The Torment of Others

by Val McDermid

  The police station Stacey had returned to a few hours earlier bore little resemblance to the one she had left. Nothing travels faster than bad news within an organization as driven by information as the police. For days, Paula McIntyre’s abduction had fuelled conversation and ambience alike with a mixture of outrage, hindsight and criticism. Everybody had an opinion. But the news of Jan Shields’ apparent betrayal had delivered a shockwave to Bradfield police that had created something like the moment after an explosion when air and sound have been sucked from the epicentre. Corridors were hushed, movements subdued, faces angry and baffled. When she’d walked into the murder room, Stacey had felt hostile eyes on her, as if by having been present at the event she was somehow responsible for so brutal a blow to the force’s self-esteem. Already, she knew, people would be rewriting history; some searching for ways to exculpate Shields; others who had been close colleagues distancing themselves from her; still others claiming always to have known she was dodgy. The fallout was going to be grim and painful.

  Back at her own desk, Stacey dry-swallowed two paracetamol caplets and scrunched her face into an expression of concentration. It didn’t take her long to determine that there was no easy route to the location of the webcam from the image on the screen. It made her stomach churn to see her colleague staked out like that, and she made a mental promise to Paula that she would make sure the images disappeared for good from every computer they’d ever contaminated once Paula was rescued. There was no way the sleaze-bags were going to get their hands on this. Paula wasn’t going to end up as late-night entertainment for scummy vice cops. Or anybody else.

  One of the officers from the HOLMES computer team had taken on the task of wading through all the easily accessible files on the laptop’s hard disk. So far, he’d found nothing except a depressing amount of hardcore porn.

  Stacey wasn’t interested in what was visible. She knew that a criminal as organized as Jan Shields was not going to have left crucial information in plain view. She would have deleted anything incriminating and, because of her involvement with the paedophile investigations, she’d probably have learned to take basic steps to clean up her hard disk regularly.

  That didn’t mean there wasn’t anything to find, and Stacey was determined to find it. After an hour’s intensive investigation, she’d managed to isolate only three stray file fragments. At first glance, they’d looked like gibberish. But Stacey had tools at her disposal and it didn’t take her long to translate the jumbled symbols into splintered words and phrases.

  The first fragment yielded nothing of interest. It looked like the remains of an email attachment, probably one of the thousands of jokes that circled the globe, given text such as ‘wim in the pool’ and ‘so god sai’ and ‘out of the fish’.

  The second fragment hit Stacey like a shot of vodka. ‘…rent in advan…osit in cash…edsit at !%…tron Lane, Temp…rl Macke…’ While the printer wheezed into life, she ran down the hall to the murder room, where a large-scale map of Temple Fields hung on the wall. She traced the street names with her finger. There it was. Citron Lane. The alley behind the street where Paula had disappeared.

  Excitement welling up, she hurried back to her desk. The symbols ! and % were the shifted versions of 1 and 5. She’d got it.

  Carol leaned her head on the steering wheel and felt the pain from her stressed muscles spread across her shoulders in a tight series of cramps. She couldn’t get her head round Jan Shields. How much evidence could the woman wriggle out from? She’d clearly used all her experience in the job to figure out the perfect set of excuses and explanations for every aspect of her criminal activity. Carol was used to bluster from captured criminals, but she knew this went far beyond bluster into the realms of a kind of perverted credibility.

  All of which she could possibly learn to live with if only she could bring Paula home. But that prospect looked no more likely now than at any point since her abduction.

  Wearily she straightened up and started the engine just as her phone rang. ‘Carol Jordan,’ she said dully.

  ‘It’s Stacey,’ the voice said. ‘I’ve got it, I think.’

  ‘Got what?’ Carol couldn’t let herself believe.

  ‘Where Paula is–a bedsit at 15 Citron Lane, Temple Fields. Rented in Carl Mackenzie’s name. We searched it on the night, but it was Sergeant Shields who led the search team and gave it the all clear.’

