The Wire in the Blood (33 page)

It wasn’t difficult to spot the sports stadium and leisure-centre complex. Spotlit against the dark Malvern Hills, it was visible for miles from the motorway. Once he’d turned off on to minor roads and a rash of mini-roundabouts, however, Tony was glad he’d called in advance for directions. The centre was too recently built for most locals to know where it was, so the anonymous voice that had given explicit guidance over the phone was clearly used to the process.

As it turned out, he’d have arrived safely if he’d simply followed any other car heading in the same direction. The car park was already crowded when he reached it, and he had to park a few hundred yards away from the main entrance with its banner proclaiming, ‘Grand Opening Gala—with Special Guests Jacko Vance and Stars from the England Squad’. Footballers for the lads, Jacko for the women, he thought as he walked briskly across the Tarmac, grateful for the bulk of the stadium acting as a buffer against the chill night wind.

He joined the throng of eager people thrusting through the turnstiles, casting a practised eye along the staff checking tickets. He chose a middle-aged woman who looked competent and motherly, and squeezed through the press of bodies to present himself at her window. He slipped his Home Office credentials out of his pocket and showed them to her, arranging his face into a rueful, harried expression. ‘Dr Hill, Home Office, sports research group. I was supposed to have a VIP pass, but it didn’t arrive. I don’t suppose…?’

The woman frowned momentarily. She gave him a swift appraisal, reckoning whether he was up to something, realizing the queue behind him was building up, finally deciding it was someone else’s problem if he was, she pressed the release button to let him through. ‘You want the directors’ suite. Round to the right, second floor.’

Tony let the natural movement of the crowd carry him forward into the vast echoing area under the grandstand, then edged to one side to study the giant map of the stadium cunningly laid out on the underside of the tiered seating. Whoever had designed it had been aware of the three-dimensional surface it would be reproduced on, and it somehow managed to be clear from whatever angle it was viewed. According to the programme he’d just bought, there would be live music in the main arena, followed by a demonstration five-aside football match featuring England squad players, then an Irish dance spectacular. For those who had shelled out an extra fifty pounds or won one of the contests run by the local TV, radio and newspapers, there would be a chance to meet the celebrities. And that was where he needed to be.

He slid through the crowd, calculating his moves so he upset no one on his route to the executive lift. The lobby was cordoned off with heavy crimson ropes. A security guard wearing a belt loaded with enough equipment to stock a hardware store stared balefully out from under a cap worn low like a guardsman. Tony knew it was nothing more than bravado. He flashed his credentials at the guard, moving purposefully as if the last thing he expected was to be challenged. The man took a step backwards and said, ‘Wait a minute.’

Tony was already at the lift, pressing the call button. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Home Office. We like to turn up when they least expect us. Got to keep an eye on things, you know.’ He winked and stepped into the car. ‘Don’t want another Hillsborough, do we?’ The doors slid closed on the bemused face of the guard.

After that, it was easy. Out of the lifts, down the hall, in through the open double doors, a glass of something straw-coloured and fizzy from the nearest waistcoated flunkey and he was established. Tony took in the long windows that ran the length of the opposite wall, looking down on the all-weather pitch. He could just see a team of majorettes strutting their stuff down below. A thin crowd bunched around the edges of the room. At the far end, over by the window, Jacko Vance stood at the centre of a cluster of middle-aged women and a few men. His hair gleamed in the refracted light from the spotlights over the pitch, his eyes shone in the soft lighting of the executive suite. Even though he’d already glad-handed his way through two charity appearances that day, his body language was still warm, welcoming, his smile treating everyone as a welcome equal. He looked like a god dealing with his worshippers without condescension. Tony gave a thin smile. The third event since he’d gone out on the prowl for Jacko, and every time he’d struck gold. It was almost as if there were a connection, an invisible fibre optic linking the hunter and the prey. This time, though, he’d make certain those roles were never reversed. Once had been enough for that.

Tony moved to one side and made his way up the room, using the legitimate guests as cover. After a few minutes, he had travelled the length of the room, occupying a corner opposite Vance but slightly behind him. His eyes moved regularly from side to side, scanning the area immediately around the TV star, never lingering for long, but never leaving Vance unattended for more than a moment.

