How the Dead Speak

by Val McDermid

  Carol emerged from the alleyway on to another single-lane roadway, lined with a similar group of cottages. A couple of them had cars parked in what had clearly been part of their original front gardens, but the road was too narrow to allow roadside parking. Nowhere to sit unobtrusively in a car. No café with a convenient window table for a stake-out. No handy woodland to lurk in. Harrison Gardner – if this was indeed his bolthole – had chosen well.

  Carol ambled along the road, still the only visible living thing. She wished she had Flash at her side, for companionship as much as camouflage. But she’d had no idea what the day might bring, so she’d left her with her neighbour. She had brought a pair of binoculars, thinking she might be able to pose as a birdwatcher. A website she’d checked had informed her that this part of the coast was famous for its seabirds. ‘Particularly migratory birds,’ it had said. Not that she would have recognised one of those if it had landed on the bonnet of her car. The only drawback was that any self-respecting twitcher would be looking out to sea, not focusing on one of the cottages in the middle of the village.

  She came to the end of the cottages and turned back towards the waterfront. She gazed up at the cliff and wondered if she could find a vantage point there that would allow her to look down at the cottage. Only one way to find out.

  Quarter of an hour later, Carol was perched on a flat rock close to the edge of the cliff, her binoculars trained on the front of Cove Cottage, grateful for the level of fitness she’d gained from walking the moors a couple of times a day with Flash. It turned out that the dog had bestowed more than companionship on her. She’d scrambled easily up the precipitous track that twisted up from the dunes, almost losing her footing only once when a shard of loose sandstone had slipped from under her boot.

  She’d come equipped for a long wait. She took a folding sit-mat from her day pack and opened it on the rock. Carol was trying to avoid thinking about Vanessa. The only way she could get through this was to consider it in the most abstract sense as the pursuit of justice. Harrison Gardner was a predator and a crook. Once she’d extracted Vanessa’s cash, she could hand him over to the police and find some satisfaction in seeing him miss out on his well-padded retirement.

  All the same, Carol hated that she was here at Vanessa’s behest. She loathed the woman for the way she’d treated Tony over the years, from his brutal and neglected childhood onwards to her attempt to cheat him out of his inheritance. She despised herself for giving in to the woman’s emotional blackmail. If Carol had been the only one facing the consequences, she’d have taken great pleasure in telling Vanessa to fuck right off and keep going. But the bitch had the power to do even more damage to Tony’s future. And so she was here, on this chilly clifftop, watching and waiting.

  To distract her from her destructive thoughts, she plugged earphones into her mobile and settled down to listen to one of the podcasts she downloaded regularly. The time drifted past without tedium and at last Balmouth started to stir. Dog walkers first. A couple with a pair of lurchers. An elderly man with a Border terrier. A young woman with a waxed jacket and a black lab. The dogs crossed paths with obvious familiarity, the lurchers frisky, the Border grumpy, the lab wagging its whole body in greeting.

  A van drove into the village and parked beside the shop. A young man got out, took a bundle of newspapers from the passenger seat and rolled up the shutters that covered door and windows. The first podcast came to an end and Carol clicked on to the next.

  She sat patiently through the morning life of the village. There was no sign of activity in Cove Cottage, however. Not a curtain twitched, not a light gleamed at the edge of a window. As the morning tailed off, she moved back out of sight to pee but when she took up her station again, it didn’t look as if she’d missed a thing. Towards noon, three children came zigzagging up the slope at the back of the cliff with an over-excited springer spaniel running circles round them. They looked astonished to see Carol, muttered to each other and veered off back down towards the shore. Now she felt guilty for being a killjoy.

  The sun burned off the last of the clouds by lunchtime and she had to remind herself she wasn’t here for pleasure as she tucked in to her cheese and salami sandwiches. Carol was about to bite into an apple when her phone rang, loud in her earphones. Startled, she dropped the fruit and answered before she’d registered the name on the screen. ‘Carol?’ The voice was unmistakable.

  ‘Vanessa,’ she said wearily.

