Infixion (Mesmeris Book 2) Read online

  Still, it wouldn’t do to undermine her superior. She didn’t want to come back from leave to find she’d been transferred to traffic, so she signed the paperwork, and delivered it to the desk.

  She stepped outside into the night air. The rain had stopped, the cloud cover thinned. Her breath steamed in front of her. This’ll freeze, this surface water, she thought. Be treacherous in a couple of hours, just in time for rush hour. Still, not her problem. Two weeks off stretched ahead of her. A lie-in first, then a mooch down to the coffee shop with the paper. She’d have a full English – sorted. Another day, and she’d be heading off to the sun.

  The car stank from the dog. Mud plastered the passenger seat, dried slobber coated the inside of the window. Maybe she’d give it a clean while he stayed with her ex. Then again, maybe not. It would only get dirty again when he came back, so what was the point?

  She lit up half a fag, leftover from earlier, sucked in the hot smoke, held it, let it curl around her lungs. She exhaled, relaxed.

  Her route home took her past the vicarage, past the church. No sign of the forensics van. She checked the time – four-thirty. It looked as if they’d sealed off the scene okay. Blue and white police tape blocked off the lynch gate.

  She pulled in, killed the engine, and stared at the church. What had happened in there? She took another long, hard drag on her cigarette then almost choked, as a flash of light lit up one of the windows. Moments later, a car drove past. Reflection of the headlights, stupid. She put her hand on the car key, went to turn it, but there it was again, another flash – and gone. This time there was no car.

  Damned kids, looking for ghoulish trophies no doubt, contaminating the crime scene. News travelled fast in a small town. It was probably all over social media already. So much for keeping it quiet.

  She stubbed out the fag, and climbed out of the car, closing the door quietly. She’d frighten the little buggers, all right. Teach them a lesson they’d never forget.

  Calling it in would be correct procedure, but that would mean going back to the nick, filling in another load of paperwork. God knows what time she’d get in. Bang would go her full English.

  The temperature had plummeted now the clouds had gone. Amazing how many stars there were outside town – millions of them. Not that you’d call it countryside per se, more outskirts. Even so, the narrow road led to nothing but country lanes, fields, and tiny hamlets, abandoned by all but the elderly in winter, full of second-home owners all summer.

  Jarvis ducked under the blue and white tape and crept up the path, pulling out her truncheon as she went. Best to be careful. You never knew with kids. Most were okay, once they knew you were a cop, but some . . .

  The tape across the doorway looked intact, but the door stood half-open. She stepped over the tape, peered inside. Four of them, using torches. She hesitated, just for a second, thought about going back to the car, calling it in. For pity’s sake, she told herself, they were kids. She’d dealt with far larger groups than that, many a time.

  She stepped into the church. ‘Police.’

  They turned their torches on her, little scrotes.

  She raised her arm to shield her eyes. ‘Put those damned torches down, or I’ll arrest you all.’

  Nothing moved. Whispers came from all around, seemed to come from the walls. Her skin prickled. The door banged shut behind her.

  Shit! She’d jumped, and there’s no way they’d have missed it.

  She swallowed, took a step back. ‘Now, listen. You don’t want this getting back to your parents.’

  A laugh from her right, then her left. She spun round, raised her truncheon.

  CHAPTER SIX MARCUS

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  They’d been searching for two full days, with no sign of the missing detective. Marcus was thirsty, hungry, and pissed off. When his inspector asked who wanted to help Gloucester Constabulary, Marcus had volunteered immediately. A day in the country had to be a damned sight more interesting than sitting at a computer screen, he thought.

  He was wrong.

  The first day’s search had focussed on the missing detective’s route home from the station – house to house, checking the verges and ditches. Plenty of opportunity to get a coffee, something to eat. The second day though, the search widened to embrace surrounding villages, fields and woodland. They’d split up to cover more ground, and he’d found himself alone in the middle of nowhere. As the day wore on, the sky changed from white, to pale grey, to rain-laden slate.

  Marcus had been stumbling alone through trees for three hours already, and nothing but trees, trees, and more trees.

