by Val McDermid
‘Looks that way. And that he beat her regularly while he had her.’
‘That fits with our thinking,’ Fielding snapped. ‘Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your help. When will we have your full report?’
‘My secretary will email it to you as soon as she’s finished the transcript. Good luck with your investigation. This is a bad one, Inspector.’ And he closed the connection.
‘Nothing there we couldn’t have predicted,’ Fielding said, her tone suggesting that Grisha had failed them.
‘Apart from the possible taser wounds.’
‘Well, he had to have some way of subduing her and that’s one of the more straightforward methods.’ Fielding wasn’t giving any ground.
‘Three separate times, though. And only one of them in a place where the taser would get you from behind. That’s interesting. And what Grisha said? It does support our theory that she never went to Poland.’
Fielding grunted and started typing texts into her phone. There was none of the batting around of ideas and possibilities that Paula had grown used to in the MIT. All of her colleagues had thrived on speculation, trying out theories and testing them against the evidence. Whatever was going on in Fielding’s head, she was keeping it to herself.
Anya Burba was stashed behind the closed door of the head teacher’s office. Her sharp features were swollen with tears, her make-up streaked and ugly. ‘Ashley texted me,’ she said as soon as the head left them alone with her. ‘I couldn’t believe what she says. How can Nadia be dead? How is this possible? You must have made a mistake.’
‘Sorry, Anya. There’s no mistake. I’m very sorry for your loss.’ Fielding’s sympathy was underscored with briskness. ‘We need your help so we can find the person who did this.’
They sat at a round table in a corner of the office. It was strewn with children’s artwork. Anya cleared it impatiently to one side with a sweep of her arm. ‘Stupid art competition,’ she said, her voice shaky. ‘How did she die?’
‘We can’t go into details, I’m afraid,’ Fielding said.
‘Was it quick? Tell me she didn’t suffer.’
Paula reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘There’s a lot we don’t know, Anya. But Nadia was your friend and we need you to share what you know about her so we can stop this happening to somebody else.’
She shivered and wrapped her thin arms round her body, pushing her small breasts upwards. ‘Please God, not that.’
And so Paula worked her way through the final Saturday again. Anya confirmed what Ashley had told them, and had nothing to add. But when she turned to the subject of Nadia’s ex-boyfriend, Anya turned slightly in her seat, away from Paula, and abruptly became noncommittal.
Whatever was making her uncomfortable, Paula was determined to get to the heart of it. ‘There’s something more, isn’t there, Anya? Something you don’t want to tell us?’ Her voice was gentle. ‘Nothing you say can hurt Nadia now, Anya. But I think she’d want you to tell us anything that could help bring her killer to justice.’
Anya shook her head. ‘It’s nothing. It’s not connected to her death. It’s just… nothing.’
‘Anya, I’m trained to make connections that nobody else can see. But if you don’t give me something to work with, I can’t make anything. Please, tell me what you know.’
Anya blew her nose noisily. ‘Pawel – he has no wife and children.’
If she’d been intent on stopping them in their tracks, she’d succeeded. Even Paula, the consummate interviewer, faltered. ‘What? What do you mean, no wife and children?’
Anya looked embarrassed. ‘The row, in the nightclub? The woman? I was at the bar, getting drinks. I was on my way back when it happened, the woman shouting and accusing Pawel and taking their photo. I think if I had been with them, it wouldn’t have happened. Well, it wouldn’t have happened then.’
This was making no sense. ‘I don’t understand,’ Paula said.
‘I know this woman. Maria is her name, I don’t know her family name. She isn’t even from Gdansk. She worked in a bar in Lvov, where I used to live. I couldn’t figure out what was going on. I didn’t say anything at the time, because I wanted to get the truth. So next evening, I went to the coffee shop where she works now. It’s out at the university, we never go there normally. And I told her, I know you’re lying about Pawel. Tell me what’s going on or I bring Anya here and make you tell her.’ She fiddled endlessly with the cheap silver rings on her fingers.
‘And what was it she told you?’
