Bedlam (3 page)

He knew he should have waited, picked up some replacement gloves from the SOCO, but he was avoiding the super cool bitch in the white overalls
who was solely responsible for his current warning. He’d seen her dismissive look when he’d arrived on site. She believed he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have kept his job. Maybe she was right. After such a promising start to his career, he’d turned into the problem child that everyone frowned upon and no one understood. Everyone was waiting for his next tantrum, but today it seemed the SOCOs had problems of their own to contend with, and maybe that’s why Ms Mary Cameron had a face like a smacked arse.

The access boards had run out short of the body, and the tent that should have protected it while forensics did their bit lay half-assembled. He obviously wasn’t the only one with hand-
eye co-ordination problems this morning. Heads would roll, and the thought that someone other than him was in for a bollocking caused a flicker of a smile.  Anyway, gloves or not, he wasn’t about to get close enough to compromise evidence. Just a quick look was enough to be going on with.

Between the mud and the blood it was hard to make out anything but the fact that she was young and naked. She hadn’t come off the
viaduct, that was for sure. Yes, she was beaten up, but just like Dennis, he’d seen worse, far worse. He wrote off the sewer theory just as quickly. Maybe someone had tipped her out the back of a car and she’d tumbled down the embankment. Then again, he wasn’t one for coincidences, and as Dennis had already suggested, something weird had gone on, and there had to be a connection.

She was laid on her front, her head to one side, kind of serene in a morbid way, like she was sleeping at home in her bed, not splayed out naked amongst the nettles. He reached out a hand and gently brushed the tangled hair from her face. She was ice cold. Blood trailed from her ear, slime le
ached from the side of her mouth. She’d likely lain in the filth all night with no one to miss her. He felt anger and frustration curdle inside. Guilt gnawed at him as he realised that, while he’d been at Minkey’s getting hammered, she’d been laid out, dying in the shit hole known as Bedlam.

His fingers lightly skimmed her blemished skin. For the first time in a long while he felt a stirring of compassion and sadness at the waste of life. He’d been too caught up in his own nightmare to care much for anyone else’s, but the sight of the young woman lying discarded and broken hit him. He felt the lid on his emotions unscrew just a little, releasing a fraction of the hurt to dissipate. He swallowed, steadied his nerve, and resisted the urge to step away and never come back. It would be easier to give up, to admit he was a wreck, as broken as the body before him, but something stopped him and sheer determination kept him where he was. He reached out tenderly and tucked her hair behind her ear, was about to replace the sheet and withdraw, when, unbelievably, her dusty lashes quivered and her eyes flickered open.

Fear and horror had him scrambling back, slipping in the mud, heart racing, stomach churning. Corpses did all kinds of crazy things, he knew that. It was all down to body gasses and decomposition, but he’d never seen one open its eyes, except in his dreams, his nightmares. Dennis should never have spoken Kit’s name, not here in this place of the dead. In that moment he hated him and despised himself even more.

Unconvinced that he hadn’t imagined it, wished it, conjured it up in his hung-over messed-up brain, macabre fascination drew him back through the foul smelling ooze. He leaned in closer. His hand hovered over her skin as he waged an internal
war between what he’d been trained to do and what he felt compelled to do. His gut tightened one more excruciating notch.
I hear you
, he murmured softly as he placed his palm hesitantly against her cheek, felt warmth where there had been ice, and watched as her eyelids flickered once more and her lips parted with a gentle gasp.
Jesus!

He rolled her over roughly. The plastic sheet caught by the breeze fluttered free and her slender arms slapped softly on the wet ground. Protocol forgotten, he placed the heel of his hand on her chest and his lips to hers ... “Breathe ...” he demanded frantically.

Behind him heads turned in shock following the flight of the mortuary sheet as it skimmed the scene. Lifted by a sudden updraft it soared toward the suspended corpses settling like a shroud around the shocking spectacle. All eyes swung with horror at the sight of McNeil kneeling in the mud, his hands on the dead girl’s body, his mouth on the dead girl’s lips, his DNA all over the crime scene.

