The Secret Dead (London Bones Book 1) (14 page)

She snorted and seemingly made up her mind. ‘He was probably friendliest with Andy, and Ben’s definitely not with him because Andy’s my son and I would have noticed an extra mouth at the dinner table yesterday.’ She leaned over the kitchen counter, opened the window, and shouted out, ‘Andrew, get in here!’

Within a minute, a skinny teenaged boy, his face cratered with acne, appeared round the corner. ‘What?’

‘Not “what.” Yes, Mum.’

The boy rolled his eyes, ‘Yes, Mum.’

‘Have you seen your friend Ben?’

The boy looked from me to Adam to his mother. ‘Why, who’re they?’

‘Never mind why. Answer the question.’

Andy shrugged. ‘He was here last Wednesday when we had the table tennis tables up. I haven’t seen him since then.’

‘Do you know where he might have gone? Can you give me the names of anyone he’s friendly with?’ I asked.

Andy looked to his mother again before answering, ‘He’s not that friendly with anyone here. Most of ‘em didn’t want to get too close in case he was a mutant. Maybe he went to his brother’s.’

‘His brother’s? Finn?’ That didn’t make a lot of sense.

‘No, his big brother. Oliver.’

The expression on our faces must have been betrayed our reaction because Linda went pale. She put her hand on Andy’s shoulder. ‘Ben doesn’t have a big brother?’ We shook our heads in unison. ‘What brother, sweetheart? Did you get his surname?’

Andy looked suddenly unsure. ‘No.’

‘What did he look like?’ Adam asked. His pale skin was flushed red.

‘Uh...’ Andy fumbled in his pocket and produced a mobile. He skimmed through photos until he found the one he was looking for. I took the phone. Adam peered over my shoulder.

It was fuzzy, but showed Ben and an older boy playing table tennis. The ‘brother’ was aged around eighteen—tall and whip thin, with the tips of his brown hair dyed green. He was grinning, showing a slight overbite. His green eyes looked directly into the camera. I glanced at Adam. He shook his head.

I got Andy to text us both the picture.

We left them with my card and instructions to call if they heard anything. I turned back at the church door. Linda was hugging her son in a way that indicated she wasn’t going to let go for some time.

26

Adam grabbed my arm the moment I was out the door. ‘Do you have any idea who he was talking about?’ He didn’t wait for me to answer before he began to swear.

A middle-aged woman pushing a stroller tutted at him. He glared at her.

I mouthed an apology then pulled him back into the lee of the church out of the spitting rain. ‘Malcolm’s always been free with his oat sowing. Could be possible.’

He pulled the beanie off his head. The charms on his cuff trailed across the brush cut as he rubbed his scalp with one hand. ‘I don’t think so. If some kid turned up claiming to be his son, I’d have heard about it.’

‘So maybe just a friend then.’

‘So why would Ben say they were brothers?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, but I could think of a half dozen reasons. The first was that a lonely boy who finally made a friend might want to make out that the relationship was a lot closer than it was. The only other reasons I could think of were a little more sinister.

‘Look, I better go. Thanks for your help.’ Adam didn’t wait for me to respond. He stalked off in the direction of the train station, his head down.

I stood in the drizzle and watched him go. Not even an excuse as to why he needed to rush off. Adam Brannick wasn’t telling me something, but I had no idea what it was.

I spent the next half hour looking into the final two places on my list but came up with nothing and had to rush for the train so I could catch Sigrid’s carer before he left.

I squashed up in the carriage next to a swaying group of ogres who smelt a lot of beer and a little of sick and was profoundly grateful when they exited at Clapham Junction and I managed to get a seat.

I like the train. Not in rush hour when you’re nose to armpit—I’m not insane—but in the quieter times in between. The rattle and the roar knocks out all inconsequential sounds, and if you sit still on your seat and close your eyes, it rocks you gently as you go along. Everyone is on their way somewhere. Everyone has something to do or something to see, their lives moving on in a small way or a big one, but ultimately they’re journeying through life a little at a time. I like the feeling of going somewhere even when I’m sitting still.

At Sydenham, I left the hot confines of the crowded carriage and stepped out into cold air. The drizzle had turned to sleet, and it dripped down the back of my collar.

By the time I got home I was soaking wet, and my fingers and toes were painful with cold. I caught the carer just as he was leaving, and he gave me a quick update. I said goodbye, closed the door behind him, then stripped off my wet clothes and dumped them into the washing machine. I grabbed a clean shirt and jogging bottoms from the dryer next to it. The cold felt as if it had leaked into my bones, and I made a mental note to eat something sugary or fatty before I went to bed. Anything to put a little blubber on my frame.

When my phone rang, it took me a few minutes to locate it at the bottom of the washing machine, and I gave a silent thanks to the caller that they’d dialled before I had a chance to switch the machine on. The name on the screen was Samson Comfort. Finally.

‘Vivia. Sorry for not calling back. It’s been a difficult couple of days. I’m sure you can understand.’

