How the Dead Speak

by Val McDermid

  He wanted to put his head in his hands and growl like an angry dog. Instead he bit back his anger and said, ‘You didn’t see signs of any kind of abuse?’

  ‘If I had, I would have taken action. I’m not completely rubbish at my job.’ The piteous expression on her face gave the lie to her words.

  ‘What happened to the girls when the refuge closed?’

  A momentary flash of spirit. ‘Well, they were all alive and accounted for, if that’s what you’re getting at.’ Again she consulted the folder. ‘The one whose dad was still alive? She went to live with him and her stepmum. The other six went into foster care. Two of them are over eighteen now and they’ve both slipped off the radar. The other four . . . ’ She looked stricken. ‘Two runaways. One fifteen, the other sixteen. Reported to the local police. Not exactly high priority for your lot.’

  ‘In fairness, they don’t usually want to be found,’ Steve said. ‘Bradfield’s a big city. It’s not hard to fall off the map. That leaves two. Where are they?’

  Jackie frowned at the folder again. ‘It’s not great, really. One committed suicide three years ago. Paracetamol and vodka. The other one is in hospital. Sectioned, actually. Severe anorexia and mental health problems.’

  Steve stared at Jackie. ‘Not exactly a sparkling set of outcomes for a bunch of girls who were supposedly in a “proper” care home.’

  ‘No,’ Jackie said. ‘But sadly it’s not exceptional for kids who have grown up in the care system.’

  ‘I’m going to need details of all these girls,’ he said.

  Jackie quickly closed the file and held it to her chest. ‘I’m not sure that’s allowed.’ Her air of anxiety was rising towards panic.

  People would try anything to cover their backs. ‘We’re looking at upwards of thirty dead children here. If you want to make absolutely sure you and your colleagues get the blame for what happened at the Blessed Pearl, just keep on obstructing our inquiries. Now go and get your boss to authorise you handing over all of the files on these seven girls.’ He folded his arms. ‘I’m going nowhere until you do. Don’t make me sit here and get one of my tame media pals to tweet about how all Bradfield Social Services care about is their reputation.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  He gave her a sour smile. ‘Why are you still here, Jackie? It’s not too late to start to do your job.’

  19

  For too long, people clung to the idea that criminals were born bad. It let all of us off the hook – what’s the point of trying to make society better if those ‘born bad’ criminals are just going to come along and trash everything? But slowly, we’ve come to realise that most criminal behaviour is situational and circumstantial. And the idea that it’s possible to change people’s narratives has recently started to gain serious traction.

  From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL

  Tony lay on his narrow bunk, hands clasped behind his head, staring up at the blank magnolia ceiling of his cell. It was annoyingly free of cracks and blemishes he could translate into a fantasy map or some ancient Babylonian cuneiform. There was nothing to distract him from the low cacophony of the prison. It was impossible to ignore the constant noise; waiting for the next scream or outburst of rage that was bound to come, he felt the perpetual tug of anxiety.

  He was trying to work out a script for his next broadcast. It wasn’t like delivering a lecture to students or a seminar to peers. There, he’d always known broadly what he was going to say. He might even have managed to organise some PowerPoint slides to keep him on track. He could be pitch-perfect without being word-perfect. But on Razor Wireless, he couldn’t afford to put a foot wrong. His audience would be on the lookout for any jarring notes, eager to find a reason to pounce on any potential offence. There were limits to protection, and he was in no hurry to find the provocation that would test them. He always needed to rehearse what he was going to say and he needed to get it right.

  It was at times like these that missing Carol was close to a physical pain – a tightening across his temples and a tension in his neck. He knew he had an unusual gift for empathy when it came to figuring out what went on inside the heads of the damaged and the lost. But he also knew that his social skills sometimes didn’t measure up. He sometimes said the most interesting thing that came into his head without considering whether it was a helpful conversational gambit. He’d learned over the years to run controversial ideas past Carol before blurting them out to others. She was good at helping him tweak what he wanted to say without losing its meaning or its positive impact. He didn’t always manage to figure things out far enough in advance to use her to his best advantage, but he had definitely been getting better at it.

  This would have been the perfect opportunity to use her help. And she’d have been happy to give it. But he’d put himself beyond that. He’d pushed her away for all the right reasons. As long as he was there for her, she’d always find reasons not to confront her demons and tackle the PTSD that was making her a danger to herself and to the people around her. He knew she felt it like a punishment. He wasn’t sure whether she knew that he did too. What would she say to him now? What would be her advice? Most days since he’d arrived at Doniston, it had taken all his willpower to stick to the decision he’d made to keep his distance.

  That morning, for example. It had kicked off at breakfast. He hadn’t seen it coming. Out of nowhere, two men were wrestling across the table. Half a dozen others piled in and by the time it was over, there was blood on the table, a jagged white tooth fragment stark against the red.

  And so today he wanted to use his broadcast to talk about fear again because fear underpinned every aspect of life in jail. Everyone was always afraid, even the kingpins and hard men. Maybe the kingpins and hard men most of all, because nobody had more to lose than them. He wanted to talk about that fear in a way that wouldn’t sound like a challenge or an insult to their manhood. Because helping them to cope with their anxiety was the first step towards changing their future.

