by Val McDermid
It was no contest. He looked up from the papers and met Carrie’s level gaze. ‘I think this is the start of a very profitable conversation,’ he said.
Not that it would let Tricia off the hook. Quite the opposite, in fact. If he was going to sell her share in the business, it would be a lot easier if she was dead. That way she couldn’t contradict his version of events when he said she’d signed the shares back over to him when she’d left. Now killing her wasn’t for revenge alone. It was for solid business reasons.
55
D
r Dave Myers was no stranger to most of the ReMIT team. He and Paula had known each other since her earliest days in CID when much of modern forensics had been a pretty bare-bones science. He’d worked on DNA analysis in the old Home Office facility in Bradfield, and when the government had privatised the Forensic Science Service, he’d been recruited by one of the new providers to run a private lab. When the former Bradfield MIT had been up and running, he’d been their first port of call whenever a case demanded the expenditure associated with forensic analysis. Chief Constable James Blake had fought a constant battle with Carol Jordan over the cost of using Dr Dave and his team, arguing that cheaper services were available.
Carol had dug her heels in, insisting on the ‘you pay peanuts, you get monkeys’ principle. More often than not, she won the day because of Blake’s fear that somehow the press would find out he’d insisted on cutting corners on a murder inquiry. Sometimes, a man’s vanity could be used constructively.
One of the conditions Carol had placed on her acceptance of the ReMIT job was that they’d have access to Dr Dave and his lab when they deemed it necessary. So when Kevin had picked up Amie McDonald’s coat, the obvious destination had been the state-of-the-art lab that lurked behind the anonymous façade of a prefabricated warehouse on an industrial estate on the edge of town. He’d emphasised the importance of the coat in a multiple-murder investigation, and Dr Dave had promised his best efforts, though he’d looked dubious.
Usually, the lab would transmit their results digitally, flagging them up with a phone call to the investigating team. So it was a surprise when Dr Dave himself walked into the Skenfrith Street squad room. Paula looked up from her computer screen where she’d been bringing her case paperwork up to date and grinned with delight when she saw him shamble through the door with his perpetually casual gait. Outside the lab, stripped of his protective overalls, he looked nothing like a scientist for whom precision was the stock in trade. His big brown hands appeared more suited to manual labour than the delicate work he performed constantly. With his baseball cap, his soul patch, his baggy chinos and the glasses perched on the end of his nose, he always made Paula think of a non-conformist academic. They’d been friends for years, linked by common tastes in music and comedy. When they’d both been single, they’d regularly kept each other company at comedy clubs and small-scale music venues. Even now, they met up in a foursome with their partners for a gig every couple of months.
Paula left her desk and gave Dave a hug. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
He gave a mock-frown. ‘So much for the, “Hi, Dave, great to see you.”’
‘Coffee?’
‘Sure, why not? Is Kev around?’
‘No, he’s gone to brief the media team about the latest case,’ she said, heading for the coffee station. ‘By the way, this is Karim Hussain, our new boy.’
Dave sketched a wave at Karim, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the new arrival since he’d walked in. ‘Hi, Karim. I’m Dave Myers.’
‘The king of forensic DNA analysis,’ Paula added as she prepped an espresso for Dave.
‘Not so much today,’ Dave said. He folded his long body into an office chair and walked it over to Paula’s desk. He took an envelope out of his pocket and placed it next to her keyboard. ‘Kev brought in a coat belonging to Amie McDonald. He thought there might be usable DNA on it.’
Paula put his coffee next to him and eyed the envelope. ‘And was there?’
‘There was DNA all right. Trouble is, there was way too much DNA.’
Paula groaned. ‘Mixed samples?’
‘Complex mixed samples,’ Dave said. ‘I don’t know whether Amie ever had her coat dry-cleaned, but if she did, it wasn’t recently. Kev asked me to concentrate on the arms and the upper back, where you’d hold or hug somebody if you were kissing them. He brought in her toothbrush so we could eliminate Amie’s DNA, but that was no help. Even taking her out of the equation, I’d estimate we’ve got at least six or seven different DNA traces on the outside of the coat in the key regions.’
