by Val McDermid
The researchers had uncovered the fact that there was a high rate of limited literacy among their target group. In the face of resistance from men who didn’t want to be seen reading ‘kid stuff’, they’d worked on teaching them enough basic reading skills to be able to read their young children a bedtime story. It didn’t sound much, but the reported effects had been significant. Building bonds with their children had put a brake on criminal activity that punishment had failed to manage. It wasn’t an overnight transformation but it was clear that something had shifted for some of these men.
Tony considered how he could use this nugget of information. He supposed he could make an appointment with one of the assistant governors and suggest setting up a basic literacy course for the inmates. He suspected that would get him precisely nowhere. Ever since he’d arrived in custody, all he’d heard was that the budgets were stretched to breaking point. Prisoners were supposed to have access to education but programmes were limited and waiting lists long. Going down the official route was almost certainly a waste of time.
But he’d quickly learned that there were unofficial routes to everything in a prison. The library had space; they ran a couple of book groups already. Maybe he could get something going. He’d have to think carefully what to call it. Admitting you couldn’t read or write was one of the handful of things that was still shaming. Because it was something that anybody could do, wasn’t it? Kids could do it. Fuckwits could do it. Screws could do it. And in prison, no one ever chose to look vulnerable.
It had to be something with no challenge in it. He couldn’t call it ‘How to be a dad’ because that would suggest they didn’t know how to be dads, which was tantamount to saying they didn’t know how to be men. ‘Reading with your kids’? Or maybe, ‘Books to share with your kids’? That was more like it. Suggestions rather than instructions.
Tony didn’t know much about teaching people to read. But he did have some experience of teaching. And if they started with basic alphabet books, how hard could it be? The prison library probably didn’t have anything like that. But he had a publisher. And he had a phone card.
And now he had a purpose.
37
In crime fiction, the culprit is generally the least likely person. In real life, the opposite holds true. Usually, it’s the most obvious person.
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
Because half past five would come round far too soon. Elinor had opted for the spare room, so Paula was able to privilege speed over stealth. Hand slapped on the phone to turn off the alarm, quick burst of a shower, towel dry and into today’s maroon polo neck under the grey suit from Hobbs’ sale. She was downstairs and ready to roll twenty minutes later, staring out of the window at the street, orange juice in hand, wishing she hadn’t given up smoking. Oh, for that first hit of the day, the blessed nicotine hitting the bloodstream and snapping the synapses to attention.
Right on cue, a black BMW nosed into sight and Karim double-parked outside her front door. Paula was down the path and in the passenger seat inside a minute. A bacon roll in a paper bag sat on the dashboard, a halo of condensation around it on the windscreen. A carton of coffee in the cupholder, a wisp of steam escaping from the slit in the lid. ‘Full marks for obeying one set of instructions,’ she said, reaching for the sandwich and checking for brown sauce. ‘But you’re not out of my personal doghouse yet. I was nearly worried about you.’
‘Worried?’ He pulled away.
‘Well, it turns out you’d been interviewing someone accused of a series of murders. And you were off the radar.’ She bit into the roll. ‘Mmm. That’s magnificent. You should have got one for yourself.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, the classic muzza breakfast. What, you thought he’d topped me?’
Chew. Swallow. ‘Not really. On reflection, I thought you were probably being a lazy git who wanted to get back to his sexy new girlfriend before she went off the boil.’
Karim scowled. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend right now.’
‘No excuse, then.’
‘So what did the lawnmower say?’
‘The lawnmower?’ For a moment, Paula was lost. Then the penny dropped with a clatter. ‘The groundsman.’ Between sips of coffee and mouthfuls of bread and crispy bacon, she ran through the interview with Jezza Martinu.
‘You believe him?’ Karim asked when she’d done.
‘I definitely believe it wasn’t Martinu who killed them. But I’m not a hundred per cent that he’s giving us the whole story. What’s he like, this priest?’
‘Irish. Looks like he hasn’t had a square meal in months. A bit full of himself. Not used to being questioned. Got really snippy when I suggested it was hard to believe he didn’t know what was going on with the nuns. And then he decided he’d had enough and he just walked out.’ He gave a sharp sigh. ‘What would you have done, boss?’
What would she have done? It wouldn’t help to say she wouldn’t have let it get to that point in the first place. ‘It’s a tough call but I’d probably have waited him out. He’d have to come back eventually.’
‘You’d just have sat there?’
‘Yes. Because my mindset is that it isn’t over till I say it’s over.’
They drove in glum silence for a few minutes. Then Karim said, ‘I’ve got a lot to learn, right?’
‘Yeah. But knowing that is half the battle.’
There was no sign of activity in the priest’s house. Upstairs and downstairs, in one room apiece, curtains were drawn. ‘Nice gaff,’ Paula said. ‘They do all right in spite of the theoretical poverty.’
She rang the bell, stepped back and waited. Nothing. Not even a twitch of the curtain. Another ring, more nothing. She nodded at Karim and indicated the knocker. He grinned and banged it as hard as he could three times. ‘I hope he hasn’t done one,’ Karim muttered, hammering the knocker again.