  ‘There’s one thing we all have in common inside these walls,’ he said softly. ‘Whether we’re a prisoner or a prison officer. We’re all living in a permanent state of fear.’ He said it again, testing it for potential pitfalls.

  ‘Acknowledging our fear, even if it’s only to ourselves, isn’t cowardice. It’s the opposite of cowardice. It’s bravery. Deep down, I think what we fear most is that we’ve become stuck in a way of life that means we’re never going to escape the cycle of prison and its consequences. That it’s going to be like the Hotel California. You can check out, but you can never leave.’ That wasn’t bad. Maybe a bit too formal, too jargon-heavy in the middle. And he should probably take out the reference to prison officers. Neither side of the dividing line would want to be lumped together on this one.

  Where to now? ‘Before I ended up here, I spent most of my working life trying to help people avoid their future being as much of a car crash as their past. The question outsiders asked me most often was how I could stand to spend my days being drawn into those messy lives, those messy heads. The answer’s simple. Sometimes I could help them to rewrite the script. To give themselves a different future.’ God, he sounded so bloody worthy. He was going to have to work on that. Make it more conversational, not like he was condescending to them. That would be a one-way ticket to a good kicking.

  ‘Maybe you’ve lost heart about what lies ahead of you. Maybe you’ve lost your wife, your lover, your kids, your home already. I do understand what loss feels like, how empty you feel inside. I won’t pretend there’s an easy way to make those feelings disappear. But there are things you can do to help yourself feel better. To imagine a future that doesn’t include coming back here.’ And then he’d segue into the meditation script he’d been refining since his first broadcast.

  He’d been afraid his fellow inmates would probably think it was a stupid hippy-dippy thing to try. But he’d known there were prisoners here who were a long way from being hopeless cases. A few of th
em might give meditation a go in the privacy of their own cells once they were banged up for the night. If they could learn how to turn themselves into their own oasis of quiet and calm in the midst of the turmoil, it would be a step towards a different future.

  What was the worst that could happen, he’d asked himself. He didn’t think he’d provoke anything more than a heavy dose of the verbals from some of the men whose self-image as hard men was more precarious than they’d ever admit. And he had to do something constructive with his time behind bars. It wasn’t enough just to play to his own self-interest by writing his book.

  It had played out better than he’d hoped. Not many of the men gave him positive feedback, but the jeering and the put-downs had gradually diminished. The hardcore hard cases left him alone these days. And every now and again, someone on the wing would mutter something positive in passing.

  For the sake of his own self-respect, he’d had to find a way to use his skills. Otherwise he’d have been no better than the worst of them. And that was a judgement he couldn’t face having to make.

  20

  One of the hardest things we have to do is learn to take responsibility for our own actions. Trying to sidestep actions that deep down we know are shameful is a powerful instinct.

  From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL

  Jezza Martinu didn’t look back to check that the woman cop was actually leaving. He thought that might look as if he had a guilty conscience. The cops and the forensic experts were totally occupied right now with excavating the remains and putting the jigsaw skeletons back together, but sooner or later, they were going to start asking different questions. Nobody would believe a bunch of nuns had dug those graves. Especially since most of them were knocking on a bit. Then the finger would point at him. And he’d better have his ducks in a row.

  He unlocked the substantial shed at the bottom of his garden and stepped inside. He closed the door and leaned against it, breathing deeply until his heart stopped galloping like a runaway pony. He hung the hammer in its slot on the peg board that held his tools, checking first that it didn’t need cleaning. Jezza took pride in his tools, just as he did in the quality of his work. He tried not to think about the examples of his work that the police were busily excavating right now.

  Until he’d caught the woman peering in through his living room window, the only cop he’d spoken to had been a young lad in uniform. He looked like he’d have no trouble qualifying to play for the Vics’ U21 side. He’d just taken a note of Jezza’s name and his mobile number and a few details about his work. ‘I mow the grass and keep the place tidy. I’ve got a long-term lease on the land around the vegetable beds for growing my own produce.’ The cop had nodded and scribbled some notes.

  But they’d be back.

  Meanwhile, he had to keep busy. If he started fretting about what they might ask him and what he might say, he’d start to come apart at the seams. He couldn’t afford to do that. He had far too much to lose.

  Jezza turned to the large cardboard carton that occupied half the floor space of the shed. It had a certain resemblance to a cardboard coffin. He couldn’t suppress a nervous snigger. What would that female cop have thought if she’d seen that?

  He took down a craft knife and swiftly slit the adhesive tape that held the box shut. The top folded back to reveal a stack of MDF panels of different sizes. A packet of screws, dowels and hinges was taped to the side, along with a booklet of instructions. Under his expert hands, it would soon resolve itself into a cabinet that would provide the perfect storage for his collection of Bradfield Victoria programmes. He’d already downloaded a graphic of the club crest and had it made into a pair of stencils for the cabinet door.

  Jezza sighed with contentment. Assembling the cabinet then filing his programmes. Here was something to take his mind off the craziness going on beyond his front door.

