Though he’d been to this place many times, with the room lit, it never failed to take his breath away, cause his pulse to quicken. Bones, disarticulated, piled in neat rows. Femurs and tibias and fibulas and humeri and serried ranks of ribs along the walls. At the centre were skulls, in a huge pyramid, some polished, some dark-stained, all with empty eye sockets silently acknowledging his presence. Far from being a Hollywood horror film set, Starkey saw it for what it was. A bone crypt. A monument for pilgrims and villagers to pray amongst their ancestors. He’d done his research, and the proximity to Tintern was probably no accident. Some of the dead here might have been plague victims, some soldiers from the wars between the Welsh and English, but all were forgotten now, much as this crypt had been after the reformation.
It didn’t matter. This was a find. A real find. If he’d wanted to, he could have reported this forgotten ossuary to the authorities, be lauded and get his name in the papers. But it was the last thing that Starkey craved. In fact, Starkey’s cravings, if they ever made the newspapers, would fill the front page.
He’d added to the bone count over the years. When he brought them back they’d be bleached and cleaned of the corrupting flesh that coated them. Pure once more. He mentally ticked off their names as he prepared. Jade, Katelyn, Lily, James, Freddie.
He was about to add one more.
Forty-Four
Holder and Khosa were on their way to the car when they heard a shout behind them.
Holder turned back to see Woakes walking towards them.
‘Hold on, hold on. Where are you two off to in such a hurry?’
‘Boss wants us on something.’
‘Oh yeah? Like what?’
‘Sarge, we don’t have the time to explain.’
‘Really,’ Woakes said, and began walking towards the parking spaces. ‘You can fill me in on the way.’
Holder hesitated. Woakes fixed him with a challenging glare. ‘As far as I know I’m a still a sergeant in this squad and your superior, am I not?’
Khosa and Holder exchanged pained glances. Both of them knew they had no time to argue the point, nor to ring Anna.
‘Fuck,’ cursed Holder under his breath. But he followed Woakes towards the car with Khosa in tow.
It was a fifteen-minute journey to Starkey’s address on the outskirts of Clevedon. Khosa filled Woakes in as best they could. Holder drove, mouth zipped shut. Not that Woakes noticed; he was too busy listening, face shining, eyes alight, up for the chase.
‘She’s cocked this up,’ he said when Khosa finished, his glee evident.
‘What do you mean, sarge?’ Khosa asked.
‘Gwynne. She’s cocked this up. It’s obvious Starkey and Hawley are in it together. She’s taken Hawley up to Cheltenham and shown him her cards. He might have tipped this turd Starkey off for all we know.’
‘We don’t know, though.’ Holder shook his head.
Woakes hissed out air. ‘Loyalty’s one thing, Justin. Blind ignorance is something else altogether.’
* * *
Starkey’s property was on the northern edge of Clevedon. Neat lawn, swept drive, net curtains, the works. Holder rang the bell. No one answered and there was no movement apparent from inside.
‘I’ll go around the back,’ Khosa said and headed towards a wooden door to the side of the garage.
‘We need to get inside,’ Holder said.
Woakes turned to him. ‘We don’t have a warrant.’
‘No, but we can go in if we believe Starkey has committed a serious offence. If we think he’s on the property. If someone’s life is in danger.’
Woakes sneered. ‘Do we? Think he’s on the property, I mean? I don’t. I reckon he’s done a bunk thanks to our precious DI.’
‘You don’t know that, sarge.’
‘Don’t I? Well you go ahead, Justin. Try and find an open window. I’ll go for a walk and pretend I didn’t hear what you just sa—’
‘Justin!’ Khosa’s urgent shout made both men run through the side gate. ‘Inside the shed. Look through the window. On the back wall.’
Holder joined Khosa and cupped his hands around the glass. Beneath the window was a bench, neat and clean, a range of small tools arranged to one side. Holder let his eyes slide to the rear. The back wall was an art gallery. Large squares of paper stuck up with thumbtacks, and in the middle, one larger than the others. A centrepiece.
‘What the hell are those?’ Holder stood back and Woakes took his place.
‘Paintings, drawings? Who knows.’
