Insidious Intent Page 4

  ‘Or was he only making sure he got rid of forensic traces?’

  Tony stopped, rolling his eyes in a dumb show of stupidity. ‘That’s probably it. Sometimes I forget that the simplest answer is the most likely one.’ He dropped back into the chair. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Carol shot straight back. ‘You know I’m always OK when I’m working.’

  He knew that was what she always told herself. ‘Do you think the press will find out about —’

  ‘I don’t know, and right now, I’m trying not to think about it. I’m trying not to wonder whether John Franklin and his mates in West Yorkshire CID hate me enough to risk the consequences of leaking the story to the press. I’m trying not to imagine the headlines. And I’m trying to convince myself that the answer is not an industrial quantity of vodka.’ She pulled a wry smile. ‘So please, if you’re going to play “Me and my shadow” today, shut the fuck up about it.’

  The smile saved him from panic. Her anger was still turned against herself. And while that wouldn’t be without consequences, at least he’d be around to help her through the worst of them. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  ‘I thought I might take a run out to North Yorkshire. The crime scene isn’t going to yield much in the way of forensics, but I’d like to see the reality, as opposed to video and stills. And I know you like to poke around and see things for yourself.’

  ‘I like to get a feel for the killer’s preferred terrain.’ Tony stood up again and reached for his battered brown anorak. There had never been a nanosecond when it had flirted with fashion, which was the least of his concerns. But even he had to admit it was starting to blend in a little too well with the city’s homeless population. ‘Do you think I need a new coat?’ he asked Carol as they walked out.

  ‘Always,’ she said drily. ‘Let’s swing by one of the outdoor shops on the way out of town.’

  ‘That’s a bit… precipitate, isn’t it?’

  Carol chuckled as they waited for the lift. ‘Strike while the iron’s hot. If I wait till tomorrow, it’ll have turned into your most prized possession, the thing without which you can’t imagine writing another profile.’

  She stepped into the lift ahead of him. Tony swallowed hard. Maybe it was going to be all right after all.

  7

  F

  or a cop, Karim was a surprisingly sedate driver. He stayed under the speed limit, even in the twenty-miles-per-hour streets of suburban Harriestown. He paused at junctions, he waved pedestrians across the road and he slowed as he approached traffic signals rather than speeding up to make sure he caught the light. It reminded Paula of being driven by her mother, who had given up her car with an obvious relief when she turned sixty-five and retired from her bookkeeping job. She wasn’t sure if Karim was that kind of anxious driver, or whether he was trying to impress her with how law-abiding he was.

  Once they reached Harriestown, Paula took over the directions. She’d worked in Bradfield all her adult life and the job had brought her to the southern suburb several times. Starting out as a beat bobby, it had mostly been small-scale street crime, drugs and burglary. But over the years, the area had become gentrified, its terraced streets desirable acquisitions for young professionals. The pubs had been tarted up, featuring gastropub menus and occasional live music. There was a wholefood emporium and the scrubby little parks had sprouted kids’ play equipment that made Paula wish she was a child again. But the spit and polish that had raised the average income of the area hadn’t immunised it from crime. During her years as a major incident squad detective, Paula had investigated three murders that had intimate involvement with a Harriestown postcode. And now it looked like number four.

  Kathryn McCormick hadn’t lived in one of the terraced streets that spread out in a grid around the park that sat between the grand Victorian edifices of the former Reform Club and Conservative Club, both now converted into allegedly luxury apartments. Kathryn’s flat was altogether less distinguished. Karim turned into the grounds of a boxy 1960s block that had probably replaced a pair of substantial semis. He hesitated, staring at a sign that read, PRIVATE. RESIDENTS PARKING ONLY.

  ‘Ignore it,’ Paula said. ‘Just find a space.’

  ‘What if they clamp it?’

  ‘They won’t. I can always nick them for failing the correct use of the apostrophe.’

