04.The Torment of Others, Page 2

  Merrick sighed. The images in his head now were not of a small boy playing with his friends. What he saw when he closed his eyes was a shallow woodland grave. A flash of yellow football shirt in the long grass of a field margin. A tangle of limbs in a drainage ditch. Christ, but he felt inadequate to the task.

  He racked his brains for some other avenue of approach, summoning up the images of previous bosses, wondering how they would have handled things differently. Popeye Cross would have been convinced their abductor was someone they already had on the books. He’d be sweating the nonces, determined to get a confession out of someone. Merrick was confident he’d covered that already, even though his team knew better than to exert the kind of pressure Popeye had been famous for. These days, you leaned too heavily at your peril. Courts had no patience with police officers who bullied vulnerable suspects.

  He thought of Carol Jordan and reached for his cigarettes. She’d have come up with some tangential line of attack, he had no doubt of that. Her mind worked in ways he’d never managed to fathom. His brain was wired differently from hers, and he’d never in a million years arrive at one of her inspired angles. But there was one thing Carol would have done that he could pursue.

  Merrick inhaled and reached for the phone. ‘Is the boss in?’ he asked the woman who answered. ‘I’d like to talk to him about Tony Hill.’

  John Brandon climbed the steps up from the Barbican station. The dirty yellow bricks seemed to sweat and even the concrete underfoot felt hot and sticky. The air was stuffy with the thick, mingled smells of humanity. It wasn’t the best preparation for what he suspected was going to be a difficult conversation.

  No matter how much he’d tried to prepare himself for his meeting with Carol Jordan, he knew he didn’t really have a clue what he’d find. He was certain of only two things: he had no idea how she felt about what had happened to her; and work would be her salvation.

  He’d been appalled when he’d heard about the botched undercover mission that had ended with the violent assault on Carol. His informant had tried to stress the significance of what her operation had achieved, as if that were somehow a counterbalance to what had been done to her. But Brandon had cut impatiently across the rationale. He understood the demands of command. He’d given his adult life to the police service and he’d reached the top of the tree with most of his principles intact. One of those was that no officer should ever be exposed to unnecessary risk. Of course danger was part of the job, particularly these days, with guns as much a fashion accessory in some social groups as iPods were in others. But there was acceptable risk and unacceptable risk. And in Brandon’s view, Carol Jordan had been placed in a position of intolerable, improper risk. He simply did not believe there was any end that could have justified such means.

  But it was pointless to rage against what had happened. Those responsible were too well insulated for even a Chief Constable to make much of a dent in their lives. The only thing John Brandon could do now for Carol was to offer her a lifeline back into the profession she loved. She’d been probably the best detective he’d ever had under his command, and all his instincts told him she needed to be back in harness.

  He’d discussed it with his wife Maggie, laying out his plans before her. ‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘You know Carol. Do you think she’ll go for it?’

  Maggie had frowned, stirring her coffee thoughtfully. ‘It’s not me you should be asking, it’s Tony Hill. He’s the psychologist.’

  Brandon shook his head. Tony is the last person I’d ask about Carol. Besides, he’s a man, he can’t understand the implications of rape the way a woman can.’

  Maggie’s mouth twisted in acknowledgement. ‘The old Carol Jordan would have bitten your hand off. But it’s hard to imagine what being raped will have done to her. Some women fall to pieces. For some, it becomes the defining moment of their lives. Others lock it away and pretend it never happened. It sits there like a time bomb waiting to blow a hole in their lives. And some find a way to deal with it and move forward. If I had to guess, I’d say Carol would either bury it or else work through it. If she’s burying it, she’ll probably be gung ho to get back to serious work, to prove to herself and the rest of the world that she’s sorted. But she’ll be a loose cannon if that’s what she’s trying to do, and that’s not what you need in this job. However…’ she paused, ‘if she’s looking for a way through, you might be able to persuade her.’

