by Val McDermid
‘I don’t see how it could be,’ Wharton said dismissively. ‘She’s never worked any cases up here, has she? You lot aren’t catching live ones yet, so she’s not had the chance to get up some local nutter’s nose.’
‘Even though we’re not catching new cases, we’ve been working on some genuine old ones. Shaz came up with a theory the other day about a previously unidentified serial killer…’
‘The Jacko Vance story?’ Wharton couldn’t stop the snigger. ‘We’ve all had a good laugh about that one.’
Tony’s face tightened. ‘You shouldn’t have heard anything about it. Who let that out of the bag?’
‘Nay, Doc, I’m not for dropping anybody else in it. Besides, you know there are no secrets in a nick. That were too good a joke to keep a secret. Jacko Vance, serial killer. It’ll be the Queen Mum next!’ He spluttered with laughter and clapped Tony indulgently on the shoulder. ‘Face it, Doc, chances are you picked a wrong ’un when you co-opted the boyfriend. You don’t need me to tell you that nine times out of ten we never end up looking beyond whoever the stiff’s been shagging.’ He raised a speculative eyebrow. ‘Not to mention the person who finds the body.’
Tony snorted derisively. ‘You’ll be wasting your time if you try pinning it on Simon McNeill. He hasn’t done this.’
Wharton turned to face Tony, pulling a Marlboro out of its pack with his teeth. He caught it in his lips and lit it with a throwaway lighter. ‘I heard you lecture once, Doc,’ he said. ‘Over in Manchester. You said the best hunters were the ones who were most like the prey. Two sides of the same coin, you said. I reckon you were right. Only, one of your hunters has gone native on you.’
* * *
Jacko flapped a dismissive hand at his PA and hit a button on the remote control. His wife’s face filled the king-size TV screen as she handed her audience over to the newsroom for the midday headlines. Still nothing. The longer the better, he couldn’t help thinking. The less accurate the pathologist could be about the time of death, the further it could be distanced from the stupid cow’s visit to his home. As he killed the TV picture and turned to the script in front of him, he wondered momentarily what it must be like to have the sort of life where no one would notice you’d been lying dead for a couple of days. It was never likely to happen to him, he thought, self-satisfied as ever. It had been a very long time since he’d been that insignificant in anyone’s life.
Even his mother would have noticed if he’d disappeared. She might well have been delighted at the prospect, but she’d have at least noticed. He wondered how Donna Doyle’s mother was reacting to the disappearance of her daughter. He’d seen nothing on the news, but there was no reason why she should cause more of a stir than any of the others.
He’d made them pay, all of them, for what had been done to him. He knew he couldn’t take it out on the one who deserved it; it would be too obvious, the finger pointing straight at him. But he could find surrogate Jillies all over the place, looking just as ripe and delicious as she’d been when he’d first pinned her to the ground and felt her virginity surrender to his power. He could make them understand what he’d been through, feel what he’d felt in ways that the treacherous bitch had never comprehended. His girls could never abandon him; he was the one with power over life and death. And he could make them discharge her debt over and over again.
Once, he had believed that there would come an occasion when these surrogate deaths would have purged him for good. But the catharsis never lasted. Always, the need came creeping back.
Lucky he’d got it off to such a fine art, really. All those years, all those deaths, and only one off-the-wall maverick cop had ever suspected.
Jacko smiled a very private smile, one his fans never saw. The means of payment had had to be different for Shaz Bowman. But they’d been satisfying, nonetheless. It made him wonder if it might not be the time to ring a few changes.
It never did to become a slave to routine.
* * *
Frustration drove Tony up the stairs two at a time. No one would let him near Simon. Colin Wharton was stonewalling, claiming he didn’t have the authority to allow Tony to collaborate on the investigation. Paul Bishop was out of the building at one of his interminable and ever-convenient meetings, and the Divisional Chief Superintendent was allegedly too busy to see Tony.
He threw open the door of the seminar room, expecting to see the four remaining members of his task force engaged in some meaningful activity. Instead, Carol Jordan looked up from the file of papers in front of her. ‘I was beginning to think I’d got the day wrong,’ she said.
