04.The Torment of Others

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘I had hoped that DCI Jordan might introduce the concept of civility round here. Clearly I was wrong.’ She swept past him towards the custody suite. As she reached the door, the custody sergeant yanked it open.

  ‘Kevin,’ he shouted, ‘I’ve got some DC from Buxton on the line for you.’

  Bronwen Scott turned as he hurried down the corridor. Her mouth looked as if she’d just bitten a pickle. Kevin enjoyed beaming broadly at her as he brushed past. ‘Looks like you might not have so long to wait after all.’ He snatched up the phone and introduced himself. For a couple of minutes he listened, saying nothing more than, ‘Yeah…yeah…’ Finally, he said, ‘Give me that make and model and serial number again.’ He reached for a pen and paper and scribbled down the details. Then: ‘Thanks, mate. I owe you one. Let me have the paperwork soon as.’

  He replaced the receiver and turned to give Bronwen Scott the full benefit of his smile. ‘Derbyshire Police have just informed me that they have found a camera whose serial number corresponds to the camera that took the photographs of Swindale and the photograph of Tim Golding. Guess where they found it?’

  Scott’s lip curled in disdain. ‘Get on with it, Sergeant.’

  ‘They found it in the bedroom of your client.’ He leaned against the custody counter and folded his arms. ‘I guess you won’t be going anywhere in a hurry, will you, Ms Scott?’

  Driving round Temple Fields at night was a different experience from being a pedestrian, Tony thought. The perspective on the terrain was quite different. Walking around, the prostitution impinged, but it wasn’t hard to ignore. Behind the wheel, the sex for sale was totally in his face; the vendors set out their stalls for the carriage trade, not the foot traffic.

  On his first pass through, Tony was so absorbed in the distinctive feel of the night streets that he missed Dee. Second time round, he saw her on a corner, kerbside, legs apart, leaning towards the road. He slowed and pulled up beside her. As his window went down, she stepped forward and dipped, offering a view of her cleavage. ‘What’s it to be, then?’

  ‘You’re Dee?’

  ‘That’s right. Somebody recommend me, did they, sweetheart? Well, you came to the right place. What are you after?’

  Tony felt faintly flustered. It was all so much more complicated in reality. ‘I’m not a punter, Dee. I just want to talk to you.’

  She backed up a step, but kept the cleavage on show. ‘You a cop?’ she said suspiciously.

  He gestured at the car then at himself. ‘Does this look like “cop” to you? No, I’m not a cop.’

  ‘In that case, you want to talk, it’ll cost.’

  Tony nodded. It seemed reasonable. People paid to talk to him, after all. ‘Fine. I’ll pay. Do you want to get in?’

  Ten minutes later, he pulled up outside a smart café bar on the edge of the financial district. Dee had tried to talk in the car, but he had asked her to wait. I’m not good at navigating and talking,’ he said. ‘We’ll only end up in the middle of nowhere.’

  They walked together to the entrance, where, to Dee’s obvious astonishment, Tony held the door open for her. As they walked in, the unmistakable cube of a bouncer approached them. ‘Hang on a minute, where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded, all belligerence and brashness.

  ‘What’s it to you, meathead?’ Dee snapped.

  ‘We don’t want your type in here,’ the bouncer said.

  Tony intervened with a suaveness he could only achieve when it was nothing personal. ‘And what type would that be?’

  ‘Keep out of it, pal,’ the bouncer advised him.

  ‘This lady is with me. We came here for a quiet drink,’ Tony said politely.

  ‘Not in here, you don’t.’

  Dee put a hand on his arm. ‘Leave it, Tony. We’ll go somewhere else.’

  He patted her hand. ‘No, Dee. We won’t.’ He turned to the bouncer, ice and steel on full display. ‘You have no basis for refusing my friend entry. She is dressed no less discreetly than at least three other women in here. She’s not touting for trade, unlike the financial services jerks at the bar, and also unlike many of your other customers, she’s not going to be using your toilet to take drugs. So unless you can come up with a compelling reason why we shouldn’t, we are going to sit at one of your tables while we have a drink and a chat.’ He nodded politely to the bouncer and steered Dee past him.

