by Val McDermid
He met her eyes with a level gaze. ‘How did you know this stuff?’ she said.
‘I know it because it matches what happened to Jennifer Maidment. Except in her case, it was her vagina that was excised. Her vagina, please note. Not her clitoris. And this is what I mean about gender being immaterial. Because this is not sexual homicide.’
Carol felt herself floundering. Everything she knew about serial murder pointed to these killings having a sexual basis. It was the very assumption he’d taught her. Even if she couldn’t fathom what the sexual kick was, it was there. ‘How can you say that? Genital mutilation - isn’t that always sexual in some respect?’
Tony scratched his head. ‘Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, you’d be right. But I think this is the weird one. The one that blows all the profiling out of the water because it doesn’t follow the probabilities.’ He jumped to his feet and started pacing. ‘There’s three reasons why I’m saying this, Carol. He doesn’t spend long enough with them—’
‘I noticed that,’ she said. ‘It didn’t make sense to me either. Why go to all the trouble to groom them, then kill them almost at once?’
‘Exactly!’ He pounced on the idea, turning on his heel and slamming the flat of his hand on her desk. ‘Where’s the pleasure in that? The second thing is that there’s no evidence of any sort of sexual assault. No sperm, no anal trauma. I take it that’s the same with Seth and Daniel?’
Carol nodded. ‘Nothing.’ It dawned on her that she had been seduced by his argument in spite of her best intentions. Because, in a horrible way, it made sense. ‘You said there were three reasons.’
‘He’s saying, it ends here. You’re not just dead. You’re the end of the line. Whoever it is they remind him of, he wants to wipe that person off the face of the planet.’
His words sent a shiver through her. ‘That is harsh,’ she said. ‘So cold.’
‘I know. But it makes sense in a way that nothing else does.’
In spite of everything, Carol felt a fizz of delight. These were the moments she lived for in this job. Those dazzling moments when the tumblers of the lock lined up and the door to understanding swung open. How could you not love that feeling, when the impenetrable suddenly yielded? She smiled at him, grateful for his insight and for the patient endurance he brought to their work. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I owe you an apology. I’ve never known you to be petty, I don’t know why I imagined Tim Parker could have provoked it in you.’
Tony smiled back at her. ‘Parker’s history. Whatever Blake says, this is my case now. Worcester has precedence.’ He took Stuart Patterson’s card from his jacket pocket. ‘This is the guy you need to speak to.’
Carol took the card. ‘There’s someone else I need to speak to first.’ Her smile took on a grim edge. ‘And believe me, I’m going to enjoy it.’
CHAPTER 31
Among the tight-knit fraternity of illegal egg collectors, Derek Barton had a reputation for always delivering what he had promised. It allowed him to charge top dollar, since his customers knew they could rely on the quality of his wares. That Sunday, he was looking forward to a good harvest. He’d been staking out the nest on the Forestry Commission land for a while now and he reckoned this Sunday was the time to strike. Peregrine falcon eggs were always in demand and they commanded a good price. It was always a challenge to get to the nests, but more than worth it.
Barton packed his rucksack carefully. Spikes to hammer into the trunk of the tall pine so he could climb it easily. Rubber hammer to deaden the sound. Helmet and safety goggles to protect him from the birds themselves. And the plastic boxes filled with cotton wool for his prizes.
He took his time driving out of Manchester, choosing a sequence of back roads to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Ever since he’d been nicked a couple of years back, he’d been cautious when he went out on the hunt. That time, he’d been followed by an RSPB warden and they’d caught him red-handed with a pair of red kite eggs. The fine had been bad enough, but what galled him was having a criminal record. All for doing what men had been doing for hundreds of years. Where did they think all those birds’ eggs in museums came from? They weren’t plastic replicas. They were the real thing, eggs collected by devotees like him.
Once he was sure he wasn’t being followed, he turned on to the road that curled round the Stonegait reservoir. As usual, there wasn’t another vehicle to be seen. Now the new valley road had been built, there was no reason to come this way unless you were planning to hike one of the forestry roads. Given how many spectacular paths there were around here, hardly anyone chose a walk through tall dense stands of pine with no view and nothing much in the way of interesting flora or fauna. Barton was pretty sure he’d have the place to himself.
