Tania Carver: Cage of Bones

The boards held. He moved slowly into the hallway. The smell struck him first. Neglect. Damp. Terminal decay. The close, fetid air clung to his face like a cold death mask. He pulled on latex gloves. Work-required, but in any case the thought of touching anything in this place felt like a contamination.

Phil couldn’t shake an irrational sense of unease. He analysed it: it didn’t make sense. He had attended much more dangerous crime scenes before. Some where his life had been in danger. A few that had been so bad his body had been crippled by panic attacks. So why was this – an empty old house – so bad? He couldn’t explain. But he knew he felt it.

Into what would once have been, he guessed, the living room. Nothing lived in it now. At least nothing human. Small shadows scurried away at the sides of his feet, disappeared down cracks, holes. He took out a pocket flashlight, swept it over the floor. Some of the boards were missing, rotted and caved in. But no cellar.

The room was empty of everything but detritus. Old pizza boxes and mouldering kebab wrappers were slowly breaking themselves down into compost. Rusting high-strength lager cans, empty bottles sticky with dust. Cigarette ends, both legal and illegal, were dotted around. Human consumption. And in the corner, the inevitable conclusion. Human waste. As old and atrophied as everything else in the room.

Damp cardboard and a festering, mouldering blanket had been a bed. Stained and crumpled pages from old, well-used porn mags at the side. Bedtime reading. From the patina of dust coating every surface, no one had been there for a while.

Two broken, unboarded windows on the far side of the room explained how the previous inhabitants had made their entrance and exit. Phil thought he heard something. A scuffling movement from somewhere. He straightened up, listened.

‘Hello?’

No reply. Just the dying echo of his voice through the ruin.

Heart beating faster, he turned right, into another room, that had once been a kitchen. Most of the cabinets were still in place, as was the remains of a cooker in the corner and an old fridge, the door open, hanging off. The walls, he noticed, had once been a cheerful yellow. But the vibrancy was gone, the fight given up. They were now streaked black with mould. A back door led out into a garden. He tried the handle. It didn’t budge. A thick wooden board had been nailed over the glass panels.

He swept the room with his flashlight, peered into the corners, the cabinets, even inside the oven. Nothing. He turned back into the main living room. Tried to imagine what the house had once been like. Couldn’t. The decay was too pervasive.

Turning left, he went into another hallway. Stairs led upwards. He took them.

Three doors presented themselves on a small landing. He chose the right-hand one. Found the wreck of a small bathroom. The sink smashed off the wall, the toilet pan cracked in two. The bath now a breeding ground for mould and mildew.

He opened the door on his left. The main bedroom. The room was completely bare. Peeling, damp walls, rotted wood, boarded windows. No furniture, just dirt and dust. The walls had been painted, not papered. Originally emerald green, it looked like. And the floor, too. Phil swung his flashlight again. There was something on the wall. He stepped in to examine it.

The same design they had found on the wall of the cellar beside the cage. Not a pentagram, but something… not right. And seeing it again, something clicked inside Phil. Something deep and hard, either lodging or dislodging. A tumbler in a vault combination falling into place.

He recognised it. He didn’t know what it was, but there was part of him that recognised it. Then the familiar constrictions started in his chest. Not a full-blown panic attack, just something low and rumbling. A sense of unease. He didn’t know what the symbol was, but it meant nothing good to him.

Trying to head the attack off, he backed out of the room. Tried the third door.

And immediately found himself thrown back out on to the landing.

His back and head hurt from contact with the bare wood, his chest from the force of the blow. It had knocked the wind out of his lungs. He tried to get his breath, gagged as he breathed in. The stink was awful. He opened his eyes. A vision of humanity – as wrecked as the house was – was on top of him. Screaming, hitting him about the head.

Phil didn’t have time to think, to do anything but react instinctively, use his urge for self-preservation. His arms were pinned at his sides, as much by his own body as by his assailant. He brought his knee up between his attacker’s legs, hard. The man gave a yelp of pain, like a wounded animal, drew back. Stopped hitting him as his hands went to his groin.

Phil knew this was only temporary, that his attacker would recommence soon, so he pressed the advantage. He brought his right fist up, straight into the man’s face. Felt it connect with nose cartilage. Saw blood spurt.

Glad he had remembered the latex gloves, he punched again. His assailant had no fight left in him. With another scream of pain, he dragged himself hurriedly off Phil, ran down the stairs. Phil got slowly to his feet, breathing in through his mouth. The smell was still in his nostrils.

He turned and, knowing that what he had seen on the wall would keep for later, gave chase.

The man was already out of the front door, running down the gravel drive, Phil after him, shouting for help. He reached the first house, headed towards the road. He saw the uniforms, the incident vehicles, the crowds ahead and turned. Made for the allotments.

Four uniforms gave chase. Phil joined them. Together they pursued what looked like a running bundle of rags

It was no contest. The officers brought him to the ground before he reached the allotment gates. Phil arrived in time to stand over them.

‘Right. Let’s get him on his feet.’

They helped the man to stand. Phil got a good look at him. He was older than expected. Although that might have been the long grey hair and beard. His clothing was in ruins and tatters, his features filthy and scabbed. His bleeding nose made him look even worse. And the smell. Like he was decomposing before them. Phil hadn’t thought it possible to decay that much and still live.

The fight had gone out of him now. He was whimpering.

‘Come on,’ said Phil, turning. ‘Let’s take him somewhere, have a chat.’

Phil hoped he had found the perpetrator, the child’s abductor. But looking at the wreck of humanity before him, he doubted it.

‘Please, Detective… Philips, is it?’

Mickey nodded. ‘Detective Sergeant Philips. Major Incident Squad.’

‘Right, Detective Sergeant.’ Her eyes widened slightly. ‘Sounds important. Please, take a seat.’

Mickey extended his hand, then, realising how awkward the gesture was, he quickly retracted it and sat, hoping she hadn’t noticed. The tiny smile on her lips told him she had. Not a good start.

He looked at the woman opposite him. Mid-thirties, he reckoned, well-built but curvy. Wearing a figure-hugging and enhancing black dress; long brown hair highlighted blonde. As he got settled, she flashed him a larger smile that had, he presumed, seen plenty of service on the local great-and-good cocktail circuit. And was used to seeing its magic work.

She held out her hand. ‘I’m Lynn Windsor,’ she said, her voice as confident as her smile. ‘Senior Partner, Fenton Associates.’

He stood slightly, shook hands. She was good, he thought. Had managed a seemingly effortless domination of the situation. He had ground to gain.

They were in an office on the first floor of the Georgian house. Adrian Wren had been tasked with talking to the occupants, but word came through that someone of senior rank was required. Since Phil was indisposed, that was Mickey.