  Karim gave her a mistrustful look, then a cautious smile. He parked neatly in the nearest space then followed her to the main door of the complex. There were fifteen numbered buzzers with an entry intercom system. ‘Damn,’ Paula said. ‘I was kind of hoping for a caretaker.’ With no expectation of a response, she pressed the buzzer for Flat 14, the address where DVLA had the car registered. No reply.

  Starting with Flat 15, Paula worked her way down the buzzers. She struck lucky on 9. It was hard to tell much about the person on the other end except that they were probably female. Paula identified herself and explained that they needed access to the building.

  ‘How do I know you are who you say you are?’ the voice demanded.

  This was what came of filling people with trepidation about the likelihood of being conned, robbed and murdered on their own doorsteps. ‘You could come down to the door and check our ID,’ Paula said.

  ‘I’m not dressed,’ the voice complained. ‘I was on a late shift. You woke me up.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. If you want to buzz us in, we could come to your door and you could check us out.’ She shook her head at Karim, who grimaced in return. ‘We are the police.’

  ‘I’m on the first floor,’ the voice said, then the door buzzed loudly.

  The door to Flat 9 was open a crack, a bleary-eyed face surrounded by a cloud of bright aubergine hair visible in the gap. Its owner was fighting a losing battle against the years, judging by the smudged make-up round her eyes and mouth. ‘ID?’

  Both officers held up their shiny new warrant cards.

  ‘ReMIT? What’s that? You not from Bradfield Police?’ The woman frowned in suspicion.

  ‘We’re a regional squad,’ Paula said repressively. ‘Do you happen to know your neighbour in Flat 14?’

  The woman snorted. ‘Lives above me, she does. I had to complain when she first moved in. High heels on a wooden floor is about as anti-social as it gets in a block like this.’

  ‘And how did she take it?’

  ‘She said she was sorry,’ the woman said grudgingly. ‘And to be fair to her, she took her shoes off at the door after that. But I never had anything else to do with her.’

  ‘Did she have any other friends in the block?’ Karim asked.

  The woman looked him up and down, eyebrows raised. She probably didn’t consider his black jeans and black Barbour jacket to be proper police attire, Paula thought. Unlike her own navy pegs and the boxy blue jacket that Elinor said looked disturbingly like a Mao jacket from the eighties. ‘I’ve no idea, son. We keep ourselves to ourselves here.’

  Pointless, Paula thought as they took their leave and headed for the top floor. There was no reply at any of the flats. ‘What are we going to do, skip?’ Karim looked worried.

  ‘We can call BMP and ask them to send a car round with the big red key.’ Paula rummaged in her bag. ‘Or we can try these.’ She brandished a small leather case, flipping it open with her thumb. ‘So much more discreet than a battering ram.’

  ‘Is that legal?’ Again, Paula was reminded of her mother. She wasn’t sure whether his general enthusiasm was going to be enough to overcome that particular problem. She reminded herself that she’d been the one to recommend him to Carol, on the basis that he was a grafter who could be a lot tougher than he looked when he had to be. And that he was smart enough to hold his own on this ReMIT team. He’d learn that sometimes the rules could be tweaked a little. Otherwise he wouldn’t last long on Carol Jordan’s team.

  ‘We need to effect entry. This causes a lot less damage than the ram. And it means we can secure the fl
at after we leave.’ She was already crouched by the door, studying the mortice lock and selecting the picks to try. ‘I’ve only had this kit a few months,’ she said absently as she concentrated on the feel of the lock under her fingers. ‘There’s some good videos on YouTube and I’ve been practising round the house. But this is the first time I’ve done it on the job.’ She slowed her breathing and adjusted the tension bar, slipping a different rake into the lock. Her hands were starting to sweat, but before the picks slid disastrously out of control, there was a satisfying click and the lock yielded to her. Paula stood up and grinned at Karim. ‘We bring a different skill set to policing in this unit, Karim. You’ll get the hang of it.’

  He brightened at her words. ‘I hope so.’

