by Val McDermid
‘That image being…?’
‘I’ll be happy to discuss that in the interview. And to show you and your client a copy.’
Scott shook her head. ‘You really have forgotten your manners, haven’t you, Chief Inspector? Before I can have a meaningful conversation with my client, I need to know what we’re talking about here.’
There was a long silence. Carol could feel Paula’s eyes on her back, measuring her. There really wasn’t anything to be gained by holding back at this point. It wasn’t as if Ron Alexander was a serious suspect in the disappearance of Tim Golding. If she refused to give Scott anything, then she’d end up with a ‘no comment’ interview, nothing surer. If she tried waiting until the interview to spring the photo on him, Scott would simply demand time out to talk to her client. Carol considered. She wanted co-operation. She didn’t care what that might or might not do to any wider case against Ron Alexander. ‘We might as well speed things up,’ she said. ‘Your client’s computer held an image of Tim Golding. The eight-year-old–’
‘Yes, I know who Tim Golding is,’ Scott said impatiently. ‘But since you people disseminated images of the child all over the country, it’s hardly a big deal that my client has a photo of the boy on his computer.’
‘It’s a big deal when the picture in question shows a terrified, naked child.’ Carol turned on her heel and walked off. ‘Let me know when you’re ready to talk,’ she said over her shoulder as she rounded a corner, Paula hard on her heels. ‘I see Bronwen Scott hasn’t mellowed with age,’ she commented.
‘It’s a pain you had to give away so much,’ Paula said, falling into step beside her boss.
‘You know the rules, Paula. They ask for disclosure, we have to give it.’
‘Couldn’t you have held back on the ID, chief? Then hit him with it in the interview?’
Carol stopped and gave Paula a speculative look. ‘You think I was weak back there, don’t you?’
Paula looked horrified. ‘I never…’
‘Giving in isn’t always a sign of weakness, Paula. There was no point in holding out. I know how Scott works. Alexander would just have gone “no comment” from the off. This way, she might just see it as a bargaining chip.’ Carol walked off, feeling the tension in her shoulders. Maybe they didn’t trust her quite as much as she’d thought.
He sleeps late. It’s nearly noon when he wakes, and even then he has to force his eyes open. He feels like somebody spiked his brain with Valium. His head’s muzzy, it takes him a moment to realize where he is. At home, in his own bed, curled into himself like a baby. But it’s a different person inside his body this morning.
He’s not the fuck-up that everybody laughs at any more. He did it. He did exactly what he was supposed to. Just like the Voice told him to. And he’s got his reward. He’s got the money, even though he explained that wasn’t why he’d done it. He’d done it because he understood. It’s not the money that makes him feel like he finally made it. It’s hearing the Voice say good things about him. It’s knowing that he’s done something hardly anybody else could do. Something special.
Thank God he managed to hide the way he really felt when he reached the moment itself. He’d been excited, aroused, on the point of coming inside his pants like a teenager. But when it came to it, when he had to stick that thing inside her again and again, he wilted. It wasn’t sexy. It was bloody and terrible and frightening. He knows it was the right thing to do, but at the very end, it wasn’t exciting at all. Just messy and sad.
But the Voice didn’t see that. The Voice just saw that he’d done what he was supposed to do, and he’d got it right.
As he wakes up properly, he feels a buzz in his veins. It’s pride, but it’s fear too. They’re going to be looking for him. The Voice promised he’d be all right. But maybe the Voice has got it wrong.
Maybe he wasn’t as clever as he thought.
Tom Storey stared out of the window, watching the leaves detaching from the trees and swirling in the brisk breeze that had sprung up towards noon. He sat motionless, his bandaged stump gripped in his other hand. Tony watched him for a good ten minutes, but Storey never budged.
Eventually, he walked across the day room and pulled up a chair next to Storey. He noted the purple bruise along his cheekbone. According to the orderly who had shown Tony in, one of the other patients had punched Storey during a group therapy session. ‘Even these mad bastards draw the line at child killers,’ the man had said casually.
