The Darkness of Bones (9 page)

W
HEN THE
R
EVEREND
Richard Toner, vicar at the Church of Saint James, heard about the decapitated body found at the old Graham building, his worst fears quickly came to the fore. So far, the police had not been able to identify the decapitated body, and had called on anyone with information to come forward. However, even though Richard knew that it was his Christian duty to call the police, tell them what he
thought
he suspected, he was not willing to open this particular can of worms—even for God.

The darkness of the small church was broken only by the glow of the moonlight filtering through the stained-glass windows. The smell of melting candles and incense lingered while Richard knelt, praying to God.

Statues of agonised angels with majestic faces stared down from niches, seemingly judging him with their grey, cemented eyes.

Easing himself up, he grimaced, hearing his bones crack and pop, like a breakfast cereal. Arthritis had devastated most
of his body, turning the most mundane tasks into Herculean endurance tests, humbling him, making him feel like poor Job on the dunghill, making him feel like a proper shit.

“Was that God or the devil you were praying to?” asked a voice in the darkness, startling him.

“What? Who’s there? What are you doing in the church?” He stumbled, slightly.

“I should ask you the same question.”

Richard needed more light. His eyes could barely see in the hushed darkness. He reached for the dimmer switch.

“Don’t,” said the voice, calmly yet effectively, with a hint of warning in it.

The impertinence! Was it one of those wretched homeless people, one he had reported to the police for loitering in his grounds, urinating up against God’s holy walls?

“How did you get in here?”

“God opened the door for me. Wasn’t that sweet of him?”

“You shouldn’t be in here. Tuesday nights are specifically for—”

“Those are reproductions of old masters. Aren’t they incredible?” said the voice, indicating the family of paintings attached to the wall, directly above Richard’s head.

“I really must ask you to leave—”

“He’s my favourite. El Greco, isn’t it? His models came from the lunatic asylum in Toledo and the local prison. Did you know that?”

“What is it you want?” asked Richard, nervous and annoyed.

“Think about it: all those rapists, murderers, perverts and child molesters, transformed to saints on canvas. Powerful, isn’t it, the way the eye can lie?”

The blasphemous tone unnerved him more. “There is no
money in the church, at this time of night. If it’s food you’re after, then I do have a little”

“I know you have
a little
, Small Dickey,” said the voice snidely. “We all knew …”

Small Dickey?
Richard hadn’t heard that horrible nickname in a long time—a very long time, indeed. They used to say it, whisper it behind his back, those wretched, good-for-nothing, ungrateful little bastards in their smelly rags.

“Who
are
you?”

The figure stepped from the shadows.

“Don’t you recognise me, Dickey? Look closer.”

For some inexplicable reason, Richard stepped back, as if a demon, a creature of the night, had come to do him wrong.

“No, I don’t know you. I’ve never—” Could he smell alcohol from the intruder’s breath? “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave, right now. If you don’t, I’ll have no other option than to call the police.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be worrying too much about such trivial things, Dickey. You’ll end up with ulcers. You wouldn’t want that, would you? Besides, I’ll call the police for you. Afterwards …”

The rock housed in the leather pouch fell like a hammer against Richard’s head. Immediately he let out a howl of anguish. “Please! Please …” Oddly, little or no blood was released, as his hands went into defensive mode, hoping to stave off further blows.

“Does that refresh your memory, Dickey? No? Okay, try this one.”

The hardened pouch cracked the side of his head, forcing him to stagger like one of the homeless drunks he detested so much. It was the third blow that sent him crashing into the
open arms of a waiting saint, toppling the statue backwards, the thunderous noise absorbed by the vast emptiness of the church.

“‘The ones we must keep secret, for no one else would understand.’ Remember those words, Dickey?” The figure knelt down beside Richard, speaking loudly over his cries. “You remember,
now?
”

Blood trickled into the eyes of Reverend Richard Toner, vicar at the Church of Saint James, drowning them; but not before his memory came rushing back to haunt him, one last time.