  The bouncer, baffled, stared after them like a bull who’d just missed the matador. Tony chose a table, pulled out a chair for Dee then sat down opposite her. She grinned at him. ‘How did you get away with that?’

  Tony looked pained. ‘Natural charisma?’

  Dee laughed, a deep, throaty sound that spoke of Embassy Regal and too many late nights. ‘Balls of steel, more like.’

  ‘Ah, that’s what the problem’s been all these years…’ Tony looked up as the cocktail waitress approached and dumped a bowl of Japanese rice crackers on the table. He suspected the swiftness of her arrival came from curiosity to see the man who had bested the bouncer. Tony smiled sunnily at her. ‘Good evening. My friend would like…?’ He gave Dee a questioning look.

  ‘Rum and black,’ Dee said.

  ‘And I’ll have a glass of your Shiraz Cabernet. Thanks.’ The waitress departed, giving them a final curious glance.

  Dee scrunched down in the leather armchair, savouring its comfort. ‘So, what is it you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  Dee tipped her head back and sighed, as if to say she’d known it was too good to be true. ‘Is this to do with what that woman cop was asking me about?’

  Tony said nothing, simply fixing her with an expectant look.

  Dee jackknifed forward, leaning across the table towards him. ‘What’s she to you, then? Why are you doing her dirty work for her if you’re not a cop?’ she asked savagely.

  ‘I’m a psychologist.’

  ‘A shrink? You going to make me lie down on a couch and tell you about my childhood?’ she said scornfully.

  ‘I don’t have a couch.’

  Dee gave a louche smile. ‘Pity. I wouldn’t mind lying on a couch for you.’

  ‘Life is full of disappointments, Dee. Why are you so scared of the Creeper?’

  ‘Who said I was scared?’ The defiance was so fake it was almost laughable.

  ‘Why else would you refuse to tell us what you know when there’s a woman’s life at stake? I don’t think you’re keeping schtum out of loyalty.’

  Dee looked away. ‘Why should I stick my neck out for some copper?’ She shifted impatiently in her seat. ‘You’ve no idea what you’re dealing with here, do you?’

  ‘Whatever it is, we can protect you. Who’s the Creeper, Dee?’

  Now she was angry, covering up her fear with spitting rage. ‘You don’t get it, do you? You might not be a cop, but you’re still on the team. The only ones you look after are your own. Yeah, I’m scared. And I’m right to be scared. Nothing you can promise me can make any difference.’ Suddenly she was on her feet, grabbing her bag.

  ‘Wait, Dee!’ Tony said urgently. But she walked away without a backward glance. ‘You haven’t even had your…’ The waitress approached with her tray balanced at shoulder level. ‘…rum and black,’ he sighed.

  He sat alone for a long time, staring into his red wine and occasionally over at the glass of rum and blackcurrant opposite him. Thoughts flashed in and out of his mind as he struggled to make a logical sequence from what he knew and what he surmised. The early-evening crowd dispersed, and the bar entered a hiatus before it would come alive again after nine. When he was almost the only person left in the place, he took out his phone and dialled the familiar number.

  ‘Carol Jordan,’ he heard.

  ‘It’s me. Can we talk?’

  ‘I’m in the office. Do you want to come round?’

  The last place he wanted to have this particular conversation. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Can you come
to mine?’

  ‘I’m in the middle of something,’ she said. ‘It looks like we’re close to cracking Tim Golding and Guy Lefevre.’

  ‘That’s great news. But I do need to talk to you, and not in the office.’

  He heard her sigh. ‘Give me an hour. I’ll meet you at your place. And, Tony…?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This better be good.’