  The door opened into a square hallway with four doors off it. A rack of coat hooks was fixed to the wall, a two-tier shoe rack beneath it. A grey wool winter coat hung alongside a dark green rain mac and a hip-length brown leather jacket. The shoe rack contained four pairs of nondescript low-heeled shoes, a pair of Nike trainers and two pairs of smart leather boots. So far, so ordinary.

  A quick sweep of the doors revealed bathroom, kitchen, bedroom and a surprisingly spacious living room with a view of trees and back gardens. ‘I’ll take the living room, you take the bedroom,’ Paula said, faintly amused to see Karim flush at the prospect of so much intimacy with a strange woman. But credit where it was due, he didn’t protest. She was starting to think he might be a fast enough learner to carve out a place for himself in their tight little team.

  The living room smelled strongly of lilies. A bunch of the white trumpets sat on a side table near the window, specks of orange pollen littering the surface. They were fully open but not yet starting to decay. Paula estimated they’d probably been there for five or six days. A day or two before Kathryn had been killed, then. She crossed to the flowers to see whether there was a card but was unsurprised to see none.

  The room was plainly but harmoniously furnished. Nothing seemed old or worn and Paula surmised that it had all been chosen to furnish the flat when Kathryn had moved in. Presumably two or three years ago. She vaguely remembered seeing that sofa in IKEA when she and Elinor had been moving in together. A mirror above the fake marble mantel over the fake coal fire, a framed print of Monet’s water lilies on the opposite wall.

  She stood in the centre of the room, taking it all in. There weren’t many places to search. Kathryn had lived a life in plain sight. A small bookcase revealed a dozen fat paperbacks; suspense thrillers, family sagas and Elena Ferrante’s novels of Neapolitan friendship. The rest of the shelves were occupied by framed photographs. A few Mediterranean views; a couple who looked in their early sixties and were presumably her parents; a graduation photograph that resembled the one on the driving licence DVLA had pinged over to them; and some group shots of women having a good night out. No apparent boyfriend.

  The most promising potential source of information was a desk in the far corner with a stool tucked underneath. Half an hour later, she was beginning to feel a little sorry for Kathryn. There wasn’t much sign of a vibrant social life in her desk drawers. Presumably she dealt with her utility bills and banking online, for there was no evidence of them here. There was a Christmas card list, which someone would have to go through later. A folder of recipes torn out of newspapers and magazines. Another folder containing payslips, which at least confirmed that she still worked at the company listed on her dental practice details. And a third containing the paperwork for the flat purchase. She’d got a decent deal on the place, Paula thought.

  The bottom drawer yielded the only stash that might prove relevant. A large manila envelope was stuffed with cards, bits of paper and photographs. Paula tipped it out on the desktop and discovered Kathryn’s personal life.

  His name was Niall. A big lad with auburn hair and, occasionally, ginger stubble. His broad open face gave him the look of a farmer but he had been a designer for a small Bradfield business that planned and built home offices. There were invitations to company functions, the most recent dated a little over three years before. And right at the bottom of the pile, a business card that had been torn in half then sellotaped together. Niall Sullivan now, apparently, led the office design team of a company in Cardiff. You didn’t have to be a detective to draw a picture. He’d left her behind. If she’d been the one doing the choosing, she’d have chucked away the valentines and the birthday cards and the little notes with the hearts drawn on them asking her to pick up a loaf of bread or a bottle of milk on her way home.

  It wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that Niall Sullivan had reappeared in her life. He’d have to be checked out. But unless Kathryn had been a deranged stalker making his life a misery – and Paula could see no trace of that – then there didn’t seem much in the way of motive.

  Paula replaced the material in the envelope and put it in an evidence bag. As she closed the drawer, Karim walked in.

  ‘Talk about leading a blameless life,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing there to raise an eyebrow, never mind a suspicion. She’s got five business suits, one for each day of the week. Half a dozen dresses you might wear to a night out. Jeans, smart trousers, blouses, a couple of T-shirts and some jumpers. It’s like she’s one of those women who goes through her wardrobe every six months and weeds out everything that she hasn’t worn. Even her underwear’s totally dull. Marks and Sparks, matching bras and pants, all of it respectable.’

