How the Dead Speak

by Val McDermid

  ‘Don’t worry, we will be. But what should we be looking for?’

  ‘No obvious heirs. No sons, sisters’ sons. I’d be interested in his own jumping-off point too. What was his childhood like? How did he get started in business? Does it map on to the victims in any way?’

  Paula stared at Tony. Not for the first time, his lateral approach caught her on the hop. ‘But why would he kill kids with the same sort of background he had? Surely he’d be looking to find a way to help them reach their potential? That’s what Sophie says he’s like.’

  ‘What if you made your selection and they weren’t up to the mark? What if they weren’t a mini-me? Worse, what if they were complete no-hopers? How would you feel then? What a judgement that would be on your acumen.’

  The words hung in the air between them. It was an angle, Paula thought. More than that, it was a motive. Over the years, Tony had persuaded her to the belief that nobody does anything without a reason. They might not be able clearly to articulate that reason. Or it might be a reason that made sense to them and no other living soul. She might think a failure of judgement an insufficient reason for murder. But Mark Conway might not. She sighed.

  ‘Something to think about, at least,’ Tony said. ‘But since I have no access to the files, maybe not something to grace with a lot of weight.’

  ‘You’re always worth listening to. And not just professionally. We miss you, mate. But I’m really glad to hear you’re doing positive things now. You and Carol – you’re both healing, aren’t you? In your different ways?’

  He dipped his head. ‘I hope so, Paula. I needed to make changes. The work was eating into me.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘I wish I’d found a slightly less disruptive way of going about it.’

  She shook her head. ‘You know that was never going to happen. Doing things by half measures isn’t your style.’

  ‘No. I sometimes wonder if that’s the one useful thing I inherited from Vanessa.’

  ‘There has to be something, I suppose.’ She checked the wall clock behind Tony’s head. ‘I’m going to have to run. I told a little white lie to get out of the office and it’s got a limited shelf life.’

  ‘OK. I’ll see you in a week or two?’

  ‘Yes, send me a VO. And maybe at some point, you could send one for Torin? I know he’d like to see you.’

  Sadness filled his eyes. ‘Do you think that’s a good idea? I’m not much of a role model in here.’

  ‘You’re the best man in his life, Tony. By a long way. Let him back in.’

  43

  It’s a rare criminal who doesn’t resort in the first instance to denial. But the form and shape of that denial can be very telling.

  From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL

  Paula managed to slip back into the squad room without encountering Rutherford. Not glancing up from his screen, Karim said, ‘He’s been off for the last hour having a meeting with DCI Fielding. You’re in the clear.’

  ‘OK. Got anything interesting on Mark Conway?’

  ‘Are you OK, guv?’ Karim’s eyes were worried. ‘Like, with you being at the hospital.’

  ‘No secrets in a nick,’ Paula said ruefully. ‘Just some tests, Karim. It’s something and nothing. Women’s stuff.’

  He didn’t look reassured. ‘Yeah, but I got a mum and sisters and aunties. I know “women’s stuff” covers all the ground between something and nothing.’

  ‘Don’t fret, I promise there’s no need. Mark Conway?’ She pulled up a chair and sat at the end of his desk.

  Karim brought up a page of notes on his screen. ‘No criminal record. Clean driving licence. Drives a Porsche Cayenne. You know, the big SUV.’

  Paula grinned. ‘You know Phill Jupitus? The stand-up? I once heard him do this brilliant routine about a “Porsche four-by-what’s-it-for”. So we do know fairly definitively that Conway’s a bit of a wanker.’

  ‘A self-made wanker, though.’ Karim clicked to a magazine profile of Mark Conway. He looked crisp and clean-cut in the photos. Conway in hill-walking gear with somewhere in the White Peak in the background; Conway in shorts and T-shirt (sensibly not lycra) on a bike trail in a wood; Conway in a sharp suit and open-necked shirt on the pitch at Bradfield Vics. ‘He had a pretty rough upbringing. Never knew his father, then his mother died when he was eleven. He was taken into care, spent the next five years in children’s homes.’ He highlighted a section of text.

