Splinter the Silence

  ‘Why drowning?’ Tony said. ‘It’s not an easy way to go, walking into the sea. Or the river. It’s not like jumping off a bridge, where there’s no going back once you’ve gone over the parapet. But walking in? There’s got to be a moment when the survival instinct kicks in, when you have second thoughts. Walking in, you’ve got the chance to change your mind. Take the stones out of your pockets. Stumble back to the shore. Give yourself a good talking to. But keeping going? That takes a lot of nerve.’

  Maybe it hadn’t been a matter of choice. Maybe she’d been overwhelmed with the urge to end it all in a place where other options hadn’t been available to her. Most people didn’t carry the means of an overdose in their overnight bag. She was off her own turf, so she might not have been able to access a tall building or a motorway bridge to jump off. And holiday cottages were notorious for their lack of sharp knives.

  But still. She’d have had to be pretty bloody determined. Tony felt a heaviness in his heart for her, that she had felt so isolated and vulnerable in spite of a clearly devoted circle of friends and workmates. That someone so respected and so cherished should end up walking into the chill waters of a dark river in the middle of the night was hard to understand for him, a man who spent his life empathising with the damaged, the deranged and the despairing. For those who knew and loved her, it had to be so much worse.

  Tony got up and made himself a hot chocolate, topping it up from a can of spray cream from the tiny galley fridge. It was one of his few indulgences. He took his first sip, not paying any attention to the treat. There was something niggling him about Jasmine Burton’s death, but he couldn’t pin it down.

  Before he could chase the idea any further, his phone began to vibrate, doing a little dance on top of the saloon table. His heart sank. This time of night, it was almost certainly Bradfield Moor Secure Hospital. A crisis with one of his patients. Or a new admission that they were struggling with.

  He lunged for the phone, a splat of hot chocolate barely missing it. ‘Number withheld,’ the screen said. Definitely Bradfield Moor. He fumbled the slider but managed to catch the call before it disappeared. ‘Dr Hill,’ he said, hoping the person on the other end caught the note of resignation.

  ‘Tony? It’s Carol.’ Not that she needed to identify herself. His name in her voice was enough.

  ‘Hi, Carol. I thought you were work. How are you doing?’ He didn’t know what else to say. They’d both tried building bridges lately. A few exchanges of texts. A tentative arrangement to meet for dinner that fell through because he had to go to Nottingham to testify in a court case. But the gulf between them yawned wider than their efforts to span it. Though if she was calling him late at night, that was something, surely? Even if the chances were that she was only calling because she’d been drinking. Dutch courage was better than no courage at all.

  A pause. Then, ‘I’m truly sorry about this, but I need a favour.’ Her voice was tight, angry almost.

  A small leap of delight that he was who she’d turned to. Unless of course it was one of those favours that only he could provide. Except he couldn’t think what that would be now she wasn’t a cop any more. ‘No problem. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m at the police station in Halifax. I’ve no way of getting home. I came out without any money. And they won’t give me my car keys back. I know it’s late and—’

  ‘Of course I’ll come,’ he said, cutting her off. He had no desire to make her beg. ‘The car’s outside. I’ll come straight away.’

  There was no sigh of relief, no gushing thanks. Three simple words, but there was warmth in her voice now. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘Are you all right? Why are you at the police station?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’ll explain when you get here.’

  ‘I’ll see you soon.’ The line went dead. Automatically, Tony slipped the phone into his pocket and made for the companionway and the hatch leading outside. He grabbed his coat from its peg and his keys from their hook as he passed. Everything in the right place. That was how he lived now, a change of habit forced by his environment. A literal battening down of the hatches to match the emotional equivalent; adjusting to life without Carol at its heart.

  He stepped out into the damp chill of the Minster Canal Basin. Even on the cusp of midnight, it was still lively, the last stragglers leaving pubs and restaurants, standing around in chattering knots taking their leave of each other. The ebb and flow of conversation and music drifted across the water from some of the other houseboats. A tram drew a line of light against the darkness as it crossed the Victorian viaduct, its arches a bold silhouette against the glow of the city beyond. Normally, he’d have paused for a moment to drink it in, to remind himself of the unlikely haven he’d found here. But not tonight. Not with Carol waiting in Halifax police station.