Anya looked haunted and hunted. ‘I want to go outside, I need to smoke.’ She jumped to her feet and headed for the door. The detectives followed her as she ran down the hallway and out the front door. They rounded the corner of the building and saw her slip behind a steel container. By the time they caught up, she had a cigarette at her lips, her fingers shaking uncontrollably. Paula took her lighter from her pocket and held the flame to Anya’s cigarette, taking the opportunity to have one of her own in spite of Fielding’s frown. ‘What was it, Anya?’
‘She knows Pawel. She used to be a waitress at the hotel where he works. He paid her money to make a scene in the club so he could break up with Nadia.’
Paula was completely baffled now. Fifty ways to leave your lover, and still people were coming up with new ones. ‘I don’t get it. Why couldn’t he just tell her it was over?’
‘He has a new job in Cornwall. A promotion. He thought if he told her, she’d want to come with him. And he didn’t want to be tied to her. So he thought the best way was to make her hate him.’ She exhaled a stream of smoke and gave a twisted smile. ‘Worked perfectly. And poor Nadia had no idea.’
‘You didn’t tell her?’
Anya gave her an incredulous look. ‘Why would I tell her? I love Nadia. She already knew he was shit. She didn’t need to know precisely what kind of shit. It would only have made her feel bad about herself, like she was some piece-of-crap person he couldn’t wait to get rid of. No, I didn’t tell her. I didn’t tell anybody. Not even Ashley.’ Her chin came up, defiant and defensive. ‘So you see? Is nothing to do with somebody killing her. Pawel, he is in Cornwall, being the big shot assistant manager. He didn’t have to kill her to get rid of her, just pay someone to tell his lies for him.’
She had a point, Paula thought. ‘And you’re sure Nadia had no suspicions?’
Anya shook her head. ‘She trusts people, Nadia. She always thinks the best of people. I think that’s why she is good at her job. She treats people like she expects the good from them, and that makes us better, I think.’
There was nothing wrong with Anya’s psychology, Paula thought. Carol Jordan worked in a similar way. Expect extraordinary things from your people and they’ll go flat out to give you what you hope for. Paula was beginning to think she’d have liked Nadia Wilkowa. ‘Ashley told us that Nadia carried a set of your keys. Is that right?’
She nodded. ‘Always. On her own keyring so they were always with her.’ She kicked at the ground with the pointed toe of her shoe. ‘I am hopeless. Always forgetting my keys and locking myself out like an idiot.’ Her face crumpled again. ‘Now who will I trust to take care of me?’
They talked to Anya for as long as it took her to smoke another two cigarettes, but by then she was shivering with cold and even Paula thought there was nothing more to be had from her. They said goodbye in the car park, Paula double-checking she had the correct details for the woman Pawel had paid to lie for him.
‘We’ll have to check out this Maria,’ Fielding said. ‘We’ve only got Anya’s version of events.’
‘Even so, it’s hard to think of any twist on the circumstances that gives Pawel or Maria a motive. Or would provoke the kind of fury that drove this killer. If anybody’s got a possible motive in this scenario, it’s Nadia.’
‘But as we know, McIntyre, motive is the least important piece of the jigsaw. Give me means and opportunity and the complete absence of a decent alibi and I don’t give a toss about motive.
’
‘Juries like motive,’ Paula said. ‘People want to know why.’
‘As my mother always used to say to me, want doesn’t get. Facts, McIntyre. Facts.’
‘I take it you’re not an advocate of psychological profiling, then?’
Fielding frowned. ‘There’s no budget for anything you can’t reach out and touch any more. What I believe is neither here nor there. Solid evidence, that’s what we need to focus on. So we’ll get someone to talk to this Maria and we’ll get Devon and Cornwall to pay a visit to Pawel the Shit to see what he’s been up to lately. Because, frankly, we’ve got bugger all else happening for us. Drop me at Skenfrith Street, then swing by the lab and see what the CSIs have got for us. Seeing a human face sometimes acts like a kick up the arse.’ She sighed. ‘Remember the good old days when we were in charge? When we wanted a quick turnaround, all we had to do was tell them to get their fingers out? Now, they’re their own bosses, they claim to rank equal to detective constables in the pecking order and if you want them to move faster than techtonic plates, it costs you about as much as a small family car. Bastards.’
