Fever of the Bone

by Val McDermid

  ‘You seem to have settled both those questions,’ he said, trying to hide the sadness her suggestion had provoked. ‘I can see why you might want somewhere that feels more like your own place. A bit more room. But don’t feel you have to go on my account.’ A lop-sided smile. ‘I’ve almost got used to having someone around I can borrow milk from.’

  Carol’s smile was pained. ‘That’s all I am to you, is it? A source of midnight milk?’

  A long pause. Then Tony said. ‘Sometimes I wish it was that simple. For your sake as much as mine.’ He sighed. ‘I really don’t want you to move, Carol. Especially if we’re not working together. Living in different places, we’d hardly see each other. I’m not good at holding on to people and you work insane hours.’ He stood up. ‘So, do you fancy a glass of wine?’

  Gary Harcup licked the grease from his fingers then wiped them on his jeans. The pizza had been cold for at least three hours, but he hadn’t noticed. He ate from habit, he ate as a pause for thought, he ate because the food was there. Savour had nothing to do with it. He loved that he lived in a world where you could have food delivered to your door 24/7 without even having to pick up a phone. A click of the mouse would see him supplied with Chinese, Indian, Thai or pizza. Some days, he only left his computer to take in deliveries and to go to the bathroom.

  In the community he inhabited, Gary’s life was far from unique. Most of the people he knew lived a variation of his daily existence. Every now and then they had to emerge blinking into the daylight to interface with clients of one sort or another, but if they could avoid it, they did. If they’d been a separate species, they’d have died out in a couple of generations.

  Gary loved his machines. He loved moving around in virtuality, travelling through time and space without ever having to leave the womb of his small, smelly flat. He found immense satisfaction in solving the problems his clients offered up, but he also knew the deep frustration of occasional failure.

  Take this job for West Mercia. A lot of what they wanted from him was the product of simple number-crunching. Tracking down the whereabouts of particular machines, for example. It was the sort of thing where you keyed in information and set the software off and running. A child of five could do it.

  But trawling through the scattered detritus of deleted files, that was a different matter. Pulling out fragments, identifying which belonged where, fitting them together like a vandalised jigsaw - that was man’s work. After a cursory exploration, he’d reluctantly had to admit that his software wasn’t up to it. He needed something better - and he knew just where to go. Over years of working in this twilight zone, Gary had built a network of allies and contacts. Most of them he wouldn’t have recognised if they’d been sitting next to him on a train, but he knew their screen names and cyber-IDs. For what he needed today, Warren Davy was his man. Warren, the man who could almost always come up with the goods. When it came to masters of the virtual universe, Warren was one of the best. They’d known each other since the earliest days, back before there had even been an internet, when the only way for teenagers like them to communicate in the ether had been bulletin boards populated by hackers, phreaks and geeks. Warren, in Gary’s view, was the man.

  A quick email, then he’d have a shower. It had been a day or two, and he’d noticed he was itching in the places where a man welded to a computer chair inevitably overheated.

  When he returned to his desk, dressed in clean boxers and T-shirt, the reply was already there. You could always rely on Warren, he thought. Not just one of the smartest tools in the box, but one of the most open-handed too. It was thanks to Warren that Gary had a lot of the software that allowed him such free access to other people’s information.

  Good to hear from you, Gary. I’m stuck in Malta on a security set-up job, but I think we’ve got something that might do the trick for you. I can let you have it at cost. It’s called Ravel and you can download it from the DPS site. Use code TR61UPK to login, we’ll bill you at the end of the month as usual.

  You’re right, there is something newer and shinier coming down the pike from SCHEN, but it’s going to cost you about three times what Ravel does. I know Bradfield Police are beta-testing it, so maybe West Mercia could get you a deal when it’s up and running.

  Good luck with the trawl.

