Fever of the Bone

CHAPTER 27

Tim Parker had never been to Bradfield before. All he knew about it was that they had a Premier League football team that usually bumped along somewhere in the middle of the table. Raking up history lessons from school, he vaguely remembered it had grown rich in the nineteenth century on textiles, though he couldn’t recall whether it was cotton or wool. Or something else altogether. Had there been anything else in the nineteenth century? Linen, he supposed. Well, whatever.

Nominally a detective sergeant, Tim liked to think of himself as above and beyond the narrow confines of rank. He’d taken a first in PPE at Jesus College, Oxford and had raced through the graduate fast-track process of the Metropolitan Police. He’d never had any intention of pounding the beat. He knew he was too smart for that. His goal had always been the cool end of the job, working in intelligence of one sort or another. He didn’t much mind whether it was NCIS or SOCA or Europol. As long as it provided a challenge and made him feel like he was one of that handful who truly made a difference. He’d sort of slipped sideways into the profiling stream at the National Police Faculty and found he’d had a knack for it. He’d sailed through his courses and impressed most of his instructors. Well, the academic ones, anyway. The clinical psychologists who actually worked in secure mental hospitals hadn’t been quite so glowing. Especially that weird little fuck from Planet Vague who talked about messy heads and passing for human. Like that had any scientific rigour.

Now he was more than ready for the real thing. It was just a pity it had to kick off on a Saturday. He and his girlfriend had tickets for Chelsea at home to Villa. A bunch of them were supposed to be meeting up for lunch before the game, then going on afterwards for a night out. But instead he was on his way to Bradfield. Susanne had been disappointed, but she’d got over it. By the time he’d left, she’d already fixed up for her pal Melissa to take his place.

The train was travelling through some pretty drab suburbs now. Grey council flats, red-brick terraces straggling up and down hills like you always saw on TV dramas set in the North. He’d once been to Leeds for somebody’s stag night and vaguely remembered something similar. They crossed a canal basin then suddenly the great cast-iron and glass arch of Bradfield Central came into sight round a curve in the line. It was, he had to admit, impressive. He hoped the team he’d be working with matched up to it.

Tim had heard of the DCI. Carol Jordan had a reputation for cracking cases that, if she’d been a Met detective, would have given her legendary status. But Bradfield and gender combined to relegate her to the level of an operator who was owed respect. But the case notes that had been emailed to him overnight had not impressed him much. When you stripped out all the meaningless background noise from friends and family, there really wasn’t much substance. No wonder they needed his help.

He descended from the first-class carriage he’d insisted on so he could have some privacy with the files and looked for his driver. A bored-looking uniform was deep in conversation with a railway staff member, paying no heed to Tim or the other passengers. Shouldering his rucksack, Tim marched down the platform and tapped the constable on his shoulder. ‘I’m Tim Parker,’ he said.

The officer’s face was blank but his voice held a faint note of sarcasm. ‘That’s very nice, sir. I’m PC Mitchell. Is there something I can help you with?’

‘Are you not my driver?’

The cop and the railway worker exchanged an amused smile. ‘I’m a British Transport Police officer,’ he said. Tim finally registered the man’s insignia and felt deeply foolish. ‘I don’t drive anybody except my wife,’ the officer continued. ‘If you’re expecting someone to meet you, I suggest you go over there.’ He pointed to a large hanging sign that read, Meeting Point. A uniformed constable was standing beneath it with a sign. Even from this distance, it was possible to make out Tim’s name. Though not his rank.

Cross and embarrassed, he muttered something and walked away. At least he managed to make it to police HQ without making even more of an arse of himself. The driver knew nothing about the case or about the MIT. She didn’t even know where their office was. Her job was done when he was delivered to reception. He had to sit and kick his heels for another ten minutes before anyone arrived to fetch him. He’d expected Jordan herself to come down and greet him, but she’d sent some DC with a sharp suit and a definite touch of attitude. He hoped DC Evans wasn’t Jordan’s idea of impressive.

