How the Dead Speak

by Val McDermid

  Her years as a cop working the twisted side of the street had taught Carol that a life of pretence always created tensions, pressures and fears that had a nasty habit of bursting like a boil, covering the conventional surface of a life with purulent fallout. So it had been for Saul Neilson. He’d avoided gay bars and clubs, but the advent of internet dating apps had allowed him finally to have a sex life, even if it was deeper in the closet than Narnia. But Saul didn’t want to risk casual hook-ups that might have consequences; he preferred to keep the transactions businesslike so he used rent boys. Not via agencies, where there would be a record of credit card payments. No, Saul had gradually built up a small discreet stable of young men who would come to his flat for hectic sex, take their payment in cash, and leave. He was paranoid about his privacy, using burner phones to contact them and not going back too often to the same rent boy.

  Carol paused for thought. No body cases were notoriously difficult to prove. Juries liked the incontrovertible fact of a corpse. Hell, detectives liked the incontrovertible fact of a corpse. Killers often believed that successfully disposing of a body meant they couldn’t be successfully prosecuted. History had proved them wrong, time and time again. But those results gave the prosecution more ammunition to convince a jury that it was perfectly valid to convict on a supposition.

  Was that what had happened to Saul Neilson? Based on her first look, Carol thought there was every chance that he was telling the truth. But finding evidence of that would be a long hard road, with no guarantee of success. And this time, she’d be doing it without backup. No Tony to help her make sense of the twists and turns of human behaviour. She wasn’t sure whether she was ready for that.

  But maybe she was ready to take a small step. Carol trusted her instincts and her skills. She’d give Saul Neilson the courtesy of reading his file with the attention she’d have paid to any case that had crossed her desk when she was running a murder squad. But that was all.

  Something she could walk away from. Definitely.

  22

  I’ve always found it useful to see the crime scene while the body is in situ. It’s a distressing experience but it’s invariably more informative than crime scene photos. Once the initial discovery of the victim and the forensic examination of the crime scene have taken place, there’s not much practical use for the profiler. Nevertheless, I try to stick around as much as I can, because not all the ideas that are tossed around in the investigation make it past the ‘random thought’ stage. And you never know which shreds of information will illuminate the profiler’s process down the line.

  From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL

  Stacey considered she had good reason to feel pleased with herself. From the electoral roll she had the official names of the nuns who had been at the Blessed Pearl when it had closed down. Unofficial access to the last census had given her ages for most of them. Armed with that knowledge, official registers had given her dates of birth for almost all of them. She’d cross-checked with the electoral rolls that covered the other three UK convents and discovered that all but two of the Bradesden nuns had ended up there.

  Knowing that her colleague preferred hard copies, she took the printouts across to Paula and laid them out in front of her. ‘I think it’s reasonable to assume that these two apparently missing nuns’ – she tapped two names with her Blackwing pencil – ‘have ended up in the order’s house in Galway. I managed to get hold of the convent rosters.’ She shuffled the papers and put a different one in front of Paula.

  ‘I’m not going to ask.’

  ‘Good move. By the process of elimination, the two nun aliases not accounted for in the English convents are Sister Mary Patrick and Sister Brigid Augustine.’

  ‘Sister Mary Patrick was the Mother Superior,’ Paula said, thoughtful. ‘Makes you wonder if the church found out what had been going on at Bradesden and decided to close the place down while the going was good.’

  ‘If they knew, then surely they wouldn’t have sold the site for development?’

  ‘Good point. Maybe they knew there was abuse going on but didn’t realise the extent of it?’

  Stacey shrugged. ‘That would make more sense. You’d think they might have wondered where all those kids were going, though.’

  ‘Easy enough to cover up. “They’ve gone back to their family.” “They’ve been adopted.” “They left school and went to college somewhere else.”’

  ‘Are we at least going to interview the nuns?’ Karim demanded from the other side of the desk.

  ‘I’d like to track down some of the girls and talk to them first. We need a pressure point and so far we’ve not got that from the remains. We’ve got to nail down at least approximate dates for some of them and we won’t have that till forensics come back to us with something concrete. Alvin called to say they think they can make some headway with clothes labels, but that’ll take time,’ Paula said.

