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They have two possible addresses for Michael Sharp: his mother’s house and his own apartment, which Cara and Noah are heading to now. Plan is to hit both at the same time. Two separate teams, two hyped up groups of guns and coppers, ready to search and seize, and—more importantly—arrest this bastard.
They bundle out on to the pavement, then go at speed toward the front door of the building. They know what they’re there to do, armed response heading in first, Cara and Deakin behind.
They climb the stairs to the second floor, then hear a shout from the lead cop, followed by a thump as the battering ram knocks down the door. Heavy footsteps and noise fills the corridor as the officers storm apartment 213.
But as Cara approaches, she knows something’s not right. At first it’s the quiet. After the initial banging and shouting, there are usually yells from the apprehended suspect or disappointed mutterings from the cops, but today there is only silence. Then she notices the smell. It catches in her nostrils, unconsciously making her pause. She pushes herself forward into the apartment. The smell is stronger. She notices a buzz, and a fly goes past her ear.
An officer—a large, burly, six-foot-tall cop—pushes past Cara into the corridor. She watches him bending over, vomiting in the stairwell. She looks at Noah. He’s frowning, staring inside.
The place is warm, too much so, and Cara puts a hand out to the scorching radiator. It’s on full blast. But despite the heat, Cara feels the hairs on her arm stand up on end, a cold chill run down her back.
Deakin’s radio buzzes and voices come down the airwaves.
“House two, clear. Mother brought in for questioning. No sign of Sharp.” They can hear screeching in the background. “Mother being arrested for possession and intent to supply class A’s.”
Deakin swears under his breath, then looks back at Cara. He starts walking further inside, and she follows him into the kitchen.
The police officers are all standing facing one end of the tiny room. None of them speaks. Two more officers turn around and walk past her quickly, their faces showing pure disgust.
She pushes through the crowd. Then she stops.
In front of them is an open fridge. A cardboard box sits on the bottom shelf. Cara’s hand flies to her mouth. Inside is a severed head, facing upward.
“Well,” Deakin whispers behind her. “That answers that question.”
“Detective Chief Inspector?”
A voice behind her pulls her attention away. She turns and another cop is standing next to a freestanding freezer. She doesn’t want to, but she forces herself to peer inside.
There are three more human heads.
She feels her stomach turn, and she takes a step backward.
She leaves the kitchen, going into the bedroom. But if anything, it’s worse. There’s a single bed in the middle of the room, its mattress stained with what she assumes to be blood, as well as spatter up the walls and on the pillowcase. There’s a metal filing cabinet next to the bed, then a chest of drawers and a box with a polystyrene lid.
Throughout is the indescribable smell of death and decay.
“What the fuck is that?” Deakin asks, pointing. In the corner sits a large blue plastic drum with a black cover.
Cara stares for a moment. She has a bad feeling about it.
“Don’t open it,” she says. “We need to get out of here,” she shouts to the team. “Get SOCO as soon as possible. Someone call the pathologist.”
The cops don’t wait to be told twice. Cara hears quick footsteps, the apartment emptying. Deakin stays, then walks across to the filing cabinet. He pulls open the top drawer, then recoils.
“Fuck,” he says again.
She goes over and looks in. There, staring up at her, lying on a black towel, are three human skulls. Stripped of their skin and flesh, they look almost surreal, like displays stolen from a science class. And they’re painted—green with black flecks.
Cara can’t stand the smell any longer. Combined with the sight of the skulls, her body rebels, pushing her out of the room and into the corridor. She makes it down the stairs and into the garden before she throws up, bent double, her stomach purging out whatever was left of her lunch.
She crouches on the grass, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She closes her eyes, but the image stays.
Decapitated heads. Decayed, brown skin, straggly hair. Skulls, grinning, eye sockets empty.
She throws up again, then stays there, collapsed on all fours on the grass, weak and gasping.
What else? she thinks, as she retches. What else is in that apartment?
