02.The Wire in the Blood

  Micky’s level stare felt as much of a challenge as anything that had ever faced him on the field of competition. ‘What do you think?’ he snarled.

  ‘I’m telling you, man, this is the sticks,’ Leon said, waving a chicken pakora in a sweeping gesture that seemed to include not only the restaurant but most of the West Riding of Yorkshire as well.

  ‘You’ve obviously never been to Greenock on a Saturday night,’ Simon said drily. ‘Believe me, Leon, that makes Leeds look positively cosmopolitan.’

  ‘Nothing could make this place cosmopolitan,’ Leon protested.

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ Kay said. ‘It’s very good for shopping.’ Even outside the classroom, Shaz noticed, Kay slipped straight into the conciliatory role, smoothing down her hair as she smoothed down the rough edges in the conversations.

  Simon groaned theatrically. ‘Oh please, Kay, don’t feel you need to glide effortlessly into bland womanly stuff. Go on, make my night, tell me how terrific Leeds is for body-piercing.’

  Kay poked her tongue out at him.

  ‘If you don’t leave Kay alone, us women might well consider piercing some treasured part of your anatomy with this beer bottle,’ Shaz said sweetly, brandishing her Kingfisher.

  Simon put his hands up. ‘OK. I’ll behave, just as long as you promise not to beat me with a chapati.’

  There was a moment’s silence while the four police officers attacked their starters. The Saturday night curry looked like becoming a regular feature for the quartet, the other two preferring to return to their former home turf rather than explore their new base. When Simon had first suggested it, Shaz hadn’t been sure if she wanted to bond that closely with her colleagues. But Simon had been persuasive, and besides, Commander Bishop had been earwigging and she wanted to avoid a black mark for being unco-operative. So she’d agreed and, to her surprise, she’d enjoyed herself, even though she had made her excuses and left before the nightclub excursion that had followed. Now, three weeks into the Job, she found she was actually looking forward to their night out, and not just for the food.

  Leon was first to clear his plate, as usual. ‘What I’m saying is, it’s primitive up here.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Shaz protested. ‘They’ve got plenty of good curry houses, the property’s cheap enough for me to afford something bigger than a rabbit hutch, and if you want to go from one part of the city centre to another, you can walk instead of sitting on the tube for an hour.’

  ‘And the countryside. Don’t forget how easy it is to get out into the countryside,’ Kay added.

  Leon leaned back in his seat, groaning and rolling his eyes extravagantly like a terrible caricature of a Black and White Minstrel. ‘Heathcliff,’ he warbled in falsetto.

  ‘She’s right,’ Simon said. ‘God, you’re such a cliché, Leon. You should get off the city streets, get some fresh air into your lungs. What about coming out tomorrow for a walk? I really fancy seeing if Ilkley Moor lives up to the song.’

  Shaz laughed. ‘What? You want to walk about without a hat and see if you catch your death of cold?’

  The others joined in her laughter. ‘See, man, it’s primitive, like I said. Nothing to do but walk about on your own two feet. And shit, Simon, I’m not the one that’s a cliché. You know I’ve been stopped driving home three times since I moved here? Even the Met got a bit more racially enlightened than thinking every black man with a decent set of wheels has to be a drug dealer,’ Leon said bitterly.

  ‘They’re not stopping you because you’re black,’ Shaz retorted as he paused to light a cigarette.

  ‘No?’ Leon exhaled.

  ‘No, they’re stopping you for being in possession of an offensive weapon.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That suit, babe. Any sharper and you’d cut yourself getting dressed. You’re wearing a blade, of course they’re going to stop you.’ Shaz held out her hand for Leon to give her five and, amid the hoots of laughter from the other two, he made a rueful face and hit her hand.

  ‘Not as sharp as you, Shaz,’ Simon said. She wondered if it was only the heat of the spices that was responsible for the scarlet flush across his normally pale cheekbones.

  ‘Speaking of sharp,’ Kay chipped in as their main courses arrived, ‘you can’t get anything past Tony Hill, can you?’

  ‘He’s smart, all right,’ Simon agreed, sweeping his wavy dark hair back from his sweating forehead. ‘I just wish he’d loosen up a bit. It’s like there’s a wall there that you get right up to but you can’t see over.’