  Right on cue, Steve pushed open the door and swaggered in. ‘Ask me who managed to get information out of social services?’ he called across the room.

  ‘Did you use the thumbscrews?’ Paula asked.

  ‘Didn’t even have to get out the cattle prod,’ Steve said. He produced a bundle of printed sheets with a flourish. ‘Ta da.’

  Paula almost snatched them from him and quickly glanced through. Her excitement turned to disappointment. ‘Is that it? Seven girls?’

  ‘The local authority didn’t have responsibility for the others. They came from other places – families who couldn’t cope, recommendations from parish priests, whatever. So the social workers didn’t know anything about them.’

  ‘What? All those girls and nobody even knew who was there?’

  Steve gestured at the records he’d obtained. ‘That’s all there is, boss. I agree with you, it’s totally fucked up, but that’s how it is.’

  Paula sighed. ‘It’s not much to go on. We only know where one of them is, and that’s a secure unit for teenagers with mental health problems.’

  Steve shrugged. ‘I know, it’s not a sparkling start. But these are outcomes that tell us something about the regime at the Blessed Pearl. These girls definitely didn’t come away from that place happy and well-balanced, did they?’

  ‘It doesn’t seem that way,’ Karim said, leaning across and taking a look at the papers. ‘But on the other hand, I have no idea how that compares with outcomes for kids in care generally speaking.’

  ‘Either way, it’s not good.’

  Stacey picked up the paperwork. ‘I’ll see if I can track any of them down.’ She skimmed the details. ‘The one who went back to her dad or the over-eighteens might be our best bet.’

  ‘Nobody really cares about kids that fall off the radar, do they?’ Karim sounded disgusted. ‘We get all sentimental about kids, but the truth is, soon as they get to be a problem, they’re disposable.’

  Nobody said anything but they all had a shamefaced air as they set about returning to the investigation. Stacey leaned into Paula and said, ‘I’ll get to this as soon as I can. I’ve just got to nip out for a quick meeting.’

  Paula nodded. ‘No problem. I’ll get on to the hospital, see whether there’s any point talking to what’s-her-name. The one with anorexia.’

  Stacey rolled her eyes. ‘Call yourself a detective? You not going to ask who I’m meeting?’

  ‘Who are you meeting, Stacey?’ Paula asked with artificial brightness.

  Stacey was three strides away before she said, ‘Carol Jordan.’

  Paula’s mouth fell open. Stacey and Carol? What was that about? And why was she only hearing about it now? She knew it was a childish reaction, but she was Carol’s friend, not Stacey. What was going on? She half-rose from her chair then fell back again. She’d find out soon enough, after all. If Stacey planned on keeping it a secret, she wouldn’t have told Paula about their appointment.

  Would she?

  And then her phone rang and all thoughts of this strange meeting were banished. The voice a
t the other end of the phone was abrupt and to the point. ‘PC Diamond at the front desk, ma’am. I’ve got a young woman here says she wants to talk to you about the Blessed Pearl.’

  23

  The psychologist who is brought in to participate in a criminal investigation and to draw up a profile of a killer or a serious sexual offender should apply their skills not only to the victim and the perpetrator but also to the police officers attached to the inquiry. Their predispositions and biases can shape not only the investigation but also the way the case is presented to the psychologist. And that can lead to an unfortunate amount of galumphing up blind alleys. Always consider the mindset of your supposed allies!

  From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL

  Carol had chosen the rendezvous with Stacey with some care. Pubs were out. Too many cops escaped there for a swift respite at any time of the day or night, especially pubs within walking distance of their base. Coffee shops, for the same reason. So she’d suggested the City Art Gallery, a mere five minutes’ walk from ReMIT’s squad room in Skenfrith Street. It might as well have been on another planet. Carol would have bet hard cash that the overwhelming majority of officers stationed in Skenfrith Street would struggle even to give directions to the imposing Edwardian building. It was the visual equivalent of elevator music.

