Bone Machine (30 page)

The Historian had locked himself away, not for the first time that day, in a toilet cubicle. It was where he came to find
solace, no matter how temporary, during his working day.

The adrenalin high had been and gone, the racking, aching guilt had been ridden out, the panic attacks had subsided. Anyone
watching his actions would have thought him to have a bad attack of the runs. And that was the excuse he had ready to give
if anyone should ask.

But they hadn’t. And now he was breathing regularly again, in control once more. He thought back to his early morning’s work.

The husk had been deposited according to plan. He had been worried it wouldn’t work, that the planning and positioning were
too hurried, not thought through enough. But
it was fine. He hadn’t been spotted; he had walked up to the lamppost and walked away unharmed. And left them a conundrum
that was childishly obvious to him but painfully obscure for the thick, uneducated heads of the police force.

And he liked that. Drew power from that feeling.

Not only that, but he had even been able to go to work afterwards.

There was one thing that rankled, though, one thing that niggled. As he was walking away, he saw the blinking eye of a CCTV
camera. The sight of it had almost brought on a panic attack there and then in the street, but he had kept himself together,
kept walking away.

That CCTV camera. He had told himself there was nothing to worry about. He was familiar enough with security systems to know
that nine times out of ten there would be no tape in the camera or that, if there was, it would be wiped over on the next
shift. And anyway, he was sure the camera hadn’t been on him.

Pretty sure.

Panic has risen again at that. He had managed to hold it down. It kept recurring all day but, with frequent trips to the toilet,
he had managed to cope with it. Concentrate on the important things. Get the voices to talk to him, tell him things were OK.
They were going to be OK. It would all work out in the end. Because inside him, that familiar need was gnawing, that hunger
growing. Quicker this time, the gap between test subjects getting shorter. He needed another one, fast. He had to know, had
to find out.

He stood still, tested his body with a deep breath: in, hold steadily … and out slowly. Good. And again, just to make sure.
In, hold steadily … and out slowly. Good. His breathing was fine.

He flushed the toilet, stepped from the cubicle and up to the mirror. He ran his hands under the water, just in case
anyone should walk in, dried them on his trousers, then walked out, back to the rest of the world.

He walked, watched. Felt strong and secure in his power over those he saw, felt the familiar stirrings of an erection in his
trousers. Good. He walked with his hips thrust out, enjoying the feel of the fabric against his engorged skin.

Cup of tea time.

He made his way into the rest room he had been using for the last couple of days, nodded to some of the others in there. He
brewed up, took his mug to one of the easy chairs, sat down before the TV. The local evening news was on.

And there he was.

Blurred and grainy but unmistakably him.

He jumped, spilling hot liquid over his thigh. He glanced furtively round, hoping none of the others had seen him do that.
They hadn’t. Their attention was riveted on the screen. He joined them.

The reporter was wrapping up, talking about how the killer had made a mistake that could prove to be fatal. His last one.
He gave that grave, middle-distance stare that they all did at the end of serious news items, then it was back to the studio.
The anchorwoman was looking equally grave. His picture flashed up on the screen again, blown up as big as it would go, with
a phone number underneath.

He heard voices behind him: his colleagues giving their opinion of what they would do with the killer, how they wished he
was in the room with them right now. How he wouldn’t get out alive, how they would take their time, make him suffer like he
made all his victims suffer.

He wanted to turn, look at them, shout out what they had wrong. That it wasn’t about the suffering. That it was a carefully
controlled medical experiment. How they didn’t understand. How they would never understand.

Hoping his hands weren’t shaking too much, he stood up,
placed his near-untouched mug of tea on the draining board and left the room.

They were on to him. It was only a matter of time. He had been careless, hurried, and now it was only a matter of time. But
not now. Not yet. Not when he was so close to finding out the truth. It couldn’t stop now, otherwise it had all been for nothing.

He had to plan. Find his next test subject. And fast.

But not straight away.

First he had to go to the toilet.

Katya was waiting.

