by Val McDermid
There were more pictures available at the click of a mouse. Tony’s finger hovered. He wasn’t sure he was ready for this. He’d deliberately chosen not to explore the domain of the man who had contributed half of his genetic material. He didn’t want to discover a happy and fulfilled life, to unearth a popular and well-balanced man, to find out that he’d been ignored by someone who could have transformed his childhood from a wilderness of misery to something approaching normality. Disinterring that truth could lead to nothing but bitter resentment. Being Vanessa’s son had been a direct route to wretchedness. Both his mother and the grandmother who had carried most of the routine burden of raising him had left him in no doubt that he was beyond worthless, that he contained the seeds of iniquity, that he could hope to be nothing more than a pathetic apology for a man. What he had learned as a psychologist was that his childhood experiences were a blue-print for the sort of creature he spent his profiling life tracking. He was more like them than anyone else, even Carol, could have guessed. They hunted victims; he hunted them. They profiled victims; he profiled them. The need was the same, he suspected.
His needs would have been very different if Blythe had been part of his life. And he didn’t want to think about what that would have meant. So he’d made all the arrangements by phone and email, having Blythe’s solicitor send the keys directly to the estate agent. The solicitor had acted as if this had been perfectly normal behaviour, but Tony knew it wasn’t. He understood only too well that he was building walls between himself and the man who hadn’t been willing to be his father. There was no reason why he should put his own fragility at risk for the sake of someone who had only had the courage to acknowledge his son after death.
But still there was a nagging voice at the back of his head, telling him there would come a time when he would regret maintaining this distance. ‘Maybe so,’ he said aloud. ‘But I can’t do this now.’ For a moment, he wondered if he should put the house sale on hold, so Blythe’s home would remain intact, available for his scrutiny when he was ready for it. He dismissed the idea almost before it was fully formed. He might never be ready, and there was something morally wrong about leaving houses empty when people needed homes.
Impatient with his own lack of clarity, he shut down the house details and pulled a patient file towards him. Here was where he could make a difference, intervening in the lives of people whose behaviour had diverged disastrously from what the majority regarded as normal. His own history with his mother had given him an insider’s knowledge of how different the world could look when the view had been dramatically distorted. He knew only too well what not belonging felt like, how terrifying it could be to negotiate a world whose rules and conventions were so at odds with the ones that had made survival possible. Since Tony had taught himself how to pass for human, he reckoned he could help others to overcome their damage. Too many of his patients were beyond repair, but some could be redeemed, rehabilitated and restored to something approaching normal life.
His reading was interrupted by the phone. Half-distracted, he picked it up. ‘Hello?’ Carol had told him more than once that his phone greeting sounded astonished and wary, as if he was taken aback by a ringing piece of plastic that spoke when you lifted it. ‘You remind me of a poem I read when I was at school,’ she’d said. ‘“A Martian Sends a Postcard Home”, it was called.’
The person on the other end of the phone was hesitant. It sounded like he’d have agreed with Carol, given half a chance. ‘Is that Dr Hill? Dr Tony Hill?’
‘Yes? Who is this?’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Stuart Patterson. West Mercia CID.’
‘We’ve not met, have we?’ Tony always liked to get that out of the way. He was good with faces but names often escaped him. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d thought he was talking to a complete stranger only to discover they’d sat together at some dinner a month before.
‘No. I was told you were the person to talk to about profiling. ‘
‘Well, I’m certainly one of them,’ Tony said. He grimaced at the phone. ‘I have some experience in the field.’
‘We’ve got a case down here. I think we could use your help.’
‘West Mercia? That’s Worcester, right?’ Now he sounded wary even to himself.
‘And the surrounding area, yes. But the murder was on the outskirts of the city. Have you read about it? Is that why you’re asking?’ Patterson’s words ran into each other in his haste, but Tony could distinguish an accent that had the faint burr he associated with the Borsetshire accents in The Archers.
‘No, I just wasn’t exactly sure . . . Geography isn’t my strong suit. So, what is it about this case that makes you think you need someone like me?’