  ‘I’ll tell you why that is,’ Shaz said, suddenly serious. ‘Bradfield. The Queer Killer.’

  ‘That’s the one he did that went well and truly pear-shaped, yeah?’ Leon asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘It was all hushed up, wasn’t it?’ Kay said, her intent face reminding Shaz of a small furry animal, cute but with hidden teeth. ‘The papers hinted at all sorts of stuff, but they never went into much detail.’

  ‘Believe me,’ Shaz said, looking at her half-chicken and wishing she’d gone for something vegetarian, ‘you wouldn’t want to know the details. If you want to know the whole story, check out the Internet. They weren’t constrained by technicalities like good taste or requests from the authorities to keep things under wraps. I’m telling you, if you can read what Tony Hill went through without having second thoughts about what we’re doing, you’re a fuck of a sight braver than I am.’

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Simon leaned forward and said confidingly, ‘You’re going to tell us, aren’t you, Shaz?’

  Chapter 2

  He always arrived fifteen minutes ahead of the agreed time because he knew she’d be early. It didn’t matter which she he’d chosen, she’d turn up ahead of schedule because she was convinced he was Rumpelstiltskin, the man who could spin twenty-four-carat gold out of the dry straw of her life.

  Donna Doyle—no longer the next one but rather the latest one—was no different from the others. As her silhouette appeared against the dim light of the car park, he could hear the clumsy childish music crashing in his head. ‘Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water…’

  He shook his head to clear his ears, like a snorkeller surfacing from a coral reef. He watched her approach, moving cautiously between the expensive cars, glancing from side to side, a slight frown creasing her forehead, as if she couldn’t work out why her antennae weren’t pointing her to his precise position. He could see she’d done her best to look good; the school skirt that had obviously been folded over at the waist to show off shapely legs, the school blouse open one button further than parent or teacher would ever have allowed in public, the blazer over one shoulder, hanging thus to obscure the backpack of school supplies. The make-up was heavier than the night before, its excess weight catapulting her straight into middle age. And her hair glinted glossy black, the swing of the short bob catching the dull gleam of the car park lights.

  When Donna was almost level, he pushed open the passenger door of the car. The sudden interior light made her jump even as she registered his shockingly handsome profile cutting a dark line through the bright rectangle. He spoke through his already lowered window. ‘Come and sit with me while I tell you what all this is about,’ he said conversationally.

  Donna hesitated fractionally, but she was too familiar with the open candour of his public face to pause properly for reflection. She slid into the seat next to him and he made sure she saw him carefully not looking at the expanse of thigh her moves had revealed. For the time being, chastity was the best policy. Her smile was coquettish yet innocent as she said, ‘When I woke up this morning, I wondered if I’d dreamed it all.’

  His answering smile was indulgent. ‘I feel like that all the time,’ he said, building another course of bricks on the false foundation of fake rapport. ‘I wondered if you’d have second thoughts. There are so many things you could do with your life that would be a greater contribution to society than being
on TV. Believe me, I know.’

  ‘But you do those things too,’ she said earnestly. ‘All that charity work. It’s being famous makes it possible for TV stars to raise so much money. People pay money to see them. They wouldn’t be shelling out otherwise. I want to be able to do that. To be like them.’

  The impossible dream. Or rather, nightmare. She could never have been like him, though she had no notion of the real reason why. People like him were so rare it was almost an argument for the existence of God. He smiled benevolently, like the Pope from the Vatican balcony. It pushed all the right buttons. ‘Well, perhaps I can help you make a start,’ he told her. And Donna believed him.

  He had her there, alone, co-operative, in his car, in an underground car park. What could have been easier than to whisk her away to his destination?

