by Val McDermid
‘I need a drink if we’re going to talk,’ Tony said, gambling that her narcissism would demand that she share her exploits, that she needed to hear his version of herself. If he was to have any chance of escaping with his life, he needed to build up a relationship with her. A drink would be the first brick in the wall. The more he could get her to see him as an individual, not as a cipher, the higher his chances rose.
Angelica scowled suspiciously. Then, with a toss of her head that sent her long hair swirling, she turned away and walked to a slop sink set against the wall. She turned on the tap and looked around vaguely for a drinking vessel of some kind. ‘I’ll get a glass,’ she muttered, passing him and clattering up the steps again.
Tony felt a surge of relief at his small victory. Angelica was gone for less than thirty seconds, returning with a thick white mug. Kitchen above, Tony deduced as she walked back to the sink. She moved well in the heels, her stride measured and feminine. It was interesting, since she had obviously reverted to more masculine movements under the stress of kidnapping and killing. That was the only way to account for Terry Harding’s conviction that he’d seen a man driving off from Damien Connolly’s.
Angelica filled the mug and approached Tony cautiously. She gripped his hair, pulled his head back agonizingly and tipped freezing water into his mouth. As much went down his chin as his throat, but the relief was palpable. ‘Thanks,’ he gasped as she withdrew.
‘One should always be hospitable to one’s guests,’ she said sardonically.
‘I hope to remain one for some time,’ Tony replied. ‘You know, I admire you. You’ve got style.’
She frowned again. ‘Don’t bullshit me, Anthony. You won’t get round me with stupid flattery.’
‘It’s not bullshit,’ he protested. ‘I’ve spent days and nights poring over the details of what you’ve achieved. I’m so deep inside your head, how could I not admire you? How could I not be impressed? The other ones you brought here, they didn’t have a clue about who you are, what you can do.’
‘That’s true, I’ll grant you that. They were like babies, frightened, stupid babies,’ Angelica said contemptuously. ‘They didn’t appreciate what a woman like me could do for them. They were treacherous, lecherous fools.’
‘That’s because they didn’t know you like I know you.’
‘You keep saying that. Prove it. Prove you know anything about me.’
The gauntlet was well and truly down now, Tony thought. Never mind singing for your supper, talk for your life. This was the proving ground, the place where he would discover if his psychology was indeed a science or just bullshit.
‘Fraser Duncan? Hello, this is Detective Inspector Carol Jordan of Bradfield police,’ she said. Carol had never grown used to referring to herself by her full title. She felt as if, any moment, someone was going to jump out and shout, ‘Oh no, you’re not! We found you out at last.’ Luckily, that didn’t seem to be happening today.
‘Yes?’ The voice was cautious, the single syllable drawn out in a question.
‘Actually, it was my brother, Michael Jordan, who suggested you might be able to help me with an enquiry we’re pursuing.’
‘Oh, yes?’ The climate was getting warmer. ‘How is Michael? Is he enjoying the software?’
‘I think it’s absolutely his favourite toy,’ Carol replied.
Fraser Duncan laughed. ‘An expensive toy, Inspector. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘It’s the Vicom 3D Commander I wanted to talk to you about. In strictest confidence, you understand. We’re pursuing a major murder investigation, and one of the theories I’m looking at is that our killer might be using your software to edit his own videos, maybe even to import other material into them. That would be possible, wouldn’t it?’
‘More than possible. It would be perfectly straightforward.’
‘So, do you keep records of all your customers?’ Carol asked.
‘We do. We don’t sell all the packages direct, obviously, but anyone who buys the Commander should register their purchase with us since that gives them access to a free customer helpline and also means they get priority mailings when we develop upgrades.’ Duncan was positively expansive now. ‘Do I detect a request for access to our customer database, Inspector?’
‘You do indeed, sir. This is a murder enquiry and the information could be crucial to us. Can I stress too that it would be completely confidential? I would personally undertake to ensure that your data is removed from our system as soon as we have finished with it,’ Carol said, trying not to sound as if she was begging.
