Читать книгу Val McDermid 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Mermaids Singing, The Wire in the Blood, The Last Temptation - Val McDermid, Val McDermid - Страница 39

Reading his acts by the light of such mute traces as he left behind him, the police became aware that latterly he must have loitered. And the reason which governed him is striking; because at once it records – that murder was not pursued by him simply as a means to an end, but also as an end for itself.

The Wunch of Bankers was one of the few city-centre watering holes where Kevin Matthews felt safe meeting Penny Burgess. A fun pub with blaring rap music and decor modelled on soap operas – the Rover’s Return Snug, the Woolpack Eaterie, the Queen Vic Lounge, and the Cheers Beer Bar – was the last place he was likely to see another copper or Penny another journalist.

Kevin made a face as his taste buds clenched on the strong bitter coffee that lurked under a swirl of foam that looked more like industrial effluent than a cappuccino. Where the hell was she? He glanced at his watch for the twentieth time. She’d promised she’d be here by four at the latest, and now it was ten past. He pushed the half-empty cup away from him and grabbed his fashionable raincoat from the banquette beside him. He was about to stand up when the pub’s revolving door hissed round and disgorged Penny. She waved and headed straight over to his table.

‘You said four o’clock,’ Kevin greeted her.

‘God, Kevin, you’re getting really anal in your old age,’ Penny complained, giving him a peck on the cheek as she subsided on to the seat beside him. ‘Get me one of those mineral waters with a hint of fruits of the forest, there’s a love,’ she said, her voice mocking the pretensions of her chosen drink.

When Kevin returned with a glass already sweating with condensation, Penny immediately put a proprietorial hand on the inside of his thigh. ‘Mmm, thanks,’ she said, sipping her drink. ‘So what’s new? Why the urgent meeting?’

‘Today’s paper,’ he said tonelessly. ‘The shit’s really hit the fan.’

‘Oh, good,’ Penny said. ‘Maybe we’ll get some positive action. Like a suspect you’ve got some evidence against.’

‘You’re not understanding. They’re hunting for the mole. The Chief had Brandon on the carpet this morning, and the upshot is that Internal Affairs have mounted a leak enquiry. Penny, you’ve got to cover my back,’ Kevin said desperately. Penny took her time lighting a cigarette. ‘Are you listening to me?’ Kevin demanded.

‘Of course I am, sweetheart,’ Penny soothed automatically, her mind already planning her story for the morrow. ‘I just don’t understand why you’re getting so worked up. You know a good journalist never reveals her sources. What’s the problem? You think I’m not a good enough journalist?’ With an effort, Penny forced herself to listen to Kevin’s reply rather than the voice in her head reeling off headlines.

‘It’s not that I don’t trust you,’ Kevin said impatiently. ‘It’s inside the force I’m worried about. Everybody will be desperate to put themselves in the clear, so anybody that knows about us will be falling over themselves to tell Internal Affairs. And once they know that we’re, well, you know? That’ll be it. I’ll have had it.’

‘But nobody knows about us. Or not from me, they don’t,’ Penny said calmly.

‘I thought nobody knew too. Then Carol Jordan said something that made me think she does.’

‘And you think Carol’s going to shop you to Internal Affairs?’ Penny said, failing to hide the incredulity she felt. She hadn’t had many dealings with the CID’s most glamorous officer, but what she knew of the inspector didn’t incline her to cast her in the role of grass.

‘You don’t know her. She’s totally bloody ruthless. She wants to go all the way, that one, and she’d drop me in it soon as look at me if she thought it would take her a rung up the ladder.’

Penny shook her head in exasperation. ‘You’re overreacting. Even if Carol Jordan has mysteriously discovered that we’re seeing each other, I’m sure she’s too busy covering herself with glory from her liaison with Dr Hill to be bothered with shopping you. Besides, if you think about it rationally, she’s got nothing to gain from getting herself a reputation with the lads as a grass.’

Kevin shook his head dubiously. ‘I don’t know. Penny, you’ve no idea what it’s like on this job. We’re all working eighteen-hour days, and we’re getting nowhere.’

