The Wire in the Blood (44 page)

At least the discomfort kept her awake. There was a kind of spiteful pride in Di’s determination to stay on the job. She was as convinced as Tommy Taylor that these stakeouts were a total waste of time and money, but she reckoned there were more subtle and effective ways of demonstrating that to the powers that be than skiving off. She knew her sergeant well enough by now to have a pretty shrewd idea of how he was passing the weary hours as night crawled relentlessly towards dawn. If Carol Jordan found out, he’d be back in uniform so fast he wouldn’t know what had hit him. CID was such a gossip factory, she was bound to find out sooner or later. If not on this job, then on another, perhaps one that actually counted.

Di wouldn’t dream of doing anything so obvious to undermine Jordan’s authority. More in sorrow than in anger, that would be her line. The pitying smiles behind Jordan’s back, the back-stabbing, ‘I shouldn’t really say this, but…’ at every opportunity. Make it look like every cock-up emanated from Jordan’s orders, every success from the troops’ initiatives. There was almost nothing as destructive as constant undermining. She should know. She’d experienced plenty of it in her years with the East Yorkshire Police.

She yawned. Nothing was going to happen. Alan Brinkley was tucked up in bed with his wife inside their pretentious modern box on a so-called executive development with ideas above its station. Never mind that it would be easier to keep clean and maintained, Di preferred her little trawlerman’s terraced cottage down by the old docks, even though they were now a tourist trap heritage centre. She loved the cobbled streets and the salt on the air, the sense that generations of Yorkshirewomen had stood on those doorsteps and scanned the horizon for their men. She should be so lucky, she thought with a moment’s self-hatred.

She checked her watch against the clock on the dashboard. In the ten minutes that had passed since she’d last done it, the two had managed to remain precisely five seconds out of sync. Yawning, she switched on her small portable radio. Hopefully the phone-in she personally called prole-speak would be over and the DJ would be playing some decent sounds. Just as Gloria Gaynor stridently revealed that as long as she knew how to love, she knew she’d stay alive, soft light abruptly appeared behind the four frosted glass panels of the mock-Georgian fanlight in the Brinkleys’ front door. Di grabbed the steering wheel tightly and sat up hurriedly. Was this it? Or was it insomnia pushing someone towards a cup of tea?

Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the light vanished. Di slumped back with a sigh, then from under the garage door, a thin rope of brightness stretched across the driveway. Startled, she punched the off button on the radio and wound down the car window, letting the raw night air flood her airways and sharpen her senses. Yes, there it was. The unmistakable cough of a car engine.

Within moments, the garage door shuddered upwards and the car rolled forward on to the drive. It was Brinkley’s car, no mistake. Or rather, it was the car on which Brinkley had only ever paid three hire-purchase instalments and which would be snatched back just as soon as the repo men figured out how to grab it without actually breaking into Brinkley’s garage. As she watched, Brinkley himself got out of the car and walked back to the garage, reaching inside presumably to hit the button that closed the door behind him.

‘Oh boy,’ Di Earnshaw said, winding up her window. She pressed the record button on her personal microcassette recorder and said excitedly, ‘Alan Brinkley is now leaving his home by car at one twenty-seven a.m.’ Dropping the tape machine on the seat beside her, she grabbed the personal radio that was meant to keep her in close touch with Tommy Taylor. ‘This is Tango Charlie. Tango Alpha, do you read me? Over.’ She started her engine, careful to avoid the reflex of turning on her lights. Brinkley had pulled off the drive now and was driving out of the cul-de-sac, signalling a right turn. She eased her foot off the clutch, still driving without lights, and picked him up on the winding avenue that ran through the housing development and out to the main road.

She clicked the radio as she drove, repeating her message to her sergeant. ‘Tango Charlie to Tango Alpha. Subject on the move, do you read me? Tango Alpha, do you read me? Over.’ At the main road, Brinkley turned left. She counted to five, then switched on her lights and turned after him. He was heading for the city centre three miles away, keeping his speed steady, just above the limit. Not so careful he’d be pulled on suspicion of over-cautious drunk driving, not so fast he’d attract a tug for speeding. ‘Tango Charlie to Tango Alpha.’ She swore silently at her errant boss. She needed back-up and he wasn’t there. She thought about calling in to control, but they’d only send a troop of patrol cars that would scare off any arsonist for three counties.