‘I don’t know,’ Duncan said hesitantly. ‘I’m not sure I like the idea of you and your colleagues hammering on the doors of my customers.’
‘It wouldn’t be like that, Mr Duncan. No way. What we would do is input the list into our Home Office Major Large Enquiry System and cross-match it against existing data. We would only act on any correlations that came up with people who are already in there.’
‘Is this the serial killer you’re after?’ Duncan asked abruptly.
What did he want to hear, Carol wondered momentarily. ‘Yes,’ she said, taking a gamble.
‘Let me call you back, Inspector. Just to make sure you are who you say you are.’
‘No problem.’ She gave him the main police switchboard number. ‘Ask them to put you through to me in the HOLMES room at Scargill Street.’
The next five minutes passed in a fever of impatience. The phone barely chirruped before Carol had it to her ear. ‘Inspector Jordan?’
‘You owe me, sis.’
‘Michael!’
‘I’ve just been telling Fraser Duncan what an honourable little person you are and despite what he’s heard about the police, he can trust you.’
‘I love you, bro. Now get off the phone and let the man talk to me!’
Within the hour, Vicom’s data was inside the HOLMES computer network, thanks to Dave Woolcott and the miracles of modern technology. Carol had passed Fraser Duncan on to him after they had agreed the ground rules for the data use, and Carol had listened uncomprehendingly to Dave’s end of a conversation which consisted of alien expressions like ‘baud rate’ and ‘ASCII files’.
Carol sat by Dave’s side as he worked on one of the terminals. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘We’ve got the list from Swansea of everyone within a twenty-mile radius of Bradfield who has one of these Discoveries. We’ve also got the list of names from Vicom of people who have bought their software. I hit this key, and go down this menu to this option, wild-card match, and now we sit back and let the machine talk to itself.’
For an agonizing minute, nothing happened. Then the screen cleared and a message flashed up. ‘[2] matches found. List matches?’ Dave hit the ‘y’ key and two names and addresses appeared on the screen.
1: Philip Crozier, 23 Broughton Crag, Sheffield Road, Bradfield BX4 6JB
2: Christopher Thorpe [sort criterion 1]/Angelica Thorpe [sort criterion 2], 14 Gregory Street, Moorside, Bradfield BX6 4LR
‘What does that mean?’ Carol asked, pointing to the second option.
‘The Discovery is registered to Christopher Thorpe and the software was bought by Angelica,’ Dave explained. ‘Using the wild-card option means that the machine sorted by address as well as by name. Well, Carol, you’ve got something. Whether it means anything or not, we’ll have to see.’
Penny Burgess strode over the rough, fissured limestone of Malham Pavement. The sky was the bright blue of early spring, the rough moorland grasses starting to look more green than brown. From time to time, larks shot out into the air and poured their songs into her ears. There were two occasions when Penny really came alive. One was on the trail of a hot story. The other was up on the high moorlands of the Yorkshire Dales and the Derbyshire Peak District. Out in the open air, she felt free as the skylarks, all pressure gone. No newsdesk demanding copy by an hour ago, no contacts to be appeased, no looking over her shoulder to be sure of staying ahead of her rivals. Jus
t the sky, the moors, the extraordinary limestone landscape, and her.
For no reason, Stevie McConnell burst into her thoughts. He’d never see the sky again, never walk a moor and watch the turning of the seasons. Thank God she had the power to make sure that someone would pay for that inhuman deprivation.
Philip Crozier’s house was a narrow, terraced three-storey modern town house, the ground floor consisting mainly of an integral garage. Carol sat in the car, eyeing it up and down. ‘We going in, ma’am?’ the young detective constable in the driving seat asked.