“What the fuck is he doing?” yelled Mather. He began to run. His men followed, close at his heels.

McNeil ignored the shouting, the sound of running desperate men, feet skittering on the inadequate boards and slipping in the mud. Adrenalin shot through him. “Breathe ... come on ... you can do it.” He wiped the slime from his mouth, spat out the taste and tried once more. A final hot desperate exhalation and beneath his hands he felt her chest rise and her heart begin to beat.

“Dennis! Get hold of that fucking idiot,” Mather bellowed. Close by, but not close enough. “He’s finally lost it.”

Rough hands grabbed at his shoulders, yanking him away. He resisted, pulling back, throwing off his attacker, slipping from his grasp and scrambling back to her side, frantic now that he shouldn’t stop, that he continue what he’d started, that he didn’t let her down. Until suddenly there were more than just Dennis, and try as he might, he couldn’t fight them all. They hauled him off, Dennis taking the lead, grabbing him by the collar, pushing him backwards through the stinking slurry until he was slammed against the cold iron legs of the viaduct amidst the poisonous graffiti.

“What in God’s name is wrong with you?” hissed Dennis, breath hot in McNeil’s ear, his weight squeezing any attempt at retaliation right out of him, his hand tight at his throat.

McNeil fought for breath of his own. Hot tears of panic, shock and confused relief streamed down his mud splattered cheeks. “She’s alive ...” he stammered. “She’s still alive!”

“For pity’s sake, Joey, just stop! Get back to the real world. Kit is dead. Get that into your head once and for all, before you fall so far no one can help you.”

McNeil struggled against him, “No, you don’t understand. I’m telling you, she’s alive  ...”

“You need help, Joey. Professional help, and I’m sorry, but I can’t give it. I’m done with you.” Dennis released his grip leaving McNeil to slump to the ground, defeated. “Go home, Joey. That was your last chance, and you just blew it.” He stepped over him, his attention drawn by a sudden shout from one of the DC’s stooped over the body.

“Bloody hell, guv! Joey was right. She’s got a pulse. Quick, where’s Roger? Where’s that bloody doctor when you need him?”

McNeil raised eyes blurred with tears and caught the look of shock on Dennis’ face before it was quickly masked.

“What did you do?”

McNeil was shaking, his whole body going into shock, stomach clenched tight with nausea, head a blur of confusion and fear.

“What did you do?” repeated Dennis as he swung his gaze from the frantic scene back to McNeil. “She was stone cold dead. What the fuck did you do?”

“What did I do? ... I’ll tell you what I did,” stammered McNeil. “I didn’t give up ...”

Chapter Four

I feel his presence long before he touches me. His sadness breaches my shell. It tugs at my inner self, that tiny seed of curiosity that is my greatest flaw. Gently at first, then as his attention is drawn from the horror
that is death to the futility of life, his sadness blooms and, in turn, so do I.

Emotions are unpredictable, as I’ve found to my cost. Complicated, and with a mind of their ow
n, they use us like playthings, and when exhausted and bored with the game, they leave us spent, like litter on the playground floor. I know their power, but I am still at their mercy.

Softly, tentatively his fingertips skim my brow. His skin connects with mine and suddenly the fuse is lit, his energy is zipping hot and furious throughout me, igniting my nerve endings. There is pain ... such terrible pain, but just as before, I am unable to resist.
I long to scream, to yell out a warning, to plead with him to leave me alone before it is too late. I’m not worth it, as he will discover. But for the moment I cling with shameful desperation, content to savour the salve of another’s compassion.

I open my eyes and see shock on his face, his disbelief and fear as he pulls away from that which he believed dead and now is alive. I reach out to him. My mind, heart and soul willing him back, embracing him with my silken threads of need and want
and longing. Then his lips are on mine, his breath is within me, and the connection is made.

He is the one. I know this is true. Soon, he will know it too.

