by Val McDermid
Then three years ago, it had all come crashing down. His mum and dad had been fighting like EastEnders for months. He couldn’t figure out what the trouble was, just that they couldn’t seem to get through a day without being at each other’s throat. Finally, his dad had taken them on holiday to Florida, supposedly to patch things up. But he’d walked out of the rented villa on the third night after yet another row. His mum had said to hell with him, they were going to enjoy the rest of the holiday. They came home ten days later to find the house sold, the rooms stripped bare, the cars gone and the locks changed. He’d sold the house out from under them and taken their clothes in bin bags round to Niall’s mum’s parents’ house in Manchester.
It was breathtakingly evil. Niall had thought so at the time and he thought so still.
His mum got lawyered up, but it didn’t do her any good. It turned out that his dad’s company owned the house and everything else. On paper, his dad didn’t have a pot to piss in. And so now, neither did Niall or his useless mother.
He was amazed at his dad’s capacity for pure evil. His mother had dragged them both round to his car dealership one afternoon, trying to shame him into giving them more than the fifty quid a week he was shelling out for Niall. They’d shut Niall out of the room, leaving him with the clueless receptionist while they screamed at each other. But he could still hear every word. ‘He’s not even my kid,’ his dad had yelled at the height of the row.
His mum hadn’t said anything, but Niall heard a loud crack, like something glass being thrown at a wall. Then the door had opened and he’d seen a spider web of cracks where the big plate-glass window on to the showroom should have revealed gleaming rows of cars. ‘Come on,’ she’d said, grabbing his arm and making for the door. ‘We don’t want money off that despicable lying bastard anyway.’
Speak for yourself, Niall had thought. All the more reason for taking his money, him being a despicable lying bastard. Who the fuck did he think he was, making out that Niall’s mum was some sort of slut who’d have another man’s kid and pass it off as his? She might be a useless cow, but he knew she wasn’t a slag. Unlike his dad, who would do anything rather than put his hand in his pocket to support his wife and kid.
So thanks to him they were stuck in the shit, no way out till Niall could carve out his own possibilities. He’d keep his nose clean and turn his life around then show his dad what a man was.
But meanwhile, he was stuck in this shitty life that he hated. There was only one little flicker of light at the bottom of the mineshaft. He wanted to learn Russian because he wanted to work for some oligarch and learn how to get rich himself. Those guys didn’t give a shit whose toes they stood on. Hell, they’d break them just to pass the time. But none of the teachers at his poxy school could teach Russian. So he’d gone looking for some free Russian tuition locally. And then DD had turned up on his RigMarole page, offering to help out.
Niall didn’t know what DD stood for. Probably some Russian first name and patronymic. But DD was the real thing. He’d given Niall some basic lessons online, to make sure he was serious. And this week, they were going to meet up for the first time. They’d have their first lesson face to face, and Niall would be on the road to riches. And maybe even his own football team.
That’d show the despicable lying bastard a thing or two.
Posing the question was one thing. Finding the answer was another entirely. His difficulty was not that he was in a strange place; Tony felt paradoxically relaxed in Blythe’s home. It had the sort of tranquil, organic feel he’d have chosen himself, if he ever could have roused himself to take enough interest in his surroundings.
What bothered him was his inability to find a plausible reason for the attack on Jennifer Maidment. It was hard to imagine a personal motive against a fourteen-year-old girl that would lead to murder. If it had been a peer-group killing, it would have been a knife attack on the street or some back alley. There would almost certainly have been witnesses or, at the very least, other teenagers or family members who knew about it after the fact. But this was far too organised. Far too mature a killing method. And besides, the killer had to have had access to a vehicle. And there would have been no genital mutilation in a peer-group murder.
It was possible that Jennifer’s death was the most brutal of messages to either parent. Or both, perhaps. But on the surface, it was hard to see how the Maidments could intersect with the sort of person who would regard murdering and mutilating a teenager as a proportionate response to anything. He ran an engineering company, she was a part-time teacher of children with special needs. And again, if it was a message killing, it was a bloody strange way to go about it. The relatively peaceful death followed by the brutal mutilation. No, whatever this was about, it wasn’t about coercion or revenge or any other obvious message to the parents.
