Girl:Broken Page 6

  ‘Yes, but what is the investigation?’

  Collins entered the building and Slane stood aside, allowing Joseph to walk in front of her.

  ‘I really would rather tell you inside, Joseph,’ said Slane. ‘It won’t take too much of your time. You don’t have to be at your hair appointment until noon, is that correct?’

  Joseph nodded. As he walked into the hall he was momentarily unable to see as his eyes adjusted to the ambient dim. When his vision cleared he was not reassured. The corridor he found himself in was unlit and the floor covered in debris. A rusting bike frame was staggered against the cracked wall, and old magazines lay rotting on the concrete floor. The whole area smelt of urine from a shut-down liver.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Slane repeated quietly behind him. He could hear the laughter in it; not mocking, exactly, but amused. ‘It’s all part of the disguise. First door on the left.’

  Joseph saw Collins walk through a doorway and disappear from view. Breathing shallowly so as not to gag on the acidic reek of urine, Joseph followed, carefully stepping over an old spray paint canister. When he had passed through into the next room he stopped and gazed around him, until he felt Slane’s gentle push on his back.

  ‘Told you,’ she said.

  Joseph found himself in a large rectangular room, clean and well lit, with a Smart Board against the far wall, and trestle tables against two others with laptops and desktop computers. There was a vintage filing cabinet on his left, against the wall in which the doorway was situated, and a coffee machine to his right.

  ‘Coffee, sir?’ said the driver. Joseph nodded absently and walked to the centre of the room, gazing around. The driver tapped a couple of buttons and the machine spat out a plastic cup. A few seconds later a dark liquid dribbled into it. Slane shut the door and walked to the drinks machine.

  ‘It’s not Caffè Nero, I’m afraid, but it’s hot and wet and guaranteed to make your heart race,’ she said, picking up the drink and bringing it over to Joseph.

  Joseph took the offered cup. ‘This is amazing. I would never have believed this was here.’

  Slane smiled. ‘As we said, it’s cheap and discreet and off the radar, press-wise.’

  ‘Why would you need to be off the radar?’

  ‘Can I take your coat, sir?’ The driver held out his hand. Joseph shrugged himself out of it and handed the garment over. The driver nodded smartly, took the coat and draped it over a chair. Joseph had needed to put down his briefcase to get out of the coat, and Collins picked it up and took it to the trestle table. Then he snapped the case’s clasps and opened the lid.

  ‘Hey!’ said Joseph. ‘That’s my property! You can’t–’ He looked down. Slane’s hand was on his arm.

  ‘It’s all right, Joseph,’ she said, soothingly. ‘It’s just a precaution. This is a sensitive area. There can’t be a security breach. It’s for your own protection. Make sure there are no bugs or tech there that shouldn’t be, okay?’

  Joseph watched as Collins searched through his case, and flicked through his diary and lecture notes.

  ‘Who’s Mark?’ he said, pointing at the diary entry.

  ‘My son…’ Joseph said reluctantly. ‘But aren’t you required to ask my permission? Get my consent or whatever?’

  Slane smiled at him again. ‘Do you mind? It really is for your own safety.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Thank you. Grant?’ Slane looked at the driver who, Joseph saw, was searching his overcoat. He turned to look at her, shaking his head and holding up Joseph’s mobile phone.

  ‘Clean,’ he said. Slane nodded. Grant brought the mobile over and handed it to her. She looked at it a moment, then stared at Joseph, raising her eyebrows inquiringly.

  ‘Where did you get this, the Ark?’

  ‘I’m not too keen on technology,’ Joseph said defensively, holding out his hand. ‘It makes phone calls, takes photos and receives texts. That’s all I need.’

  ‘I’m amazed it even does that,’ said Slane, looking at it a moment longer, then handing it to him. ‘I wonder if you’d mind me patting you down? I know it might seem over the top but…’ she shrugged apologetically.

  Joseph sighed heavily and made a point of checking his watch. ‘If you must.’

