The Wire in the Blood

‘But you do those things too,’ she said earnestly. ‘All that charity work. It’s being famous makes it possible for TV stars to raise so much money. People pay money to see them. They wouldn’t be shelling out otherwise. I want to be able to do that. To be like them.’

The impossible dream. Or rather, nightmare. She could never have been like him, though she had no notion of the real reason why. People like him were so rare it was almost an argument for the existence of God. He smiled benevolently, like the Pope from the Vatican balcony. It pushed all the right buttons. ‘Well, perhaps I can help you make a start,’ he told her. And Donna believed him.

He had her there, alone, co-operative, in his car, in an underground car park. What could have been easier than to whisk her away to his destination?

Only a fool would think like that, he’d realized long ago, and he was no fool. For a start, the car park wasn’t exactly empty. Businessmen and women were checking out of the hotel, stowing suit carriers into executive saloons and reversing out of tight spots. They noticed a lot more than anyone would expect. For another thing, it was broad daylight outside, a city centre festooned with traffic lights where people sat with nothing better to do than pick their noses and stare slack-jawed at the inhabitants of the next car. First, they’d register the car. A silver Mercedes, smart enough to catch the eye and the admiration. Or, of course, the envy. Then they’d clock the flowing letters along the front wing that announced, Cars for Vance’s Visits supplied by Morrigan Mercedes of Cheshire. Alerted to the possible proximity of celebrity, they’d peer through the tinted windows, trying to identify the driver and passenger. They weren’t going to forget that in a hurry, especially if they glimpsed an attractive teenager in the passenger seat. When her photograph appeared in the local paper, they’d remember, no question.

And finally, he’d got a busy day ahead. There was no space in his schedule for delivering her to a place where he could exact what was due. No point in drawing attention to himself by failing to keep appointments, not turning up for the public appearances that were so carefully constructed to give Vance’s Visits maximum exposure for minimal effort. Donna would have to wait. For both of them, it would be the sweeter for the anticipation. Well, for him, at least. For her, it wouldn’t be long before reality turned her breathless expectation into a sick joke.

So he whetted her appetite and kept her on the leash. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw you last night. You’d be absolutely perfect as the co-host. With a two-handed show, we need contrast. Dark-haired Donna, fair-haired Jacko. Petite Donna, hulking great brute Jacko.’ He grinned, she giggled. ‘What we’re working on is a new game show involving parent and child teams. But the teams don’t know they’re in the show until we turn up to whisk them off. A total surprise, like This is Your Life. That’s part of the reason why we need to be so sure that whoever I end up working with is absolutely trustworthy. Total discretion, that’s the key.’

‘I can keep my mouth shut,’ Donna said earnestly. ‘Honest. I never told a living soul about coming here to meet you. My mate that was at the opening last night with me, when she asked what we were talking about for so long, I just said I was asking whether you had any advice for me if I wanted to break into TV.’

‘And did I?’ he demanded.

She smiled, beguiling and seductive. ‘I told her you said I should get some qualifications behind me before I made any decisions about a career. She doesn’t know enough about you to realize you’d never come out with all that boring shit that I get off my mum.’

‘Good thinking,’ he told her appreciatively. ‘I can promise you I’ll never be boring, that’s for sure. Now, the problem I’ve got is that I’m desperately busy for the next couple of days. But I’ve got Friday morning free, and I can easily set up some screen tests for you. We’ve got a rehearsal studio up in the north-east and we can work there.’

Her lips parted, her eyes glowed in the dimness of the car interior. ‘You mean it? I can be on telly?’

‘No promises, but you look the part and you’ve got a beautiful voice.’ He shifted in his seat so he could fix her with a direct gaze. ‘All I need to prove to myself is that you really can keep a secret.’

‘I told you,’ Donna replied, consternation on her face. ‘I’ve said nothing to anybody.’

‘But can you keep that up? Can you stay silent until Thursday night?’ He put his hand inside his jacket and produced a rail ticket. ‘This is a train ticket for Five Walls Halt in Northumberland. On Thursday, you catch the 3.25 Newcastle train from the station here, then at Newcastle, you change to the 7.50 for Carlisle. When you come out of the station, there’s a car park on the left. I’ll be waiting there in a Land Rover. I can’t get out to meet you on the platform because of commercial confidentiality, but I’ll be there in the car park, I promise. We’ll put you up for the night, then first thing in the morning, you do the screen test.’

