The Retribution

by Val McDermid

  Stacey shrugged. ‘I can set programs running on the Gates hardware and work the Oklahoma stuff while I’m waiting for results. With luck, I’ll have something for you later today. If not, tomorrow.’

  Stacey’s reassuring competence was exactly what Carol needed right then. It was good to know somebody was on top of things. But if Tony Hill was interfering with the Bradfield cases, she wanted to know. Her brother’s murder had demonstrated that Tony wasn’t the operator he used to be. The way she felt right now, she didn’t think she could ever work with him again. And the last thing she wanted was to be blindsided by him. ‘Thanks, Stacey,’ she said vaguely, already looking for Ambrose and the answer to her next question. Where exactly was Tony Hill?

  43

  If Vance had needed any support for his conviction that his programme of retribution was the right thing, he would have pointed to his deep and dreamless sleep. No nightmares troubled him, no tossing and turning, no staring at the ceiling praying for unconsciousness. After he’d done his work at Tony’s, he’d brought a Chinese takeaway back to his hotel room and surfed the news channels till he felt sleepy. It wasn’t just that he was interested in seeing how his own exploits were reported; he’d been away from full access to the media for a long time, and he was interested to see how it had developed while he’d been gone.

  He couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret. He’d have been a perfect fit for this multimedia universe. Twitter and Facebook and the like would have suited him much better than a lot of those idiots who basked in the public’s adoration these days. Something else Carol Jordan and Tony Hill and his bitch of an ex-wife had robbed him of. Maybe he should set up a Twitter account to taunt the police with. Vanceontherun, he could call himself. It was tempting, but he’d have to pass. If he’d learned one thing behind bars, it was that everything you did in cyberspace left a trail. He had enough on his plate without the elaborate covering of his tracks that would be involved in thumbing his electronic nose at the authorities. Enough that they knew he was out there and doing his thing.

  It was mid-morning when he woke, and he was gratified to find a selection of photographs of the fire on a local news website. Arson was apparently suspected. Well, duh. There was no mention of Vance, and whoever had written the report hadn’t bothered to find out anything more about ‘the owner, Dr Tony Hill’ who wasn’t available for comment. One thing made Vance’s antennae twitch. In the background of one shot, he could see the distinctive head of the cop who’d been on TV talking about his escape. Polished dark skull, watchful eyes, a face that looked like it had encountered a few fists over the years. And here he was at the fire.

  Someone was making the right connections. Which was fine by Vance. They could connect the dots as much as they liked, but he was always going to be one step ahead. Take right now, for example. The safest place in the country for him was Worcester. Because they’d be convinced he was long gone. This was the one place they wouldn’t be keeping an eye out for him. He could have walked through the Cathedral Plaza shopping mall without raising an eyebrow. The idea made him laugh with delight.

  But safe though he was here, he had no intention of hanging around. He had places to go, people to see. And none of it was going to be pretty. But first, he had to put his final preparations in place. He paid a visit to his cameras. The barn was dead; presumably the police had found a camera and swept for the others. That was why the cameras at Tony Hill’s house and Micky’s farm were on the outside – the police would be looking in all the wrong places. It seemed he’d been right again.

  Vance checked out the suite of images from the stud farm in Herefordshire where his treacherous ex-wife and her lover had created their new lives. He’d done Micky and Betsy a huge favour when he’d married Micky. The rumour and gossip that had swirled around Micky was hindering her ascent to the very pinnacle of TV presenting. That had died a death when they’d tied the knot. Obviously she must be straight, for why would Vance marry a lesbian when he could have had his pick of beautiful, sexy women? Cynics tried to shoot the line that Vance was also gay. But nobody believed that. He had a heterosexual track record and never a whisper that he swung both ways.

  Of course, the marriage had been a sham. What Micky got out of it had been clear from the start, and she’d been so keen to accept the benefits that she’d chosen not to question his excuse for wanting it. He’d spun her a line about wanting protection from the fans who stalked him, convinced her that what he liked was the nostrings contract between himself and the high-class hookers he used for sex, and promised her he would never embarrass her with some tacky encounter with a kiss-and-tell nobody. That was easier to believe than the truth – that he wanted cover for his other life as a serial abductor and killer of teenage girls. Not that he had ever shared that truth with Micky.