She sat in the Intermezzo coffee bar nursing her third cappuccino. The caffeine was starting to give her the shakes now, but
she didn’t know what else she could do. Walking around town was out; she had walked enough for today, had to save her feet
for the final bit of walking she would do later. So she had found somewhere Donovan had taken her. Somewhere she felt relatively
safe. Somewhere to be anonymous, to drink and watch the world go by.

Shoppers, office workers, unemployed. Going by and carrying their cares and worries with them, their loves and hatreds. Thinking
of themselves as civilized. Cultured even, some of them. None of them realizing how thin the web was holding them in check.
How easily the mask of respectability could be removed. Just slightly educated animals. Each carrying an in-built receiver
that just needed the right signal, the correct permission and the bloodlust would begin. She had seen it happen. With her
own eyes.

She sipped her coffee, shook her head. She didn’t like spending so long on her own, because once her mind began travelling
down that lost, dark highway, unwanted thoughts would arrive in her mind. Unbidden ones, unpleasant. And as difficult to dislodge
as concrete monoliths.

The massacre.

Her family.

The gangsters and what they did to her.

What they forced her to do.

Another mouthful of coffee, another shake of the head.

At Joe Donovan’s she had tried to blot those experiences out; relax, luxuriate even, in her new-found freedom. Focus on the
future: reuniting with her brother, getting official papers to stay in the country. Making a new life for themselves. A better
one. A happier one.

She had tried not to give in to depression and despair, tried not to sleep all day, help herself to his alcohol. Follow the
old, well-worn routes: numb herself, desensitize herself. Then take a knife to her skin and carve pain into her body. Create
manageable pain, controllable pain. The kind that reminded her she was alive, but on her own terms.

It had been a struggle, one that at times she didn’t feel she had the strength to win. But that fire inside her kept her going,
kept her strong. Those words of hope, those thoughts. The plan. And the burning desire to see that plan implemented carried
her through.

And Donovan had helped too.

Poor Joe Donovan. A good man with a good heart. Under different circumstances she might have enjoyed her time with him. Her
intimate time. Seen it as more than just a means to an end. She wished she could feel sorry for using him. But sorrow for
others was a luxury she could no longer allow herself. Not after what she had been through, what had been done to her. Not
when she needed to focus on what remained to be done.

She had tried to delve deep within herself, retreat into the distant past, rekindle the spirit of that optimistic little girl
she had once been. The happy girl who played with her friends, her neighbours, and believed in wishes and miracles. Who found
her home, the village and the world itself to be a good, safe place.

It was a huge effort. That little girl barely existed any more.

Instead other images came to mind. Her village after the soldiers came, after the police. After people she had believed were
her friends and neighbours joined them in killing and hurting those they had lived side by side with all their lives. Killing
her father. Raping and torturing her mother before finally killing her. Raping and torturing her little sister before finally
killing her. Torching her house after looting and ransacking it.

Right before their eyes.

She and her brother had been away on an errand. They heard the commotion on their return and something, she still couldn’t
say what, had forced her to grab her brother and jump into a nearby cellar where they hid and watched. Watched with uncomprehending
horror as the safety net was removed from her world, as hell and all its demons spewed forth to claim the earth.

She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Conflicting emotions ran through her like an electric current. She wanted to run
to her family, help them. But she knew it would be futile. There was nothing she or her brother could do. Except stay as silent
as possible if they wanted to live.

Later they emerged and her new life began. She came to regard the old one as some kind of fantasy, a made-up fairy story to
help troubled children sleep at night. And the ending a fable of what would happen if they didn’t. She and her brother went
forward from that day carrying equal measures of guilt and relief of survivors like monkeys on their backs.

And carrying something else.

A picture in her mind of the man responsible for the deaths of their family. The man in charge of the unit who destroyed their
village. Who laughed as he killed and raped, whose eyes glittered with an evil light reflected from the burning homes. Who
looked like the devil personified.

Marco Kovacs.

It was getting dark outside, the day slipping away, the shadows claiming all around.

Katya sipped her coffee. She had switched on the stolen mobile in her pocket an hour previously waiting for the call. Saving
the battery, minimizing the possibility of any calls for Donovan of which there were plenty on voicemail. She hoped it would
ring before she got to the bottom of her mug. Her money was running out; she couldn’t afford another one. And they were closing
soon.

