by Val McDermid
His mother made a good recovery, which Tim credited to Eileen’s care. Two months later, after a succession of nights out at the cinema, an assortment of restaurants and a couple of gigs at the Apollo where they’d both been deafened by the volume, he’d proposed and she’d accepted. Her parents had been relieved as well as delighted; they’d been convinced that at thirty-five, she was definitely past her sell-by date.
Eight days later, he’d been waiting to cross Whitworth Street near the junction with Sackville Street when a roofer working on scaffolding right behind him had dropped a section of cast-iron drainpipe. It plummeted forty feet to the pavement below. And in those few terrible seconds, Tim lost all his remaining time.
Eileen’s first emotion had been anger. One moment of heedlessness had cheated her out of the life that should have been hers. She was sorry about Tim. Of course she was. She wasn’t some heartless gold-digging bitch. But she was more sorry for herself. He’d been her one chance to trade in an existence for a life. And now that chance was gone forever.
It was worse than being dumped because it wasted time. If some bastard gave you the elbow, you could put yourself back out there right away. But being bereaved meant you had to go through a respectable period of mourning. That was over now though. It had been seventeen months since the funeral and it was time to start looking again.
She’d been charm itself on the ward with anyone who might have a candidate in their life. Sons or brothers, single, divorced or widowed. She didn’t mind. She’d put up with devotion to sport or oddball collections. Even an addiction to Jeremy Clarkson. She could squeeze herself into the mould of the woman they needed. But so far, there had been no likely candidates snapping at the bait. Time was running out and Eileen wanted off the ward and into a different life.
She wiped away the last of the make-up and leaned in closer to the mirror. There were shadows under her eyes, fine lines running through them. Still almost invisible, but they’d only get worse. And those faint brackets that appeared round her smile. They weren’t going to disappear. Soon she’d become invisible. Just another woman sliding into middle age with a few extra pounds round her midriff and everything heading south along with her chances.
Maybe this weekend would be lucky. Eileen raised a coquettish eyebrow. She wasn’t bad looking, not for her age. And weddings put a gloss on everybody. She’d seen it before. The celebration of matrimony turned love into an infectious disease. Surely a gay wedding would have the same aphrodisiac effect as a normal one? Surely Greg and Avram must know some straight men? OK, so she probably knew most of Greg’s friends. They’d worked on the ward together for seven years, after all.
But Avram was a different matter. He worked at Media City. He was a radio documentary producer. He must know dozens of really interesting people. And statistically some of them must be single men of a certain age in want of a wife. And it was going to be a big wedding. A hundred and forty-three guests, according to Greg. She had to be in with a shout.
Eileen took the lid off her night nourishing cream and slathered it over her face. Only a few short days to go. Time enough for a lash tint and a manicure. There was no harm in making the most of herself.
Saturday could be the turning point. But if it wasn’t, that was OK too, she told herself. She didn’t mind her own company. She was doing all right on her own. She had friends from work, she had a life.
Who are you kidding? The voice in the back of her head was sardonic. And it opened the floodgates of fear again. The prospect of growing old and infirm all alone without the cushion of companionship and a comfortable income was terrifying. Her own parents were struggling with retirement, and they at least had each other. But she’d have no one. She’d be one of those smelly old women living in one room with nobody to visit her and no money to do anything except watch daytime TV. Surviving on baked beans and cheap white bread.
‘Get a grip, Eileen,’ she said sternly. Saturday would be her chance. She’d seize it with both hands.
41
A
nother week, another level of frustration for ReMIT. Some bright spark on a local paper had made the connection between the two deaths, in spite of Carol’s efforts to keep the lid on the link between the circumstances. Now, as well as their colleagues looking over their shoulders, they had a daily media barrage demanding copy. Skenfrith Street was under permanent siege from a handful of determined hacks who were convinced the police were holding out on them.
The truth was very different. The morning briefing was bereft of new leads and none of the routine processes had led them anywhere. The CCTV from Leeds station had taken them no further; their target walked with his head bowed and never looked up. Stacey had been running ANPR results for all the major routes in and out of the Dales over the two weekends when their victims had been killed, but the handful of results had taken them nowhere. Every car number that turned up over both weekends had been accounted for.
‘We’ve got forty-three locals going shopping or to football matches or to work. Thirty-one of them are men,’ Stacey explained ‘They’ve all got witnesses who confirm what they’ve told us and also alibis for assorted time slots over the weekend. None of them has enough time available close enough to the body dumps to have committed the crimes. And you can’t get there by public transport.’
At her words, Tony looked up, head cocked to one side, frowning. But he said nothing.
‘We’ve also got twenty-nine weekenders who have properties inside the camera-free areas we’ve marked out. Apart from one, they were all either couples or families and again, it’s hard to see how any of the men could have popped out to seduce our victims and murder them.’
‘What about the one?’ Paula asked.
‘According to the local police in Preston, where he lives, he’s in the clear for both the wedding Saturdays. He’s a tennis coach at the local club. On Saturday afternoons he runs three clinics. One for kids, two for adults. Both evenings, he was working behind the bar at the club during social fundraisers. His presence at the club is confirmed.’ Stacey looked apologetic. ‘So now Lancashire Police hate us as much as North and West Yorkshire for all the tedious alibi checking.’
