04.The Torment of Others

  It was a description that fitted perfectly the kid sitting at the corner table, swigging her drink straight from the bottle. Her dark hair was streaked with magenta; a shade one of Paula’s friends had once characterized as ‘prostitute purple’ when her home dye job had gone wrong. Paula’s heart contracted at Honey’s obvious youth. She didn’t look old enough to be served legally with what she was drinking, that was for sure. Paula went up to the bar where half a dozen early lunchtime drinkers nursed their pints morosely. She bought a mineral water and another Bacardi Breezer and walked across to the table. She placed the drinks on the table and sat down. Honey’s look of surprise shifted to one of hostile suspicion. ‘Cop,’ she said derisively.

  ‘Cop with a drink for you,’ Paula said.

  ‘You think I’m that fucking cheap?’ Honey sneered.

  Paula sighed. ‘I didn’t come here to pick a fight, Honey. I came here because one of your friends is dead.’

  Honey gave her a look of pure hatred. ‘You lot don’t give a fuck about us. We’re just shit on legs to you. Jackie wouldn’t be dead if you useless fuckers did what you’re paid for and protected us like you protect the nice people in their nice houses.’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to do. But it’s not easy when all we get is silence and lies. I’m not after you, Honey. I’m trying to protect you and your colleagues. That’s why I need your help.’

  Honey snorted. ‘Colleagues? Fuck, that’s a new word for whores.’

  Paula leaned forward, her face passionate, her eyes boring into Honey’s. ‘Can’t have it both ways, Honey. Can’t slag us off for dissing you then slag us off some more when we try to show a bit of respect. I don’t think you’re shit on legs, actually. I save that for the scumbags who use you and abuse you. And I don’t think you deserve what you mostly get. The bastard who killed Jackie? I want to put him away for the rest of his natural life. So talk to me.’

  Paula’s intensity struck something inside Honey. She looked away and muttered, ‘What do you want to know, copper?’

  The name’s Paula. When did you start working with Jackie?’

  ‘Who said I did?’ It was the last defiance. Paula could see her heart wasn’t in it.

  ‘It’s not exactly a state secret.’

  Honey picked at the label on her drink. ‘When I first went on the streets, about six months ago. She sort of took me under her wing, know what I mean? Like, I knew nothing. I just put myself out there, I was easy meat. And she kept me away from the bad shit.’

  ‘So you hung out together on the street? What about after hours, Honey? Did she take care of you then too?’

  ‘What are you getting at? She wasn’t a fucking lezzie.’

  Paula shook her head. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  Honey eyed her up. ‘And neither am I.’

  ‘I couldn’t care less,’ Paula sighed. ‘Did Jackie help you get yourself sorted out?’

  Honey wrapped her arms round her narrow frame, hugging herself. ‘She got me a bedsit in the same house as her. She was like a big sister, that’s all. We used to have a laugh, you know?’

  ‘And when you worked together? How did that go?’

  Honey gave her a sideways look, as if calculating how much she could hold back. ‘You remind me of her, you know?’

  As a diversionary tactic, it worked. Startled, Paula nearly knocked her drink over. ‘What? I look like her?’

  ‘A bit. But it’s more–I don’t know, it’s like you listen, don’t just treat me like a fucking kid.’

  Paula wasn’t quite sure if Honey was being truthful, but if she were, it might prove useful in getting the young hooker to open up. ‘So tell me about working together.’

  Honey pulled her packet of cigarettes towards her and lit up. ‘Now and again, like, if some punter wanted to pay for a threesome, we’d take him to the hotel. You know–the Woolpack, where she…died.’

  Paula tried to hide the excitement she felt at finally getting somewhere. ‘Were any of them regulars?’

  Honey grinned. It stripped her of her streetwise cynicism and made her look like the teenager she must once have been before the streets put years on her. ‘Some of them came back for more, yeah. We were fucking excellent, you know?’

  ‘Any rough stuff?’

  ‘You can’t avoid it,’ said Honey, her face clouding over. ‘Goes with the territory.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  Honey shrugged. ‘Jackie wouldn’t have them back if they’d cut up rough.’

