How the Dead Speak (Tony Hill and Carol Jordan Book 11)

by Val McDermid

  The body language was textbook, Paula thought the minute she and Alvin walked back into the ReMIT squad room. Rutherford and Alex Fielding stood opposite each other, a metre apart, both leaning in, heads thrust forward. He towered at least half a metre over her tiny frame, but nobody would have classed her as the lesser combatant. The most extraordinary thing about the scene was that it was playing out in the middle of the room. When Carol had been leading the team, confrontations happened behind the closed door of her office.

  ‘You told me to leave the interviews to you,’ Fielding said, her posture an accusation in itself. ‘And what have you done so far? All I’ve seen is’ – she looked around and pointed at Alvin – ‘his completely inadequate interviews with a handful of the nuns in York. Including two with dementia. My team have been busting a gut to get to grips with what’s coming out of the ground, and you’re doing nothing. Oh no, you’re not doing nothing. You’re doing the sexy case. The one that’s going to end up in court. Maybe. If your so-called crack team can actually find anybody to charge with anything more than illegally disposing of a body.’ She shook her head and looked around, contempt written all over her. Sophie Valente looked astounded. Karim and Steve Nisbet stared at the whiteboards and Stacey slouched even lower behind her screens.

  But Rutherford wasn’t in the least abashed. ‘We’ve had to chase your team for case materials. It’s quite clear from our brief that we are the go-to guys for the exceptional cases. The clue is in the name. Major Incident Team. Your detectives? Their job is to do the second-tier work. And that’s what the skeletons are. They don’t even look remotely like homicides. If the second lot of bodies had turned up completely independent of the skeletons, you wouldn’t be anywhere near this case, DCI Fielding.’

  Paula feared Rutherford would live to regret this argument. Alex Fielding was not a woman you’d willingly go up against, as Paula knew only too well. And they’d need her goodwill for future investigations when they needed boots on the ground to boost their numbers.

  ‘In that case, get your DI out of my incident room. You want the credit? You can do the grunt work that goes with it. I’m going to the ACC to insist that these cases are separated. You don’t get to run my incident room and have my guys running around doing the stuff that’s beneath your lot. Stay away from the nuns and I’ll stay away from your headline-grabbing homicides.’

  ‘That’s just stupid. The nuns might have evidence relating to our cases.’ Rutherford was getting riled now. His neck was bright red against his white shirt collar.

  ‘And if they do, I’ll make sure you get it. Just the same as you’ll pass on to my team any product from your interviews that might have a bearing on ours. If you can manage to get any product without muddying the waters beyond recognition.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Father Michael Keenan. A key witness in how things were run inside the convent. How the nuns treated the girls. But now? He won’t talk to us. Not a cheep. Not after you hauled him out of his house at the crack of dawn, arrested him and interrogated him. Well, thanks very much, ReMIT.’ She bit her lip. Paula could almost read the should have been me on her face. ‘Just stay away from the nuns.’

  Rutherford shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. DI McIntyre is on the morning flight to Galway. We need to interview the Mother Superior. I’m sure DI McIntyre will give you a full brief when she gets back.’

  Paula couldn’t quite keep the surprise from her face. Fielding clocked it and looked as if she might be a candidate for spontaneous human combustion. ‘You’ve absolutely not heard the last of this,’ she stormed at Rutherford before she marched to the door and slammed it behind her.

  Rutherford watched her go, shaking his head. ‘Is she always like that?’ he asked the room.

  Nobody replied. Fielding might be intemperate but it didn’t take much insight to figure out that provoking her might not be the best route to take. ‘I’m going to Galway?’ Paula asked.

  Rutherford gave a rueful grin. ‘Looks like it. Better get your flight booked before Fielding buys every ticket on the plane.’

  ‘Is there even a flight to Galway?’

  ‘Not any more. The airport closed a few years ago. You have to fly to Shannon and hire a car,’ Steve said. ‘I went for a weekend with a lass last year. Rained solid for the entire forty-seven hours we were there. Nothing for it but to shag and drink.’

  Rutherford tutted. ‘Never mind hiring a car. Talk to the local garda and get them to send you a liaison officer to drive you around. Then they can’t complain about us treading on their jurisdiction.’