  Tony slipped behind the wheel of his car and headed for the motorway link that would take him to the M62 and onwards across the Pennines to Halifax. He was trying not to speculate about the story that lay behind Carol’s call. He suspected that, whatever it was, it involved drink. And that, whatever it was, it would involve trouble.

  Trouble, after all, had always occupied the heart of their relationship.

  8

  Tony wasn’t the only person in the city confounded by the puzzle of his relationship with Carol Jordan. Elinor raised her voice to compete with Paula’s electric toothbrush and said, ‘I think Tony’s getting the hang of coming out to play.’

  Paula grunted through toothpaste.

  Elinor stretched out in bed and yawned. ‘I mean, he actually had conversations. He talked to Torin about gaming. And we all discussed that poor woman who killed herself. Jasmine what’s-her-name.’

  Paula spat. ‘Burton. Jasmine Burton. Yes, he did well. We’re fighting an entire lifetime of not actually managing to achieve social interaction, but we’re definitely making progress.’ She came through from the shower room and slipped under the duvet, snuggling into Elinor’s side and giving her a minty kiss.

  ‘Do you have any sense of what’s happening between him and Carol?’ Elinor shifted on to her side and fitted her body into her partner’s in a familiar configuration.

  ‘He doesn’t really talk about her. I think they’re in touch. I’m amazed he’s hanging in there. He nailed Blake to the wall for her. Forced the Wurzel to offer her a job at her old rank. And what did she do? Told him to stuff his job up his jacksie. Tony used all that leverage for her and she pissed all over it. In his shoes, I’d have cut her loose.’

  Elinor chuckled, one hand rumpling Paula’s short blonde hair. ‘No you wouldn’t. You’re scarily like him. The pair of you would walk into machine-gun fire for Carol Jordan.’

  Paula made a wordless sound of protest.

  ‘Well, maybe not machine guns. But close. You miss her, don’t you?’

  Paula burrowed closer, pulling Elinor tight. ‘She’s the best cop I ever worked with. I look at the bosses I have to deal with now and I wonder how the fuck they got where they are. And truly, Elinor, I wonder whether I should be looking to transfer my skills somewhere they’ll be appreciated.’

  Elinor shifted, leaning back so she could see Paula’s face. She knew her partner was frustrated with the narrow scope her job had assumed, but this was the first time she’d talked about walking away from it. ‘Like where?’

  ‘There’s opportunities. Carol always said I was the best interviewer she’d ever seen. Counter-terrorism’s big business, private sector as well as governmental stuff. Or maybe I could go totally over to the dark side and get some corporate headhunter job.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t expecting that,’ Elinor said. ‘I thought you were settled.’

  ‘I was, until Blake broke up the band and sent us off to play with people who have no sense of rhythm.’

  Elinor smiled. ‘Ooh, extended metaphors.’

  ‘It’ll be zeugma next.’

  ‘I love it when you talk dirty to me.’ Elinor kissed the skin next to P
aula’s mouth, the closest she could get to her lips. ‘Promise me you won’t do anything rash and impetuous.’

  Paula laughed softy. ‘Now why would I promise you that when the last rash and impetuous thing I did was snog you in a lift?’

  ‘Because you have me now. But if you’re serious about making changes, I think you need to talk it over with the people whose opinions you respect.’

  ‘That would be you.’

  Elinor gave Paula’s nose a gentle tap. ‘That would be me, but also Tony and Carol. We should kill two birds with one stone and have them both round for dinner. That way they’re forced to deal with each other, and you can use them as sounding boards for your thoughts.’

  Paula gave a mock-shudder. ‘Mmm, you know how to turn a girl on.’ Then she sighed. ‘OK, let’s do it. Either they’ll talk to each other, or they won’t. I can hardly wait.’

