by Val McDermid
He flipped open the laptop. Terry had wanted to get an Apple. He said it was better for what Vance wanted. But he knew his learning curve was going to be steep as it was – the computers he’d been able to access in Oakworth had been old and slow, the access to the Internet severely restricted. He couldn’t help laughing. What the fuck were they thinking, letting someone like him loose on computers? If he’d been in charge, he would never have allowed inmates access to mobiles or the net. If you wanted to stop prisoners communicating with the outside world, then ban mobile-phone coverage from the prison. Never mind inconveniencing the staff, if you were serious about keeping a grip on your prisoners, you had to do shit like that. He’d bet you couldn’t get a mobile signal in a gulag.
He could hardly believe how quickly the machine booted up. It was a thing of beauty compared to what he’d grown used to. He went back to the kitchen to fetch the briefcase and opened it on the desk beside the laptop. Vance took out a small address book and thumbed it open at ‘U’ and directed the web browser to the first of a list of urls on the page. It opened an anonymous-looking website that asked for a password. Then he went to the letter ‘C’ and typed in the first string of letters and numbers on the page. ‘C is for camera,’ he said aloud as he waited for the page to open. Seconds later, he was looking at a screen divided into quarters. One quarter was in complete darkness. One showed a brightly lit kitchen; beyond that, a dining area; beyond that still a sitting area with a vast inglenook fireplace. It looked like a barn conversion, judging by the scale and the hammer beams in the ceiling. Another showed the same open-plan space but from the other end. A man was sprawled on a long leather sofa. Greying blond hair, indistinct features, a T-shirt with a logo Vance didn’t recognise, and a pair of boxer shorts. Over to one side, a woman was sitting at a desk, tapping on a laptop. Beside her was a glass of red wine. The fourth quadrant showed the top of an open staircase leading to a gallery bedroom. It was hard to make out much detail, but it looked as if there was a bathroom and a dressing room behind the main area.
Vance watched, fascinated, a self-satisfied smile on his face, as nothing much happened. So many private investigators, so few scruples. Ask around and you could find one who would do more or less anything, as long as you could find a way of dressing it up in some guise that made it sound remotely legitimate. It hadn’t been cheap to get the cameras in place, but it had been worth every penny. He wanted to be sure exactly how the land lay before he took on this act of revenge.
He closed down the window and repeated the process with another access code. This time, the views were external. They showed a large Edwardian house set in a good-sized garden. The cameras showed the approach to the front door, a view of the living room from the outside, a wide shot of the back of the house and the driveway. In the light from nearby street lamps, the house appeared to be empty. The curtains were open, the windows dark. Vance nodded, still smiling. ‘It’s not going to be dark forever,’ he said, moving on to the third access code.
Again, four camera angles. A gravel drive leading to a long, low farmhouse covered in some kind of creeper. Very English. He could see what looked like a stable block in the distance, lit by floodlights. Next, the block itself. He’d seen places like this all over the country; the brick and wooden frontages of stable yards where horses occupied the stalls, paid for by the largesse of rich men and women and tended by ill-paid workers who loved the beasts more than most of their owners ever would. A figure passed across the yard, his movements jagged. A beam of light arced out from one hand. He shone the light jerkily on each door in turn before disappearing from sight. The third quadrant showed the rear of the house, while the fourth was a long shot of the approach to the drive. Parked across the entrance was a horsebox, making it impossible for a vehicle to pass. Vance’s smile grew broader. Anticipation was so sweet.
Reassured by what he had seen, he closed the computer down. There were other sets of cameras waiting to be activated, but now wasn’t the time. If his cameras were picked up on one of his early hits, he imagined the police would sweep all the other possible locations for hidden surveillance. If there was no electronic signal, they would be almost impossible to find. Or so Terry had told him. It would be nice to keep tabs on all his targets all the time, but he was willing to hold back in the interests of keeping ahead of the game.
