by Val McDermid
In his head he was with her, wondering if she was keeping her promise, imagining the excitement burning in her veins. He thought of her as a changed being, charged with the secret weapon of knowledge, convinced she had the edge on every tabloid astrologer because she knew for sure what her future held.
Of course, hers could not be the same vision as his, he realized that. It would have been hard to imagine two more disparate fantasies, so far apart on the continuum that there could exist no single uniting factor. Apart from orgasm.
Imagining her imagining a false future had its own frisson of delight that cohabited and alternated with the sliver of fear that she would not keep her word, that even as he played computer games with the stricken inhabitants of a children’s cancer ward, Donna was huddled in a corner of the school cloakroom revealing her secret to her best friend. That was the gamble he took every time. And every time, he’d judged the roll of the dice perfectly. Not once had anyone come looking for him. Well, not in the investigative sense. There had been one time when the distraught parents of a missing teenage girl asked for a TV appeal because, wherever she’d run off to, their daughter would never miss her weekly fix of Vance’s Visits. Sweet irony, so delicious he’d grown hard for months afterwards just thinking about it. He could hardly have told them that the only way they were ever going to talk to their daughter again was via a medium, could he?
For two nights running, he went to sleep in the early hours and woke at dawn tangled in damp sheets, his pulse racing and his eyes wide open. Whatever the evaporated dream, it robbed him of further sleep, leaving him to prowl the confined spaces of his hotel room, alternately exulting and fretting.
But nothing lasted forever. Thursday evening found him in his Northumberland retreat. Only fifteen minutes’ drive from the centre of the city, it was nevertheless as isolated as a Highland croft. Formerly a tiny Methodist chapel that could never have held more than a couple of dozen, it had been bought when it was reduced to four bulging walls and a sagging roof. A team of local builders happy to have the cash in hand renovated it to very particular specifications, never doubting the reasons they were given for the desired features.
He savoured the preparations for his visitor. The sheets were clean, the clothes laid out. The phone was switched off, the answering machine turned down low, the fax shut away inside a drawer. The fibre optics might sing all night with calls for him, but he wouldn’t be hearing them till morning. The table was covered with linen so white it seemed to glow in the dark. On it, crystal, silver and porcelain were arranged in traditional patterns. Red rosebuds in an engraved crystal vase, candles splendid in simple Georgian silver. Donna would be captivated. Of course, she wouldn’t realize that it would be the last time she’d ever use cutlery.
He looked around, checking everything was as it should be. The chains and leather straps were all out of sight, the silken gag tucked away, the carpentry bench innocent of tools except for the permanently mounted vice. He had designed the workbench himself, all the tools arrayed on a solid piece of wood like the drop leaf of a table attached to the far end of the bench at ninety degrees to the work surface.
One last glance at his watch. Time to drive the Land Rover across the rutted field track to the empty B-road that would take him to Five Walls Halt with its isolated railway station. He lit the candles and smiled with sheer pleasure, confident now that she would have kept faith and silence alike.
Won’t you come into my parlour? said the spider to the fly.
Chapter 5
Tim Coughlan had finally had his prayers answered. He’d found the perfect spot. The loading bay was slightly less wide than the factory proper, leaving a recess about seven feet square at one end. At first glance, it looked as if the alcove was blocked off by flattened cardboard cartons stacked on their ends. If anyone had bothered to look more closely, they would have noticed that the cartons weren’t tightly packed and that, with a little effort, it wouldn’t be too hard to squeeze between them. Anyone inclined to investigate further would have found Tim Coughlan’s bedsit, containing a stained and greasy sleeping bag and two carrier bags. The first bag contained one clean T-shirt, one clean pair of socks and one clean pair of underpants. The other held one dirty T-shirt, one dirty pair of socks, one dirty pair of boxer shorts and a pair of shapeless cords that might once have been dark brown but were now the colour of seabirds after the oil slick has trapped them.