  ‘How are you getting on? Have you tracked the bastard down yet?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ve found the holiday cottage, but the curtains are closed and there’s no sign of life.’

  ‘Well, you have been busy.’ Vanessa managed to make the praise sound like an insult. ‘Where are you? Exactly?’

  ‘I’m on a clifftop in Northumberland trying to look like a very assiduous bird watcher.’

  ‘Yes, but where? Don’t be coy, Carol. I need to know.’

  ‘Why? I’m managing this.’

  ‘And if something happens to you? If you have an accident? If Gardner turns on you? I’m sure you’ll have told one of your old cronies what you’re up to. I’m not carrying the can if you disappear. Tony wouldn’t like that one little bit, would he?’

  Did she never give up? Not water on stone so much as a hammer drill. ‘I’m in a village called Balmouth. Watching a house called Cove Cottage. But I don’t think there’s anyone in it. I’ve been here since dawn.’

  ‘Better give it till dusk, then. Maybe Gardner’s turned into a creature of the night.’

  ‘You’d know, Vanessa.’

  A dry chuckle. ‘Good to see there’s still a bit of fight in you, Carol. Stick with it. Let me know as soon as you’ve dealt with him.’

  The call ended abruptly. ‘Fuck you,’ she yelled, enjoying the feeling of letting rip. She pulled out her earphones and straightened her spine, then ran through a set of her exercises in a bid to loosen the tension Vanessa had provoked. Then she stood up and stretched, stiff from sitting for so long. Time to make a move. Do a circuit of the village and find another vantage point. Maybe in the dunes?

  She took her time descending, careful of her footing, conscious that her knees were protesting at being wakened from their fixed position. A sign in the store window promised a coffee machine, so she went in and helped herself to an insipid-looking cappuccino. Exchanged a few words about the weather with the man she’d seen opening up earlier and who clearly couldn’t be bothered developing conversation with someone he’d likely never see again.

  Carol walked back along the front, sipping her coffee, and casually turned down the ginnel by Cove Cottage again. And felt as stupid as she’d ever done when she passed the gable end and saw a man sitting at the wrought-iron table with a glass of white wine and a book. It hadn’t occurred to her that Harrison Gardner would go straight out to his sheltered back yard, invisible from her viewpoint on the cliff. Because who’d sit in a yard with no view when the sea was spread out before you? She hadn’t bargained on the fact that the sun had moved round and turned the yard into a sun trap.

  If indeed it was Harrison Gardner. On a quick pass, it was impossible to be certain. He looked the right sort of age. But he was wearing a baseball cap pulled low and wraparound sunglasses. Not to mention a rather distinguished beard that had featured in none of the photographs she’d managed to track down. She carried on without a backward glance and turned left so she was obscured by what turned out to be a low stone byre converted to a studio holiday home.

  Carol pulled up the photos of Gardner she’d loaded on to her phone. Only one gave her what she needed. Ears were always the giveaway. Change the hair, stick in coloured contacts, alter the eyewear. But there was nothing you could do with the ears, short of mutilation. She hunkered down and finished her coffee, letting a few minutes pass. Then she set off back down the alley, unhurried, casual. Gardner didn’t even look up. She gave him a quick glance as she passed, just enough to compare it with the photograph she’d
committed to memory.

  There was no doubt in her mind. She’d found Harrison Gardner.

  45

  When police officers have insufficient evidence, they tend to go on fishing expeditions. That’s not generally an option open to profilers; we have to wait for the evidence to come to us.

  From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL

  ‘We need to bring in Mark Conway,’ Rutherford said. ‘Good work, Paula. It would have been great if you’d broken the wee shite, but how you read his reactions is good enough for me. Let’s get Conway in and nail him to the wall. Eight murders, and nobody joined up the dots? What kind of coppering do they go in for in Bradfield?’

  ‘All due respect, sir, we’ve got no evidence.’ It was Sophie who spoke up. Paula couldn’t disagree with her.

  Rutherford scowled. ‘We’re not arresting him, just inviting him to come in and answer some questions.’

