The Torment of Others

Sam Evans was hunched in the chair opposite Kevin, his jacket carefully arranged on a hanger hooked over a filing-cabinet drawer handle. His shirt was crisp and white, the careful creases of the iron still clean cut on his sleeves. He and Kevin had staked out smokers’ corner on the opposite side of the room to Stacey and her computers. Evans’ reading style seemed almost nonchalant, as if he were drifting through the Sunday papers. His expression gave nothing away. But occasionally his hand would snake into his trouser pocket and emerge with a minidisk recorder. He’d mumble a few words into it then slip it back out of sight. Carol didn’t think much was getting past him.

Paula, conversely, was a spreader. Within half an hour of starting, the whole of her desktop was covered in stacks of papers as she sorted through the file in front of her. But in spite of the appearance of untidiness, it was clear she knew where everything was. Her hand moved, apparently independent of her eyes, confidently picking up the next piece of paper she needed. It was as if she had a mental map of her arrangement, a neat grid stamped firmly on her brain. Carol wondered if that was how she worked interviews; slotting every piece of information into its own socket till the connections linked together and lit up like a completed circuit.

Stacey couldn’t have been more different. Even her dress style was at odds with Paula’s casual T-shirt and jeans. Stacey’s suit fitted as if it had been made to measure, and the fine polo-neck sweater beneath it looked like cashmere to Carol’s eye. A surprisingly expensive outfit for a detective constable, she thought. When it came to work, it was almost as if Stacey resented the presence of paper. She’d balanced the file she was studying on a pulled-out desk drawer to leave her work surface clear for interaction with the machine. The twin screens of her computer system held most of her attention. She would swiftly scrutinize the file material, then her fingers would fly over the keys before she cocked her head to one side, ran her left hand through her glossy black hair and clicked a mouse button. Manipulable virtuality was seemingly what she craved over reality.

It was, Carol thought, a group with enough variety in their skills and attributes to cover most of the bases. The key question was whether she could get them to bond into a unit. Until they felt part of a team, they would be less than the sum of their parts. She sighed. Somewhere in her near future, she could see a night out with her officers. On balance, she’d rather have spent a day in the dentist’s chair without benefit of anaesthetic. She hadn’t been out on the town since she’d come back from Germany. Even going to familiar restaurants with friends had been beyond her. The idea of raucous, crowded pubs and clubs curdled her stomach. ‘Get over it,’ she muttered angrily to herself as she turned back to the Tim Golding file.

She reread the statement given by the organic vegetable deliveryman. My, how Harriestown had changed in the few years she’d been gone. The previous occupants of the area would have been interested in organic vegetables only as potential missiles. So engrossed was she that the sharp rap of knuckles on her door jamb made her start. The pages she was holding fluttered to the desk unheeded as Carol pushed back in her chair, heart thudding, eyes wide. This was new, she thought. The old Carol Jordan was a lot harder to startle.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to creep up on you.’ The woman in the doorway looked more amused than apologetic.

It was Carol’s habit to form descriptions of new encounters as if she were registering their details for the National Criminal Intelligence database. Medium height; wiry as Carol herself. Straight shoulders, full breasts, narrow hips. Wavy brown hair cut in a tousle that had been fashionable a few years before, but which she’d probably hung on to because it suited her incongruously cherubic face. The cast of her features made her look as if she was perpetually on the verge of a smile. Only the eyes gave her away; she had the long flat stare of the cop who’d grown weary of the variety of human viciousness and misery. She wore black jeans, a black silk T-shirt and a leather jacket the colour of crème caramel. Whoever she was, Carol was certain she’d never met her before. ‘I was miles away,’ she said, getting to her feet.

‘And who wouldn’t be, given half a chance.’ The woman’s eyes crinkled in an easy smile as she moved forward, extending a hand. ‘Detective Sergeant Jan Shields. I work Temple Fields.’

‘DCI Jordan,’ Carol said, accepting the warm, dry handshake. She gave a wry smile. ‘You’re the Vice, then?’

Jan groaned. ‘Oh please. One bloody TV series and we’re back with a label from the bad old, sad old days. Yeah, I’m the Vice. That’d be why we get the scuzzy office and you get the management suite. How are you settling in?’