  ‘Thank you. Sorry,’ said Slane, then expertly searched him. He could feel her fingers as she felt his pockets, his body. He felt mildly violated.

  After a moment she looked over at Collins and nodded. ‘All good,’ she said.

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Joseph. ‘I only came to give a lecture.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Professor Skinner,’ said Collins. ‘But due to the delicacy of the case this task force is set up for, I’m afraid we have to be extra careful. If the press got wind of it…’

  ‘And what exactly is this task force set up for? Because I’m not sure how I can be of–’

  ‘Cults and mind control,’ said Collins, cutting Joseph off. ‘Immersive Charisma Syndrome. The relationships formed within closed and coercive social groups. That’s your area of expertise. Correct?’

  Joseph paused, reassessing, then nodded. ‘Some of them, yes. What has that got to do with…’ he stopped, seeing what was posted on the Smart Board. He took a step towards it. Near the top of the screen was displayed the image of a faded photograph containing a red-brick house. The photograph was old, the skin of it cracked and brittle looking. The house was detached, set back from a country lane. It had an unloved feel about it. Uncared for. There were rusty railings around a narrow strip of grass at the front, and the entire structure seemed to have been cut into a wooded bank, creating an alley leading around the sides to the back. In the faded colours of the picture, the windows looked grimy: unwashed and dusty. There was a thin trail of dark smoke moving up into a grey sky from the chimney.

  Next to it was the scan of another photograph, of the same house. Also cracked, the colours equally faded. In this one, though, the house was not only in disrepair, it was in pieces. Blown apart or demolished. Still recognisable as a house, but only just. The railings were all twisted. Only the left side of the building and a portion of the front remained intact; like an unfinished jigsaw. Smoke was obscuring the debris. Joseph scanned the rest of the board. Next to the image of the ruined house was a picture of a man. Joseph walked a little closer. It was a headshot, face-on. Like a passport photo. The man, perhaps thirty, looked earnestly out at the camera. Underneath was a printed name.

  Walter Cummings.

  Joseph blinked. Next to the picture was another photograph, this time of a girl. Joseph guessed she was pre-teen, maybe ten or eleven. This also had a name printed beneath it.

  Daisy.

  Joseph stared at the two faces intently, then at what was printed at the top of the board.

  Joseph felt like a splinter of ice had been pressed into his spine.

  ‘Why have you got this here?’ he said. ‘This is old news.’

  ‘Not anymore. This is why, Joseph,’ said Slane. ‘This is why we are being extra careful. Under the radar.’

  Typed under the photographs was:

  The Fishermen cult house. Surrey. 1995

  ‘The picture of the three girls. In your lecture.’ Collins came and stood next to Joseph, looking up at the board. ‘They were survivors of The Fishermen, weren’t they?’

  Joseph nodded, not able to take his eyes off the images. ‘Yes, but not from this house. There were a few scattered across the country.’ He looked at the board a moment longer, then turned and addressed Slane, eyes narrowed. ‘But how do you know? About the house in the lecture? It wasn’t mentioned by name.’

  ‘It was listed in the notes,’ said Slane, now standing by him, looking at the board. ‘In the index you posted online for the students. In the appendage. You uploaded them two days ago. As soon as it was in the cloud it triggered a red flag. Anything to do with The Fishermen registers with us.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Joseph, nodding to himself. ‘All source photographs are
indexed and referenced. But I still don’t see how that can have anything to do with you. That cult died out decades ago. All the members committed suicide. The last of them blew themselves up in that house.’ He pointed at the board.

  ‘Absolutely.’ Slane picked up a tablet from one of the trestle tables, glanced at it, then handed it to the professor. Eyebrows raised, he took it.

  ‘What am I looking at?’ he asked.

  ‘Two months ago a homeless man was found murdered. His throat had been cut so deeply that it was amazing his head was still attached. The woman who found him said that a song was still playing on his media player.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what–’

  ‘As far as the police are aware it was nothing more than a brutal murder, possibly drug-related. Possibly some sick form of vigilante. Clean up the streets. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Right…’ said Joseph, his face still showing confusion. ‘I thought you were the police.’

