Cross and Burn

by Val McDermid

  Talk of food was a displacement activity that displaced nothing for either of them. Paula closed the fridge. ‘I’m not actually hungry. This has been one of the worst days of my working life. Not quite up there with the Temple Fields ordeal, but pretty damn close.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. Has Fielding lost her mind? Tony? If I had to compile a list of everyone I know in order of how likely they were to commit murder, I’d put him very near the bottom.’

  ‘Same here. But she doesn’t know him like we do. To Fielding, he’s just another prospect in a sea of possibilities. But he is the scalp that will make her name. Can you imagine the headlines?’ She shuddered. ‘It’s so ironic. One of the reasons she’s convinced he’s the one is that the victims look a bit like Carol Jordan. According to her armchair psychology, he’s killing surrogates because he can’t have her. But the truth is, the only person Tony would kill for is Carol.’ Paula sighed and opened the fridge again. This time, she took out a pot of yoghurt. She stared at it for a long moment then put it back and closed the door again.

  Elinor put her arms around her from behind and kissed the soft skin behind her ear. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think Fielding’s testing me. Am I good enough to be her bagman? If I put a foot wrong, she’ll have my stripes, maybe even my job. So I have to be very careful not to be seen to be helping Tony. But I can’t just stand by and let this happen to him. I understand exactly how the momentum builds behind an arrest.’

  ‘The juggernaut of justice.’

  ‘Exactly. People focus on anything that supports the arrest and dismiss any faint indications of other directions.’ She leaned her forehead on the cool fridge door. ‘I’ve never missed the MIT more.’

  ‘Carol would know what to do.’

  ‘Carol would never have arrested Tony in the first place. She’d have viewed the evidence against him as some kind of pointer towards the real killer. Or something.’

  ‘You need her now. She’d be ferocious as a lioness protecting her cub.’

  Paula gave a sad little laugh. ‘Once upon a time, maybe. Now I’m not so sure. Whatever the glue was that held those two together seems to have come unstuck. And besides, she’s not a cop any more.’

  ‘All the better, surely? Paula, I know you. You need to do something or you’re going to be awake all night, smoking too much and drinking too much coffee and twitching. And taking years off your life, which makes me very unhappy because I need you to be around for a very long time. Go and find Carol. Let her do the heavy lifting.’

  Paula shook with silent laughter. ‘You’re crazy. You say “go and find her” like it was straightforward. She’s gone off the radar. Even Stacey doesn’t know where she is.’

  ‘Stacey only knows machines. You know people.’

  Elinor’s words triggered something inside Paula’s head. Not quite fully formed, but the teasing start of something. It was interrupted by the doorbell. ‘That’ll be the taxi,’ Elinor said. ‘I’ll see Rachel off the premises. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.’

  Preoccupied, Paula opened the fridge for a third time and took out a plastic container of leftover chilli. She flipped the edge of the lid open and stuck it in the microwave. By the time Elinor returned, she was forking it into her mouth, frowning into the middle distance.

  ‘She’s gone,’ Elinor said. She sighed. ‘It hasn’t been an easy afternoon. She wants to take Torin to Bristol with her.’

  ‘That’s good, surely?’

  ‘Except that Torin doesn’t want to go. His arguments are very reasonable – his friends are here, his school, his band —’

  ‘He’s in a band?’

  ‘Apparently he sings. Who knew? Also, he wants to be somewhere that holds memories of his mum. Not ripped out of the ground and transplanted to a strange city to live with people he barely knows.’

  ‘Like you say, reasonable.’ Paula was focusing on Elinor now, realising there was more going on than was being said. ‘And?’

  ‘It’s a “but” really, not an “and”. But he has no family here. And he’s only fourteen.’ She took a deep breath. ‘He wants to stay with us, Paula. At least until his dad deploys back to the UK.’

  Paula’s eyes widened. ‘Here? Living with us?’

  Elinor pushed a stray strand of hair from her face. ‘I don’t know how I can say no.’

