by Val McDermid
With a sigh, Carol walked down the squad room to her temporary office. There was no message on her desk. Bloody Brandon, she thought. And bloody Tony Hill. Brandon at least should have waited till she’d finished her interrogation of McConnell. And Tony might have left some indication of when he expected them to meet to discuss his profile. Muttering under her breath, Carol followed Merrick out of the building. As she reached the foyer, the officer minding the front desk called, ‘Inspector Jordan?’
Carol turned back. ‘I’m what’s left of her.’ ‘The ACC left a message for you, ma’am.’ Carol approached the desk and took the envelope the constable handed her. She ripped it open and pulled out a single sheet of paper. ‘Carol,’ she read. ‘I have taken Tony off on a little mission. I’ll drop him at home afterwards. Please be in my office for ten this morning. Thanks for your hard work. John Brandon.’ ‘Great,’ Carol said bitterly. She gave the constable a tired smile. ‘I don’t suppose you know where Mr Brandon and Dr Hill were headed?’
He shook his head. ‘Sorry, ma’am. They didn’t say.’
‘Wonderful,’ she muttered sarcastically. Turn your back for a minute and they were off playing their boys’ games. Little mission, indeed. Bollocks to that, Carol thought as she marched back to her car. ‘Three can play at that game,’ she said as she turned the ignition key.
Tony flicked through the last of the magazines and returned it to the box file in the bedside storage cube. ‘S&M always leaves me feeling faintly queasy,’ he remarked. ‘And this lot’s particularly nasty.’
Brandon agreed. McConnell’s collection of hard-core pornography consisted mostly of magazines crammed with glossy colour pictures of well-muscled young men torturing each other and masturbating. A few were even more disturbing, with their graphic shots of male couples indulging in full sex with an array of sado-masochistic trappings. Brandon couldn’t remember seeing nastier examples, even when he’d done a six-month attachment with Vice.
They were sitting on the bed in Stevie McConnell’s room. As soon as Carol and Merrick had left for their interrogation, Brandon had said, ‘Would it be helpful to you to see where McConnell lives?’
Tony picked up his pen again and started to doodle on the sheet of paper. ‘It might give me some insight into the man. And if he is the killer, there could be evidence that ties him into the crimes. I don’t mean murder weapons, or anything like that. I’m thinking more of the souvenirs. Photographs, newspaper clippings, as well as the stuff I was talking about before. But it’s academic, isn’t it? You said there was no chance of getting a search warrant.’
Brandon’s melancholy face lit up in a strange smile, almost a leer. ‘When you’ve got a suspect in custody, there are things you can do to circumvent the rules. You game?’
Tony grinned. ‘I’m fascinated.’ He followed Brandon downstairs to the cells. The custody sergeant hastily dropped the Stephen King novel he’d been reading and jumped to his feet.
‘It’s all right, Sergeant,’ Brandon said. ‘If I only had a couple of prisoners to think about, I’d be enjoying a good read, too. I’d like to have a look at McConnell’s property.’
The sergeant unlocked the property cupboard and handed the transparent plastic bag to Brandon. There was a wallet, a handkerchief and a bunch of keys inside. Brandon opened it and removed the keys. ‘You haven’t seen me, have you, Sergeant? And you won’t see me when I come back in a couple of hours, will you?’
The sergeant grinned. ‘You couldn’t possibly have been here, sir. I’d have been bound to notice.’
Twenty minutes later, Brandon was parking the Range Rover outside McConnell’s terraced house. ‘Lucky for us McConnell happened to mention that the two blokes he shares the house with are away on holiday.’ He took a cardboard box out of the glove compartment and gave Tony a pair of latex gloves. ‘You’ll need these,’ he said, slipping a pair over his own hands. ‘If we do get a search warrant, it would be a bit embarrassing when the fingerprint team turn up you and me as prime suspects.’
‘There’s one thing I’m curious about,’ Tony said as Brandon inserted the key in the mortice lock.
‘What’s that?’
‘This is an illegal search, right?’
‘Right,’ Brandon said, opening the door and stepping into the hall. He groped for the light switch, but didn’t turn it on when he found it.