  ‘Do you think she’d be up to the job?’ Brandon’s bloodhound eyes looked troubled.

  ‘It’s like what they say about politicians, isn’t it? The very people who volunteer for the job are the last ones who should be doing it. I don’t know, John. You’re going to have to make your mind up when you see her.’

  It wasn’t a comforting thought. But he’d since had support from a surprising quarter. The previous afternoon, DI Merrick had sat in his office asking Brandon’s sanction to bring Tony Hill in to profile the disappearance of Tim Golding. As they’d discussed the case, Merrick had said almost wistfully, ‘I can’t help feeling we’d be doing better if we still had DCI Jordan on the team.’

  Brandon’s eyebrows had shot up. ‘I hope you’re not having a crisis of confidence, Inspector,’ he said.

  Merrick shook his head. ‘No, sir. I know we’re doing everything we can. It’s just that DCI Jordan looks at things differently from anybody else I’ve ever worked with. And with cases like this…well, sometimes it feels like it’s not enough to cover all the bases.’

  Brandon knew Merrick had been right. All the more reason why he should do everything in his power to bring Carol Jordan back into the world again. He squared his shoulders and headed for the concrete labyrinth where Carol Jordan waited at the epicentre.

  John Brandon was shaken to see the change in Carol Jordan. The woman who waited in the doorway for him to emerge from the lift bore almost no resemblance to his memory of her. He might well have passed her in the street. Her hair was radically different, cut short at the sides, the heavy fringe swept to one side, changing the shape of her face. But she had altered in more fundamental ways. The flesh seemed to have melted from her face, giving it a new arrangement of planes and hollows. Where there had been an expression of intelligent interest in her eyes, now there was a blank wariness. She radiated tension rather than the familiar confidence. In spite of the warmth of the early summer day, she was dressed in a shapeless polo-neck sweater and baggy trousers instead of the sharply tailored suits Brandon was used to seeing her in.

  He paused a couple of feet from her. ‘Carol,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  There was no smile of welcome, just a faint twitch of muscle at the corners of her mouth. ‘Come in, sir,’ she said, stepping back to allow him to enter.

  ‘No need for formality,’ Brandon said, taking care to keep as much physical distance as possible between them as he walked into the flat. ‘I’ve not been your boss for quite a while now.’

  Carol said nothing, leading the way to the pair of sofas that sat at right angles to each other with a view through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the old church at the heart of the Barbican complex. She waited till he sat down, then offered him a drink. ‘Coffee, tea?’

  ‘Something cold. It’s warm out there today,’ Brandon said, unfastening the jacket of his charcoal suit. Catching her sudden stillness, he stopped awkwardly at the third button and cleared his throat.

  ‘Mineral water or orange juice?’

  ‘Water’s fine.’

  When she returned with two glasses of water still hissing their effervescence into the air, Carol set Brandon’s in front of him then retreated with her own to the furthest point from him. ‘How are you?’ Brandon asked.

  Carol shrugged. ‘Better than I was.’

  ‘I was shocked when I heard what had happened. And upset too. Maggie and I…well, I know how I’d feel if her, or my daughters…Carol, I can’t imagine how you begin to deal with something like that.’

  There i
sn’t anything like that,’ Carol said sharply, her eyes on his. ‘I was raped, John. No other violation comes close except death, and nobody’s reported back on that yet.’

  Brandon took the rebuke on the chin. ‘It should never have happened.’

  Carol let out a deep breath. ‘I made mistakes, it’s true. But the real damage was caused by people who set up the operation and never levelled with me about what was really going on. Sadly, not everyone is as scrupulous as you.’ She turned away and crossed her legs tightly. ‘You said there was something you wanted to discuss with me?’ she continued, changing the subject irrevocably.

  That’s right. I don’t know how current you are with recent changes in the service in the north?’

  Carol shook her head. ‘It’s not what I’ve been paying attention to.’

