by Val McDermid
‘What’s that?’
‘If this is the key evidence that nails our guy, we’re going to have to work backwards to find a different explanation for how we fixed on him. We can’t go to court and rely on material that shouldn’t be in our possession.’
Tony made himself sound positive. ‘We’ve always found a way to protect you before. There’s always something that emerges that we could reasonably have fixed on earlier in the game. I don’t see why this should be any different.’
Except that they’d never been confronted by a killer quite like this one.
41
It was supposed to have been a bright shiny new start. But thanks to the weekend papers, Carol’s eager anticipation had been replaced by a gnawing apprehension. She’d slept badly, knowing every time she woke up that if there had been a drink in the barn, she’d have swallowed it without a moment’s hesitation. Though she’d hated him for it in the moment, she knew Tony had been right.
When she woke up for the seventh time a few minutes after six, she finally gave in and got up. She dressed in dog-walking clothes and took Flash up the hill at a steady jog. When they reached the top of the moor, Carol slowed to a brisk walk, gazing down the valley to the pale smudge in the distance that she knew was Bradfield. She tried to convince herself it would be all right. She’d overcome worse obstacles than a bunch of journalists, after all. It might be headlines today, but by next weekend, it would be history.
Except that every time she asked for support from one of her six client forces there would always be a question mark behind their eyes. Her integrity was tainted and it was nobody’s fault but her own. She’d snatched at the chance to reclaim her life the easy way when she should have had the guts to accept that she’d forced herself into a corner. But it was too late to take back what she’d done. The damage was out there.
All she could do was face them down. Maybe one day, she’d manage to outrun this new past. Till then, all she could do was hold her head up.
By the time she arrived at Skenfrith Street, Carol had built her resolve brick by brick till it felt strong enough to withstand whatever the media could throw at her. John Brandon was waiting for her in the new MIT squad room, where a couple of electricians were putting the final run of sockets in place. ‘Amazing job,’ he greeted her. ‘I didn’t quite believe they’d get it done in time, but they’ve proved me wrong.’
‘Thanks for making this happen, John,’ Carol said, reaching a hand out to shake his. ‘I’m sorry I made it harder for you than it should have been.’
He sighed. ‘I won’t pretend I don’t wish it had been different. We’d have been fine if some shit hadn’t leaked it to the press.’ He tightened his lips.
‘What line are we going to take? Because it’s bound to come up.’ She pushed her shaggy hair back from her forehead and let it fall.
‘I thought about that over the weekend,’ Brandon said. ‘We’re going to brazen it out.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Are you ready? I’ve got three chief constables and three deputies downstairs ready to nail a smile on their faces and say how bloody delighted they are that your MIT will be working with their dedicated detectives to bring serious crimes to a swift and satisfactory conclusion. Sound about right to you?’
Carol gave him a relieved smile and followed him down to the recently tarted-up media room at Skenfrith Street. To her relief, James Blake had passed the welcoming committee job on to his deputy, a former drugs squad chief whose face and uniformed figure seemed to consist entirely of straight lines and sharp angles. ‘Good to see you back in harness, Carol,’ he said in a clipped North Wales accent. ‘Can’t wait to watch your team in action.’ She was almost convinced he meant it. She made her way along the rest of the top brass, all affable smiles and firm handshakes.
And then, suddenly, they were on the platform, staring down the barrel of a couple of dozen cameras. The room was crammed; there must have been sixty journalists and camera crew in a room designed for a maximum of forty. The buzz of their chatter stilled as soon as Brandon cleared his throat. He introduced himself and went along the platform before outlining the working of the new Regional Major Incident Team, ReMIT. Hearing the acronym, Carol couldn’t prevent a quirk of satisfaction twitching the corner of her mouth. She’d been spot on.