Tony followed him, closing the door behind him. Only then did Brandon snap the light on, revealing a carpeted hall and stairs. There were a couple of framed posters of body-builders on the walls. ‘So if we find any evidence, presumably it’s inadmissible?’
‘Also right,’ said Brandon. ‘But there are ways round that. For example, if we find a bloodstained cut-throat razor under McConnell’s bed, it will mysteriously find its way on to the kitchen table. Then we go to the magistrate, explain that we went to McConnell’s house to check he was telling the truth when he said his house-mates were on holiday, and we happened to look through the windows and we spotted what we have reason to believe is the weapon used to kill Adam Scott, Paul Gibbs, Gareth Finnegan and Damien Connolly.’
Tony shook his head in amusement. ‘Bent? Us? Never, your honour!’
‘There’s bent and there’s bent,’ Brandon said grimly. ‘Sometimes you need to give things a shove in the right direction.’
Tony and Brandon moved through the house, room by room. Brandon was intrigued by Tony’s method. He would walk into a room, stand in the middle of the floor and slowly scan the walls, the furniture, the floor coverings, the shelves. He almost sniffed the air. Then, meticulously, he opened cupboards and drawers, lifted cushions, examined magazines, checked titles of books, CDs, cassettes and videos, handling everything he touched with the care and precision of an archaeologist. Within seconds, his mind was busy, analysing everything he saw and touched, slowly building a picture in his mind of the men who lived here, constantly matching it against the embryonic picture of Handy Andy that was developing in his mind like a photographic print in developer fluid.
‘Have you been here, Andy?’ he asked himself. ’Does this feel like you, smell like you? Would you watch these videos? Are these your CDs? Judy Garland and Liza Minnelli? The Pet Shop Boys? I don’t think so. You’re not camp, I know that much about you. And there’s nothing camp or chichi about the house. This place is so aggressively masculine. A living room furnished in eighties chrome and black. But it’s not a straight man’s house, is it? No girlie magazines, not even car magazines. Just body-building periodicals stacked under the coffee table. Look at the walls. Men’s bodies, oiled and shining, muscles like carved wood. The men who live here know who they are, they know what they like. I don’t think this is you, Andy. You’re controlled, Andy, but not this controlled. It’s one thing to keep yourself buttoned up, it’s another thing altogether to be strong enough to project so coherent an image. I should know, I’m the expert. If you were as firmly rooted in your identity as the guys who live here, you wouldn’t have to do what you do, would you?
‘Look at the books. Stephen King, Dean R. Koontz, Stephen Gallagher, Iain Banks. Arnold Schwarzenegger’s biography. A couple of paperbacks about the Mafia. Nothing soft, nothing gentle, but nothing off the wall either. Would you read these books? Maybe. I think you’d like to read about serial killers, though, and there’s none of that here.’
Tony turned slowly towards the door. It was a small shock to see Brandon standing there. He’d become so absorbed in his scrutiny that he’d lost all sense of being in company. Watch yourself, Tony, he warned himself. Stay inside your head.
In silence, they trooped through to the kitchen. It was spartan, but well equipped. In the sink there was a dirty soup bowl and a mug half full of cold tea. A small shelf of cookery books testified to the occupants’ obsession with healthy eating. ‘Fart city,’ Tony observed wryly, opening a cupboard filled with jars of pulses. He opened the drawers, noting the kitchen knives. There was a small vegetable knife with a blade worn thin from sharpening,
a bread knife whose blade was pitted with age, and a cheap carving knife, the handle bleached from the dishwasher. ‘These are not your tools, Andy,’ Tony said to himself. ‘You like knives that do their work properly.’
Without consulting Brandon, he walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Brandon watched him stick his head round the first bedroom door and reject it. As he passed, he saw that it was obviously the couple’s room. He followed Tony through the door across the landing. In McConnell’s bedroom, Tony seemed to drift away altogether into a world of his own. The room was simply furnished with modern pine bed, chest of drawers and wardrobe. An array of weightlifting trophies sat on the deep windowsill. A tall bookcase was crammed with pulp science fiction and a handful of gay novels. On a small table, there was a games computer and a television monitor. On a shelf above was a collection of games. Tony browsed through Mortal Kombat, Streetfighter II, Terminator 2, Doom and a dozen other games whose keynote was violent action.