  ‘As far as the normal police are concerned.’ Slane smiled. ‘Look at his wrist, professor.’

  Joseph looked down at the screen. There was a thin slice of exposed skin between where the victim’s coat had ridden up and his fingerless glove. Joseph squinted, then used his hand to expand the image on the screen. He stared at the enlarged area of skin, shaking his head.

  ‘That’s not possible,’ he said. ‘They all died. Everybody died.’

  On the dead man’s wrist was a tattoo of a mermaid.

  ‘Apparently not. Walter, it seems, escaped.’

  Joseph looked up at her. She nodded, pointing to the picture of the man on the Smart Board. Joseph realised that it was the same person. Younger. Not ravished by years of living on the streets. But the same person.

  ‘Or at least he did until he was found on the streets of Leeds with his throat cut.’

  ‘But it’s not possible,’ repeated Joseph.

  ‘I’m afraid it is, professor. Walter survived. Which means others might have too. Which means that The Fishermen might still be active.’

  ‘What was the song?’ said Joseph.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘On the media player. What was the song he was listening to? When he was murdered.’

  Slane smiled as if she knew she had found her man.

  ‘Culture Club. “Do you Really Want to Hurt Me”?’

  14

  23rd October

  ‘I mean you never, like never, keep the door unlocked. It’s a bloody fortress in here! If you don’t let someone in, they’re not in, right? End of story.’

  Daisy nodded. Her heterochromia made Jay feel that Daisy could look right inside her head. Know what she was thinking. Jay smiled grimly to herself. She hoped not.

  ‘And you didn’t? I mean I’ve never known you to let anyone in. Except me, of course.’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  Jay could sense the frustration and fear coming off Daisy like radiation.

  ‘I remember I had a session, and bits of walking home.’ Daisy’s hands moved as she talked, a physical narrative to colour-in her recollection. ‘I remember it was raining.’

  Jay nodded agreement.

  ‘It was proper Leeds-rain. It was bouncing.’

  Daisy creased her face in concentration.

  ‘I was step-counting. Breaking the journey into pieces. Varying the lengths.’

  Jay understood. It was something they’d been taught in one of the grey classes: a survival session where the object of the therapy was not to heal but to manage. To give mechanisms to help function in life. To do more than just hide away in a box. One of the therapies was to own the journey. To break it down and take control of it. Make certain buildings important, familiar. Know exact distances. Map the journey in real-time by step-counting. Anything to keep the fear at bay. Be a moment in time and a point in space. Take control. Own the quantum.

  Personally, Jay liked to give the quantum a good kicking. She thought most of the therapy meetings she’d visited with Daisy were bollocks.

  Jay silently chided herself. But then what did she know? She was just a lying cow who was fucking over someone who thought of her as a friend. Her gut spasmed with shame and guilt.

  ‘And then the next thing I remember was waking up wrong, on my bed, by the ringing coming from…’ Daisy pointed at the phone.

  ‘So somebody could have mugged you. Which would explain why you can’t remember. Used your keys to get into the flat. Maybe drugged you, although that doesn’t explain how the door could be locked but the person leave you the keys.’

  ‘Maybe they made a spare set? While I was–’ she fluttered her hand, ‘out of it.’

  Jay nodded. She didn’t mention about the bolts. Because there was no way someone could have left and rammed them home. The flat must have been bolted from the inside. Jay had heard them sliding back when Daisy let her in.

  Which didn’t really leave many options.

  ‘Maybe. But it still doesn’t make any sense. Why drug you? Why break in and leave you a phone with an image of a mermaid on it? Then sod off, locking the door behind them?’

  She paused, then looked at the woman. ‘Daisy,’ she began softly.

  ‘It wasn’t me!’

