Fever of the Bone

CHAPTER 2

Carol could tell John Brandon was winding up. His sad blood-hound face was more animated than she’d ever seen it in working hours, and his beloved Maggie was at his side, wearing the indulgent smile Carol had often seen at the family’s dinner table when Brandon had been shaking a subject like a terrier with a rabbit. She swapped her empty glass for a full one from a passing waitress and started to head back to the alcove where she’d left Tony. His expression would have been better suited to a funeral, but she couldn’t claim to have had higher expectations. She was aware he thought events like this were an empty waste of time and for him she supposed they might be. She knew that where she was concerned it was a different matter.

’ It wasn’t catching criminals that made the world go round in modern policing. It was politics, just as it was in any big organisation. Once upon a time, a night like this would have been an excuse for a no-holds-barred piss-up, complete with strippers. These days, it was about contacts, connections, conversations that couldn’t happen in the nick. She didn’t like it any more than Tony, but she had a certain gift for it. If this was what it took to make sure she kept her place in the unofficial hierarchy, she’d grin and bear it.

A hand on her arm made her stop and turn. Detective Constable Paula McIntyre from her team inclined her head towards Carol’s ear. ‘He’s just arrived,’ she said.

Carol didn’t have to ask who ‘he’ was. John Brandon’s replacement was known by name and reputation, but because he came from the other end of the country, nobody in Bradfield had much first-hand information about him. There weren’t many officers who transferred from Devon & Cornwall to Bradfield. Why would you want to swap a relatively quiet life in a pretty tourist area for the constant attrition that was policing in a post-industrial northern city with eye-watering rates of violent crime involving guns and knives? Unless of course you were an ambitious copper who thought it would be a good career move to run the country’s fourth-largest police force. Carol imagined the word ‘challenge’ had featured more than once in James Blake’s interview for Chief Constable. Her eyes scanned the room. ‘Where?’

Paula looked over her shoulder. ‘He was giving out to the ACC Crime a minute ago, but he’s moved on. Sorry, chief.’

‘Never mind. Thanks for the tip-off.’ Carol raised her glass in a salute and carried on towards Tony. By the time she’d worked her way through the crowd, her glass was empty again. ‘I need another drink,’ she said, leaning against the wall beside him.

‘That’s your fourth glass,’ he pointed out, not unkindly.

‘Who’s counting?’

‘I am, obviously.’

‘You’re my friend, not my shrink.’ Carol’s voice was icy.

‘That’s why I’m suggesting you might be drinking too much. If I was your shrink, I wouldn’t be nearly so judgemental. I’d be leaving it up to you.’

‘Look, I’m fine, Tony. There was a time after . . . I admit there was a time when I was drinking too much. But I’m back in control again. OK?’

Tony held up his hands, palm out, placatory. ‘Your choice.’

Carol sighed deeply and put her empty glass on the table next to his. He was maddening when he was this reasonable. It wasn’t as if she was the only one who disliked having the fucked-up aspects of her life dragged out into the light of day. See how he likes it. She smiled sweetly. ‘Shall we go outside for a breath of fresh air, then?’

His smile was puzzled. ‘OK, if you want.’

‘I’ve found out some stuff about your father. Let’s go somewhere we can talk properly.’ She watched his smile shift to a rueful grimace. The identity of Tony’s father had only come to light after his death, thanks to his decision to leave his estate to the son he’d never known. Carol knew very well that Tony was at best ambivalent about Edmund Arthur Blythe. He was as keen to talk about his recently discovered father as she was to discuss her putative dependence on alcohol.

‘Touché. Let me get you another drink.’ As he picked up the glasses, his path was blocked by a man who emerged from the press of bodies and stood four square before them.

Carol gave him her routine assessing stare. Years ago, she’d developed the habit of forming mental descriptions of people who crossed her path, assembling a picture in words as if it was destined for a ‘wanted’ poster or a police artist. This man was short for a police officer, burly without being fat. He was neatly barbered, the white line of a side parting dividing the light brown hair. His skin was the ruddy pink and white of a foxhunter from the shires, hazel eyes nested in fine lines that indicated late forties or early fifties. A small bulb of a nose, full lips, and a chin like a ping-pong ball; he had an air of authority that wouldn’t have seemed out of place in an ancient Tory grandee.

She was also well aware that she was coming under the same acute scrutiny. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Jordan,’ he said. A rich baritone with a faint race memory of West Country speech. ‘I’m James Blake. Your new Chief Constable.’ He thrust a hand out for Carol to shake. It was warm, broad and dry as paper.

Just like his smile. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir,’ Carol said. Blake’s eyes never left her face, and she had to break away from his gaze to introduce Tony. ‘This is Dr Tony Hill. He works with us from time to time.’

