by Val McDermid
He remembered little of his mother. She’d been a timid woman, unassertive and bland, always scurrying to meet her husband’s requirements. But she’d been a poor excuse for a wife and mother, forcing his father to constant complaint. When words didn’t work, he’d had to resort to slaps, then punches and kicks. That was the way the world worked. When you failed, you had to take your punishment.
Then one April afternoon, when he was only seven years old, he’d come home from school to find the house locked and empty. He’d banged on the door but there had been no reply. Even at seven, he knew better than to make a fuss. He’d slipped down the side of the house to the back garden and settled down to wait on the doorstep. By the time his father came home from work a little after six, he was chilled to the bone but he didn’t complain.
His father explained that he’d thrown his mother out. Just like a piece of rubbish, the boy had thought at the time. If people didn’t live up to the appropriate standards, they had to face the consequences. His mother had let them both down, so there was no place for her in their family any more.
He missed his mother’s cooking and holding her warm hand on the way to school in the morning. But not for long. His father explained the need to be tough and self-reliant, and he absorbed the lesson. There was no alternative.
Not long after he turned eleven, he was sent off for two weeks of the summer holidays to an outdoor activity camp in the Lake District. A trio of ex-Army fitness instructors ran it like boot camp. Most of the boys spent the first few days in a state of shell-shock. They’d never been yelled at so much, never been expected to take responsibility for themselves and others, never had to face tests of physical endurance like it. For him, it had been business as usual. He wondered what all the fuss was about.
When he returned home, he discovered he had a new mother. While he’d been gone, his father had travelled to Thailand and returned with what the boy later discovered was a mail-order bride. This time, his father had chosen a wife who came much closer to his idea of perfection. Sirikit was subservient, polite, hard-working and eager to please. She never answered back, she cleaned house like a dervish and she never complained, even when his father criticised her for minor infringements of his regime. And she was a great cook.
By the time he hit fourteen he realised something else about Sirikit. Practically every move she made had the capacity to arouse him. Every meal became a kind of torture, his penis straining against the tight underpants he’d taken to wearing in a bid to control his rebellious body. Luckily, his father paid him almost no attention unless he’d broken the house protocols, which he hardly ever did these days.
As he lay in bed one night, engaged in his nightly ritual of wanking to mental images of Sirikit spreadeagled over the kitchen table, smiling flirtatiously over her shoulder at him, it dawned on him that this didn’t have to stop with fantasy.
The next afternoon when he came home from school, he found her in the kitchen preparing dinner. He approached from behind, reaching round to grab her small taut breasts. He pushed himself against her, as hard as he’d ever been. She squealed and squirmed, trying to break free. But he was strong and held her tight. ‘I’ll tell your father,’ she screamed at him. ‘And he will kill you.’
‘No, you won’t,’ he’d growled into her neck. ‘Because if you do, I’ll tell him you’re making it all up to cover the fact that you tried to seduce me because you’re tired of an old man and you want young flesh.’
She hissed at him. ‘He won’t believe you. I am his wife.’
‘And I’m his flesh and blood. He bought you. The bottom line is you’re a whore and I’m his son. And he’d love the excuse to beat the crap out of you.’
The fight had gone out of her then. She knew her husband too well. And so Sirikit became his. Until he left home to go to university. His father had made it clear to him that he was on his own now. He’d sold up and taken Sirikit to live in Thailand, where she couldn’t be further tainted by independent Western women. He never sent his son so much as a birthday card. Clearly, he was done with parenting.
Really, he should have learned from his father’s choices and found himself a younger version of Sirikit. But he’d grown beyond his father and his crappy job working for the council. He was a graduate, a man with possibilities his father had never known. He was better than his father. He’d find a perfect wife without having to buy one. He’d find one who wasn’t a whore.
