by Val McDermid
Right on schedule, a set of tyres screamed as an Audi TT took the car park entrance a little too fast. It reversed into the space opposite Carol, like a pair of gunslingers facing off. Bronwen Scott’s legs appeared first, gleaming in the light, black patent spike heels leading the way. Carol’s eyes were drawn upwards to a pencil skirt topped with a tailored jacket over a camisole. Over it all, a loose, flowing camel coat. Her hair was dyed a hundred shades of dark blonde, shoulder length and glossy, and her immaculately made-up face showed no trace of the same years that had carved lines into Carol’s. Although much of her practice was state-funded legal aid, the fancy clothes and the expensive car came from representing people who had not come by their wealth honestly, and every cop in the city knew it. The pursuit of justice was pushing Carol into the arms of strange bedfellows.
Scott stopped a couple of feet from Carol. ‘Who’d have thought it?’
‘That might possibly work in our favour,’ Carol said.
‘So what’s all this cloak and dagger in aid of?’ Scott swept her hair from her face in a practised gesture. Carol wondered what it must be like to devote so much attention to your appearance. She wasn’t stupid; she’d seen the way men looked at her and she was aware that she was attractive. But it had never been how she defined herself, so when her looks began to lose the gloss of youth, she took it in her stride. But women like Bronwen Scott seemed to see ageing as a challenge, a war to be fought every day, taking advantage of every possible weapon, be it surgical or pharmaceutical. Carol had never seen the point of battles you couldn’t win.
‘There’s a prisoner in the cells in Skenfrith Street who needs a good lawyer.’
‘What’s the charge?’
‘Murder, times two.’
‘Who’s the arresting officer?’
‘DCI Alex Fielding.’
‘And what’s your interest?’
Carol tilted her head back and studied the fluorescent tubes. ‘Easily misconstrued.’ She sighed and met Scott’s curious stare. ‘My interest is in seeing justice done. The man under arrest didn’t do it. So there’s a killer out there on the street who’s going to kill again while Fielding’s busy playing games with an innocent man.’
‘I still don’t see why you’re bothered. I spend half my life clearing up the mess made by stupid cops who can’t get past the first idea in their heads. What’s special about this case? Apart from the fact that the accused man apparently can’t pick up a phone himself?’ Scott was beginning to sound irritated. That wasn’t the goal. Time to get to the point.
‘Tony Hill.’
Scott frowned. ‘What about him? He’s been keeping a very low profile since Jacko Vance.’
‘He’s under arrest. He’s across the street in the cells. He thinks he doesn’t need a lawyer because he’s not done anything wrong.’
Scott cackled. ‘One born every minute. You’d think he’d know better. Did you teach him nothing, all those years?’
‘I think he needs you. Because there’s some very tasty evidence stacked up against him.’
‘Can he afford me?’
‘Inheritance. Insurance. He can afford you.’
‘Go on.’ Scott was on the hook. Now Carol just had to reel her in.
‘His blood on the cuff of the jacket of the first victim. His alleged thumbprint on the mobile phone of the second victim. And the key evidence, as far as Fielding is concerned, is that both of the victims look a bit like me.’
The tip of Scott’s tongue slipped between her lips then she bit her lower lip. It was almost sexual. ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘And where is this coming from?’
‘Do you remember Paula McIntyre?’
Scott made a sardonic face. ‘Killer interviewer. Yes, I remember Paula very well.’
‘She’s Fielding’s bagman now. She’s always had something of an alliance with Tony. She doesn’t like what’s happening, but she can’t put her head above the parapet or Fielding will shoot it off.’
‘Makes sense.’ Scott shivered and pulled her coat closer. ‘So what do you want me to do about it?’
‘I want you to go over the street and demand to see your client and do what needs to be done before Fielding gets her claws into him in the morning. They did an interview under caution and they plan to reinterview him and search his home and his office, according to Paula.’
‘Will he do what he’s told?’
Carol shrugged. ‘That’s debatable. I imagine it will depend on what you tell him.’
