by Val McDermid
‘That makes sense.’ Carol’s voice had ice at its heart. Already Brandon seemed to be reneging on his promise to give her a free hand, and she didn’t like what that said about her.
‘He seemed to think so,’ Jan said, turning towards Tony. ‘And this must be the man who reads our minds.’
Tony assumed the expression of a man who’s heard it all before. ‘Only if you’re a sexually motivated serial offender.’
Jan laughed. ‘My secrets are safe, then.’ She held out a hand. ‘I’m Jan Shields.’
Tony returned the handshake. Strong, warm hand. Exactly what he’d expect from someone who’d just demonstrated how sure of herself she was.
Jan turned back to Carol. ‘Another one bites the dust, eh?’
‘In a particularly unpleasant way,’ Carol said repressively.
Jan shrugged, stepping forward to see better what Vernon was doing. ‘It’s a high-risk occupation.’
‘So is being a cop,’ Carol said. ‘But when one of us dies, we get a little respect.’
Jan gave an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to sound callous. But when you’ve been in Vice as long as I have, they all start to look like meat while they’re still on the hoof.’
Tony didn’t find Jan’s attitude surprising. He’d met too many cops–and clinical psychologists–on the edge of burnout not to have some sympathy with the defensive positions they adopted. He took a step away, moving closer to the table. ‘Did you do the post mortems two years ago?’ he asked.
Vernon nodded. ‘I did.’
‘What do you think?’ Tony asked.
‘If I didn’t know better, I would say this woman had been the victim of the same killer. The pattern of the wounds is quite distinctive. Unique, really. The only time I’ve seen it before was in the murders Derek Tyler was found guilty of.’
‘What did he use? A knife of some sort?’
‘As I recall, Tyler never gave up the weapon. At the time, I surmised it was something home-made,’ Vernon said. ‘The wounds certainly don’t match any implement I’ve ever come across. And I did ask one of my colleagues who’s an expert in toolmarks for an opinion.’
‘So, what kind of home-made?’ Carol interjected.
Vernon studied the blade of his scalpel. ‘It’s hard to be certain. The wounds are consistent with a narrow, flexible blade. A razor blade rather than a craft knife. But there are dozens, hundreds of cuts. The best guess my colleague and I could come up with was something along the lines of a latex dildo with a series of razor blades inserted quite deeply into it.’
Carol’s intake of breath was audible. ‘Jesus,’ she said.
‘Danger, nutters at work,’ Jan said bitterly. ‘That right, Dr Hill?’
Tony frowned. It made no sense. Nothing added up. If the police had captured the wrong man, the real killer should have reacted by taking another victim then and there. Sexually motivated murderers didn’t like other people being given credit for their handiwork. To wait two years to strike again was all wrong. He needed to talk this through. ‘Carol?’ he said softly.
But her attention was elsewhere. She indicated Tony with a movement of her head without looking at him directly. ‘Jan, Dr Hill thinks our man had been with Sandie before. Can you find out who she hung around with, see if she mentioned a punter who wanted her to talk about herself? Chances are he couldn’t maintain an erection.’
Jan snorted. ‘That hardly narrows it down. You’d be amazed how many punters can’t get it up when it comes to it. That’s often why the girls get smacked around. But yeah, I’ll see what I can come up with.’ She pulled her coat collar closer. ‘I’ll hit the bricks, then. Catch you later.’
Tony watched her melt into the shadows, waiting till he heard the door close behind her before returning to Carol’s side. The room was quiet save for the clink of metal on metal as Vernon exchanged one instrument of deconstruction for another. ‘Carol, I keep coming back to what I said earlier. This is an impossible scenario. If Derek Tyler really did commit the murders he was convicted of, it’s beyond the bounds of credibility that somebody else would find satisfaction in such a precise replication of his crimes. It goes against every psychological truth I know. Somebody’s setting the scene, creating what they want us to see.’
