I, SAID THE FLY

PART I

Dreams and nightmares

Prologue

Who saw them die?

I, said the Fly,

With my little eye,

I saw them die.

[Paraphrased from of the nursery rhyme Who Killed Cock Robin.]

High on the wall, the gravid housefly buzzed softly, her iridescent, multifaceted eyes glued to the corpses.

She spread her gossamer wings and skimmed down to the lifeless forms. Flexible proboscises extended to suck up the blood oozing from the victim’s hand.

Soon her rivals—especially those metallic green blowflies who could smell death from miles away—would become aware of the corpses and they would find their way in through even the minutest of apertures.

But she was here first and had first dibs. Right now, she was the only diner at this lavish feast.

The fly's primal instincts recognized the opportunity. This was a perfect environment. Warm, moist, with an abundance of food. A godsent head start for her progeny.

Her abdomen quivered, aching for release. She had over 300 eggs inside her, fertilized by the sperm she’d stored in her body from the encounter with her mate during the last unseasonably warm weather.

Squeezing her ovipositor, the fly crawled and hopped upwards to the corpse’s head. The saliva on the cadaver’s chin guided her and the partially open mouth drew her in.

Shuddering with relief, she relaxed, extended her ovipositor and in a timeless ritual, released the eggs. One by one, the first clutch of 90 tiny white eggs slithered out of the thin, delicate appendage.

Exhausted, the fly rested. Two minutes later, out she scrambled and hopped into the second corpse’s mouth.

She hunkered down in the still moist warmth while her contractions released another 120 eggs.

Drained, she slinked off to her hiding place on top of the wardrobe. She’d lay more in a day or two, but for now, she needed to rest. For now, her job was done.

Soon, her eggs will hatch into creamy white maggots. And those writhing, legless dancers will thrive in their macabre nursery.

*****************

Chapter 1

CATHY

Monday 23 July

Clang!

Although she knew it was coming, was expecting it, her heart jumped within her ribcage. Shivers wracked her frame. The clang of the steel door reverberated inside her skull long after the metallic echo died away. Shutting her in. Caging her.

She crouched on the narrow bed in the far corner of the cell. Knees to her chest, she papered herself to the wall. Tried to blend in, to become invisible.

There is a special hell reserved for police officers and she was in it.

They say hindsight is a wonderful thing. But cringing in the Met’s cell, knowing what she now knew, could she – would she – have done anything differently on that Friday evening back in March?

Outside these walls, this cage, the sun would be shining on another hot, bright summer’s day in late July. Just like the one she’d enjoyed yesterday, walking through the streets and parks of London, enjoying the spectacular views of the city bathed in the summer sunshine. Dinner at the Shard, then cocktails tucked into an intimate corner of the Gong Bar high in the night sky. A perfect day followed by a perfect evening.

Her world had changed overnight. Never in a million years did she expect to have the words that she had declaimed to many others, recited back to her.

Detective Inspector Catherine Collins, you are under arrest on suspicion of…

*****************

Chapter 2

STANLEY

Thursday 22 March

This was his special place, this rubbish-bin storeroom, tucked into the back of the apartment block, the Naylands. Stanley drew his long coat tighter about him and huddled into the corner of the alcove, waiting for his alcohol-addled consciousness to catch up.

It’s dark, so it must still be night.

He wished he could lie down and go back to sleep, but his full bladder persuaded him otherwise. He rose, steadied himself against the wall and peeked out.

Nothing to see except the eerie shapes of bushes and shrubs. Nothing to hear except the passing traffic and rustle of wind through the hedges.

He edged out, searching the night for any sign of Grozdan Horvat or any of his friends. Stanley suspected they would look for him especially hard tonight, knowing he had collected his weekly army pension. But they had yet to discover this hiding place where the ripe, fetid smell was no worse than his own body odour. He was safe here, at least until they found it.

Keeping to the shadows and out of sight of anyone looking out of their window, he limped to the tall hedge and relieved himself.

He turned to head back and froze, squinting into the darkness.

There. Was that a shadow by the building?

He squinted harder. Fear squeezed his heart. A resident or a visitor would have simply walked up the path, used their fob to unlock the door or buzzed one of the shiny buttons on the wall by the entrance.

It’s Grozdan, He’s here, stalking me.

Stanley trembled and held his breath, afraid the hunter would hear his frantic heartbeats. He stayed rooted to the spot until the cold leeching into his bones set him shivering. There was nothing, no one out there. Neither a whisper nor an unnatural shadow disturbed the hazy March night.

Like scum, logic floated lazily to the surface of Stanley’s pickled brain. Can’t be Grozdan. That evil bully had neither the patience nor the stealth to stalk anyone. Big and loud, he would barge in, pushing, shoving. Grozdan was all about instant gratification.