  Now and again, he’d hear someone else blundering through the undergrowth on either side of him, hear an occasional shout or curse in the distance, or the buzz of an insect nearby, but mostly, there was just him and the birds, and the helicopter stuttering overhead.

  It wasn’t as if he even liked the countryside. He’d nearly blinded himself within minutes, by walking into a twig. All the damned trees looked the same. For all he knew, he could have been going round in circles the whole time.

  Dead leaves covered the ground, but there were signs of spring – green shoots pushing their way through, buds bursting on the trees. He thought of his mum, how she used to make them go for walks in the woods as kids. Crazy even then, he thought.

  The boggy, slippery ground underfoot slowed his progress. The helicopter hovered low overhead, buffeting his eardrums. He stepped in a puddle. The mud splashed over his shoe, seeped into his sock. Brilliant. His stomach rumbled with hunger. He wanted, needed, a coffee. He did not need a soggy left foot.

  The trees thinned to a clearing of sorts just as the rain started. Great. This just kept getting better and better. He caught his foot on something hard, unyielding, and stumbled, only just managing to save himself. That was all he needed - to go back covered in mud, be the laughing stock. He bent down and brushed the leaves off. A stone, that’s all – grey, flat, even. Too even, maybe. He brushed more leaves away. It was a slab, oblong, with a dip in the middle - carved, manmade. He straightened up.

  Boredom and hunger forgotten, his pulse quickened. He looked around, his senses sharpened, sniffed the air. Something – definitely something. The sour smell stung his nostrils. As the helicopter moved away, he heard a low hum like a swarm of bees. His skin crawled. He stepped back, turned his head, slowly, slowly, to pinpoint the sound.

  Up, up, and there she was - hanging by her ankles from a large branch. Her feet were tied, one over the other, with thick rope, her arms outstretched, held in place by more rope. Blowflies crawled over her hair, over her clothes, her hands, crawled in and out of her mouth, her ears, the gaping hole in her neck.

  Marcus turned away, threw up into the undergrowth. Fat, lazy flies, buzzed past him, landed on his jacket, on his hair. ‘Christ.’ He batted them away, shuddered.

  He phoned it in, and waited, his back to the corpse.

  It seemed endless, the time it took for anyone to turn up. Eventually, a middle-aged, square-shouldered guy with thinning hair arrived, accompanied by two uniformed officers.

  Marcus stood to attention. ‘Sir.’

  The guy stared past him at the corpse, inhaled, blew the air out slowly through his mouth. ‘Bastards.’ His sharp, nut-brown eyes shifted to Marcus. ‘DCI Jim Macready.’

  Jim Macready. The name was familiar, the voice too. Marcus definitely knew him, or of him, but couldn’t think how.

  ‘And you are?’ Jim said.

  ‘Fielding, sir.’

  Jim frowned.

  ‘Thames Valley, sir.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jim nodded. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Threw up, sir.’ Marcus pointed to the patch of undergrowth.

  ‘Not surprised.’ Jim turned to the uniforms. ‘Mark it.’

  ‘Guv.’

  ‘That’s my sergeant.’ Macready pointed towards the body. ‘Thought she was sunning herself in Tenerife.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

&n
bsp; ‘Thank you.’ He turned to the uniformed officers. ‘Stand everyone down. Secure the scene, the air space, and get my SOCO team down here. No one else to come within eyeshot, d’you hear me?’

  They nodded. ‘Guv.’

  ‘This MO remains between us – that includes you, Fielding. If I hear word’s got out, I’ll have your bollocks.’

  Marcus nodded. ‘Guv.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN MARCUS

  TWELVE MONTHS LATER

  Marcus sat halfway down the bus and stared out of the window. He’d done the trip so often, the other passengers seemed like old friends. Week after week, he made the same journey, and every week, he wondered why he bothered.

  ‘No change,’ the nurses would say, and then, perhaps seeing his expression, ‘These things take time,’ or some other trite cliché.

  This time, though, he had something to tell her. Maybe it would make a difference. He took the letter out of his bag, enjoyed the thrill as he re-read the words.