  Under pressure from the solicitors representing Nick Sanders and Pete Siveright, Kevin had released both men. He’d had no real choice once he’d given them the disclosure that was their right: namely, that the results of the searches had produced no evidence against their clients. Once Bronwen Scott had indicated she’d had enough time to consult with Callum Donaldson, he gave himself a few more minutes to prepare. He anticipated that Scott would advise Donaldson to go ‘no comment’, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

  Kevin felt the low thrum of excitement in his veins that always came when he was so close to a result he could touch it. These days, every good arrest, every conviction felt like another step towards rehabilitation. It was as if his previous disastrous mistake was a stain, like a street vandal’s spraypainted tag. And everything that went well was another brushful of paint towards covering up the blemish. One day, there would only be a freshly painted wall, and he’d finally be back on track again.

  Callum Donaldson felt right. He fitted the profile. He lived alone in a remote cottage between Chapel-en-le-Frith and Castleton. He was an avid birdwatcher who often led school trips into the Peak Park to show them the bird life. He was technologically adept–he had a state-of-the-art computer and a pager that automatically alerted him to the arrival of any rare species in the UK. Kevin had found him awkward and uncomfortable in their preliminary interview, and if he’d had to pick a killer from the three, Donaldson would have been his chosen one.

  He gathered his papers together and walked into the interview room. He’d barely started the twin tape-decks and made the formal introduction when Bronwen Scott said, ‘My client wishes to make a statement.’

  Kevin couldn’t hide his surprise. He smiled, wondering if it was really going to be that easy after all. ‘Fine. Let’s hear it.’

  Scott perched a pair of rimless glasses on the end of her nose and cleared her throat. ‘My name is Callum Donaldson and I am employed as a ranger with the Peak National Park Service. I wish to make a statement regarding a Canon Elph digital camera which is presently in my possession. I purchased this camera on approximately 15th September of this year from my colleague Nick Sanders.’

  Scott paused and looked up. Kevin understood she was enjoying the sight of the rug being pulled out from under his feet and he struggled to remain impassive. She allowed herself a tight little smile and continued. ‘I paid him one hundred and fifty pounds for the camera. I paid this sum by cheque. The transaction took place in the Red Lion pub in Litton. Among those present were David Adams of Litton Mill and Maria Tomlinson, also of Litton Mill. I am willing to allow access to my bank records to verify this transaction and I am confident that David Adams and Maria Tomlinson will remember the occasion since we all took photographs with the camera in the pub that night.’

  Scott handed him the statement, written out in her neat italic hand. ‘Duly signed and witnessed,’ she said. ‘How soon will you be releasing my client?’

  Kevin stared dully at the piece of paper, seeing his good night crumble before his eyes. He knew he should still ask his prepared questions, but suddenly time was of the essence. ‘I’ll need to speak to DCI Jordan,’ he stalled. ‘Interview terminated at seven forty-three p.m.,’ he added, getting to his feet and hurrying out.

  He ran down to the custody suite. ‘When did you let Sanders go?’ he asked the sergeant.

  ‘When you said. About forty minutes ago,’ the sergeant said.

  ‘Who’s driving him back?’

  ‘They both declined the offer of transport. Said they’d seen enough of us for one day, they’d rather get back under their own steam.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Kevin exploded.

  ‘We got a problem?’

  ‘Too fucking right. We’ve let the wrong one go,’ Kevin growled. He reached across and grabbed the phone. ‘I need to speak to Buxton CID,’ he told the switchboard. When the phone was finally answered, he identified himself then said, ‘I need to speak to DC Thom…What do you mean, he’s gone home?’ After a prolonged conversation that led Kevin through three different officers, he finally secured a reluctant promise to go to Nick Sanders’ cottage in Chelmorton and rearrest him when he arrived back home. Provided Kevin could have the request ratified by a senior officer.

  He took the stairs two at a time and found Carol in her office, signing off on a stack of paperwork. She looked up expectantly, knowing how confident Kevin had been of a result. Quickly, he outlined what had happened. ‘Oh, Christ,’ Carol said, making no attempt to hide her dismay. ‘Not your fault, Kevin, but…oh, Christ. Leave it with me, I’ll speak to Derbyshire. And you’d better release Donaldson on police bail before Bronwen Scott starts waving the bloody Human Rights Act at us.’

