by Val McDermid
There was a long silence. Shaz let it stretch, even though her nerves were stretching to breaking point with it. Finally, Chris caved in. ‘If I don’t, you’ll just go somewhere else, won’t you?’
‘I have to, Chris. If I’m right, somebody’s killing kids. I can’t ignore that.’
‘It’s if you’re wrong I’m worried about, doll. You want me to come with you, give you a bit of back-up, make it look more official?’
It was tempting. ‘I don’t think so,’ Shaz said slowly. ‘If I end up going down in flames, I don’t want to take you with me. But there is something you could do.’
Chris groaned. ‘Not if it involves a library.’
‘You could cover my back. I’ll probably need to give a ring-back number. People like him, they don’t take anything on trust. Only, we can’t take phone calls on the course because we’re always in lectures or group sessions or whatever. If I could use your office number, at least he’s going to be getting a police phone if he calls back to check me out.’
‘You got it,’ Chris sighed. ‘Give me five minutes.’
Shaz endured the wait stoically. There were times when she envied smokers, though not enough to start. She stared at the second hand of her watch, tightening her lips as it swept into the sixth minute. When the phone rang, she grabbed it before the end of the first peal.
‘Got a pen?’ Chris said.
‘Yeah.’
‘Here you go, then.’ She recited the supposedly secret unlisted number she’d wheedled out of the desk officer at Notting Hill police station. ‘You didn’t get it from me.’
‘Thanks, Chris. I owe you.’
‘More than you’ll ever pay, unfortunately,’ Chris said ruefully. ‘Hang loose, doll. Talk to you soon.’
‘I’ll keep you posted. Bye.’ Shaz contemplated the piece of paper with a quiet smile of triumph. Here I come, ready or not, she thought, reaching for the phone again. Half past eight wasn’t too early to call.
The number rang out a couple of times, then an automated voice told Shaz, ‘Your call is being diverted.’ A series of clicks, a hollow sound, then the distinctive warble of a mobile phone ringing. ‘Hello?’ The answering voice was instantly recognizable. Shaz found it disconcerting to have what normally came from the TV issuing from her phone, especially since it wasn’t the voice she expected.
‘Ms Morgan?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Speaking. Who is this?’
‘I’m Detective Constable Sharon Bowman of the Metropolitan Police. I’m sorry to trouble you, but I need to speak to your husband.’
‘I’m afraid he’s not at home just now. Nor am I. You’ve actually come through on the wrong line. This is my personal line. His is a different number.’
Shaz felt a blush creeping up her neck. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’
‘No problem. Is it something I can help you with, officer?’
‘I don’t think so, Ms Morgan. Unless you could possibly give me a number where I can reach him?’
Micky hesitated. ‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. I could pass a message on, if that would do?’
It would have to, Shaz thought grimly. The rich really did do things differently. Just as well she’d already made the arrangement with Chris. ‘I think he might have some background information relating to an inquiry we’re pursuing. I realize he’s a very busy man, but I can meet him any time tomorrow, wherever and whenever suits him. Now, I’m going to be out of the office for the rest of the day, so if he could ring this number…’ she dictated Chris’s direct line. ‘And ask to speak to Sergeant Devine. He can make the arrangements with her.’
Micky read the number back to her. ‘That right? Tomorrow? Fine, DC Bowman, I’ll pass the message on to him.’
‘Sorry to have intruded,’ Shaz said gruffly.
The familiar chuckle came down the line. ‘Think nothing of it. I’m always delighted to help the police. But you’ll know that, if you ever see the programme.’
It was so obviously an opening that Shaz couldn’t resist. ‘It’s a terrific show. I watch you whenever I can.’
‘Flattery will always get your messages delivered,’ Micky said, her voice as seductive as it always managed to be at noon.
‘I look forward to hearing from Mr Vance,’ Shaz said. She’d never meant anything more in her life.
