Cut to the Bone Read online

  CUT TO THE BONE

  ALEX CAAN

  Contents

  Part One: The American

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Part Two: The Invisible Dead

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Part Three: Into the Woods

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Chapter Sixty-six

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Chapter Sixty-nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-one

  Chapter Seventy-two

  Chapter Seventy-three

  Part Four: Heart of Darkness

  Chapter Seventy-four

  Chapter Seventy-five

  Chapter Seventy-six

  Chapter Seventy-seven

  Chapter Seventy-eight

  Chapter Seventy-nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-one

  Chapter Eighty-two

  Chapter Eighty-three

  Chapter Eighty-four

  Chapter Eighty-five

  Chapter Eighty-six

  Chapter Eighty-seven

  Chapter Eighty-eight

  Chapter Eighty-nine

  Chapter Ninety

  Chapter Ninety-one

  Chapter Ninety-two

  Chapter Ninety-three

  Part Five: The Dirty Game

  Chapter Ninety-four

  Chapter Ninety-five

  Chapter Ninety-six

  Chapter Ninety-seven

  Chapter Ninety-eight

  Chapter Ninety-nine

  Chapter One Hundred

  Chapter One Hundred and One

  Chapter One Hundred and Two

  Chapter One Hundred and Three

  Chapter One Hundred and Four

  Chapter One Hundred and Five

  Part Six: The Reckoning

  Chapter One Hundred and Six

  Chapter One Hundred and Seven

  Chapter One Hundred and Eight

  Chapter One Hundred and Nine

  Chapter One Hundred and Ten

  Chapter One Hundred and Eleven

  Chapter One Hundred and Twelve

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen

  Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen

  Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen

  Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen

  Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen

  Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen

  Chapter One Hundred and Nineteen

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-one

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  To MKAZURHZZI, because they asked.

  PART ONE

  THE AMERICAN

  Chapter One

  Ruby is running. Her eyes pop, bright like a cat’s. She is looking over her shoulder as she moves, which causes her to stumble. Her breathing is heavy; when she falls she moans, she cries out. There is blood on her face, there are cuts on her body. Her clothes are gone. She wears a sack, tied at the waist. Each time her bare feet step on sharp objects she whimpers. The scene is holding those watching it in thrall. The trees around her are black, dense. She falls again, to her knees.

  Help me.

  Who is she speaking to? Does she call on God? Or is someone there with her? Or is she simply pleading, hoping someone will hear, come to her rescue? Does she know they will be watching her?

  Loud screams as someone grabs her. Ruby struggles and is dragged backwards, kicking out with her damaged heels. Ruby is gone. Only her screaming remains.

  Ruby is seated in a chair. Her arms are strapped, her legs are bound. She looks straight ahead. Her mouth is taped.

  Her eyes squeeze out tears that crawl down her cheeks.

  Then there is darkness.

  Ruby thinks she will die. She hopes she will die. Death seems like an end, like peace. Cessation of pain, no more fear.

  The walls are coming in. The darkness has icy fingers. Her skin is on fire.

  She wants her mother.

  She can’t breathe.

  She is drowning.

  She opens her eyes. Her body has slumped forward, her face is half buried under putrid sludge. The tape on her mouth has been removed; she tastes foul liquid, and spits. She pulls herself out of the mire, and she screams. She knows no one will come. Because no one can hear her now.

  Something grabs her ankle, tugs at her, pulls her into the darkness.

  She tries to escape, tries to break free. She can’t; it has clamped its jaws on her soft flesh, gripping her bones, which it can crush.

  She wants to die.

  And then the rats come.

  Chapter Two

  Blood-red, rust-orange, liver-brown. A riot of colour pricking at her senses, unlocking her memories. Kate Riley was sprinting through a New England forest. It was fall. The world around her beginning to mulch and rot. She was alone, and then he was there. Out of nowhere he appeared, and she knew what would happen next.

  Kate opened her eyes, stared into the darkness. Head against her pillow, her senses alert, her heart hammering. Familiar aftershock, from a familiar nightmare. She checked the baby monitor. It was silent. She checked her phone. Three missed calls. It was 2.38 a.m. She checked the caller ID. Unknown.

  The phone rang again in her hand.

  ‘Riley,’ she said.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector, it’s Justin Hope. Apologies for disturbing you at this hour.’

  This wasn’t going to be good.

  ‘What’s the emergency?’ said Kate.

  ‘Missing girl. It’s sensitive,’ said Hope.

  ‘Message me the details. I’ll head out now,’ she said, pushing her
sheets back.

  ‘No, send Harris,’ he said, quickly. ‘He can open for us. He needs to get his fingers burnt.’