Patterson took a deep breath. ‘We’ve got a fourteen-year-old girl who’s been murdered and sexually mutilated. We’ve been working the case for over a week and we’ve got nothing you could call a lead. We’ve covered all the obvious bases but there’s nothing to go at. We’re desperate, Dr Hill. I want to close this case, but we’re not getting there by the numbers. I need a fresh approach.’ There was a pause. Tony stayed silent, sensing there was more to come. ‘I’ve been told you might be able to provide us with that.’
That was the second time Patterson had spoken of being told. So he was coming to Tony not from conviction but because he was under pressure. Faced with a crime like the one Patterson had described, Carol Jordan and a clutch of other homicide detectives Tony had worked with would have been on the phone to him within hours. That was because they were believers. Working with sceptics always doubled the amount of work on a profiler’s plate. But on the other hand, it meant you couldn’t get away with anything other than solid, evidence-based conclusions. It was always good to be dragged back to basics.
Then he thought, Worcester, and detected the hand of Carol Jordan. She thinks she can’t get me to take an interest in Blythe, so she’s setting me up with a murder in Worcester so I have to go there. She thinks once I’m there, I won’t be able to resist poking my nose in. ‘Do you mind me asking who suggested I might be able to help?’ he asked, sure of the answer.
Patterson cleared his throat. ‘It’s a bit complicated.’
‘I’m in no hurry.’
‘Our FLO - Family Liaison Officer, that is . . . Her bloke’s with West Midlands. One of the lads from Bradfield MIT, a DC called Sam Evans, he liaised with her bloke on the Bradfield bombings case last year. Anyway, the two of them stayed in touch, meeting up for the odd curry now and again. And this DC Evans, he’s been singing your praises. My DS, he put a call in to DC Evans and got your number.’ Patterson gave a small cough, clearing his throat. ‘And my DS persuaded me it was time to think outside the box.’
‘You didn’t speak to DCI Jordan?’ Tony couldn’t believe it.
‘I don’t know a DCI Jordan. Is he DC Evan’s boss?’
An assumption that might have annoyed Tony in other circumstances convinced him Patterson was telling the truth. This wasn’t a Carol Jordan set-up. ‘What was the cause of death?’ Tony asked.
‘Asphyxiated. She had a plastic bag over her head. She didn’t fight, she was off her face on GHB.’
‘GHB? How do you know? I thought you couldn’t detect that because we’ve got it in our blood already?’
‘Not at these levels. She hadn’t been dead long when we found her, so it was more obvious,’ Patterson said heavily. ‘We’re still waiting for a full tox screen, but at this point, it looks like she was given enough GHB to make the killer’s job very easy.’
Tony was automatically scribbling notes as he listened. ‘You said “sexually mutilated”.’
‘He took a knife to her. A long-bladed knife, I’m told. Made a right mess inside her. What do you think, Doc? Are you going to be able to help us?’
Tony dropped the pen and pushed his reading glasses up to rub the bridge of his nose. ‘I don’t know. Can you email me the crime-scene pictures and the summary reports? I’ll take a look
at them and get back to you first thing tomorrow. I’ll know then if I can be of any use.’
‘Thanks. If it’s a yes, will you need to come down here?’
A man already worried about his budget. ‘I need to see the crime scene for myself,’ he said. ‘And I’ll probably want to talk to the parents. A couple of days at the most. Maybe one overnight. Two at the most,’ he said, showing he understood. He gave Patterson his email address, took his phone number and arranged to talk to him in the morning.
Tony replaced the phone and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. West Mercia Police wanted him to go to Worcester on the very day when he’d set in train the sale of Edmund Arthur Blythe’s house in Worcester. Some people he knew would build a whole edifice of predestination out of that. But he set no store by coincidence. He had patients who read all sorts of fateful meanings into coincidence; during his brief tenure as a university lecturer, he’d warned his students not to be sucked into those fantasies. How did it go again?
