Val McDermid - The Mermaids Singing

‘You’re not wrong there,’ Cross muttered. ‘I don’t want you under our feet, getting in the road.’

‘None of us want that, Tom,’ Brandon said. ‘That’s why I’ve asked Carol to act as liaison officer between Tony and us.’

‘I can’t afford to lose a senior officer at a time like this,’ Cross protested.

‘You’re not losing her,’ Brandon said. ‘You’re gaining an officer with a unique overview of all the cases. Could prove invaluable, Tom.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I better be off. The Chief’s going to want a briefing on this one. Keep me posted, Tom.’ Brandon sketched a wave and stepped back into the street and out of sight.

Cross pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up. ‘You know your trouble, Inspector?’ he said. ‘You’re not as smart as you like to think you are. One step out of line, lady, and I’ll have your guts for a jock strap.’ He took a deep drag of his cigarette and leaned forward to blow smoke in Carol’s direction. The gesture was ruined by the gust of wind that snatched the smoke away before it reached her. Looking disgusted, Cross turned on his heel and marched back to the scene of the crime.

‘You meet a nice class of person in this job,’ Carol said.

‘At least I know now which way the wind blows,’ Tony replied. As he spoke, he felt a drop of rain on his face.

‘Oh shit,’ Carol said. ‘That’s all we need. Look, can we meet tomorrow? I can grab the files tonight and skim them beforehand. Then you can get stuck in.’

‘Fine. My office, ten o’clock?’

‘Perfect. How do I find you?’

Tony gave Carol directions, then watched as she hurried back down the alley. An interesting woman. And attractive too, most men would agree to that. There were times when he almost wished he could find an uncomplicated response in himself. But he’d long since gone beyond the point where he would allow himself to be attracted to a woman like Carol Jordan.

It was after seven when Carol finally made it back to headquarters. When she rang John Brandon’s extension, she was pleasantly surprised to find him still at his desk. ‘Come on up,’ he told her.

She was even more surprised when she walked through his secretary’s door and found him pouring two steaming mugs from the coffee maker. ‘Milk and sugar?’ he asked her.

‘Neither,’ she said. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’

‘I gave up smoking five years ago,’ Brandon confided. ‘Now it’s only the caffeine that holds me together. Come through.’

Carol walked into his office, fired with curiosity. She’d never been across the threshold before. The decor was regulation cream paint, the furniture identical to Cross’s office, except that here the wood was gleaming, free from scuffs, scratches, cigarette burns and the telltale rings left by hot cups. Unlike most senior officers, Brandon hadn’t decorated his walls with police photographs and his framed commendations. Instead, he’d chosen half a dozen reproductions of turn-of-the-century paintings of Bradfield street scenes. Colourful yet moody, often rain-soaked, they mirrored the spectacular view from the seventh-floor window. The only item in the room that ran true to expectation was the photograph of his wife and children on the desk. Even that was no posed, studio shot, but an enlargement of a holiday snap on board a sailboat. Deduction: in spite of the impression Brandon strove to give as a bluff, straightforward, conventional copper, he was actually far more complex and thoughtful under the surface.

He waved Carol to a pair of chairs in front of his desk, then sat down in the other one. ‘One thing I want to be clear about,’ Brandon said without preliminary. ‘You report to Superintendent Cross. He’s in charge of this operation. However, I want to see copies of your reports and Dr Hill’s, and I want to know any theories the pair of you come up with that you’re not ready to commit to paper. Think you can handle that balancing act?’

Carol’s eyebrows rose. ‘There’s only one way to find out, sir,’ she said.

Brandon’s lips twitched in a half smile. He’d always preferred honesty to bullshit. ‘OK. I want you to make sure you are given access to everybody’s files. Any problems with that, any sense that anyone’s trying to stall you and Dr Hill, and I want to know about it, no matter who’s responsible. I’ll talk to the squad myself in the morning, make sure nobody’s in any doubt about what the new rules of the game are. Anything you need from me?’

Another twelve hours in the day would be a start, Carol thought wearily. Loving a challenge was all very well. But this time, it looked like love was going to be an uphill struggle.

Tony closed his front door behind him. He dropped his briefcase where he stood and leaned against the wall. He’d got what he wanted. It was a battle of wits now, his insight against the killer’s stockade. Somewhere in the pattern of these crimes there lay a labyrinthine path straight to a murderer’s heart. Somehow, Tony had to tread that path, wary of misleading shadows, careful to avoid straying into treacherous undergrowth.

He shrugged away from the wall, feeling suddenly exhausted, and headed for the kitchen, pulling off his tie and unbuttoning his shirt on the way. A cold beer, and then he could go through his scanty collection of press clippings on the three previous murders. He had just opened the fridge to grab a can of Boddingtons when the phone rang. He slammed the door shut and snatched up the extension, juggling with the cold can. ‘Hello?’ he said.

‘Anthony,’ the voice said.

Tony swallowed hard. ‘This isn’t a good time,’ he said, cutting coldly across the husky contralto coming down the line. He dumped the can on the worktop and popped the ring pull with one hand.

‘Playing hard to get? Oh, well, that’s part of the fun, isn’t it? I thought I’d cured you of trying to avoid me. I thought we’d left all that behind us. Don’t say you’re going to regress and hang up on me again, that’s all I ask.’ The voice was teasing, laughter bubbling just beneath the surface.

‘I’m not playing hard to get,’ he said. ‘It really isn’t a good time.’ He could feel the slow burn of anger rising from the pit of his stomach.

‘That’s up to you. You’re the man. You’re the boss. Unless, of course, you want things different for a change. If you catch my drift.’ The voice was almost a sigh, teasing him with its elusive quality. ‘After all, this is strictly between you and me. Consenting adults, as they say.’

‘So don’t I have the right to say no, not right now? Or is it only women who have that right?’ he said, hearing the tension in his voice as the anger rose like bile in his throat.

‘God, Anthony, your voice gets so sexy when you’re angry,’ the voice purred.

Nonplussed, Tony held the phone away from his ear, staring at it as if it were an artefact from another planet. Sometimes he wondered if what came out of his mouth were the same words that arrived in his listeners’ ears. With a clinical detachment he couldn’t bring to his caller, he noted that his grip on the phone was so tight his fingers were white. After a moment, he put the receiver back to his ear. ‘Just listening to your voice makes me wet, Anthony,’ she was saying. ‘Don’t you want to know what I’m wearing, what I’m doing right now?’ The voice was seductive, the breathing more audible than it had been at first.

‘Look, I’ve had a hard day, I’ve got a load of work to do and much as I enjoy our little games, I’m not in the mood tonight.’ Agitated, Tony looked desperately round his kitchen as if searching for the nearest exit.

‘You sound so tense, my darling. Let me soothe all that pressure away. Let’s play. Think of me as a relaxation technique. You know you’ll work better afterwards. You know I give you the best time you’ve ever had. With a stud like you and a sex queen like me, there’s nothing we can’t do. And for starters, I’m going to give you the dirtiest, sexiest, horniest phone call we’ve ever shared.’