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

by Val McDermid

  ‘I’ve told you what he’s like,’ Sophie sighed. ‘He’s a decent guy who’s built up a successful business from nothing. He encourages his workforce, he doesn’t exploit his position in a sleazy way. I still can’t get my head round the idea of you all thinking he’s some kind of monster.’

  ‘We don’t talk about monsters here,’ Paula said. ‘Just people who do monstrous things. When we had the benefit of Tony Hill working with us, we learned to stop demonising people who perpetrate atrocities. It makes them bigger and stronger in our imagination. And it makes them invisible because we’re all subconsciously looking for somebody monstrous. I’ve come across quite a few serial offenders now, and not one of them was larger than life.’

  Sophie glared at her but said nothing. Paula wished they’d got off on a better footing, but she wasn’t going to ignore the evidence slowly building up against Mark Conway just because he’d once promoted Sophie, or given her a pay rise. Or, God help them, been a referee on her police application form. ‘So, Karim, any clues in the living room?’

  ‘Bland, neat, tidy. My mum would love him. He’s got a cupboard full of DVDs and not a single porno that I could see. A lot of football, a lot of blockbuster action movies. Nothing that would make you go, “Hmm, that’s a bit shonky.”’ Karim swigged from his can of Coke. ‘There was one thing, though. One of the BMP guys told me about it.’

  ‘Don’t keep us in suspense, then,’ Steve cut in. ‘We’re not coming up to the ad break in a cop show, for fuck’s sake.’

  Karim flushed. ‘There’s another car in the garage. Conway’s got a Porsche four-by-four, which he’s presumably driving around in. But there’s this other one—’

  ‘Is it a black Skoda Octavia estate?’ Stacey interrupted.

  Karim was thunderstruck. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I didn’t. But I’ve been ANPR-tracking a black Skoda Octavia that’s registered to Jerome Martinu. What’s the index number?’

  While Karim consulted his notebook, Paula said, ‘Why?’

  Stacey shrugged. ‘I wondered whether Martinu might actually be the killer after all. And if so, he’d likely need another vehicle. So I checked the DVLA records and found the Skoda registered to him.’

  ‘More Martinu’s kind of wheels than Conway’s,’ Alvin said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe another attempt to throw sand in our eyes.’

  Karim showed the number in his notebook to Stacey. ‘That it?’

  She nodded. ‘The same.’

  ‘You said you’d been ANPR-tracking it. Has it done anything interesting?’ Paula asked.

  Stacey nodded again. ‘Every few weeks, it shows up coming into the centre of Bradfield. It’s not coming in directly from the Bradesden direction. It’s the way you’d come in from Conway’s house, over the Harriestown bridge. It crosses town towards Temple Fields then parks in the Pay and Display behind Uniqlo. Then a couple of hours later, it heads back out of town the way it came.’

  ‘Any visuals?’

  ‘I’ve pulled some images but I’ve not had a chance to look at them yet. I could use another pair of eyes, there’s a lot of stuff.’

  ‘Karim, get stuck in as soon as we’re done here. Well done, picking up on the strange car. And brilliant work, Stacey.’ Paula grinned. ‘Next time, maybe give me a hint? Have forensics had a look at it yet, Karim? Can you chase that? We need to establish who’s been driving it. And if there’s any trace DNA that matches our victims.’

  ‘I’m on it, guv.’

  ‘This is all starting to look a lot stronger,’ Paula said. ‘But we’ve got a way to go before we can be confident about a result. The most important thing is to find Mark Conway. We got lucky with the relatively isolated nature of the house and the fact that we were able to tuck the vehicles out of sight round the back during the search. Amazingly there seems to be nothing so far on social media. And the one advantage in us not getting the warrant for the office is that they’ve not been alerted to our interest. Sophie, can you make some discreet inquiries? I presume you know people inside the organisation?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ It was a less than convincing response, but they were of equal rank, so Paula felt obliged not to call her on the lack of enthusiasm in front of the team.

