by Val McDermid
That left Micky. Deep in Herefordshire with the faithful Betsy, keeping her head down and breeding racehorses. That would have been Betsy’s doing, he’d have put money on it. Betsy came from thoroughbred stock herself, that English county stock where women still wore tweed and cashmere and had Labradors at their heels and wondered, really wondered what the world was coming to. Tony smiled at the memory of Betsy, brown hair with strands of silver caught back in an Alice band, cheeks like Cox’s Pippins, running a TV show in exactly the same way as her mother probably ran the local village. He suspected she ran Micky Morgan too. That when Micky’s world had fallen apart, when TV turned its back on employing a magazine-show host whose husband was on trial for murdering teenage girls, when her millions of fans recoiled in shock, it had been Betsy who had ignored the wreckage and moved them on to the next successful thing.
The next successful thing had been the racing stud. Tony had known nothing about it till he’d seen the stories in the media that morning. But it made perfect sense. Racing circles were a law unto themselves and they were still a haven for posh girls like Betsy. Micky would have fitted right in. Good looking enough to improve the scenery, but not inclined to be a problem with the husbands. Well-mannered, personable and good company. Let’s face it, Tony thought, there were plenty of people in the racing community with chequered pasts that seemed to pass without notice. Betsy had got it right again.
All of which made Betsy the obvious target for Vance’s rage. Never mind that she was the one whose clever plan had facilitated his sadistic campaign of murder all those years before. It hadn’t been her intention, obviously, but the mariage blanc she’d concocted between her own lover and a man who wanted cover had been the perfect mask for Vance. While Micky and Betsy had blithely thought the lie was for their benefit, it had instead provided a hellish alibi for a serial killer. But Vance had gone to jail and they were still together. Tony couldn’t imagine that was a state of affairs Vance would be happy about.
To his surprise, the exit for Worcester was almost upon him. He left the motorway, making a note to impress on Ambrose the importance of protecting Betsy. Her death would be satisfying in itself, but it would also destroy Micky. Double whammy again, just like the last one.
Tony yawned. It had been a long and stressful day. All he wanted was to fall into bed now, but he knew he’d have to talk to Ambrose first. Never mind. He could at least make the call from a comfortable armchair with a glass of Arthur Blythe’s excellent Armagnac in his hand. He turned into his street, shocked to see a trio of fire engines blocking the road ahead. Police cars were jammed around the fire engines, making it impossible to drive further. The pavements were dotted with bystanders, craning their necks for a better view of somebody else’s disaster.
With a terrible sense of foreboding, Tony got out of the car. The smell and taste of smoke hit him, acrid and dense. He walked up the middle of the road, breaking into a run as he rounded the curve and saw flames spearing the sky, jets of water rising against them. The smoke was making his eyes water, but he could still make out where the fire was. He broke into a run, tears streaming down his cheeks, yelling wordlessly.
A bulky body stepped into his path, grabbing him close and tight. ‘Tony,’ Ambrose said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Tony bared his teeth in a primitive snarl. ‘Never crossed my fucking mind,’ he forced out between sobs. ‘Never crossed my fucking mind.’ He smashed his head into Ambrose’s shoulder. ‘Useless bastard,’ he cried. ‘No use to Carol, no use to myself, no fucking use to anyone.’
38
Paula huddled over the cup of hospital coffee, shivering with shock. Kevin was sitting on the floor in the corner of the relatives’ waiting room, arms round his knees, staring intently at the coarse fibres of the carpet tiles. ‘I keep thinking it should have been me,’ Paula said through chattering teeth.
‘No, it should have been Carol,’ Kevin said, his voice low and rough. ‘That’s who it was meant for. Her cat, her flat. Jacko Vance strikes again. Jesus Christ.’
‘I know it was meant for Carol. But it was me that should have taken the bullet for her, not Chris.’
‘You think she’d have been any happier about that?’ Kevin said. ‘She cares about you both. She cares about all of us. Just like we care about her. The only person who’s got guilt on this one is Vance.’
‘We don’t tell Carol, OK?’