  We are pleased to offer you a place on the High Potential Development Scheme at Hendon Police Training College, London.

  To get onto the intense, five-year programme had been a dream, something unattainable. Now it was a reality. He’d done it. He’d be in a position to damage Mesmeris, to make something good come out of his sister’s death. And maybe, just maybe, it would spark his mother back to life.

  The grey, Victorian edifice looked every inch the archetypal asylum, even though it housed only admin offices. Behind it stood the ultra-modern, bright, purpose-built block. No matter how you dressed it up though, it was still an asylum.

  The dark-haired nurse looked up as Marcus came in. ‘Ah!’ she said, as if she’d been waiting for him. She made eye contact, moved towards him.

  That wasn’t the way it usually worked. A chill settled in Marcus’s belly. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The word rose at the end. The nurse touched his arm.

  Marcus waited for the ‘but’.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘What?’ Why didn’t she stop fannying about, and just tell him? ‘But what?’

  ‘Your mother’s been a bit – agitated.’

  Agitated? That was a step up, wasn’t it? Better than staring at a wall, dead but for the heartbeat.

  ‘Is that bad?’

  ‘No.’ The nurse laughed – high pitched, false. She was a crap liar. ‘No, it’s just we didn’t want you to be alarmed.’

  ‘Right.’ Thanks for that, he thought.

  ‘Doctor says it’s the shock wearing off. She’s – becoming aware.’

  ‘But that has to be good, yeah? Means she’s getting better?’

  The nurse pursed her lips. ‘It’s a long road, but yes, it’s the first step.’

  ‘Right.’ So why was she so damned nervous?

  She removed her hand from his arm. ‘Um - just call – if you need me.’

  Marcus wanted to punch the wall or swear but instead, he went straight to his mother’s ward, dread growing inside him like a living thing with every step.

  At first, it seemed the nurse had got it wrong. His mother sat staring at the wall, just like every other week. A dribble of saliva trickled from the corner of her mouth. A droplet formed on her chin, grew larger, then fell, attached by a silvery thread of slimy wetness until, finally, gravity won, and it dropped onto her lap, adding to the dark, wet patch on her nightdress. A new dribble began its relentless journey.

  Her mouth moved, as though speaking, although no sound emerged. She frowned, shook her head. The shakes grew violent. The string of saliva swung in the air, left and right, then smacked itself against her cheek, and stuck there, like spaghetti against a wall.

  ‘Mum.’ Marcus moved into her eye line.

  She shifted her gaze, past him. ‘They’re here,’ she said.

  Tears sprang into Marcus’s eyes at the sound of her voice, the voice of his childhood.

  ‘Mum, it’s me.’ He moved again, interrupted her stare. ‘I have something to tell you. News – good news.’

  She smiled, and for a moment, Marcus felt joy – undiluted happiness.

  But the smile was a grimace.

  ‘Nurse!’ his mother yelled.

  ‘Mum, I . . .’

  ‘Nurse!’ Her eyes widened. She tried to back away, scrabbling at the back of the chair.

  He held her shoulders, stared into her terrified eyes. ‘Mum, it’s all right. It’s me – Marcus.’

  ‘Help.’ She flailed at him, slapping his face, his arms.

  Her strength surprised him. He stepped back, stared at the alien creature writhing in front of him.

  ‘Help!’ Her voice rose as she tried to escape from the chair. ‘Help! Help me. Help.’

  Two nurses brushed past him. His mother fought them until the doctor arrived. Between the three of them, they overpowered her, and she gave up, fell back into the chair and closed her eyes.

  Marcus felt pity, in an abstract way, as you would for an injured animal. Disgust, too, and fear. Most of all, he felt furious hatred, for the monster that had replaced his beloved mum, because one thing was for sure, the person looking out of those frantic eyes was not his mother.

  He called Emily. She wasn’t the best at listening, but maybe he could forget for a while, wrapped up in her body.

  No reply. Probably sleeping. She slept a lot. Had she had a late shift? He couldn’t remember.