  ‘No reason why you should,’ he said gently. ‘But the Home Office in their wisdom have decided East Yorkshire is too small a force and it should be amalgamated. And since my force is the smaller of the two involved in the merger, I’m the one who’s had to give up the top job.’

  Carol showed the first sign of animation. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, John. You were a good Chief Constable.’

  Thank you. And I hope I will be again. I’m back on my old stamping grounds.’

  ‘Bradfield?’

  Brandon noticed Carol’s body relaxing slightly. He had, he thought, penetrated the hard outer shell. ‘That’s right. They’ve offered me Bradfield Metropolitan Police.’ His lugubrious face creased in a smile. ‘And I’ve said yes.’

  ‘I’m very pleased for you, John.’ Carol sipped her drink. ‘You’ll do a good job there.’

  Brandon shook his head. ‘I didn’t come here for flattery, Carol. I came here because I need you.’

  Carol looked away, her eyes fixed on the marled grey stone of the church. ‘I don’t think so, John.’

  ‘Hear me out. I’m not asking you to come and fly a desk in CID. I want to do something different in Bradfield. I want to set up an operation like the Met has for dealing with serious crime. A couple of elite major incident squads on permanent standby to catch the tough ones. All they do is the big cases, the really bad lads. And if there’s a lull in the action, the squad can pick up cold cases and work them.’

  She turned her head towards him and gave him a shrewd, considering look. ‘And you think I’m what you need?’

  ‘I want you to be in charge of the unit and to have hands-on leadership of one squad. This is the sort of stuff you do best, Carol. The combination of intelligence and instinct and solid police work.’

  She rubbed the back of her neck with a hand chill from her water glass. ‘Maybe once,’ she said. ‘I don’t think that’s who I am any more.’

  Brandon shook his head. ‘These things don’t go away. You’re the best detective I ever had working for me, even if there were times when you came close to overstepping the mark. But you were always right when you pushed it that far. And I need that level of skill and guts on my team.’

  Carol stared down at the brightly coloured gabbeh on the floor as if it held the answer. ‘I don’t think so, John. I come with rather too much baggage these days.’

  ‘You’d be reporting directly to me. No petty bureaucrats between us. You’d be working with some of your old colleagues, Carol. People who know who you are and what you’ve achieved. Not people who are going to make snap judgements about you based on rumour and half-truth. The likes of Don Merrick and Kevin Matthews. Men who respect you.’ The unspoken hung in the air. There was nowhere else she could expect that sort of reception and they both knew it.

  ‘It’s a very generous offer, John.’ Carol met his gaze, a world of weariness in her eyes. ‘But I think you deserve an easier ride than hiring me will get you.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ Brandon said, his natural air of authority suddenly emerging from the mildness he’d shown so far. ‘Carol, your work was always a large part of who you were. I understand why you don’t want to go back into intelligence and, in your shoes, I wouldn’t touch those bastards with a ten-foot pole. But policing is in your blood. Forgive me if this sounds presumptuous, but I don’t think you’re going to get over this until you get back on the horse.’

  Carol’s eyes widened. Brandon wondered if he’d gone too far and waited for the whip of irony that he’d once have earned, regardless of rank.

  ‘Have you been talking to Tony Hill?’ she demanded.

  Brandon couldn’t hide his surprise. Tony? No, I haven’t spoken to him in…oh, it must be more than a year. Why do you say that?’

  ‘He says the same thing,’ she said flatly. ‘I wondered if I was being ganged up on.’

  ‘No, this was all my own idea. But you know, Tony’s not a bad judge.’

  ‘Maybe so. But neither of you can know much about what it’s like to be me these days. I’m not sure the old rules apply any more. John, I can’t make a decision about this now. I need time to think.’

  Brandon drained his glass. ‘Take all the time you need.’ He got to his feet. ‘Call me if you want to talk in more detail.’ He took a business card from his pocket and placed it on the table. She looked at it as if it might suddenly burst into flames. ‘Let me know what you decide.’

