Splinter the Silence (Tony Hill)

by Val McDermid

  He shifted his considerable bulk on the tiny stool and, with a slight shudder, slid another maggot on the hook and cast the line. He didn’t often encounter maggots at work; West Mercia wasn’t exactly overloaded with murder scenes. But he’d come across them enough to have no love for them, in spite of their forensic usefulness. The heat and smell given off by maggot masses chomping their way through a corpse would turn the strongest of stomachs.

  Ambrose sighed and looked down the bank. Two hundred yards away, another man sat hunched over a rod and line. He’d looked suspiciously at Ambrose as he’d walked past, offering no response to the sergeant’s cheerful greeting. That was another thing. He was accustomed to being the only black man in the room a lot of the time – in the pub, in the CID, in the courtroom – although it was getting better with every passing year. But in all those other places, people acknowledged him. He’d never seen another black man fishing by a canal, and he’d never come across another angler who was willing to exchange more than the most basic of greetings. His wife tried to convince him that it was because angling was such a solitary pursuit. But she hadn’t succeeded. So the pastime that was supposed to make him relax and feel calmer had turned him into a frustrated misfit.

  His phone vibrated, breaking into his mood. If he was lucky, it might be work. Something interesting to get his teeth into. ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ he grumbled to himself, standing up so he could wrestle his phone out of the pocket of jeans that were always tight on his muscular thighs. ‘No caller ID,’ the screen read. Almost definitely work, then. ‘Ambrose,’ he said, punching authority into his tone.

  ‘Alvin? This is Carol Jordan. Remember me?’

  As if he could forget. Carol Jordan, the woman who had plunged him into the most demanding investigations of his career. A woman who could eviscerate you with a look, but also fill you with pride and self-confidence when her smile reached her eyes. ‘Ex-DCI Jordan,’ he said. ‘This is a surprise.’

  ‘Almost right,’ she said, a bubble of laughter under the words. ‘It’s not ex any more. I’m back in harness and I’m building a team, Alvin.’

  His heart leapt but he told himself to hold back. She’d disappointed him once before, when she’d accepted a job that would have made her his boss then shocked everyone by walking away from the whole business of being a cop. He’d heard she’d had some kind of breakdown. Once bitten, Alvin. ‘Back in harness?’

  ‘I’ve been tempted back by the kind of offer you can’t refuse. I’m going to be running a free-standing MIT that will cover six forces here in the North. We’ll be the visiting firemen with back-up from the locals. It’s a new initiative. We could be the future, Alvin. And I want you on my team.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’m used to how we do things down here.’

  Carol chuckled. ‘You were keen enough for me to come down there and shake things up a bit. Come on, Alvin, you know you’re wasted in the depths of Worcestershire. Come and join me where the action is.’

  ‘Who else is on the team?’

  ‘Paula – DS McIntyre. You know her, best interviewer in the business. And Stacey Chen, the queen of digital forensics. Tony Hill, of course. I’m trying to persuade Kevin Matthews to come out of retirement to be my DI. And we’ll have a couple of DCs. And maybe another sergeant to do the logistics.’

  ‘Where will you be based?’

  Carol listed the six force areas they’d be covering. ‘But our home base will be Bradfield. It’s going to take you away from the family to start with, I appreciate that. But if it works out, there’s plenty of good places to bring up kids around here. What do you say, Alvin? What’s it to be? Stick with the rut or reach for the stars?’

  God, but she was persuasive. He could see why Tony Hill was trapped in her orbit like a captive moon. ‘When is this thing getting off the ground?’

  ‘We start Monday.’

  ‘This Monday?’

  ‘No time like the present. John Brandon, my old chief constable, is running the Home Office liaison. He’ll arrange your transfer.’

  ‘You don’t hang around.’

  ‘No. Ideally, I’d like you here in Bradfield tomorrow. We need to get our skills up to speed and I’m running a little exercise for us.’

  ‘Tomorrow? That’s… that’s…’

  ‘Eminently possible. You’ve got an afternoon to clear your desk and sort out your caseload. If you say yes, your DCI will get the message before you’ve found a box to empty your drawers into. I promise nobody will stand in your way.’