  ‘We think the man who killed Jackie had been with her before.’

  ‘You reckon that narrows it down?’ Honey snorted. ‘She was good, you know. The men who went with her, they often came back for more.’

  ‘And one of them might have killed her. We need to try to identify them. See if any of them have a record of violence against women. Will you come back to the station and look at some photographs for me?’

  ‘Me? Come to the nick? Are you kidding? You want me to walk out of here with you and come to the nick? You trying to fuck my life up completely? It’s bad enough I’m talking to you. I walk down the street with you and I’m screwed.’

  Drugs, Paula thought. She’s worried her dealer will see her with a cop and shut her off. Thinking on her feet, she said, ‘OK. You know the car park at the Campion Centre?’

  Honey nodded suspiciously.

  ‘Meet me on the top floor there in half an hour. I’ll drive you to the station and take you back afterwards. Nobody will see you arrive or leave. How does that sound?’

  Honey considered. ‘OK,’ she said reluctantly. ‘But you better keep your word, Paula.’ She used the name like an insult.

  Paula smiled sweetly. ‘I always keep my word, Honey. I’m famous for it.’

  Honey gave her a look that stripped her bare. ‘I bet that’s not all you’re famous for. Like I said, you remind me of Jackie.’

  Paula blinked. It was an innuendo too far. She got to her feet and said gruffly, Top floor of the Campion Centre car park. Half an hour.’

  She could feel Honey’s eyes on her all the way to the door. It wasn’t a comfortable sensation.

  The only person in the squadroom when Carol got back was Stacey Chen. She glanced up from her computer screens. ‘The Chief was in a while back looking for you. He said if you came in to call his office.’

  Thanks. Let him know I’m in,’ Carol said. Just what she needed to take away the taste of Jackie Mayall’s post mortem. ‘Has Dr Hill shown up today?’ ‘I haven’t seen him. And I’ve been here all morning.’

  ‘See if you can track him down when you get a minute,’ Carol said.

  ‘I’ll get right on to it. Oh, and Sam left you a note about the forensic geologist,’ Stacey added.

  As if she didn’t have enough to do, Carol thought wearily. She closed the door behind her and settled behind her desk, raking through her top drawer till she found a bottle of Paco Rabane. She sprayed her throat and wrists, trying to rid herself of the smell she felt clinging to her. If Brandon was about to walk in, she didn’t want to reek of the mortuary slab and the wine bar.

  Carol reached for the note lying on her desk. In Sam’s tight compact handwriting, it read:

  I spoke to the Earth Sciences department at the university. They’ve got a guy who’s done some work with the police before, but he specializes in soil samples, so he’s not much good to us. But he gave me the number of Dr Jonathan France who apparently is The Man when it comes to limestone. Which is what we’ve got here. He’s based in Sheffield, but he’s going to be in Bradfield this afternoon, so I asked him to swing by around three. Do you want me to see him, or will you?

  Carol thought about it for a moment. It never hurt to flatter experts with a sense of their own importance. Besides, she could use the sense of forward movement with at least one of her cases. She logged on to her computer and sent Stacey a message. ‘Tell Sam I’ll deal with Dr France when he comes in.’

  She had barely sent t
he message when the door opened and Brandon strode in without waiting for an invitation. Carol looked up in astonishment. In all the years she had worked with John Brandon, she had never seen him lose contact with good manners. His entrance told her more clearly than any words that he was under pressure from places she could only guess at. He tossed an early copy of the evening paper on her desk. SECOND CITY PROSTITUTE SLAUGHTERED, the headline blared. In smaller type it read, ‘Did Police Catch Real Killer Two Years Ago?’

  ‘He’s laughing at us, Carol. Two killings in three weeks, and we’re getting nowhere.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly, sir.’

  ‘No? You have a suspect? You have any notion of where to start looking for a suspect?’ His long face was taut with frustration.

  ‘Dr Vernon found sperm on the body of the second victim. It’s heavily contaminated with her blood, but he’s reasonably confident the lab can extract some DNA from it.’ Carol tried to stay calm, but her heart was racing and she could feel a prickle of sweat at her neck.