‘Oh, shit,’ she complained as Brinkley turned off the main road into the dimly lit streets of a small industrial estate. It looked very much as if this was it. Turning off her lights again, she followed cautiously. As the high walls of the units closed around her, she decided she had to call for uniformed back-up. She turned up the volume on her police radio and picked up the mike. ‘Delta Three to control, over?’

There was a crackle of static, then nothing. Her heart sank as she realized she was in one of a handful of radio shadows that peppered the city centre. She might as well have been in a black hole for all the chance she had of raising back-up. There was nothing else for it. She was on her own.

Chapter 23

Donna Doyle no longer felt any pain. She was swimming through a warm soup of delirium, revisiting memories through a distorting lens. Her dad was still alive, alive and throwing her up into the air in the park where the trees waved at her. Their branches turned into arms and Donna was in the centre of a ring of friends playing party games. Everything was bigger than usual, because she was only six and things always loomed larger when you were little. The colours bled into each other and it was Well Dressing week, the carnival floats melting over the streets like jellies left out in the sun.

And there she was at the heart of the parade, on a dais in a pick-up truck covered in crepe-paper flowers that swelled big as cabbage roses in her fevered derangement. She was the Rose Princess, radiant in layers of stiff petticoat, the glory of the occasion cancelling out the discomfort of the itchy fabric on the warm summer afternoon and the plastic tiara cutting into the soft flesh behind her ears. Through the misty dislocation between dream and reality Donna wondered why the sun was burning with such tropical fervour that it made her sweat and then shiver.

Outside her consciousness, the swollen, discoloured meat that hung uselessly down by her side continued to decay, sending more poisons into her body, continually shifting the balance between toxicity and survival. The rotting stink and the corrupt flesh were only the outward signs of a deeper putrefaction.

Her eager body couldn’t wait for death to begin the business of decomposition.

Chapter 24

Getting out of the car to close the garage door, Alan Brinkley had noticed his breath puff white on the night air. It was a bitter one, all right. Winter was gripping tight. Just as well he’d got one earmarked that didn’t involve a long walk. The last thing he needed were fingers numbed with cold fumbling about their work. But there was nothing like a good fire to warm a man to the bone, he’d thought with an ironic smile as he revved the car engine to encourage the heater to deliver its scarlet promise of warmth.

His target was a specialist paint factory at the far end of a small industrial estate on the edge of town. For once, he could avoid the walk from his chosen parking spot because the unit next to his goal was a body shop. There were always half a dozen cars parked outside in varying stages of being resprayed or restored after an accident. One more wouldn’t be noticeable. Not that there was anyone to notice. He happened to know for a fact that the guard employed to patrol the estate was never there between two and three thirty. Brinkley had watched him often enough to know that the guy was a victim of greedy bosses. He had too many premises to protect and not enough time to keep an eye on them properly.

He turned into the narrow canyon between tall warehouses that led into the estate and nosed slowly down the access road that led to the body shop. He killed the engine and lights then double-checked that none of the items in his kit had slipped out of his pocket. They were all there: the string, the brass cigarette lighter smelling of petrol, the packet of seventeen cigarettes, the dog-eared book of matches, last night’s evening paper, his seven-bladed Swiss Army knife and a crumpled oil-stained handkerchief. He leaned across and took the small but powerful torch out of the glovebox. Three deep breaths with eyes closed and he was ready.

He got out of the car and glanced quickly around. His gaze swept over the cars surrounding the body shop. He saw without seeing the nose of a Vauxhall sitting in the shadow of a warehouse just on the curve of the access road. He failed to register that he hadn’t passed it moments before since there was no thrum of an engine or blur of lights to alert him. Certain there was nothing else moving in the landscape, he cut across the Tarmac apron to the paint factory. God, this was going to be one hell of a display, he thought with satisfaction. He wouldn’t mind betting that when this went, it would take one or two other buildings with it. Another couple of conflagrations like this and Jim Pendlebury was going to have to say, ‘Bugger the budget,’ and take him on full-time. It wouldn’t be enough even to pay off the interest on the debts he and Maureen seemed to have accumulated like fleas on a cat, but it would keep the creditors at bay while he could work out a way to get their heads above water once and for all.