Scott shook her head, resigned. ‘They never know what’s best for them. Not even the smart ones. I suppose I should thank you for dropping this in my lap. So, thank you, Carol.’ She laid a hand on Carol’s arm, the dramatic scarlet nails drawing attention from her hand’s betrayal of the attrition of age.
Carol looked down at the false gesture of intimacy and Scott withdrew it, though not hastily. ‘I’m not done,’ Carol said.
Scott cocked her head to one side. ‘Of course you’re not. I presume you want to be briefed?’
‘More than that. I want to come in with you.’
Scott laughed, the sound echoing spookily round them. ‘You know better than that, Carol,’ she said merrily, as if it was the funniest thing she’d heard all day.
‘Why not? I’m not a police officer. And you’re the kind of superstar lawyer who’s always got interns running after you, carrying your files and sharpening your pencils. What could be more natural than an ex-cop considering a career in the law?’
Scott was still grinning. ‘Gamekeeper turned poacher with a vengeance. What’s in it for me? How does it help my client?’
‘I have the inside track. Paula’s never going to trust you with confidential information. But spilling the beans to me? That’s second nature to her. Plus you get all the benefits of a shit-hot investigator on your side at no extra charge.’
Scott shook her head, still unconvinced. ‘It stretches the limits of credibility.’
‘That’s never stopped you before. Come on, you know you want to. If only for the look on Fielding’s face. Think of it, Bronwen – you’ll be dining out on that one for months. Especially when she’s forced to release Tony without charge.’
‘It’s appealing, I’ll admit. But we’d never get it past the custody sergeant.’
‘I thought you liked a challenge?’ Carol’s smile dared Scott.
‘Oh, fuck it.’ Again the flip of the hair. ‘Why not? I’ve not had a ruck with a custody sergeant for weeks. I’m getting rusty. Let me get my briefcase and we’ll go and give them hell.’
They crossed the street side by side like a latter-day Cagney and Lacey. As they were about to walk into the police station, Carol paused and said, ‘There is one thing you should know.’
Scott looked almost relieved, as if this was the dropping shoe she’d been waiting for. ‘What?’
‘Tony and I haven’t actually spoken to each other since the Jacko Vance investigation. I said some pretty harsh things to him. It’s possible he might not be too thrilled to see me.’
Scott smiled like a gratified cat. ‘This just gets better and better.’
47
He stood in the garage doorway and stared at the freezer. He had high hopes of this one. She was, he reckoned, the right raw material for his project. He’d been too hasty, and that had led him into error. He’d been impatient to find the right replacement; he’d forgotten what it took to break a woman in from scratch. Like horses and dogs, it was always easier to work with one that had been taught some of the basics already.
That was where he’d gone wrong. That Polish bitch didn’t even have a live-in boyfriend. She had no idea of what it took to be a perfect wife. How could she? She couldn’t even speak English properly, for starters. He hated her stupid accent. If he’d realised she was a foreigner, he wouldn’t have chosen her. Her looks had confused him, tricked him into thinking she was the one. That had always been what let Sirikit down. Her English was good, but she still had a bit of an a
ccent, which grated on him. But more than that, she was dark. He wanted a blonde. He’d always wanted a blonde. Ever since he’d seen Lauren Hutton in American Gigolo when he was barely a teenager, that was what he’d wanted. That was what he’d married, and the replacement would have to be blonde too.
It was naïve to think that a woman who didn’t already know how to take care of a man could be broken in easily. The Polish bitch had fought him every inch of the way. He’d made it plain to her that, just like in Star Trek, resistance was futile. He’d tried every trick in the book, every technique he could think of before he finally had to concede you couldn’t alter their fundamental nature. This one wouldn’t give in and she wouldn’t give up. In the end, the only satisfaction for him had been the final beating. He’d stripped everything from her that defined her and in the process he had made it clear what she really was – a lump of faceless, useless meat. No use even for sex. He’d washed her clean of any trace of him, made sure nobody else could get any use out of her then kicked her to death.
