Splinter the Silence (Tony Hill)

by Val McDermid

  Glum faces all round. Except, Carol realised, for Stacey. Her face was unreadable as it often was but she definitely wasn’t looking despondent. ‘Stacey, have you got anything for us?’

  She flipped open her laptop and looked round the table. There was an air of something suppressed about her that drew all their attention. ‘His name is Matthew Martin.’ She did something complicated on her trackpad and the interactive whiteboard on the wall behind her came to life. It showed a driving licence with a picture of a man with light brown hair and a full beard. ‘He was born in 1975 in Bradfield. He’s a civil engineer specialising in bridges and he lives here –’ a click of the fingers and the image changed to a small brick house standing alone at the edge of a stubble field – ‘in Leicestershire. He’s very close to the motorway network, so he can move around the country readily.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Stacey,’ Kevin exclaimed. ‘Where did you get all this?’

  ‘It was Tony’s idea. Follow the books. So I did.’

  ‘In a way we can admit to?’ Carol asked.

  Stacey gave her a long hard look. ‘Not as such.’

  ‘OK. We’ll find a way round it. Leave that to me. That’s very impressive, Stacey.’

  Karim was staring at her as if he’d never seen a woman before, mouth open, eyes wide. ‘How did you do that?’ he stammered.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ Paula said. ‘ Just accept it. You’ll get used to it.’

  Tony was smiling. ‘That’s beautiful, Stacey.’

  She inclined her head graciously. ‘I’m not finished.’

  ‘Course you’re not,’ Paula said.

  ‘He has two vehicles registered to him. A Toyota Navarra four-wheel-drive pickup truck with a double cab, and a VW Passat. The Passat is the one I’ve been able to connect to the dead women. Martin drove into London the day before Kate Rawlins died and he left the night she supposedly killed herself. I can put him on the A1 less than a kilometre from her house that afternoon.’ A map appeared on the whiteboard, with the relative positions of the car and the house marked with red crosses.

  It felt as if everyone was holding their breath, eyes on the whiteboard to see what was coming next. ‘There’s a similar pattern around Morton. He shows up four times in Bradfield in the two weeks before she died. Every time, he drove down the trunk road that runs within five hundred metres of Daisy’s street. He shows up on the morning she died and goes in the opposite direction half an hour after the explosion.’ A satellite image flashed up with a couple of roads outlined in red. ‘I think there might be CCTV cameras here – there’s a petrol station and a convenience store, they usually have cameras and they often pick up street traffic. But they’re private, so I can’t get into them remotely.’

  ‘This is looking very strong,’ Carol said. ‘I’m amazed at what you’ve dug up, Stacey.’

  ‘What about Jasmine Burton?’ Alvin asked. ‘Did you get anything there?’

  Stacey nodded. ‘Last and best.’ An infographic appeared on the whiteboard. A series of red dots appeared, starting on the M69, moving to the M6, on to the M42 then the M5. ‘Join up the dots and you get our man driving down to Exeter two days before Jasmine died.’ A scatter of dots appeared on the A376 down the east side of the Exe estuary. Stacey hit a key and a scribble of to-ing and fro-ing appeared on the tail of the single line of the motorway journey. ‘He was up and down that minor road five or six times. And the last time was the night Jasmine walked into the river.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Paula said. ‘That’s so impressive. I tell you, the way things are going, there’s going to be no need for detectives out on the street, all the serious solving’s going to be done by geeks like Stacey sitting in a cupboard with half a dozen screens analysing data.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Carol said. ‘It’s all circumstantial.’

  ‘But it’s more than suggestive,’ Alvin said. ‘Do we have phone details for this bastard?’

  Stacey nodded. ‘We have, but I can’t access the tracking systems’ records. But now we have an idea when he was in specific areas, they should be able to help us. I have details of his mobile plus a handful of pay-as-you-go phones and SIM cards that he was stupid enough to buy from Valhalla.’

  Tony shook his head, an incredulous smile on his face. ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? This guy plans so carefully, yet he believes Valhalla when they claim they’re invulnerable to hackers and resolute about protecting their customers’ data from those pesky interfering lawyers.’