  9

  The London night was raw and damp, a sharp contrast to the warm comfort of their private dining room. James Blake and John Brandon had been billeted in the same hotel so they were condemned to walk back together from the restaurant. Even a balmy summer evening wouldn’t have thawed the chill that had become obvious between them the minute they said their farewells to the minister and his officials.

  After Brandon had made his defence of Carol Jordan as a staunch and tenacious officer, Blake had tried a last throw of the dice against her. ‘There’s one key issue you’re not taking into consideration, John,’ he’d said, his voice dripping condescension. ‘Whoever we choose for this job is going to be the focus of a huge amount of media attention. And Carol Jordan simply won’t stand up to that level of scrutiny.’

  ‘She has a remarkable record,’ Carver said. ‘The roster of her successful cases includes some of the most high profile killers of the last decade or more. The Jacko Vance cases alone guarantee she comes out covered in glory. I’d be hard pressed to come up with another officer we can parade in front of the media as more of a star.’

  ‘Look, this isn’t personal. I think she’s an excellent detective. I’m the one who offered her a job at her old rank, after all. What I’m considering is what’s best for the police service. Because dealing with Carol Jordan isn’t straightforward, is it? There’s a lot of bodies in her wake. Not least her own brother and his wife. In the wrong hands, she could come over as a sort of angel of death.’

  There had been a sticky silence before Brandon jumped back into the fray. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that the fact her brother and sister-in-law were murdered is somehow a skeleton in Carol’s cupboard? I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything more offensive.’

  Carver placed his forearms on the table and leaned forward. ‘I don’t think you’ve quite grasped the nature of the British press, James. Can’t you picture how well that story will play in the Daily Mail? Carol Jordan as the heartbroken crusader for justice. My God, they’ll be putting her forward for the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean there won’t be plenty of others looking to dig the dirt,’ Blake said obstinately.

  ‘Let them try.’ Brandon’s expression was as grim as his voice.

  ‘She has a drink problem.’ Blake, apparently, could be as dogged as the woman he was determined to discredit.

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ Brandon insisted. ‘Nobody has ever suggested she’s been drunk on duty. Or that drink has impaired her professional judgement.’

  Blake snorted. ‘She could be as hammered as a Geordie hen party and that team of hers would cover her back. Listen, John. If I know she’s got a drink problem, how many others know it? And how many of them has she pissed off over the years? It only takes one with a grudge to hold her below the waterline.’

  Brandon shook his head in disgust ‘It’s not public knowledge. It’s not even canteen gossip. I know exactly where you got your information from. And he’s one of that loyal team you’ve been going on about. Except he’s only loyal to himself. You forget, Bradfield was my patch before it was yours and I know who can and can’t be trusted. And so does she. Your boy will keep his mouth shut because he’s too ambitious not to. Carol Jordan’s secrets are safe, believe you me.’

  ‘The point is,’ Carver said, ‘the media will be looking for a hero, not a villain. We’ll be pitching this as a remarkable new initiative that could change the style of British policing. Unless and until they screw up, they’ll have a following wind of approval. I think we can manage the media, James. I think we can make them love her.’

  And that had been the end of it. Blake finally understood that he’d been a crucial part of Brandon’s long game to win the new post for Carol. Brandon knew perfectly well that Blake would try to trash her. And he also knew that if there were any buried bodies, Blake didn’t know where they were. In the end, Blake had been a straw man, there because Brandon knew he could push him over with a flick of his wrist. It was humiliating. He lengthened his stride, determined to get away from Brandon as soon as possible.

  Long-legged Brandon easily matched the increase in pace. ‘So, how are you enjoying Bradfield?’ he asked genially.

  ‘It’s never dull.’ Blake’s words were clipped and tight.

  ‘That’s what I liked about it. It kept me on my toes.’

  ‘Retirement must be pretty tedious by comparison.’

  Brandon didn’t rise to the spite. ‘I’m never short of things to keep me occupied. The Home Secretary is full of interesting notions that need to be analysed and evaluated.’ He smiled. ‘It’s good to feel useful.’

