The Torment of Others Page 3

  When he asked why, the Voice said it was because he was worthy. He didn’t understand that. Still doesn’t, not really. The Voice said he would earn the gifts, but it didn’t say how, not for ages. That was probably his fault. He’s not quick on the uptake. It takes him a while to get the hang of things.

  But he likes to please. That’s one of the first things he can remember learning. Make people smile, give them what they want and there’s a better chance of avoiding a beating. So he paid attention when the Voice started to teach him his lessons because he knew that if he kept the Voice happy there was more chance it’d stay around. And he wants it to stay around, because it makes him feel good. Not many things have ever made him feel good.

  So he listens and he tries to understand. He knows now about the poison the girls spread on the street. He knows that even the ones who have been kind to him are only after what they can get. This makes sense to him; he remembers how often they’ve tried to sweet-talk him into doing them a better deal, and how vicious they get when he sticks to what he’s supposed to give them in exchange for their crumpled notes. He knows now those bitches have to be cleansed, and that he’s going to be part of that cleansing.

  It won’t be long. Every night when he turns out the light, the Voice whispers through the silence, telling him how it will be. At first, it scared him. He wasn’t sure he could handle the way the walls seemed to be talking to him. And he didn’t think he could do what was being asked of him. But now when he listens in that half-world between wake-fulness and sleep, he thinks maybe he can do this. One step at a time, that’s how you get where you want to be. That’s what the Voice says. And if he looks at it step by step, there’s nothing so hard about it. Not till the very end.

  He’s never done anything like that before. But he’s seen the videos, again and again. He knows how good it feels to watch. And the Voice tells him it’ll be a million times better to do it for real. And that makes sense too, because everything the Voice has told him so far has been the truth. And now the time has come. Tonight’s the night.

  He can hardly wait.

  Chapter 2

  Carol Jordan tossed her briefcase on to the passenger seat and got into the silver mid-range saloon she’d chosen specifically for its anonymity. She put the key in the ignition, but couldn’t quite bring herself to start the engine. Christ, what was she doing? Her hands were clammy with sweat, her chest tight with anxiety. How the hell was she going to walk into a squad-room and energize her troops when her mouth was so dry her tongue stuck to her teeth?

  She stared up at the small windows high on the walls of the underground car park. Feet hurried past, making their way to work. Polished loafers, scuffed shoes, kitten heels and pumps. Legs clad in suit trousers, jeans, opaque black tights and sheer nylon. City-centre hikers, taking the morning in their stride. Why couldn’t she do the same thing?

  ‘Get a grip, Jordan,’ she muttered under her breath, turning the key and firing the engine. It wasn’t as if she was going to have to confront a room full of strangers. Her squad was small, hand-picked by her and Brandon. Most of them she’d worked with before and she knew they respected her. Or at least they once had. She hoped their respect was still strong enough to withstand the temptation to pity.

  Carol eased the car out of the garage into the street. It was all so familiar and yet so different. When she’d lived and worked in Bradfield before, the loft apartment in the converted warehouse that occupied a whole block had been her home, a high eyrie that allowed her to feel both part of and apart from the city she policed. When she’d moved to London, she’d sold it to her brother and his girlfriend. Now she was back living inside the same four walls, but this time as the reluctant cuckoo in a nest created by Michael and Lucy. They’d changed almost every aspect of the flat, making Carol feel even more out of place. Once, she’d have shrugged off that feeling, secure in the knowledge that she had a workplace where she was at home. What she feared today was that she’d feel as much of an outsider inside the police station as outside.

