Insidious Intent

by Val McDermid

  ‘A lifetime of looking through the wrong end of the telescope,’ he said. ‘You’ve met my mother.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘She was my training wheels. I’ve spent my whole adult life dealing with messy heads and now I can only see the world through that prism.’

  ‘That’ll be why we get on so well,’ Carol said ironically. ‘But right now, your theory is as good as anything else out there. We’ve barely begun and I can’t see how we move forward. I can’t believe we’re this stuck this early.’

  ‘That’s because this one’s very good. I’ll be honest, Carol. The best we can hope for is that one’s enough. Because if he gets a taste for it, we could really struggle here.’

  PART TWO

  27

  T

  he blazing car was a beacon in the velvet blackness. There at the heart of the Yorkshire Dales where light pollution was trivial, the flames were an assault on the eyes. Halfway between Snazesett and Burterbusk, a narrow twist of single-track road with passing places, there were no casual passers-by to see it, however. The nearest town of any size was Hawes, which formed the apex of a triangle with the two hamlets, five miles a side. The small local inferno registered only as a faint red glow along the ridge, which went unremarked by everyone except a woman from Leeds who thought it might be the Northern Lights.

  The fire had passed its zenith when Anselm Carter left his cowshed, having seen to the trouble-free delivery of a bull calf to one of his Highland cattle. All he was thinking of was a cold can of Guinness to take away the taste and smell of the past couple of hours, but he knew his landscape too well not to notice the flames down the hill on the road that bordered his best pasture. There were no beasts on that piece of land at the moment, but Anselm didn’t want his valuable grazing damaged by a wildfire.

  Sighing, he went inside the farmhouse, where his two teenage daughters were snuggled like puppies on the sagging kitchen sofa watching some American adolescent nonsense on the telly. ‘Tell your mam I’ve gone down the road, there’s a fire and I need to check it’s not threatening our land,’ he said, reaching for the Land Rover keys.

  One daughter looked over momentarily. ‘A fire?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘What’s to go on fire down there?’

  ‘Nowt that I can think of. Best take a look, though.’

  Her attention was already back on the screen and Anselm stepped out of the cosiness of home into the chilly dark. The fire was still going strong and it pulled him along the rutted farm track like a lodestar. By the time he reached the main road, he could see it was about half a mile on towards Snazesett. Nothing there but a passing place and a grit bin, he thought.

  But as soon as he turned onto the road, he could see the outline of a burning car, the interior an inferno of red and orange and yellow. His headlights illuminated gouts of greasy black smoke spiralling into the night sky.

  Anselm pulled up twenty metres away, turning on his hazard lights. Not that anybody was likely to be down here at this time of night on a Sunday. He jumped down and walked towards the car. As he approached, heat engulfed him. He’d had a sauna once, when he’d got his brother to look after the farm for a weekend and he’d taken Nell to a fancy hotel in Harrogate. He couldn’t see the point of it, getting all hot and bothered from choice. Nell had liked it, though. She’d seen a home version in IKEA once, pointed it out wistfully to him, but he thought it was a waste of money that could be better spent on a new bathroom with a proper shower.

  This wall of heat felt like that sauna, though it smelled nothing like the herby miasma in there. This smelled of burned plastic and grease, the sort of thing that would make you sick if you breathed in too much of it. Anselm couldn’t see anything inside the car, and although flames were licking out of the holes where the windows should have been, they soon vanished in the night. The council grit bin had melted into a shapeless yellow blob streaked with black, but apart from that, it all looked pretty localised. The odd spark was landing in his field but he didn’t think there was any prospect of one catching hold.

  He walked back to the Land Rover, pondering. He could call out the fire brigade and the police, but there didn’t seem much point. There was no danger to life, limb, livestock or land; nobody would thank him for being pulled out to the back of beyond on a Sunday evening over some joyriders setting fire to a stolen car, which was what this likely was.

  Anselm drove back up the track towards the smudge of light that was his home. Morning would be soon enough to talk to the local bobby.

