Val McDermid - The Wire in the Blood

‘She’s right,’ Simon said. ‘God, you’re such a cliché, Leon. You should get off the city streets, get some fresh air into your lungs. What about coming out tomorrow for a walk? I really fancy seeing if Ilkley Moor lives up to the song.’

Shaz laughed. ‘What? You want to walk about without a hat and see if you catch your death of cold?’

The others joined in her laughter. ‘See, man, it’s primitive, like I said. Nothing to do but walk about on your own two feet. And shit, Simon, I’m not the one that’s a cliché. You know I’ve been stopped driving home three times since I moved here? Even the Met got a bit more racially enlightened than thinking every black man with a decent set of wheels has to be a drug dealer,’ Leon said bitterly.

‘They’re not stopping you because you’re black,’ Shaz retorted as he paused to light a cigarette.

‘No?’ Leon exhaled.

‘No, they’re stopping you for being in possession of an offensive weapon.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That suit, babe. Any sharper and you’d cut yourself getting dressed. You’re wearing a blade, of course they’re going to stop you.’ Shaz held out her hand for Leon to give her five and, amid the hoots of laughter from the other two, he made a rueful face and hit her hand.

‘Not as sharp as you, Shaz,’ Simon said. She wondered if it was only the heat of the spices that was responsible for the scarlet flush across his normally pale cheekbones.

‘Speaking of sharp,’ Kay chipped in as their main courses arrived, ‘you can’t get anything past Tony Hill, can you?’

‘He’s smart, all right,’ Simon agreed, sweeping his wavy dark hair back from his sweating forehead. ‘I just wish he’d loosen up a bit. It’s like there’s a wall there that you get right up to but you can’t see over.’

‘I’ll tell you why that is,’ Shaz said, suddenly serious. ‘Bradfield. The Queer Killer.’

‘That’s the one he did that went well and truly pear-shaped, yeah?’ Leon asked.

‘That’s right.’

‘It was all hushed up, wasn’t it?’ Kay said, her intent face reminding Shaz of a small furry animal, cute but with hidden teeth. ‘The papers hinted at all sorts of stuff, but they never went into much detail.’

‘Believe me,’ Shaz said, looking at her half-chicken and wishing she’d gone for something vegetarian, ‘you wouldn’t want to know the details. If you want to know the whole story, check out the Internet. They weren’t constrained by technicalities like good taste or requests from the authorities to keep things under wraps. I’m telling you, if you can read what Tony Hill went through without having second thoughts about what we’re doing, you’re a fuck of a sight braver than I am.’

There was a moment’s silence. Then Simon leaned forward and said confidingly, ‘You’re going to tell us, aren’t you, Shaz?’

He always arrived fifteen minutes ahead of the agreed time because he knew she’d be early. It didn’t matter which she he’d chosen, she’d turn up ahead of schedule because she was convinced he was Rumpelstiltskin, the man who could spin twenty-four-carat gold out of the dry straw of her life.

Donna Doyle – no longer the next one but rather the latest one – was no different from the others. As her silhouette appeared against the dim light of the car park, he could hear the clumsy childish music crashing in his head. ‘ Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water …’

He shook his head to clear his ears, like a snorkeller surfacing from a coral reef. He watched her approach, moving cautiously between the expensive cars, glancing from side to side, a slight frown creasing her forehead, as if she couldn’t work out why her antennae weren’t pointing her to his precise position. He could see she’d done her best to look good; the school skirt that had obviously been folded over at the waist to show off shapely legs, the school blouse open one button further than parent or teacher would ever have allowed in public, the blazer over one shoulder, hanging thus to obscure the backpack of school supplies. The make-up was heavier than the night before, its excess weight catapulting her straight into middle age. And her hair glinted glossy black, the swing of the short bob catching the dull gleam of the car park lights.

When Donna was almost level, he pushed open the passenger door of the car. The sudden interior light made her jump even as she registered his shockingly handsome profile cutting a dark line through the bright rectangle. He spoke through his already lowered window. ‘Come and sit with me while I tell you what all this is about,’ he said conversationally.

Donna hesitated fractionally, but she was too familiar with the open candour of his public face to pause properly for reflection. She slid into the seat next to him and he made sure she saw him carefully not looking at the expanse of thigh her moves had revealed. For the time being, chastity was the best policy. Her smile was coquettish yet innocent as she said, ‘When I woke up this morning, I wondered if I’d dreamed it all.’

His answering smile was indulgent. ‘I feel like that all the time,’ he said, building another course of bricks on the false foundation of fake rapport. ‘I wondered if you’d have second thoughts. There are so many things you could do with your life that would be a greater contribution to society than being on TV. Believe me, I know.’

‘But you do those things too,’ she said earnestly. ‘All that charity work. It’s being famous makes it possible for TV stars to raise so much money. People pay money to see them. They wouldn’t be shelling out otherwise. I want to be able to do that. To be like them.’

The impossible dream. Or rather, nightmare. She could never have been like him, though she had no notion of the real reason why. People like him were so rare it was almost an argument for the existence of God. He smiled benevolently, like the Pope from the Vatican balcony. It pushed all the right buttons. ‘Well, perhaps I can help you make a start,’ he told her. And Donna believed him.

He had her there, alone, co-operative, in his car, in an underground car park. What could have been easier than to whisk her away to his destination?

Only a fool would think like that, he’d realized long ago, and he was no fool. For a start, the car park wasn’t exactly empty. Businessmen and women were checking out of the hotel, stowing suit carriers into executive saloons and reversing out of tight spots. They noticed a lot more than anyone would expect. For another thing, it was broad daylight outside, a city centre festooned with traffic lights where people sat with nothing better to do than pick their noses and stare slack-jawed at the inhabitants of the next car. First, they’d register the car. A silver Mercedes, smart enough to catch the eye and the admiration. Or, of course, the envy. Then they’d clock the flowing letters along the front wing that announced, Cars for Vance’s Visits supplied by Morrigan Mercedes of Cheshire . Alerted to the possible proximity of celebrity, they’d peer through the tinted windows, trying to identify the driver and passenger. They weren’t going to forget that in a hurry, especially if they glimpsed an attractive teenager in the passenger seat. When her photograph appeared in the local paper, they’d remember, no question.

And finally, he’d got a busy day ahead. There was no space in his schedule for delivering her to a place where he could exact what was due. No point in drawing attention to himself by failing to keep appointments, not turning up for the public appearances that were so carefully constructed to give Vance’s Visits maximum exposure for minimal effort. Donna would have to wait. For both of them, it would be the sweeter for the anticipation. Well, for him, at least. For her, it wouldn’t be long before reality turned her breathless expectation into a sick joke.