Then Brandon turned to her. ‘It gives me great pleasure to present Detective Chief Inspector Carol Jordan, the officer who has been chosen to command this elite specialist squad. DCI Jordan has had a long and distinguished career, much of it here in Bradfield, where she ran the Major Incident Team very successfully for a number of years. I’m not going to bore you with a catalogue of her triumphs because you’ve all got the internet at your fingertips. Suffice it to say I don’t think there’s another officer anywhere in the UK who can match her for experience and ability. When I was her chief constable, we called her the Closer because of her astonishing success rate.’
That was news to Carol. She suspected it was news to her team too. She wondered whether it had been the idea of one of the civil servants. It didn’t sound like Brandon.
When she tuned back in, he was talking about the stellar quality of her team. The hacks were starting to become restive now, eager to get to something more juicy than an animated press release. Finally, Brandon wound up with the dreaded ‘Any questions?’
Several started to speak at once. ‘One at a time,’ Brandon chided them. There were a few questions about the structure of the ReMIT, with individual senior officers being asked about the impact on their detective teams of the new elite squad. All very anodyne. Then Brandon pointed to the next questioner. ‘Woman over there, blue top.’
The woman gave a frown to indicate her gravitas. ‘DCI Jordan, there have been reports that you were arrested last weekend for drink driving. Does that make you an appropriate person to run this elite MIT?’
Carol forced her mouth into a formal smile. Come out fighting. ‘It’s true that I was mistakenly arrested because of faulty equipment after a routine traffic stop. I don’t see why being the victim of a broken breathalyser should have any impact on my ability to do my job.’
‘Are you saying you hadn’t been drinking?’ The reporter wasn’t giving up yet.
‘I’m saying that the case against me was dismissed. I left court without a stain on my character.’
‘Are you denying that you’ve got a drink problem?’
Carol felt the tide of anger rising in her head. ‘What is this? Character assassination or just another example of everyday sexism? If I was a bloke, this wouldn’t even have caused a ripple. Because if you’re a bloke who has a drink, you’re one of the lads. But if you’re a woman, you’re breaking all the rules. You’re given a hard time not for what you’ve done but because you refuse to fit the neat little woman box. The only problem I have with doing my job is people who know nothing thinking they know best.’
Brandon broke the stunned silence. ‘I think we’ll move on,’ he said, pointing at a plump sweating man in the middle of the front row. ‘You, sir?’
‘Who discovered the breathalyser was faulty? And how was the discovery made?’
Carol maintained the smile. ‘I have no idea. That’s an operational question that’s well outside my area of responsibility. You’d have to ask West Yorkshire Police that question.’
‘Mr Brandon, is it true the Home Office intervened in this case?’
Brandon’s bloodhound face creased in puzzlement. ‘This was a local case resolved at a local level. Do you think Home Office officials have so little to do that they would concern themselves with something like this? Look, there’s no story here, in spite of what some of you have insinuated.’
‘The story’s not going away though, is it?’ The questioner was persistent. ‘It’s all very convenient for DCI Jordan.’
Brandon bristled. ‘It’s the opposite of convenient. All DCI Jordan wants to do is to get on with her job, but instead she’s having to deal with cowardly innuendo and unfounded allegati
ons. You lot are being used to blacken her name by jealous individuals who have been thwarted in their own empire-building.’
Carol’s heart sank. She knew Brandon meant well, but in effect, he’d thrown more fuel on the flames. Again a cacophony of questions broke out. ‘Can we focus on what actually matters here?’ She cut through the noise with a voice like a blade. ‘My team exists to save lives. Right now, there are killers we don’t even know about yet. There are murderers in waiting out there. It’s my job to stop them in their tracks. We’ve barely started yet and already we’re on the heels of a killer nobody suspected existed till we started examining some recent cases. So can we kick the trivia into touch? I have more important things to worry about than rumour and gossip, and if you had any interest in doing your jobs you would have too.’ A surge of adrenalin made her heart race and she pushed her chair back, unclipping her lapel mike.
Brandon caught the signal and got to his feet. ‘And that’ll be all for now, ladies and gentlemen. If you have any operational queries, please direct them to Pamela James in the press office.’