Yes, he remembered—remembered all too well.

“
H
OW
LONG?
” REITERATED
Jack, his voice edgy. The astringent stench of formaldehyde was beginning to make his head swoon. Lack of food in his stomach wasn’t helping either.

Shrugging his shoulders, Shaw said, “Estimating the time interval since death can be extremely difficult. Until I do enough studies to understand how fast or slow things decay in that particular area of the forest, I can only hazard a guess.”

“Okay.
Hazard
,” said Jack, barely concealing his impatience. “I really need you to give this case some speed, Shaw. I need some sort of time frame.”

Shaw sighed. “Three, possibly four months. We got lucky, somewhat. The freezing temperature played a part in preventing too much decay, but the animals feasting on the remains mitigated the luck, somewhat.”

“Have you determined how she died?”

Shaw shook his head. “Too early to verify, but my initial suspicion is that poison is the main culprit.”

“Poison? Someone deliberately poisoned the child?”

“Deliberate? I’m not certain.” Again, Shaw shook his head while examining the teeth of the dead girl, pointing at tiny, darkened stains. “This is possibly lead poisoning. Lead is a highly toxic substance. After being ingested, it enters the bloodstream and is absorbed and stored in many tissues and organs in the body, including the liver, kidneys, brain, teeth and bones. Children under the age of seven are especially vulnerable to lead’s detrimental health effects, and often fall into a coma. Some suffer quite considerably before dying.”

Grimacing, Jack asked, “When will you know for certain?”

“The lab has a few more tests to conduct. Hopefully, I’ll know this time tomorrow—Thursday at the latest.”

“The bone and feather?” said Jack. “You still haven’t told me if either matches.”

The consequence of a yes would be devastating. Had Adrian stumbled on to something sinister? Did the abductor of the little girl discover Adrian in the forest, hiding? Jack tried to calm his heart, hoped his face wasn’t revealing his terrible, nightmarish thoughts.

“No … nothing yet,” said Shaw, no emotion in his voice, a conditioned response—a response a little too quick for Jack’s liking. “In the meantime, go home, Calvert. It’s late. Get some well-earned sleep. You need your mind to be clear and sharp. As soon as I get something conclusive, you’ll be the first to know.”

Arriving home, Jack picked up the Wednesday evening newspaper in the hall and carried it into the living room. He made a cup of coffee and then sat down to read.

Remains of a body were discovered in the desolate area of Barton’s Forest. The
Belfast Telegraph
has learned that the bones are almost certainly those of Nancy McTier, granddaughter of the respected local doctor
…
.

There were three pictures of Nancy, each showing a smiling, happy girl. The story detailed the grisly find, concentrating on the fact that the bones were discovered by ex-detective Jack Calvert, the man whose own son was missing.

Did he detect a question in the spirit of the story, speculating on the morbid coincidence? Was he becoming paranoid?

The bottom of the page gave a brief history of Jack, stating how he had been one of the most highly decorated detectives in the history of the police department.

Colleagues called him a cop’s cop, one who instilled confidence, totally fearless. ‘You felt safe when Jack Calvert was covering your back,’ stated one police officer who wished to remain anonymous. ‘The hierarchy got rid of him because he wouldn’t take any s*** from them,’ claimed another unnamed officer. But others saw him as a maverick, bending the rules to suit his own agenda, culminating in the controversial killing of a notorious drug dealer. The inevitable early retirement followed immediately. Not too long after that, his wife, Linda, was killed in a tragic car accident involving a drunken driver.

He couldn’t care less what they said about him, but bringing Linda’s death into the story filled him with anger. He kept having visions of traffic lights, blood oozing from the red, spilling onto the narrow and notoriously dangerous road, making it slick. He could hear the horrible sound of brakes no longer working,
needing oil, red oil, and could see himself watching helpless as Linda went through the windscreen, her seatbelt dangling there, unused and useless like an unopened parachute rocketing towards earth.