This time, the door opened on the chain. One bleary eye and a section of unshaven chin appeared in the gap. ‘What are you doing here at this time of the morning?’ Pissed off, rather than worried, Paula thought. She stepped forward. ‘And who are you?’
‘I am Detective Inspector McIntyre of the Regional Major Incident Team. Open the door, please, sir.’
‘Why should I? I said all I had to say to your . . . your colleague yesterday. This is outrageous. I was in bed, asleep. And you come banging on the door—’
Paula talked right over him. ‘There are two ways to do this. You open the door and let us in. Or I call in the local tactical support group and they arrive with sirens and flashing lights and break your door down. It’s your choice, but you have to make it in the next thirty seconds. You should take it as read that I am not bluffing. I got up very early to be here now and I am not going away without what I came for.’
His mouth hung open. Paula doubted anyone had spoken to him like that in years. He pushed the door almost closed; the chain rattled as fingers clumsy with sleep or fear fumbled it out of its track. Then the door edged open. Father Keenan stood in his rumpled state, skinny legs covered in thick black hair sticking out of the bottom of a woollen dressing gown over a white T-shirt. He backed up enough to let them in and Karim closed the door behind him.
‘You are Father Michael Keenan?’ Paula asked.
‘I am he.’ Imperious tone, the shock ebbing out of him.
We’ll see about that. ‘Michael Keenan, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
He took a step back, horrified incredulity on his face. He raised his hands, palms out, as if fending off a blow. ‘This is crazy,’ he protested. ‘I had nothing to do with those girls. Nothing.’ He pointed at Karim. ‘He said nothing about murder.’
‘It’s not the girls we’re here about,’ Paula said. ‘It’s the other bodies.’
He blinked rapidly, aghast. �
�What are you talking about? What other bodies?’
‘Father Keenan, I’m going to have to ask you to get dressed and come with us to Bradfield, where you will be formally interviewed. DC Hussein will accompany you upstairs to get dressed.’
‘This is madness. I’m not going anywhere with you. You can’t just march in here with your nonsense.’ Karim moved towards him but he shied away. ‘I want a lawyer before I set one foot out of here.’
‘You can consult with a lawyer at the police station. But right now, you are under arrest and you are coming to Bradfield with us. If you don’t want to get dressed, I’m quite happy to handcuff you and frogmarch you out to our car for all your neighbours to see. How do you think that’ll go down with your parishioners? With your bishop?’ Paula sighed. ‘Karim?’
He grabbed Keenan’s arm and with his other hand pulled a set of plastic cuffs from his pocket.
‘All right,’ the priest shouted. ‘May God forgive you for this outrage. I’ll get dressed.’ Karim let him go and followed him upstairs.
Paula let out a long breath. Was that the reaction of an innocent man? Or one cunning enough to have carried out these crimes in the first place? Too soon to know. But she’d get there. One way or another.
38
However bizarre the sequence of actions undertaken by a serial murderer, they will all have meaning for the killer. No two sequences are ever identical. And there is no limit to how grotesque they can seem.
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
Rutherford had called just as Alvin was finishing breakfast. Whenever he could manage it, he sat down to eat with Esme and the kids. He’d been brought up in the belief that eating together had a value that went far beyond the calorific. That morning, he’d been first downstairs, beating eggs in a bowl and scrambling them with a handful of cheese, spring onions and a scatter of chilli flakes. Thick slices of crusty white toast slathered with butter on the side. ‘Breakfast of champions,’ he announced as they sat down together. Esme rolled her eyes, her response as predictable as his words. The kids said nothing, too busy eating.
When his phone rang, Alvin automatically got up from the table and closed the door behind him as he headed into the hall. Rutherford launched straight in. ‘Sergeant, don’t bother coming in for the early briefing. I want you to go straight to the lab and see what they have to tell us about the second set of remains. I realise it’s early days, but I want them to know we’re staying right on top of this. Whatever they’ve got at this point, I want it. Clear on that?’
It was hard to imagine what could be unclear about Rutherford’s instructions. Alvin wondered if the man was unconsciously racist or whether he treated everyone as if they were a bit on the slow side. He’d have to check that with Paula. ‘Clear, sir,’ was all he said. ‘I’m on my way.’
He checked the time. If he dropped the kids at school, it would only take him a few minutes out of his road. A few minutes that nobody would notice. And it would mean starting his day with a better taste in his mouth than Rutherford’s patronising words.
He’d called ahead to let Chrissie O’Farrelly know he was coming and she was waiting for him at the reception desk. As they made their way up to the room with the view of the lab, she brought him up to speed on the second group of remains. ‘They’ve gone in the first instance to the mortuary so the pathologists can make their primary findings. Some of the bodies are partially fleshed, so there may be indications of what happened to them before they went into the ground,’ she said, leading the way and sitting down.
‘So you can’t tell me much about where we’re up to right now?’ Alvin was disappointed. He still clung to the idea that forensics experts could work magic, and almost instantly. If pushed, he’d have had to admit to watching too much CSI.
She took off her glasses and polished them on the sleeve of her lab coat. Her face was transformed into something far less intimidating. ‘We have a real-time link with the pathology suite these days,’ she said, replacing her glasses and re-establishing the hierarchy. ‘We hear their findings as they make them. It’s very useful to have such a joined-up process.’
