Fever of the Bone

CHAPTER 33

It wasn’t a house or an office. It was a back-street garage tucked away at the end of a cul-de-sac which was also home to a craft bakery and a vegan café. Even though it was Sunday, a compact, muscular man with blond cropped hair and oil-stained overalls was respraying the wing of an elderly Ford Fiesta. He didn’t stop what he was doing till the unmarked car came to a halt a few feet from him. Then he turned off his spray gun and gave them a challenging look. ‘What is it, then? A hit and run?’

‘Are you Warren Davy?’ Ambrose asked.

The man tilted his head back and laughed. ‘That’s a good one. No, mate. I’m not Warren. What do you want with him?’

‘That’s between us and Mr Davy,’ Ambrose said. ‘And you are?’

‘I’m Bill Carr.’ A smile lit up his blunt features. ‘Carr by name, car by trade. Get it?’

‘And what’s your connection to Warren Davy?’

‘Who says there’s a connection?’

‘DVLA. Warren Davy’s Toyota Verso is registered to this address.’

Carr’s face cleared. ‘Right. Now I get it. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but you won’t find Warren here.’

‘You’re going to have to give me a bit more than that,’ Ambrose said. ‘We’re here on a serious matter. It’s not the sort of thing where you want to be caught out obstructing the police, believe me.’

Carr looked startled. ‘OK, OK.’ He put the spray gun down and stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m his cousin. Warren uses this place as an address for deliveries and stuff. That’s all.’

‘Why would he do that?’ Ambrose didn’t have time for finesse. He wanted answers and he was determined not to let this bodyshop monkey play games with him. Almost without thinking he moved a step forward, right on the edge of Carr’s personal space.

Carr seemed unaffected by the move. ‘Simple, mate. His place is out in the middle of nowhere. He got fed up with missing deliveries when him and Diane were out in the data-storage building, so he started using this place as a mailing address. I’m always here, see? And I’ve got plenty of space to store stuff. When something gets dropped off, I phone them and one of them comes into town to collect it.’

‘Fair enough.’ Ambrose was inclined to believe him. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘Warren? A couple of weeks ago. But Diane’s been in two or three times in the past week. She said he’d been out of town. Nothing unusual in that, you understand. They’ve got clients all over the place.’

‘Clients for what?’

‘They do internet security, data storage - whatever that involves. It’s all double Dutch to me.’

The hair on Ambrose’s arms twitched erect. This was starting to sound like a serious prospect. ‘So where can I find your cousin Warren?’ he asked, casual as he could manage.

Carr wheeled around and made for an office cubicle carved out of a corner of the workshop. ‘They’re out on the edge of the moors,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I’ll give you the address, but you’ll need directions as well.’

Ambrose stepped smartly after him. ‘If it’s all the same to you, Mr Carr, I’d prefer it if you came with us, to show us the way.’

Carr gave him a baffled look. ‘Like I said, I’ll give you directions. ‘

Ambrose shook his head, a gentle smile on his face. ‘You see, Mr Carr, this is a bit complicated. Like I said, this is a serious business. What I don’t want to happen is for you to call your cousin the minute we walk out of here. I don’t want you to tell him there’s a couple of police officers coming out to his place to talk to him about his car. Because, you see, Mr Carr, I don’t want your cousin Warren deciding to leg it before I have the chance of a chat with him.’

There was a hard edge to Ambrose’s voice that only a fool would have chosen to ignore. It dawned on Carr that his best option was to give in with good grace. He spread his hands. ‘I can see how you might feel like that. And I appreciate you not threatening me. I tell you what: why don’t you come with me in my car and your lass here can drive behind us in your car? That way, I can shoot off when we get there and Warren doesn’t have to know it was me that dobbed him in.’

‘Are you frightened of your cousin, Mr Carr?’

Carr did the head tilt and laugh again. ‘Are you kidding? I’m not scared. Don’t you get it? I like Warren. He’s a good bloke. I don’t want him to feel like I let him down, you berk.’ For the first time, Carr sounded annoyed. ‘I know I’d feel pissed off if someone brought the cops to my door.’