  Before he could reply, Blake’s mobile produced the ring tone of an old-fashioned landline. He pulled it from his pocket and frowned at the screen. ‘Bloody number withheld. Though at this time of night, I’d better …’ Another time, he’d have given an apologetic look, but he chose instead to go for the triumphant smile of a man who is too important to ignore his phone. ‘Blake here,’ he announced briskly. Then, ‘Yes, I do remember …’ He stopped dead. A spasm of some unidentifiable emotion flashed across his face, then nothing. He listened, then said, ‘And where is this?’ More silence, but this time, his shoulders relaxed. ‘Of course. No, you’re quite right. Nothing. But thanks for letting me know.’

  Blake ended the call and carefully replaced the mobile in his pocket. He took a couple of steps to bring himself level with Brandon. ‘Well,’ he sighed, his voice and his expression indicating deep satisfaction. ‘That was a very interesting conversation. Tell me, John, did you ever come across a DCI Franklin in West Yorkshire?’

  Brandon gave him a wary look. ‘John Franklin? Oh yes. Not personally, but he did cross swords with one or two of my detectives over the years. Is he working for you now?’

  Blake shook his head. ‘He’s still with West Yorkshire. But he had some information he thought I’d be interested in. Given what we’ve been talking about this evening, I’d have thought you’d be interested too.’

  Now Brandon was on full alert. When a man like Blake allowed his smugness to creep past his better instincts, there was trouble in store for someone. He thrust his hands deep into his overcoat pockets, letting them form fists. ‘Come on then. Spill it. I can see you’re dying to.’ He swivelled on the balls of his feet to face Blake’s profile. He couldn’t help noticing the younger man’s jawline was starting to blur, his cheekbones to disappear under a slather of flesh. He’d lost the habit of fitness, if he’d ever possessed it. A mark of a man who was, at heart, lazy, Brandon thought, wishing Blake would get past this gloating silence and get on with it.

  ‘DCI Franklin wanted to pass on some information about an arrest on his patch.’ Blake paused, but Brandon wasn’t about to beg. At last, he said, ‘The Home Office might have to rethink their plans for the new MIT. Carol Jordan’s been arrested for drink driving.’ He turned to face Brandon. ‘So that’s that, then. I hope you’ve got a first reserve.’

  10

  Carol had never felt more chastened. The humiliation of having to consent to police bail was bad eno
ugh, but sitting in the custody area waiting for someone to turn up and take responsibility for getting her home was mortifying. She’d only ever seen snapshots of the Saturday-night parade of misery and hell when she’d been dropping off her own prisoners. She’d never actually endured the constant procession of people off their heads on drink and drugs, people bruised and bleeding from injuries too minor to warrant a trip to hospital, people with no inhibitions and no desire to discover them any time soon. The cocktail of smells was vile – sweat, drink, smoke, vomit, urine, and the occasional hit of something unspeakable and thankfully unidentifiable.

  And she was right in the thick of it. There was no hiding place. A bare wooden bench bolted to the floor ran along the wall opposite the counter that protected the custody sergeant from the onslaught. Whoever was waiting for the next stage of their custodial experience was dumped on the bench and there they slumped. One or two looked her over, as if she was an unexpected possibility in the wreckage of their evening, but mostly they were too drunk, stoned, ill or terrified to pay her any attention. Her flesh crawled at the occasional contact.

  As if all of this wasn’t bad enough, she had to contend with the shame of needing to be rescued. It all might have been bearable if she’d still been mistress of her own destiny. But no. That had been stripped away along with her dignity. She’d had to call Tony to come out in the night and save her from herself. What did it say about her that he was the only person she could turn to with absolute certainty that he’d drop whatever he was doing to help her? A man married to a job ministering to people so fucked up they couldn’t be allowed out to play with the rest of humanity. A man who had all the social skills of a dormouse. A man who persisted in sticking around even after she’d blamed him for every disaster in her own life.