Tania Carver - Cage of Bones

The man stared off over Phil’s shoulder. Seeing something Phil couldn’t, something that wasn’t even in the room. Phil tried not to let his exasperation show.

They were sitting opposite each other on folding chairs in the back of the incident support van. Phil hadn’t noticed how cramped those vans were. Or how badly ventilated. But he did now. With a vengeance.

The tramp smelled like parts of him were dying. Like he was decomposing before Phil’s eyes. When he stood up, Phil wouldn’t have been surprised if he left some body part behind. His clothes were just the tattered ghosts of the garments they had once been. Shirts, T-shirts and vests had been wrapped around him, the layers solidifying into one filthy mass. His trousers were ill-fitting and torn, scabbed and ulcerated legs peeking out from beneath. His boots were holed, his feet sockless.

And his face. Phil was usually good at spotting people’s ages and backgrounds. Physical tics and tells always gave them away. But he had no idea with this man. The lines on his face were deepened and ingrained by dirt, like permanent comic-strip etchings. His skin was reddened by various abuses. His hair long, greying and filthy, like his beard. Ravaged, scarred and weather-beaten, he could have been anything from forties to seventies.

Phil tried again, his voice as calm and unthreatening as possible. He didn’t think it a good idea to tell the tramp he was the prime suspect in a kidnapping and possible murder inquiry. ‘So what’s your name?’

The tramp swivelled his head towards Phil, eyes coming slowly into focus. He stared blankly ahead.

‘Do you have a name? What would you like me to call you?’

‘Paul.’

Result. ‘Paul. Good. I’m Phil.’ He leaned forward. ‘Right, Paul, what were you doing in that house? Is that where you live?’

‘I live… By God’s grace, I live… ’

‘Right. And by God’s grace, do you live in that house? The one where I found you?’

A sigh, as if mention of the house brought with it a great burden on his soul. ‘My… house.’

‘Your house. Right.’

His voice rose. ‘In my house there are many mansions… ’ Here we go, thought Phil. This was what he had dreaded. ‘There are. Yes. So you live there, where I found you?’

Another blank look, then Paul put his head back as if remembering. Then a nod.

‘Good. That’s fine. That’s great. Maybe you could help me, Paul. You know the house opposite yours? The one we’ve been going in and out of all day?’

Paul’s face darkened, eyes came together. Fear crept over his features.

‘What’s the matter, Paul? Is there something wrong with that house?’

He shrank back from Phil, as if trying to physically get away from his words. ‘No… no… There was… there was… evil in there… ’

Phil leaned forward. This was it, he thought. Getting somewhere. Even if the tramp was addled. ‘Evil? What kind of evil?’

‘There was… No. I can’t… can’t say… ’

‘Why can’t you say? Paul, why can’t you say?’

‘Because he’ll… come back and I… No… he’s evil, evil… ’

‘Evil? The man in the other house is evil? The house we were in?’

Paul’s brow creased. He seemed confused by the question but continued anyway. ‘A man. With a dream. Of love. The love of creation… Of creation… ’

Phil leaned back, suppressed a sigh. He had thought he was going to be given a lead. Instead it was just a story from the tramp’s damaged mind.

‘Was this man evil? Is he the one you meant?’

Paul stared off somewhere, kept talking as if he hadn’t heard Phil.

‘This man… he… he shared that love with others… And it was good… But then… the bad, the evil… men… came… ’

Paul stopped talking. Phil leaned forward once more. ‘Where did the bad men come, Paul? To the house? The house you live in? Or the one opposite? Which one d’you mean?’

Another frown. ‘The bad men… Serpents in paradise… ’ Paul frowned once more, face screwed up as if he was about to cry. ‘I just… just want to see the sun… ’ He trailed off into a troubled silence, chewing his lower lip with rotted teeth, head moving slowly from side to side, body beginning to rock back and forth.

‘But… what about the evil?’ Phil knew his words weren’t reaching him.

Paul’s voice, although as broken and ravaged as the rest of him, held traces of education and perhaps erudition. The echoes of someone else, the person he had once been. Phil reflected on that, knew that was why he didn’t allow his first response, to dismiss the story as just a deranged ramble, to take hold. Paul’s words nagged at him. He thought of the designs on the wall of the house and in the cellar. They looked to have been drawn by two different hands, but they were the same kind of design. Something mystical, but not quite a pentagram. And now Paul’s words. Serpents in paradise…

Again something gnawed at Phil. Something he couldn’t quite reach.

He tried a different line of questioning. ‘That design on the wall of your house,’ he said. ‘Did you draw that?’

Paul stopped rocking, looked at him quizzically.

‘On the wall. That design. What does it mean, Paul?’

‘It’s… life. It’s… everything… ’

He fell back into silence. Rocking backwards and forwards, mouth moving with words he wouldn’t speak.

Phil tried to talk to him again but got no response. He sensed he would get no more from him for a while now. He stood up.

‘Just stay here a minute, please, Paul. I’ll be back soon.’

He turned, left the van, glad of the fresh air. He popped a mint into his mouth to take away the smell. One of the Birdies could chat to Paul next. See how they got on with him.

Phil didn’t think the tramp was the man they were looking for. Instinct told him that, and he had learned to rely on instinct. He thought Paul might know something, but whatever that was wasn’t going to be unearthed quickly. If at all.

He checked his watch. Time for Marina. Good. He was looking forward to seeing her.

And also not. Because something was wrong. Inside of him. That house… it had touched something deep within him, something dark, twisted. Unpleasant.

Something soul-deep that he couldn’t understand.

But something he didn’t want Marina to see.

Not until he understood it better himself.

So he waited for her. In trepidation.

As soon as the door opened, Rose knew she had been sized up, made.

Copper. Filth.

But that was OK. Because Rose had made equally strong, instant assumptions about the woman before her too.

Druggie. Whore.

She held up her warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Rose Martin. Donna Warren?’

The woman gave a grudging nod of acknowledgement.

‘Could I come in, please?’

The woman’s attitude was aggressive, confrontational. Strong as a physical barrier. Her body language tensed and rigid, preparing to fight.

That’ll all change when she hears what I have to say, thought Rose.

‘I ain’t done nothin’. I ain’t been out.’

Rose looked round. A small, shabby house in a nondescript street just off Barrack Street in New Town. Terraced houses squashed together, old cars and vans bumper to bumper either side of the road. The street was gated on one side by a convenience store, its windows barred, a chalkboard advertising the latest cheap deals on full-strength lager and cider. And opposite that a fried chicken and pizza fast-food restaurant, closed, the smell of cheap stale oil perfuming the air. Gang tags adorned the walls. A big, dark sedan, expensive-looking, sat incongruously amongst the MOT failures and dodgers that filled the street. The local drug dealer’s, Rose assumed.