Fever of the Bone by Val McDermid
It didn’t help him sleep at night.
CHAPTER 11
Paula picked her way across the oblong plastic stepping stones that provided an authorised route from the periphery of the crime scene to its heart. It was bloody bleak up here. She wondered what it had been about this barren hillside that had convinced some speculative builder to develop the site. Even a nature lover would struggle to find much appeal up here. There was a distant cluster of trees, through which she could make out what looked like a low stone house. A hill farm, probably, given the sheep grazing the slopes above and beyond the building site that had become the focus of such intense activity.
‘At least it’s not raining,’ Franny Riley greeted her as she reached the knot of people at the end of the pathway. The unlit cigarette in his mouth bobbed up and down as he spoke.
‘Good morning to you too, Sarge,’ Paula said. A couple of the other detectives at the scene gave her a curious glance, but the white-suited forensic team didn’t even raise their eyes. They were more concerned with the dead than the living. ‘Thanks for the heads-up.’ She’d been less than thrilled when her day-off, lie-in sleep had been broken by the insistent bleat of her mobile, but Franny Riley’s news had certainly been worth a wake-up call.
‘I think we’ve found him,’ he’d said, his voice sombre so she knew it wasn’t the good kind of finding. ‘I’ll text you directions. ‘
She’d called Carol, showered in four minutes and a further twenty minutes later she’d given her name to the officer running the access to the crime scene. He’d clearly been expecting her, reinforcing her sense of Franny Riley as an effective copper. And now here they were, standing a few feet away from a concrete-lined trench where the presumed body of Daniel Morrison lay.
‘Who found the body?’ she asked.
‘Anonymous phone tip. He sounded very fucking frightened. ‘ Franny gestured with his thumb towards the tarmac drive. ‘There’s some fresh tyre tracks where somebody’s pulled off. Fresher than the body, apparently. And a mess of bootprints. All since yesterday afternoon when it rained, the lads who know about these things are saying. It’s looking like some gobshite drove up here on the off-chance of finding something worth robbing and got more than he bargained for.’
‘Do we know for sure if it’s Daniel Morrison?’
‘Chances are.’ Franny rolled his beefy shoulders inside his anorak. ‘Come on, let’s get outside the cordon so we can have a fag and I can bring you up to speed.’ Without waiting for a response, he was off across the plastic plates like a man on a mission. As soon as they were clear of the police tapes, his cigarette was lit. Joining him, Paula caught a couple of disapproving glances from uniformed officers. These days, it felt like smoking was up there alongside child abuse on the list of social crimes. She kept meaning to give up, but somehow it always slipped off the agenda. She’d stopped before, but after she lost a friend and colleague to the dangers of the job and came close to death herself, she’d embraced nicotine like a lover returned from peril. It was a better drug in times of crisis than others she’d seen claim friends and colleagues. At least it didn’t impair your judgement or lead you into compromising positions with scumbag dealers.
‘So, what’s down there in the trench?’ Paula said.
‘A young lad. Answering Daniel’s description. Wearing the right school sweatshirt.’
‘Don’t you have photographs?’
Riley sighed a stream of attenuated smoke. ‘We’ve got pics. But until we get the body on the slab, that’s not a huge help. He’s got a plastic bag over his head. Taped tight round his neck. Looks like that’s how he died, judging by the state of him.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s not the worst of it, though.’
Paula’s stomach contracted. She’d seen enough to understand what that short sentence might comprehend. ‘Mutilated?’
Riley looked over her shoulder towards the distant trees, his battered face a forbidding mask. ‘Just a bloody hole where his cock and balls should be. No sign of them in there with him, but we won’t know for sure till we lift him.’
She was glad she hadn’t had to look at the body. She knew only too well the pity and horror that always walked hand in hand with the bodies of the violently dead, particularly young victims. They always looked so short-changed, their vulnerability an accusation. ‘What’s your boss saying?’ she asked. ‘I mean, this is about as major as it gets.’
