by Val McDermid
‘Well, nothing, yet. But something did occur to me. You know how it goes. Anyway, here’s the thing: Kate Rawlins had a book of poetry in the car with her when she killed herself – The Death Notebooks by Anne Sexton. There were pages of a poetry book all over Daisy Morton’s front garden – Ariel by Sylvia Plath. Both poets killed themselves, and in pretty much the same way as our victims. And then the light bulb went on in my head. Virginia Woolf.’ He grinned triumphantly.
Carol looked blank.
‘Remember the film, The Hours? The one where all the writers went mad and killed themselves?’
‘Vaguely. Meryl Streep, and Nicole Kidman’s fake nose.’
‘You don’t remember how it opens? Virginia Woolf walking into the river with her pockets full of stones. Pockets full of stones, Carol. Just like Jasmine. That was the echo I wasn’t hearing.’
‘But there’s no book.’
Tony threw his hands up in frustration. ‘We don’t know that. The cops down in Devon think there’s nothing suspicious about Jasmine Burton’s death. They don’t even know where she went into the water. For all I know, the entire east bank of the Exe is strewn with the pages of Mrs Dalloway.’
‘I think they might have noticed that. But you do have a point.’ He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a finger to silence him while she thought. Then she looked at her watch. ‘More than an hour,’ she said, taking her phone out. She tapped the screen and put it to her ear. ‘Bear with me,’ she said to Tony.
He knew when it was answered because her face lit up in a smile. The warmth, he knew, would transmit down the line. ‘So, what’s it to be?’ she said without any preamble. She bit her lip as she waited for the answer. He could hear the rumble of a voice, then her face lit up. ‘That’s great news. Now, I’ve got a job for you. Never mind coming to Bradfield tomorrow. I want you to go down to Exeter …’ A pause. ‘Yes, Exeter. A woman called Jasmine Burton committed suicide last week. She walked into the River Exe with a pocketful of stones. She’d been trolled on the web. You can google her, and I’ll get Paula to email you more info overnight. I need you to find out or figure out where she went into the river. What you’re looking for – and I know it sounds bizarre – is a copy of a book by Virginia Woolf somewhere nearby … No, I’ve no idea which book. I don’t know whether it matters. Just go and look, Alvin.’ A pause, more rumbling. Then she chuckled. ‘No, we’re not hanging about. This might be a figment of our imagination. Or it might not be. There’s only one way to find out. Talk to me tomorrow.’ She ended the call and let the smile spread across her face.
‘Alvin says yes?’
She nodded. ‘Alvin says yes. This is starting to look like it might be a team.’ She turned back to her phone and started composing a text. ‘I need to get Paula to do him a brief.’
‘Fielding won’t like that.’
‘Good. The day hasn’t been wasted, then.’ She glanced up. ‘I will never forgive Fielding for the way she treated you.’
He shrugged. ‘You sorted it out in the end.’
‘It should never have needed sorting in the first place.’
Tony gave a little shrug. ‘So, Chinese or Indian for our celebratory dinner?’
Stacey understood the importance of being prepared. The more information an interviewer of Paula’s calibre had at her disposal, the more chance there was of persuading the suspect – or witness – to reveal all they knew. So she’d set herself the task of garnering as much data as she could on the five people who had repeatedly trolled Kate, Daisy and Jasmine. Where they worked. Where they lived. Who their friends were. Who they texted and what they said to them. It wasn’t the most demanding of tasks, but it needed concentration and care.
She was entirely absorbed in what she was doing when Sam turned up with a Thai takeaway. She paused to accept a kiss, but let him get on with setting out crockery and cutlery. She was dimly aware of him moving around, then he cut through her focus, calling, ‘Dinner’s on the table, come and get it.’
Stacey blinked rapidly, saved what she’d captured and headed for the table. Sam had laid out bowls and chopsticks, spoons and forks alongside plastic containers with their lids flipped off. The mixture of aromas drove work from Stacey’s mind, drawing her to the food like magnetic north, reminding her of how long it had been since she’d eaten.
