by Val McDermid
‘Oh yes. They were over the moon when he said he wasn’t leaving after all. He’s living on a narrowboat down at the Minster basin. But he hasn’t heard from her either.’
Stacey slipped the hard drive into her pocket. ‘Maybe she’s the one you should be treating as a misper.’
22
Day twenty-five
Fielding definitely had presence, Paula decided. She appeared different in almost every respect from Carol Jordan, but the one thing they had in common was the ability to hold the attention of a room full of hard-arsed coppers. Nobody was whispering to their neighbour or texting their girlfriend while Fielding was running a briefing. She might be petite and pretty, but when she started talking you forgot those fleeting fantasies and focused on what she was saying. It reinforced Paula’s desire to make the right mark on this firm.
It was a kind of performance. DCI Fielding did her briefing on PowerPoint. She had one of those soft Scottish accents that took the harshness out of her words and made her audience want them not to stop. ‘The body of Nadzieja Wilkowa, known as Nadia, was found yesterday morning in a squat in Rossiter Street, Gartonside.’ A picture of the exterior of the house. ‘She had been beaten to death.’ A shot of the body in situ. Fielding clearly didn’t believe in sparing the squeamish or the hung-over. ‘A blow to the head from a pipe or a baseball bat, then battered and kicked. We think she was killed here, judging by the blood spatter. Our killer’s finishing touch was to superglue her labia together.’ An explicit photograph that made Paula feel angry and nauseous. ‘As we can see, her genital area had been shaved. When we find a boyfriend, I want to know if the shaving was her usual practice or if it’s something our killer likes to do.’
The next shot showed the bathroom. Fielding used the laser pointer as she went through the key information. ‘The victim’s clothes and bag were stuffed down here. Not really hidden, just out of the way. It’s possible he may have made her wash in the bath. Or washed her himself. The water to the property has been cut off, but the squatters have rigged up a rainwater catchment system that provides a limited water supply. There was a puddle of water in the bath.’
Back to the exterior shot of the house. ‘Gartonside is no-man’s-land. So there are no cameras on the approach to Rossiter Street or the surrounding area. I’m thinking the killer knew that. He seems too careful an offender simply to have got lucky. One of the many interesting questions is how he knew that the squatters would be gone for the weekend. Black, Hussain, I want you to talk to them. Find out exactly who knew they were going to be away. And who knows they live there.’ She flashed a smile at the two detectives, the kind of smile that Paula reckoned made you feel the love.
‘Nadia was a sales rep for a pharmaceutical company. Not one of those multinationals that are always coming up with new miracle cures that make you constipated or increase your risk of breast cancer. A small British company that does generic versions of common drugs. The kind of stuff your GP puts you on when she’s trying to save the NHS a bob or two. She’d been working for them for eighteen months. No complaints, she was a good worker. A bright girl. Did well.’ A photo of Nadia in life, her shaggy blonde hair tousled and her smile reaching her eyes. ‘Although she was Polish she spoke exceptionally good English, her employers say. But still.’ She scanned the room. ‘Stachniewski, you’ve got the right kind of name. Talk to the Polish community, put some feelers out, see whether she was known in the pubs and clubs and grocery stores.’ A lanky ginger-haired officer nodded gloomily. ‘Oh, and Stach? Give the Polish cops a call and see if you can find out whether Mrs Wilkowa has cancer. Because, three weeks ago, an email was sent from Nadia’s account to her employers, stating that her mother had been diagnosed with cancer. She asked for a month’s compassionate leave. The company didn’t want to lose her because they thought she was a good worker so they agreed. Last week, they emailed her with a query about a client account. They got a reply, answering the query and also indicating that she would be back next week, as originally planned. Now, we don’t know at this point whether she ever went to Poland, though DS McIntyre reckons she wouldn’t have left her fridge full of perishables if she had. Black, check with Immigration and the Borders Agency to see whether there’s any record of her leaving and returning. And talk to the airlines that fly to Poland out of Manchester and Leeds/Bradford, see if she’s on any of their passenger lists. It’s probably a waste of time, but we have to cover the ground. We don’t want some defence counsel ambushing us down the line over things we left undone.’ Everyone nodded sagely, like a roomful of car parcel-shelf ornaments.