‘We’ve all got two personalities, you know,’ Tony said conversationally. ‘One in each hemisphere of the brain. One’s the boss, it shouts down the weaker one. But you sever the diplomatic links, and there’s no telling what the subservient one will do once it gets the taste for power.’
Storey still didn’t move. ‘I can still feel it,’ he said. ‘It’s like a malevolent ghost. It won’t leave me alone. Supposing you find out I’ve got a brain tumour. And supposing that doesn’t kill me. There’s still going to be a war going on in my head, isn’t there?’
‘I won’t lie to you, Tom,’ Tony said. ‘There’s no quick fix here. See, you’ve got the dominant left side of the brain. That’s in charge of the three R’s–reading, writing and arithmetic. And you’ve got the right side. It’s illiterate, but it comprehends form, solid geometry, music. I suspect it gets frustrated because it can’t express itself readily in the ways that humans generally communicate. That’s why it goes off the rails when the left side loosens its grip. But that’s not the end of the story.’
‘Just the end of Tom Storey.’ His voice was bitter.
‘Not necessarily. The brain’s an amazing structure. When it gets damaged, it retrains other areas to take over the jobs that used to be done by the bit that’s redundant. And there are things we can do to retrain the rebellious part of your brain. I can help you, Tom.’
Storey took a breath so deep it raised his shoulders. ‘Can’t bring my kids back, though. Can you?’
Tony looked out of the window at the flurry of golden and scarlet leaves. ‘No, I can’t. But what I can do is help you live with that absence.’
Tears spilled out of Storey’s eyes and trickled unheeded down his cheeks. ‘Why would you want to do that?’
Because it’s the only thing I’m good at, Tony thought. What he said was: ‘Because you deserve it, Tom. Because you deserve it.’
Carol walked into the interview room with an assumption of confidence she didn’t really feel. It had been many months since she’d interviewed anyone, witness or suspect, and she was afraid of her emotions bleeding into the professional sphere. It didn’t help that she was conscious of Paula at her side, weighing her up. At least Ron Alexander’s composure seemed to have slipped a little. He was refusing to meet her eyes, fiddling continuously with his wedding ring.
‘Right,’ Carol said, settling into her chair. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Jordan and this is Detective Constable McIntyre. As your solicitor will have explained, Mr Alexander, we’re looking for your help in respect of another inquiry that’s not related to the reasons you were originally arrested. We would appreciate your co-operation.’
‘Why should I talk to you?’ Alexander blurted out. ‘You’ll only twist anything I say to make a case against me.’
Bronwen Scott put a hand on his arm. ‘You don’t have to say anything, Ron.’ She looked directly at Carol. ‘My client is concerned that any co-operation he offers you will be reflected in any subsequent proceedings.’
Carol shook her head. ‘You know it’s not up to us, Ms Scott. It’s the CPS who make the deals. But I’m perfectly willing to make representations to them at the appropriate time.’
‘That’s not good enough.’
Carol shrugged. ‘It’s the best I can do. Your client might like to consider the converse, however. If he fails to help us in such a sensitive case, nobody’s going to cut him any slack anywhere down the line.’
‘Is that a threat, Chief Inspector?’
‘Just
a statement of fact, Ms Scott. You know as well as I how emotions run high in the case of a missing child. Sex offenders have a hard enough time in prison without adding to their problems. It’s up to you, Mr Alexander.’ Carol eyed Alexander, who was shifting uncomfortably in his chair. She opened the folder in front of her and took out the photograph Jan Shields had supplied. She placed it in front of him. ‘We found this on your computer. Do you recognize this child, Mr Alexander?’
He glanced at the image then looked away, desperately scanning the wall as if it would give him the answer. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
‘Can you tell me who it is?’
‘His name’s Tim Golding.’ He picked up Scott’s pen, gripping it in both hands as if trying to snap it in two. ‘His picture was in the papers. And on the TV.’
‘When did you acquire this photograph?’ Carol leaned forward slightly, forcing warmth and intimacy into her voice.
He flashed a look at Scott, who nodded. ‘I don’t know exactly. A few weeks ago, I think. It came in an email attachment. I was shocked when I opened it.’
‘Shocked because you recognized Tim Golding?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. And because of…because of how he looked.’