‘But my mum’ll panic if I stay out all night and she doesn’t know where I am,’ she protested reluctantly.

‘You can phone her as soon as we get to the studio complex,’ he told her, his voice rich in reassurance. ‘Let’s face it, she probably wouldn’t let you take the screen test if she knew, would she? I bet she doesn’t think working in TV is a proper job, does she?’

As usual, he’d calculated to perfection. Donna knew her ambitious mother wouldn’t want her to throw her university prospects away to be a game-show bimbo. Her worried look disappeared and she peered up at him from under her eyebrows. ‘I won’t say a word,’ she promised solemnly.

‘Good girl. I hope you mean that. All it takes is one wrong word and a whole project can crash. That costs money, and it costs people’s jobs too. You might say something in confidence to your best friend, but she’ll tell her sister, and her sister will tell her boyfriend, and the boyfriend will tell his best mate over a frame of snooker, and the best mate’s sister-in-law just happens to be a reporter. Or a rival TV company executive. And the show’s dead. And your big chance goes with it. Let me tell you something. At the start of your career, you only get one bite of the cherry. You screw up, and no one will ever hire you again. You have to have a lot of success under your belt before the TV bosses forgive a bit of failure.’ He leaned forward and rested a hand on her arm as he spoke, invading her space and making her feel the sexual thrill of his dangerous edge.

‘I understand,’ Donna said with all the intensity of a fourteen-year-old who thought she was really a grown-up and couldn’t understand why the adults wouldn’t admit her into their conspiracy. The promise of an entrée into that world was what made her so ready to swallow something as preposterous as his set-up.

‘I can rely on you?’

She nodded. ‘I won’t let you down. Not with this or anything else.’ The sexual innuendo was unmistakable. She was probably still a virgin, he reckoned. Something about her avidity told him so. She was offering herself up to him, a vestal sacrifice.

He leaned closer and kissed the soft, eager mouth that instantly opened under his primly closed lips. He drew back, smiling to soften her obvious disappointment. He always left them wanting more. It was the oldest showbiz cliché in the world. But it worked every time.

Carol wiped up the remaining traces of chicken jalfrezi with the last chunk of nan bread and savoured the final mouthful. ‘That,’ she said reverently, ‘was to die for.’

‘There’s more,’ Maggie Brandon said, pushing the heavy casserole dish towards her.

‘I’d have to wear it,’ Carol groaned. ‘There’s no room inside.’

‘You can take some home with you,’ Maggie told her. ‘I know the kind of daft hours you’ll be working. Cooking’s the last thing you’ll have time for. When John was made up to DCI, I considered asking his Chief Constable if the family could move into the cells at Scargill Street since that seemed to be the only way his kids would ever get to see him.’

John Brandon, Chief Constable of East Yorkshire Police, shook his head and said affectionately, ‘She’s a terrible liar, my wife. She only says these things to guilt-trip you into working so hard there’ll be nothing left for me to worry about in your whole division.’

Maggie snorted. ‘As if! How do you think he ended up looking like that, eh?’

Carol gave Brandon a shrewd look. It was a good question. If ever a man had been born with a graveyard face, it was Brandon. His countenance was all verticals, long and narrow; lines in his hollow cheeks, lines between his brows, aquiline nose, iron-grey hair straight as the grid line on a map. Tall and thin, with the beginnings of a stoop, all he needed was a scythe to audition for Death. She considered her options. It might be ‘John’ tonight, but on Monday morning it would be back to, ‘Mr Brandon, sir.’ Better not push her informal relationship with the boss too far. ‘And there was me thinking it was marriage,’ she said innocently.

Maggie roared with laughter. ‘Diplomatic as well as quick, eh?’ she got out at last, reaching across to pat her husband’s shoulder. ‘You did well to get Carol to abandon the fleshpots of Bradfield for the back of beyond, my love.’

‘Speaking of which, how are you settling in?’ Carol asked.