Penny stroked the inside of his thigh. ‘Sweetheart, you’re under a lot of pressure. Look, tell you what. If it all comes on top and somebody fingers you, Internal Affairs are bound to come to us and front us up. They’ll be looking for corroboration. If that happens, I’ll make it look like Carol Jordan’s my source, OK? That should muddy the waters.’

Kevin’s smile was worth the flannel, she decided. That, and one or two other things about him. Reassured, he bounced to his feet. ‘Thanks, Pen. Listen, I’ve got to be a place. I’ll call you soon so we can get together, OK?’ He leaned over and kissed her deep and hard.

‘Keep me posted, lover boy,’ Penny said softly to his retreating back. Before he even reached the doors, her intro was taking shape. Oh yes, she could see it now.

Bradfield police are devoting new resources to the hunt for the serial killer who has claimed four victims and placed men in jeopardy as never before.

But the extra officers will not be joining the search for the monstrous Queer Killer. Their job will be to police the police themselves.

Top brass in the force are so alarmed by the accuracy of the Sentinel Times’s stories on the killings that they have set up a full-scale mole hunt to uncover the source of our stories. Instead of catching the killer, the mole-catchers will be tracking down fellow officers who subscribe to the view that the terrified public have a right to know what’s going on.

Carol opened the door to the outer office and said, ‘I’m all done. Can we talk?’

Tony looked up from the computer screen absently, held up one finger and said, ‘Yeah, sure, give me a minute,’ and finished what he was doing.

Carol retreated and took a deep breath. No matter how professional she tried to be, she couldn’t help the surge of attraction she felt for this man. Ignoring it was easier said than done. Moments later, Tony joined her. He perched on the edge of his desk, his hair standing on end like Dennis the Menace from thrusting his fingers through it while he concentrated. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What’s the verdict?’

‘I’m impressed,’ she said. ‘It really pulls everything together. There were a couple of things, though.’

‘Only a couple?’ Tony asked, his voice close to a chuckle.

‘You talk a lot about how he must be strong, to overpower his victims and move them around. Also, you speculate about how he gets them into a vulnerable position in the first place. I was wondering if maybe there were two of them.’

‘Go on,’ Tony said, no hint of frost in his voice.

‘I don’t mean two men. I mean a man and someone else who appears vulnerable. Maybe an adolescent boy or, more likely, a woman. I don’t know, maybe even a person in a wheelchair. A partner in crime. Like Ian Brady and Myra Hindley.’ Carol shuffled the papers, putting them back in order. Still Tony said nothing. After a few moments watching his expressionless face, she added, ‘I know you’ve probably thought about it already, I just wondered if it was a possibility we should still bear in mind.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to look like I was ignoring you,’ Tony said hurriedly. ‘I was reviewing the thought, weighing it against what we know and against the profile. One of the first things I considered was whether or not it was a solo. On the balance of overwhelming probability, I decided it was. Cases like the Moors Murders where you have two people acting in tandem to carry out atrocities are incredibly rare, for a kick off. Also, I’d expect to find more variation in the methodology and the pathology if there were two people involved; it’s hard to believe their fantasies would coincide so exactly. But it’s interesting that you’ve come up with it. You’re right in one respect. If he’s working with a woman it does explain how he gets close to his victims without them putting up a fight.’ Tony sat staring straight ahead, brows lowered in thought.

Carol stayed motionless in her seat. Eventually, Tony turned to face her and said, ‘I’m going to stick with my soloist. Yours is an interesting idea, but I can’t see evidence that convinces me I should shift from the most highly probable scenario.’

‘OK, point taken,’ Carol said calmly. ‘Moving on from that, have you considered the possibility of a transvestite? Like you just said, a woman could get close without them putting up a fight. What about if the woman was a man in drag? Wouldn’t that have the same effect?’

Tony looked startled for a moment. ‘Maybe you should think about applying to join the national task force when it’s set up,’ he stalled.

Carol grinned. ‘Flattery will get you nowhere.’