‘He’ll be using hire cars,’ Tony said, matter-of-factly. ‘It’s clear from everything to do with these cases that he has a remarkably high level of forensic awareness. He won’t risk taking his own car anywhere near where he kills them or where he dumps them.’
‘Still, we had to check,’ Carol said. ‘So, have we got anywhere with the wedding photos from either event?’
Alvin spoke. ‘As we reported previously, we managed to track down all the wedding guests and compile copies of all their photographs and videos. Stacey came back to us with a CGI image of what the presumed killer looks like. We’ve shown it round the guests but nobody admits to recognising him.’
‘And Karim and me have been doing the rounds of friends and families and workmates,’ Kevin said. ‘Apart from Amie’s ex-boyfriend claiming he looked exactly like the guy who delivers Valhalla parcels to Amie’s flat – which we checked out, and none of the delivery drivers looks remotely like the image – nobody recognised him. Guv, I think we should get his picture out in the media. What about Crimewatch?’
‘I’ve been holding back because the software Stacey used to produce the image isn’t tried and tested in court yet,’ Carol said. ‘I don’t want to run the risk of some smart-arsed defence barrister accusing us of junk science down the line. But everything else seems to be a dead end, so I think we have to look at going public.’
Kevin groaned. ‘Another mountain of false leads to chase down.’
‘In the first instance, we’ll use local bodies on the ground,’ Carol said. ‘I’ll save you and Karim for checking out the ones that might go somewhere.’
‘It’s like terrorism,’ Karim burst out. ‘We know he’s out there but we don’t know where. It’s like we’re waiting for the next one, hoping he’ll make a mistake. How do we stop this h
appening when we don’t have a clue where to look?’
There was a moment’s shocked silence. Finally, Carol spoke. ‘Because it’s what we do. We stop people like him because we keep hammering away at every possibility until we find him.’
Paula leaned across and put a hand on Karim’s arm. ‘You’ll get used to feeling like this,’ she said quietly. ‘It happens every time. And we get past it.’
‘We really do,’ Kevin said.
Karim stared at the table, his left leg jittering beneath it.
Carol cleared her throat. ‘Anybody have anything else?’
Tony stood up and began his familiar pacing routine. ‘Stacey said something earlier. “You can’t get there by public transport.” But that means the converse is also true. The killer can’t make his getaway on public transport. After Kathryn McCormick was killed, I thought he must be walking away. Or maybe jogging. I was going to suggest checking out all the properties within easy walking distance. Then I thought, what does that mean? Easy walking distance? I could easily walk five or six miles without thinking twice about it. But in the dark? Even on familiar terrain, that’s a big ask. Because he couldn’t walk on the road, could he? All it would take would be one passing car.’
Carol cut in. ‘We did think about this, Tony. And we put it to one side for precisely that reason. We couldn’t draw a radius that made any sense. For all we know, he could have left his car nearby at any point over the weekend and then used her car for their final journey.’
‘That’s true. And it’s why I didn’t waste your time. That was my reaction at the Amie McDonald crime scene too. How could we construct a meaningful search out of the little we knew? And then Stacey said what she said and all at once, something clicked and I understood what I’d been looking at.’ He grinned triumphantly, not caring that he was met with an array of blank looks.
‘You’re going to have to tell us more than that, mate,’ Alvin said. ‘I don’t think it’s just me that doesn’t have a clue what you’re on about.’
‘Carol, Paula? You remember that flattened grass and ripped-up earth I pointed out at the crime scene? Did forensics come back with anything?’
‘No,’ Paula said. ‘There was nothing to indicate what it had been, except it had been heavy enough to make an impact and probably made of metal or sturdy plastic because it had scarred the ground.’
‘Do we have the measurements?’ Tony asked, taking out his phone and tapping at the screen.
‘Let me check,’ Paula said. ‘The report only came in the day before yesterday…’ She crossed to her desk and pulled up the file. ‘It’s 716 millimetres long by 600 millimetres wide. They said the object was probably slightly smaller because it looked like it had skidded a short distance.’
Tony looked up from his phone with a beatific smile. ‘A folded Brompton bike measures 585 by 565. If you chucked it over the ditch, it would probably skid a bit, wouldn’t it? A thing that weighs that much?’
There was a moment’s silence then Carol said, ‘How did you work that out?’
‘There are waymarked footpaths within a field or two of both of the crime scenes. You were all looking at the road because that’s how he arrived.’
‘We should have thought of that,’ Paula said.
‘Even if we had, we’d still have concentrated on the road,’ Kevin said ruefully.
‘That’s brilliant,’ Karim said, looking up with hope in his eyes.
‘That’s why we keep him,’ Carol said. ‘We’re too busy looking at the trees. He sees the wood beyond. Paula, get on to Forensics and see whether there’s anything on the crime scene photos that might be the impression of bike tyres. This changes things. We might have something solid to take to Crimewatch. If we can offer up a cyclist and the image, they might consider it worth going with. Anything else, anyone?’
