Val McDermid - The Torment of Others

‘In the early stages, yes. I’ve been back here two years now, and most of what I’ve been doing since then has been prioritizing our hit list, in between the usual shit on the streets. In the last six months, we’ve started pulling in our prime candidates. What we do is kick their doors down and seize their computer equipment. After a preliminary interview we usually release them on police bail till the analysis is done.’

‘Which can take weeks, I imagine?’

Jan’s mouth twisted in a half-smile. ‘If we’re lucky. Anyway, I got a stack of stuff through yesterday from the techies. They’d stripped out a pretty rich seam from a guy we pulled in a couple of months ago.’ She shook her head. ‘You’d think I’d be used to this by now. The guy’s a senior NHS manager. You need a hip replacement or a new knee at Bradfield Cross? He’s the one you blame for the length of the waiting list. Respectable house in the suburbs, wife’s a teacher, two teenage kids. And his computer’s like a fucking sewer. So, I’m wading through his shit and I find this–’ She flipped open her file dramatically and pulled out a print of a digital photograph, blown up to cover most of an A4 sheet. She passed it across to Carol. ‘I recognized the kid from the media blitz.’

Carol studied the photograph. The background showed a dramatic rock formation. Slender birch branches crisscrossed one corner. A skinny child stood naked and hunched in the middle of the frame. Sandy hair, Harry Potter glasses. Features she’d memorized in the course of her long day’s reading. There was no room for doubt: this was Tim Golding. She felt the familiar rush that came with a fresh lead and hated herself for it. This wasn’t something to rejoice over. Carol understood that now better than she ever had before. ‘Are there any more?’ she asked.

Jan shook her head. I’ve been right through the archive. Nothing.’

‘What about the other missing kid–Guy Lefevre?’

‘Sorry. That’s the only one. And it doesn’t mean my guy is the one you’re looking for. These sick bastards swap shots all the time. The fact that there’s only the one pic of the Golding boy would suggest to me that my target wasn’t the photographer.’

I’m inclined to agree with you. But I want to talk to him nevertheless.’ Carol met Jan’s eyes in a long, measured stare. ‘I’d like his file now and I’d like him in an interview room first thing in the morning. Do you want me to clear that with your senior officer?’

‘Sorted already. My guvnor agrees you get first crack. Full house beats a flush.’

‘Thanks, Sergeant. I appreciate it.’ Carol slid the print back towards Jan. This background–any idea where it might be?’ She pointed to the unusual rock formation.

Jan shook her head. ‘Not a clue. I’m a city girl, me. I get the shakes if I’m more than five miles from Starbucks.’

‘It looks pretty distinctive to me. But for all I know, there could be rocks like this from Land’s End to John o’Groats.’

‘Yeah. But there’s only one Tim Golding.’

Carol sighed. ‘Wrong tense, I think.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Looking at this, I think we should be saying there was only one Tim Golding.’

His hands are sweating. They slither and slip in spite of the thin layer of talc inside the latex gloves. It makes the preparation difficult. He’s not really used to anything that requires finer control than rolling a joint. When his fingers fumble and a blade nicks him through the glove, he swears out loud at the beads of blood that ooze from the wound .

He’s glad the Voice isn’t here to see him fucking up. And that reminds him that he has instructions about what to do if his blood gets on the stuff. ‘Put anything stained with even the smallest drop of blood to one side. Replace it and start again. Only one blood, that’s what we want. Only one blood.’ The words echo in his head and he does what he’s told. He pulls a page out of that evening’s paper and places the bloody blade on it. Then he strips off the gloves and adds them to the pile. He doesn’t have an Elastoplast, so he tears off a corner of the newsprint and sticks it clumsily over the place where the blood is seeping. Then he takes another pair of gloves from the box. And starts again .

He really wants to get it right. He knows that if he gets it right, this will be the best thing he’s ever done. He knows because that’s what the Voice told him. And everything else the Voice has said has been right .

All day, he’s been thinking about what’s to come. All day, his mind’s been in a spin. Though he tried to keep it hidden, people noticed. But they don’t expect much of him at the best of times, so they didn’t notice in a way that they’ll remember afterwards. Mostly, they just made a joke of it, although one or two used his slowness or stupidity as an excuse for giving him a bad time. But he’s used to that too. Until the Voice came along and said he deserved better, that was how it was for him. The tree every dog pissed up. The one who was so crap everybody else looked good next to him .

Tonight, he’s going to prove them wrong. Tonight he’s going to do something none of them would dare. And he’s going to do it right .

Isn’t he?

The car park was a place of shadows, hemmed in by high brick walls topped with razor wire. When it had been built, nobody could have anticipated the explosion in car ownership, so it was always over-full, double-parked and a source of irritation to those who had to use it.

It was also supposed to be secure. A sturdy metal barrier had to be raised to permit entry or egress, and the officer in charge of it was supposed to monitor each entrant carefully. But the man leaning on one of the cars understood how to circumvent systems. When he’d been here before, he’d made allies of the security team, aware that there would probably be a time when he’d want to come back without the necessary authority.

That time was tonight. He’d been waiting for the best part of an hour, resting against the bonnet of the silver saloon, reading steadily through the papers he’d stuffed into his briefcase, his peripheral vision alert to anyone leaving the tall building in front of the car park. But the light was fading fast and the air held the crisp promise of winter. Waiting was becoming less attractive. He glanced at his watch. Just after six. He’d give it half an hour, then he’d slip away into the night. He didn’t want to lurk in the darkness, for a variety of reasons.

A few minutes later, he saw what he’d been waiting for. A gleam of blonde hair caught in the security lights by the back door, and he was on the move. He shoved the file back into his briefcase and stood upright, moving towards the back of the car to cut off his target before she could reach the driver’s door.

She looked over her shoulder, calling out a farewell to a colleague. When she turned back, he was only a few feet from her. Shock and astonishment shot across her face and she stopped dead. Her mouth formed an exclamation, but no sound emerged.

‘Hi, Carol,’ Tony said. ‘Fancy a curry?’

‘Jesus,’ she exhaled, her shoulders dropping. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack. What the hell are you doing here?’

He spread his arms wide, a parody of innocence. ‘Like I said, inviting you out for a curry.’

‘Freaking me out, more like. What are you doing in Bradfield? You’re supposed to be in St Andrews.’ He raised one finger in admonishment. ‘Later. Now, are you going to unlock the car? I’m freezing.’

With an air of bemusement, Carol obediently popped the locks and watched him walk round to the passenger seat. She couldn’t help smiling. There was, she thought, nobody quite like Tony Hill.