  Only a fool would think like that, he’d realized long ago, and he was no fool. For a start, the car park wasn’t exactly empty. Businessmen and women were checking out of the hotel, stowing suit carriers into executive saloons and reversing out of tight spots. They noticed a lot more than anyone would expect. For another thing, it was broad daylight outside, a city centre festooned with traffic lights where people sat with nothing better to do than pick their noses and stare slack-jawed at the inhabitants of the next car. First, they’d register the car. A silver Mercedes, smart enough to catch the eye and the admiration. Or, of course, the envy. Then they’d clock the flowing letters along the front wing that announced, Cars for Vance’s Visits supplied by Morrigan Mercedes of Cheshire. Alerted to the possible proximity of celebrity, they’d peer through the tinted windows, trying to identify the driver and passenger. They weren’t going to forget that in a hurry, especially if they glimpsed an attractive teenager in the passenger seat. When her photograph appeared in the local paper, they’d remember, no question.

  And finally, he’d got a busy day ahead. There was no space in his schedule for delivering her to a place where he could exact what was due. No point in drawing attention to himself by failing to keep appointments, not turning up for the public appearances that were so carefully constructed to give Vance’s Visits maximum exposure for minimal effort. Donna would have to wait. For both of them, it would be the sweeter for the anticipation. Well, for him, at least. For her, it wouldn’t be long before reality turned her breathless expectation into a sick joke.

  So he whetted her appetite and kept her on the leash. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw you last night. You’d be absolutely perfect as the co-host. With a two-handed show, we need contrast. Dark-haired Donna, fair-haired Jacko. Petite Donna, hulking great brute Jacko.’ He grinned, she giggled. ‘What we’re working on is a new game show involving parent and child teams. But the teams don’t know they’re in the show until we turn up to whisk them off. A total surprise, like This is Your Life. That’s part of the reason why we need to be so sure that whoever I end up working with is absolutely trustworthy. Total discretion, that’s the key.’

  ‘I can keep my mouth shut,’ Donna said earnestly. ‘Honest. I never told a living soul about coming here to meet you. My mate that was at the opening last night with me, when she asked what we were talking about for so long, I just said I was asking whether you had any advice for me if I wanted to break into TV.’

  ‘And did I?’ he demanded.

  She smiled, beguiling and seductive. ‘I told her you said I should get some qualifications behind me before I made any decisions about a career. She doesn’t know enough about you to realize you’d never come out with all that boring shit that I get off my mum.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ he told her appreciatively. ‘I can promise you I’ll never be boring, that’s for sure. Now, the problem I’ve got is that I’m desperately busy for the next couple of days. But I’ve got Friday morning free, and I can easily set up some screen tests for you. We’ve got a rehearsal studio up in the north-east and we can work there.’

  Her lips parted, her eyes glowed in the dimness of the car interior. ‘You mean it? I can be on telly?’

  ‘No promises, but you look the part and you’ve got a beautiful voice.’ He shifted in his seat so he could fix her with a direct gaze. ‘All I need to prove to myself is that you really can keep a secret.’

  ‘I told you,’ Donna replied, consternation on her face. ‘I’ve said nothing to anybody.’

  ‘But can you keep that up? Can you stay silent until Thursday night?’ He put his hand inside his jacket and produced a rail ticket. ‘This is a train ticket for Five Walls Halt in Northumberland. On Thursday, you catch the 3.25 Newcastle train from the station here, then at Newcastle, you change to the 7.50 for Carlisle. When you come out of the station, there’s a car park on the left. I’ll be waiting there in a Land Rover. I can’t get out to meet you on the platform because of commercial confidentiality, but I’ll be there in the car park, I promise. We’ll put you up for the night, then first thing in the morning, you do the screen test.’

  ‘But my mum’ll panic if I stay out all night and she doesn’t know where I am,’ she protested reluctantly.

  ‘You can phone her as soon as we get to the studio complex,’ he told her, his voice rich in reassurance. ‘Let’s face it, she probably wouldn’t let you take the screen test if she knew, would she? I bet she doesn’t think working in TV is a proper job, does she?’

  As usual, he’d calculated to perfection. Donna knew her ambitious mother wouldn’t want her to throw her university prospects away to be a game-show bimbo. Her worried look disappeared and she peered up at him from under her eyebrows. ‘I won’t say a word,’ she promised solemnly.

