Ritual (32 page)

He'd been in the job long enough to know when to follow his training and when not to. He knew this was a time when he should follow everything he'd been taught and put in a call to Control, but the red light on the radio was blinking, telling him it was out of range too. He wasn't going to drive back down into signal range so he did the exact opposite of what he should have done. He kept going.

About four feet away from him, resting against one of the piles of glass, was a wooden handle. It had belonged to a pickaxe or a shovel and it was exactly the right size and weight. He snatched it up and backed into the lee of the house, standing with the handle out, his arms trembling. The screaming stopped and he edged forward to the nearest window, straining to hear what was happening. Then he squatted and crab-walked his way under the ledge, straightened and went to the corner of the house, put his back to the wall as if he was in a western shoot-out, and peered round it.

A cloud had gone across the sun and the front of the house was in shadow, the greying pebbledash pocked in places as if it had taken shrapnel. The cat was still sitting there, washing its face, as if nothing was happening. About ten feet past it, what must have been the front porch was shrouded in plastic sheeting. Bricks had been piled on top to hold it in place. Caffery edged towards it, breathing hard, the wooden handle held out in front of him.

He got to the porch and lifted the edge of the sheeting tentatively. From here he could see there was no front door. Instead the gap had been clumsily covered with blue membrane, the manufacturer's logo printed on it in white. Carefully, trying not to make any noise, he ducked under the plastic sheet and stepped inside, pressing a finger to the plastic membrane. It gave a little. He wiped away the cobwebs from his face and hair, and stood close to it, holding his breath. The screaming had stopped: he couldn't hear a thing, not a sound or a movement. A voice in the back of his head told him to back off,
back off, idiot
. . . but instead he got out his car keys and used the little Swiss Army knife on the fob to make a hole in the blue plastic.

As the knife went in he stopped, thinking what it might look like from inside – a bulge and then the little nose of the knife poking through, glinting maybe. His heart was thudding and he could feel sweat run from his armpits, making his sides and back itch. He counted to ten, then, when no one came running out at him, he slid the knife cleanly down the membrane making a long, straight slit. He stepped back, shocked by the noise, breathing hard.

After a minute or so when there was still nothing from inside, he crouched next to the slit and pushed one finger in, pulling it aside so he could see a few yards into the dim interior and listen. There was a smell of neglect and decay, a smell of raw concrete and stagnant water, and a lazy flapping, like slow wings beating somewhere in the darkness. Nothing else except the eerie silence.

He used the wooden handle to push into the gap and moved aside the sheeting, feeling the cooler air inside shift across his skin. Carefully he put one foot through, and then, with a quick sideways twist, followed it inside, dropping into a crouch. He held his breath and listened again. It was a moment or two before his eyes were used to the dark, but when they were he saw what had caused the flapping noise: every doorway leading away from this area was covered with white plastic sheeting, taped at the top with slits at the sides, lifting and rippling on unseen currents. With the deathly hush and stale air he couldn't help thinking of mortuaries.

Slowly he went to the first piece of sheeting and looked through into what had once been a utility area. The washing-machine was still in the corner, but it hadn't been used recently. Boxes of books were piled up in front of it, and the ironing-board was draped with filthy tea-towels. He moved to the next sheet and found he was looking into a kitchen – left-over food on the table, magazines piled everywhere, a guinea pig staring beadily at him from a cage on the work surface. He was about to go through the next sheet when, from the other side, the screaming started again.

Run until the world ends . . . Run until the world
ends . . .

As he lies on the sofa, his eyes moving under the lids, Skinny's words make patterns in Mossy's head, repeating themselves in long, feverish strings.
Run until the world ends .
. .

He's too submerged in his thoughts to notice the shadow return in the corridor. It hovers there, yellowing eyes watching him thoughtfully, and it might have stayed there if it hadn't been for a door opening. The shadow scuttles away just as light floods into the corridor. There's the sound of another door closing and, in the background, low, vicious voices.

Mossy opens his heavy eyes. His head is thick but he can see people out there – not just one or two but more. He can see shadows on the wall, can hear the muttered threats. Someone raises a hand and there's a scuffle. There's a noise too. It starts as a hoarse sob, then stretches into a long drawn-out cry, so high and thin it might be a girl screaming.

'Keep the noise down,' someone hisses. 'Keep the fucking noise down.'

Something heavy and clumsy falls on the floor and immediately the screaming stops.