‘Can you not tell when they were left there?’ Karim asked. ‘Like, are they not in layers, one on top of the other?’
Dave shook his head. ‘That’s not how it works. They’re all jumbled up together. They could have been deposited in any order. It’s like making soup. You can’t tell from the finished bowl whether the carrots went in ahead of the onions. And if you’ve put it in the blender, you can’t even be sure whether it’s onions or shallots.’
Karim looked bemused at the analogy but Paula was more accustomed to Dave’s style. ‘If we had a suspect, could you pull his DNA out of the soup?’ she asked.
‘Maybe, but it’s a long way off a definite.’
‘Didn’t I read somewhere that there are new computer programs that could figure out the separations of complex mixtures?’ Paula asked.
‘People have been working on it,’ Dave said. ‘The idea is that they have a set of complex algorithms that predict the likelihood of different sequences based on statistical analysis. Probabilistic genotyping, they’re calling it. It sounds great. They’ve been doing some clinical trials in the US. And it has huge problems. You take the same mixed sample and run it through two different programs, and the answers that come out of the other end are completely different. The researchers sent the same mixed sample to a random bunch of analysts and all the responses were different. So no, I would not pin any hopes on a conviction based on that evidence.’ He tapped the envelope. ‘It’s all in there. Kev was very insistent that it was top priority so I wanted to come in myself and explain the results, in case there were questions.’
‘I appreciate that, Dave.’ Paula sighed.
‘Sorry to piss on your chips.’
‘Not your fault. But this case is killing us. It’s got more dead ends than a seventies housing estate. Every time we turn a corner we hit a blank wall.’
‘Much as we’d like to help, it’s not CSI and we can’t work miracles.’ Dave stood up. ‘Resolving mixed samples is coming down the road, but it’s not going to get here in time for your investigation.’
Paula sighed. ‘Oh well, maybe in years to come, some brilliant cold-case detective will get Dave Myers 2.0 to apply the new techniques and solve our case.’
‘Don’t give up hope. You’re a good detective, Paula. Sometimes the old ways are what you need to crack the case. It’s like I tell juries when I get the chance. If you’ve got an absolutely clear fingerprint and half a dozen eye witnesses, you really don’t need to sweep for DNA. Good luck.’ He waggled his fingers in a wave as he walked out.
Karim stared after him. ‘We’re fucked, aren’t we?’
‘Probably,’ Paula said. ‘But that’s no reason to stop plugging away.’ Before she could say more, Stacey marched through the door with the air of a woman on a mission.
‘Oh good,’ Stacey said. ‘You and me have somewhere to be, Paula.’
‘We do?’
‘We do. I’ll explain in the car.’
‘What about me?’ Karim said plaintively.
‘Hold the fort and do your paperwork,’ Stacey said.
‘Where will you be if the guv’nor asks?’
‘Fighting crime,’ Stacey said firmly, heading back out the door.
Paula shrugged and spread her hands wide. ‘I have no idea what’s going on either. But experience tells me not to mess with Stacey. See you later.’
56
C
arol stepped off the Minster Basin wharf on to a prettily painted narrowboat whose name, Steeler, unfurled along a painted gold-and-black banner. The deck shifted under her feet as her weight transferred itself to the water. This was Tony’s domain, as the barn was hers. He’d inherited it from the father he’d never known and, to her surprise, he’d transformed himself from a squirrel who lived among piles of papers and books into as neat a boatman as it was possible to imagine. To live in so confined a space imposed an order and rigour she would never have believed he could adapt to. It helped that he had colonised a shipping container with his books, turning it into a library that would have given Carol claustrophobia inside an hour. And of course, he still had his office at Bradfield Moor Secure Hospital, which presumably provided him with all the cluttering possibilities he needed.