The MIT squad room was a pleasant surprise. Cleaner, neater and better decorated than any CID office he’d ever been in. Probably something to do with having a woman boss. He knew that wasn’t an appropriate thought, and he wouldn’t have spoken it, but he reckoned it was likely to be the truth. One corner was inhabited by an ICT station. He could hear the sound of keys being rapidly struck but all he could see was the back of six monitors arranged like a barricade. He’d never seen anything so specialised in a mainstream operation. Another half-dozen desks dotted the room, apparently at random. None of them was occupied. Whiteboards covered with crime-scene photos and scrawled notes lined one wall. One for Daniel Morrison and one for Seth Viner.

‘The guv’nor’s in her office,’ Sam said abruptly, leading him down to the far end of the room where a glass-walled room had its blinds drawn. ‘Everybody else is out working.’ He opened the door and followed Tim in.

His first impression of Carol Jordan was that she looked like most SIOs in the midst of a double murder - sleep-deprived, depressed and desperate. Her blonde hair had a dishevelled look, there were shadows visible under her eyes through the light cast of make-up, and there were two half-empty coffee cups on the desk. But when he looked closer, he realised that the hair was deliberately shaggy and her eyes had a sparkle of energy. Her tailored shirt was crisp and clean, and the make-up was free from smudges. Tim congratulated himself on seeing past the first impression to the woman beneath. He held out a hand. ‘DS Tim Parker,’ he said. ‘Call me Tim.’

Carol looked faintly amused but shook his hand. ‘DCI Jordan. Call me ma’am. Or chief. Or even guv.’

So that was how it was going to be. Put the new boy in his place, never mind that he’s here to pull you out of the shit and make you look good. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down. ‘I’ve had a preliminary pass through the material you emailed me,’ he said. ‘The first thing I want is to see the crime scenes.’

‘That’s going to be a bit difficult,’ Carol said. ‘Because we don’t know where the crimes took place. We can take you to the body dumps, if you like,’ she added, apparently helpfully.

‘That’s what I meant,’ Tim said, starting to feel seriously annoyed now. ‘I’d also like to talk to the families.’

‘That’s not going to be quite as straightforward as we would like. Daniel Morrison’s mother collapsed and died yesterday at the identification. His father’s in meltdown and medicated from here to Christmas,’ Carol said. ‘But I expect we can arrange for you to talk to Seth’s mums. I’ll organise a uniform to drive you round.’

‘It would be easier if I went with one of your team,’ he said. ‘Then I can ask questions as they come up.’

‘I’m sure it would be easier for you, but we’re at full stretch here. My team is very small and very specialised. I can’t spare a detective to ferry you around. DC Evans here will be your liaison, you can call him with any questions.’

‘Do me a favour and save them up so you can ask them in a bunch,’ Sam said. ‘I’m already juggling two cases.’

By now, Tim was thoroughly pissed off with both of them. ‘I understood I’d be working directly with you, ma’am.’

‘I can’t help that,’ Carol said sweetly. ‘You’ll have access to me when it’s necessary, but Sam knows what’s going on. Except when he doesn’t and then he knows who does.’

‘We hope,’ Sam added.

‘I’m not used to—’

‘As I understand it, you’re not used to anything,’ Carol said. ‘I’m sure you checked us out before you came up here, Tim. Because I did the same thing. And I know this is your first time in the field.’

‘That doesn’t mean—’

‘No, it doesn’t mean you don’t have valuable insights to offer us. But you’re here on our terms, not yours. I run the game here, not you. Are we clear on that?’

He felt like an impotent ten-year-old being ticked off by his mother. Which was really unfair because this woman definitely wasn’t old enough to be his mother. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said. Even to his own ears it sounded insincere.

‘So when will you have something for me?’

‘Since I’ve already had a chance to digest so much of the investigative material, I should have a prelim for you later today.’ Now he was on familiar territory, he could feel his confidence overpowering his anger.

‘Let’s say five o’clock back here, unless you hear otherwise. Sam, fix Tim up with a driver. Where do you want to work? We’ve booked you a hotel room. You can work there, or we can find you a desk somewhere in the building. It’s up to you.’

He hadn’t even thought about it. He’d presumed he would be here, at the nerve centre of the operation. ‘What about here?’

Carol looked surprised. ‘Sure. I don’t see why not. I just thought you’d prefer . . . There’s a couple of spare desks. I’ll see you later.’

She’d turned back to her computer monitor before he and Sam had left the room. ‘She seemed surprised I want to work here,’ Tim said, following Sam to a desk in the furthest corner of the room.