Carol shrugged, slightly uncomfortable with the assumption of camaraderie from an officer junior in rank though probably roughly equal in years. ‘We’re feeling our way. So, Sergeant Shields, is this a social call? Or is there something I can help you with?’

‘I think it might be me that can help you.’ Jan waved a slim manila folder, this smile a tease.

Carol raised her eyebrows, moving back behind her desk. ‘Really?’

‘Your team’s working cold cases till you hit a fresh jackpot, right?’

‘We’re taking a look, yes.’

‘And one of those cases would be Tim Golding?’

‘You’re well informed, Sergeant.’

Jan shrugged. ‘You know how it is. Gossip travels faster than a speeding bullet.’

‘And we’re today’s hot news.’ Carol sat down. She wanted to give the impression of confidence. ‘So what is it you have for me?’

‘It’s a bit of a long story.’ Jan gestured to the chair opposite Carol. ‘May I?’ She sat down and crossed her legs with easy confidence.

Carol leaned forward. ‘Let’s have it, then.’

‘When you were here before, I was on secondment to a Home Office team working with the FBI on a long-term investigation into paedophiles using the internet. You’ve probably heard of Operation Ore?’

Carol nodded. The news media had leapt on Operation Ore with the avidity of a starving coyote in a meat-processing factory. The investigation had netted thousands of potential arrestees on both sides of the Atlantic: men who surfed the net and used their credit cards to buy access to sites where they could download child pornography. But the sheer scale of the results had made Operation Ore a victim of its own success. Overstretched law enforcement agencies looked at the mountain of evidence and threw their hands up in despair. Carol had heard one colleague estimate that with the officers at his disposal it would take nine and a half years simply to interview all the names from his patch, never mind to seize and analyse their hard drives. ‘You were involved in that?’

‘In the early stages, yes. I’ve been back here two years now, and most of what I’ve been doing since then has been prioritizing our hit list, in between the usual shit on the streets. In the last six months, we’ve started pulling in our prime candidates. What we do is kick their doors down and seize their computer equipment. After a preliminary interview we usually release them on police bail till the analysis is done.’

‘Which can take weeks, I imagine?’

Jan’s mouth twisted in a half-smile. ‘If we’re lucky. Anyway, I got a stack of stuff through yesterday from the techies. They’d stripped out a pretty rich seam from a guy we pulled in a couple of months ago.’ She shook her head. ‘You’d think I’d be used to this by now. The guy’s a senior NHS manager. You need a hip replacement or a new knee at Bradfield Cross? He’s the one you blame for the length of the waiting list. Respectable house in the suburbs, wife’s a teacher, two teenage kids. And his computer’s like a fucking sewer. So, I’m wading through his shit and I find this–’ She flipped open her file dramatically and pulled out a print of a digital photograph, blown up to cover most of an A4 sheet. She passed it across to Carol. ‘I recognized the kid from the media blitz.’

Carol studied the photograph. The background showed a dramatic rock formation. Slender birch branches crisscrossed one corner. A skinny child stood naked and hunched in the middle of the frame. Sandy hair, Harry Potter glasses. Features she’d memorized in the course of her long day’s reading. There was no room for doubt: this was Tim Golding. She felt the familiar rush that came with a fresh lead and hated herself for it. This wasn’t something to rejoice over. Carol understood that now better than she ever had before. ‘Are there any more?’ she asked.

Jan shook her head. I’ve been right through the archive. Nothing.’

‘What about the other missing kid–Guy Lefevre?’

‘Sorry. That’s the only one. And it doesn’t mean my guy is the one you’re looking for. These sick bastards swap shots all the time. The fact that there’s only the one pic of the Golding boy would suggest to me that my target wasn’t the photographer.’

I’m inclined to agree with you. But I want to talk to him nevertheless.’ Carol met Jan’s eyes in a long, measured stare. ‘I’d like his file now and I’d like him in an interview room first thing in the morning. Do you want me to clear that with your senior officer?’

‘Sorted already. My guvnor agrees you get first crack. Full house beats a flush.’

‘Thanks, Sergeant. I appreciate it.’ Carol slid the print back towards Jan. This background–any idea where it might be?’ She pointed to the unusual rock formation.

Jan shook her head. ‘Not a clue. I’m a city girl, me. I get the shakes if I’m more than five miles from Starbucks.’

