by Val McDermid
In the classroom, Lorna subsided into her chair, settling her comfortable bulk with a sigh. ‘I swear every year here puts five years on me,’ she grumbled genially.
‘You should try my job.’ Paula perched on one of the desks. ‘Though mind you, I’d rather have mine than yours or Elinor’s.’
‘Indeed. So, Paula, what’s going on with Torin? I presume that’s why you’re here and not out of some professional concern?’
‘I was hoping you could answer that question,’ Paula said.
‘How are things at home?’
‘He’s been… different the last two or three weeks. Very quiet. Hard to communicate with, which isn’t like him. It’s not like he was after his mother died. There’s something quite —’ Paula paused for a moment. ‘Edgy, almost. Stressed. Have you noticed any change in his behaviour?’
Lorna nodded. ‘Like you, I find it hard to put my finger on what it is. Something is clearly bothering him. It’s as if there’s something he keeps glimpsing out of the corner of his eye that he doesn’t want to look at, if that makes any sense?’
Oddly enough, Paula thought it captured exactly how Torin had been. ‘We wondered if he was being bullied?’
Lorna sighed. ‘It’s the obvious assumption, I’ll grant you that. But I really don’t think it’s bullying. He’s not isolated. He has a group of friends who seem to be quite protective of him. And he’s not doing that thing bullied children do, where they want to stay around the grown-ups at break and lunchtime.’
‘What about cyber-bullying? Could that be happening?’
‘It’s always a possibility, but again, I think his behaviour would be different. We’ve talked a lot to the students about cyber-bullying and trolling. We have a zero-tolerance policy, and there is evidence that it works.’
‘What kind of evidence?’ Paula wasn’t about to let a statement like that go past her without having it backed up.
‘We’ve had several instances where trolling and bullying have been reported to us. Either by the student themselves or by someone from their peer group.’ Lorna gave Paula a reassuring smile. ‘We do encourage them to protect each other as well as themselves.’
Paula shook her head. ‘That doesn’t mean it works every time. If it’s happening outside school —’
‘I believe it would show up on their social media and their friends would pick it up. If Torin was a loner, a boy without friends, I’d say it might slip past. But that’s not who he is, Paula.’
‘So if it’s not bullying, what is it?’
Lorna frowned. ‘I don’t know. It’s true that his work is suffering. It’s as if he can’t focus. As if something’s distracting him.’
‘Something that’s worrying him to the point where he can’t concentrate?’
‘Yes, that’s how I’d characterise it.’
Paula hesitated for a moment then went for it. ‘Has he got a girlfriend? Might that be what’s going on here?’
A swift bright smile lit up Lorna’s face. ‘I don’t think so, no. He’s not, forgive me, as sexually and emotionally precocious as some of them. He does hang out with a mixed group, boys and girls. But I don’t see any evidence of him pairing off with anyone.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘We can usually tell.’
‘But what if it was someone he didn’t want to acknowledge for some reason? What if they had to keep it hidden and that’s what’s stressing him?’
Lorna shifted in her chair, her expression troubled. ‘I suppose that might produce the effects we’ve both noticed. But I know the girls in that group and I can’t imagine why he would be secretive about any of them.’
‘What if it’s not one of them? What if the secrecy’s not about him but about her? Maybe she’s somebody else’s girlfriend? Maybe her family wouldn’t like her seeing someone like him?’
‘Maybe she’s pregnant,’ Lorna said. ‘I think that would trump either of your scenarios.’
Paula couldn’t keep the look of horror from her face. ‘I hadn’t even thought of that.’ She swallowed hard. It made a terrible kind of sense. ‘You don’t think…?’
‘I’m not trying to panic you, Paula. As I said, I don’t think he’s got a girlfriend, so my suggestion was purely academic. But the way he’s acting would be what I’d expect if it was something of that order troubling him.’
