The Cradle in the Grave

by Sophie Hannah

  All over the room, heads were shaking.

  ‘Right, well, we’ll wait to hear back from Bramshill and GCHQ.’

  There was a general groan and mutters of ‘waste of time’.

  ‘What about seeing if there’s anybody in the Maths department of a university who knows anything about codes?’ Proust suggested. ‘And I mean a proper university, not a former polytechnic or an accredited branch of Pizza Hut.’

  The reaction to his suggestion was disproportionately enthusiastic. Simon wondered how many tyrants questioned the rapture with which their every utterance was received. The sixteen numbers had been going round in his head all day: 2, 1, 4,9 . . . Or maybe it was 21, 49, or perhaps you were supposed to start at the bottom and read backwards: 0, 2, 6 . . .

  ‘As a last resort, there’s always the press,’ said Proust. ‘We let them print the sixteen numbers and see what happens.’

  ‘We’d have every loony in the Culver Valley ringing in, saying they’d got the numbers off an extra-terrestrial’s lottery ticket,’ said Colin Sellers.

  Proust smiled. A few people risked laughing. Simon pushed down a rising swell of anger. Any sign that the inspector might be enjoying even the briefest moment of happiness made him want to do damage to somebody. Luckily, such signs were rare.

  ‘What about a profiler?’ someone called out. Someone else who doesn’t think the Snowman deserves a lighthearted moment and knows how to put a stop to it.

  Simon waited for Proust to breathe frost, but, surprisingly, he said, ‘If we make no progress on the card in the next twentyfour hours, I’ll be asking for a profiler to be brought in. In the meantime, while we wait for the code teams at Bramshill and GCHQ to get back to us, we do the dull legwork: which retailers supply this kind of card? What sort of pen does the ink come from? Well?’ he roared suddenly. A collective shudder rippled through the room.

  ‘Sir, we’re still pursuing that,’ said the unfortunate DC from Silsford who’d been tasked to find out. ‘I’ll chase it up.’

  ‘You do that, detective. I want two hundred and fifty per cent effort from all of you. And don’t forget your ABC. Let’s hear it, DC Gibbs.’

  ‘Assume nothing, believe nobody, check everything,’ Chris Gibbs muttered, his face colouring. Simon was the one the Snowman usually nominated to make a tit of himself in front of a crowd. Why had he been spared this time?

  ‘Our mystery caller at 9 Bengeo Street might turn out to be a false lead, so let’s make sure he’s not our only lead,’ said Proust. ‘As someone’s already pointed out, we could be looking for a female. I want brains switched on and fully serviced round the clock. I don’t need to tell you all why this case matters more than any you’ve worked before.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Simon murmured. Beside him, Sam was nodding. And yet the thing that marked out Helen Yardley as different from other murder victims had barely been mentioned, not this morning and not now.

  ‘It’s been forty-eight hours,’ said the Snowman. ‘If we don’t get a result soon, they’ll cut this squad in half, and that’ll just be for starters. You’ll all be going back to your own nicks – something I’m sure at least those of you from Rawndesley are keen to avoid. All right, that’s it for today. DS Kombothekra, DC Waterhouse – my office.’

  Simon was in no mood to wait and see what Proust wanted. ‘How come you’re happy to ditch the “assume nothing” part when it comes to the gun?’ he asked, as soon as he’d slammed the door behind him. This time Sam did sigh. ‘Why’s Helen or Paul Yardley less likely to own an M9 Beretta than this dark-haired man we can’t find?’

  ‘Sergeant Kombothekra, explain to DC Waterhouse why a killer is more likely than his victim to bring a gun to the party.’

  ‘The Yardleys fought to keep their only surviving child, and they lost. Think about what that must have meant to them. You’ve got a daughter . . .’

  ‘Mention her name, Waterhouse, and I’ll yank your tongue out by the root. My daughter has nothing to do with this.’

  You ought to hear what Colin Sellers has said about her over the years, what he’d like to do to which bits of her. Simon tried again. ‘Paige Yardley lives less than two miles from Bengeo Street, with new parents who’ve changed her name and won’t let her birth family anywhere near her. If I was Helen or Paul Yardley in that situation – someone stole my kid and, to add insult to injury, the law was on their side – I might get myself a shooter. If I’d had to stand in court and watch helplessly as my wife got two life sentences for crimes I was sure she hadn’t committed—’

  ‘You’ve made your point,’ said Proust.