‘It looks pretty distinctive to me. But for all I know, there could be rocks like this from Land’s End to John o’Groats.’

‘Yeah. But there’s only one Tim Golding.’

Carol sighed. ‘Wrong tense, I think.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Looking at this, I think we should be saying there was only one Tim Golding.’

His hands are sweating. They slither and slip in spite of the thin layer of talc inside the latex gloves. It makes the preparation difficult. He’s not really used to anything that requires finer control than rolling a joint. When his fingers fumble and a blade nicks him through the glove, he swears out loud at the beads of blood that ooze from the wound.

He’s glad the Voice isn’t here to see him fucking up. And that reminds him that he has instructions about what to do if his blood gets on the stuff. ‘Put anything stained with even the smallest drop of blood to one side. Replace it and start again. Only one blood, that’s what we want. Only one blood.’ The words echo in his head and he does what he’s told. He pulls a page out of that evening’s paper and places the bloody blade on it. Then he strips off the gloves and adds them to the pile. He doesn’t have an Elastoplast, so he tears off a corner of the newsprint and sticks it clumsily over the place where the blood is seeping. Then he takes another pair of gloves from the box. And starts again.

He really wants to get it right. He knows that if he gets it right, this will be the best thing he’s ever done. He knows because that’s what the Voice told him. And everything else the Voice has said has been right.

All day, he’s been thinking about what’s to come. All day, his mind’s been in a spin. Though he tried to keep it hidden, people noticed. But they don’t expect much of him at the best of times, so they didn’t notice in a way that they’ll remember afterwards. Mostly, they just made a joke of it, although one or two used his slowness or stupidity as an excuse for giving him a bad time. But he’s used to that too. Until the Voice came along and said he deserved better, that was how it was for him. The tree every dog pissed up. The one who was so crap everybody else looked good next to him.

Tonight, he’s going to prove them wrong. Tonight he’s going to do something none of them would dare. And he’s going to do it right.

Isn’t he?

The car park was a place of shadows, hemmed in by high brick walls topped with razor wire. When it had been built, nobody could have anticipated the explosion in car ownership, so it was always over-full, double-parked and a source of irritation to those who had to use it.

It was also supposed to be secure. A sturdy metal barrier had to be raised to permit entry or egress, and the officer in charge of it was supposed to monitor each entrant carefully. But the man leaning on one of the cars understood how to circumvent systems. When he’d been here before, he’d made allies of the security team, aware that there would probably be a time when he’d want to come back without the necessary authority.

That time was tonight. He’d been waiting for the best part of an hour, resting against the bonnet of the silver saloon, reading steadily through the papers he’d stuffed into his briefcase, his peripheral vision alert to anyone leaving the tall building in front of the car park. But the light was fading fast and the air held the crisp promise of winter. Waiting was becoming less attractive. He glanced at his watch. Just after six. He’d give it half an hour, then he’d slip away into the night. He didn’t want to lurk in the darkness, for a variety of reasons.

A few minutes later, he saw what he’d been waiting for. A gleam of blonde hair caught in the security lights by the back door, and he was on the move. He shoved the file back into his briefcase and stood upright, moving towards the back of the car to cut off his target before she could reach the driver’s door.

She looked over her shoulder, calling out a farewell to a colleague. When she turned back, he was only a few feet from her. Shock and astonishment shot across her face and she stopped dead. Her mouth formed an exclamation, but no sound emerged.

‘Hi, Carol,’ Tony said. ‘Fancy a curry?’

‘Jesus,’ she exhaled, her shoulders dropping. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack. What the hell are you doing here?’

He spread his arms wide, a parody of innocence. ‘Like I said, inviting you out for a curry.’

‘Freaking me out, more like. What are you doing in Bradfield? You’re supposed to be in St Andrews.’ He raised one finger in admonishment. ‘Later. Now, are you going to unlock the car? I’m freezing.’

With an air of bemusement, Carol obediently popped the locks and watched him walk round to the passenger seat. She couldn’t help smiling. There was, she thought, nobody quite like Tony Hill.

Twenty minutes later, they’d found a relatively quiet corner table in a cheap and cheerful Bangladeshi café on the fringes of Temple Fields, the area of the city centre where the gay village sat uneasily alongside the red-light district. Their fellow customers were a mixture of students and individuals poised to go looking for love in all the wrong places. Carol and Tony had discovered the café when they’d first worked together on a case centred on Temple Fields, and it seemed the obvious place for this reunion.

‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ Carol said as the waiter departed to bring them a couple of bottles of Kingfisher.

He held out his arm. ‘Go on, pinch me. I’m real.’

She leaned forward and gave his shoulder a gentle punch. ‘OK, you’re real. But why are you here?’

‘I jacked the job in. I was a fish out of water there, Carol. I needed to get back to the work I know I’m good at. I’d already got an offer of consultancy work over in Europe. And when John Brandon told me you were coming back to Bradfield, I got on to Bradfield Moor and asked for part-time clinical work.’ He grinned. ‘So here I am.’

‘You came back to Bradfield because of me?’ Carol’s expression was guarded. ‘I don’t want your pity, Tony.’

‘It’s nothing to do with pity. You’re the best friend I’ve got. I have some idea of how hard this is for you, Carol. And I want to be around if you need me.’

Carol waited for the waiter to deposit their beers, then said, ‘I can manage, you know. I’ve been a cop for a long time. I’m capable of catching villains without your help.’

Tony took a long drink from the bottle of Indian lager while he considered how to deal with her wilful misunderstanding. ‘I’m not here to help you do your job. I’m here because that’s what friends do.’ He gave a crooked smile. ‘And besides, it suits me to be here. You should see the nutters they’ve got locked up in Bradfield Moor. It’s a dream come true for a weirdo like me.’

Carol snorted, spraying the paper tablecloth with beer. ‘Bastard! You waited till I had a mouthful of beer to make me laugh.’

‘What do you expect? I’m trained to provoke reactions. So, where are you living?’

‘I’m camping in Michael’s spare room while I look for somewhere to rent.’ Carol studied the menu.

Tony pretended to do the same, though he already knew he’d choose the fish pakora followed by the chicken biryani. The lack of commitment implied by Carol’s decision to rent rather than to sell up in London and buy in Bradfield was understandable. She wanted to leave herself an escape route. But it troubled him nevertheless. ‘That must feel strange,’ he said. ‘It having been your flat in the first place.’

‘It’s not ideal. I don’t think Lucy’s crazy about having me there. She’s a barrister, remember? She does a lot of criminal defence work, so she has a tendency to regard me in the same light as a chicken farmer regards a fox.’ The waiter returned and they ordered their meals. As he departed, Carol met Tony’s eyes. ‘What about you? Where are you living?’

‘I was lucky. I sold my cottage in Cellardyke practically overnight. I’ve just bought a place here. Near where I used to live. A Victorian semi. Three bedrooms, two receptions. Nice big rooms, very light.’

‘Sounds good.’

The waiter plonked a plate of poppadums and a tray of relishes in front of them. Tony took the opportunity to busy himself with something other than Carol. ‘Thing is, it’s got a cellar. Pretty much self-contained. Two big rooms, natural light. Toilet and shower. And a little boxroom you could easily turn into a kitchen.’ He looked up, the question in his eyes.

Carol stared at him, clearly unsure if he was saying what she thought. She gave an uncertain laugh. ‘What would I do with a kitchen?’

‘Good point. But it does give you somewhere to put the washing machine.’

‘Are you seriously offering me your cellar?’

‘Why not? It’d solve your accommodation problem. And having a copper on the premises would give me a sense of security.’ He grinned. ‘More importantly, Nelson would keep the mice away.’

Carol fiddled with the lime pickle. ‘I don’t know. Does it have a separate entrance?’

‘Well, of course. I wouldn’t want to compromise your reputation. There’s a door that leads to a flight of steps up to the back garden. And an internal door down from the house, obviously. But it would be a simple enough thing to fit a lock to that.’ He smiled. ‘You could have bolts too, if you wanted.’

‘You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?’

Tony shrugged. ‘When I viewed the house, it seemed like a good way of making it work for a living. I didn’t know what your plans were. But the builders started work on it yesterday. And I’d rather have you living there than a stranger. Look, don’t make a decision now. Think about it. Sleep on it. There’s no hurry.’ There was an uncomfortable silence while they both tried to figure out where to take the conversation next. ‘So how was your first day back in harness? What are you working on?’ Tony asked, moving the conversation away from treacherous shoals.

