02.The Wire in the Blood

by Val McDermid

  He’d have to make the most of it. It would have to be a little while before he could indulge himself again. A thought flickered into his mind. If he was ever going to feel safe again, perhaps Tony Hill needed to be taught a lesson more personal than Shaz Bowman. Jacko Vance gazed across the city and wondered if there was a woman in his life. He’d remember to ask his wife in the morning if Hill had said anything over dinner about a partner.

  It had been no hardship killing Shaz Bowman. A repetition with Tony Hill’s girlfriend could only be easier.

  Hands thrust deep into the pockets of her mac, collar turned up against the harsh estuary wind, Carol Jordan stared stonily at the still smoking ruin of the paint factory. Her vigil was already three hours old, but she wasn’t ready to leave yet. Fire officers, their distinctive yellow helmets smudged with greasy residue, moved in and out of the fringes of the building. Somewhere inside that creaking shell, some of them were trying to penetrate to the seat of the fire. Carol was beginning to accept that she didn’t need the evidence of their eyes to know why Di Earnshaw hadn’t responded to the control room’s radio messages telling her to come to the fire site.

  Di Earnshaw had been there already.

  Carol heard a car draw to a halt behind her, but she didn’t turn her head. A rustle of the crime scene tapes, then Lee Whitbread moved into her line of sight, proffering a carton of burger joint coffee. ‘I thought you could probably do with this,’ he said.

  She nodded and took the brew wordlessly. ‘No news, then?’ he asked, his normally eager expression apprehensive.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. She flipped off the polystyrene lid and raised the cup to her lips. The coffee was strong and hot, surprisingly good.

  ‘There’s been nothing at the station, neither,’ Lee said, cupping his hands round his mouth to light a cigarette. ‘I bobbed round her house, just to check, like, that she hadn’t knocked off and gone home, but there’s no sign. Bedroom curtains are still shut, so maybe she’s got her head down and earplugs in?’ Like every cop, his occupational pessimism was always tempered with hope when it appeared that a colleague was in line for a police funeral.

  Carol couldn’t bring herself to share even the fragile hope of earplugs. And if she knew Di Earnshaw wasn’t the sort to go on the missing list, Lee must be doubly sure that his fellow DC was out of action for good. ‘Have you seen DS Taylor?’ she asked.

  Lee hid his expression behind his hand as he smoked furiously. ‘He says she never called in. He’s back at the station, seeing if anything comes up there.’

  ‘I hope he’s coming up with something a little more imaginative than that,’ Carol said grimly.

  Three figures emerged from the dark hulk of the factory and pulled the breathing apparatus from their mouths. One detached himself from the other two and walked towards them. A few feet away from her, Jim Pendlebury came to a halt and pulled off his helmet. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Carol.’

  Carol’s head tilted back, then dropped in a tired nod. ‘No doubt, I suppose?’

  ‘There’s always room for doubt until they’ve done the business down the path. lab. But we reckon it’s a female, and there’s what looks like a melted down radio next to the body.’ His voice was soft with sympathy.

  She looked up at his compassionate expression. He knew what it was like to lose people he was nominally responsible for. She wished he could tell her how long it would take before she could look herself in the mirror again. ‘Can I see her?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s still too hot in there.’

  Carol exhaled, a short, sharp sigh. ‘I’ll be in my office if anyone wants me.’ She dropped the carton of coffee, turned away and ducked under the tapes, hurrying blindly in the direction of her car. Behind her, the coffee pooled on the Tarmac. Lee Whitbread flicked his cigarette butt into it, watching it fizz depressingly before dying. He looked up at Jim Pendlebury. ‘Me too. We’ve got a fucking cop killer to nail now.’

  Colin Wharton shuffled the pile of video stills together then leaned across and ejected the tape from the video recorder in the training suite that Tony’s team had abandoned what felt like half a lifetime ago. Avoiding Tony’s eye, he said, ‘It proves nothing. OK, somebody else was driving Shaz Bowman’s car back from London. It could be anybody behind that disguise. You hardly see anything of the guy’s face, and these computer enhancements…I don’t trust them, and juries are worse. By the time fucking Rumpole the defence brief’s finished, they assume anything that’s come from a computer’s been doctored to make it show what we want it to show.’

