by Val McDermid
The orderly put a hand on his elbow to steady him. ‘It’s OK, Doc. You’re here to see Tyler, right?’
That’s right. He’s not changed his mind, has he?’ he asked, seized by a sudden apprehension.
The orderly shrugged. ‘Who knows? Tyler’s not saying. Your boss had a crack at him last night and got nowhere.’
‘Dr Hart spoke to him last night?’
The orderly nodded. ‘Soon as he got the message, he was out here, telling Tyler that he might as well save everybody’s time by talking to him instead of you.’
Politics, Tony thought bitterly. He wants the glory of getting Tyler to talk. He spread his hands in a gesture of innocence and opened the door of the observation room. Hart was already there, lounging in a chair, one ankle balanced on the other knee. ‘Glad you could make it,’ he said.
‘Traffic,’ Tony said. ‘Fog.’
‘Yes, I was glad I set off quarter of an hour earlier than usual,’ Hart said smugly. ‘Well, this is a bit of a turn-up for the books. I thought Tyler had put you in your place the last time you spoke. But it seems he wants to say more. How did you do it?’ He straightened up and leaned forward. He really wanted to know. But now Tony knew about Hart’s attempt to muscle in the night before, he was determined not to tell.
‘Natural charm, Aidan. Natural charm.’ Tony smiled and walked out. He was waiting in the interview room when the door opened and Derek Tyler entered. He walked with a kind of cramped stoop that made him look older than his years. The knobbly skull gleamed in the lights as he sat down opposite Tony, who gave him an encouraging look. ‘Hello, Derek,’ he said. ‘Nice to see you again.’
Nothing. But at least this time Tyler was staring at him, not acting as if there was nobody in the room other than himself. Tony stuck out his legs, crossed them at the ankle and put his hands behind his head. It was as open and relaxed a position as it was possible to adopt on a hard plastic chair. ‘So, what did you want to talk about?’
Nothing. ‘OK,’ Tony said. ‘I’ll start. I think you’re just about ready to give up. You’ve kept the faith. You’ve stayed true to the voice in your head. But now you’re wondering if there was any point in that. Like I told you when we spoke before, somebody else has taken over your job. He’s out there, doing what you were doing. And he’s cleverer than you, because he’s not been caught yet.’
Tyler blinked several times, like a matinee idol fluttering his eyelashes. His lips parted and the tip of his tongue flickered from one side to the other. But he said nothing.
‘I think the voice has given up on you.’
Tyler’s eyes narrowed and his thumbs rubbed against the tips of his index fingers.
‘Because you can’t give satisfaction any longer, can you, Derek? You can’t take these bitches off the street any more.’
Tyler shook his head. He seemed frustrated. Then his mouth opened and the words spilled out, dry and cracked. ‘I know what you’re trying to do. You don’t want to help me, you want me to help you. But you can’t take the Voice away from me. It’s mine. I only do what it tells me to. And until the Voice tells me I can talk to you, I can’t.’ He pushed his chair back and abruptly stood up. He walked to the door and knocked, a demand for release.
He didn’t look back. If he had, he would have seen a slow grin spreading across Tony’s face.
Carol leaned against the wall of the mortuary, watching Dr Vernon make his initial assessments of the remains of Jackie Mayall. The acrid traces of chemicals combined with the ripe aromas coming from the body to make her sinuses ache. At least, that was how she explained her headache to herself. Vernon was taking the scrapings from under the victim’s fingernails when Don Merrick burst through the door, looking anxious and faintly dishevelled. ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he said, his eyes hangdog. ‘The traffic was a nightmare. The fog…’
‘Same fog for all of us, Don,’ Carol said.
‘I know, but…’ His voice tailed off. He couldn’t explain that he’d miscalculated because he was unfamiliar with the traffic patterns where Paula lived. Not without explaining everything else.
‘And last night,’ Carol said, keeping her voice low so the mortuary staff wouldn’t hear her giving Merrick a bollocking. ‘What was that about? You were the senior officer on the scene and you left it to go and do a job that should be left to DCs and uniforms. When I arrived, Paula and Jan were standing around like a pair of spare parts, not knowing whether they were supposed to be working the streets or waiting for me.’