They loaded up their bowls with jasmine rice and green curry. ‘Ah, this is good,’ Stacey said. ‘You went to Mango Thai in Kenton Vale.’
‘I did. Because you’re worth it.’ He picked up a morsel of chicken with his chopsticks and popped it in her mouth. ‘What are you working on? You were completely absorbed when I came in.’
Stacey wished he hadn’t asked. She knew he was going to be upset when he discovered he’d been left out of Carol Jordan’s team and she’d hoped they could get through tonight without her having to break the news. ‘Digging up full background for Paula.’
‘Does Fielding know she’s got you working for her?’ DCI Fielding had once tried to recruit Stacey to her CID team, but she’d been thwarted by the DCI of the intel team who had been burying the analyst under a mountain of routine work.
‘It’s nothing to do with Fielding.’ Stacey wished she was a better liar, but she knew there was no point trying to fool Sam. It was as if he had a secret lie detector tuned in to her frequency.
Sam frowned, a coconut prawn halfway to his mouth. ‘What? Has Paula moved to another team? Has she escaped Fielding?’
‘Kind of,’ Stacey said.
Her reservation was a spur to his ever-ready appetite for information. ‘Come on, Stacey, don’t tease me. What’s the story? Whose firm is Paula working on?’
‘You’re not going to believe this.’ She knew she couldn’t divert him, but maybe she could slow him down long enough to take the sting out of the hurt and disappointment he was going to feel.
He helped himself to some pad thai, not taking his eyes off her for more than a second or two. ‘Sounds intriguing. It must be hot news, I’ve not heard a thing.’
‘There’s a new Home Office initiative about to be launched. A floating MIT, covering homicides across six forces in the North, including BMP. It’s an incredibly small team. It’ll be relying on local officers for a lot of the work on the ground.’
Sam perked up. ‘And Paula’s fallen for it? Sounds like a recipe for disaster to me. The local lads will take any credit going, and the floaters will catch the blame for whatever goes tits-up. I can’t believe Paula would be so naïve.’
Stacey couldn’t help a frisson of relief. Better he should put it down than feel put out. ‘I’ve signed up for it too, actually.’ She gave a self-deprecating smile.
Sam laid his chopsticks on the table. Now he was alert. ‘Why would you do that? Why would you sign up for something so mad? You know it’s mad, right?’
She had a mouthful of food but he waited, poised like a predator who sniffs something worth chasing. She washed the food down with the cold Singha beer and gave a smile that she hoped wasn’t as nervous as she felt. ‘Actually, I don’t think it’s mad.’
Now he leaned forward, ready to pounce. ‘Why don’t you think it’s mad, Stacey?’
‘I think it’s something that could be effective. The smaller forces don’t get enough complex homicides to develop the right skills, and the bigger forces could make better use of the detectives they’ve got on other serious crimes and on developing intelligence so they can prevent stuff happening.’
He cocked his head, as if listening to his brain analysing what it had heard. ‘It could also go tits-up very quickly. I suppose a lot depends on who’s running the show.’ His voice was deceptively nonchalant.
Stacey took a deep breath. There was no avoiding it now. ‘It’s Carol Jordan,’ she said.
Sam looked completely gobsmacked. For a moment, his mouth moved without any sound emerging. ‘How?’ he said at last. ‘She was under arrest last weekend. Done for drink driving. And now she’s been spirited out of reti
rement to run some elite squad? How the hell did that happen?’
She stared into her bowl. It wasn’t often that Stacey didn’t know the answers, but this was one occasion when she was quite happy in her ignorance. ‘The charges were dropped. The breathalyser was faulty.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Apparently it happens sometimes. Three other people had the charges against them dropped too, it wasn’t only Carol.’
Sam shook his head, incredulous. ‘So amazingly, just when they need Carol Jordan, all the shit magically disappears? Who’s running this show?’
‘Carol’s running the squad. But John Brandon is the Home Office liaison.’
