Bone Machine (7 page)

Neither Nattrass nor Turnbull could speak for several seconds as they tried to process the information and decide how to proceed.
Eventually Nattrass cleared her throat, plucked the photo from Turnbull’s hands.

‘May I?’

‘Be my guest.’ Turnbull sounded relieved.

Nattrass took the photo, crossed to Nell, resumed her position on the bed next to him. She showed him it.

‘This one of yours?’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ he said proudly. ‘Took it in a club in Amsterdam.’ He looked at Turnbull. ‘Kind of club you’ve never been to.’

Turnbull was leafing through the other photos. They showed bondage, pain, humiliation. Some taken in the same environment
as the other; some taken in anonymous rooms lit by bare bulbs. Most taken in what looked like the same
studio. Women in various stages of undress. Humiliation. Turnbull stopped again. His heart skipped a beat.

Another woman, her eyes, mouth sewn shut.

‘You take all of these?’ Turnbull asked, holding them up, holding his voice steady.

‘Every one.’

‘In Amsterdam, or nearer to home?’

Nell smiled. ‘Right under your noses. You’d be amazed at what goes on.’

Turnbull said nothing.

‘So is this,’ Nattrass said, her voice as calm as she could make it, ‘part of your transgressive lifestyle? Hmm? Something
you do for – what? Kicks?’

Nell looked up to her, his eyes challenging. ‘So what? Yeah, it’s a scene I’m into. And it’s pretty extreme, yeah.’ There
was pride in his voice now. ‘But I doubt it’s something you can understand.’

Nattrass and Turnbull shared another look. An unspoken, almost telepathic form of communication they had worked up between
them in the years they had been partnered together. They exchanged almost imperceptible nods.

‘Oh,’ said Nattrass, ‘I can understand. Better than you think.’

She stood up, towering over the student. Turnbull moved to the side of him so he couldn’t make for the door.

‘Would you like to come down to the station?’ she said. ‘We’d like a little chat.’

Nell laughed, sneered. ‘Don’t be stupid. Fuck off.’

‘Then, Michael Nell,’ said Nattrass, her voice as professional and uninflected as possible, so that there could be no mistaking
what she was saying, no later legal argument claiming she had behaved improperly or technically incorrect, ‘I am arresting
you on suspicion of the murder of Ashley Malcolm. You do not have to say anything …’

Turnbull tuned out. He had heard it all before.

Nell’s face changed. The artfully constructed mask slipped away, to be replaced by surprise, then fear. It looked like the
only true feelings he had expressed in the time they had been in his room.

‘No, no …’ Nell let out a high-pitched scream, made a dash for the door.

Turnbull was on him, arm up behind his back, wrestling him down to the floor. He wanted to lash out; get in a few well-placed
kicks and punches, claim self-defence later, but managed to refrain. He would do this properly, like a professional. He, too,
was mindful of legal technicalities.

‘You calm yet?’ Turnbull said. ‘You gonna give me any more trouble? Eh?’

He gave Nell’s arm another twist for good measure. Nell squealed.

‘Good. Come on, then.’

Turnbull escorted him out of the room and down the stairs, ignoring his pleas, his protestations of innocence. He was breathing
heavily, flushed with exhilaration.

He thought of Ashley, on whose behalf he was fighting for justice. Her picture over his heart.

He smiled. A good day’s work.

The Historian stared deep into the mirror. He had been there so long he had lost all track of time. But time was a concept
he didn’t believe in anyway. No past, no present, no future. All events happened at once.

When he was younger, he would spend hours staring into the mirror. He would start off with his own features, memorize every
pore, follicle and vein. Count his blink rate. Shave his face, trim his sideburns with a small pair of scissors. Then, that
done, he would begin to look beyond himself, let his eyes trail around his outline, pull focus on items with differing reflected
depths behind his face. Look into the distance as far back as he could. If he stared long enough, he thought, another world
might be glimpsed, a reversed world where everything was the opposite of his own; where pain was pleasure, love was hate.

Like in Leazes Park as a boy, trying to gain the trust of a squirrel he wanted to feed and tame, he had stood, all stony and
statuesque, expression neutral and passive, waiting for the creature to approach him. The thrill he had felt on it coming
close, how trusting it had been to the promise of food, he could have done anything to that squirrel. Caught it and kept it,
poisoned it, ate it. Anything. He never forgot that stillness, the power that could be derived from it. Like an American Indian
hunting, hiding in plain view. So still as to be invisible.

