by Val McDermid
Carol shook her head. ‘It’s plausible, but I’m not convinced.’
Tony grinned. ‘Thank God for that. Neither am I. There’s got to be a better explanation, but I don’t know what it is.’
‘How much do you know about computers?’ she asked.
‘I know where the on/off switch is and I know how to use the software I need to work with. Other than that, I’m a moron.’
‘Well, that makes two of us. My brother, however, is a computer whizz kid. He’s a partner in a games software house. The stuff he works on is leading-edge technology. Right now, he and his partner are developing a low-cost system that will allow games players to put images of themselves in the games that they’re playing. In other words, instead of it being Arnie kicking the shit out of the bad guys on the screen in Terminator 2, it would be Tony Hill. Or Carol Jordan. The point is that there’s already the hardware and software around that allows you to scan video tape and import the images into a computer. I think they call it digitized images. Anyway, once you’ve got that into the computer, you can manipulate it exactly how you want to. You can incorporate still photographs, or bits from other videos. You can superimpose things. When they first got the original hardware about six months ago, Michael showed me this sequence he’d made up himself. He’d taped some of the Tory Party conference and he’d also imported a video sex guide. He’d selected all these government ministers’ faces while they were giving their speeches and superimposed them on the sex video.’ Carol snorted with laughter at the memory. ‘It was a bit choppy, but believe me, you’ve never seen John Major and Margaret Thatcher getting on so well! It gave a whole new meaning to the word “gobbledegook”!’
Tony stared at Carol in stunned silence. ‘You’re kidding me,’ he said.
‘It’s the perfect explanation of why the videos manage to keep him under control.’
‘Wouldn’t that mean he’d have to be a real boffin, like your brother?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Carol said. ‘From what I gathered, the actual techniques involved are fairly simple. But the software and the peripherals that you need to do it are incredibly expensive. You could be talking two or three grand just for one piece of software. So he’s either working for a company where he has that sort of equipment on tap and the privacy to work on his own stuff, or else he’s a computer hobbyist with a lot of disposable income.’
‘Or a thief,’ Tony added, only half joking.
‘Or a thief,’ Carol agreed.
‘I don’t know,’ Tony said dubiously. ‘It does answer the problem, but it’s totally off the wall.’
‘And Handy Andy isn’t?’ Carol said belligerently.
‘Oh, he’s off the wall, all right, but I’m not sure he’s that together.’
‘He builds torture machines. That would be a lot easier with a computer design program. Tony, something’s keeping him stable on his eight-week cycle. Why not this?’
‘It’s a possibility, Carol, no more than that at this stage. Look, why don’t you make some preliminary enquiries, see how feasible what you’re suggesting would be in practice?’
‘You don’t want to include it in the profile?’ Carol asked, bitterly disappointed.
‘I don’t want to undermine the things I feel are strongly probable by including something that’s really only a bit of kite-flying at this stage. You said yourself, it was triggered off by one of the few bits in the profile that is little more than speculation. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking the idea. I think it’s brilliant. But we’re going to have to work bloody hard as it is to overcome the resistance in some quarters to the profile as a whole. Even people who are broadly in support of the idea aren’t necessarily going to agree with some parts of it. So let’s not give them any easy targets. Let’s bottom it, present it to them gift-wrapped so the snipers can’t just knock it straight off the perch. OK?’
‘Fine,’ she said, knowing in her heart he was right. She picked up a sheet of paper and a pen. ‘Check out software manufacturers and consultancies in Bradfield area,’ she muttered to herself as she wrote. ‘Check with Michael about manufacturers of necessary hardware/software then check sales records. Check recent thefts.’
‘Computer clubs,’ Tony added.
‘Thanks, yes,’ Carol said, adding that to her list. ‘And bulletin boards. Oh boy, I’m going to be really popular with the HOLMES team.’ She got to her feet. ‘It’s going to be a long job. I’d better get cracking. I’ll take this down to Scargill Street now and give it to Mr Brandon. We’ll need you to come in and go through it.’
‘No problem,’ Tony said.
‘I’m glad something isn’t.’
Tony stared out of the window of the tram, watching the city lights pass in a blur of rain. There was something cocoon-like about the gleaming white interior of the tram. Graffiti-free, warm, clean; it felt like a safe place to be. As the driver approached traffic lights, he gave a blast on the breathy horn. It sounded like a noise from childhood, the sort of hooting that a cartoon train would produce, he decided.
He turned away from the window and covertly studied the half-dozen other passengers on the tram. Anything to take his mind off the curious emptiness he felt now he had delivered his profile. It wasn’t as if this would be the end of his involvement with the case. Brandon had told Carol that she was to have a daily briefing with him.
He wished he could have been more encouraging about her computer theory, but years of training and practice had rendered the habit of caution ingrained. The idea itself was brilliant. Once she had done some research into the practicability of what she was suggesting, he’d be only too happy to endorse it with her fellow officers. But for the sake of his profile’s credibility, he had to keep his distance from ideas that the average copper would dismiss as science fiction.