‘Ah, Carol,’ Tony sighed, subsiding into the nearest chair. ‘I completely forgot you were coming back this afternoon.’
‘Looks like you weren’t the only one,’ she said drily, gesturing at the remaining empty seats. ‘Where’s the rest of the team? Playing truant?’
‘Nobody’s told you, have they?’ Tony said, looking up at her with angry eyes in a pained face.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked, her chest constricting. What had happened now to drill more anguish into him?
‘You remember Shaz Bowman?’
Carol nodded with a rueful smile. ‘Ambition on legs. Blazing blue eyes, uses her ears and mouth in the correct proportion of two to one.’
Tony winced. ‘Not any more she doesn’t.’
‘What’s happened to her?’ The concern in Carol’s voice was still more for Tony than for Shaz.
He swallowed and closed his eyes, summoning the picture of her death and forcing all emotion out of his voice. ‘A psychopath happened to her. Somebody who thought it would be entertaining to gouge out those blazing blue eyes and chop off those wide-open ears and pour something so corrosive into that smart mouth that it ended up looking like multicoloured bubble gum. She’s dead, Carol. Shaz Bowman is dead.’
Carol’s face opened in incredulous horror. ‘No,’ she breathed. She was silent for a long moment. ‘That’s terrible,’ she finally said. ‘So much life in her.’
‘She was the best of the bunch. Desperate to be the best. And she wasn’t arrogant with it. She could work with the others without making it obvious that she was the racehorse among the donkeys. What he did to her, it went straight to the heart of who she was.’
‘Why?’ As she had done so often in their previous case, Carol picked the important question.
‘He left her with a computer print-out. A drawing and an encyclopaedia entry about the three wise monkeys,’ Tony said.
Understanding flashed into Carol’s eyes, followed swiftly by a confused frown. ‘You don’t seriously think … That theory she came out with the other day? It can’t be anything to do with that, can it?’
Tony rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. ‘I keep coming back to it. What else is there? The only live case we’ve had anything to do with is your arsonist, and none of them came up with enough to threaten anyone.’
‘But Jacko Vance?’ Carol shook her head. ‘Surely you can’t believe that? Grannies from Land’s End to John O’Groats dote on him. Half the women I know think he’s as sexy as Sean Connery.’
‘And you? What do you think?’ Tony asked. There was no innuendo in the question.
Carol turned the question over in her mind, making sure she had the right words before she spoke. ‘I wouldn’t trust him,’ she eventually said. ‘He’s too glossy. Non-stick. Nothing leaves a lasting impact. He’ll be charming, sympathetic, warm, understanding. But as soon as he moves on to the next interview, it’s like the previous encounter never happened. Having said that…’
‘You’d never have thought of him as a serial killer,’ Tony said flatly. ‘Me neither. There are some people in public life that you wouldn’t feel overly surprised to see on a fistful of murder charges. Jacko Vance isn’t one of them.’
They sat in silence facing each other across the room. ‘It might not be him,’ Carol said at last. ‘What about somebody in his entourage? A driver, a minder, a researcher. One
of those hangers-on, what do they call them?’
‘Go-fers.’
‘Yeah, go-fers, right.’
‘But that still doesn’t answer your question. Why?’ Tony pushed himself to his feet and started pacing out the perimeter of the room. ‘I don’t see how anything she said in here could conceivably have made it into Jacko Vance’s circles. So how did our theoretical killer know she was on to him?’
Carol swung round awkwardly in her chair so she could watch him as he crossed behind her. ‘She wanted to be a glory girl, Tony. I don’t think she was ready to let it drop. I think she decided to follow up her idea. And one way or another, she alerted the killer.’
Tony reached the corner and stopped. ‘Do you know…’ was all he had time for before the door opened on Detective Chief Superintendent Dougal McCormick. His bulky shoulders almost filled the frame.