Tim slouched in a corner of his space, the sleeping bag scrunched into a cushion beneath his bony buttocks. He was eating chips and curry sauce from a polystyrene container. He had the best part of a litre of cider left to wash it down and send him to sleep. He needed something on the cold nights to carry him forward into oblivion.
It had taken long months living rough on the streets before he’d emerged on the other side of the heroin haze that had robbed him of his life. He’d dropped so low that even drugs were above his reach. That, ironically, was what had saved him. Shivering through cold turkey in a Christmas charity shelter, he’d finally turned the corner. He’d started selling the Big Issue on street corners. He’d managed to put together enough cash to buy clothes from charity shops that looked like poverty rather than hopeless homelessness. And he’d managed to find work on the docks. It was casual, poorly paid, cash in hand, the black economy at its gloomiest. But it was a start. And that was when he’d found his spot in the loading bay of an assembly plant too strapped for cash to afford a night watchman.
Since then, he’d managed to save nearly three hundred pounds, stashed in the building society account that was probably his only extant connection to his past. Soon, he’d have enough for the deposit and a month’s rent on a proper place to live and enough to spare to feed himself while the dole dragged their feet over his claim.
Tim had hit bottom and nearly drowned. Soon, he was convinced, he’d be ready to swim back up to the daylight. He screwed up the chip container and tossed it into the corner. Then he opened the cider bottle and tipped the contents down his throat in a long series of quick gulps. The notion of savouring it never occurred to him. There was no reason why it should.
Opportunity had seldom knocked at Jacko Vance’s door. Mostly, he’d gripped it by the throat and dragged it kicking and screaming to centre stage. He’d realized while he was still a child that the only way he was ever going to come by some luck was if he managed to make it himself. His mother, plagued by a kind of post-natal depression that had made him repugnant to her, had ignored him as far as possible. She hadn’t actually been cruel, simply absent in any meaningful sense. His father had been the one who paid attention, most often of a negative sort.
He hadn’t long been at school when the handsome child with the floppy blond hair, the hollow cheeks and the huge baffled eyes had realized that there was a point in having dreams, that things could be made to happen. His little-boy-lost appearance worked on some teachers like a blowtorch on an icicle. It didn’t take him long to work out that he could manipulate them into playing accessories in his own particular power game. It didn’t erase what happened at home, but it gave him an arena where he began to understand the pleasure of power.
Although he traded on his looks, Jacko never relied solely on the power of his charm. It was as if he had a built-in understanding that there would be those who needed different weaponry if they were to succumb. Since he’d had the work ethic instilled into him from the moment he had begun to comprehend the messages of speech, it was never a hardship to him to work for his effect. The sports field was the obvious place for him to focus, since he had a certain natural talent and it offered a wider arena to shine in than the narrow stage of the classroom. It was also an area where effort paid off visibly and spectacularly.
Inevitably, the elements of his behaviour that endeared him to those who had power alienated his contemporaries. Nobody ever loved a teacher’s pet. He fought the obligatory fights, winning some and losing a few. When he did lose, he never forgot. Sometimes it took years, but he found
ways to exact some sort of satisfactory revenge. Often, the victim of his vengeance never knew Jacko was behind his ultimate humiliation, but sometimes he did.
Everyone on the council estate where he’d grown up remembered how he’d got his own back on Danny Boy Ferguson. Danny Boy had been the bane of Jacko’s life between the ages of ten and twelve, picking on him mercilessly. Finally, when Jacko had flown at him in a rage, Danny Boy had smashed him to the ground with one hand held ostentatiously above his head. Jacko’s broken nose had healed without trace, but his black rage burned behind the charm that the adults saw.
When Jacko won his first junior British championship, he became an overnight hero on the estate. No one from there had ever had their picture in the national papers before, not even Liam Gascoigne when he dropped that concrete slab on Gladstone Sanders from the tenth floor. It wasn’t hard to persuade Danny Boy’s girlfriend Kimberley to come up west with him for a night on the town.