‘There’s no evidence of a girlfriend.’ Paula spoke slowly, thinking aloud. ‘No sudden attention to grooming or fashion. And he hardly ever goes out, even at weekends. But what else would have the same emotional impact as getting a girlfriend pregnant?’
Lorna shrugged. ‘I can’t help you there. But we need to work out what’s troubling him. I don’t want him blowing his GCSEs and his future chances over it.’
‘Do you think it’s drugs?’ It was the obvious question. It was also obvious that Lorna wasn’t going to introduce the subject. Schools were always reluctant to acknowledge the problem to parents. Never mind to a parent who was a police officer.
‘I’d be surprised.’
‘What? This is the only school in Bradfield that doesn’t have drug issues among its students?’
Lorna sighed. ‘Look, I won’t deny there’s a small but significant level of drug abuse among our students. But there’s a definite demarcation line between habitual users and the rest, and Torin doesn’t appear to have any social connections that would lead me to believe he’s using recreational drugs.’ Her expression twisted into a bitter smile. ‘I’ve seen enough kids in the classroom who are clearly under the influence of drugs or coming down after they’ve been high. I know the markers and the symptoms and I would have no hesitation in telling you if I thought Torin’s using. For his own sake, I’d tell you. But I don’t think he is. You’re going to have to look somewhere else for your answer, Paula.’
‘Well, I am supposed to be a detective,’ she said wearily, checking her watch. ‘And I need to be on my way. Thanks for your time, Lorna. And if anything does occur to you…’
‘I’ll be in touch.’
Frustrated at the lack of answers, Paula headed for her car and the morning briefing. Time to put Torin to one side and concentrate on a different set of frustrations.
23
H
e studied his reflection in the mirror, paying particular attention to his hair. The temporary dye had promised to wash out in two to three shampoos, and he was pleased to see the familiar threads of silver had reappeared at his temples. Attention to detail, that was what survival was all about. If he took care to protect himself, he’d evade capture and he could carry on with his plans for as long as it took to make him feel right with the world again.
If anyone had caught him on camera at the wedding in Leeds where he’d picked up Amie – and he thought he’d avoided that – they wouldn’t have a snap of the man called David who had swept Kathryn McCormick off her feet. They’d see Mark. Dark brown hair swept back from his forehead, round gold-rimmed glasses, the shadow of designer stubble along his jaw. It was amazing how little it took to look very different. The glasses seemed to change the shape of his face; the hairstyle and the stubble created a very different image from clean-cut David. If by some outrageous coincidence anyone had attended both wedding parties, he thought they’d have struggled to make the connection.
Because the hair dye washed out so effectively, he didn’t have to worry that anyone he was in regular contact with would see these shifts in appearance. Colleagues he could confidently bluff. If a journalist or one of the advertising and marketing team commented on the stubble, he’d laugh it off as a new look he was trying out. And in a couple of weeks, he’d let the stubble grow out into a goatee for the next round of shape-shifting.
He was almost beginning to revel in the challenge. He needed the buzz he got from playing these women, practising for the real thing. When he managed to track down Tricia and make her pay, he’d know exactly what he was doing. There would be no mis-steps, no clues left behind.
Tracking her down, that was hi
s other priority. She’d done a good job of disappearing. Her phone was dead, her email address defunct, her social media accounts closed down. The lawyer who had contacted him on her behalf wouldn’t even say whether she was still in the country. And the bank wouldn’t tell him where she’d last drawn out money on the joint business account. He’d asked around all their friends but either they didn’t know or they weren’t prepared to tell him. He was sure he’d find her, given time. But she’d set him a challenge.
Which was not something he could call Amie. She’d been eager from the moment he’d spoken to her in the crowded, noisy ballroom. Whisking her away to a quiet corner had been a bit harder; she was a good few years younger than Kathryn, and unlike her, Amie was a woman who enjoyed the dance floor, with all its opportunities to show herself off. But he’d played the quiet guy, the one who wanted to get to know the real Amie. And the line about how she reminded him of his poor dead wife had been the sucker bait that drew her away from the hubbub and into his conversational web. She was all over the idea of a date, though she’d clearly been leaning more towards clubbing than chatting. But still, she’d been willing to let him lead the dance for now.