This time, he took the precaution of carrying the briefcase upstairs with him. Now he had satisfied his curiosity, he was feeling sleepy again. The spy cameras were every bit as good as he had been promised. If he’d had any doubts about whether he could carry out his mission, they were all dispelled. Tomorrow, the next phase would begin.
Tomorrow there would be blood.
The Toyota didn’t look red under the sodium street lights. That was just as well, since the number plates belonged to a tan Nissan. All very confusing for a witness, or even someone trying to analyse a CCTV tape. Not that the driver expected them to be running surveillance of the sex workers’ beats. All that bleating about front-line cuts and budgets – what little money the cops had at their disposal these days was going where the taxpayers could see it. Neighbourhood patrols, turning up at burglaries instead of giving out a crime number over the phone, anti-social behaviour. Orders from on high to make it look good, keep the government on the right side of the voters.
It was total jackpot time for anyone below the Daily Mail parapet – people traffickers, white-collar fraudsters, prostitute killers. Most criminals were probably happy about that. But the Toyota’s driver was pissed off. He wanted to be paid attention to. If his exploits weren’t all over the papers and the TV, what was the point? He might as well not bother.
How could the cops not notice what was going on? Maybe he should start taking photos of his victims with his trademark front and centre. The media would be all over it soon enough if that sort of thing started landing on their desks. Then the cops would have to sit up and pay attention.
Fletcher drove slowly through Temple Fields, Bradfield’s main red-light district. The Vice squad had cleaned it up a lot in recent years, the gay community had annexed whole streets, and there was a lot less sex for sale out in the open than there used to be. The brasses worked inside, in saunas and massage parlours or out-and-out brothels. Or else they’d moved out to other parts of town, like the dual carriageway near the airport and round the back of the hospital building site.
The traffic on Campion Way was heavy, which suited him. It wasn’t usually this clogged so late at night. But some of the cars had yellow scarves hanging from the windows and Fletcher reckoned Bradfield Victoria must have had an evening kick-off. He vaguely remembered they were in the Europa League, which the guys down the pub derisively referred to as, ‘Thursday night, Channel 5. Not football as such.’ He didn’t understand the comment, but he grasped the fact that it was derogatory. He often didn’t really get what the guys in the pub or at work were on about, but he knew the best way to hide his true self was to conceal his bewilderment and act like he was one of the quiet ones who didn’t say much but took it all in. It had served him well over the years. Well enough to fool Margo for long enough to make her his. And once that had stopped working, well, he’d managed to deal with that without it coming back to haunt him, and never had to explain it away because nobody expected him to.
As the cars crawled up the dual carriageway, Fletcher studied every woman he passed who might be working the street. His search wasn’t random; he knew exactly what he was looking for. In his heart, he didn’t expect to get lucky here on the fringes of Temple Fields. He’d thought he would have to cast his net wider tonight.
But just when the traffic began to pick up speed, he saw what he was looking for. It was impossible to stop, so he took the next turning on the left, found a mildly illegal parking spot and doubled back. He wanted so badly to run it was like the pain you get when you need to pee. But the last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself. So he walked briskly, hoping she would still be in sigh
t when he rounded the corner.
And yes, there she was. Unmistakable, even though he was approaching her from behind. She was clearly working. He could tell by the way she walked; the swivel in the hips, the languid half-turn towards the traffic, the ridiculous heels that bunched her calves into tight knots.
He could feel the blood pounding in his head. His vision seemed to blur at the periphery, leaving her as the only clear element. He longed for her. He ached to take her away from the filth and the depravity that she was wallowing in. Didn’t she know how dangerous it was out on these streets?
‘Mine,’ he murmured softly as he slowed down to match his pace to hers. ‘Mine.’