He’d wined and dined her for a week, then dumped her. That Sunday night in the local, just as Danny Boy was working up to his fifth pint, Jacko slipped the landlord fifty quid to broadcast over the pub’s PA system the tape he’d secretly recorded of Kimberley telling him in graphic detail what a lousy fuck Danny Boy was.
When Micky Morgan had started visiting him in hospital, he’d recognized a kindred spirit. He wasn’t sure what she wanted, but he had a strong feeling she wanted something. The day Jillie dumped him and Micky offered to help him out, he became certain.
Five minutes after she walked out of the ward, he hired the private eye. The man was good; the answers came even faster than he’d expected. By the time he read her handiwork in the headlines that screamed across all the tabloids, he understood Micky’s motives and knew how best he could use her.
JACK THE LAD LETS LOVE GO! HEARTBREAK HERO! LOVE TORMENT OF TRAGIC JACK! He smiled and read on.
Britain’s bravest man has revealed he’s making the greatest sacrifice of all.
Days after he lost his Olympic dream saving the lives of two toddlers, Jacko Vance has broken his engagement to his childhood sweetheart Jillie Woodrow.
Heartbroken Jacko, speaking from the hospital bed where he is recovering from the amputation of his javelin-throwing arm, said, ’I’m setting her free. I’m no longer the man she agreed to marry. It’s not fair to expect her to carry on as before. I can’t offer her the life we’d expected to have, and the most important thing to me is her happiness.
‘I know she’s upset now, but in the long run, she’ll come to see I’m doing the right thing.’
Now Jillie could never deny his version of events without making herself look a complete bitch.
Jacko bided his time, playing along with Micky’s proffered friendship. Then, when he deemed the moment was right, he struck like a rattler. ‘OK, so when’s payback day?’ he asked, his eyes holding hers.
‘Payback day?’ she echoed, puzzled.
‘The story of my love sacrifice,’ he said, larding his words with heavy irony. ‘Don’t they call tales like that a nine-day wonder?’
‘They do,’ Micky said, continuing to arrange the flowers she’d brought in the tall vase she’d charmed from the nurse.
‘Well, it’s ten days now since the media broke the news. Jacko and Jillie are officially no longer headline material. I was wondering when I’d get the account for payment due.’ His voice was mild, but looking into his eyes was like staring into a frozen puddle on high moorland.
Micky shook her head and perched on the edge of the bed, her face composed. But he knew her mind was racing, calculating how best to handle him. ‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ she stalled.
Jacko’s smile was laced with condescension. ‘Come on, Micky. I wasn’t born yesterday. The world you work in, you’ve got to be a piranha. Favours don’t get done in your circles without the full understanding that payback day is lurking somewhere in the background.’
He watched her consider lying and reject it; he waited while she considered the truth and rejected that, too. ‘I’ll settle for having one in the bank,’ she tried.
‘That’s the way you want to play it, OK,’ he said nonchalantly. His left hand suddenly snaked out and seized her wrist. ‘But I’d have thought you and your girlfriend were in pretty dire need as of now.’
His large hand encircled her wrist. The sculpted muscles of his forearm stood out in strong relief, a shocking reminder of what he’d lost. The grip wasn’t tight against her flesh, but she sensed it was unbreakable as the bracelet of a handcuff. Micky looked up from her wrist to his implacable face and he saw a momentary clutch of fear as she wondered what lay behind his impenetrable eyes. He made his face relax into a ghost of a smile and the instant passed. He saw himself reflected in her eyes, not a trace of sinister showing now. ‘What a strange thing to say,’ she said.
‘It’s not just journalists who have contacts,’ Jacko said contemptuously. ‘When you started taking an interest in me, I returned the compliment. Her name’s Betsy Thorne, you’ve been together more than a year. She acts as your PA but she is also your lover. For Christmas you bought her a Bulova watch from a Bond Street jeweller’s. Two weekends ago you shared a twin room overnight at a country house hotel near Oxford. You send her flowers on the twenty-third of each month. I could go on.’
