by Val McDermid
She’d taken everything from him and he wanted to kill her. But he wasn’t stupid. Even if he managed to track her down now, if she died he’d be the obvious prime suspect. Mr Wrong, dumped in love and in business. But if someone else died in her place, who would be any the wiser?
All he’d wanted was to take his pain away. To burst the boil of his rage and frustration. When Kathryn had passed out thanks to the GHB he’d slipped into her champagne and he’d known it was game on – he’d relished that moment of mastery over her. She lay sprawled on the sofa, snoring softly, barely stirring when he straddled her. Then he had his hands round Kathyrn’s soft warm throat, squeezing the life out of her, imagining it was Tricia. It had been surprisingly glorious. The first time since the bitch had left that he’d felt comfortable in his own skin. That feeling of being in charge of his life again flooded back as Kathryn’s face grew purple and her tongue poked out between her ugly blue lips. The more she lost, the more he gained.
Within twenty-four hours of killing Kathryn, he knew he’d found something that would divert him till he could figure out how to take his proper revenge.
Which was why he would be spending Saturday at another stranger’s wedding.
9
T
ony squared his shoulders, still trying to adjust to the down jacket Carol had talked him into. ‘It’s warm, it’s waterproof and it’s in the sale,’ she’d insisted.
‘It’s purple. I look like a blackcurrant on legs.’
‘You look good in purple. I know it’s a radical experiment for you to wear anything that isn’t a shade of grey or blue, but you need to live a little.’ She’d scooped up the jacket and headed for the till, waiting impatiently for him to catch up and produce a credit card.
It was all right for her, he thought. Carol had the knack of choosing clothes that suited her. Even though the shape of her body had changed as a result of the hard physical work the barn restoration had demanded, she still managed to find jackets that flattered her new broad shoulders, and trousers that emphasised the length rather than the musculature of her legs. And she seemed to do it effortlessly, without spending days trawling shopping malls. He had no idea how that worked.
He’d spent the rest of the drive to Ripon squirming and fiddling with the various zips and poppers, working out the best pockets for keys and wallet and phone. It was a relief to both of them when they came upon the lay-by.
They hadn’t needed the detailed directions from the North Yorkshire team. The police tape fluttering in the late morning air was more or less redundant; the tarmac scorched black and the hedgerow burned brittle told their own story. When Carol cut the engine, Flash whimpered with delight, sensing the possibility of a walk. ‘Stay,’ Carol said briskly, opening the door. The dog subsided with a sigh.
As soon as they stepped out of the car, the lingering chemical smell left by the fire and its extinguishing hit them. Even three days later, it still teased the nostrils and caught at the throat. ‘Looks like it was pretty intense,’ Carol said. She stood, hands on hips, breathing deeply, as if the air might tell her something.
Tony walked the length of the lay-by, pausing every few steps to look around. He carried on walking down the lane. ‘Why here?’ he muttered under his breath. ‘What’s special about this place?’ This crime felt planned and prepped. What little they knew about it suggested a killer who had worked out how to cover his tracks. The use of the victim’s car. The intensity of the fire inside the car that had burned the forensic traces. The victim sitting in the driver’s seat – was that a bid to push lazy investigators towards suicide or accident? It certainly looked that way. Tony called back down the lane to Carol, who was still prowling round the lay-by. ‘Are there cameras on this road?’
‘No. If you know what you’re doing, you can criss-cross the Dales on lanes and back roads without being picked up by ANPR or speed cameras.’
‘And you knew what you were doing, didn’t you?’ Tony said under his breath. He walked as far as a farm gate. It led to a field full of sheep. He opened the gate and slipped inside, careful to close it behind himself. He took a zigzag path across the field, sheep scattering before him. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, just that he was looking.
But there was nothing remarkable. A drystone wall marked the far side of the field. On the other side, another field. In the distance he could see a footpath fingerpost but that wasn’t anything to get excited about around here. The national pastime of dressing in sophisticated technical gear and wandering round the countryside meant that every National Park was criss-crossed with paths. From the air they must look like elaborately patterned knitwear, he thought. Not that he was opposed to walking. He did it all the time. It helped him think. And now he had a purple padded jacket, he’d fit right in with the other ramblers.