‘We can’t keep something like this from her. She’s bound to find out. It’ll be all over the media.’
‘Blake said they were putting it out as an accident right now. No mention of Vance. Carol’s got enough on her plate, dealing with what happened to Michael and Lucy. She can learn about this later.’
Kevin looked doubtful. ‘I don’t know … ’
‘Look, we’ll tell Tony. See what he says. He knows her better than anyone else. He’ll know whether we should tell her or not. OK?’
‘OK,’ Kevin conceded.
They subsided again, each lost in their own painful thoughts. After a while, Kevin said, ‘Where did you say Sinead was?’
‘Brussels. She’ll be on the first flight she can get. It might not be till morning, though. You should go home, Kevin. One of us needs to get some sleep.’
Before he could speak, the door opened and a tall man in scrubs walked in. His skin was the colour of a manila envelope and his eyes looked as if they’d seen even more than the two cops. ‘You’re Christine Devine’s family?’ He sounded suspicious.
‘Kind of,’ Kevin said, scrambling to his feet to meet the doctor on his own terms. ‘We’re cops. We work in the same elite unit. We’re like family.’
‘I shouldn’t talk to anyone other than immediate family or next of kin.’
‘Her partner is flying back from Brussels. We’re here in her place,’ Paula said bleakly. ‘Please, tell us how Chris is doing.’
‘Her condition is very serious,’ the doctor said. ‘She’s had sulphuric acid thrown in her face. It’s a corrosive, so she has extensive burning to the skin. What makes acid burns worse than fire burns is the degree of dehydration the acid causes. Your friend’s face is very badly burned. She will be extensively and permanently scarred. She has lost the sight of both eyes.’
Paula cried out, covering her mouth with her hand. Kevin reached over and gripped her shoulder tightly.
‘None of that is life-threatening,’ the doctor continued. ‘But she has swallowed and inhaled droplets of acid and that’s a much greater cause for concern. There’s a risk of fluid building up in the lungs. We’ll be watching very carefully over the coming days and hours. For now, we’ve put her in a medically induced coma. It gives her body a chance to start the recovery process. And it keeps her from having to endure the pain.’
‘How long will she be like that?’ Paula asked.
‘It’s difficult to say. A few days at least. Possibly longer.’ He sighed. ‘There’s nothing more I can tell you. You should probably go home and get some rest. There’s unlikely to be any change soon.’
He turned to leave, then looked back at them. ‘Your friend is facing a long and difficult road back to anything approaching normal life. She’s going to need you then a lot more than she needs you now.’ The door swung shut behind him.
‘Fuck,’ Kevin said. ‘Did you ever see that documentary about Katie Piper, the model who had acid thrown in her face?’
‘No.’
‘I wouldn’t recommend you watch it any time soon.’ His voice cracked and suddenly the room was filled with the sound of his sobs. Paula took him in her arms and together they stood in the grim little room and cried for everything that had been lost.
It wasn’t the first time Carol had broken the news of a child’s death. But it was definitely the worst. There was something profoundly wrong about being the one to deliver such catastrophic grief to your own parents’ door. But it was still better than having a stranger play that role, even though she knew her mother would never be able to open the door to her again
without remembering that terrible moment.
At the words, ‘Michael’s dead,’ her mother had fallen into her arms. The strength had gone from Jane Jordan’s body; all her power had been routed into the terrible wailing sound that issued from her mouth. Carol’s father had come running from the kitchen at the sound and stood helpless, not knowing what was going on.
‘Michael’s dead,’ Carol said again. She wondered if she’d ever be able to say it without feeling a physical ache in her chest. David Jordan staggered, grabbing at a frail hall table which tottered under his hand. Her mother was still making that hellish sound.
Carol tried to move out of the doorway but it was hard to manoeuvre. To her surprise, Alice Flowers eased her way past them in spite of her bulk, supporting Jane from behind and allowing Carol to come in and close the door. Between them they half-dragged, half-carried Jane into the living room and laid her on a sofa.
David followed them, bemused and lost. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘How can Michael be dead? I had an email from him this morning. There must be some mistake, Carol.’