  She had suggested the first-floor gallery housing a couple of large Turner landscapes. She’d always liked Turner, ever since her father had taken her to the National Gallery. Neither of them knew much about art but he’d thought it would be an interesting day out. Carol had fallen in love with Rain, Steam and Speed and The Fighting Temeraire. She’d had prints of them on her wall all through university, and even now she had a print of Westminster Sunset on her bedroom wall. The pair that hung in the Bradfield gallery were not his finest work but she reckoned they knocked spots off almost anything else in the building.

  Carol sat on a padded leather bench facing the larger of the two paintings, a view of a Northumberland landscape in a chilly winter light. It reminded her of the moor above her barn on frosty mornings when she and Flash had climbed up to the ridge to catch the sunrise, the only figures in the landscape. Tony seldom joined her at that time of day; it was a safe memory for her, no painful tug at the heart here.

  She felt rather than saw Stacey join her. A displacement of the cushion under her, a faint waft of the citrus sharp fragrance she used. ‘Afternoon, boss,’ Stacey said.

  ‘I’m not your boss any more, Stacey. Call me Carol.’ She turned in time to catch Stacey looking appalled.

  ‘I don’t think I’d ever be able to do that,’ she said. ‘It just feels wrong.’

  ‘So does “boss”.’ Carol hoped her regret didn’t show. ‘Just say, “hey, you!”’

  ‘Or not.’ Stacey gave her a faint smile. ‘Nice painting. Excellent choice. It’s good to see you. How are you?’

  ‘I’m still standing. Well, I’m working at it. And you? How is it being back in ReMIT?’

  ‘It feels very different. I don’t think DCI Rutherford gets us.’

  Carol surprised herself by chuckling. ‘Let’s face it, Stacey, he’d have to be pretty special to do that. He does have a good reputation, though.’

  ‘He’s a bit gung-ho.’ She cut her eyes at Carol. ‘We had a team-building exercise on Monday.’

  Her intonation was the prompt her words weren’t. Carol obeyed. ‘And how was that?’

  Permission granted, Stacey told her. Without the sort of bold embellishment Paula would have given the tale, but leaving Carol in no doubt as to the level of effectiveness of the team building. And the quality of their new recruits. ‘At least you know a bit more about the newbies now,’ Carol said, her tone wry.

  ‘And we walked straight back into a case. The skeletons in the convent?’

  ‘Really? I heard about it on the news.’ Carol was surprised but tried not to show it. ‘Historic remains? Not a ReMIT kind of thing, I’d have thought.’

  ‘We’re not sure how historic. Either way, the DCI can’t wait to get stuck in. It’s a bit of a dog’s breakfast, to be honest. I can’t stay out too long. I’ve got analyses to do for Paula. It’s not that I don’t want to catch up – I do, of course . . . ’

  It was one of the longer speeches Carol had heard from Stacey. She didn’t do overt emotional displays. Not even during her ill-fated relationship with Sam Evans. Though the pair had been close colleagues, she hadn’t guessed from Stacey’s demeanour that there was anything more between them. It was only after it was over, when Sam’s career had crashed and burned, that Paula had filled Carol in on the relationship and the break-up. Carol didn’t like herself for the suspicion, but she couldn’t help wondering whether Sam’s fall from grace had included a push from his former lover’s cyber skills. Not a woman you’d want to cross, she thought.

  ‘I need a favour,’ Carol said. ‘But then, you’ll have worked that out for yourself.’

  Stacey shrugged. ‘It’s OK. The kind of history we’ve got – favours are part of our DNA.’

  Carol acknowledged the truth of that with a dip of her chin. ‘Did you ever meet Tony’s mother? Vanessa?’

  Stacey’s immediate impassivity was the equivalent of breathless interest in anyone else. ‘I never met her. What I know, I know from Paula. I think that’s probably more than enough.’

  ‘Can’t disagree with that. Tony says she’s a classic narcissist. Me, I think she’s just a bitch. But she’s a bitch who knows how to manipulate people. And right now, I’m the one she’s manipulating.’ Carol closed her eyes momentarily and breathed slow and deep. Then she straightened up and told Stacey what she was obliged to do for Vanessa. It got no prettier in the telling.