  Even Bradfield itself felt like a too-familiar stranger. When she’d lived and worked here before, she’d made a point of learning the city. She’d visited the local museum in a bid to understand the forces that had shaped Bradfield over the centuries, turning it from a hamlet of shepherds and weavers into a vigorous commercial centre that had vied with Manchester to be the northern capital of the Victorian empire. She’d learned of its decline in the post-war era, then the reinvigoration that had been kick-started by successive waves of immigration at the tail end of the last century. She’d studied the architecture, learning to appreciate the Italianate influences on the older buildings, trying to see how the city had grown organically, attempting to imagine what the hideous 1960s concrete office blocks and shopping centre had vanquished. She’d mapped the city in her mind, using her days off to walk the streets, drive the neighbourhoods until she could grasp immediately the kind of environment she was about to enter just from the address of the crime scene.

  But this morning, Carol’s old knowledge seemed to have fled. New road markings and one-way systems had mushroomed in her absence, forcing her to concentrate on her bearings in a way she hadn’t expected. Driving to the central police station should have been automatic. But it took her twice as long as she’d estimated and relief washed through her as she eventually turned into the car park. Carol nosed forward towards the dedicated parking spaces, pleased to see that at least one of John Brandon’s promises had already been kept. One of the few empty slots bore the freshly painted designation, ‘DCI JORDAN’.

  Walking into the station itself provided a brief moment of déjà vu. Here at least nothing seemed to have altered. The back entrance hall still smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and stale fat from the canteen on the floor below. Whatever cosmetic changes might have been imposed on the public areas, no decorators had been charged with making this entrance more appealing. The walls were still the same industrial grey, the noticeboard covered with what were possibly the same yellowing memos she’d last seen years ago. Carol walked up to the counter and nodded a greeting at the PC behind the desk. ‘DCI Jordan reporting to the Major Incident Team.’

  The middle-aged man rubbed a hand across his grizzled crew cut and smiled. ‘Welcome aboard,’ he said. ‘End of the corridor, take the lift up to the third floor. You’re in Room 316.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Carol managed a thin smile and turned to push open the door as the lock buzzed. Unconsciously squaring her shoulders and tilting her chin up, she walked briskly down the corridor, ignoring the occasional curious glance from uniformed officers she passed on the way.

  The third floor had undergone a facelift since she’d left. The walls were painted lavender to waist height, then off-white. The old wooden doors had been replaced with plate glass and steel, the central sections frosted so the casual passer-by could see little of what was going on inside the offices. It looked more like an advertising agency than a police station, she thought as she reached the door of 316.

  Carol took a deep breath and pushed the door open. A handful of curious faces glanced up at her then broke into smiles of welcome. First on his feet was Don Merrick, newly promoted to inspector. He’d been her bagman on her first serial killer inquiry, the case that had proved to those who cared about that sort of thing that she had what it took to go all the way. Solid, reliable Don, she thought gratefully as he crossed the room and extended his hand.

  ‘Great to see you back, ma’am,’ he said, reaching out to cup her elbow with his free hand as they shook. Although he towered over her, Carol was pleasantly surprised to find nothing unsettling in his bulk. ‘I’m really looking forward to working with you again.’

  Detective Sergeant Kevin Matthews was right behind Merrick. Kevin, who had redeemed himself after an act of monumental stupidity had nearly cost him his career. Even though she’d been the person responsible for uncovering his treachery, Carol was nevertheless glad to see he’d apparently rehabilitated
himself. He had been too good a detective to waste on the mindless routine of uniformed work. She hoped he wouldn’t mind too much that they’d once been equals in rank. ‘Kevin,’ she acknowledged him. ‘Good to see you.’

  His pale, freckled skin flushed pink. ‘Welcome back to Bradfield,’ he said.

  The others were crowding round now. ‘Good to see you, chief,’ a woman’s voice said from behind her. Carol half-turned to see the slight figure of Detective Constable Paula McIntyre grinning up at her. Paula had worked on the periphery of the murder squad that had tracked down the psychopath who had butchered four young men in the city. She’d only been a CID aide on secondment then, but Carol had remembered her attention to detail and her empathetic way with witnesses. According to Brandon, she’d since established herself as one of the best interviewers in the city’s CID. Carol knew exactly how important that could be in a murder inquiry, where everything happened against the clock. Someone skilled at persuading people to remember all they knew could save time at a stage when time could mean lives.