  ‘Great.’ Paula sat down and battered her keyboard.

  ‘You haven’t told me how your interview with Conway went.’ Rutherford perched on her desk as if nothing untoward had happened.

  When exactly was she supposed to have done that, Paula wondered. ‘That’s because there was no interview. Conway refused to talk to us unless we arrested him, which I decided was a bad idea in the absence of any evidence. He refuses to let us in the house without a search warrant.’

  ‘So all we’ve achieved is showing our hand,’ Rutherford said. ‘Now he knows how little we’ve got and that we’ll be looking for more.’

  Which was your idea. Paula gave him a dead-eyed stare then turned back to her computer. Manchester Shannon flights, she typed. She’d barely begun looking when a group message from Stacey pinged on her screen.

  DNA lab results: The lab have extracted DNA from all eight victims of the second tranche of bodies. I’ve been running them against the database, both for direct hits and for familial results. I’ve got four direct hits and two indirect. The four direct hits are all from Bradfield:

  Connor Weston

  D’urban Swayze

  Lyle Tate

  Jason Campo

  I’ve attached records and details for all four. Three listed as mispers.

  Paula had to read it twice to make sure she wasn’t imagining it. Lyle Tate. The boy whose supposed murderer had been behind bars long before the latest victim of a serial killer had been taken. Lyle Tate, the boy whose supposed killer was the focus of Carol Jordan’s innocence investigation.

  She clicked on the attachment. Lyle had three convictions for soliciting, one for possession of cocaine. He was NFA – no fixed abode – for the first two, but there was an address for the last two. He’d been reported missing but by the time he’d appeared in the system and anyone had joined up the dots, he was old enough to make his own choices.

  Those choices had put him in the path of a murderer. But not the man who was serving life for his murder. She knew she was breaking the rules, but there was a man behind bars who didn’t deserve to spend another day there. Paula took out her phone and called Carol’s number.

  49

  Control is an illusion we all need to keep the chaos at bay. Losing control is what the predator fears. Losing control is when we make the mistakes that cost us most dearly.

  From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL

  It took every ounce of composure she possessed to stop Carol whirling round to face Vanessa. ‘I gave you your chance, Harrison,’ she managed to squeeze out. The adrenaline surge made her feel faintly nauseous.

  Vanessa stepped forward into the pool of light thrown by the lamps, her hair gleaming soft in their glow. ‘Did you really think I’d send someone in alone to sort this out? She’s just here to soften you up. That’s why she didn’t lock the door behind her when you invited her in.’

  She was dressed like the villain in a Bond movie, Carol thought. Long black leather coat over a tailored suit in supple grey leather. Black leather gloves, obviously. ‘It’s showtime, Harrison. I’m offering you the deal of your life. You pay me what you owe me, and we walk out of here. I won’t go to the police, I won’t harm a hair on your devious little head and you can get on with this magnificent life you’ve made for yourself.’ She waved a hand at the cosy living room, making no attempt to disguis
e the sneer.

  ‘And if I say no?’

  Vanessa gave a theatrical sigh. ‘You didn’t mount your grand scheme to die an ignominious death in a shitty two-up, two-down in the arse end of nowhere. You’ve got more than enough salted away. She was telling you the truth. I have killed a man before. Up close and personal. It was him or me. And right now, when I think of what you’ve done to me, it feels like the same equation. Your life, or mine. So get your bank account on the screen and let’s get this bloody mess sorted out.’

  His eyes moved between the two women. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he said. ‘You talk a good game, Vanessa, but that’s all.’

  She took another step forward. ‘I found you, didn’t I?’

  Technically, Stacey did. ‘What would you rather, Harrison? Death or jail? I’m happy to call the cops and wait till they get here. Because we’ve done nothing wrong. You invited us in, after all.’ Carol smiled.

  ‘Either way you wouldn’t get your money.’ He actually smirked.

  ‘Neither would you,’ Carol snarled.