‘Of course. My condolences about your brother-in-law.’

‘What? Malcolm? Ha! I really don’t give a shit about that old ballbag. This is the best thing that’s happened to Jillie in years. She’s upset now, but she’ll get over it.’

Okay then. I got to the point. ‘Ben Brannick’s still missing. Do you have any idea where he is?’

‘No. I don’t see the boy that often. Last time I saw him was Christmas Eve over at Jillie’s.’

It had been a long shot, but I couldn’t help feeling disappointed. ‘Thanks for getting back to me. Tell Jillie I’m thinking of her when you see her.’ I thought about what she’d said about the meat in the freezer. Had Ben given it to her, or had Malcolm? ‘Actually, there was something I wanted to ask her about.’

‘I’m picking them both up from quarantine tomorrow morning. They’ll be staying at mine. I’ll ask her to give you a call.’

I thanked him, and we said our goodbyes. I put on a pot of coffee, then spent the next half hour on phone calls, to Obe, to Annie, to people I’d already called. No one had any new information or knew anything about a boy claiming to be Ben’s brother.

The evening was taken up by feeding and cleaning up after my sister, who generated a ridiculous amount of washing for someone who didn’t even know she was alive. I completed it in a daze. Not even copious amounts of caffeine were enough to make up for being up so early and the emotional toll of the day, and I toppled into bed at eight. I was asleep before I could pull the duvet up around my shoulders.

I woke in the dark to someone shaking me, accompanied by the smell of stale cigarette smoke and unbrushed teeth.

‘Vivia, I need a change of bedding.’

I rubbed my eyes groggily. Stanley stood over me. He wasn’t wearing any pants. Skinny old man genitalia dangled centimetres from my face.

‘God, Stan. Do we need to have another conversation about boundaries?’

He sniggered. ‘I’ve had enough of those, missy. I’ll have a cup of tea while I wait.’ He sat down next to me, indicating quite clearly who was supposed to make the tea. I groaned and reached for my phone to check the time. Four a.m.

‘Uh-uh. I’m not your live-in servant. If you strip the old sheets off, I’ll help you shift the mattress. If you say please. And you can make your own tea.’

He grumbled, but stalked off upstairs. Because I’m a sucker and I really wanted a cup of tea anyway, I helped Stan with his bed while the kettle boiled, then took my tea back to bed with my laptop and a box of chocolates I’d received for Christmas. Sleet dripped down the window, and the cold air sneaking under the frame was fresh and exhaust free.

I sat cross-legged in bed with the duvet around my shoulders and logged into the Lipscombe systems to check my email. There were a few email responses relating to other case files which I replied to, but nothing about Ben. There was one from Samson Comfort letting me know they’d be holding a memorial service for Malcolm on Thursday.

I wasn’t quite sure where to look next. I’d drawn up a to-do list before I’d gone to bed, but it mostly involved going over the same ground. I checked the time on my laptop—five thirty. Forty-eight hours since Jillie and Finn had been taken away. As I sat in bed, they were likely going through their final medicals and being prepared for release.

I took a last sip of tea and inspected the chocolate box. I’d eaten all the nice ones and was feeling a little sick. I ate another anyway.

At seven, I reluctantly got out of bed to shower. The phone rang while I was rinsing my hair. I dried off, but before I had the chance to rub the steam off the screen and check for a message, it rang again. It was Dunne calling to tell me they’d found Ben.

But not all of him.

27

I tugged on my clothes without drying properly, and my shirt stuck to my back. I found Stanley at the back of the house poking holes into compost pots with a pencil, a pile of seed packets next to him. He was the reason the garden at the back of the house was once pictured in
Gardener’s World
. If it were left to me, it’d be nothing but weeds and snails. He let me borrow his van with only minimum argument, and I was out the door ten minutes after I got the call.

The pavement was slick and shiny, but the sleet had stopped. Stan’s white van was parked two streets up, sandwiched between a Prius and an ancient Toyota parked almost close enough to touch bumpers.

I climbed onto the cold leather seat, and the van started on the second go. Stan didn’t do as much landscaping work as he once did, but there was still the slight scent of sweat underneath the stronger smell of compost and the oil he used on his tools. I wound down the window and let the morning air in. It smelt heavy, as if snow was coming. I peered through the windscreen at the sky. The clouds were streaked pink and yellow. It only snows a couple of times each winter, and I hate it every time.

I reached forward and clicked on the radio to find Ben was the topic on all the talk radio stations. The single music station I tried had a flying theme. For about twenty seconds, I listened to some boy band warbling about how I make them feel like flying before I switched it off.

In a déjà vu moment, I turned into the road Dunne had given me over the phone and found it cordoned off by the Met with a police presence holding off a crowd of rubber neckers. I parked one road up and walked.

A single bored constable blocked the way. I showed him my Lipscombe ID card, but he just raised his eyebrows.

‘He’—the constable used his thumb to point out an elderly cybergeek in a Universe Mechanica shirt—’already tried that.’