And the longer his unthreatening pose went on, the more likely it would be that the mirror-world inhabitants would
reveal themselves. He longed for the day when they would invite him in, let him step through the mirror into that other world,
live there for ever.

But that world had never existed. Or if it did, he had never found it. So instead he stared at himself.

His gaze flinched, his concentration faltered; he saw behind him the shadowed protrusions that grew from the walls behind
him and around the bath and felt a sudden stab of loneliness. The protrusions were all over the house. Hard plastic, porcelain
and metal. Depressing in their functionality. Prosaically clinical. Representations of capture rather than release.

A sadness swept over him. She was gone. And all he had left were those hard reminders. Reminders of what he had lost, what
he was conducting his experiments for. His lower lip trembled, his eyes became moist and he felt himself starting to go again.
He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Not now. He needed strength. He ignored them, just stared at himself. Looked inside himself. Conquered
his emotions.

He smiled.

The Historian had watched the news constantly, bought all the papers, local and national. Read them until he could almost
recite them. They left him feeling both elated and angry. Elated because the world was witnessing his brilliance. Angry because
it had been viewed with close-minded dullness. The police had clumped all over the graveyard, talked to the camera in reductive,
prosaic terms about barbaric acts of savagery, witnesses, lines of enquiry and appeals for help. The journalists were no better,
with their shock-horror headlines, mock-appalled faces and clichéd reporting. All missing the point. Ignoring what was to
him obvious and beautiful. And important. Historically important. He felt like an artist whose masterpiece is misunderstood
and ridiculed by those who could never hope to accomplish
what he had. He should have expected that reaction, but he was still upset by it. Still, it was better than the last time.
But then it should be. He had got better.

But there was the unexpected compensation. The arrest.

He couldn’t believe his luck. The police weren’t giving out any details, but he had assumed, from newspaper speculation, that
it was the girl’s boyfriend.

Michael Nell. He smiled at the irony. Then felt a sudden stab of fear.

Michael Nell. He could say something. Do something. Mention the studio, mention the models …

He breathed deeply, tried not to let his imagination run away from himself. Tried to be calm. Shrug the thoughts off.

What could Nell say? What could he tell them? Nothing. Nothing that would lead the police to him directly. Nothing that would
make them take more of an interest in him. He would be ready for them. Have a story. Play the part. Let them go away with
nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing. He repeated the word over and over, stretching out the sound, letting it soothe him. Give him succour.

Nothing.

There was no pressure on him. He could plan for the next one without looking over his shoulder all the time.

And there would be a next one. Because he wasn’t finished yet. The voices in the shadows wouldn’t allow him to be, for one
thing. Plus his work wasn’t completed; he hadn’t found the answer he was seeking to that one all-important question.

And, if he was honest, he had enjoyed it so much he wanted to do it again. That was the thing that had surprised him. That
an experiment, a scientific exploration, had given him such a thrill.

In fact, he had never been so excited in his life.

He stared at the mirror, ignored what was behind him, saw beyond it: let the phantasmagoria of the last few days dance once
again before his eyes. Felt the familiar tingling in his groin. He had to relive that moment.

Her death must have been painful: she had thrown her body around, convulsed and pulled as much as her restraints allowed.
Even when the knife was sliding in and out, bringing with it more and more blood, taking away more and more of her life, she
hadn’t given up. The blade thrusts, initially patient and measured, sometimes even playful little nips, had given way to hard,
sharp hacks and slashes in his rush to bring on her final act, his need to see it.

And that, in itself, had been thrilling.

He had sensed it about to happen, felt that change come over her, and pulled out the knife for the final time. Climbed on
to her and watched with intense fascination, like a Victorian botanist studying a rare species, cataloguing. Looking for signs
of evolution.

His fingers twitched, but he kept them still, pressed at either side of her head, resisting the temptation to help her along.
His heart hammered fit to burst with excitement.

As the end came, he had lowered himself down, pressed his face to hers. Ignored the last desperate attempts at escape, her
body’s automatic flight impulse going through the motions, and felt her ragged, gasping breath in his mouth. He had grabbed
her shoulders, held her firm, his thighs pressing against her hips. Skin on skin, his body wet from hers. His erection straining,
begging to be let loose on her. Although it was difficult, he had resisted. Because he was a professional. He had a job to
do.

Reluctantly he had climbed off her, checked the camera was working, the power light staring unblinkingly at her, an impassive
red eye capturing for ever her final moments.

Watching and shooting, he had yearned to press his lips
down on hers, feel the wet flesh strain against rough thread, try to catch the last of her life in his mouth, suck it out
of her.

