by Val McDermid
Can you give me some contact details? Or if that’s not practical, can you at least ask her to get in touch with me?
Thanks in advance,
Rollo Harris,
Detective Chief Superintendent,
Devon & Cornwall Police
Tony stared at the screen, the words blurring. Rollo Harris wasn’t the only one who didn’t know where Carol Jordan was, or how to get in touch with her. Most people who knew them both would have struggled to believe it, but Tony hadn’t spoken to Carol for the best part of three months. And he wouldn’t have known where to find her if he’d felt able to break that silence. The last thing she’d said to him after the hunt for Vance was done was, ‘It’s not all that’s over, Tony.’ And it appeared she’d meant it. She’d cut herself loose from his life.
At first, he’d managed to keep track of her. Although her final weeks at Bradfield Metropolitan Police had been classified as compassionate leave, she was obliged to let her employers know where she was. And because Paula McIntyre knew better than most how close the bond between Carol and Tony had been, she’d kept him in the loop. Carol had rented a service apartment in Bradfield for a month, then she’d moved into her parents’ house.
Then she stopped being a DCI with BMP and, according to Paula, within days she was no longer under her parents’ roof. ‘I called her mobile and it wasn’t working. So I rang her parents’ number and spoke to her dad. He wasn’t very forthcoming but he did admit she wasn’t living there any more. He either didn’t know or he wouldn’t say where she is,’ Paula had told him. Given the quality of Paula’s interrogation skills, Tony reckoned David Jordan probably didn’t know where his daughter was living.
He couldn’t help wondering how that had happened. Going home to her parents, in the circumstances, wouldn’t have been his professional advice. Her brother was dead, murdered by a killer he and Carol had failed to catch soon enough. And grief generally imposed a need to distribute blame. Was it Carol’s guilt or her parents’ pain that had driven a wedge between them?
However it had played out, it hadn’t ended well. Tony would have put money on that. And since Carol needed to hold him responsible for Michael and Lucy’s death because he had been too slow to realise what Vance had planned, then it followed that she would blame him for the rift with her parents. Insult to injury.
Tony rubbed his eyes with a knuckle. Wherever Carol Jordan was hiding, he would be the last to know. Sooner or later he was going to have to man up and either do something about that or let it go for ever.
8
Gartonside was a district nobody had ever chosen to live in. Even when the narrow streets of basic brick terraces had been built back at the tail end of the nineteenth century, their original residents knew they were destined to be slums before the decade was out. Thin walls meant cold and damp were perennial problems. Cheap materials diminished privacy. Outside toilets and no bathrooms did nothing for the hygiene or health of the factory workers who filled the two-bedroom houses to bursting point. Gartonside became the cheerless port of call of the feckless, the hopeless and the city’s newest arrivals. Only the immigrants ever escaped its dead-end streets.
Finally, in one of the last hurrahs of the twentieth century, Bradfield city council had decreed that Gartonside was to be bulldozed and replaced with a planned housing estate of more spacious houses with parking spaces at the front and tiny gardens at the rear. A decade later, the first phase – the emptying of existing residents and the demolition of their former homes – was not yet complete. There were still a handful of streets in the shadow of Bradfield Victoria’s vast stadium where residents lingered on. And beyond them, a huddle of houses were boarded up, waiting for the wrecking crews to reduce them to rubble.
Paula’s satnav still believed in the streets of Gartonside, which made her even later to the crime scene. By the time she reached Rossiter Street, the perimeter was well established with festoons of crime-scene tape and stony-faced uniforms in high-vis jackets. She added her car to the impromptu parking lot at the end of the street and logged into the scene. ‘Where’s DCI Fielding?’
The constable with the clipboard nodded towards a mobile incident room parked further down the street. ‘In the van, getting suited and booted for the scene.’
That was a relief. Not quite as late as she feared. When she’d finally said goodbye to Torin and found her way to the CID squad room, Paula had been taken aback by the absence of bodies. Instead of the usual buzz of chat and phone conversations there was a preternatural quiet broken only by the mutter of laptop keys struck by a couple of heavy-fingered operatives.
