ she said, her voice calm, reasonable.

‘Him,’ whispered Finn, ‘him… he kept us in the Garden… he hurt Mother… he hurt me… ’

‘And he can’t hurt you any more. No more. Put the knife down, Finn.’

Finn did as he was told, let the blade drop at his feet.

‘Good. Come here.’

The boy went to her. She put her arm round him.

Glass fell to the floor.

Phil looked between them. Glass. The Gardener. Marina and the boy. He must have frowned.

‘It’s what mothers do,’ Marina said, ‘for their families to survive.’

Then Phil’s world went black.