  I hated every minute of it. It was a training ground for bullies and abusers. The so-called carers turned a blind eye. It was too much trouble to try to police what was going on. As soon as I turned sixteen, I got a job on a market stall selling fake branded trainers. That was me done with the home. For the first six weeks, I slept under the stall, till I got enough money together to rent a bedsit.

  ‘Interesting,’ Paula said.

  ‘Yeah. He’s had a taste of life on the streets. Just like the victims, apparently.’

  Paula shook her head. ‘It’s too early to jump to conclusions, Karim. We’ve not got IDs yet. We don’t know if these victims really were homeless. We’ve only got Martinu’s word for that, and he might be spinning us a pack of lies. And even if they do turn out to have been living on the streets . . . I think if Tony was around, he’d be cautioning us against mapping one thing directly on to another.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We shouldn’t leap to the conclusion that Conway’s tough teenage years give him some connection to victims who’ve had similar experiences. A connection isn’t necessarily a consequential relationship.’

  As she spoke, Sophie walked past Karim. She glanced at the screen and stopped in her tracks. ‘You’re not still on about Mark Conway? I’m telling you, Paula, you are so wasting your time looking at him.’

  ‘Gotta follow where the breadcrumbs lead us,’ Paula said. ‘You’re probably right, but it’s not just in Agatha Christie novels that the least likely person turns out to be the one with the darkest secret.’

  Sophie tutted. ‘You should be looking at Martinu’s other contacts. Going through his phone and his email.’

  ‘We are,’ Paula said. ‘His computer’s an open book, according to Stacey. If we don’t get anywhere with Conway, we’ll dig deeper. Don’t worry, we’re not obsessing with one single line of inquiry. What have you got going on in the incident room? Anything coming out of interest?’

  Sophie shook her head. ‘The cupboard is bare. Fielding’s champing at the bit to interview nuns. She wasn’t happy to hear Sergeant Ambrose had already been to York. She’s pitching to do Norfolk, Liverpool and Galway, but the boss is holding his ground. He said his way might take longer but it would be consistent.’

  Paula smiled. ‘Good to hear.’ She stood up. ‘Right. We’re off to talk to Martinu again. See what he has to say about the non-driving priest.’

  She watched Sophie continue on her way, but before she could drill Karim on the forthcoming interview, Stacey slipped out from behind her screens. ‘I don’t know if it helps, but I checked out Martinu’s cottage. There’s no mortgage registered on it, but there’s a charge on the property.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Karim asked.

  ‘One day, when you’re old enough to buy a house, chances are you’ll have to borrow the cash,’ Paula teased. ‘Whoever you borrow your money from registers a charge on the property. When it’s sold, whoever holds the charge on the property has to be paid off before you get anything. So come on, Stacey, I know you’re dying to tell me. Who owns the charge on Martinu’s cottage? Is it the Order of the Blessed Pearl?’

  ‘Oh no, it’s much more interesting than that.’

  ‘We’ve got a bit of a problem here, Jezza,’ Paula said, forearms on the table, hands clasped. ‘You told us the priest brought the bodies to the convent to bury them in the holes you’d previously dug?’

  ‘That’s right, Inspector,’ Karim said, referring to his notebook.

  Martinu looked at his lawyer for guidance. Cohen nodded. He was equal
ly immaculate today, his suit a dark blue with the faintest of pearl grey pinstripes, his tie a rich purple shot silk. ‘You’ve answered this before.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Martinu grunted.

  ‘Constable, what exactly did Jezza say?’ Paula kept her eyes fixed on Martinu.

  Karim flicked the pages till he came to the line he’d lifted from the recording. ‘“He’d drive in, usually with some deadbeat in the passenger seat.”’

  ‘You’re sure about that, are you? He’d bring a passenger with him?’

  He nodded. ‘Mostly. Not every time.’

  ‘You see, that’s what I’m having trouble with. Father Keenan doesn’t have a car. He didn’t have a car then. In fact, he’s never had a car.’

  Martinu’s eyes widened as he saw the chasm open at his feet. ‘He must have hired one, then. Or borrowed one. They all hang together, these priests.’ He spoke quickly, his eyes flicking to his lawyer.

