Bone Gods

of beyond here. Heath’s lost his man and doesn’t deserve that.”
    “I’ve got a message for you,” Pete said. “I know Ollie far too well to think he’d ever believe that shite, never mind want it. Now get your fucking hand off me or I’m not going to fucking smile about it.”
    Patel grimaced, an abortion of the smug smile he’d no doubt been saving for the grand finale of Pete’s place-putting. “Heard about your temper. Figured they exaggerated.”
    “Absolutely,” Pete agreed, as he let go of her. “Sweet as custard cake, me.” She didn’t pick up an impression from Patel, just a general sharpness, like he’d been made of metal and sealed off. Jack had said some blokes had more natural defenses against magic than others—the uber-normal, as it were. That was probably just as well. Patel wouldn’t embarrass McCorkle and by extension Ollie. He’d close it up quiet and quick, all the loose ends accounted for and the right paperwork filed, and the legend of Freddy McCorkle would become a ghost story to tell at closing hour down the pub.
    “Oliver,” Patel said, at once all conciliatory smiles and low, soothing tones. “Let me take you through the timeline.”
    Pete didn’t need the narration of Patel’s clipped private school accent. The blood told the story, and there was enough of it to paint every inch of her skin.
    McCorkle’s body was in the center of the flat’s tight sitting area. The crime scene techs had put a plastic sheet over it, but one hand protruded, fingers splayed like a flower. A few inches away rested the kind of short, blunt all-purpose kitchen blade that held a serrated edge, also painted with blood spatter.
    The biggest pool of blood was under the corpse, but an arterial spray had hit McCorkle’s sofa and dribbled down the front of his flat-screen telly, which was still playing a rerun of an international match between two countries whose flags Pete didn’t recognize.
    “TV was on when first responders arrived,” said Patel. “Landlady came up to ask him to turn it down. She claims she didn’t touch anything, but, well…” Patel shrugged. “You know how little old women can be.”
    Patel knelt down and twitched back the sheet. Pete saw Ollie flinch, but he hid it after a split second, his impassive, cowlike nonexpression in place. “One cut,” Patel said. “Pulled the knife all the way across before he passed out. Hit the carotid. I know it’s probably not a comfort, but he didn’t feel it for long.”
    Ollie passed a hand over his face. “Forced entry. Something. Freddy wouldn’t just … wouldn’t just…”
    “Not that we can see,” Patel said. “Of course, building’s not secure, and it is Brixton. But no, he’s been alone all evening according to his landlady. This was … this is unfortunate, Heath. I’m sorry.”
    “I called him a twat,” Ollie said. “He’d misfiled some papers on the case we were working.”
    “Heath, you really can’t look for blame or reasons in this sort of thing,” Patel said. “Trust me. It’ll drive you around the bend.”
    Pete watched as Ollie visibly reined himself in, pulled up his spine, got back into the skin of the unflappable copper. “He wasn’t depressed, since I know you’ll ask. Wasn’t anything, really. Didn’t socialize much, always rushing off end of shift. I thought he had a girlfriend, or maybe he was gay and he didn’t want his new nick finding out…” Ollie hunched again, took a breath, and deliberately turned his back on the corpse. “I don’t know why this happened.”
    “Can be anything,” Patel said. It was a line, but Pete was glad Ollie was too far gone to see that. “Don’t blame yourself, Heath.” He carried on with his guided tour of the scene, Ollie moving with jerky, numb motions beside him.
    Pete turned her back on them, once Patel’s eyes were off her. The thread was still there, the tremble through the Black. McCorkle’s flat telescoped into a claustrophobic hallway that peaked into an A shape as the builders ran out of room next to the roof, closet on one side, bedroom and en suite on the other. The bedroom was still neat, free of blood, the bed crumpled on one side with a dent from McCorkle’s head still in his pillow.
    Above the bed was a giant print, one of the generic street scenes of Paris you could buy from an IKEA, and the whispers in Pete’s mind rose to shrieks, from a great distance, across a vast and windy plain.
    Not bothering with her