by Val McDermid
Exactly quarter of an hour later, the phone next to Stacey rang abruptly. She picked it up and said, ‘Valhalla.’
There was a short pause. She could hear the man on the other end of the line breathing. ‘DVLA,’ he said.
‘Done. Ten, K.’ Transaction completed, she put the phone down. The arrangement was simple. In exchange for access codes for Valhalla’s server, she would hand over access to the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency’s database. Both would be time-limited, obviously. Any system worth having changed its access codes regularly. As in, daily or weekly. The handover would take place in row K of screen ten of the shopping mall’s multi-screen cinema at the start of the next film being shown there. All beautifully random and, of course, invisible to CCTV because they’d be in the dark.
Stacey checked her regular phone. She had forty-seven minutes to kill before the next showing. She groaned. A romcom set in a Midwest college dorm. And she’d have to sit through enough of it not to look suspicious. The things she did for Carol Jordan.
She cut through the city centre to the shopping mall and slowly browsed her way through, doubling back on herself and lingering over displays of handbags and shoes. She was as certain as she could be that she had no pursuit on foot, so she made her way to the cinema, bought a ticket with cash and settled into a seat midway along the empty row K. There were less than a dozen patrons in the cinema; pensioners taking advantage of cheap matinee rates. Good for them, Stacey thought. Better here than sitting in a cold flat watching daytime soaps.
The lights dimmed and still she was alone. Adverts for cars and holiday destinations and fast-food chains; trailers for films she swore she’d never see; then finally the BBFC certificate revealing that Cupcakes to Die For had a 12A certificate. Halfway through the opening titles, a tall, lean figure folded itself into the seat next to her. He smelled of coconut and pineapple. What was it with hair product these days? Half the world smelled like a tropical fruit salad. ‘Hey, Stace, how’s it going,’ a low bass voice rumbled in her ear.
‘It’s going, Harvey.’
He chuckled. ‘It’s later than we think, right?’ He stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out a taxi company receipt. In the light from the screen, Stacey could see a scribbled line of numbers, letters, slashes and dashes. ‘This is good till midnight. Best I could do.’
She handed him a postcard of a Henry Moore sculpture from Leeds City Art Gallery. ‘That’ll see you through till Saturday midnight.’
‘Ah. A bargain. I don’t often get one of those from you. You must really want Valhalla.’
‘You know the kind of work I do, Harvey. You can’t put a price on saving people’s lives.’
‘It always warms the cockles of my heart, doing stuff for you. It’s not often I get to feel virtuous as well as clever.’ A low chuckle. ‘You staying till the bitter end?’
Stacey sighed. ‘One of us has to.’
‘I tell you what, you bugger off and get back to saving people’s lives. I’ve got five whole days to tease out what I’m after but you’ve only got till midnight before you turn into a pumpkin and your Jimmy Choos change into Uggs.’
Stacey couldn’t hide her surprise. ‘Thanks, Harvey.’
‘Next time I’ll make you watch a Fast and Furious. And then you’ll be sorry.’ He stood up to let her pass. ‘Good luck with the life-saving thing.’
Five minutes later, Stacey was blinking in the daylight, heart racing at the prospect of forbidden fruit. She couldn’t wait to get back to her flat. As she hurried through the mall, it struck her that she hadn’t been this excited for days. A pang of guilt shot though her. What kind of worthless girlfriend was she, to be this excited when the man she loved was so clearly in a state of misery?
45
Carol had waited for the rest of the team to leave, calling Tony back as he was on his way out the door. ‘What do you truly think?’ she said, leaning against the table, her tired eyes belying the air of confidence she’d brought to the briefing.
‘I think you’re doing well, all things considered.’
She shook her head with weary humour. ‘I wasn’t talking about me. I meant the case. If there is a case. If we’re not chasing shadows because we need to be doing something or we go mad.’
‘For what it’s worth, I think there is a case. But I also think we need to move fast because, before we know it, we’re going to catch a live case from one of our suppliers. And then the heat will turn up underneath us. We need to crack this to show we’ve got what it takes to spot stuff happening under our noses. But also to remind us how good we are.’