  ‘Which he might not want to answer,’ Paula said.

  ‘Most people don’t know they can just tell us to piss off,’ Steve said. ‘Chances are he’ll come right along with you. He might be screaming for his brief all the way, but he’ll come.’

  ‘Steve’s right,’ Rutherford said. ‘Set Paula on him with the psychological thumbscrews and we’ll get something. Meanwhile, Stacey, pass all the contacts from Martinu’s computer on to Karim. Karim, talk to them. See what they know about the set-up between Conway and his cousin. And Sophie – you worked for Conway. You must know people in the organisation you can talk to about him. Do some digging, use your contacts. Remember, we’re the ones you owe your loyalty to now.’

  Sophie looked, Paula thought, as if she’d swallowed some particularly unpleasant medicine. She was going to have to learn the hard way that when you were a cop, all the old allegiances counted for nothing. You drew on the bank of trust till you’d leached it dry. It never ceased to amaze her that she’d managed to hold fast to Elinor. But maybe it was simply that so far, she hadn’t needed anything from Elinor that wasn’t given freely. ‘You want me to front up Conway?’ she asked.

  ‘It makes sense,’ Rutherford confirmed. ‘You’re across it already. Alvin, link up with Paula on this. It won’t hurt to show a bit of muscle on the doorstep.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Sophie, does he work late?’

  She shrugged. ‘Depends what’s going on. But he makes a big thing about working smart, not working long. When he’s in the office, he’s usually gone by six.’ She scoffed. ‘I always suspected he just carried on working at home. He didn’t seem to have much of a social life. He definitely isn’t a party animal.’

  ‘Helpful. Do us a background brief when you’ve done your fishing.’ He fixed his stare on Paula. ‘You still here?’

  *

  Mark Conway lived less than a mile from his company headquarters on the outskirts of Bradfield. Although it was less than a mile from one of the main roads into the city, it was surprisingly secluded. There were a handful of sprawling modern houses on the road, all with triple garages and electronic gates, which Paula suspected belonged to footballers. Conway’s home, by contrast, had probably started life as a substantial farmhouse. From the side, the roofline resembled an upside-down letter W; it made the place look like two houses glued together. It was a design Paula had seen all over the north of England. Conway’s version was built of dressed local stone. The roof slates had the gleam of good repair and the paintwork round the windows and the porch looked smart and fresh. A horseshoe of mature trees protected it to the rear and a low drystone wall separated it from the road, with a traditional wooden five-bar gate closing off the pea gravel drive. The soft glow of indirect lighting shone warmly from two of the ground-floor windows.

  Looking at the satnav map, Paula realised it was only about three miles from Bradesden via a network of country lanes. You could probably get there without troubling any ANPR cameras. Always convenient for nefarious doings.

  The gate wasn’t locked, so they drove up to the front door. Alvin tugged an impressive iron bell pull and an incongruous series of electronic chimes rang out from inside. It was always the details that betrayed people, she thought. Mark Conway had learned how things were supposed to look, but that doorbell was all wrong.

  Mark Conway opened the door just wide enough to stand in the gap. Baggy white linen shirt over khaki cargo shorts, bare feet. He looked relaxed but curious, eyebrows raised in a question.

  Paula and Alvin both flashed their IDs and the curiosity was replaced by resignation. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you people.’

  ‘We’d appreciate your help in a major inquiry we’re dealing with right now,’ Paula said, amiable but firm. ‘Can we come in? It’s a bit chilly out here.’

  ‘I don’t care if it’s freezing. Unless you’ve got a warrant, you’re not crossing my threshold. And I’ve already told you, I’ve got nothing to say. So you may as well go back into the warmth of your car and leave.’ He was equally amiable, and equally firm.

  Paula shrugged. ‘You’re quite within your rights, of course. But I should warn you, we tend to draw inferences from refusals like yours. Because people with nothing to hide have no reason to fear talking to the police. So when someone tries to stonewall us, we are inclined to look at them a bit more closely.’ She pulled a rueful face. ‘Because we think they just might have something they’re keeping hidden. Something that might have unpleasant consequences if it were to come out. Up to you, of course.’

