Cross and Burn

by Val McDermid

  She stood on the quayside, momentarily flummoxed by the etiquette. When she’d been here before, they’d arrived together and she’d simply followed Tony aboard. But it felt somehow intrusive to climb aboard and knock on the hatch. Logically, it was no different to walking up someone’s path to knock on the door. Yet it felt wrong.

  ‘Get a grip, woman,’ she muttered, stepping aboard the steel-hulled narrowboat, not quite prepared for the definite movement of the deck beneath her feet. She almost stumbled, caught herself and rapped on the hatch. The top section swung open almost at once and Tony’s startled face appeared below.

  ‘Paula. I thought you were a drunk.’

  Her smile was grim. ‘Not quite. Not yet. You get a lot of drunks dropping by?’

  He busied himself with opening up to let her in. ‘Sometimes. Usually later than this. They think it’s amusing to jump on and off boats. It can be disconcerting.’ He spread the doors wide and beckoned her in with a grin. ‘And I wasn’t expecting you.’ His face clouded in a frown. ‘Was I?’

  Paula squeezed past him down the galley and into the saloon. The TV screen was frozen in a scene apparently set in a deep mine. A games console lay discarded on the table. ‘No. It was a spur of the moment decision.’ She took off her damp coat and hung it on a hook on the bulkhead then sat down on the buttoned leather banquette that surrounded three sides of the table.

  ‘Well, it’s always good to see you.’ He sat down opposite her, then stood up almost immediately, remembering the social conventions of dealing with a visitor. ‘Do you want a drink? I’ve got coffee and tea. Orange juice. Some of that Indian lager, goes well with takeaways.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘And white wine and vodka. Though there’s not been much call for those lately.’

  Carol Jordan’s drinks of choice. ‘I wouldn’t mind a lager.’

  Two steps and he was by the fridge. Tony pulled out two bottles, reached up for two glasses and was back at the table in a matter of seconds. The bottle opener was in a shallow drawer under the table. It was convenient, no denying that. ‘So, what brings you here?’ he said, pouring a beer for his guest.

  ‘I’ve had a strange day.’ Paula raised her glass. ‘Cheers. And I wanted to talk about it with somebody who understands what I’m talking about. Because I’ve started on a new team and —’

  ‘And your new boss isn’t Carol Jordan and you don’t have Chris and Stacey and Sam and Kevin to bounce things off.’

  ‘All of that, yes. And I know you’re not on the payroll any more and I know you don’t owe BMP anything. But I suppose I’ve got used to using you as a sounding board —’

  ‘Even when the boss says no.’ That wry twist to his mouth again. They both remembered only too well the times they’d sneaked behind Carol Jordan’s back for what they saw as the right reasons.

  Paula scowled. ‘OK, I don’t have her scruples about exploiting you. I think if you want to help, we should let you. And if you don’t, all you have to do is say no.’

  ‘I know. I wasn’t having a go at you, Paula. I’ve got skills and I prefer to use them rather than keeping them nicely polished on a shelf.’ This time his smile was uncomplicated but sad. ‘Besides, you’re the nearest thing I’ve got to a friend. If I can’t help my friend, what’s the point of me?’

  Paula shook herself like a dog emerging from a river. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. Listen to us. What a pathetic pair.’

  ‘We are, aren’t we? Best get some work done and stop auditioning for Oprah. So, what’s been strange about the day? Apart from it being the first day on your new firm.’

  And so she told him about Torin. About the unaccountable absence of Bev McAndrew and her rescue of the boy from the uncertain clutches of social services. ‘I spoke to the duty pharmacist who did the handover with her last night. Bev said nothing about any plans for the evening other than picking up some shopping on the way home. I’ve tracked down a couple of her female friends. Neither of them have heard from her.’ She ran her finger round the rim of her glass. ‘I’ll be honest, Tony, I don’t like it.’

  He leaned back and studied the low roof of the cabin. ‘Let’s consider the possibilities. Not an accident or an incident involving the emergency services.’

  ‘I told you. I checked.’

  ‘I know you did, I’m just running through the options. Amnesia? Hard to believe she could have gone twenty-four hours without attracting the attention of somebody who would do the responsible thing. And besides, real amnesia is incredibly rare. Usually memory loss is connected to a head injury which would have landed her in hospital. And you’ve ruled that out.’

  ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

  He held up a hand, palm towards her. ‘You jump to that conclusion because it’s what you know. In your world, murder is something that happens on a weekly basis. But that’s not how it is for most of us. Even if you consider six degrees of separation, most of us get closer to Kevin Bacon than we do to a murder victim. We need to look at more likely scenarios first.’

  ‘Like what?’ Paula’s jaw had a stubborn set. She knew what was coming and she’d already dismissed the other options.

  ‘A boyfriend – or a girlfriend – she’s gone off with spontaneously.’

  ‘She’s straight. But everybody I spoke to says she hasn’t been seeing anyone in the last couple of years.’

  Tony leaned forward. ‘How likely does that seem to you? You described her as bright, funny, attractive. I’m assuming she’s late thirties, early forties. A bit young to be going for the life of a nun, I’d have thought.’