  ‘Nobody’s perfect,’ Stacey said drily. ‘Though of course he might have wised up and thought better of using the stuff he bought online. You can buy kit like that in any hole-in-the-wall newsagent’s these days. I wouldn’t pin too much hope on the phones.’

  ‘Let’s be grateful for what we’ve got already,’ Carol said. ‘I think it’s time we picked up Matthew Martin. Before he can do any more damage. Kevin, Paula, Karim – let’s take a little drive down to Leicestershire and see if we can lay hands on him.’

  ‘No point,’ Stacey said. ‘Sorry, I hadn’t quite finished. He’s not in Leicestershire. He’s here. In Bradfield.’

  51

  Matthew Martin was sitting in the passenger seat of his car. Another thing he’d learned about surveillance – spending a long time in the driver’s seat of a car looked suspicious. On a residential street, neighbours grew wary. They might even call the police. But if you lounged in the passenger seat with a book or a newspaper in front of you, people assumed you were waiting for the driver to come back from some unspecified errand. It made sense so they didn’t think twice about it.

  Today was the day. The unsuspecting Ursula had told him she’d be at home this morning, and since her husband was going to London, once he left the house, he’d be gone all day. Martin sucked a mint; his mouth was dry but he didn’t want to drink from his water bottle. The last thing he needed was a reminder from his bladder of how long he’d been watching and waiting.

  He patted the pocket of his jacket, reassuring himself that the book of Marina Tsvetaeva’s poems was there. Then he turned a page of the novel he was pretending to read while actually keeping his peripheral vision focused on the Foremans’ front door.

  Another five minutes drifted by. He slipped a hand into his trouser pocket, double-checking that he still had the wrap of GHB in his pocket. GHB, the magic powder that would place Ursula completely in his power. He wouldn’t even have to carry her up the stairs. She’d cheerfully make her own way up if that’s what he asked her to do. In an ideal world she should be prepared to do what she was told without the aid of pharmaceuticals, but he knew enough about Ursula to realise that was a vain hope. He imagined her husband was meek and henpecked behind the glossy black front door, in contrast to the self-confident and probing image he presented on the radio show where he interviewed people in the news.

  And here he was, opening the front door, turning to say something over his shoulder. Bill Foreman, off to work, off to London, a pitiful jerk who couldn’t persuade his wife to behave like a proper woman. Well, this would be the last time he went through this particular routine. Next time he came home it would be to a different world, a world where there was one less man-hating bitch trying to turn the tide against the proper order. Martin couldn’t help a secret smile creeping across his face. As Bill Foreman walked towards him, he pretended to be engrossed in his book, not even glancing away from the page as the benighted husband walked past. He had no idea whether Foreman clocked him, and he didn’t much care. Foreman wasn’t going to do anything about some guy sitting in a car waiting for the driver to come back.

  Martin stayed put for another half-hour. Then, a few minutes before ten, he pulled on his thin leather gloves, got out of the car and walked up to Ursula Foreman’s front door. He pressed the doorbell and took a step backwards, not wanting to appear intimidating. Not yet.

  The door opened and there stood Ursula, copper curls tumbling around her head, dressed in jogging pants and a scoop-necked T-shirt. ‘Oh, hell
o,’ she said, smiling at the sight of him. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘I’ve come round for that chat we spoke about?’ He gave her his most disingenuous smile. ‘If it’s a bad time…’

  ‘No. No, of course not. Come in, come through, we’ll have a nice cup of tea and you can tell me all about your idea.’ She opened the door wide and stepped back to let him come inside. Just like that.

  They were all so easy.

  52

  A moment’s silence, then four voices speaking at once. ‘When did he get here?’ Carol demanded.

  ‘Where is he?’ from Kevin. ‘He must be here for a reason.’

  ‘Is he on the move?’ Alvin asked.

  ‘We need to get the phone company tracking his main phone,’ Paula said decisively.

  ‘Paula’s right,’ Carol said. ‘Karim, get on to it.’

  He looked momentarily stunned then moved away to the nearest vacant computer. ‘I’m on it, guv,’ he said.