But he didn’t give in to that impulse, strong though it was. Because this was work, this was science.

When her body gave its final sigh, the air sliding and stuttering out of her for the last time, the voices in the shadows
screaming for her release, the sight had given him the most intense, spontaneous orgasm he had ever experienced.

He climbed on to her then and lay, spent. He wanted the moment to enfold him for ever, stay locked in the arms of that special
embrace.

Nothing else mattered to him. The noise of the city above had slipped below his senses, like a radio in a distant room that
he couldn’t turn off. Usually it would irritate him, annoy him to anger, but no more. He was happy to let its empty-headed
clatter continue. It wouldn’t touch him, couldn’t reach him. He had been as unmissed down here as he was invisible when above.

And in the shadows they had been moving, their voices whispering. Squatting in their usual place at the corner of his vision.
Behind his posed figures, out of the beams of the lights. The Historian had felt them, smelled them. But he had ignored them.
They couldn’t reach him either.

And yet …

Her last sigh.

And yet …

The most intense orgasm of his life.

And yet …

The answers weren’t there. Only a sense of anticlimax. An absence where there should have been a resolute truth. Even after
poring over the photographs, scrutinizing the tapes.

Once the initial euphoria had worn off he had become
angry with himself. It should have happened. The answers should have been there. The knowledge. But he was still in the dark.
Just like all the other times. And he had thought that one would have been different. He would have to try harder. Do it again.
Choose carefully and get it right next time. His studies had led him this far, his skills had become two well developed to
stop now.

He looked in the mirror, saw not his face but hers. Sewn up, ready to be received. Just before the life left her.

That familiar tingling in his groin was still there.

He thought again of those final few delicious seconds. Not of the lack of answers but of the physical act itself. The control
over her body. The knife sliding in and out.

Her last sigh.

Heard echoes of the voices in the shadows. The souls. Telling him what they wanted next. Guiding him.

He had to plan.

And soon. Just in case Nell said anything.

But not just yet. That familiar tingling in his groin. Her face; sewn up, ready to be received.

He smiled. Closed his eyes. Not needing to view the tape to see it again.

The Café Roma was on the corner of Mosley Street and Dean Street, in the heart of Newcastle’s City district. A converted bank,
its high-ceilinged, marble-pillared halls had been architecturally rendered modern and spacious, retaining knowing nods to
its past. It was bright and cool, all blond-wood furniture and dark leather sofas, shining chrome and spotlit glass cabinets.
Pale yellow and cream walls. Two brown wooden fans moved lazily overhead, their actions purely decorative.

A single coffee shop with Starbucks empire aspirations, it serviced a steady Monday-morning stream of office workers calling
in for their lattes and almond croissants to take away, shaking misty rainwater from their overcoats and umbrellas as they
entered, while a few commuters sat reading papers, books and magazines, eking out their pastries, swirling foam in the bottom
of their mugs and looking at their watches, counting down until their time became someone else’s.

In the corner sat a man. Middle-aged and balding, with his remaining hair razored short to his scalp, his clothes almost a
parody of the office workers streaming in and out. His tailored suit was bright blue, with a white stripe way too wide to
be pin, his shirt a vibrant, almost reflective yellow, his tie purple and floral, his shoes dark but highly polished. He sat
with his Filofax and diary open before him, totting up rows of figures, making notes, stopping occasionally to sip from a
small glass cup of espresso, watch the steady stream of customers coming in and out and throw appraising stares
at the Eastern European girls working behind the counter. There was nothing lascivious or gratuitous in his look; his eyes
spoke only of profit and loss, of commodity and expenditure. He watched not people on their way to work, but money pouring
into his till. His eyes held no humanity, no warmth. They were reductive adding machines.

They were the eyes of Marco Kovacs.

He looked alone. He wasn’t. Sitting on the aisle opposite him and pretending to read the
Sun
was Christopher, his personal assistant. If there was any trouble, anyone giving him unwanted attention or approaching his
table with aggression in mind, Christopher would be on to that person within seconds.

Kovacs watched one of the staff in particular. Anita was in her late teens, blonde and pretty. Her uniform T-shirt and tight
jeans accentuated her trim figure and pert breasts. Her smile, when she used it, combined with her lively personality, could
be devastating. So devastating, hardly anyone noticed the now-faint cut lines on her arms. Her Lithuanian-accented English
lent her an exoticism; most customers thought she was Russian. She was a head-turner. Kovacs knew she ensured repeat trade
to the café.