Chapter Five

She came to him that night in his dreams, sweet, beautiful Kit, with her golden hair and angelic smile. He felt her warmth, her slender fingers entwined with his, and he clung on desperately - a drowning man with no rescue in sight. He basked in her soft laughter, the taste of her sweet breath, as her lips skimmed his. Her delicate scent wrapped around him and held him in the closest embrace until he felt her heart as it beat in time with his. His body reacted. His heart swelled almost to breaking, filled to capacity with every precious moment they’d shared. He murmured her name and was instantly soothed as she whispered his. He lived for this, this brief remission from a life with no purpose other than his unending search for her.

This time, though, his place of sanctuary, his balm to a life without her, was breeched, marred by fragmented images of the real world. The tattooed man, the bar room brawl, the girl he’d dragged back from the dead, and an overwhelming sense that he was damned, lost and incapable of finding his way home.

He woke once more in a sweat. This time, alcohol was not a contributing factor. Instead his mind was filled with past and present, sorrow and regret - and a bizarre image which would not be shifted, no matter how hard he tried to replace it with Kit’s sweet face.

A two-headed serpent. Black and white. Yin and yang. Life and death.

*  *  *

“You’re a liability, Joey. Get some help or forget about your career.”

McNeil nodded slowly, accepting that under the circumstances there was little else that could be done with him. He was unpredictable, unreliable and, yes, he did need help, but not the kind that Dennis meant. All the same, the unfairness of the situation rankled deep inside.

“I saved her life, Dennis. She’d be lying in a mortuary drawer with a tag on her toe if it wasn’t for me. Does that count for nothing?” He wandered into the kitchen, pulled two mugs from the sink and spooned coffee into them, instant crap. Kit would have had the best. The flat would have hummed with the aroma of fresh coffee beans instead of booze and dirty laundry. “Anywhere else in the world and I’d be looking at a commendation.”

Bracing his hands on the edge of the bench he turned his head and watched as Dennis took a seat. He hadn’t invited him but hadn’t been surprised by the visit. Dennis was spooked but curious. McNeil had seen the look on his face down there under
the viaduct. Dennis wouldn’t rest until he knew exactly what he’d done. Trouble was, McNeil didn’t have any answers.

Usually they rubbed along okay. Dennis pulled rank when he needed to, but basically they got along and an unlikely friendship had developed. Dennis reckoned they complemented each other and generally kept him close, accepting the value of his uncanny instinct and terrier’s tenacity. But that was then, before he lost Kit and turned from good cop to bad drunk, from most likely to least likely. Now McNeil reckoned Dennis kept him close as a matter of damage limitation, keeping him straight, hauling him up when he threatened to fall. Recent events had tested the relationship and the last twenty-four hours had further compounded the fractures. Being pounded into the ground by Dennis and the guys hadn’t helped. They’d all thought he’d flipped out there beneath the viaduct, and knowing the whole squad were on tenterhooks waiting for his next wrong move left him uneasy and irrationally paranoid. It was little wonder that Dennis was here in his kitchen, drinking his best-buy coffee and checking him out.

“Are you going to explain to me what happened out there?”

McNeil shrugged. “Roger messed up, declared life extinct when it wasn’t. I expect you’ve paid him a visit as well. No? Now why does that not surprise me? What’s one more body in the grand scheme of things?”

“Roger didn’t mess up, Joey. The paramedics didn’t even bother with resuss. She was dead.”

“Sure she was. So what are you saying? I sprinkled fairy dust and magically brought her back to life? I know we just had Halloween, Dennis, but that’s shite and you know it. If you want to cover up for Roger, that’s fine. I mean let’s be
honest, I’m the expendable one here, aren’t I?”

“I’m not covering up for anyone.”

McNeil ignored him. “Does it matter anyway? She’s alive now because of me. I’m the fucking hero. So why are you here giving me a hard time when you have your key witness? You should be out there cracking the whip with the rest of the team, knocking on doors, casting your net, catching the guy who did it.”