He’d spent half an hour on the internet, checking out the Indian restaurants in Leeds before he’d settled on one on the edge of the city centre that had plenty of positive reviews for the food but also, if the photos on the website were to be believed, a modern ambience a million miles away from paper tablecloths and cheap red napkins that disintegrated at the first sign of liquid.
His research paid off. Amie had never been there, but she knew people who swore by it. And the reviews had got it spot on. The food was South Indian, subtle and delicious in its flavours. The paper dosa had been a little greasy; he hated that slick of oil that fried food left on the fingers. But apart from that, it had been a success. A few glasses of wine and Amie had become more garrulous, telling him how she kept looking for someone to share her life with but none of the men she’d been involved with had been willing to put in the effort that a partnership demanded.
It hadn’t been too hard to indicate that he was different from them. The odd word here and there, the occasional remark that made him look like a good catch. A considerate nod, a conspiratorial smile; that was all it took.
She’d been completely on the hook by the end of the meal. So much so that she’d invited him back to her place. There was no doubting what was on offer, and he had to admit, he’d been tempted. She wasn’t bad looking and it had been weeks since he’d fucked anyone. It was only after he’d been left high and dry that he’d realised how much the sex meant to him. Plenty of it, and plenty of variety. They’d been great in bed together, him and Tricia. And not just in bed…
But he knew he’d be crazy to respond to Amie’s come-on. He couldn’t go to her place and fuck her without leaving a forensic trail a mile wide. And then when she turned up dead, his DNA would be in the mix. OK, he’d never done anything to earn a place on the national DNA database so it wouldn’t lead the police to his door. Better safe than sorry, though. If he ever crossed swords with the law, he didn’t want to risk Amie McDonald showing up like a big flashing light in his past.
So he’d fallen back on the dead-wife scenario again. ‘I’m very touched,’ he’d said when she suggested going back to hers for a nightcap. ‘And I really like you, Amie. I want to see you again. And I want to get to know you properly. You see, I haven’t slept with anyone since Tricia died —’ He let his voice catch as if in grief. Really, it was more like delight, killing off his ex with his words the way he couldn’t chance doing in reality. ‘So I want it to matter. To both of us.’
She’d looked taken aback. As if she wasn’t used to men saying no to the chance of bedding her. Then she’d laughed softly. ‘You’re a very unusual man, Mark,’ she’d said.
‘That’s nice of you to say so,’ he said. You have no idea. ‘So, what are you doing on Friday?’
So they’d arranged to meet for another dinner. This time, he offered to drive out to a country pub where they could relax over a good dinner. Somewhere he could readily pay in cash, as he’d done in the Indian restaurant. Another way to avoid forensic traces.
He was the invisible man. He chose his targets, he struck and he disappeared back into his unblemished life.
Nothing could touch him now.
24
I
t was soon clear that the morning briefing was to be a report of the absence of evidence rather than its presence. One by one, the ReMIT team reported the scant results of their inquiries. Finally, all eyes turned to Stacey, sitting demurely at the far end of the table, immaculate in a teal blue suit and a shimmering navy silk shirt. Carol gave her a tired smile. ‘So, Stacey, we’re all counting on you.’
Stacey smoothed her already perfect hair and nodded. ‘I have something, but not much, I’m afraid. And what I have is pushing the technology to its limits.’ She took a clicker from her pocket and activated the white screen mounted on the wall behind her. Half-turning in her chair, she brought up the shot that featured the man Anya had identified as being the one she’d seen with Kathryn. ‘This is the raw phone-camera footage. Not very clear, as you can see. When we enhance it and use the predictive pixel software, we get this.’