He wondered how the police were faring that evening. Carol had called him to say that teams were going out in Temple Fields, trawling the area’s regulars, trying to see if the profile suggestions produced any recognition. With luck, they might get some names that would cross-reference to data already in HOLMES, either from previous criminal records or from the car index numbers whose registered keepers had been fed into the system.
‘The next stop will be Bank Vale station. Bank Vale station next stop,’ the electronic voice from the speakers announced. With a start, Tony realized they had left the city centre far behind and were emerging on the far side of Carlton Park, less than a mile from his home. Bank Vale came and went, and Tony swung round in his seat, ready to make for the exit doors when the next stop was announced.
He walked briskly through the neat suburban streets, past the school playing fields, skirting the small copse that was all that remained of the plantation that had given the Woodside area its name. Tony glanced at the trees as he hurried past, thinking wryly that the path cutting diagonally through the wood would almost certainly be completely deserted. First it was the women walking home alone who had abandoned it. Then it was the children, kept away by anxious parents. Now, in Bradfield, it was the men who were learning the bitter lessons of life in jeopardy.
Tony turned into his street, relishing the quiet of the cul-de-sac. He’d get through the evening somehow. Maybe drive down to the supermarket and buy the ingredients for a chicken biryani. Pick up a video. Catch up on his reading.
As he turned the key in the lock, the phone started ringing. Dropping his briefcase, Tony ran for the phone, kicking the door to behind him. He picked up the phone, but before he could say anything, her voice trickled into his ear like warm olive oil soothing an earache. ‘Anthony, darling, you sound like you’re panting for me.’
He’d managed to avoid thinking about it all the way home, but he knew this was what he’d been hoping for.
Brandon had turned out the bedside light less than a minute before the phone rang. ‘You should have known better,’ Maggie murmured as he dragged himself away from her complaisant warmth and reached for the receiver.
&nbs
p; ‘Brandon,’ he growled.
‘Sir, it’s Inspector Matthews,’ the tired voice said. ‘We’ve just picked up Stevie McConnell. The lads have just lifted him at the ferry port in Seaford. He was about to get on a ship for Rotterdam.’
Brandon sat up in a tangle of duvet, ignoring Maggie’s protests. ‘What have they done?’
‘Well, sir, they didn’t think there was a lot they could do, being as how he’s on police bail and there’s no conditions for him to breach.’
‘Are they holding him?’ Brandon was out of bed and reaching for his underwear drawer.
‘Yes, sir. They’ve got him in the Customs lads’ office.’
‘What on?’
‘Assaulting a police officer.’ Kevin’s voice somehow summoned up the image of a smirk as disembodied as the Cheshire Cat’s smile. ‘They rang me to ask what they should do next, and since you’ve taken such a personal interest in the case, I thought I should ask you first.’
Don’t push it, Brandon thought savagely. All he said, however, was, ‘I’d have thought it was pretty obvious. Arrest him for attempting to pervert the course of justice and bring him back to Bradfield.’ He wrestled into a pair of boxer shorts and leaned over to pick up his trousers from the back of a chair.
‘I take it we show him to the magistrates this time and ask that they refuse bail?’ Kevin’s voice was so sweet it was on the border of costing him his teeth, and not from decay.
‘That’s what we normally do when we have grounds, Inspector. Thanks for keeping me informed.’
‘One other thing, sir,’ Kevin said unctuously.
‘What?’ Brandon growled.
‘The lads have also had to make another arrest.’
‘Another arrest? Who the hell else have they had to arrest?’
‘Superintendent Cross, sir. Apparently, he was trying rather forcibly to prevent McConnell from boarding the ferry.’
Brandon closed his eyes and counted to ten. ‘Is McConnell hurt?’
‘Apparently not, sir, just a bit shaken up. The super has a black eye, though.’
‘Fine. Tell them to let Cross go home. And tell them to ask him to call me tomorrow, OK, Inspector?’ Brandon replaced the phone and leaned over to kiss his wife, who had reclaimed the duvet and was rolled up tight as a hibernating dormouse.
‘Mmm,’ Maggie murmured. ‘Are you sure you have to go in?’
‘It’s not my idea of a good time, believe me, but I want to be there when they bring this prisoner in. He’s just the sort of bloke who might fall downstairs.’
‘A problem with his balance?’
Brandon shook his head grimly. ‘Not his balance. Other people sometimes get a bit unbalanced, love. We’ve already had one maverick on the prowl tonight. I’m not taking any more chances. I’ll see you when I see you.’
Fifteen minutes later, Brandon walked into the murder squad room. Kevin Matthews was slumped over a desk at the far end of the room, his head cradled in his arms. As Brandon approached, he heard the soft snore of Kevin’s breathing. He wondered when any of the squad had last had a straight night’s sleep. It was when officers got tired and edgy at the lack of results that the serious mistakes happened. Brandon desperately wanted to avoid his name in lights ten years down the road as the man who masterminded a sensational miscarriage of justice, and he’d go to any lengths to avoid it. There was only one problem with that, he wryly acknowledged to himself as he sat down opposite Kevin. In order to keep his finger on the pulse of the investigation, he had to work the same kind of ridiculous hours that led to the very misjudgements he wanted to avoid. Catch 22. He’d read that, a few years back now, when Maggie had decided to go to evening classes and take the A Levels she’d never got round to at school. She’d said it was a wonderful book, funny, savage, sharply satirical. He’d found it almost too painful. It reminded him too strongly of the Job. Especially on nights like tonight when previously sane men turned desperado.
