Fever of the Bone

by Val McDermid

  ‘I don’t think you’re such a bad fit,’ Carol said.

  Kindness, he thought, trumping candour. ‘Maybe so, but you’ve had at least a bottle of wine tonight,’ he said, the attempt at humour too heavy-handed to survive the distance between them. She glared and he shrugged an apology. ‘He could have mitigated my mother’s impact and he didn’t. Money all these years later doesn’t begin to pay the debt.’

  ‘He must have had his reasons. Tony, he really does sound like a decent man.’

  He got to his feet. ‘Not tonight. I’m not ready for this. Let me think about it, Carol.’

  Her smile was forced. He knew her expressions in all their variety and he read the disappointment in this one. No matter that he’d helped her score success after success in her professional life; when it came to their personal relationship, he sometimes thought disappointment was all he’d ever left her with.

  Carol emptied her glass. ‘Till the next time,’ she said. ‘It’ll keep.’

  He sketched a little wave and made for the stairs that separated her basement flat from his house above. As he turned to say goodnight, he saw her smile soften. ‘I know you,’ she said. ‘Sooner or later, you’ll have to know.’

  Alvin Ambrose wrestled his warrant card from the inside pocket of his jacket as he approached the house. He knew that his size, his colour and the fact that it was after ten o’clock would all conspire against him in the eyes of the people who lived in this 1970s ‘executive detached’. Better to have the ID front and centre when the door opened.

  The man who answered the doorbell was frowning at his watch. Then he made great play of peering at Ambrose’s warrant card. ‘What time of night do you call this?’

  Ambrose bit back the smart-arsed retort and said, ‘Mr David Darsie? Detective Sergeant Ambrose from West Mercia. I’m sorry to trouble you, but we need to speak to your daughter Claire.’

  The man shook his head, sighing in an extravagant pantomime of incredulity. ‘I don’t believe this. Are you bothering us at this hour because Jennifer Maidment’s out late? It’s barely half past ten.’

  Time to put the jerk in his place. ‘No, sir,’ Ambrose said. ‘I’m bothering you at this hour because Jennifer Maidment’s been murdered.’

  David Darsie’s expression shifted from irritation to horror as swiftly as if he’d been slapped. ‘What? How can that be?’ He looked over his shoulder as if expecting some fresh nightmare to appear there. ‘Her mother only rang a while ago.’ He ran his hand over his thinning dark hair. ‘Jesus. I mean . . .’ He swallowed hard.

  ‘I need to talk to your daughter,’ Ambrose said, moving closer to the open door.

  ‘I don’t know . . . This is incredible. How can . . . My God, Claire’s going to be devastated. Can’t this wait till morning? Can’t you let us break it to her gently?’

  ‘There is no gentle way. Sir, I need to talk to Claire tonight. This is a murder inquiry. We can’t afford to waste time. The sooner I can talk to Claire, the better for our investigation. I’m very happy for both you and your wife to sit in on our conversation, but it needs to be tonight.’ Ambrose knew he appeared obdurate to people who didn’t know his weaknesses. When it came to moving an investigation forward, he was happy to use whatever means he had available. He lowered his voice, turning it into the dark rumble of tanks rolling down a street. ‘Now. If you don’t mind.’ His foot was across the threshold and Darsie had no option but to back up.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, waving towards the first door on the right.

  Ambrose led the way into a cosy living room. The furniture looked worn but comfortable. A shelf unit was stacked with DVDs and board games, an apparently random pile of kids’ toys occupied the corner between one sofa and the wide-screen TV. A coffee table was strewn with Meccano and a stack of children’s books leaned against the end of the other sofa. The room was empty and Ambrose looked expectantly at Darsie.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said. ‘Four kids, and we’re all congenitally untidy.’ Ambrose tried not to judge the man too harshly for caring about the state of the room when he’d just heard his daughter’s best friend had been killed. He knew shock provoked unpredictable and off-kilter reactions.

  ‘Your daughter?’

  Darsie nodded vigorously. ‘Just a minute, I’ll get Claire and her mum.’

