by Val McDermid
Brandon struggled, but he couldn’t find the words. For once, he was speechless.
Cross looked around vaguely for somewhere to flick his ash, and settled for the floor, rubbing it into the carpet with the toe of his shoe. ‘So when do you want me to start back on the job?’ he asked.
Brandon leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. ‘If it was up to me, you’d never work in this town again,’ he said pleasantly.
Cross choked on a mouthful of smoke. Brandon looked back down and savoured the moment. ‘By heck, you like your joke, John,’ Cross spluttered.
‘I’ve never been more serious in my life,’ Brandon said coldly. ‘I called you here this morning to warn you off. What you did to Steven McConnell yesterday afternoon was assault. The file stays open, Superintendent. If you come anywhere near this investigation again, I’ll have no hesitation in charging you. In fact, I’ll enjoy it. I will not have this force brought into disrepute by any officer, serving or under suspension.’ As Brandon’s words sank in, Cross paled, then turned puce with anger and humiliation. Brandon stood up. ‘Now get out of my office and my station.’
Cross got to his feet like a man concussed. ‘You’ll regret this, Brandon,’ he stuttered furiously.
‘Don’t make me, Tom. For your own sake, don’t make me.’
Thinking on her feet, Carol led the journalists round to the small lounge outside the lawyers’ cafeteria. ‘OK, OK,’ she said, trying to damp down their baying with exaggerated hand movements. ‘Look, if you’ll just give me two minutes, I’ll come right back and answer your questions, OK?’
They looked uncertain, one or two at the back showing a tendency to drift back towards the courts. ‘Look, people,’ she said, gently massaging her jaw, ‘I’m in agony. I’ve got raging toothache, and if I don’t ring my dentist before ten, I’ve got no chance of him fitting me in today. Please? Give me a break? Then I’m all yours, promise!’ Carol forced a pained smile and slipped through to the cafeteria. There was a phone on the far wall, which she picked up. She made great play of taking out her diary and looking up a page, while dialling the familiar number of the court. ‘Court one, please.’ She waited for the connection, then said to the clerk, ‘This is Inspector Jordan here. Can I speak to the CPS solicitor?’
Moments later, she was talking to the Crown Prosecution Service lawyer. ‘Eddie? Carol Jordan. I’ve got about thirty hacks here waiting for Steven McConnell to come up. They’re dying to jump to all the wrong conclusions, and I think you might prefer to get him on now while I’ve got them tied up at an impromptu press conference. Can you swing it with the clerk?’ She waited while the solicitor muttered with the court clerk.
‘Can do, Carol,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
Keeping up the pretence, Carol put the phone down and scribbled something in her diary. Then she took a deep breath and headed back towards the pack.
FROM 3"DISK LABELLED: BACKUP. 007; FILE LOVE. 015
Damien Connolly, the ultimate PC Plod. I couldn’t have found a better person to teach the police a lesson if I’d searched for a year. But he was already there, on my list, one of my own personal Top Ten. He was harder to stalk than the others, because his shift pattern was often in conflict with the hours I work. But, as my grandmother always used to say, nothing worth having comes easy.
I trapped him in the usual way. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but my car’s broken down and I don’t know where the nearest call box is. Can I use your phone to ring the AA?’ It’s almost laughably easy to get across the threshold of their homes. Three men dead, and still they fail to take the most elementary precautions. I almost felt sorry for Damien, since of all of them, he is the only one who had not betrayed me. But I needed to make an example of him, to show the police how pathetically useless they are. It was galling to find myself in agreement with the so-called ‘gay community’, but they were one hundred per cent correct when they said that while supposedly gay men were being killed, the police would do nothing. Killing one of their own would be the one thing that would make them sit up and notice. At last, they’d be forced to give me the recognition and respect I deserve.
To mark this, I had devised something a bit special for Damien. An unusual method of punishment, used occasionally to act as a terrible example pour discourager les autres. It seems to have been most commonly used in cases of high treason, where men had plotted to kill the king. Appropriate, I thought. For what was Damien if not an integral part of the group that would bring me down if only they could ?