‘Dad, there’s no mistake.’ She left Alice holding her mother on the sofa and went to her father. She put her arms around him, but he was as stiff as he’d always been in the face of any emotion from the female members of his family. David had been a great dad when it came to having fun or being stuck with your maths homework. But he’d never been the one you went to in any kind of emotional state. Yet still she clung to him, dimly aware that he’d grown thin, a pale imitation of his more vigorous self. How did that happen without me noticing it? An endless expanse of time seemed to pass. Finally, Carol let her father go. ‘I need a drink,’ she said. ‘We all do.’
She went to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of whisky and three tumblers. She poured a stiff measure into each glass then emptied one in a single gulp. She refilled it, then handed one to her father, who stood looking at it as if he’d never seen a drink before.
Jane had run out of steam and was leaning against Alice, a piteous expression of misery on her face. She held a hand out for the whisky and knocked it back exactly as Carol had done. ‘What happened? Was it a car accident?’ she said, her voice cracked and broken. ‘That stupid sports car of Lucy’s. I knew it was dangerous.’
Carol sat down next to the whisky. ‘It wasn’t a car accident, Mum. Michael was murdered. And so was Lucy.’ Her voice rose at the end of the sentence and she could feel tears at the back of her throat. She’d been holding herself together all day and now she was starting to come apart. She supposed it was something to do with being with her parents. Even though she was the one taking the adult role, she couldn’t help slipping into her natural position in the emotional hierarchy.
Jane shook her head. ‘That can’t be right, dear. Michael didn’t have an enemy in the world. You must be confused.’
‘I know it’s hard to take in, but Carol’s right.’ Alice Flowers demonstrated why she was an FLO with the gentle firmness of her tone.
‘What happened?’ David asked abruptly, slumping down on the nearest chair. He tried to drink his whisky but it chattered against his teeth and he lowered the glass again. ‘Was it a burglar? Someone trying to break in?’
Alice Flowers took over again. ‘We believe someone broke in, yes. It may have been an escaped prisoner.’
Jane struggled upright, frowning. ‘The one on the TV? That terrible Vance man? Him?’
‘It’s possible,’ Alice said. ‘Officers are still examining the scene. It’s early days. We will keep you informed, of course.’
‘Vance?’ Jane turned an accusing glare on Carol. ‘You arrested that man. You sent him to prison. This isn’t just some random attack, is it? This is because of you and your job.’
Here it comes. Carol put her hand to her face, fingers clawing hard at her cheek. ‘It’s possible,’ she groaned. ‘He may have been looking for me.’ Or he may just have wanted to rip my heart out and roast it on the fire. Jane looked at her with loathing and Carol understood why. She’d have done the same thing if it had been possible.
‘This is not Carol’s fault, Mrs Jordan,’ Alice said. ‘This is the fault of the man who attacked your son and his partner.’
‘She’s right, Jane,’ David said, his voice dull and toneless.
‘Believe me, Mum, I’d have done anything for this not to happen. I’d have taken a bullet for Michael. You know that.’ Carol couldn’t stop the tears now. They streamed from her eyes, running down her face and dripping from her chin.
‘But he’s the one that’s dead.’ Jane folded her arms across her chest and began rocking to and fro. ‘My beautiful boy. My Michael. My beautiful, beautiful boy.’
And so it had gone. Grief, recriminations, tears and whisky had circled round each other all night. Carol had finally crawled into bed just after three, so tired she could scarcely undress. Alice Flowers had promised to remain till morning, when she’d be relieved by a colleague. She understood Carol’s fear that Vance might not stop at her brother.
Carol lay stiffly under the covers of a bed she’d only slept in half a dozen times. She was afraid to close her eyes, afraid of the images her mind would project if she let down her guard. In the end, exhaustion won out and she crumpled into sleep in a matter of seconds.
She woke just after eight with a dull headache and a panicky fear of the silence in the house. She lay for a few minutes trying to pull herself into some sort of shape to face the day, then dragged herself upright. She sat on the edge of the bed, head in her hands, wondering how in the name of God she could carry on with her job, her life, her parents. Alice Flowers was wrong. Michael’s death was her fault. The responsibility lay squarely at her door. She had not protected him. It was as simple as that.
