by Val McDermid
Paula called up the case files and began to read. Shakila had been interviewed twice – once when she’d made her initial complaint then, a few days later, there had been a follow-up conducted by Terry Browning, one of the detective constables on DCI Fielding’s firm. He was a couple of years off retirement; his laziness was a legend in the CID room. Any case Fielding assigned to him was, by definition, one that the DCI didn’t care about. Chasing it up would piss off the boss but, on the other hand, anything worked by DC Browning would inevitably have loose ends she could tease into something worth pursuing. And it would give her an excuse to talk to the officers responsible for Kate Rawlins and Jasmine Burton. Result all round.
Paula picked up the phone and keyed in Shakila’s mobile number. Unsurprisingly, it went straight to voicemail. If Paula had experienced the hatred Shakila had been subjected to, she’d be screening her calls too. At the beep, she spoke, ‘Hello, Shakila. This is Detective Sergeant Paula McIntyre from Bradfield Metropolitan Police. I’m conducting a review of your complaint of harassment and I’d like to meet you to talk through your experience. Can you call me back or text me on my mobile?’ She recited her number, repeated it and hung up.
It didn’t take much research to identify the officers who had dealt with the suicides of Kate Rawlins and Jasmine Burton. Her first call was to a detective sergeant in the Met. Lee Collins sounded young and brash, his voice the glottal whine of Estuary English. But his attitude didn’t match his accent. As soon as Paula explained her interest, his tone softened. ‘Bloody awful thing,’ he said. ‘It’s hard to imagine how much pressure she must have been feeling, to do that.’
‘Exactly. And I’m keen to make sure we don’t get a repetition up here. I was wondering if you’d mind sending me a copy of your reports so I can check whether there were any signs we should be looking out for.’ Even as she spoke, Paula knew it sounded thin. But it wasn’t unusual for cops to make requests of colleagues that didn’t make a lot of sense. There was an assumption that you didn’t want to waste another officer’s time with lengthy explanations.
‘Sure, no problem. You thinking it might be some of the same arseholes doing the trolling on your patch?’
‘Could be. How did you get on with tracking them down?’
His sigh was heavy enough to be clearly audible. ‘It’s still with the hi-tech crime unit. You know how long it takes them to come up with IDs from digital footprints.’
‘Tell me about it. But I’d like to see what you’ve got anyway.’
‘Sure, but I don’t think you’ll find anything. There was nothing to show she was feeling that bad. She was obviously bottling it all up. But she clearly meant it. It was no cry for help that went wrong. It was almost clinical in its precision.’
Paula picked up the regret in his voice; something she could use for her benefit. ‘Clinical? How do you mean?’
‘She’d left nothing to chance. She was in the passenger seat and she’d handcuffed herself to the armrest on the door so she couldn’t reach far enough to turn off the engine.’
‘I’ve never come across that before.’
He sighed. ‘I’ve not come across that, specifically. But I’ve seen cases where the suicide has gone into the back seat. Some people are determined not to give second thoughts a chance.’
‘If you say so. I’m on uncharted territory here.’
‘It was all of a piece, you could say. Her handbag with her phone in it was locked in the boot. She had definitely set her mind on doing it. The only thing she had with her was a book of poems.’
‘Poems?’ Of all the things Paula would choose to comfort her if she ever got that low, it wouldn’t be poetry. ‘What kind of poems?’
‘Hang on a minute …’ There was the sound of clattering keys, then DC Collins was back. ‘The Death Notebooks. By Anne Sexton. She was an American poet who killed herself the same way. Locked herself in the garage and turned on the car engine.’
‘Was Kate a big fan of this Anne Sexton, then?’
‘The daughter, Madison, says she never saw the book before. Apparently her mum wasn’t much of a one for poetry generally. I think she was telling the truth. I had a quick look at the bookshelves in the house and there wasn’t any poetry there.’
‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’ There was nothing Paula loved more than odd. Years of working alongside Tony had instilled in her an understanding that odd was often where the answers started.