  She stood up, signalling they were done. ‘I’m heading back out to Conway’s place now. In case he comes back tonight, I want one of us there alongside the BMP team. Karim, Stacey – don’t stay too late working the ANPR images. Alvin, Steve – go home and get some sleep. I want you with me at Conway’s house by seven tomorrow.’ She raised an inquiring eyebrow at Sophie. ‘You’ll let us know if there’s anything we should know from the Incident Room? And Conway’s people?’

  ‘Of course.’ Sophie stood too, meeting Paula’s eyes. ‘I know where my loyalties lie.’

  And that’s what makes me uneasy. Paula smiled and walked away. She was almost beginning to like Sophie. She really hoped that wasn’t going to prove a mistake.

  61

  We never work with certainties. It’s always ‘on the balance of probabilities’ with us . . .

  From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL

  The news of Carol’s discoveries would have kept till morning, but she wanted to keep herself clear next day in case Tony recovered consciousness and she could see him. So she texted Bronwen Scott from outside Cap Scarlett’s flat. Need to meet tonight. Have new info. Where and when?

  The reply came when she was only a hundred metres further down the street. Mine. Soon as you like. Followed by an address less than ten minutes’ walk away. Bronwen Scott lived on the sixth floor of a converted Georgian mill that had once housed hundreds of looms producing miles of cotton and linen cloth. It had been converted to flats a dozen years before, establishing itself from the start as prime real estate in the city centre.

  Carol stepped out of the faux-industrial lift into a hallway with brick walls and lustrous wide floorboards. Halfway down, Bronwen stood leaning casually in the doorway, dressed for an evening at home – bare feet, denim jeggings, a baggy pin-striped granddad shirt. ‘Thanks for coming over,’ she said as Carol approached. She moved in for a formal half-hug and air kiss. Taken aback, Carol stiffened momentarily then forced herself to respond.

  ‘I knew you’d want to hear what I’ve found out as soon as possible.’

  Bronwen led the way into a living room like a feminine take on a gentlemen’s club. Leather and wood, but soft leather upholstery instead of the buttoned and stuffed kind. The wood was pale oak, rich grain buffed to a warm glow. Bookshelves lined one wall, their spines brightly coloured and modern rather than ancient leather-bound volumes. There were a couple of sculptures in bronze of women apparently in conversation on a bench. A low table in front of a long sofa was strewn with papers, a pad and pencil carelessly tossed down on top of them.

  ‘Nice place,’ Carol said.

  ‘I was at school with the developer. She asked me to invest in the project at the start, and this was my payday.’

  ‘Good move.’ Carol stood awkwardly, waiting for an invitation to sit.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. I don’t want to keep you from your work.’ She gestured towards the table.

  ‘It looks worse than it is, I’m nearly done. But sit down, you don’t have to stand on ceremony here.’

  Easy for her to say, Carol thought, uncertain how much she trusted her new best friend. She settled into an enveloping armchair that was almost too much. Talk about being softened up. ‘I’ve met Saul and, like you, I’m inclined to think he’s not a killer. Since then, I’ve made a couple of important breakthroughs. Well, one of them is more serendipity than down to my investigative genius,’ she admitted.

  ‘Sounds intriguing.’ Bronwen curled up in a corner of the sofa, legs tucked neatly under her.

  ‘I had dinner with Paula McIntyre the other night. And I told her what I was working on.’

  ‘It’s so important to keep those lines of communication open in this wo
rk.’

  ‘She’s my friend, Bronwen. That’s the line of communication I have with her.’

  ‘Of course. But DI McIntyre is such a good operator. So, did she have some startling information from the files that nobody got round to telling Saul’s lawyer about?’

  ‘You have a very suspicious mind.’

  ‘So would you if you’d been on this side of the fence as long as I have.’

  A pause. ‘This is not going to work if you see me as someone to beat my former colleagues with.’

  Bronwen spread her hands and looked repentant. ‘I’m sorry, Carol. Lazy force of habit. But if they were all like you and Paula . . . ’

  ‘I assume you’ve been following the Bradesden convent story on the news?’

  Bronwen frowned. ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘There’s a second group of remains.’

  ‘As well as the skeletons?’

  ‘Eight bodies. Young men. And they’ve been murdered. The assumption is a serial offender.’

  ‘Bloody hell. How on earth have they kept the lid on that?’