At least it had confirmed that there was, as he had suspected, genuine satisfaction to be had from finishing with the ones who let him down. He’d planned it for the very first one but he’d been thwarted. He’d fantasised about doing it, but the reality had outstripped the fantasy. That heady, drunken moment of absolute power when life finally leaked away was the best feeling he’d ever known.
But still. He was an optimist. He wanted to believe there could be as much delight in the perfect wife as there was in the perfect dealing out of death. And so he’d tried again. But the next one had been no better. He should have known. He’d hoped that the reason she was divorced was that her husband had been a poor excuse for a man, giving her no opportunity to demonstrate what she was capable of.
It didn’t take long for him to realise she was probably divorced because she was a crap wife. He’d been hopeful when he’d tasted the steak she’d cooked. But the potatoes had been unforgivable. If she’d reached that age without being able to boil a potato properly, there was no hope for her. After that, the sex had been a formality. Even if she’d been the most exciting shag on the planet, it was too late for redemption. Perfection was always going to be out of her reach. All she was good for by that point was killing.
In spite of that, he was still hopeful. Sirikit had shown him that it was possible to find a woman who could be what he demanded. This latest one was married, that was a start. Just so long as she hadn’t fallen into irreversible bad habits thanks to a weak and indulgent husband. He blamed other men for letting women get away with too much. It was like what they said about dogs. There was no such thing as a bad dog, only a bad master. Well, he was the good master. And this new one would be best in show, he felt it in his heart.
For now, she had to learn the first lesson. He was master. This time, he’d leave her locked away in the freezer for longer. Then she’d be properly grateful when he eventually let her out. Gratitude went a long way, in his experience. It was the same at work. You gave a little, and because people had such low expectations, you got a lot. It was one of the secrets of his success. Now all he had to do was teach it to the woman in the freezer.
48
The reception area of the custody suite was without comfort. It smelled, bizarrely, of stale sausage rolls and rotting fruit. Behind the scarred and untidy counter was a middle-aged man with a tonsure of chestnut stubble and a white shirt that strained over a barrel chest. The custody sergeant had a face like a rumpled Boxer, all creases and jowls. Carol almost expected him to slobber as he looked Bronwen Scott up and down. ‘You’re a bit late tonight, Ms Scott,’ he growled. ‘Will it not wait till morning?’
‘The clock’s running, as you well know, Sergeant Fowler. My client’s facing very serious charges and we need to make a start at clearing his name.’
‘Funny, he never mentioned having a solicitor. And he never made a phone call after he was brought down here. You developing telepathy as one of your skills?’
Scott leaned on the counter and produced a menacing smile. ‘I don’t think my means of communicating with my clients is any of your business. Now, I want to see my client. And in an interview room, not some nasty little cell that smells of piss and vomit.’ It was an impressive performance, Carol thought, remembering all the times Bronwen Scott’s production numbers had driven her to distraction. Being on the same side was a lot more fun.
Sergeant Fowler made great play of consulting his watch and comparing it to the clock on the wall behind him. ‘Let me see. DCI Fielding will be wanting to interview at nine, and your client is entitled to eight hours’ rest, and it’s half past eleven already. So I reckon that gives you an hour with your client, tops.’
‘I’ll take as long with my client as I need. If that means DCI Fielding has to rearrange her plans for the morning, that’s the way the cookie crumbles, Sergeant Fowler. Now, are you going to produce Dr Hill?’
‘One moment,’ he said ponderously, his forehead corrugating. He scratched his armpit then pointed at Carol, who had been hanging back in the doorway. ‘Is she with you?’
Scott gave a nonchalant glance over her shoulder. ‘My intern? Of course.’
‘Do you think I’m daft? Your intern?’ He leaned forward, his mouth moving as if he was chewing a wad of tobacco. ‘It’s DCI Jordan, as was, right?’
‘With the emphasis on “as was”, Sergeant Fowler. I don’t think our paths actually crossed while I was still working.’ She stepped forward and produced her most winning smile.
‘What am I supposed to call you, anyway?’ he asked Carol.
‘Ms Jordan will do nicely, Sergeant. It’s my name. I don’t have a rank any more.’