Tony turned full circle. There was no human habitation in sight. He could make out a dilapidated stone sheepfold in the distance, and a couple of well-established copses broke up the grey and green of walls and fields. But there was nothing here that spoke to him. He headed back, making sure his route took him past the other side of the lay-by hedge. The heat had penetrated all the way through, leaving the twigs charred and brittle. Just as well there had been plenty of rain recently or the whole thing might have gone up.
He found Carol leaning against the bonnet of the car. ‘Anything strike you?’
He shook his head. ‘No. But there must be something. If you’re right, there are plenty of places in this area where he could have done it without much chance of being caught in the act. So why here? Why this lay-by in particular?’
Carol pulled a wry face. ‘More questions than answers. As usual at this stage.’
‘At least we’ve got questions.’ He rolled his shoulders again. ‘And a purple anorak.’
10
A
s far as DS Alvin Ambrose could work out, there was no clue in the name to suggest what RSR Solutions did. He had to Google the company that Kathryn McCormick had listed on her dental records as her employer. Its website revealed it was a recruitment agency with premises a few streets away from ReMIT’s office in the Skenfrith Street police station.
RSR Solutions was one of a dozen companies in a new smoked glass and polished concrete building in the Woollen Quarter, the area of the city where once merchants had traded wool and fine worsted cloth. Most of the old buildings had decayed to sagging shells in the eighties, but over the past half-dozen years, speculators had been buying up the sites, demolishing the old and jacking up shiny new replacements so they could pretend it was the entrepreneurial heart of twenty-first-century Bradfield. Even a newcomer like Alvin could see that was at best disingenuous; at worst, plain dishonest. To Let signs sprouted like weeds in every other set of ground-floor windows.
There was no security in the foyer of RSR’s building so he walked unchallenged to the lifts. RSR was on the sixth floor and they at least had a receptionist who sat under the company slogan: ‘Square peg or round peg, we’ve got the right hole.’ It didn’t inspire confidence in Alvin. But he mustered his best smile for the pretty young woman behind the desk. He was good at smiles; he’d learned the necessity of defusing the impact of his substantial bulk and the colour of his skin. Big black men had to confound expectations depressingly often. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Alvin Ambrose,’ he said, producing his ID.
She looked startled but studied it closely. Her smile was tentative. ‘How can we help you?’
‘It’s to do with Kathryn McCormick. I need to speak to her manager.’
‘Kathryn? She’s not in today.’ She was already tapping her computer keys.
‘I know. But it’s her manager I need.’
She had the phone in her hand, manicured nails poised above the keypad. ‘Can I ask what it’s in connection with?’
Alvin shook his head. ‘You can ask but I can’t tell you. Sorry.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Very mysterious.’ But she made the call. ‘Laur
en, I’ve got a police officer here at the front desk who needs to speak to Kathryn’s manager. Would that be your responsibility?’ Pause. ‘OK, I’ll tell him.’ She replaced the phone and folded her arms across her body, hugging herself. ‘So, Lauren from HR’s coming down. Kathryn’s the office manager, so she doesn’t really have a direct supervisor.’
‘Thanks for using your initiative,’ Alvin said. There were no chairs in the reception area so he took a stroll round the perimeter, pretending an interest that he didn’t feel in the corporate photographs. A couple of minutes drifted by then a squat woman with the biggest hair he’d seen for years emerged from a door behind the reception desk. She advanced with her hand out.
‘I’m Lauren Da Costa, I’m in charge of HR here at Right Shape Recruitment Solutions. And you are?’
Alvin introduced himself again. ‘Can we go somewhere a bit more private?’
‘This is about Kathryn, right? You know she’s not in work today?’
‘Like I said, can we go somewhere more private?’