‘But the forensics–’
‘I know what you said,’ Tony interrupted her. ‘But your team needs to look at those files, to see if there was any possibility of a mistake. And if there was, you need to start looking at men who’ve been recently released from prison or from Bradfield Moor after a two-year stretch. That’s the only explanation for the time lag. Because I’d stake my reputation on the fact that whoever killed those women two years ago also killed Sandie Foster.’
Carol stared at him, the glimmering of an idea at the edge of her consciousness. ‘Tony? What if that’s exactly what our killer is gambling on?’
‘Sorry?’ he looked puzzled.
Carol’s words tumbled over each other in her excitement. ‘What if the person who murdered Sandie Foster is gambling on the fact that we’ll be forced to draw precisely that conclusion? What if killing Sandie was incidental? What if the killer’s real intent is to have Derek Tyler’s conviction set aside?’
Tony cocked his head to one side, considering. ‘That would work? You could base an appeal on that? In spite of the overwhelming evidence against Tyler?’
‘You could have a damn good try. Especially with someone like you in the witness box staking your not inconsiderable reputation on it.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So I take it you don’t want me shouting that from the rooftops?’
‘Especially not when there are lawyers or journalists present,’ Carol said. ‘But what do you think? Is it motivation enough?’
‘Hard to say. It would have to be somebody who cared passionately about Derek Tyler and who was smart enough to figure out how to pull our strings. It’s not a likely scenario, but it’s possible.’ He smiled. ‘This is why we work so well together. You think like a detective, I think like a nutter.’
After the morgue, it was almost a relief to be back inside Bradfield Moor. Front-desk security told him where to find Derek Tyler. Because he’d been classified as a non-violent inmate, he was allowed to eat his meals with others in the same category in the dining room. It was a low-ceilinged barn of a room that smelled of chip fat with undertones of overcooked brassicas. The walls had been painted indigo and yellow in line with what Tony privately considered to be the junk science of colour therapy. Any beneficial effects that the décor might have provoked were probably compromised by the scuffs and stains that marked the paintwork from floor to ceiling. Through the security-glass windows there was a view of a shrubbery that consisted mostly of spotted laurel and rhododendrons. If they weren’t depressed when they came in here, Tony thought, they soon would be.
He asked one of the orderlies to point out Tyler, then he helped himself to a tray of macaroni cheese and peas, choosing a table off to one side, where he could observe the man who had been found guilty of the murders of four prostitutes over a period of six months, a man who had blamed his urge to kill on the voice in his head. A few of the other inmates glanced Tony’s way, some openly staring. But nobody made any attempt to approach him.
Tyler was a lanky, scrawny individual in his mid-twenties. He hunched over his sausage, egg and chips like a miser with a hoard of gold, head down so Tony could see little of him apart from the top of his shaved head and the tattoos on his skinny forearms.
Tony absently munched his way through his lunch, washing the bland food down with strong tea. Tyler showed none of the physical tics of the obsessive compulsive. He ate with preternatural slowness, as if he were stretching the meal out as long as he could. It seemed a pretty good strategy for passing the time, Tony decided.
Tyler had progressed to his last few mouthfuls when Aidan Hart slipped into the chair next to him. ‘I didn’t expect to see you in today,’ he said.
‘It’s all right, I won’t b
e claiming overtime,’ Tony said.
‘There’s better grub in the staff restaurant, you know.’
‘I know. But I wanted to take a look at a patient.’
Hart nodded. ‘Derek Tyler.’ Noting Tony’s look of surprise, he said, ‘Security told me when I came in. What’s your interest?’
‘Bradfield police found a murder victim last night. They’ve asked me to consult on the case.’ At the mention of the police, Hart perked up, his eyes gleaming with interest. Tony reckoned he’d been right when his first instinct had placed Aidan Hart firmly in the box marked ‘careerist’. Just what he needed. More of the professional politics he was so bad at. He’d have to be very careful how he handled this. ‘On the surface, it looks like a copy of Derek Tyler’s murders.’
Hart stroked his cleanly shaved chin. ‘Interesting.’
‘Oh yes, it’s that, all right.’ Tony finished his tea. ‘He looks a bit young for this kind of offence.’
‘I guess the profile has to be off the mark sometimes,’ Hart said smoothly. ‘Given that we’re working with the law of averages.’
