Tania Carver - Choked

He sat down at the desk. ‘We need to find her. Hopefully one of these should give us a clue as to where they are. We also need to know if she’s still in contact with the psychologist and what we can do about that.’ He sighed. ‘I should have got rid of her when I had the chance,’ he said, more to himself than anyone else. ‘Too soft, that’s my trouble.’

Dee chose that moment to enter the room. Sloane looked round at her. She was dressed in a clinging black velour leisure suit, trainers. Hair tied back. No make-up. There was no trace of the provocatively sexual being of the previous day. She was all business now.

‘Nice of you to drop by.’

‘I’ve been working out.’ She crossed the floor towards him. Didn’t even give the Golem a second look.

Sloane smiled to himself. He never knew where he was with her. He couldn’t predict how she would behave from one second to the next, what sort of mood she would be in, what would come out of her mouth or even what she would be wearing. Those capricious mood-swings had been very entertaining in the past. Exciting. And dangerous too. But he liked that about her. No. He loved that about her. His special switch bitch …

‘I’m just briefing our friend, darling,’ he said.

She stared at him.

‘Damage limitation. Before it’s too late.’

Her reply was cut off by the phone ringing. Neither of them made a move to answer it.

‘Probably the police again,’ said Sloane. ‘They called round last night. We’ll just pretend we’re not in again.’

No response from Dee.

‘I’ve briefed the house slave. They won’t get through.’

Nothing.

Sloane looked between the Golem and Dee. Tried to work out which one was the more impassive. Couldn’t decide.

The house slave entered clutching a handset, her hand over the mouthpiece. Sloane looked at her. ‘You know we’re not to be disturbed,’ he said, voice low. ‘I left you strict instructions. Do you enjoy your punishments?’

She trembled. Passed the phone over. ‘I think … think you need to answer, sir.’ Bowed her head. Stood there as if awaiting a blow.

He took the phone, quelled the anger rising within him. Spoke. ‘Sloane.’

‘Hello, Michael.’

It took him a few seconds before he recognised the voice. Then he understood why the house slave had been insistent. She had avoided her punishment. Unless she still wanted it, of course.

‘Hello, Helen,’ he said. ‘A pleasant surprise.’

At the mention of the name, Dee’s head swung round, eyes burning into him, as if she could see the woman on the other end of the phone. She knew who it was.

‘Jeff’s dead,’ said Helen Hibbert.

‘So I heard,’ said Sloane. ‘My condolences.’

‘You know why I’m calling. I have to see you. I’m coming round.’

Sloane mustered a smile. ‘Of course, Helen. Always a pleasure.’

The phone went dead. He handed it back to the house slave, who left the room. Dee was still staring at him.

‘Let’s hope,’ he said, ‘that it’s not too late for all this damage limitation.’

The other two said nothing.

The fog was lifting. Not nearly enough for the sun to appear, but just enough for Mickey to make out the tall, cadaverous shape of pathologist Nick Lines standing ahead of him by the second tent. He looked like a ghost, or the Grim Reaper, ready to carry dead souls over to the afterlife. He beckoned to Mickey, entered the tent. Mickey couldn’t shake the feeling that by following Lines, he was stepping out of one world and into another.

And in a sense he was. Phil Brennan, after a few too many beers, had once explained it to him.

‘The ordinary world,’ he had said, ‘the normal, everyday world, the nine-to-five, alarm clock, EastEnders of an evening and dinner out on a Saturday world, is the one that most people inhabit. But that’s not for us, Mickey. Not for us.’

Mickey had listened, thinking that if nothing else, he’d have a good story to tell the rest of the team the next morning about what the boss had come out with when he was drunk.

‘We stand on the threshold,’ Phil had continued. ‘We’re the gatekeepers to the other world. Where the dead live, the raped, the mutilated … the abandoned. The blind, the voiceless. The real world doesn’t want to know, Mickey. They don’t want to be reminded that it exists. Because if they knew, if they really, really knew what it was like … they wouldn’t be able to get up the next morning.’

Mickey had listened. Nodded.

‘And it’s our job — you, me, Anni, the rest of the team … our job to make sure the two worlds never collide. Or hardly ever. And we do that … you know how we do that?’

Mickey had said he didn’t.

‘We do that by giving a voice to the voiceless. By speaking up for them. The murdered, the raped, the mutilated. The victims. We give them a voice. We find who did this to them.’ He had taken another drink. Found his glass empty. ‘MIS. Major Incidents. Doesn’t begin to cover it. We’re the gatekeepers, Mickey. All that stands between one world and the next. Never forget that, Mickey. Never forget that.’

And Mickey hadn’t. He hadn’t gone into work the next day and made jokes about what the boss had come out with when he was drunk. He had gone on his next case — a double murder of teenage twin girls — remembering Phil’s words. Acting on them. When he finally amassed enough evidence against their killer — their father — and charged him, leading to a successful conviction, those words had come back to him. And there was nothing funny or ridiculous about them. Just an honest job description of what he did.

So when he stepped across the threshold of the white tent, he was prepared for what awaited him. Nick Lines was already there, staring down at the sight before him.

‘There,’ Lines said, accompanied by a quick wrist-flick gesture, in case Mickey was in any doubt as to what he was referring. ‘Down there.’

Mickey looked. It had once been a man. And his death hadn’t been easy. His face was swollen, dark. His eyes wide and staring, dotted and streaked with leaked blood from burst capillaries.

‘Cerebral hypoxia,’ said Nick Lines.

‘You mean he was strangled. Choked.’

Lines didn’t answer. He wasn’t given to wasting time on unnecessary words. His dismissive manner and haughty attitude always made Mickey feel inferior. He was fairly sure it was a pose the pathologist had worked up, a mask he had initially worn to hide his own all-too-human reactions to his work. But like most masks worn for any length of time, instead of hiding the wearer, the wearer had grown into it.

Nick Lines was kneeling down, studying the corpse.

‘Contusions to the neck … major bruising either side of the trachea … abrasions, scratches from fingernails … ’ He looked up at Mickey. ‘I’d say you’re looking for a very strong man with very large hands.’

‘Large hands?’

‘He was strangled with only one hand. With quite a wide span. He got both carotid arteries. If the lack of oxygen didn’t kill our boy, the cardiac arrest would have.’ He straightened up. ‘So he’s got at least one large hand. Although in my experience, I’ve found this sort generally carry two.’

‘Not always.’ If it wasn’t Nick’s erudition that made Mickey feel inferior, his attempts at humour always made him defensive.

‘True. Although I think in this case we can assume that.’ He glanced round at the ground covered by the tent. Forensics had made a thorough examination of it. ‘There was a fight here. One on one. And by the way blows were traded, it’s clear that both participants had two arms. Although … ’ He knelt down once more. Pointed to an area of earth that had been heavily sampled. ‘Blood in the soil. Been taken for analysis. Shame. Nitrogen, calcium and phosphorous. Very good fertiliser. If they’d left it, they’d have lovely cauliflowers.’