Cages by David Mark (reading fiction TXT) 📗

‘But they have such a huge area to search,’ says Rufus, wishing she would either stop smoking or offer him one. ‘Oh,’ he mutters, as the road comes to an abrupt halt at a rusty metal gate. ‘That didn’t take long.’

Up ahead is the outline of a large, rundown farm: big, ramshackle barns rising over the remains of a neglected stable. There are grain silos off to one side, doors hanging open, rusted ladders dangling haphazardly from the metal gangway that winds around their outsides. The fields are overgrown. A decent sized mobile home sticks out from the open end of the nearest barn, surrounded by a huge wall of abandoned tyres and an avalanche of damp, mulched straw. It’s thoroughly uninviting, but Rufus feels the hairs on his arms rise with something like excitement as he stares through the roiling mist.

‘They can’t have completed a search in that time,’ says Rufus, baffled.

Beside him, Ruth gives a friendly laugh. ‘It’s not the way you see on telly, mate. Most of it is done by drone and geophysics, reading the landscape, placing thermal measuring implements. Cadaver dogs would be nice but I don’t think they’ve got more than a handful for the region so I don’t know if they were here. But to be honest, Ben tells me they were pretty sure where they were looking, and if they’ve done that and drawn a blank then they’re not going to start digging up everything else on a whim.’

‘But if there’s the body of a missing girl, wouldn’t it be worth any expense?’

‘You’re sweet,’ says Ruth, chucking her cigarette through the open window. She gives him a once-over, frowning. ‘You don’t look like your picture. I read a bit on my phone last night. One of your books was down to ninety-nine p. Bit wordy, bit smart-arsed, but you’re pretty good. My sub-editors would hate you though. Too much fancy stuff to cut out. You thinking you might write something on Cox, are you? I’d be glad to help, like. Not that I’ve got any sort of special insights, but I do know he’s been on the radar of a few coppers over the years.’

Rufus isn’t used to being hit with such a stream of questions. He pauses, gathering his thoughts, and she takes it as an invitation to carry on.

‘Definitely dodgy, that’s about as close to an outright accusation as I’ve ever got Ben to admit, but that in itself is enough to suggest you don’t want him babysitting.’

‘Ben?’ he asks, bewildered.

‘Cox, you doofus,’ she says, laughing. ‘No, Ben’s OK. We had a thing, years back, but that’s hardly an exclusive club for either of us. Been on the periphery of some big cases and he’d be a detective inspector by now if he didn’t enjoy being part of the unit at Humberside. He said you and him had a drink last night. Cosy, was it?’

Rufus chews his lip, suddenly feeling a bit silly. He doesn’t know why he’s here. ‘He basically warned me not to let Cox manipulate me. Buy me off, or whatever.’

‘Whatever? I thought you were meant to be wordy!’

‘I’m better written down.’ He shrugs, and rubs at the sore patch of skin on his cheek.

‘They’ll be back later, apparently,’ says Ruth, looking through the glass. ‘I might have a potter around.’

‘What, just go in, you mean?’

She smiles at him as if he were a baby. ‘Yes, Rufus. Go and look around. Ben wanted to let me in yesterday but his boss is a right cow and wouldn’t hear of it. I can make a few quid just from the pictures. And if you’re writing a book …’

He frowns at her. ‘Why do you think I’m writing a book?’

She shrugs, climbing from the car. ‘Everybody is, aren’t they? Anyway, you’re more than welcome to tag along.’

He watches her light another cigarette then trudge off into the grey air, only halting briefly to find a safe place to put her foot on the rusty gate. Then she’s clambering over and dropping down, plodding up towards the abandoned building, bag over her shoulder and the bulge of mints in her pocket.

‘Oh bollocks,’ says Rufus, and tucks the car in at the side of the road. Then he climbs out and trots, painfully, in the same direction that Ruth had taken. He clambers over the gate: cold, dirty metal unpleasant on his palms, and drops down onto the rutted track, jarring his knee. He feels a hundred years old.

‘Ruth,’ he says, into the gathering mist. ‘Hold up.’

He half walks, half scurries towards the first of the buildings, hoping she’ll be waiting for him. He can’t see her. Can’t hear her either. There’s an ugly creaking sound coming from somewhere nearby – metal on metal, a gibbet on a hinge – but the wide emptiness of the land makes it hard to follow the direction of any sound. He calls Ruth’s name again and it’s snatched away on the wind. He pokes his head around a crumbling brick wall and sees two rusty oil drums filled with brick and ash. A rotting bridle hangs from a hook. There’s a plastic school chair off to one side, surrounded by cigarette butts. There are dirty mugs, unwashed plates scattered in among the mulch of hay and hard earth: sickle-like hoof prints hard-baked into the ground.

There’s movement to his right.

‘Boo,’ says Ruth, and she appears at his side, a mint tucked into her cheek like a hamster. ‘No bugger here. Pictures would be ace if I was a photographer but I can’t make it look moody, just misty. Do you reckon you could stand facing off to one side just for scale, like. I’ll send you a JPEG of the image if you cut me in to the royalties.’

Rufus feels the headache return with a vengeance. He needs to get his thoughts in order. He can feel the shape of a story that makes