by Val McDermid
‘You’re investigating Jacko?’ Jillie sounded incredulous but had started to look almost cheerful.
Simon shifted in his chair. ‘Like I said, his name has come up in connection with a serious matter…’
Jillie punched her thigh. ‘Yes! And not before bloody time. Don’t tell me, let me guess. He hurt some poor bloody woman too much and didn’t terrify her enough to make her keep her mouth shut, is that it?’
Simon sensed the interview spiralling out of his control. All he could do was cling on with his fingernails and hope he wouldn’t get shaken off somewhere along the way. ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked.
‘It was bound to happen some day,’ she said, all but gleeful. ‘So, what do you want to know?’
By the time he got home, Tony’s eyes were gritty with staring at too many night motorway miles. He hadn’t intended to check his answering machine, but the flashing light caught his eye as he passed the door of his study. Wearily, he hit the playback button. ‘Hi. My name’s Chris Devine. Detective Sergeant Chris Devine. I was Shaz Bowman’s CID partner in London for a while. She used me to set up her appointment with Jacko Vance. Give me a call whenever you get in. Doesn’t matter how late it is.’
He grabbed a pen and scribbled the number, reaching for the phone as soon as the message clicked off. The phone rang half a dozen times, then was picked up. ‘Is that Chris Devine?’ he said to the silence.
‘Is that Tony Hill?’ The voice was pure South London.
‘You left a message on my machine. About Shaz?’
‘Yeah. Listen, I’ve had them turnips from West Yorkshire down here, and they told me they’re not working with you. Is that right?’
He liked a person who didn’t waste time. ‘They feel it would compromise the integrity of their investigation to involve me or any of Shaz’s other immediate colleagues,’ he said caustically.
‘Bollocks,’ she said in disgust. ‘They haven’t got a fucking clue, pardon my French. So are you running your own investigation, or what?’
It was like being pinned to the wall by a very large weight, Tony thought. ‘I’m obviously very keen to see Shaz’s killer caught,’ he tried.
‘So what are you doing about it?’
‘Why do you ask?’ he parried.
‘To see if you need an extra pair of hands, of course,’ she said, exasperated. ‘Shaz was a great kid, and she was gonna be a great cop. Now, either Jacko Vance topped her for reasons we don’t entirely know yet, or somebody else did. Either way, the trail starts at his front door, no?’
‘You’re right,’ Tony said. Now he knew what cement felt like under a steamroller.
‘And you’re working the case?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
Her sigh sounded like something from the Shipping Forecast. ‘Well, in a manner of speaking, I could help. What do you need from me?’
Tony’s mind raced. ‘I’m a bit stalled on leverage where Vance and his wife are concerned. Something that might help me put a bit of a wedge between them might help.’
‘Like, Micky Morgan’s really a dyke?’
‘That sort of thing, yes.’
‘You mean that’s not enough?’ Chris demanded.
‘That’s for real?’
She snorted. ‘Course it’s for real. They’re so far in the closet you’d take them for a pair of winter coats, but they’re coke.’
‘Coke?’
‘The real thing. She’s been with Betsy for donkey’s years. Way before she even met Jacko.’
‘Betsy Thorne? Her PA?’
‘PA, bollocks. Lover, more like. Betsy had a good little catering business with her ex, then she met Micky Morgan and it was wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. They used to go to a couple of very discreet places in the early days. Then they disappeared off the scene and, next thing you know, she pops up as Jacko Vance’s tottie. But Betsy’s still right there in the picture. See, Micky was on the up and up, and there were rumours that the tabloids were going to nail her for being a dyke.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Tony said faintly.
‘How do you think? Christ, twelve, fifteen years ago, you didn’t stay in this job if you were out. We used to go to the same places. Places where everybody was in the same boat so nobody ever shopped anybody else. Take it from me, whoever Jacko Vance is shagging, it’s not his wife. Tell you the truth, that’s what made me think Shaz was maybe on to something.’
‘Did you tell Shaz about this?’
