Val McDermid - The Torment of Others

‘No, you’re all right. I feel like walking.’ Carol raised her eyebrows. Thinking time?’ Tony nodded. ‘I saw someone today and I need to figure out how to keep the promise I made him.’

‘Your latest crusade?’ Carol smiled.

Tony looked surprised. ‘Is that how you see what I do?’

‘I think it’s how you see what you do. A one-man crusade to mend the damage.’

He shrugged. ‘I wish it was that easy. So, you’ll come round tomorrow night to see the house?’

‘I will. Then maybe I can decide if I want to be the mad woman in the cellar. Shall I bring pizza?’

He considered. ‘Chinese,’ he said finally.

‘OK.’ She reached for the driver’s door. ‘Tony–thanks for tonight. And for being here in Bradfield.’

He looked surprised. Why would I be anywhere else? Everything I need is here. Instead of speaking his thoughts aloud, he patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘See you tomorrow.’

She climbed into her car and drove off, conscious of him in her mirrors, standing on the pavement, watching her out of sight. She knew it was guilt that had brought him there. Once, that would have made her uncomfortable and angry. But she was a different woman now and that woman had learned to be grateful for good things, however complicated the package they arrived in.

Sam Evans edged the office door open cautiously. No lights inside. He slipped through the narrow gap and closed the door behind him, turning the lock. Then he flicked the light switches on. The fluorescent strips flickered then settled their hard glare over the Major Incident Team’s squadroom. Sam surveyed the array of desks and made straight for Paula McIntyre’s.

He sat in her chair and noted the position of the piled paper on the desktop. The case she was working on would come to him next. Carefully, he riffled through each stack, trying to figure out the reason for the alignment she’d chosen. He flicked open the notepad and read down the list of points Paula had made. Some of them were pretty perspicacious, he thought, storing them away in his mind for when he came to review that case.

He inched open Paula’s desk drawers one by one, stirring the contents with a pencil, leaving no prints to indicate he’d been there. It was always useful to see what people kept out of sight but close at hand. Tucked right at the bottom of the drawer, he found a photograph of Don Merrick with his arm round a woman in what looked like a pub or a club. On closer inspection, he realized with a jolt of surprise that the woman was Carol Jordan. Her hair was longer, her face fuller, but it was undoubtedly her. They were both toasting the photographer with what looked like glasses of champagne. Very interesting, he thought. And almost certainly useful.

He closed Paula’s drawer and moved on to Kevin Matthews’ desk, where he repeated the same process. People said you should know your enemies. But Sam Evans also believed in making damn sure he knew the people who were supposed to be on the same side. He was, as John Brandon had spotted, ambitious. But he didn’t just want to excel; he wanted to make sure nobody outshone him. Ever.

Knowledge was power. And Evans knew that nobody ever handed out power as a gift. You had to grab it whenever and wherever you could. If that meant stealing it from someone else, so be it. If they were too weak to hold on to it, they didn’t deserve it.

He did.

He checks the image in front of him against the one planted there by the Voice and the videos. Sandie’s spreadeagled on the bed, her wrists handcuffed to the cheap pine frame. Her feet are tied to the legs. He had to use rope for them because the ankle cuffs wouldn’t stretch that far. It’s not right, but it’s the best he can do. He’s grateful to the Voice again for reminding him to take rope as well as the cuffs in case the bed wasn’t right .

He wishes the room was nicer, but there’s nothing he can do about that. At least the lights are dim. It’s easy to ignore the needle tracks on her arms and the fact that she’s too skinny. She could almost be the dream girl from one of the videos, the trimmed triangle of hair hiding the secrets he’s about to possess .

He turns away from her and snaps the latex gloves over his hands. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘What are you waiting for? I haven’t got all night.’

Only he knows how true that is. He reaches into his backpack and takes out the padded leather gag. He turns back to face her and now she’s starting to look worried. He moves towards her and she starts to shout. ‘Wait a fucking minute! You never said nothing about that…’ But her words are lost as he rams the gag home, jerking her head forward to fasten it behind. Her eyes are bulging now as she struggles to scream. But all that can be heard is the faintest of grunts .

He remembers to wipe the handcuffs clear of any fingerprints, then he grabs the video camera and sets it up on its little tripod, checking that he can see the whole bed. Next , the laptop and the webcam. Sandie pushes against her restraints, but there’s no point .

He takes out a bundle wrapped in a thick wad of kitchen towel. He steps into shot and slowly unwraps it. When Sandie sees what he’s holding, the veins in her neck stand out. The air fills with the smell of piss. He smiles sweetly. He’s hard now, harder than the videos ever got him. But he mustn’t lose control. He needs to make the Voice proud of him, and that means no evidence .

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his pounding heart. He’s sweating, he can feel it running down his neck and soaking his T-shirt. He grips his weapon tightly. The razor blades glint sharp and savage in the lamplight. ‘I hope you’re ready for me, Sandie,’ he says softly, just like the Voice told him to .

Then he begins .

Carol stared through the two-way mirror at the man in the interview room. Ronald Edmund Alexander looked nothing like the popular image of a paedophile. He wasn’t shifty or sweaty. He wasn’t dirty or sleazy. He looked exactly like a middle manager who lived in the suburbs with a wife and two children. There was no dirty raincoat, just an off-the-peg suit, an unassuming charcoal grey. Pale blue shirt, burgundy tie with a thin grey stripe. Neat haircut, no vain attempt to hide the way he was thinning on top. He’d been complaining bitterly when the two uniformed officers had brought him in. They had no right, he insisted, no right at all to come marching into his office at Bradfield Cross as if he was some common criminal. He’d co-operated, hadn’t he? All they had to do was pick up a phone and he’d have been straight over. There was no need, no need at all to embarrass him at his place of work.

Carol had watched from across the custody suite, trying to work out if she disliked him more because of what she knew he held on his computer or because he exemplified every petty bureaucrat who had ever driven her to thoughts of violence. She’d wanted to get straight into him, but had been frustrated by the tardiness of his solicitor.

So they’d stuck him in a cell while they waited for his brief to arrive. He’d been remarkably calm, she thought, wondering what Tony would have made of Alexander’s demeanour. He’d taken a look round then calmly sat on the bunk, legs apart, arms folded across his chest, gazing into the middle distance. Zen and the art of façade maintenance, she thought wryly.

Finally, the door to the observation room opened. Paula stuck her head round the door. ‘Showtime, chief. His brief’s here.’

‘Who is it?’ Carol asked, dragging her eyes away from Alexander.

‘Bronwen Scott.’

Carol remembered the defence lawyer from her previous spell in Bradfield. Unlike most legal aid lawyers, Scott seemed to have the wherewithal to dress in Dolce & Gabbana, with matching shoes and handbags from Prada. Her perfectly groomed shoulder-length black hair and flawlessly painted nails always made Carol feel like she’d been dragged straight out of bed into their interviews. It would have been almost bearable if the lawyer hadn’t been as sharp and combative as she was expensively immaculate. The general view was that if you could afford Bronwen Scott, you’d probably done it. ‘Oh good,’ Carol said, heading for the door.