Knowing that, she didn’t think she could stay under her parents’ roof any longer. She dressed in yesterday’s clothes and headed downstairs. Her parents were in the living room with Alice. They appeared not to have moved. ‘I need to go,’ she said.
Jane barely lifted her head. Listless, she said, ‘You know best. You always do.’
‘Can’t you stay?’ David said. ‘You should be here with us. You shouldn’t be among strangers, not when you’re grieving. We need you here, your mum and me.’
‘I’ll be back,’ Carol said. ‘But I can’t settle while the man who killed Michael is free. Finding killers is what I’m best at. I can’t just sit here, I’ll go mad.’ She crossed to her mother and gave her an awkward hug. She smelled of whisky and sour sweat, like a stranger. ‘I love you, Mum.’
Jane sighed. ‘I love you too, Carol.’ The words felt dragged from her lips.
Carol withdrew and crouched by her father’s chair. ‘Take care of Mum,’ she said. He patted her shoulder, nodding. ‘I love you, Dad.’ Then she stood up and gestured with her head to Alice.
On the doorstep, she straightened up and reached for the familiar persona of Detective Chief Inspector Carol Jordan. It felt as if it was on a very high shelf. ‘I don’t want them left alone,’ Carol said. ‘Vance is out there, taking revenge on the team that put him away. I’m not convinced he’s finished with me yet. So they need to be guarded as well as supported. Is that clear?’
Alice gave her a solemn look. ‘We’ll take good care of them for you. Can I ask where you’ll be?’
‘I’m going to Worcester. That’s where the search for Vance is being coordinated. That’s where I need to be.’ And God help Tony Hill if he crosses my path.
39
The marina was shrouded in morning mist, the brightly painted cabins emerging like dream boats on silvered water. The cabin roofs stretched side by side as far as the eye could see, like an angular ploughed field of black earth. Above the band of mist, the red brickwork of old china warehouses loomed, freshly cleaned and pointed as part of the process of renovation. Saved from dereliction, they’d become the New Jerusalem of the middle classes: loft apartments offering a water view. Once this had been Diglis canal basin, a thrumming
focus of industry, one of the hubs in the movement of goods and raw materials around the Midlands. Now, it was Diglis Marina, a centre of leisure and pleasure. It was prettier, there was no doubt about that. And there was still a traditional pub with a skittle alley where people could sit over their real ale and pretend they’d done an honest day’s work.
Tony sat on the roof of his narrowboat nursing a mug of tea. He’d never felt so bleak. Two people were dead and one was maimed because he’d failed at the one thing he was supposed to be good at. And he’d lost the only place he’d ever felt at home. All his life, he’d wanted to find somewhere he belonged. Carol Jordan had been half of that answer; the house had miraculously been the other. And now they were both gone. Carol in righteous contempt, the house razed to a shell. It had been full of things that were fodder to a fire – books, wood, paintings, fine carpets – and now they were reduced to smouldering ash.
He’d never been given to self-pity, which he reckoned was just as well, given how much there was about his life that was so pitiful. Even now, he wasn’t sorry for himself. Anger was at the heart of it, with disgust running a close second. Obviously the ultimate blame lay with Vance. He was the killer, the arsonist, the wrecker of lives. But Tony should have seen what was coming. Not once but twice he’d failed to figure out what Vance would do next. It was no excuse to point to the enormity of what Vance had done, to try to hide behind the fact that his actions were off the scale of extreme. Tony was trained and paid to have insight into men like Vance, to work out what made them tick and to stop them doing what they lived for.
Most people, when they fucked up at work, it wasn’t a big deal. But when he fucked up at work, it cost people their lives. He felt physically sick at the thought of Vance out there somewhere, making his next carefully planned move in his sadistic campaign. The longer this went on, the clearer it was to Tony that he’d been right about one thing at least – Vance was working to a set schedule that had been in place well before he’d made his jailbreak.