As his thoughts picked over possibilities and rejected them almost as soon as he’d developed them, he ranged through the house, moving from room to room without thinking about it, not even conscious of how at ease he was with his surroundings. When his mind finally stopped churning over, he found himself in the kitchen and realised he was hungry. He opened a couple of cupboards, looking for something to eat. There wasn’t much choice, but Tony had never considered himself a gourmet. He chose a packet of oatcakes and a tin of baked beans and sat down at the breakfast bar with a spoon and plate. Absently, he loaded the oatcakes with cold beans and ate the result with more relish than it warranted. There was something satisfying about this - he felt like Hansel and Gretel secretly exploring the witch’s cottage. Only for him there would be no witch.
Once he’d satisfied his appetite, he went back to the armchair where he’d left the paperwork and crawled through it again. He looked at the locations of the various computers used to send messages to Jennifer Maidment and vaguely recalled Ambrose saying something about hoping they could use them to narrow down a location for the killer. Tony hadn’t paid a great deal of attention because that sort of analysis wasn’t something he used himself. He trusted his own observations and his own capacity for empathy, his own experience and his own instincts. He was uncomfortable with the idea of reducing human behaviour to a set of algorithms, even though he knew it had produced startling results on occasion. He just didn’t feel comfortable with it.
But he knew a woman who did.
Fiona Cameron’s number was stored in his phone. They’d met at various conferences over the years, and she’d called him in for a second opinion on a case she’d been working in Ireland. There had been nothing he could fault her on, but he had been able to offer a couple of helpful suggestions. They’d worked well together. Like Carol, she was intelligent and diligent. Unlike Carol, she’d managed to marry a demanding professional life with a long-term relationship. Tony glanced at his watch. Just after nine. She’d probably be doing whatever it was normal people did at this time of the evening. He wondered what that might be, exactly. Finishing off dinner? Watching TV? Sorting the laundry or just sitting talking over a glass of wine? Whatever it was, she probably wouldn’t appreciate a call from him.
Knowing that had never stopped him before, and it wasn’t going to stop him now. The phone rang out. Just when he was about to give up she answered, sounding a little flustered. ‘Tony? Is that really you?’
‘Hi, Fiona. Is this a bad moment?’
‘No, not at all. I’m stuck in a hotel room in Aberdeen.’ So, not like normal people, then. Just like him. All alone and a long way from home. ‘I was just putting my room-service tray out in the hall, I nearly locked myself out. So, how are you?’
‘I’m in Worcester,’ he said, as if that was an answer. ‘Something’s come up on a case I’m working on and I wanted to ask you if you thought it was something that was susceptible to that geographic profiling program you use.’
She chuckled, the distance doing nothing to diminish the warmth in her voice. ‘Same old Tony. Absolutely no small talk.’
She had a point, he thought. But
he’d never bothered trying to pretend otherwise with a woman as acute as Fiona. ‘Yeah, well, leopards and spots, what can I say?’
‘It’s OK, I don’t mind. Anything to take my mind off the yawning tedium of the evening ahead. I daren’t leave my room. I’m doing a seminar tomorrow and there are a couple of colleagues down in the bar I would slit my wrists to avoid. So I’m very happy to have something to pass the time with. What is it?’
‘It’s the murder and mutilation of a fourteen-year-old girl. And it’s a killer who’s going to do it again if we can’t stop him. We’ve got an unidentified suspect who’s been spending time online with our victim. He uses public-access computers spread across a hundred miles or so. Mostly single use but some of them more than once. So it’s not offences, as such. Just locations that we know he’s used. Is that something you can do anything with?’
‘I’m not sure till I see it. Can you fire it over to me?’
‘I’ll have to type it in. I’ve only got a hard copy.’ And Patterson will have a nervous breakdown if I ask for an electronic copy so I can send it to someone right outside the loop.