Lauren Da Costa’s expression could have served as a template for shocked incredulity. For a long moment, she was beyond speech. At last she spoke, stumbling over her words. ‘Kathryn? Are you sure? She’s the last person… Suspicious death? That makes no sense.’
‘There’s no room for doubt,’ Alvin said, his voice a gentle rumble. It always settled his children to sleep and it had a similar soothing effect on witnesses. ‘I’m very sorry. And I know the last thing you feel like is answering questions, but I’m afraid we need to find out all we can about Kathryn.’
Lauren gave a shaky nod. ‘Of course. But I really can’t help you beyond the factual stuff – where she lived, the CV she brought us when she came here. We weren’t close at all. I never saw her outside work. She was a good manager but she wasn’t the most sociable of people.’ She seemed to be recovering, physically gathering herself together, straightening in her chair and starting to reveal her interpersonal skills. ‘The person you need to speak to is Suzanne Briggs – sorry, Harman. Our office newly-wed. Today’s her first day back from her honeymoon. I know Kathryn was at her wedding, they’ve always got on well.’
‘That sounds about right. Can I see her?’
Lauren stood up. ‘I’ll fetch her. Do you want me to break the news to her, or…?’
‘No, please,’ Alvin said quickly. He didn’t relish telling Suzanne her friend was dead, but it was always worthwhile to see the reactions of a witness when they heard bad news for the first time.
Lauren was gone for almost five minutes. She brought with her a young woman with the kind of identikit looks that would have made Alvin struggle to pick her out of a line-up. Slim, with long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, make-up that blanded out difference, perfectly manicured nails. Her clothes were formulaic too – narrow-legged black trousers, a magenta top that clung in the right places and a couple of others that Suzanne would have been less happy about had she realised. And of course, heels that made her awkward gait verge on the ugly. Alvin loved women but he didn’t love this look.
Lauren made the introductions then backed out, murmuring something about being in her office if… Suzanne’s expression hadn’t changed from puzzlement since she’d entered, and now she said, ‘I don’t understand. Why am I here? I thought at first something had happened to Ed. My husband, Ed.’ A momentary flash of something like triumph. ‘But Lauren said no, it wasn’t Ed. So what’s going on?’
‘You’re a friend of Kathryn McCormick?’
Suzanne’s frown deepened. ‘I suppose. I mean, she was at my wedding but we’re not what you’d call close.’
‘Lauren seemed to think she’s closer to you than anyone else at work.’
Suzanne twisted her hands in her lap, fiddling with her wedding and engagement rings. ‘She isn’t really best friends with anybody. With her being office manager, she sort of has to keep her distance a bit. But yeah, we get along fine, Kathryn’s OK. Why? What’s happened?’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Kathryn is dead.’
Suzanne’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open. She was clearly shocked but there was a gleam of excitement in her eyes too. ‘No! What happened?’
‘Her body was found in a burned-out car three days ago. We believe her death may be suspicious.’
‘Oh my God. We were still on our honeymoon. You mean, while we were lying on the beach and drinking cocktails, Kathryn was being murdered? That’s terrible!’
‘I’m very sorry. But what we need to do now is build up a picture of Kathryn’s life. Who her friends were, what she did in her spare time, whether she was seeing anyone. Whether she’d fallen out with anyone.’
‘God.’ Suzanne crossed her legs and rubbed her left arm as if it had grown suddenly cold. ‘She never fell out with anyone. She was a great boss. She had the knack of sorting things out without upsetting people, you know?’ Alvin didn’t. He’d been a copper all his working life. Compromise and conciliation wasn’t really how working relationships operated in his world.
Suzanne continued. ‘She hadn’t had a boyfriend since Niall moved to Cardiff without her. Niall, her ex. That must be three years ago now. We were always trying to persuade her to come out with us in a gang so she could meet someone, but she wasn’t much of a party animal. I don’t know what she did in her spare time but she always joined in when we were talking about TV programmes. So I guess she watched a lot of TV.’ She gave a thin smile, as if she was well aware how scant was her knowledge of a woman she’d invited to her wedding.