‘What’s really interesting is that her killer managed to extort from her enough information to make the emails possible and plausible. As far as we can tell, she made no attempt to turn those messages into a cry for help.’ Fielding paused, her professional demeanour slipping for a moment into an expression of pity. ‘Her phone is passworded, which is a nuisance, but the techies tell me they’ll have her call records today and hopefully we’ll get into the phone for texts and messages very soon. We got luckier with the computer. Apparently the password was her birthday, so easy peasy for the CSIs to crack. Inspector Gardner is coordinating the actions, so he’ll be setting a bunch of you on to the tedious but important job of working your way through the emails and the tweets and the Facebook contacts. I know it’s boring…’ She paused, giving them her best sympathetic smile. ‘But it’s also potentially crucial. Nadia crossed her killer’s path somewhere and we have to find out precisely where and when. The answer could be buried in one of those emails. I’m counting on you not to let anything significant disappear in the slipstream of boredom.’
Bloody hell, she’s talking like a poet now. Slipstream of boredom, for fuck’s sake. Paula kept her face straight. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself in case she got lumbered with the emails. ‘Another group will be backtracking on all her recent appointments. I want anything you can squeeze out of them. And I would like alibis, please. I know this is a nightmare assignment because of the number of contacts involved, but we have to lift up every stone and expose the white bellies and the creepy crawlies beneath them.
‘And finally. The CSI working on the computer has also identified two women who seem to be her closest pals. DS McIntyre, you and I will take them. I’ll be doing a press conference later this afternoon. Till then, the ID is still under wraps.’ She turned off the screen. ‘That’s it for now, everybody. I’m counting on you. And so is Nadia. Let’s do it for her and her family.’ Fielding finished with a dazzling smile. She knew how to use her charm, that much was obvious from her performance, Paula decided. But judging by her failure to turn it on for Grisha at the crime scene, she used it only when it was going to earn her clear advantage. Making her team love her was a priority; getting the pathologist to go the extra mile hadn’t been.
Paula made her way through the bustle of officers discussing the briefing to Fielding’s side. ‘Morning, McIntyre,’ Fielding said absently, flicking through a bundle of papers. ‘Give me ten minutes to deal with this lot and we’ll head out.’
‘I need to talk to the duty inspector in uniform first, ma’am.’ Paula was at her most conciliatory. ‘The misper I caught on my way in yesterday. I have to brief them, make sure they’re taking it seriously.’
Fielding’s perfectly groomed eyebrows rose. ‘Any reason why they wouldn’t take it seriously?’
Paula knew she had to tread carefully. She was the new girl here; she had no idea where the political lines were drawn in this nick. ‘No reason. But I know the misper, ma’am. Her son gave me the key to their house. I wanted to pass it on personally. Just so they know I’ve got an interest. And so I can give them a backgrounder.’
‘Have you been poking your nose in where you shouldn’t, McIntyre? You’re not with the MIT any more. We respect each other’s boundaries in this nick. Have you not got enough on your plate with a murder that you have to do uniform’s job for them?’ Fielding didn’t bother t
o lower her voice. The officers nearest them pretended not to notice, but Paula knew it was all sinking in. She could feel her ears burning.
‘Like I said. I know the misper. Her son is staying with us for the time being.’
Fielding froze in the middle of turning a page. ‘Are we talking minor here?’
‘He’s fourteen.’
Fielding stared at her as if she was mad. ‘What were you thinking? You should have called social services. Or a relative. Last time I looked, you weren’t on the list of appropriate adults.’
Righteous indignation was in danger of trumping good sense. ‘His nearest relatives are in Bristol. His dad’s in the army, in Afghanistan. I considered he was less at risk in my spare room than in an emergency placement.’ She paused. ‘Ma’am.’ She couldn’t make Fielding out. Where was her compassion? This woman was a mother. If anyone should understand Paula’s reasoning, it was someone who had a kid of their own.
