Bone Machine (40 page)

Donovan stood in the centre of Albion’s ruined office. The weak sunlight was having trouble penetrating the closed blinds.
He was alone in the shadows. Trying to find respite, peace. He looked around.

Spaces where computers should have been, files strewn all over the floor, broken doors left hanging. Then the next strata
of upheaval overlaid: SOCOs’ remains. A sign on the front door read:
CLOSED FOR THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE
.

He couldn’t see very far into that future. All he could see was the past. Playing it over and over in his mind. Tyne Dock
and its fallout.

It was like some mad nightmare. No matter how many times he played it over, he was still unsure of the correct order of events
and his part in them. Memories came back to him like snapshots of dreams, were fired towards him like acrobats out of cannons,
tumbling and changing.

Standing in the rain, wreckage all around him, sirens getting louder, he had called Sharkey for protection. Then he remembered
being strapped and boarded into the ambulance, taken to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Gateshead. Prodded, poked, examined
for spinal injuries, concussion. None found, he was advised to go home and take painkillers for the pain that would strike
him in a few hours’ time.

Asking the doctors about Katya. Being told the bullet
had torn mainly through muscle, miraculously missing lungs and major arteries. She was expected to be up and around within
a week. Sharkey telling Donovan she was then likely to be sent home. Since the criminal she was going to testify against was
no longer alive. Donovan didn’t have the strength to argue.

He remembered trying to sleep after that, but seeing only Tyne Dock, death, the impaled body of the Snake. Seeing him again
when he opened his eyes.

Seeing the news, Nattrass and Fenton talking about apprehending Michael Nell and their capture of the killer who had been
terrorizing the city. Then hearing who the killer’s two final, intended victims were. And dropping the coffee mug he was holding.

Then getting a phone call, hurrying to the General Hospital. Peta and Jamal waiting at the front desk, Peta white-faced and
red-eyed, Jamal a frightened child. The nearest thing he had to a family. His heart ached to see them like that, ached even
more when Peta told him about Amar. Donovan not being able to take it all in, having to sit down. Still critical but stable.
Still unconscious. They didn’t think the bullet had caused any spinal or nerve damage, but it was too early to tell. They
would have to wait.

Shaken and damaged, the three retreated to Peta’s house. None of them could talk. But all of them sharing the pain. Eventually
their bodies, drained and tired, couldn’t function any more. They slept, slumped on sofas and armchairs.

Donovan couldn’t sleep for long. When he closed his eyes he saw Christopher’s body explode again next to him. He looked around.
Had to get out. Not wanting to disturb the others, he rose and left the house, slipping the lock into place as quietly as
he could. He needed to get some fresh air, some perspective. He thought his walk was aimless, but
found himself standing outside the Albion offices. He skipped under the police crime scene tape, let himself in.

Stood there.

A knock at the door brought him out of his reverie.

‘We’re closed,’ he shouted.

A muffled voice replied to him. He recognized it.

‘Come in, then. It’s open.’

Footsteps in the hall. Then Turnbull appeared in the office. He looked around the place, took in the destruction, eyes fell
on Donovan standing in the middle of it.

‘Christ, they did a number on it all right,’ he said. Donovan nodded.

‘Here.’ Turnbull extended his arm. In his hand was a carrier bag. ‘For you.’

Donovan took it, opened it. A bottle of Laphroaig, still in its tin. Donovan looked at him.

‘Said I’d replace it,’ said Turnbull.

Donovan almost broke into a smile. ‘And it’s not cheap shit, either.’

‘Get the glasses out, then.’

Donovan went into the kitchen. Thankfully, damage there was minimal. He brought back two glasses, swung an office chair round,
sat on it. Turnbull did likewise. Donovan unsealed the bottle, poured.

‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

They drank. Sat in silence.

‘So,’ said Donovan eventually, ‘you here to run me in?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Turnbull. ‘You’ll have to make a statement, you’ll be questioned, but I doubt it’ll go any further.
I’ll get you out of it. I owe you one.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You too.’

Talk turned to Nattrass and her double collar. ‘Should have seen it sooner,’ said Turnbull. ‘Used a stun gun he must have
bought off the internet. Should have known from the unidentified bruises. We were checking where Nell’s studio was. Pity we
didn’t find it quicker.’

‘Easy to be wise in hindsight,’ said Donovan.

‘Yeah. And the cellar. Full of freezers. And the freezers full of body parts.’ Turnbull shook his head. ‘We’ll be trying to
put those together for months.’

‘Doubt you’ll have much luck,’ said Donovan. ‘Think how many girls just disappear every month. Girls who no one even knows
are here.’

Turnbull nodded his head sadly, sipped his whisky. ‘Yeah. But we got the result. Good work all round, I suppose.’

‘Nearly,’ said Donovan. ‘Should have been a simple job for my team. Put in the hours and go home. Now look what’s happened
to Amar. Look what Peta went through.’

‘And you.’

Donovan nodded.

They talked some more, the conversation getting looser and more inconsequential as the whisky kicked in. Eventually Turnbull
stood up.

‘Better go,’ he said.

‘Back to the office?’

‘Given the rest of the day off. Thought I’d go home. See what’s there. Start salvaging.’

‘Good idea. Will you still have a job to go back to?’

Turnbull shrugged. ‘Hope so. What about you?’

Donovan shrugged. ‘Stick around here for a bit. Go over to Peta’s later. Visit the hospital. Start picking up the pieces.’

‘Rebuild Albion?’

‘Yeah. I hope so.’

The two men shook hands. Turnbull left.

Donovan stood alone in the room again, the whisky
swirling around his head. He took another shot, finding his thoughts calmer, his way forward clearer. Then another to capitalize
on that feeling. Then another just to be sure.

He sighed. Wondered what to do next. How to start rebuilding.

Further thought was cut short. His mobile was ringing. He answered it.

Sharkey.

‘What?’ said Donovan, preparing a verbal volley. But Sharkey’s tone, his words, silenced him.

‘What?’ asked Donovan again, his tone more serious this time.

Sharkey paused. ‘It’s David,’ he said.

Donovan swallowed hard. Waited.

‘Your son. We’ve found him.’

Find out more about books by
Martyn Waites
and
Tania Carver
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