Cross and Burn

by Val McDermid

  ‘Well done,’ Paula said. ‘That’s all we need to get warrants for his house and his car and his workplace.’

  ‘Even someone as single-minded as Fielding can’t ignore this,’ Carol said.

  Paula shook her head. ‘Unless she thinks they were in it together, him and Tony.’

  ‘I think that would be a bridge too far, even for her.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on it.’

  ‘Are you going to take him in and interview him?’

  ‘I’ll get Cody to take him in. I want to be with the team that does the house search —’ Her phone rang and she reached for it. As she listened, her face grew grave. ‘I understand. You need to notify DCI Fielding directly, I’m pursuing another line of inquiry right now. And make sure CSI are on standby.’ Paula ended the call and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘This case gets uglier all the time. We thought we might have a third missing woman so I sent a patrol car to her home address. They’ve just radioed in to say they’ve spotted what appears to be the dead body of a white male through the garage window. Sounds like Marie Mather’s husband got in the way of what that bastard wanted.’ She jerked a thumb over her shoulder towards the patrol car. ‘Nailing him is going to be a pleasure.’

  In one sense, Banham village was the last place people would expect to find a serial killer. It straddled the Yorkshire–Lancashire border, changing its allegiance with every local government reorganisation since the War of the Roses. Grey stone cottages formed a tight triangle round the village green, a Norman church at the apex. Beyond the village centre were clusters of houses that had accreted like cankers over the past three hundred years, a mishmash of styles that had evolved its own distinctive character over the centuries. It had avoided being swallowed up by the urban sprawl of Bradfield thanks to the deep cleft of a valley that separated it from the main thrust of urbanisation. Banham wasn’t the easiest commute in the area, but it was definitely one of the most desirable.

  On the other hand, if you wanted to keep a woman prisoner undisturbed, it was a much better option than anywhere in the city. For Banham was only a fake village. It had none of the sense of community that knit together real villages. Here, nobody looked out for each other. Nobody knew each other’s business. Nobody knew when their neighbours went on holiday or where they were going. There was no epicentre – no pub to run quizzes, no village hall, no WI or Autumn Club or Brownie pack. The detached cottages and houses were separate and inviolate. It was the sort of place people lived when they wanted to impress. It was also the sort of place where nobody lived for more than a few years.

  Driving into the village, Paula reckoned that once upon a time living somewhere so anonymous might have appealed to her. Nobody knowing she was a cop, nobody questioning the women who occasionally drove up to her house at weekends and stayed over. But that was when she allowed anxiety to circumscribe her life. She hadn’t felt like that for a very long time. And part of that was because of Carol Jordan and her MIT.

  Taylor’s house wasn’t hard to spot. It was stone-built, like most of the houses in Banham. Even though it was probably only about thirty years old it was solid and well-proportioned. Unless he had another source of income, it must have stretched Gareth Taylor to afford it. The white CSI van sat in the driveway and a liveried BMW was parked on the roadway outside. A huddle of people in white Tyvek suits milled around in the drive, waiting for her as she’d instructed them to do. She wanted to be here every step of the way. All they had on Taylor so far was circumstantial. A car repeatedly showing up on the ANPR records was suggestive. But it wasn’t proof. Going armed with a taser and using it on Carol Jordan was suggestive but it wasn’t proof, particularly since, by her own admission, she’d been following him. Working in the same office as Marie Mather was suggestive but it wasn’t proof. Having a limp was suggestive but it wasn’t proof. If she was honest and impartial, there was still more solid evidence against Tony than there was against Taylor right now. If she was Fielding, she probably wouldn’t be releasing Tony just yet.

  Paula suited up, put on shoe covers, then nodded to the officer carrying the door ram. In one smooth sweep, he delivered a massive blow to the heavy front door. The wood splintered and gave up its lock, which clattered down hard enough to leave a dent in the parquet. Softwood tarted up to look like hardwood, Paula thought. How very Banham.