Blake glanced at Tony and inclined his chin in passing acknowledgement. ‘I wanted to take this opportunity to break the ice. I’m very impressed with what I’ve heard of your work. I’m going to be making changes round here, and your bailiwick is one of my priorities. I’d like to see you tomorrow morning at ten thirty in my office.’

‘Of course,’ Carol said. ‘I look forward to it.’

‘Good. That’s settled, then. Till tomorrow, Chief Inspector.’ He turned and shouldered his way back through the crowd.

‘Extraordinary,’ Tony said. It might have meant any of a dozen things, all of which would have been equally valid. And not all of them insulting.

‘Did he really say “bailiwick”?’

‘Bailiwick,’ Tony said weakly.

‘That drink? I really need it now. Let’s get out of here. I’ve got a very nice bottle of Sancerre in the fridge.’

Tony stared after Blake. ‘You know that cliché about being afraid, very afraid? I think this might be a good time to wheel it out.’

The Family Liaison Officer, Shami Patel, explained that she’d recently transferred from the neighbouring West Midlands force, which explained why Patterson didn’t know her. He’d rather have had someone who was familiar with the way he worked. It was always tough to deal with the family of murder victims; their grief made them react in unpredictable and often hostile ways. This case would be doubly difficult. Partly because the sexual homicide of a teenager was an emotional horror in itself. But in this case, there was the added difficulty posed by the time frame.

They sheltered from the rain in Patterson’s car while he briefed her. ‘We’ve got more problems than usual with this case,’ he said.

‘Innocent victim,’ Patel said succinctly.

‘It goes beyond that.’ He ran his fingers through his silver curls. ‘Usually, there’s a gap between somebody like this going missing and us finding the body. We’ve got time to get background from the family, information about the missing person’s movements. People are desperate to help because they want to believe there’s a chance of finding the kid.’ He shook his head. ‘Not this time.’

‘I’m with you,’ Patel said. ‘They’ve not even got used to the idea of her being missing and we’re walking in to tell them she’s dead. They’re going to be devastated.’

Patterson nodded. ‘And please don’t think I’m not sympathetic to that. But for me, the difficulty is that they’re not going to be in a fit state to interview.’ He sighed. ‘The first twenty-four hours of a murder inquiry, that’s when we need to make progress.’

‘Have we got a note of what Mrs Maidment said when she reported Jennifer missing?’

It was a good question. Patterson extracted his BlackBerry from his inside pocket, found his reading glasses and pulled up the email Ambrose had forwarded from the duty officer who had taken Tania Maidment’s phone call. ‘She phoned it in rather than come down to the station,’ he said, reading from the small screen. ‘She didn’t want to leave the house empty in case Jennifer came back and found herself locked out. Jennifer had a key but her mother didn’t know whether she’d have it with her. Mother hadn’t seen her since she left for school in the morning . . .’ He scrolled down. ‘She was supposed to be going to a friend’s house for tea and homework, should have been back by eight, no problem because her and her pal often did that at one house or the other. Mum cut her a bit of slack, rang the friend’s house at quarter past. The friend hadn’t seen her since the end of school, no arrangement for tea or homework. Jennifer hadn’t said anything about any plans other than going to the Co-op then heading home. And that’s when Mrs Maidment calls us.’

‘I so hope we took her seriously,’ Patel said.

‘Thankfully, we did. DC Billings took a description and circulated it to all units. That’s how we identified the body so quickly. Let’s see . . . Age fourteen, 165 centimetres, slim build, shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes, pierced ears with plain gold sleepers. Wearing Worcester Girls’ High uniform - white blouse, bottle green cardigan, skirt and blazer. Black tights and boots. She had a black mac over her uniform.’ To himself, he added, ‘That’s not at the crime scene.’

‘Is she an only child?’ Patel asked.

‘No idea. No idea where Mr Maidment is either. Like I said, it’s a bitch, this one.’ He sent a quick text to Ambrose, instructing him to interview the friend Jennifer had claimed to be with, then closed down the BlackBerry and rolled his shoulders inside his coat. ‘We ready?’

They braved the rain and walked up the path of the Maidments’ family home, a three-storey Edwardian brick semi fronted by a well-tended garden. The lights were on inside, the curtains pulled wide open. The two cops could see the sort of living room and dining room that neither of them could afford, all gleaming surfaces, rich fabrics and the kind of pictures you didn’t find in IKEA. Patterson’s finger had barely hit the bell push when the door swung open.

The state of the woman on the doorstep would have provoked a reaction in any other circumstances. But Patterson had seen enough frantic mothers to be unsurprised by the wild hair, the smudged eye make-up, the bitten lips and the tight clench of the jaw. As she took in the pair of them with their hangdog faces, her puffy eyes widened. One hand went to her mouth, the other to her breast. ‘Oh God,’ she said, her voice tremulous with the tears that were about to come again.