The earliest record of this treatment in England was in 1238, when some minor nobleman broke into the royal lodge at Woodstock intent on killing Henry III, there on a hunting trip. To demonstrate to any other potential traitors that the king was serious about attempts on his life, the man was sentenced to be torn limb from limb by horses then beheaded.
Another would-be royal assassin met the same fate in the mid eighteenth century. The aspiring assassin’s name just had to be an omen. Francois Damiens stabbed King Louis XV at Versailles. His sentence read that ‘his chest, arms, thighs and calves be burned with pincers; his right hand, holding the knife with which he committed the said attack, burned in sulphur; that boiling oil, melted lead, and rosin and wax mixed with sulphur be poured into his wounds; and after that his body be pulled and dismembered by four horses.’
According to reports of the execution, Damiens’s dark-brown hair turned white during the torture. Casanova, that other great lover, reported in his memoirs, ‘I watched the dreadful scene for four hours, but was several times obliged to turn my face away and to close my ears as I heard his piercing shrieks, half the body having been torn away from him.’
Obviously, I couldn’t get a team of horses down into the cellar, so I’d had to come up with my own arrangement. I’d built a system of ropes and pulleys, attached to floor and ceiling and linked with one of those powered winches that are used on yachts. Each rope ended in a steel shackle that would fasten round wrist or ankle. By adjusting the lengths and tensions on the ropes, I had suspended Damien in midair, his limbs spread in a massive, human X, his pathetic genitals dangling in the middle like something in a butcher’s shop.
The chloroform had a worse effect on him than it did on any of the others. As soon as he came round, he vomited violently, not an easy thing to achieve when you’re hanging upright four feet above the floor. It was just as well I’d removed his gag, or he’d have choked on his own vomit, which would have cheated me out of my satisfaction in his punishment.
He was completely bewildered. He had no idea why he was there. ‘Because I chose you,’ I told him. ‘You were just unlucky enough to choose the wrong job. Now I’m going to question you the way you question your suspects.’
While I’d been poking around in Auntie Doris’s kitchen, vaguely looking to see if she had anything I might find useful, I’d come across her icing set. I remembered that icing set. Every year, her Christmas cakes were a miracle of artistry that any of Bradfield’s bakers would have been hard pressed to equal. Once, she’d been called away by Uncle Henry while she was doing the big cake, and I’d picked up the icing bag, determined to help. I can’t have been more than six.
When she came back from whatever disgusting farmyard task she’d been helping with and saw my efforts, she went berserk. She grabbed the weighted leather strop that Uncle Henry used to keep his cut-throat razors sharp and beat me so hard she tore my shirt. Then she locked me in my room without any supper, leaving me there for the best part of twenty-four hours with nothing but a bucket to piss in. I knew I had to find an appropriate use for her treasured icing set.
There was a blowlamp in the cellar which I used to heat up the icing attachments so I could leave my mark on Damien, just as the executioner had on his namesake Damiens two hundred and forty years before. There was something quite beautiful about the way his skin blossomed into scarlet starbursts as the red-hot piping rosettes came into contact with his pale flesh. It was also astonishingly effective.
He told me everything I wanted to know and lots of rubbish I didn’t give a damn about. I was just sorry he wasn’t directly involved in the investigation into my previous work. I could have confirmed at first hand how hopelessly at sea the police are.
I decided to deposit the remains in Temple Fields again. I’d used the time since Gareth to find additional safe sites for the disposition of my handiwork. The back yard of the Queen of Hearts was perfect for my purpose; secluded and isolated at night. But it would come alive the next day, ensuring Damien wouldn’t be left out in the cold for too long.
