‘D
on? You OK?’
He kept advancing towards her. Marina felt her heart quicken. This wasn’t the Don she knew.
‘Don … ’
He reached her. ‘What are you doing in here, Marina?’
‘Looking for you.’ Her voice a lot more level and calm than she felt.
He looked behind her at the door. She caught the look, knew immediately what he was thinking. A self-locking handle. She hadn’t locked it. She made swift mental calculations, adding up whether she could turn, beat him to it.
Get out into the corridor. Run.
Then another voice entered her head. Muddied her thinking.
But this is Don we’re talking about
…
‘Did they send you?’ Don’s voice low, hard.
‘Did who send me, Don?’
‘Them,’ he said. ‘Glass and … and that lot.’
‘No. No one sent me. I just came looking for you. I wanted to talk to you.’
He stopped. Frowned. ‘Why? What about?’
‘Phil,’ she said.
At the mention of his adoptive son, Don sighed. The tension leaving his body, his shoulders sagging, legs bending. No threat in him any more. More like the old man she knew, Marina thought.
‘So you know, then.’ His voice tired.
‘Know what? Don, I wish I did.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I wish he’d tell me what’s wrong. There’s something going on with him. Something … not right,’ said Marina. ‘At first I thought it was us. Me. Me and him, I mean, our relationship. But it’s not that. It’s more than just that.’
He moved nearer to her. The overhead light flickering, glinting off his eyes.
Marina moved backwards. ‘Were you going to hurt me when I came in here, Don?’
He looked surprised. ‘Hurt you? Good God, no. Why would I want to hurt you, Marina?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me. It looked like I’d interrupted you in the middle of something that you didn’t want me to know about. Looked like you were pretty angry about it.’
‘Oh. That.’ Don gave a shamefaced smile. ‘Sorry.’ He patted his side, beneath his jacket. ‘Needed a bit of … extra reading. Not strictly speaking legal extra reading.’
Marina returned the smile. ‘I see. Just don’t do it again.’
‘I’m sorry. I won’t. But you have to be careful in here. Have to know who you can trust and who … who … you know.’
‘And who
can
you trust, Don?’
‘I’m sorry. Of course I can trust you. I’m sorry.’
They stood looking at each other, saying nothing. The only sound in the records room the fizzing and spitting of the overhead strips.
‘You wanted to talk to me about Phil,’ said Don eventually, his voice carrying the weight of the world within it.
‘Yes, I do.’
He shook his head. ‘Where to start?’ He gave a quick look round as if fearful of being overheard, leaned in close to her. ‘D’you know anywhere round here that does coffee? Good coffee, I mean. Not the failed biological warfare experiments they serve in the machines in here.’
‘Yeah. I do. Want to go?’
‘I think that’s a good idea. And then I can tell you. About Phil … ’
D
onna screamed.
Felt her arm being wrenched from its socket, pushed hard up her back. Heard – and felt – the tearing sound through her body. She screamed again. The pain increased.
‘Yeah,’ said the copper’s voice between gasps, ‘that’s it. On your knees now, bitch.’
And that did it. That one word.
Bitch.
Donna hated it. Refused to hear it. Certainly wouldn’t let a punter get away with saying it, no matter how much he paid her. Well, maybe she had done in the past, when she’d been desperate, but she had insisted on extra. Up front. And hated herself for it afterwards. Told the john there were plenty of girls who made a living that way, but she wasn’t one of them.
Bitch.
She hated it. Wouldn’t take it. It was one of the two things she couldn’t abide, the other being a slap in the face. Anyone did that to her, she would turn round, punch them out. Same as the word. Bitch.
It worked on her like spinach on Popeye. Gave her super strength. Made her super angry.
Super fucking angry.
She felt Rose Martin pushing her down, felt her knees start to buckle.
‘That’s it, you fucking bitch, go on—’
And the world turned scarlet, spun off its axis.
Donna didn’t kneel, didn’t go anywhere near the floor. She lifted her right foot, brought it down as hard as possible on Rose Martin’s right instep.
The policewoman screamed.
Donna felt the grip loosening. She wouldn’t get another chance. Leave it too long and it would just make her angry. She stamped down again, harder this time. Caught the copper’s shin as she did it.
Another scream, another loosening of her grip.
Donna pushed down with her arm, as hard as she could. Got it loose, bent it back, shoved her elbow with all her strength into Rose Martin’s ribs. Caught her right on the diaphragm. Felt the air huff out of her.
Donna turned quickly, saw Rose Martin preparing to come back at her. Without thinking too much about it, she reached over to the bedside table, picked up the lamp. It was small, light and cheap, but it would have to do. She swung it as hard as she could. It connected with Rose Martin’s cheekbone. She followed through, put all her strength into the shot. Saw the copper’s head snap back, her body spin round.
Rose Martin hit the side of the bed, fell to the floor.
Donna threw the lamp aside, brought her leg back, took aim, let loose a kick. Rose Martin screamed. Donna heard and felt ribs splinter and crack. She swung her foot back, ready to do it again. Feeling the adrenalin course through her, loving the sense of power it gave her. She smiled. Kicking a copper. Brilliant.