Ambrose examined the suggestion and could find no fault with it. Carr seemed both co-operative and harmless. Apart from his discomfort at the notion of someone bringing the cops to his door, which wasn’t necessarily a sign of guilt. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Lead the way, Mr Carr.’

It had started as an experiment years ago, but now it had become part of the armoury Tony used to crawl inside the labyrinth of a killer’s mind. He set up two chairs opposite each other, each illuminated by a single cone of light. He would sit in one chair as himself and pose the question. Then he’d physically get up and sit in the other chair to grope for a possible answer. Now, having assimilated as much as he could from the files, this was where he had to go.

Elbows on knees, chin on his fists, he sat staring at the empty chair facing him. ‘This isn’t about pleasure, is it?’

Then he got up and crossed to the other chair, where he sprawled, legs apart, arms draped over the sides of the armchair. A long pause, then in a different tone, much darker than his usual light tenor, he said, ‘No. It’s a mission.’

Back to the first chair. ‘A mission to achieve what?’

‘The end of the line.’

‘The end of whose line? It’s not random, is it?’

‘No, it’s not random. You just don’t know the link yet.’

‘I don’t, but you do. And there’s no room for doubt, is there?’

‘No. I take my time, I make sure they’re the right one.’

Back in his own chair, Tony folded his arms. ‘Why do you care?’

This time, the pause in what he thought of as the killer’s chair was longer. He tried to let the dark draw him into a place where these killings made sense. ‘I don’t want them to breed.’

‘So you’re killing them before they can get round to having kids of their own?’

‘That’s part of it.’

‘It’s all about them being the last in their line? That’s why they’re all only children?’

‘That’s right.’

Tony returned to his own chair, at a loss where to go next with this. He felt he was on the edge of grasping something, but it kept slipping from his reach. He went back to the victims, summoning their images up before his eyes, struck again by the underlying resemblance. ‘They all look like you did,’ he said softly. ‘That’s why you choose them. You’ve made your victims in your own image.’

Into the other chair. ‘So what if I have?’

‘You’re killing your own image.’ He shook his own head, not getting it. ‘But most serial killers want immortality. They want reputation. You’re doing the opposite. You want to obliterate yourself but for some reason, you’re getting rid of kids who look like you rather than killing yourself.’ It was baffling. And yet he felt he’d made some sort of a breakthrough. It was often the way with these dialogues. He didn’t know how he did it or why it worked, but it seemed to free up some subconscious understanding.

Tony couldn’t see how this latest insight would help them find the killer. But he knew that, when they did, it might be the key to breaking him. And for Tony, finding out why was at least as important as finding out who.

It was late in the afternoon when Bill Carr drew up in the middle of nowhere. Ambrose was taken aback by the emptiness of the landscape. It had only been ten minutes since they’d left the margins of the city behind, but out here on the edge of the rolling moors, it was as if Manchester didn’t exist. Drystone walls bordered the narrow road. Behind them were slopes of rough pasture where sheep browsed uncuriously. The fields were broken up by dense stands of Forestry Commission conifers. They hadn’t passed another vehicle since they’d turned off the minor road before this one. ‘I don’t get it,’ Ambrose said. ‘Where’s the house?’

Carr pointed ahead, where the road disappeared almost immediately round a tight bend. ‘It’s a mile up the road. As soon as you come round the bend, their security cameras pick you up. There’s no CCTV for miles on these roads, but Warren and Diane have their own setup. They’re paranoid about security. It’s what their clients are paying for, I suppose. So this is where I leave you to it. Just head on up the road. You’ll see the fence. There’s a pull-in by the gate. You have to use the intercom.’

Ambrose checked the wing mirror to make sure his escort was behind them, then got out. He leaned back into the van. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘Just don’t mention it to Warren, OK?’ Carr looked momentarily anxious but the cloud passed.

Ambrose wondered if his cousin paid Carr for his mailbox service. If he did, that might go a long way to explaining why he was so nervous about bringing them out here. ‘I’ll keep you out of it,’ he said. He’d barely closed the door when Carr threw the car into a sharp turn and headed back towards Manchester. Ambrose watched him go then got into the car.

‘Straight on,’ he said. ‘There’s a gate up ahead on the left.’