For a while, he thought he’d done just that. She’d come for a job interview at the office where he used to work. On paper, she was well qualified as a market analyst but she was so shy she could barely answer the questions he and his boss put to her. She was demure and deferential and she couldn’t believe it when he asked her on a date as he showed her out after her failed interview. Even on that first date, her eagerness to please was obvious. He used every technique at his disposal to undermine her, and within weeks she was cowed and controlled. Her parents lived sixty miles away in York and the first measure of his success was to turn her from a devoted daughter to one who never called. In spite of her parents’ unease, they were married six months after that first meeting. By the end of the year, he had separated her from all her previous connections. He deliberately kept in touch with the only one of her cousins who lived in Bradfield because he didn’t want to be blindsided. Information was power.
As far as he was concerned, he’d achieved exactly what he set out to do. Digital technology provided so many more opportunities for power and control. She didn’t have to go out shopping; everything could be delivered from the internet, from groceries to sex toys. She didn’t even need a bank account. He okayed or vetoed all the online spending, paying with credit cards she had no access to. He gave her small sums of money to pay for things like bus fares when she had to take one of the kids to the clinic, but he made her account for every penny. And whenever she fell short of the perfection he demanded, he made sure she understood the magnitude of her failure. He instructed her in ways she would never forget; it encouraged her not to repeat her errors. And it was effective.
Until it wasn’t. He didn’t know how or why, but she started to stand up to him. In small, almost imperceptible ways at first. But then she’d outright contradict him when he was commenting on the TV news or something in the Daily Mail. He confronted her with her betrayal of their love, but even though he punished her, she persisted. He reached the point where he knew he would have to put a stop to her behaviour once and for all.
That was when she paid him the ultimate insult. She deprived him of what was his right.
And now he had to replace her. And if those replacements didn’t come up to scratch, then he’d have to make sure they didn’t dodge what she should have had.
39
By the time Paula made it to Skenfrith Street, Fielding was in the middle of briefing the squad on Bev’s murder. Paula expected a bollocking for being gone so long, but when they eventually convened in her boss’s office, Fielding simply asked whether Torin had remembered anything useful.
‘I don’t think there’s anything useful to be remembered,’ Paula said. ‘There’s no reason to believe the killer knew Bev ahead of the abduction.’
‘You think it’s random? He chooses women who look similar, who both work in the pharmaceutical business, both in car parks? You don’t think he’s maybe been planning this a while? Maybe stalking them?’ There was a sarcastic edge in Fielding’s voice that pissed Paula off. She wondered whether that was intentional, designed to spur her on to greater efforts.
‘Even if that’s the case, everything we know about this killer is that he’s careful. I can’t see him behaving in a way that would catch the attention of your typical self-absorbed teenager.’
‘Don’t assume, McIntyre. It makes an ass out of you and me.’
Paula couldn’t believe Fielding had actually uttered such a dismal cliché. ‘I’ll talk to him again. See if he noticed anybody hanging around.’
Fielding
nodded her approval. ‘Any strange cars parked near the house. We’ve got a line in to the boy through you. We might as well make the most of it.’ She moved papers across her desk then looked up. ‘What about the lab? What did Dr Myers have to say for himself?’
‘He wanted to run more tests. I dropped off the evidence bags from this morning’s crime scene and he’s got a team working on them as a priority.’ Well, it was almost true. She was getting good at finding a path between truth and lies with her new boss.
Fielding reached for her phone. ‘I’m going to call him, remind him the DNA is our number one priority. Because we don’t want to lose sight of Nadia Wilkowa in all this. I need you to review her appointment diary and see if she had any connections at Bradfield Cross. I know most of her contacts were GPs, but anything that links her to Bev McAndrew’s workplace gives us a link. And look at her Facebook page too, see if she’s got any friends listed who work there.’
Paula was on her way out of the door when Fielding spoke again. ‘Torin. What kind of name is that? It’s not Polish, is it?’
‘It’s Scottish, I think. Bev’s dad was from Scotland.’
‘Oh. OK. Just thought I’d check there’s not a Polish connection we’re missing. Wood, trees, that kind of thing.’