  ‘Hiding in plain sight. Everybody’s over-excited about nuns and skeletons. It’s amazing that there hasn’t been a leak from the other side of the investigation. But it’s early days, it’ll break sooner rather than later, I suspect. Anyway, they’re starting to get DNA through from these victims. And Paula called to tell me one of them is Sugar Lyle Tate.’

  ‘You’re saying Saul Neilson is a serial killer?’

  ‘No, no. Quite the opposite. There are at least two victims killed more recently than Lyle Tate. Saul was already serving his sentence by then. So it’s very unlikely he had anything to do with Lyle’s death. He was telling the truth, Bronwen.’

  Her grin was completely spontaneous. ‘Bloody hell! Carol, that’s extraordinary.’ She laughed. ‘I knew I was right to get you on board.’ She jumped up. ‘Champagne!’

  Carol shook her head and steeled herself for the admission. ‘I don’t do alcohol any more.’

  Bronwen sat back down abruptly. ‘Of course. How stupid of me. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. If you want to celebrate, we’ll go out for a curry one of these nights. Also, don’t get over-excited yet. There’s always the outside possibility that the police will try to claim Saul was involved with another person in killing young men, and that his partner in crime just carried on.’

  ‘That would be a hard case to make.’

  ‘Even harder, given what I found out tonight. I’ve found the missing witness.’

  Bronwen frowned. ‘What missing witness?’

  ‘The one who’s been in Australia since the day after Lyle disappeared. The one who knew nothing about the murder or the trial till he came back to the UK. The one who talked to Lyle in Temple Fields after he’d left Saul’s place.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘I don’t joke about murder. Lyle told him about the nosebleed. He’s willing to give us an affidavit. That plus the serial nature of the offence should be enough to get Saul in front of the Criminal Cases Review Commission, no?’

  ‘Yes. Yes and yes again. Where did you find this guy?’

  ‘He’s living in Lyle’s old flat. He took over the tenancy when Lyle’s former flatmate went down. I couldn’t believe it myself. But sometimes the luck turns our way.’

  ‘Not luck,’ Bronwen said. ‘You did what any decent detective would do. Victimology. Isn’t that what your pal Tony used to push so hard?’

  The use of the past tense made Carol flinch. ‘Pushes. He still pushes it. He’s not dead, he’s just . . . ’

  ‘Temporarily out of the game, I get it. Sorry, I seem to be massively putting my foot in it every time I open my mouth tonight.’

  Carol stood up. ‘I’ll give you a full report as soon as I can.’

  ‘Make a note of your expenses. We’ve built up a bit of a war chest, one way and another. It’s important none of us feels exploited. And obviously we’d want you to become one of us.’

  ‘I’m not making any snap decisions right now,’ Carol said. ‘There’s things I need to sort out.’

  ‘Anything I can help with?’

  Carol gave a regretful smile. ‘Got to slay those dragons all by myself.’ And yours is not the help I’m looking for.

  62

  Somewhere deep inside, even the most arrogant and organised killer believes they will be caught. Some even come to crave it. But they all think they have an escape route planned.

  From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL

  Paula was insistent that there be no visible presence at Conway’s house. If he did come back, she wanted him to be unaware that his house was stuffed with police officers. Well, not quite stuffed. Three uniforms, two AFOs and her. She hadn’t asked for the AFOs but Fielding had insisted that if her officers were being sent to apprehend a killer, she wanted armed officers on site.

  She took up station in the window of the master bedroom with a thermos jug of coffee, thanks to Conway’s kitchen. It gave her an uninterrupted view of the drive and beyond to the road. The other officers were scattered around the ground floor, the two armed men on constant patrol among them. A fourth uniform was in an unmarked car parked nose out in a side lane a couple of hundred metres further down the road.

  There was nothing more trying than a stakeout in the dark. Staying alert was a bitch. You couldn’t show a light, obviously. Paula had taken to listening to audio books, her phone thrust deep in a trouser pocket to hide any tell-tale glow. But she could only put one earphone in at a time, because she had to listen out for any suspicious noises. It made John le Carré’s tenterhooks a little less gripping.