Reassured, Stanley crept back to his hiding place, but sleep eluded him. Something was not right. A flicker of instinct, a vestige of the rigorous training of his former career that had somehow survived a decade and more of his determined efforts to drown it in alcohol and drugs, gnawed at him. It kept him awake and vigilant for a long time. If he had a watch, it would tell him it was 2.20 a.m., and that he had been awake for almost an hour.

Still nothing. Stanley relaxed, knelt down, straightened the pieces of cardboard that served as his bed and the backpack that was his pillow.

His head snapped around. This time, he was sure. He had not imagined the faint rustle in the bushes or the scrape of grit on the tarmacked drive leading to his alcove. A security light flashed on. Something had crossed the range of its motion sensor. Heart thumping, Stanley cowered in the corner, shrinking himself into the smallest potential target.

Meow. Soft fur and a warm body brushed against his hands.

‘Oh, you silly bugger! You scared the shit out of me.’

With a whoosh of breath, Stanley laughed, leaned forward, gathered up the big ginger stray and nuzzled him.

Purring like a motorbike revving up, the cat dropped something into his lap.

‘What the—?’

A dead mouse. The cat had brought him a present. Despite his repugnance, Stanley’s heart swelled. A lump caught in his throat. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had given him a gift. He stroked the matted fur and kissed the top of the tomcat’s head.

‘Thank you, Tommy. That’s very kind. But I’m not hungry right now. I’ll save it for later.’

With the cat watching his every move, he picked up the tiny rodent by its tail and set it carefully to one side. He would pop it into the bin after Tommy left in the morning. But for now, he could go back to sleep holding the warm furry body close, its soothing purrs lulling his tormented mind, keeping his nightmares at bay.

With a sigh, he lay down on the cardboard, the cat tucked into the crook of his shoulder.

Suddenly, the cat growled and leapt away. Back arched, it hissed at the shadow looming outside the alcove. Then, crouching low, it fled past the intruder’s legs.

Stanley sprang to his feet, shielded his eyes from the blinding torchlight shining straight into his face.

He heard a sharp hiss of indrawn breath from behind the light, then it swept down his body and around his hiding place. The silhouette came closer. A glint of light flashed on the edge of steel in the intruder’s hand and Stanley knew this was the end.

The shadow stood immobile, undecided, the knife and torch at chest height. Stanley made out a lithe shape dressed in dark camouflage. He gasped in recognition at the flash of silver-grey from the eye slits in the balaclava.

But the person he thought this was – had once been – was dead. Long dead.

The ghost had returned.

Stanley felt the tip of the knife pierce the skin beneath his grey stubble. He relaxed. He didn’t mind dying, waited for the pain, knowing it would be a quick release.

The ghost stared into Stanley’s eyes, put a gloved index finger to a balaclava-covered mouth.

Shhh.

‘I promise,’ murmured Stanley. He wouldn’t scream or cry out. His head tilted back further as the pressure of the knife increased. Eyes squeezed shut, he waited.

The knife withdrew. The ghost backed away.

‘No!’ whispered Stanley. ‘Come back! Do it! Finish it, please.’

But the ghost had already disappeared.

*****************

Chapter 3

CATHY

Saturday 31 March

Sod it! She huffed, creeping her car down the middle of the street. But the sight of the blue flashing lights taking up all parking spots along Harold Road was reassuring.

All along the drive to this place, DI Cathy Collins had wondered if it was a prank. The message, supposedly from her boss, asked her to attend a crime scene in one of the residential block of flats along this road. But she wouldn’t put it past that infantile lot at the station to send a newly promoted detective inspector to a non-existent crime scene. It was just the sort of thing to keep them amused for weeks.

She found an empty spot on a parallel street, parked her car and walked back to Harold Road. Even as she showed her shiny new warrant card to the uniformed officer manning the blue-and-white tape at the ungated entrance to the four-storeyed block of flats, a grain of doubt still lingered whether all this could be an elaborate hoax.

But surely, even DI Paul Hayes wouldn’t go that far? And talk of devils…

‘Ah, there you are, Detective Inspector Collins.’

Dressed in white coveralls, Paul stepped out of the double-door building entrance to meet her halfway along the drive. ‘I hope you didn’t have a big breakfast this morning. It’s ripe in there. Hang on, I’ll be right back.’

Cathy frowned as he trudged down the drive. Normally, the 42-year-old stocky, brown-eyed DI was annoyingly energetic and raring to go, bouncing on legs that were ready to race off, with or without him. But not this morning. He was pale and shaky, his vitality and liveliness leeched away.