‘I mean it. I think you’ve got what it takes to do this kind of work. You see, I’m not infallible. I hadn’t actually considered a transvestite. Now, why did I ignore that possibility?’ he mused, thinking aloud. ‘There must be some subconscious reason why I rejected it before it even got to the front of my mind …’ Carol opened her mouth to speak, but he said, ‘No, wait a minute, please, let me work this out.’ His hands ran through his hair again, rearranging the dark spikes.

She subsided, telling herself he was just as arrogant as all the rest, unable to accept he might just have missed something. Stop kidding yourself he’s different, she told herself sternly.

‘Right,’ Tony said, his voice rich with satisfaction. ‘We’re dealing with a sexual sadist, agreed?’

‘Agreed.’

‘Sado-masochism is the power trip of sexual fetishes. But transvestism is the diametric opposite of that. TVs want to assume the supposedly weaker role that women have in society. What underpins transvestism is the belief that women have a subtle power, the power of their gender. It couldn’t be further removed from the brute transaction of pain and power that sado-masochists crave. That’s not part of a TV’s fantasy at all. To convince the victims that they’re dealing with a woman and not a man in drag, the killer would have to be an accomplished cross-dresser. But, uniquely in my experience of clinical psychology, he’d also have to be a sexual sadist. The two just don’t go together,’ Tony explained with an air of finality. ‘The same goes for a transsexual. Probably more so, in fact, because of the counselling they have to go through before they’re accepted for treatment.’

‘So you’re ruling it out, then,’ Carol said, feeling unreasonably crushed.

‘I never rule anything out. That’s asking to make a fool of yourself in this game. What I think is that it’s so unlikely that I would be loath to include it in a profile because its very inclusion might push people in the wrong direction. But by all means keep it in mind. You’re thinking along the right lines.’ He smiled, unexpectedly, taking the sting of patronage out of his words. ‘Like I said at the start, Carol, together we can crack it.’

‘And you’re absolutely convinced that it isn’t a woman?’ she asked.

‘The psychology’s all wrong. Taking the most obvious point, this killer’s an obsessive, and that tends to be a male trait. How many women do you know who hang about station platforms in the rain in anoraks writing down train numbers?’

‘But what about that syndrome, what’s it called, where people get obsessed with someone else to the point where they make their lives a misery? I thought it was mainly women who suffer from that?’

‘De Clerambault’s Syndrome,’ Tony said. ‘And yes, it is principally women who suffer from it. But they only focus on one person, and the only person who’s likely to get dead as a result is the sufferer, who sometimes commits suicide. The thing is that women’s obsessions and compulsions are different from men’s. Men’s obsessions are about control; they collect stamps and catalogue them, they collect a pair of knickers from every woman they’ve slept with. They need trophies. Women’s obsessions are about submission; in eating disorders, it’s the obsession that takes them over and controls them rather than the other way about. A sufferer from de Clerambault’s Syndrome who married the object of her desire would probably be the chauvinist’s ideal of the perfect wife. That pattern doesn’t fit our killer.’

‘I see what you mean,’ Carol said, loath to give up the one fresh idea she felt she’d contributed to the profiling process.

‘Add to that the sheer physical strength involved here,’ Tony continued, seeing her reluctance. ‘You’re fit. You’re probably quite strong for your height. I’m only a couple of inches taller than you. But how far do you think you could carry me? How long would it take you to pick my body up from the boot of a car and dump it over a wall? Could you throw me over your shoulder and carry me through Carlton Park to the shrubbery? Now bear in mind that all the victims have been taller and heavier than me.’

Carol gave a rueful smile. ‘OK, you win. I’m convinced. There was one other thing that occurred to me.’

‘Let’s hear it.’

‘Reading your profile, it seems to me that the reason you advance for the maintenance of the gaps between the killings just isn’t strong enough,’ she started tentatively.

‘You noticed that too,’ he said wryly. ‘It didn’t convince me either. But I couldn’t think of anything else to explain it. I’ve never encountered anything quite like it, either face to face or in the literature. All the serial offenders I know about go through escalation.’

‘I’ve got a theory that might cover the problem,’ Carol said.

Tony leaned forward, his expression absorbed. ‘Speak to me, Carol,’ he said.