  The garden was shadowy, dim and obscure. Kate kept her kitchen lights off, didn’t like the idea of being visible to anything out there.

  Pitch black. Watched, but not seeing. That old paranoia.

  She rubbed the backs of her legs with her bare feet, trying to soften the goosed skin, warm herself up. There was a draught. Or maybe it was just her imagination, conjured up by the situation she was in.

  The display on her phone showed 2.46 a.m. Her body, shivering and slow, still held on to its stolen sleep. But her mind was alert. She rubbed her face, gulped back freshly made black coffee, scalding her throat. Then dialled.

  There was no answer. She let it ring. It was 2.51, her fifth attempt, when he finally picked up.

  ‘Harris,’ he said.

  ‘It’s DCI Riley,’ she said. ‘I’m texting you an address. Missing girl, name of Ruby Day. I need you to speak to the parents, get some background, open the investigation for me.’

  She heard herself talking. It was the same clipped voice she put on for all work calls. Holding back the American teenager she had been, and forcing herself to speak with a British accent. It was an old trick, a politician’s trick. Speech alignment; copy someone’s way of speaking and they are immediately drawn to you.

  ‘How old is the girl?’ Harris asked.

  ‘Early twenties,’ she said.

  ‘Missing since when?’

  ‘Seven-thirty, or thereabouts,’ she said.

  Silence. She knew what he was thinking. She had thought the same.

  ‘Are you serious?’ he said. ‘Why have we been called in? That’s, what, under eight hours?’

  ‘It came from Justin Hope. The call. He wants us there.’

  ‘I’ll head over. Text me the address now,’ he said.

  ‘And, Harris, I have no idea why Hope is involved, but he is. So let’s not give him a reason to screw us over, OK?’

  ‘No worries.’

  Harris would hate it, of course. He thought being part of her team beneath him. This would irritate him further. Called out for a missing persons case. Not even a child, but an adult. Kate didn’t like Justin Hope being involved. Things were always murky when he was around. He spoke in riddles and myths. He spoke as though he was on a pulpit, as though they had been chosen to serve him. He liked to boast about his ‘team’, about relying on them. Conferring status on them, because they were his.

  Kate imagined a small child squeezing a soft toy too hard to its chest. The toy inanimate but silently screaming.

  DS Harris was new, only two weeks on Kate’s team, but he would learn the power dynamics quickly. And if he didn’t, Justin Hope would simply get rid of him.

  Chapter Three

  There had been demons in his brain, tearing at his throat, clawing at his skin. Blood was soaking him and his bed. His eyes had stung, and in his mouth was the taste of iron.

  The spasm that had woken Detective Sergeant Zain Harris from his nightmare had caused a cramp he was massaging and walking off, so at first he didn’t hear Riley’s calls. When he was done speaking to her, he wished he hadn’t picked up.

  He had showered after Krav Maga the night before, so made do with washing his face, applying deodorant and brushing his teeth. He pulled on jeans, a V-necked khaki T-shirt, and finished with a black jacket. Riley encouraged her team not to dress like accountants. He didn’t know if this look had the desired effect; this was the first time she had called him to be part of an investigation.

  Investigation. It seemed like a loaded word, inappropriate. Woman in her twenties goes missing for eight hours. What was that about? Why was there a panic? She was probably at a party, or hooked up with someone at a party, or asleep from drinking too much at a party.

  Is this what he had become? Some top brass lackey?

  A quarter of a million people went missing every year. Ninety-one per cent turned up within forty-eight hours, ninety-nine per cent within a year. He didn’t get the urgency, or Justin Hope’s involvement.

  Zain pulled open the drawer in the bureau behind his front door. He let his fingers rummage through the brown and white envelopes, containing bills mainly, until they grazed the metallic sachet.

  Green pills in plastic bubbles on one side, smooth foil with Chinese writing on the back. It could be alligator testicles or snake venom for all he knew. The Tor site had simply told him what the pills did, not what the ingredients were.

  He popped a tablet through the foil, the green pill falling into his hand. He placed it on his tongue, and swallowed. He felt it kick in as he slammed his front door behind him and headed to his car.

  Driving through sparse traffic, turning off from Lower Marsh, he hit a block of buses at the top end of Waterloo Bridge. Traffic bottlenecked around Aldwych on the other side. It was late, or early, depending on your point of view. Why were so many people out? Maybe the missing girl was on one of these night buses. Or folded up in the back of a taxi.