The one nearest the door looked up and raised his unruly eyebrows. ‘You must be the new skip, right? McIntyre, yeah?’
Paula was tempted to slap him down with a quick Sergeant McIntyre to you, but she didn’t know the lay of the land yet so she settled for, ‘And you are?’
He pushed a thick fringe of black hair back from his shiny forehead. ‘Detective Constable Pat Cody.’ He gave an expansive sweep of his arm. ‘And this is Skenfrith Street CID. Only, most of the firm are on a shout. A murder, down Gartonside.’
So much for hopes of a quiet day. ‘Is that where DCI Fielding is?’
Cody gave a twisted little smile. ‘Got it in one. And she’s not very happy that her new bag man isn’t with her.’ The caterpillar eyebrows rose again. He was enjoying himself.
Paula wasn’t about to explain herself to him. ‘You got an address for me?’
‘Rossiter Street, Gartonside.’
‘Do we have a number?’
He smirked. ‘The numbers fell off those doors years ago. The houses are boarded up, waiting for the council budget to afford bulldozers. You’ll recognise the crime scene from the activity.’
And so she had. Paula dodged the puddles and potholes and climbed the metal steps into the mobile incident room. As she entered, a tiny woman wrestling her body into a white protective suit paused to look her up and down. ‘McIntyre?’
Clearly the standard form of address in this firm. ‘That’s right. DCI Fielding?’
‘That’s me. Nice of you to join us. Get suited up, quick as you like.’ There was something bird-like about Fielding. It wasn’t simply her size or her fine-boned appearance. Her eyes darted around, even as she climbed into her suit, and there was a quick jerkiness to her movements that made Paula think of a blackbird raiding the earth for worms.
‘I was taking a witness statement. Misper.’ Paula checked the pile of J-suits. Fielding had snaffled the only small. She settled for a medium and began the inconvenient process of getting into it.
‘That’s a bit beneath your pay grade.’ Fielding’s Scottish accent was the honey-seductive rather than the half-brick aggressive sort.
‘I happened to recognise the teenager who was reporting. I’ve actually met his mother. I thought it would save time if I dealt with it since the front counter was sticking to the letter of twenty-four hours.’
Fielding paused with the zip halfway over her small bosom. She frowned, olive skin crinkling into a relief map of shallow furrows and ridges. ‘That’s because he’s been trained to follow protocols. Protocols that are put in place so detectives like us don’t waste our time on folk having a spur-of-the-moment night out.’
Paula shoved a second leg into the suit, annoyed by her trouser leg rucking up around the knee. ‘I’ve always understood that when there’s a child or a vulnerable adult left at risk by a disappearance, we take action straight away.’ According to the grapevine, Fielding was a mother. She should get it.
Fielding grunted. ‘Been a while since you’ve been at the sharp end, McIntyre. Major Incident Team’s spoiled you.’ She pulled a face. ‘In an ideal world, you’d be right. But we’re not in an ideal world. Cuts and redundancies have fucked us all up.’ She frowned again, brown eyes glaring at Paula. ‘We haven’t got the bodies to jump in early on mispers. We leave that to uniforms. I need you here. Not fucking about on the tail of somebody w
ho’s probably chosen not to be where they’re expected to be.’ She held up a hand to shut Paula up before she could speak. ‘I know. The reasons for those choices are usually fucking horrible. But we’re not social workers.’
‘Ma’am.’ Angered but not chastened, Paula turned away and finished zipping herself into the suit. OK, Fielding had a point, but that didn’t mean Paula had to hang up her humanity at the door. She’d check Bev’s movements on her own time. Somehow. Still facing away from Fielding, who had the kind of physical presence that filled more space than seemed possible, she dragged the conversation away from her supposed transgression. ‘So what are we looking at here?’