‘I told them to interview everybody else in the hotel,’ Merrick said defensively.
‘Which didn’t take them very long since only two other rooms were occupied, and by people who were more interested in their own activities than in anything else that was going on. Don, you’re not a sergeant any more. I need to know you’re on top of things when I’m not there. You can’t just walk away from the scene of a murder and expect everybody else to do the right thing.’
Merrick hung his head. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. It won’t happen again.’
‘It better not. I’ve got enough on my plate without having to worry about covering your back from above and below.’
Merrick flinched at the sharpness in Carol’s tone. He hoped the information he could provide might go some small way to redeeming himself in her eyes. ‘At least we got an address for the victim,’ he said. ‘It took a while, but we tracked her down to a bedsit in Comb Moss. We got the landlord out of bed at three this morning and turned the place over.’
Carol’s severe expression relaxed a little. ‘So what do we know?’
‘Jackie Mayall moved to Bradfield about eighteen months ago. Originally she came from Hayfield. I spoke to one of the local lads on my way in. Usual sort of story. One of four kids, parents long-term unemployed. Left school at sixteen, not much work around. She did casual shifts in one of the factories, but never managed to land a full-time job. Timekeeping wasn’t her strong point, apparently. She drifted into heroin and then into prostitution to pay for the stuff. Little place like Hayfield, it was hard to avoid getting nicked, so she moved up to the big city. The landlord says he knew she was on heroin, but he wasn’t bothered because she was no trouble as a tenant. I tell you, her bedsit was the cleanest, tidiest place I’ve ever seen a smackhead living in.’ Merrick could see it now: a neatly made double bed, a couple of cheap armchairs with brightly printed throws covering their threadbare upholstery; a spotless cooking area with a combi oven scrubbed to a gleam; clothes hanging neatly on a rail; TV and video free from dust, and half a dozen chick-lit paperbacks on the mantelpiece. It had been pitiful, really. A sad simulacrum of normal life lurking behind the chipped door in one of the poorest parts of town. ‘Not much of a life,’ he said.
Carol sighed. ‘Even so, it was still hers. And then some bastard comes along and takes it from her.’ She cleared her throat and stepped forward. ‘What do you think, Doc? Same killer?’
Vernon glanced up at her. ‘She was killed in the same way. If anything, her injuries were more severe. I’d guess that her killer used a longer implement this time. The internal damage goes deeper. Chances are she didn’t live as long as Sandie Foster. The pain must have been excruciating. She would have gone into shock fairly soon after the initial attack.’
Carol shuddered. ‘What kind of person does this?’
‘That’s a question for Dr Hill, not for me. All I can tell you is what he does, not why he does it. Except that he’s definitely getting some sort of sexual thrill from it.’
‘That’s hardly news,’ Merrick muttered.
Vernon gave him a sharp look. ‘I deal in the realms of fact, Inspector, not theory. I know he’s getting some sort of sexual thrill because there are traces of semen on Jackie Mayall’s stomach.’
The steam on the inside of the windows of Stan’s Café always made it look as if mist was hanging along the canal in Temple Fields. DS Kevin Matthews pushed the door open and went from cold fog to warm fug. He wasn’t sure it was an improve
ment. He took a folded A4 sheet of paper from his pocket and sat down at the first table by the door. The vacant-looking young man in a hooded top who was already seated there looked surprised, as if Kevin had broken some unwritten rule. Kevin unfolded the paper, revealing a computer printout taken from a snapshot of Jackie Mayall that Merrick had found in her flat. It showed Jackie raising a glass to the camera, her blonde hair bleached white by the flash. Merrick had tinkered with the photograph to get rid of the red-eye. Now it just looked as if her pupils were unnaturally dilated. ‘Probably not so far off normal,’ Sam had grunted as he’d picked up his copy and set off with Kevin to do the rounds. They’d split up, Sam taking the convenience store and the burger bar round the corner.
‘All right, mate?’ Kevin asked.
The young man nodded eagerly. ‘Yeah. I’m all right. I’m Jason.’