‘I hadn’t thought about Micky Morgan from one year’s end to the next. It only came to me after I set up the interview. I was gonna let Shaz know when she belled me to tell me how she’d got on with Jacko. So no, I never got round to telling her. Is this any use to you?’
‘Chris, it’s fabulous. You’re fabulous.’
‘That’s what they all say, babe. So, you want me to help, or what?’
‘I think you already have.’
When Carol walked into her domain, the threesome were already there in their accustomed places, a trickle of smoke curling out of the corner of her window from Lee’s cigarette. She sensed the smoking was meant as a challenge. But although she’d never smoked—or perhaps for that very reason—the faint tang of cigarettes was something that seldom troubled her. Carol found the energy for a smile and tried not to slump when her backside hit the chair. ‘So, what have we got?’
Tommy Taylor rested his left ankle on his right knee and squirmed lower in the chair. Carol didn’t envy him the lower back pain he was storing up for later years. He tossed a file negligently on to her desk. As it slithered towards her, the edges of the papers inside spilled out. ‘We know more about this lot’s finances than their wives do.’
‘From what I hear about Yorkshire, that’s not saying much,’ Carol said. Tommy and Lee Whitbread grinned. Di Earnshaw’s dour expression didn’t crack.
‘By heck, ma’am, I think that might just be a sexist remark,’ Lee said.
‘So sue me. What have we got?’
‘It’s all in the file,’ Tommy said, jerking a thumb towards her.
‘Summarize.’
‘Di?’ Tommy said. ‘You’re the wizard with words.’
Di unfolded her arms and thrust her hands into the pockets of an olive green jacket that made her look ripe for throwing up. ‘Mr Pendlebury wasn’t very keen, but he did authorize us to gain access to payroll information which provided us with bank details, addresses and dates of birth for our suspects. With that information we were able to check county court judgements…’
‘And a little bird helped us with some commercial credit checking,’ Lee chipped in.
‘But we don’t talk about that,’ Tommy said repressively.
Carol said, ‘Can we edit out the stand-up and cut to the chase?’
Di’s lips pursed in their now familiar disapproval. ‘Two candidates stand out. Alan Brinkley and Raymond Watson. They’re both heavily in debt, as you’ll see. Both local men. Watson’s single, Brinkley’s wed about a year since. They’re both on the edge of having their houses repossessed, both got CCJs against them, both juggling Peter to pay Paul. These fires have been a bit of a blessing for the pair of them.’
‘It’s an ill wind,’ Taylor added.
Carol opened the file and took out the sheets relating to the two men. ‘Good work. You did well to get this much detail.’
Lee shrugged. ‘When you get down to it, Seaford’s a big village. Favours owed, favours paid.’
‘As long as we don’t cross the line when it comes to wages day,’ Carol said.
‘Don’t you trust us, ma’am?’ Tommy drawled.
‘Give me five good reasons why I should.’
‘So, d’you want us to pull them in for questioning?’ Lee asked.
Carol considered for a moment. What she actually wanted was to consult with Tony, but she didn’t want them to know their guv’nor wasn’t able to make her own decisions. ‘I’ll get back to you when I’ve had a chance to go th
rough these in more detail. There might be more fruitful options than trying to sweat it out of them.’
‘We could try for a search warrant.’ Lee again, the eager beaver of the team.
‘We’ll discuss it again in the morning,’ Carol promised. She watched them leave, then shoved the file into her bulging briefcase. Time for a quick tour of the squad room, making sure the rest of the CID were doing what they were supposed to be doing with the cases dominating the stacks of paper on their desks. She hoped no one expected inspiration. Perspiration was about all she had left to offer.
She was about to walk through the door when the phone rang. ‘DCI Jordan,’ she said.
‘Brandon here.’
‘Sir?’
‘I’ve just been speaking to a colleague over in West Yorkshire. In the course of our chat, we got round to talking about their officer murder. He mentioned that their prime suspect seems to have done a runner. Some chap called Simon McNeill. He said they’d probably be putting out an internal bulletin tomorrow morning asking other forces to keep a lookout for McNeill and detain him if they find him.’