The phone rang. Kevin stirred, but didn’t wake. Pulling a sympathetic face, Brandon reached over and lifted it. ‘CID. Brandon speaking.’
There was a momentary, confused silence. Then a strained voice said, ‘Sir? Sergeant Merrick here. Sir, we’ve copped for another body.’
FROM 3½″ DISK LABELLED: BACKUP.007; FILE LOVE.014
Getting Gareth to Carlton Park was less easy than I’d anticipated. I’d done my reconnaissance carefully, I thought, and I’d counted on being able to drive down the access road used by the gardeners. What I hadn’t taken into account was the long Christmas break. The road was blocked off by two metal posts slotted into the asphalt and locked in place with heavy padlocks. I could probably have squeezed through on the verge, since the jeep would have had no problem flattening the small shrubs that lined the road. But I would inevitably have left tyre tracks and probably tiny traces of paint. I had no intention of allowing Gareth to deprive me of my liberty, so that option was closed to me.
I parked the jeep round the back of the storage shed where the park staff kept their equipment. At least there I was out of sight both from the road and the park. There weren’t many people around at two o’clock on Boxing Day morning, but success is all about taking pains.
I got out of the jeep and scouted around. The shed was out; it had a burglar alarm. But the gods were smiling on me now. Around the side of the shed, there was a low wooden trolley, the kind that porters used to wheel along station platforms in the days when there were railway porters who didn’t think shifting luggage was beneath them. The gardeners probably used it to transport plants round the park. I pushed it back to the jeep and tipped Gareth’s naked body on to it. I tucked a couple of black plastic bin liners round the body and sprayed the axles with a quick blast of lubricating oil to cure a nasty squeak, then stealthily I set off towards the shrubbery.
Again, I was lucky. I saw no one. I steered the trolley round to the rear of the bandstand towards the shrubs that covered the steep slope behind. At the edge of the path, I pushed the trolley on to the grass verge and into the edge of the shrubs. Then, wary of leaving footprints on the soft ground, I clambered on to the trolley and rolled Gareth’s body off the end and into the bushes. I stepped back and jumped down, pulling the trolley after me. The bushes looked a little battered, but there was no sign of Gareth. With luck, he’d remain undiscovered until the postman delivered my Christmas message to the BEST.
Ten minutes later, the trolley was back in place and I was nosing out of the park’s rear entrance on to a quiet lane opposite the churchyard. Even though the chances of being spotted were slim, I waited until the main road was in sight before I turned my lights on. Unlike Temple Fields, this was exactly the sort of area where some nosy insomniac would notice a strange vehicle in the early hours.
I drove home and slept for twelve hours, waking up in time for an interesting couple of hours on my computer before I went in to work. Luckily, it was a busy night, so I had plenty of complex problems to take my mind off the anticipation of the following day’s Sentinel Times.
They’d done me proud, in spite of the short time they’d had to deal with my message. They’d obviously got on to the plod right away, and managed to persuade them to take it seriously. They’d given me the front page, complete with a photograph of my message, though without anything that would identify who the card had come from.
KILLER ALERTS BEST!
The naked and mutilated victim of a twisted killer has been discovered in a city park following a bizarre message sent to the Sentinel Times.
The killer, who signed himself ‘Santa Claws’, revealed in a grisly Christmas message that he had dumped the body in Carlton Park.
The sick communiqué appeared to be written in blood. It was scrawled on the company Christmas card of one of the city’s leading firms of solicitors.
It was accompanied by a home video of the body’s location, which BEST staff immediately recognized from the distinctive bandstand on Park Hill.
Alerted by BEST reporters, polic
e dispatched a squad of uniformed and plain-clothes officers to the area of the park mentioned in the Christmas card.
After a short search among bushes off the nature trail near the bandstand, as indicated in the video, a uniformed constable discovered the body of a man.
According to police sources, the body was naked. The man’s throat had been cut and his body mutilated.
It is believed that he may have been tortured before his death.
Although this area of Carlton Park is known as a pick-up area for predatory homosexuals, police are not presently connecting this killing with the murders earlier this year of two young men whose bodies were dumped in the Temple Fields ‘gay village’ area of the city.
The body has not yet been identified, and police have not released a description of the victim, who is believed to be in his late twenties or early thirties.
The package, which had been posted on Christmas Eve in Bradfield, arrived at the offices of the Sentinel Times in this morning’s post, addressed to the news editor, Matt Smethwick.
Mr Smethwick said, ‘My first thought was that someone was playing a sick joke, especially since I know one of the solicitors in the firm concerned.