  Paula’s smile was wry and knowing. ‘Even if you wanted to. Fuck, Elinor, this wasn’t in my life plan. Somebody else’s teenage kid.’

  ‘Right now, he’s a good kid, Paula. What happens to him next will determine if he carries on being a good kid. You know that. You see the results of fucked-up young men every working day. So do I. A&E is full of them. I think we should say yes.’

  ‘What does Auntie Rachel say?’

  ‘She’s not happy. But then, I have a sense that Auntie Rachel isn’t happy about much in her life. Ultimately, it’s his father who has to make the decision. He might think the worst thing that could happen to his son is to be left to the tender mercies of a pair of big old dykes. But until that happens, I think we need to hang on to Torin. It’s what he wants, and I think you in particular might be what he needs.’

  Paula gobbled some more chilli, suddenly starving. ‘I don’t seem to have much say in this.’ It was, they both recognised, an objection for form’s sake only. More a gentle demurral than a righteous protest.

  ‘Like you’re going to start walking away from doing the right thing. Now finish up that chilli and get on the trail of Carol Jordan.’

  Paula smiled. ‘I had an idea about that.’

  43

  The cuisine that Marco Mather had learned from his mother was one of the healthiest in the world. At its heart, the Southern Italian food was the diet of peasants, too poor for obscure or luxurious items. It was based on a handful of easily grown vegetables and herbs, olives and their oil, cheeses made from the milk of hardy goats and sheep, and small amounts of game and poultry. But like so many other aspects of modern life, it had become corrupted by money.

  That frugal but delicious diet had spread like a spare tyre to embrace all manner of richness. Estate-bottled olive oil used as a dip for enriched breads; cream and butter liberally added to sauces and ragus which contained more meat than their original creators would have eaten in a month; full-fat cheeses from grass-fed dairy cows; and an endless supply of tasty processed pig products. Italian food at its worst had become an invitation to obesity and furred-up arteries.

  It was an invitation that Marco had embraced. The food he created for their daily dinners was loaded with calories and cholesterol. Marie loved it, but she fought its effects by skipping breakfast and sticking strictly to so-called healthy options at lunchtime. Marco, working from home at his desk, had only his willpower to keep him from food during the day, and it generally let him down at least once between breakfast and bedtime. For a long time, his natural metabolism had kept his weight more or less under control. But as middle age crept closer, so the pounds were creeping on. His trousers were tighter and his thighs had begun to rub together as he walked.

  And so he’d decided to lose some weight. He’d read several articles online and watched a documentary on TV about a new regime of exercise that involved short bursts of intensive aerobic exercise. The results were little short of miraculous. For less than two hours a week, his heart would be healthier, his weight would reduce and he’d live longer. He’d always resisted exercise in the past because it bored him. But surely he could manage a few minutes a day without losing his mind? It would be worth it, if it allowed him to continue cooking and eating the food he loved.

  Marco had told Marie his plan, and she’d been delighted. She loved her husband and she hadn’t wanted to make him feel bad about himself, she said. But she wouldn’t mind if he lost a few pounds. So he’d ordered a state-of-the-art exercise bike and had it installed in the garage that morning. Now he was going to go for the burn. He hadn’t done any exercise si
nce he’d given up squash a dozen years before but he was confident he’d nail this.

  He stripped to his boxer shorts, pulled on a pair of trainers and climbed aboard. He understood the importance of going flat out. He had to push himself to the very limit and go as fast as his legs could pump. He set the timer and started out, driving his legs up and down like pistons, pedalling as fast as he was able. In no time at all, his heart was hammering, sweat was bursting out in beads on his forehead and his breathing was ragged and painful. But he kept going. Surely to god he could exercise for five minutes?

  Marco drove himself on, pushing forward, convinced he would break through the pain barrier to some zen-like state. But his distress just kept increasing till a spasm of pure agony seized his chest and rippled through his upper body. His arms were on fire, his chest gripped by an iron band.

  He toppled from the bike, in the grip of a massive heart attack. Even if Marie had been there to summon the paramedics, it’s doubtful whether they could have saved him.