‘Poor you. I hope it’s not too long a list.’
‘I’ll get it to you in the next hour or so.’
‘I’ll look out for it. Take care. Good to talk to you.’
He pulled out his laptop and booted up, pleased to see that Blythe’s wireless broadband appeared still to be functional. It didn’t really matter whether Fiona Cameron could help. He was doing something positive, and experience had taught him that starting down that road always freed up the part of his brain that came up with the inspired connections that made him so effective a profiler.
There was a reason why Jennifer Maidment had died the way she had. And Tony sensed he was edging closer to it.
CHAPTER 20
Paula knew she was the best interviewer on the team. But still she felt ill at ease when she was confronted with teenage girls. Her own adolescence had been so atypical, she always felt she had no common ground to build on. It was ironic, she thought. She could find a starting point to reach out to violent sex offenders, to paedophiles, to stone-hearted people traffickers. But when it came to teenage lasses, she always found herself at a loss.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have a choice. Carol Jordan had turned up at Bradfield Cross just in time to catch a harassed Casualty officer breaking the news to Mike Morrison that his wife hadn’t made it. Not surprisingly, the poor bastard looked like a lost soul. Wife and son ripped out of his life without warning, everything solid turned to mist. Thank God the chief had stepped up to the plate and taken over, sending Paula off on the thankless task of trying to elicit information from Seth Viner’s girlfriend.
Still, she couldn’t be too glum. She’d had a cup of coffee with Elinor Blessing and a promise that they’d get together soon for a bite to eat. It seemed Paula’s interest wasn’t all one way. It was such a cliché, though. Cops and doctors or nurses. They were always hooking up. It was partly because the only person who could understand the madness of your work demands was someone who had the same insanity in their own professional life. And it was partly because they were the only people you ever met who weren’t villains, victims or patients. And maybe it was also partly to do with the fact that a lot of people became cops or health professionals because they genuinely wanted to help people, so there was some semblance of common ground.
Whatever the reason, Paula hoped the affinity would work for her and Elinor. It had been a long time since she’d been in a relationship, but it had only been relatively recently that she’d even considered she’d moved far enough past her own issues for it to be a possibility.
‘Cart before the horse,’ she muttered to herself as she walked up the short path from the pavement to Lucie Jacobson’s house. A brick terrace, one grade up from the basic no-garden variety. These had a single-storey arched ginnel that ran between every other house from front garden to back yard, making them look almost like semis. The Jacobson’s house had a little porch tacked on to the front, not much bigger than a cupboard. One side of it was jammed tight with what looked in the gloom like a press of bodies. When Paula rang the bell, the light snapped on and they were revealed as nothing more sinister than coats and waterproofs, baseball caps and bike helmets. Paula held up her ID and the woman who’d appeared in the doorway nodded and opened up.
‘I’ve been expecting one of your lot,’ she said with a resigned cheerfulness Paula didn’t encounter that often. ‘You’ll have come about Seth. Come in.’ She ushered Paula into a cramped living room where everything of necessity had its place. It was as organised as the cabin of a ship, with shelves and cabinets crammed with books, videos, CDs, vinyl and box files, neatly labelled with titles like, ‘Utilities’, ‘Bank’, and ‘VATman’. An unmatched pair of sofas and a couple of chairs occupied the remaining space, facing a bulky TV attached by umbilical cables to the usual assortment of peripherals. ‘Have a seat,’ she said. ‘I’ll just get Lucie. Her brothers are out with their dad, playing basketball, so we’ll have a bit of peace and quiet. They’re twins. Sixteen. They take up a disproportionate amount of room.’ She shook her head and made for the door. ‘Lucie,’ she called. ‘There’s someone here to talk to you about Seth.’