An Aberdonian, he resembled one of the black Aberdeen Angus cattle from his native territory: black curls tumbling over a broad forehead, liquid dark eyes always on the lookout for the red rag, wide cheekbones seeming to drag his fleshy nose across his face, full lips always moist. The only incongruity was his voice. Where a deep roar should have rumbled in his chest, a melodious light tenor emerged. ‘Dr Hill,’ he said, closing the door behind him without looking at it. His eyes flickered in Carol’s direction then looked a question at Tony.
‘DCS McCormick, this is DCI Carol Jordan from the East Yorkshire force. We’re helping her with an arson inquiry,’ Tony said.
Carol stood up. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’
McCormick’s nod was almost imperceptible. ‘If you’d excuse us, I need a moment with Dr Hill,’ he said.
Carol knew when she was being dismissed. ‘I’ll wait down in the canteen.’
‘Dr Hill won’t be staying on the premises,’ McCormick said. ‘You’d do better to wait in the car park.’
Carol’s eyes widened, but she simply said, ‘Very well, sir. I’ll see you outside, Tony.’
As soon as Carol had closed the door behind her, Tony rounded on McCormick. ‘And what exactly do you mean by that, Mr McCormick?’
‘What I said. This is my division and I’m running a murder inquiry. A police officer has been … destroyed, and it’s my job to find out who’s responsible. There’s no sign of forcible entry in Sharon Bowman’s flat and, by all accounts, she was no fool. So the chances are she knew her killer. And as far as I know at this point in time, the only people Sharon Bowman knew in Leeds were her fellow officers in the task force, and you, Dr Hill.’
‘Shaz,’ Tony interrupted. ‘She hated being called Sharon. Shaz, that’s what she was called.’
‘Shaz, Sharon, whatever, it makes little difference now.’ McCormick brushed the objection aside with all the casual grace of a bull flicking its tail at a fly. ‘The point is that you people are the only ones she’d have let in. So I don’t want you talking to each other until my murder squad officers have had a chance to interview each and every one of you. Until further notice, this task force is suspended. You will not be authorized to occupy police premises and you are not to communicate with each other. I’ve already discussed this with Commander Bishop and the Home Office, and we’re all agreed that’s the appropriate path to go down. Is that clear?’
Tony shook his head. It was all too much. Shaz was dead, horribly dead. And now McCormick wanted to arrest one of the handful of people who might actually be able to provide a way through to her killer. ‘You might, by some stretch of the imagination, have authority over the officers in my squad. But I’m not a police officer, McCormick. I don’t answer to you. You should be using our talents, not pissing on us. We can help, man, can’t you understand that?’
‘Help?’ McCormick’s voice was scornful. ‘Help? What were you planning on doing? I’ve heard some of the daft ideas your lot have come up with. My men are going to be chasing leads, hot jokes. Jacko Vance, for heaven’s sake. You’ll be asking us to arrest Sooty next.’
‘We’re on the same side,’ Tony said, smudges of scarlet rising across his cheekbones.
‘Maybe so, but some kinds of help turn out to be more of a hindrance. I want you out of here now, and I don’t want you bothering my men. You will report back to this station at ten tomorrow morning so that my officers can interview you formally about Sharon Bowman. Have I made myself clear, Dr Hill?’
‘Listen, I can help you here. I understand killers; I know why they do the things they do.’
‘It’s not hard to work that out. They’re sick in the head, that’s why.’
‘Granted, but they’re all sick in the head in their own particular ways,’ Tony said. ‘This one, for example. I bet he didn’t assault her sexually, did he?’
McCormick frowned. ‘How did you know about that?’
Tony ran a hand through his hair and spoke passionately. ‘I didn’t know in the sense of being told. I know because I can read things in a crime scene that your men can’t. This wasn’t a run-of-the-mill sexual homicide, Superintendent, this was a deliberate message to us that this killer thinks he’s so far ahead of us he’s never going to be caught. I can help you catch him.’
‘Sounds to me like you’re more interested in covering up for your own,’ McCormick said, shaking his head. ‘You’ve picked up some information at the scene of the crime and turned it into some fancy theory. It’ll take more than that to convince me. And I haven’t got time to wait till you pick up the next bit of gossip. As far as this station’s concerned, you’re history. And your bosses at the Home Office agree with me.’
