Val McDermid - The Torment of Others

Stacey shrugged. ‘Depends when he got the email. They’re not really techies, ISPs, just bean counters,’ she said disparagingly. ‘They’re only interested in billing, not in keeping records of traffic. Most only keep detailed records for a week. Some for a month. If he got that attachment more than a month ago, we’ve got no chance. And we’d need a court order before they’d hand over the information anyway.’

‘So we’re screwed.’ Carol’s flat statement hung in the air.

Stacey pushed her hair behind her ear. Her self-satisfied smile and her dark almond-shaped eyes made her resemble a cat. ‘Not necessarily. Images like this, there’s more to them than meets the eye. Literally. You sometimes get other information encoded in them.’

Carol perked up. ‘Like the sender’s details?’

Stacey’s sigh fell just short of obvious exasperation. ‘Nothing that straightforward. You might get the serial number of the camera that took the picture. Or the registration number of the software the photographer used to process the image electronically. Then it’s a matter of contacting the manufacturer or the software licence holder and seeing what information they can provide.’

‘That’s scary,’ Paula said.

‘It’s bloody good news,’ Carol corrected her. ‘So what are we waiting for?’

Stacey stood up. ‘It’s going to take time,’ she warned.

‘Doesn’t everything?’ Carol leaned back in her chair. ‘Anything you need, Stacey, just let me know. Paula, find out who Ron Alexander’s ISP is and see what they can tell us. It’s time we brought Tim Golding home.’

The doorbell came as a welcome relief. Tony pushed aside the philosophical text on the mind/body problem that had been stretching his brain and hurried down the hall. He opened the door to find Carol leaning against the porch, a bulging plastic carrier in one hand. ‘You ordered a takeaway?’ she said.

‘You took your time. It’s at least twenty-two hours since I placed my order,’ he said, stepping back and following her down the hall. ‘The kitchen’s straight ahead.’

Carol looked around, taking in the pine units and the tiled breakfast bar. ‘Very eighties,’ she said.

‘Is it? You think that’s part of the reason I got it so cheap?’

She smiled. ‘Could be. It looks in good nick, though.’

‘All the drawers work, which is a definite improvement on anywhere I’ve ever lived before. Now, do you want to eat first or tour the cellar?’

‘What I’d really like is a glass of wine. It’s been a frustrating day.’

‘OK. Wine we can do.’ He reached for an opened bottle of Australian Shiraz Cabernet and poured them each a glass. ‘Here’s to…I don’t know, what should we drink to?’

‘An end to frustrations? For both of us?’

Tony raised his glass and chinked it against hers. ‘That’s as good as anything. An end to frustrations.’ He watched her drink, noting the dark shadows under her eyes and the wariness in her body language. She was, he thought, a long way from herself. ‘So, would you like to see the cellar–sorry, basement flat?’

Carol smiled. ‘Why not?’

She followed him back into the hall. He opened a door that looked as if it should be the cupboard under the stairs. Instead, it gave on to a narrow, steep flight of steps illuminated by a bare lightbulb. Tony led the way into a surprisingly high-ceilinged space. ‘This would be the living room,’ he said, ushering her into a large room that had two shallow but wide windows set high in the walls. ‘It gets a fair bit of natural light. And we could put glass panels in the outside door and build a little porch at the bottom of the steps for security,’ he added eagerly. ‘I already suggested that to the builder. I know it’s hard to imagine now, with the walls still being bare brick, but all this will be plaster-boarded. Wood floors. It’ll look really nice.’

It was a good size. Plenty of room for all she would need, Carol thought. The bedroom was almost as big as the living room, with a surprisingly large bay window. Carol looked around, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘It’s not bad, you know. I can imagine waking up here.’

Tony looked at the floor, suddenly embarrassed. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Think about it.’

On the way back upstairs, he showed her the recently installed toilet and shower room. White tiled walls gleamed bright under their ceiling spotlights. Clean, fresh, untainted. New , she thought with a surge of excitement. A place without ghosts. ‘I don’t need to think about it,’ Carol said. ‘When’s it going to be ready?’

Tony grinned like a small boy. ‘The builder reckons three weeks. Can you stand it at Michael’s till then?’

Carol leaned against his breakfast bar. ‘I can stand anything if I know it’s going to end. You think you can stand having me as your downstairs neighbour?’

‘Only if you promise always to have milk.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘I’m very good at running out of it.’

Carol smiled. ‘I’ll stock up on UHT.’

Waiting is never easy. Especially when he knows exactly what he’s waiting for. By the time he got out on the street today, he was expecting cops everywhere, police tape cordoning off the ginnel where Sandie worked. He was expecting huddles of people on street corners, muttering about murder and mutilation. He was expecting uniformed officers with clipboards asking people where they were and what they were doing last night .

He remembers what it was like last time. The whole of Temple Fields felt like it had overdosed on whiz. Everybody talking nineteen to the dozen like speed freaks, even the miserable gits who never normally had the time of day for him or anybody else. Until the bizzies walked in. Then silence fell like somebody dropped a blanket over everybody’s head .

That’s what he expected this time. But when he went into Stan’s Café and ordered his usual bacon butty and mug of tea, it was just like any other day. A few of the working girls clustered round greasy tables, taking the weight off their feet for half an hour. A couple of kids from the rent rack cuddling cups of coffee. Various eyes clocking him, wondering if he was carrying any gear. Looking away in disappointment when he gave them a slight shake of the head. He’d get hassle off Big Jimmy when he showed up to collect today’s stock. He’d bollock him for being late. He’d hoped the excitement on the street would give him an excuse, but there isn’t any .

So he finished his breakfast and moseyed on round to Big Jimmy’s flat for some stuff to sell. Luckily, the big man wasn’t in and he only had to deal with that fuckwit scaghead Drum who’s too far out of the world to care what anybody else is doing. Within the half-hour he was back on the pitch, doing the business, hoping nobody wondered where he’d been all morning. Hell, most of them had probably still been out cold themselves .

But now it’s evening, and still nothing’s stirring on the streets. It makes him uneasy. Part of him begins to wonder if he dreamed the whole thing. He almost wants to walk round to Sandie’s pitch to see if she’s standing on her usual corner, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened .

He wishes the Voice was here right now to tell him what’s going on. But since he delivered, he’s heard nothing. He begins to wonder if he’s been abandoned, if all the promises were a dream too .

It wouldn’t be the first time .

Tony raised his glass and reached across the debris of the Chinese. ‘Here’s to one of our rare non-Catholic meals.’ They chinked glasses.

‘Non-Catholic meals?’ Carol frowned.