‘We’ve all been there. On holiday, in some out of the way village or on a beach that isn’t in the Lonely Planet guide or in some fabulous little seafood restaurant recommended by the locals. And we come face to face with somebody who plays football with our brother or catches our bus every morning or walks their dog in the same park as we do. And we’re amazed. It’s the thing we tell everybody when we get home - “you’ll never believe who I ran into . . .” But stop and think about it. Think of the myriad moments of each day on your holiday when you didn’t run into anyone you recognised. Come to that, think of the myriad moments of every single day at home when you don’t run into anyone you recognise. Mathematically, the chances are that you are going to run into someone you recognise eventually pretty much wherever you go. The world is a shrinking contact zone. Every year that passes, our chances of these apparently meaningful encounters grows. But they are not meaningful. Unless of course you do have a stalker, in which case you need to disregard everything I am saying and call the police.
‘So when your patients put forward some version of their mission that relies on assigning meaning to random events, remember that there is no meaning in coincidence. It happens. Accept it and ignore it.’
His computer beeped, announcing the arrival of a new email. DI Patterson being quick off the mark, he suspected. Tony let himself fall forward in his chair, opening his eyes and groaning. ‘Accept it and ignore it,’ he said out loud.
CHAPTER 10
It took Paula less than thirty seconds to appreciate that the only person in the Northern Division’s CID room who thought it was a good idea to bring MIT into their missing person inquiry was the boss. She’d been told to report to DS Franny Riley in their central squad room for a briefing. When she turned up, the first person she spoke to shrugged and gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘Big bugger over there with the fag.’
Smoking had of course been outlawed in Bradfield Police offices for years. But the beefy detective pointed out to Paula had a cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. It was unlit, but the malevolent dark eyes that glanced up at her held the defiant threat of a man who would spark up his lighter at the slightest provocation. He looked like a refugee from the worst days of rugby league, Paula thought as she crossed the room. Busted nose badly repaired, unmatching ears and no neck visible. ‘I’m DC McIntyre,’ she said. ‘Paula McIntyre.’ She held out a hand. Franny Riley hesitated for a moment, then engulfed her hand in his. His grip was strong but his skin surprisingly soft.
‘Franny Riley. I thought you lot were supposed to be the crack squad. Don’t know what the fuck the boss is thinking. Wastes your time, makes us look like fucking imbeciles.’ His scowl deepened. Between the jut of his eyebrows and the flabby pouches under his eyes, Paula wondered how he could see.
‘Let’s hope so.’
He cocked his head, puzzled. ‘You what?’
‘I’d be very happy if this turns out to be a waste of time for both of us when Daniel Morrison turns up safe and sound with a just-fucked look on his face. Wouldn’t you?’ Paula gave him the full-on charm and pulled her cigarette pack from her jacket. ‘So where do we have to go to smoke around here?’
The roof of Bradfield Police’s Northern Division HQ had one of the best views in the city. Built at the top of Colliery Hill, it commanded the surrounding neighbourhoods. On a clear day, you could make out landmark buildings in the city centre, as well as Bradfield Victoria’s distant stadium and the parks that had acted as green lungs since the industrial revolution. To the north, the moors spreadeagled across the horizon, ribbon roads weaving through the gaps between their rounded summits. Somehow, a Perspex bus shelter had found its way on to the roof, protecting smokers from wind and rain and providing them with what was probably the most scenic smoking area in Bradfield.
‘Nice one,’ Paula said, perching on the narrow plastic bench that ran the length of the shelter. ‘Has anyone reported their bus shelter missing yet?’
Riley snorted with laughter. It was a peculiar sound, like a clogged drain when it’s rodded. ‘As if.’ He inhaled deeply, his cigarette an apparent life-support system. ‘The chief super’s terrified of heights, so chances are we’re safe up here. So, what are you after from me, DC McIntyre?’
‘I hoped you could brief me on where you’re up to with Daniel Morrison. That way I can avoid covering the same ground twice.’
