Val McDermid - The Torment of Others

She came face to face with Scott as she emerged into the corridor. ‘Inspector Jordan. What a surprise. I thought you’d left us for pastures more glamorous,’ Scott said, her voice cool and amused.

‘It’s Chief Inspector, actually. And you should know better than anyone that there’s nothing glamorous about what we deal in. Shall we go?’

Scott shook her head. ‘I don’t know where you’ve been hiding, Chief Inspector, but up here in Bradfield we still allow lawyers to talk to their clients in private. And before I do that, I’d like some disclosure.’

Nothing unexpected there, Carol thought. ‘When your client was arrested, his computer equipment was confiscated. It has subsequently been analysed. He will be interviewed fully about that at a later date, but there is one image on his machine that links directly to a major inquiry which I am leading. It is that single image I want to talk to him about.’

‘That image being…?’

‘I’ll be happy to discuss that in the interview. And to show you and your client a copy.’

Scott shook her head. ‘You really have forgotten your manners, haven’t you, Chief Inspector? Before I can have a meaningful conversation with my client, I need to know what we’re talking about here.’

There was a long silence. Carol could feel Paula’s eyes on her back, measuring her. There really wasn’t anything to be gained by holding back at this point. It wasn’t as if Ron Alexander was a serious suspect in the disappearance of Tim Golding. If she refused to give Scott anything, then she’d end up with a ‘no comment’ interview, nothing surer. If she tried waiting until the interview to spring the photo on him, Scott would simply demand time out to talk to her client. Carol considered. She wanted co-operation. She didn’t care what that might or might not do to any wider case against Ron Alexander. ‘We might as well speed things up,’ she said. ‘Your client’s computer held an image of Tim Golding. The eight-year-old–’

‘Yes, I know who Tim Golding is,’ Scott said impatiently. ‘But since you people disseminated images of the child all over the country, it’s hardly a big deal that my client has a photo of the boy on his computer.’

‘It’s a big deal when the picture in question shows a terrified, naked child.’ Carol turned on her heel and walked off. ‘Let me know when you’re ready to talk,’ she said over her shoulder as she rounded a corner, Paula hard on her heels. ‘I see Bronwen Scott hasn’t mellowed with age,’ she commented.

‘It’s a pain you had to give away so much,’ Paula said, falling into step beside her boss.

‘You know the rules, Paula. They ask for disclosure, we have to give it.’

‘Couldn’t you have held back on the ID, chief? Then hit him with it in the interview?’

Carol stopped and gave Paula a speculative look. ‘You think I was weak back there, don’t you?’

Paula looked horrified. ‘I never…’

‘Giving in isn’t always a sign of weakness, Paula. There was no point in holding out. I know how Scott works. Alexander would just have gone “no comment” from the off. This way, she might just see it as a bargaining chip.’ Carol walked off, feeling the tension in her shoulders. Maybe they didn’t trust her quite as much as she’d thought.

He sleeps late. It’s nearly noon when he wakes, and even then he has to force his eyes open. He feels like somebody spiked his brain with Valium. His head’s muzzy, it takes him a moment to realize where he is. At home, in his own bed, curled into himself like a baby. But it’s a different person inside his body this morning .

He’s not the fuck-up that everybody laughs at any more. He did it. He did exactly what he was supposed to. Just like the Voice told him to. And he’s got his reward. He’s got the money, even though he explained that wasn’t why he’d done it. He’d done it because he understood. It’s not the money that makes him feel like he finally made it. It’s hearing the Voice say good things about him. It’s knowing that he’s done something hardly anybody else could do. Something special .

Thank God he managed to hide the way he really felt when he reached the moment itself. He’d been excited, aroused, on the point of coming inside his pants like a teenager. But when it came to it, when he had to stick that thing inside her again and again, he wilted. It wasn’t sexy. It was bloody and terrible and frightening. He knows it was the right thing to do, but at the very end, it wasn’t exciting at all. Just messy and sad .

But the Voice didn’t see that. The Voice just saw that he’d done what he was supposed to do, and he’d got it right .

As he wakes up properly, he feels a buzz in his veins. It’s pride, but it’s fear too. They’re going to be looking for him. The Voice promised he’d be all right. But maybe the Voice has got it wrong .

Maybe he wasn’t as clever as he thought .

Tom Storey stared out of the window, watching the leaves detaching from the trees and swirling in the brisk breeze that had sprung up towards noon. He sat motionless, his bandaged stump gripped in his other hand. Tony watched him for a good ten minutes, but Storey never budged.

Eventually, he walked across the day room and pulled up a chair next to Storey. He noted the purple bruise along his cheekbone. According to the orderly who had shown Tony in, one of the other patients had punched Storey during a group therapy session. ‘Even these mad bastards draw the line at child killers,’ the man had said casually.

‘We’ve all got two personalities, you know,’ Tony said conversationally. ‘One in each hemisphere of the brain. One’s the boss, it shouts down the weaker one. But you sever the diplomatic links, and there’s no telling what the subservient one will do once it gets the taste for power.’

Storey still didn’t move. ‘I can still feel it,’ he said. ‘It’s like a malevolent ghost. It won’t leave me alone. Supposing you find out I’ve got a brain tumour. And supposing that doesn’t kill me. There’s still going to be a war going on in my head, isn’t there?’

‘I won’t lie to you, Tom,’ Tony said. ‘There’s no quick fix here. See, you’ve got the dominant left side of the brain. That’s in charge of the three R’s–reading, writing and arithmetic. And you’ve got the right side. It’s illiterate, but it comprehends form, solid geometry, music. I suspect it gets frustrated because it can’t express itself readily in the ways that humans generally communicate. That’s why it goes off the rails when the left side loosens its grip. But that’s not the end of the story.’

‘Just the end of Tom Storey.’ His voice was bitter.

‘Not necessarily. The brain’s an amazing structure. When it gets damaged, it retrains other areas to take over the jobs that used to be done by the bit that’s redundant. And there are things we can do to retrain the rebellious part of your brain. I can help you, Tom.’

Storey took a breath so deep it raised his shoulders. ‘Can’t bring my kids back, though. Can you?’

Tony looked out of the window at the flurry of golden and scarlet leaves. ‘No, I can’t. But what I can do is help you live with that absence.’

Tears spilled out of Storey’s eyes and trickled unheeded down his cheeks. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

Because it’s the only thing I’m good at , Tony thought. What he said was: ‘Because you deserve it, Tom. Because you deserve it.’

Carol walked into the interview room with an assumption of confidence she didn’t really feel. It had been many months since she’d interviewed anyone, witness or suspect, and she was afraid of her emotions bleeding into the professional sphere. It didn’t help that she was conscious of Paula at her side, weighing her up. At least Ron Alexander’s composure seemed to have slipped a little. He was refusing to meet her eyes, fiddling continuously with his wedding ring.