Dead Scared

‘SINISTER HOW?’ I asked Joesbury.

‘Dr Oliver believes there is – and I’m reading directly from notes now – a subversive subculture of glamorizing the suicidal act,’ said Joesbury. ‘She thinks these kids, backed up by an online network, are egging each other on.’

‘People said that about Bridgend,’ I said.

‘Always very difficult to prove,’ said Joesbury. ‘But there are documented cases of suicide pacts, of people meeting, usually online, and deciding to end it all together. They give each other the courage to go through with it.’

I nodded. I’d read about such cases from time to time.

‘More disturbing,’ Joesbury went on, ‘is a trend of what I can only call bottom-feeders accessing websites and chat rooms specifically to find depressed and vulnerable people. They strike up friendships, pretend to be concerned, but all the while they’re pushing them towards topping themselves. And there are websites where suicidal people go to talk to like-minded others, discuss which methods are most effective, get a bit of courage together for when they finally take the plunge.’ Joesbury looked down at his notes again. ‘Dr Oliver calls it negative reinforcement,’ he said, ‘sometimes deliberate and malicious, of self-destructive urges.’

‘She sounds a laugh a minute,’ I said.

‘Dana tells me she’s a bit of a babe,’ said Joesbury, with a smile I could cheerfully have slapped off him.

‘So assuming I agree,’ I said, ‘what exactly will I be investigating?’

‘You won’t be investigating as such,’ said Joesbury. ‘At this stage it doesn’t merit a full investigation. Your job will be to spend some time with this Dr Oliver, let her know we’re taking her seriously.’

‘So I’m a token gesture to keep her happy?’ I interrupted.

‘Not entirely. We also need you to immerse yourself in student life and report back on anything out of the ordinary. You’ll pay particular attention to the online websites and chat rooms that fly around the Fenland ether. You’ll be our eyes on the inside.’

I was silent for a second or two.

‘We need you to be the sort of student who might be thinking about suicide,’ Joesbury went on. ‘Needy, a bit vulnerable, prone to depression. We also want you to get yourself noticed, so you need to step it up a bit with the appearance. Good-looking fruitcake. That’s what we want.’

‘So, absolutely nothing suspicious came up at Bryony’s post-mortem?’ I asked, more because I was playing for time than because I needed to know right there and then.

‘There hasn’t been one.’

I waited while Joesbury flicked through the stack of photographs, pulled one out and turned it to face me. It showed a figure lying on a hospital bed, beneath a transparent tent, grotesquely swollen and so completely enveloped in dressings it resembled an Egyptian mummy. Both arms were stretched out from her body at right angles. A spaghetti-like mass of wires and tubes seemed to be growing out of her.

‘She’s still alive?’ I said, without the faintest idea why that should be so much worse, only knowing that it was.

‘This was taken twenty-four hours after she was admitted,’ said Joesbury. ‘Nobody really expected her to survive. Three weeks on, she’s managed to fight off infection, avoid going into shock and hasn’t suffered respiratory collapse. She may even recover. How much she’ll be able to tell us though is a moot point. Her tongue was burned away.’

Not a lot you can say to that. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Read the file,’ he replied. ‘Think about it. Dana wants you to call her. She’ll be trying to talk you out of it.’

I looked up. ‘Will you be going?’ I asked. ‘To Cambridge, I mean.’

Turquoise eyes narrowed. ‘Not necessary at this stage,’ he said. ‘I’ll be popping in and out to keep an eye on you, but 90 per cent of the fieldwork will be down to you.’

It was how SO10 worked. Junior officers were sent into situations first, often for a year or more, to gather intelligence and report back. As a clearer picture emerged, the heavier guns got deployed.

‘Can you see me as an eccentric don?’ Joesbury was saying. ‘Bow tie and tweeds? Long flowing gown? Untidy wig?’

With his muscular frame and scarred face, Joesbury always reminded me of a half-tamed thug. He was smiling at me again. It was always the smile that was hardest to deal with. Better by far just not to look at it. Better to leave now. Business was done. On the table, the file had been closed, its contents hidden from view. The orange wig was a few inches away from me.

‘It’s very soft,’ said Joesbury. ‘Want to stroke it?’

I raised my eyes. ‘What are we talking about exactly?’

His grin got even wider. ‘God, I’ve missed you,’ he said.

Silence. Still staring at each other across the table. I really had to go.

‘Want to get some dinner?’ he asked me.

So now it could be a date.

‘Actually, I have plans.’ I looked at my watch. ‘I should get going.’

Joesbury leaned back on his chair, his grin gone. His right hand reached up and he began to rub the scar at his temple. ‘Would the plans include a trip across town to Camden, by any chance?’

When I’d first met Joesbury, Camden had been where I’d gone most Friday evenings. To meet men. I hadn’t been near the place since a certain night last October. And my plans for the evening were a Chinese takeaway and an early night with a Lee Child paperback.

‘Something like that.’ I got to my feet. ‘I’ll get back to you over the weekend.’

He watched me pick up my bag and slip the file into it. I let my eyes fall to the right side of his chest, to the exact spot that, last time I’d seen him, had been soaked in blood.

‘I’m glad you’re OK,’ I said. And left.