‘What? You’re not used to receiving pictures of naked, frightened children?’
‘Don’t answer that, Ron,’ Scott said quickly. ‘Chief Inspector, if we’re going to make any progress here, I must insist you stop asking questions whose answers might tend to incriminate my client.’
Yeah, right. Carol took a deep breath. She slid another photograph from her folder. ‘Do you recognize this boy?’
Alexander frowned. ‘Isn’t he the one who went missing last year? Guy something or other?’
‘Guy Lefrevre,’ Carol said. ‘Have you ever been sent photographs of Guy Lefevre?’
‘No.’ Alexander’s eyes flicked from side to side. Carol couldn’t decide whether he was panicking or lying. But with Bronwen Scott patrolling her every question, there was nothing to be gained by pressing the point.
‘What did you do when you recognized Tim Golding?’ she asked.
‘I erased the picture right away,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want it on my machine.’
Carol stripped her voice of challenge and tried to sound sympathetic. ‘You didn’t think about contacting the police? You could have printed it out and sent it to us anonymously. You’ve got children of your own, haven’t you, Ron? How do you think you’d feel if one of them went missing? Wouldn’t you want to believe that anyone who had information that might help the inquiry would pass it on to the police?’
A sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. ‘I suppose,’ he said.
‘It’s not too late to put that right,’ Carol said. ‘Who sent you the photograph, Ron?’
He breathed out noisily. ‘I don’t know. People don’t use their real names on email, you know?’
Carol knew. They used nicknames and mixtures of letters and numbers even when they had nothing to hide. Her own personal email address was a combination of her surname and the last four digits of a previous phone number because, when she’d signed up, ‘caroljordan’ had already been taken. ‘OK. You didn’t know the identity of the sender. So what was his email address?’
He spread his hands. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t pay attention. I just wiped the whole thing. The email and the attachment.’
‘Presumably it was someone who had sent you things before?’
‘I’d advise you not to answer that, Ron.’ Scott laid a hand on his arm again.
Carol glared at the lawyer. ‘You seem to be losing sight of what’s at stake here, Ms Scott. A child is missing. We both know the chances are he’s dead. I’m trying to find out what happened to him, and that’s all I care about.’
‘Very commendable, Chief Inspector. But my concern is my client’s best interests. And I will not sit quietly by while you draw him into potentially incriminating statements.’
Carol gathered herself together and turned her attention back to Alexander. ‘Ron, can you remember anything that might lead us to the person who sent you this picture?’
He shook his head. ‘Honestly, if I knew anything useful, I’d tell you. I want to help, I really do.’
‘OK. Let’s try a different tack. Why do you think he sent it to you? Why would he have thought this was the kind of thing you might like to see?’
‘I don’t think…’ Scott began.
‘It’s all right,’ Alexander said. ‘I don’t know the answer to that either. Everybody gets unsolicited email. Spam blockers don’t get rid of it all.’ He sat back in his seat, clearly more relaxed now he’d figured out how to play the game.
Carol felt irritation rising. ‘Fine. If that’s how you want to play it, Mr Alexander, that’s the way we’ll go.’ She pushed her chair back. ‘This interview is over. But I should tell you that we’re going to be trawling every byte on your hard disk. We’re going to follow your footsteps round the web. You may think you’ve cleaned up your computer, but our technicians are going to demonstrate just how misguided you are. You’ve had your chance, Mr Alexander. And you just blew it.’
Carol marched out of the interview room and headed back to her office, not even bothering to check if Paula was following her. ‘Stacey? My office, now,’ she said as she crossed the squadroom. Paula and Stacey arrived together. ‘What did we get from the techies on Ron Alexander’s computer?’ Carol asked Stacey, waving a hand to indicate they should sit down.
‘Not as much as they’d hoped for,’ Stacey said. ‘People are so dim about this stuff. Alexander thought he’d erased everything from his hard disk. He probably panicked when he saw the earlier newspaper reports about Operation Ore. But like most people, he thought if he just deleted them then emptied the Recycle Bin, they were gone for good. And like most people, he never bothered to reformat or even defrag–’
‘Defrag?’ Paula asked faintly. Stacey rolled her eyes. ‘It’s when you–’ ‘Never mind,’ Carol said. ‘So there was still stuff lurking there?’