  ‘What about the arm? You can’t doctor that. Jacko Vance has a prosthesis on his right arm. The man putting the petrol in never uses that arm at all. It’s really noticeable,’ Tony pressed.

  Wharton shrugged. ‘There could be all sorts of reasons for that. Could be that the man in question is left-handed. It could be that he’d hurt his arm in a struggle to overpower Bowman. It could even be that he knew about that daft bee Bowman had in her bonnet about Jacko Vance, and he decided to play on that. Punters know about video cameras now, Dr Hill. Vance works in the business—do you really think he’s not going to have thought about cameras?’

  Tony ran a hand through his hair, gripping the ends as if he were holding on to his temper. ‘You’ve got Vance coming off the motorway at Leeds in his own wheels at the crucial time. Surely that’s too much of a coincidence?’

  Wharton shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. The man has a cottage in Northumberland. He does all that volunteer work up there. OK, the A1 might be the more direct route, but the M1’s a faster road, and it’s easy enough to pick up the A1 north of the city. He might even have decided he wanted fish and chips at Bryan’s on the road,’ he added with a pale attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

  Tony folded his arms as if this would hold his dark anger inside. ‘Why won’t you take this seriously?’ he asked.

  ‘If Simon McNeill wasn’t on the run, we might not assume everything you produce is tainted,’ Wharton said angrily.

  ‘Simon has nothing to do with this. He did not murder Shaz Bowman. Jacko Vance did. He is a cold-blooded killer. Everything I know about psychology tells me he killed Shaz Bowman because she threatened to bring his playhouse down about his ears. We’ve got pictures of him driving her car, she’s nowhere in sight. Then in his car, covering the same ground. You’ve seen the psychological profile I prepared. What more do we have to do to persuade you to at least take a serious look at the man?’

  The door behind him opened. DCS Dougal McCormick thrust his massive torso into the room. His face was the dark red of a man who’d had too much drink at lunchtime, a sheen of sweat gleaming on his fleshy cheeks. His light voice had dropped half an octave with the alcohol. ‘I thought you were barred from here unless we came for you?’ he said, stabbing a finger at Tony.

  ‘I brought you the evidence to make a case against Shaz Bowman’s killer,’ Tony said, his voice weary now. ‘Only Mr Wharton doesn’t seem to be able to grasp its significance.’

  McCormick shouldered his way into the room. ‘Is that right? What have you got to say to that, Colin?’

  ‘There’s some very interesting motorway petrol station footage that’s been computer-enhanced to show someone else driving Shaz Bowman’s motor the afternoon she was killed.’ Silently, he spread the pictures out for McCormick to check. The Chief Superintendent screwed up his dark eyes and studied them closely.

  ‘It’s Jacko Vance,’ Tony insisted. ‘He took her car back to Leeds, then made his way back to London before driving north again, presumably with Shaz in the boot.’

  ‘Never mind Jacko Vance,’ McCormick said dismissively. ‘We’ve got a witness.’

  ‘A witness?’

  ‘Aye, a witness.’

  ‘A witness to what, exactly?’

  ‘A neighbour who saw your blue-eyed boy Simon McNeill going round the back of Sharon Bowman’s flat the night she was killed and didn’t see him come back out front ag
ain. I’ve got a team taking his place apart even as we speak. We were looking for him already, but now there’ll be a public announcement. Maybe you’d know where we could find him, eh, Dr Hill?’

  ‘You’re the ones who disbanded my squad. How would I know where Simon is now?’ Tony said, his voice a cold disguise for the frustration boiling inside.

  ‘Ach, well, never mind. We’ll be able to put our hand on him sooner or later. I’ve no doubt my boys will end up with something better to show a court than some videos your girlfriend’s brother’s tarted up.’ Seeing Tony’s startled expression, he nodded grimly. ‘That’s right, we know all about you and DCI Jordan. Do you really think we don’t talk to each other in this job?’