The screen dissolved to reveal an isolated image of the man’s quarter-profile. It was sharper and clearer than the original but still not a shot they could credibly use to identify someone. ‘So, what I used next was facial recognition software. Like I said to Alvin, I’ve tweaked the original to make it more powerful. I ran all the pics we have from the wedding through it.’ Another dissolve and three photos appeared side by side. None of them was full-face and all of them had been blown up from figures in the background.
‘He did a bloody good job of staying out of sight,’ Alvin muttered. ‘These days, everybody’s a photographer, especially at big occasions like weddings.’
‘Was that deliberate, do we think? Or just that he wasn’t in the room for very long?’ Carol asked.
‘Both, I suspect,’ Tony said. ‘We already know he’s a careful planner. There’s no reason to believe he’d throw caution to the wind before he’s even acquired his victim. I think we have to assume everything is calculated in this approach.’
Stacey nodded. ‘But even the most tech-savvy person probably doesn’t realise how far the technology has come. Even with scant resources like this, the latest algorithms can predict a full-face image of our man.’ This time, a single image appeared. It had the slightly unreal look that CGI often produced, but it looked recognisably like a person.
‘That’s amazing,’ Paula said. ‘So I guess we can show this to the wedding guests who remember seeing Kathryn with him to see whether it’s a decent likeness.’
‘That makes sense. Alvin, you’ve already established a relationship with these women. Go back and show them this image. Stacey, make up a six-pack for Alvin so nobody can accuse us of skewing the ID towards a suspect further down the line.’
‘I’m on it,’ Stacey said, getting up from the table and heading back to her den. Alvin shook his head ruefully and followed her a moment later.
‘It’s a good lead,’ Kevin pointed out.
Tony, who had been staring intently at the image since Stacey had first summoned it, chewed the end of his pen. ‘It’s suggestive,’ he acknowledged.
‘It’s more than suggestive,’ Carol said. ‘It’s got the potential to be a key breakthrough.’
‘You think?’ Tony dropped his pen to the table with a clatter.
‘Don’t you?’ Carol looked puzzled.
‘That thing I know you do when you meet someone new, Carol? That thing where you automatically catalogue how you would describe them to the rest of us,’ Tony said. ‘So how would you describe this man?’
Carol considered, tilting her head to one side. ‘Mid-thirties. Brown hair going grey above his ears, side parting, floppy fringe. Eye colour probably blue. Though it’s hard to tell. Rect
angular black framed glasses, very much on trend. Thick eyebrows, large nose.’
‘And which one of those characteristics is fixed? Which of them couldn’t you change quite readily?
The others looked at each other, troubled. ‘He’s right,’ Paula said. ‘They could all be altered without too much trouble.’
‘His nose?’ Karim wasn’t convinced.
‘Remember Nicole Kidman’s nose in The Hours?’ Paula said.
Karim scoffed. ‘I think I was ten when that came out, skip. Twelve, maybe, at the outside.’
Paula rolled her eyes. ‘She had this false nose that you couldn’t spot, even in close-up. It completely changed the way she looked. When they showed it to preview audiences, people didn’t even realise it was Kidman.’
‘That’s movies. They can make anybody look any way they want,’ Karim protested.
‘The fake nose Kidman had was so realistic she wore it out in public to avoid recognition,’ Paula retorted. ‘It fooled people in the street, it fooled the paparazzi.’
‘How do you know this stuff?’ Kevin chuckled.
Tony held up a hand. ‘The nose might be the real thing. Having a prosthetic nose made might be a step too far for our man. But apart from that, all we have are a collection of features that could be altered without much trouble.’
‘You’re saying this photo is a waste of time.’ Carol sounded grim.
‘I’m saying we’d be making a mistake to rely on it.’ Tony looked around at the glum faces and gave a hesitant smile. ‘You know I’m right.’ The look they shared told him they agreed, much as they hated to admit it.
‘Still,’ Carol said. ‘A nose is better than nothing. Let’s see what we can sniff out, eh?’