‘Ah.’
‘I thought you might be interested,’ Brandon said airily. ‘With our patch being next door to theirs.’
‘Absolutely, sir. As soon as I get the official notice, I’ll be sure to mention it to the squad.’
‘Not that I expect he’ll turn up here.’
‘Mmm. Thank you, sir.’ Carol gingerly replaced the receiver. ‘Oh, shit,’ she said softly.
Tony licked his finger and smoothed down a couple of unruly hairs in his left eyebrow. He studied himself critically in the mirror that was, apart from a pair of orange polypropylene bucket chairs, the only furnishing in a room little bigger than a cupboard where he had been asked to wait. He thought he looked appropriately serious in his one decent suit even if Carol had told him it made him look like a time-warped professional footballer. But not even she could fault his dove grey shirt and dark magenta tie, he decided.
The door opened to reveal the calm-faced woman who had introduced herself as Micky’s PA but whom he’d identified, thanks to Chris, as Micky’s lover Betsy. ‘Everything all right?’ she asked.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Good.’ Her voice was warm and encouraging, like the best type of primary school teacher. Her smile, however, was perfunctory, Tony realized, her mind clearly elsewhere. ‘Now, this is quite unusual for us, because normally Micky likes to come completely fresh to her guests. But because…well, because she feels involved, however tangentially, with your tragic loss, she wants to have a few words with you ahead of time. I take it you have no objection?’
There was something about that steely upper class voice that left no possible room for demurral. Lucky Micky, he thought, to have such a lioness at the gates. ‘I’d be delighted,’ he said, quite truthfully.
‘Good. She’ll be along in a few minutes. Is there anything you need? Some coffee? Mineral water?’
‘Does the coffee come from a machine?’ he asked.
The smile this time was genuine. ‘I’m afraid so. Indistinguishable from the tea, the hot chocolate and the chicken soup.’
‘I’ll pass, then.’
The head disappeared and the door snicked shut. His stomach fluttered apprehensively. Public displays always stressed him. But today there was the additional tension of his campaign to unsettle Jacko Vance to the point where he would make a mistake. Staking out Vance’s personal appearances was only the opening shot across the bows. Insinuating himself into the heart of Vance’s wife’s TV programme was an incremental upping of the stakes. There was no point in trying to kid himself otherwise.
He cleared his throat nervously and compulsively rechecked his appearance in the mirror. The door opened without warning and suddenly Micky Morgan was in the room. Tony forced himself to turn slowly to face her. ‘Hello, Ms Morgan,’ he said, extending a hand.
‘Dr Hill,’ Micky said. Her handshake was swift, cool and firm. ‘Thanks for coming on the programme.’
‘My pleasure. There’s so much misunderstanding about what we do, I always welcome the chance to set the record straight. Especially since we’re in the news again for all the wrong reasons.’ He deliberately dropped his eyes momentarily.
‘Quite. I was genuinely sorry to hear about Detective Constable Bowman. I only met her very briefly, but she struck me as being very sharp, very focused. As well as being very beautiful, of course.’
Tony nodded. ‘She’ll be missed. She was one of the best young officers I’ve ever had the privilege of working with.’
‘I can imagine that. It’s a terrible thing for police officers to lose one of their own.’
‘There’s always a lot of anger flying around, covering up for the fact that they tend to feel a death in the family is a reflection of their competence, that somehow they should have been able to prevent it if they’d only been doing their jobs properly. And in this instance, I share that guilt.’
‘I’m sure there was nothing you could have done to prevent it,’ Micky said, impulsively putting a hand on his arm. ‘When I told my husband you were coming on the programme, he said the same thing, and he’s got even less reason to feel responsible.’
‘No reason at all,’ Tony said, surprised he could sound so sincere. ‘Even though we’re now coming round to thinking that her killer may have made contact with her in London rather than in Leeds. In fact, I was hoping you might give me the chance to put out an appeal for witnesses?’
