Insidious Intent Read online

  Still, Alvin had checked all the other guests on the off-chance they hadn’t brought a David along as a last-minute substitute for a boyfriend or spouse. They all sounded bemused, amused or confused by his questions. But none of them admitted to having been with a man called David.

  ‘He was a crasher,’ he told Carol when he arrived back in the office with a 64GB SD card crammed with as many photographs of the wedding as he’d been able to garner. He took off his jacket and threw it over a chair with an air of disgust, then loosened his tie. ‘Nobody admits to knowing him. The one definite photo ID that Anya Lewandowska made, with him standing at the bar talking to another bloke? I spoke to him. He’s called Andy Swift and he was there with his girlfriend who works with the groom. He said he’d never seen the guy before, that they were having the kind of non-conversation you have at the bar. His description was even more vague than Anya’s.’ Alvin raised his voice an octave and aimed at a Northern accent. ‘“What, you think I’m a poof or something? I couldn’t be less interested in what some geezer at a bar looks like.”’

  As he spoke, Tony wandered into the squad room with a distracted air. ‘He went there with the specific intention of acquiring a victim,’ he said, dropping wearily into a chair. ‘The only question is whether he was specifically looking for Kathryn or any random victim.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Alvin asked.

  ‘If he was stalking Kathryn, he might show up in her shadow. There must be some CCTV coverage of her route to work, or where she did her shopping,’ Carol said.

  ‘Isn’t it more likely that he was stalking her specifically?’ Alvin rubbed his temples, trying to shift the headache that was starting to trouble him. ‘I mean, isn’t a bit speculative? Who’s to say he’d have found anyone willing to be picked up?’

  ‘I’d have thought he was in with a good chance,’ Tony said slowly. ‘A wedding, love in the air? It makes people think about being with someone. Weddings are a notorious catalyst.’

  ‘What? People decide it’s time they got hitched just because they’ve gone to a wedding with their partner?’ Carol sounded sceptical.

  ‘That,’ Tony said. ‘But also the opposite. It makes people question their relationship. Do you want to marry me? Why don’t you want to marry me? If we’re going to be together forever, we might as well get married because it makes all the legal stuff less complicated if one of us dies. If we’re not going to get married, what’s the point of us?’ He shrugged. ‘One of my colleagues once told me that six couples had split up within two weeks of his wedding.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Alvin said. ‘I had no idea. So you think the whole lovey-dovey atmosphere might have made Kathryn an easier pick-up?’

  ‘I think it might have made her more susceptible to an approach from a stranger than if she’d been in the pub with her mates, yes.’ Tony struggled out of his purple anorak and dumped it on the floor next to him. He caught Carol’s eye. ‘What? It’s too bulky to drape over a chair.’

  ‘Did I say anything? I’m not your mother.’

  Tony shuddered. ‘Don’t even put that image in my head. Vanessa’s bad enough.’

  Alvin stood up, rolling his massive shoulders inside his jacket. ‘I’m bloody stiff. I’m not used to being hunched over a phone all day. I’ll pass these pics on to Stacey, then if there’s nothing else for me right now, I’m going to call it a day.’

  ‘You might as well. Go home and read your kids a bedtime story for once. I’m calling it a day myself soon,’ Carol said. But she couldn’t keep herself from clicking through the investigation reports the team had uploaded earlier.

  Stacey showed no signs of knocking off. She was intent on one of her screens, fingers flying over the keyboard. When Alvin walked in she raised her hand, palm out; half greeting, half injunction. She drew her eyebrows together in concentration, clicked the trackpad then turned her eyes to him. ‘Sergeant Ambrose,’ she said.

  ‘Alvin,’ he corrected her for the ninth or tenth time. Paula had said she’d be formal till she felt relaxed around him. Obviously he was still not doing whatever it took to break down her barriers. ‘I brought you all the wedding pics I could get my hands on. Somebody said you had software that could compare faces?’