‘Well, this is a police house,’ Maggie told her, waving a hand at the brilliant white walls and paintwork, a depressing contrast to the hand-marbled paintwork Carol remembered from their Bradfield dining room. ‘But it’ll have to do us. We’ve rented out the house in Bradfield, you know? John’s only got another five years till he has his thirty in, and we want to go back there. It’s where our roots are, where our friends are. And the kids will all be out of school by then, so it’s not like they’ll be uprooted again.’

‘What Maggie isn’t saying is that she feels a bit like a Victorian missionary among the Hottentots,’ Brandon said.

‘Well, you’ve got to admit, East Yorkshire’s a bit different from Bradfield. Plenty of scenery, but there’s not a decent theatre within half an hour’s drive of here. There seems to be only one bookshop on the whole patch that sells more than the bestsellers. And as for opera – you can forget it!’ Maggie protested, getting to her feet and gathering the empty plates.

‘Don’t you feel happier about the kids growing up away from the influence of the inner city? Out of the reaches of the drug lords?’ Carol asked.

Maggie shook her head. ‘They’re so insular round here, Carol. Back in Bradfield, the kids had friends from all kinds of backgrounds – Asian, Chinese, Afro-Caribbean. Even one Vietnamese lad. Out here, you stick to your own. There’s nothing to do except hang around on street corners. Frankly, I’d take a chance on them having the sense to stay out of trouble in the inner city as a trade-off for all the opportunities they had in Bradfield. This country living is well over-rated.’ She marched through to the kitchen.

‘Sorry,’ Carol said. ‘Didn’t realize it was such a sore point.’

Brandon shrugged. ‘You know Maggie. She likes to get it off her chest. Give it a few more months, she’ll be running the village, happy as a pig. The kids like it well enough. How about you? What’s the cottage like?’

‘I love it. The couple I bought it from did an immaculate restoration job.’

‘I’m surprised they were selling it, then.’

‘Divorce,’ Carol said succinctly.

‘Ah.’

‘I think they were both more upset about losing the cottage than the marriage. You and Maggie will have to come over for a meal.’

‘If you ever find the time to shop,’ Maggie said darkly, walking back in with a large cafetière.

‘Well, worst comes to worst, I’ll send Nelson out to bring us a rabbit back.’

‘He’s enjoying the opportunities for murder that living in the country offers?’ Maggie asked drily.

‘He thinks he’s died and gone to feline heaven. You might crave the inner city, but he’s turned into a country boy overnight.’

Maggie poured coffee for John and Carol, then said, ‘I’m going to leave you pair to it, if you don’t mind. I know you’re dying to talk shop and I promised Karen I’d pick her up after the pictures in Seaford. There’s enough coffee there to keep you both awake till dawn, and if you feel peckish in a bit, there’s home-made cheesecake in the fridge. But Andy’s due back around ten, so you’d better help yourself before then. I swear that lad’s got worms. That or hollow legs.’ She swooped down on Brandon and gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek. ‘Enjoy yourselves.’

Unable to resist the feeling that she’d been set up by professionals, Carol took a sip of her coffee and waited. When it came, Brandon’s question was hardly a surprise. ‘So how are you settling in on the ground?’ His voice was casual, but his eyes were watchful.

‘Obviously, they’re wary of me. Not only am I a woman, which on the evolutionary scale in East Yorkshire comes somewhere between a ferret and a whippet, but I’m also the Chief Constable’s nark. Brought in from the big city to crack the whip,’ she said ironically.

‘I was afraid you’d get lumbered with that,’ Brandon said. ‘But you must have known how it would be when you took the job on.’

Carol shrugged. ‘It’s not come as a surprise. But there’s been rather less of it than I anticipated. Maybe they’re all still on their best behaviour, but I think the Seaford Central Division CID are not a bad crew. Because they were stuck out in the boondocks before the reorganization and nobody was paying much attention, they’ve got a bit lazy, a bit sloppy. I suspect one or two might be spending a bit more than they’re earning, but I don’t think there’s any deep-rooted, systemic corruption.’