‘The profiler we usually work with always writes his profiles in his own office,’ Sam said, off hand. ‘He can’t think in here, he says. Too chaotic.’

‘Who do you usually work with?’ Tim asked.

‘Dr Hill. Tony Hill.’

The freaky little fuck who thought Tim needed more empathy. Great. ‘I know him,’ he said.

‘Great guy,’ Sam said. ‘He’s been a real asset to the team.’

If he was that great, how come they’d chosen a newbie over him, then? Obviously Dr Hill had screwed up somehow and ended up being dumped. ‘I’ll do my best to fill his shoes,’ he said.

Sam’s face broke into a grin that carved deep lines round his mouth. ‘Apart from anything else, you’re about a foot taller than Tony. You’d look bloody silly in his shoes. Just make yourself at home here, I’ll sort out a minder for you.’ He walked over to one of the other desks and picked up the phone.

Tim took out the pad where he’d started to make notes for his profile. So far, nothing had really turned out the way he’d expected. Now he needed to stamp his authority on the area of this investigation where he could make an impact. Carol Jordan had made it clear he wasn’t high on her respect totem pole. If anyone could help them crack this case, it was Tim Parker. It was time to show DCI Ma’am he wasn’t someone to be taken lightly.

Tony yawned his way downstairs and into the kitchen. The effect of the Worcester house clearly only worked when he was actually there. It had gone one o’clock when he’d reached Bradfield but not even the drive or the late hour had been enough to provoke the sort of deep and even sleep he’d experienced the night before. He put the coffee on and parked himself in a kitchen chair. Sitting on top of the usual clutter on the table was the slim chrome recorder he’d brought back from the narrowboat. He’d picked it up and put it down half a hundred times. He’d checked the contents - one audio file - but he hadn’t attempted to listen to it.

The other new addition to the pile was a large manila envelope. Its contents were the result of a search of Arthur Blythe’s desk. Tony rested his fingertips on the envelope and considered it. ‘Coffee first,’ he said aloud. As he fussed with the milk steamer, he wondered where Carol was. Not surprisingly, her flat had been dark when he’d come home. He’d hoped they could get together for coffee this morning, but then he’d heard her car engine in the drive about half an hour before. Either something had landed on her plate at work or she was heading up to the Yorkshire dales to spend the day with her brother Michael and his partner. She’d mentioned the other day that she owed them a visit. It was a shame she wasn’t around. She’d have been fascinated by the contents of the envelope, he was certain.

Coffee to hand he sat down again and emptied the envelope on the table. The urge to compare Arthur’s features to his had sent him back to the house after he’d finished the profile and dealt with Patterson’s questions. In spite of his own dissatisfaction with the work he’d done, the West Mercia detective seemed happy enough. Maybe he’d heard about the events of yesterday morning and he was just eager to get Tony off his patch.

A quick walk through the house had confirmed what Tony had thought. There were no photographs on display anywhere. Arthur wasn’t a man who needed to show off his encounters with celebrity or prove he’d stood in front of the seven wonders of the world. But surely there must be something somewhere, even if it was only a passport or a driving licence?

The obvious place to begin the search was the study. And the starting point had to be the desk. Which of course was locked. Tony studied the bunch of keys he’d been given by the lawyer, but none of them looked as if they would fit the little brass locks in the drawers of the battered and scarred desk. He threw himself into the old wooden swivel chair, spinning himself round in irritation. ‘Where would you keep the desk keys?’ he shouted. ‘Where would you put them, Arthur?’

On the third circuit, he saw them. On a shelf, sitting on top of the books. Obscured by the shelf above if you were standing up, but perfectly visible if you were sitting on the chair. Hidden in plain sight, as in all the best detective novels. Which, Tony noticed, were well represented on the study shelves. Reginald Hill, Ken Follett and Thomas Harris, predictably enough. But also, surprisingly, Charles Willeford, Ken Bruen and James Sallis. No women except for Patricia Highsmith, though. He reached for the keys and started with the top left-hand drawer.