  Carol felt her throat suddenly closing with emotion. Thank you, Stacey,’ she managed to say before she choked up completely. ‘I’ll take it from here.’ She ended the call and dialled Merrick’s number. No reply. Where the hell was he? She didn’t have time to chase him now, but she’d kick his arse when he finally reappeared. Cursing Merrick under her breath, she tried Kevin’s number. He answered on the second ring. ‘Kevin–15 Citron Lane, Temple Fields. Meet me there. Bring a team. Do not, I repeat, do not go in till I get there. Is that clear?’ She ended the call, shoved the car in gear and reached for her radio mike with one hand.

  ‘DCI Jordan to control. Paramedic unit required at 15 Citron Lane, Temple Fields. Repeat, paramedic unit required at 15 Citron Lane, Temple Fields. Over.’

  The radio crackled acknowledgement of her message. ‘And I need someone to get over there with a set of boltcutters,’ she added as an afterthought.

  ‘Did you say boltcutters?’ the radio operator asked.

  ‘Yeah. The kind that cut through handcuffs.’

  The room was on the third floor. As Stacey had said, Jan Shields had been responsible for giving the all clear to the building beyond the gate in the wall. Even if she hadn’t managed to annex that search for herself, it would have been easy for officers in a hurry to miss its existence. At some time in the past, someone had created a double door. When the landing door was opened, it revealed a shallow cupboard with dusty shelves. But on closer examination, hidden under one of the shelves was a keyhole and a countersunk handle. The building was on the list of properties whose tenants were still to be queried with landlords. Another day and they’d have tied Carl Mackenzie’s name to it.

  Kevin Matthews and Sam Evans threw themselves at the inner door. It collapsed in a shatter of splinters and dust. Carol pushed her way through and entered ahead of them, heart in her mouth. At first sight, she thought they were too late. Paula lay motionless on the bed, eyes closed, unmoving. The room stank of sweat and piss. ‘Get those cuffs off her,’ Carol ordered, grabbing the corner of the sheet and yanking it free so she could cover Paula’s nakedness. Evans rushed past her, boltcutters in his hand.

  ‘Oh Jesus, Paula,’ he moaned as he worked the boltcutters on the handcuff chain.

  The paramedics crowded in, demanding room to do their job. Carol leaned over Paula and stroked her head. Her skin was warm and feverish, and Carol’s heart sang. She stepped back to let the paramedics work, just as the metal on the second set of cuffs snapped under Evans’ strength.

  ‘How is she?’ she asked anxiously as the paramedics started their tests.

  ‘She’s alive. But she’s very weak,’ one said without taking his eyes off her.

  ‘Don’t you dare lose her,’ Carol said, backing towards the landing. She reached for her phone and called Tony. He answered on the first ring. ‘Tony, we found her. We found Paula.’

  ‘Alive?’

  ‘Yes. Alive.’

  ‘Thank God,’ he sighed.

  When she came off the phone, Carol was surrounded by delighted detectives congratulating themselves and each other. The jubilation was so overwhelming that nobody, not even Carol, noticed the face that was missing. They were making so much noise she almost didn’t hear her mobile ringing. She moved back into the room where Paula was being moved on to a stretcher so she could hear the call more clearly.

  The voice at the other end was unfamiliar. ‘Is that DCI Jordan?’

  ‘Yes, speaking. Who is this?’

  ‘This is Inspector Macgregor. I’m up here in Achmelvich,’ he said, his voice gruff and solemn.
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  ‘Have you got Nick Sanders?’ Carol hardly dared hope. But she could think of no other reason why someone of Macgregor’s rank would be in a hamlet at this time of night unless a major arrest had happened. It was almost too good to be true. They’d found Paula, they had Jan Shields under arrest, and now they’d captured the man who had abused and murdered Tim Golding and Guy Lefevre.

  There was a pause. Then Macgregor spoke, his voice packed with reservations. ‘Aye. We do have Sanders in custody.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’ she asked, sidestepping to let the paramedics past with their burden. She reached out to brush her fingers along Paula’s arm as she passed.