  He’d kept to his side of the deal. He expected her to stick to her end of the arrangement in return. But as soon as things got sticky, instead of providing the alibis he needed, she’d washed her hands faster than Pilate. There was nothing that infuriated Vance more than people who didn’t honour their debts. He always kept his word. The only time he’d promised and failed to deliver was when he swore to the British people that he would bring home an Olympic gold medal. But they hadn’t seen it as a let-down, because the reason had been so heroic.

  He wished they’d been able to understand his other actions in the same light. He’d done what he had to do. It might not have been the reaction most people would understand, but he wasn’t most people. He was Jacko Vance and he was exceptional. Which meant he was an exception, outside the petty rules the rest of them had to live by. They needed the rules. They couldn’t function without them. But he could. And he did.

  Vance checked out the images one by one, watching them intently, zooming in where he could. The shape of the protection that was in place soon became clear. The police were staking out the road approaches to the farm in both directions. The drive was still blocked by a horse box. A police Land Rover stood at the entrance to the back drive, three officers visible inside it. Two pairs of officers in the forage caps of firearms officers patrolled the perimeter of the house itself, their Heckler and Koch automatics carried at port arms.

  It looked like the yard itself was being protected by the stable hands, a group of men who appeared to have been manufactured out of pipe cleaners, wire and plasticine. A couple of them had shotguns broken over their arms. What interested Vance was that they all dressed in variations of the same outfit. Flat caps, waxed or quilted jackets, jeans and riding boots. The cops didn’t look twice when one of them walked out of the house and headed for the stable block. Or vice versa.

  Which would have been interesting if he’d been aiming to get inside the house. But his plans were very different. And from the looks of this set-up, eminently likely to be successful. Vance showered and dressed and checked out with half an hour to spare. Nothing to attract attention.

  He left the car on a side street a short distance from the car-hire firm where Patrick Gordon had already booked today’s vehicle, the kind of SUV that fitted in perfectly in the countryside. It had, as he had specified, a tow ball. He drove back to the previous car, retrieved his petrol cans, laptop bag and holdalls from the boot, and set off for Herefordshire. He had one stop to make on the way, but he had plenty of time. It was a lovely day, he realised as he left Worcester behind.

  Time to make the most of it.

  As usual when he was thinking, time had slipped past Tony without him noticing. He’d only realised how late it was when his stomach rumbled in protest at having missed out on breakfast and lunch. There were various tins and packets in the cupboards in the galley, but he couldn’t be bothered cooking at the best of times and today didn’t qualify as one of those. So he locked up and went ashore. He considered the pub but rejected the idea. He wasn’t ready for other people, not even strangers.

  A few redbrick streets away, he found the perfect solution in a corner chippie. He hurried back t
o Steeler with a fragrant parcel of cod and chips so hot it nipped his fingertips. The prospect of something good to eat reminded him to hold on to the idea that not everything was shit.

  He turned on to the pontoon where his boat was moored and stopped in his tracks. A familiar figure was standing on Steeler’s stern, leaning against the cabin with arms folded, thick blonde hair ruffled by the wind. For a moment his spirits lifted, grabbing at the possibility of a reconciliation. Then he made a proper assessment of her body language and accepted Carol wasn’t here to bury the hatchet and explore how they could best move forward together against Vance.

  If that was the case, he had to wonder what she was here for. Standing staring wasn’t going to answer that question. Warily, as if fearing a physical attack, Tony walked down the pontoon till he was level with the boat. ‘There’s probably enough for two,’ he said.

  Carol took the olive branch and snapped it across her knee. ‘I’m not planning on staying long enough to share a meal,’ she said.

  He’d never got anywhere with Carol by being conciliatory. ‘Please yourself,’ he said. ‘But I need to eat.’ He stepped on board and glared at her till she moved to one side so he could unlock the door and clamber below. He’d left her with no option but to follow him if she wanted to talk.