He scratched the band of stubble that ran round his head, frowning. ‘Well, Ms Jordan. I can’t let you sit in on an interview between a prisoner and his solicitor. You’re just a civilian, you’ve no cause to be there.’
‘I’m shadowing Ms Scott. I’m planning on a career in the law, Sergeant Fowler. It’s a shame to waste all that hands-on experience. My role here is purely as an observer.’
‘But you know him. You used to work with him.’ He threw his hands in the air, a gesture that threatened his shirt buttons. He was clearly struggling for a valid reason why Carol shouldn’t be involved. ‘It’s not… appropriate.’
‘Oh, behave, Sergeant. Anybody would think you were still wet behind the ears,’ Scott said. ‘I’m always dealing with people I’ve encountered before. Defence witness one week, accused the next. And who do you think defends bent coppers? Criminal lawyers like me. So get down off your high horse and give Ms Jordan some credit for choosing an exciting new career path.’
‘It’s not as if I can leak confidential information to the defence, is it?’ Carol wondered whether she was laying it on too thick, but Sergeant Fowler looked relieved at the thought.
‘So can you fetch Dr Hill for us? The sooner we get started, the quicker we’ll be done and the happier DCI Fielding will be in the morning,’ Scott said in the kind of tone it was hard to argue against.
Fowler hauled himself to his feet and emerged from behind the counter. ‘You can use the interview room at the end of the cell corridor. Follow me, ladies.’
He set off past the steel doors. Scott turned to Carol and winked. ‘Overture and beginners,’ she said under her breath. ‘Let’s do it, Carol.’
No turning back. She’d spent months literally working Tony Hill out of her system. And now she was about to discover whether she’d succeeded.
49
Tony had taken off his jacket and folded it under him to make the bed a more comfortable seat. Though it left a lot to be desired, at least he could sit cross-legged with his back to the wall in a relatively relaxed posture, eyes closed and hands loose in his lap. He didn’t know whether he could sleep sitting up, but he was absolutely certain he couldn’t do it lying down on that pallet. Still, buoyed up by his realisation of how his DNA had ended up on Nadia Wilkowa’s jacket, he could fina
lly chill a little.
The window in his cell door opened with a sharp metallic clang, startling him with a jolt. It clanged shut again before he had composed himself enough to work out what was happening. Then the door opened and the sergeant who had checked him into the cell stood in the doorway, hands on hips to make himself look bigger, eyebrows lowered to add to his threat level. All textbook stuff. ‘Wakey wakey, Hill. Your lawyer’s here for a conference.’
He understood the words but they made no sense. ‘I’ve got a lawyer?’
‘Don’t you bloody start. I’ve had enough from her end. If you didn’t have a lawyer, she wouldn’t be in the interview room asking me to produce you, would she?’
Paula. She must have ignored him and decided to sort him out with a lawyer regardless. It wouldn’t hurt to sit down in a more comfortable room and tell them that he really didn’t need legal representation now he’d worked out how to explain the key evidence against him. Still, it would pass some time. So he unfolded his legs and stood up. He picked up his jacket and tried to put it on both arms at once, like Martin Sheen always did in The West Wing. As usual, he got into a tangle. It needed more practice, that was all. He caught the eye of the custody sergeant, who was struggling not to laugh. ‘A man needs a hobby,’ Tony said, stepping gratefully out of the cell into the corridor. He was about to head for the counter where he’d emptied his pockets earlier, but the sergeant blocked his path, directing him towards a door that stood ajar at the end of the corridor.
Feeling surprisingly jaunty, Tony pushed the door open. At first his brain denied what he was seeing. Bronwen Scott, he accepted that. She was the sort of person he’d expected to see. But the blonde head facing away from the door – it couldn’t be. He was hallucinating. Or delusional. Then she turned her head and something inside him lurched and twisted. The ground beneath his feet seemed to tilt and he stumbled. ‘Carol?’ His voice held a mixture of wonder and doubt. So much for cutting her out of his heart. Apparently his heart hadn’t got the message.