He snorted. ‘Of course it’s John Brandon. Carol was always his blue-eyed girl. He’d move heaven and earth for her. Fuck. They got her off the hook. So of course she let them pull her out of retirement and hand her the poisoned chalice. That’s got to be better than being pilloried as a drunk and a loser, right?’
‘I don’t think it’s like that, Sam. We both know how good Carol is. She’s the person you’d want running an operation like this, you can’t deny that.’
He made a noise of exasperation. ‘All the same. This stinks. To keep Carol Jordan squeaky clean, they’ve let three other drunks off the hook. All for the sake of giving Carol Jordan a shiny new job.’
‘You’ve no right to say that, Sam. You don’t have any evidence to suggest Brandon interfered with the course of justice.’
He shook his head. ‘You can’t honestly think that. You’re far too smart. Well, good for you, Stacey. You get to walk away from all the crappy routine shit you’ve been doing lately. You get to go back to doing all the starry stuff that leaves everybody open-mouthed in admiration. Brilliant. Have you noticed something about all this, Stacey?’
She flinched at his tone but managed to keep her voice steady. ‘What do you mean, Sam?’
He leaned forward, his face full of hurt. ‘I didn’t come in tonight full of exciting news. I didn’t get the call to join the elite. I was there, right next to you, right at the heart of her last MIT. But did I get the summons?’ He paused. ‘Well? Did I?’
‘I asked if she was going to include you.’
‘And what did she say?’
Stacey felt a hard lump in her throat. She didn’t want to cry, she was determined not to cry, but his hurt pride was so obvious. She hated to see him in pain and not be able to do anything about it. ‘It’s a small team and she wants specialists.’
He shook his head, refusing to accept what she said. ‘You’re a specialist, I see that. But Paula? She’s just another plod.’
‘She’s the best interviewer I’ve ever seen.’ Stacey didn’t want to add to his hurt but equally, she didn’t know how to back down from the truth. ‘Carol didn’t say you weren’t good enough, only that you’re not right for this job. It’s not the same thing.’ She put a comforting hand on his arm. ‘Please, Sam.’
He looked as if he was about to burst into tears. She’d never seen him so naked. ‘She never liked me,’ he said bitterly. ‘I worked my arse off in her MIT, but when it comes down to it, it’s all about her not liking me.’
‘Well, she’s a pretty poor judge of character, then.’ She got up and wrapped her arms around him from behind. ‘Let’s face it, anyone who prefers Tony Hill to you has got her hormones pretty scrambled. Don’t let it get to you, Sam. Besides, when it comes to promotion, MIT is a dead end. So few opportunities. You’ll climb the ladder much faster in another firm.’
He reached up and gripped her hand tightly. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to be defeated by Carol Jordan. Not while I’ve got you.’
31
Detective Sergeant Alvin Ambrose hadn’t been in Devon since he’d been a kid. His parents had rented a tiny flat for a week in Torquay, two cramped bedrooms for them and their four kids. His dad was a bus driver, his mother a nurse, and they were determined that their kids should make their acquaintance with the sea and the sand, just as they’d done growing up in the Caribbean. They hadn’t said anything, but when they got off the train in Torquay Alvin had read their disappointment in their eyes and the slump of their shoulders. The beaches of Devon had been stunning for a six-year-old from Smethwick, a place almost as far from the sea as it was possible to be in England. But for his parents, who had been dreaming of the white sands of Barbados, it was another let-down to add to all the others they’d experienced since they’d arrived in the fifties.
The kids hadn’t cared. Alvin and his siblings fell in love with the beaches and the cool salt waters of the English Channel. They didn’t even notice they were the only black family on the sands and that others tended to spread their towels as far from the Ambroses as was possible. But their parents noticed, and in spite of the kids whinging in the years that followed, they never went back to the English seaside.