24
Alvin Ambrose skimmed yet another report that took the search for Jacko Vance no further forward. DI Stuart Patterson dropped into the chair opposite and sighed. His expression reminded Ambrose of his younger daughter, Ariel, a child who appeared to be working up to taking ‘sulking’ as her specialist subject on Mastermind. ‘This is going bloody nowhere,’ Patterson said. ‘Why can’t you find him?’
You, Ambrose noted. Not we. Apparently even the tangential involvement of Carol Jordan in the case had increased his boss’s disengagement from what was going on with his team. ‘I’ve got twenty officers chasing down reported sightings on our patch alone. Other forces all over the country are doing the same. I’ve got another team going through CCTV footage, trying to track the taxi he escaped in. Plus officers talking to the prison staff. The Home Office has dispatched a specialist team to protect the ex-wife. We’re doing everything we can. If there’s anything you think we’ve not got covered, then tell me and I’ll action it.’
Patterson ignored the request. ‘We’re going to look like bloody bumpkins. Can’t even catch a one-armed man as familiar to half the country as Simon Cowell. Carol Jordan’s going to be laughing up her sleeve at us.’
Ambrose was shocked. He was used to a different Patterson, a man who wore his Christianity with subtlety, a man who wasn’t afraid of showing compassion. His bitterness at being passed over had stripped away all his admirable qualities. ‘Carol Jordan had a front-row seat the last time Vance went on the rampage. She’s not going to be doing any kind of laughing any time soon,’ he growled. He wasn’t even going to dignify his comment with the usual, ‘With respect, sir.’
Patterson glared at him. ‘I know that, Sergeant. All the more reason she’ll be on our case.’
Ambrose was spared having to reply by the arrival at his desk of a weary-looking uniformed constable clutching a bundle of paper. ‘I’ve got something on the taxi,’ he said, too tired for enthusiasm.
Patterson sat upright and beckoned the constable. ‘Let’s see it, then.’
‘We’ve found it here in the city,’ he said. ‘It’s turned up in the Crowngate car park.’
‘Good work,’ Patterson said. ‘Alvin, get a forensics team over there to give it the once-over.’
‘That’s already been actioned,’ the constable said, flushing at Patterson’s glare. ‘The chief super was in the control room when the report came in. He actioned it, sir.’
‘Typical,’ Patterson muttered. ‘The one chance we get to look like we’re doing something and the brass nick it.’
‘As long as somebody’s chasing it up,’ Ambrose muttered.
‘We’ve been backtracking it on the cameras,’ the constable carried on uncertainly. ‘We found it entering the parking structure at 9.43 p.m. So we worked back through the road and traffic-light cams. We think whoever drove it into the city nicked it from the car park on the M42 services. Because, see, we checked back on their cameras, and it was parked there mid-morning. It’s hard to see much of the driver, but it could be Vance with a baseball cap on. You can see he’s got tattoos on his arms … ’ As he spoke, he splayed camera stills over the desk. ‘Then he puts on a jacket and walks away. Hours later, a completely different bloke comes down the line of cars. See? It’s hard to be sure, but it looks like he’s trying the doors. And he’s a completely different height and build to the guy who parked it.’
‘Lovely,’ Ambrose said. ‘Cracking job. Can we see where Vance went after he parked the car?’
‘Not so far. He either went to another car, or inside the services building or to the motel. That’s his only choices. We’re working on all the footage right now. Everybody’s being really helpful for once.’
‘Nobody likes a serial killer,’ Ambrose said. Re-energised by the new information, he jumped to his feet. ‘I’m going out there right now with a team. Print me out a sheaf of those shots. And keep me posted with whatever you find out about Vance.’ He looked a question at Patterson, who shook his head.
‘Just send a team, Sergeant. You need to be here, keeping an eye on things.’
‘But sir—’
‘You’re wasted out there. That’s a job for foot soldiers, not for anybody who wants to make a good impression on the new regime.’