Carol ran a hand through her hair. ‘You’re right.’ She squeezed her eyes shut momentarily. ‘Christ, but I could do with a drink. I have to keep holding tight to things to stop my hands shaking.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘I had no idea, really no idea how badly I was dealing with the drinking. I genuinely thought I was the one in charge.’
He laid a hand on her arm. ‘It’s never easy to be clear-eyed when it comes to ourselves. That’s why I need my supervisor. Jacob isn’t always right, like I’m not always right. But he always helps me to look at things from a different angle. That’s all you needed, Carol. You’re doing very well. Trust me on that.’
The door behind them opened and they both turned to face a tall, bony-faced young man with huge brown eyes, delicate eyebrows and ridiculously long lashes. He was wearing a dark blue suit that he might grow into one day if he ate enough canteen food. He smiled hesitantly. ‘DCI Jordan? I’m DC Hussain. I was told that I’m being transferred to your unit?’
Carol looked him up and down. ‘You know what we are?’
He nodded but looked uncertain. ‘ReMIT. Like the old flying squad, only for homicide.’
‘And incorruptible,’ Tony said. ‘Don’t forget incorruptible.’
Hussain clearly didn’t know whether this was banter or not. He looked pained. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m not a “sir”. I’m not even a cop. I’m Tony Hill. Dr Tony Hill. I’m a clinical psychologist.’
‘Don’t ask what he does around here,’ Carol said. ‘It doesn’t make sense until you see it in action. I’m glad you’ve joined us. Sergeant McIntyre speaks very highly of you.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ His relief at being on safe ground evaporated when he caught her scowl.
‘Don’t call me ma’am. Guv, boss, chief, even DCI Jordan. But not ma’am. That makes me feel a hundred and four.’
‘Yes, ma – guv.’ He almost smiled.
‘And what’s your first name? We tend towards the informal here.’
‘Karim, guv.’
‘OK, Karim. You’ll get a lot of responsibility on this squad. You’ll have to learn fast and learn well. At this level, it’s sink or swim.’
‘That’s fine by me, guv. I’ve got certificates for swimming.’ He grinned, confident but not cocky.
‘Well, let’s throw you in at the deep end. You’re with me. You can drive. We’re off to Rochdale.’
‘Hitting the high spots, then, guv?’
Carol rolled her eyes at Tony. ‘God help me, another one that thinks they’re funny. Come on, Karim, I’ll brief you on the way.’
According to Stacey, Steve Fisher worked for an insurance company. One of the ones that rang up unsuspecting punters about to sit down to dinner to give them dire warnings about how much their premiums were going to rise if they didn’t see the light and transfer immediately to them. The idea of doing that for a living depressed the hell out of Carol. It was easy to despise the cold callers, but she reckoned most of their employees were probably decent young people desperate to make a legal living, settling for shit jobs because there were no others. There would be some utter scumbags like Steve Fisher, but you got that everywhere. Even in the police.
She expressed this view to Karim as they drove down the motorway towards Rochdale. ‘You know all the trouble the uniforms get on a weekend? All the binge drinking and the fighting and the human wreckage fi
lling up A&E?’ he said.
‘What about it?’ Carol wondered how they’d got from cold calling to binge drinking.
‘I reckon it’s partly because most people my age are stuck in shit jobs like that. Every day’s the same, your bosses hate you and they don’t care if you know it, the job itself makes you feel like dog dirt on the sole of somebody’s shoe. So come the weekend, all you want is to get totally blitzed and forget about how bloody awful your life is.’
‘That’s how you’d solve the problem, is it? Provide meaningful jobs for people?’
‘Yeah, I reckon.’
‘But back when I was a kid, there were plenty of shit jobs. Working down the pit or working in a factory – surely that was every bit as bad?’
