Relics Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Also Available from Tim Lebbon and Titan Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TIM LEBBON AND TITAN BOOKS

  The Silence

  Coldbrook (US only)

  THE RELICS TRILOGY

  Relics

  Borderland (forthcoming)

  The Lonely (forthcoming)

  Alien: Out of the Shadows

  THE RAGE WAR

  Predator: Incursion

  Alien: Invasion

  Alien vs. Predator: Armageddon

  The Cabin in the Woods

  Kong: Skull Island

  TIM LEBBON

  TITAN BOOKS

  RELICS

  Print edition ISBN: 9781785650307

  Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785650338

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: March 2017

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Tim Lebbon. All Rights Reserved.

  Visit our website: www.titanbooks.com

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Did you enjoy this book?

  We love to hear from our readers. Please email us at [email protected] or write to us at Reader Feedback at the above address.

  To receive advance information, news, competitions, and exclusive offers online, please sign up for the Titan newsletter on our website www.titanbooks.com

  For my wife Tracey, with love.

  Thanks for putting up with this old relic for so long.

  PROLOGUE

  The door handle creaks and she opens her eyes. The man who enters does not like her, and he has promised to make her life hell. But hell is relative, and at least his return will hold back the nightmarish memories, if only for a while.

  He closes the door behind him and, instead of taking the seat across the table from her, he sits in a chair in the corner of the room. The metal legs scrape against the floor, a loud, jarring noise, and Angela jumps.

  “Still twitchy,” he says.

  She does not reply.

  Detective Inspector Volk has a big coffee mug in one hand, its outside stained with drips that might be two or three days old. Something dry and crispy is stuck to the mug’s base—a crushed cookie, perhaps—and Volk’s shirt is speckled with whatever he had for dinner the previous day. He holds a pastry in his other hand. His hair is unkempt and in need of a trim. He’s stubbled and scruffy, but she can smell the minty waft of shower gel, his nails are trimmed and clean, and his athletic form is difficult to hide. It’s only the image of distraction he wants to project.

  In reality he’s a man very much in charge.

  “Cake for breakfast,” he says, taking a bite of the pastry. It snows crumbs down his front. “God bless America. Hungry?”

  “I’ve eaten,” Angela says.

  He nods, and chews.

  “We know everything that’s happened,” he says, slurping coffee, staring at her through the steam. “They’ve put it together back home. Forensics are still collating their reports, but we’ve got enough to tie you to four of the murders, at least.” She can smell that it’s real coffee, not that instant shit they’ve been giving her. There’s probably a grinder in Detective Hey’s office.

  “Then you don’t need anymore from me,” she says, glancing down at her hands. They’re crossed on the table in front of her. The back of her left hand is bruised and scratched, and she has a flash-memory of how that happened. A chill runs through her. She shudders, and from the corner of her eye she sees Volk stiffen.

  He doesn’t miss anything.

  “‘Anymore’? You haven’t given us anything.”

  “Shouldn’t you be recording this?” she asks.

  Volk shrugs. “I’m on my break.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be talking to me. I’m under arrest. Any questioning should be recorded, otherwise whatever case you think you can put together will be flawed. You know that.”

  “And I know you know that, too. The longer you’re here, the more I’m finding out about you, Angela. You’re a brilliant woman. A first class degree in criminology. Studying for your doctorate in subcultural theory. I’ve got some theories for you, we should chat some time.”

  If it’s an invitation, she disappoints him by remaining silent.

  “You volunteer at a local school back in the UK, helping kids with their reading. You grow rare orchids. Spend quite a lot on them, evidently. You’re fit and healthy. You look after yourself, run quite a bit, gym. Probably work out at home, too. You care about yourself and your body.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  Another slurp of coffee. She can feel Volk staring at her, but she keeps her gaze fixed on her hands.

  All the things they’ve touched, she thinks. All the things they’ve done. She blinks and wonders whether those awful red memories will be forever imprinted on the insides of her eyelids.

  “This isn’t you, Angela,” he says. For a moment she almost falls for the softness of his voice, the concern she hears there, and opens up. The moment surprises her because she thought she was more guarded than that, but perhaps everything she’s been through has damaged her more than she believes. Maybe she’s changed forever.

  Of course I have. Everything has changed forever, and that’s why I’m sitting here in this run-down precinct, saying nothing. Because the change has to stop somewhere.

  “I’m ready when you want to continue the interview,” she says.

  Volk sighs and stands suddenly, sending the chair skidding against the wall. She jumps again at the sound of metal on the concrete floor. That high, painful screeeeee! that bites into her ears and claws down her spine.