Brandon nodded, satisfied. Trusting Carol Jordan’s judgement had been a steep learning curve for him, and he’d known instinctively she was the one senior officer he wanted to tempt away from Bradfield. With her setting the tone in Seaford, word would spread through other divisions and the CID culture would adapt accordingly, given time. Time and a certain amount of stick which Brandon wasn’t afraid to apply. ‘Anything on the books that’s causing you a problem?’

Carol finished her coffee and poured herself another cup, offering the pot to Brandon, who refused with a shake of the head. She frowned in thought, gathering her arsenal of information. ‘There is something,’ she said. ‘Since we’re talking informally?’

Brandon nodded.

‘Well, I noticed going through the overnights that there seemed to be a positive spate of unexplained fires and query arsons. All at night, all in unoccupied premises like schools, factories, cafés, warehouses. None of them very big in itself, but taken together, you’re looking at a lot of damage. I put a team together to re-interview the previous victims, see if we could find any connection – financially or insurance-wise. Zilch. But I went myself to talk to the local fire chief, and he produced a series of incidents going back about four months. None of the fires could be absolutely, positively put down as arson, but circumstantially, he reckons there have been something between six and a dozen possible deliberate fires per month on his patch,’ Carol said.

‘A serial arsonist?’ Brandon said softly.

‘It’s hard to imagine another interpretation,’ Carol agreed.

‘And you want to do what, exactly?’

‘I want to catch him,’ she said with a grin.

‘Well, what else?’ Brandon smiled. ‘Did you have something specific in mind?’ he continued mildly.

‘I want to carry on working with the team I’ve already got on it, and I want to do a profile.’

Brandon frowned. ‘Bring someone in?’

‘No,’ Carol said sharply. ‘There’s not really enough evidence to justify the expense. I think I can take a pretty good stab at it myself.’

Brandon looked impassively at Carol. ‘You’re not a psychologist.’

‘No, but I learned a lot last year, working with Tony Hill. And since then, I’ve read everything about profiling I could find.’

‘You should have applied for the National Task Force,’ Brandon said, keeping his eyes fixed on her.

Carol felt her skin burn. She hoped the wine and the coffee would account for her heightened colour. ‘I don’t think they were looking for officers of my rank,’ she said. ‘Apart from Commander Bishop, there’s no one above the rank of sergeant. Besides, I prefer to work a patch, get to know the people and the ground.’

‘They’re due to be up and running a full case-load in a few weeks,’ Brandon continued implacably. ‘Maybe they’d welcome something like this to cut their teeth on before then.’

‘Maybe they would,’ Carol said. ‘But it’s my case. And I’m not ready to let it go.’

‘Fine,’ Brandon said, interested that Carol had already developed such fierce possessiveness about the work of the East Yorkshire force. ‘But keep me posted, yes?’

‘Of course,’ Carol said. Her sense of relief, she told herself, was entirely because she would now have the chance to cover herself and her team in glory when they cracked the case. Deep down, though, she knew she was lying.

Sleeping in what the estate agent had referred to as the guest bedroom of Shaz’s flat would have been beyond most people, particularly if they were the sort who needed to read a few pages before they could nod off. While the bookcase in the living room contained an innocuous mix of middlebrow middle-of-the-road modern fiction, the shelves in the room Shaz thought of as her study held only hard-core horror, most of it masquerading as textbooks. There were a few novels by pathologists of psychopathy and anatomists of agony like Barbara Vine and Thomas Harris, but most of Shaz’s working library was both stranger and more brutal than fiction ever dared to be. If there had been a vocational course for serial killers, her library would have comprised the set books.

The lowest shelves held those items which mildly embarrassed her – pulp true-crime biographies of notorious serial killers with lurid nicknames, sensational accounts of careers that had robbed hundreds of people of their trust and their lives. Arranged above these were the more respectable versions of those same lives, portentous renderings that provided thoughtful revelations and insights sociological, psychological and sometimes illogical.

Next, at eye-level for anyone sitting at the table that held Shaz’s notepads and laptop, were the battle stories of the veterans of the war against serial offenders. Since it was the best part of twenty years since the infancy of offender profiling, the pioneers had been trickling into retirement for a few years now, each determined to augment his pension with graphic accounts of his contribution to the latest soft science with the case histories of his notable successes and a passing gloss over his failures. They were, thus far, all men.