It was hard to disagree. Privatising the Forensic Science Service had turned lead investigators into accountants, sitting down with a calculator to work out which tests their budget could run to. Juries weaned on CSI knew all about forensics, and when the prosecution didn’t reel out all those juicy test results, they assumed it was because the tests didn’t support the case. Not that the tests had never been done because there wasn’t enough money in the kitty and the tests they had done should have been enough to satisfy those sitting in judgement. When you weighed that in the balance, it was hard to argue that Tony Hill was a luxury they should afford.
‘I’ll see what I can chase up,’ Paula said.
‘Good. Because I’m not holding out too much hope for the CCTV footage after all this time. This guy’s smart. We need to be smarter, McIntyre. We need to be smarter.’
27
It had been a bloody awful day. Paradoxically, Carol found that easier to endure than the other kind. It was what she felt she deserved. But so far this one had been particularly grim. After her abortive visit to Chris the night before, she’d driven home and blitzed the vodka bottle. She’d woken in the small hours with a raging thirst and a banging head. The pint of water she’d glugged down came straight up, along with the paracetamol she’d swallowed. She tried again, this time sipping the water, and managed to keep the painkillers down.
She’d gone back to bed, tossing and turning, sweating and cursing. Eventually accepting there would be no more sleep, she dressed in her work clothes, added a padded jacket and went outside, hoping the chill would make her feel better. A smudge of paler sky in the east took enough of an edge off the darkness for her to walk by and she set off up the field behind the barn to the skyline trees on the hill-top.
It was hard going, tufts of grass and uneven footing threatening to trip her every other step. But Carol struggled on, chest heaving, making herself suffer all the way to the top of the hill. Instead of being rewarded with a sunrise, all that dawn brought was a chilly rain and a lightening of the grey sky. By the time she got down the hill, her hair was plastered to her head and her cheeks were numb with the cold and wet.
She brewed coffee, but it only made her stomach burn and her heart race. Work was no help either. The day’s tasks were dull and repetitive, offering nothing to distract her from revisiting her disastrous encounter with Sinead. A slip of a chisel gouged a slice in the ball of her thumb, which bled madly till she packed it with medicated lint and slapped a dressing on it. After that, it just hurt like a bastard. Somehow, she dragged herself through the morning without resorting to the vodka bottle, but it was never far from her mind.
At last, she finished clearing the first section of the gallery flooring and its underpinnings. She’d created a substantial pile of timber to haul outside and add to the heap she was stacking ready for the next bonfire. She was halfway to the door with the first armful when the unexpected thump of a knock made her drop the lot with a loud clatter.
Swearing under her breath, Carol hauled the door open. George Nicholas stood on the threshold, a sheepish smile on his face. ‘I seem to have the knack of arriving at the wrong moment,’ he said, looking past her at the scatter of timber on the floor.
‘There aren’t many right moments,’ Carol muttered. She was annoyed at his presence. It made her aware of her vodka breath, her unwashed hair, the stale alcohol reek of her sweat. She was aware and ashamed of her disintegration. But not enough to do something about it, she thought defiantly.
‘Might I come in?’ He gave a plaintive glance upwards at the heavy drizzle that was still falling. She opened the door wider and stepped aside, waving her arm in a gesture of invitation. ‘And the dog?’ He pointed to the black-and-white collie at his heels.
‘Hello, Jess,’ Carol said. ‘Always happy to see you.’
Nicholas stepped inside. He snapped his fingers and the dog followed, then lay down, head between its paws, eyes on Carol. ‘Actually, this isn’t Jess.’
‘That shows you what I know about dogs.’ Carol closed the door on the weather.
‘An easy enough mistake. This is Flash. Jess is her mother.’ George took off his tweed cap and shook the rain from it. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a hot drink?’
Carol felt her smile had been forced from her. ‘You’re a brave man, Mr Nicholas. Not many people who know me would be so bold.’
‘Not brave. Cold. And please, it’s George.’ Confident, but not arrogant.
‘Tea or coffee? The coffee is good, the tea is basic.’
‘In that case, I’ll take the coffee.’