Riley snorted. ‘He’s crapping himself. I think we can safely say it’s pass-the-parcel time. We’ll carry on processing the scene, but you need to tell your guv’nor it’s all yours now. I’ll make sure all the paperwork’s in order and over to your office soon as.’
‘Thanks,’ Paula said, reaching for her phone. A chance to prove themselves to Blake, she thought. But Daniel Morrison had paid a hell of a price for that chance. And his family hadn’t even made the down-payment yet.
What had always driven Carol Jordan was her desire for justice. It infused her personal life as much as her professional one. When it came to the people she loved, she felt deeply the responsibility to put right whatever wrongs afflicted them. In Tony’s case, she’d mostly been frustrated because the roots of his damage lay too deep for her to grasp, far less put right. But meeting Vanessa Hill had opened up possibilities. Never mind that the woman was a shallow, selfish bitch who should never have been allowed to raise a child. Carol would have swallowed the woman’s insults and insinuations if she’d thought it would help her to help Tony. But when she had uncovered Vanessa’s devious scheme to deprive her son of his inheritance from the father he’d never known, she knew Vanessa had burned any bridges that might possibly lead to co-operation.
And yet, Carol couldn’t resist the idea that she had to try. Even though Tony thought it wasn’t what he wanted, she needed to do her best for him. It wasn’t easy to go against his wishes, but his reaction the night before had persuaded her she was right to swallow her doubts. She was convinced that the information she’d been able to garner about Arthur Blythe had meant something positive to Tony. But there was still so much to discover. She wanted to know where Blythe had been before he popped up in Worcester and what he had been doing. She assumed he’d been in Halifax, where Tony had grown up in his grandmother’s house. It was where Vanessa’s recruitment and training consultancy was still based. Carol wondered how she was doing in a job market that seemed to be contracting daily as the global recession bit deeper into every area of employment. If anybody was likely not merely to survive but to come out ahead of the game, it was Vanessa Hill.
Going head to head with Vanessa was not something Carol relished. But there was no escaping the fact that Tony’s mother was the primary source for information on Arthur Blythe. No detective worth their salt would put her anywhere but number one on the list of people to talk to about Arthur’s history. Sure, you’d take everything with a pinch of salt, but you couldn’t ignore her potential.
So first thing, she’d told Kevin Matthews to cover her back if Blake came looking and set off to drive over the Pennines to Halifax. The motorway route might have been quicker, but it was almost twice the length of the cross-country drive. Carol hesitated to call it the pretty way; there were too many remnants of the area’s polluted industrial past scattered across the dramatic landscape to qualify it for that description. But there was no denying the dramatic approach into Halifax, a long spiral down from the high ridge of the moors to the dark sprawl held in the bowl of the valley.
Vanessa Hill’s company HQ was a squat brick building on the outskirts of the town. Carol parked in a visitor’s slot and had barely turned off the engine when her phone rang. The display told her it was DS Matthews. ‘Bugger,’ she said, opening the line. ‘Kevin, what’s happening?’
‘Paula’s just been on. She’s at a Northern Division crime scene. Anonymous tip, looks like Daniel Morrison. They want to punt it over to us.’
Duty dictated that Carol should turn round and drive straight back to Bradfield. But she?
‘Got it. Do you want me to alert Tony?’
A routine inquiry, because her team knew that Tony preferred to see the body where it lay if there was any possibility of it being a case where they could use his expertise. But Tony was off limits now. And probably on his way to West Mercia to work for someone who was allowed to appreciate his skills. ‘No, that’s fine. I’ll see you shortly.’
With a fresh sense of urgency, Carol walked up to the steel and glass doors, where she was brought up short by the need to announce herself via the intercom. She hadn’t expected that. Nothing for it but to go for the full pomp of rank. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Carol Jordan to see Ms Hill,’ she said.
