by Val McDermid
‘I know you don’t need me to hold your hand,’ he said, the gentleness in his voice almost as infuriating as if he’d offered to do the opposite of what he’d said. ‘And I have my own work to get back to. But you told Brandon back there that you wanted me on your team. If I’m going to risk my reputation on this mad enterprise, the least you owe me is the chance to help you shape it. Don’t you think?’
He was, she had to admit, a clever bastard. By making it about him and not her, he’d left her nowhere to go. She poured two cups of coffee and sat down facing him. ‘OK. What’s your T and Cs?’
That familiar frown of bewilderment that she had learned was not always to be taken at face value. ‘T and Cs?’
‘Terms and conditions.’
Enlightenment spread across his face. ‘Well, I do already have a job and I’m supposed to be writing a book.’
‘Your job at Bradfield Moor is only part-time, though. You’ve always managed to squeeze in police work before.’
He pulled a face. ‘I am the man with no life.’
Carol rolled her eyes. ‘Poor, poor pitiful me.’
‘I didn’t know you were a Warren Zevon fan.’
She groaned. ‘Linda Ronstadt. All I’m saying is that I know we can’t have you full-time, and that’s fine. We’ve always made it work before and we’ll make it work again. It’s better for the budget, anyway.’
Tony recoiled in mock-horror. ‘Oh my God! You’re channelling James Blake.’
‘Ha. As if.’
‘So who else do you have in mind for this crack team?’
He’d been right, as usual. The very act of talking about it, figuring out the practicalities, was releasing some of the tension that had been creeping up her neck and into her scalp. ‘Paula, obviously. And Stacey, because she’s wasted anywhere outside an MIT. Then there’s Kevin.’
‘He’s just retired, hasn’t he? Didn’t I get invited to his retirement do?’
‘He’s got his thirty in and yes, he’s off. But I think I might persuade him back. I’ve got a little something up my sleeve to run past Brandon in the morning.’
‘Very intriguing.’
‘You’ll find out soon enough. Do you think Alvin Ambrose would be interested in moving up here?’
Ambrose, a tenacious and talented detective sergeant from West Mercia, had worked with Carol’s team a couple of times before when their paths had crossed. He’d impressed her with his reliability and his resourcefulness. And Tony, she thought, had almost made a friend.
‘He was pretty pleased when he thought you might be heading for West Mercia,’ Tony admitted. ‘He’d be a good man to have on the team. And he gets on well with Paula.’
‘I’m going to ask for him anyway. I think he might be up for something a bit more demanding than a couple of murders a year. And that’s pretty much as far as I’ve got right now. I’ll need one or two DCs, but they can wait. Paula mentioned a lad she’s got under her at Skenfrith Street, Hussain?’
Tony shook his head. ‘No idea. Don’t know whether I’ve met him. What about Sam Evans? He’s still a DC, isn’t he?’
Carol shook her head, her mouth a thin line. ‘I’m not having Sam.’
‘He’s a good digger.’
‘Yeah, but he’s too fond of digging in places where he’s got no business. I don’t trust him, Tony. A small, tight team like this? There’ll be enough people on the outside ready to stab us in the back without having someone on the inside with a stiletto up his sleeve.’
‘I’m not sure you’re right.’ He held up a hand to make her pause. ‘I know he’s not trustworthy. But the thing about Sam is that he’s all about Sam. And a place on a team like this, the first standalone MIT, that’s his ticket to the stars. He wouldn’t put that at risk.’
‘He’d do it in a heartbeat if it meant he came out of it smelling of roses. He’d be the man who shot Liberty Valance. Except of course, I’d be John Wayne, shooting myself in the foot for taking him on in the first place.’
Tony frowned, working his way through her tortured metaphor. ‘If you say so. But it’s going to be hard on Stacey.’
Carol glowered defiance at him. ‘Stacey’s a big girl. She loves what she does. She won’t pass up a chance like this just because her boyfriend’s sulking.’ Tony looked sceptical. ‘I’m telling you, Tony. Stacey loves data more than she could ever love a human being.’