‘Is it true you’ve got Tony Hill on the payroll?’ The voice was familiar. Penny Burgess, the crime correspondent who had dogged Carol’s footsteps for years, wasn’t quite done.
‘Ask him,’ Carol said, turning away and leading the charge from the stage. Her relief at having got past the worst of the questioning was tinged with a niggle of worry. Why was Penny Burgess asking about Tony? She’d created more trouble for Carol and her team over the years than the rest of the press corps put together. When she showed an interest, it was never a good idea to ignore it. Before she could figure out what to do, Brandon was clapping her on the back.
‘Brilliant job, Carol. You put them in their place.’ His congratulations were echoed by the other officers on the platform, except for the Bradfield DCC.
He gave her an appraising look. ‘You implied you’re already working a case. Which one?’
‘Early stages,’ she said vaguely. ‘We’re not ready to take it outside the team yet.’
‘Interesting. I thought today was your first official day in the job.’
She smiled sweetly. ‘We don’t hang about. Thanks for giving us your support. I look forward to a productive future relationship.’ And she turned away, making a point of glancing at her watch. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to go,’ she said to Brandon. ‘My team are waiting for me.’
Brandon nodded. ‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks. We’ll need it, judging by that lot in there.’
‘The eyes of the country are on you, no doubt about that,’ he said. ‘I know you won’t let us down.’
42
Tony stared intently at the screen, trying to read the body language of the press conference participants on the CCTV feed from the media room to the ReMIT office. He was oblivious to the comments from the rest of the team, fixed on Carol as she shifted from apprehension to frustration at Brandon’s line before finally arriving at confrontation. It was a beautiful shift; her whole body seemed to change in shape and size as she grew back into herself. You could see where game makers got their ideas about transformation.
And yet, he couldn’t help a shiver of unease. The angry response that had come so naturally – and reasonably – from Carol was exactly the kind of statement that provoked the trolls. And hot on the heels of the trolls, the man who was killing women who didn’t know their place. He shook off the idea. With so many vulnerable targets, this man wasn’t going to come after a woman as strong as Carol.
The others were vocal in their irritation both at the press and at Brandon and the top brass. ‘Don’t even give them the satisfaction of a response,’ Kevin growled. Then when Carol composed herself and issued her passionate mission statement, they howled in delight and punched the air. And then Paula made a celebratory coffee for everyone with their shiny new machine.
By the time Carol walked through the door, they were in high spirits, ready to take on the next phase of their investigation, whatever that might be. They settled round the big table in the middle of the room and looked expectantly at Carol. ‘So, now you know what we’re up against,’ she said. ‘We’re not getting a honeymoon period, and that’s mostly down to me. I would apologise, except that I’m quite happy we’re not being lulled into a false sense of security. I don’t want to feel the love until we’ve actually earned it. So, Stacey, what have you got for us?’
Stacey tapped her tablet and studied the screen. ‘I now have real-life IDs for all five of the men who repeatedly trolled Kate, Daisy and Jasmine. I know where they live and where they work.’
‘So let’s hit them,’ Alvin said. ‘Let’s make those evil little shitbags wish they’d never been born.’
‘Woo hoo, who’s had too much caffeine?’ Paula teased.
‘He’s not one of them,’ Tony said. ‘If he trolled the women at all, he’ll only have done it once or twice and probably not gone down the death-threat route. It’s too easy to be threatening online when you think you’re anonymous. It’s the kind of thing you do when you’ve had a few beers or a row with your girlfriend or a bollocking from your boss, especially if she’s a woman. It used to take a fair bit of effort to deliver a proper death threat. To go to all the trouble of cutting the words out of a magazine and sticking them on paper then finding out where to deliver them to – that all required dedication. It wasn’t a knee-jerk reaction.’
‘But why does that rule out our killer? Just because anybody can do it doesn’t mean he hasn’t. If you see what I mean,’ Paula said.