  Stacey allowed a tiny smile to twitch the corners of her mouth. ‘I wrote some code that improved on the standard facial recognition software that was available to us. So what we’ve got here is at least as good as anything else on the market. Probably better than most.’ She held her hand out and he dropped the SD into her palm. Her slender fingers closed over it; he couldn’t help notice the French manicure, perfect but short enough not to interfere with her keystrokes. She was always immaculate. Her clothes were clearly expensive and fitted her as if they’d been tailored for her alone. Her hair and make-up were always unruffled, making her hard for him to read. He’d assumed she came from money till Kevin had told him she’d made millions from the software company she ran in her own time. ‘She likes the licence to be nosey that the job gives her,’ he’d said, not entirely approvingly.

  Good on her, Alvin thought. ‘There’s one definite ID,’ he said. ‘I’ve saved it in a separate folder, called David.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Stacey said, already slotting the SD card into a slot in a MacAir.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said, turning to go.

  She chuckled. ‘This is the part of ReMIT where luck doesn’t come into it, Alvin.’

  19

  A

  mie McDonald stood, hand on hips, surveying her wardrobe. All she knew was that they were going for dinner. Mark had asked her if she liked spicy food and she’d told him she wasn’t scared of hot stuff, so at a guess they’d be going for an Indian or a Thai. There were plenty of those to choose from in Leeds but none that were really dress-up places. The city boasted a few high-end restaurants, but none of them were noted for the chilli content of their food.

  Dissatisfied with what she saw, she raked through the contents of the rails, the hangers rattling as she quickly discarded various possibilities. She wanted to look good, like she’d made an effort. But not needy. Because she wasn’t needy. Amie had never had any trouble attracting men. It was keeping them that was the problem. Her standards were too high, that was the top and bottom of it. She couldn’t be doing with the way they colonised her flat, leaving their clothes draped over chairs, their shoes kicked off in front of the telly, their dirty mugs always on the kitchen worktops and never in the dishwasher. One had even had the nerve to mansplain that he didn’t want to disrupt her personal dishwasher loading system. That had been his firing offence.

  Maybe Mark would be different. Amie didn’t hold out too much hope; she’d been caught like that before. But he was well groomed and well dressed, which was a big step in the right direction. His hair was well barbered, swept back from his forehead in an understated quiff, though the colour was a bit too uniform and she wondered whether he dyed it. Still, why shouldn’t he? She’d been everything from platinum blonde to raven black via chestnut and aubergine since her teens. It had only been in the last year or so she’d finally settled on glossy brown with highlights. So, good on him for taking care of himself. His clothes fitted well, and she’d spotted the designer logo on the stylish black frames of his glasses.

  Amie pulled out a shimmery red tunic that fell mid-thigh and held it against herself. It was a bit unforgiving around the hips but she’d be sitting down with the table for cover. The curving V of the neckline flattered her breasts, which was probably a good tactical move at this point. It was, after all, technically a first date. You couldn’t count being picked up at your friend’s wedding as a date.

  She hadn’t been looking forward to going to the do. Not because she didn’t love Jamie and Eloise, because she did. She’d worked alongside Jamie in the council tax office for five years now, and he was always the one who could make people laugh, even on a rainy Monday morning. And Eloise was a sweetheart. Just right for him. Not like that bitch he’d been seeing when Ami
e had first got to know him. She’d even thought about making a move on him herself after he’d ditched the bitch, but much as she liked him, she couldn’t fancy him. As far as Amie was concerned, Jamie had all the sexual charisma of a wellington boot. She’d been genuinely happy when Eloise had said yes.

  But when the wedding invitations had gone out, Amie had still been seeing Steve. They’d been invited as a couple. For the sake of appearances, she’d tried to swallow her increasing irritation with him till after the wedding, but five days earlier, she’d snapped and chucked him out with no room for reprieve. So there she was, stuck without a date for the office wedding of the year. She’d even thought of inventing a tummy bug rather than front up at the celebrations without a partner, like Billy No Mates. But in the end, her desire to be in the thick of things had won out and she’d gritted her teeth, put on her glad rags and pitched up at the swanky reception.

  The irony was that if she’d hung on grimly to Steve for the sake of appearances, she’d have missed out on Mark. He’d spotted her sitting at the table on her own while the dance floor pulsed with sweaty humanity and he’d whisked her off to the hotel bar where they could hear each other speak. It was clear he wasn’t just after an easy pick-up. He actually did want to talk.