‘Which is why I always warn the cops it’s not an exact science. So, what can you tell me about him?’
Hart looked across at Tyler, who had come to the end of his meal and was staring down at his empty plate. ‘Very little. He’s one of the most unco-operative patients I’ve ever come across. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that he’s disruptive–quite the opposite. He’s totally passive. In one sense, he’s no trouble at all. But in another, he’s completely intractable. He won’t participate in any aspect of the therapeutic regime. He won’t speak. He’s not catatonic. He just chooses not to.’
‘Ever had any trouble with him?’
‘Only once. They’ve got integral radios in their rooms. They can choose from half a dozen preset stations, and we can use the system to broadcast announcements. Derek never uses his, but somehow something went wrong with it. The radio came on and it couldn’t be turned off. And Derek lost it. Smashed the room up, went for the nurses. We had to sedate him, and he wouldn’t go back in his room until we had the radio removed.’
Tony gave a small smile. ‘Interesting,’ he said. If Hart noticed the echo, he didn’t react.
‘But not very illuminating.’
Tony let the comment lie. He wasn’t ready to share his thoughts with anyone, least of all someone he felt an instinctive mistrust towards. ‘What do we know about him before the killings?’
Tony watched the eye movements that indicated Hart was accessing memory not lies. ‘Not a lot,’ Hart said after a short pause. ‘Borderline special needs. According to the report from his GP, he was highly suggestible, eager to please, mild obsessive compulsive. But nothing to merit treatment. And nothing to indicate he was heading for a career as a serial killer. Then again, GPs–what do they know?’ His smile was complicit, one expert to another, calculated to build an alliance. Tony read it for what it was and instinctively fought against it. Hart pushed his chair back. ‘Do you want to meet Derek?’
‘I’d appreciate it if you could arrange it. It’d be good if I could talk to him in his room.’
Hart looked surprised. ‘That’s not normal procedure. We usually talk to patients in one of the interview suites.’
‘I know. But I’d like to see him on his turf. I’d like him to feel he has a measure of control. And you’ve said yourself, he’s not violent.’
Tony could see Hart weighing up the arguments and deciding to keep his powder dry. ‘All right. I’ll page you when we’re set up. But you’ll be wasting your time, you know. He’s not spoken to a member of the medical staff since the day he arrived here.’
Tony didn’t take his eyes off Derek Tyler as Hart bustled off. He spoke under his breath: ‘You like the voice, don’t you, Derek? You like to listen to it. You don’t want anything to interfere with it. So what do I have to do to make you want to listen to mine?’
When she’d woken up only three hours after falling into bed, Carol had blamed lack of sleep for the way she felt. But as the morning had worn on, it became clear to her that she was in fact hung over. She felt as if someone was cutting through her brain with cheesewire after cruelly turning the lights several hundred watts higher. Still, it was almost worth it for the dreamless stupor that had kept the nightmare images of Sandie Foster’s death at bay. She swigged from a bottle of water and surveyed her team. They all looked fresher than she felt. She walked out of her office and took up station in front of the whiteboard that was already adorned with photos of Sandie, alive and dead.
‘Good morning,’ Carol said, trying to imitate an energy she didn’t possess. ‘Sandie Foster died at some time between midnight and eight a.m. on Tuesday morning. Which means she was probably attacked somewhere between ten on Monday night and four on Tuesday morning. Given that she normally knocked off at ten, we can assume she was in the company of her killer before then. According to Dr Vernon, she bled to death and it would have taken her at least an hour to die. Dr Tony Hill, who will be working with us on this case, believes that the killer probably stayed with her while she bled out. So we’re looking for someone who has two or three hours they can’t account for in that time period.’ She turned to the whiteboard and wrote up the crucial times.
‘Preliminary forensics indicate we’re not going to have much to go on here. Plenty of prints, but none on the handcuffs or the bedstead. They’ve been wiped clean. The top of the table was green baize, so nothing for us there either. Chances are the remaining prints are from punters who had nothing to do with this. Nevertheless, if and when we get any matches, we need to follow up on that. So far, we’ve not found any traces of sperm. The blood boys are checking to see if they can find any blood that isn’t Sandie’s, but that’s a slim chance.’ Carol perched on the edge of a desk, forcing her thoughts into order.