  ‘DCI Jordan,’ he said, ‘do you have an Inspector Merrick on your team?’

  A horrible suspicion formed in Carol’s mind. ‘What’s happened?’ she demanded.

  ‘Look, I’m awful sorry. There’s no easy way to say this: Inspector Merrick is dead, ma’am.’

  Carol felt her legs collapse under her as she slid down the wall in a heap. It was too much to take in, on top of everything else that had happened in the past few hours. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘That can’t be right. He’s supposed to be here. Sleeping. In a motel. That can’t be right.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any room for doubt, ma’am. He matches up with the photo ID he was carrying. It looks like he was staking the place out, waiting for Sanders. They had a fight and he took a bad blow to the head. We should have more information in the morning. I’m really, really sorry, ma’am.’

  Carol ended the call and let the phone fall back into her pocket. She buried her face in her hands. Then she forced herself to her feet. There would be time for her grief later. For now, she had responsibilities.

  She walked slowly to the door, planting one foot carefully in front of the other like a drunk. She took a long, shuddering breath and spoke as clearly and loudly as she could. I’ve got some bad news,’ she began.

  Tony was still standing by the one-way mirror. He knew he should be elated at the news of Paula’s release, but all he could taste was the bitterness of failure. He’d finally met his match: a criminal who could withstand his probing, apparently effortlessly. The techniques she had developed to control the minds of others had given her the gift of control over her own responses to a remarkable degree. Perhaps with time he could break down her barriers. But he suspected he wasn’t going to be granted time with her. If this ever went to trial, she would be charming, plausible–and would probably be declared not guilty. If she did lose, she might well end up in a secure mental hospital, but he could guarantee it would be a long way away from anywhere he was practising.

  Paula’s survival was a huge consolation, of course. On a human level, it was the best possible outcome. But it didn’t balance the despair he felt as he stared down at Jan Shields’ complacency.

  He had no idea how much time had passed when he heard a knock. Tony crossed the room and opened the door. A uniformed constable stood uncertainly on the threshold. I’m sorry to disturb you, Dr Hill. But this just came for you.’ He thrust a small brown envelope at Tony. ‘One of the nurses from Bradfield Moor brought it in.’

  Thanks,’ Tony said. He closed the door and studied the envelope. His name was written in straggling capitals across the front. He didn’t recognize the handwriting. He ripped open the flap and pulled out a single flimsy sheet of cheap writing paper. The same straggling capitals filled half the page. Beneath them was an awkward signature which read, .

  Tony could hardly believe the evidence of his eyes.

  There are few things more moving than the full pomp of a police funeral. Dozens of officers in dress uniforms, family and friends stunned with grief and carried along on the formal wave of an organizational farewell, the full solemnity that the Church of England can muster. Carol stood surrounded by her team, eyes front, chin tucked in, cap under her arm. John Brandon read the encomium she’d written to honour Don Merrick’s memory while his boys clung to their mother, the only familiar element in this extraordinary scene.

  Tony stood off to one side, his eyes never straying far from Carol and, next to her, a hollow-eyed and twitchy Paula. When he’d shown Tyler’s note to Carol, she’d descended on the building where he’d had a ground-floor bedsit like one of the Furies. All her grief and rage at Merrick’s death had manifested itself in the absolute determination to nail Jan Shields.

  The tapes had still been there, three floors up, rammed down between the water cistern and the angle of the roof. And their chilling message was irrefutable and inescapable. The only person who didn’t recognize the fact was Jan herself. But that didn’t matter. No jury would free her now. Tony felt a shudder of pity for whichever establishment was unlucky enough to acquire her as an inmate.

  The past few weeks had been a baptism of fire for Carol, he thought. There had been several points where he’d feared she wasn’t going to make it. But she’d proved him wrong, and for once he was glad to be wrong.

  Brandon reached the end of his eulogy and bowed his head. The twenty-one-gun salute crackled out across the graveyard. Carol turned her head to meet Tony’s eyes. A small, almost imperceptible nod passed between them. It was, he thought, amazing how little we needed to survive.