  Now his charm slipped from his face as if it had been wiped off with a damp rag. ‘That sounds very like a threat to me. Are you threatening me, officer?’

  ‘No, sir. Just making an observation.’

  ‘I don’t like your tone. You should know that your chief constable is a good friend of mine.’

  The first recourse of the rich and powerful, Paula thought. Bludgeon me with your influential contacts. But she wasn’t having any of that. ‘I doubt it, sir.’

  He looked affronted, his chin jutting forward. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’

  ‘No, sir, just ill-informed. Our unit is not answerable to the chief constable of Bradfield Metropolitan Police. We come under the direct control of the Home Office. So, we don’t actually have a chief constable for you to be a good friend of. Sir, can I ask you to reconsider your decision not to talk to us?’

  ‘You can ask but you’re wasting your breath. Why would I say anything to you? You’ve got my cousin locked up, I can’t even speak to him. I don’t know what trumped-up charges you’re laying on him, but I’m not giving you the chance to do the same to me.’ He made to close the door, but Alvin leaned his weight against it. ‘Get off!’ Conway sounded genuinely outraged to be thwarted on his own doorstep.

  ‘Your cousin is singing like he’s auditioning for the X Factor,’ Alvin said. ‘If I was you, I’d want to get my version on the record. First one out of the blocks always looks the most credible. You must know that, you’ll have had to mediate in plenty of disputes over your business career.’

  It was a good pitch, Paula thought. ‘What have you got to lose, if your hands are clean?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to frame my cousin for, so I don’t know how to avoid something you could twist to his disadvantage. So I am refusing to answer any of your questions. If you want to talk to me, arrest me. If you want to come into my house, get a warrant. And in the meantime, fuck right off.’ He pushed the door again, and this time Alvin stepped back. Nothing else he could have done, Paula thought.

  They walked back to the car in silence. ‘That went well,’ Alvin said as he started the engine.

  Paula twisted in her seat to look back at the lit windows. Mark Conway was outlined against the light, his face a dark blur. ‘There’s a kind of man who thinks money and power insulates you against the rules the rest of us live by. I don’t care what Inspector Valente says about Mark Conway. In spite of his performance of being one of the good guys, I think he’s one of the other kind and I think he’s in this up to his perfectly shaped
eyebrows.’

  Alvin grinned as he pulled on to the road. ‘I didn’t like him either.’

  ‘All we need is some shred of evidence. One loose thread we can pull on to unravel this whole case.’

  ‘He’s the kind of man who carries nail scissors to cut off all the loose threads,’ Alvin grumbled.

  ‘One way or another, we’ll just have to blunt his blades.’

  46

  I’ve spent hours interviewing patients over the years. Some of them have committed terrible crimes, but many of them have been brought into our care before they have reached that pitch. But no matter how well prepared I am before those initial interviews there is always a bolt from the blue that takes me aback.

  From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL

  Getting his plan off the ground had gone better than he’d expected. Salty Davy Smart, the prisoner who effectively ran the library, had been delighted at Tony’s suggestion. And so Books to Share with Your Kids had been booked in for the following afternoon. Four men had turned up at the appointed time and had been only mildly disgruntled that no actual books had arrived yet. Salty Davy had unearthed a battered copy of Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales that had found its way into a donated box of assorted books. It was a long way from what he had in mind, but Tony had skimmed it in his cell overnight and reckoned the language of the translation was simple enough to be a starting point.

  They’d sat round a table in the furthest corner of the library, as far from casual encounters as possible. Tony had never felt this nervous facing a group of students. Two of them looked barely old enough to be in an adult prison, one still ravaged by teenage pimples, the other by the kind of tattoos that made potential employers blanch. The third was in his twenties. He had shaggy blond hair, a wispy beard and the fidgety twitches of someone who was barely managing to satisfy the drug habit that had put him behind bars in the first place.