Karim took the slip road that would take them to the industrial estate where Steve Fisher worked. ‘The work was hard, yeah. And dangerous. But you were all in it together. They were mates. They were there for each other. And they had security. Jobs like that, they were for life if you wanted. My dad worked in a mill up in Blackburn when he first came over here and he says there was a real feeling that you could get on and make something of yourself. My generation? They don’t feel like that. Most of the lads I know, they’ve got no optimism. I’m about the only one that feels like I’ve got a real chance at a good future. If I was working in a call centre, I’d go out and get hammered every chance I got.’
He had a point. Carol gave a wry smile. He was going to fit right in with the opinionated, gobby team that was his new home. ‘Fair point.’
They turned into a wide road that ran between blocky brick buildings with small windows and zero personality. Their destination was conveniently plastered with hoardings that advertised the company name and its services. Karim paused by a space marked for the Finance Director and gave Carol a questioning look.
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Toes were made for treading on.’
They walked into a reception area so compact their presence made it feel overcrowded. Carol flashed her badge. ‘I’m here to see one of your employees, Steve Fisher.’
The receptionist, a plump woman in her twenties with immaculate hair, nails and make-up, scarcely registered their presence. ‘Do you have an appointment?’ It was barely a question.
Carol delivered her most dangerous smile and spoke softly. It was a frightening combination. ‘I don’t need an appointment. I am the officer in charge of the Regional Major Incident Team and I’m here to see Steve Fisher. Now, if you don’t have the authority to make that happen, I’d suggest you talk to someone who does.’
The receptionist managed a feeble eye roll as her last act of defiance. But she picked up the phone and pressed a button. ‘I’ve got a cop here wants to talk to somebody called Steve Fisher… No, she didn’t… OK.’ She replaced the phone with a flourish. ‘Mr Laskarowicz will be out in a minute.’
‘And he is?’ Karim asked.
‘In charge.’
As she spoke, a door in the wall behind her opened and a burly man with a shaved head and sweat rings under his arms burst in. ‘You’re the police?’ He sounded incredulous. ‘What are you doing here?’
Here we go again. Carol introduced them and explained the reason for their visit.
‘What do you want to talk to Steve about?’
Carol glanced at the receptionist. ‘Can we do this somewhere a little less public?’
Laskarowicz muttered, ‘Oh, for Chrissake,’ under his breath and led them through into a dingy corridor. His office was the first door they came to. It was small but it was neat, the walls covered with photographs of him either shaking hands with other unattractive men or posing with a bunch of guys in football strips. It smelled of fried onions and the carpet was a mosaic of brown stains. There was nowhere for them to sit, so Karim leaned against the wall and Carol perched on the corner of the desk, enjoying the dismay on Laskarowicz’s face. ‘He’s in the middle of a shift right now. This is very inconvenient. Why didn’t you phone ahead and make an appointment to see him in his own time, not mine?’
‘I need to interview Steve Fisher in connection with a series of threatening and abusive tweets that appear to come from his account.’
The manager looked genuinely shocked. ‘Steve? Steve Fisher? He wouldn’t say boo to a goose. He wouldn’t threaten anybody.’
‘If that’s the case, I’m sure he’ll be able to explain it all to us. Tell me, does he work a regular pattern of hours or is it shifts?’
‘Why do you need to know that?’ Carol waited him out, staring patiently and pointedly at him. He sighed histrionically. ‘He’s a dayshift co-ordinator so he works from six in the morning till two in the afternoon, Sunday to Thursday. Why?’
‘In that case, it looks like he’s sent quite a few abusive tweets while he was at work.’
‘I find that hard to believe. This is just a bit of banter, right? Somebody with a sense of humour bypass has kicked off?’
Carol nodded to Karim, who took a sheaf of paper out of his pocket. ‘“I want to see you burn, bitch.” That’s one bit of banter. “It’s about time you had some sense raped into you.” That’s another.’
Laskarowicz had paled. There was a sheen of sweat on his top lip. ‘He sent these from here?’
