The Retribution (32 page)

‘How long will she be like that?’ Paula asked.

‘It’s difficult to say. A few days at least. Possibly longer.’ He sighed. ‘There’s nothing more I can tell you. You should probably go home and get some rest. There’s unlikely to be any change soon.’

He turned to leave, then looked back at them. ‘Your friend is facing a long and difficult road back to anything approaching normal life. She’s going to need you then a lot more than she needs you now.’ The door swung shut behind him.

‘Fuck,’ Kevin said. ‘Did you ever see that documentary about Katie Piper, the model who had acid thrown in her face?’

‘No.’

‘I wouldn’t recommend you watch it any time soon.’ His voice cracked and suddenly the room was filled with the sound of his sobs. Paula took him in her arms and together they stood in the grim little room and cried for everything that had been lost.

It wasn’t the first time Carol had broken the news of a child’s death. But it was definitely the worst. There was something profoundly wrong about being the one to deliver such catastrophic grief to your own parents’ door. But it was still better than having a stranger play that role, even though she knew her mother would never be able to open the door to her again without remembering that terrible moment.

‘Michael’s dead,’ Carol said again. She wondered if she’d ever be able to say it without feeling a physical ache in her chest. David Jordan staggered, grabbing at a frail hall table which tottered under his hand. Her mother was still making that hellish sound.

Carol tried to move out of the doorway but it was hard to manoeuvre. To her surprise, Alice Flowers eased her way past them in spite of her bulk, supporting Jane from behind and allowing Carol to come in and close the door. Between them they half-dragged, half-carried Jane into the living room and laid her on a sofa.

David followed them, bemused and lost. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘How can Michael be dead? I had an email from him this morning. There must be some mistake, Carol.’

‘Dad, there’s no mistake.’ She left Alice holding her mother on the sofa and went to her father. She put her arms around him, but he was as stiff as he’d always been in the face of any emotion from the female members of his family. David had been a great dad when it came to having fun or being stuck with your maths homework. But he’d never been the one you went to in any kind of emotional state. Yet still she clung to him, dimly aware that he’d grown thin, a pale imitation of his more vigorous self.
How did that happen without me noticing it?
An endless expanse of time seemed to pass. Finally, Carol let her father go. ‘I need a drink,’ she said. ‘We all do.’

She went to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of whisky and three tumblers. She poured a stiff measure into each glass then emptied one in a single gulp. She refilled it, then handed one to her father, who stood looking at it as if he’d never seen a drink before.

Carol sat down next to the whisky. ‘It wasn’t a car accident, Mum. Michael was murdered. And so was Lucy.’ Her voice rose at the end of the sentence and she could feel tears at the back of her throat. She’d been holding herself together all day and now she was starting to come apart. She supposed it was something to do with being with her parents. Even though she was the one taking the adult role, she couldn’t help slipping into her natural position in the emotional hierarchy.

Jane shook her head. ‘That can’t be right, dear. Michael didn’t have an enemy in the world. You must be confused.’

‘I know it’s hard to take in, but Carol’s right.’ Alice Flowers demonstrated why she was an FLO with the gentle firmness of her tone.

‘What happened?’ David asked abruptly, slumping down on the nearest chair. He tried to drink his whisky but it chattered against his teeth and he lowered the glass again. ‘Was it a burglar? Someone trying to break in?’

Alice Flowers took over again. ‘We believe someone broke in, yes. It may have been an escaped prisoner.’

Jane struggled upright, frowning. ‘The one on the TV? That terrible Vance man? Him?’

‘It’s possible,’ Alice said. ‘Officers are still examining the scene. It’s early days. We will keep you informed, of course.’

‘Vance?’ Jane turned an accusing glare on Carol. ‘You arrested that man. You sent him to prison. This isn’t just some random attack, is it? This is because of you and your job.’

‘This is not Carol’s fault, Mrs Jordan,’ Alice said. ‘This is the fault of the man who attacked your son and his partner.’

‘She’s right, Jane,’ David said, his voice dull and toneless.

‘Believe me, Mum, I’d have done anything for this not to happen. I’d have taken a bullet for Michael. You know that.’ Carol couldn’t stop the tears now. They streamed from her eyes, running down her face and dripping from her chin.

‘But he’s the one that’s dead.’ Jane folded her arms across her chest and began rocking to and fro. ‘My beautiful boy. My Michael. My beautiful, beautiful boy.’