Fielding gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Go and brief the duty inspector, then. And make it quick. We’ve got a murder here and that takes precedence over everything else.’ She waved a hand at Paula in a gesture of impatient dismissal. Paula was halfway to the door when Fielding called after her. ‘And if you plan on carrying on with the child-minding, for Christ’s sake get consent from the relatives. I don’t want to have to arrest you and your girlfriend for unlawful imprisonment.’
Someone guffawed, another sniggered. Welcome to Skenfrith Street, Paula thought bitterly. The home of modern policing.
Dean Hume, the duty inspector, had the mangled ears, thick neck and asymmetric nose of a rugby player who had never shirked in the scrum. His scalp had a five o’clock shadow that revealed his male pattern baldness and his eyes nestled in tired grey folds of skin. He inhabited a tiny glassed-in cubicle in a corner of the main squad room. His computer monitor was the size of a bedside cabinet and it was surrounded by stacks of file folders. His white shirt was already wilting under the pressure of work. When Paula explained why she was there and what she had discovered at Bev’s house, he looked as thrilled as Fielding had. ‘You used to be on the MIT team, right?’
Paula was starting to get tired of this. ‘That’s right, sir. DCI Jordan’s firm.’
‘You were a bit of a law unto yourselves there.’ To her surprise, Hume smiled. ‘Got some good results, though.’
‘We did, sir. We thought we were bloody good value for money.’
He grunted. ‘Shame the brass didn’t agree. The thing is, Sarge, we’re a bit more by the book here. DCI Fielding runs a tight ship. And she gets results too. So if you’re going to go off piste, you’ll need to be discreet about it.’ It was a warning, but in the friendliest of terms.
For the first time since she’d arrived at Skenfrith Street, Paula felt part of a team. Shame it was the wrong team. ‘Thanks, sir. I’ll bear that in mind. As far as Bev Andrews is concerned, I typed up a full report of my actions and the information I gathered. It should give your officers a head start. Who should I email it to?’
He gave her the details of his sergeant. ‘From what you tell me, it’s not looking too clever,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a word with media liaison and see if we can get something in the Sentinel Times tonight. And we’ll have to talk to the lad again.’
‘I doubt he’s got anything else to give.’
Hume nodded. ‘I’m sure you’re right. I heard you’re the whizz kid when it comes to interviews. But we’ve got to cover all the bases. You can sit in as the appropriate adult if you like?’
Paula’s smile was grim. ‘I don’t think DCI Fielding’s going to cut me any slack on that score. My partner is probably your best bet.’ She scribbled down Elinor’s details and handed them to Hume. ‘She’s a doctor at Bradfield Cross.’
‘Thanks. Any developments, I’ll let you know.’
Paula stood up to leave. But Hume hadn’t quite finished. ‘And, Sergeant – leave this to us now. None of your maverick MIT tricks, please? Nobody’s got your back here. Where DCI Fielding’s concerned, you’re on your own.’
23
Bev’s first return to consciousness inside the freezer had been bewildering; the second was excruciating. Every time she took a breath, her ribs hurt, sharp pain like a handful of daggers stabbing her in the chest. Gradually, as she grew more aware, she understood that if she kept her breathing shallow and moved as little as possible, the pain ceased to be all-consuming. But that left room in her nervous system for the other agonies to make themselves felt. There was a dull ache in her lower back. Kidneys, she thought. Her head throbbed and when she moved her jaw, lightning shot from the point of her chin to the top of her skull. A fire burned between her legs, spreading up into her groin. The pinkie on her left hand was hot and swollen. Probably broken. The least of her worries.
She’d been determined to do whatever it took to survive, to make it home to Torin. But it had quickly dawned on her that her captor was as determined to find fault as she was to obey his every whim. She’d fallen into the hands of a man whose only satisfaction came from causing pain. It wasn’t enough just to rape her. He had to make the excuse of her inadequacy to hurt her. He’d subjected her to humiliating sexual acts, all the while maintaining the sick pretence that she was a failing wife. God help any genuine wife who had fallen prey to this monster, Bev thought, shuddering involuntarily, a groan of pain seeping from her bruised lips.