  Tell that to Carol Jordan. How many years have you two been avoiding getting your act together? Paula kept her face straight and said, ‘What is it the straight women say? By the time you get to thirty-five, all the best blokes are taken or gay.’

  ‘And by the time you get to forty, the divorces kick in and they’re looking for a second bite of the cherry. I can imagine plenty of reasons why Bev might not be shouting from the rooftops about a new man. Maybe it’s someone at work. Maybe it’s someone who’s married. Maybe it’s one of Torin’s teachers.’

  Someone at work? Dan who protested too much? ‘She’d tell her best mate. Women do.’ Unless it was her best mate…

  ‘Have you never had a secret love?’

  Paula laughed, embarrassed. ‘Of course I have. I’m a lesbian. Half my life I’ve felt like Doris Day. But I always told my best mate.’ Then she caught herself, hand to her mouth. ‘Except when it was her girlfriend. Oops, I’d forgotten that.’

  ‘See?’

  ‘Yeah, but I didn’t have a kid. You’re forgetting about Torin.’

  ‘I’m not. I wanted to remind you that assumptions always have exceptions. You once had a good reason for a secret. So might Bev. But even allowing for a secret, you’re right. It doesn’t on its own account for her disappearing without a word. She wouldn’t abandon Torin without a word. Some mothers would, there’s no getting away from that. But what you know of Bev personally, from her colleagues and from Torin himself, doesn’t make that a credible proposition?’

  ‘She’d never leave him high and dry,’ Paula confirmed. ‘I’d say that, in some respects, he’s quite a young fourteen.’

  ‘But if she is seeing someone, that someone might have their own agenda here. And he might have prevented her from contacting anyone.’

  Paula took a deep breath. ‘What you’re really saying is that whether it’s a boyfriend gone rogue or a stranger stalker, Bev isn’t on the missing list from choice.’

  Tony pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. It was a gesture she’d seen many times before. ‘I think it’s inescapable, Paula. I think she’s been taken. What’s the official status of the inquiry?’

  ‘I processed Torin’s statement this morning. If they do things at Skenfrith Street like we used to do them, it’ll be actioned in the morning. I’ll brief Fielding on what I’ve done so far – she’ll kick my arse for going off on my own, but at least the formal stuff
will get started. Like tracking her mobile.’

  ‘Everybody knows about mobiles these days. If it’s switched on, it’ll be nowhere near where Bev is.’

  ‘Have you got any bright ideas?’

  He shook his head. ‘You’re always looking for the point of intersection. Where did Bev cross paths with the person who took her? Was it a stranger who plucked her off the street? Or was it a sexual scenario that went somewhere she didn’t want to go? Let’s face it, Paula, after Fifty Shades of Grey, women are a lot less wary of being tied up by men they don’t necessarily know that well. If you had Stacey, you could get her to go through Bev’s home computer. That would be a good place to start. Can you get Stacey?’

  Paula looked disgusted at the thought of what had happened to Stacey Chen, the terrifyingly effective analyst she’d worked alongside in Carol Jordan’s Major Incident Team. ‘They’ve got her working on computer fraud. She says it’s like sending a Lear jet on the school run. All the forensic computer work in CID gets farmed out to private companies now.’

  ‘She should quit the force and set up in competition to them.’

  ‘Don’t think she hasn’t thought about it. But running a company would interfere too much with the programming she does in her spare time. That’s where the real money comes from in Stacey world. Besides, if she wasn’t a cop any more, she wouldn’t have the licence to go poking around in other people’s hard drives.’

  ‘Could you ask for a copy of the hard drive before it goes off to the specialists? Would that work for Stacey?’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll ask her. And if it was a stranger?’

  ‘You don’t need me for this bit, Paula. This is nothing but old-fashioned coppering with new-fashioned methods. Interrogating the CCTV, looking for her car on the number-plate-recognition software records, examining her Facebook page and her Twitter feed, seeing who she’s connected to on LinkedIn, checking her phone records. A profiler’s no use to you at this stage. I need data, and that’s what you haven’t got. All I’ve done is confirm your worst fears.’

  ‘I need a smoke,’ Paula said, standing up abruptly.

  ‘Just go out the back.’

  ‘Come with me, would you? I want to take you through the rest of my day.’

  ‘Will I need my coat and my keys?’

  Paula’s smile promised dark mischief. ‘Only if you fancy a bit of transgression.’

  Tony grabbed the waxed jacket that was hanging next to Paula’s coat. ‘For a lesbian, your knowledge of the way to a man’s heart is remarkable.

  17

  Carol had never really grasped the concept of survivor guilt. She’d always believed that being a survivor was a good thing, something to be proud about, not ashamed of. Her past was dotted with struggles to get past bad things that had happened to her; if she’d been pushed, she’d have said she was gratified not to have caved under their weight. That was something else that had changed.