  It took so little time for Darsie to return with his wife and daughter that Ambrose knew the cowardly bastard hadn’t broken the news himself. Claire, skinny and waif-like in a fluffy white towelling dressing gown over flannel PJs and shocking pink Crocs, was still aiming for the aloof teenager look, while her mother looked tired rather than appalled. All three hovered by the door, waiting for Ambrose to take charge.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ he said, giving them a few moments to arrange themselves on the sofa. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s important.’

  Claire shrugged. ‘Whatever. It’s no big. Just ‘cos Jen’s busted her halo and stayed out late.’

  Ambrose shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Claire. It’s a lot worse than that.’

  The panicked look hit her fast. These days, given what they saw online and on TV, it didn’t take long to make the leap. Any pretence at insouciance had vanished before Ambrose could say anything further. ‘Oh my God,’ Claire wailed. ‘Something really bad’s happened to her, hasn’t it?’ Her hands flew to her face, fingers digging into her cheeks. She threw herself at her mother, who instinctively put a protective arm round her.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Ambrose said. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Jennifer died earlier this evening.’

  Claire shook her head. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s true. I’m really sorry, Claire.’ He braced himself as the girl burst into tears.

  ‘Give us a minute,’ her mother said, shock flushing her pink and white. ‘Please.’

  Ambrose left them to it. He sat on the stairs, waiting. People thought being a copper was all action - car chases and slamming suspects up against walls. They didn’t understand that patience was what it was all about. Patterson got it. That was one of the reasons Ambrose liked his boss. Patterson didn’t transfer the pressure from above for results to his team. It wasn’t that he lacked a sense of urgency, just that he believed some things took their own time.

  Ten minutes passed before David Darsie slipped out of the living room. ‘They need a bit longer. Can I get you a brew?’

  ‘Coffee, please. Black, two sugars.’

  He nursed the coffee for a further ten minutes before Mrs Darsie joined him. ‘She’s very upset,’ she said. ‘So am I, come to that. Jennifer’s a lovely girl. They’ve been best friends since primary. The Maidments are like a second family to Claire. Same with Jennifer. They were always together, here or at Jennifer’s, or off out at the shops or whatever.’

  ‘That’s why Claire’s such an important witness for us,’ Ambrose said. ‘If anybody knows what Jennifer had planned for this evening, it’s likely to be your daughter. Talking to me is the best thing she can do for her friend now.’

  ‘She understands that. She’s just pulling herself together now, then she’ll talk to you.’ Mrs Darsie put a hand to her face, cupping her chin and cheek. ‘God, poor Tania. She was an only child, you know. Tania and Paul had been trying for ages before Jennifer came along and they doted on her. Not that they spoilt her or anything. They were quite strict. But you only had to watch them with her to see how invested they were in her.’

  ‘We were wondering where Mr Maidment was tonight,’ Ambrose said, making the most of her apparent willingness to discuss the Maidments.

  ‘He’s been in India. He owns a company that makes machine tools, he’s been out there drumming up business, trying to keep going through the credit crunch.’ Her eyes swam with tears. ‘He won’t even know about this, will he?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say,’ Ambrose said gently. ‘My colleagues are with Mrs Maidment now, helping her through. They’ll figure out the best way to get in tou
ch with Mr Maidment.’ He put a warm hand on Mrs Darsie’s elbow. ‘Do you think Claire might be able to talk to me now?’

  Claire was curled in a tight ball on the sofa, face flushed and eyes puffy with tears. Shrunk into herself, she looked a lot younger than fourteen. ‘You said Jennifer died,’ she said as soon as Ambrose walked in. ‘You mean somebody killed her, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Ambrose said, sitting opposite her as her mother adopted a protective pose again. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Did they . . . did she . . . Did they hurt her? I mean, obviously they hurt her, they killed her, right. But was it, like, torture?’ Her need for reassurance was obvious. Ambrose didn’t generally lie to witnesses, but sometimes it was the most humane course of action.

  ‘It would have been over very quickly,’ he said, the low rumble of his voice a comfort in itself.

  ‘When did it happen?’ Claire asked.

  ‘We can’t be sure yet. When did you see her last?’