  ‘He couldn’t have hired one, Jezza. Because he’s never had a driving licence. Not here. Not in Ireland.’ Paula tipped her head towards Karim. ‘Constable Hussein checked it out. He’s very thorough, is Constable Hussein. Michael Keenan can’t drive. He’s never even had a provisional licence. Never had driving lessons. He was too busy studying to be a priest.’

  A long silence. Martinu swallowed hard. Cohen cleared his throat. ‘My client may have been mistaken in his recollection. Mr Martinu, perhaps, thinking back, you might have misremembered?’

  Martinu clutched at the straw. ‘Maybe I did. It was dark when they came. I might not have seen exactly who was where.’ It sounded weak, unconvincing.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Paula said gently. ‘I think the priest was just a handy scapegoat. Not a very clever move, to try to frame someone who knows your own little secrets.’

  Martinu flushed a dark red. ‘He’s a liar.’

  ‘You don’t even know what I’m going to say.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, it’ll be a lie. He’s trying to smear me, to make out like I’m the guilty one, the liar.’

  ‘To be honest, Jezza, we don’t need Father Keenan’s testimony to work out that you’re a liar. And besides, the material on your computer reinforces what he told us. You lied about who delivered those bodies.’

  ‘Is there a question in there, Inspector?’ Cohen was trying belligerence now, but his manner was too languid to be entirely convincing.

  ‘No, but there is one coming. You leave us with two options, Jezza. Either you committed these murders yourself—’

  ‘I never,’ he shouted. ‘I’m not a killer.’ He slammed his hands down on the table. ‘I never killed anybody.’

  ‘Either you committed these murders yourself or you’re shielding the person who did,’ Paula continued, apparently unperturbed. ‘Which is it?’

  Martinu looked at the table. ‘I did not kill those people.’

  ‘Then who are you covering for? Whoever it is, they clearly don’t give a damn about you. They’re happy to let you sit here, hour after hour, carrying the can. You let yourself be used when you dug those graves, and you’re letting yourself be used again now.’

  Cohen leaned over and murmured something in Martinu’s ear. He nodded and straightened up. ‘No comment.’

  ‘A bit late for that, Jezza. You’re already condemned out of your own mouth. Illegal burials. Aiding and abetting a murderer. You’re going to jail, Jezza. For a long time. Maybe a life sentence. Say goodbye to fresh air and fresh vegetables and the boardroom at Bradfield Vic and spying on teenage girls in their underwear. And for what? For somebody who’ll stay in the shadows and watch you twist in the wind.’

  He clenched his fists tight and glared at Paula. ‘No comment,’ he ground out, his lips tight over his teeth.

  Paula let the silence grow. She could almost feel a crackle in the air from the electricity between them. Then she glanced casually at Cohen. ‘Is it the same person who’s paying for your expensive lawyer and his expensive suit? Because I don’t usually see Mr Cohen in here defending working-class lads like you. He doesn’t usually get out of bed for anyone who lives in a house worth less than a cool million. Who are you shielding, Jezza?’

  He blinked furiously, as if on the point of tears he’d die before shedding. ‘No fucking comment.’

  ‘Is it Mark? Your generous cousin Mark who takes you to the boardroom at Victoria Park? Your helpful cousin Mark, who lent you the money to buy your little slice of paradise, complete with its unorthodox fertiliser?’

  Martinu stiffened, gripping the edge of the table white-knuckled.

  Paula waited. Then said, ‘Not got a “No comment” for me this time?’

  ‘This. Is. Nothing. To do. With Mark.’ He spat the words out.

  ‘I don’t believe you, Jezza. I’m not seeing anybody else in your life that you’d protect like this. I’m giving you a chance now to save a bit of your skin. I can’t keep you out of prison, but if you help us now, we can find a way to keep your jail time as low as possible.’

  Again, Cohen leaned into his client’s ear. He put a hand on Martinu’s arm and gave it a squeeze. Martinu looked away, and this time when he met Paula’s eye, there was something like a plea there. He sighed. ‘No comment.’