Feeling like a goldfish in a bowl, Carol took a deep breath. She’d wanted his attention, but she wasn’t quite sure if she liked it now she had it. ‘I remember what you said to me a couple of days ago about the intervals.’ She closed her eyes and recited, ‘“With most serial killers, the gap between the killings tends to decrease quite dramatically. It’s their fantasies that trigger off the killings in the first place, and the reality never quite matches up to the fantasy, no matter how much they refine their killing procedures. But the more extreme they get, the more blunted their sensibilities become and the more stimulus they need to get the sexual buzz that killing provides. So the kills have to become more frequent. Shakespeare said it. ‘As if increase of appetite had grown by what it fed on.’” Am I right?’

‘Remarkable,’ Tony breathed. ‘Can you do that with visuals as well, or is it only auditory?’

Exasperated, Carol cast her eyes upwards. ‘Auditory only, I’m afraid. Anyway, when I read the bit in the profile where you suggest he might work with computers, something clicked. The question you didn’t actually put but is obviously bothering you is, why isn’t he getting desensitized to the videos faster as time goes by?’

Tony nodded. The point she’d raised was powerful, and it was precisely what was troubling him. He searched to find an answer that would satisfy them both. Groping for the solution as he went along, he said, ‘Suppose, for the sake of argument, that the first video had the potential to keep him stable for twelve weeks. But he’d already set in train the process of capturing his second victim, and the opportune moment came along before he was actually compelled to kill again. He just couldn’t resist the chance when it presented itself so perfectly. Afterwards, he realizes he’s left eight weeks between the killings and he decides that eight weeks is going to be his pattern. So far, the videos have allowed him to maintain that. Maybe that is going to change now.’

Carol shook her head. ‘It’s plausible, but I’m not convinced.’

Tony grinned. ‘Thank God for that. Neither am I. There’s got to be a better explanation, but I don’t know what it is.’

‘How much do you know about computers?’ she asked.

‘I know where the on/off switch is and I know how to use the software I need to work with. Other than that, I’m a moron.’

‘Well, that makes two of us. My brother, however, is a computer whizz kid. He’s a partner in a games software house. The stuff he works on is leading-edge technology. Right now, he and his partner are developing a low-cost system that will allow games players to put images of themselves in the games that they’re playing. In other words, instead of it being Arnie kicking the shit out of the bad guys on the screen in Terminator 2, it would be Tony Hill. Or Carol Jordan. The point is that there’s already the hardware and software around that allows you to scan video tape and import the images into a computer. I think they call it digitized images. Anyway, once you’ve got that into the computer, you can manipulate it exactly how you want to. You can incorporate still photographs, or bits from other videos. You can superimpose things. When they first got the original hardware about six months ago, Michael showed me this sequence he’d made up himself. He’d taped some of the Tory Party conference and he’d also imported a video sex guide. He’d selected all these government ministers’ faces while they were giving their speeches and superimposed them on the sex video.’ Carol snorted with laughter at the memory. ‘It was a bit choppy, but believe me, you’ve never seen John Major and Margaret Thatcher getting on so well! It gave a whole new meaning to the word “gobbledegook”!’

Tony stared at Carol in stunned silence. ‘You’re kidding me,’ he said.

‘It’s the perfect explanation of why the videos manage to keep him under control.’

‘Wouldn’t that mean he’d have to be a real boffin, like your brother?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Carol said. ‘From what I gathered, the actual techniques involved are fairly simple. But the software and the peripherals that you need to do it are incredibly expensive. You could be talking two or three grand just for one piece of software. So he’s either working for a company where he has that sort of equipment on tap and the privacy to work on his own stuff, or else he’s a computer hobbyist with a lot of disposable income.’

‘Or a thief,’ Tony added, only half joking.

‘Or a thief,’ Carol agreed.

‘I don’t know,’ Tony said dubiously. ‘It does answer the problem, but it’s totally off the wall.’

‘And Handy Andy isn’t?’ Carol said belligerently.

‘Oh, he’s off the wall, all right, but I’m not sure he’s that together.’

‘He builds torture machines. That would be a lot easier with a computer design program. Tony, something’s keeping him stable on his eight-week cycle. Why not this?’