  Everything was going to be fine.

  21

  It’s axiomatic that in order to read a crime scene, you have to know where the crime took place. That might seem insultingly self-evident, but appearances can be deceptive, especially if you’re dealing with a killer who can keep a cool head. Seeing beyond that mask is the hardest part.

  From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL

  Interview rooms in lawyers’ offices had nothing in common with those in police stations. Carol supposed she’d better get used to that. There was something to be said for her new circumstances – a comfortable chair, a plate of expensive biscuits, a mug of decent coffee, a couple of impressively dramatic paintings of coastal landscapes on the wall . . . Even a box of tissues, just in case. And not a trace of recording equipment anywhere.

  She had no nostalgia for her former working environment, however. She just wasn’t sure this was somewhere she could comfortably use her skills. She glanced at her phone. Bronwen Scott was late. When Carol had called to say she was willing to have a further discussion, Bronwen had suggested meeting at her office during the lunchtime court recess, but Carol knew it was more than likely that something had cropped up in court that had encroached on the lawyer’s time. She’d give her half an hour, then she’d have to leave for her next meeting.

  Carol shook her head, smiling at herself. Overnight she’d gone from having nothing but time to being a woman with appointments. In spite of her best intentions, she found she didn’t mind. She’d worked through her PTSD exercises before she’d left home and while she couldn’t say she felt entirely in command of herself, she thought she could handle a couple of meetings.

  On that thought, Bronwen Scott bustled into the room. ‘Sorry, Carol. Tiny bit of hand-holding required.’ She let herself fall into a chair with an ‘oof’ of relief. ‘Thanks for coming in.’

  Carol started to say something but Bronwen held up a hand and steamrollered over her. ‘I know you’re not committing to anything by being here, but I appreciate your willingness to even consider this.’

  A tap on the door and a young man in shirtsleeves came in with a blue cardboard folder. ‘The Neilson summary,’ he said, handing it to Bronwen. He gave Carol a tight little smile and hustled out.

  ‘That’s John. He’s a trainee and he’s smart enough to know that volunteering on this will earn him a place in my good books.’

  It was, Carol thought, precisely the sort of line people expected from Bronwen and she suspected that was the reason for its delivery. She nodded at the folder. ‘This is the case?’

  ‘Saul Neilson. Currently serving life for murder. He’s thirty-one now, sentenced when he was twenty-eight for a crime he allegedly committed when he was twenty-seven. He was a landscape architect, living in Bradfield but working for a firm based in Leeds.’ Bronwen opened the folder and passed it to Carol. The top sheet was a head shot of a scowling mixed-race man, brows drawn down over liquid brown eyes. There was nothing particularly striking about him, apart from his beautiful eyes. ‘That’s Saul.’

  ‘Looks innocuous,’ Carol said, non-committal.

  ‘He is. No previous, never been in trouble with the law, happy at work, no beef of any substance with any of his colleagues. Member of the local squash club, round about the middle of the ranking ladder. Owned a high-end mountain bike, went out at weekends with a couple of mates.’

  ‘Sounds like a model citizen.’ Carol flipped to the next page. ‘Until he was charged with the murder of Lyle Tate.’ She looked up. ‘Somebody’s parents had a sweet tooth or a poor sense of humour.’

  Bronwen scoffed. ‘Or they were too thick to notice they were naming their lad after a bag of sugar. But, yes. Until he was charged with Lyle Tate’s murder, he’d not put a foot wrong.’

  ‘What’s so special about this case?’ Carol knew she’d find the answer in the file, but it was always helpful to hear what struck other people as important.

  ‘It’s a no body. They nailed him on circumstantial and the interpretation of the forensic evidence. He’s always maintained his innocence, his explanation is credible. What we need is to find a loo
se thread to pull so we can unravel the prosecution case enough to get him in front of the Court of Appeal. And that’s where a good investigator comes in.’ Bronwen gave her a cheerful grin. ‘That would be you, in case you’re in any doubt.’

  ‘I’ve not said I’m in yet.’ Carol could feel the stubborn set of her jaw muscles right up into her temples.

  ‘You will be.’ Bronwen stood up. ‘You’re welcome to stay here and read the file. Or take it away with you, if you prefer to work in your own space. I have to get back to court before the wheels come off. Bloody baby barristers who need propping up every step of the way.’ Carol was glad not to be the bloody baby barrister in question. ‘Get back to me when you’re ready to talk strategy.’

  And she was gone. The traits that made her such a formidable and irritating adversary could, Carol saw, make her a powerful and maybe even inspirational ally. She checked the time. She had just long enough to take a quick pass through the file before her next meeting. She could skim the surface, and if she was lucky, she’d stub her toe on something that disrupted its smoothness.

  On the second page, she found the secret that had lurked behind Saul Neilson’s public face. He was gay. Which was only an issue in the UK at this point in the twenty-first century if your father was a prominent Pentecostal Christian minister. A regular on Thought for the Day. Saul didn’t want to hurt or disappoint or embarrass his parents – whom he loved and respected – so he hid that part of himself.