There was a long silence. Carol imagined consternation followed by consultation. ‘Do you have an appointment?’ a female voice crackled at her.
‘We don’t normally consider an appointment necessary,’ Carol said as frostily as she could manage. Another silence, then the door buzzed. She found herself in a vestibule that led to a small reception area furnished with discreet comfort. The woman behind the desk looked startled. Carol read her name badge and smiled as she said, ‘Good morning, Bethany. I’m here to see Ms Hill.’
Bethany cast a swift look over her shoulder towards the door that led into the main part of the building. ‘Can I see your ID?’ she said, a spasm of a smile flashing across the lower part of her face.
Carol fished it out of her bag and held it up for Bethany to see. Before she could react, the door swung open and Vanessa Hill swept in. At first glance, she hadn’t changed much since Carol had last seen her. She was still keeping the years at arm’s length, thanks to a hairdresser with a discreet hand on the golden brown dye and her own good eye for the judicious amount of make-up. She remained slender, her figure flattered by a beautifully cut suit whose narrow skirt revealed legs still shapely. However, the lines on her face that had revealed her less than generous nature seemed to have been smoothed out. Botox, thought Carol, marvelling again at the vanity that would persuade a woman that injecting poison into her face was a good move.
‘It’s the police to see you,’ Bethany said, apprehensive as a menopausal shoplifter confronted by a store detective.
Vanessa’s mouth curled in a contemptuous smile. ‘This isn’t the police, Bethany. This is my son’s girlfriend. Nothing to be worried about here.’ Wrong-footed, Carol struggled in vain to find a response. Seeing her discomfort, Vanessa carried on. ‘Come through, Carol. Let’s not discuss family business in front of the staff.’
Bethany looked relieved. Grateful not to have committed some unwitting gaffe, Carol thought, following Vanessa through the door into an open-plan office. Clearly bustling with focused activity. She couldn’t see a man in the place, and none of the women even glanced up from their computers or their phones as they passed.
Vanessa’s office was at the far end of the room. It was smaller than Carol expected, and more functional. The only trace of luxury was an electric massage pad attached to the chair behind the desk.
‘I’m not Tony’s girlfriend,’ Carol said as Vanessa closed the door behind her.
Vanessa sighed. ‘Of course you’re not. More’s the pity.’ She passed Carol and settled into her chair, waving at a comfortless visitor’s chair opposite. ‘Let’s not pretend we like each other, Carol. What are you doing here?’
‘Edmund Arthur Blythe.’ At the sound of his name, Vanessa compressed her lips and narrowed her eyes. Undaunted, Carol continued. ‘Tony wants to know more about him. How the two of you met, what he was doing in Halifax, that sort of thing.’
‘No, he doesn’t. You might want to, but Tony’s got no interest. He’d have been happier if you hadn’t interfered in the first place. Letting him sign Eddie’s estate over to me would have been the best thing for him.’ Vanessa squared her shoulders and folded her hands on the desk.
‘Apart from the small matter of, what - half a million or so?’
Vanessa made a noise that might have been a laugh. ‘If you think my son gives a toss about money, you know a lot less about him than I gave you credit for. Trust me, you sticking your nose in our business has led to nothing but grief for Tony. You don’t understand the first thing about him. Whatever he might have told you, I’m the one who knows what’s best for him because I’m the one who knows what makes him tick. I shaped him, not you.’ She stood up. ‘Now, if that’s all that’s on your mind, I think it’s time for you to sling your hook.’
‘Why won’t you tell me? It’s ancient history. It’s no skin off your nose now. It’s not like you can sink any lower in my estimation. What’s the big secret? Tony deserves to know why his father didn’t want to stick around.’
‘And I deserve my privacy. This conversation is over, Carol.’ Vanessa walked past her and threw open the door. ‘Next time you come here, you better have a warrant.’