  ‘I’ve made part of my point, and I’ll make the rest of it now: Helen Yardley spent nine years behind bars. If she wasn’t guilty, revenge might have been on her mind once she got out. And even if—’

  ‘Enough!’

  Simon ducked as something flew past his head. Proust’s ‘World’s Greatest Grandad’ mug hit the corner of the filing cabinet and smashed. Sam bent to pick up the pieces. ‘Leave that!’ the Snowman bellowed. ‘Open the top drawer of the cabinet. There are two copies of Helen Yardley’s book in there. Take one for yourself and give one to Waterhouse.’

  The only way Simon could keep his mouth shut was by vowing to do what he should have done years ago and put in an official complaint. He’d do it first thing tomorrow morning. Proust would come back at him with counter-accusations of disrespect, sarcasm, disobedience. True, true, true. No one would speak up for Simon apart from Charlie, and she’d only do it because of her personal feelings for him, not because she would disagree with Proust’s portrayal of him as every line manager’s nightmare.

  Sam handed him a copy of Nothing But Love by Helen Yardley and Gainer Mundy. Simon had interviewed Mundy earlier today. She’d told him Helen had written most of the book herself and been a dream to work with. The cover was white, with a picture of a pair of knitted baby bootees at its centre. Curls of yellow paper protruded from the sides of several pages: Post-it strips. Simon glanced at Sam’s copy and saw that it was the same.

  ‘Let’s start again,’ said the Snowman, loading each word with a hefty dollop of patience in the face of provocation. Not asking for another chance; bestowing one with self-conscious generosity. ‘I called the two of you in here because you’re my best detectives – personality disorders notwithstanding, Waterhouse. I need to know that I can count on you.’

  ‘You can, sir,’ said Sam.

  ‘Count on us to do what?’ Simon asked. He could only occasionally manage a ‘sir’. Less and less often these days.

  ‘I want you both to read that book,’ said Proust. ‘I’ve read it, and I don’t think there’s anything in it that adds to what we know already, but you might spot something I missed. The sections I’ve marked are the parts where I’m mentioned by name. I arrested Helen Yardley three days after the death of her second child, and charged her with the murders of both her children. I gave evidence at her trial. I was a DS at the time. Superintendent Barrow was my DI.’

  Not looking at Sam, not reacting at all, took all Simon’s willpower.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, nobody working this murder needs to read the book apart from the two of you. At the briefing tomorrow morning, I intend to tell everyone about my . . . involvement. However irrelevant it is to the business at hand, I’d like it to be out in the open.’

  Irrelevant? Was he joking? Testing them?

  ‘I won’t be mentioning the role played by Superintendent Barrow, whose name does not feature in the book.’

  Had Barrow told Proust to leave his name out of it? Had the two of them been arguing behind the scenes about what to reveal and what to withhold? The Snowman had never bothered to conceal his hatred for Barrow, but it had blended so seamlessly, over the years, with his antipathy for everyone else he knew that Simon had never questioned it or wondered about its origins.

  ‘Ordinarily, as I’m sure you’re aware, any officer who charged someone with murder as a DS would not then lea
d the investigation into the murder of that same person as a DI. The Chief Constable, the Assistant Chief Constable and Superintendent Barrow didn’t want me as SIO on Helen Yardley’s murder. And yet here I am – SIO on Helen Yardley’s murder. Go ahead, Waterhouse. You look as if you have a question.’

  ‘Am I getting the wrong end of the stick, or are you implying that Barrow, the Chief and the Assistant Chief don’t want it known that they were instrumental in sending Helen Yardley to prison?’ Simon stopped short of asking Proust if he’d threatened to go public about their role in an extremely visible miscarriage of justice if they assigned the investigation into Helen Yardley’s murder to any DI but him.

  ‘The Chief and the Assistant Chief weren’t involved,’ said Proust. ‘Though as Superintendent Barrow’s superior officers, they have his best interests at heart, as well as the best interests of Culver Valley Police Service.’

  Sam Kombothekra cleared his throat, but said nothing.

  ‘So . . .’ Simon began.