It was a grand day for it, the sun dancing on the water like a mirrorball. Barely a breath of wind, which was a distinct advantage if you were planning to climb a bloody big pine tree. Barton slowed as he rounded the last bend, checking there was nobody else about. Convinced he was in the clear, he pulled off the road a couple of hundred yards from the start of the forestry road. He backed up a little so that the vegetation on the verge obscured his number plate. It wouldn’t stop anyone who was serious about checking him out, but it kept him safe from casual passers-by. Then he grabbed his backpack and set off at a brisk walk.
As Barton turned into the forestry track, he looked back over his shoulder to check again that he was alone. Taking his eyes off where he was going turned out to have been a bad mistake. He tripped over something, stumbling into a half crouch. He collected himself and looked down at what had caught his foot.
Derek Barton prided himself on being tough. But this was well outside what he was capable of taking in his stride. He cried out, staggering backwards. The hideous image seemed to sear itself in his brain, still as vivid even after he covered his eyes with his hands.
He pivoted on the balls of his feet and sprinted for the safety of his car. His tyres screamed as he dragged his car through a five-point U-turn. He was five miles down the road when it dawned on him that he couldn’t just ignore what he’d seen. He pulled into the next lay-by and sat with his head on the steering wheel, his breathing shallow and his hands shaking. He daren’t use his mobile, he was sure the police would be able to trace it. Then he’d be in the frame for . . . that. He shuddered. The image flashed behind his eyes again. He barely got out of the car in time before his stomach emptied in a long hot spew that splattered his boots and trousers.
‘Get a fucking grip,’ he told himself in a shaky voice. He’d have to find a payphone. A payphone a long way away from where he lived. Barton wiped his mouth and collapsed back into the car. A payphone and then a very big drink.
For once, Derek Barton was quite happy to let a customer down.
It hadn’t been easy, but Tony had persuaded Carol to leave Tim Parker to him. Tony left her in her office and crossed the squad room to where Tim sat, face set stubborn as a jammed door. As soon as Tony was close enough, Tim spoke savagely but quietly. ‘You’re got no right to barge in here. This is my case. You’ve got no standing here. You’re not a police officer, you’re not an official consultant. You shouldn’t even be in this room.’
‘Are you done?’ Tony said, his tone somewhere between condescension and sympathy. He pulled up a chair and set Tim’s profile down ostentatiously on the desk between them.
Tim snatched the profile. ‘How dare . . . That’s confidential. It’s a breach of official protocol, showing that to someone who’s not an accredited member of the investigative team. And you’re not. If I report this, you and DCI Jordan are going to be in deep shit.’
Tony’s smile was pitying, the shake of his head sorrowful. ‘Tim, Tim, Tim,’ he said sweetly. ‘You don’t get it, do you? The only person round here heading for deep shit is you.’ He leaned over and patted Tim’s arm. ‘I understand how scary your first live case is. The knowledge that more people are going to die if you and your team don’t get it right. S
o you play safe. You stick to what you think you know and don’t take chances. I get that.’
‘I stand by my profile,’ he said, his jaw jutting but his eyes frightened.
‘That would be a very silly thing to do,’ Tony said. ‘Given that it’s wrong in pretty much every respect except the probable age range.’
‘You can’t know that unless Carol Jordan has given you confidential information,’ Tim said. ‘She’s not God around here, you know. There are people she has to answer to and I’ll make sure they know how she’s tried to undermine me.’
He couldn’t have known he was sticking his head into the lion’s jaws by threatening Carol so directly. Tony’s mood shifted from amused willingness to help to cold anger. ‘Don’t be a prat. The reason I know you’re wrong is not because DCI Jordan shared information with me. The reason I know is because Daniel Morrison isn’t the first victim.’ He didn’t like himself for it, but he enjoyed the look of shock on Tim’s face.
‘What do you mean?’ Now he looked scared. Wondering, Tony thought, what he’d missed and how he’d missed it.