Carol headed for her living quarters to brew up. She’d barely got the kettle on when she heard the clank and clatter of wood striking wood. She stuck her head round the door to see Nicholas shifting the splay of fallen wood into a neat pile by the door. ‘You don’t have to earn your coffee,’ she said.
He gave her an amused glance. ‘I’m here to ask a favour. I need all the capital I can get.’
Her heart sank. She didn’t want to do anyone a favour. She didn’t want him to owe her anything in return. Besides, she couldn’t imagine any favour she’d be inclined to grant George Nicholas.
By the time the coffee was brewed and poured into a pair of mugs, most of the wood had been stacked by the door. ‘Thanks,’ she said ungraciously.
‘You’re very welcome.’ He looked around, as if expecting a chair to have materialised while his attention had been elsewhere. Failing that, he sat on the floor with a pleasing disregard for its lack of cleanliness. Carol leaned against the wall. The dog stayed put, her eyes shifting from one to the other.
‘So what’s this favour, then?’ She pushed her sweaty hair from her face with the back of a dirty, bloodstained hand.
Nicholas pointed to the dog. ‘I kept a couple of Jess’s pups from her last litter. We’ve expanded our holding of sheep and we need more working dogs. Jess is a terrific sheepdog, but she can’t be everywhere. The idea was that we’d train up the pups so they would fill the gap.’
Carol took a cautious sip. This time, it tasted good. Finally she had the hangover on the run. ‘Makes sense. I don’t see where I come in, though. You may not have noticed, but I don’t actually have a flock of sheep out there.’
‘That’s entirely the point.’ Nicholas looked pained. ‘This is an embarrassing thing to have to confess, but Flash is afraid of sheep.’
Carol snorted with laughter. ‘You’re making that up.’
‘No, honestly. As soon as they bleat, she runs away. If it wasn’t so pitiful, it would be funny. I’d heard this sometimes happens, but I never believed it either.’
‘A sheepdog that’s afraid of sheep? That’s hysterical.’
Nicholas looked at the dog, shaking his head and smiling sadly. ‘But once you get past funny, it’s bad news for the dog. The options for a working dog who can�
��t work are pretty limited. Keeping her as a pet alongside a working mother and brother is a bad idea, or so my shepherd says.’ His face grew serious, his eyes downcast. ‘And so it comes down to rehoming her or having her put down.’
‘And you thought of me?’ Carol made no attempt to keep the incredulity from her voice. ‘I’ve never had a dog. I’m a cat person. The only reason my cat isn’t here is that he’s too old to adapt to this life.’
‘It’s never too late to become a dog lover,’ Nicholas said. ‘Come, Flash.’ The dog got to her feet then settled beside him, head on his thighs. He buried his fingers in her fur, massaging the base of her skull. ‘She’s a lovely dog. Ten months old, fully house-trained. She does come, heel, sit, down and stay. And, as you saw, you snap your fingers and she comes to you and lies down. She’s a perfect dog for a beginner. If she was a pure-bred collie, I wouldn’t dream of offering her to you. Far too skittish, demanding and neurotic.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘We thought we were breeding from another collie, but Jess must have sneaked out when we weren’t looking. What we’ve ended up with is a collie crossed with a black Labrador. And that’s a much more biddable option. Intelligent but soft as butter.’
‘I don’t want a dog.’
He grinned, taking years off. ‘You just don’t know you want a dog,’ he said. ‘They’re great company. And better than a burglar alarm. Nobody burgles a house where there’s a dog barking inside.’ The unspoken history of what had happened here underpinned what he said. He had more sense than to refer to it directly.
‘Won’t she need a lot of exercise?’
‘I can’t deny that,’ he said, scratching the dog’s head. ‘But so do we. Problem is, we don’t take it. Here’s the thing, though, Carol. Collies love to run. And you’ve got miles of moorland on your doorstep here. You can let this dog run in absolute security because you know for sure the one thing she’s not going to be doing is worrying sheep.’ He smiled up at her. ‘Why don’t you give her a try? Give it a week. See how you both take to each other? No obligation. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll take her back without a word of recrimination.’