  Acknowledgements

  As usual, I owe a debt of thanks to those who generously give of their time and expertise in a bid to keep me within the bounds of accuracy. I am grateful to the Greenfield Girls for letting loose the dogs of narrative; Angus Marshall for advice on the forensic aspects of computing; Dr Ray Murray for geological assistance; Dr Sue Black for matters pathological; Brigid Baillie for legal procedure; and the late Kathy Wilkes for first introducing me to the mind/body problem.

  For their perennial support, Julia Wisdom and Anne O’Brien at HarperCollins; Jane, Broo, Anna, Claire and Terry at Gregory & Company; Trina Furre at Riverdale; and Sandra, Ken and Robson at Coastal.

  About the Author

  Val McDermid grew up in a Scottish mining community then read English at Oxford. She was a journalist for sixteen years, spending the last three years as Northern Bureau Chief of a national Sunday tabloid. Now a full-time writer, she divides her time between Cheshire and Northumberland.

  The Torment of Others is Val McDermid’s fourth book featuring criminal profiler, Tony Hill. The first, The Mermaids Singing, won the 1995 Gold Dagger Award for Best Crime Novel of the Year. The series has now been adapted for television under the generic title Wire in the Blood, starring Robson Green as Tony Hill and Hermione Norris as DCI Carol Jordan.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Praise for The Torment of Others:

  ‘A long awaited return to the scene of the crime for Dr Tony Hill. No one compares to McDermid when it comes to the deviant side of human nature’

  Maxim Jakubowski, Guardian

  ‘This is a disturbing high-tension book, unstinting in its portrayals of psychological distress. One of McDermid’s finest, which is saying a lot’

  Marcel Berlins, The Times

  ‘Val McDermid is an intelligent, supremely talented novelist and with this latest tale she is writing at the height of her power. It may not be comfortable, it may be neither pretty nor pleasant, but it is utterly compelling’

  Allan Laing, Glasgow Herald

  ‘Even as Hill and Jordan are unravelling the truth, McDermid intersperses their efforts with the hideous insights into the deviant megalo mania of the voices. Serial killers, though meat and drink to crime writers, are thankfully rare. It is a tribute to the power of Val McDermid’s imagination that she made this one seem so believable’

  Daily Telegraph

  ‘This is McDermid on top form – pass the Valium’

  Daily Mail

  ‘It’s hard to know what to praise first here: the impeccable plotting or the sharp social relevance of the narrative. Most of all, though, it’s the relationship between her two central characters that makes [it] work so we
ll. This is a real, adult relationship; complex, combative and nuanced’

  Barry Forshaw, Express

  ‘Val McDermid, as ever, is adept at engendering irresistible suspense, as the fearsome attractiveness of the ever more benighted and bloody predicament works its effect on readers’

  Patricia Craig, Times Literary Supplement

  ‘Convincing and intelligent’

  Cath Staincliffe, Manchester Evening News

  ‘Some excellent writing from an author who is building a formidable reputation. There are some terrific twists: just as the reader feels something has been securely settled, McDermid gives a new jerk to the storyline and the chase is on again’

  Jane Jakeman, Scotland on Sunday

  ‘This story is a cracker, complicated – with two enquiries run in harness – genuinely surprising, often upsetting, ultimately credible and intellectually satisfying’

  John Bowen, The Oldie

  By the Same Author

  The Grave Tattoo

  The Distant Echo

  Killing the Shadows

  A Place of Execution

  TONY HILL NOVELS

  The Last Temptation

  The Wire in the Blood

  The Mermaids Singing

  KATE BRANNIGAN NOVELS

  Star Struck

  Blue Genes

  Clean Break

  Crack Down

  Kick Back

  Dead Beat

  LINDSAY GORDON NOVELS

  Hostage to Murder

  Booked for Murder

  Union Jack

  Final Edition

  Common Murder

  Report for Murder

  NON-FICTION

  A Suitable Job for a Woman

  Copyright

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.