‘Junkie squatters have been using one of the houses on and off for a few months now. They were at some music festival near Sheffield at the weekend. They got back a couple of hours ago and found the body of a woman in the middle of the living room.’ Her voice muffled as she bent to pull on the blue plastic shoe covers. ‘I suppose we should be grateful they phoned us instead of doing a runner.’
‘Did they recognise her?’
‘They say not.’
Paula raised the hood to cover her hair and pulled on the chilly blue nitrile gloves. ‘Given that they phoned it in and didn’t leg it, they’re probably telling the truth. If they’d known her, they’d have been less likely to report it. People who live outside the mainstream tend not to trust us to do an unbiased job.’
Fielding cocked her head to acknowledge the comment. ‘Good point. OK, let’s do it.’ She didn’t mess around holding the door open for Paula, who caught it seconds before the spring slammed it shut. As they headed for the house, Fielding looked over her shoulder. ‘I’d have liked a quieter start, so we could be clear about how it’s going to work between us. I am aware this is your first assignment as a sergeant.’
‘I worked as DCI Jordan’s bagman on MIT, ma’am.’ Paula was quick to stand up for herself. Fielding needed to understand she wasn’t someone who could be pushed around. She needed to know she could count on Paula. ‘I understand about having your back.’
Fielding’s expression shifted, cold assessment giving way to acceptance. ‘I’m proud of my team. We might not have the specialists you had at MIT, but we get more than our share of results. I’ve heard good things about you. Don’t prove your friends wrong.’
It wasn’t the most welcoming speech Paula had ever heard. But it was a start. And given how much she wanted her career to have a future, she’d make the most of it.
Just as soon as she’d found out what had happened to Bev McAndrew.
9
The carefully chosen furniture was gone now, carried off by the man and a van she’d picked from the small ads in the local paper. Actually, it had been two men and a van, and it had taken two trips to strip the barn of Michael and Lucy’s possessions. Everything personal, Carol had packed in plastic crates from the DIY warehouse and stacked in the garage. All the rest was a memory, doubtless gracing the house of some lucky punter who was blissfully ignorant of its history.
The one part of the barn she’d left intact was the separate room that Michael had created at one end of the building. It was a studio-sized spare bedroom with its own toilet and shower, completely cut off from the remainder of the space by a new wall as thick as the traditional stone that protected the interior from the bitter weather. The reason for the sound insulation was that the room had doubled as Michael’s office. Here, he wrote code and developed software for games and apps. Along one wall was a long table where an array of computers and games consoles still sat. As far as Carol was aware, this room was untainted by the presence of her brother’s killer. When she came in here and closed the door, she could still feel as close to Michael as she had been when he was alive.
Back when she’d first come to Bradfield, they’d shared a loft conversion in the centre of the city. Outside their tall windows the city had hummed and throbbed, sparked and glittered. But inside, it had been a space where Michael had worked and they’d both lived. She remembered how she’d often opened the door to the rattle of gunfire or the electronica of a futuristic soundtrack. Once he realised she was home, Michael would always put headphones on, but he preferred to work with the sound effects blasting at him from all sides.
These days Carol had got into the habit of drinking her coffee and eating a bowl of cereal with tinned fruit in the room where she slept, music pouring out of the tall speakers that bookended the work table. Every morning, it was Michael’s final playlist, the last music he’d been listening to while he worked. A mixture of Michael Nyman, Ludovico Einaudi and Brad Mehldau. Nothing she would ever have chosen. But she was growing comfortable with it.
She ate quickly, eager to return to the hard physical work that made introspection impossible. When she walked back into the barn, she was astonished to see a black-and-white Border collie crouching on the floor a couple of yards inside the door, pink tongue lolling between strong white teeth. Her heart leapt in her chest, a cascade of reproaches and terrors flooding her head. How could you be so stupid? Leaving the door open, are you mad? This is how people die. This is how people have died. Dog means human, human means stranger, stranger means danger. Have you learned nothing, you stupid bitch?