Mossy's awake now. He sits upright, staring at the gate. He can't see anything from this angle: whatever's happening is happening out of sight, but too far down the corridor to see. From the sounds he can guess. Whoever was screaming has stopped because they've been thrown down, maybe knocked out. There's a gagging sound, then a noise like water being poured on the floor or someone throwing up. Then silence.

Mossy stays where he is, his heart leaping in his chest, wanting to cry. He prays that it's Jonah he can hear, arrived at last. He wants it so much that he knows he's not going to welcome him, be humble. He'll yell at him and strangle him, because the bastard needs to know that it's too late now, and that whatever happens next, whatever he'll go through, whatever sacrifices he'll make, none of it'll matter. None of it will matter because he's
too fucking late
.

Caffery came through the sheeting into the living room fast, the wooden bar behind him, his hand over his breast pocket where his warrant-card holder was, neat and efficient. He might have appeared calm, but the aggression was there, more than it had ever been. He scanned the room: the standard 360-degree sweep. He'd come in behind a large sofa that faced a TV on the far wall where a grainy black-and-white image played – a young man dressed in a khaki shirt squirming and turning on a bed, his screams filling the air. On the sofa a man's big carved face, a halo of greying curly hair, was turned to him.

'Kaiser Nduka?' he shouted, above the screams. 'Are you Kaiser Nduka?'

'Who are you?'

Caffery flicked out his warrant card, holding it out to him, still ready to bring down the wooden handle if the weird fucker did anything. Flea wasn't in the room. An engine was in pieces on the floor and a pair of gardening shears on the table. He monitored the shears out of the corner of his eye while Nduka inspected the card, his big nose twitching as if he could smell it. Then he sat back resignedly on the sofa. 'I see,' he mouthed. His face was calm, almost mournful, as if it was a terrible shame it had worked out like this. 'I understand.'

Caffery stepped carefully round the sofa past the engine. Mounted on the wall ahead was a cupboard, the doors open to reveal row after row of videotapes, about forty lined up, all bearing a white label. He snatched up the remote control from the table and turned down the volume. The sudden quiet in the room was almost as shocking as the screaming. On screen the man on the bed continued convulsing silently, his arms going up and down like a marionette's. He'd wet himself, Caffery saw. A dark stain was spreading across the sheet.

'OK,' Caffery said. 'What the fuck's that all about?'

Nduka shrugged pointedly, as if he was weary of the way the police behaved but knew he had to go along with it. 'An experiment.'

'An
experiment
?' Caffery's fingers on the wooden handle were sweating. 'You weird fuck. You made that video for your clients, didn't you? To let them know how genuine the goods are.'

Nduka passed a sinewy, elongated hand across his forehead. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'You gave it to your punters.'

'I'm sorry?'

'I said.' He gritted his teeth, pointing a finger at him. 'I said is
this
, are
those
—' He gestured at the banks of videos in the cupboard. 'Are they the videos you give to your punters?'

'They're very old.'

'I don't care how fucking old they are. That wasn't the question. The question is, are these the ones you give to your clients?'

'The young man consented to what was done to him. He allowed it to happen. But maybe human consent means nothing to you. And while I appreciate your being here, if you want to arrest me then arrest me for
that
.' He raised a hand to indicate the outhouses. 'For the magic mushrooms I'm growing there, with the marijuana, the skunk weed and all the other things. In fact, do you know I'd rather welcome that? The publicity might stop the university harassing me about my research assessment quotas. You should arrest me for that and not for—'

'Shut up,' Caffery said coldly. 'Just shut up.'

Nduka gave him a serene, almost pleasant smile, as if they were having a nice cup of tea on a sunny afternoon. And, very calmly, he stood and reached sideways for the shears.

'No you fucking don't.' Caffery hefted the handle and slipped round the side of the coffee-table, skidding in his work shoes but getting there just in time to knock the shears off the table. They fell with a loud clatter, spinning and clattering across the floor, making both men take a step back, surprised at how quickly this had become violent.

Nduka lifted his arms into the air, as if he'd never intended going near the shears. He took a breath, walked back a few tottering paces, and stood in the middle of the room, wiping his hands on his shirt as if he was confused and the solution would be to get his hands clean.

'Move,' Caffery said. 'Back – back to the sofa. That's it.'

'Of course,' Nduka said, blinking a little. He sat, his long legs jack-knifed almost to his chest, his arms half folded round himself. 'Of course.'