But her jubilation was cut short. Rose Martin grabbed her ankle, caught it in mid-swing, twisted.
Donna’s turn to scream. She felt her knee twist, heard cartilage rip, felt her leg go in the wrong direction. She tried to move with the twist, minimise the injury. She spun, hitting the floor hard.
Saw Rose Martin claw herself up on to her knees, arm wrapped round her shattered ribs, moving towards her, intent on keeping going.
Donna looked round the room for weapons, couldn’t see any.
She felt for the kitchen knife. Lying there, she fumbled the blade from her pocket, hoped she had it to hand before Rose Martin started on her again. She pulled it free. Rose Martin was on her. Donna drew the blade back, gripping the handle, ready to stab.
But didn’t.
A scream rent the air. The two women paused, stared at the source.
Ben was standing in the doorway. His face white, a horror-film death mask, he stared at the two women.
Rose Martin pulled her blow. Put her arm down. Donna lowered the knife. Sat up on her elbows.
‘Ben. Come here … ’
Ben didn’t move.
‘It’s all right,’ said Rose Martin, looking straight at the boy but unable to hold his eyes. ‘I’m a police officer.’
‘Yeah,’ said Donna, gasping for breath. ‘Like that’s gonna reassure him.’
Rose sighed, looked at her. Donna looked back. The fight gone from the pair of them. A numb kind of embarrassment replacing it.
Rose looked at the knife. ‘I think you’d better give that to me.’
Donna glanced at it, then at Rose. Reluctantly handed it over. Rose pocketed it. Gripped the edge of the bed, tried to stand.
‘Want a hand?’
Donna was trying to get up too.
‘I’ll manage.’
The two women got painfully to their feet. Stood looking at each other.
Donna’s first thought was to run, but she tamped it down. Yes, she had been about to attack a police officer with a knife. Yes, she had shattered her ribs. But that police officer had broken into her house and seriously assaulted her. So she imagined she wasn’t going down for this. And judging by the look on Rose Martin’s face, she was thinking something similar.
Donna looked at Ben. ‘Go an’ put the kettle on. There’s a love.’
The boy, still unblinking, disappeared from the bedroom.
The two women looked at each other.
‘You set me up,’ said Rose Martin.
‘Sorry,’ said Donna. ‘I had to get away. As soon as I knew somethin’ bad had happened to Faith, just like she said it would, I knew I had to run.’
Rose frowned. ‘What d’you mean, just like she said it would?’
‘She said that if something happened to her, if she died mysteriously, I was to take Ben and run. Because he’d be next. And then me.’
Rose looked like she wanted to believe her, but seemed to have some way to go first. ‘So why are you back here?’
Donna shrugged, attempted nonchalance. Failed. ‘Forgot somethin’.’
‘What?’
She hesitated. And Rose was on her.
‘I said what?’
Donna sighed. No point in lying now. ‘Faith left a book. A diary. Tellin’ everythin’ about who was after her, what had happened. She said it would be worth somethin’ to the right people.’
‘So where is it?’
Donna shrugged again. ‘Dunno.’
‘You haven’t found it?’
‘Not yet.’
Rose Martin smiled. ‘Then I think we’ll look for it together, don’t you?’
Donna knew she had no choice. She nodded.
The two women, their bodies aching, their anger spent on each other, began the search.
T
he Gardener was out again. And it felt good. No, better than that. It felt right.
He had waited until the policeman had gone, then made his appearance. Because he had work to do.
Oh yes.
And he was looking forward to it.
The sacrifice was being returned to him. All he had to do was go and pick it up.
He walked to the stretch of road, waited in the agreed place. Up the hill by the park. Under a tree. No one would speak to him, or even look at him. He was a non-person. Just like Paul was. But the Gardener didn’t mind that. In fact, he liked it. Fed on the energy of it. People ignored him. But he was more powerful than any of them realised. He was only letting them live as they walked past because it was too much trouble to kill them. He had the power of life and death over all of them.
If only they knew it.
Today was going to be special. The sacrifice would be returned and the ceremony could begin. And the future of the Garden would be assured.
Then another thought came into his head. And when it did, his heart felt like a sinking stone inside his chest. He sighed, whatever happiness, energy he had been feeling draining out of him.
He had nowhere to perform the sacrifice.
The house was gone. All his tools, his ritual with it. The cage … the cage was gone …
But there was another. He smiled to himself. Felt the stone lift in his chest. An even more sacred space. He had never attempted to do a sacrifice there before. But it made sense. It was the perfect place.
Perfect.
He was still thinking, still planning when his lift arrived. The driver had a baseball cap on and his collar turned up, but the Gardener still recognised him. He got in beside him.
The Portreeve didn’t look happy. He looked scared.
The Gardener said nothing to him. Just waited until he pulled away, then yanked his hood up.
Smelled the rich, loamy smell. Felt comforted by it. Charged.
Beside him, he felt the Portreeve’s fear increase.
Good.
Good …
P
hil pulled up at the hospital. Parked, went inside. Flashed his warrant card at reception, asked where the boy under police surveillance was. Ignored the double-take the receptionist gave to his clothing.
