Fever of the Bone

by Val McDermid

  ‘Sounds like you’ve already made your mind up, sir,’ Carol said, forcing herself to sound pleasant.

  ‘It’s up to you, Carol.’ This time, the smile was undeniably smug. ‘And one other thing - while we’re on the subject of budget? You seem to commit a lot of money to consulting Dr Hill.’

  Now the stirring of anger was rising to a flare. ‘Dr Hill has been a key component in how we achieve our success,’ she said, unable to avoid sounding terse.

  ‘He’s a clinical psychologist, not a forensic scientist. His expertise is replicable.’ Blake opened a drawer and took a folder from it. He glanced at Carol as if surprised that she was still there. ‘The National Police Faculty has been training police officers in behavioural science and profiling. Using their resources is going to save us a fortune.’

  ‘They don’t have Dr Hill’s expertise. Or his experience. Dr Hill is unique. Mr Brandon always thought so.’

  There was a long silence. ‘Mr Brandon isn’t here to protect you any more, Carol. He may have thought it was appropriate to pay your . . .’ he paused and when he spoke again, it was freighted with innuendo ‘. . . landlord such a large chunk of Bradfield Police’s budget. I don’t. So if you need a profiler, use one who doesn’t make us look corrupt, would you?’

  Patterson could feel the first throb of a headache deep in his skull. It was hardly surprising; he’d had a scant two hours’ sleep. Viewers who saw him on TV could be forgiven for thinking their TVs had been swapped for black-and-white sets, what with his silver hair and grey skin. Only the red eyes would be the give-away. He’d had enough coffee to kick-start a Harley Davidson but even that hadn’t helped him look like a man you’d want running your murder inquiry. There was nothing more dispiriting than holding a press conference with nothing to give other than the bare facts of the crime itself.

  Maybe they’d get lucky. Maybe the media coverage would shake loose a witness who had noticed Jennifer Maidment after she’d waved farewell to her best friend. That would surely be the triumph of hope over experience. What was more likely was a stream of fantasy sightings, most of them delivered in good faith but just as useless as the attention seekers and the unfathomable bastards who simply liked to waste police time.

  As the reporters filed out, he went in search of Ambrose. He found him looming over their tame forensic computer analyst. Gary Harcup had been dragged out of his bed just after midnight and put to work on Jennifer’s laptop. Ambrose barely glanced up at his boss then turned back to the screen, screwing up his tired brown eyes to help him focus. ‘So what you’re telling me is that all of these sessions originated on different machines? Even though it says it’s the same person talking to Jennifer?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, how can that be?’ Ambrose sounded frustrated.

  ‘I’m guessing whoever was talking to Jennifer was using internet cafés and libraries. Never the same place twice.’ Gary Harcup shared bulk with Alvin Ambrose, but that was all. Where Ambrose was taut, polished and muscular, Gary was plump, rumpled and bespectacled with a mop of tousled brown hair and matching beard. He looked like a cartoon bear. He scratched his head. ‘He’s using a free email address, impossible to trace. None of the sessions lasts more than half an hour, nobody is going to pay any attention to him.’

  Patterson pulled up a chair. ‘What’s going on, lads? Have you got something for us, Gary?’

  But it was Ambrose who replied. ‘According to Claire Darsie, her and Jennifer used RigMarole all the time. And Gary here’s been able to pull up a whole stack of their chat room and IM sessions.’

  ‘Anything useful?’ Patterson leaned forward so he could see the screen more easily. A whiff of fresh soap came from Ambrose, making Patterson feel ashamed of his own unwashed state. He’d not stopped to shower, settling for a swift pass of the electric shaver over his face.

  ‘There’s a lot of rubbish,’ Gary said. ‘The usual teenage chatter about X Factor and Big Brother. Pop stars and soap actors. Gossip about their mates from school. Mostly they’re talking to other kids from their class, but there are some outsiders from other areas of RigMarole. Generally other girls of their age into the same boy bands.’

  ‘I hear a “but”,’ Patterson said.

  ‘You hear right. There’s one that’s a bit different,’ Ambrose said. ‘Trying to fit the mould but hitting the occasional bum note. Cagey about revealing anything that might pin them down geographically. Can you show us, Gary?’