He shrugged, his face keeping his thoughts to himself. ‘It’s your team. And it sounds to me like you’ve got the makings of a good one.’
‘So can I take it you’re in?’
‘Did I not make that clear? Of course I’m in. I love my clinical work, don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing more satisfying than helping somebody mend the bits that are broken inside. But profiling is something else. It stretches me. It makes demands of me. It forces me to look at everything I know from a different angle. It meets a need in me I didn’t even know was there until I started doing it.’ He cleared his throat, as if overtaken by embarrassment. She had never heard him speak so eloquently about the work he did for law enforcement. Generally he spoke only of the mechanics of what he did, not what it meant to him. Hearing him talk like this made sense of the way he worked. She’d met other profilers, men whose egos swamped the investigation they were supposed to be helping. And others whose profiles were so hedged about with qualification that they were worse than useless. But Tony brought a humility to the process that meant he was always open to possibilities that others might never consider. It wasn’t that he lacked certainty or conviction. More that he was flexible.
‘Good,’ she said.
‘So how do we get started?’
‘I think a little practice run would be good for us. So we might as well carry on with these internet trolling cases.’
He shook his head, bemused. ‘That was… I don’t know, something for us to play around with. There’s no real evidence of anything suspicious.’
‘Except that we are trained to have suspicious minds, and something rang a bell for you. Look, we need time and experience to bed down together. And I don’t think we should be doing that on a live case with the eyes of the media on us. This is perfect practice.’ She ran her fingers through her hair, tugging at strands, pulling it one way then another. ‘And Christ knows when I’m going to have time to get a proper haircut. He’ll want to blow the trumpet about this, Brandon will. And I can’t hold a press conference looking like this.’
‘You look fine to me,’ Tony said. From another man it would have been gallantry. From Tony, she suspected it was surprise that she looked anything out of the ordinary.
Carol rolled her eyes again. ‘Would you even notice if I dyed it pink? This is one area where I rate your observational skills at zero, Tony. Trust me, I need a haircut.’ She pulled her phone out. ‘I wonder if Wendy still remembers how I used to like it? Maybe she could fit me in on Saturday… And I’ll need to take a pile of stuff to the dry-cleaner’s.’ She looked at him brightly, as if something had occurred to her as she spoke. ‘You could do that for me on your way home. There’s that dry-cleaner on the way into Bradfield, the one that used to be a petrol station. You know where I mean? Right after the Morden roundabout?’
‘You’re determined to get rid of me.’
She couldn’t deny it. ‘You were here for me when I needed it,’ she said. ‘I’ve not had a drink since Saturday night. I’m over the worst and now I need to be able to trust myself. I need to prepare for tomorrow. It’s been a long time and now I need to get my copper’s head back on.’ Carol did her best to sound apologetic. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But she knew she had a rough night ahead; the desire for a drink would grow as her fears loomed larger in the small hours. She didn’t want him to see her like that. She didn’t want pity from him. She cupped a hand round his. ‘I want to sleep in my own bed, Tony. I need to reclaim my own space.’
That did the trick. She could see in his eyes that it made sense to him. He dipped his h
ead. ‘OK.’ His smile was pained but it was a smile. He stood up, almost tripping over the dog. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m glad you said yes to Brandon. You’re not a builder, Carol. You’re a detective. It’s time to go back to what you do best.’
25
After Tony left with the dry-cleaning, time slowed to a dull trickle. Carol laid out a suit for the morning – dark navy wool mix that didn’t crease and didn’t create showers of static sparks. She’d realised in preparing herself for court that quite a few of her more tailored jackets weren’t going to fit her new shape, with its broader shoulders and more muscular arms. There would have to be shopping on a serious scale. She stifled a sigh and made a note to arrange a raid on the outlet mall with Elinor. Paula’s partner had a better sense of style than any of them; with her dramatic fall of black hair, her pale skin and her wiry slenderness, she carried off clothes better than most, but she was always happy to share her discriminating eye. Carol added a rich fuchsia shirt to the pile then swapped it for kingfisher blue, then a vibrant scarlet. Then back to the first one. She recognised an unfamiliar indecision and scolded herself under her breath.