  Gary gave the screen the thumbs-up, relieved that he was going to be able to put on some kind of a show for Patterson. Warren had come through. But even though Warren was so on top of things, he had a pretty rose-tinted view of how closely cops co-operated. Whatever the deal was with SCHEN and Bradfield Police, Gary knew there was no way West Mercia would be getting in on the ground floor with it. SCHEN were totally notorious for playing their expensive cards close to their chest. Gary had been aware of them for years. He even knew the guy behind them used the screen name Hexadex. But he’d never been able to get alongside him. All he knew was that the guy had developed some shit-hot analytical software over the years and that he had some kind of deal with Bradfield cops, who always seemed to be the ones beta-testing any crime-fighting apps of SCHEN’s new kit.

  Gary sighed. He’d never had the kind of creativity that had propelled SCHEN to gigabucks and Warren to megabucks. But at least he had his clutch of steady clients who didn’t know that he wasn’t one of the big dogs. And thanks to mates like Warren, hopefully they’d never have to find out.

  Daniel Morrison slumped in front of his computer, his blue eyes sulky and his wide, full mouth turned down in a scowl. His life was so fucking boring. His parents were, like, dinosaurs. His dad acted like they were living in the Stone Age, when there was nothing to do except go to football matches and listen to records. Records, for fuck’s sake! OK, so some vinyl was retro and cool, but not the stuff his dad liked to spin on his turntable. And the way he talked about girls . . . Daniel rolled his eyes back in his head and let his head loll. Like they were innocent little dolls or something. He wondered if his dad had the faintest idea what went on with girls in the twenty-first century. It would blow his stupid little mind if he knew.

  Daniel would’ve bet that every single one of the girls he hung out with had forgotten more about sex than his dumbfuck father had ever known. He could never decide whether to laugh or groan when his father tried to talk to him about ‘respect’ and ‘responsibility’ when it came to girls. Maybe he hadn’t actually done it yet, but he’d come close, and he had a full range of coloured and flavoured condoms ready and waiting. He wasn’t going to be lumbered with some screaming kid, no thank you. God. He’d tried telling his father that he knew what he was doing, but the old man wasn’t hearing what he had to say. He still wouldn’t let him go out clubbing or to gigs with his mates. Said he could only go if they went together. Like he was going to show up at some event with his sad dad in tow. Yeah, right. That would happen.

  Usually, his mother let him do pretty much what he wanted. But lately she’d been sounding more and more like a clone of his dad. Talking about homework and focus and shit like that. Daniel had never given a toss about homework. He’d always been smart enough to get by without trying. Even if it wasn’t as easy to bullshit his way through some subjects now he was heading towards GCSEs, he could still get by better than pretty much anybody else without doing all the grunt work they had to put in.

  It wasn’t like you needed exams for what he wanted to do. Daniel knew his destiny already. He was going to be the stellar comedian of his generation. He’d be sharper, darker and funnier than Little Britain, Gavin and Stacey and Peep Show put together. He’d take comedy where it had never gone before. All his mates said he was already the funniest guy they’d ever heard. When he’d tried to tell his parents about his ambition, they’d laughed too. But not in a good way. So much for, ‘We’ll always be there for you.’ Yeah, right.

  With a world-weary sigh, he pushed his heavy fringe out of his eyes and logged on to RigMarole. This was usually the best time of day to connect with KK. They’d been online buddies for a couple of months now.
KK was cool. He thought Daniel was awesomely funny. And even though he was just a kid like the rest of them, he knew a couple of dudes on the comedy circuit. He’d told Daniel that he could help him meet up with people who could set him on the road to celebrity comedy. Daniel had been smart enough not to push him, and sure enough, KK had come through. They were going to meet up soon, and then Daniel’s life would start to change, big time. He’d been hibernating in the darkness but soon he was going to burst into the spotlight.

  It would be worth putting up with KK’s occasional creepiness. Like lately, he’d been talking about secrets. When they’d been in a private chat space, he’d been going on about knowing Daniel’s secrets. Knowing who he really was. im t only 1 who nos who u realy r, he’d said. More than once. Like Daniel didn’t even know himself. Like KK had access all areas inside Daniel’s life. It kind of weirded Daniel out. So what if he’d told KK a lot about himself, about his dreams, about his fantasies of making it mega? That didn’t mean the guy knew all his secrets.