And you’re a few bricks short of a wall, Kevin thought, adjusting his attitude without condescending. ‘Hi, Jason, I’m Kevin. I’m a policeman.’
He held out the picture of Jackie. Jason looked at it, then raised his eyes to Kevin. ‘Why have you got a picture of Jackie? Is she your girlfriend? Have you lost her?’
‘You knew Jackie?’
‘Jackie. I know Jackie. Jackie comes in here for cups of hot chocolate.’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Jackie’s dead. She was murdered last night.’
Jason’s mouth fell open. ‘No. Not Jackie, that can’t be right. Jackie’s a nice woman. You must have made a mistake.’
Kevin shook his head. ‘No mistake, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.’
‘That doesn’t make sense. Jackie was nice,’ Jason repeated.
‘Did you ever talk to her?’
Jason looked embarrassed. ‘Not really. Not talk talk. Just “Hello, how’re you doing?”’
Before Kevin could ask more, a couple of youths unpeeled themselves from the fruit machine and dropped into the other two chairs at the table. ‘You a cop?’ one asked.
Kevin nodded. ‘And you are?’
The stockier of the two youths squared his shoulders in a pathetic parody of manliness. ‘I’m Tyrone Donelan.’
‘And what do you do, Tyrone?’ Kevin asked, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
‘About thirty-five to the gallon.’ He guffawed at his own joke. ‘I’m a mechanic,’ he said. ‘Anything to do with cars, I’m your man.’
Anything to do with nicking cars, Kevin thought cynically. ‘And who’s your mate?’
Donelan jerked his head towards the other lad. ‘This is Carl. Carl Mackenzie. Say hello to the nice policeman, Carl.’
Mackenzie grunted something and looked away, tracing lines in a scatter of spilled sugar on the tabletop. ‘And what do you do, Carl?’ Kevin asked.
Mackenzie’s mouth twitched as if he wasn’t sure what was expected of him. ‘Nothing much,’ he said.
Kevin pushed the photograph of Jackie towards them. ‘Either of you know Jackie Mayall?’ Before they could answer, the door opened and Dee Smart walked in. She looked around and, seeing Kevin, crossed straight to the table and stood glaring down at him. The lads all seemed to brighten at the sight of her. ‘This is Dee. This is Kevin,’ Jason recited like a child who’s proud of recently acquired social skills.
‘I know Kevin,’ Dee said sourly, fixing him with a hard stare. ‘I thought you said you lot cared about us? That we weren’t just throwaways?’ Her voice was loud enough to attract attention from the surrounding tables.
Kevin flushed an ugly red, his freckles seeming to darken. ‘You’re not,’ he said quietly.
‘So how come there’s another one of us lying in the morgue? And how come you’ve got nothing better to do than harass an innocent kid? Why don’t you get off your arse and find out who’s killing my mates?’ Dee turned on her heel and teetered off to the counter.
Jason gave a pained smile while Carl tittered. ‘I don’t think Dee likes you, Kevin,’ Tyrone jeered.
Kevin looked around at the hostile stares pointed in his direction. ‘I don’t think she’s the only one, Tyrone.’ He stood up wearily, knowing there was nothing more to be gained in the café while Dee was in this mood.
It was impossible to miss the police presence in Temple Fields that morning. Tony saw several officers he recognized as he walked through the streets and lanes.
The fog was slowly dissipating, leaving the odd swirling pocket that seemed to swallow people whole as they walked into it. It was hard not to feel the weather was responding to the atmosphere of foreboding in the city’s dark heart.
Tony stopped outside his destination. The window was brightly lit, its contents mostly innocuous; sex, it implied, was always and only fun. He pushed open the door and walked in. He’d been in sex shops before, but not for a while. What surprised him was how matter-of-fact it all seemed. Upbeat techno music played in the background. There was nothing hidden or coy about the items on display; everything was laid out for the customers to choose from. The implied message was that whatever consenting adults wanted to do in private was fine and dandy.