And so it had gone. Grief, recriminations, tears and whisky had circled round each other all night. Carol had finally crawled into bed just after three, so tired she could scarcely undress. Alice Flowers had promised to remain till morning, when she’d be relieved by a colleague. She understood Carol’s fear that Vance might not stop at her brother.

Carol lay stiffly under the covers of a bed she’d only slept in half a dozen times. She was afraid to close her eyes, afraid of the images her mind would project if she let down her guard. In the end, exhaustion won out and she crumpled into sleep in a matter of seconds.

She woke just after eight with a dull headache and a panicky fear of the silence in the house. She lay for a few minutes trying to pull herself into some sort of shape to face the day, then dragged herself upright. She sat on the edge of the bed, head in her hands, wondering how in the name of God she could carry on with her job, her life, her parents. Alice Flowers was wrong. Michael’s death was her fault. The responsibility lay squarely at her door. She had not protected him. It was as simple as that.

Jane barely lifted her head. Listless, she said, ‘You know best. You always do.’

‘Can’t you stay?’ David said. ‘You should be here with us. You shouldn’t be among strangers, not when you’re grieving. We need you here, your mum and me.’

‘I’ll be back,’ Carol said. ‘But I can’t settle while the man who killed Michael is free. Finding killers is what I’m best at. I can’t just sit here, I’ll go mad.’ She crossed to her mother and gave her an awkward hug. She smelled of whisky and sour sweat, like a stranger. ‘I love you, Mum.’

Jane sighed. ‘I love you too, Carol.’ The words felt dragged from her lips.

Carol withdrew and crouched by her father’s chair. ‘Take care of Mum,’ she said. He patted her shoulder, nodding. ‘I love you, Dad.’ Then she stood up and gestured with her head to Alice.

On the doorstep, she straightened up and reached for the familiar persona of Detective Chief Inspector Carol Jordan. It felt as if it was on a very high shelf. ‘I don’t want them left alone,’ Carol said. ‘Vance is out there, taking revenge on the team that put him away. I’m not convinced he’s finished with me yet. So they need to be guarded as well as supported. Is that clear?’

Alice gave her a solemn look. ‘We’ll take good care of them for you. Can I ask where you’ll be?’

‘I’m going to Worcester. That’s where the search for Vance is being coordinated. That’s where I need to be.’
And God help Tony Hill if he crosses my path.

He’d never been given to self-pity, which he reckoned was just as well, given how much there was about his life that was so pitiful. Even now, he wasn’t sorry for himself. Anger was at the heart of it, with disgust running a close second. Obviously the ultimate blame lay with Vance. He was the killer, the arsonist, the wrecker of lives. But Tony should have seen what was coming. Not once but twice he’d failed to figure out what Vance would do next. It was no excuse to point to the enormity of what Vance had done, to try to hide behind the fact that his actions were off the scale of extreme. Tony was trained and paid to have insight into men like Vance, to work out what made them tick and to stop them doing what they lived for.

Most people, when they fucked up at work, it wasn’t a big deal. But when he fucked up at work, it cost people their lives. He felt physically sick at the thought of Vance out there somewhere, making his next carefully planned move in his sadistic campaign. The longer this went on, the clearer it was to Tony that he’d been right about one thing at least – Vance was working to a set schedule that had been in place well before he’d made his jailbreak.

After Ambrose had dragged him away from the fire the night before, he’d made Tony sit down and drink sweet tea in the back of an ambulance. He’d stayed with him while the firefighters subdued the blaze. He’d put an arm round Tony’s shoulders when the roof timbers had collapsed with a rending crash. He hadn’t raised an eyebrow when Tony had laid the crime at Vance’s door. And he’d made notes when Tony finally composed himself enough to run through the thoughts that had occurred to him on the drive down to Worcester.

Then he’d got Paula’s message and understood the full scope of his failure to do his job properly. Vance seemed intent on taking from them everything that mattered. There were two paths he could go down in response to that. He could give in to the pain and the loss, walk away and spend the rest of his life unfulfilled and regretful. Or he could scream, ‘Fuck you!’ at the heavens and get back to stopping men like Vance. Tony reminded himself that there had been years before Carol came into his life, even more years before the house had been part of him. He’d lived well enough in that wilderness. He could do it again.

Tony drained his mug and got to his feet. Like the man said, when you ain’t got nothing, you got nothing to lose.