  Gary’s fingers fluttered over the keys and a string of message exchanges started to scroll down the screen. Patterson read attentively, not quite sure what he was looking for. ‘You think it’s paedophile grooming?’

  Ambrose shook his head. ‘It doesn’t feel like that. Whoever it is, they’re drawing Jennifer and her buddies out, making friends. Usually with paedos, they’re trying to cut one out of the herd. They play on general insecurities about looks, weight, personality, just not being cool enough. That’s not happening here. It’s much more about showing solidarity. Being one of the group.’ He tapped the screen with his finger. ‘It’s not exploitative in any way.’

  ‘And then it gets really interesting,’ Gary said, scrolling down so fast the messages turned into a blur of text and smileys. ‘This was five days ago.’

  Jeni: Wot do u mean, zz?

  ZZ: Evry1 has secrets, things theyr ashamd of. Things u’d

  die if ur crew new about.

  Jeni: I don’t. My best friend nos everything about me.

  ZZ: Thats wot we all say and we all lying.

  ‘The others weigh in and it turns into a general conversation,’ Gary said. ‘But then ZZ pulls Jennifer into a private IM session. Here we go.’

  ZZ: i wanted 2 talk 2 u in priv8.

  Jeni: Y?

  ZZ: cuz i no u hav a BIG secret.

  Jeni: U no more than me then.

  ZZ: sumtimes we dont no wot our own secrets r. Bt i no a

  secret tt u wd not want anybody else to no.

  Jeni: I don’t no wot u r on about.

  ZZ: b online 2moro same time & we’ll talk abt it sum more.

  ‘And that’s where that session ends,’ Gary said.

  ‘So what happened the next day?’ Patterson said.

  Gary leaned back in his chair and rumpled his hair. ‘That’s the problem. Whatever ZZ had to say to Jennifer was enough to make her wipe the conversation.’

  ‘I thought there was no such thing as wiping a computer’s memory, short of hitting the hard disk very hard with a hammer,’ Patterson said. The headache was bedding in now, a deep dull throb beating between his ears. He squeezed the bridge of his nose tight, trying to shut down the pain.

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ Gary said. ‘Doesn’t mean it’s accessible at the click of a mouse, though. I’m assuming this lass didn’t have a clue how to scrub her machine clean. But even so, I’m going to have to push a shedload of software through this baby to try and retrieve what she’s tried to erase.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Ambrose groaned. ‘How long’s that going to take?’

  Gary shrugged, his whole chair moving with him. ‘Piece of string, innit? I might crack it in a few hours, but it could take days.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘What can I say? It’s not like servicing a car. There’s no way I can give you a meaningful estimate.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Patterson said. ‘Can we just go back to where I came in? You were telling Alvin these sessions all came from different computers? Is there any way to find out where those computers are?’

  Gary shrugged, then laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. ‘Theoretically, but there’s no guarantee. There’s websites that hold the details of individual computers’ IDs. But machines change hands.’ He pulled the corners of his mouth down like a sad clown. ‘Still, there’s a fair chance you can track down some of them.’

  ‘At least that way we might get some idea of where this bastard’s based,’ Patterson said. �
�That also needs to be a priority for us now. Can you deal with that as well as analysing the computer? Or do we need to bring in some support?’

  If Gary had been a dog, the ruff of hair at the back of his neck would have been standing erect. ‘I can manage,’ he said. ‘While the programs are running on Jennifer’s machine, I can start looking up the computer IDs.’

  Patterson stood up. ‘Fine. But if it’s taking too long, we’ll get you some help on the donkey work.’

  Gary glowered at him. ‘None of this is donkey work.’

  Patterson managed not to roll his eyes. ‘No, of course not. Sorry, Gary. No offence.’ He resisted the temptation to pat him on the shoulder as he would with his family’s pet mongrel. He stood up. ‘Alvin, a word?’

  Out in the corridor, Patterson leaned against the wall, the lack of progress feeling like a physical weight on his shoulders. ‘This is going bloody nowhere,’ he said. ‘We’ve not got a single witness. She got off the bus but never made it as far as the Co-op. It’s like Jennifer Maidment vanished into thin air somewhere between the bus stop and the shop.’