  ‘You keep telling me you’re interested in evidence, not supposition,’ Tony said, hanging on to his self-possession by sheer force of will. ‘For the record, DCI Jordan is not now nor has she ever been my girlfriend. And my contention that Vance is the killer does not rely solely on the video evidence. I’m really not trying to teach you how to suck eggs, but at least look at the report I’ve drawn up. There’s solid evidence there.’

  McCormick picked the folder up from the table and flicked through it. ‘A psychological profile is not what I’d call evidence. Rumour, innuendo, jealous people getting their own back. That’s what you’re relying on here.’

  ‘His own wife says he’s never slept with her. You’re not telling me that’s regarded as normal behaviour in West Yorkshire?’

  ‘She might have all sorts of reasons for lying to you,’ McCormick said dismissively, dropping the report with a soft rustle.

  ‘He met Barbara Fenwick a couple of days before she was abducted and murdered. It’s there, in Greater Manchester Police’s murder file. One of his first ever charity events after the accident that destroyed his dream. We have photographs of him at later events with other girls who have disappeared and never been heard from again.’ Tony’s voice was discouraged now. He’d failed to establish a rapport that would have allowed the two policemen to back down and consider what he had to say. Worse than that, he seemed to have alienated McCormick to the point where if he said ‘black’, McCormick would retort, ‘white’.

  ‘A man like that meets hundreds of lassies a week and nothing ever happens to them,’ McCormick said, sinking into a chair. ‘Look, Dr Hill, I know it’s hard to accept that you’ve had the wool pulled over your eyes, with you being a senior Home Office psychologist. But look at your man McNeill. He was in love with the lassie, and she doesn’t seem to have felt the same about him. We’ve only got his word for it that she was supposed to be meeting him for a drink in advance of their night out with the other two. He was seen going round the back of the house at about the time she could have died. We’ve got his fingerprints on the glass of the French windows. And now he’s done a disappearing act. You’ve got to admit, it’s a hell of a lot more persuasive than a stack of circumstantial evidence against a man who’s a national hero. What you’re trying to do, Dr Hill, it’s understandable. I’d probably feel the same as you if it was one of my officers in the frame. But face it, you made a mistake. You picked a bad apple.’

  Tony stood up. ‘I’m sorry we can’t see eye to eye on this. I’m particularly sorry because I think Jacko Vance is holding another teenage girl prisoner, and she might still be alive. Gentlemen, there are none so blind as those who will not see. I sincerely hope your blindness doesn’t cost Donna Doyle her life. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’

  Wharton and McCormick made no attempt to prevent him leaving. As he reached the door, Wharton said, ‘It would be better for McNeill if he didn’t wait to be arrested.’

  ‘I don’t think so, somehow,’ Tony said. Out in the car park, he leaned against the car door, head on folded arms. What the hell was left to do? The only senior police officer who believed his flimsy evidence was Carol, and she had no clout with West Yorkshire Police now, that much was clear. The evidence they still needed was the sort that came from TV reconstructions and nationwide press appeals; not resources available to a discredited psychologist, a pair of maverick cops from opposite ends of the country and a ragbag of junior detectives.

  Conventional means had failed them. Now it was time to throw away the rule book. He’d done it before and it had saved his life. This time, it might just save someone else’s.

  Carol stood in the doorway of the squad room, fists on hips, glaring down the room. The news had travelled ahead of her and the only two detectives on the premises were clearly downcast by it. One was typing up notes, the other working bleakly through a wad of paperwork. Neither moved more than their eyes, a quick sidelong glance to register her arrival.

  ‘Where is he?’ Carol demanded.

  The two detectives flicked their eyes towards each other, mutual understanding and decisions passing instantly between them. The one at the keyboard spoke, keeping his eyes on his work. ‘DS Taylor, ma’am?’

  ‘Who else? Where is he? I know he was here earlier, but I want to know where he is now.’

  ‘He went out just after the news came through about Di,’ the other man said.

  ‘And where will he be?’ Carol wasn’t giving an inch. She couldn’t afford to. Not for the sake of her future authority, but for her own self-respect. The buck stopped with her, and she had no wish to evade that responsibility. But she needed to understand how her operation had gone so disastrously wrong. Only one man might be able to tell her, and she was determined to find him. ‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘Where?’