He thanked her, went on his way.
He walked down corridors, mentally following the instructions he’d been given. As he rounded the final corner, he was expecting to find Anni, but was greeted instead by DCI Glass.
Phil stopped walking. His heart sank. ‘Afternoon, sir,’ he said, as neutrally as he could.
Glass turned, about to say something in return, stopped. ‘What … what’s that?’
Phil kept a smile off his face. ‘What’s what, sir?’
Glass pointed at him. ‘That … that … What are you wearing?’
‘I think you can see what it is, sir.’ Phil again kept his voice neutral.
‘A … a bow tie. An officer of mine is wearing a bow tie.’ Glass shook his head.
‘You said I needed to smarten myself up, sir. I thought a tweed jacket and bow tie would do the trick. They’re very fashionable at the moment, I believe, sir. Very on trend.’
Glass’s lips became thin, bloodless. ‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘Not at all, sir. It’s just the kind of thing that’ll play well in media briefings. The cameras’ll love it. Sir.’
Glass’s face changed colour, deepened to an unattractive shade of heart-attack red. Well at least he’s in the right place, thought Phil. Glass moved in closer. No smile now, not even the pretence of one.
‘The cameras’ll love it, will they? The cameras’ll love it. No they won’t, Detective Inspector. No they won’t.’ His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. ‘Because you are going nowhere near a camera. You are going nowhere near a case in my department ever again. You are suspended from duty. Forthwith.’
Phil felt anger rise within him. He knew the best thing to do would be to keep it contained, but he also knew that wasn’t an option. Not after what Glass had just said. ‘On what grounds?’
A nasty smile smeared itself over Glass’s features. ‘I think that speaks for itself. Insubordination. Incompetence. Negligence. Not following correct procedures. How does that sound so far?’
Phil stepped in close to Glass. The DCI flinched. ‘Bullshit and you know it. All I have to do is phone the Super at Chelmsford. He knows me. He’ll back me up.’
‘He’ll also want to preserve the chain of command. He’ll want to be seen to be following grievance procedure. He’s open to scrutiny as well. He has his own job to think about before yours.’
‘So that’s it, is it? I’m out.’
‘You most certainly are.’
A smile flitted across Phil’s features. ‘Then since I’m no longer a police officer, you won’t mind if I do this.’ He pulled his arm back, ready to punch the DCI.
Glass stood his ground, stared straight into Phil’s eyes. ‘I’d think twice before you do that, if I were you.’
‘Why? You’re no longer my superior officer, and I’m no longer on the case.’
‘I’m thinking of your safety, Detective Inspector.’
‘My safety?’
‘Yes. You hit me and I’ll fucking kill you.’
His stare level, icy. Phil didn’t doubt the sincerity behind his words.
‘I’ve read your file, Brennan. I know you’ve got previous where this is concerned. I know you’ve struck your superiors before and got away with it. Well not this one. Hit me and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.’
Phil stared at him.
Glass smiled. ‘That’s better. Now run along home. The proper police have got work to do.’
Phil felt suddenly ridiculous standing there in a bow tie, even more so with the rage he was feeling inside him. He wanted so much to punch Glass. So, so much.
Glass laughed. ‘Don’t. Hit me, you go down. And you don’t get back up again.’
Anni came round the corner, stopped dead when she saw the two men before her.
‘Boss? What … what’s happening?’
Phil turned. Tried to speak. No words came out.
‘I’ve just relieved DI Brennan of his position,’ said Glass. ‘From now on, you answer directly to me, Detective Constable Hepburn. Clear?’
Anni turned to Phil. ‘What the hell’s happened? Has he gone mental?’
‘Keep talking like that, DC Hepburn,’ said Glass, ‘and you’ll be next.’
Anni stared at the DCI, then shook her head, restraining herself.
Glass caught the look. ‘Just get him out of here,’ he said, turning and walking away, shoulders and back bunched with tension.
Anni looked back at Phil. ‘And what are you wearing?’
‘A bow tie,’ he said, then sighed. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’ Another sigh. He looked directly at Anni, turning his back on Glass, his voice a whisper. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me … ’
Any kind of answer was cut short by a sound from the boy’s room. Phil knew immediately what it was. Not a car backfiring, he thought; that’s just a cliché. It was followed by a scream.
He and Anni looked at each other.
‘Was that …?’
‘This way,’ said Anni. ‘Come on.’
She ran round the corner, Phil following. The door to the boy’s room was open. Darkness inside.
‘I was only away for a couple of minutes,’ Anni said. ‘I left Jenny Swan, the psychologist, in there with him. He should be … ’
She stopped talking as they entered the room. Jenny Swan was lying on the floor, unmoving. Blood pooling underneath her head. On the bed, the boy was backed up to the headboard, as far as he could go without burrowing into the wall behind him. Screaming. Screaming for his life.
Before him, standing at the side of the bed, was a man Phil hadn’t seen before.
The man realised he wasn’t alone, turned.
‘Stay where you are,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t come any closer. I mean it … ’
And that was when Phil saw the gun.