Carol thought for a moment. Ideally, she’d wanted Tony to be with her when she interviewed the people whose names the computer had spat out. She’d tried ringing him at home. No reply. Claire said he hadn’t come into the office yet, which surprised her since he’d had a nine-thirty appointment. Carol had swung round by the house, but it looked exactly the same as it had the night before. Off having fun with his lady friend, she’d decided. Serves him right if he misses out on the showdown with Handy Andy, she thought maliciously, then immediately regretted her childishness. Failing Tony, she’d have liked to have had Don Merrick with her. But he was out pursuing other lines of enquiry that had flowed from the identification of the Discovery. The only person she could find who wasn’t urgently involved with something else was DC Morris, on the third month of his secondment to CID.
‘We might as well see if he’s in,’ Carol said. ‘Though he’s probably at work.’
They walked up the path, Carol taking in the details of the neatly trimmed lawn and the smart paintwork. The house didn’t really fit Tony’s profile. It was more like the victims’ houses in terms of value and status, rather than the home of someone who aspired to their lifestyles. Carol pressed the bell and stepped back. They were about to give up and return to the car when Carol heard feet pounding downstairs. The door swung open to reveal a stocky black man dressed in grey sweat pants and a scarlet T-shirt, his feet bare. He couldn’t have looked more different from Terry Harding’s description. Carol’s heart sank momentarily, then she reminded herself that Crozier might not be the only person with access to his software and his Discovery. He was still worth interviewing. ‘Yeah?’ he said.
‘Mr Crozier?’
‘’S right. Who wants to know?’ His voice was relaxed, the Bradfield accent strong.
Carol produced her warrant card and introduced herself. ‘I wonder if we could come in and have a word, sir?’
‘What about?’
‘Your name has cropped up in some routine enquiries and I’d like to ask you some questions for the purposes of elimination.’
Crozier’s brows furrowed. ‘What sort of enquiries?’
‘If we could just come in, sir?’
‘No, hang on, what’s all this about? I’m trying to get some work done here.’
Morris stepped to Carol’s side. ‘There’s no need to be difficult, sir, it’s just routine.’
‘Mr Crozier isn’t being difficult, Constable,’ Carol said coolly. ‘I’d feel just the same in your shoes, sir. A car answering the description of yours has been involved in an incident, and we need to eliminate you from our investigation. We’re speaking to several other people in connection with this enquiry, sir. It won’t take long.’
‘All right then,’ Crozier sighed. ‘You’d better come in.’
They followed him up stairs carpeted in functional cord carpet into an open-plan living-room-cum-kitchen. It was furnished in expensive but minimalist style. He waved them to two leather and wood armchairs and dropped into a leather bean bag on the polished wood floor. Morris pulled out his notebook and ostentatiously opened it to a fresh page.
‘You work from home, then?’ Carol asked.
‘’S right. I’m a freelance animator.’
‘Cartoons?’ Carol said.
‘I do mostly science animations. You want something for your Open University course that shows how atoms collide, I’m your man. So what’s all this about?’
‘You drive a Land Rover Discovery?’
‘’S right. It’s in the garage.’
‘Can you tell me if you were driving it last Monday night?’ Carol asked. God, was it only a week ago?
‘I can. I wasn’t. I was in Boston, Massachusetts.’
She went through the routine questions that established precisely what Crozier had been doing, and who she could check the information with. Then she stood up. Time for the key question, but it was important to keep it looking casual. ‘Thanks for your help, Mr Crozier. One more thing — is there anyone else who has access to your house while you’re away? Someone who could have borrowed your car?’
Crozier shook his head. ‘I live on my own. I don’t even have a cat or plants, so nobody has to come in when I’m away. I’m the only one with keys.’
‘You’re sure of that? No cleaning lady, no colleague who drops in to use your system?’
‘Sure, I’m sure. I do my own cleaning, I work alone. I split up with my girlfriend a couple of months back and I changed the locks, OK? Nobody’s got keys except me.’ Crozier was starting to sound tetchy.
Carol persisted. ‘And no one could have borrowed your keys without your knowledge and had them copied?’
‘I don’t see how. I’m not in the habit of leaving them lying around. And the car’s only insured for me, so nobody else has ever driven it,’ Crozier said, his irritation clearly mounting. ‘Look, if somebody did anything criminal in a car with my number on, they were using faked-up plates, OK?’