‘It’s a possibility, Carol, no more than that at this stage. Look, why don’t you make some preliminary enquiries, see how feasible what you’re suggesting would be in practice?’

‘You don’t want to include it in the profile?’ Carol asked, bitterly disappointed.

‘I don’t want to undermine the things I feel are strongly probable by including something that’s really only a bit of kite-flying at this stage. You said yourself, it was triggered off by one of the few bits in the profile that is little more than speculation. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking the idea. I think it’s brilliant. But we’re going to have to work bloody hard as it is to overcome the resistance in some quarters to the profile as a whole. Even people who are broadly in support of the idea aren’t necessarily going to agree with some parts of it. So let’s not give them any easy targets. Let’s bottom it, present it to them gift-wrapped so the snipers can’t just knock it straight off the perch. OK?’

‘Fine,’ she said, knowing in her heart he was right. She picked up a sheet of paper and a pen. ‘Check out software manufacturers and consultancies in Bradfield area,’ she muttered to herself as she wrote. ‘Check with Michael about manufacturers of necessary hardware/software then check sales records. Check recent thefts.’

‘Computer clubs,’ Tony added.

‘Thanks, yes,’ Carol said, adding that to her list. ‘And bulletin boards. Oh boy, I’m going to be really popular with the HOLMES team.’ She got to her feet. ‘It’s going to be a long job. I’d better get cracking. I’ll take this down to Scargill Street now and give it to Mr Brandon. We’ll need you to come in and go through it.’

‘No problem,’ Tony said.

‘I’m glad something isn’t.’

Tony stared out of the window of the tram, watching the city lights pass in a blur of rain. There was something cocoon-like about the gleaming white interior of the tram. Graffiti-free, warm, clean; it felt like a safe place to be. As the driver approached traffic lights, he gave a blast on the breathy horn. It sounded like a noise from childhood, the sort of hooting that a cartoon train would produce, he decided.

He turned away from the window and covertly studied the half-dozen other passengers on the tram. Anything to take his mind off the curious emptiness he felt now he had delivered his profile. It wasn’t as if this would be the end of his involvement with the case. Brandon had told Carol that she was to have a daily briefing with him.

He wished he could have been more encouraging about her computer theory, but years of training and practice had rendered the habit of caution ingrained. The idea itself was brilliant. Once she had done some research into the practicability of what she was suggesting, he’d be only too happy to endorse it with her fellow officers. But for the sake of his profile’s credibility, he had to keep his distance from ideas that the average copper would dismiss as science fiction.

He wondered how the police were faring that evening. Carol had called him to say that teams were going out in Temple Fields, trawling the area’s regulars, trying to see if the profile suggestions produced any recognition. With luck, they might get some names that would cross-reference to data already in HOLMES, either from previous criminal records or from the car index numbers whose registered keepers had been fed into the system.

‘The next stop will be Bank Vale station. Bank Vale station next stop,’ the electronic voice from the speakers announced. With a start, Tony realized they had left the city centre far behind and were emerging on the far side of Carlton Park, less than a mile from his home. Bank Vale came and went, and Tony swung round in his seat, ready to make for the exit doors when the next stop was announced.

He walked briskly through the neat suburban streets, past the school playing fields, skirting the small copse that was all that remained of the plantation that had given the Woodside area its name. Tony glanced at the trees as he hurried past, thinking wryly that the path cutting diagonally through the wood would almost certainly be completely deserted. First it was the women walking home alone who had abandoned it. Then it was the children, kept away by anxious parents. Now, in Bradfield, it was the men who were learning the bitter lessons of life in jeopardy.

Tony turned into his street, relishing the quiet of the cul-de-sac. He’d get through the evening somehow. Maybe drive down to the supermarket and buy the ingredients for a chicken biryani. Pick up a video. Catch up on his reading.

As he turned the key in the lock, the phone started ringing. Dropping his briefcase, Tony ran for the phone, kicking the door to behind him. He picked up the phone, but before he could say anything, her voice trickled into his ear like warm olive oil soothing an earache. ‘Anthony, darling, you sound like you’re panting for me.’

He’d managed to avoid thinking about it all the way home, but he knew this was what he’d been hoping for.

