Кара Хантер - In the Dark

So what is all this about ravens, I hear you say. Well, the fearsome Irish goddess Morrígan is closely associated with crows and ravens, especially in her role as prophet of doom and violent death (read my post on her here, and you can see her here in her other incarnation, as ‘the three Morrígna’ – the three terrifying sisters Badb (‘crow’), Macha and Nemain). Anyone who knows anything about Celtic religion will also know that ravens had a central role in ritual practice. Raven calls were thought to bring messages from the underworld, and they were often killed as propitiatory offerings to the gods, especially to ensure fertility. Ravens have also been found in Dark Age human burial pits – there were bird skeletons in those graves at Wittenham too. So who knows what old gods Hannah Gardiner disturbed when she was up there in the weeks before she died, and the sacrificial graves were desecrated. Who knows what she might have seen and why she needed to be silenced. Only her son can tell us and, to this day, his father has never allowed him to be interviewed.

I suspect we’ll hear more of this story in the next few days. Watch this space, guys . . .

@WorldofWyrdBlog

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***

‘It would only be for a few days.’

‘No. Absolutely not. It’s an insane idea, Alex – you know it is. I don’t know why you’re even considering it.’

But I do, of course I do. She looks at me, caught between fury and pleading.

‘Adam, he’s just a little boy. A terrified, lonely, overwhelmed little boy. He’s been through the most appalling experience which we don’t even know the worst of yet, and his own mother’s rejecting him. Is it any wonder he’s not coping – years in the dark and now’ – she gestures around, at the ward, the trolleys, the people – ‘all this. He just needs a couple of days of peace and quiet in a safe place. Away from all this sensory overload.’

‘That’s what Social Services are for – it’s not up to us, for God’s sake. For all you know, they’ve already got somewhere lined up.’

‘They haven’t. The nurses told me. They’re really struggling because there are too many children and not enough people willing to take them. And it’s only an emergency placement – just a few days –’

‘Even if that’s true they’re not going to hand him over to any Tom, Dick or Harry who happens to be passing – there are regulations – rules – you need to be approved. That sort of thing can take months –’

She raises a hand. ‘I spoke to Emma. She says it’s not exactly by the book, but she could make an exception for us. With you being a police officer and her knowing me for so long, she could log it as what they call a “private placement” – because it would just be for a couple of days . And I know your parents are coming over soon but he probably won’t even be there by then and even if he is they would understand – I know they would.’

She’s pleading now, and she knows I won’t be able to bear that. Any more than she can bear to do it.

‘What about work – I’d have to get it cleared for a start and I can’t see Harrison agreeing. And even if he did, I can’t take time off – not at the moment – you know I can’t –’

‘I can,’ she says quickly. ‘I haven’t got much on and I can work from home. Just like I used to before.’

When we had Jake.

The words boom silently in the air.

‘We have that lovely room,’ she says quietly, not looking at me. ‘Everything he could need.’

But that just makes it worse. The thought of another child in Jake’s bed. With Jake’s things.

I swallow hard.

‘I don’t want to. I’m sorry, but I just don’t want to. Please don’t push this.’

She puts her hand on my arm and forces me to turn and look at the child. He’s sitting under the table in the corner of the playroom, staring at me, his thumb in his mouth. Just like Jake did. It’s unbearable.

Alex comes closer. I can feel the heat from her body. ‘Please, Adam,’ she whispers. ‘If not for him, for me?’

***

Quinn opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, then rolls over and slides his hand down Erica Somer’s naked back. He always did think she had a great arse. She twists her head to look at him and he smiles. She looks fantastically dishevelled and he starts to feel horny all over again. It’s something about the contrast between how controlled she is in uniform and how uninhibited out of it. Not to mention the immense pleasure in getting her from the one state to the other . . .

‘I meant to ask,’ she says, propping herself up on one elbow. ‘Was it you or Gislingham who talked to that academic in Birmingham?’

Quinn runs a finger down her spine. Right now, frankly, the case can go fuck itself. He tries to roll her over but she pushes him away.

‘No, seriously, I meant to ask you earlier but it slipped my mind.’

‘Really, it can wait –’

‘No – it’s important – was it you or Gis?’

Quinn gives up and flops on his back.

‘It was Gis. Said the bloke was a real arsehole.’

‘But wasn’t there something about Harper’s first wife coming from Birmingham?’

‘Yeah, that rings a bell. Why?’

‘Mrs Gibson – at number seven. She said she thought the bloke who visited Harper had a bit of a Birmingham accent. So I was wondering – even if she’s wrong about him being Harper’s son, perhaps he was still related. But to the wife, rather than Harper? A nephew, perhaps, something like that?’

Quinn levers himself up. ‘Actually, you might have a point there. Have a look first thing – if she had any male relatives the right age it won’t take that long to find them.’

‘You want me to do it? You don’t want to get Gis on it instead?’

He reaches out and takes a lock of her hair in his fingers, twirling it round, gently at first, then gradually tighter, pulling her face towards him.

‘No,’ he says, his voice dropping. ‘It’s your idea – why shouldn’t you get the credit. But there is something I would like you to do for me. And this is definitely not one for bloody Gislingham.’

‘Well,’ she says archly as she slips her hand under the sheets, ‘if that’s an order from a superior officer . . .’

‘Oh yes,’ he says gruffly, feeling her tongue on his skin, ‘abso-fucking-lutely.’

***

Midnight. A pool of yellow light and the low murmur of voices at the nurses’ station.

Vicky is curled up tight in her bed. She is sobbing her heart out, her fist clenched against her mouth so that she makes no noise. And all the while, her eyes never leave the picture one of the nurses has propped on the bedside cupboard.

It’s a photo of her son.

***

I get in early on Thursday morning, but when I get to the incident room Quinn’s already there, pinning up the task list. And whistling. I look daggers at him until he stops.

‘Sorry, boss. Just in a good mood, that’s all.’

I haven’t worked with him all these months without knowing what that means. But at least he isn’t in yesterday’s shirt. Whoever she is, this one’s getting invited back to his place.

‘The press conference is at noon,’ I say, ‘so if there’s anything I can tell them beyond fatuous remarks about enquiries progressing then I want to know about it, pronto. Especially the DNA. What about Harper?’

‘Being monitored every fifteen minutes. Custody sergeant says he sleeps most of the time. Or he just sits there, mumbling to himself. We spoke to his doctor and she’s offered to come in this afternoon, just to be on the safe side.’