But that wasn’t why he was looking at her.

He watched her. He totted up figures. He sipped coffee.

Decca Ainsley pulled the soft-top BMW 5 Series noisily to the kerb, ignoring the double yellows, Roll Deep pumping on the
sound system. He cut the motor, silencing the music. Gave his shoulders a couple of rotations, took a deep breath. Checked
his reflection in the rear-view mirror, smiled.

Diamond. That was how he thought of himself. Diamond. Hard and sharp-edged. Commanding respect and admiration. And the right
kind of girl’s best friend.

He got out of the car, looked around. Saw Marco Kovacs
waiting for him through the window. He shivered, like someone had just walked over his grave. Kovacs was the big time. The
real deal. He composed himself again. Quickly. Had to. He had a boss to impress.

He straightened his jacket, thought: How would Pacino do this? De Niro? Or Clint? Above all, Clint. Just the name he drew
strength from. Made him feel taller. Clint had been a better father than his real father. Taught him everything he knew. Kept
the doubts suppressed, the fear in check.

So Clint would be with him, guide his hand, give him the words.

Gangster self in place, attitude worn heavier than jewellery or aftershave, he walked towards the door of the café.

Someone slid into the chair opposite Kovacs. A young man dressed in casual Bigg Market best: artfully distressed jeans and
long-sleeved dark shirt, open at the neck. A leather jacket thrown over it. His hair was dark and styled into elaborate spikes.
He was finely featured and could have been handsome or pretty, even, had not his nose been broken too many times. He walked
with a swagger, the arrogance of the supposed winner, and looked like the kind of person who would double-park his sports
car outside. He clicked his fingers, gestured to the counter for a coffee, slid off his large brown shades, offered a smile.
Anita smiled, broke off from her customer to prepare it. Kovacs looked up at him, nodded.

Christopher shifted in his seat behind Decca, just reminding him he was there. Decca turned, gave a cautious nod. Decca still
didn’t know what to make of Christopher. With his cropped head, scarred face, nose broken and reset and his body stacked and
hardened from more than just gym workouts, he could have been taken at first glance for a typical thug – hired, unthinking
muscle. But closer inspection of his
eyes would reveal a different story. They were the most dazzling blue; they spoke of real intelligence. They looked as if
they held secrets. He wasn’t known for saying much, not to Decca anyway, and Decca never knew how to talk to him, always felt
uncomfortable with him. His heavily accented English when he did speak showed him to be Serbian, but Decca’s poor knowledge
of geography and general ignorance meant he could be from just about anywhere.

Decca turned his attention back to Kovacs, always aware that Christopher was behind him.

‘Got your message, chief. What’s up?’ His wrist jewellery clanked on the table as he put his sunglasses and mobile down.

Kovacs said nothing. His eyes narrowed: his thoughts seemed to shift and reconfigure like sliding desert sands. Eventually
he spoke.

‘I’ve been watching her.’

The young man laughed. ‘Don’t blame you, boss. I’d like to do more than watch.’

Kovacs continued as if clarifying rudimentary facts to a simpleton. ‘I’ve been watching her. And it’s time for her to go.’

The young man looked momentarily confused, then grasped what was being said. ‘What for? She’s an asset to the business, yeah?’

Kovacs closed his Filofax, leaned forward. ‘Think with your brain, not your dick, Derek. I know what you have been doing with
her. Don’t bother to lie to me. Don’t pretend.’

Derek bristled. He hated anyone using his real name. He was Decca. And Kovacs’ words, plus the knowledge behind them, made
his face redden.

‘You’ve been fucking her,’ continued Kovacs. ‘And that’s OK.’ He shrugged. ‘We all do it. Who wouldn’t? What
they’re there for.’ He leaned forward. ‘But she has a big mouth. Good if you want her to suck your cock, yes?’ He made a harsh,
grating sound, like mashed gears. A laugh. It stopped as quickly as it had started. His features darkened. ‘Not so good if
you want her to keep secrets you tell her. And I hear things. Know what I mean?’

Decca swallowed hard. His throat was suddenly dry, his body suddenly wet with sweat. His earlier swagger rapidly diminishing.
He tried to speak. Couldn’t.

‘She tells people that one day you will take over from me. That everything I have is to be yours. One day. And that day will
be sooner rather than later. Yes?’

Kovacs stared at Decca, unblinking. As emotion-filled as a snake curled around a tree. Decca felt his heart racing faster.
Hoped it didn’t show.