‘This is more like it,’ he murmured. He stood by the chest of drawers, hand poised to open one. ‘Maybe it’s you after all,’ he thought. ‘Maybe you leave the living room to the other two. What if this is your only domain? What would I expect to find here? I’d want your souvenirs, Andy. You need to keep something by you, otherwise the memory disintegrates too fast. We all need something tangible. The discarded perfume spray that holds her fragrance and summons her before my eyes like a hologram; the theatre programme from the night we first made love and it was all right. Keep the good memories, throw away the bad. What have you got for me?’
The first three drawers were disappointingly innocuous: underwear, T-shirts, socks, jogging suits and shorts. When Tony opened the bottom drawer, he sighed in satisfaction. The drawer contained McConnell’s S&M gear — handcuffs, leather restraint straps, cock rings, whips, and a clutch of items that looked to Brandon as if they ought to be in some kind of laboratory or mental institution. As Tony calmly took them out and examined them, Brandon shuddered.
Tony sat down on the bed and looked around. Slowly, cautiously, he tried to construct a picture of the man who lived in this room. ‘You like to exercise power through violence,’ he thought. ‘You enjoy the flow of pain in your sexual experience. But there’s no subtlety here. No sign that you’re a man who plans things with care and detail. You worship your body. It’s a temple to you. You’ve achieved things, and you’re proud of that. You’re not socially inadequate. You manage to share a house with two other men, and you’re not obsessive about your privacy, since there’s no lock on the door. You don’t have a problem with your sexuality, and you’re comfortable with the idea of picking up a man in a club, provided you have the chance to get to know him a bit first.’
His picture-building was interrupted by Brandon. ‘Look at this, Tony!’ he said excitedly. The ACC had been painstakingly going through a shoebox full of papers, mostly receipts, electrical guarantees, bank and credit-card statements. The box was almost empty, but now, he held out a flimsy slip of paper.
Tony took it. It was some kind of official police form. He frowned. ‘What’s this?’
‘It’s the form you get when an officer stops you in a car and you haven’t got your documents with you. You have to take them to a police station within a fixed period, so they can check everything’s in order. Look at the name of the officer,’ Brandon urged.
Tony looked again. The name that had at first seemed a scrawled jumble suddenly resolved itself into ‘Connolly’.
‘I recognized his number,’ Brandon said. ‘You can hardly make out the name.’
‘Shit,’ Tony breathed.
‘Damien Connolly must have stopped him for some minor traffic offence, or just on a spot check, and asked him to produce his documents,’ Brandon said.
Tony frowned. ‘I thought Connolly was a local information officer? What was he doing dishing out a traffic ticket?’
Brandon looked over Tony’s shoulder at the slip of paper. ‘It was nearly two years ago. Connolly obviously wasn’t a collator then. Either he was doing a stint with Traffic or he was on duty in the area car when he saw McConnell doing something he shouldn’t have been.’
‘Can you check that out discreetly?’
‘No problem,’ Brandon said.
‘You’ve cracked it, then, haven’t you?’
Brandon looked astonished. ‘You mean… you think that clinches it? McConnell’s the man?’
‘No, no,’ Tony said hastily. ‘Not at all. All I meant was that if you can track that back from the other end, you should be able to get a magistrate to grant you an official search warrant on the basis that McConnell knew three of the four victims, which goes beyond mere coincidence.’
‘Right,’ Brandon said, sighing. ‘So you’re still not convinced McConnell’s the killer?’
Tony stood up and paced to and fro across the carpet, its jagged geometric pattern of grey, red, black and white reminding him of the one and only migraine he’d ever had. ‘Before you found this, I’d come to the conclusion you’d got the wrong man,’ he said after a few moments. ‘I know I’ve not had time to sit down and write out a full profile yet, but I felt like I was beginning to get a sense of what this killer’s like. And there are too many things here that don’t fit that picture. But this is a hell of a coincidence. This is a big city. We’ve established that Stevie McConnell knew or at least had met three out of the four victims. How many people are going to be in that position?’