But once she’d settled the matter of her wardrobe, she found herself at a loss. How exactly did you prepare for a return to work? Being a cop wasn’t a job like any other. It wasn’t like working for an advertising agency, where you could check out what the opposition were doing; or the oil industry, where you could familiarise yourself with new processes; or teaching, where there was always some new aspect to the organisation of the curriculum. Yes, there might be some advances in forensic techniques, but she wasn’t going to find those out till she was in the thick of an investigation that needed them. Other than that, it was business as usual. Dig out information, make connections, develop a theory of suspicion, arrange the available evidence to support or destroy the theory, make an arrest and interview the suspects till one of them turned into a perpetrator.
There was, of course, the case of the questionable suicides to think about. But that was making bricks without straw. She needed more information before any of them could take the matter any further. Probably it was nothing, and she’d have plenty of real cases soon enough. The best she could do right now was to clear her head.
‘Come on, Flash,’ she said, stuffing her feet into her walking boots and pulling on her waxed jacket. Some sunshine brightened the moor, though it was struggling now with a thin layer of cloud drifting in from the west. A light breeze coursed up the valley, enough to freshen without chilling. Perfect weather to be out on the hill. Woman and dog climbed the moorland on a long diagonal that eventually brought them to the top of the ridge, the dog coursing back and forth, covering four times the ground Carol had.
Halfway along the ridge, she caught sight of movement below. It soon resolved itself into George Nicholas and Jess, Flash’s mother. So much had happened since he’d turned up at the barn the day before; it felt like far more time had passed. Today, she had nothing to hide. It was probably time to build some bridges after Tony’s odd intervention. So she gave a civilised wave in his direction.
George returned the gesture and altered the line of his approach so he would cross her path. He was breathing a little heavily when he reached her, but there was nothing strained about his smile. ‘Your friend Tony didn’t fancy a walk, then?’
‘He’s gone back to Bradfield. Actually, he does do quite a lot of walking, but mostly in the city. He says it helps him think. That and video games.’ She shook her head with an indulgent smile, recalling her own reluctant entry into that world and the shock of its attraction.
George fell into step with her and together they began a meandering descent towards the barn. ‘I hear you had a bit of a brush with the law,’ he said with an air of nonchalance.
‘News travels fast.’
Most people would have been put off by her repressive tone, but George had been to boarding school; he was tougher than he looked. ‘There’s so little genuine news in the valley that we have to fall on what we have like vultures. Did you think people wouldn’t get to hear about it?’
Carol exhaled sharply. ‘There’s nothing to hear. I was stopped driving home, the breathalyser was faulty, case dismissed. Hard to think of anything more dull.’
‘Except that you had been drinking.’
She smiled, but in a way that would have made her junior officers find something urgent elsewhere that needed their attention. ‘Within the limits of the law.’
George’s eyebrows jerked upwards. ‘I’d have thought rather more than that.’
‘What? You count your guests’ drinks? How very bourgeois, George. I wouldn’t have expected that of you.’ Her tone was light but her eyes were dark with suppressed anger.
‘No, of course not. One notices, that’s all. Especially if they’re going to be driving. One wouldn’t want anything on one’s conscience. If anything were to happen.’
A frosty look. ‘Well, George, your conscience is clear. In the eyes of the law, no offence has been committed. More than that, I’m about to go back into harness.’
‘You’re going back to the police? But I thought you’d resigned?’
Carol picked up a stick and threw it as far as she could. The two dogs flashed over the yellow moorland grasses in pursuit. ‘I did. But they’ve come to me with an offer I can’t refuse, so I’m going back.’