Kovacs waited. ‘Well?’

Decca managed to swallow, find his voice. It sounded higher than usual. ‘She’s … I like her, boss. Maybe she’s got the wrong
idea.’

Kovacs said nothing. Decca began sweating. ‘OK. Maybe I tried to, you know … impress her.’ He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance,
fear making it more like a spasm.

Kovacs nodded slowly. ‘Impress her.’ The words were lightly spoken. Too lightly. ‘Impress her.’

Decca nodded.

‘She,’ said Kovacs, stretching out the words so he wouldn’t be misunderstood, ‘is a whore. Nothing more, nothing less. And
whores are for using. Not trying to impress.’ He shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, boss.’ Decca said the words to the table.

Kovacs nodded. ‘She is nothing. And she is telling everyone she is something. And she is making me look a fool. Do you think
I am a fool, Derek?’

Decca shook his head. Hard. ‘No, boss.’

‘She is a whore. And a whore with ideas above her station is a liability. Nothing more, nothing less. Get rid of her.’

‘Please, boss, let me talk to her. I’ll get her to shut up, OK? Please, boss. Trust me.’

A glaze of ice froze over Kovacs’ eyes. ‘Trust.
You?
’

He needed to say no more. The two words carried more implicit threat than any number of descriptions of intended torture.
Decca swallowed hard. Dropped his eyes.

‘I’m sorry, boss,’ he mumbled.

Kovacs almost smiled. ‘You are a good worker, Derek. You have potential. I let you run this café and you do a good job for
me. So I give you a chance. But you must decide who it is you want to impress. Some whore? Or me?’

Decca thought. Decca nodded.

Kovacs sat back. ‘Good.’

Decca sighed. He looked as if he had been physically beaten up.

Anita chose that moment to approach the table bearing Decca’s coffee. She gave both men a radiant smile, lingering longer
for Decca.

‘There you are.’

‘Thanks, Anita.’ She turned and began walking back towards the counter. Decca was aware of Kovacs watching him. Felt his eyes
boring into him like two diamond drills. ‘Anita?’

She turned.

Decca took a deep breath, sighed. ‘I’d like to see you later. When it’s quiet.’

She smiled. ‘OK.’

‘OK.’ Decca nodded.

Anita turned and went back to work.

‘Good,’ said Kovacs. ‘And I never want to hear another of your whores saying the same thing. Do we understand each other?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Good.’ Kovacs leaned forward, opened his Filofax. ‘Make sure you wait until the rush dies down and you have someone to replace
her. I don’t want to lose money.’

He nodded. ‘What … what should I do with her?’

‘What you like. Sell her to Lenny or Noddy. Put her in one of the houses. Make money from her.’ Kovacs smiled. It was as cold
as Antarctica. ‘Or you could put her into my efficient disposal scheme.’

Decca flinched. Hoped Kovacs didn’t see it. He had heard rumours of such a scheme but not much more. Only enough to know that
he wanted nothing to do with it. ‘No, no. That’s OK. I’ll deal with her.’

‘Good.’ Kovacs’ face was stone again. ‘I never want to see her again. Understand?’

‘Yes, boss. I understand.’

‘Then go to work.’ Kovacs put his face back in his book of figures. ‘And tell her to get me another coffee. This one’s cold.’

Decca picked up his mobile and sunglasses, stood up. Kovacs kept looking at him. Decca tried to walk away, Kovacs called him.

‘Derek?’

He turned.

‘She was right. All this could be yours.’

Decca looked at him with a kind of joy rising in his heart. He didn’t know what to say.

‘Yes,’ said Kovacs, ‘it could all be yours. All you have to do is take it away from me.’

Decca felt himself reddening. He hurriedly made his way to the counter and from there to the door of his office.

Kovacs allowed himself a small, thin smile. He looked at Christopher, who returned it. Then Kovacs continued working, oblivious
to all around him.

His mobile rang. Grumbling, he picked it up. Listened. Once more his eyes narrowed.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good.’

He listened, thought.

‘Yes, I heard. Lenny’s arm is broken. Maybe. But leave it for now. This is more important.’ He listened again. ‘No … do nothing.
Yet.’ Kovacs looked at Decca’s car parked outside, back to Christopher. ‘I will put someone on to it. Find out if she was
important. In the meantime do nothing. Everything goes ahead as planned.’

He hung up, sat back.

The morning rush hour was beginning to die down. Behind the counter, Anita caught his eye, smiled at him. Showed him she was
making his coffee.

Kovacs didn’t smile back.