  He knocked on her door in the accommodation block, heard rustling from inside. He wondered if he could get away without talking first, just take her straight to bed.

  She opened the door a crack, peered out. Messed up hair, pink cheeks, red lips. ‘Marcus.’

  More rustling, from inside the room. ‘Shit!’

  Marcus recognised the voice – his mate – his best mate. He shoved the door.

  She tried to block him. ‘I thought you were . . .’

  He elbowed her out of the way.

  Ollie had his jeans up as far as his knees when Marcus reached him.

  Perfect. An upper cut to the jaw, and Ollie fell back, flat out on the floor, didn’t move.

  Emily screamed.

  Marcus rubbed his fist, walked past her without a glance, and slammed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT PEARL

  Counselling had done wonders for me, everybody said. It was astonishing how I’d recovered, become quite my old self again.

  Grief affected everyone differently, they told me. My ‘episodes’ were just rather unusual. Halfway through a conversation, words I knew so well would turn into gibberish, I’d stare at the mouth of the speaker, pulse hammering at my temples, as swathes of gossamer wrapped around and around my head, blurring my vision, muffling sounds. Lost in a warped cocoon, unable to think, move, function, I’d see the expectant look, the raised eyebrows, as if from a great distance.

  At first, I panicked, thought something irreversible had happened, that I was destined to be shut off from the world forever. Gradually though, over months, I learned to cope with the occasional lapse, to cover it up. I’d force myself to stay calm. It’s just a blip, I’d tell myself. Then, the cocoon would unravel, and I’d nod, or frown, or make a sympathetic noise, and hope it was the right response.

  It worked. The episodes shortened, grew further apart, until they stopped altogether. I’d successfully buried the bad stuff, hidden it away, and as long as I kept my mind busy and didn’t allow it to dwell on things, I was fine.

  Only at night, when I couldn’t sleep, would something dark and red stir in the back of my mind. Then I’d turn on the light, and read a book until it went back where it belonged, tucked away in the dark, a sleeping dragon.

  I’d only just drifted off on one of those restless nights, when the tinkling sound of breaking glass woke me. I sat up, disorientated, and checked the time. Two-thirty. I listened, heard nothing except my own pulse thumping in my ears.

  The loose flagstone clunked in the kitchen. Crap!

  I slid out of bed, wrapped my dressing gown
around me, and sneaked along the landing. Light seeped from under the study door. Dad was up then. Maybe he couldn’t sleep. I half-turned to go back to bed. Something caught my eye, a shadowy figure creeping down the hallway. Taller than Dad, and slimmer. My chest hurt with painful thumps as he pushed the study door. It creaked as it opened.

  ‘Ah!’ Dad’s hushed voice. ‘Come in.’

  What the hell?

  The figure straightened up. I caught my breath. He was so like Jack, so like him – same cheekbones, same dark hair - Art. Memories came slamming back, one after the other, like a too-fast, too-bright slide show – Jack laughing, Jack kissing me, Jack loving me, and then the darkness, violence, murder. Emotions surged through my body – love, desire, fear, loss.

  Papa’s right-hand man was in our house. Whatever the reason, it couldn’t be good. He disappeared through the study door, and pushed it to, but the door didn’t click. That meant it hadn’t shut.

  I stole downstairs, tiptoed into the kitchen and slid a knife out of the wooden block – a shiny blade the length of my hand. I felt the edge with my fingertips – razor-sharp.

  I crept back to the door, held my breath, and peered through the gap. Art was standing with his back to me, blocking my view.

  Dad said something ending in ‘Andreas’.

  ‘The name’s Art.’

  ‘It’s Andreas,’ Dad said, in that flat, matter-of-fact tone he used when there was no arguing with him.

  Art stepped forward, leaned over the desk, his voice a harsh whisper. ‘Why couldn’t you leave it? You and your half-arsed crusade. You’ve signed your own death warrant.’

  The knife weighed heavy in my shaking hand. My mouth dried up. Art wouldn’t hesitate to kill, I knew that, and yet, something stopped me going in there, confronting him. A fear of making things worse, perhaps, tipping the balance, putting Dad in more danger.