It did.

She could have cried with relief. This was a sign. A sign that the plan was the right thing to do, that God was on their side,
that it would be a success.

She scrambled for the phone, checked the display in case the call was for Donovan. It wasn’t. She answered it and heard that
familiar voice again. She could have cried at the sound.

She listened. Instructions were given, plans were made. She hung up, turned the phone off, pocketed it. She mouthed the directions
of where she had to go. The bookshop next door was still open; she could go and look at a map, memorize the route she had
to take.

She drained the frothy dregs from her mug. Her head was spinning now from more than just caffeine. She slid off the window
stool. As her feet touched the floor, pain shot up her legs, reminding her of the walking she had done in the previous twenty-four
hours and complaining about any further exercise. She didn’t care. It had to be done. Just a little more time, a little more
pain, then she could rest for as long as she wanted.

She made her way to the door, heading for the bookshop.

Taking the first step towards the endgame.

*

Donovan and Turnbull were finally making headway. Of a sort.

The darkness had brought the women out, and their punters. The two men were standing on an anonymous, run-down terraced street
in the west end of Newcastle, trying to read the situation. On the opposite side of the road, working girls were beginning
to appear, bracing themselves for whatever the evening would throw at them. The wind carried ice and the sky the threat of
rain, but the girls were showing more flesh than was seasonally prudent. Miniskirts and crop tops to attract the punters,
spike stilettos to give them an approximation of a sexy walk.

Or to stop them running away, thought Donovan.

Skin the colour of old mashed potato or plucked goose flesh. Shivering, drawing on their fags, hoping the smoke would fill
their bodies with warmth.

‘You see there,’ Turnbull was saying, ‘there’s the girls. Now look at the ends of the street.’

Turnbull flicked his finger, trying not to attract attention to himself. Donovan followed his gaze. In the shadows stood a
couple of men. Big, burly and shaven-headed, wrapped in leather and sheepskin. Eyes like attack dogs.

‘See them? They’re the minders. In case the girls get any ideas about runnin’ away. Or refusin’ punters. They remind them
who’s boss. What they’re there for.’ He spat on the pavement, like the words had given him a bad taste in his mouth.

‘The girls I’ve been talking to are all indoors,’ said Donovan.

‘Yeah, the brothels. Hard to touch them, or at least the people who own them. They’re protected by papertrails and front men.
Always someone to take the rap. Mind, some of the girls have been doin’ this for years. Got a set of clients, work for themselves,
manage to make a decent living out of
it and know when to get out. Some of them.’ He turned to Donovan. ‘That girl we met you with in the brothel that night. What
was she? Russian or somethin’?’

‘Bosnian.’

Turnbull nodded. ‘Figures. Eastern Europe, Africa. There’s no shortage. They’re taken to the brothels by their minders, given
a room that they have to pay rent for, told which shifts to work. Told they have to service everyone. Everyone. Whatever they
want, no matter how horrible, they have to do it.’

‘And if they don’t?’

‘Like I said, there’s no shortage. They’re commodities. They’re meat. They’ll throw old meat out that’s past its sell-by date,
bring in some fresh stuff. Got to make their profit.’

‘Where do they throw the old meat out to?’

Turnbull shrugged. His shoulders were tight. ‘Who knows? The girls never officially existed here anyway, so they can disappear
just as easily. Take a guess. Any one is as good as another.’

‘Sound like you know what you’re talking about.’

Turnbull kept his eyes away from Donovan when he spoke, but he couldn’t keep the anger from his voice. ‘Pimps. Fuckin’ hate
them. Men who prey on women. Men who live off women. Turn them on to drugs, on to drink, turn them on to the streets to earn
money. Turn them into somethin’ less than human. Scum. Fuckin’ scum.’

‘I’m surprised.’

Turnbull turned to Donovan, faced him then. Fire danced behind his eyes. ‘Why? You think bleedin’-heart liberals’ve got the
monopoly on stuff like that? Think all coppers are just loudmouth bastards, takin’ freebies on the side and turnin’ a blind
eye? Eh?’