Pauline Doyle stared at the empty frame on top of the television. The officers who had visited her the night of Donna’s disappearance had taken the photograph to have some copies made. They’d seemed concerned about Donna, asking a lot of questions about her friends and her school, whether she had a boyfriend, what she liked to do on a weekend. When they’d eventually left with the photo and a description of Donna, she felt they’d helped her keep hysteria at bay. All her instincts were to run through the midnight streets crying her daughter’s name, but the composed responses of the two uniformed officers who had filled her kitchen had soothed her, made her understand this was not the time to act on irrational impulses. ‘Best stop here,’ the older man had said. ‘If she tries to phone home, you don’t want her missing you. Leave it to us to look for her. We’re the experts, we know what we’re about.’
The woman who’d come the following morning had undermined those reassurances. She’d persuaded Pauline to do a detailed audit of Donna’s possessions. When they’d established the absence of Donna’s favourite dance outfit – a short black Lycra skirt, a body-hugging black-and-white striped T-shirt with a scoop neck and black patent leather Doc Marten’s – the detective had visibly relaxed. Pauline understood why. In the eyes of the police, the missing clothes meant just another teenage runaway. They could relax now, stop worrying about their earlier assumption that they might well be looking for a body.
How could she explain in a way that they’d understand? How could she make them see that Donna had neither need nor reason to run away? She hadn’t fallen out with Pauline. Quite the opposite. They were close, closer than most women managed to stay to their teenage daughters. Bernard’s death had driven them to each other for comfort and they’d continued to share their confidences. Pauline clenched her eyes shut and sent a fierce supplication to the Virgin she’d lost faith in years before. The police wouldn’t listen; what harm could it do to pray?
The dawn came up on her left-hand side to road noise and the sound of her own voice. All the way down the M1, Shaz practised the interview. She’d always envied lawyers the comfort of only asking questions to which they knew the answers. To face a professional without role-playing and exploring every possible response would have been madness, so she drove on automatic pilot, rehearsing her questions and the imagined replies. By the time she arrived in West London, she was as ready as she’d ever be. Either he’d let something slip, which she doubted he’d be amateur enough to do, or else she’d panic him into some subsequent action that would confirm everything she’d worked out for herself. Or she might be wrong and the others right and he might simply point her in the direction of a fanatical devotee that he’d spotted with the putative victims. It would be an anti-climax, but one she could live with if it saved lives and put a killer behind bars.
That she might be putting herself at risk never seriously occurred to her in spite of Chris Devine’s warnings. At twenty-four, Shaz had no intimations of mortality. Even three years in the police, with the occasional assaults and regular dangers, hadn’t dented her sense of invincibility. Besides, people who lived in Holland Park mansions didn’t attack police officers. Especially not when it was their wife who’d made the appointment.
Early as usual, Shaz ignored the instructions to park on their drive that had been passed on to her. Instead, she found a meter in Notting Hill and walked down into Holland Park, strolling down the street where they lived. Carefully counting the numbers, Shaz identified the house belonging to Jacko and Micky. It was hard to believe that somewhere so huge in the heart of Central London was still dedicated to only one household, but Shaz knew from her backgr
ound reading that this was no mansion split into flats. It was all for Jacko and Micky, the only live-in staff, Micky’s long-standing personal assistant Betsy Thorne. Gobsmacking, Shaz thought as she passed the wedding cake white house with its flawless facade. She couldn’t see much of the garden, shielded from the world by tall, clipped variegated laurel hedges, but the section beyond the electronic gates appeared to be as immaculate as an exhibit at the Chelsea Flower Show. Shaz felt a momentary doubt in the pit of her stomach. How could she suspect the tenant of such a jewel of the hideous crimes her imagination had constructed? People like this didn’t do things like that, did they?
Biting her lip in anger at her lack of self-belief, Shaz turned on her heel and marched back to her car, determination building with the very rhythm of her stride. He was a criminal and when she’d finished with him, the whole world would know it. It took her less than five minutes to drive back to the house and turn into the gateway. She wound down her window and pressed the speaker box. ‘DC Bowman to see Mr Vance,’ she said firmly.
The gates swung open with a low electric hum and Shaz advanced into what she couldn’t help thinking of as enemy territory. Not sure where to leave her car, she opted to avoid blocking the double garage and followed the drive round to the other side of the house, past a Range Rover parked by the front steps, and stopped alongside a silver Mercedes convertible. She turned off the engine and sat for a moment, gathering her energies and focusing on her objective. ‘Just do it,’ she finally said, her voice low and tough.