Above these autobiographies was the serious stuff; books with titles like The Psychopathology of Sexual Homicide, Crime Scene Analysis and Serial Rape: A Clinical Study. The top shelf gave the only indications that she aspired to be hunter rather than hunted, with its selection of legal texts, including a couple of guides to the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. It was a comprehensive collection and Shaz hadn’t amassed it in the mere couple of months since she’d won her place on the task force; it had been years in the building, helping her prepare for the day she’d always been convinced would come, when she’d be called upon to bring her very own notorious killer to book. If textual familiarity alone caught criminals, Shaz would have had the best arrest record in the country.

She had begged off the nightclub run following the curry in spite of the blandishments of the other three. It wasn’t just that she had never been a great one for clubbing. Tonight, her spare room was infinitely more tempting than anything a DJ or a barman had to offer. The truth was, she’d been in a ferment all evening, eager to get back to her computer and to finish the comparisons she’d begun to run through her database that afternoon. In the three days since Tony had set their assignment, Shaz had spent every spare moment working her way through the thirty sketchy sets of case notes. At last, the opportunity had come to put into practice all the theories and tricks of the trade she’d picked up in her reading. She’d read the papers from start to finish, not once, but three times. Not until she was fairly sure she had them well differentiated in her head did she approach her computer.

The database Shaz used hadn’t represented the leading edge of software development way back when she’d copied it from a fellow student, and now it was practically a candidate for display in a computing museum. But while it might not have all the latest bells and whistles, it was more than capable of performing what she needed. It displayed the material clearly, it allowed her to create her own categories and criteria for sorting the information, and she found its procedures in tune with her instincts and logic and thus easy to use. She’d been inputting data since early that morning, so focused on her work that she hadn’t even left the screen to cook lunch, settling instead for a banana and half a packet of digestive biscuits, upending her laptop afterwards to remove the crumbs from the keyboard.

Now, back in front of her screen, stripped of her glad rags and scrubbed clean of her make-up, Shaz was happy. The mouse pointer flickered as fingers clicked on buttons, summoning up menus that interested her far more than anything on offer at the restaurant. She sorted the so-called runaways by age and printed out the results. She followed the same steps for geographical area, physical type, previous police contact, various permutations on their domestic situation, drink and drugs experience, known sexual contacts and interests. Not that the investigating officers had been much concerned with their hobbies.

Shaz pored over the print-outs, reading them individually then spreading them over the desktop so she could more readily compare notes. As she gazed at the printed lists, the slow burn of excitement began in the pit of her stomach. She scrutinized them one more time, double-checking against the photographs in the files to make sure she wasn’t willing something into existence that wasn’t there. ‘Oh, you beauty,’ Shaz exclaimed softly, letting out a long sigh.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she looked again, it was still there. A cluster of seven girls. First, the positive similarities. They all had bobbed dark hair and blue eyes. They were all fourteen or fifteen years old, between 5ˊ2˝ and 5ˊ4˝ tall. They had all lived at home with one or both parents. In each case, their friends and family had told the police they were baffled at the girl’s disappearance, convinced that she had no real reason to run away. In every instance, the girls had taken almost nothing with them, though in each case, at least one change of clothes appeared to have gone missing with them, which was the main reason why the police hadn’t seriously considered them as possible victims of abduction or murder. Reinforcing that view were the times of the disappearances. In each case, the girl concerned had set off for school as usual but had never arrived. She’d also given a false explanation of where she’d be spending the evening. And, although this couldn’t be quantified in a way the computer could digest, they were all of a similar type. There was a flirtatious sensuality in their looks, a knowing quality in the way they embraced the camera that indicated they had left childhood innocence behind. They were sexy, whether they knew it or not.

Next, the negative similarities. None of the seven had ever been in care. None had ever been in trouble with the police. Friends admitted to a bit of recreational drinking, maybe even the occasional joint or even a dab of speed. But no significant drug usage. In none of the seven cases was there any hint that the girls might have been engaged in prostitution or the victims of sexual abuse.