Tony fished around in the plastic carrier bag he’d brought with him. He pulled out a copy of his Jennifer Maidment profile. ‘I’m not trying to screw you over, Tim. At least, not unless you think it’s clever to go after Carol Jordan.’ He gave him a long, level stare. ‘You do that, and I will make sure you spend the rest of your career regretting it.’ He stopped abruptly, frowned and shook his head. ‘No, that won’t be nearly long enough for you to suffer . . .’ He placed the papers in front of Tim. ‘This is my profile of a case I’ve been working down in Worcester. If you look at the last page, you’ll see ten key points. Compare them to what you’ve got here, revise your profile to include some of them. Submit it to DCI Jordan and bugger off back to the faculty before anybody asks you any hard questions.’
Tim looked suspicious. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Why am I not routinely shafting you, do you mean?’
A long pause. ‘Something like that.’
‘Because you’re the future. I can’t stop James Blake and his kind choosing cheap over good. What I can do is try to make cheap better. So go back to the faculty and think about this case and learn something from it.’ Tony stood up. ‘You’ve got a long way to go, Tim, but you’re not completely useless. Go away and get better. Because next time, chances are I won’t be here to hold your hand. And you don’t want to have to live with the knowledge that people have died because you couldn’t be arsed to learn how to do a proper job.’ Tony’s eyes narrowed in remembered pain. ‘Believe me, you don’t want to do that.’
According to Kevin, who was always plugged into gossip central, Blake hadn’t moved his family up from Devon yet. Both of his teenage daughters were on the verge of key exams and his wife had categorically refused to allow them to move schools before the end of the academic year. ‘We’re paying his rent till they come up here in the summer,’ Kevin had said when Carol called her.
‘I bet it’s not a bedsit in Temple Fields,’ Carol said drily.
‘It’s one of those converted warehouse jobs that overlooks the canal.’
A moment of nostalgia grabbed Carol. She’d shared one of those lofts with her brother when she’d first moved to Bradfield. It felt like a past-life experience now. She wondered what it would be like to live somewhere like that again. She had tenants in her Barbican flat in London, but their lease would be up soon. She could sell that at a tidy profit, even with the state of the housing market right now. That would give her more than enough to afford a warehouse flat by herself. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got an address?’
It had taken Kevin seven minutes to get back to her with Blake’s address. Carol had his mobile number, but this was one conversation she wanted to have face to face. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door, noting that Tony had left but Tim Parker was still there, looking faintly flushed. She wondered what had passed between them. ‘Ma’am,’ he called out plaintively. ‘We need to talk about my profile.’
His self-confidence was unshakeable, she thought. He’d seen Tony arrive, he’d seen them closeted together, and he’d had to listen to whatever piece of his mind Tony had chosen to give him. At no point had they asked him to contribute to their discussion. And still he didn’t get it. ‘No, we don’t,’ Carol said as she opened the door. ‘They’ve got the football on in the canteen.’
Blake’s flat wasn’t far. She’d be quicker walking, Carol decided, enjoying the afternoon sun warming the brick of the tall mills and warehouses that lined the old Duke of Waterford canal. It reflected off the high windows, making them look like black panels set against the weathered red and ox-blood bricks. She turned into his building, running up worn stone steps that led into an ornate Victorian lobby. Anyone would think this had been a merchant bank or a town hall rather than a warehouse for woven woollen fabrics, she thought, taking in the marble and elaborate tilework.
Unlike most of the flat conversions, this building actually had a doorman in a discreet dark suit rather than an intercom. ‘How can I help you?’ he said as she approached.
‘I’m here to see James Blake.’
‘Is he expecting you?’ He ran a finger down a ledger open in front of him.
‘No, but I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see me.’ Carol gave him a challenging stare. It had defeated stronger men than him.
‘I’ll just call him,’ he said. ‘Who shall I say it is?’
‘Carol Jordan. Detective Chief Inspector Carol Jordan.’ Now she could afford the charming smile.