  Stacey looked from one to the other. ‘He arrived last night. According to his credit card, he stayed in the motel behind Central Station. I’ve trawled his records and that’s been his pattern. I presume he’s been stalking them when he’s visited before the actual killings. Every time he’s stayed in a cheap chain motel. That seems to be where he stays when he’s working too. He’s not extravagant even though he earns enough to upgrade to something a bit classier.’

  ‘Is there anything about this guy you don’t know?’ Alvin said.

  Stacey looked across at Tony. ‘Only everything that matters,’ she said, sounding less than confident for the first time that morning. ‘I don’t know why he’s doing this, I don’t know what his plans are and I don’t know how to stop him.’

  Tony gave her a little nod of approbation. ‘None of us knows these things and you’re right to pick on them as the key points here. But here’s what we do know, thanks to Paula’s work yesterday. We know that there is one woman here in Bradfield who fits the pattern of the women he has killed already. Do we know if he’s on the move already, Stacey?’

  Her fingers were already flying over the keys, her eyes roaming the screen. The rest of her body was perfectly still; it was as if her hands were separate creatures, leashed to her without actually being part of her. ‘Not according to what I can see,’ she said slowly. ‘That doesn’t mean he isn’t out and about, though. He could be sticking to side streets where the ANPR doesn’t run. Or maybe part of his plate is obscured and it’s not picking up.’

  ‘OK,’ Carol said decisively. ‘Kevin, with me. We’re going over to the motel. If he’s there, we’ll pick him up and bring him in. Stacey, stay with the screens and let us know if he shows up anywhere. Karim, hammer the phones.’ She paused for a moment, frowning, distracted by the jolt of craving that shot through her.

  ‘Ursula Foreman,’ Paula prompted her.

  ‘Yes, of course. Paula, you spoke to her yesterday, you’re a familiar voice. Take Alvin with you. Talk to her, stay with her till we’ve got him locked down. Oh, and Karim? Soon as you can, get on to the local lads and get them to swing by his house, in case he’s sitting at home playing Minecraft while his best mate is using his car in Bradfield. Nothing to spook him, just a fly-by, OK?’

  ‘What about me?’ Tony said plaintively.

  Carol gave him a wild-eyed look, as if she’d almost forgotten he was there. ‘You can either stay here with Stacey and Karim or come with Kevin and me,’ she said, grabbing her coat as she spoke. ‘Let’s go, we’re not taking any chances now. We’ve got nothing more than circumstantial evidence, so let’s all keep our eyes peeled for anything at all that screams “discrepancy” at us.’ She took a couple of steps then turned back. ‘Oh, and Stacey…?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Send that driving licence pic to all our phones, would you?’

  A scramble of movement, half-finished sentences and a swoop towards the door and they were gone like birds scattering at the sound of a shotgun. Silence blanketed the room again, broken only by the sound of Stacey’s fingers whispering over the keyboard. Karim cleared his throat. She looked up at him, face blank.

  ‘I’ve never been tasked with anything like this before. Who should I speak to in Leicester?’

  Stacey considered for a moment. She didn’t want to betray her own inexperience in the field. ‘I’d call the main number and ask for the duty inspector in the area that covers where he lives,’ she said slowly. ‘I think it’s OK to ask uniform to handle this. It’s not as if we want them to make an arrest. Just knock on the door and, if they get an answer, make up some cod story about a local burglary or something.’

  He grinned, obviously relieved. ‘Thanks. It’s like being thrown in at the deep end here.’

  God help him if he thinks this is the deep end. ‘You’ll learn,’ she said, turning back to her screen. Now where the hell was Matthew Martin?

  53

  ‘Blues and twos,’ Paula said, fastening her seatbelt. ‘Till I tell you otherwise.’ She gunned the engine and headed for the exit while Alvin fumbled with the controls for lights and siren on the unmarked CID car.

  ‘You think it’s that urgent?’

  ‘Like Kevin said, he’s here for a reason.’ The lights flashed and the siren whooped as she pulled into the Skenfrith Street traffic. Six minutes later, she said, ‘Turn them off now, I don’t want to spook anyone.’