  He had a strange feeling that was a promise she could keep. Carol Jordan had always had a handle on how the levers of power worked. He didn’t understand how she cut through the red tape and bureaucracy but she seemed to have the knack. ‘I need to talk to my wife.’

  She sighed. ‘I suppose you do. OK, you’ve got an hour. Then I need an answer.’ The line went dead. He realised too late he didn’t have her number.

  But she clearly had his.

  Carol took a deep breath. It was tiring, keeping up the image of having everything under control. She’d got past Paula and Alvin, but she wasn’t sure whether she could pull off the same trick with Stacey. When you were dealing with someone who didn’t expend much energy on human relationships, sometimes it was a struggle to pull the wool over their eyes because they just couldn’t see the wool for the truth. Carol forced herself into action and speed-dialled.

  ‘Good morning,’ Stacey greeted her. No name, no rank, no honorific. Bets thoroughly hedged, as always.

  ‘How’s things?’ Carol asked.

  ‘Pretty dull,’ Stacey said.

  ‘Not like it used to be.’

  ‘No. Though it’s been interesting to examine the cyber-trolling.’

  ‘How would you like to get back to the interesting stuff full-time?’

  A pause. Carol could hear Stacey breathing. ‘Has this got anything to do with your case being dismissed yesterday?’

  Now it was Carol’s turn to pause. She didn’t know the answer to that question and frankly, she didn’t want to know. But she had to find something to say that would keep Stacey on side. Admittedly, the digital specialist thought nothing of galloping headlong through data privacy legislation when it suited her, but Carol wasn’t sure if her cavalier disregard would extend to what she feared might be classified as noble cause corruption. ‘Only insofar as it means I’m eligible for a job that the Home Office wants done.’ It was a twisty, wriggling sort of answer, but it covered the bases, she hoped.

  ‘It must be quite a job, to tempt you back.’

  And so she explained what Brandon was offering. Stacey listened in patient silence, then said, ‘There’s nothing to think about. Consider me on board.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. We’d have had a huge hole to fill if you’d said no.’

  Stacey gave a little girlish giggle. ‘I know that. And Sam? He’ll be joining us too?’

  Carol felt the sticky silence expand between them. Grasp nettle, bite bullet. ‘This is a very small team, Stacey. Everyone has to bring specialist skills to the table. I realise this is awkward for you, but Sam isn’t the right fit for this team.’ For an awful moment she wondered whether Stacey might withdraw.

  ‘He’s a good detective,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not disputing that. I’m sorry, Stacey. It’s not up for negotiation.’

  A deep sigh. ‘I know. This is your team. And I’m glad to be part of it. I’m disappointed not to be working with Sam again, that’s all. Is that why you’re leaving him out? You don’t want people working together who are in a relationship?’

  ‘No, it’s not that. I want this team to have a different shape from the old MIT.’

  ‘Your call.’

  ‘I’ll let you know where we’re meeting tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  That left Kevin. He’d celebrated his retirement by taking his wife on a month-long cruise. According to Paula, he’d never been so b
ored. He’d had an offer from a former DI to join his private investigation company in Manchester, but – again according to Paula – he wasn’t keen to join a profession that people disliked even more than the police. He had planned ahead for his retirement in one respect, however – he’d acquired a half-share in an allotment tenanted by an elderly uncle whose arthritis meant he couldn’t manage the plot on his own. The idea of Kevin rolling up his sleeves and digging over a vegetable patch was so entertaining, Carol decided she had to see it for herself.

  The allotments were invisible from the road. They occupied an acre of land surrounded on four sides by houses that fronted on busy city streets in Harriestown, a formerly working-class area of Bradfield that had steadily become more gentrified in the wake of New Labour’s arrival in Downing Street. Each street of terraced redbrick houses was bisected by an alley scarcely wide enough for a car, ending in a paved area big enough for two or three to park, so the allotment holders could load up their produce when the inevitable gluts came along. Carol knew better than to drive down; any strange car would immediately be a source of curiosity and comment. Instead, she parked on one of the streets and walked down an alley, following a narrow tarmacked path round the perimeter. In the middle of the day, the place was mostly deserted. A few figures were visible, doing indecipherable things to plants and sheds.