  Claire took a deep breath. ‘We came out of school together. I thought she was coming round here because we had some biology course work to do and we usually do science stuff here because my dad’s a chemistry lecturer and he can, like, help us when we get stuck with stuff. But she said no, she was going home on account of her dad is coming home tomorrow and she wanted to make a cake. Sort of, welcome home, kind of thing.’

  ‘That’s nice. Did she usually do something special like that when her dad had been away?’

  Claire shrugged. ‘I don’t know, really. I don’t remember her doing anything like that before, but I never paid much attention. He’s always going away, her dad. Sometimes just for a couple of nights, but lately he’s been away for weeks at a time.’

  ‘It’s because of the economies in China and India,’ her mother interrupted. ‘He needs to exploit the new markets, that’s why he’s been away so much.’

  Ambrose wished Claire’s mother would keep out of it. He always tried to get interviews to flow like a conversation. That was the best way to get people to reveal more than they intended. He hated it when other people broke across that flow. ‘And that’s all Jennifer said about her plans? That she was going home to bake a cake?’

  Claire frowned, reaching back into her memory. ‘Yeah. I was a bit miffed that she didn’t say anything before. Because we’ve got this thing about not letting each other down. “Friends don’t let each other down,” that’s, like, our slogan. I mean, she didn’t even ask me to come back with her and help.’

  ‘So, at the time, you thought it was a bit strange? Jennifer just announcing this out of the blue?’

  ‘Kind of.’ Claire nodded. ‘I mean, no big, right? Just kind of not like her. But I wasn’t going to fall out with her about it, you know? She wanted to do something nice for her dad, that’s her business.’

  ‘Where did you actually say goodbye to her?’

  ‘Well, we didn’t say goodbye. Not as such. See, we’re at the bus stop and the bus arrives and I get on first, then Jennifer goes, “I forgot, I need to get chocolate for the cake, I need to go to the Co-op.” There’s this little local Co-op five minutes walk from school, see? So I’m on the bus already and she’s pushing past people to get off and the next thing I see is her walking past the bus, down towards the Co-op. And she waves to me, all smiley. And she goes, like, “See you tomorrow.” Well, that’s what it looked like she was saying.’ Claire’s face crumpled and tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘That’s the last I saw of her.’

  Ambrose waited while her mother stroked Claire’s hair and gentled her back to composure. ‘Sounds like Jennifer wasn’t herself tonight,’ he said. ‘Acting a bit out of character, was she?’

  Claire shrugged one shoulder. ‘I don’t know. Maybe, yes.’

  Ambrose, the father of a teenage son, recognised this as adolescent-speak for ‘absolutely’. He gave her a small confiding smile. ‘I know you don’t want to say anything that feels like you’re letting Jennifer down, but there’s no room for secrets in a murder investigation. Do you think she could have been going to meet somebody? Somebody she was keeping secret?’

  Claire sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘She’d never keep anything like that from me. No way. Somebody must have got her on her way to the Co-op. Or on her way home after.’

  Ambrose let it go. There was nothing to be gained by making Claire hostile to the investigation. ‘Did you guys hang out online together?’

  Claire nodded. ‘We mainly used to go online at her house. She’s got a better computer than me. And we talk all the time, instant messaging and texting and stuff.’

  ‘Do you use a social networking site?’

  Claire gave him a ‘well, duh’ look and nodded. ‘We’re on Rig.’

  Of course you are. A few years back, it had been MySpace. That had been overtaken by Facebook. Then RigMarole had come along with an even more user-friendly front end, with the added bonus of free downloadable voice recognition software. You didn’t even have to be able to type now to access a global community of like-minded peers and well-camouflaged predators. Ambrose tried to keep tabs on his own kids and their online circles, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle. ‘Do you happen to know Jennifer’s password? It would really help us if we could access her profile and messages as quickly as possible.’

  Claire gave a quick sideways look at her mother, as if she had secrets of her own she didn’t want to reveal. ‘We had this kind of code. So nobody could guess. Her password was my initials, plus the last six digits of my mobile. Like, CLD435767.’