‘Well, yes, of course there was. File fragments, some complete files. Like the photo of Tim Golding.’
‘And can we find out where that came from?’
Stacey shook her head. ‘Not a trace. It’s an orphan.’
Paula opened her mouth but before she could speak, Carol said hastily, ‘Never mind, Paula, we get the idea. That’s a blow, Stacey.’ She rubbed the bridge of her nose between her fingers. The lead that had seemed so promising the day before was turning into another dead end. ‘What about his email service provider? Any chance they could help?’
Stacey shrugged. ‘Depends when he got the email. They’re not really techies, ISPs, just bean counters,’ she said disparagingly. ‘They’re only interested in billing, not in keeping records of traffic. Most only keep detailed records for a week. Some for a month. If he got that attachment more than a month ago, we’ve got no chance. And we’d need a court order before they’d hand over the information anyway.’
‘So we’re screwed.’ Carol’s flat statement hung in the air.
Stacey pushed her hair behind her ear. Her self-satisfied smile and her dark almond-shaped eyes made her resemble a cat. ‘Not necessarily. Images like this, there’s more to them than meets the eye. Literally. You sometimes get other information encoded in them.’
Carol perked up. ‘Like the sender’s details?’
Stacey’s sigh fell just short of obvious exasperation. ‘Nothing that straightforward. You might get the serial number of the camera that took the picture. Or the registration number of the software the photographer used to process the image electronically. Then it’s a matter of contacting the manufacturer or the software licence holder and seeing what information they can provide.’
‘That’s scary,’ Paula said.
‘It’s bloody good news,’ Carol corrected her. ‘So what are we waiting for?’
Stacey stood up. ‘It’s going to take time,’
she warned.
‘Doesn’t everything?’ Carol leaned back in her chair. ‘Anything you need, Stacey, just let me know. Paula, find out who Ron Alexander’s ISP is and see what they can tell us. It’s time we brought Tim Golding home.’
The doorbell came as a welcome relief. Tony pushed aside the philosophical text on the mind/body problem that had been stretching his brain and hurried down the hall. He opened the door to find Carol leaning against the porch, a bulging plastic carrier in one hand. ‘You ordered a takeaway?’ she said.
‘You took your time. It’s at least twenty-two hours since I placed my order,’ he said, stepping back and following her down the hall. ‘The kitchen’s straight ahead.’
Carol looked around, taking in the pine units and the tiled breakfast bar. ‘Very eighties,’ she said.
‘Is it? You think that’s part of the reason I got it so cheap?’
She smiled. ‘Could be. It looks in good nick, though.’
‘All the drawers work, which is a definite improvement on anywhere I’ve ever lived before. Now, do you want to eat first or tour the cellar?’
‘What I’d really like is a glass of wine. It’s been a frustrating day.’
‘OK. Wine we can do.’ He reached for an opened bottle of Australian Shiraz Cabernet and poured them each a glass. ‘Here’s to…I don’t know, what should we drink to?’
‘An end to frustrations? For both of us?’
Tony raised his glass and chinked it against hers. ‘That’s as good as anything. An end to frustrations.’ He watched her drink, noting the dark shadows under her eyes and the wariness in her body language. She was, he thought, a long way from herself. ‘So, would you like to see the cellar–sorry, basement flat?’
Carol smiled. ‘Why not?’
She followed him back into the hall. He opened a door that looked as if it should be the cupboard under the stairs. Instead, it gave on to a narrow, steep flight of steps illuminated by a bare lightbulb. Tony led the way into a surprisingly high-ceilinged space. ‘This would be the living room,’ he said, ushering her into a large room that had two shallow but wide windows set high in the walls. ‘It gets a fair bit of natural light. And we could put glass panels in the outside door and build a little porch at the bottom of the steps for security,’ he added eagerly. ‘I already suggested that to the builder. I know it’s hard to imagine now, with the walls still being bare brick, but all this will be plaster-boarded. Wood floors. It’ll look really nice.’