CHAPTER NINETEEN
The church had grown colder as the night deepened.
Every sound travelled in it—the tick of cooling stone, the whisper of rain finding cracks in the roof, the occasional sigh from Tommy Rodrigues.
Kate sat hunched beneath the gallery steps, collar up, eyes on the narrow strip of moonlight cutting across the nave.
The place smelled of mildew, old incense and unwashed people.
Close on seven hours. Seven hours of waiting, listening to the same empty situation reports crackle through the radio: nothing seen, nothing heard.
It was the kind of waiting that bred fury.
Rodrigues’s cough had started as a polite throat-clear, then grown into a steady, rasping bark. Every time it came, it bounced off the church walls, shredding what little patience she had left.
Marcus had disappeared somewhere behind the pulpit, pretending to patrol but mostly just pacing the stone aisle to stay warm. She could picture him there now—hands in pockets, jaw clenched, the outline of his breath misting in front of him.
The radio hissed.
"Unit Four. Negative. Streets clear."
Another pause. Then: "Unit Five. Negative."
She pressed the transmit. "Copy all. Maintain positions."
Her stomach growled in reply. She ignored it. The coffee in the thermos was long cold, and the power packs had died an hour ago. Even her thoughts felt sluggish, as if the batteries in her head were failing too.
A sound behind her—boots on flagstone.
Marcus.
“Nothing?” he asked quietly.
“Nothing,” she said. “Torres’s last report came through twenty minutes ago. No movement anywhere near the perimeter.”
He exhaled slowly, rubbing his hands together. “Seven hours. You’d think even a lunatic would keep better time.”
“Cox doesn’t run on time,” Kate said. “He runs on theatre.”
“Maybe the curtain’s down,” Marcus muttered.
She gave him a look. “We can’t call it off yet.”
“I know.” He crouched beside her, pulling his coat tighter. “But it’s looking like a no-show. The teams are half-frozen, and Rodrigues—”
A wet cough echoed from the transept, as if on cue.
“—is driving me oobatz,” Marcus finished.
Kate’s mouth twitched despite herself. “Oobatz? That’ll be Bensonhurst for…”
“Crazy.”
“Crazy. Well, you’re not the only one. If he keeps it up, we’ll have to shoot him, just to put him out of his misery.”
Marcus grinned faintly. “He’s been hacking like that since five. You’d think he’d have learned to cover his mouth.”
“Don’t,” Kate said, suddenly sharp. “Don’t make me consider what’s in that handkerchief.”
“Why Friday?” Marcus asked, suddenly, after a long pause.
“What?” She’d almost dropped off.
“He said Cox calls him Man Friday. I just wondered why.”
Kate pulled her coat tighter; the mention of Cox could do that, lower temperatures by two degrees. “From Robinson Crusoe?”
“Never saw it.”
“It was a book. C’mon, you must have read it in sixth grade.”
“Nope. Mind you, I didn’t pay too much attention back then.”
She smiled. “What did you pay attention to?”
“Mandy McQuorqudale. She was Scottish. Actual Scottish. Beautiful long red hair. We used to get her to say words in recess. Like werreld. That’s—”
“I know. It’s how they say ‘world’.”
They fell quiet again. Outside, the rain was heavier now, drumming on the boards that sealed the old stained-glass windows. A rasping snore came from the area presently occupied by Tommy Rodrigues. Marcus shook his head.
“There is no sound on this earth more irritating than some guy getting a good sleep while you’re awake.”
“Amen to that.”
Marcus stretched his legs, staring up into the gloom of the nave. “You think Tommy actually gave the sign?”
Kate frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The one under the bridge,” Marcus said. “The chalk symbol that was supposed to trigger a meet. Who verified it? Anyone?”
Kate frowned. “One of Torres’ team gave him a ride down there, but he went to the bridge alone, obviously. I’m sure someone would have verified, but…”
“But you’re not sure.”
“We’ve only got Tommy’s word for it… No. It can’t be the case, Marcus.”
“Right,” Marcus said. “And now we’ve been sitting here for seven hours on the word of a guy who’s currently snoring through his cough medicine.”
“He’s terrified of Cox,” Kate said. “He wants him caught. He wouldn’t lie about that.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow. “So scared he fell asleep on stakeout?”
“He’s exhausted.”
“He’s milking it.”
Kate shot him a look.
Marcus spread his hands. “Look, I’m just saying—Rodrigues was onto a good thing with Cox. Regular cash for minimum effort. Maybe he’s not as eager to see that gravy train derailed as we think.”
“That’s paranoid,” she said.
He shrugged. “Maybe. But you’ve seen it before. The ones closest to a monster are the last to see the horns.”
Kate rubbed her temples. “He knew Cox would turn on him eventually. They all do. He wants him caught.”
Marcus leaned back against the pillar, the old wood creaking behind him. “Or he wants him gone without having to help us do it. There’s a difference.”
Before Kate could answer, a loud snort came from the far end of the nave, followed by silence.
“Bastard,” Marcus whispered.
Kate smiled despite herself. “You’re just jealous.”
“Damn right.”
The radio crackled again. “Unit Six. All quiet.”
She clicked the mic. “Copy, Six. Maintain comms schedule.”
Then Torres’s voice came through. “Control to Valentine. PD overtime’s only guaranteed until midnight. If we’re still at zero, they’ll start pulling the uniforms.”
Kate sighed. “Understood.”
There was a pause. “Kate,” said Torres. “It’s midnight. What do you want to do?”
“Hold on,” Kate said. She looked over to Marcus, but he was on his phone, pacing, a worried expression on his face.
“I’ll call you back in one minute,” Kate said to Torres, buying time. She waited, an agonising twenty seconds, if that, but it felt longer. Ashen-faced, Marcus ended his call and put the phone in his pocket.
“Marcus, we need to make a—”
He held up a hand to silence her.
“Decision’s been made for us. That was Winters. There’s a third body.”