‘And?’ He looked expectant.
‘So far we have discovered eight sets of remains and we’re in the process of recovering them. It’s not quite as straightforward as the bones because, as I said, some of them are partially fleshed because of the conditions of the burials. That means we have to take rather more time in removing them, and the surrounding soil. It’s not pretty,’ she added, a faint curl of the lip for emphasis.
‘It sounds like these are definitely in a different category from the human remains in the front lawn?’ This was one assertion he felt fairly confident about making. Particularly in the light of what he’d heard of Martinu’s revelations.
A fleeting smile. ‘You know we hate to leap to conclusions here, Sergeant. But first impressions are that these body disposals are different in every way. For starters, the wrappings are entirely different. As I told you, the girls’ bodies were enclosed in shrouds made from a linen and cotton mixture. The second group have been wrapped in bed sheets – a polyester cotton mix, so what we’ve got are bits of dyed polyester, elastic from the corners of fitted sheets and fragments of relatively intact material. The sheets were sealed with packing tape, which hasn’t decayed, so some of the original fabric was sandwiched between bits of tape.’
‘And labels? Sheets have labels, right?’
Dr O’Farrelly smiled. ‘You’re a fast learner, Sergeant. I’ve no doubt we’ll find some labels in the environment of the bodies. Now, most of these bodies are practically skeletonised, so they’ve clearly been in the ground for a while. Years, probably, in most cases. We’ve do have quite a few bits of clothing, though. Man-made fabrics of one sort or another. Polyester, lycra, the plastic of trainers, metal eyelets from lace-holes, rivets and zips from jeans. Elastic from jogging bottoms. Other stuff. A couple of replica football shirts, for example. Still surprisingly identifiable. One Arsenal, one Bradfield Victoria.’ She paused, her line of sight drifting up to the corner of the ceiling, as if she was searching for the right words.
‘These are without doubt homicide victims.’ She spoke flatly, without inflection.
Alvin sat to attention. ‘You can be sure about that? Already?’
Dr O’Farrelly looked out at the lab where her team were squirrelling away at their several tasks. She sighed. ‘They had plastic bags taped over their heads. They will have asphyxiated.’
‘All of them?’ He imagined the struggle for breath and felt sick.
She nodded. ‘All of them. The older bodies have decomposed, so what happens over time is that the bodies decay as they normally would. The neck eventually decomposes sufficiently to allow the environments inside and outside the bag to become continuous. Eventually, there’ll be no discernible difference in the state of the head and the rest of the body. Except that there’ll be a taped-up plastic bag over the skull to tell the tale of how they died.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Alvin said.
‘Well, not bloody, actually, as homicide goes. There is one body, however, that is slightly different. My soil scientist colleague put her head together with an anthropologist who specialises in rates of decay, and between them they estimate it’s only been in the ground for a matter of months. Somewhere between six and eight months. There’s reasonably advanced decomposition of the body, so there has been some access via the neck to the head. Inside the bag . . . well, let me just say there are some things I am very grateful to see on a screen rather than in reality.’
Alvin took a deep breath. ‘I don’t want to hear this but you’re going to have to tell me.’
‘The flesh is mushy. The whole head is sitting in what looks like a puddle of slimy vomit. Murky milky pools inside the bag. The skin’s slipped off, taking the hair with it. One of my colleagues referred to it as “hairy soup with bits of skin like torn up lasagne floating in it”. The smell will have been hideous.’
Alvin could feel his stomach folding in on itself. He fought the urge to run from the room and find the nearest toilet. Swallowed hard. Wiped a sheen of sweat from his top lip.
She fetched a bottle of water from a cabinet in the corner and handed it to him. ‘Drink,’ she commanded. Alvin did as he was told. He felt the water run down his gullet, its cold passage taking his mind off the nausea.
Dr O’Farrelly waited till he’d composed himself then said, ‘Nothing glamorous in this line of work, we both know that. But there is a marginal upside, which is that we should be able to give you DNA on your man fairly quickly.’
‘“Your man”?’
She nodded. ‘So far, three bodies have been examined in some detail and the pathologists can say with a high degree of certainty that these are the bodies of young men. Definitely not little girls from the convent.’
‘That’s something.’
‘It’s about all I have for you right now. It all takes time, and we never have enough technicians to do the work. And every time you turn around, there’s something new coming at you down the turnpike. I was at a meeting last week where they were telling us that you can find DNA even after the bloodstain’s been washed out of clothing. The chromophores disappear but the DNA remains. Great, I’m thinking. As if we didn’t have enough of a backlog. Now we’re looking for the invisible man.’ She shook her head.
‘Believe me, I know what that feels like. Is there any possibility of getting the killer’s DNA or prints from the adhesive tape?’
‘Hard to say at this stage. But obviously we’ll be looking for that. The bags themselves don’t offer any clues. Three different supermarkets, two sports stores and three blanks. Our best chance might be the inside of the plastic bags.’
Alvin nodded. ‘When you stick your hand inside a plastic bag to get it to open up. I get you.’