‘Until we get a new major case, we’re taking a look at a bunch of unsolveds.’ Carol looked up as the waiter brought their starters.

‘That must be pretty soul-destroying.’

‘Normally it would be.’ She reached for her aloo chat. ‘But amazingly enough, we actually scored a break this afternoon. Purely by chance, a detective from another squad stumbled across a new lead. I can’t help seeing it as a positive omen.’

‘That’s a great start.’

Carol’s expression was rueful. ‘Yes and no. You remember Don Merrick? He’s the DI on my team. And the trouble is that the break came on one of his cold cases. Which makes him feel pretty sick.’

‘Not Tim Golding?’

Carol tipped her head in acknowledgement. ‘The one he called you in on. Thanks for telling me, Tony,’ she added ironically.

He looked embarrassed. ‘To tell you the truth, I was afraid of muddying the waters while you were considering coming back to Bradfield. I didn’t want to influence your decision one way or the other.’

Carol smiled. ‘Oh, you think your presence in Bradfield would have been such a draw?’

He put down the pakora that was halfway to his lips. ‘The truth, Carol? I was afraid if you knew I was here, it would be the last place on earth you’d want to be.’

Don Merrick stared glumly into his pint of Newcastle Brown Ale, his Labrador eyes sad and brooding. ‘Stop looking on the fucking bright side, Paula,’ he grumbled. ‘Because there isn’t a fucking bright side, all right?’

Paula ran her finger down the condensation on her bottle of Smirnoff Ice. They were the last survivors of the bonding session the team had decided on after DCI Jordan had called it a day. There hadn’t been much of a celebratory atmosphere, truth to tell. Stacey and Sam had excused themselves after the first round, and Kevin had been sucked into a drawn-out game of pool in the pub’s ratty back room. Neither Paula nor Merrick minded. They’d worked together long enough to slip the bonds of rank once they were on their own time. ‘Please yourself, Don.’

‘That photo…I can’t help thinking about what that lad went through before he died. And don’t try to contradict me,’ he continued, holding up a hand to fend Paula off. ‘We both know that the kind of scum who’d do that to a kid wouldn’t leave a witness. Tim Golding’s dead. But he was alive long enough to be taken off somewhere in the middle of nowhere and subjected to Christ knows what. That picture was taken in daylight, which means he was still alive the next morning. And that’s what I’m having trouble with. If I’d done my job, we’d have found him.’

Paula reached across the table and helped herself to one of Merrick’s cigarettes. ‘If you’re getting maudlin, I need a smoke.’

‘Thought you’d stopped.’

‘I have.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘That’s bullshit, what you were just saying. We worked that case into the ground. You’ve got to stop beating yourself up like this, Don. Apart from anything else, we need you not to be fucked up. We’ve already got a fucked-up DCI. The last thing we need is a fucked-up DI as well.’

Merrick looked at her in surprise. ‘You think Carol Jordan’s fucked up?’

‘Of course she is. She was raped, Don. And it happened because a bunch of suits thought so little of her they staked her out like a Judas goat. However you cut it, she’s not playing with a full deck right now. Her judgement’s compromised.’

Merrick shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Paula. She seemed pretty much on her game to me.’

‘It’s easy to talk the talk when there’s no pressure. But I’m not sure she’ll be able to walk the walk any more.’

Merrick looked doubtful. ‘It’s far too soon to be talking like that. Carol Jordan’s the best guvnor I ever worked for.’

‘I thought so once too. But now…?’ Paula swigged the rest of her drink. ‘Let’s see if you’re saying that in six months’ time. So what do you make of the newbies?’

‘Early days.’ Merrick shrugged. ‘That Stacey knows her way round the machines, that’s for sure.’

‘I keep catching myself wondering if she is a machine,’ Paula giggled. ‘She’s not one of the girls, that’s for sure. I keep trying to get her talking, but she’s definitely not one for idle chit-chat.’

Merrick grinned. ‘Yeah, somehow I can’t see her gossiping about men and make-up in the toilets. But she’s quick enough to weigh in when somebody needs a bit of help with the computers.’

‘What about Sam? What’s your take on him?’ Paula asked.

‘Seems all right. He doesn’t have much to say for himself.’