‘I don’t know. I think when you’re at the point where killing yourself feels like the answer, you’re not thinking straight. Nothing you do counts as odd, because the whole thing is off the scale of odd.’
‘I suppose so. So, is it OK for you to send me a copy of your files?’
‘I don’t know what help it’ll be to you, but be my guest. It’s not like there’s any doubt about what happened. She got bullied to death. And the bastards who pushed her into it will probably walk away scot-free. That’s the bottom line.’
It might be now, Paula thought as she ended the call. But that might change with Carol Jordan on the case. As the thought crossed her mind, Paula’s phone rang, the screen revealing the caller was her former boss. ‘Hi, chief,’ Paula answered automatically.
‘I think I’ve found another one,’ Carol said. ‘And this time it’s right in your backyard.’
21
Carol placed a steaming platter of penne puttanesca on the table next to the salad Tony had already tossed with a sharp French dressing he’d concocted. The air filled with the aroma of olives and garlic. ‘I don’t want to talk about tomorrow,’ she said as she sat down.
Tony knew that adamantine tone of voice. Might as well try to argue with El Capitan. And if he was honest, he wasn’t sorry to avoid discussing Carol’s court appearance, a subject that would only lead to tension and awkwardness between them. The morning would be soon enough to deal with that. ‘Sparkling water?’ he asked, waving the green plastic bottle with a placatory smile.
Carol turned her head, looking down at the table. ‘Why not?’ It came out as a snarl.
They helped themselves to pasta and salad in silence. Three forks’ worth in, Tony said, ‘So, did Paula know about the Daisy Morton business already?’
Carol shook her head, chewing a mouthful of salad. She swallowed, washed it down with a swig of water and said, ‘It never crossed Paula’s professional radar – Daisy lived outside the city centre, in Northern Division territory. But fortunately for us, Paula has a good contact up there. A DS called Franny Riley. He looks like the missing link between Neanderthal Man and rugby league, but he’s actually a pretty shrewd operator. She’s going to talk to him and see what he’s got to say beyond the official reports.’
‘Does she agree with you, that this might be another one that fits the pattern?’
‘She’s not completely convinced. Kate and Jasmine, they were clear-cut suicides. No doubt about it. But Daisy’s death looks less well-defined.’
Tony paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. ‘That’s not necessarily an issue. Real life isn’t neat and unambiguous. Stuff often happens outside the control zone of the criminal, stuff that plays havoc with their careful plans.’
Carol nodded. ‘I know. And if I’ve learned one thing from you, it’s that serial offenders aren’t static. They develop. They change what they do, how they do it, because they come up with better ways to get to where they’re aiming for in their twisted, fucked-up imagination. So in a way, it would be more surprising if there was an identical pattern time and time again.’
‘So what is it about Daisy’s death that makes you uneasy?’
Carol drank more water, reaching for the bottle to top up her glass. Giving up alcohol had made her thirst constantly. She felt as if she’d drunk gallons of tea, coffee and water in the past couple of days. And none of it satisfied her desire. But right now, the act of refilling her water gave her a moment’s pause to get her thoughts in order. ‘According to the inquest, the pathologist said she�
��d died from asphyxiation from the inhalation of gas. You have to work extremely hard to kill yourself using natural gas. There has to be a pretty intense level of concentration. I looked it up, and to be sure of it killing you, you need seventy-five per cent gas to air.’
‘That’s not impossible, surely? I mean, wouldn’t she basically have to turn on the gas and wait for the room to fill up?’
‘It’s not quite that straightforward. Natural gas is heavier than air so it forms a layer close to the ground. It seeps away under doors and through gaps in the floor.’
‘But she was close to the ground, right? You said something about her having her head in the oven?’
Carol nodded pensively. ‘But it was an electric oven.’
‘So why …?’ Tony’s voice trailed away and he stared over her shoulder. Carol knew the look of old. The wheels were going round, taking Tony in a direction that most other people wouldn’t even consider. ‘It’s not a very reliable way of killing yourself, is it?’