He didn’t have long to wait. A young woman with slicked back blonde hair, John Lennon glasses and a scarlet cupid’s bow bounced into the room clutching a bag emblazoned with
SHOUT! FM
, checking over her shoulder to see that her charges were still firmly in tow. Following in a ragged line came three adolescent girls overdressed and overpainted, a couple of youths with more spots than charm and an elderly woman whose hair was so rigidly set it appeared the rollers were still bound into it. Three paces behind slouched a nerd in a gilet with a dozen bulging pockets, a pair of battered SLR cameras hanging negligently round his neck. The winners of some moronic phone-in competition, Tony guessed. He could think of one question they wouldn’t have been asked: How many teenagers has Jacko Vance murdered? It would take a year or two after he’d finished his work for that to filter down into the trivia quiz books.

The bouncy blonde approached where Vance was holding court. Tony could see Vance look up at her then dismissively abandon her for the middle-aged woman in the turquoise sari he’d been charming previously. The blonde lunged through the inner circle round Jacko, only to be headed off by the woman Tony had noticed running interference for Jacko the first time he’d staked him out. Their heads huddled together, then the PA nodded and touched Vance on the elbow. As he turned, his professional gaze slid round the room and caught Tony. The sweep of his eyes paused momentarily, then continued, nothing else in his expression changing.

The blonde’s competition winners were ushered into the presence of their idol. He smiled down on them, charm personified. He chatted, signed autographs, shook hands, pecked cheeks and posed for photographs. Every thirty seconds, his eyes lost their focus and glanced unerringly at where Tony stood leaning against the wall, sipping fake champagne, his pose and his expression reeking assurance and confidence.

As the competition winners reached the end of their audience, Tony moved away from his vantage point and headed for the little group, still standing near Vance, their expressions ranging from ecstasy to an affected nonchalance, depending on how cool they felt the need to be. All bonhomie, Tony insinuated himself into their group, his expression a model of openness and geniality. ‘I’m sorry to butt in on you,’ he said. ‘But I think you might be able to help me. My name’s Tony Hill and I’m a psychological profiler. You know how stars like Jacko are always being plagued by stalkers? Well, I’m working with a team of crack police officers on ways to find out who those stalkers are before they start causing real problems. What we’re trying to do is to come up with a psychological profile of the perfect fan, the good supporter. Someone like you, the sort of fan any celebrity would be glad to have on their side. We need to do this so we can get what’s called a control profile. All we need is a short interview with you. Half an hour, tops. We come to your place or you come to us, we pay you £25, and you get the comfort of knowing you might have stopped the next Mark Chapman.’ He loved the way their faces always changed when he mentioned the money.

Tony took out the pre-printed name and address slips from his inside pocket. ‘How about it? Painless anonymous questionnaire, you help us save a life and you earn yourself £25. Just fill in your name and address on one of these and one of my researchers will be in touch.’ Out came the handsome embossed National Offender Profiling Task Force business cards. ‘This is who I am.’ He handed them out. By now, all except one of the youths had their hands out for a form. ‘There we go,’ he said, providing them with pens.

He looked across at Vance. His face was still smiling, his mouth forming words, his hands patting an elbow here, a shoulder there. But his eyes were on Tony; dark, questioning, hostile.

The house was nothing special, Simon thought as he parked the car. A three-bedroomed dormer bungalow on a thirty-year-old development that was well on course to disprove the adage that life begins at forty. She’d have done a lot better if she and Jacko had stayed together. She certainly wouldn’t have ended up in a town like Wellingborough where a night out at the DIY superstore was most people’s idea of a good time.

He was amazed at the speed with which Carol Jordan had come up with Jillie Woodrow’s whereabouts, particularly since she was three years into her second marriage. ‘Don’t ask,’ Carol had said when he’d complimented her, admitting it would have taken him days to make that much progress. He remembered Tony Hill mentioning something to Carol about her brother in the computer industry and wondered if their shoestring task force had just added data burglary to its irregularities.

He sat in the car and looked across the narrow street at the house belonging to Jillie and Jeff Lewis. It looked spick and span and relentlessly suburban with its perfectly trimmed lawn and borders filled with neatly equidistant hebes and heathers. There was a year-old Metro on the drive and net curtains across the picture window. If Jillie Lewis’s attention had been caught by the sound of his engine, she could be watching him and he’d have no idea at all.

