The Absent Man Page 24

  They had a lot to talk about.

  None of it would be nice.

  With a steely determination, McAllister pulled the door open and marched back towards her office, phone in hand. She would organise a time to meet Ethan, then she would bring Kevin Parker to justice. As she pushed through into the office, her entire concentration was broken by the huge commotion at the other end, the clattering of bodies as paper flew through the air and everyone watched open-mouthed.

  McAllister’s eyebrows raised with surprise as the person wrestled Butler out of the way and made a march towards her.

  It was Bermuda.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘McAllister!’ Bermuda called out as DC Butler manhandled him to the wall, slamming his face against the plasterboard with a sickening thud.

  The detective was certainly strong, and from the roughness of his actions, Bermuda ascertained he was champing at the bit to meet him again. Butler, with years of training, roughly pulled Bermuda’s arms behind his back, clutching his wrists before slamming his face against the wall again.

  ‘This is a police station, you little prick.’ His words oozed with Glaswegian menace. ‘You know, where the real police work.’

  ‘Look, mate, I know you can’t stand me, but I need to talk to McAllister.’

  ‘What? More stories of ghosts?’

  The surrounding group of officers laughed, all of them clearly behind Butler. Bermuda was used to resistance from the police, but not to the point of tasting the paint of the walls.

  ‘I know how to find him!’ Bermuda spoke, his cheek pushed against his teeth and the taste of blood filling his mouth.

  ‘Look, pal, you got more chance of finding Santa.’ Butler shook him again, rubbing his face against the rough wall. ‘Just as fucking make-believe as your monsters.’

  ‘Let him go.’

  Butler turned in surprise but made no effort to stop the pressure against Bermuda’s neck. Bermuda, unable to turn his head, rolled his eyes.

  He could recognise the voice of DI Nicola Strachan anywhere.

  ‘Ma’am?’ Butler asked. His upset at not being able to take Bermuda apart was evident.

  ‘Take him to the incident room. DCI Fowler wants to speak to him.’ She turned sharply, her fierce eyes latching onto McAllister and digging in. ‘You are not to speak to this man under any circumstance. That is a direct order.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ McAllister spoke, her feet planted and her words directed to them. The rest of the office slowly returned to normal as Strachan, with a sneer across her sharp face, turned back to Butler, allowing him a few more moments of retribution.

  ‘DC Butler,’ she eventually ordered. ‘Incident room.’

  She turned on her heels, which clapped against the lino covered floor as she headed to the room.

  ‘There’s a good dog,’ Bermuda needlessly added, ensuring another painful slam against the wall and a twisting of his wrists.

  Butler manhandled him through the door and shoved him angrily into a desk. The wood clipped Bermuda in the thigh and he hunched over, gently massaging his wrists.

  ‘Prick,’ Butler muttered before offering a respectful salute to the two other officers.

  Bermuda slowly stood straight, his wrists burning. The shutters covering the large window were pulled to, blocking out the rest of the office. Three rows of desks sat in neat rows, usually full of detectives and officers getting the latest details of a case. The incident board behind him was three whiteboards pressed together, all of them decorated with smiling photos of the brutally slain, and the evidence of the slaughter below them.

  Random scribblings of useless facts surrounded them, all of them leading to the name KEVIN PARKER in the centre of the board. Next to it were the CCTV footage and the photo he had provided, along with the fingerprint.

  Bermuda smiled, knowing he had provided their only hard evidence, despite their constant reminders of his lack of police training.

  A gentle cough caught his attention and his focus turned to the tall man clearing his throat.

  ‘Let me guess – Alex Fowler, right?’

  ‘That’s Detective Chief Inspector Fowler to you.’ Fowler’s voice was as authoritative as it was calm. His greying hair sat like a cloud atop his cleanly shaven face. He stood proudly, his tunic immaculate and his hat resting neatly under his arm.

  ‘No it’s not.’ Bermuda slammed his last Tic Tacs into his mouth. ‘Your boy out there keeps telling me I’m not a real detective.’

  ‘You’re not,’ Strachan interjected with disgust in her voice.