Brandon had turned out the bedside light less than a minute before the phone rang. ‘You should have known better,’ Maggie murmured as he dragged himself away from her complaisant warmth and reached for the receiver.

‘Brandon,’ he growled.

‘Sir, it’s Inspector Matthews,’ the tired voice said. ‘We’ve just picked up Stevie McConnell. The lads have just lifted him at the ferry port in Seaford. He was about to get on a ship for Rotterdam.’

Brandon sat up in a tangle of duvet, ignoring Maggie’s protests. ‘What have they done?’

‘Well, sir, they didn’t think there was a lot they could do, being as how he’s on police bail and there’s no conditions for him to breach.’

‘Are they holding him?’ Brandon was out of bed and reaching for his underwear drawer.

‘Yes, sir. They’ve got him in the Customs lads’ office.’

‘What on?’

‘Assaulting a police officer.’ Kevin’s voice somehow summoned up the image of a smirk as disembodied as the Cheshire Cat’s smile. ‘They rang me to ask what they should do next, and since you’ve taken such a personal interest in the case, I thought I should ask you first.’

Don’t push it, Brandon thought savagely. All he said, however, was, ‘I’d have thought it was pretty obvious. Arrest him for attempting to pervert the course of justice and bring him back to Bradfield.’ He wrestled into a pair of boxer shorts and leaned over to pick up his trousers from the back of a chair.

‘I take it we show him to the magistrates this time and ask that they refuse bail?’ Kevin’s voice was so sweet it was on the border of costing him his teeth, and not from decay.

‘That’s what we normally do when we have grounds, Inspector. Thanks for keeping me informed.’

‘One other thing, sir,’ Kevin said unctuously.

‘What?’ Brandon growled.

‘The lads have also had to make another arrest.’

‘Another arrest? Who the hell else have they had to arrest?’

‘Superintendent Cross, sir. Apparently, he was trying rather forcibly to prevent McConnell from boarding the ferry.’

Brandon closed his eyes and counted to ten. ‘Is McConnell hurt?’

‘Apparently not, sir, just a bit shaken up. The super has a black eye, though.’

‘Fine. Tell them to let Cross go home. And tell them to ask him to call me tomorrow, OK, Inspector?’ Brandon replaced the phone and leaned over to kiss his wife, who had reclaimed the duvet and was rolled up tight as a hibernating dormouse.

‘Mmm,’ Maggie murmured. ‘Are you sure you have to go in?’

‘It’s not my idea of a good time, believe me, but I want to be there when they bring this prisoner in. He’s just the sort of bloke who might fall downstairs.’

‘A problem with his balance?’

Brandon shook his head grimly. ‘Not his balance. Other people sometimes get a bit unbalanced, love. We’ve already had one maverick on the prowl tonight. I’m not taking any more chances. I’ll see you when I see you.’

Fifteen minutes later, Brandon walked into the murder squad room. Kevin Matthews was slumped over a desk at the far end of the room, his head cradled in his arms. As Brandon approached, he heard the soft snore of Kevin’s breathing. He wondered when any of the squad had last had a straight night’s sleep. It was when officers got tired and edgy at the lack of results that the serious mistakes happened. Brandon desperately wanted to avoid his name in lights ten years down the road as the man who masterminded a sensational miscarriage of justice, and he’d go to any lengths to avoid it. There was only one problem with that, he wryly acknowledged to himself as he sat down opposite Kevin. In order to keep his finger on the pulse of the investigation, he had to work the same kind of ridiculous hours that led to the very misjudgements he wanted to avoid. Catch 22. He’d read that, a few years back now, when Maggie had decided to go to evening classes and take the A Levels she’d never got round to at school. She’d said it was a wonderful book, funny, savage, sharply satirical. He’d found it almost too painful. It reminded him too strongly of the Job. Especially on nights like tonight when previously sane men turned desperado.

The phone rang. Kevin stirred, but didn’t wake. Pulling a sympathetic face, Brandon reached over and lifted it. ‘CID. Brandon speaking.’

There was a momentary, confused silence. Then a strained voice said, ‘Sir? Sergeant Merrick here. Sir, we’ve copped for another body.’