  His satnav was taking him down the official route, the big roads. Up Kingsway, towards Euston, through Bloomsbury. Then on to the A501, Euston Road followed by Marylebone Road. It was like a tourist trail, heading past Madame Tussauds, the green syllabub of the Planetarium, Baker Street, Regent’s Park. He should have navigated the smaller roads, cut straight through London’s heart.

  He felt humiliation needle him again. Seriously, this is what they were making him do? With his background, his skills, his experience? And why the hell was Justin Hope involved? What was so special about this girl? Was she the daughter of a friend? Was this Hope pissing over his patch, showing how much clout he had?

  If it turned out to be a favour for one of Hope’s golfing buddies . . . Then again, Zain was in no position to argue. Not with his past. However he felt personally, this stint with Riley and Hope, it was a favour. Another loaded word that. It implied a debt would be called in to repay it.

  Zain turned onto the A5, heading up the Edgware Road. The restaurants were mainly closed, but the shisha cafés and shawarma outlets were still open. He felt hungry, but decided he’d get something on his way back. This wouldn’t take long. He wouldn’t let it.

  At least the car was running smoothly. Audi A6. Sleek, black. A gift from Hope for the newest member of his team. Being someone’s bitch had perks, then.

  Eventually, beyond the flyover, he arrived at his destination. Windsor Court, a late-Victorian mansion block, red brick, white-framed windows. It sprawled across two buildings, with two entrances. There were metal posts blocking the driveways, no parking allowed. Zain drove his Audi onto the pavement at the front, got as close as he could.

  He saw a sign for flat numbers 1–26 painted over one of the entrances that was lit up from the inside, so he headed for that door. There was a security panel listing flat numbers. He pushed at the button next to 1A.

  A man’s voice, urgent, panicky. Was he expecting it to be his daughter?

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Harris,’ said Zain. ‘I’ve a report of a missing –’

  The door was buzzed open before he could finish.

  Chapter Four

  Kate watched the sleeping form. Still, dreamless. Vulnerable.

  Ryan would be here in a few hours. Ryan – a stranger, to look after something so precious, so irreplaceable. Officially he was her housekeeper/sitter. Unofficially . . . what was the term for someone who guarded the thing you cared about most in the world?

  Kate closed the door softly, padded back to her own bedroom. She slept with the door open, always. Just in case. Who needed the guilt if something went wrong? The baby monitor was top of the range, discreet, metallic. It looked like a digital radio. Kate turned it up; listening to the stillness she had just seen for herself.

  She pulled back her bed sheets, crisp, smelling of pine and fresh air. One of Ryan’s jobs. Laundry, cleaning . . . minding. That was the term; it hardly seemed
big enough. As for the smaller tasks, Kate used work pressure, erratic hours, as justification for shirking them.

  It had been true once. But since Justin Hope, things didn’t fit into that cliché anymore.

  Hope was a trial run, an idea dreamed up by the prime minister and home secretary. The police crime commissioners, PCCs, had been successful nationally. Well, that was the spin, so they wanted to give London a taste. Westminster was created as the first PCC set-up, powers taken from the Met’s commissioner and given to Justin Hope. He had been an MP in a previous existence, a somebody at the Foreign Office, followed by the Ministry of Defence, then the Home Office and finally the Ministry of Justice.

  On his appointment, lines were drawn hastily across London. The existing boroughs of Southwark and Lambeth had their prime landmarks taken. Hope was allegedly keen on jurisdiction over Thames House and Vauxhall Cross. Most of the existing City of Westminster being swallowed whole, he had an area of nearly thirty square miles to govern. Drawn up in seven days, again allegedly.

  Unofficially, he had jurisdiction over all 609 square miles of London.

  When Kate had been offered her role, she’d thought it would be a promotion. Not just in title terms – she was already a detective inspector, now bumped up to detective chief inspector – but in terms of casework. She’d imagined the PCC would want the biggest, most complex crimes himself. She in turn would be given the opportunity to really make a difference, utilise her skills.

  Skills gained in the past, before she’d had to leave.

  Who was she kidding? She didn’t leave.

  Run away. Hide. Search for a new beginning. That was more like it. They said they’d find her a new state to live in, on the other side of the country from Massachusetts, somewhere she could start again. And she had tried it, for a year. A year that meant obscurity, nothingness: her career, her passion, all of it deadened.

  She’d watched as they made plans for her, around her. Then she’d taken the initiative, taken control over her own life, and decided she would change country. She needed to get back to what she did best. Be a cop.

  So London happened. And in London, she’d found she could start again. They’d snapped her up, dazzled by her Criminal Justice Ph.D. from Brown, her time with the United States Capitol Police, the Department of Homeland Security. Her fabricated references.