  It had been worse when she still smoked. The agony of going without a cigarette for hours and having to stay awake without a nicotine hit was probably a breach of the human rights regulations relating to torture. At least with a vape, she could risk the occasional pop. And Mark Conway’s bedroom had the additional advantage of an en suite loo, thus overcoming the biggest problem for women officers on stakeout.

  Just after one, a set of headlights came up the road and swung in at the gate. ‘Base to all units,’ Paula said into her radio. ‘Be aware. Vehicle approaching.’ Assorted responses came over the air.

  It wasn’t a Porsche. It wasn’t even a four-by-four. It was a dark BMW saloon, the details difficult to establish because the headlights were blazing. A figure emerged from the passenger’s side and crossed in front of the headlights.

  Paula used up all of her swear words before Rutherford even arrived at the front door. She was reprising them under her breath as she ran down the stairs and elbowed aside the PC who was dithering behind the front door. She yanked the door open and hissed, ‘Move the car, sir. We’re running dark here. We don’t want to put the frighteners on Conway. Please. Tell your driver, round the back.’

  Rutherford shifted his weight forward as if to argue the point but as he moved, the spill of light from the car headlights illuminated her face and whatever he saw there changed his mind. He looked over his shoulder and shouted, ‘Maxwell, take it round the back and kill the lights.’ He glared at Paula. ‘Do I get to come in now?’

  She stepped back to let him enter. ‘We’ve moved our vehicles into the garage. We’ve done everything we can to make the place look clean.’

  They squared up in the hallway, Rutherford standing over her, right on the edge of too close. ‘What makes you think he’ll come back?’

  ‘Because he hasn’t done a runner yet. He’s confident he’s in the clear. If he thought there was any possibility of him being charged with these murders, he’s got the resources to get away. Even though we’ve got his passport tagged. We’ve kept his name out of the investigation. So far, social media’s clean. Stacey’s got all sorts of alerts out to warn us if the word gets out.’

  ‘And that’s good enough for you?’

  ‘Always has been in the past. Stacey is amazing.’

  ‘And a law unto herself, if what I hear is tru
e.’

  Paula shrugged. ‘I’m not interested in the gossip of envious inferiors. As far as I’m concerned, whenever we’ve relied on Stacey’s evidence in court, there’s been no suggestion of her crossing a line.’

  He harrumphed. ‘Builders call it back-filling. Believe me, I’m going to be taking a close look at DC Chen’s work product going forward. But right now we need to be sure what we’re doing here. Mark Conway is a successful businessman, a public figure in this community. He’s also on the board of Bradfield Victoria FC. How certain are you that he’s your man? Could it not be the cousin? The cousin and the priest together? I’ve been looking at the file and I think you’re being precipitate here.’

  ‘We’ve got the eye-witness testimony of Sister Mary Patrick.’

  ‘Who will almost certainly be facing serious charges herself. Had it occurred to you she might be trying to finagle a deal for herself because of her “cooperation”?’ He made the quotation-mark sign in the air which always provoked feelings of violence in Paula.

  ‘I didn’t prompt her. She was the one who brought Conway into the conversation. She knew him well enough to recognise him. She said he always wore his football shirts when he was visiting his cousin. She’s impressive, sir. Even if her reputation is trashed by then, she’ll be a striking figure in the box. We’re waiting for forensics on the Skoda and also on Conway’s football shirts. If it turns out Conway’s DNA is all over the car, it’ll be hard to argue it was driven by Martinu on those visits to Temple Fields.’

  ‘And that’s another thing,’ he continued, almost as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘These DNA tests on invisible stains? What in the name of the wee man is that all about? Have you been reading science fiction? Or the Beano?’

  Paula swallowed her anger at being treated with so little respect. ‘Dr O’Farrelly mentioned to Sergeant Ambrose a new technique for finding DNA from bloodstains after the visible stain has been washed out. She told him it only worked if non-biological detergent had been used. Because he’s a good detective, Sergeant Ambrose noticed the suspect’s laundry detergent was non-bio. He put that together with the knowledge that Lyle Tate had a nosebleed on the night he died and thought it was worth a punt to see whether there was any DNA left on one of Conway’s shirts. It’s what we’re meant to do, sir. Form hypotheses based on what we do know and test them.’ Her voice was tight, her words clipped.