‘Was she on her own at the wedding?’ Alvin felt the weight of depression in his shoulders. Was there really so little to know about the short life of Kathryn McCormick?
‘Well, she didn’t bring anyone, if that’s what you mean. But I don’t know if she met anyone on the day. I mean, it was my wedding. I wasn’t paying much attention to anyone except Ed. My husband.’
Alvin thought she’d better be careful not to wear those words out. ‘So you weren’t in touch at all while you were on your honeymoon? You didn’t check out social media?’
‘Well, obvs,’ she said, her eyebrows rising in a narrow arch. ‘I wanted to see all the pics people had posted on Facebook and all the lovely congratulations. Kathryn posted a couple of pictures. I think I “liked” them, but I didn’t exchange any messages with her.’
He’d get Stacey to check Kathryn’s Facebook account but he wasn’t holding his breath. It looked like he’d hit a dead end. He stood up, nothing left to ask. ‘Thanks for your help.’ He fished a card out of his inside pocket. ‘If you think of anything at all that might give us some insight, call me on this number. Maybe you could ask around, see if any of your other guests remember Kathryn talking about anyone she met or spoke to on the day? I’d appreciate it.’
She looked eager. ‘I’ll get on to it right away. People are going to be really sorry. God knows who we’ll get running things now Kathryn’s gone.’
Not much of an obituary, Alvin thought as he waited for the lift. Killing Kathryn didn’t seem to have made much of an impact on those around her. So far, he’d not seen anything approaching a tear. As far as he was concerned, that was all the more reason to find who had done this. It was part of the reason he’d become a cop in the first place: to defend people who didn’t have anybody else to do that for them. The world had failed Kathryn McCormick in life. It was up to the ReMIT team to make sure that didn’t happen in death too.
11
O
ddly, Kathryn McCormick’s kitchen probably revealed more about her than any other room in her flat. Judging by the battery of equipment that filled her cupboards and drawers and hung from wall hooks, she was a serious cook. A knife block held half a dozen razor-sharp Japanese knives that Paula couldn’t help envying. The food processor and blender on the counter were top of the range and a bookcase was crammed with cookbooks with cracked spines and dog-eared corners. The question of what Kathryn did with her spare time was an
swered here.
On the side of the fridge was a supermarket calendar, featuring a monthly recipe and a glossy photo of the result. But it wasn’t the pumpkin-and-sage lasagne that made Paula unhook it and lay it down on the worktop. If there was a clue to what had led Kathryn to her death, it might well be here.
Methodically she flicked back through the previous months and found little of interest. Hair appointments, a couple of work-related nights out. A weekend visiting Mum and Dad. A check-up with the dentist, a date with her GP and a couple of theatre trips to see musicals in nearby Manchester. No companion’s name on the calendar though there was room enough to accommodate one.
Finally, Paula checked the current page. Saving the best till last, she hoped. Just over two weeks ago, on the first Saturday of the month, Kathryn had written, ‘Suzanne & Ed’s wedding.’ Three days later, ‘David, Pizza Express, 7.30’. Paula drew her breath in through her teeth and stretched her lips in a grim smile. ‘David,’ she sighed softly, running her finger along the calendar dates. On the Saturday, a week after the wedding, David appeared again: ‘David, Manchester Palace Theatre, Funny Girl.’ And again the following Tuesday: ‘David, Tapas Brava, Bellwether Square, 8pm’.
The final entry for the current month started on Friday, with a line drawn through till Sunday: ‘David, Dales weekend’. And this time, there was a phone number scrawled underneath. Paula never liked to jump to conclusions but it was hard to escape the conviction that a man called David had connected with Kathryn at Suzanne and Ed’s wedding. And two weeks later, he’d murdered her. She gave an involuntary shiver.
She took her phone out but before she could call Stacey and present her with David’s phone number, Karim came in carrying a box of condoms. ‘This is the only thing out of place in the bathroom. She’s got matching Clinique everything except deodorant and toothpaste. Electric toothbrush with one head in the holder. One bath towel, one face towel on the rail. And then in the bathroom cabinet, these.’