  ‘In so far as your hypothesis applied to Superintendent Barrow, Waterhouse, I would say, to borrow a phrase from Sergeant Leckenby, that your purchase on the stick needs no lateral adjustment.’

  ‘What . . .? Oh.’ Simon got it, just in time to avoid making an idiot of himself.

  ‘Will you both read the book?’ Proust asked. ‘It’s not an order. I’m asking you as a favour to me personally.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Sam.

  Simon had ordered Nothing But Love from Amazon this morning, after talking to Gainer Mundy. He would read his own copy when it arrived, because he wanted to – nothing to do with being asked. A favour. He’d have preferred it to be an order. Friends asked favours; the Snowman was no friend.

  ‘Tomorrow morning I want the two of you standing on either side of me for the briefing and tasking, so get in early,’ said Proust, more relaxed now that the meeting seemed to be going his way. ‘I want everybody to see that I have your full support when I announce that from now on, anyone who makes a remark along the lines of “No smoke without fire” or “Just because they let her out doesn’t mean she was innocent” will be formally disciplined, no matter where and in what circumstances that remark is made – as somebody’s idea of a joke, under the influence of alcohol. Any bobby who so much as whispers the words in his bedroom in the middle of the night, with his head buried in his duvet – he’ll rue the day. From now on, you two are my eyes and ears. You hear any comments like that, you report them to me, whether the commentator is your closest friend or someone you hardly know. You pick up on any bad attitudes, I want to hear about them.’

  Simon couldn’t believe Sam was nodding.

  ‘I know I can count on your support, and I’m grateful for it,’ said Proust curtly. ‘Waterhouse, any other points you want to raise, now I’ve said my piece?’

  There was plenty more Simon could have said – had been planning to say – about where he thought the investigation was going wrong, but until he’d had a chance to think about what he’d just heard, he didn’t want to say another word in the Snowman’s presence. Count on nothing, shithead.

  ‘Let’s call it a night, then,’ said Proust, who would have called it whatever he wanted to call it, whether it was morning, night or the middle of the afternoon.

  3

  Wednesday 7 October 2009

  ‘It’s exactly the kick up the arse I need – that’s the way I’m looking at it,’ says Tamsin, taking a gulp from her sixth gin and tonic of the evening. ‘Control freak like me, any sort of disruption to my routine has to be good for me.’ She’s started to slur her words. Her top lip keeps slipping on her bottom one, like a smooth-soled shoe over snow.

  I could sneak off to the loo, phone Joe and tell him to come and pick her up, but if I leave her unattended she’s bound to accost a stranger, and there are at least two men at the bar who look likely to have chloroform-soaked hankies in their pockets. The Grand Old Duke of York is the only pub within walking distance of work that can be guaranteed to have nobody from Binary Star in it, which is why we’ve braved the bad beer and creepy loners. Tonight, anything’s better than bumping into Maya, Raffi or Laurie at the French House.

  ‘My life’s been too safe for too long,’ says Tamsin decisively. ‘I should take more risks.’ That’s it: no way am I letting her get the tube home. I’ll have to wait until she passes out to phone Joe. Another fifteen minutes, half an hour maximum. ‘There are no surprises – you know what I mean? Up at seven, in the shower, two Weetabix and a fruit smoothie for breakfast, walk to the tube station, in work by half past eight, running round all day after Laurie, wearing myself out trying to . . . decipher him, home by eight, eat dinner with Joe, snuggled up on the sofa by half nine to watch an episode of whatever DVD box set we’re on, bed at eleven. Where’s the spark? Where’s the dyna . . . dianne. . . .?’

  ‘Dynamism?’ I suggest.

  ‘Whereas now I’ve got a real challenge: no job!’ She tries to sound upbeat about it. ‘No income! I’ll have to find a way of keeping a roof over our heads.’

  ‘Can Joe cover the mortgage?’ I ask, feeling terrible for her. ‘Temporarily, until you find something else?’

  ‘No, but we could rent out Joe’s study to someone chilledout who wouldn’t mind having to walk through our bedroom every time he needed a wee in the middle of the night,’ says Tamsin brightly. ‘He might become our friend. When was the last time I made a new friend?’

  ‘When you met me.’ I try to prise the gin and tonic from her grasp. ‘Give me that. I’ll go and get you an orange juice.’