She ran up the steps to the front door and pushed the bell. Almost instantaneously, the door swung open and Micky Morgan’s face smiled down at her, familiar as family. ‘Detective Constable Bowman,’ she said, stepping back and waving Shaz inside. ‘Come in. I was just leaving.’ Micky extended an arm to one side, indicating a middle-aged woman with grey-streaked hair pulled loosely back in a heavy plait. ‘This is Betsy Thorne, my PA. We’re off to catch Le Shuttle.’
‘An overnight break in Le Touquet,’ Betsy amplified.
‘Lots of seafood and a flutter in the casino,’ Micky added, reaching over to take a leather holdall from Betsy. ‘Jacko’s expecting you. He’s just finishing a phone call. If you take that first door on the left, he’ll be with you in a minute.’
Shaz finally managed to get a word in. ‘Thanks,’ she said. Micky and Betsy hovered on the doorstep, till Shaz realized they weren’t going to close the door until they were certain she was in the correct place. With an awkward smile, Shaz nodded and walked through the open door Micky had indicated. Only when she’d disappeared from sight did she hear the front door closing. Moving to the window, she saw the women climb into the Range Rover.
‘DC Bowman?’
Shaz whirled around. She hadn’t heard anyone enter. Across the room, smaller in life than he appeared on TV, Jacko Vance smiled. Fuelled by her imagination, Shaz saw the grin of the panther just before its prey becomes a carcass. She wondered if she was face to face with her first serial killer. If so, she hoped he didn’t realize he was seeing Nemesis.
* * *
Her eyes were extraordinary. From behind, she’d looked so average. Brown hair brushing the collar of a tailored dark navy blazer over blue jeans and tan deck shoes. Nothing you’d glance at twice in a crowded bar. But when he startled her into turning round, the blaze of her blue eyes converted her into an entirely different creature. Vance felt a tingle of apprehension coupled with a strange sense of satisfaction. Whatever she was after, this woman wasn’t a nobody. She was an adversary. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said, his voice the familiar TV caress.
‘I was early,’ she said neutrally.
Vance walked towards her, stopping when there was about six feet between them. ‘Have a seat, officer,’ he said, indicating the sofa behind her.
‘Thanks,’ Shaz said, ignoring his instruction and moving instead to the very armchair he’d planned to occupy. He’d chosen it because the seat was higher and the light was behind it. He’d intended to place her at a disadvantage, but she’d turned the tables. Irritation stung him like an insect bite and rather than sitting down himself, he moved over to the fireplace and leaned against the ornately carved overmantel. He stared across at her, his silence demanding that she open the bidding.
‘I appreciate you making the time to see me,’ she said after a long moment. ‘I realize how busy you are.’
‘You didn’t leave me much option. Besides, I’m always happy to be of assistance to the police. Your Deputy Commissioner could fill you in on the details of the number of times I’ve helped police charities.’ The smile never left his voice but didn’t make it to his eyes.
The blue stare didn’t blink. ‘I’m sure he could, sir.’
‘Which reminds me. Your warrant card?’ Vance didn’t move, forcing Shaz to get up and cross the room once she’d taken out the wallet that contained her police credentials. ‘I can’t believe we’d be so careless,’ Vance said conversationally as she approached. ‘Letting a stranger across the door without checking she was who she claimed to be.’ He gave her Metropolitan Police warrant card a perfunctory glance. ‘There’s another one, isn’t there?’
‘I’m sorry? This is the only card Metropolitan Police officers are issued with. It’s our ID,’ Shaz said, face giving nothing away of the alarm bells ringing in her head, telling her he knew too much and she should clear out while the going was good.
Vance’s lips seemed to shrink as his smile became more vulpine. Time to show her who held the cards, he decided. ‘But you’re not with the Met any longer, are you, DC Bowman? You see, you’re not the only one who’s done their homework. You have done your homework?’
‘I am still an officer of the Metropolitan Police,’ Shaz said firmly. ‘Anyone who has told you different is mistaken, sir.’