‘They’re weird,’ Khosa said.
Holder disappeared for a minute. When he came back he held a small crowbar in his hand and went directly to the shed door.
Khosa looked anxious.
‘Someone might be in there. We’re justified.’
The padlock securing the door looked strong, but it was only held in place by a few screws and gave after Holder leaned his weight into it. Inside, the place smelled musty with a hint of linseed oil and wax. Holder walked over to the full-length drawing and studied it. The paper must have been 4 feet long and 2 wide, covered with red wax, depicting an ornate arrangement of flowers and leaves arching over a skull with two long femurs crossed beneath it and a hand with its index finger pointing upwards, the carved letters standing out as white.
Hetty Sara Davies Spinster of this parish.
Servant of the Church.
Daughter of Eisiah and Mary Nov 20 1856 – June 18 1891
‘What’s this, a bloody pirate?’ Woakes said
‘No. I know what this is,’ Khosa said. ‘It’s a gravestone.’
‘Gravestone?’ Woakes said. He suddenly sounded a lot more interested
Holder quickly looked around the little room. It looked solid, an MDF floor. No trapdoor.
‘What if she’s in the house?’ Holder said.
‘Then we go in,’ Woakes said.
‘Shouldn’t you run that past the boss?’
‘Look around you, Justin. I am the fucking boss.’
‘Don’t we need a warrant, sarge?’ Khosa asked.
‘Not when we’re saving life and limb,’ Holder answered her.
‘Exactly,’ Woakes said, his eyes widening. It was obvious to both DCs that Woakes’ confidence had increased with what had been found in the shed. He was a dog with a bone now. ‘There could be a hostage in there. Sod protocol.’
‘But shouldn’t we tell DI Gw—’
Woakes rounded on Khosa and leaned in close, his mouth hard and ugly. ‘We don’t tell her anything. We go in and search for evidence of an abduction. Got it?’
In the end, Holder went in through a window in the back bedroom. He found a ladder, waved at a curious neighbour who looked about ready to ring a burglary in until Khosa flashed her warrant card, reached in through the gap, lifted the stay and climbed in. Two beds in the room, posters on the walls. A teenagers’ room. He called out as he moved swiftly down the stairs and into the kitchen where he opened the back door to let the others in.
They all wore blue gloves.
Inside, the kitchen was clean and tidy. Porridge and Corn Flakes in the cupboard. Half a carton of milk in the fridge next to the bacon, eggs, butter and the remains of a fish pie. A magnet in the shape of a cartoon cow held a bundle of papers, bills mainly, on the door of the fridge.
Khosa walked through to the living room, calling out a name. ‘Mr Starkey, it’s the police. Mr Starkey?’
There was no reply. Holder stayed downstairs; Khosa and Woakes took the upstairs. On a shelf in the living room, under photographs of two teenage boys were a collection of books and magazines. Old copies of Homes & Gardens and on one shelf some older books, Abandoned Castles (Forgotten Heritage series), Relics of Britain. One on railways. Nothing in the slightest bit incriminating.
Khosa rejoined Holder in the living room.
‘Nothing.’ She shook her head.
Woakes had wandered back out into the garden and was looking in the shed.
Holder wasn’t sure what Woakes was trying to prove. He should have been taking charge. Instead, though not obviously obstructive, he wasn’t exactly putting his back into things, either.
‘What’s the matter with him? Khosa asked.
‘Arrest envy is my guess.’
‘Pathetic,’ Khosa said and then sighed. ‘Maybe he’s right. Maybe Hawley did tip Starkey off.’
Holder shook his head. ‘No. The boss would never have let that happen.’
‘So, what exactly are we looking for here? A hidden panel in the wall? A trapdoor?’
‘I don’t know.’ Holder walked out of the living room and scanned the kitchen again. Khosa followed and reached for the cow magnet on the fridge door. She spread the half-dozen or so scraps of paper it had held on the worktop. Two were garage fuel bills, one a Tesco shopping list. The other three were all invoices from a builder’s merchant. Sand, cement, chippings and wood. All bought over the summer. Holder stood next to her, intrigued.