Silence. ‘Better get on with it, then,’ Carol said wearily, heading for her office.
Tony caught up with Paula by her desk. ‘Has he said anything to you yet?’
Paula shook her head. ‘He was very quiet when you dropped him off after the football. And at breakfast, before Elinor came down, he apologised for losing his temper with me. And I said sorry for invading his privacy. What’s going on, Tony?’
He sighed. ‘I promised not to tell you,’ he said. ‘I can’t risk losing his trust. Sorry. What if I come round tonight? Try to break the logjam?’
‘Thanks.’
He nodded and grabbed his purple jacket on the way to the door. Paula messaged the crime scene technicians then leaned back in her chair. Spotting Kevin by the coffee machine, she decided now was as good a time as any and wandered nonchalantly across to join him.
‘I thought you were back in harness for good, Kev,’ she said.
‘What’s brought that on?’ he hedged.
‘Carol said you’d only agreed to come back till she could find another inspector she rated highly enough.’
He nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it. I was enjoying my retirement. I’m not one of those blokes who hankers after the thrill of chasing villains. I served my time and I was happy to settle into a new life.’
‘But Carol tempted you back?’
He scoffed. ‘Money tempted me back, Paula. She offered me my old rank. A step up from DS back to DI. She promised me that when she did find the right replacement, I’d go with a DI’s pension. I won’t pretend that wasn’t a hell of an incentive. Me and Stella, we’ve got plans. And a bit more money will make things easier. Why are you asking?’
‘She thinks I should go for my inspector’s exams.’ Paula studied his expression carefully. He didn’t look very surprised.
‘She’s not wrong,’ he said. ‘What’s holding you back?’
Paula shrugged. It wasn’t that she lacked ambition but she feared what it might bring in its wake. ‘I like doing what I do. I enjoy interviewing witnesses and suspects. I like being at the sharp end, not stuck in an office pushing papers and issuing actions to junior officers.’
Kevin shook his head. ‘That’s only what it would be like if you were in a regular CID team. You know we do things differently here. You don’t see me flying a desk much, do you? I’m out there doing the dirty work and asking the questions, just like I did when I was a DS. The only difference is that it’s a bit easier when we’re dealing with officers from the different forces we’re working with. It’s a lot easier to get cooperation when you’re a higher rank.’
It was true. Even in these early days of ReMIT, Paula had noticed a reluctance to carry out her requests. And they had to be requests because she was often outranked by the officer she was asking something of. They didn’t refuse outright, because they knew Paula could go up the ladder, which would mean they’d be shat on from a greater height. But they dragged their heels a bit, shared looks with their squad, made her feel like an interloper rather than one of the team. ‘Does pulling rank really make it easier? Doesn’t it wind them up even more?’
Kevin grinned. ‘You don’t have to pull rank, Paula. You just have to carry it. And it’s about time you stepped up to where you should be. We all move on. Carol Jordan’s going to have to retire one day. There needs to be somebody lined up to take her place.’
Startled, Paula gave a nervous laugh. ‘What? You think I’m the person to do the boss’s job?’
‘Why not? You’re a good detective and you’re good with people. And you don’t drag as many ghosts around with you as she does.’
A shadow passed across Paula’s face. She had her dark places, albeit not as many as Carol. ‘You’ve been spending too long in the sun on that allotment of yours,’ she said, trying to sound light.
‘And you need to take yourself a bit more seriously.’ He finished making his coffee and walked away. Paula stood looking after him, a strange feeling stirring inside her.
42
P
enny Burgess checked the clock on her phone for the third time in as many minutes. He was late. She was sitting at a grub
by Formica-topped table in a motorway café that smelled of stale fat with something that claimed to be a flat white but tasted like hot milk that had once been shown a coffee bean. She’d have to wash her hair and probably take her coat to the dry cleaner at this rate.
She wondered whether PC Darren Finch was having second thoughts. She was used to having to warm up the cold feet of informants, but they had to show up before she could start the process. And he was nineteen minutes late for their agreed rendezvous. His suggestion of venue, not hers. She wondered at a traffic cop wanting to meet at a motorway service station. The very place where you might bump into a colleague, she’d have thought.
Maybe he was so limited that he couldn’t imagine anywhere else. And they were technically in Lancashire, not West Yorkshire, the force he worked for, which gave him a margin of security, she supposed.
She couldn’t help considering whether she’d adopted the wrong approach. Finding the names of the officers who had arrested Carol Jordan had been easy enough now she had Sam Evans in her pocket. He’d looked up their names in the court records and found out where they were based. Penny had googled the two officers herself, and Finch had popped up, photographs and all, from a road safety programme he’d been fronting with sixteen-year-olds heading for their next birthday’s driving lessons. She’d rung Halifax police station and asked to speak to him, hoping he was on duty or out on patrol. And she’d been obligingly told that he wasn’t on duty until ten that evening. From what she knew of police shift patterns, she reckoned he’d be off duty at seven the next morning, so she’d risen early and had parked up opposite the back entrance to the station, where officers parked their cars.