  ‘I’m sorry to drag you into this,’ she said. ‘But I don’t know anybody else who can find this information for me. I’ve tracked down Harrison Gardner’s son’s details. He’s called Oliver—’ She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her satchel. ‘His birth certificate. He’s seventeen, which narrows down the window for the setting up of the trust and the purchase of the cottage. I can’t access the Land Registry—’

  ‘I can,’ Stacey said flatly.

  ‘It’s a big ask.’

  Stacey grinned. ‘No. It’s really not. It’s mildly tedious to winnow through the results but it’s not difficult. Northumberland, you say?’

  ‘That’s what Vanessa said. On the coast, with a view of Holy Island.’

  ‘I’ll leave that bit up to you, if you don’t mind. I’ll get you a list of properties that changed hands in the time window with owners that might fit what you’re looking for, but winnowing them down with an OS map? That’s up to you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to do that end of it,’ Carol said. ‘I’m after a favour, not martyrdom.’

  ‘What are you going to do when you find him?’

  Carol breathed in heavily through her nose. ‘Speak softly but carry a big stick. He’s met Vanessa, after all. That should be enough to persuade him to hand over the readies.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard, I’d say you’re probably right.’ Stacey stood up. ‘I need to get back. It’s been good to see you. I’ll be in touch when I have something for you. Maybe we could all meet up for dinner? You and me and Paula?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Carol said, taken aback to find she meant it. ‘Good luck with the nuns.’

  Stacey drew down the corners of her mouth. ‘Now there’s an institution that knows how to keep its secrets. You wouldn’t believe how much of the Catholic church’s records are still on paper. It’s like they were behind the door when the digital revolution happened.’

  ‘Let’s hope you get a proper ReMIT case before too long.’

  Stacey shook her head. ‘I’m being very careful what I wish for these days. Take care.’ She’d taken two steps when she stopped and turned back. ‘Carol. Take care.’

  24

  Sifting through the evidence, however well-prepared it is, can only take us so far. There comes a point when
the profiler has to sit down with witnesses and investigators in an attempt to give amorphous shape to the perpetrator.

  From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL

  Paula studied the young woman sitting opposite her in the interview room. She’d have put Louise Brand in her mid-to late-twenties. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail which did her slightly pudgy face no favours. Her brows had been severely plucked, her mascara so thickly applied it had clumped in places. She’d chewed off most of her pale pink lipstick, revealing chapped skin underneath. A line of silver star-shaped studs ran up the helix of her left ear.

  ‘Thanks for coming in to talk to us, Louise. I understand you spent some time living in the St Margaret Clitherow Refuge? And going to the school there.’

  Louise took a deep shuddering breath. ‘I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, but I saw about the bodies on the news this morning and it freaked me out.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ That was all Paula managed before Louise was off again.

  ‘Because I might have known some of them, with me being there for the best part of three years. And some lasses did just vanish. We were told their families had come for them, or they were being adopted, or they’d had an accident and had to go to hospital and when they didn’t come back, the nuns just brushed it off, said they’d been moved to another kids’ home where they’d fit in better. And now it looks like that were a load of bollocks.’ She ran out of steam and looked around her. ‘I bet I can’t smoke in here, right?’

  Paula nodded. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Typical. And then when my dad came back for me, well, it kind of made me believe what the nuns had said. Because that’s what did happen to me.’

  ‘I want to take you through this in order,’ Paula said patiently. ‘But first, I need some details about you.’

  Some witnesses needed to be drawn out carefully and thoughtfully. Some drowned their interviewer in a torrent of information, inference, rumour, gossip and speculation. Paula knew already which kind Louise was. Within minutes, she had permission to record their conversation; the woman’s full name; a d.o.b. that put her a few years younger than Paula had guessed; the address where she lived with her father and her stepmother, though Louise didn’t think of her as the motherly type, not like her own mum who had died, and besides, her dad wasn’t married to the new one; the name of the pub where she worked five nights a week, on the books like a proper person, nothing dodgy there; and that she was studying for a Certificate of Higher Education in Children and Families at the Open University. Paula was experienced enough not to show her surprise at that last piece of information and chided herself mentally for being too quick to judge.