Tania Carver: Cage of Bones

The bones… Their selection based on size and shape… The method of joining them together… He tried to imagine the work involved, the time taken, the kind of mind that had created such a thing… Failed. Shook his head, concentrated, examined it all the harder.

‘Built to last, that.’ A voice at Phil’s side. ‘British craftsmanship.’

He turned. DS Mickey Philips was standing next to him. The flippancy of his tone was only perfunctory. It didn’t reach Mickey’s eyes. He was equally awed and repelled by the structure.

‘Why bone?’

‘What?’

‘Must be a reason, Mickey. Whoever did this must be telling us something.’

‘Yeah. But what?’

‘I don’t know. But they could have used wood, metal, whatever. They chose bone. Why?’

‘Dunno. Why?’

‘I don’t know either.’ Phil’s eyes roved over the cage. ‘Yet.’ He looked round the cellar once more. Took in the flowers, the workbench. ‘This cage, this whole place… like a murder scene without the murder.’

‘Yeah,’ said Mickey. ‘Good job we got the call. Just in time.’

Phil looked at the stains on the workbench. ‘This time.’

They turned back to the cage. Eyes fixed on that, not on each other. Phil broke his gaze, turned to Mickey.

‘Where’s the child now?’

‘At the hospital, with Anni,’ Mickey said.

Anni Hepburn, Phil’s DC.

Mickey sighed, frowned. ‘Jesus, what a state that kid must be in… ’

Mickey Philips was still regarded as the new boy in the MIS, the team that Phil headed up. But he had been there long enough to earn his place. The more Phil worked with him, the more he found him a mass of contradictions. He looked the complete opposite of Phil. Always immaculately suited and tied, in contrast to Phil’s more carefree approach of jacket, waistcoat, jeans and casual shirt; his hair neatly razored short, unlike Phil’s spikes and quiff, and his shoes always polished, as opposed to Phil’s Converses or, if the weather was really bad, scuffed old Red Wings. A bull-necked nightclub bouncer to Phil’s hip university lecturer.

But there was something that set Mickey Philips apart from other coppers, and that was why Phil had wanted him on his team. He was one of the new breed of coppers, a graduate rather than a grafter, but he didn’t conform to type. Most of them Phil dismissed as promotion-hungry politicians, but Mickey wasn’t like that. He was tough when he had to be, aggressive even, but not brutal. He was also articulate and erudite, qualities that didn’t always go down well in the force, and he had done his best to hide them when necessary. It was only since working for Phil that he had felt relaxed enough to allow that side of him to show. And even then he tended to ration its appearances.

‘I’ll, er… go and see if I’m needed upstairs.’ The cage made Mickey visibly uncomfortable.

‘It’s a ritual,’ said Phil.

Mickey didn’t move. Waited for what Phil would say next.

‘Isn’t it?’ He gestured round. ‘All this. Deliberately set up for a ritual.’

‘The murder of that kid?’

‘I’d put money on it. And we’ve stopped it. Taken the would-be victim away, averted a death.’

‘Good for us.’

‘Yeah,’ said Phil. He didn’t sound convinced. ‘Good for us. Question is, what does this guy do next?’

Mickey said nothing.

‘I think we’re going to need some help on this one… ’

‘Come in. Sit down.’ Marina Esposito smiled. It wasn’t returned.

The woman across from her sat. The desk in Marina’s office was pushed back against the far wall. She had tried to make the room in the Southway police station as warm and characterful as possible: prints on the walls, easy chairs, rug on the floor. Not a luxury, thought Marina, but a necessity. No one ever came to see her because they were happy.

‘So… ’ She looked down at the file before her. She knew the woman’s name. Probably knew more about her than she realised. ‘How are you, Rose?’

Detective Sergeant Rose Martin gave a brisk smile. ‘Fine.’

‘You feel ready to return to work?’

‘Absolutely.’ She closed her eyes, rolled her neck round on her shoulders. Marina heard a faint clicking noise. ‘Been off too long. Starting to go mad watching daytime TV.’

‘ Diagnosis Murder ’ll do that to anyone.’

Marina knew just how long Rose had been off. She herself had been involved in the same case, five months previously. The Creeper, so christened by the media, was a murderous predator. He had kidnapped Rose, tied her up and subjected her to sexual torture. She had tried to escape, but it was only after the intervention of Phil Brennan that she was actually freed.

Rose had been under Phil’s command. But Marina knew he hadn’t wanted her, chosen her or even liked her. He had found her manipulative, devious and problematically aggressive. In the course of the Creeper investigation, Rose Martin had instigated an affair with his boss, the previous DCI, in order to further her career. He had been completely besotted with her. The decisions he had made at her request had resulted in his near-fatal stabbing, and he was subsequently invalided out of the force. Even worse, from Phil’s perspective, recklessly endangering the lives of the team in the process.

But everything had been neatly brushed over. Spun out simplistically to give the media its heroes and villains. Phil the hero. Rose Martin the brave but tragic heroine. The Creeper the villain. DCI Ben Fenwick the unfortunate casualty.

Marina was professional enough not to take her partner’s word for things, to judge for herself. But she had been there. She knew the whole messy truth. And she had agreed with him about Rose Martin.

But she put all that to one side, remained impartial. Did her job.

Rose looked good, Marina had to admit. Tall, her dark hair curled and styled, she wore a blue two-piece suit, jacket and pencil skirt, spike heels and a cream silk blouse. Power-dressed, thought Marina. A strong physical presence in the room. Ready for a fight. But also rested, recuperated and rehabilitated. Ready to return to work.

On Marina’s recommendation.

Marina looked down at the file before her once more. Moved a heavy strand of hair that had fallen across her face back over her ear. She was slightly smaller than Rose Martin and dressed completely differently, but she didn’t allow the other woman’s strong presence to intimidate her. Marina, with her long, dark, wavy hair and Italian features, favoured lace and velvet, full peasant skirts and diaphanous blouses, cowboy boots and scarves. She knew she was often portrayed as a caricature, exactly what some on the force expected a psychologist to be like, but she didn’t care. Even played up to it sometimes, enjoyed it. Just because she worked for the police didn’t mean she had to think and dress like them. And besides, her record spoke for itself.

‘Right,’ she said, nodding, ‘been off too long. And what have you been doing with your time? Besides watching Dick Van Dyke?’

‘Worked out.’ Rose Martin kept eye contact. ‘Kept fit. Active. Anything to stave off the boredom. I’m itching to get back.’

‘Itching.’ Marina nodded once more.

‘Look,’ said Rose, irritation creeping into her voice, the shield of her features slipping. ‘I got over… what happened fairly quickly. Dealt with it. Months ago. I’ve been ready to return to work for ages.’

‘You realise that when – or if – you do return, it may not be back on the front line?’

Rose bristled at the suggestion. ‘There’s no reason why not.’

‘I’m just advising you. Be aware of the possibilities.’

‘But I’m ready to go back. I can feel it. Look, before all this, I’d taken the inspector’s exam and passed. I was waiting for promotion. If they knew what was good for them, I’d be back straight away as a DI. I should be. I’ve spoken to DCI Glass and he agrees with me.’