  28

  T

  he mood in the ReMIT squad had descended into gloom. Kathryn McCormick had been their first major case and they were comprehensively stuck, their wheels spinning in a spray of mud. And everyone was acutely aware that their impasse was being scrutinised from all sides. John Brandon had taken to calling Carol every other day to discuss what leads her team were chasing. But even he, with all his years of experience, hadn’t been able to come up with any suggestions they hadn’t already done to death. Although he affected a casual air, she could tell he was feeling pressure from his political bosses at the Home Office. She wasn’t the only one whose reputation was on the line here.

  Apart from Brandon, who was technically retired and thus professionally immune, the command levels of all the six forces who had committed to the setting up of ReMIT had the most powerful vested interest in a successful outcome. But even there, the unit had its enemies. Senior officers whose fiefdoms had been inevitably diminished. Ambitious men and women whose clear promotion paths up the ranks had been made complicated. The mean-spirited whose faces were set against any bright moves towards change. Carol and her team felt the pressure of all those differing expectations from above.

  Then there were the detectives who’d been confident in the capabilities of their own CID departments, whose noses had been put out of joint not only by losing the most serious reputation-defining cases but also from not having been chosen to walk among the elite. Carol could imagine the glee in a dozen CID watering holes throughout the region as they pored over the lack of progress in what was one of the highest-profile cases in recent memory.

  And at the bottom of the pile, the foot soldiers. The uniformed lads and lasses who did the grunt work on every investigation. Nobody liked the endless door-knocking, searches of grim council estates or muddy woodland, PNC checks on the registered owner of every car that had gone through a particular set of traffic lights, the monitoring and guarding of crime scenes, or dealing with members of the public who were obstructive, grumpy and nosy by turns. It was annoying enough to have to do it for their own detectives, but when outsiders came in with their demands for even more tedious drudgery, it generated a burning desire among some for them to fail.

  Luckily, there were others who wanted to shine, to take the opportunity to impress someone outside a chain of command that had probably already made its mind up about them. But they would be equally fed up at the lack of success. No chance for them to make a splash if nothing was happening. No way out of their dead ends if ReMIT failed.

  Even their friends were anxious. Carol had grown to dread John Brandon’s name popping up on the screen of her phone. Every night when she’d gone home, the desire for a drink had all but overwhelmed her. Most nights Tony had been there to game with her or keep her company, which meant on a point of principle she couldn’t break her word and drink. But on the nights when he wasn’t there, when an early start or a late finish at Bradfield Moor meant it made sense to stay on his barge in town – those nights had been a titanic struggle that left her drained and depressed. The lack of progress in the case was dragging her to her knees.

  On the Monday morning three weeks after the discovery of Kathryn McCormick’s body, Carol had been confronted on her way to the ReMIT office by her old boss, James Blake, chief constable of Bradfield Metropolitan Police. Their relationship had been antagonistic from the first, and he could barely hide his glee when they came face to face in a corridor in Skenf
rith Street station. ‘Not going too well, is it, Carol?’ he’d drawled. He was flanked by a pair of uniformed superintendents who both looked as if they were barely suppressing a smirk.

  Her stomach tightened. ‘Early days, sir.’

  ‘Three weeks in and no viable suspect? Not what I’d call early days.’

  ‘Some cases are more difficult to crack than others. That’s why we were set up.’ She felt a muscle in her eyelid twitch and hoped he didn’t notice.

  ‘You were set up to solve the difficult cases, not flap around like headless chickens. From what I hear, you’re completely bogged down.’

  Carol forced a smile. ‘We’ll get there, sir.’

  Blake chuckled. ‘I admire your optimism. Shame it’s not matched by your team’s abilities.’ And he swept past, leaving her quivering with a mixture of rage and fear. She ducked into the nearest ladies’ toilet, rushed into a cubicle, slammed the lid down and collapsed on to it. Her hands were shaking, her stomach churning, her legs trembling. She wanted to scream, to whimper, to howl. She was doing her best, but her best just wasn’t enough. Not any more. She couldn’t sleep, she didn’t want to eat and she couldn’t give in to the one thing she craved. She didn’t even want to close her eyes in the dark because all she could see then was the horrors of past cases stuttering through her mind like old Super 8 home movies.