  ‘What?’ Paula was amused. ‘No ratty old pants or bras gone grey in the wash?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. She’s not even got a shoe habit. Nothing more exciting than a couple of pairs of high heels.’

  ‘Zero indicators of a secret life,’ Paula sighed. ‘Looks like she had a live-in boyfriend till about three years ago, but no signs of anyone since then.’

  ‘Well, if her clothes are anything to judge by, she wasn’t going out on the pull.’ Karim picked up a snow globe from the windowsill and shook it idly. ‘You done in here?’

  ‘I think so. You take the bathroom, I’ll do the kitchen. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a stash of illegal drugs.’

  Karim snorted. ‘You’ll be lucky if you find an out-of-date yoghurt.’

  Paula shrugged. ‘Something got her killed. We just haven’t found it yet.’

  8

  H

  e’d thought the murder would lift the burden. That it would remove what felt like a physical weight from his shoulders. It had made sense in the planning. He wanted to kill Tricia. He wanted to kill her so badly he could feel the blood pulsing in his ears, a dull tattoo of rage whenever he thought about her. He wanted to kill her but he knew he couldn’t. Not least because he didn’t know where she was hiding.

  So he killed someone else instead. Surely that would work? Surely if he imagined her face while he was doing it, there would be some relief? But it hadn’t worked like that. Killing Kathryn hadn’t taken the pain away.

  What it had done, however, was to give him a feeling of power and control that had taken him back to how he used to feel every day. How he used to feel before she stripped him of everything that had defined him. And that was a start. It wasn’t enough, but it was a start. It might keep him going till he could make her answer for what she’d done to him.

  She had told him in a lay-by. She’d asked him to pull over. Said she had something to say, something that was pressing on her, something that wouldn’t wait any longer. He’d had no idea what was coming. Not a fucking clue.

  She’d gone to Ruby’s wedding on her own the weekend before. He could have gone with her, but Ruby had always irritated the living shit out of him and her husband-to-be was possibly the most boring man on either side of the Pennines, so there was no reason to expect their wedding guests to be remotely interesting. So he’d given her his blessing to go without him. He’d even told her to have a good time.

  He hadn’t anticipated quite how good a time.

  She’d been distant and fidgety since the
weekend. He thought it was because the wedding had made her broody for one of her own. How stupid could he be? Really, how stupid? So they’d ended up in a lay-by where she’d told him she’d slept with a man she’d picked up at the wedding.

  ‘It’s not that he’s Mr Right,’ she’d said. ‘But he made me realise that you’re Mr Wrong.’ Every word a slap in the face. ‘You’re too volatile. Too angry. I spend half my life scared of you.’

  He’d felt sick then, not angry. What did she mean, scared? Everybody knew he didn’t suffer fools gladly. That he had high standards. But he wasn’t a bully. He just wanted to get things done right. Her accusations baffled him as much as her admission that she’d slept with a stranger she’d picked up at random at Ruby’s wedding.

  That had been bad enough. But there was worse to come. Not only was she leaving him, moving out of their beautiful flat with its panoramic views over Manchester city centre to the Derbyshire hills. She was also walking away from the business they’d built together. A partnership, like their life. It had been his business first, but she’d helped turn it into a success, and to show how he appreciated that, he’d given her a slice of the company. And now she’d turned her back on what they’d made and not even returned what was properly his.

  The company published a series of locally targeted glossy magazines. She dealt up front with the punters, organising copy and writing some of it herself, drumming up advertising, sorting out the distribution. He dealt with the technical side – design, layout, working with the printers. Without either of them, there was no business. Since she’d walked away, he’d limped along with part-timers and freelances but he knew he wouldn’t be able to fool the advertisers much longer. Either he’d have to make a quick bargain-basement sale or the business would collapse under him.