The second drawer on the right was the first to yield anything that wasn’t stationery or bank statements. An old chocolate box sat on top of a pile of paper wallets from photo-processing companies layered with the sort of formal folders you got at weddings and awards ceremonies. Tony opened the chocolate box and found a treasure trove of personal information. Here was Arthur’s birth certificate; cancelled passports; graduation certificate from the college in Huddersfield; a certificate saying he had passed his silver medal in rescue and personal survival at Sowerby Bridge Public Baths; and other gems from which he could construct elements of a life. It was surprisingly moving.

Tony closed the box and placed it on top of the desk. Nobody but him would find meaning in this. He lifted out the bundle of photographs and turned them over, thinking that would bring the oldest to the surface. The first wallet contained twelve deckle-edged prints, a mere two and a half inches by four. Various adults held a baby in their arms, all looking immensely proud. Tony turned them over: Mum with Edmund aged twelve weeks; Dad with Edmund; Gran with Edmund; Uncle Arthur with Edmund. He replaced the photos and carried on. He wasn’t that interested in the baby pictures. They didn’t show what he wanted to see.

He sifted through school photos and the occasional family holiday roll of film, charting Arthur’s progress through childhood. There weren’t many photos of Tony as a child, but he thought he detected similarities. Something about the shape of the head, the cast of the eyes, the line of the jaw.

It seemed to him the resemblance grew through adolescence and hit its strongest point in Arthur’s graduation photo. Sitting there holding his scroll, he looked like Tony’s more relaxed brother. The likeness was striking. But after that, their faces diverged rather than coming closer with age. It was like watching a demonstration of quantum physics or the road less travelled by. The map of his father’s face unfurled over sixty years and told a story of what Tony himself might have been had his experiences been different.

He’d spent a long time with the photographs, just letting them sink in. Thinking about nothing, not feeling much either. Simply accepting them into his consciousness. At last, he selected a dozen or so, from the formal presentation of some golf trophy to a casual shot of three men sitting round a pub table, glasses raised in a toast. Something concrete to have by him. And maybe to show Carol.

And now she wasn’t here to share them with. Well, there would be time for that later, if he was still in a sharing mood.

Tony got up to refill his coffee and turned on the radio as he passed it. The teeth-jarring ident of Bradfield Sound filled the room, the precursor to the news. The announcer’s voice stepped on the tail of the jingle. ‘And on the hour, all you need to know. News from Bradfield Sound, your local information station. Police have confirmed that the body found on Bickerslow Moor was that of missing teenager Seth Viner. Seth was last seen after school on Wednesday. He was supposed to be at a friend’s house for a sleepover but he never made it. Seth is the second Bradfield teen to be found dead in a remote location in the past week. Detective Chief Inspector Carol Jordan, the commander of the city’s Major Incident Team, spoke about these terrible murders to Bradfield Sound.’

And then that voice he knew as well as his own. ‘We believe that both Seth Viner and Daniel Morrison were murdered by the same person,’ she said, her voice carefully modulated to suggest respect for the dead as well as the urgency of her investigation. ‘Our deepest sympathy goes out to their families and friends. We’re asking everyone in Bradfield to think back very carefully over the last few days to see if you remember seeing Daniel or Seth on the days they disappeared. We need your help.’

Back to the announcer, who sounded far too chipper for his subject. ‘DCI Jordan also issued a warning to young people and their parents.’

Carol again. ‘We believe the killer may have made contact with both Seth and Daniel via a social-networking internet site. We urge young people and their parents to be vigilant. Make sure the people you are interacting with are who they say they are. And if you’ve got any doubts at all, block their contact with you and get in touch with Bradfield Police.’ She rattled off the number for the contact line.

That explained why she had taken off at the crack of dawn. A double murder inquiry didn’t leave a lot of time for sleep. Or anything else. She had her ticking clock now, just like Patterson and Ambrose. But still, he was surprised she hadn’t been in touch. OK, Blake wasn’t prepared to pay for his help. But she was his friend. She should know by now she could count on him.

So why the silence?

He didn’t have the chance to wonder for long. The doorbell rang, cutting across his brooding. To his surprise, he found Sam Evans on his doorstep, half-turned away from the door as if he wasn’t that bothered about getting an answer. Tony couldn’t help his spirits lifting. At last, a way in to whatever Carol was up to. ‘Nice to see you, Sam,’ he said, stepping back to let him walk inside.