He’d ripped the tape from her mouth while he’d been fucking her in the kitchen. He said he wanted to hear her appreciate his sexual prowess. But if she made any other kind of noise, she’d be sorry. Tasering would be the least of her worries.
Then he unchained her and dragged her upstairs. He fastened her to another metal eye in a room furnished with nothing but a bed covered with a rubber sheet. He punched her hard in the face and forced her on to the bed, tying her by her wrists and ankles so she was spread-eagled across it. He’d left her alone briefly, then returned with a can of shaving foam, a pair of scissors and a plastic razor. ‘If you move, I’ll cut you to ribbons,’ he said, as matter of fact as if he’d been asking for sugar in his tea. Then his hands had been on her, snipping away at her pubic hair, carefully trimming it to the skin. Her flesh crawled at his touch, but she bit her lip and forced herself not to flinch. Next came the shaving foam, then the rasp of the razor against her most tender skin. Bev had never shaved herself; being blonde, she hadn’t even needed a bikini wax for sunshine holidays. The feeling of air against her bare skin was strange. But at least he was careful and he didn’t hurt her. She wondered why, when his sole aim till then had been to punish her.
The respite didn’t last long. This time, he made her beg. Hating herself, she did as she was told, though not convincingly enough to avoid another beating. When he’d finally reached the point where he couldn’t raise an erection, that had been her fault too. Bev refused to remember what had come next. Some things didn’t bear thinking about. She thought she’d passed out in the end.
Now she was back in her box. Her kennel, he’d called it. As if she was an animal. Bev had seen plenty of anger in her life. But she’d never come across such a sustained level of aggression directed at a stranger. Not even rape victims. From what she’d seen in the hospitals where she’d worked, women were only beaten this badly, this systematically, by their partners. This was domestic violence gone rogue.
And she was caught at the heart of it.
Tears seeped from her swollen eyes. She’d tried to hold on to the promise of seeing her son again. But Bev was no fool. She knew she couldn’t withstand another night like that. She’d seen his face. She could identify his home.
She wasn’t going to make it out of here alive.
24
Tony had always liked the room where he visited Dr Jacob Gold. Nothing in it reminded him of anywhere he’d spent any significant amount of time; it was emotionally neutral. The walls were lemon yellow, broken up by four large paintings of beaches, seascapes and tidal estuaries. Two armchairs at an a
ngle to each other sat on either side of a gas fire, separated by a striped rug in muted colours. In the shallow bay window sat a chaise longue with another armchair close to its head. A low table sat in the centre of the floor displaying an exotic collection of polished sea-shells.
It was the kind of calm space that was perfectly suited to the supervision sessions most psychologists saw as a key part of their professional lives. The relationship was all about helping them to develop skills and become better practitioners, which was something Tony took seriously. The problem he had with supervision was that he didn’t have a whole lot of respect for most of the supervisors he’d encountered. He was well aware that his was an unconventional mind. It wasn’t arrogance to acknowledge he was also smarter than most of the people doing his job. Then he’d heard Dr Gold speak about damaged lives at a symposium. This, he thought, was the man for him. He’d approached him afterwards, but Dr Gold had refused. ‘I don’t do supervisions,’ he’d said in a tone that left no space for discussion.
That had never stopped Tony. ‘I know why,’ he said. ‘Compared with your patients, practitioners are boring. Well, I’m not. I’m the one passing for human.’
Dr Gold frowned, turning his attention properly to the little guy in the ill-assorted clothes and the bad haircut. That had been back in the days before Carol had made some subtle changes that Tony had barely noticed happening. ‘Who are you?’
‘You remember that serial killer in Bradfield last year? Young male victims?’
Something shifted in Dr Gold’s expression. ‘You’re the profiler.’ Tony nodded. There was nothing more to be said. Either Jacob Gold would bite or he wouldn’t. They stood, eyeing each other up, heedless of the conference bustle around them. ‘Come and talk to me next week. I’m based in Leeds. You can contact me via the university.’