‘OK, OK, fine, I’m sorry. I was just surprised at how … ferocious your response was.’

Turnbull turned away, moved his shoulders as if releasing a stiff muscle or something more pent up. ‘Ferocious.’ He said the
word as if he was trying it out for size. Decided he liked it. ‘Yeah. Ferocious. Think you know everythin’. Sometimes you’re
so fuckin’ wrong.’

They continued to watch in silence. Cars approached, slowed down. Cars that all looked as if they belonged in a more affluent
area. As they approached, the girls, as if on some kind of radar, knew which ones to walk up to. They leaned into the windows,
pushing their breasts at the drivers, dredging up smiles, negotiating. A repositioning of the cleavage if the price wasn’t
to their liking and then, sale agreed, they would climb in and off they went.

‘Taking their lives in their hands,’ said Donovan.

Turnbull nodded. Donovan couldn’t read what he was thinking.

A car pulled up to the kerb and disgorged a prostitute, who tottered away on high heels. She offered a little wave to the
departing driver, but he sped off too quickly to even acknowledge it. She laughed, shook her head. Took a hip flask from her
handbag, took a swig and joined the other girls.

‘There she is,’ said Turnbull. ‘There’s Claire.’

He gave a surreptitious wave at the girl, trying not to attract the attention of the minders. Claire saw him and sighed. She
gave a couple of surreptitious glances of her own, then crossed over to meet him.

‘Keep walking,’ she said as she approached the men. ‘Round this corner here at least.’

Donovan looked at her as they walked. She wore the standard whore uniform along with caked make-up and bigger-than-life hair.
Cosmetics couldn’t mask the tiredness in her eyes or, as they passed under a streetlight, the unhealthy pallor of her skin.
She looked at Donovan, suspicion in her eyes.

‘Who’s this?’

‘This is Joe Donovan. He’s a …’

Donovan hid his smile. Obviously Turnbull couldn’t bring himself to say ‘friend’.

‘… work colleague. We’re workin’ on somethin’ and we thought you could help us.’

Claire smiled. ‘You gonna pay us, then?’

A look of genuine hurt passed across Turnbull’s features. He nodded, eyes averted. ‘Yeah, I’m goin’ to pay you.’ He dug into
his pocket, brought out his wallet, handed her two twenties and a ten. The money disappeared on Claire’s person so fast that
Donovan could have doubted it had ever actually been there.

‘What d’you want to know?’

Donovan had the envelope of photos in his jacket inside pocket. He brought them out one by one, handed them to Claire. She
stood under a streetlight looking at them.

‘We want to know if you recognize any of the girls in the pictures,’ Turnbull said.

Claire made a face. ‘S&M. Don’t go in for that if I can help it.’

Another wince from Turnbull.

‘But d’you recognize any of them?’ asked Donovan.

She frowned as she looked. Paused a couple of times over some shots. Donovan looked at her expectantly, but she passed them
over. She finished, handed them back over.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘D’you mind looking again?’ asked Donovan. ‘You might have missed someone; something might come to you.’

Claire obliged by looking through them again. As she did so, she asked questions.

‘So what happened to all these girls? They disappeared or something? No, course not. You lot wouldn’t be wastin’ your time
on a load of missin’ prossies.’

‘They didn’t disappear,’ said Donovan. ‘We’re just trying to find them. Do a lot of girls go missing?’

Claire shrugged. ‘Kind of job it is, innit? Don’t get a pension with this. Some just pass through, say they’re on their way
to London or Edinburgh or wherever. Had one girl said she was goin’ to Carlisle. Talked about it non-stop. God knows what
she expected to find there.’

‘And you never hear from any of them again?’

Claire shook her head.

‘What about the Eastern European girls? The Africans? Do they disappear?’

A shadow crossed over Claire’s face. ‘Don’t be askin’ about them. Those bastards that look after them are hard fuckers. You
don’t cross them. Don’t even mix with them if we can help it. Those girls suffer.’