Paula went to her desk and started working through Nadia’s data. She’d barely begun when her phone beeped. The text was from Dave and read simply, Summoned by AF. Sorry…
No point in feeling too glum, Paula thought. The DNA analysis would have to come out eventually. She’d been hoping she could figure out an explanation before it did. As if it was ever going to be that straightforward.
Twenty minutes later, Dave Myers walked in. He sketched a wave in Paula’s direction but headed straight for Fielding’s office. Under cover of checking Nadia’s records, Paula kept a discreet eye on their meeting. The DCI’s face gave nothing away at first. Then slowly, she moved back in her seat, shock and incredulity chasing each other across her face. And then a slight flush on her cheeks. Her lips parted and the tip of her tongue moved quickly from one side to the other. Fuck, she’s actually loving this.
Now Fielding was leaning over the desk, clearly making Dave go through all the data, point by point. Finally, she stood up and opened her door, patting Dave on the shoulder as she passed. ‘McIntyre,’ she called. ‘My office, now.’
Feeling numb, Paula did as she was bid. Fielding pointed to the chair next to Dave. ‘Dr Myers has brought us some extraordinary evidence. Doctor, can you tell Sergeant McIntyre what you told me?’
She had to sit and listen to it all again. But she didn’t have to feign her astonishment. Hearing it a second time didn’t make it any more credible. ‘And there’s no doubt about any of this?’ she asked when he’d finished.
‘No. We double-checked. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’d stake my reputation on the accuracy of these results. The DNA from the bloodstain on Nadia Wilkowa’s jacket belongs to the child of Vanessa Hill.’
‘Dr Tony Hill.’ Fielding stood up. ‘Thanks for coming in with this, Dr Myers. And now that we’ve got a viable suspect, you know what we’re looking for from the Bev McAndrew evidence, right?’
Dave looked outraged. ‘You’ll get what’s there. Nothing more, nothing less.’
‘That’s all I want. But where there’s room for doubt, I expect your team to drop on the right side of the fence, Dr Myers. In times of financial constraints, we have to be sure we’re getting the best value in our forensic services, after all.’
Dave looked murderous as he gathered his papers together. ‘I’ll email you a full report.’ He gave Paula a pained look as he turned for the door.
Paula waited till she heard the snick of the catch close behind him. ‘There’s got to be a mistake,’ she said. ‘Nobody who knows Tony could imagine for a moment he could kill. And certainly not like this.’
‘Are you sure about that? Don’t they say the best profilers are the other side of the coin from the people they hunt?’
‘Only people who like to come up with lazy sound bites.’ Angry now, Paula didn’t much care whether she pissed off her boss. Getting her to see sense about Tony was more important. ‘Tony Hill has dedicated his working life to preventing this kind of crime. He’s about redemption and rehabilitation, not killing women.’
‘McIntyre, sit down.’ Fielding’s voice was firm but not hostile. Paula hadn’t even realised she was standing. ‘Put your personal feelings to one side and look at the evidence. His blood is on Nadia Wilkowa’s jacket. He limps with his left leg. He knows how to leave a body forensically clean. And the victims, Sergeant. The victims. They both look like DCI Jordan. Who, if I’m not mistaken, has shaken the dust of Tony Hill from her shoes along with the rest of us.’
What Fielding said only made sense if you looked at the world reflected in a distorting mirror. But Paula could see how seductive that picture would be to senior officers keen for a quick arrest that the media would love. The wolf in sheep’s clothing, the gamekeeper turned poacher, the healer undone by his love for the woman who’d abandoned him. ‘And what if someone’s framing him somehow? What then? I don’t believe it.’
Fielding rested her elbows on the desk and her chin on her fists. She appeared to be on the verge of asking a purely philosophical question. ‘I’d expected more from you than grasping at straws. But you’re entitled to that view, McIntyre, paranoid though it might seem to some. The question is, can you put it to one side and do your job?’
Paula felt the hot flush of annoyance burn her cheeks. ‘It’s my job to bring the guilty to account. I’ve never let personal feelings stand in the way of that.’