He grunted. ‘I thought that was how you elite buggers did it? Start right from the beginning, go over everything that’s already been covered, then claim the credit?’
‘You must be thinking of some other bunch of wankers, Sarge.’ Paula turned to shelter the flame as she lit up her own cigarette. She felt herself relax as the nicotine did its dizzy dance in her brain. She had a knack for getting under the guard of people she was interviewing. She knew it was at the heart of why Carol Jordan valued her so highly, but she tried not to analyse the process too much in case the wheels came off. So now, without thinking too hard about it, she flashed Franny Riley a complicit smile. ‘I reckon you’re on top of this.’
She could see Riley visibly loosen up. ‘Smart lass.’
‘You don’t seem very anxious about Daniel. Does that mean you think he’s a runaway?’
Riley shrugged his meaty shoulders. ‘Not exactly a runaway. More a lad on a bit of an adventure. Like you said, he’ll likely turn up with a well-shagged look on his face.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Riley took an aggressive drag on his cigarette and spoke through the exhale. ‘Spoilt little shit. Mummy and Daddy’s little darling. No reason for him to do a runner when he gets everything his own way at home.’
Paula let that lie for now. In her experience, you didn’t generally get anything like the whole picture from the family in the first couple of days of a disappearance. It might seem on the surface as if Daniel wanted for nothing, but sometimes that also meant a kid had more to deal with than he’d bargained for. ‘You’ve ruled out abduction?’
‘If it was a kidnap, either the parents wouldn’t be talking to us or we’d be seeing a ransom demand by now. Besides, the dad’s not ransom material. He’s got plenty, but not the kind of plenty that makes kidnap worth the candle.’ Riley sucked the last of the cigarette down to the filter and crushed the butt underfoot with an air of finality.
‘What’s the last sighting?’
Riley yawned and stretched then reached for another cigarette. ‘He’s a pupil at William Makepeace. He rode into town on the bus after school on Monday. He was by himself, but a couple of other lads from his year were sitting near him. They all got off the bus at Bellwether Square. The other lads went to the computer game shop. They say Daniel walked off across the square in the opposite direction.’
‘Towards Temple Fields?’ In spite of herself, Paula felt the hair on her arms prickle. It was nothing to do with the chill wind slanting down from the moors.
‘That’s right.’
‘And after that?’
Riley shrugged. ‘Well, we’ve not put out an appeal, so we’ve not got five hundred time-wasters giving out from Land’s End to John O’Groats about how they’ve seen him.’ He walked to the mouth of the shelter and looked out across the city, apparently through with his report. Just when Paula was about to write him off as a lazy bastard, Riley surprised her. ‘I took a look at the city-centre CCTV,’ he said. ‘The lads were telling the truth. Daniel crossed the square and cut down a side alley that takes you into Temple Fields.’ He turned his head and gave her an appraising look. ‘You know what that’s like better than most. Am I right?’
For a moment, Paula wasn’t sure whether he was referring to her sexuality. ‘Sorry?’ she said, her tone sharp enough to indicate she wasn’t going to let homophobia go past without a fight.
‘You are the one, aren’t you? The one who got caught in the crossfire when that undercover in Temple Fields went tits-up? ‘
Paula would almost have preferred the sexism she’d mistakenly ascribed to him. She’d nearly died in a scummy room in that maze of streets and alleys because of a killer who had been smarter than even Tony Hill had realised. Dragging herself back from the brink had been a harsh and hazardous journey, one she knew she couldn’t have managed without Tony’s support. Even now, more or less recovered as she was, she still hated that it was part of her history. ‘I’m the one,’ she said. ‘And I’m aware that the CCTV coverage in Temple Fields is still shit.’
Riley gave a one-finger salute with a dip of the head, acknowledging her admission. ‘Bad for business. We call it the gay village and pretend it’s gone respectable with its trendy bars and its poncey restaurants, but you and me, we know the truth. The sex shops and the hookers and the pimps and the dealers don’t want their customers on camera. So as soon as Daniel disappears into Temple Fields, we’re fucked.’