Ambrose felt the urge to punch Patterson on the nose, to knock some sense into a man who had taught him much of what he understood about being a good detective. If this was what thwarted ambition did to a man, God spare him from that particular lust. Deflated, he sat down again. ‘Good job,’ he said to the constable. ‘Keep me in the loop.’ Then he reached for the phone. ‘I’d better get a team organised, then.’
‘You better had,’ Patterson said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll be in the canteen.’
There were two lap-dancing clubs within easy cycling distance of Bradfield International Airport. Both denied ever having employed Leanne Considine. Both managers were stony-faced, clearly well-practised in the art of giving nothing away to law enforcement. After the second knock-back, Sam and Kevin sat in the car grumbling at each other, neither coming up with anything more constructive than waiting in the car park till the girls started coming out. ‘They won’t talk to us,’ Sam said gloomily. ‘We’re going to be sat here for hours, all for nothing.’
‘That’s even supposing it was this club she worked at. We could be totally wasting our time here. There’s a burger van about a mile down the road. We could fuel up to keep us going while we wait.’
Sam sighed. It wasn’t his idea of a good time, but anything was better than sitting here doing nothing. Kevin started the engine and headed for the exit. Sam kept his eye on the club and just as they were about to turn on to the main road, he yelped, ‘Wait! Back up!’
Kevin jammed on the brakes, throwing them both against their seat belts. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Just back up, slowly.’
‘What is it?’ Kevin said, easing the car back towards a parking slot.
‘We’re idiots,’ Sam said, flicking through the photos Jamie had printed for them.
‘Speak for yourself.’
‘Her bike,’ Sam said, pulling out the shot of Leanne with her bike. ‘She rode her bike to work. Remember what Tara said?’
‘So?’
‘So the bike should still be where she left it. And I’m sure I saw a bike in the headlights as you turned. I’m going for a closer look.’
‘Please yourself,’ Kevin said. ‘Give me a shout if you’re right.’
Sam scrambled out of the car and ran across to the back of the club. The building was a U-shaped single-storey brick structure with all the imagination of a five-year-old’s Lego construction. A wooden fence linked the two arms of the U, forming an enclosed back yard where industrial skips for bottles and rubbish were stowed. The gate stood ajar, and it was through the gap that Sam thought he’d glimpsed a bike.
He slipped inside and saw at once he’d been right. The car headlights had caught the reflective fixtures on the back wheel and mudguard; the bike itself was tucked in behind one of the skips, chained to the fence with a heavy-duty chain. Sam compared it to the one in the photo. It was hard to be sure in the limited light, but he thought they matched. He was about to walk back to the car with the news when he heard a door sigh open then click closed nearby. He heard the snap an
d flare of a cigarette lighter and risked a peek round the edge of the skip.
In the glow of the cigarette, he could see the hard-faced bitch who’d given him and Kevin their marching orders. Sam glanced back to the car. Kevin was leaning against the head rest. He looked like he was taking a nap. It was just Sam and the woman. He considered for a moment. Sam was always driven by what would produce the best result for Sam. Normally, that didn’t include monstering a witness, because there were usually other people around to testify to his bad behaviour. But out here in the dark, behind a dodgy club, it would be his word against hers. And who was the credible one here? She’d already lied to him and Kevin, so he reckoned he was on solid ground.
Light on his feet, he edged round the skips so that he came up behind the woman. He was close enough to smell the heavy musk of her perfume, cut with the cigarette smoke, and still she was oblivious. Swift and sure, he snaked his arm round her throat and jerked her backwards. She stumbled into him, he shifted his hand over her mouth and with his other hand ripped her cigarette from her fingers. No nasty little burns for him.
She was wriggling and struggling, so he wrapped his other arm round her. ‘See how easy it is?’ he hissed into her ear. ‘You come out for a smoke, and there’s an evil fucker waiting for you. That’s what happened to Leanne. Or something very like that.’ He pushed her away, using a perversion of a dance move to swing her around facing him. His other arm pinned her to the wall.