  ‘You leave me no choice, Jezza.’ Paula’s voice was a caress. She stood up and casually said to Karim, ‘Charge him,’ before walking out of the room.

  She made it to the women’s toilet before she started shaking from the release of tension. Every time she came up against the moment in an interview when she knew she’d found the answer, it was the same old story. The cold sweat running down her body, the racing of the pulse and the clenching in her guts. She’d seen colleagues come out of the interview room punching the air and doing little victory dances. She’d seen Carol Jordan walking away as if she’d done nothing more momentous than the weekly shop. But for Paula, every time was a starburst of debilitating relief that she could still knock an interview out of the park. She leaned her forehead against the wall, breathing as rapidly as if she’d run up too many flights of stairs and wondered how many more times she could do this before she ended up as damaged as Carol Jordan.

  44

  It’s always tempting to wait for more information when you’re preparing a profile. But criminal investigations proceed piecemeal and it’s very rare that you get all the pieces for your particular jigsaw. Sometimes you have to work with what little you have.

  From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL

  The rising sun was a dim red ball behind a bank of cloud. A thin north wind brushed the surface of the sea into stiff waves. Carol savoured the salty air as she walked along a narrow path behind low sand dunes. Not another living soul in sight, not even an early morning dog walker. The peace and the view were scant compensation for being the tool of Vanessa’s vengeance.

  She’d arrived in the tiny Northumberland coastal village under cover of darkness and scoped out the address Stacey Chen had pulled out of the Land Registry records. Carol wasn’t sure how she’d narrowed down the dozens of seaside properties that must have changed hands around the right time, but there it was on the record. Cove Cottage, owned by OTG Holdings. OTG – the initials of Oliver Tapsell Gardner.

  I can’t find anything on OTG Holdings, Stacey’s covering email had said. That would lean towards it being a private trust rather than any kind of company. It fits with the info you gave me. They bought Cove Cottage eleven months after Oliver Gardner was born and it’s not listed as a holiday rental with any of the online agencies. The council tax is paid by OTG Holdings from a bank account in the Isle of Man. No chance of getting any more information out of them. Not even I can manage that. Balmouth is blink-and-you’d-miss-it. The winter population is three hundred and forty, which climbs to around six hundred when the holiday cottages fill up. There’s not much there – a general store and a pub that only opens at lunchtimes. It’s got a rather lovely white sandy beach but there isn’t a lot of it – cliffs at one end and it’s cut off by the e
stuary of the River Balm at the other end. There are a lot of bigger beaches with more amenities dotted up and down the coast, so it’s mostly a haven for locals trying to escape the crowds.

  As she had many times before, Carol marvelled at what Stacey could dig up in what must have been a short break from the Bradesden convent inquiries. Now she’d have to play a waiting game. She’d parked her car at the far end of the village and set off along the path, which was separated from the seafront cottages by a narrow strip of scrubby marram grass and a single-lane tarmacked road. Cove Cottage was marked clearly on the Land Registry plan and Carol was trying to identify it as she walked. Second cottage past the pub, she thought, slowing slightly. She could see a name etched in a curly script on a piece of slate but it was too small to read at this distance.

  As yet there had been no sign of anything with a pulse in Balmouth. So she took a chance and strolled across the grass towards the cottage. As she drew near, she felt a moment’s satisfaction as she read COVE COTTAGE. There was a narrow passage that ran down the side of the cottage and she turned down as if it had been her destination all along.

  The cottage looked well-maintained. The render was painted sky blue, with the windowsills and the front door a contrasting darker shade. Two windows on either side of the front door, three windows on the first floor. She took all this in as she passed, as well as the fact that the curtains were drawn in the downstairs rooms and one upstairs window. No lights were showing yet, but it was early. And drawn curtains weren’t incontrovertible evidence that there was anyone home.

  Cove Cottage was clearly a single room deep, with a boxy extension on the back that looked like a kitchen with a bathroom above. A low wall surrounded a paved back yard, just big enough for an uncomfortable-looking wrought-iron table and two chairs, and beyond them, a trio of wheelie bins. No plants; nothing that demanded attention. Beyond it, a single-storey building shielded it from whatever lay on the other side.