  ‘Good girl. I hope you mean that. All it takes is one wrong word and a whole project can crash. That costs money, and it costs people’s jobs too. You might say something in confidence to your best friend, but she’ll tell her sister, and her sister will tell her boyfriend, and the boyfriend will tell his best mate over a frame of snooker, and the best mate’s sister-in-law just happens to be a reporter. Or a rival TV company executive. And the show’s dead. And your big chance goes with it. Let me tell you something. At the start of your career, you only get one bite of the cherry. You screw up, and no one will ever hire you again. You have to have a lot of success under your belt before the TV bosses forgive a bit of failure.’ He leaned forward and rested a hand on her arm as he spoke, invading her space and making her feel the sexual thrill of his dangerous edge.

  ‘I understand,’ Donna said with all the intensity of a fourteen-year-old who thought she was really a grown-up and couldn’t understand why the adults wouldn’t admit her into their conspiracy. The promise of an entrée into that world was what made her so ready to swallow something as preposterous as his set-up.

  ‘I can rely on you?’

  She nodded. ‘I won’t let you down. Not with this or anything else.’ The sexual innuendo was unmistakable. She was probably still a virgin, he reckoned. Something about her avidity told him so. She was offering herself up to him, a vestal sacrifice.

  He leaned closer and kissed the soft, eager mouth that instantly opened under his primly closed lips. He drew back, smiling to soften her obvious disappointment. He always left them wanting more. It was the oldest showbiz cliché in the world. But it worked every time.

  Chapter 3

  Carol wiped up the remaining traces of chicken jalfrezi with the last chunk of nan bread and savoured the final mouthful. ‘That,’ she said reverently, ‘was to die for.’

  ‘There’s more,’ Maggie Brandon said, pushing the heavy casserole dish towards her.

  ‘I’d have to wear it,’ Carol groaned. ‘There’s no room inside.’

  ‘You can take some home with you,’ Maggie told her. ‘I know the kind of daft hours you’ll be working. Cooking’s the last thing you’ll have time for. When John was made up to DCI, I considered asking his Chief Constable if the family could move into the cells at Scargill Street since that seemed to be the only way his kids would ever get to see him.’

  John Brandon,
Chief Constable of East Yorkshire Police, shook his head and said affectionately, ‘She’s a terrible liar, my wife. She only says these things to guilt-trip you into working so hard there’ll be nothing left for me to worry about in your whole division.’

  Maggie snorted. ‘As if! How do you think he ended up looking like that, eh?’

  Carol gave Brandon a shrewd look. It was a good question. If ever a man had been born with a graveyard face, it was Brandon. His countenance was all verticals, long and narrow; lines in his hollow cheeks, lines between his brows, aquiline nose, iron-grey hair straight as the grid line on a map. Tall and thin, with the beginnings of a stoop, all he needed was a scythe to audition for Death. She considered her options. It might be ‘John’ tonight, but on Monday morning it would be back to, ‘Mr Brandon, sir.’ Better not push her informal relationship with the boss too far. ‘And there was me thinking it was marriage,’ she said innocently.

  Maggie roared with laughter. ‘Diplomatic as well as quick, eh?’ she got out at last, reaching across to pat her husband’s shoulder. ‘You did well to get Carol to abandon the fleshpots of Bradfield for the back of beyond, my love.’

  ‘Speaking of which, how are you settling in?’ Carol asked.

  ‘Well, this is a police house,’ Maggie told her, waving a hand at the brilliant white walls and paintwork, a depressing contrast to the hand-marbled paintwork Carol remembered from their Bradfield dining room. ‘But it’ll have to do us. We’ve rented out the house in Bradfield, you know? John’s only got another five years till he has his thirty in, and we want to go back there. It’s where our roots are, where our friends are. And the kids will all be out of school by then, so it’s not like they’ll be uprooted again.’

  ‘What Maggie isn’t saying is that she feels a bit like a Victorian missionary among the Hottentots,’ Brandon said.

  ‘Well, you’ve got to admit, East Yorkshire’s a bit different from Bradfield. Plenty of scenery, but there’s not a decent theatre within half an hour’s drive of here. There seems to be only one bookshop on the whole patch that sells more than the bestsellers. And as for opera—you can forget it!’ Maggie protested, getting to her feet and gathering the empty plates.