  Her hands tighten around her glass. ‘You’re a control freak too,’ she says accusingly. ‘We both are. We need to learn to go with the flow.’

  ‘I’m worried the flow might be of vomit. Why don’t I ring Joe and he can—’

  ‘Nooo.’ Tamsin pats my hand. ‘I’m fine. I whole-heartedly embrace this opportunity for change. Maybe I’ll start wearing blue or red instead of black and white all the time. Hey – know what I’m gonna do tomorrow?’

  ‘Die of alcohol poisoning?’

  ‘Go to an exhibition. There must be something good on at the National Portrait Gallery, or the Hayward. And while I’m doing that, you know what you’re gonna do?’ She burps loudly. ‘You’re going to be in Maya’s office saying, “Yes, please, I’ll take that extremely well-paid job.” If you feel guilty about earning too much money, you can give some to me. Just a little bit. Or maybe half.’

  ‘Hey – did you just suggest something that makes sense?’

  ‘I believe I did.’ Tamsin giggles. ‘Socialism in miniature. There’d only be two of us involved, but the principle’s the same: everything you have is mine, and everything I have is yours, except I haven’t got anything.’

  ‘You need an income. I’ve just been offered more than three times what I’m on now . . . No, that’d be mad. Wouldn’t it?’ I haven’t drunk as much as she has, but I’ve had a fair bit.

  ‘What’s the prollem?’ she slurs, wide-eyed. ‘No one needs to find out apart from you and me. Laurie’s right: if you blow this chance, everyone’ll think you’re a dick. And if you hoard your wealth like a Scroogey miser . . .’

  ‘So this is the great challenge that was missing from your life? Forcing me to take a job I don’t want so that you can nick half my salary?’ I’m not even sure she means what she’s saying. I wait for her to tell me she’s only kidding.

  ‘You wouldn’t have to fund me for ever,’ she says instead. ‘Just until I sort myself out with a new career. I’d quite like to work for the UN, as an interpreter.’

  I sigh. ‘Do you speak anything, apart from English and Pissed?’

  ‘I could learn. Russian and French is a good combination, apparently. I did some Googling before I left the office. For the last time ever,’ she adds pointedly, reminding me of her hard-done-by status. ‘If you’ve got those two languages . . .’

  ‘Which you haven’t.’

  ‘. . . then all you nee
d’s a translation qualification, which you can get at Westminster Uni, and the UN’ll snap you up.’

  ‘When? In four years’ time?’

  ‘More like six.’

  ‘How about I support you while you look for a job in your field?’ I stress the last three words. ‘With your track record, you could get one tomorrow.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ says Tamsin. ‘No more TV for me. TV’s the rut I was stuck in until today. I’m serious, Fliss. Ever since I left university, I’ve been a wage-slave. I don’t want to rush out and find new shackles, now that I’m free. I want to do some living – walk in the park, go ice-skating . . .’

  ‘What happened to learning French and Russian?’ I ask.

  She waves away my concern. ‘There’s plenty of time for that. Maybe I’ll see if there’s a local evening class or something, but mainly I want to . . . take stock, walk around, soak up the atmosphere . . .’

  ‘You live in Wood Green.’

  ‘Could you stretch to a flat in Knightsbridge if I’m willing to settle for one bedroom?’

  ‘Stop,’ I tell her, deciding the joke has gone on long enough. ‘This is exactly why I don’t want to be rich. I don’t want to turn into the sort of person who thinks it’s my God-given right to have more cash than I know what to do with and keep it all for myself. Here I am listening to you witter on, thinking, “Why should I give half my hard-earned fortune to an idle waster?” I’m already turning into that Scroogey miser you mentioned earlier and I haven’t even said I’ll take the job!’

  Tamsin blinks at me, her powers of comprehension impaired by alcohol. Eventually she says, ‘You’d resent me.’

  ‘Probably, yes. The ice-skating might just tip me over the edge.’

  She nods. ‘That’s okay. I wouldn’t hold it against you. You can call me a feckless scrounger to my face, if you like, as long as I get my share of the money. I’d rather be insulted by you than have to tout myself round prospective employers feeling the way I do now—unwanted and worthless. What am I talking about?’ She slaps herself on the wrist, then hits my leg, hard. ‘Look what you’ve done—your negativity’s totally dragged me down!’