‘I know you’re all aware of the similarities between this case and a series of murders that took place two years ago. However, there is nothing to suggest that Derek Tyler’s conviction was unsafe. I’ve read the files, and even without his admission of guilt, that case was as open and shut as we’re ever likely to get. So while we treat this as an individual case, we should be aware that it’s possible Derek Tyler had a fan a couple of years ago. A sick bastard who sees it as his role to replicate Derek’s crimes. It might even be the case that someone is trying to get Derek Tyler out of Bradfield Moor and sees this as the way to do it. Make a case for linkage between the murders, and you make a case for a miscarriage of justice.’
‘Don’t you think that’s a bit far-fetched, ma’am?’ Don Merrick interjected.
‘At this stage, Don, I’m not ruling out anything, however off the wall it might seem.’ Carol noticed Paula catch Merrick’s eye and give him a small shake of the head. Indicating that she thought her guvnor had lost it? Or was Carol just being paranoid? Was Paula acting out of team solidarity, signalling it wasn’t appropriate for Don to question the boss’s judgement when there were others present? Carol cleared her throat and continued. ‘We all know this is not a straightforward murder because of the resemblances to the previous series. But I want that knowledge to stay in this room. Nobody talks to the press. Leave that to me and Mr Brandon. Now, what have we got?’
Not much, Carol thought miserably as she listened to the team run through the scant high points of their results so far. Nobody admitted to having seen Sandie with a punter after nine o’clock. Sandie’s distraught mother knew nothing of the details of her daughter’s other life; it had been tacit between them that what Sandie did to earn her keep was something not to be spoken of in the family home. The only lead they had was that Sandie had been seen getting into a black Freelander 4x4 around half past eight. An obliging prostitute had noted the last three digits of the number plate.
‘OK,’ Carol sighed. ‘Kevin, get on to the number plate. Chances are it’s not our man, but at least if we can find out when he dropped her off, we narrow down the time frame for our killer.
Don, Paula–I want you to collate all the interviews from the street last night. Work with Stacey to draw up a plan of who was where, when. Then we’ll have an idea who might be worth reinterviewing. Stacey, I want you to carry on working on Ron Alexander’s computer files as well. Let’s not lose sight of our other priorities. Jan, you’re with me. Sam, you can start backtracking on Derek Tyler’s known associates. The rest of you I want out on the streets in Temple Fields–saturation coverage. I want everybody who was out and about on Monday night interviewed.’
The room filled with the hubbub of conversation as officers organized themselves. Jan Shields wove through the bodies and reached Carol as she was about to enter her office. ‘What have you got in mind for us?’ Jan said conversationally, following Carol inside.
‘Kevin did a good job with Dee Smart, but I think she might have more to give us. It’s always worth trying a different approach. And I thought you might know some of the levers to pull.’
Jan leaned against the door frame. ‘Sure. We’re probably wasting our time, but you never know.’
‘It’s better than spinning our wheels.’ Carol was opening and closing her drawers, looking for the paracetamol she was sure she’d stashed there. No trace. She was going to have to manage without.
‘You really think somebody’s trying to get Derek Tyler off the hook?’ Jan asked.
Carol looked up. ‘I don’t know. But, frankly, it’s a more comfortable notion than any of the alternatives.’
Tony knocked on the open door and waited. Silence. Worth a try, he thought, unsurprised that the tactic hadn’t worked. He stuck his head round the door. Derek Tyler was sitting on his bed, knees bent, arms wrapped round his legs. ‘Can I come in?’ Tony asked.
Tyler didn’t move. ‘I’ll take that as a yes, then.’ Tony walked into the small room, keeping his eyes on Tyler. There would be plenty of time to take in the room without making the man feel his environment was under scrutiny. ‘I’ll sit down, shall I?’ Tony continued, making for the single wooden chair that was tucked into a bare table.