He pounced. ‘But you’re not based in the Met’s area, are you? You’re on attachment to a special unit. Why don’t you show me your current ID so that I know you are who you say you are and we can get down to business?’ Careful, he told himself, don’t get carried away just because you’re so much smarter than her. You don’t know yet what she’s doing here. He shrugged winningly, his eyebrows lifting. ‘I don’t mean to be difficult, but a man in my position can’t be too careful.’
Shaz looked him up and down, her face a mask. ‘That’s very true,’ she said, producing her National Profiling Task Force ID, complete with photograph. He reached out for it, but she moved it out of his grasp.
‘I’ve not seen one of those before,’ he said chattily, hiding his frustration at not being able to glimpse more than a logo and the word ‘profiling’, which had leapt out like a burning brand. ‘The profiling task force we’ve all read so much about, eh? Once you’re actually up and running, you should get one of your experienced officers to go on my wife’s programme, tell the people what’s being done to protect them.’ Now she’d know he knew she was an absolute beginner.
‘That wouldn’t be my decision, sir.’ Shaz deliberately turned her back on him and walked back to the chair. ‘Now, if we could get down to business?’
‘Of course.’ He spread his left arm in an expansive gesture without making a move towards a chair. ‘I’m at your disposal, DC Bowman. Perhaps we could start with you telling me exactly what this is all about.’
‘We’ve reopened the cases of a group of missing teenage girls,’ Shaz said, opening the folder she was carrying. ‘Initially, we have identified seven cases with strong similarities. The cases cover a period of six years, and we will be expanding our inquiries to see whether there are other cases with common features that we haven’t pinpointed yet.’
‘I don’t quite see what I…’ Vance frowned convincingly. ‘Teenage girls?’
‘Fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds,’ Shaz said firmly. ‘I can’t go into the precise details that have linked these cases, but we have grounds for believing they may be connected.’
‘You mean, they’re not just run-of-the-mill runaways
?’ he asked, sounding perplexed.
‘We have reason to believe their disappearances were planned by a third party,’ Shaz said cautiously, never shifting her eyes from his face. The intensity of her gaze made him uncomfortable. He wanted to edge away from her stare, to fidget his way out of her eyeline. But he forced himself to keep his pose casual.
‘Kidnapped, is that what you’re saying?’
Her eyebrows and a slight movement of her head indicated a shrug. ‘I’m not in a position to release any more information,’ she said with a sudden smile.
‘Fine, but you’re still not making much sense. What has a bunch of missing teenagers got to do with me?’ He made his voice sound a little edgy. It wasn’t hard to do; there was plenty of nervous tension buzzing in his veins to draw on.
Shaz flipped open her folder and drew out a sheaf of photocopied photographs. ‘In every case, a couple of days before the girls disappeared, you’d made a public appearance or taken part in a charity event in the towns where they lived. We have reason to believe that each of the girls attended the occasion.’
He could feel the red tide rising up his neck. He was powerless to stop the flush of anger as it climbed into his face. It was an effort to keep himself calm and his voice level. ‘Hundreds of people come to my events,’ he said evenly, his voice a fraction husky to his ears. ‘Statistically, some of them must go missing. All the time.’
Shaz cocked her head, as if she’d also picked up on a change in his tone. She looked like a hunting dog who’s just had the faintest whiff of what might possibly be a rabbit. ‘I know. I’m sorry we have to bother you with this. It’s just that my boss thinks there’s an outside possibility that either someone in your entourage or possibly someone who’s got an unhealthy interest in you might conceivably be involved in the disappearance of those girls.’
‘You mean, you think I’ve got a stalker who’s capturing my fans?’ This time, he found it wasn’t hard to sound incredulous. As a cover story, it was ridiculous. An imbecile could see that the person she was really interested in wasn’t some crazy, nor a member of his entourage. It was him. He could tell by her eyes, obsessively fixed on him, recording his every move, noticing the faint sheen of sweat he could feel on his forehead. And her talk of a boss was just as evidently a bluff. She was a lone wolf, like him. He could smell it on her.