It was just as Carr had described. The road swung round the corner and a line of trees gave way to a two-metre-high chain-link fence behind the wall. A camera was mounted on its corner, with others visible along the perimeter. Behind the fence there was more coarse moorland grass which grew right up to a cluster of traditional grey stone buildings. As they grew closer, Ambrose identified the farmhouse and two big barns. Even from the road, he could see that one barn had steel doors and extractor units on the roof. They pulled off in the gateway where a sign simply said, ‘DPS’ and identified themselves over the intercom.

‘Hold your ID out of the window so the camera can pick them up,’ a crackly voice said. Ambrose handed over his warrant card and the aide brandished them at the lens. One gate swung open and they drove inside. A woman emerged from the steel doors, which swished shut behind her. She waved them over to the farmhouse and joined them as they got out of the car.

Ambrose sized her up as he introduced them. Somewhere around forty, five five or six, slim and wiry. The kind of sallow skin that would tan well. Dark hair brushing her shoulders. Brown eyes, button nose, thin-lipped mouth, dimples that were starting to turn into deep lines. Black jeans, tight black hoodie, black cowboy boots. A pair of glasses hanging round her neck on a fine silver chain. Right from the off, she seemed to be buzzing with energy. ‘I’m Diane Patrick,’ she said. ‘Half of DPS. Which stands for Davy Patrick Security or Data Protection Services, depending on how I’m planning to pitch you.’ She smiled. ‘How can I help you, officers?’

‘You take your security pretty seriously,’ Ambrose said, wanting to play for a little bit of time. Sometimes his gut instinct told him to ease into things, not go straight to the point.

‘We wouldn’t be a very effective data-storage facility if we didn’t,’ she said. ‘Is this to do with one of our clients? Because I should warn you, we take the Data Protection Act very seriously here.’

‘Can we talk inside?’

She shrugged. ‘Sure, come on in.’ She unlocked the door and led the way into a typical farmhouse kitchen. An Aga, scrubbed pine worktops, a big table in the middle of the room with half a dozen matching chairs. Money had been spent here, but not recently. It had the comfortable, lived-in feel of a home rather than a showpiece. The table was littered with magazines and newspapers. A webbook sat open in front of one of the chairs, an open packet of chocolate digestives next to it. Diane Patrick’s boot-heels rang out on the quarry-tiled floor as she made for the kettle sitting on the range. She put the kettle on to boil and turned to face them, her arms folded over her small breasts.

‘We’re looking for Warren Davy,’ Ambrose said, scanning the room and taking in every detail.

‘He’s not here,’ she said.

‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’

‘I don’t. He’s in Malta, setting up a new system for a client. He’ll be there as long as it takes.’

Ambrose was disappointed. ‘When did he leave?’

‘He flew out of Manchester a week last Friday,’ she said, puzzlement drawing a pair of lines between her brows. ‘Why are you looking for him? Is there a problem with one of our clients? Because if it is, I can maybe help.’

‘It’s to do with his car,’ he said.

‘What about his car? Has it been stolen? He always leaves it in the long-term parking at the airport.’

‘We just need to ask him some questions about his whereabouts a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Why? Was he involved in an accident? He never said anything to me.’

‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather wait till I can discuss it with Mr Davy.’ It was clear from his tone that there was no room for discussion.

She shrugged. ‘Since you’ve come all the way out here, the least I can do is offer you something to drink.’

Both officers opted for tea. While she brewed, Ambrose took the opportunity to ask her about the business.

‘There’s two parts to it, really,’ she said absently, as if she’d gone through it so many times she could do it on autopilot. ‘We set up on-site security systems for our customers. Sometimes, like Warren’s doing in Malta, we literally build the kit for them. But most of what we do is about providing secure off-site data storage. Companies can either upload their data to our secure servers at preset times every day or every week, depending on their needs. Or they can opt for the Rolls-Royce option, which is a real-time back-up of every keystroke on the system. That way, if their building burns down, they don’t lose a thing.’ She poured boiling water into the pot and replaced the lid.

‘Is that what’s out in the barn?’ Ambrose asked.

She nodded. ‘That’s our storage facility. The walls are two feet thick. No windows, steel doors. The actual servers and the data blades in their chassis are held inside a climate-controlled inner room with reinforced glass walls. Only Warren and I can gain entry.’