  Brandon made an impatient noise. ‘Unless he’s already in the database, that’s little use until we have a serious suspect. What progress are you making on that front?’

  Carol got to her feet, trying to minimize the distance between them. ‘We’re trying to trace as many contacts of the murdered women as we can, but it’s not easy. Men don’t like admitting they go to prostitutes.’

  Brandon picked up the paper and waved it at her. ‘We’re taking a caning in the press. They’re asking openly if we fitted up Derek Tyler two years ago. I’ve already had the TV on wanting a statement from me on the evening news. We need to make solid progress, Carol.’

  ‘I’ve got Dr Hill working on a profile,’ she said, desperately trying to find something to say that would give Brandon a life raft.

  He shook his head. ‘Not enough. We need to be proactive. I think we should smoke him out. I think we should set up a sting.’

  Carol couldn’t believe what she was hearing. After what John Brandon knew she’d been through, she couldn’t believe he was suggesting that she would seriously consider exposing one of her officers to a risky undercover operation. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him he was no better than the men he’d claimed he wanted to rescue her from. She wanted to slap sense into him, to remind him how close she’d come to losing everything because of just such an operation. Somehow, she controlled herself and simply said, ‘Surely it’s too early to think along those lines?’

  ‘Too early? He’s already claimed two victims, Carol. And that’s if we don’t accept any connection to the four murders that Derek Tyler is inside for. We can’t sit idly by and wait for him to strike again in the hope that he’ll get careless and give us some hard evidence to work with.’

  ‘We can increase security in Temple Fields, sir. More foot patrols. More CCTV.’

  Brandon shook his head, exasperated. ‘Carol, you know as well as I do that all that sort of policing achieves is to move the problem elsewhere. If we make Temple Fields too hot for him, he’ll take his next victim from another part of town. That’s why the Yorkshire Ripper started preying on so-called “innocent” victims–the police made it too hard for him to operate in the red-light districts. I’m not having that on my conscience.’ He flipped open a folder he was carrying and spread out the contents. Six women looked up at Carol from enlarged snapshots that showed them looking far happier than their lifestyles had ever merited.

  There they are,’ Brandon said. ‘Look at the photographs. There’s a definite type he goes for. The same type as Derek Tyler took.’

  Carol dragged her eyes from the photographs, disturbed at the thought of lives cut short, lives she and her colleagues had failed to save. And, for a moment, transported back to a point where she wasn’t sure how long she would hold on to her own life. I’m not disputing that. But–’

  Brandon cut straight across her. ‘And we have an officer who matches his type.’

  Paula, Carol thought instantly. Slim, short bleached-blonde hair, blue eyes. ‘DC McIntyre.’

  That’s right. She’d be perfect.’

  Carol felt her stomach turn over. The sense of déjà vu was overwhelming. I’ve experience of this sort of thing, sir,’ she said as formally and as forcefully as she could manage. ‘We’d be putting her at tremendous risk.’

  Brandon seemed to collect himself, as if suddenly remembering who he was talking to. ‘It’s your very experience that makes me feel all the more confident that this will be handled properly. I think you’re capable of containing that risk. And I think if we put this to DC McIntyre, she’d jump at the chance to help put this bastard behind bars.’

  Just like I did. ‘I’m sure she would. She’s committed to the job. But I’m not sure we should be putting her on the spot like that. It’s precisely because she’s committed to the job that her judgement would be clouded.’

  Brandon gathered the photographs together impatiently. ‘What else do you suggest?’

  She had nothing to suggest, and they both knew it. She stalled as best she knew how. ‘We need to be sure it’s a strategy that will work. I think we need to involve Dr Hill.’

  ‘In the planning stage. Of course,’ Brandon conceded.

  ‘I think we need to talk to him before we get that far, sir. I think before we put an officer’s life at risk, we need to be damn sure we’re going to get the result we want.’

  Empathy was always the answer, Tony believed. Every killer operated to his own interior logic. Find the logic and you could find the killer. The only problem was untangling the external symbols and translating their meanings. Everything connected back to the fantasies of the murderer, and every fantasy had its roots in a contorted vision of reality. Sometimes Tony could find his way through the maze with words; sometimes it needed something more concrete.