  And so, when a killer stole Marie Mather on the very street where she lived, there was nobody to notice she hadn’t come home. Nobody to report her missing. Nobody to add her name to the list of victims.

  Nobody to exonerate the man in custody.

  44

  Paula was glad it was dark as she drove out across the Yorkshire moors. It hid the interminable bleakness that always filled her heart with gloom. Other people saw splendour in the scenery, she knew that. But thanks to years of exposure to the worst of human behaviour, she saw it as a place where terrible things could go unwitnessed. A potential body dump. The landfill of loss.

  Franklin had been reluctant to confirm what she’d guessed. ‘Why would I know where your old DCI is hiding?’ he’d said on the phone, sounding more amused than truculent. ‘It’s not like we were pals.’

  ‘I had you down as somebody who knows when a mouse farts on his patch,’ Paula said. ‘So if you don’t know where she is, I’d have to conclude she’s not in West Yorkshire. And focus my attentions elsewhere.’

  As she’d expected, the challenge to his capability did the trick. ‘I never said I didn’t know,’ he replied.

  ‘Any reason why you wouldn’t tell me?’

  ‘Is this a police inquiry, Sergeant? Or a personal one?’

  ‘Does it make a difference, sir?’

  ‘We’re all entitled to our privacy and our family life, according to the human rights lawyers. If Jordan doesn’t want to play nice with you lot any more, that’s her choice. And it wouldn’t be my place to deprive her of those rights.’

  ‘And if it was an official inquiry?’

  ‘I’d expect it to come through official channels.’

  ‘I’m a detective sergeant, sir. How official do you need it to be?’ There was a long pause. She could hear the rasp of him scratching stubble.

  ‘Ah, fuck it,’ he said. ‘Why are we playing stupid games with each other? She’s living at the barn. Her brother’s barn. She’s stripping it to the bare bones. There’s nothing left to show what happened.’

  ‘Thank you. I owe you a pint, sir.’

  ‘You do. But I’ll pass. I don’t like you Bradfield bastards. That goes for Jordan just as much as the rest of you. So there’s enough pleasure for me in grassing her up. Drive safe, Sergeant, we’re not keen on dangerous drivers over here.’

  He was gone before she could say more. And now it was after nine o’clock and the only thing between her and despair was the satnav. Every road looked the same, bordered by the wild grasses of the moorland or drystone walls that looked drunk but always seemed to stay upright. Occasional lights glimmered in the dark and now and again she’d pass a huddle of buildings claiming to be a village. Finally, a large building loomed on her right and her bossy navigator said, ‘You have reached your destination.’ Paula pulled into the parking area and turned off the engine. She felt sick.

  Still, she forced herself out of the car and set off across the flags towards the barn. Security lights flooded the area, making her blink against her blindness. The stillness of the night was split open by a volley of barking that was barely diminished by the thick stone walls of the barn. A dog? Carol Jordan, the ultimate cat woman, had a dog? Had Franklin told her the truth? For a moment, Paula considered turning tail. But she’d come all this way. She might as well knock on the door.

  As she raised her hand to the black iron knocker, the door opened far enough to reveal a familiar face. Carol Jordan did not look pleased to see her, and the dog whose muzzle was pushing against her knee didn’t seem any more welcoming. A low grumble in the back of its throat would keep most sensible people at bay.

  Paula tried a smile. ‘Any chance of a cup of coffee? There isn’t a Costa for miles.’

  ‘Is that your best door-opener? Don’t, for Christ’s sake, abandon the job for a career in sales.’ The door didn’t budge. ‘Give me one good reason why I should open the door?’

  Paula reminded herself that Carol wasn’t her boss any more. ‘Because it’s a bloody long drive and it’s bloody cold out here. That’s the smart-arsed answer. If you want the sincere one – you should open the bloody door out of friendship.’

  Carol’s eyebrows rose. ‘You think we’re friends?’