  Still, if KK was going to be his route to the big time, Daniel reckoned the guy could say pretty much what he wanted. Like it would matter when Daniel was all over the TV and the internet.

  It never crossed his mind that he might end up famous for a very different reason.

  CHAPTER 8

  One week later

  Even though he was going through them for the third time, Alvin Ambrose was still totally absorbed by the witness interviews in the Jennifer Maidment case. School friends, teachers, other kids she’d communicated with via RigMarole. Officers from as far afield as Dorset, Skye, Galway and a small town in Massachusetts had talked to teenagers whose reactions ranged from freaked out to completely freaked out by what had happened to their correspondent. Ambrose had already sifted the information twice, his instincts on full alert for something that struck a bum note, oblivious to the buzz and hum of the squad room. So far, nothing had given him a moment’s pause.

  The interviewing officers had been briefed to ask about the elusive ZZ, but nothing had come of that either. ZZ only showed up on Rig; there was no reaction of familiarity from teachers or family or friends who didn’t use the social networking site. Those who had encountered ZZ online knew nothing more than the police had already established from Jennifer’s conversations. ZZ had managed to worm his way into her network but in the process had given away nothing that would help identify him. It was frustrating beyond words.

  A shadow fell across his desk and he looked up to see Shami Patel pretending to rap her knuckles on a non-existent door. ‘Knock, knock,’ she said, her smile awkward.

  If she’d made the effort to seek him out, the chances were she had something to say worth listening to. Besides, with her generous curves and hair waved in a long bob, she was easy on the eye. That wasn’t something you could say about most of the human scenery in the CID office. Ambrose responded with an expansive gesture towards the flimsy folding chair that sat at the end of his desk. ‘Have a seat,’ he said. ‘How’s it going with the Maidments?’ When it had become clear that the Maidments might be one of the few sources of leads in their daughter’s murder, he’d checked her out with mates in the West Midlands, where she’d come from. He needed to be sure she wasn’t going to miss anything crucial. But his sources soon set him straight on that score. They said Patel was probably the best family liaison officer they had. ‘Too fucking sharp for holding hands, if you ask me,’ one of them had said. ‘Don’t know what she’s doing, leaving us for you turnips.’

  Patel sat down and crossed one well-shaped leg over the other. There was nothing coquettish in the gesture, Ambrose noted, almost with regret. He was generally content in his marriage, but still, a man liked to know he was worth flirting with. ‘They’re exhausted,’ she said. ‘It’s like they’ve gone into hibernate mode to conserve what they’ve got left.’ She stared at her hands. ‘I’ve seen it before. When they come out of it, chances are it’ll be with all guns blazing at us. They’ve got nobody else to blame, so we’ll be the ones who take the flak unless we find the person who killed Jennifer.’

  ‘And that’s not happening,’ Ambrose said.

  ‘So I gathered. What about forensics? Nothing there?’

  Ambrose shrugged his massive shoulders, the seams of his shirt straining at the movement. ‘We’ve got some evidential stuff. Not the sort that produces leads, the sort that you can build a case with once you’ve got a suspect. We’re still waiting for the forensic computer specialist, but he’s less and less hopeful with every day that goes by.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Patel bit her lip, frowning a little.

  ‘Have you picked something up from the family? Is that why you’re here?’

  She shook her head hastily. ‘No. I wish . . . It’s just . . .’ She wriggled in her chair. ‘My bloke, he’s a DC with West Midlands. Jonty Singh.’

  It was a short sentence but Ambrose immediately constructed the story behind Shami Patel’s apparently perplexing move to Worcester. A nice Hindu girl with traditional, devout parents who had her lined up for some nice Hindu boy. And she goes and falls for a Sikh. Either they’d found out and there had been a family bust-up or else she’d moved down here before the wrong person spotted her and Jonty in the back row of the pictures. By moving to Worcester, she could have a life where she wasn’t constantly looking over her shoulder. ‘OK,’ Ambrose said cautiously, wondering where this was going.