  Carol leaned against the wall and tried to breathe steadily. She had to pull herself together for the sake of her team. She’d chosen them. She’d plucked them out of their careers and made them targets. She couldn’t live with herself if she let them down. She clenched her fists and rubbed her knuckles over her head. The pain took her mind off the turmoil in her brain.

  Five minutes later she walked into the squad room with a brave attempt at a spring in her step. But it was clear from her first glance that nobody had any optimism left. They’d followed all the obvious lines of inquiry, then the less likely, till finally they were reduced to acknowledging there was nowhere left to go other than to retrace their steps in the hope of finding a different answer. They’d even put out an appeal on one of the online recipe forums Kathryn had used, looking for anyone she’d developed a friendship with who might know something – anything – about the mysterious David. But still they had no idea where she had been killed or the reason for her murder. Or why her killer had chosen to set her car on fire with her in the driving seat in an obscure lay-by in North Yorkshire.

  They’d barely sat down at their conference table when the phone rang. Karim, who had learned that this job fell to the lowest on the totem pole, jumped up to answer it. ‘Regional Major Incident Team,’ he said, surprisingly brightly. Pause. ‘Yes, she’s here. One moment, please.’ He put the call on hold and said, ‘Guv, it’s DSI Henderson from North Yorkshire.’ He tried to smile but looked as if he wanted to burst into tears.

  Expecting a bollocking in one shape or form, Carol took the phone and visibly braced herself. ‘I’ll take this in my office.’ The team watched her get up and go. As she closed her door behind her, there was a collective letting out of breath and an exchange of worried looks.

  Once she was in her own space with the door firmly shut, Carol gripped the phone tightly and closed her eyes. ‘DSI Henderson,’ she said, her tone brisk and businesslike. How bad could it be?

  ‘DCI Jordan, I have some news for you. Last night, a farmer in the Dales spotted a burning car. He took a closer look and saw no cause for immediate concern so he didn’t bother reporting it till first thing this morning. When the local patrol car checked it out, they saw what looked like a body. Your team appears to have a repeat offender. And a second chance.’ Crisp and to the point.

  A wave of dizziness hit Carol. Henderson’s words felt like a reprieve. Dear God, how rubbish a human being had she become that she saw a suspicious death as an opportunity? ‘That’s very interesting,’ she said.

  ‘And this time you have the advantage of not having had the crime scene destroyed by the firefighters,’ Henderson added. ‘I’ve got a full forensic team on their way and I’ve given instructions everything is to remain in situ until ReMIT says so. I’ll have our SIO ping you all the details we have.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Carol tried to keep the relief from her face. ‘I’ll brief the team and we’ll be at the scene as soon as we can.’

  ‘Let’s hope you manage to produce a result this time.’ The line went dead. Carol leaned back in her chair and breathed deeply. They’d been hampered from the start by the compromised crime scene on Kathryn McCormick’s murder. This time, there would be no excuses. But this time, hopefully, there would be no need for excuses.

  The Land Rover wasn’t the ideal vehicle for getting anywhere in a hurry. Not to mention the heavy rumble of the diesel engine that made conversation difficult. But Carol had grown used to it over the past year and she liked the sense of security it gave her. And there was plenty of room for the dog, who was sprawled out along the floor in the back, her head on Tony’s feet. Paula was riding shotgun, her laptop open on her knees and tethered to her phone so she could give a shouted commentary as information came in from North Yorkshire’s team.

  ‘Where exactly are we going?’ Tony asked as Carol keyed the postcode into her satnav.

  ‘Heading for the middle of nowhere, turning right at the back of beyond and keeping going till we see a white scene of crime tent,’ Carol replied.

  ‘The names sound like something out of Lord of the Rings,’ Paula said. ‘Snazesett and Burterbusk. Are they having a laugh?’