  “I don’t understand,” he says. “Angela, this isn’t you, and I don’t believe it’s your boyfriend, either. Wherever he is.”

  “Vince is dead,” she murmurs. She’s told them that a dozen times.

  “Perhaps, but that doesn’t change the facts. The worst you’ve ever done is get a parking ticket. And while Vince certainly isn’t whiter than white, he’s no killer. You’re not murderers!”

  “Evidence would suggest otherwise,” she whispers.

  “Really?” He sits opposite her now, but doesn’t turn on the recorder. This is still just him and her.

  She looks up and meets his gaze.

  “Re
ally?” he asks again. For the first time she thinks she sees the real Volk. He’s haunted and damaged, and she wants to ask what he’s seen, what he knows. He’s from London, after all. Then he looks over her shoulder and continues. “Last time I saw that many bodies was the day those bastards bombed the Underground. I was a beat bobby then, one of the first on the scene at Tavistock Square, where the bus was blown up.” He shakes his head and looks like he’s going to say more, but instead he glances at Angela and then looks down into his coffee mug, pausing for a second before taking another drink.

  “I’m not a terrorist,” she says. It seems important to emphasise that. However many murders she’s taking the blame for, she needs them to know that there are reasons.

  But I can’t tell them anything, she thinks. It all has to be silence.

  Volk chuckles. It surprises her.

  “You’re being deported back to the UK like one.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “Honestly, with some of those you killed you did us a favor. Scum. We’re well rid of them. Best way to cleanse the world of some of these people, that’s what I say.”

  Angela isn’t drawn in. She looks down at her hands again.

  The things they’ve touched.

  “Detective Hey will be back in a minute, and the recording will start again. He’s a nice enough bloke, very accommodating, but so… American.” Volk smiles. “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “So tell me now, just for my sake.” He pauses and leans in. “Come on, Angela. There’s no way you and Vince killed all those people. I know that and so do you.”

  She sighs heavily. Maybe Volk thinks it’s her resistance breaking, but it is nothing of the sort. This is fear.

  “So tell me the truth,” he says. “Are you afraid I won’t believe you?”

  “No,” she says, and closes her eyes again. “I’m afraid you will.”

  FIVE DAYS EARLIER...

  1

  Angela definitely wasn’t a morning person. Sunlight filtered through the gap between the curtains, traffic noise rumbled outside, the noisy dog from the next street barked to be let in, and barked, and barked, but she dozed in and out, relishing the comfortable warmth of her bed. She stretched, ankles clicking, body tensing, and relaxing again brought a satisfied sigh to her lips.

  She was aware of the noises from upstairs. She knew that Vince was lying there awake, listening, but she wanted these last few moments before confronting the new day.

  Sometimes the best dreams came in the final seconds of sleep.

  “Less than five minutes this morning,” Vince said. “Hang on.”

  Now that he’d brought her attention to it, Angela couldn’t help listening to the sound that came from the apartment above. The creaking bed had fallen silent, and she smiled as she realised she was holding her breath until…

  “Yeah, there you go,” Vince said. “He’s finishing her off with his fingers.”

  “Jesus, you’re such a romantic,” she mumbled into her pillow.

  “You know it.”

  She tried to stretch down into the bed, but now that they’d both acknowledged the sounds, they seemed so much more obvious. Virtually every morning the couple upstairs started the day with a screw. Sometimes it went on for quite a while. Other times, like today, it was a quickie followed by a few more minutes groaning and creaking. She and Vince had always made a joke of it. It didn’t bother her much, and Vince freely admitted that it turned him on. Sometimes, that didn’t bother her either.

  But when he rolled against her back and she felt his interest, she offered a tired shrug.

  “Wasn’t last night enough?”

  “Never enough,” he said, nuzzling her neck. “Come on, let’s make a noise.”

  “Make me tea.”

  “Tea? You’ve got me here, naked, and you want tea?”

  “One sugar.”

  “You sure?”

  She rolled onto her back and stretched again, then turned to face him.

  “Mmm. Second thoughts… no, two sugars this morning.”

  “Tease.”

  “Need to refuel after last’s night’s exertions.”

  Vince made a mock-annoyed face, then rolled from bed and padded out into the hallway.

  “You’ll regret it later!” he shouted back to her. “Stuck here on your own, thoughts drifting, thinking about what you missed.”

  “Yeah, right, I’ll regret it.”

  He reached the kitchen and started whistling, so he missed the single cry from upstairs.

  “Keep it down, girl,” Angela muttered, though really it was kind of sweet.