‘Depends what you’re planning,’ Carol said. ‘You’re right, it’s a bit chancy in terms of asphyxiation, but on the other hand, if you’ve filled the house with gas, all it takes is someone turning on a light switch or a mobile phone ringing to blow the place sky high. So if you’re not already dead from the gas, the chances are the explosion will kill you.’
He frowned and studied his plate as if he’d never seen food before. He prodded a piece of black olive with his fork and slowly said, ‘I’d like to know whether she was lying with her head on the edge of the oven or if she was jammed in.’
‘Does it make a difference? Surely what we’re concerned with is whatever pushed her over the edge?’
‘It makes a difference. If she knew the gas was heavier than air then it makes sense for her to get as close under the burners as she could.’ He loaded up his fork and resumed eating. ‘What else is bothering you about Daisy?’
‘According to the inquest report, she didn’t leave a note.’ Carol held a hand up to forestall the objection she could see coming. ‘Yes, I know she might have left something that was destroyed in the explosion, but I think she’d have thought of that. There are lots of ways to leave a message. She could have sent an email, she could have put something in the post. She could have left a note in her council office.’
‘Did Kate or Jasmine leave a note?’
‘I don’t know yet. I need more information.’
‘I’d have expected some sort of communication if there was something that tipped them over the edge,’ Tony mused. ‘These were women who knew all about getting the word out there. Even if they’d been pushed beyond bearing themselves, wouldn’t they have wanted to save other women from the same fate?’
‘Unless what pushed them carried a wider threat,’ Carol said. ‘To their children or their partners?’
‘That would make sense.’
There was nothing more to say, but they carried on worrying at the few facts they possessed long after they’d finished eating. He loved seeing her animated by what she’d always done best – analysing, rearranging and making sense of disparate pieces of information. Watching the shifting expressions cross her face, the pain of missing her hit him afresh. He couldn’t bear it if he let her slip from his grasp again.
Carol produced Paula’s email and they picked their way through that, finding nothing more substantial to add to the little they already had. That, Tony thought, was the trouble with trying to build something out of thin air. This had started with the most slender of notions and now they were behaving as if it had genuine substance. He’d been intrigued by a detail and he’d wanted to give Carol a bone to chew to take her mind off drinking and what it had brought her to. And now they had real police officers carrying out clandestine trawls for information. He’d got them all chasing a chimera. He’d created an expectation he wasn’t certain he could fulfil. The let-down could end up causing more grief than the original problem. And all because he’d been so desperate to find a way back into Carol’s good graces.
He was on the point of trying a gentle warning when the dog leapt to her feet and made for the door in a blur of black-and-white and a cacophony of barking. Tony glanced at his watch as Carol got up. ‘It’s a bit late for visitors.’
‘I don’t get visitors,’ she said, heading out into the barn, snapping on a work lamp as she went. Tony followed because, if it wasn’t visitors, she shouldn’t have to face whoever it was alone. He was at her shoulder when she pulled the door open to reveal a man in a tweed flat cap and a waxed jacket with a plaid scarf knotted carelessly at the throat. His beard reminded Tony of the portrait on King Edward cigar packets. He suspected it of being camouflage for thin lips at odds with a slightly bulbous nose. The skin round his eyes fell into deep wrinkles when he smiled. The dog had stopped barking and dropped to her haunches.
‘Sorry to call so late, Carol, but I was passing.’
Carol cast a quick look over her shoulder, checking where Tony was. She stepped back and the man came inside. He was bigger than Tony in every way – taller, broader, more obviously confident of his place in the world. ‘Tony, this is my neighbour, George Nicholas. George, this is Tony Hill. Tony’s a former colleague of mine.’
George offered his hand and Tony accepted it. The grip was exactly as firm and dry as he expected. George gave him an appraising look. ‘You’re a police officer?’ He sounded almost amused.
‘No, I’m a clinical psychologist. I offer advice in a variety of areas.’ Tony met George’s eyes with a measured stare. He was standing alongside Carol, the pair of them effectively blocking any further advance by the visitor.