  Paula pushed forward a mixed-race man standing beside her. ‘This is DC Evans,’ she said. ‘Sam, this is DCI Jordan.’

  Carol extended a hand. Evans seemed almost reluctant to take it, not meeting her eye as they shook. Carol gave him a quick look of appraisal. He wasn’t much taller than she was; he must barely have made the height requirement, she thought. His tightly curled hair was cut close to his head, his features more Caucasian than African. His skin was the colour of caramelized sugar and a fuzzy goatee gave him an air of maturity at odds with the unlined youthfulness of his face. She summoned up Brandon’s notes on the young detective: ‘A quiet lad. But he’s not afraid to speak up when he’s got something to say. He’s smart and he’s got that killer knack for pulling information together and making sense of it. He wants to go all the way, though he hides it well. But that means he’ll pull out all the stops for you.’ It looked like she’d have to take Brandon’s word for it.

  One person hung back on the fringes of the group. DC Stacey Chen had a small, fixed smile on her face. She was the unknown quantity. These days, any major inquiry needed an officer who understood how the systems worked and who could manage the volume of information generated. Carol had asked Brandon to recommend someone, and he’d come back within twenty-four hours with Stacey. ‘She’s got a Masters in computing, she knows the systems inside out and she’s a grafter. She keeps herself to herself, but she understands the importance of being part of the team,’ he’d said. ‘And she’s ambitious.’

  Carol remembered what that felt like. Ambition had deserted her along with her dignity in Berlin, but she could still recall the sharp burn of desire to be on the next rung of the ladder. Carol sidestepped Evans and offered her hand to Stacey. ‘Hi. You must be Stacey. I’m glad to have you on the team.’

  Stacey’s brown eyes never left Carol’s. ‘I appreciate the chance,’ she said in a strong London accent.

  Carol’s eyes swept the room. ‘We’re one short,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Merrick said. ‘DS Chris Devine. We had a message yesterday: her mother’s been diagnosed with terminal cancer. She’s requested permission to stay with the Met for the time being. The Chief agreed.’

  Carol shook her head, faintly exasperated. ‘Great. We’re under strength before we even get started.’ She looked around, assessing the room for the first time. There were half a dozen desks, each with a computer terminal. Whiteboards and cork boards lined one wall, next to an overhead projector. A large-scale laminated map of Bradfield filled most of the space by the door. The windows that ran the length of the opposite wall were obscured by vertical blinds, cutting out the distractions of the cityscape. It was a decent size: not too cramped, not so big they’d feel marooned. It would do, she decided. ‘Don, where’s my office?’

  Merrick pointed to the far end of the room where two doors closed off a pair of offices. ‘Take your pick. They’re both empty.’

  And neither offered much in the way of privacy, she thought. She chose the one that had windows on the outside world and turned to Merrick, who had followed her down the room. ‘Call whoever’s responsible for housekeeping round here. I want some blinds for the internal window.’

  Merrick grinned. ‘Don’t want us to know when you’re playing Solitaire, eh?’

  ‘I prefer FreeCell, actually. Give me half an hour to get settled in here, then we’ll have a briefing.’

  ‘Fine by me.’ He ducked out of the room, leaving her alone. It was, she thought, a relief. She switched on the computer. Seconds later, she saw Evans approaching, his arms laden with a bundle of files. She jumped up to open the door.

  ‘What’s all this?’ she asked.

  ‘Open cases–the most recent ones. They were delivered yesterday teatime. What we’re supposed to be working on while we wait for the next big thing.’

  Carol felt her blood stirring. At last, something she could focus on. Something that might just lay her demons to rest. Or at least shut them up for a while.

  Aidan Hart studied the man sitting opposite him with a degree of wariness. He knew many of his colleagues thought he was too young at thirty-seven to be clinical director of Bradfield Moor Secure Hospital, but he was confident enough of his skills to write off their disapproval as the product of disappointment and envy. He knew that none of them presented any professional challenge to him.