  ‘She has a point,’ Fowler interjected before Bermuda could respond. ‘You are not technically supposed to be here. Now before you go waving your little badge at me, I will stop you. I have never heard of your organisation, and believe me, I’ve heard of everything in my nineteen years.’

  ‘Have you heard her laugh?’ Bermuda chucked a thumb in Strachan’s furious direction.

  ‘Very funny.’ Fowler’s voice was cold. ‘Now you have already been informed by McAllister that we have requested your removal from the case, and I spoke with a Montgomery Black, who agreed this would happen. I don’t know how things work in your little ghost-hunters club, but here in the GPS we respect the chain of command.’

  ‘I do. Just not when it’s wrong.’

  ‘An answer for everything,’ Fowler uttered under his breath. ‘Well, considering your blatant disregard for the order and your trespassing here today, I have no choice but to raise a formal complaint with the London Metropolitan Police Service.’

  ‘For what?’ Bermuda stepped forward, his patience finally thinning.

  Fowler, not to lose authority, stepped forward too. ‘For assaulting my officer.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Bermuda chuckled.

  ‘I will not. We have a number of witnesses swearing that you kneed him in the stomach in retaliation to being asked to leave the crime scene this morning.’

  Bermuda shook his head at the obvious lie. The smirk on Strachan’s face, mirrored by Fowler, told him that he couldn’t undo this one.

  After a few moments, Strachan leant forward. ‘Maybe you should run along now?’

  ‘Agreed.’ Fowler spoke, his stare unwavering.

  After a few more moments, a smile cracked across Bermuda’s face, splitting his stubble. He shrugged, turning to the door as Fowler sent a victorious nod in Strachan’s direction. As he passed the whiteboard, Bermuda picked up a black marker pen and flicked the cap off. As it clattered to the floor, he stopped near a poster on the wall of a body lying face down on the floor, a message about ‘good crime scene etiquette’ framing it.

  Quick as a flash, he wrote the letter E on the elbow and an A on the buttocks. He tossed the pen back across the room to a bewildered Strachan. Fowler stepped forward, scratching his head.

  ‘What on earth is that for?’

  ‘E is for elbow. A is for arsehole,’ Bermuda said, opening the door. ‘For the next time you guys realise you haven’t got a fucking clue.’

  Slamming the door and trapping any response, Bermuda strode with purpose back towards the entrance. Butler instantly pushed his chair back, the legs screeching against the floor.

  Bermuda held out a calming hand. ‘Down boy.’

  Butler raised a middle finger in response, to Bermuda’s amusement. As he rounded the corner that led to the corridor, he almost collided with McAllister, pressed against the wall.

  ‘Bermuda.’ She shook her head at the nickname. ‘What the hell did you come here for? Do you know how much trouble you are in?’

  Bermuda peered around the corner again, noticing the partitions of the blinds flickering. ‘Oh yeah. I’m knee-deep in shit.’

  ‘I told you that this was over.’ McAllister spoke softly, Bermuda detecting her sadness at the situation.

  ‘Sam, I know how to find him.’

  She perked up.

  ‘What? How?’ She scrambled inside her blazer jacket, looking for her notebook. As she di
d, Butler rounded the corner, soon followed by Strachan. Bermuda could take the hint and pulled open the door to the corridor.

  ‘The roses, Sam.’ Bermuda offered her his warmest smile in a way of goodbye. ‘It’s the roses.’

  McAllister looked on in disbelief as Bermuda disappeared into the corridor, sliding his hat over his head and pulling the collar of his coat up. He reached the front door and without even turning, threw out a hand to wave goodbye. McAllister found herself waving back as Butler and Strachan instantly reprimanded her.

  She didn’t listen to a word of it.

  As Bermuda walked through the town centre, every fibre of his being told him to hail a cab or check to see how Uber was getting on in Glasgow. He ignored his own weakness, braving the elements as a freezing drizzle swept the dark Glasgow evening clean. The Christmas lights were beaming down from the buildings, the late-evening shopping in full force as he weaved his way through endless mobs of consumerism. He spotted a few Others fighting over what looked like an old violin in an alleyway. Knowing his tenure as a BTCO agent was probably at an end, he opted not to check to see the validity of their latch stones.