‘Not many,’ Brandon said grimly.
‘I still don’t like McConnell for the killer, but it’s possible that the killer is someone he knows, someone who’s met Adam Scott and Gareth Finnegan through him,’ Tony said. ‘Maybe even somebody who was with him when he got that traffic ticket, or someone that he pointed Damien out to. You know the kind of thing: “That’s the bastard who nicked me for speeding.”’
‘You really don’t think it’s him, do you?’ Brandon said flatly, disappointment in his voice. ‘I suppose it’s thin. After all, there’s no evidence as such to connect the house to the killings,’ he said cautiously. ‘But you said yourself, he’s more likely to be doing his killing somewhere else. That might be where he keeps his souvenirs.’
‘It’s not just the absence of souvenirs,’ Tony said. ‘Putting it crudely, John, serial murderers kill to turn their fantasies into reality. Typically, they have fantasies developed to the point where they are more real to them than the world around them. There’s nothing here to suggest McConnell is that type of personality. Sure, he’s got a stack of porn mags. But so have most single men of his age, regardless of sexual orientation. He’s got violent computer games, but so have thousands of teenagers and grown men too. What there is is plenty of evidence to suggest that Stevie McConnell isn’t a sociopath. Look around you, John. This whole house reeks of normality. The kitchen calendar has dates for people coming round for dinner. Look at that pile of Christmas cards on his bookshelf. There must be fifty there. Look at his holiday snaps. He was obviously with the same partner for four or five years, judging by the locations and hairstyle changes. Stevie McConnell doesn’t seem to have problems forming relationships with people. OK, so there doesn’t seem to be anything relating to his family, but a lot of gay people get cut off by their families when they come out. It doesn’t mean that his family were dysfunctional in the ways that typically lead to the development of a serial killer. I’m sorry, John. I wasn’t sure at first, but the more I’ve seen, the more this guy just doesn’t smell right to me.’
Brandon got to his feet and carefully replaced the slip of paper exactly where he’d found it. ‘It grieves me to say so, but I think you’re right. When I interviewed him earlier, I thought he was way too calm to be our man.’
Tony shook his head. ‘Don’t let that mislead you. Chances are when you do pull the right guy, he’ll be calm too. Don’t forget, this is something he’s planned carefully. Although he thinks he’s the best, he’ll still have made contingency plans. He’ll expect to be
brought in for questioning sooner or later. He’ll be ready for you. He’ll be reasonable, pleasant. He won’t look like a con. He’ll be bland, helpful, and he won’t ring alarm bells with your detectives. His alibi will be no alibi. He’ll probably say he’s been with a tart, or been to an away football match on his own. He’ll end up being eliminated from your enquiries because other suspects will be superficially far more appealing.’
Brandon managed to look even more depressed than normal. ‘Thanks, Tony. You’ve really cheered me up now. So what do you suggest?’
Tony shrugged. ‘Like I said, it’s a possibility that he knows the killer. He may even have his own suspicions. I’d hang on to him for a bit longer, sweat him for what and who he does know. But I wouldn’t call off the team. Get a warrant. Do a proper search, under the floorboards, in the loft. You never know what you might turn up. Don’t forget, I could be completely wrong.’
Brandon glanced at his watch. ‘Right. I’d better get these keys back before the end of the custody sergeant’s shift. I’ll drop you off on the way.’
With a last look to check they’d left nothing out of place, Brandon and Tony left McConnell’s house. As they approached the Range Rover, a voice from the shadows said, ‘Good morning, gentlemen. You’re nicked.’ Carol stepped forward into the light of the streetlamp. ‘Dr Anthony Hill, and Assistant Chief Constable John Brandon, I am arresting you on suspicion of breaking and entering. You do not have to say anything…’ At that point, the giggles took over.
Brandon’s heart had thudded into his throat at her first words. ‘Hellfire, Carol,’ he protested. ‘I’m too old for tricks like that.’
‘But not for ones like this, I see,’ Carol said drily, gesturing with her thumb towards McConnell’s house. ‘Unauthorized search, and with a civilian? Just as well for you I’m off duty, sir.’