She had no idea why he’d messaged her to meet him at the boat rather than come into the office. She’d put the question in reply but he’d ignored her so she had no option but to leave the station and head for the canal basin. The old Grosvenor Canal ran parallel to Skenfrith Street, invisible between high buildings, but there was a narrow alley that led to the towpath which led to Minster Basin. Five years before, it would have been a foolhardy person who would have ventured alone along the towpath even with a dog at her heels. But European money had paid to refurbish the towpath, installing a flagged walkway and proper lighting that dispelled the dark shadows of the undercrofts that carried the canal beneath the streets. Local businesses had put their hands in their pockets and paid for landscaping. Now it was a pleasant shortcut across the city centre.
Flash darted back and forth along the bank, never leaving Carol for long. When the path opened out on to the basin, she knew exactly where she was going and bounded across the cobbles and sat next to Steeler, ears pricked and tongue lolling. In spite of herself, Carol couldn’t help feeling grateful to George Nicholas for virtually forcing the dog on her.
As she boarded, the collie leaped on to the narrowboat roof and settled there, head between her paws, eyes scanning the basin for any threats to her mistress.
Carol meanwhile knocked on the hatch before sliding it back and descending the steps into the main cabin. Tony was sitting at the table, a book in front of him. ‘Don’t get up,’ Carol said. ‘I’m coffee’d out.’ She slid on to the buttoned bench seat opposite him. ‘You missed the briefing this morning.’
‘I know. Sorry, I had something more pressing to deal with.’
‘So, why am I here? What’s so mysterious that we can’t talk about it in the office?’
‘Not mysterious,’ he said. ‘Private.’
Anxiety clenched Carol’s stomach. Private spelled ominous to her these days. Another nightmare was more than she could take at the moment. She straightened in her seat, clasping her hands on the table in front of her. ‘What now?’
‘I’ve been worried about you,’ he said. ‘The way you’ve let guilt eat into you.’
Carol snorted. ‘It wasn’t a matter of choice. What’s happened is a matter of fact. You’d have to be a monster not to feel guilty.’
‘I agree. Some guilt would be inevitable. But it’s swallowing you up, Carol, and you need to fight it.’
‘Christ, what is this? A therapy session? I’m not one of your bloody patients.’
‘No, you’re my friend. My best friend. For years, you were probably my only friend until I started to get the hang of it. So I can’t sit on my hands and let you be consumed by remorse. You’re condemning yourself for things that no reasonable person would blame you for.’
She shook her head. ‘Five people dead, Tony. Because I wanted to reclaim my place in the sun.’
‘I’m glad you brought that up,’ he said. ‘I know it’s eating away at you but it really isn’t your responsibility. Connection isn’t the same as causality.’
He was making no sense. How could those deaths not be laid at her door? ‘You’re wrong,’ she said.
Tony took his phone from his pocket and laid it on the table in front of him. He fiddled with the screen for a moment. ‘I went over to Halifax this morning. That’s why I missed the briefing. I went to talk to Mona Barrowclough. Dominic’s mother.’
‘Why? Don’t you think she’s had enough to cope with, without you stirring everything up again?’
‘We had a very interesting conversation. You can listen to it all if you like, but there are a couple of things I need you to hear.’ He raised one finger to silence whatever she was about to say. ‘Please. Just listen, Carol.’
He pressed
He said it wouldn’t make any odds to him. Even if he got banned, he said, he’d still drive. ‘I’ll change cars, get something they’re not looking out for,’ he said. His dad was raging. He said if Nicky got banned and carried on driving, he’d throw him out of the house and out of the business. He worked for his dad, you see. He’s an estate agent, my husband. And you need to be able to drive, obviously. I was that upset, I didn’t know how Nicky would manage.
Then Tony’s voice. But he didn’t get banned?