For a moment, she was frozen, incapable of figuring out what to do. Then the old Carol Jordan kicked in. Slowly she stooped and put her bowl and mug on the floor. She knew where her tools were; she’d always had good recall. She retreated a little and moved sideways. Neither she nor the dog took their eyes off each other. Her left hand strayed outwards till her fingertips brushed the handle of the sledgehammer. As she gripped it, the dog’s ears pricked up.
Carol swung the hammer up and held the shaft of the hammer across her body, hands apart. Then she launched herself towards the dog, roaring wordlessly at the top of her voice. Startled, the dog jumped up, backed off, then turned tail.
She followed it through the door, still raging at the blameless animal who was now, she saw, sitting at the heels of a strange man, peering round his legs with ears flat to its head. She skidded to a halt, not sure whether to feel foolish or frightened. He didn’t look very frightening. She fell into her old habit of mentally creating an APB description in her head. A shade under six feet tall, medium build. Flat tweed cap over dark hair, silvering at the temples. Full beard, neatly trimmed. Narrow lips, fleshy nose, dark eyes nested with outdoor wrinkles. He wore a waxed jacket, open to reveal a brown suede waistcoat over a heavy cream cotton shirt with, God help her, a cravat at the neck. Toffee-coloured corduroys tucked into green wellies. He looked as if he should have a shotgun broken on his arm. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. ‘You seem to have terrified my dog.’ Public school accent. The yap of the posh boys who don’t know the price of milk.
‘I don’t like trespassers.’ Carol let the heavy hammer swing down till the head was resting on the ground.
‘I do apologise. She’s too curious for her own good.’ This time, the smile was full on.
‘The dog has an excuse, then. What’s yours?’ She didn’t care that she was being rude. After what had happened here, any local would cut her slack, confronted with a stranger on her own ground.
‘I thought it was about time I came to introduce myself. I’m George Nicholas. I live in the house over the brow of the hill.’ He turned and pointed behind him to his right.
‘Would that be the bloody big house over the brow of the hill?’
He chuckled. ‘I suppose you might call it that.’
‘So you’re the guy who owns all the land I can see apart from my own patch here?’
‘Not quite all of it. But yes, most of it. And this is my dog, Jess.’ He rumpled the fur on the dog’s head. ‘Say hello, Jess.’ The dog sidled out from behind him and sat in front of Carol, raising a paw.
It was, she had to admit, a good routine. Completely disarming, if you were the sort of woman who allowed herself to be disarmed. Carol shook the dog’s paw then crouched down to stroke its thick f
ur. ‘You’re a lovely girl, aren’t you?’ Then she stood up. ‘I’m Carol Jordan,’ she said, firmly avoiding a handshake by sticking her free hand in her trouser pocket.
‘I know. I was at the funeral.’ He looked pained. ‘No reason why you would know that. I… I was very fond of Michael and Lucy.’
‘They never mentioned you.’ It was a harsh response, but she didn’t care. It was a lie too. Lucy had talked about going to dinner at the big house and Michael had teased her about abandoning her socialist principles.
‘And why should they have,’ he said easily. ‘I gathered you didn’t live in each other’s pockets. But we were neighbours and we socialised from time to time and, for what it’s worth, I liked them both very much. Like everyone around here, I was appalled by what happened to them.’
Carol cleared her throat. ‘Yes. Well. It was appalling.’
Nicholas looked at his feet. ‘I lost my wife three years ago. Drunk driver rammed her car on the motorway slip road.’ He drew in a long breath and tilted his head back to stare at the sky. ‘Obviously nothing like the scale of what happened here, but I do have some understanding of losing people one loves to sudden violent death.’
Carol tried to care, but she knew she didn’t. Not really. She couldn’t be bothered with people who tried to convince her they knew what she was going through. She was done with empathy. She’d watched Tony Hill being Mr Empathy for years and look where that had got her. Fuck empathy. Still. The obligations of good manners remained. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