  Vanessa took off one glove and theatrically struck him across the face. Left cheek, right cheek. Just as he had when Carol had burst in, he folded in the face of violence, letting out a scream of pain. ‘That’s just the beginning, you little shit. You’ve got more than enough to go around.’ She fumbled inside her jacket and pulled out a leather sheath. Seconds later a slender silver stiletto jutted from her gloved fist. She loomed over him, the blade touching the tip of his chin, a geriatric Valkyrie as terrifying as Brunhilde in her prime.

  Gardner held his hands up in surrender. ‘Fuck it,’ he said bitterly. ‘My laptop’s in the kitchen.’

  ‘Don’t kill him while I’m gone.’ It was a relief to get out of the room. Carol’s pulse was a jackhammer in her throat and cold sweat was trickling down her back and her sides. She’d been kidding herself when she thought she was learning to control her PTSD. She was as much in its grip as she’d ever been.

  The laptop sat on the kitchen table, the Telegraph website open to a business page. She carried it back and handed it to Gardner. ‘You’ll need to move the knife,’ he muttered.

  Vanessa obliged and stood where she could see what he was doing. Carol joined her just as he opened the site of a bank in the Caribbean jurisdiction of Nevis. He had to pass through four levels of password security, his fingers flying over the keys more swiftly than Carol could follow. Then an eye-watering balance appeared on the screen. ‘Bloody hell,’ Vanessa said. ‘Five and a quarter million’s just a bloody flea bite. You greedy bastard.’ There was almost a note of admiration in her voice.

  ‘I’m very good at what I do. Your bank details?’ Vanessa nodded to Carol, who took a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it over. Gardner worked his way through the transfer then sat back with a sigh. ‘All done. That’s the beauty of private offshore banks. No stupid daily limits on transfers. You’ll want to check it’s arrived?’

  Vanessa turned away and huddled over her phone. ‘Hello, old friends,’ she said after a couple of minutes. ‘How lovely to see you again.’

  Gardner stood up. ‘Now you can both fuck off.’

  As soon as the door of Cove Cottage closed behind them, Vanessa crossed to her car, parked on the verge opposite. Carol had to hurry to catch up, reaching her just as she released the locks and went to open the door.

  ‘What the fuck was that about? A knife to the throat? Are you crazy? You could have made me an accessory to murder.’

  Vanessa raised her eyebrows. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time, Carol.’ Fingers on the handle, door opening. ‘Just keeping it in the family.’

  Carol grabbed Vanessa’s arm, drawing her away from the car. ‘You don’t get it, do you? You sent me to do a job, then you waltzed in and turned it into— I don’t know, some sort of Tarantino gameshow.’

  Vanessa pulled herself free. She chuckled. ‘I like that. A Tarantino gameshow. Listen, if you wanted me to stay out of it, you shouldn’t have told me where you were. I got the job done, didn’t I? You’d have been there all night, smashing ornaments and chatting away. I thought you were tougher than that, but you’re as soft as my useless son.’

  Something inside Carol’s head seemed to shatter, filling it with white noise. She grabbed Vanessa by the shoulders and screamed at her, spittle flying. ‘Stay away from us, you bitch. We’re done with you. Come near me or Tony again and I’ll be the one with the knife. You want to take a chance on how soft I am? Bring it on, bitch.’ She pushed Vanessa away from her, hard, so she faltered, then tumbled to one knee.

  Carol stepped back, breathing hard, hating herself, hating her rage.

  Vanessa looked up at her, calculating. Then she relaxed and pushed herself upright. She brushed the dirt from her knee, tutting at the damage. ‘Have you any idea how much this suit cost? I should bill you.’

  Carol shifted on to the balls of her feet, teeth bared in a snarl.

  Vanessa gave a little laugh. ‘Well done, Carol. But we’re through now. No more fun outings for us. There’s no reason why I should ever bother you or that pitiful excuse for a man I have to call my son.’

  Carol turned and jogged down into the dunes. The alternative would have been to descend even further into the hell that evening had become. She’d never had a particularly close relationship with her parents – that had been the role of her brother Michael, and since they held Carol responsible for his death, they’d become even more distant. But she couldn’t imagine living with the knowledge that Vanessa was your mother. It was amazing that Tony had survived her, a miracle that he had become the man he was.