Micky’s hand flew to her throat in a curiously vulnerable gesture. ‘You don’t think she was stalked from our house, do you?’
‘There’s no reason to think that,’ he said hastily.
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Thanks for the reassurance.’ She took a deep breath and pushed her blonde hair back from her face. ‘Now, the interview. I’m going to ask about why the unit was set up, how it’s constituted, what sort of offences you’ll be covering and when the task force will go into action. Then I’ll move on to Sharon…’
‘Shaz,’ Tony interrupted. ‘Call her Shaz. She hated being called Sharon.’
Micky nodded. ‘Shaz. I’ll move on to Shaz, which will give you the chance to ask for any help you want to solicit. Is that OK? Is there anything else you particularly want the opportunity to say?’
‘I’m sure I’ll be able to get the message across,’ he said.
She reached for the door handle. ‘Betsy, my PA-you spoke to her earlier—she’ll come and fetch you shortly before we go on air. You’ll be the last item before we break for the news bulletin.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, wanting to say something to build a bridge between them but not knowing what that might be. She would be his best way under Jacko Vance’s defences if he could only find a way to manipulate her into unconsciously helping him.
‘You’re welcome,’ Micky said. Then she was gone, leaving nothing behind her but the faint scent of cosmetics. He’d only have one more chance to get her on his side. He hoped he’d make a better job of it.
It had better be worth it, Vance thought. He’d cancelled lunch cooked personally by Marco Pierre White for this, and the notoriously temperamental chef would make him suffer for it. He locked his office door and closed the blinds. His secretary knew better than to put any calls through, and neither his producer nor his PA knew he was still in the building. Whatever Midday with Morgan revealed, there would be no one to see his reaction.
He threw himself on to the long leather sofa that dominated one side of the room and put his feet up. His face a mask of petulance, he turned on the giant TV screen with the remote control just as the familiar titles started to roll. He had nothing to fear, he knew that. Whatever Shaz Bowman had thought she’d known, she hadn’t been able to convince her colleagues. He’d already dealt with the police. They’d eaten out of his hand, and rightly so. Some academic psychologist doling out half-baked theories could hardly threaten him without the backing o
f the plod. Nevertheless, being careful had kept him safe until now, and he wasn’t about to give in to the temptation towards arrogance that such a successful career might breed.
He’d been able to glean some information about Tony Hill from his sources, though not as much as he would have liked. Again, he had been careful to keep the questions casual, taking pains not to have his inquiries arouse curiosity. What he’d learned had pricked his interest. He’d been behind the controversial Home Office study that had led to the setting up of the profiling task force that Shaz Bowman had aspired to. He’d been involved in a serial killer hunt in Bradfield where he’d ended up with blood on his hands because he hadn’t been smart enough. And there were murmurings that there was something borderline perverse about his sexuality. That had really got Vance’s adrenaline pumping, but it was the one angle he simply had to leave alone or risk his source wondering exactly what his concern was with the psychologist.
Fascinated though Vance was with his speculations about Tony, his thoughts were no competition for the TV screen. His attraction to the glamour of television had never waned in all his years on the performing end of the camera. He loved the medium, but most of all, he loved live TV with all its high-wire risks. Even though he ought to have been wondering how to neutralize Tony Hill if that became necessary, he couldn’t resist Micky. Familiarity had bred respect rather than contempt for her professional skills and her talent. She really was one of the best. He’d spotted that right from the word go, recognized that she was one to have on his side. That he’d been able to keep her there so effectively had been a huge bonus.
She’d been good back then, but she’d improved, no doubt about that. Confidence had been part of that, Betsy another part. Her lover had shown her how to submerge the rougher edges of aggression beneath a surface of unruffled, gently probing interest. Most of Micky Morgan’s victims didn’t even realize how effectively they’d been filleted till someone played the tape back to them afterwards. If there was any ruffling of Tony Hill’s surface to be done, a live interview with Micky would do it. He’d hinted to her that there might be darkness lurking behind her guest’s facade. Now it was up to her.