‘That’s one of the things we hope to find out from Mr Fisher. Perhaps we can use your office if you can find us a couple more chairs?’
He wiped his top lip and reached for the phone. ‘We’ve got a conference room. It’s more spacious.’ He ran his finger down a list taped to the desktop then stabbed the phone buttons fiercely. ‘Steve. It’s Ray. I need to talk to you right now, in the conference room. Stop whatever you’re doing and get down there now.’ He banged the phone down, breathing heavily through his nose. ‘Jesus Christ. This is all I need.’
They followed him down the hall to a slightly bigger room furnished with a table and half a dozen plastic bucket chairs. Everything looked as if it had been rescued from a skip. Laskarowicz chewed the skin on the side of his thumbnail and bounced on the balls of his feet. A few minutes passed then the door opened to reveal a young man with a bad haircut and angry skin. ‘You wanted me?’ He sounded as if the pit of hell had opened at his feet. As he moved into the room, Karim discreetly occupied the space between him and the door.
‘Not me,’ Laskarowicz said, his voice grim. ‘The police. You’ve got some answering to do, Steve.’
Fisher’s eyes widened and he glanced behind him. His face revealed all; the momentary notion of flight, the realisation that the route was blocked, the terror of what was to come. ‘I never did anything.’
Carol turned the tractor beam of her attention full on to him. ‘Come and sit down, Steve. We need to talk. Thanks, Mr Laskarowicz, we’ll speak to you on our way out.’
She waited till the manager made his reluctant way out of the room, never taking her eyes off the frightened young man whose Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down as he kept frantically swallowing. Then she said, ‘Steve Fisher, I want to interview you under caution in relation to the sending of abusive and threatening messages. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’
‘What? Are you arresting me? Do I need a lawyer?’ His voice rose to a squeak.
‘At this point, I’m trying to establish the facts. If you want a lawyer, of course that’s your right. We’ll take you down to the police station and we can wait there till someone is available to act for you. Though I don’t know whether you’d qualify for legal aid…’
‘Or we can have a nice little friendly chat here,’ Karim said, coming in from the side and pulling up a chair.
Fisher’s narrow mouth pursed as he considered. ‘OK, I’ll talk to you.’
Carol took the sheaf of papers from Karim. She flicked through till she found the one she wanted. She placed it in front of Fisher. ‘Are these your online ident
ities? Twitter, Instagram? And the others?’
He swallowed hard. ‘How did you get that? That’s private.’
‘Everything’s private till you break the law,’ Karim said harshly. ‘Are they your handles?’
Fisher nodded. ‘Yeah.’ His shoulders slumped. He knew what was coming.
‘Did you send these messages to Daisy Morton?’ Carol laid two sheets of paper in front of him. ‘“You’re going to burn, bitch. You’ve dissed men once too often. We’re going to fuck you up.” And what about this one? “I hope your children die slowly from cancer, then you’ll get what you deserve.” These are your handiwork?’
Fisher looked desperately from one to the other. ‘Don’t even think about trying some pathetic excuse about your mates nicking your phone,’ Karim snarled. Carol was liking him more every time he opened his mouth.
Fisher cleared his throat and sat on his hands. ‘Yeah. I wrote them.’
‘How did you feel when Daisy Morton did burn? When her house blew up and she died and her family lost their home? Did that make you happy?’
He shook his head, giving her a pleading look. ‘I never meant it for real, I was just… I don’t know, showing off.’
‘Acting the big man,’ Karim sneered. ‘So where were you the day Daisy Morton died?’
Fisher literally jumped in his seat. ‘What?’
‘You heard.’
‘What’s that got to do with me? She killed herself. I never had nothing to do with it.’
‘You don’t think piling all this crap on Daisy’s head might have had something to do with her decision?’
Fisher pushed his chair back from the table, as if putting physical distance between him and his words would separate them. ‘Sticks and stones, man. Just words, that’s all, just words.’
Carol leaned forward. ‘Where were you that day, Steve? Did you go round to Daisy’s house to tell her to her face what you thought of her?’