  Five years of listening to people’s pathetic and ridiculous excuses for why they hadn’t paid their council tax bills had instilled a weary cynicism in Amie. But in spite of that, she’d been touched by Mark’s story. Losing someone you loved to cancer was a tough thing to get past, and she could see why he didn’t want to be in a room full of people getting pissed and having a laugh without a thought for tomorrow.

  She’d even felt vaguely honoured that he’d picked her out as someone who looked like a friendly face. It turned out his late wife had been a mate of Eloise’s from school. He thought he’d only been invited out of pity, he’d admitted towards the end of the evening. But – and he’d gone all shy, like a schoolboy – although he’d been drawn to Amie because she reminded him of his wife, he’d been amazed to find a kindred spirit in the last place he’d expected it.

  So when he’d asked to see her again, she’d jumped at the chance. They’d swapped phone numbers. He told her he worked for Marks and Spencer, that his job entailed being on the road a lot because he had to do undercover checks on the displays in individual stores, to make sure they were properly installed and in line with policy. But he’d promised they’d meet the first evening he could be back home in Leeds.

  Which was tonight. Amie tossed the red top onto the bed and picked out a pair of flattering black trousers to go with it. Three-inch black patent stilettos and a matching clutch bag completed the ensemble.

  Mark might have been the perfect gentleman after the wedding, but Amie was determined to do whatever it took to snare him. This time, she convinced herself, she might actually have found Mr Right.

  20

  T

  wo things were not as they should have been when Carol opened her front door. Firstly there was no confusion of black-and-white fur cannonballing into her the moment she stepped inside. And secondly, a dense aroma of venison braising in a sauce of red wine and onions and juniper filled her head. It was overwhelming and current, not a hangover from a previous meal. Disorientation slithered through her before she realised Tony must have prepared dinner then gone out with the dog. It came as a shock. She had been living on her own, completely self-reliant, for so long that this still felt like ceding control and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

  Particularly not in the wake of Tony pushing her into a place where giving up drink had become her only real option. Although the new case that had landed on her desk had been absorbing and perplexing, the desire for a drink had never been far from her consciousness, humming underneath the demands of the day like the low rumble of distant thunder. However hard she might deny it to Tony, Carol couldn’t pretend she was in control of her drinking. She had allowed it to creep in from the wings glass by stealthy glass until it occupied centre stage.

  Most alcoholics – there, she’d said it, even though it was only inside her own head – killed only themselves in the end. Yes, they screwed up the lives of everybody who cared about them, but the only fatality was usually the one who’d chosen that particular form of slow suicide. But Carol’s drinking had cost lives. However you cut it, she thought, there were deaths that lay at her door. Their blood on her hands. Their blurred faces in her nightmares.

  Letting the thoughts bubble to the surface made her crave a drink. Instead she opened the simmering oven of the Aga and took out the heavy casserole dish. She lifted the lid and savoured the smell. It obviously hadn’t been in the oven for very long for the wine was still a distinct element in the aroma. It was, she thought, an act of faith on Tony’s part to use wine when cooking for her. She hoped he’d used the whole bottle. She gave the thick stew a stir and put it back in the oven as the doorbell rang.

  Assuming Tony had forgotten his keys in a typical moment of absent-mindedness, she didn’t even bother to check the spyhole. The enormity of her error was obvious to Carol the moment she opened the door. There, wrapped up in an elegant shearling coat and matching hat was the woman who had brought her and her team so much grief over the years. Nine times out of ten, when something had appeared in the paper that disadvantaged an investigation, the byline on the story was this woman’s.

  And yet, Penny Burgess, crime correspondent of the Bradfield Evening Sentinel Times, smiled at Carol with all the warmth of a woman coming face to face with her best friend. All the years of knock-backs and put-downs from Carol might never have happened. ‘DCI Jordan,’ she said in a tone of delighted surprise.

  ‘Who else were you expecting on my doorstep?’ Carol said sourly, wishing she could take back the words as soon as they’d left her lips.

  ‘I wouldn’t presume to guess,’ Penny said. ‘I hear you’ve done wonders with the place. Are you going to invite me in to show it off?’