  There was nothing untoward about the hallway. An attractive Afghan-style runner sat precisely in the middle of the floor. A console table held a bowl with keys and a vase of authentic-looking silk sweet peas. Photographs of glittering waves and frolicking dolphins lined one wall. Paula advanced cautiously. A door on the right opened on to a living room that looked as if it had been styled for a magazine feature. Some might say uncluttered; Paula thought sterile. On the face of it, nothing to interest them. But they would come back to it. No stone unturned. Just that some stones were definitely more promising than others.

  Next off the hall, a dining room. Again, not much in the way of homely touches. The only personal item in the room was a large studio portrait of Taylor and two children hanging opposite the door. Neither child looked particularly happy to have Daddy’s hands heavy on their shoulders. Paula told herself off for projecting. Really, there wasn’t much you could tell from a photo.

  At the end of the hallway an archway led into the kitchen. Paula caught her breath. At her shoulder, the lead CSI swore softly. ‘Arrogant twat clearly never expected to get nabbed,’ he said. ‘Look at this. There’s forensic traces bloody everywhere. Blood, fingerprints… There’s a clump of hair on the floor over there by the bin. And look at those metal eyes screwed into the door frame and the wall. First time I’ve ever seen a kitchen that looked more like a dungeon.’

  Paula hung back while the CSIs placed metal trays across the floor to create a walkway that would preserve any evidence. This was the kind of result that was like a double-edged sword. As an investigator, it hit the jackpot. As a human being, it made her heart heavy. Now she could imagine what her friend had endured and it was a horrible thought. While she waited, she directed the other CID officers upstairs. ‘Take a quick look around,’ she said. ‘Just an Open Door search to make sure Marie Mather isn’t on the premises.

  ‘Does that door lead to the garage?’ she asked, pointing to the frame where the metal eye was fastened.

  The CSI glanced out of the window, orientating himself. ‘Looks like it. You want to take a look?’

  ‘We’ve still got a missing woman, so yes. Soon as you like.’

  The final chequered plates were laid down, providing a route to the door. The lead CSI opened it with a flourish and Paula crossed the threshold. At first glance, it was a regular suburban garage. Tools and garden equipment, all hung up neatly in their allotted spaces. A workbench and a stack of folding garden chairs. A chest freezer.

  And then you looked more closely and saw the pre-torn strips of duct tape hanging from a shelf. And the trails of blood and what looked like skin snagged on the rough concrete floor. And the metal eyes screwed in strategically in three places. ‘Oh, fuck, the freezer,’ Paula said softly and started across the garage.

  ‘Wait,’ the CSI shouted. ‘You’re fucking up the evidence.’

  ‘There’s a woman in that freezer!’ Paula shouted over her shoulder, breaking into a run, blood and adrenalin pounding in her head. She pulled the lid up. The rubber seal released loud as thunder in her ears. And there was Marie, curled in the foetal position, in a pool of blood and piss. Blonde and bruised and battered. Still as death. Paula reached in and felt warm flesh, the flutter of a pulse under her jaw. ‘Get her the fuck out of there, she’s still alive.’

  ‘We need photos,’ the CSI shouted at her.

  ‘I’m right here,’ the videographer said. ‘Step away a second, Paula.’

  All her instincts screaming against it, Paula did as she was asked. But only for as long as it took her to count to five. Then she was
yelling at them all to help her, to call an ambulance, to get Marie Mather out of what was intended to be her coffin and back into life.

  Back at Skenfrith Street, Fielding was steadfastly ignoring the fact that she still had Tony Hill in custody even though the compass needle was swinging round to point unwaveringly elsewhere. This was supposed to be her big day, the press conference where she got to announce the arrest of a high-profile double murderer. In her head, it was the point where she put down a marker that she was destined for the top.

  Instead, she’d had to listen to Bronwen Scott’s pitiful attempt to explain away the evidence against Tony Hill with an improbable story of nosebleeds and a collision in a corridor. It was obviously a fabrication that would fall to pieces under scrutiny, but checking it out would waste time while the clock was ticking. It was clearly a ruse to postpone charging him, so she’d have to let him go on police bail. And that would give that bitch Scott time to line up her so-called experts to cast doubt on the fingermark.