No. There was something wrong with the equipment, they said in court. So they had to drop the charges. I didn’t know what to feel. Nicky’d got away with drinking and driving, but at least he still had a roof over his head and a job. We sat him down after the court case, me and his dad, and we gave him a good talking to. But he just laughed. He said he was safe behind the wheel. He said nobody was going to stop him driving. Not the police, not the courts, not his dad. I don’t know what we did wrong. We did our best, but he was always a law unto himself. I don’t know where he got it from. We’re not impulsive people, me and my husband.
Carol felt dizzy. She couldn’t quite take it in. ‘Play it again,’ she whispered. And he did.
‘You see?’ Tony spoke gently. ‘It was nothing to do with you. Even if Dominic Barrowclough had lost his licence that day, he’d still have been driving drunk the night he ploughed into that Mini. It’s not your fault, Carol.’
She couldn’t help the tears. She was angry at herself for her loss of control but there was nothing she could do about it. Mona Barrowclough’s words didn’t absolve her, but they lifted the burden enough that she could see a chink of daylight in the darkness of her guilt.
‘You should listen to the whole thing,’ Tony said. ‘In case you think I pushed her into it.’
‘That’s not your style,’ Carol said shakily. ‘Thank you.’ She cleared her throat and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘And now I need to go back to the office and see whether anybody’s come up with a set of dental records for Eileen Walsh.’ She slid out of the booth and turned to go.
At the last moment, she turned back and took three steps that brought her to Tony’s side. She leaned forward as he looked up in surprise and she planted an awkward kiss on his forehead. ‘I don’t deserve you,’ she said.
‘It’s not about what we deserve. It’s what we earn.’ Their eyes met. Confused by a surge of emotion, Carol backed away and climbed back into daylight. ‘See you later,’ she said, far from certain what later would bring.
57
P
aula fastened her seat belt and put the car into gear. ‘Speak to me, Stacey. You have to tell me where we’re going or else we’ll be sitting here in the car park till it gets dark.’
’Harriestown. 71 Camborne Street.’
‘That’s just round the corner from ours. Why are we going there?’ Paula pulled out into the traffic and set a mental course for Camborne Street.
‘They’ve got a problem with their boiler.’
Paula groaned. ‘You know, if you want people not to fall into racial stereotypes, you really need to give up on the whole inscrutable thing. Why are we interested in the boiler at 71 Camborne Street?’
‘We’re not.’ Stacey gave Paula a quick sidelong look. ‘OK, I’ll take pity on you. As you know, I go
t absolutely nowhere trying to track the IP address of the bastard who’s blackmailing Torin. That left the prepaid credit card that he deposited the money on to. Now, normally that would be an equally dead end. I honestly expected the sort code to correspond to some slightly dodgy private bank in a tax haven with Byzantine privacy laws. Which would have been as inscrutable as you accuse me of being.’
‘And it wasn’t?’ Paula stopped at a red light and glanced across at her friend. ‘That’s why we’re chasing boilers in Camborne Street?’
‘Not only was it not a dodgy bank, it wasn’t even in a tax haven. It was a Bradfield branch of the Northern Bank.’
‘No way!’
‘Way. Campion Way to be precise.’ Stacey grinned. ‘Sorry, you walked into that one.’
‘OK. So this is a local blackmailer?’
‘That’s the inescapable conclusion. But it’s still got very strict rules about customer privacy and the old chestnut of data protection.’
A slow smile spread across Paula’s face. ‘You did a bad thing, didn’t you?’
‘I did. I pretended to be an officer in the Anti-Terrorism Unit.’
Paula’s mouth fell open and her foot momentarily slipped off the accelerator, provoking a loud hoot from the car behind. ‘You did what? You pretended to be a spook?’
Stacey shrugged, not an easy manoeuvre to pull off while wearing a seat belt. ‘Kind of. I faked up ID.’ She giggled. ‘I called myself Xing Ming. That’s Mandarin for “first name, surname”.’
Paula gave her a look of incomprehension. ‘That’s a joke, right? You prepped a fake ID that was a joke?’