  Carol’s bark of involuntary laughter echoed across the yard. ‘What do you think, Ms Burgess?’

  Penny shivered theatrically. ‘I think it’s bloody chilly out here. Anyone with an ounce of pity would bring me into the warm.’ She moved one foot forward. Carol leaned more firmly against the door.

  ‘Consider me pitiless. What are you doing here? You’re a long way off your patch.’

  ‘No more Ms Nice Guy, eh? OK, I’ll cut to the chase, Carol. Dominic Barrowclough.’

  Carol had to fight to keep her stare level and her breath under control. She shook her head. ‘Sorry, not one of ours.’

  ‘Dominic was driving a souped-up Vauxhall Astra last night. You know the kind of thing. All flared wheel arches and a spoiler like a snowboard on the back. He was hammering down the road from Barkisland to Greetland and he took a bend on the wrong side of the road. Unfortunately for everyone concerned, he met a Mini coming the other way and the resulting impact drove the Mini into a Ford Galaxy travelling behind it. Maybe a bit too close behind, but nobody’s casting blame in that direction.’

  ‘All very unfortunate, as you say. But I’m not sure what an RTA on a West Yorkshire back road has to do with me.’ Carol clamped her teeth tight shut and gripped the door so tightly she could feel the edge of the lock biting into the base of her thumb.

  Penny cocked her head to one side, her eyebrows rising. It was not an expression that conveyed belief. ‘Dominic and his girlfriend Casey died instantly. The driver and the passenger in the Galaxy – Perry and Lisa Davidson from Pontefract, married couple in their thirties with two young children – they died too. The Mini driver – a young woman from Halifax, they haven’t released her name yet – is in intensive care, hanging on by her fingernails.’ She paused, expectantly. Carol managed to hold her tongue and Penny shrugged.

  ‘Are we going to keep pretending you haven’t a clue what I’m on about when we both know somebody from West Yorkshire will have been on the phone to you within ten minutes of them identifying Domini
c Barrowclough?’

  For once, Carol couldn’t decide which way to jump. Keep playing dumb, or acknowledge what she knew without admitting any kind of responsibility? ‘And what would this notional phone call have said?’

  Penny shook her head, a pitying expression on her face. ‘That Dominic Barrowclough was one of the other people who got off their drink-driving charge because of an alleged faulty breathalyser. The same faulty breathalyser that let you off the hook so you could take up your shiny new job at ReMIT.’

  Carol felt a chill move through her, as if she’d swallowed a freezing cold stone. ‘If that’s the case, you should be talking to West Yorkshire Police about their faulty breathalyser. Not to an innocent motorist.’

  ‘Not quite what I’d heard,’ Penny said with a knowing look.

  ‘I can’t help that. Now, if that’s all…?’ Carol moved to close the door.

  ‘I’ve only just begun, Carol.’ There was steel in her voice. ‘I’m told you were out to dinner on the night of the broken breathalyser.’

  Carol said nothing but she could feel her heart thudding against her ribs. What was coming next? And where was Tony? She couldn’t decide whether she wanted him to stay far away from this interrogation or to thrust himself into the heart of it, taking the fight to the enemy.

  Penny waited for the non-existent response, then her lips curled in a sly smile. ‘Out to dinner at the table of a man who’s renowned among your neighbours for the quality of his cellar. Not to mention his generosity.’

  ‘And you’ve got a witness who says DCI Jordan was drinking, have you?’ A familiar voice cut across Penny’s words. Tony was invisible in the darkness behind her, but Carol could see the ghost of the white of Flash’s coat. As Tony moved into the light, she could see he was holding on to the dog’s collar, keeping her close to his side. ‘No? I thought not. Because anybody who tried to stir it like that would be abusing their host’s hospitality, which around here is pretty much a capital crime.’ He’d rounded Penny Burgess’s shoulder and was in the doorway. Carol moved without thinking so they stood shoulder to shoulder. ‘They’d also be lying,’ Tony continued. ‘Which would expose you and your paper to all sorts of legal pitfalls, were you to be daft enough to rely on some vindictive bastard’s falsehoods.’