  He had taken his purchases home, and he was working through his own version of the killer’s game. He had fastened his ankles to a kitchen chair with the leather restraints, and now he had the handcuffs in his lap. He fastened one manacle round his wrist and tested its strength. Tie me up, tie me down. This way, you have to do what I want. Control without consent. That’s what I need from you.’

  He fiddled with the other manacle, putting it round his wrist without actually snapping it shut. But the ringing phone made him jump, and before he could stop himself, his fingers spasmed on the cuff, the ratchet gripping tight and locking in place. ‘Shit,’ he shouted as his answering machine cut in.

  He heard his own voice say, ‘I can’t talk to you right now, leave a message after the tone.’

  A long beep, then Carol’s voice. ‘Tony, call me as soon as you get this. I really need to speak to you. If I’m tied up, get them to interrupt me.’

  He looked at the machine in wonder, then burst out laughing. ‘If you’re tied up?’ He stared bleakly at the key, sitting on the table a few feet away from him. His toes barely touched the floor. He rocked the chair back and forth, trying to get some purchase on the tiled floor. After a few minutes, sweating and furious, he managed to get close enough to the table to pick up the handcuff key in his right hand. It took half a dozen attempts, but he eventually slid it into the lock. He twisted the key and felt the mechanism shift. He pulled against the cuff and miraculously, his left hand came free.

  Unfortunately, so did the key. It shot across the room and clattered into the sink. A series of metallic clinks, then a hollow clank. ‘Oh no,’ he groaned. ‘Let it not be the waste-disposal unit.’

  He hastily undid the leather straps on the ankle restraints and rushed to the sink. The key was not in sight. But the open maw of the waste-disposal unit mocked him with its greed. ‘I couldn’t have done that if I tried,’ he muttered.

  He glared at the phone. ‘Women,’ he said. He picked up the handset and dialled Carol’s number. ‘You wanted to talk?’ he said when they were connected.

  ‘Yeah. But not here.’

  ‘Suits me. What about the gardens in Te
mple Fields?’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘I need to go to the sex shop,’ he said. ‘I’ll explain when I see you. Half an hour?’

  After he left Carol’s office, Brandon decided to pay a visit to the incident room. It never hurt to show the troops he was aware of their work. As he walked round from desk to desk, he had a word of encouragement for everyone, showing an interest in what they were pursuing. He was entirely unaware of Sam Evans’ eyes on him.

  When he turned to Evans’ desk, the DC was making notes on his computer screen. ‘How’s it going, Sam?’ he asked.

  ‘Slowly, sir,’ Evans said.

  ‘What are you working on?’

  Evans shifted in his seat, his expression embarrassed. ‘I…uh…’

  Brandon moved so he could see the screen. ‘You’ve been mounting surveillance on Dr Aidan Hart?’ He sounded startled.

  Evans cleared his throat. ‘Not officially, sir.’

  ‘Explain yourself,’ Brandon said, a note of severity in his tone.

  ‘Well, we placed Dr Hart with Sandie Foster on the night she died. But he’s alibied after nine o’clock, and Dr Vernon estimated the time of the attack later than that. So DCI Jordan decided he was off the hook.’

  ‘And you disagreed?’

  ‘It’s all been on my own time, sir,’ Evans said defensively. ‘I just got a feel off him, like he wasn’t totally kosher.’

  Brandon frowned. ‘And?’

  ‘He visits prostitutes, sir. At least a couple of times a week. But not in Bradfield any more. He’s hitting the other big cities.’

  Part of Brandon wanted to congratulate Evans on his persistence. But he was too concerned about the implications of him having done the surveillance in contradiction of Carol’s orders. What was she thinking, to let a potential suspect off the hook so easily? ‘Report this to DCI Jordan at the first opportunity,’ he said grimly. ‘Well done, Evans. It never hurts to follow your gut instincts.’ Even if it did leave Brandon with a problem.

  By the time Carol arrived in the scrubby green space that passed for a city park, Tony was feeding chocolate to the pigeons and rubbing his wrist. She watched him for a moment, then walked up behind him and touched his shoulder. He jumped and swung round, startled.