  Did Kevin Parker have a latch stone?

  Bermuda threw his mind back to their meeting a few nights prior, the monstrous human gently stalking him around the tomb. While he spoke of his desired and the voice in the darkness, Bermuda couldn’t see the stone.

  Was he human?

  Argyle hadn’t been able to sense him like he usually could. Not an Other got by Argyle without him at least knowing it was in the vicinity. But Parker was too strong, moved too fast.

  Bermuda had seen the darkness in his eyes.

  The Otherside.

  Convincing himself that Parker was just another creature to go back across the divide, Bermuda felt the phone in his pocket begin to vibrate. As the chilling grip of the night wrapped its fingers around him, he hoped it was his daughter, offering her forgiveness and mending his heart back together.

  Or perhaps his sister Charlotte, just calling, because unlike his deceased dad or deadbeat mum, she was one of the few people in the world who gave a damn about him.

  He prayed it was Sophie, realising theirs was a love that she couldn’t be without.

  With a deep sigh, he answered the unknown number, praying his hope wasn’t misguided.

  It was.

  ‘Jones.’ Montgomery Black’s voice bellowed down the phone, the audible squeal of an airplane in the background. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

  ‘Are you at an airport?’ Bermuda asked, surprised more than anything that Black wasn’t bluffing.

  ‘You’re damn right I am.’ Black was breathing heavily, telling Bermuda he was walking somewhere. ‘I just touched down in the motherland, and what do I receive? A call from DCI Fowler saying that you practically broke into the police station?’

  ‘Technically I didn’t break in.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, do you actively try to piss me off?’ Black continued before a smart response came. ‘Go to your damn hotel room and wait there. Vincent and I will be with you within the hour.’

  ‘Great,’ Bermuda said dryly, turning the corner, the Premier Inn appearing at the end of the road in all its purple majesty.

  ‘Don’t get smart with me, Jones,’ Black warned with venom. ‘Do you know how much damage you have caused? Not just to the investigation or the great city of Glasgow, but to the whole organisation? No, of course you don’t. Because you don’t care. Because you think you are above the rules and regulations that we need to abide by to keep the truce steady.’

  ‘No offence, Monty, but I couldn’t give a shit. I know how to find this guy and I’m going to stop him. You’re welcome to wait in the bar until I get back.’

  Bermuda climbed the steps of the Premier Inn and entered through the automatic door to the empty reception, so engrossed in his phone call that he failed to notice the row of hooded figures that lined the other side of the street, all of them burning a hole in him with their jet-black eyes.

  Eight white masks all turned in his direction.

  He failed to notice them advance towards the hotel.

  Bermuda pushed open the door to the stairs and began his ascent, ignoring the tirade of abuse like a school child who didn’t care about detention.

  ‘You’re finished, Jones. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

  Bermuda heard the sound of car doors closing and an engine roaring to life. They were on their way.

  ‘Well, you are on your own now. Unlike you, Argyle knows how to follow orders. He is a soldier. He was until you corrupted him.’

  ‘Argyle is a good man. Leave him out of this,’ Bermuda pleaded angrily. He pushed open the door to his floor, his thighs and calves burning.

  ‘Did he enjoy his reunion?’ Black asked, his words calmer, as if arguing had taken a physical toll on him. Bermuda thought about Black’s age, and for a second actually felt a twinge of sympathy.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Argyle.’

  ‘Reunion?’ Bermuda stopped in the hallway. It was eerily quiet. ‘What the hell are you going on about?’

  ‘Argyle and Tobias.’ Black spoke with an irritated tone.

  Bermuda stopped, nothing made sense. ‘What? Tobias kept asking to meet him. He said he had heard things about Argyle.’ Bermuda tried to force it all to make sense. ‘He was really keen, in fact.’

  Black chuckled as if he had heard a terrible joke. ‘The silly old fool. They’ve met before.’

