Tania Carver - Choked

She got right down, nose almost to the carpet. From her position she could smell how unclean the fibres were. How infrequently it had been cleaned.

‘Stinks down here … ’

‘I doubt housekeeping was top of his priorities, ma’am,’ said Deepak, watching her.

Jessie took out her phone, switched on the flashlight, ran it over the carpet. She ignored the debris and accumulated dust as best she could, concentrated.

‘Yes … ’

She sat up. Felt the room lurch a little as she did so. Last night’s alcohol making its presence felt again. Deepak watched her.

She stood up. ‘There was something under there.’ She pointed. ‘There’s a rectangular mark where something’s been taken.’

Deepak got down on the floor.

‘What d’you think?’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘Laptop? Old family bible?’

Jessie nodded. ‘It looks like — and I don’t think we’re jumping to conclusions here — someone broke in, tried to take his laptop, there was a struggle … ’ she pointed to the broken figurine, ‘and poor old Mr Hibbert got his neck broken.’

‘Then the burglar rearranged the body, hoping to make us think he’d gone peacefully,’ finished Deepak.

‘Exactly.’ She nodded. Looked at the body again. ‘Or … ’

Deepak waited.

‘This was done deliberately, the laying-out of the body. No burglar does that. It’s almost like he’s been left … ’

‘At peace,’ finished Deepak.

‘Right. So … why? Is this all coincidence? Stuart Milton, the fire yesterday, the missing girl, or just some opportunist targeting the house of a dying man?’

‘We don’t believe in coincidences, ma’am.’

‘No, Deepak, we don’t. But what—’ Before she could go further, Jessie’s phone rang. She checked the display before answering. Mickey Philips. She felt something flutter inside her as she put the phone to her ear. Probably last night’s alcohol again.

‘Good morning, DS James.’

‘Good morning, Mickey. And don’t be so formal. Call me Jessie.’

There was silence on the other end of the line. ‘Jessie … James?’

‘Yeah. Wondered when you’d make that connection. But don’t bother, I’ve heard all the jokes. And before you say it, Suffolk Police are not a cowboy outfit.’

He laughed. She liked the sound of it. Deepak turned away.

‘We’re at the house of a murder victim,’ she said, recovering quickly. ‘Just wondering whether it ties in with yesterday’s events.’

‘And does it?’

‘We don’t know yet.’ She told him of the connection.

‘Never ignore a coincidence,’ said Mickey. ‘As my boss always says.’

‘Your boss and I think the same. How is he?’

‘Still under sedation. But they’re hopeful, apparently.’

‘Fingers crossed, then.’

‘Yeah, fingers crossed. Got an update for you.’ He told her about Marina.

‘Well,’ said Jessie after he’d finished, ‘I think we can rule her out of Mr Hibbert’s murder.’

Mickey didn’t laugh. Jessie wasn’t sure if she had meant it as a joke.

‘OK. This is what we’re doing this end,’ she said. ‘We’re looking into Hibbert’s death. We’re going to look for the guy who called himself Stuart Milton, see if we can find him and also run the name, see what we get. We’ve got a team out searching for the missing girl and we’re trying to trace that car that was parked outside the cottage when it went up. We’re going house to house, door to door, giving it the full Hollywood.’

‘Great. I’ll keep looking for Marina, then.’

‘Stay in touch.’

She hung up. Deepak was staring at her.

‘What?’

‘Nothing, ma’am.’

She knew what he was thinking. He had his disapproving face on again. She ignored it. She had enjoyed hearing Mickey’s voice. He was a nice guy. But she shunted it off into a corner of her mind once more. She had work to do.

A murderer to find.

The Golem had moved rooms. He was still in the house and waiting for instructions, but claiming the time as his own.

It was something he had to do every day. Spend time alone to meditate. Recharge. Rediscover his past self, make peace with it and in doing so reveal his forward path. His employers all knew he did this. They accepted, understood and allowed him time, even building it into their schedules. He delivered a very specific service. He had to do it in his own way.

But there was another reason for wanting to be alone. He wanted to get away from the Sloanes. Or Dee Sloane in particular. He thought again of her bloodied teeth, her lithe body. Her need to be dominated, to be broken, and her desire for him to be the one to do it. It was something he could do easily. And enjoy it.

But he was working.

He shut the door behind him. It closed with a satisfyingly heavy click, shutting him off. He stood in the centre of the room. Slowed his breathing down. Took in his surroundings.

The room was virtually bare. A spare room that hadn’t been filled with anything. Considering their wealth, the Sloanes didn’t seem to have accumulated much debris or clutter in their lives. The Golem interpreted that as them living in the present, not allowing the past to weigh them down. He approved of that.

He closed the blind, blocking out the day, removed his T-shirt and boots, sat down on the floor, straight-backed, and crossed his legs. He slowly inhaled through his nostrils, filtering out the smells around him, concentrating on only pure air. He brought up the image of the red spot like he had been taught. Focused on it, stared at it in his mind’s eye. The day died away around him. He heard only the symphony playing within himself.

He felt his heart valves open, the unclean blood being taken in, the locks and chambers filling, emptying, filtering, the good, purified blood punching its way round his system, cleansing him, renewing him, healing him.

When he had counted enough heartbeats, when he was sure enough blood had been circulated, he allowed the ritual to begin.

How many since last time?

Two.

Lives ended, souls freed?

As you say. It is for others to allocate specific names for things.

Names?

No .

Did they suffer?

No. It was over as quickly as possible. I am not a sadist.

Did they have families?

I do not know.

Will they be missed?

I do not believe so. I do not wish to believe so.

Are you ready to remove them from your heart and let them go?

I am.

Silence.

They are gone. You are cleansed, you are renewed, you are healed. You are once more at peace.

Thank you.

He stayed where he was, his consciousness focused only within himself. He saw his mother’s face and gave an involuntary gasp. His mother’s screaming face.

His other life. When he had a name. Before he was just the Golem.

He was back in the room as it shook from falling bombs. He heard more screams, more empty, hopeless prayers. His childhood, a time when hope of independence and self-determination for Bosniaks like his family soon turned into hate. When Milosevic’s Bosnian Serb army attacked them, turning neighbours to foes. Legitimising hatred. When being born in Srebenica was the worst thing that could have happened.

Ethnic cleansing. A simple, clean phrase that hid a horrific truth. Rape. Torture. Murder. It was what the Serbs and the Yugoslav People’s Army had done to his family. The ones they hadn’t killed were herded into camps. The ones who survived the camps were damaged beyond belief.

Like him.

His mother, his sisters had been raped and mutilated before they died. His father murdered. And he felt that he had died along with them. He no longer felt human; he burned with a righteous anger and a hunger for revenge.