  Alvin’s mouth twisted up in one corner and dropped down again. ‘That’s if she was ever going to the Co-op.’

  ‘What do you mean? According to you, Claire Darsie said Jennifer was going to the Co-op to buy chocolate for her dad’s cake. She saw her walking in that direction. Jennifer waved to her.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean she was telling the truth,’ Ambrose said, his face impassive. ‘Just because she started off walking that way doesn’t mean she kept on going. Claire said the whole thing was out of character. So maybe Jennifer had other plans. Plans that had bugger all to do with the Co-op. Or her dad’s cake. Maybe there wasn’t a cake at all.’

  ‘You think she was meeting somebody?’

  Ambrose shrugged. ‘You’ve got to wonder what would be important enough to make a teenage girl lie to her best mate. Generally, that comes down to a lad.’

  ‘You think she realised the gatecrasher on Rig was a bloke?’

  ‘I don’t know. I doubt she was that sophisticated. I think she went to learn more about this so-called “secret”.’

  Patterson sighed. ‘And until Gary works his magic, we don’t have a bloody clue what that might be.’

  ‘True. But in the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt to have a chat with Mum and Dad. Find out if there were ever any plans for a cake.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Daniel Morrison had been indulged from well before the moment he’d been born. It would have been hard to imagine a child more wanted than he had been and neither expense nor consideration had been spared in the effort to make his life the very best it could be. During her pregnancy, his mother Jessica had forsworn not only alcohol and saturated fat but also hairspray, dry cleaning, deodorant and insect repellent. Everything that had ever been accused of being potentially carcinogenic had been banned from Jessica’s environment. If Mike came home from the pub smelling of cigarette smoke, he had to strip off in the utility room then shower before he could come near his pregnant wife.

  When Daniel emerged from his elective caesarian section with a perfect Apgar score, Jessica felt justified in every preventative step she’d taken. She didn’t hesitate to share that belief with anyone who would listen and quite a few who wouldn’t.

  The drive to perfection didn’t end there. Daniel’s every stage of development was accompanied by the age-appropriate educational toys and other forms of stimulus. By four, he was enrolled in the best private prep school in Bradfield, encased in grey flannel shorts, shirt and tie, maroon blazer and a cap that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the 1950s.

  And so it continued. Designer clothes and fashionable hair-cuts; Chamonix in the winter, Chiantishire in the summer; cricket whites and rugby jerseys; Cirque du Soleil, classical concerts and theatre. Whatever Jessica thought Daniel needed, Daniel had. Another man might have put the brakes on. But Mike loved his wife - his son too, obviously, but not the way he adored Jessica - and so he chose the route that made her happiest. As she indulged Daniel, so he indulged her. He’d been lucky enough to get in on the ground floor of the mobile phone business back in the early nineties. There had been times when it had felt like the legendary licence to print money. That Jessica knew how to spend it had therefore never been an issue.

  What was slowly beginning to dawn on Mike Morrison was that his fourteen-year-old son was not a very nice person. In recent months, it had become clear that Daniel was no longer happy to accept whatever Jessica decided was best for him. He was developing his own ideas about what he wanted, and the sense of entitlement that Jessica had bred into him meant he wasn’t happy to settle for anything less than the prompt and total fulfilment of his desires. There had been some spectacular arguments, most of which had ended with Jessica in tears and Daniel in voluntary exile in his suite of rooms, sometimes refusing to emerge for days at a time.

  It wasn’t the arguments that bothered Mike, in spite of Jessica’s frustration and anger. He recalled similar rows in his own teens as he’d tried to assert himself in the teeth of parental opposition. What made him anxious was a suspicion that was hardening to a certainty that he didn’t have a clue what was going on in his son’s head.

  He remembered being fourteen. His concerns had been pretty simple. Football, both watching and playing; girls, both real and imagined; the relative merits of Cream and Blind Faith; and how long it would be before he could wangle himself into a party where there was alcohol and dope. He hadn’t been a goody two-shoes and he’d been convinced that his own drift away from his parents’ expectations would help forge a connection when Daniel hit adolescence.