  There was a storm raging inside her now, a turmoil of panic and grief and disgust. All the work she’d done, all the progress she’d thought she’d made, all stripped away. She was back where she’d started, a failure. She walked down the beach towards the sea, distant at low tide, the ruffled surface silvered under a three-quarter moon that pulled her onward just as it pulled the sea itself.

  She knew what she had to do. The question was whether she had the courage to do it.

  50

  The more the neuroscientists tell us about the workings of the human brain, the more we psychologists have to factor into our assessments. For example, it’s now well-documented that frontal lobe damage can lead to personality changes including lack of inhibition, aggressive behaviour and risk-taking.

  From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL

  Dr Elinor Blessing shrugged into her white coat, slung her stethoscope round her neck and slipped from the locker room to the coffee station next door. She filled her water bottle at the cooler, tuning out the chatter around her as she considered the morning rounds ahead of her. She was roused from her thoughts by a lanky junior doctor saying her name.

  ‘You know him, don’t you, Elinor?’

  She half-turned. ‘Know who?’

  ‘The murderer on ward fourteen.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about, Chisholm?’ More irritated than interested by the exchange, she turned back to her bottle.

  ‘The murderer on ward fourteen. You know him.’

  She sighed, exasperated. She didn’t like Chisholm. He was flippant, dismissive and prone to making so-called jokes at patients’ expense. This sounded like one of his usual inappropriate comments. ‘Saying the same nonsense twice doesn’t make it any clearer. You’re not going to have much of a career as a medic if you can’t explain yourself lucidly.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘There’s a guy in the side room on ward fourteen. Neurosurgery. He was brought in last night with a depressed skull fracture. He’s under guard because he’s a prisoner at HMP Doniston—’

  ‘Tony?’ Shock clutched at Elinor’s chest. ‘Tony Hill?’

  Chisholm grinned triumphantly. ‘I knew you knew him. I said to the charge nurse, Dr Blessing’s wife worked with him before he went on the rampage.’

  She was already halfway to the door. She paused and turned back to face him, eyes dark with anger,
voice icy. ‘Shut up, Chisholm. You do not go around breaching patient confidentiality in this hospital. Especially not when you’re as full of shit as you are.’

  Elinor yanked the door closed behind her, his words floating after her. ‘But he did kill someone, there’s no getting away from that.’

  Down the hallway, follow the line of blue tiles to the lift, press the button, press the button pointlessly again. Fifth floor, follow the red tiles to the wards, twelve, thirteen, through the double doors to the reception desk of ward fourteen. Neurosurgery. Elinor only realised how grim she was looking when she registered the startled look on the nurse’s face. She found a smile and stuck it on. ‘You’ve got a patient called Hill? Tony Hill?’

  A quick flash of curiosity, hidden immediately. Nurses hated giving anything away, especially to doctors who weren’t their doctors. ‘Anthony Hill.’

  ‘What’s the score?’

  Reluctantly, the nurse said, ‘We got him from Doniston General last night. Depressed fracture of the skull. Subdural haematoma. He’s down for a burr-hole trephination later this morning with Mr Senanayake.’

  ‘Is he conscious?’

  ‘We’ve got him under light sedation.’

  ‘OK. He’s an old friend of mine. Can you have somebody beep me when he’s come round after his surgery.’ She showed her pager number to the nurse, who pursed her lips but took a note of it. ‘Thank you. I’d like to take a quick look. Is he on the ward?’ She made to head for the corridor leading to the four-bed wards.

  ‘No, he’s in a side room. Other way, round the corner. There’s a prison officer posted outside. I’m not sure if you should . . . ’

  But Elinor was already gone. Outside a door sat a man in uniform. She worked the magic of the white coat plus a sense of purpose and swept past him with a nod. And there he was, in the dim light, head bandaged, arms outside the covers, one wrist handcuffed to the bed rail. Automatically she reached for the clipboard at the foot of the bed, the validation of her presence if the officer checked in on her. She cast an eye over the notes and the scans. Nothing too worrying. If a bleed on the brain could ever be dismissed as ‘nothing too worrying’.