‘Mr Blake? I have Carol Jordan here to see you . . . Yes . . . Fine, I’ll send her up.’ He put the phone down and ushered her towards the lifts. When the door opened, he reached past her and pressed the button for the top floor. Before she could enter, her phone rang.
She held up one finger. ‘Sorry. I have to take this.’ She stepped away from him and answered the call. ‘Kevin,’ she said. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Looks like we’ve found Niall.’ The heaviness of his voice told her the lad hadn’t shown up at his mother’s flat with an unrepentant grin.
‘Where?’
‘Between Bradfield and Manchester, on a forestry road by the big Stonegait reservoir.’
‘Who found him?’
‘We don’t know. It was an anonymous tip on the triple niner. From a phone box in Rochdale. I went over with a team from Southern. We found him right away. Looks like he’s been there a few hours. The wildlife’s been snacking. It’s not pretty.’
‘Same MO?’
‘Identical. This is number three, no doubt in my mind.’
Carol massaged her scalp, feeling a dull headache beginning at the base of her skull. ‘OK. Stay with it. I’m about to talk to Blake. Tony had some interesting stuff to say. Is Sam still at the mother’s?’
‘I think so. Stacey too. Not that she’s the one you’d choose for the death knock.’
‘Get an FLO round there from Southern to liaise with Sam. I’ll be back at the office once I’ve talked to Blake. This is a nightmare,’ she sighed. ‘Those poor bloody kids.’
‘He’s on a tear,’ Kevin said. ‘He’s hardly pausing for breath now. Just culling them.’ His voice cracked. ‘How’s he doing it? What kind of animal is he?’
‘He’s managing to do it so fast because he’s got them groomed and prepped already,’ Carol said. ‘And because he doesn’t spend time with them once he’s taken them. We’re going to get him, Kevin. We can do this.’ She tried to project a confidence she didn’t feel.
‘If you say so.’ His voice dragged. ‘Talk to you later.’
Carol closed her phone and leaned her forehead against a marble pillar for a moment before she gathered herself together and headed back to the patient doorman and the lift.
Blake was waiting by the doors when she emerged. She suspected he was wearing what passed for casual in his wardrobe - an open-necked Tattersall check shirt tucked into fawn twill slacks, leathe
r slippers on his feet. She wondered what the other tenants made of someone so lacking in what passed for cool in these parts. ‘DCI Jordan,’ he said, his voice and expression equally sour. Not delighted, then.
‘They’ve just found Niall Quantick,’ she said.
He jumped on her words with hope. ‘Alive?’
‘No. It looks like the same killer.’
Blake shook his head gravely. ‘You’d better come in. My wife’s here, by the way.’ He turned and made for one of the four doors on the landing.
Carol hung back. ‘I didn’t come here to tell you about Niall. I’ve only just heard about that. Sir, we’ve got a complicated situation here and I need you to sit down and listen to me with an open mind. Talking about it in front of your wife is probably not an option.’
He glared at her over his shoulder. ‘You want me to come into the office?’
Before she could reply, the door ahead of him opened to reveal a trim woman in a uniform Carol recognised. Caramel cashmere sweater, single strand of pearls, tailored trousers, kitten heels and immaculately waved hair. Her mother had friends who looked like this, who read the Telegraph and had thought Tony Blair a jolly nice young man at the outset of his premiership. ‘James?’ she said. ‘Is everything all right?’
Blake introduced them, the veneer of politeness kicking in automatically. Carol was aware of Moira Blake’s scrutiny and classification as her husband spoke. ‘I’m afraid DCI Jordan has something that won’t wait till tomorrow, my dear.’
Moira inclined her head slightly. ‘I imagine she’d rather talk to you alone, James.’ She stepped to one side and waved Carol into the apartment. ‘If you’ll give me a moment to get my coat, I’ll take myself off for an exploration of the neighbourhood. I’m sure there are many little gems my husband hasn’t discovered yet.’ She disappeared behind a Japanese screen that separated the sleeping area from the main living space, leaving Blake and Carol to exchange awkward, hangdog looks. Moira returned with the inevitable camel coat over her arm and kissed her husband on the cheek. ‘Call me when you’re free,’ she said.