  But his latest appointment was in a different league. Dr Tony Hill came with a reputation for both brilliance and awkwardness. The only rules he observed were the ones that mattered to him. He wasn’t a team player, unless the team in question was one he’d chosen. He’d won loyal respect and engendered fury in equal measures among those he’d worked with. When Tony Hill had applied for a part-time post at his hospital, Aidan Hart’s first reaction had been to refuse. There was room for only one star at Bradfield Moor, and that was him.

  Then he’d had second thoughts. If Hill was only there as a part-timer, his work could be carefully channelled. His successes could be parlayed into more credit for Hart himself, the visionary clinical director who had tamed the maverick. It was a tempting prospect. He could portray himself as the man who persuaded high-flyer Tony Hill back into clinical practice. He had convinced himself that while the patients might benefit from Hill’s famous empathetic skills, the ultimate beneficiary would be Aidan Hart himself. His second thoughts had been reinforced when he’d met Hill in the flesh. Aidan Hart knew all about dressing to impress, but within seconds he realized Hill had obviously missed that particular tutorial. The little guy in the chair opposite with the bad haircut, brown shoes with black trousers and greenish tweed jacket with frayed cuffs wasn’t going to make ripples in the sort of pond Hart intended to swim in. Hill had seemed embarrassed by the high profile his work with the police had earned him and had stressed that he didn’t want to find himself in the public eye ever again. Whatever profiling he did in future would be behind closed doors and beyond distant borders. Hill’s eagerness to get back into harness at the sharp end of clinical practice was almost pathetic.

  At the time, Hart had been smugly satisfied that taking a chance on Tony Hill would be the best possible decision. Somehow he’d missed the penetrating intelligence of the eyes, the unmistakable charisma the man wore like a well-cut suit. Hart wasn’t quite sure how that had happened. Unless, of course, Hill had deliberately disguised it in order to make a quite different kind of impression. And that was a very unsettling thought. He liked to think of himself as the analyst. He was uncomfortable with the idea that this time, he might have been played by a higher master in the art of reading human behaviour. He couldn’t help wondering whether he was the latest object of scrutiny for those startlingly blue eyes that seemed to absorb every nuance of his body language. He didn’t like the thought that he’d have to monitor his every word and movement in his newest employee’s presence. Aidan Hart had his secrets, and he didn’t want Tony Hill probing too closely into them.

 
He didn’t think he was being paranoid. Hill had only been in the building for an hour, but already he’d played a blinder. He’d found out about the latest admission and now he was sitting opposite Hart, one ankle casually propped on the opposite knee, making an irresistible rationale for first crack at the new patient. It was the sort of case that led to published papers in well-respected peer-reviewed publications, and already Hill was staking a claim to territory Hart wanted for himself. ‘After all,’ Hill said, ‘since we’ve got a new admission, it makes sense for me to take the case on. That way I won’t have to go over old ground. And nobody’s nose gets put out of joint because I’m taking over their patient.’

  ‘It’s a pretty extreme place to start,’ Hart said, affecting concern. ‘And you have been out of the field for a while.’

  Tony’s mouth twitched in a half-smile. ‘Extreme is my comfort zone, Aidan. And I do have very direct experience of dealing with people who kill for reasons that most people dismiss as madness.’

  Hart shifted in his chair and spread his hands, as if discarding responsibility. ‘So be it. I look forward to seeing your initial report.’

  Carol leaned against the whiteboard and waited for her new team to settle down. Then she moved closer to them and perched on the edge of a desk. ‘Before we get down to business, there’s something I have to say to you,’ she said, trying to sound more relaxed than she felt. ‘I know how rumours spread in this job and I expect you’ve all heard some version of my recent history.’ She could tell by the way the men all found something more interesting to study that she’d hit the target.