‘He,’ I said, ‘is crazy. DS Dunne is expecting me.’

The constable pulled a walkie-talkie from his jacket and spoke into it, and a garbled voice that might have been Dunne’s came out. Listening through static must be taught at cop school. The constable shrugged at me and lifted the tape so I could duck underneath. Light flashed as someone took a photo of me. I turned to see a woman with a professional-looking camera and journalist’s ID pinned to her lapel. I don’t photograph well. I’ve always got my eyes closed and my mouth half-open. I hoped she wouldn’t publish it anywhere anyone I knew would see. The odds were probably on my side; pretty pictures sell better than ugly ones.

Something wet and very cold dropped onto my nose. The sleet matched my mood, and I muttered to myself as I walked down the road towards a single white forensic tent parked on someone’s driveway. The road was purely residential, with council maisonettes on one side and semi-detached fifties-built houses on the other. The house with the tent was the latter, painted a pale pink over pebble-dashing. A pair of constables eyeballed me as they made their way from door to door.

I opened the tent flap and stepped in with care. Ben’s wings were laid out on a separate piece of white plastic sheeting and were about a metre and a half from wing to tip. They were a combination of white and dirty grey with smears of brown blood at intervals. They ended in pink, jagged cartilage, white tendon strings, and globules of pink flesh.

Dunne stood at the other end of the tent with his arms folded. He looked up as I entered, and frowned. ‘What are the chances this isn’t him? That they’re from a pegasus or a pigeon shifter? Or someone else entirely?’

‘Much too big for a pigeon, and wrong colour for a pegasus,’ I said. ‘Pegs’re pure white.’

I glanced at him. Dunne looked worried. He bent into a squat and stared at the wings as if the answer was right there, then sighed and straightened. ‘Do you think he could have survived this?’

‘I have no idea. Winged physiology isn’t my area of expertise. I suppose a bird could survive having its wings cut off if it was done carefully.’

The two of us looked at the bloody, jagged edges. It hadn’t been done carefully. Someone had ripped them off or at least sawed at them with a bread knife.

Something blue caught my eye. I pointed. ‘What’s that?’

Dunne bent again and used a white-gloved hand to lift the thick cartilage. He flicked something around. I bent into a squat next to him to see three tiny blue beads threaded onto a leather thong wrapped around the long cartilage at the apex. Despite its distinctive decorative appearance, I couldn’t help thinking of the sort of tag used by scientists to track rare birds.

‘Is that his?’ Dunne asked.

I shook my head. ‘I don’t know, but I only saw Ben for two minutes at the office. I wouldn’t have noticed if he was wearing it.’ I pulled out my mobile and tapped on the camera app. ‘Do you mind?’

He shook his head. I snapped a few photos from various angles, including a number of careful shots that showed the feathers, but left off the devastation at the ends. I took a close-up of the blue beads, checked I had what I needed, then put the phone away.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘Old lady hears a noise round her bin this morning, thought it was scavenger gnomes, so she comes out with a water pistol. No kids, but the lid wasn’t closed, so she took a peek and called us.’

‘She didn’t see anyone? It must have taken at least a few minutes to jam them into the bin.’

‘She says not. No sign of any other body parts, but I’ve got constables going through everyone else’s bins. I’ve had to cancel bin collection this morning, so I’ve had six complaints from the public already. Oh, the joys of policing.’

I hadn’t taken my eyes off the wings. I focused on the bloody edges. The blood had congealed and gone hard. I pointed it out. ‘How long does it take to do that?’

He shrugged. ‘Not long, I guess. I’ll know more when we get them to the lab. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about Berenice Nazarak. You promised you’d talk to her again.’

‘I will. I—’

‘I’ve arranged for you to visit her house. I’ve cleared it with her foster mother. She would have gone home by now, right?’

‘And Haddad? Have you cleared it with her?’

He avoided the question. ‘If you want to take a look for Ben in the underworld now, that’ll have to be on the house too. I won’t get sign-off for payment,’ he said. I didn’t miss the undertone of pleading in his voice. This was Dunne’s first big case. I could see the terror in his face that he might screw it up.

Die now
and
later? The idea didn’t appeal... but then Ben’s image flashed in my head, bent over his book, the shy smile. If he was still alive, he had to be badly injured. I couldn’t wait until later and look for him at the same time as Berenice. Not if my only reason was not wanting to get a little nauseous.

‘They’ll both be freebies. If you let me use your police car and keep an eye on my body,’ I said. I was doing a lot of them. My hand rose to my cheek. The harpy scratch was healing, but it still itched like hell.

Dunne smiled with relief. I noticed one of the constables giving me a dirty look as I pulled at the door handle of the car.
This is going to get back to Haddad, whether he likes it or not.

I dug in my backpack for a paper sickbag, then lay on the back seat of the car with the bag on my stomach where it would be easily accessible the moment I came back.

Dunne snapped on the radio. ‘Do you mind?’

‘No,’ I said. I don’t notice anything when I’m dead.