‘All a bit beyond me, I’m afraid,’ George said. He crouched to pet the dog, scratching her head and rubbing her ears. Then he stood and turned his attention to Carol. ‘I haven’t seen you out on the hill for the last few days. Not since you came to supper on Saturday. I just wanted to check everything was all right?’
Tony imagined Carol’s dismay but he knew it wouldn’t show in her face. Time to come to the rescue. ‘That’s my fault. I’ve been staying for a few days and I’ve knocked Carol’s routine for six.’ Tony grinned cheerfully.
‘And I completely forgot my manners, George. I meant to drop you a thank you note. I’m sorry,’ Carol said, picking up his cue.
‘Oh no, no need. I was simply a little … concerned, that’s all.’ He gave Tony a wry smile, as if conceding defeat. ‘I’ve grown accustomed to seeing Carol and Flash out on the hill in the morning.’
‘It’s nice to know there’s somebody looking out for you when I’m not around,’ Tony said, well aware that he sounded condescending to both of them.
George tipped his cap and backed out of the door. ‘I’ll be on my way. Good to see you, Carol. And to meet you, Tony.’ He turned and walked away without a backward glance. Carol closed the door and leaned against it, shaking her head, her expression a mixture of amusement and incredulity.
‘What?’ he said, knowing perfectly well what.
‘You. Pretending to be all territorial.’ Then her face grew serious. ‘Thank you for saving me from having to tell him.’
Tony shrugged. ‘He’ll find out soon enough. You’ve got plenty of humiliations to come without seeking them out.’ He turned away and started walking back to the kitchen. After a few steps, he turned on his heel and walked backwards. ‘You don’t fancy him, do you?’
Carol stopped dead. ‘George? No, what made you think that?’
‘I didn’t. But I wanted to be sure.’
‘It’s kind of none of your business.’
‘I know that.’ Tony stopped too. In the stark light and shade cast by the work lamp he couldn’t see her eyes. He didn’t know if there was humour or anger lurking in their shadows. ‘But I think he fancies you.’
‘You think so?’ There was definitely humour in her voice.
‘It’s obvious. Well, it’s obvious to me, but then I am a clinical psychologist. So I wanted to clear things up beca
use I don’t know if you noticed us doing the guy thing just now, where I more or less told him to back off? Only, if you do fancy him, you’ll have to go and apologise for your friend Tony who has no social skills.’
She laughed. ‘Well, that much is true.’ Her voice softened. ‘But there’s no need to apologise. I’ve got no romantic interest in George.’
He wanted to sigh with relief. Instead, one side of his mouth twisted up in a half-smile and he swung round and walked back to the kitchen. Sometimes there was no need to have the last word.
Stacey Chen was beginning to feel as if she was drowning. It hadn’t taken her long to hack her way into the official accounts of Kate Rawlins’ suicide, the ongoing investigation into Jasmine Burton’s presumed suicide and the later addition to the roster – the gas explosion that had killed Daisy Morton. As well as the formal documents, she’d accessed the emails of individual officers, filling in some of the blanks of what they’d pursued and why they’d pursued it. Text messages would take longer and even Stacey had to acknowledge she might not manage to get them. She’d punted everything straight on to Paula so she could pull a report together for Carol Jordan that cut out all the repetition and white noise.
Now came the hard stuff. Which was also the interesting stuff. She’d started with Kate Rawlins, chronologically the first of the three. Gaining access to her social media accounts hadn’t been hard. The password was Madison, her daughter’s name, and the year of her birth. Stacey couldn’t understand why people chose passwords that wouldn’t fool a drunken teenager. When she voiced this opinion, her colleagues always complained that it was too hard to remember random strings of letters and numbers. ‘So use your car registration as the basis for your password,’ she would tell them, not bothering to hide her exasperation. ‘You should be able to remember that. Add something to it like the number of the house where you lived when you were ten, and Robert is your father’s brother.’