  He pulled a plate out of the rack and unwrapped his fish and chips, tipping them on to the plate. As she came gingerly down the steps, he backed into the main cabin and shoved his papers and laptop to one side so he could eat. He pulled a can of Coke out of his coat pocket and set it beside his plate. ‘Some would say this is more my style than what I’ve just lost,’ he said.

  ‘I heard about the house,’ Carol said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Me too. I know it’s trivial compared to Michael and Lucy, but it still hurts. So I have paid a little for my stupidity.’ He tried not to sound bitter. He could see from the narrowing of her eyes that he’d failed.

  ‘I didn’t come here to beat you up for letting them down.’ She leaned against the galley, arms folded, her pain obvious. So many times he’d imagined her here, daring to indulge little fantasies of them going out for a run on the narrowboat like normal people did. Who was he kidding? They weren’t normal, either of them. Even if they got out of this alive, they weren’t going to turn into the kind of pensioners who pottered around the canal system painting kettles with castles and roses and discussing which pub on the Cheshire Ring did the best steak pies.

  Tony popped a chip in his mouth and gasped as the hot potato burned his mouth. ‘Wah! That’s hot!’ He chewed it, mouth open, till it was cool enough to swallow. ‘Sorry.’ Hapless grin, little shrug. Who did he think he was kidding? He’d never had the kind of charm to get out of trouble, least of all with Carol. ‘So why did you come and find me?’

  She took a couple of steps forward and woke the laptop from its sleep, picking up the scribbled notes that sat beside it. The screen faded up, revealing a crime-scene photo of a cardboard box open to reveal dismembered limbs. She read aloud. ‘“Maze Man. 1996. One season on HBO. Based on novel by Canadian James Sarrono. Website www.maze-man.com. Facebook? Twitter?” And lots more of the same. What the fuck is all this about?’

  He considered lying. Considered claiming he’d pressured Paula for the information because he wanted to try to make it up to Carol. But that was pitiful and one of the things he’d decided in the course of the long night was that he was going to try to do better than pitiful in future. ‘Your team loves you. They don’t want you to go. And the only thing they can think of to give you as a leaving present is a result. So even though they know you’re opposed in principle to me working for nothing, and even though they’ve probably worked out by now that I have to carry the can for your brother’s death – in spite of that, they asked me to help. Because they think I can help. And I think I have.’ He gestured at the papers in her hand. ‘I came up with Maze Man.’

  ‘That’s your idea of investigative help? A tenuous connection to an obscure TV series that isn’t even available on DVD? What kind of use is that, even if it’s real and not just wishful thinking?’ Her fury burned bright. Tony didn’t think it had much to do with the Bradfield killings. In normal circumstances, she’d have gone with rueful irritation and given Paula an ear-bashing later. This was anger of a different order.

  He took his time, breaking off a piece of fish and eating it. ‘The crime scenes are virtually identical. The killer used the name of the star to book a motel room where he probably drowned his second victim. There’s a website which seems to have about a dozen people regularly posting on its forum. If one of them lives in Bradfield, he could be your killer. Or he could know your killer. It’s better than nothing, which is what your team had got until I suggested this.’

  Carol slammed the papers down on the table. ‘How can you be bothered with this? How can you give a shit about some weird fuck killing prostitutes when Jacko Vance is out there? You’re in his sights, just like I am. You should be working with Ambrose and Patterson, trying to find Vance, not fucking about here with something that is none of your business.’ She was shouting now, her voice shaking with tears he knew she would do anything to avoid shedding. ‘Clearly you don’t care about me, but don’t you care about yourself?’

  Tony stared defiantly at her. ‘Actually, you’ve got that the wrong way round. I probably don’t care enough about myself, but I really do care about you. And Vance knows that. That’s probably why Chris is in hospital right now.’ Even as the words crossed his lips, he cursed his own stupidity.

  Carol looked as if he’d slapped her. ‘Chris is in hospital? This is the first I’ve heard about it. What the hell happened to her?’