Furious and frustrated, Carol walked past Vanessa, head held high. A humiliating waste of time, that’s what this had been. But as she slammed her car door, Carol vowed that Vanessa Hill would not defeat her. Now she had an added spur in her search for Edmund Arthur Blythe’s story. Not just to help Tony but to spite his mother. Right now, it was hard to say which gave the stronger impetus.
CHAPTER 12
It made sense to take the train to Worcester. More time to reread the case information. The possibility of arriving fresh rather than frazzled from negotiating the maze of motorways round Birmingham. A no-brainer. Normally, Tony wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But without a car, he’d be at the mercy of West Mercia Police. If he wanted to drive past Arthur Blythe’s house or take a look at his factory, he’d have to embark on an awkward explanation to some police driver. And if he felt the need to visit the crime scene in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep, he’d earn himself a reputation for being even more weird than they were expecting. He decided freedom was worth the trade-off.
By the time he pulled into his hotel in Worcester, he’d lost count of the number of times he’d cursed his own stupidity. Why hadn’t he thought of hiring a car once he’d arrived? He’d estimated two hours’ driving; it had taken three and a half and left him feeling like he’d had the worst kind of workout. Tony laid his head on the steering wheel and tried in vain to loosen the muscles of his neck and shoulders. He dragged himself out of the car and checked in.
He’d barely closed the door behind him when he felt the heavy hand of depression settle on him. He knew there were hotels whose rooms gladdened the heart. He’d even stayed in a couple over the years, mostly when deluded companies had hired him under the misapprehension that he could help motivate their management teams. This was not one of those rooms. The décor - no, you couldn’t call it décor, not in any meaningful sense of the word; there were various dead shades of brown in the room, ranging from cheap-and-nasty milk chocolate to tobacco. The window was too small and looked out on the car park. The TV had only seven channels and the bed had all the give of a wooden pallet. He understood the exigencies of police budgets, but surely there must have been a better option than this?
Sighing, Tony dumped his bag and sat on the bed facing a print of the African veldt. The connection between Worcester and wildebeest was lost on him. He took out his phone and called DI Stuart Patterson. ‘I’m at the hotel,’ he said without preamble.
‘I don’t know how you go about this,’ Patterson said. ‘I think you said you wanted to see the crime scene?’
‘That’s right. It’s a good first stop for me. I’d like to talk to the parents too, if that’s possible.’
Patterson offered to send DS Ambrose over to pick him up.
With half an hour to kill, Tony decided to take a walk. The hotel was on the fringe of the city centre and five minutes’ walk brought him to a street of banks, estate agents and the sort of chain stores that had replaced traditional small shop-keepers, selling the same chocolates, shoes, greetings cards, alcohol and dry-cleaning services as every other high street in the country. He ambled along, vaguely looking in the windows until he was brought up short by the familiar name of the estate agency he’d been dealing with.
Front and centre in the window were the details of the very house he was trying to sell. ‘For a man who doesn’t believe in coincidence, I seem to be confronting a few. Might as well roll with it, eh?’ The sound of his voice broke the moment and before he could stop and think, he walked into the agency. ‘Good morning,’ he said cheerily. ‘Can I talk to someone about that house in the window?’
Paula had never been more relieved to see her boss. The police surgeon and the forensics team were eager to remove Daniel Morrison’s body, but she’d enlisted Franny Riley’s support to insist that it stayed where it was till the DCI had seen it. ‘You can’t shift the cadaver till the SIO has signed off on it,’ she’d protested. ‘I don’t care if your guv wants rid. It stays till DCI Jordan gets here.’
Kevin Matthews had turned up in time to back her up. But the atmosphere was growing increasingly hostile as time drifted past and Carol failed to appear. Finally Paula saw her striding up the drive towards them, looking decidedly more chic than usual. Wherever she’d been, she’d made a definite effort to impress. ‘Sorry to keep you all waiting,’ Carol said, charm on full beam. ‘I got stuck behind an accident on the Barrowden road, right down in the valley where there’s no mobile signal. Thank you all for being so patient.’