Cages by David Mark (acx book reading TXT) 📕

‘Metamorphoses,’ says Neilsen, enunciating every word. ‘And Titus Andronicus.’

‘They’re different things, mate,’ says Rufus, thoroughly baffled.

‘They were mentioned by Cox. Examples of romance.’ He looks uncertain. ‘I’m sure it was Lavinia.’

‘You might mean Philomela,’ says Rufus, scratching his head and wishing he had the cash to buy a fizzy drink and a couple of painkillers. ‘A true symbol of the destruction of something pure. A princess, raped by her brother-in-law. She had her tongue cut out so she wouldn’t tell and was imprisoned in the woods. Wove her defilement into a tapestry that was sent to her rapist’s wife. His wife baked his children into a pie in revenge and Philomela was transformed into a nightingale.’

Neilsen makes a face. ‘And Lavinia?’

‘Raped on her lover’s corpse. Tongue cut out. Hands cut off and replaced with twigs. You said he saw these things as romantic? Was he just playing with you?’

Neilsen doesn’t reply. Mulls it over, his face twisted in concentration. Rufus snaps. ‘Look, my brain feels like it’s full of spiders here. Just tell me, what’s any of this got to do with me?’

Neilsen considers this. Stares past him to where the barmaid continues to throw admiring glances. ‘I would be very surprised if you stabbed Griffin Cox,’ he says, at last. ‘I’d be very surprised if you had any agenda at all. But I do know that Cox knows he’s on borrowed time. He’s responsible for the abduction and no doubt the murder of several adolescents. He’s done his time quietly but if we can charge him with even one of these missing persons cases, he’s going to be inside until he’s very old. I think that’s unacceptable to Mr Cox. He wants out, that much is for certain. Myself and my colleague chatted with him yesterday and it was clear that for all his bravado he was definitely panicking about what we might have found at the field in Kirmington. The only person he would consider an ally has given a statement claiming that Cox called him the night Bronwen died and told him in a state of some distress precisely where he’d put the body. He’s an old, old man who seems to be trying to clear his conscience before the end, but that hasn’t stopped him taking a monthly salary to look after Cox’s possessions and estate all these years. We don’t know what other influence Cox carries, but he’s not poor. And, not to put too fine a point on it, you’re in something of a financial pickle, are you not? That car of yours? No insurance, no tax, no MOT. A man like Cox could solve those problems. Put a few quid in your pocket to help annoying evidence go away …’

Rufus locks his jaw, teeth clamped together. Glares at the detective. ‘You’re out of your mind.’

‘No,’ says Neilsen, as if holding a document proving that he is entirely sane. ‘No, I’m following a thought to a series of intriguing conclusions.’

‘This Mark Fellowes,’ says Rufus, and as he shifts in his seat he realizes that the sweat on his body has turned uncomfortably cold. ‘I can’t see the connections there. What’s he got to do with the missing teenagers? And how many missing teenagers are we talking about? What evidence do you have against Cox?’

Neilsen grins at him, seemingly pleased to have been asked. ‘You’re showing a lot of interest, Mr Orton. And obviously I can’t share the details of an ongoing investigation.’

‘So what do you bloody want?’ he asks, bitterly. He pushes his hair out of his eyes. Watches his own reflection shimmer in the soft, intelligent eyes of his gentle interrogator. ‘Tracking me down like I’ve done something wrong … making your accusations … messing with my head …’

Neilsen smiles. Glances at his phone. ‘I want you to know you’ve got my attention,’ he says, quietly. ‘That’s all. If you’re thinking of doing something rash, I want you to be aware of the consequences. I want you to know what kind of man you saved today.’

Rufus pulls a face. ‘So I saved him now, did I? Didn’t stab him, and take his money to get rid of evidence—’

‘I want you to read something that our mutual friend wrote,’ says Neilsen, picking up the phone and tapping the screen with his long, nimble fingers. ‘I’m sending you something that might make you think. And when you’ve read it, and digested all this, and had a little chat with Miss Harris, then maybe you’ll consider doing your civic duty. You could talk to Mr Cox. Quietly. Confidentially. You could persuade him he has a friend in you. And you could perhaps get him to open up.’

Rufus is chewing his tongue, grinding his molars against the great dry slug in his mouth. How the hell has he found himself here? He’s a writer of half-decent literature and a better-than-average creative writing tutor. He thinks of the snow globe. Of Annabeth’s reaction to it, and to the picture of Mark Fellowes on her son’s computer screen. Defreitas had an interest in teenage girls. He moved in the same circles as Mark Fellowes. Fellowes left prints at the murder scene. And years later, he shared a wing with one Griffin Cox. Cox requested a move to Britain’s most notorious prison, not long after Annabeth appeared in the prison magazine. Could he have recognized her? He’d fought tooth and claw to get on the course. To be near her. Suddenly, he fancies he can see a picture, and it is all he can do to keep it from showing in his face.

Christ, he thinks, and his whole body fills with a quiet sadness. You poor child.

Neilsen stands. Takes his wallet from his back pocket and removes two twenty-pound notes and a tenner from his wallet. Puts it on the table in front of Rufus, and winks. ‘After you’ve read it, you’ll want to buy a bottle. Make sure it’s the good stuff.’

He slides the money across the table.