  Tony couldn’t meet her eye. ‘She went to fetch Nelson instead of Paula. Vance got into your flat and booby-trapped the cat-food bin. She got a face full of sulphuric acid.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Carol said faintly. ‘That was meant for me.’

  ‘Yes. I think it was. To make you suffer more and to make me suffer too.’

  ‘What— How is she?’

  ‘Not good.’ There was no easy way round the truth now he’d opened the door on it. ‘She’s lost the sight of both eyes, her face is terribly burned and they’re scared about her lungs. She’s in a medical coma to keep her stable and pain-free.’ He reached out for her but she flinched away. ‘We didn’t tell you because we thought you had enough to contend with.’

  ‘Christ,’ she said. ‘This just gets worse. What are you doing now? Why aren’t you working on Vance?’

  ‘I’ve already given Alvin all the help I can. He knows where I am if he needs me.’ He felt himself choking up and cleared his throat. ‘I can’t work miracles, Carol.’

  ‘I used to think you could,’ she said, her face crumpling. She bit her lip and turned away from him.

  Tony’s mouth smiled but the rest of his face didn’t follow its lead. ‘You can fool some of the people some of the time … I’m sorry, Carol. I really am. If it makes you feel any safer, I think he’s going to go for hurting Micky next. That probably means Betsy’s the one at risk. Alvin’s done a big production number with the local police, they’ve got armed protection at their place.’ He poked his food with his finger, appetite gone. ‘I don’t know what else we can do. And yes. I’m bloody terrified of what he’s got planned.’

  ‘Ironic, isn’t it? We’re protecting the woman who enabled Vance’s criminal career all those years. Their fake marriage facilitated him abducting and imprisoning and torturing and raping and killing young women. And you and me, the ones who stopped him, we’re the ones who have lost. She’s going to walk away unscathed again,’ Carol said, anger taking over. ‘It’s so unfair.’ She slumped into the big leather swivel chair opposite him, running out of energy at last.

  ‘I know. But at least you’re safe here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t think he knows about this place. I think he’s had someone investigating our lives, watching where we go
and what we do and who we see. Those hidden cameras in the barn—’

  ‘What hidden cameras? Why wasn’t I told about this?’ She managed to summon up her last reserves of outrage. ‘And how the hell did you know?’

  ‘The techs discovered them while I was still there. Didn’t Franklin tell you?’

  ‘Franklin tells me about as much as you do, as it turns out.’

  Tony let it go. He’d never wanted to fight with her in the first place. ‘Anyway, I don’t think he knows about the boat. I haven’t been here in ages. Saul from the pub keeps an eye on her for me. And when I came down here last night, Alvin got one of the techs to sweep it for me. No cameras, no bugs. So I think it’s off Vance’s radar. It’s a safe house.’

  ‘He was watching them?’

  ‘He picked his moment. When they were least likely to notice him walking right up to them.’

  ‘Bastard,’ she said. She closed her eyes and dropped her head in her hands.

  ‘There’s a cabin up front,’ Tony said. ‘Nice bed. Arthur liked his comforts. You could catch a couple of hours’ kip before you actually fall over.’

  She shook herself, stood up and promptly sat down again. ‘Whoa. Haven’t got my sea legs yet. Thanks but I need to—’

  ‘You don’t need to be anywhere. Your team in Bradfield know how to run an operation. Alvin Ambrose and Stuart Patterson need some space to prove themselves to you before you’re really their boss. If they do need you for anything, someone will call you.’ He’d never tried harder to make her trust him. Even if it was only until she was awake again, it was worth the effort.

  Carol looked around, considering. ‘What about you? You look like shit. Did you sleep last night?’

  ‘I never sleep,’ he said. ‘Why would one more night make any difference?’ It wasn’t strictly true. The terrible sleep patterns of most of his adult life had succumbed to the calm of Arthur Blythe’s house. It was one of the reasons he’d loved it so much. But he’d never told anyone, and he couldn’t tell her now. It would feel too much like a desperate reach for pity. ‘Go and sleep, Carol. You can fall out with me all over again when you wake up.’