Cages by David Mark (acx book reading TXT) 📕

looking at a memory that causes his hands to shake. ‘We never took much notice,’ he says, softly. ‘Older parents, see? You let them get on with their lives and hope they know what they’re doing. She never caused us any bother, and it wasn’t that odd for stuff to arrive addressed to her and not to me or the wife. Her older sisters would send her stuff now and again, and there were people who’d seen her give a concert or appear in a competition who’d taken her address and were writing to her or sending sheet music or something. She was a very grown-up girl. Of course, we teased her now and again, joking that she had some mysterious admirer, but she just laughed along and said we were silly. Maybe I kept her too wrapped-up, you know? She was a bit innocent. We did everything we could by her – all the trips to music recitals and residential weekends and whatnot – it wasn’t cheap. But maybe she missed out on getting that bit more streetwise. I don’t know.’

Neilsen can see that the old man has asked himself over and over what else he could have done. Knows that he will die without ever getting an answer.

‘The nightingale?’ asks Neilsen, carefully.

Bob gives a snort of laughter: a dry little hiss. He shakes his head, still marvelling at the oddness of such a gift.

‘There on the bloody step, wasn’t it? Big black cage, all fancy wrought iron, twisted in on itself. Looked bloody spooky. And there’s this nightingale inside. Pretty little thing, like you’d expect. And there’s this card attached to the bars with a ribbon. Bronwen’s name, written in this twirly calligraphy, and a little line of poetry, though it were written in foreign. You’ll have seen it all, I shouldn’t wonder. And the coppers have had the cage since day one. Never helped, did it? It was all we had, save a couple of fancy books she’d been sent. She’d burned the rest. Chucked it all in the fire. Wish I’d never told the police about that – as soon as I did you could see them writing her off as a runaway. Gone off to meet up with somebody, hadn’t she? Done a runner.’

‘And you don’t think it was Cox?’

He closes his eyes. Takes a drink. Swallows, painfully, as if forcing down rising bile. ‘Never even bloody occurred to us. Didn’t even remember the bloke until we saw his face in the paper having nabbed that girl in York. I think that was what did Jenny in, you know? Miss her like anything but she’d have hated these past few years. Once it was in the papers – once people started mentioning Bronwen again – it was all too bloody much. I tried to help other people, y’know? Do something positive, talk with other families who’ve lost somebody …’

‘This was with the Missing People charity, yes?’

‘Aye, they’re good. Lady who looked after me was the bee’s knees. Nothing was too much trouble, and she were only a young thing. Wanted to get me answers, or justice, or at the very least some kind of closure. I still don’t know if that’s what I want. Some people, they say that getting the body back is the thing that matters most. I don’t know. Makes it real, doesn’t it? But if she’s dead and gone, I don’t want her laying where somebody else chose for her. I want her home.’

Neilsen finishes his rum. Reaches over, and gives the old man’s arm a squeeze. There’s more fabric than flesh.

‘You think he did it?’ asks Bob, and he could just as easily be asking whom Neilsen fancies in the cup final. It’s a voice out of which all emotion has been drained. ‘Cox. You’ve met him. Think she’d go off with him? Think he’s a killer?’

Neilsen stands. Takes his mug to the sink and rinses it out, leaning over the dirty dishes in his expensive suit. He knows that he should soft-soap the poor old bugger: tell him that they’re not pre-judging, and that all lines of enquiry remain open; making a lot of noise while saying precisely nothing. He can’t bring himself to do it.

‘I think he’s capable, yes,’ says Neilsen. ‘I don’t know why the witness chose to direct us to the field at Kirmington, but we’re going to do our damndest to find out if they were telling the truth. Whether or not he hurt your daughter, I don’t know. But I think he’s hurt a lot of people. I think he might be one of the most dangerous people I’ve ever met. And I don’t know how to explain what it is about him that made me feel that way. I just know that as soon as he walked in to the interview room, the air changed. You know how animals react before a storm – they sense the change in air pressure, smell the rain, or whatever? It was like that. Like he was dragging storm clouds with him.’

Bob nods, the action barely noticeable. ‘If he did it – if he took Bronwen – you’ll make him tell you where he put her, won’t you? Even if you don’t find her at Kirmington, you’ll do what you have to make him say.’

‘Everything within the law,’ says Neilsen, automatically.

Bob looks past him, his haggard face giving a little twist of resignation. ‘So, nothing, then. Christ, it must be a killer, being a policeman. You’d be more use without the badge, wouldn’t you? Have more of a chance to do something that matters.’

Neilsen doesn’t reply. Just nods to the old man, and makes for the door. Just before he turns the handle, he stops, and asks one final question. ‘The nightingale,’ he says, quietly. ‘What happened to it?’

‘What you’d expect,’ says Bob, drily. ‘What always happens to a solitary bird in a cage. Bashed its brains in against the bars, didn’t it? They go mad, trying