‘To your old job?’
The dogs were performing a tug of war with the stick, pulling each other in circles, their play-growls filling the silence. ‘Not quite,’ Carol said. ‘The same sort of thing but with a much wider remit. And a different line of command.’
‘What about the dog? How will you manage Flash? She won’t like being left alone all day.’
Carol hadn’t given it much thought. But she’d always been good at making things up on the hoof. ‘I’ll take her with me. She can come into the office. That’s the advantage of being your own boss.’
George looked a little bleak at her response. ‘I see. Well, if you ever need any dog-sitting, you can always bring her round to mine. As you can probably tell, Jess is always happy to see her.’
‘Thanks. I may have to take you up on that.’
‘You’d be very welcome.’ They’d reached the path that ran along the side of the hill close to the bottom. The natural order of things would be for George to turn right towards his house, and for Carol to go left to the barn. He looked hopefully towards the barn, the nearer of the two. But Carol wasn’t playing.
‘I’d better get home,’ she said. ‘Lots of preparations to make for tomorrow.’
‘You’re starting work already?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve made the decision. No point in hanging about. I’ll see you around, George. The barn’s close to being finished, I’ll probably have some people round for drinks to celebrate. So I’ll see you then, if not before.’
He looked shocked. She understood why. In one brief exchange, she’d robbed him. No more morning hikes up the hill with the dogs, no more casual chats about the weather and their history and the neighbours. Carol wondered whether she’d allowed him to harbour false hopes about where their friendship might go and felt a moment of guilt. But not enough to change her mind or her plans. She sketched a little wave then turned away. A hundred yards on, she could still feel his eyes on her and she glanced back.
George was where she’d left him, crouched beside his dog, hand in its ruff, his gaze fixed on her. Carol kept going, heading for home, not doubting her choice, but wondering whether she could ever steer herself into a position where she could have what she actually wanted.
The answer, as it always was when she asked herself such questions, was Tony. In all its fucked-up combative glory, that was the place where she felt most herself.
Carol let herself into the barn, taking her mind off men by returning to thoughts of her wardrobe. She should try on that blouse, make sure it still fitted. Five minutes later, she had discovered that none of the three did her an
y favours. Swearing loudly, she pulled on her sweater again. At least it was Wednesday. Late-night shopping at the Bradfield outlet mall. She had time enough to find something that made her look like a copper, not a bra advert.
She went through to the kitchen and reached for the Land Rover keys. The hook was empty. She tutted. Bloody Tony had walked off with the keys in a typical moment of inattention. Thankfully, there was a spare set in the cutlery drawer.
Except that there wasn’t. She searched through every compartment and came up empty. Then it dawned on her. He’d been afraid she would crack and go out to buy drink. So he’d made it impossible. ‘You bastard,’ she yelled pointlessly.
If Tony Hill was the answer, she had to be asking the wrong question.
Carol wasn’t the only one who had been reconstructing their world recently. Thanks to circumstances beyond anyone’s control, Tony was living on a fifty-foot narrowboat in the Minster Canal Basin in the heart of Bradfield, a vessel he’d inherited from the father he’d never known. He’d surprised himself at how easy it had been to adapt to such confined living. He’d always been one of life’s clutterers, every surface piled with books and papers and game boxes and journals, with the occasional dirty coffee cup hemmed inaccessibly in the middle of the stacks. But when every inch of space had to earn its keep, that kind of messiness made life impossible. It had taken him a long time to get there, but finally he understood that chaos did indeed expand to fill the room available.
And so his world aboard had become neat and ordered. Things were put away after use; nothing was admitted to Steeler unless its presence could be justified. He wasn’t entirely a reformed character – his office in Bradfield Moor secure mental hospital was as untidy as it had ever been, presenting a bipolar contrast between the area where he worked and the section of the room where he talked to patients, a corner containing a pair of comfortable armchairs separated from the anarchy by a pretty Japanese screen.