  Carol spotted Kevin immediately. His copper curls were a flaming beacon, advertising his presence fifty yards away. She stopped in the lee of a tree and watched him. He was turning over the soil in a trench, muscles working hard over his wiry frame. His washed-out green T-shirt had a broad stripe of sweat down the back. He was attacking the job as if it was personal. He paused and swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, then bent to his task again. She moved closer and when she drew level, she called his name.

  He looked up, startled, swinging round, spade at the ready. Still the instincts of a front-line copper, she was pleased to see. When he clocked who it was, his flushed face displayed an almost comedy expression of astonishment. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. Surprised, not hostile.

  ‘Looking for you,’ she said. ‘Are you going to let me in?’ She gestured towards the padlocked gates.

  He grinned. ‘I think I could manage that.’ He crossed to the gates and pulled a bunch of keys out of his dirt-stained cords. ‘It’s great to see you,’ he said, leading the way back to the shed on his lot. ‘Did Stella tell you where I was?’

  ‘No, Paula.’

  He gestured to a rickety bench outside the shed. ‘Have a seat. I can’t do hot drinks, but I’ve got a couple of beers inside?’

  Carol shook her head. ‘Not for me, thanks. But don’t let me hold you back.’

  He sat next to her. ‘I usually wait till I’m done for the day.’

  Carol gestured towards the vegetables. ‘A bit of a surprise, all this. I imagined you with your head under the bonnet of some vintage sports car, not up to your elbows in fruit and veg.’

  Kevin stretched his arms along the back of the bench. ‘It kind of took me by surprise. I came down a couple of times to help out my Uncle Joe, and I surprised myself with how much I enjoyed it. It’s hard work, but you’ve got something to show for it.’ He shot her a sidelong look. ‘I don’t have to tell you that, from what I hear.’

  ‘There’s something in what you say,’ Carol admitted. ‘But for people like us, I think the shine wears off after a while. We miss what we used to do. Who we used to be.’

  He straightened up and took a slightly squashed pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting up with the familiar metallic slide and click of his battered Zippo. ‘Do we?’ he said on an exhalation of smoke.

  ‘I’ve nearly finished the barn. I’d started wondering what I might do next. And then I got an offer I couldn’t refuse.’

  Kevin shifted so he could see her better. ‘What kind of offer? You’re not talking cold cases, are you? Only, I had that slimeball Upcher on the phone a couple of weeks ago trying to get me on board for some cold case set-up.’

  ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Upcher? They’re letting him near some actual cases?’

  Kevin smiled. ‘I think it’s a cosmetic exercise. It didn’t feel like something with much traction. I told him I’d rather concentrate on building an asparagus bed.’

  They shared a conspiratorial smile. ‘But you might think about it if someone offered you a proper job?’

  ‘Someone like you, you mean?’

  She nodded.

  He smoked in silence for a minute. ‘I’m liking my life, Carol. I potter about down here, I’m rebuilding a vintage Frazer Nash with a couple of my pals, I go hill-walking on a Monday with the lads I used to play five-a-side with. I cook dinner three nights a week.’

  Carol gave an exaggerated yawn. ‘Rather you than me, Kev. I could keep that up for about a month, max. Then I’d start climbing the walls. But if you’re happy –’ she threw her hands in the air – ‘who am I to drag you away from it?’ She could see the struggle going on in his head, curiosity fighting with contentment.

  ‘Drag me away to what, exactly?’ he asked.

  And so she told him. But she knew that wouldn’t be enough. There had to be something extra, something that would be a counterweight to what he’d regretted and resented about his career. It was something she was uniquely placed to offer, because she’d been the one who had been the agent of his disgrace in the first place, the one who’d uncovered his betrayal and refused to bury it. Once, Carol and Kevin had worked side by side as equals, two detective inspectors on the same team. Then he’d fallen for a woman who wasn’t his wife. Worse, a woman who was a journalist, who wheedled his secrets out of him in exchange for excitement and lies.