  He couldn’t have been more wrong. Daniel’s response to Mike’s attempts at bonding by sharing had been a shrug, a sneer and a complete refusal to engage. After one too many rebuffs, Mike had reluctantly accepted that he had no idea what was going on inside his son’s head or his life. Daniel’s dreams and desires, his fears and his fantasies, his passions and his proclivities were unfathomable to his father.

  Mike could only guess at what occupied his son during the long hours they were out of each other’s presence. And because he didn’t like what his imagination conjured for him, he’d chosen to try not to think about it at all. He guessed that was entirely fine by Daniel.

  He couldn’t have guessed that it was also just fine by his killer.

  Some meetings were better held outside the workplace. Carol had always known it by instinct; Tony had provided her with a rational explanation. ‘Take people off their territory and it blurs hierarchies. They’re slightly off-balance but they’re also trying to show off, to make their mark. It makes them more creative, more innovative. And that’s essential in any unit where you want to keep ahead of the game. Keeping things fresh and inventive is one of the hardest things to achieve, especially in hierarchical organisations like the police.’

  In a team like theirs, staying ahead of the curve was even more crucial. As James Blake had so pointedly reminded her, elite units were invariably under closer scrutiny than routine departments. Developing new initiatives that proved effective was one straightforward way to disarm their critics. Now the pressure was heavier than ever, but Carol trusted her crew to fight for their roles as hard as she would herself. Which was why she was taking orders for drinks in the private karaoke room of her favourite Thai restaurant.

  More than that, she was practising something else she’d learned from Tony: choices and the way they’re made have the potential for revelation, even in the smallest degree. So this was a chance for her to check perceptions against knowledge, to see whether the things she thought she knew about her team were corroborated by what they chose and how they chose it.

  Stacey Chen had been a no brainer. In the three years they’d been working together, Carol had never known their ICT wizard to drink anything other than Earl Grey tea. She carried individual sealed sachets in her stylish leather backpack. In bars and clubs whose drinks menu didn’t stretc
h to tea, she demanded boiling water and added her own bag. She was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and, once she’d figured out what that was, she was utterly uncompromising about getting it. Her consistency also made it difficult to gauge her state of mind. When someone never wavered in their preferences, it was impossible to figure out whether they were stressed or elated, especially when they were as good at keeping things hidden as Stacey. It felt uncomfortably like racial stereotyping, but there was no denying that Stacey managed inscrutable better than anyone Carol had ever known.

  After all this time she still had almost nothing to add to the bare facts of Stacey’s CV. Her parents were Hong Kong Chinese, successful entrepreneurs in the wholesale and retail food business. Rumour was that Stacey herself had made millions from selling off software she’d developed in her own time. She certainly dressed like a millionaire, with tailoring that looked made to measure, and there was an occasional flash of arrogance in her demeanour that showed another facet to her quiet diligence. If it hadn’t been for her brilliance with technology, Carol had to acknowledge she would not have chosen to work at close quarters with someone like Stacey. But somehow mutual respect had developed and turned their connection fruitful. Carol couldn’t imagine her team now without Stacey’s flair.

  DC Paula McIntyre was clearly weighing up her options, probably wondering if she had the chutzpah to order a proper drink. Carol reckoned Paula would reject the thought, needing her boss’s good opinion more than she craved alcohol. Right again. Paula opted for a Coke. There was an unspoken bond between Paula and her boss; the job had inflicted damage on them both that went far beyond the normal experience of front-line police officers. In Carol’s case, the injury had been compounded by the treachery of the very people she should have been able to count on. It had left her bitter and angry, close to quitting. Paula too had considered leaving the job, but in her case the issue had not been betrayal but unreasonable guilt. What they had in common was that their route back to comfort in their chosen profession had been mapped out with Tony Hill’s help. In Carol’s case, as a friend; in Paula’s, as an unofficial therapist. Carol was grateful on both counts, not least because nobody was better at extracting information from an interview than Paula. But if she was honest, there had been a niggle of jealousy in there too. Pathetic, she chided herself.