  As she watched Kevin go, she thought, Actually, it was my fault. They should have waited until they had the search results in from Derbyshire before interviewing the three men. But Kevin had been eager to get going and he was concerned that Derbyshire would drag their heels over the searches out of sheer bloody-mindedness. And because of the terms of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, they could only hold the men for thirty-six hours before they’d have to go before the magistrates who would probably not understand the complex evidence relating to the camera and so would throw out the request for extended custody. Kevin had told her Derbyshire were becoming increasingly restive at what they perceived to be the big city boys expecting them to do the shit work. So, against her better judgement, she had sanctioned a series of preliminary interviews.

  Carol squeezed the bridge of her nose between her fingers. She was making too many mistakes. It wasn’t like her. It frightened her, with Paula’s life at stake. Screwing up was bad enough on its own, but concern over screwing up could make her hesitate fatally; failure to reach a decision could be as damaging as making the wrong one in a case of this sensitivity. She sighed and made the call to Derbyshire. Then she reached for her coat. Time to go and see what Tony was being so mysterious about. And maybe she could get at least one of her worries off her chest at the same time.

  She stopped in at the murder room, where Merrick was still ploughing through statements, his eyes heavy, his shoulders bowed. He looked up as she entered and slowly shook his head. Carol moved round the room, a supportive word for everyone. She ended up at his side, a hand on his shoulder. ‘We’ll find her, Don,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you go home and get some rest?’

  His face twisted in pain. ‘Home? Ma’am, I’m living in her house. Going home just makes it worse. It feels like a reproach.’

  Carol cursed herself for her insensitivity. ‘Can’t you go back to Lindy and the kids? Just for a few nights?’

  ‘Too late for that. She’s not even speaking to me.’

  Carol squeezed his shoulder. ‘Check yourself into a hotel, Don. Charge it to the inquiry. But get some rest, please.’

  He gave her a crooked smile. ‘I will if you will, ma’am.’

  ‘Touché. But I am at least leaving the building now, Don. You should do the same.’

  She was halfway down the corridor, lost in thought, when the familiar sight of Jonathan France swaggering towards her in his bike leathers jolted her back to earth. He grinned and quickened his step, not taking in the frozen expression on Carol’s face.

  ‘What are you doing here? How did you get in?’ she demanded.

  His step and his smile faltered. ‘I wanted to see you. The guy on the front counter remembered me being here before, so he let me come up.’ He looked hurt. ‘I thought you’d be pleased to see me,’ he added plaintively.

  In reply, Carol threw open the nearest doo
r, which led into an empty meeting room. ‘In here,’ she indicated with a jerk of the head. He followed her, perking up at the prospect of privacy, in spite of the contraindications. Carol shut the door behind them and glared at him. ‘What did you think you were doing, sending those flowers here?’

  Shock flattened his features. ‘I thought you’d like them.’

  ‘So why not send them to my house?’

  He shrugged. ‘You’re never there.’

  ‘The florist would have left them with a neighbour. But no, you sent them here. Didn’t it occur to you that a police station is a gossip factory? That my private life is now the subject of speculation from the canteen to the Chief Constable’s office?’

  ‘I didn’t think…’

  ‘No, you didn’t. I’m running two major murder inquiries here, and the last thing I want is this kind of distraction.’

  Stung, he rounded on her. ‘Distraction? That’s how you see me? A distraction?’ Carol shrugged. Two patches of colour burned on his cheekbones. ‘You used me,’ he said, light dawning. ‘You used me to prove to yourself you could get past the rape.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘You got what you wanted too–an image of yourself as the strong, sensitive saviour. But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You wanted it to matter to me, you wanted to be the man who would heal my heart. Well, Jonathan, I’ve got news for you. You never came near my heart, because somebody else has first claim to that.’

  As so often happens in the throes of emotional argument, he seized on the least relevant point. ‘You told me you weren’t seeing anybody else. That night we had dinner, you told me.’

  Carol clenched her fists. ‘I’m not seeing anybody else. Not in the sense you mean. But you can’t reduce relationships to the simplicity of playground games.’

  ‘You were dishonest,’ he said bitterly. ‘You were never emotionally available.’