This was almost certainly going to be the most crucial interview of his career to date, Simon thought, gearing himself up for the task. He had no clear idea of what he was going to ask, but if Jillie Lewis had information that would nail Jacko Vance for the murder of Shaz Bowman, he was determined to prise it out of her, one way or another. He hadn’t had the chance to find out whether he would ever have been allowed to owe Shaz more than a colleague would. But even that was more than debt enough for him. Simon got out of the car and pulled on the jacket of his Marks and Spencer suit. Straightening his tie and his shoulders, he took a deep breath and walked up the path.

The door opened seconds after his ring, stopped short by a flimsy chain that he could have been past in seconds if he’d had a mind to. For a brief, mad moment, he wondered whether this was the cleaner or the nanny. The woman who faced him across the doorstep bore no superficial resemblance to the old newspaper photographs of Jillie Woodrow, nor to the teenage girls on the missing list. Her hair was a streaked blonde urchin cut rather than the dark bob he’d expected, and she’d lost every vestige of puppy fat, being skinny to the point where, if he were her husband, Simon would be surreptitiously reading up on anorexia. He was about to make his apologies when he recognized the eyes. The expression had hardened, there were lines starting to show at the edges, but these were Jillie Woodrow’s dark blue soulful eyes. ‘Mrs Lewis?’ he asked.

The woman nodded. ‘Who are you?’ Simon presented his warrant card and she gasped, ‘Jeff?’

Quickly Simon reassured her. ‘It’s nothing to do with your husband. I’m currently attached to a special investigations unit in Leeds, but my home force is Strathclyde. I don’t have any local connection.’

‘Leeds? I’ve never been to Leeds.’ When she frowned, discontent was written across her face like an advertising hoarding.

Simon smiled. ‘Lucky you. There have been times lately when I’ve wished I could say the same thing. Mrs Lewis, this is a very awkward situation and it would be a lot easier for me to explain it inside with a cup of coffee than it is on the doorstep. Can I come in?’

She looked uncertain, making a show of checking her watch. ‘I’m supposed to be at work,’ she said, carefully not saying when.

‘I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important,’ Simon said, his apologetic smile displaying the charm that had been one of the assets that had taken him this far in his career.

‘I suppose you’d better come in, then,’ she said, slipping the chain off and stepping back. He walked into a hall that looked as if it belonged to a show house. Spotless, tasteless and immaculate, it led into a kitchen that no one appeared ever to have cooked in. Jillie led the way and gestured to the circular table crammed into one corner. ‘You better have a seat,’ she muttered as she picked up a kettle, dark green to match the tiles along the splashback of the sink. ‘Coffee, then?’

‘Please,’ Simon said, wedging himself behind the table. ‘Milk, no sugar.’

‘I suppose you think you’re sweet enough,’ Jillie said sourly, taking a jar of cheap instant from the cupboard and spooning it into two china mugs. ‘I suppose this is something to do with Jacko Vance, is it?’

Simon tried not to reveal how taken aback he was. ‘What makes you say that?’

Jillie turned and leaned against the worktop, crossing her jean-clad legs and folding her arms protectively over her chest. ‘What else would it be? Jeff’s an honest hard-working salesman, I’m a part-time data processor. We don’t know any criminals. The only thing I’ve ever done that anybody outside these four walls would be interested in was being Jacko Vance’s girlfriend. The only person I’ve ever had anything to do with who would interest some special investigation unit is Jacko bloody Vance, come back to flaming haunt me again.’ It was a defiant outburst and she concluded it by turning her back on him and managing to make vicious the act of pouring two coffees.

Not quite sure where to go next, Simon said, ‘I’m sorry. It’s clearly a sensitive subject.’

Jillie dumped the coffee in front of him. Given the pristine kitchen, he was surprised she didn’t run for a cloth when it slopped on the pine tabletop. Instead, she retreated back against the worktop, clutching her coffee like a child with a hot-water bottle. ‘I’ve got nothing to say about Jacko Vance. You’ve had a wasted journey from Leeds. Still, I suppose you get good mileage since it’s the taxpayers that foot the bill and not some skinflint company.’