He recalled that holiday as the motorway crossed the border into Devon. There had been so much casual racism when he’d been growing up. There was the full-frontal stuff as well, but what had always irked him more was the thoughtless kind. The ‘But where are you really from?’ kind, as if he didn’t have a Midlands accent. One of the things he’d liked about Carol Jordan’s team right from the start was that they were such a mix – gay and straight, brown and yellow and ginger – and they genuinely seemed blind to difference when it came to working together. The only thing that mattered was solving cases and saving lives. That was one of the reasons he’d worked so hard at persuading his wife to let him make this leap in the dark. The commuting would be hard on both of them but, if it worked out, moving to Bradfield wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen to them and their kids.
Already, it was more interesting than most of the investigations he’d been following at West Mercia. The briefing Paula had sent him was puzzling in one sense; nobody had reported a crime, and yet that tight little knot of passionate investigators had sniffed it out and thrown at it all the resources they could muster. Alvin knew some hard-working coppers but he’d never come across any who went looking for work.
And the putative crime itself was fascinating. How did you make someone apparently strong and in control take her own life? What could tip a woman over the edge out of nowhere? He couldn’t imagine anyone pushing his own wife into suicide. The only thing that might make her reach that pitch of despair would be the loss of her children. And even then, he thought she’d struggle on for the sake of the other people who loved her. So this really was a mystery.
Earlier on the drive, Alvin had spoken to the officer who’d been dealing with Jasmine Burton’s death. Sergeant Paul Westmacott spoke with the distinctive West Country accent but Alvin knew better than to misread that as a mark of stupidity. Westmacott had sounded surprised at his interest, but Alvin had tried to shrug it off with a line about Jasmine’s connection to another case they were working. The last thing he wanted was to put Westmacott on the defensive by suggesting there was something more complicated going on than the local lads had spotted. So he’d sounded a bit bored and offhand, only perking up at the prospect of scones with clotted cream.
Westmacott picked up on that and suggested they meet at a café outside the city, overlooking the estuary itself. Alvin called to say he was close, and they set a time. He was five minutes early and he filled the time with a call to Paula, asking if there was anything new he needed to know. ‘I don’t think so. Stacey’s trying to track our victims’ movements via their phones and Carol and I are off to do some face-to-face digging. God knows what Tony’s doing. He’s got Carol’s dog, so he’s probably walking some canal bank between here and wherever.’
There wasn’t much to say to that, so Alvin didn’t waste time saying it. He’d barely finished the call when the man he assumed to be his contact pulled up in a Ford Focus with the blue and yellow Battenburg paint job that was as subtle as a half-brick. The uniformed officer who emerged was, to put it politely, burly. With a stab vest stretched over his gut, he looked like
a black gobstopper with legs. He crossed to meet Alvin with a gait that had to roll to accommodate his thick thighs. Alvin considered himself on the bulky side, but this guy must have a major struggle to pass his annual medicals. His head was round as a football, a fringe of short black hair curling from ear to ear, leaving the top of his head exposed and bare. It was hard to guess his age; the flesh padded out any wrinkles round the wintry blue eyes. There was nothing jolly about this fat man. ‘You DS Ambrose, then?’ he said, looking Alvin up and down.
‘That’s me. Alvin, call me Alvin.’ He thought about extending his hand but he wasn’t convinced Westmacott would appreciate the gesture.
‘Right, then. Let’s go and get some grub inside us,’ Westmacott said, heading for the café, a charmless between-the-wars roadhouse pub that had been painted pink in a vain attempt to make it look like a country cottage. Inside was a distinct improvement. There were a couple of dozen tables, all with smart white tablecloths and an assortment of vintage china plates, cups and saucers. About half of the tables were occupied, the customers an odd mixture of older couples in walking gear and middle-aged women huddled over teapots and gossip. Westmacott led them to the furthest corner table and plonked himself down on a dainty wooden chair that creaked slightly.
Alvin perched gingerly on the chair opposite and picked up the menu. ‘Don’t know why I’m even looking. I know what I want. A couple of scones with jam and cream and a big pot of strong tea.’
The shadow of a smile flickered on Westmacott’s face. ‘Proper copper choice, that is.’
A skinny blonde waitress with an overload of eye make-up pitched up alongside them. ‘Hello, Paul, the usual for you?’ she said, her accent straight from the Baltic.