No matter how close you get to it, sometimes the distance can’t help but grow,
thought Jack bitterly. Sitting back in his chair, he fixed his gaze on the ceiling. A chill was quickly seeping into the house, so he decided to light a fire. It would give him something to do, if only for a few minutes.

Just as he struck the large safety match, a moth fluttered in from the darkness of the window, and flew through the flame, dropping to the ground with wings turning to glowing ash. He didn’t believe in omens, but it unnerved him—the moth’s inexplicable appearance. It was unusual for moths to be seen this close to winter’s end.

As he swept its charred body away with a tiny hearth brush, the phone rang on the private line, making his heart jump slightly. Dropping the brush, he quickly grappled with the phone, his nerves causing it to slip clumsily from his fingers.

“Adrian?”
Please God
…

For a few seconds, the only sound from the other end was a hollow seashell sound. Then a voice spoke.

“Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think?” The voice was soft, androgynous.

“What? Who is—?”

“To be able to rescue the dead, but not the living.”

“Who is this? What do you want?”

“You’re not a hero. You’re a coward. We both know that, don’t we?”

“What is it you—?”

“
Don’t we?
” An edge was on the voice.

“Yes.” Fumbling quickly in the drawer, Jack searched for his tape recorder. He couldn’t find the bastard.

“It takes a special type of coward to leave his dying wife mangled in metal while he slithers away, like a snake, to safety. Doesn’t it?”

Jack’s heart went to his throat. The room was moving, like a boat being swayed by waves.

“You … you have my son, Adrian. Don’t you? Please … please don’t harm him. I’ll do whatever you want. Money? Is it money?”

“
Doesn’t it?
” hissed the voice.

“Yes.”

“A special type of coward?”

“A special type of coward.”

“You’re just like all the rest. A hypocrite. All crocodile tears for poor little innocent Nancy. But what about all the other poor little innocent victims? Eh? No one gave a fuck about them, did they?”

“What other victims? Who—?” The phone went dead.

Jack stood, motionless, the phone smirking at him, pulsating in his hand.

Think. Get the call traced
. But his brain refused to shift into gear. Simple things became complicated. He could barely move, let alone think. The room was swaying faster. He feared that Adrian was dead, abandoned by a worthless father who could find dead strangers, but not him.

Call Benson.

Jack knew that Benson was not a great cop, one who would be remembered. He did everything well, but nothing exceptionally. Yet, he had a single-minded determination that always saw him reach the end of any task he initiated. But the leakage to the newspaper had left a bad taste in Jack’s mouth and
he knew that he would have to be careful of any information given to his ex-partner.

The phone rang again. He stared at it, frozen, almost fearful of its demanding sound. It rang again, seemingly louder this time, taunting.

Grabbing it on the fourth ring, he shouted, “What is it you want?”

“Jack? Are you okay?”

“What? Harry? Sorry … I—”

“Listen. I want to tell you one thing first. You can think all you want, that I’m not doing all I can to find Adrian. That’s your prerogative. Even Anne thinks I’m not doing enough and she is giving me fucking hell over it. But I am doing everything possible, legal and illegal. The least people I involve, the less chance they have of getting into shit if it hits the fan.
Understand
?”

Jack was shocked at the emotion in Benson’s voice. He was entirely grateful for it, also.

“Harry, I’ve been a bastard to everyone. My head is all fucked up at the moment.”

“You haven’t been a bastard; you’ve been a father, and a damn good one into the bargain.”

Jack sucked in a gulp of air hoping to fend off the emotion caused by Benson’s words.

“Jack? You still there?”

“Yes … yes, Harry. I’m still here.”

“Some news. Don’t know how significant it is, but could be something.”

Jack’s stomach tightened. “What is it?”

“We have a possible suspect for the little girl. And get this: he’s a local barber.”