  Ambrose keyed the code into his mobile. ‘That’s amazingly helpful, Claire. I’m not going to bother you much longer, but I need to ask you: did Jennifer ever talk about anybody she was scared of? Anybody she felt threatened by? It could be an adult, it could be somebody at school, a neighbour. Anybody at all.’

  Claire shook her head, her face crumpling in misery again. ‘She never said anything like that.’ Her voice was piteous, her expression desolate. ‘Everybody liked Jennifer. Why would anybody want to kill her?’

  CHAPTER 4

  Carol couldn’t believe how quickly John Brandon’s presence had been erased from his former office. His décor had been muted and unobtrusive, a single family photograph and an elaborate coffee machine the only real clues to the man himself. James Blake was clearly cut from a different cloth. Leather armchairs, an antique desk and wooden filing cabinets provided a faux country house feel. The walls were hung with unmissable pointers to Blake’s success - his framed degree certificate from Exeter, photographs of him with two prime ministers, the Prince of Wales, a scatter of home secretaries and minor celebrities. Carol wasn’t sure whether this was vanity or a warning shot across the bows of Blake’s visitors. She’d reserve judgement till she knew him better.

  Blake, looking buffed and spruce in his dress uniform, waved Carol to one of the tub chairs in front of his desk. Unlike Brandon, he didn’t offer tea or coffee. Or pleasantries, it turned out. ‘I’ll get straight to the point, Carol,’ he said.

  So that was how it was going to be. No fake building of bridges, no pretence at common ground between them. It was evident to Carol that the use of her name wasn’t the first step on the road to camaraderie, just a firm attempt at diminishing her by refusing to acknowledge her rank. ‘I’m glad to hear it, sir.’ She resisted the impulse to cross her arms and legs, choosing instead to mirror the openness of his pose. Some things had rubbed off from all those years of hanging around with Tony.

  ‘I’ve looked at your record. You’re a brilliant police officer, Carol. And you’ve built a first-class team around you.’ He paused, expectant.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘And therein lies the problem.’ Blake’s mouth turned up in a smile that indicated how pleased he was at his own cleverness.

  ‘We’ve never viewed our success as a problem,’ Carol said, knowing that wasn’t quite the response he’d been looking for.

  ‘I unders
tand the terms of engagement for your team are that you investigate major crime on our patch that doesn’t come under the remit of any of the national squads?’

  Carol nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But when you’re between major crimes, you investigate cold cases?’ He couldn’t hide his disdain.

  ‘We do. And we’ve had some notable successes there too.’

  ‘I don’t dispute that, Carol. What I dispute is whether your talents are best deployed on cold cases.’

  ‘Cold cases are important. We speak for the dead. We bring closure to the families and we bring people to justice after they’ve stolen years from society.’

  Blake’s nostrils flared, as if some unpleasant odour had wafted his way. ‘Is that what your friend Dr Hill says?’

  ‘It’s what we all think, sir. Cold cases matter. Their impact on the public isn’t negligible either. They help people to realise how committed the police service is to solving major crime.’

  Blake took out a small box of breath mints and popped one in his mouth. ‘All of that’s true, Carol. But frankly, cold cases are for plodders. Carthorses, Carol, not thoroughbred racehorses like you and your team. It’s perseverance that solves them, not the kind of brilliance you and your team bring to bear.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t agree with your assessment, sir.’ She couldn’t quite grasp why she was growing so angry. Only that she was. ‘If it was that simple, these cases would have been resolved a long time ago. It’s not just about applying new forensic techniques to old cases. It’s about coming at the cases from fresh angles, about thinking the unthinkable. My crew are good at that.’

  ‘That may be. But it’s not an effective use of my budget. Your team represents a stupendous level of investment. You have a range and level of skills and knowledge that should be devoted to solving current cases. Not just major crimes, but other serious matters that cross the desks of CID. The people we serve deserve the best possible policing. It’s my job to provide that in the most cost effective way possible. So I’m putting you on notice, Carol. I’m going to leave things as they are for the time being, but your team will be coming under close examination. You’re on trial. In three months’ time, I’m going to make a decision based on a rigorous scrutiny of your caseload and your results. But I’m warning you now: all my instincts are to reabsorb you into the mainstream of CID.’