  If Jay was shocked by the vehemence of her denial she didn’t show it. Jay had been around Daisy long enough to know she was fucked-up. Beyond fucked-up. But she also knew things Daisy didn’t.

  Like she wasn’t paranoid. People really were watching her.

  Jay was watching her.

  Jay felt another twist in her stomach. There was no way she could keep this up.

  ‘Daisy, I–’

  ‘Look, would you wait for me, outside? I need to clean up, and I’d feel safer if I knew you were watching the door.’

  ‘Do you want me to stay in here? I don’t mind.’

  Daisy glanced at her bathroom, with no door.

  ‘No, outside would be good. I’m really sorry, but–’

  ‘No need to apologise.’

  Jay came and stood in front of Daisy. Gently placed a feather of hand on her arm.

  ‘I’ll only be outside, take your time…’

  Jay tried a smile, but Daisy didn’t smile back.

  ‘Just outside,’ Jay repeated gently, and turned, walking back to the door.

  Daisy watched her leave, holding her breath. Once the door had closed she let it out in a slow release, like she’d been taught.

  She couldn’t tell Jay about the mermaid. About The Fishermen. About her past. She simply couldn’t. She’d only just started remembering herself. Neither could she tell her about all the blackouts; the blank gaps in her memory. Because if she did she’d have to confront it. And not only the now, but the then. The everything.

  And there was no way she was going to do that.

  She took a shaky breath and walked toward the bathroom.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Shit!’ Daisy halted and turned; stared at the phone.

  Daisy. Daisy. Daisy. The flashing was the same as before, except the font was now red.

  Red for danger, she thought haphazardly. Red for blood. She looked through the doorway into the hall, hoping to see Jay, but the front door was closed. She wondered if she should go and get her.

  Instead, she ran to the table, grabbed the phone, and swiped to answer.

  ‘Hello?’ she whispered. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  For a moment there was silence, just the crack of dead air.

  Daisy frowned.

  And then it began. Like it had all those years ago.

  The song. The song that meant the darkness was coming.

  ‘Do you really want to hurt me?’

  With a scream Daisy threw the phone against the wall, smashing it into silence.

  15

  3rd November

  Joseph stared at the picture. ‘This doesn’t make sense. They all died. Every single one was documented as deceased. I’ve read all the files on them. There were no survi
vors except their victims. The children.’ Joseph tapped his finger on the table in front of him for emphasis. ‘None.’

  Collins nodded at Grant. ‘Pull up the history and put it on the board, please.’ Grant nodded back and picked up his tablet and tapped and swiped. Joseph continued to stare at the Smart Board, taking in the detail of the house in the picture. Then he studied the photograph of Walter and the girl.

  ‘Was he one of The Fishermen from Surrey? The family that perished in the bomb?’ He peered at the name. ‘Walter Cummings.’ Crease lines tramlined his forehead as he searched his memory, trying to place the name.

  After several moments he shook his head. ‘Are you sure this is right? I don’t have–’

  ‘Don’t worry about the name for now,’ interrupted Collins. ‘He was a member of The Fishermen. Cummings was the head of the family at the Surrey house. The house mother died in the explosion.’

  Joseph was startled by the harshness of Collins’ tone; as if he had been challenged. He looked at the detective, but the man had already turned away.

  ‘Are you ready, Grant?’ Collins said to the driver.

  ‘Sure.’

  Joseph saw that he too had a tablet and was transferring something to the Smart Board.

  ‘Over here, Joseph,’ said Slane.

  Joseph turned and saw that Slane had set out four foldaway wooden chairs in the middle of the room, facing the Smart Board. ‘Grant is going to run the heritage media we have pertaining to the case. It will give you the scaffolding to understand the reason we need your help.’ She sat down and looked at him expectantly. After a beat, he walked over and joined her. Collins and Grant did likewise.

  ‘Heritage media?’ said Joseph, his tone slightly mocking as he sat down. ‘Do you just mean old footage?’

  Slane smiled. Joseph saw that behind the professionalism she was tired.