Fury drove Tony’s normal tools of flattery and appeasement underground. ‘You are making one hell of a mistake, McCormick,’ he said, his voice rough with anger.
The big detective gave a snort of laughter, ‘I’ll take that risk, son.’ He gestured with his thumb towards the door. ‘Away you go, now.’
Realizing he couldn’t win on this battleground, Tony bit down hard on the flesh of his cheek. The flavour of humiliation was the coppery taste of fresh blood. Defiantly, he walked over to his locker and pulled out his briefcase, filling it with the missing person files and the squad’s analyses. Snapping the lock shut, he turned on his heel and walked out. On his way through the police station, officers fell silent as he passed. He was thankful that Carol wasn’t there to witness his rout. She would never have been able to keep the silence that was his only remaining weapon.
As the front door swung shut behind him, he heard an unidentifiable voice behind him call out, ‘Bloody good riddance.’
In a rare moment of lucidity in the ocean of pain, Donna Doyle contemplated her brief life and the foolish trust that had brought her to this place. Regret swelled inside her like a strange tumour, devouring everything it encountered. One mistake, one attempt to follow the rainbow to the pot of gold, one act of faith that was no more preposterous than the one the priest talked about every Sunday, and here she was. Once upon a time, she’d have said she’d do anything for a chance at stardom. Now she knew it wasn’t true.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t as if she’d just wanted to be famous for herself. With the fame would have come money, so her mum wouldn’t have had to scrimp and save and worry about every penny like she’d had to all the time since Dad had died. Donna had wanted it to be a surprise, a wonderful, wicked, exciting surprise. Now it would never happen. Even if she got out of here, she knew she wasn’t going to be a star, not ever. She might be famous for fifteen minutes, like the song said, but not for being a one-armed TV star like Jacko Vance. Even if they found her, she was finished.
They could still find her, she told herself. She wasn’t just whistling in the dark, she thought defiantly. They’d be looking for her by now, surely. Her mum would have gone to the police, her picture would be in the papers, maybe even on the telly. People all over the country would see her and search their memory. Somebody would remember her. There had been loads of people on the trains. Half a dozen other passengers had got off with her at Five Walls Halt
. At least one of them must have noticed her. All dolled up in her best outfit, she knew she looked tasty. Surely the police would be asking questions, working out whose Land Rover she’d got into? Wouldn’t they?
She groaned. In her heart, she knew this would be the last place she would lie. Alone in her tomb, Donna Doyle wept.
Tony sat hunched forward in the armchair, staring into the flickering gas flames of the fake hearth. He was still nursing the same glass of Theakston’s he’d had since they’d arrived back at Carol’s cottage. She’d refused to take no for an answer. He’d had a shock, he needed someone to discuss the case with, and she needed his input on her arsonist. She had a cat to feed, he had none, so logically their destination should be an hour down the motorway to the outskirts of Seaford.
Since they’d arrived, he’d said barely a word. He’d sat with his eyes on the fire and his mind projecting the film of Shaz Bowman’s death. Carol had left him alone, taking the chance to throw together a packet of chicken breasts from the freezer, a couple of chopped onions and a jar of ready-made cider and apple sauce. She’d put the result into the oven with a couple of baking potatoes and left it on a low heat while she made up the guest bedroom. She knew there was little point in expecting anything more or less from Tony.
She poured herself a large gin and tonic, adding a couple of chunks of frozen lemon, and returned to the living room. Without saying anything, she tucked her legs under her and let the armchair opposite his swallow her up. Between them, Nelson lay stretched out like a long black hearth rug.
Tony looked up at Carol and managed a faint smile. ‘Thanks for the peace and quiet,’ he said. ‘It has a very welcoming ambience, your cottage.’
‘That’s one of the reasons why I bought it. That and the view. I’m glad you like it.’
‘I … I keep imagining it,’ he said. ‘The process. Tying her up, gagging her. Torturing her with the knowledge that she wasn’t going to get out of it alive, not knowing what she knew.’