  And now McIntyre was off on a tangent of her own. Some nonsense based on nothing that Fielding could put her finger on. A bagman was supposed to be unquestioningly loyal, but Fielding was beginning to think McIntyre had loyalties that were nothing to do with her. How else had Carol Jordan turned up with Bronwen Scott in the middle of the night when Hill hadn’t even made a phone call? When this was all over, McIntyre was going to be shipped out to another firm and Fielding was going to find a bagman who understood what a privilege it was to be so close to the heart of an investigation.

  And then McIntyre herself hustled into the squad room. Fielding opened her office door in time to hear her sergeant say, ‘Hussain, Wood – we’ve got more data in from ANPR. See if we can put Taylor anywhere near the acquisition sites or the body dumps. And one of you check with the local lads and see if they’ve given anyone a tug yet for joyriding Bev McAndrew’s car. I want to know where it was nicked from.’

  Fielding took a deep breath. ‘McIntyre? In here.’

  Paula closed the door behind her. ‘We found Marie Mather.’

  Fielding looked stunned. ‘Why did nobody tell me?’

  ‘I’ve just come from the hospital,’ Paula said. ‘I imagine the team assumed I would tell you. Which I’m doing now.’ Her tone bordered on the insolent.

  ‘You should have called me right away.’

  ‘I was more concerned with getting Marie Mather to hospital. She’s still alive. Barely, but at least she’s in with a chance now. And if she makes it, she makes our case for us.’

  ‘Which team?’ Fielding clutched at the last available straw. There were search teams going through Tony Hill’s home and office. As well as the one McIntyre had called out to Gareth Taylor’s house.

  ‘Didn’t I say? We found Marie in a chest freezer in Gareth Taylor’s garage.’

  There was a long silence. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The word echoed in Fielding’s head like a bell tolling.

  Paula had her hand on the door, getting ready to leave. ‘I think you should release Dr Hill now,’ she said gently.

  ‘You do it,’ Fielding said brusquely. ‘You’re such good pals. And you’ve worked so hard to get him off the hook.’

  Anger finally flared in Paula’s eyes. ‘Just as well someone did, since he’s innocent.’

  ‘We followed the evidence, McIntyre. I’d have been irresponsible if I’d released him earlier.’

  ‘We followed it down the wrong road, ma’am. And I’m busy right now. I have to interview the victim of a serious assault who will only talk to me. So I suggest you do it yourself.’

  66

  Carol had been confined in an interview room for hours. First, in spite of her protestations that she was absolutely fine, they’d had to wait for a doctor to confirm that she was well enough to be questioned. Then there had been a certain amount of discussion about the dog. Carol had refused to leave Flash locked in the Land Rover indefinitely and the dog team had pointed out it was nothing to do with them. Eventually, before she’d disappeared upstairs, an exasperated Fielding had said Carol could keep the bloody dog with her and claim it was a guide dog if anybody complained.

  Then Carol had refused to be interviewed by anyone except Paula, which meant she had to wait till she was free.

  When Paula finally sat down with Carol, it was almost midnight. Paula set down two tall cardboard cups. ‘Not cop-shop crap, proper coffee-shop coffee from the all-night stand by Central Station.’ She dug a paper bag out of her pocket. ‘And a couple of muffins. Slightly squashed, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Caffeine and sugar. That should do the trick,’ Carol said. She broke off a chunk of her muffin and dropped it at her feet, where Flash wolfed it before it hit the ground. ‘Has Fielding released Tony yet?’

  ‘I think she’s doing it now. Me, I’d have done that the minute we arrested Taylor, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Or so she said.’

  ‘I hardly know the woman, but I’d say she’s not someone who takes it well when she’s proven wrong.’

  Paula gave a grim little smile. ‘I’ve a funny feeling I’m not going to be her bagman after tonight.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m not. I don’t want to spend my time running around with a brush and dustpan after someone who can’t keep an open mind.’ She shrugged. ‘There’s other firms. I’m good at my job, people know that. Now, we have to figure out a way to spin this that doesn’t drop anyone in the shit.’