She turned back into the room, leaning on the doorpost. ‘I’m Sarah Jacobson, by the way. I’ve already spoken to Kathy and Julia. They’re in a right state.’ She sighed and ran a hand through her short dark curls. ‘Who wouldn’t be? God, it’s hard enough getting through their teens anyway, without a nightmare like this.’ Feet thundered on stairs behind her and she stood back to let her daughter through. Lucie Jacobson had the same mop of curls, though in her case they formed a mass around her head, corkscrewing over her shoulders in an amazing cascade. Her face peeped out from her hair, narrow and sharp-featured, deep blue eyes given extra definition by wide lines of kohl along the lids. She was striking, not pretty, but Paula suspected she might grow into a beauty. Black jeans and black T-shirt completed the nice middle-class version of the junior Goth look.
‘Is there any news?’ she demanded, glaring at Paula as if she were personally responsible for Seth’s disappearance.
‘I’m sorry. There’s been no sign of Seth.’ Paula stood up. ‘I’m Paula McIntyre, Detective Constable. I’m one of the team assigned to find him.’
‘Just a constable? Are you important enough to be doing this? Because it’s really important that somebody finds Seth,’ Lucie said, coming in and throwing herself into a sofa opposite Paula.
‘Lucie, for God’s sake,’ her mother said. ‘Nobody’s impressed.’ She glanced at Paula. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘Not for me, thanks.’
Sarah Jacobson nodded. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.’ She gave her daughter a hard stare. ‘I’m leaving you alone with Ms McIntyre so you can say what you need to say without being worried about what I think. OK?’ And she left them to it.
‘Like I’m worried about what she thinks about anything.’
‘Course you’re not. You’re a teenager,’ Paula said drily. She made an instant decision not to treat this one with kid gloves. ‘And here’s the thing. I really couldn’t give a shit about anything right now except finding Seth. So whatever little secrets you’ve got up your sleeve that you think might get either of you into trouble? It’s time to tell. If you help us find Seth, your grubby sins and transgressions are going to be forgotten. I don’t care about drugs, or drinking or shagging, OK? I just want to know what you know that might help us find Seth.’ She met Lucie’s defiant gaze and stared her down. ‘Whatever the two of you have got up to, you can bet I have heard it, seen it or done it before.’
Lucie sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Like that’s got anything to do with anything. There’s nothing we do that’s remotely got to do with Seth not being here, OK? Me and him, we’re cool. What you need to know is that yes, Seth does have a secret.’
Paula tried not to show how much of her attention
Lucie had grabbed. ‘And you know what it is?’
‘Course I do. He’s mine and I’m his.’
‘So, what is this secret?’
Lucie looked her up and down, as if making a decision. ‘You a lesbian, then? Like Seth’s mums?’
‘To quote you, “Like that’s got anything to do with anything, ”’ Paula parried.
‘So you are, then.’ Lucie smiled as if she’d scored a point. ‘That’s cool. We don’t trust people that totally buy into the system,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t trust you if you weren’t a lesbian. You need something to offset the whole cop thing.’
Paula so wanted to say, ‘Whatever,’ in that totally teenage way but she restrained herself. ‘You need to be telling me Seth’s secret.’
Lucie squirmed into the soft cushions. ‘It’s no big. Really.’
‘So tell me.’
‘He’s been writing songs. Mostly lyrics, but some of them, the whole thing. Music and everything.’
It seemed a strange thing to be ashamed of. ‘And that was a secret?’
‘Well, yeah. I mean, it’s just one step away from writing poetry, for God’s sake. And how lame would that be?’
‘OK. So, had he played his songs to anybody? Or shown them the lyrics?’
‘Well, duh. Obviously, he showed me. But see, that’s what all this might be about. Because, like on Rig—You know about Rig, right?’
‘RigMarole? I know about Rig, yeah.’
‘Well, on Rig, there was this dude and he was like, with Seth, “I know your dirty little secret,” and Seth was really freaked. So they got into a sidebar and Seth is like, “How did you know about my songs?” and the dude goes, “You need to be more careful what you leave lying around.” So obviously Seth had dropped one or something and this dude had picked it up and he only works in the music business.’