‘You’re really not kidding, are you?’

‘Absolutely not.’ She handed them each a mug of tea and sipped from her own.

‘Can we see it?’

Diane bit her lip. ‘We generally don’t let people in. Even clients only see it when they first sign up for the service.’

Ambrose gave her his best smile. ‘We’re not going to misbehave. We’re the police, after all. It’s just that I’ve never seen anything like that before.’

‘I don’t know. Warren’s pretty strict about it.’

Ambrose spread his hands. ‘Warren’s not here, though. Go on, satisfy my curiosity. I’m just a big kid, really.’ He wasn’t sure why he was so keen to see inside the data-storage barn. But her reluctance only sharpened his curiosity.

She sighed and dumped her mug on the table. ‘Oh, all right. But you have to leave your tea here. No liquids in the control area.’ Having decided, she didn’t hang about, bustling out of the house and across the yard.

Ambrose watched keenly as Diane placed her finger on a glass plate in the lee of the doorway. ‘How does it work?’ he said. ‘Is it fingerprints?’

‘No, it’s vein pattern analysis. Apparently, it’s as unique as a fingerprint but the beauty of it is that it only works if it’s still attached to a blood supply. In other words, you can’t just chop off my finger and use that to get in, the way you can with fingerprints. ‘ The door slid open and they followed her into a mantrap that was barely big enough for all three of them. They emerged in a small control room where half a dozen monitors continuously scrolled data past their eyes. Lights blinked and twinkled around them.

Beyond the monitors, a glass wall separated them from twenty metal towers, each of which had between a dozen and twenty dark red plastic handles protruding from them. ‘Every one of those data blades holds more than a terabyte of data. Which is bigger than I can readily explain to you,’ Diane said.

Ambrose was taken aback. ‘It’s amazing.’

‘Especially if your only experience of computers is desktop and laptop systems,’ Diane agreed, her voice softening. ‘It’s a bit like something out of Dr Who or James Bond - a fantasy come to life.’

Ambrose gave a little laugh. ‘I don’t even know what questions to ask.’

‘Most people don’t. Come on, let’s go and finish our tea while it’s still hot.’

Back in the kitchen, Ambrose asked for details of the client in Malta.

For the first time since they’d arrived, Diane Patrick looked discomfited. ‘I don’t actually know.’

‘That seems kind of strange to me,’ Ambrose said.

‘I can see why you might think that. But mostly we each have our own clients. We only bother with the details of the other’s accounts when for some reason we have to deal with them. Like this last week. I’ve had to make a couple of site visits to one of Warren’s clients because he’s out of the country and they’ve needed something physical taken care of. So Warren asked me to step into the breach, the same way I’d ask him if I was off the grid.’

‘So you’ve been in touch with Warren?’

She looked as if she was puzzled by the question. ‘Of course I have. He’s my partner. I mean, he’s my partner partner as well as my business partner. We email several times a day, and we skype.’

Now it was Ambrose’s turn to look puzzled.

‘It’s a way of making phone calls via the internet,’ she said. ‘It’s cheaper than using your mobile to make international calls.’

‘Are you expecting to hear from him later today?’ Ambrose said.

‘I would think so.’ She seemed to brighten at the thought. ‘Do you want me to get him to call you?’

Ambrose took a card from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to her. ‘My mobile’s on there.’

‘West Mercia Police,’ she said. ‘I didn’t register that before. You’re a long way from home. It must be serious if you’ve come all the way up here.’

It didn’t surprise him that she was on the ball. You didn’t get to own an operation like this without an eye for detail. ‘It’s just routine,’ he said, not expecting it to fool her for a moment. ‘We take all crimes seriously.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ she said drily. ‘Well, I’ll pass your details on to Warren and tell him to get in touch.’

It was clearly a dismissal. They put down their mugs and headed back to the car. ‘What do you think?’ his driver asked as they drew out of the gate.

‘I think it’s very interesting that Warren Davy’s out there in the wind somewhere. Right off his usual patch. And with all the cyber-capability he’s got at his fingertips . . .’ He turned to look at the farm receding in the distance. ‘. . . Frankly, I’m wondering if he ever went to Malta.’