'And stay there.' Caffery jabbed a finger at him. 'Right there.' He held the finger for a few more moments, until he was sure Nduka wasn't going to move. Then he went to one of the curtains and flipped it aside. Flea's car was sitting outside in the sun. 'That's Sergeant Marley's car out there.'

'Whose car?'

'Sergeant Marley. You know who I'm talking about.'

'Phoebe, you mean?'

'What's she doing here?'

'She came to see me.'

'About what?'

'A personal matter.'

Caffery dropped the curtain. 'A
personal
matter? What? Now you're telling me she's a fucking friend of yours?'

Nduka didn't answer. He just went on looking at Caffery with his deep brown eyes, something almost amused in his face.

Caffery felt the blood rush to his head. 'What have you done with her, then?' His voice was calm even though sweat was running down his back. 'Where is she?'

'Oh, she's . . .' Nduka rubbed his forehead. 'Yes, she's busy.' His hand half covered his face, but not enough to stop Caffery seeing that his eyes had flickered in the direction of the hall.

'The hall?' he said, pushing himself away from the window. 'Is that where I need to go?'

Nduka didn't answer. He kept his hand where it was, half covering his eyes.

'Yes,' Caffery said. 'In the hall.' He went back to the doorway, flipped back the sheeting and peered into the darkness. 'What's down there?'

Nduka dropped his hand. 'My house. It's not very beautiful, I grant you, but it's my house.'

'Show me, then.' Caffery beckoned to him. 'Come on, shithole, show me.'

As if his back was paining him, Nduka got up and came forward slowly, placing one foot carefully in front of the other, as if this was a dance he was performing. At the door he threw Caffery a sideways glance with arched eyebrows.

'You first,' Caffery said, keeping his back to the wall, clutching the wooden handle in both hands. 'I'm not letting you walk behind me.'

With a mournful expression Nduka moved past him and began to walk into the gloom on his long, stiff legs. Caffery dropped the plastic sheeting and followed a few steps back, still holding the wooden handle, ready to use it. It was difficult to see but the hallway was carpeted in something old and threadbare, something paint-splattered. DIY warehouse architraves had been clumsily glued into the gaps between wall and ceiling, and the wallpaper had been half removed, then abandoned. There was a cold stale draught coming through here that made the hairs on the back of Caffery's neck stand up.

'The videos were done when I was at university,' Nduka said, from the gloom ahead.

'Shut the fuck up about the videos.'

'They volunteered. All the young people volunteered.'

'I said shut up. Tell me what you've done with her.'

Nduka stopped. He pointed to the end of the corridor where another door was covered with plastic, something on the other side giving it a blue, ethereal light, almost like in a hospital. For a moment neither man moved. Caffery's heart was beating faster, but he approached, holding the handle in front of him. He took a deep breath, pushed aside the sheeting and found himself in a large conservatory, sunshine slanting through dusty windows. It was unpainted and smelled of turps and solvent. It was empty.

He turned to Nduka. 'She's not fucking here.' 'Oh, she is,' he said unconcernedly. On their right, painted pale blue, a door led back into the house. He nodded to it. 'I put her in there.'

From his mental map of the house Caffery knew it would lead into the side of the kitchen. He took an automatic step towards it, then stopped, his chest constricting. Suddenly he was back seven years at a small bungalow in the backwaters of Kent. He was back to a psychopath who had told him where a woman could be found, a psycho who'd enjoyed letting Caffery go and find her and discover all that had been done to her. It wasn't anything to do with the door, it was Nduka's calm that made him think of it. That, and maybe the location – a deserted house with only trees and sky for company.

He clenched his fists, held them, then released them. Did it once again. Then he looked sideways at Nduka. 'You open it,' he said, feeling something under his sternum squirm. 'Go on. You open it.'

Nduka pressed a finger against his temple. 'Well,' he said, 'if I must.'

He stepped forward and pushed the door inwards. Beyond it there was a small well-lit room, books stacked floor to ceiling, a reading light hung low. There wasn't much space in there with the desks and the huge box files crammed with paper, but in the centre Flea sat, in a black sweatshirt, her hair in a ponytail. On her lap was a pile of papers. As the door opened she turned her eyes, seeming surprised.

'You?' she said, blinking at him. 'What are
you
doing here?'

Caffery didn't answer. He didn't care, he told himself. He didn't give a shit about her. He said it to himself slowly in his brain, his eyes closed, the sun filtering through his eyelids:
You don't care if
she lives or if she dies
.