“I’m here because I’m worried about you.”

“I thought you were done with me. Wasn’t that what you said? I mean, I could be wrong. You did have your hands round my throat at the time.”

“Do you blame me? Christ, Joey, you’re a bloody disgrace. You turn up on scene half-cut, ignore procedure and contaminate evidence. You see ghosts and shadows at every bloody turn.  Is it any wonder we all jumped to the wrong conclusion when you decided to lay one on a corpse?”

“Ghosts?”

Dennis sighed heavily. “This whole business with Kit, you need to sort it out, Joey. It isn’t healthy. It’s affecting your judgment, your behaviour. There’s only so much grief a body can take.”

McNeil took his time pouring hot water onto the coffee, concentrating hard to make sure the water ended up in the mugs and not all over the counter top. “This whole business, as you put it, has nothing to do with you, Dennis. But since you don’t seem able to leave it alone, let me explain. Grieving is for the dead. Kit is not dead.”

“We’ve been through this so many times. I wish things were different, too, but they’re not. She’s dead, Joey. You just have to accept it.”

“You show me the evidence and I’ll accept it. That’s what we work on, don’t we, hard evidence? I’ve seen nothing that convinces me that she’s not out there somewhere.”

“You want evidence? We have evidence, Joey.
The abandoned car? The blood at the scene? The broken bracelet?”

McNeil slammed his mug down. Scalding liquid seared the back of his hand but the pain didn’t even register.
“Evidence of a crime, not a murder.”

“Joey, you know as well as I do the number of cases where we never find the … victim. It’s about balance of probabilities.”

“Hey, don’t pull any punches on my behalf, just say it, Dennis - the body. That’s what you think, isn’t it? That whoever took her killed her and dumped her body. Well, I’m sorry if it messes up the book keeping, but I don’t accept that. I’ll never accept that.”

“The case will stay open until we find
her, I can assure you of that.”

McNeil’s face twisted angrily. “Yeah, and how many officers are working the case?”

Dennis shook his head wearily. “Okay, let’s say you’re right and she’s still alive. Would you rather that she’d walked out on you, left you for someone else, someone better perhaps? Is that more palatable? Because I’m telling you now, Joey, if that’s the case she did a bloody good job of making sure she couldn’t be found, and that begs the question … why?”

McNeil closed his eyes and counted back in his head. The only thing he wanted was Kit. She wasn’t dead and she hadn’t left him. Both options were equally unpalatable. But the alternative, that someone might be holding her against her will, was unbearable. When he spoke the words, they came out strained, his voice barely audible. “Dennis, I can’t do this today.”

Dennis considered him a moment longer before pulling out his wallet and extracting a card. “You won’t listen to me. Maybe you’ll listen to the shrink. I hear he’s very good. You have an appointment Monday morning. Don’t be drunk and don’t be late.”

“And the investigation ...?” McNeil let the card fall to the table. “What has the girl said?”

“I told you, you need to sort yourself out. I’m not prepared to discuss the case anymore until you do.”

“Sure. So, basically, she’s said nothing and you’re no further forward.”

“Something like that.”

“But she is okay? I mean, physically, mentally. Is she able to communicate?” He recalled the state she was in when he’d first seen her. Some people weren’t meant to be dragged back.

“You sound concerned.”

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“Like I said, I’m not prepared to discuss details. I will need a statement from you, though.”

“A statement?”
McNeil snorted derisively. “Like I performed CPR, and bingo, she revived. That’ll be an interesting read. Maybe I should add, 'And the guys all think I’m a fucking freak!' Do you want me to come down to the station to make it or shall I just write it on the back of an envelope and save some departmental time?”

Dennis took a sip of coffee, twisted his face at the bitter taste and replaced the mug carefully on the table. “No, I mean a statement detailing your prior involvement with the victim.”

McNeil paused, coffee in hand. “
My prior involvement with the victim?
I never laid eyes on her before. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying how come she’s asking for you by name?”