Guy Adams - The Clown Service

‘About time he had a bit of help,’ she said, and that was it.

‘I thought it best if we kept our distance,’ Detective Sahni said. ‘There’s little left to see on site anyway – we had to let the CSEs clear everything away. The last thing the brass wants is to see pictures of Jimmy Hodgkins all over the news. They’ve spent the last few weeks going on about how violent crime numbers have dropped over the last twelve months; pictures of a bloke with his skull beaten to a thick broth are “against the current promotional agenda”.’

‘I bet they are. What was it about the scene that made you think of us?’

‘Oh it’s a weird one, no doubt about that.’ She pulled out a USB drive and handed it to me. ‘I copied all the images I could – they’re not nice. Body was found by a dog walker at seven o’clock this morning. He chucked up all over the steps, which was lovely, and then gave us a call. The dead man’s name is Jimmy Hodgkins. Worked in advertising.’

‘No wonder someone wanted to kill him.’

‘I seriously doubt the attack was personal.’

‘You said his head was bashed in.’

‘Absolutely pulverised; nothing above the neck but burger meat.’

‘Sounds pretty personal to me.’

‘You’d think so, but there’s no way the attacker could have known him.’

‘You know who did it?’

‘No doubt at all. He was found a few streets away covered in the victim’s blood. Only one problem: he was dead.’

‘Maybe Hodgkins got a lick in early, a fatal wound that eventually took effect?’

‘No. You misunderstand me: the attacker was dead before Hodgkins. A long time before. Fifty years before in fact.’

OK, so that had my attention. ‘Explain.’

‘It seems impossible – which is why I called you, of course – but the attacker seems to be a man called Harry Reid; died of heart failure in 1963. Buried in St Mathew’s churchyard where, by all accounts, he had the good grace to stay. Until last night.’

‘You’re saying the other body was already a corpse?’

‘A remarkably strange one. The skin is almost like plastic, as if it’s been varnished for preservation. One of the CSEs touched its cheek and it cracked like porcelain.

‘It took us some time to confirm the identity. It would have taken even longer if not for a leap of logic on the part of one of the investigating officers.’ She smiled. ‘That would be me, in case you were wondering. Right next to the body of Jimmy Hodgkins was an open grave. I cross-checked the identity of the body interred there with the attacker, expecting there to be some link. What I wasn’t expecting was that it would turn out to be the same person. Can you blame me?’

I shook my head.

‘It looks – and I know how this sounds so please don’t argue – as if Harry Reid pulled himself out of his grave, picked up a rock and battered Jimmy Hodgkins to death. Reid then promptly ran up the street and got hit by a bus. The majority of his body was found, still writhing, under the rear left tyre. What’s left of him is currently strapped onto a gurney and defying all medical knowledge at the mortuary. It’s still moving . As is its right leg, even though it was severed on impact.’

I had no idea what to say to that. Neither did she. She just shrugged. ‘Like I said, impossible . There’s something else too…’

‘Oh good, I was beginning to think it all seemed too straightforward.’

‘There was a word, written in Hodgkins’ blood, daubed over the tombstone next to his body.’ She pulled out her mobile, scrolled through her images folder and showed me a picture of the word:

‘Russian,’ she said, ‘Apparently it translates as “Black Earth”.’

I’d picked up my mobile from Oman before heading out of the office. Now, walking away from the Aldgate crime scene and the disturbing light it cast on things, I couldn’t resist turning on the app and hearing the countdown once more.

‘ Nine hundred and fifty one, five, five, seven …’ it intoned.

The countdown would reach zero at midday on the 31st. Was that time significant? The fact that it was precisely midday was portentous; it suggested that the countdown had been precisely timed. Was it timed to coincide with something in particular or was it simply a threat in and of itself? No. We’d triggered the countdown by entering the warehouse, that much seemed clear. So the timing had to be a coincidence. I tried not to let my imagination run away with me. The business of Section 37 naturally leans towards the fantastical and dramatic, but it would be a mistake to jump to firm conclusions just yet. Had the body of a long-dead man been not only strangely preserved but reanimated? Was that the threat of Operation Black Earth?

I called April.

‘Darling, I can’t work miracles. You’ve only been gone an hour. I haven’t found anything yet.’

‘It’s all right. I hadn’t expected you to. I want you to look into something else though.’ I told her about what I’d found at the crime scene.

‘How ghastly. So you need me to look into anything similar?’

‘I do. Might any of those bragged-about connections of yours extend to someone who could give us post-mortem information?’

‘Oh yes, I know just the man.’

‘Then once you’ve finished there, I need you to get me the details on both Hodgkins and Reid. If the latter really did dig himself out of a fifty-year old grave, and now refuses to go back in one, we need to know.’

‘I can’t see how anyone could dig their way out of a grave. Surely it’s physically impossible?’

I’d already thought about that and where my thoughts led didn’t please me. ‘It’d only be physically impossible if the person doing the digging was troubled by such things as needing to breathe . Just because the body was unnaturally preserved doesn’t mean anything else was. The casket would have rotted away long ago. I’m not saying it would have been quick. I imagine, dead or not, it would be a long business pulling your way up through several feet of earth but it could be possible.’ I laughed at what I was saying. ‘Possible! What am I talking about? You know what I mean… it’s possible within the fucked-up remit of this section.’

‘I understand.’ She paused. ‘He was right about you.’

‘Who was?’

‘August. He said you showed potential.’ She hung up, leaving me feeling both patronised and complimented.

So what next?

I sat down outside a coffee shop, trying to collate everything I knew into something coherent.

Fifty years ago, Shining had been investigating an operation known as Black Earth. The man leading that operation had died and yet now seemed active again. He was not alone in that, as Jimmy Hodgkins had discovered to his cost. So – and I gritted my teeth as the fantasies piled on top of one another – if I accepted the fact that death might not be the inarguable full stop any sane man would consider it, Black Earth had something to do with reanimating the dead. To do what? On the evidence of Harry Reid, it seemed mindless violence was the goal. But what was the point of that? Disturbing, yes, but not in itself world-shattering. Jimmy Hodgkins might have had something to say on that score, but it was my job to look at the bigger picture. Presumably, when the countdown finished, something massive was expected to occur, something game-changing.

Krishnin had taken Shining. Where to? How did you simply vanish into thin air? That one was beyond me.

What had we seen during Derek Lime’s experiment with time? I had recognised someone. I was sure of that. A familiar face amongst the crowd of men who had been working for Krishnin. I tried to bring the face to mind but the memory was elusive. It had only been a brief glance, not long enough to commit the man to memory. Perhaps that was the wrong way of looking at things, though. I was new at Section 37. My experience was limited. How could I have recognised someone? Was it something I had seen in the handful of reports I had read? No. I had recognised the man because I had met him. And, having settled on that, the whole thing fell into place.