‘Because he’s careful. He’s a planner. He thinks things through. And he’s not stupid. He’s going to know that once we understand what’s going on, we’ll be throwing all our resources at identifying the trolls. If he’d been an old-fashioned death-threat maker, he’d have used magazines from a bin. Something that had absolutely no connection to him. He’d have worn gloves every step of the way. He’d have bought paper and glue in different shops in different towns. He’d have travelled fifty miles in the opposite direction to post the letter. He’s too smart to hurl abuse at a woman he’s planning to kill. He’ll be the one standing back on the sidelines and watching other people dig themselves a hole. He might even needle some of them to go in a bit harder. But the bottom line is that he’ll have understood the importance of invisibility.’ Tony gave a little shrug, spreading his hands. ‘I’m sorry to sound so negative, especially since Stacey’s done such an amazing job.’
‘And it is amazing,’ Carol said. ‘I’m not going to ask how you got your hands on information that’s supposed to be beyond our reach.’
‘Better that you don’t know,’ Paula said.
‘Quite. And I understand the point Tony’s making, but right now, we don’t have any other leads. So I think we should interview these losers. Shake them up a bit, and see whether, as Tony suggests, anybody urged them on.’
Tony caught Stacey’s eye. She raised her eyebrows and gave him a small nod. ‘Actually,’ Tony said, ‘there might be something?’
Carol sat back in her chair with the air of someone whose expectations have been proved right. She smiled. ‘Of course there might. What have you been cooking up behind my back?’
‘The one thing we can track directly back to him is the books,’ Tony said. ‘They’re what revealed the pattern. They show that what’s driving him is more than simple misogyny. It’s very specifically a strike against women who publicly stand up against traditional male attitudes and behaviour. He’s using the writers as exemplars.’ He made a quotation mark sign in the air with two curled fingers, ignoring Carol wincing. ‘“When you think these bad thoughts, when you behave in ways that run contrary to what women are supposed to do, here’s what your outcome should be. You should understand your life is insufferable now”. That’s what he’s saying and that’s the key to everything that’s happening here.’
Carol nodded impatiently. ‘Yes, that all makes sense, but how do we make that work for us?’
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‘He’s a planner, you said?’ Paula spoke slowly. ‘So he’ll have worked this all out in advance, won’t he?’
Tony pointed a finger at her. ‘Give the girl a coconut. And that means, what…?’
Paula’s brows furrowed as she worked it out. ‘He bought the books before he started the killing.’ Her face cleared as she found a conclusion. ‘He might have bought all the books from the same place at the same time.’
‘Almost certainly,’ Tony said. ‘Because you can’t walk into the average bookshop and find them all sitting on the shelves. The Anne Sexton is out of print, for starters. When you do a search for all three titles together, there’s only one retailer offering them all.’
‘Don’t tell me, let me guess,’ Kevin said. ‘Valhalla.co.uk.’
‘I see why you chose this lot, Carol,’ Tony said ironically. ‘That’s right, Kevin. Valhalla.’
Kevin groaned. ‘Well, that’s no use. They never hand over information. And – no disrespect, Stacey – even hackers can’t get into their systems. They pride themselves on it.’
‘There’s a first time for everything,’ Stacey said. ‘No system is bulletproof.’
Carol looked at Tony then at Stacey. ‘You’re on this already, aren’t you?’
‘I spoke to Stacey yesterday when I had the idea,’ Tony said. ‘I reckoned you had enough on your mind getting through the press conference without having to contemplate more law-breaking.’
Carol covered her ears. ‘Enough. I don’t want to know. Just bring me the answers. And in the meantime, let’s look at these abusive trolls. What’s the geographical spread like, Stacey?’
‘Two in London, one in Sunderland, one in Rochdale and one in Cheltenham.’
Carol thought for a moment. ‘Paula, you’ve already made contact with an officer in the Met on this case, haven’t you?’
