Val McDermid - The Vanishing Point

‘I spoke to a lawyer when he began pestering me after we first split up and she explained that there wasn’t much I could do unless he actually broke the law. But I don’t know what the law is. And it seemed to me that the way he made me feel, the threat in how he was with me – well, surely there must be something the police can do about that?’ She looked at him with a mixture of anxiety and apology that filled him with anger against the man who had put her in that place. But he also knew there wasn’t much he could lawfully do about Pete Matthews.

‘The lawyer was right, I’m afraid. If you kept a diary of his harassment, you could probably get a restraining order against him. But it wouldn’t have the power of arrest. You couldn’t just call the police if he breached it – you’d have to go back to court.’

‘Which means it would be meaningless, in effect?’

‘Yes. For us to take action, you would have to demonstrate that you have reasonable grounds to be in fear for your life, or at least in fear of serious violence. And from what you’ve said, he’s been very careful not to threaten you in that way.’

She picked up the wooden stick and stirred her latte. ‘What you’re saying is, there’s nothing to be done.’

And that’s when Nick crossed the line. ‘Officially, yes. Unofficially, there are possibilities.’ He’d had no idea that was what he was going to say until he’d said it. He knew then that he’d decided to follow his desire rather than his head.

Stephanie looked alarmed. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘I know you didn’t.’ He pulled out his phone, summoned the notepad function and handed it to her. ‘Give me his address and phone number and leave it with me.’ Nick took in her anxiety and gave her a grim smile. He wiggled his fingers at her. ‘Have you ever heard of a band called Jethro Tull?’

She’d looked completely baffled, but nodded. ‘Vaguely. Big in the seventies?’

‘That’s the one. Their front man, Ian Anderson, played the flute. He was so paranoid about his fingers being damaged that when people put their hand out to shake his, he’d offer them his elbow instead. Well, I’m not quite that anxious, but I’m not going to do anything to Pete Matthews that would put my lovely fingers at risk.’

Her face lit up in a smile that made him fizz a little inside. ‘When you put it like that . . . ’ She tapped the information into his phone. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. But there will be a price to pay.’

Now she looked anxious again. ‘I’m not a free woman,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a child to take responsibility for these days.’

‘You live in Brighton, right?’

‘Yes, but I’m still staying at Scarlett’s place in Essex till we sort out moving Jimmy down to my place. Because the house has to be cleared and sold, according to that bloody self-indulgent will.’ She pulled a face. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t whinge. I don’t care on my account, but it would have been easier on Jimmy if he could have stayed put, at least for a few months.’

‘On the other hand, probably better for you to be in Brighton rather than somewhere Matthews knows he can find you.’

She nodded acceptance of what he said. ‘That’s true.’

‘So here’s my price. Once you’ve moved back to Brighton, I get to come down on my day off and take you out to lunch while Jimmy’s at school. How does that sound?’

Stephanie looked relieved, then delighted. ‘That would be lovely. Thank you. For all of it.’

That same evening, Nick checked out Pete Matthews’ address. It was the garden flat in a tall Victorian terraced house in Kentish Town, a couple of streets back from the main drag. The handiest thing about it was that the front door was down a shallow flight of steps, more or less invisible from the street above unless someone was standing on the pavement next to it. There was a sturdy chain holding the gate closed, but Nick reckoned it would yield to a decent set of boltcutters.

Matthews’ flat was in darkness, so he took a chance on ringing the doorbell of the main house. The man who answered looked like a Regency fop gone to seed. His shortish dark hair was gelled into a wedge on the top of his head and his tight floral shirt did nothing to disguise a hard little pot belly. He wore white jeans deliberately cut to make him look hung like a horse. Nick, whose jeans were chosen for comfort rather than vainglory, had never understood the style. Mutton dressed as ram. The man pursed his lips waspishly, which provoked nests of wrinkles that would doubtless have mortified him had he known. ‘Yes?’ he said irritably.

Nick showed his warrant card and looked humble. ‘Are you the householder, sir?’

‘How very Edwardian. Technically, that would be my wife and I. But I am the man of the house.’ He was, Nick thought, trying to sound posher than he was.

‘I wonder if I might have a word?’

‘Have we committed some unwitting crime, officer?’

‘No, sir. I just wondered if anyone had been home this morning between nine and eleven. We’re investigating an assault and we’re looking for witnesses.’

Now the man looked shocked. ‘An assault? Was one of the neighbours attacked?’

‘No, nothing like that. We think the victim and the assailant knew each other and had a chance encounter on this street. Did you see or hear anything? You or your wife?’

He shook his head prettily, as if it were a matter of huge personal regret that he was unable to help. ‘My wife Madeleine and I left the house together at ten to nine, as we always do, to go to work. I work at the BBC and she runs a charitable foundation round the corner from BH, so we travel in together on the tube. I’m afraid neither of us was at home.’

‘What about your downstairs neighbour?’ Nick pretended to consult his notebook. ‘Mr . . . Matthews?’

‘I’ve no idea. He doesn’t keep regular hours. He works in the music business, you see. You’d need to ask him and I’ve not a clue when he’ll be back. Sometimes he’s away for weeks at a time.’

Nick closed his notebook and smiled. ‘Sorry to have bothered you. Thanks for being so patient.’ He didn’t wait for the man to close the door. He had what he needed. The upper part of the house would be empty during the day. And Nick had a day off on Wednesday, which gave him a whole day to make his arrangements.

Back at the office, he put a call in to an old mate in the Tactical Support Group. Nick had trained with Declan Rafferty and a bunch of other Greater Manchester Police recruits at the Bruche training centre. They soon discovered they shared similar tastes in music. Like Nick, Declan would rather drive for an hour to listen to an obscure new band than head straight for the nearest pub and get rat-arsed with his fellow trainees. It doesn’t take much in a quasi-military ambience like police college to forge bonds when you find common ground, and so it was with Declan and Nick. Although they’d chosen different paths and styles of policing, they still remained friends. At least once a month, they’d make pilgrimage to an unsung venue to hear music that barely made it on to the radar, even in these days of Internet accessibility to all. Discovering new acts before the herd was still a badge of pride for them both.

Once they’d sorted their next night out, Nick slid into the real reason for his call. ‘You on the station van this week?’ he asked, referring to the quick-response vehicle the TSG used as a mobile control and incident room as well as the wheels deployed to get their officers to the scene of trouble fast.

‘I am. Not much happening, though,’ Declan said. ‘We’ve been kicking our heels. It’s all gone very bloody quiet out there.’

‘I wanted to ask a favour. Mate to mate. No blowback, you know what I mean?’