‘I accept what you’re saying, Mr Crozier. I can assure you that if the information you’ve given me checks out, you won’t be hearing from us again. Thanks very much for your time.’
Back at the car, Carol said, ‘Find me a phone. I want to try Dr Hill again. I can’t believe he’s gone AWOL the one time we really need him.’
FROM 3½″ DISK LABELLED: BACKUP.007; FILE LOVE.018
It’s laughable. They pick a man who can’t even tell whether I’ve carried out a particular punishment or not and they employ him to help them catch me. They could at least have shown me the respect of employing someone who has some reputation, an opponent worthy of my skills, not some idiot who has never encountered someone of my calibre.
Instead, they insult me. Dr Tony Hill is supposed to be producing a profile of me, based on his analysis of my killings. When this account is published, years hence, after my death in my bed from natural causes, historians will be able to compare his profile with the reality and laugh at the gross inaccuracies of his pseudo-science.
He will never come close to the truth. For the record, I set down that truth.
I was born in the Yorkshire port of Seaford, one of the busiest fishing and commercial docks in the country. My father was a merchant seaman, the first officer on oil tankers. He went all over the world, then he would come home to us. But my mother was as bad a wife as she was a mother. I can see now that the house was always in chaos, the meals irregular and unappetizing. The only thing she was good at, the only thing they could share, was the drinking. If there was an Olympic pairs event for pissheads, they’d have walked off with the gold.
When I was seven, my father stopped coming home. Of course, my mother blamed me for not being a good enough son. She said I’d driven him away. She told me I was the man of the house now. But I could never live up to her expectations. She always wanted more from me than I was capable of, and ruled me by blame rather than praise. I spent more time locked in the cupboard than most people’s coats do.
Without my father’s pay cheque, she was thrown on the resources of the welfare system, which was barely enough to live on, never mind get drunk on. When the building society repossessed the house, we went to live with relatives in Bradfield for a while, but she couldn’t handle their disapproval, so we moved back to Seaford, when she turned to the town’s other boom industry, prostitution. I grew accustomed to the procession of disgusting, drunken sailors traipsing through the succession of grubby flats and bedsit
s where we lived. We were always behind with the rent, usually doing a moonlight flit just before the bailiffs got really heavy.
I grew to hate the ugly, grunting copulation that I was a constant witness to, and stayed out of the house as much as I possibly could, often sleeping rough down by the docks. I used to pick on kids that were younger than me to get their money off them so I could afford to eat. I moved schools almost as often as we moved house, so I never did too well there, in spite of the fact that I knew I could run rings round most of the other kids, who were just stupid.
As soon as I was 16, I left Seaford. It wasn’t a wrench; it wasn’t as if I’d ever managed to make many friends, what with moving all the time. I’d seen enough of men to know that I didn’t want to grow up like them, and I felt different inside. I thought if I moved back to a big city like Bradfield I’d find it easier to work out what I wanted. One of my mother’s cousins got me a job at the electronics firm where he worked.
About that time, I discovered that dressing in women’s clothes made me feel good about myself. I got my own bedsit so I could do it whenever I wanted to, and that calmed me down a lot. I started studying computer science at evening classes, and eventually got some proper qualifications. About that time, my mother got left a house in Seaford in her brother’s will.
I got the chance of a job back in Seaford, working in computer systems for the local private phone company. I didn’t really want to go back there, but the job was too good to turn down. I never went near my mother. I don’t think she even knew I was there.
One of the few good things about Seaford is that it’s handy for the ferry to Holland. I used to go there every other weekend, because in Amsterdam I could go out dressed as a woman and nobody batted an eyelid. Over there, I met a lot of transsexuals as well as transvestites, and the more I talked to them, the more I realized that I was just like them. I was a woman trapped in a man’s body. That explained why I’d never had much sexual interest in girls. And although I found men attractive, I knew I wasn’t a poof. They disgust me, with their pretence at normal relationships when everybody knows that it’s only men and women that can fit together properly.