‘You see, Sergeant, this is where you have to nail your colours to the mast. Can you concede that Dr Hill might be guilty? Can you commit to pursuing this investigation without your friendship getting in the way? Can you arrest and interrogate this man? If you can’t say yes to those questions, say yes and mean it, there’s no place for you on this case. There’s plenty of other crimes need a talented investigator. Plenty of other SIOs who could use a smart sergeant. But I can’t use somebody who’s a secret squirrel for the other side.’
Even through her suppressed fury, Paula found a moment to wonder where this woman got her vocabulary from. Secret squirrel? What was that about? ‘I’ll do what’s necessary,’ she said, her voice thick with anger. ‘I’ll go where the evidence takes me. I’m not afraid of the truth.’
Fielding gave her a long hard look, head cocked to one side, considering. ‘I think I believe you, McIntyre.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I want to do this quietly. No big media ruckus. Presumably you have Dr Hill’s phone number?’ Paula nodded. ‘What would bring him in here?’
‘A request for help.’
‘Perfect. There’s no way that can be construed as entrapment. Text him now. Tell him you need his help, ask him to come here.’
Paula stared at her phone screen for a long moment then typed in, Need your help. Can you stop by Skenfrith Street later? She showed the screen to Fielding, who nodded. Paula sent the text. This is how Judas felt. She stood up. ‘I’ll get to work on Nadia’s diary. I’ll let you know as soon as he gets back to me.’
She sat at the computer, the screen blurred and meaningless. Her stomach churned and her hands felt cold and clammy. She felt disloyal and disgusted, but the treachery she’d chosen at least had the virtue of keeping her on the front line. From this position, she was best placed to help her friend. Maybe even to save him. She only hoped he’d see it like that.
40
Rachel McAndrew bore little resemblance to her sister. The dark business suit over a kingfisher-blue polo-neck jumper that she’d chosen to travel in was formal, in opposition to Bev’s more casual outfits. Where Bev was blonde and smiling, Rachel was brunette and reserved. Elinor didn’t want to rush to judgement – the woman had just lost her sister, after all – but she sensed in Rachel a more complicated and closed-off personality. Torin had insisted on meeting his
aunt at the station and breaking the news himself. Elinor hadn’t tried hard to dissuade him. She reckoned he had the right to make some decisions. She’d be there to support him, and his aunt if need be.
Rachel had leaked tears at the news, but she’d composed herself quickly. ‘I feared as much,’ she said, her Northern accent still noticeable after years in Bristol. ‘I lay awake last night, trying not to give in, but I couldn’t convince myself. She wouldn’t walk away from her responsibilities, not our Bev.’ She’d tucked her arm proprietorially through Torin’s. ‘Come on then, Torin, let’s get back to yours and see what needs to be settled.’
Torin stood still, a stubborn cast to his jaw. ‘I don’t want to go home,’ he said. ‘Not yet. I’d rather be at Elinor’s.’
‘Torin, Dr Blessing’s done enough. I’m here now, I can take you off her hands.’ Rachel tried to draw him along with her, but he refused to move.
‘You’re both very welcome to come home with me,’ Elinor said.
‘That’s what I want,’ Torin said, stepping towards Elinor.
The atmosphere on the drive was awkward. Torin crouched in the back seat in silence while Rachel alternated between dripping tears into a tissue and turning to tell him how dreadful he must be feeling. Elinor had seldom felt more uncomfortable.
She left them in the living room while she made tea and opened a fresh packet of biscuits. It was the last one in the cupboard. Grief had done nothing to diminish Torin’s adolescent appetite. Either that or he’d taken to comfort eating like a terrier to rabbits. She carried a tray through and found them sitting on opposite sides of the room.
Rachel dived in straight away. ‘When can I see her?’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Elinor said, aware of how little detail they’d given Torin.
‘Someone has to identify her, surely?’
‘You need to talk to my partner, Paula, about the details.’