  He’d been lucky to escape with his job. What saved him was that their boss hated Carol even more than he hated what Kevin had done. He’d been busted down to sergeant and he’d never managed to claw his way back up to his old rank. Not only that, but he’d had to watch Carol climb even higher. Along the way, he’d lost his best friend to a cornered child killer. Another man would have grown bitter and twisted under such a weight. Another man would have done everything in his power to make Carol’s life harder. Instead, he’d swallowed his disgrace, absorbed his grief and turned into a loyal, dogged colleague. But she was banking on there being a knot of unfulfilled desire deep inside him.

  So she leaned her elbows on her knees and gazed across the allotments. ‘I need a DI, Kevin. Paula’s not ready. But you? You know what’s needed. You lost the chance to show what you could do. If you come back for me, I’ll make you an inspector. You’ll get the rank, the salary and the pension. And when you’ve had enough, this place will still be here. The Frazer what’s-its-name will still be there. The hills’ll still be there. Stella will let you back in the kitchen. I’m not asking you to give anything up. Only postpone it.’

  He looked as if he might burst into tears. ‘Why me? What’s so special about me? Why couldn’t you leave me in peace without waving temptation in my face?’

  ‘Because I’m a selfish cow. Because this is a hard thing, Kev. And I need all the help I can get.’ Her smile was a tired, sad thing.

  He flicked his smouldering cigarette butt across the allotment and watched it arc over green shoots into a thicket of twisted yellowing stalks. His sigh came from a long way down. ‘I’ve got a horrible feeling I’m going to regret this. But I’m afraid I’ll regret it even more if I refuse you. I’ll do it, Carol. But only for as long as you need me. Soon as it’s secure and running like clockwork, I’m off. Is that a deal?’

  She stuck out a hand and they shook on it. Then they clapped each other on the shoulder with their free hands. ‘I’m very happy about this, Kev,’ she said, getting to her feet and walking towards the gate. She turned back to face him and grinned. ‘Better get digging. Did I mention we’re starting tomorrow?’

  30

  Tony was surprised to see how unfazed Flash was by the clamour of the city. She trott
ed round the perimeter of the busy Minster Canal Basin a couple of yards ahead of Carol, pausing occasionally to check out an interesting smell, but always casting quick looks over her shoulder to check the whereabouts of her mistress. Tony sat on the roof of his narrowboat, feet dangling through the hatch, hands clasped round a cup of tea, watching Carol giving the dog a break from her confinement in the Land Rover. When he’d called to suggest meeting, she’d been the one to propose Steeler as the venue. He’d been taken aback; these days, she usually suggested neutral ground. Then she’d explained she needed to exercise the dog and the canal towpath was as good a place as any. That was how it was these days – a moment of elation quickly deflated.

  By the time they returned, Paula had called to apologise that she couldn’t make it; the news of her imminent departure had arrived and DCI Fielding was leaning on her to get all her paperwork in order so nothing would fall through the cracks of the handover. But as he explained to Carol, at this point he knew all Paula did, so he could bring her up to speed.

  As they clattered down the steps to the galley and saloon below, the dog’s claws scrabbling on the hard surfaces, Tony said, ‘It’s starting to look like we might have stumbled over something real.’ He flattened himself against the stove to let Carol pass, then put the kettle back on the gas.

  ‘Well, the cyber-bullying is obviously real,’ she said, sliding on to the buttoned leather banquette that ran around the table. ‘And so are the suicides.’

  ‘But I think the connection might be real too.’ He put a teabag in a mug for Carol. ‘You remember I said there was something bugging me about Jasmine Burton? And I couldn’t put my finger on it?’

  ‘That’s where all this started from.’

  ‘Before I come back to that… you know Paula was talking to Shakila Bain this morning? British Asian fashion designer who got trolled and harassed for saying the demonisation of young Asian men in the media was a recruiting sergeant for jihad?’