The time was ripe for a new game. In preparation for this, shortly after Adam, I went up into the loft and opened the trunk that contains those parts of my past I have retained. One of the things I’d kept as a souvenir was a leather jacket that was given to me by the engineer on a Soviet factory ship, in lieu of payment for a night he won’t forget in a hurry. It looks and feels different from anything I’ve ever seen in this country. I ripped strips of leather from the sleeve until I was satisfied that I’d got something that could have been snagged on a nail or the sharp corner of a lock. I tucked the scrap in a drawer, then I chopped the rest of the jacket into shreds, stuck it in a plastic bag with eggshells and vegetable peelings, and drove into town until I found a skip to dump it in. By the time I needed to use the red herring, the remains of the jacket would be long buried in some anonymous landfill.
I couldn’t help feeling a thrill at the thought of how many man-hours the police would waste trying to track down where this strange little piece of leather had come from, but they’d never tie it in to me. Apart from anything else, no one in Bradfield has ever seen me wear it.
This time, the publicity outshone everything I’d achieved so far. At last, the police admitted that one mind was behind all four killings. Finally, they had realized it was time to take me seriously.
With Damien off the planet and in my computer, I still had one more person to deal with before I could return to my original project. I couldn’t settle to the task of finding a man worthy of me, a man to share my life as an equal and respectful partner, not until I had punished the man who had publicly treated me with such contempt.
Dr Tony Hill, the fool who hadn’t even realized that Gareth Finnegan was one of my bodies, was the target. He had insulted me. He had poured scorn on me, refusing to acknowledge the extent of my achievements. He had no idea of the calibre of the mind he was up against. He was going to have to pay for his arrogance.
I couldn’t help but see his disposal as a challenge. Wouldn’t anyone?
15
Can they not keep to the old honest way of cutting throats, without introducing such abominable innovations…?
The sound of a roaring crowd greeted Carol as she closed the door of the flat behind her. Michael, sprawled on one of the sofas, didn’t even take his eyes off the rugby match on the television. ‘Hi, sis,’ he said. ‘Needle match. Ten minutes, and I’m all yours.’
Carol glanced at the screen where muddy giants in England and Scotland’s colours were sprawled across the turf in a collapsed scrum. ‘Very hi-tech,’ she muttered. ‘I need a shower.’
Fifteen minutes later, brother and sister were sharing a celebratory bottle of cava. ‘I have some print-out for you,’ Michael said.
Carol perked up. ‘Anything significant?’
Michael shrugged. ‘I don’t know what’s significant to you. Your killer used five different-shaped objects to make the marks. I separated them out into five separate patterns. You’ve got what looks like a heart and some rudimentary letters. A, D, G and P. Mean anything to you?’
Carol shivered involuntarily. ‘Oh, yes. Plenty. You got the print-out here?’
Michael nodded. ‘It’s in my briefcase.’
‘I’ll look at it in a bit. Meanwhile, can I pick your brains again?’
Michael drained his glass and refilled it. ‘I don’t know. Can you afford me?’
‘Dinner, bed and breakfast at the country-house hotel of your choice, first weekend I have off,’ Carol offered.
Michael pulled a face. ‘At this rate, I could be collecting my pension before I collect on that one. How about you do my ironing for a month?’
‘A fortnight.’
‘Three weeks.’
‘Consider it a done deal.’ She offered her hand and Michael shook it.
‘So, what do you want to know, sis?’
Carol outlined her theory about the computer manipulation of the killer’s videos. ‘What do you think?’ she asked anxiously.
‘It’s a can-do,’ he said. ‘No question about that. The technology’s available, and it’s not difficult software to use. I could do it standing on my head. But you’re talking serious money. Say three hundred for a video capture card, four hundred for a ReelMagic card, another three to five for a decent video digitizer, plus at least a grand for a state-of-the-art scanner. The real killer is the software, though. There’s only one package that will do what you’re talking about to any real quality. Vicom 3D Commander. We’ve got it, and it set us back nearly four grand, and that was six months ago. The last upgrade cost us another eight hundred. Manual thick as a house brick.’
‘So it’s not a piece of software that many people would have?’
Michael snorted. ‘Damn right it isn’t. It’s a serious bit of kit, that. Professionals like us, video production studios and very serious hobbyists only.’
‘How readily available is it? Could you buy it over the counter?’ Carol asked.