  She slowed to a sedate pace and turned into the street of modest brick semis where the Foremans lived. The trim gardens and the well-tended trees were the only signs of life in mid-morning. Wherever the mothers and toddlers were, it wasn’t here. Alvin called off the numbers as she drove. ‘We’re close and there’s a space,’ he said. Paula parked neatly and they fell into step on the pavement. As they turned in at the gate, the door opened and a man emerged from the house. Clean-shaven, closely trimmed receding hair going silver at the temples, clean jeans and checked shirt under a tweed sports jacket. Nothing to unsettle the cops; he matched the house. He looked startled to see them and paused, one hand on the handle, the door half-closed.

  ‘Mr Foreman?’ Alvin said.

  ‘Yeah.’ He looked concerned. But most people did, confronted by a big black man with a suit and a sidekick. Gangsters always knew Alvin was the law; the law-abiding were not always so certain. ‘Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met?’

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Ambrose and this is Detective Sergeant McIntyre. Is your wife at home, sir?’

  The man did a quick double-take. ‘Ursula? No, she’s down at the food bank in Brucehill, on Ramillies Road. She volunteers there. Is this about those bloody awful messages she’s been getting on the internet?’

  ‘I’d rather explain matters to your wife, if you don’t mind,’ Alvin said. ‘Ramillies Road, you say?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Down by the shops.’ The man pulled the door closed behind him. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m running a bit late myself?’ Alvin stepped to one side to let him pass.

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ he said.

  The man gave them a hasty smile over his shoulder as he turned into the street. ‘No bother, officer.’

  They walked back through the gate, almost bumping into an elderly woman making her slow way along the street, arthritic hands locked around the bars of a walking frame, coat a size too big for her shrunken frame. ‘Sorry,’ Paula said, taking hold of the woman’s arm to steady her. Her forearm was like two sticks badly wrapped in a sack.

  She peered up at them, her large glasses magnifying eyes as blue as hyacinths. ‘Have you all been visiting Ursula?’ she said.

  ‘We were hoping to see her, but her husband said she’s not at home now.’

  The old woman looked puzzled. ‘That can’t be right. Bill left for work at the usual time, over an hour ago. I saw him go.’

  Alvin gave Paula a look that said We haven’t got time for this. But her instincts told her something was off kilter. And she didn’t need Carol telling them to look out for that very thing to know it
was those moments that sometimes made all the difference. So she engaged with the old biddy. ‘You must be mistaken, love. Mr Foreman only left a couple of minutes ago. Did you not see him come out of the house? He went off down the street ahead of us.’

  The old woman shook her head, a stubborn pout to her lower lip. ‘That wasn’t Bill Foreman. I might be eighty-three, young lady, but I’m not gaga. I expect it was some friend of Ursula’s from the magazine.’

  ‘Did you recognise him, then?’ Paula asked. ‘Has he visited before?’

  ‘If he has, I’ve not seen him. When he arrived this morning, that was the first time I’d ever clapped eyes on him.’

  This time, the look they exchanged was one of alarm. ‘You’re sure? You’re absolutely certain that wasn’t Bill Foreman who left just now?’

  The old woman nodded fiercely. ‘Of course I’m sure. And anyway, Ursula’s at home. She let that chap in and she’s not gone anywhere since.’

  Oh fuck. Paula swivelled on the balls of her feet but Alvin was already halfway up the path, charging at full tilt towards the door. Because if that hadn’t been Bill Foreman then something was very, very wrong inside his house.

  54

  Kevin drove in a slow loop round the car park at the Sleeping Inn. ‘His car’s not here,’ Carol said. ‘Which doesn’t mean that he isn’t, of course.’ She sighed. ‘It’s never bloody easy, is it? Let’s park up and go inside and talk to the receptionist, who will have seen nothing and knows nothing.’

  ‘You never know,’ Kevin said. ‘We might get lucky and get one of the Eastern European ones that never misses a trick.’

  Tony lagged slightly behind, looking around at the car park and the bleak monolith with its uniformly square windows. ‘You’re not kind to yourself, are you?’ He spoke under his breath. ‘It’s as if you don’t dare let yourself get too comfortable. Because if you do, who knows what might happen? Like the song says, just when you least expect it you get just what you least expect. Much better to keep things low level, where you know what the parameters are.’