Steven Dunne - Deity

‘The day before they disappeared.’

‘Right. And when we looked through Adele’s bedroom, she had the anthology of Poe’s poems opened at the same poem. She’d written Miranda in the margin.’

‘Who’s Miranda?’

‘She’s a character in the film. She disappears with her friends.’ Brook looked around at all the furrowed brows. ‘Exactly. Sergeant Noble and I will be watching it tonight. Anyone else who hasn’t seen it should do so after us.’

‘What the hell’s going on?’ asked Charlton. His voice had been rising steadily. ‘I can’t start waffling about some old film to the press.’

‘We don’t know what’s going on because we’re not supposed to,’ said Brook softly. ‘They’ve created an enigma for us and we have to find them to understand it.’

‘I don’t get it. You mean this Rifkind. .’

‘Rifkind’s a fall guy. He’s not the brains behind this.’

‘Then who is?’ demanded Charlton.

Brook turned to look at the photo array. He gazed into the dark passionate eyes peering out from under a heavy fringe. ‘My money would be on Adele Watson. She’s the writer. She’s the one with the imagination. She’s also the one with access to Rifkind’s wallet and credit cards while they were seeing each other.’

‘Wouldn’t Rifkind spot if he’s paid for a website he knows nothing about?’ objected Noble.

‘Not necessarily,’ said Brook. ‘How much was it?’

‘Ninety-nine pounds for the year,’ replied Cooper.

‘I don’t go through every item on my credit-card bill,’ conceded Morton. ‘As long as the total looks right and no one’s bought a bunch of computers in Rawalpindi.’

Brook shrugged. ‘We can ask Rifkind at college tomorrow. But the thing to remember is that Adele has disappeared and the two people we’re looking at are her ex-boyfriend and her father — one man who’s jilted her and the other. .’ Brook held out his hands. ‘Coincidence? I don’t think so. Whatever’s happening has been meticulously planned.’

‘Think that was Adele’s voice on the website?’ asked Cooper.

‘I do,’ replied Brook.

‘And she’s using the website to give us clues,’ said Noble, looking at his watch, ‘which means, according to the count-down, we get our next lead at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’

‘It’s an enigma, remember,’ said Brook. ‘I’m guessing they’re going to string us along for a while, so tomorrow’s broadcast will likely throw up more questions than answers.’

‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said Charlton. ‘I need something for the briefing.’

‘Just treat it as a normal “missing persons”,’ advised Brook. ‘We’re on to the legwork. First thing tomorrow we blitz the college and re-interview Rifkind and his Media Studies students — Jake McKenzie especially. He was in the Kennedy film. There’s also a character called Wilson Woodrow who had a go at Kyle Kennedy in college. Maybe he took part in the assault.

‘We’ll be going door-to-door on Kennedy’s street, see if we can find out how the four of them left the party. Did they get a lift, a cab, walk, bicycle, helicopter or what? Did they go together or separately? We check CCTV, appeal for witnesses on the Brisbane Estate between eleven p.m. Friday, and six a.m.

‘That’s a bit vague.’

‘I’m afraid it’s worse than that, sir. Alice Kennedy didn’t get home on Saturday. I’m talking about six a.m. on Sunday.’

‘Of course!’ exclaimed Noble. ‘They could have kept a low profile in her house on Saturday and left anytime before Sunday morning.’

‘She got home at six a.m.?’ said Cooper. ‘From a weekend break?’

‘No,’ said Brook. ‘But the sun would be up around then and if they’re trying to disappear, I’m guessing they wouldn’t leave in daylight.’

‘So that gives them a massive window,’ said Charlton. He was becoming more incredulous by the minute but he cast around for a straw to clutch. ‘You mentioned passports. Are they out of the country?’

‘Not officially. For now we assume they’re here, even local. If they’re messing with our heads, they’re going to want to see us chasing around.’

‘By God, if this is a hoax, we’ll throw the book at them,’ growled Charlton. ‘This is going to cost a fortune. They’ll wish they were. .’

Brook smiled and raised an eyebrow at him.

Oz tightened the vice and picked up his file again. He adjusted his surgical headlamp and continued to work away at the brass rod held in the vice, shaping and coaxing the hook at the end. When he was satisfied, he wiped away the sharp burr and set about smoothing the blade with the file and a piece of emery cloth. Eventually he stepped away and unfastened the vice, delicately picking out the sharp instrument with two fingers. He walked across to the nearest white-tiled slab on which lay Jock’s creased and slackened corpse.

His bloodless body was white and waxy from the germicides and ointments massaged into his skin. Their perfumes mingled with the bleaching agents Oz had used to try to cover the yellowed bruises dotted around the corpse. For now, Jock’s myriad cuts and abrasions were barely visible under the make-up.

‘You’ve certainly had a time of it, haven’t you, my friend? Well, your own mother won’t recognise you soon. You’ll be back to your best.’

Oz grinned at the chalky face from under his green face mask then knelt to examine the wound at the side of the abdominal cavity. He pressed a finger against the pale skin, nodding in satisfaction when it resisted his pressure. He giggled with pleasure. The new cavity stuffing held nicely — such a simple solution and so in keeping with the project. And, he had to admit, the sliced loaf was much easier to work with than the uncut. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before.

He set about suturing the wound. When he’d finished his rough stitching, he re-covered the body with a surgical sheet and bent over the head with his newly fashioned tool. ‘Okay, Jock. Here goes.’ Adjusting the surgical light for maximum illumination, he positioned the honed end of the brass instrument up the cadaver’s right nostril and pushed it up as far as it would go, then just as carefully pulled it back down. He examined the skin on the upper lip. No damage.

Now he reached under his gown to a tool belt and pulled out a ball pein hammer. He inserted the brass rod back up the nostril and, with more force this time, pushed the sharp blade through the resistance of the cartilage. After a brief check that he still wasn’t breaking the skin on the face, he manoeuvred the hook into position and steadied the hammer against the base of the rod and gave it a sharp tap.

There was a sudden pop and an object flew out of the man’s eye-socket and bounced across the floor with the tat-tat-tat of glass on ceramic. Oz cursed and scuttled after the glass eye which had settled under the exsanguinations tank. He retrieved it, spat on it to clean off any dirt and, after polishing it on his gown, returned to the slab and forced the eye back into the socket, accompanied by a loud sucking noise.

He took a different grip on the brass rod still protruding from the nose and picked up the hammer again. Settling on a slightly altered angle of trajectory, he gave the base of the rod another sharp tap and this time a squelching noise like a bubble of gas in hot mud induced a satisfied nod. He withdrew the brass rod, being ultra-careful not to slice through the upper lip as he extracted it. He wiped the clear slimy liquid from the hook against his apron and placed a pair of triangular wooden props under one side of the corpse to allow the brain fluid to drain away through the now punctured membrane and out through the nose on to the slab.