‘Not really. We dealt directly with Vicom, because we wanted them to run us a full demo before we committed ourselves to laying out that much dosh. Obviously, some specialist business suppliers sell it, but they wouldn’t be shifting it in bulk. That would be mail order, anyway. Most computer stuff is.’
‘The other stuff you mentioned – are they things that lots of people would have?’ Carol asked.
‘They’re not uncommon. Off the top of my head, say two or three per cent market penetration on the video stuff, maybe fifteen per cent on the scanner. But if you’re thinking of tracking down your man, I’d start with the Vicom end,’ Michael advised.
‘How do you think they’d be about letting us look at their sales records?’
Michael pulled a face. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. You’re not a competitor, and this is a murder investigation. You never know, they might be happy to cooperate. After all, if this guy is using their stuff, it’d be bad PR if they didn’t. I can dig out the name of the guy we dealt with. He was their sales director. Scottish bloke. One of those names you can’t tell which is the Christian name. You know, Grant Cameron, Campbell Elliott… It’ll come to me…’
While Michael searched through his contacts book, Carol refilled her glass and savoured the prickle of bubbles against her palate. Lately, pleasure seemed to have been in short supply. But if she could come up with some leads on her theory, all of that might change.
‘Got it!’ Michael exclaimed. ‘Fraser Duncan. Give him a ring Monday morning and mention my name. Time you got a break, sis.’
‘You’re not wrong,’ Carol said with feeling. ‘Believe me, I deserve it.’
Kevin Matthews lay sprawled across the rumpled kingsized bed, smiling up at the woman straddling him. ‘Mmm,’ he murmured. ‘That was a bit nice.’
‘Better than home cooking,’ Penny Burgess said, running her fingers through the dark auburn hair that curled across Kevin’s chest.
Kevin chuckled. ‘Just a bit.’ He reached for the remains of the hefty vodka and coke Penny had poured for him earlier.
‘I’m surprised you could get away tonight,’ Penny said, moving forward languidly so her nipples brushed his.
‘We’ve had so much overtime lately she’s given up expecting me home for anything except for a bit of kip.’
Penny let her upper body fall heavily on Kevin, thrusting the breath out of his body. ‘I didn’t mean Lynn,’ she said, ‘I meant work.’
Kevin grabbe
d her wrists and wrestled her off him. When they subsided, lying side by side, giggling breathlessly, he finally said, ‘There wasn’t much to do, tell you the truth.’
Penny snorted incredulously. ‘Oh yeah? Last night Carol Jordan finds body number five, the suspect is arrested trying to leave the country and you tell me there’s nothing much doing? Come on, Kevin, this is me you’re talking to.’
‘You’ve got it all wrong, darling,’ Kevin said magnanimously. ‘You and all the rest of your media cronies.’ It wasn’t often he got the chance to put Penny right and he intended to make the most of it.
‘What do you mean?’ Penny propped herself up on one elbow, unconsciously covering her body with the duvet. This wasn’t a bit of fun any more; this was work.
‘Number one. The body Carol found last night wasn’t one of the serial killer’s victims. It was a copycat job. The postmortem proved that beyond reasonable doubt. It was just another seedy little sex murder. Central should clear it up in a few days with a bit of help from Vice,’ Kevin said, the self-satisfaction obvious in his voice.
Penny bit on the bullet and said sweetly through clenched teeth, ‘And?’
‘And what, darling?’
‘If that was number one, there must be a number two.’
Kevin smiled, so smug that Penny made the instant decision that he was on the out just as soon as she had an acceptable alternative lined up. ‘Oh yes, number two. Stevie McConnell isn’t the killer.’
For once, Penny ran out of words. The information was shocking in itself. But more shocking was the fact that, knowing this, Kevin had said nothing. He had remained silent and let her paper run a story that was eventually going to make her look an ill-informed pillock. ‘Really?’ she said, in the superior accent she hadn’t used since the day she’d gratefully quit boarding school and made the decision to go vocally downmarket.