  Carol grinned. ‘Just like old times.’

  Paula shook her head. ‘No way. Old times was me and Tony figuring out how to avoid you going ballistic at one or both of us for bending the rules.’

  Carol’s smile disappeared. ‘I suppose so. Well, one thing we all know for sure. That won’t be happening again.’

  In another part of the building Bradfield’s Chief Constable was wondering why he’d been so keen to take on this job. He believed he’d put together an efficient and effective team, but he’d just had to listen to the woman he thought his best DCI explain how she’d let a bee in her bonnet drive her over the edge of professionalism into a kind of stubborn madness. In the old days, he could have rammed a lid on her fuck-up with a fair degree of certainty that it would never leak out to the public. But these days, with a twenty-four-hour rolling news cycle and a ravenous social media, the chances of keeping things quiet were nil. You could only cling to the hope that something else would make a louder noise to distract the twitterati.

  James Blake exhaled heavily and pushed himself to his feet. He opened a cupboard and stared longingly at a bottle of cognac. What he wouldn’t give for a large drink right now. But he still had a truly horrible encounter to deal with, and he daren’t go into it smelling of drink. He closed the door and pulled himself up to his full height. He knew he could be imposing in a certain way, and God knew he needed that now. He slipped into his executive bathroom and checked himself in the mirror. There was something old-fashioned about his looks, he knew that. His wife said he had the air of a man who should be astride a horse leading a pack of hounds in pursuit of a fox. And although his background was relentlessly lower middle class, he played up to that image. He’d cultivated an accent several degrees above his natural station, he tended to wear country tweeds with double-vented jackets over Tattersall checked shirts, his pink cheeks were always freshly shaven, his hair treated with some expensive unguent from Floris. He’d moved to Bradfield from Devon, where he’d fitted in better, but had felt constrained by the lack of serious crime.

  Well, this was where serious crime got you. Standing in your office in the middle of the bloody night waiting to be eviscerated by a woman who could stand as the dictionary definition of ‘bitch’. James Blake tightened his stomach muscles and stalked back into his office. He crossed to the door, opened it and gestured to the waiting pair. ‘Do come in.’

  Paula walked Carol down to the Skenfrith Street car park and her Land Rover. She watched her tail lights disappear then lit a cigarette, shivering in the damp
night air. She’d barely smoked half of it when her phone rang. When she saw it was Elinor, she was tempted to send it straight to voicemail. She imagined the arrest was on the news and she couldn’t talk about it yet with Elinor or Torin. But loyalty won over expediency and she took the call. ‘DS McIntyre,’ she said, using their standard code to make it clear they were in work mode.

  ‘This is only a quickie. I saw the news and I know you must be up to your eyes. But I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘We’ve spoken to Torin’s dad again. Actually, Torin did most of the speaking. They’ve had a really good chat. He talked about how he feels about his mum. He really opened up. And then I was able to talk to Tom. The upshot is that Tom would be very grateful if we’d have Torin to stay until he’s finished his tour of duty in Afghanistan.’

  Paula could hear the genuine pleasure in Elinor’s voice. She wasn’t entirely sure how much of that delight she shared, but she was willing to go along for the ride. She’d never dreamed of a quiet life. Which was probably just as well. She stubbed out her smoke and walked into the warm fug of the station. ‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘I think Bradfield’s the best place for him right now.’

  ‘I love you, DS McIntyre. I’ll see you later.’

  Paula grunted. ‘I doubt it, the way things are going.’ She walked back into the squad room. And the moment’s respite was over.

  Because then an eager detective constable with an unruly mane of ginger curls raised a hand, as if she was in a GCSE maths class. ‘Sergeant, you know how we were wondering how he knew it was safe to dump Nadia’s body in that squat?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been taking another look at the reports. Taylor’s wife’s maiden name was Waddington. And one of the lads who live in the squat is called Waddington. It’s not that common a name. What’s the betting they were related?’