  Over the three years she’d been living here, she had barely swapped thirty words with the couple living above her. They seemed nice enough. He was a tall, bald guy, quiet but always offering a nod and a smile. She was short and round, always dressed in black, and her hair changed colour and style pretty much every week. Angela had no idea what they did, where they worked, or where they went when they weren’t at home. That was just the London way. In a city of eight million people, everyone kept to themselves.

  The sound of the couple upstairs, getting up and walking around, made her realise that her own lie-in was over.

  She sat up on the edge of the bed and stretched again. Yawned. Reached for the curtains and drew them open. That was one advantage of having such a small place—you could do pretty much anything from sitting down. Her apartment had a small living room made smaller by stuffed bookcases, a bedroom, a kitchen/diner and a bathroom. Vince moving in the year before hadn’t made it feel as crowded as she’d feared, but simply more cozy. It was their home now, not just hers.

  She liked the idea of that. He contributed to the mortgage, they split the bills, and anything left went into a joint bank account. Her parents had always told her that was the only way to be together.

  While Angela was sitting on the edge of the bed thinking about visiting the toilet, Vince came in with two cups of tea. He often made a quip about Americans preferring coffee, but today he let it go. He handed hers over and sat carefully on the bed, leaning back against the headboard.

  “What’s today?” she asked.

  “Today is a trip to Chelsea to visit a couple of new places, back to the office for a lunch meeting, then Clerkenwell to meet a client.” He glanced in her direction. “You? Planning your commute already?”

  “Bathroom, kitchen, living room. Work. Lunch at Merton’s with Lucy. Home. Bathroom, kitchen, living room.”

  “Watch out for the hallway, traffic’s heaviest there around nine in the morning.”

  “You’re just jealous.”

  “Fucking right I’m jealous! I’ve got to head out with the unwashed masses while you get to sit here working in your underwear.”

  “I never work in my underwear.”

  “Naked, then?”

  “One thing, always on your mind.” She took a sip of tea. Vince made good tea, always better than her, and she wasn’t sure how. He said it was because Americans couldn’t make good tea. She said that was racism, and had come to the conclusion that it was better simply because someone else had made it.

  “All your things on my mind,” he said, reaching for her. She squirmed aside and stood, wincing a little as her knees clicked.

  “Keeping fit isn’t good for you, you know,” he observed.

  “Says the man who does obstacle courses where they electrocute you.”

  “Good for the libido.”

  She rolled her eyes, left the bedroom and walked along the hallway. He’d already got eggs from the fridge and cut a couple of thick slices of bread. She smiled. She really did love the randy bastard.

  In fact, she’d known for a while that he was the one. Vince knew as well. They’d never actually talked about it, because the idea that they’d be together forever just seemed so natural that it didn’t need discussing. They’d fallen in love and made a future together without even trying.

  Sometimes she had to p
inch herself.

  * * *

  Angela had escaped the fate of many of her friends and avoided living eighty percent of her life online. She had a Facebook page which she checked a couple of times each day, and though she maintained a Twitter account, she’d never quite got the hang of it. Social media was great for keeping in touch with family and friends back home in Boston, but she refused to let it become an obsession. She enjoyed living in the real world.

  Her phone stayed with her virtually everywhere, true, although she hadn’t enabled it to download her emails. She used it to phone and text, and that was more than enough for her. She and Vince usually swapped a few random texts throughout the day. It was a nice way of keeping in touch.

  How’s things?

  Cool, lunching, cinema tonight?

  Sounds good. Lucy got laid last night.

  Who’s the lucky guy?

  Her husband. Pick up a takeaway?

  Indian or Chinese?

  You decide.

  After which I want to go down on you for about three hours.

  Nothing too spicy, then.

  Jokey, light, aimless chatter that they’d both forget, but which gave them a feeling of still being with each other. Angela smiled every time her phone pinged, and laughed when Vince forwarded a comedy selfie or took a photo of a passing stranger and made a comment.

  How does she get those trousers on?

  Check out the beard!

  Obama in high heels.

  Aside from these irregular messages, she lived most of the day on her own. Immersed in research, or perhaps staring thoughtfully from the window, musing over a problem in her thesis or just… thinking.

  She knew that she was lucky. Twelve grand a year to sit and write, and think, and be her own boss. With Vince earning decent money it meant that she had the opportunity to indulge her passion and chase her ambitions. When she was younger she’d dreamed of becoming a police officer, but the more she progressed into her doctorate, the more she regarded teaching and lecturing as her future. Part of that was because she saw benefits in imparting her knowledge, but more than that she loved reading, interviewing, and analyzing cases. Investigating and absorbing theories established by other people.