The Torment of Others

‘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 isn’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.

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.