He was soon back with a set of crime-scene protective wear for her and bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet while she climbed into it. He held out a small jar of strong menthol-scented ointment and a sick bag. Although DI Paul Hayes could be a right shithead most times, he did have the odd redeeming quality.

Cathy noticed the bag tucked under his arm.

‘That bad, is it?’

‘Oh yes. The two bodies have been in there for almost two weeks and are still pretty bloated. The windows are shut, and the place swarming with flies and maggots. They’ve been feasting on the stuff oozing from every orifice and the smell, it’s—’

‘OK, stop! I’ll go see for myself. You needn’t come with me.’

‘Oh yes, I do. I wouldn’t want to miss you seeing it for the world!’ He grinned. ‘Besides, the boss would want me to make sure you’re OK.’

That’s probably true. The DCI had drafted her into this case to work alongside Paul. Mentoring, they called it, although who was mentoring who was not clear.

At any other time, she would’ve been over the moon to be assigned as a joint investigating officer but wished it hadn’t been today. A text from Mick last night asking if he could see her this weekend had her insides churning like a giddy teenager’s. She’d barely slept. Had spent most of the night doing her nails, face and hair, waxing and tweezing, tidying up the house. Doing all the things she tended to ignore or postpone.

To her delight, when she’d called Mick to break the news that she'd be working, he’d replied that as he and Tom Cassidy, his friend and business partner, were already en route to Southampton, he would come anyway, hoping to catch whatever time they could together. Although her best friend Andrea Brown had said nothing, it didn’t surprise Cathy to learn that Tom Cassidy was coming too. Those two had really hit it off.

And in her excitement, Cathy had skipped breakfast. A good thing, it now seemed.

‘I’m not a rookie. I have seen bodies before, you know,’ she said. ‘Remember that young man washed up ashore last year? That was bad.’

‘Oh god, yeah!’ Paul groaned.

Despite the liberal application of the menthol-scented ointment, the smell of putrefaction grew worse as they climbed up the carpeted stairs to the fourth floor. Masks on, they breathed through their mouths. A constant buzz filled the background, almost as loud as the voices behind the closed front door.

The police officer stationed outside looked pale and wobbly, but checked their credentials and logged the details before stepping aside.

All the neighbouring front doors were firmly shut. The police presence had initially drawn the inquisitive neighbours outside, but the odour from Flat 401 soon sent them scurrying back indoors to focus on keeping the disgusting smell and flies out of their own homes.

Cathy did a quick calculation: 8 flats on each floor × 4 floors = 32 D2Ds, door-to-doors, in just this building.

A plastic makeshift curtain hung immediately behind the front door, which opened into a little hallway with a shoe rack and hooks above for coats. To prevent the flies from escaping into the stairwell, another thick plastic sheet covered the internal entrance to the flat. The whole place would have to be fumigated when the CSIs were done with it.

With no great faith in her ability to withstand the sight or smell, Cathy held her sick bag at the ready and in they went, treading carefully along the paths laid out by the crime scene officers around areas of key evidence to avoid cross contamination.

Under normal conditions, and without the million or so little black beasties buzzing around, this would have been a good flat, located as it was in a good neighbourhood, close to the city centre and Southampton’s St John’s Hospital. It was a functional place, the layout simple. Past the little foyer, the open-plan living room had a comfortable three-seater sofa and two armchairs, all upholstered in a dark-grey leatherette material, facing a large-screen TV. The glass coffee table was piled high with books and magazines. In front of the kitchen area was a rectangular dining table with empty computer-docking stations at either end, complete with monitors, keyboards and mice. Cathy assumed, rightly as it happened, that the three doors on the opposite wall led to the two bedrooms with a shared bathroom in the middle.

Desperate but still unwilling to draw a lungful of the foul-smelling air, Cathy panted in short gasps. The pungent air made her eyes stream even before they’d got to the corpses.

Paul led the way to the bedroom on the far left, dodging the white-clad crime-scene officers who seemed to be everywhere, but were in fact moving in a carefully choreographed pattern, intent on their assigned tasks. He waved for her to go on in.

Dolly Qing, the assistant pathologist, looked up and her eyes crinkled almost shut behind frameless spectacles. ‘Hey, Cathy. Congratulations! We should celebrate your promotion. How about one evening next week?’

‘Sounds good. Let’s do that. Call me when you’re free.’ She kept her gaze on her friend. Anything to avoid having to look at what lay on the bed.

Dolly gave a thumbs-up and returned to her task. Cathy’s eyes automatically followed the pathologist’s hands as she placed them on either side of a victim’s head, carefully tilting it upward.

‘Oh shit!’

Dolly reared back and let go, but it was too late. The skin on the victim’s face split and slipped aside like a ruptured mask, exposing the putrid ivory streaked deep red and purple mass beneath.

***