He wandered round, taking it all in. There were things here whose purpose he could only guess at, which he found slightly disturbing, given his area of expertise. Tony stopped by a section of shelves dedicated to bondage restraints. Chains, cuffs, gags, nipple clamps and various arcane objects clustered together like varieties of baked beans in a supermarket. Tony picked up a set of leather ankle restraints that looked similar to those they’d found on Jackie. He looked at the price and raised his eyebrows. ‘Whatever you are, you’re not cheap. Power has its price and you’re willing to pay.’ He spoke softly, but not so softly that it didn’t catch the attention of the man behind the counter. He emerged from his station and walked over to Tony.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked.
Tony looked up, seeing a tall, lean figure wearing a leather waistcoat over tanned and tattooed skin. The salesman had a line of twinkling diamond studs down the ridge of each ear. ‘Sell a lot of these, do you?’ he said.
‘More than you might think. People like to spice up their love lives.’ The look he gave Tony seemed to suggest he could well imagine his love life needed spicing up.
Tony fondled the cuffs absentmindedly. ‘Maybe that’s where I’ve been going wrong. What sort of people buy them?’
‘All sorts.’ The assistant looked wary.
Tony tried for the harmless look. ‘My interest is purely professional. I’m a clinical psychologist,’ he said apologetically.
The assistant rolled his eyes as if he’d heard it all before. ‘Like I said, all sorts. You get your obvious S&M types, all piercings and black leather, but you get your suburban housewives too.’
‘Sex. The great melting pot. Thanks. I’ll take these.’ He handed over the ankle cuffs and added a pair of metal handcuffs. ‘All in the interests of research.’ He headed towards the till, glancing back at the assistant, who was eyeing him as if he wasn’t fit to be out on his own. It wasn’t the first time Tony had caught such a look directed at himself. He didn’t find it insulting; rather, he was impressed by their perspicacity. Passing for human, he thought. Except I don’t always succeed.
He emerged a few minutes later, wondering idly if he could claim the cost back as a legitimate expense from Bradfield Police. On balance, he thought he’d prefer not to try. Carol might understand why he needed them, but he suspected some clerk in accounts would take a dimmer view. Especially once they found out, as they surely would, where Carol was living now.
He headed back towards his car. As he rounded a corner, he spotted DS Jan Shields talking to a woman in the skimpy uniform of a prostitute. The woman’s body language said this wasn’t a conversation she relished. Seeing him approach, Jan cut the interview short and watched the woman hurry away. As he grew closer, Jan pointed to his bag. ‘Who’s the lucky lady, then?’
Tony looked bemused. He looked down at the bag and saw the logo of the sex shop plastered along the side. He shru
gged. ‘Head games. I need to understand the killer’s rules. It sometimes helps to play with the same toys.’
‘You think this is a game? Women are being slaughtered like stuck pigs and you think it’s a game?’ Her tone was amused rather than outraged.
‘He does. You have to remember that some people take their games very seriously. Life and death stuff, like Bill Shankly said.’
Jan nodded, getting it. ‘And your job is to beat him at his own game?’
Tony considered her words. ‘No. It’s my job to figure out the rules. You’re the ones who get to play out the endgame. How’s it going?’
She shook her head. ‘Slowly. Truth is, we need a lucky break. Someone has to have seen something. It’s just a question of finding them before he does.’
Tony looked at her with surprise. It was an insight he hadn’t expected. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said slowly. ‘I think he’s ready for more.’
Oscar’s, Paula thought, was one of those bars that had never been anything other than a dump. She could read the signs. Even on the day it had opened after its last makeover, it still would have looked exactly what it was–a cut-price version of anything approximating style. Everything reeked of cheapness. The lightbulbs were too low a wattage, but it was still possible to see where poorly applied varnish streaked the pine in a vain attempt to make it look like expensive hardwood. The signboards scattered round the walls screamed special offers on beer, shots and happy-hour doubles.
Paula looked around for her target. Her canvass of the streets had turned up a single nugget so far. One of the girls who worked in a sauna on the fringes of Temple Fields had told her that Jackie Mayall sometimes turned double tricks with a young hooker who worked under the street name of Honey. This time of day, you’ll likely catch her in Oscar’s. You can’t miss her. She’ll be the one in the red rubber dress with the Bacardi Breezer,’ the girl had said, looking apprehensively over her shoulder to make sure nobody overheard her passing information to a copper.