  Carol nodded wearily. ‘I will. But don’t build your plans around me, John.’

  It’s never silent inside Bradfield Moor Secure Hospital. Well, not anywhere they’ve ever let you go. All the films and TV shows you’ve seen make you think there are probably padded cells somewhere no sound can reach, but you’d probably have to go completely tonto to end up there. Scream, foam at the mouth, deck one of the staff–that sort of thing. And while the idea of being somewhere quiet is appealing, you reckon it won’t do your chances of release much good if you fake a full-on madhead attack just to get enough peace to hear the Voice properly.

  When you first arrived at Bradfield Moor, you tried to get to sleep as soon as the lock’s click signalled you were shut in for the night. But all you could hear were muffled conversations, occasional screams and sobs, feet slapping down corridors. You pulled the thin pillow over your head and tried to blank it. It didn’t often work. The anonymous noises scared you, left you wondering if your door would suddenly burst open and front you up with who the fuck knew what. Instead of sleep, you’d get edgy and wired. Morning would come and you’d be exhausted, your eyes gritty and sore, your hands shaking like some fucked-up alkie. Worst of all, in that state, you couldn’t tune in to the Voice. You were too wound up to find the technique to beat the background.

  It took a few weeks, a few hellish, terrifying weeks, but eventually your slow brain worked out that it might be worth trying to go with the flow. Now, when the lights go out, you lie on your back, breathing deeply, telling yourself the noises outside are meaningless background chatter that you don’t have to pay attention to. And sooner or later they fade like radio static, leaving you alone with the Voice. Your lips move silently as you relive the message, and you’re gone somewhere else. Somewhere good.

  It’s a beautiful thing. You can replay the slow build-up to your greatest achievements. It’s all there, spread before you. The choosing of a sacrifice. The negotiation. Following her to the place that you’re going to transform with blood. The stupid trust they had that Dozy Derek wasn’t going to hurt them. And the look in their eyes when you turned to face them with their worst nightmare in your hand.

  The rerun never quite makes it to the finale. It’s the eyes that do it, every time. You relive the moment when it dawns on them, the terror that turns them the colour of milk and your hand tightens on your cock. Your back arches, your hips thrust upwards, your lips stretch back over your teeth as you come. And then you hear the Voice, triumphant and rich, praising you for your role in the cleansing.

  It’s the best moment in your cramped little world. Other people might think differently, but you know how lucky you are. All you want now is to get out of here, to get back to the Voice. Nothing else will
do.

  PART TWO

  Ten weeks later

  He can’t remember the first time he heard the Voice. It makes him ashamed these days that he didn’t recognize it instantly. Thinking about it now, he finds it hard to believe it took him so long to get it. Because it was different from all the other voices he heard every day. It didn’t take the piss. It didn’t get impatient with him for being slow. It didn’t treat him like a stupid kid. The Voice gave him respect. He’d never had that before, which was probably why he didn’t get the message for so long. It took a while before it dawned on him what was on offer.

  Now, he can’t imagine being without it. It’s like chocolate or alcohol or spliff. The world would go on without them, but why would anybody want it to? There are times and places where he knows he’ll hear it: the message service on his mobile, the minidisks that turn up without warning in the pocket of his parka, alone in bed late at night. But, sometimes, it comes out of the blue. A soft breath on his neck and there it is, the Voice. The first time that happened, he nearly crapped himself. Talk about blowing it! But he’s learned since then. Now, in public places, he knows how to react so nobody thinks twice about what’s going on.

  The Voice gives him presents, too. OK, other people have given him things in the past, but mostly worthless crap they didn’t want or second-hand stuff they were finished with. The Voice is different. The Voice gives him things that are just for him. Things that are still in their boxes and bags, bought and paid for, not nicked. The minidisk player. The Diesel jeans. The Zippo lighter with the brass skull and cross-bones that feels good when he rubs his thumb over it. The videos that fire him up with thoughts of what he’d like to do to the street girls he sees every day.