As usual, Sam didn’t beat around the bush. He’d barely made it as far as the living room before he spoke. ‘I need your help,’ he said.

Tony shrugged. ‘I thought you lot couldn’t afford me any more.’

Sam snorted. ‘In my book, we can’t not afford you. But they’ve sent us some pillock from the National Faculty instead. Tim Parker.’ Tony couldn’t keep the dismay from his face. Sam grunted. ‘I see you know him. So you’ll know he’s a balloon. And I’m not dealing with the likes of him on this case. You know what we need most of all right now, don’t you?’

Another man might have felt intimidated by Sam’s vehemence. But Tony knew him well enough to read it as the bluster of a man who sees his dream under threat. ‘You need results,’ he said calmly, sitting down and adopting a relaxed pose. No need to let Sam see how mutual the need was. ‘You need to show James Blake that your way of doing things is the best way.’

‘Exactly. And that’s why I’m here. I need your help. I need some ideas about a line of questioning.’

‘I’m presuming Carol doesn’t know you’re here?’

Sam gave him a look. ‘DCI Jordan doesn’t have to know about it. Here’s what I know, Doc. This team is DCI Jordan’s life. Without it, she’d struggle.’ His mouth twisted in a dark smile. ‘And without DCI Jordan, you’d struggle.’ He perched on the arm of a chair like a big bird ready for the off at the first threat.

Tony couldn’t deny the discomfort Sam’s truth provoked in him. ‘So you’re appealing to my self-interest?’

Sam shrugged. ‘I’ve always found it a good place to start.’

‘Carol won’t like you sharing live case details with me.’

Sam frowned. ‘Who said anything about a live case? What I want to ask you about is a cold case.’

Tony tried to hide his disappointment. ‘You’re not working on the murdered boys?’

‘Well, yeah. Obviously. But I’ve got a cold case coming to the boil so I’m juggling, you know? And I’m struggling. Struggling and juggling. You know how it is.’

Tony couldn’t remember Sam ever acknowledging that he needed help. Given his ambition and drive, Tony reckoned he was only here today because it was off the books and eminently deniable. Still, a favour to Sam might pay off down the line. ‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’ he said.

It didn’t take long. Sam had always had the knack of pulling out the key points in an investigation and ordering them logically. ‘So you see my problem,’ he said. ‘I’ve no physical evidence of murder. And I’ve nothing apart from the computer to link Nigel Barnes to the death of his wife, his daughter and Harry Sim. Not to mention that I’ve no idea how Harry Sim fits into the picture.’ He slapped his hands on his thighs in frustration.

‘Harry Sim’s the easy part,’ Tony said, enjoying Sam’s irritated frown. ‘He’s Nigel Barnes’s get-out-of-jail-free card.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Tony settled deeper into his chair, comfortable and confident as he only ever was when he was navigating other minds. ‘If we know one thing about Nigel Barnes, it’s that he’s a planner. He figured it all out ahead of time. A meticulous man would make sure he already had his escape route in place before he started. And that’s exactly what Harry Sim was.’

Sam made a sharp sound of frustration. ‘I don’t understand. How is Harry Sim a get-out-of-jail-free card?’

‘Here’s what will happen when you confront Nigel Barnes with the discovery of the bodies in the lake. There’ll be some story about his wife leaving him and him going after her and finding the three of them dead in some sort of bizarre suicide pact. And he panicked because he thought he’d be blamed, so he got rid of the bodies. And by chance, it so happened that the disposal method he chose destroyed all forensic traces but left enough behind for us to identify the bodies. How very fortunate that Harry happened to have a credit card on him. I bet if you check back, it was Nigel Barnes who provided those dental records too.’ As he spoke, Sam’s aggravation grew more obvious.

‘Fuck,’ he exploded. ‘So how the hell do I nail him?’

‘He’ll wriggle out of the computer. He’ll talk about finding out she was having an affair and fantasising about what he was going to do about it,’ Tony said with conviction. ‘So all you’re left with is his word against the circumstantial evidence.’

‘I realise that. How do I break him down, Tony? You’re the one who gets under their skin. What’s going to blow Nigel Barnes apart?’

Tony leaned forward, the adrenalin fizz of the chase buzzing in his blood. ‘You’ve got one chance, and one chance only . . .’