‘Mrs Maidment? I’m Detective Chief Inspector—’

The rank told Tania Maidment what she didn’t want to know. Her wail cut Patterson off in mid-introduction. She staggered and would have fallen had he not moved rapidly towards her, an arm round her slumped shoulders, letting her collapse into him. He half-carried her into the house, DC Patel at their heels.

By the time he lowered her into the plump living-room sofa, Tania Maidment was shaking like a woman on the edge of hypothermia. ‘No, no, no,’ she kept saying through chattering teeth.

‘I’m so sorry. We’ve found a body we believe to be your daughter, Jennifer,’ Patterson said, casting a desperate glance at Patel.

She picked up his cue and sat down by the distraught woman, taking her freezing hands in her own warm ones. ‘Is there someone we can call?’ she said. ‘Someone who can be with you?’

Mrs Maidment shook her head, jerky but clear. ‘No, no, no.’ Then she gulped air as if she was drowning. ‘Her dad . . . He’s due back tomorrow. From India. He’s already flying. He doesn’t even know she’s missing.’ Then the tears came with a terrible storm of guttural sobs. Patterson had never felt more pointless.

He waited for the first barrage of grief to lessen. It seemed to last a hellish length of time. Eventually, Jennifer’s mother ran out of energy. Patel, keeping her arm round the woman’s shoulders, nodded almost imperceptibly at him. ‘Mrs Maidment, we’re going to need to take a look at Jennifer’s room,’ Patterson said. Heartless, he knew. There would be a forensic team there soon to strip the place properly, but he wanted first dibs on the dead girl’s private space. Besides, the mother might be in bits now, but it wasn’t unusual for parents to leap to the realisation that there might be elements of their children’s lives they didn’t want the world to know about. It wasn’t that they wanted to impede the investigation, more that they didn’t always understand the importance of things they considered irrelevant. Patterson didn’t want that to happen here.

Without waiting for a response, he slipped out of the room and headed upstairs. Patterson thought you could gauge a lot about the condition of family life from its environment. As he climbed, he made his own judgements about Jennifer Maidment’s home. There was a gloss to the place that spoke of money, but it lacked the sterility of obsession. A splay of opened mail was scattered on the hall table, a pair of discarded gloves lay on the shelf above the radiator, the vase of flowers on the windowsill of the half-landing needed winnowing.

Five closed doors faced him as he reached the first floor. A home where privacy was respected, then. First came the master suite, then a family bathroom, then a study. All in darkness, not giving many of their secrets away. The fourth door revealed what he was looking for. He breathed in the scent of Jennifer Maidment’s life for a moment before turning on the light - peach sweetness with a note of citrus scored through it.

It felt disarmingly similar to his daughter’s room. If he’d had the money to let Lily have her head, he suspected she’d have ended up choosing the same sort of pink and white and pastel décor and furniture. Posters of boy bands and girl bands, dressing table a jumble of attempts at getting the make-up right, a small bookcase with novels he’d seen lying around his own living room. He assumed the pair of doors in the far wall led to a walk-in wardrobe which would be crammed with a mix of practical and fashionable items. Time enough for the SOCOs to go through all that. What he was interested in was the dressing table and the small desk tucked into one corner.

Patterson snapped a pair of latex gloves over his hands and started to work his way through the drawers. Bras and pants, fussy and frilly but pitiful in their essential innocence. Tights, a few pairs of socks rolled into tight balls, concealing nothing. Camisoles and spaghetti-strapped tops, T-shirts rendered improbably skinny by lycra. Cheap earrings, bracelets, pendants and necklaces arranged neatly in a tray. A bundle of old Christmas and birthday cards that Patterson scooped up and put to one side. Someone would need to go through those with Mrs Maidment when she was able to focus on something beyond her grief.

Nothing else caught his interest so he moved to the desk. The must-have Apple laptop was closed, but Patterson could see from the indicator light that it was hibernating rather than turned off. The latest iPod was connected to the computer, its headphones in a tangled bundle next to it. Patterson unplugged the computer from the mains, wrote an evidence receipt for it and tucked it under his arm. A quick glance round the room to confirm that he hadn’t missed anything obvious, then he went back downstairs.

Mrs Maidment had stopped crying. She sat upright, eyes on the floor, hands clenched in her lap, tears still glistening on her cheeks. Without lifting her eyes, she said, ‘I don’t understand how this could happen.’

‘None of us does,’ Patterson said.

‘Jennifer doesn’t lie about where she’s going,’ she said, her voice dulled and thickened by pain. ‘I know everybody thinks their kids don’t lie, but Jennifer really doesn’t. Her and Claire, they do everything together. They’re always here or at Claire’s house or out together. I don’t understand.’

Patel patted Mrs Maidment’s shoulder. ‘We’ll find out, Tania. We’ll find out what happened to Jennifer.’

Patterson wished he had her confidence. Heartsick and weary, he sat down and prepared to ask questions he suspected would mostly be in vain. Still, they had to be asked. And the answers weighed for truth and lies. Because there would be both. There always was.