  ‘You think we’re not? We had each other’s backs for years. I always thought we liked each other. Respected each other. I never even considered a future you weren’t part of.’ Paula flushed, wondering whether she’d gone too far. Carol’s reserve in personal matters was as much part of her as her devotion to taking criminals off the streets.

  Carol lowered her eyes. ‘I’m not sure friendship is one of my strengths.’

  ‘You’ll never find out if you carry on running away from everybody who cares about you. Now, are you going to let me in before I freeze my tits off?’

  Almost a smile. Carol opened the door and stepped back. She clicked her fingers and the dog lay down at her feet. ‘Come in.’

  The space Paula entered was a building site, a work in progress. A couple of industrial lamps in their metal cages lay on the floor, casting light and shadow in a complicated chiaroscuro, making it difficult to get a clear picture of what was going on. She clocked the sawhorses, a workbench, bare stonework and bundles of cable and wire sticking out at odd angles. ‘Funny,’ she said. ‘I never had you down as a DIY queen. Or are you just getting in touch with your inner butch?’

  ‘It’s therapeutic. I’m undoing the past and making a future.’

  She sounded like a cut-price version of Tony. ‘Is there anywhere to sit?’

  Carol gestured with her head for Paula to follow her. They went through a door and into another world. For a start, it was warm. The room resembled a small loft apartment. Bed, workspace, cooking area. No living area. Just a couple of office chairs in front of three computer monitors and a flat-screen TV.

  The light was brighter here too. Paula could see Carol clearly, and as she’d never seen her before. Her hair was thicker and cut more bluntly than previously. There was silver among the blonde, glinting as it caught the light. Either she’d given up dyeing her hair or the years had finally caught up with her. She wore no make-up and her hands were scarred and scabbed from the snags and scratches of physical labour. Even under the thick sweater and jeans that she wore, it was obvious her upper body was more solid, her thighs stronger. In spite of it all, Carol looked healthier than she had for years. And Paula couldn’t help remembering that she’d carried a torch for her former boss. Until Elinor had come along and reality had consigned fantasy to the dustbin.

  ‘What’s with the dog?’ Paula held out a hand to Flash, who sniffed it disdainfully then turned away and followed his mistress as she filled the kettle and set it to boil. Carol readied a cafètiere with ground coffee. ‘And where’s Nelson?’

  ‘I left him with my parents. He’s too old for all this. The dog is a misfit who’s here for the time being. We’re both on trial, I think.’ She turned to face Paula and leaned against the w
orktop. She pushed up her sleeves, revealing muscular forearms which she folded across her chest. ‘So have you come to warn me too?’

  ‘Warn you?’

  Carol shook her head, disappointment on her face. ‘Don’t try to kid a kidder, Paula. John Franklin told me you were Fielding’s bagman. Come to that, I saw you myself this morning at the crime scene. So let’s start again. Have you come to warn me too?’

  ‘Carol, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Has Franklin been here? Today?’ This wasn’t making any sense to Paula.

  ‘He stopped by this morning after Fielding handbagged him and took the case away.’

  ‘Pissed off, was he?’

  ‘Oddly enough, no.’ The kettle boiled and she poured hot water on the grounds. The smell was tantalising. One thing Carol and Tony still had in common; you always got a better than decent cup of coffee. ‘He said he was here to warn me.’

  ‘What? To keep your nose out?’

  ‘Warn me, not warn me off,’ Carol said impatiently. ‘He told me there’s a killer on the loose who seems to have a thing for women who look like me.’

  Paula was taken aback. ‘Well, women who look like you used to look. I’ll be honest, you don’t look like anybody’s potential victim these days. Not that you ever did,’ she added hastily, seeing the danger signs in Carol’s expression. ‘So, was that a surprise, Franklin showing up?’

  ‘Completely out of the blue.’ Carol smiled. ‘I was gobsmacked. I’d always thought if there was any chance of me being murdered, Franklin would be out there selling tickets.’

  ‘Only if it was happening well away from his patch.’

  ‘True. So if you’re not here to warn me to lock my doors and avoid the lonely graveyard at midnight, why are you here? I’m not naïve enough to think it’s because you missed me.’