  Now she understood the guilt and shame of being the one left behind. Loss had removed the old underpinnings of her beliefs and changed how she viewed the world. She would happily stop dead in her tracks if it meant Michael and Lucy could have their lives back. After all, they had been making a better job of living well than she was. They’d put something back into the world, restoring the barn. And the work they did. Well, the work that Michael did. Lucy’s commitment to criminal defence work had always baffled Carol. She’d spent too many days sitting in court, disgusted at the barristers who exploited legal technicalities and twisted the words of witnesses, all in the service of getting nasty little shits off the hook of their own criminality. She’d tried not to argue with Lucy over the dinner table, but sometimes she couldn’t restrain herself. ‘How can you defend people you know are guilty? How can you feel satisfaction when they walk free from court, leaving their victims without any sense of justice?’

  The answer was always the same. ‘I don’t know that they’re guilty. Even when the evidence seems overwhelming, it may be misleading. Everyone’s entitled to a defence. If you people did your job thoroughly, they wouldn’t be walking free from court, would they?’

  It was an argument whose speciousness left Carol almost speechless with rage. A desire for justice was what drove her, what made it possible for her to tolerate the horrors of her job at the sharpest of sharp ends. To see it constantly thwarted by hair-splitting lawyers who generated doubt where none should exist was the ultimate insult to the broken lives and broken bodies that occupied her memory. She’d always been with Dick the Butcher on that one. ‘The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.’

  Except, of course, she hadn’t been. Not really. Not when it came to the woman her brother loved. The woman who had transformed him from a single-minded geek to a relatively civilised human being. A transformation Carol had never managed for herself. Would never have to manage now.

  It would have been bad enough if it had been some chance event that had cut their lives so brutally short. But there had been nothing chance about it. They’d been deliberately slaughtered with one aim in mind. To make Carol suffer. The man who had come to the barn with murder on his agenda didn’t care about Michael and Lucy. The corrosive hatred in his heart was directed at Carol and he understood only too well that the best way to destroy her was to kill them in her stead. They were murdered because they were connected so intimately to her. No other reason.

  And it should never have happened. They should have figured out – no, Tony Hill, forensic psychologist and offender profiler, he should have figured out what might happen. She had the resources at her command to have protected them. But she never had the chance to put those resources in place. It had never occurred to her that anyone could be so twisted. It should have occurred to Tony, though. Most of his professional career had been intertwined with people who were seriously twisted. She hoped he felt as gutted by their deaths as she did.

  Two deaths on her hands would have been grounds enough for crippling guilt. But for Carol, there was more. One of her team had been maimed and blinded in a hideous booby trap that had been set for Carol and sprung by Chris Devine. Chris, a former sergeant in the Met, who had moved to Bradfield because she believed in what Carol was trying to do with her Major Incident Team, a raggle-taggle band of specialists who didn’t quite fit in for one reason or another but who had learned to work together and grown into a formidable outfit. And Chris at the heart of it, the most unlikely of mother figures holding them all together. Chris, whose career was now at an end and whose life had been wrecked beyond mending because of a simple act of helpfulness.

  When Carol thought about Chris, she felt ashamed. She’d been so wrapped up in her own pain, she hadn’t paid the debt to friendship. Others had sat with Chris through her pain, talking to her, reading to her, playing music to her. Others had taken their turn supporting her through the first difficult steps towards regaining some of what she’d lost. Others had been there for her while Carol had busied herself elsewhere.

  No doubt Tony would have some clever explanation for her inability to face Chris. But it wasn’t complicated. It was guilt, pure and simple. Chris’s fate was what had lain in store for Carol. She’d dodged the bullet. And as with Michael and Lucy, someone else had paid the price for her determination to see justice done.

  Carol swung the sledgehammer through the gallery floorboards in a steady rhythm to accompany her thoughts. She’d paid heed to George Nicholas’s suggestion about the beam and she’d set a ladder against the gallery and attacked it from above. Strictly speaking, scaffolding would have been a better option, but that exceeded her DIY skills and she was determined to see this through herself, no matter how long it took. She was done with getting a man in to solve her problems for her. She paused for breath, chest heaving with the effort, sweat running down her back.

  Her encounter with George Nicholas kept cutting into her familiar mantra of guilt and shame. It had reminded her that there was a world beyond her self-regard. A world she used to inha
bit. A world where people sat round tables and talked together, drank together, laughed together. She’d had a place in that world and she suspected walking away from it was not entirely healthy. She’d deliberately set herself apart so she could begin the process of healing. But how would she know if she was getting any stronger if she lived like a hermit? Reluctantly, she reminded herself she’d tried that once before and it hadn’t been the answer. What had brought her back to life had been engaging with the world.

  Maybe it was time to start again.

  The closest Carol had ever previously come to a police convalescent home was sticking a twenty in the collection box at social events. She had no idea what to expect. When she’d called Chris’s Police Federation rep to check her whereabouts, she’d half-expected her to be back home. ‘She’s at the convalescent home in Ripon,’ the helpful rep had told her. ‘She’s working with the physios there on her range of movements. Scar management, that sort of thing. They wanted to keep her in hospital longer, but because we were able to provide specialist care, she’s been able to start living a more normal life.’

  Carol cringed inwardly at the words, unable to imagine how anyone would begin to cope. ‘Has there been any improvement in her sight, do you know?’