  ‘Probably from the Vikings,’ Tony said. ‘They left more than red hair genes when they did their raping and pillaging round Yorkshire. So where is it near?’

  ‘Nowhere, by the looks of it,’ Paula said. ‘And according to what Stacey’s just sent me, you’d have to backtrack a long way before you find a road with an ANPR camera. Same as before, he’s chosen somewhere he’s not going to be readily logged in and out of.’

  ‘He knows the terrain,’ Tony said. ‘This isn’t random.’

  ‘You think he’s local?’ Carol chipped in.

  ‘It looks that way. Either that or he’s a keen walker who’s spent a lot of time there. What else have North Yorkshire got for us, Paula?’

  ‘The car is a two-year-old Peugeot 108 cabriolet. For the car illiterates among us —’

  ‘That’ll be me,’ Tony said.

  ‘— it’s one of those diddy little ones with a canvas sunroof that folds back rather than a full cabriolet hood.’

  Carol groaned. ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘It might affect the way the fire burned,’ Paula said. ‘If the roof caught, it’ll have provided more oxygen for the fire so it will have burned more fiercely. Over the past couple of weeks, I have become something of an expert on fires in cars,’ she added ruefully. ‘Fire investigators are very eager to share.’

  ‘Any ID from the car? Are the licence plates readable?’

  ‘It’s registered to an Amie McDonald at an address in Cookridge, Leeds. West Yorkshire officers attending say there’s nobody home. Next-door neighbour says Amie works for the Leeds City council tax department, so the Westies are off to the council offices to try and track her down. Though if it’s the same guy and he’s following the same procedure, she’s not going to be sitting in her office waiting for us to drop by.’

  ‘We need to check, all the same,’ Carol said. ‘Even though it’s her car, it doesn’t mean it’s her body. She might have lent it to someone. Or it might have been stolen. We’ll probably have to fall back on dental ID if it’s anything like the last one.’ She nudged the car into a gap at a roundabout and turned on to the main artery that led towards Burnley and onwards to the Dales. ‘What else?’

  ‘Local farmer called Anselm Carter called it in at six-thirty a.m. Apparently that’s when he starts milking. He saw the flames yesterday evening around nine when he came out of the cowshed. He went and took a look, didn’t see the body so he thought it was just a burning ca
r that was no risk to his land or his livestock so he thought he might as well leave it till morning to phone it in.’

  ‘I can’t say I blame him,’ Tony said. ‘If I had to get up at six to milk cows, I don’t think I’d be that keen on having the police and the fire brigade doing their thing and needing cups of tea till the small hours.’

  ‘So the local patrol car took a run out first thing and of course, they could get close enough by then to see there was a body in the car. They reckoned the seat belt must have burned through and the body slumped down across both front seats. There are some pretty grisly pictures, if you’re interested, Tony?’

  He grimaced. ‘I’ll wait till I can see the real thing. Once is sufficient.’

  ‘It’s the same killer, isn’t it?’ Carol turned on the flashing blue light attached to her dashboard. ‘I know we don’t theorise ahead of data, but it’s hard to imagine a scenario that doesn’t come back to the man who killed Kathryn McCormick.’

  ‘I’d have to agree,’ Tony sighed. ‘I’m trying not to sound too perky about it, but this is the best thing that could have happened from our perspective. Kathryn’s murder didn’t give us enough data. With an untainted crime scene and a whole new set of witnesses, we might just start to make some forward progress.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, Tony, but for Christ’s sake, don’t say that outside this car.’ Carol’s exasperation was obvious. ‘For a man who’s supposed to be the soul of empathy, sometimes you have a tin ear.’

  ‘I can’t profile properly on a single case, you know that,’ Tony said huffily.

  ‘Not everyone understands you like we do, Tony,’ Paula said. ‘Most people would struggle to see any positive side to a murder.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Tony said. ‘Nothing we can do changes the fact that someone died last night. But the dead are out of reach. I save my empathy for the living, Paula.’