  ‘You remember that business in Bradfield last year? The footballer that got murdered, and the bomb at the match?’

  Like anybody was going to forget that in a hurry. Thirty-seven dead, hundreds injured when a bomb ripped through the corporate hospitality booths during a Premier League match at Bradfield Victoria. ‘I remember.’

  ‘Jonty was involved on the periphery. Before the bombing. One of the initial suspects in the murder was an old collar of his. He stayed in touch with his contact on the investigation, a guy called Sam Evans. He’s on Bradfield’s MIT. Anyway, I was telling Jonty how frustrated we all were at the lack of progress with Jennifer. I know I shouldn’t have, but he’s in the job, he knows not to talk—’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Ambrose said. He trusted this woman’s judgement. ‘What did he have to say, your DC Singh?’

  ‘He told me the Bradfield MIT work with a profiler who’s been a key factor in their success rate.’

  Ambrose tried to keep his scepticism from his face, but Patel picked it up anyway. Her words accelerated, bumping into each other. ‘This guy, he sounds exceptional. Sam Evans told Jonty he’s saved lives, solved cases that nobody else could get a handle on. He’s the business, Sarge.’

  ‘The boss thinks it’s mumbo jumbo, profiling.’ Ambrose’s voice was a deep rumble.

  ‘And you? What do you think?’

  Ambrose smiled. ‘When I’m running the shop, I’ll have an opinion. Right now, there’s no point.’

  Patel looked disappointed. ‘You could at least talk to Sam Evans at Bradfield. See what he has to say?’

  Ambrose stared at the cluttered surface of the desk, his big hands curled like empty shells on the stacks of paper. He didn’t like creeping around behind Patterson. But sometimes you had to take the back alley. He sighed and reached for a pen. ‘What’s this profiler’s name, then?’

  Carol walked into her squad room, feelings mixed when she saw her team already settled round the conference table, ready for the morning meeting. She was proud that they were pulling out all the stops in their bid to assure their future, but bitter because she felt it was futile. ‘What’s going on here?’ she said, detouring to the coffee machine. ‘Did the clocks go forward without me noticing?’

  ‘You know we like to keep you on your toes, chief,’ Paula said, passing a box of pastries round the table.

  Carol sat down, blowing gently on the steaming coffee. ‘Just what I need.’ It wasn’t clear whether she was referring to the drink or to being kept on her toes. ‘So, anything in the overnights?’


  ‘Yes,’ and ‘No,’ said Kevin and Sam simultaneously.

  ‘Well, which is it?’

  Sam snorted. ‘You know that if this kid was black and from a council estate with a single mum this wouldn’t even have made the overnights.’

  ‘But he’s not and it did,’ Kevin said.

  ‘We’re just capitulating to white middle-class anxieties,’ Sam said scornfully. ‘The kid’s with some girl or else he’s had it up to here with Mummy and Daddy and taken off for the bright lights.’

  Carol looked at Sam with surprise. The most nakedly ambitious of her team, he was generally first out of the starting blocks on anything that had the potential to raise his profile and improve his standing. To hear him spout a position that appeared to have its roots in class politics was akin to tuning in to the Big Brother house to hear them discussing Einstein’s theory of special relativity. ‘Any chance of anyone explaining what you guys are talking about?’ she said mildly.

  Kevin consulted a couple of sheets of paper in front of her. ‘This came in from Northern Division. Daniel Morrison. Fourteen years old. Reported missing by his parents yesterday morning. He’d been out all night, they were worried stiff but assumed he was making some point about being a big boy now. They rang round his friends and drew a blank, but they reckoned he must be with somebody they didn’t know about. Maybe a girlfriend he’d kept quiet about.’

  ‘It’s a reasonable assumption,’ Carol said. ‘From what we know of teenage boys.’