  The two detectives exchanged another look. This time resignation was the key component. ‘Harbourmaster’s Club,’ the typist said.

  ‘He’s in a drinking den at this time of the morning?’ she demanded angrily.

  ‘It’s not just a bar, it’s a club, ma’am. Originally for officers on merchant ships. You can get meals there, or just go in and read the papers and have a cup of coffee.’ Carol turned to leave, but the typist continued. ‘Ma’am, you can’t go there,’ he said, his voice urgent.

  The look she gave him had induced rapists to confess. ‘It’s men only,’ the young detective stammered. ‘They won’t let you in.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Carol exploded. ‘God forbid we should disturb the native customs. All right, Beckham, stop what you’re doing and get down the Harbourmaster’s Club. I want you and DS Taylor back here within half an hour, or I’ll have your warrant card as well as his. Do I make myself clear?’

  The file folder closed and Beckham jumped to his feet, brushing past her with an apology as he hurried out. ‘I’ll be in my office,’ Carol growled at the remaining detective. She tried to slam the door behind her, but the hinges were too stiff.

  Carol flopped into her chair, not even taking off her mac. Bleak self-reproach settled oppressively, immobilizing her. She stared emptily at the back wall where Di Earnshaw had stood during their briefing, remembering the dead fish stare, the badly fitting suit, the pug-nosed face. They’d never have been friends, Carol knew that instinctively, and in a way that made what had happened worse. Coupled with the guilt of Di Earnshaw’s death in her own botched operation, Carol had the guilt of knowing she hadn’t liked the woman very much, that if she’d been forced under duress to choose a victim from her command, Di wouldn’t have been last on the list.

  Carol ran through the case history again, wondering what she could have, should have done differently. Which was the decision that got Di Earnshaw killed? However she cut it, she came back to the same thing every time. She’d not kept a tight enough grip on the investigation, or a close enough eye on junior officers who weren’t worried about discrediting her with their sloppy policing. She’d been too busy playing knight-in-shining-armour games with Tony Hill. Not for the first time, she’d let her emotional response to him interfere with her judgement. This time, the consequences had been fatal.

  The peal of her phone cut across her self-flagellation and she grabbed it in the middle of the second ring. Not even a major guilt-t
rip could stifle her instincts to the point where she could ignore a ringing phone on her office desk. ‘DCI Jordan,’ she said, her voice dull.

  ‘Guv, it’s Lee.’ His voice sounded brighter than it had any right to be. Even as negative a personality as Di Earnshaw had the right to a little more sorrow from her immediate colleagues.

  ‘What have you got?’ Carol asked brusquely, swivelling round in her chair to stare out of the window at the deserted windswept quay.

  ‘I found her car. Tucked away down the side of one of the other warehouses, well out of sight. Guv, she had this little tape recorder. It was lying on the passenger seat, so I got one of the traffic lads to get me into the car. It’s all there, name, time, route, destination, the lot. There’s more than enough there to nail Brinkley!’

  ‘Good work,’ she said dully. Better than nothing, it still wasn’t enough to assuage the guilt. Somehow, she knew that when she told Tony that, after all, he’d been right, he wouldn’t consider it an acceptable trade-off either. ‘Bring it in, Lee.’

  She turned to replace the handset to find John Brandon standing in the doorway. Wearily, she started to get up, but he motioned her to stay seated, folding his long limbs into one of the comfortless visitor’s chairs. ‘A bad business,’ he said.

  ‘No one to blame but me,’ Carol said. ‘I took my eye off the ball. I left my officers to their own devices on an operation they all thought was a waste of time. They weren’t taking it seriously, and now Di Earnshaw’s dead. I should have stayed on their tails.’

  ‘I’m surprised she was out there without back-up,’ Brandon said. The words were censure enough without the look of reproach on his face.

  ‘That wasn’t the intention,’ Carol said flatly.

  ‘For both our sakes, I hope you can substantiate that.’ It wasn’t a threat, Carol realized, seeing the warmth of regret in his eyes.