‘Circumstantial,’ Micky said. Her voice was cool; the skin under his grip felt like a burning ring of flesh. ‘And none of your business.’
‘It’s not the tabloids’ business either, is it? But they’re digging, Micky. It’s only a matter of time. You know that.’
‘They can’t find what isn’t there to be found,’ she said, slipping into obstinacy as if it were a tailored blazer.
‘They’ll find it,’ Jacko promised her. ‘Which is where I might be able to help.’
‘Supposing I did need help…what form would your help take?’
He released her wrist. Rather than pull her arm to her and rub it, Micky let it lie where he dropped it. ‘Economists say good money drives out bad. It’s like that with journalists. You should know. Give them a better story and they’ll abandon their sordid little fishing expedition.’
‘I won’t argue with that. What did you have in mind?’
‘What about, “Hospital romance for hero Jacko and TV journo”?’ He raised one eyebrow. Micky wondered if he’d practised the gesture before the mirror in adolescence.
‘What’s in it for you?’ she asked, after a moment when they’d each stared appraisingly at the other, as if measuring for romantic congruence.
‘Peace and quiet,’ Jacko said. ‘You have no idea how many women there are out there who want to save me.’
‘Maybe one of them would be the right one.’
Jacko laughed, a dry, bitter sound. ‘It’s the Groucho Marx principle, isn’t it? Not wanting to be a member of any club that would let me in. A woman who’s demented enough to think that, a) I need saving and b) that she’s the person for the job is by definition the world’s worst woman for me. No, Micky, what I need is camouflage. So that when I get out of here—which should be quite soon—I can go about my life without every brain-dead bimbo in Britain thinking I’m her chance at the big time. I don’t want someone who feels sorry for me. Until somebody I choose comes along, I could use the erogenous equivalent of a bulletproof vest. Fancy the job?’
Now it was his turn to guess what was really happening behind her eyes. Micky was back in control of herself, maintaining the air of bland interest that would later stand her in good stead as the housebound nation’s favourite interviewer. ‘I don’t do ironing,’ was all she said.
‘I’ve always wondered what a PA did,’ Jacko said, his smile as wry as his tone.
‘You better not let Betsy hear you say that.’
‘Deal?’
Jacko covered her hand with his. ‘Deal,’ she said, turning her hand over and clasping his fingers in hers.
The stench hit Carol as soon as she opened her car door. There was n
othing quite as disgusting as barbecued human flesh, and once smelled, it could never be erased from the memory. Trying not to gag too obviously, she walked the short distance to where Jim Pendlebury appeared to be conducting an impromptu press conference under the fire brigade’s portable arc lights. She’d spotted the journalists as soon as her driver had turned into the car park, and she’d asked to be dropped nearby, well away from the phalanx of scarlet engines where fire officers were still spraying a smouldering warehouse with water. High above his colleagues, one man on a cherry picker sent a soaring arc of water above their heads on to the flaking remains of the roof. Milling around behind the fire brigade were half a dozen uniformed police officers. One or two watched Carol’s arrival with vague interest, but soon turned back to the more absorbing vista of the fag end of the fire.
Carol hung back as Pendlebury gave brief and noncommittal answers for the benefit of local radio and press. Once they realized they would get nothing much out of the fire chief at that stage, they dispersed. If any of them paid attention to the blonde in the trench coat, they probably assumed she was another reporter. Only the crime reporters had met Carol so far, and it was too early for this to have graduated from a news headline into a crime story. As soon as the night-shift news reporters called in that the factory fire was not only fatal but also suspected arson, the jackals on the crime beat would have their morning assignments on a plate. One or two of them might even be turfed out of bed as unceremoniously as she had been.