  Black sighed while Bermuda tried to place it all. There was something that didn’t sit right with him.

  Something about Tobias.

  Black suddenly shattered his concentration. ‘Above everything Jones, I’m actually surprised you understood a word the man said.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Bermuda asked, unease coursing through him like a pulse. ‘Apart from talking like he belonged on Downton Abbey.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? The man has thicker Glaswegian accent than I do!’

  With that, Bermuda froze. There had been something the entire time – something nagging him about the way Tobias spoke. The way his skin sat on his body, like he had withered and it hung loose.

  The way he knew more than he should.

  Tobias.

  At that moment, the corridor became entrenched in darkness. Every light cut instantly, painting the entire hotel in shadow. Bermuda looked at the screen of his phone, and a warning saying his battery was low greeted him. The screen, refusing to light up to preserve battery, projected nothing but a pathetic, faded imitation of his daughter’s face.

  Pocketing his phone, Bermuda walked slowly into the darkness, his fingers wrapping around his e-cig. Bringing it to eye level, he pressed down on the button and a small blue light burst out, illuminating a few feet before him like a torch. The e-liquid bubbled as he burnt through it. He took a few steps forward before pressing again, the blue light guiding him down a few feet further before it dipped and faded.

  He heard footsteps behind him.

  Bermuda swivelled, holding the e-cig like a weapon. The only damage it provided was to the tobacco industry. He pressed the button again in the direction of the shuffled footsteps, but the blueness provided nothing.

  Slowly, he turned with his finger down on the button.

  A pure white mask greeted him.

  The hooded figures moved so quickly that Bermuda was unconscious within moments, the e-cig clattering to the floor and switching off.

  The creature uttered a crude grunt before more of his kind emerged from the shadows, surrounding the motionless body of Bermuda.

  They were the Legion.

  They had claimed him.

  With no piercing blue bulb to light the way, Bermuda was dragged into the darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Argyle blamed himself.

  Stood at the entrance of Bermuda’s temporary quarters, Argyle w
atched as the rain fell down upon the glorious city before him. The high, gothic towers that lined the roads reminded him of home, each one a monument to endurance and sacrifice. All of them built by hand, all of them a shadow that threatened to move.

  He should have seen it coming.

  Ever since they had arrived in the city, he had sensed it. From the very moment he accompanied Bermuda from the train station, he could feel the eyes upon them. Every movement, every moment.

  They had been waiting.

  Outside Steingold’s residence, Argyle had seen them in the alleyway. Vincent had even spoken of a rise in the Other activity in the city. The signs were there, every alarm was ringing, but Argyle had failed his primary objective.

  Protect Bermuda at all costs.

  It was Ottoway himself who had decreed it, and their last interaction on the viewing platform of the Shard six months prior had reiterated it. Then, with Bermuda hunting Barnaby, the importance of his life was stressed heavily.

  Now, with Ottoway on his final journey, Argyle had let that objective slip.

  He had followed his orders.

  But he had failed.

  Vincent had contacted the BTCO HQ when they arrived in Glasgow, asking Argyle to meet them at Bermuda’s hotel. They were to relieve him of his duty and Vincent had permitted Argyle the opportunity of a farewell. Argyle had already made peace with their split, but assumed Montgomery Black wanted to hurt Bermuda further.

  Soldiers follow orders.

  Argyle watched as a few police officers waited at the bottom of the steps, their bright jackets reflecting off the flashing blue lights of their vehicles. Argyle scoffed at the memory of him lifting one, causing panic amongst the humans. If only they knew what surrounded their world. What lurked in the shadows.

  Inside, Vincent and Black were combing through Bermuda’s chambers, looking for any sort of clue. Argyle knew they would find none. All they found was his e-cigarette in the hall, a few doors down from his own.

  They had taken him far from here.

  Argyle felt restless, his command to stay and watch the entrance felt needless. Whatever had taken Bermuda wouldn’t be back. They should have been combing every alleyway of the city, searching through the darkness like Argyle had all those years ago.