Brinkley shook his head to clear away the clutter of worry and dread that engulfed him whenever he allowed their mountain of debt to cast its shadow over him. He couldn’t do this unless his mind was focused, and whenever he thought about the amount he owed, his head swam and he couldn’t imagine ever making it out the other side in one piece. He kept telling himself that what he was doing was the only way he had to survive. The dosser who had died had already given up on that struggle long before Brinkley had come on the scene. He would be different. He would survive. So now he had to stifle distractions and concentrate on achieving the right result without getting caught.

Getting caught would defeat the whole purpose. He’d never get the debts paid off then. Maureen would never forgive him getting caught.

Brinkley thrust his hand between the industrial-sized rubbish skip and the wall of the factory, his fingers closing on the bag he’d stowed there earlier. This time, the office window was his best bet for entry. The fact that it was wide open to the eyes of anyone who happened to walk or drive down the access road didn’t worry him. None of the units worked a night shift, the security guard wasn’t due for another hour and the paint factory was the last building before the dead end of a seven-foot security fence. Nobody would be taking a short cut down here.

It took less than five minutes to get inside, and only another seven for his practised hands to set his standard fuse. The cigarette smoke billowed upwards, to his nostrils the most fragrant aroma around, its sweetness mingling with the chemical smells of the paint that permeated the air of the factory. The paint would go up like a pillar of flame in the desert, Brinkley thought with satisfaction as he backed down the dark corridor, his eyes never leaving the smouldering fuse.

He felt behind him for the open doorway of the office where he’d come in. Instead of empty space, his fingers brushed against warm fabric. Startled, he whirled in his tracks and the glare of a torch hit his eyes like a thrown glass of wine. Blinded, he tried to blink the light away. He struggled to back through the doorway, but, disorientated, stumbled sideways into the wall. The light moved and he heard the door snick shut.

‘You’re fucking nicked,’ a woman’s voice said. ‘Alan Brinkley, I am arresting you on suspicion of arson…’

‘No!’ he roared like a cornered animal, throwing himself forward at the light. They collided and crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs and a crash of office furniture. The woman beneath him struggled and wriggled like a furious kitten, but he was heavier and stronger, his upper body developed through years of fire officer’s training.

She tried to hit him with the torch, but he easily fended off the blow with his shoulder, sending the light rolling across the floor where it came to rest against a filing cabinet, rocking slightly and throwing a seasick light on the struggle. He could see her face now, her mouth screwed open in a rictus of determination as she tried to break free. If he could see her, she could see him, his panicking mind screamed.

Getting caught would defeat the whole purpose. He’d never get the debts paid off then. Maureen would never forgive him getting caught.

He brought one knee up over her abdomen and leaned on it to crush the air from her lungs. He pushed his forearm against her throat, pinning her to the floor. As her tongue thrust out in a desperate fight for air, he grabbed her hair with his free hand and yanked her head forward against the brace of his forearm. He felt rather than heard something snap. Suddenly she was limp. The fight was over.

He fell away from her, curling on the floor in a foetal crouch. A sob rose in his throat. What had he done? He knew the answer well enough, but he had to repeat the question continually inside his head. He rolled on to his knees, head hanging like a disgraced dog. He couldn’t leave her there. They’d find her too soon. She needed to be somewhere else.

A groan dragged from his lips. He forced himself to touch flesh that already felt dead and cold in his imagination. Somehow he hauled the woman’s body over his shoulders in the traditional fireman’s lift. Staggering to his feet, he lurched through the doorway and back towards the seat of the fire. He carried on beyond the fuse that now smelled harsh, on to where cases of paint tins stood on pallets waiting to be loaded on lorries. The fire would burn hot here, leaving the forensic people little to go on. There would certainly be nothing left to connect him to her. He let the body fall loose-limbed to the floor.

Wiping tears from his eyes, Brinkley turned and ran into the welcoming cold of the night. How had it come to this? How had a few good times, a taste for the good life, brought him to this place? He wanted to fall to the ground and howl like a wolf. But he had to get to his feet, get to the car, answer his pager when it summoned him to the fire station. He had to get through this. Not for his sake but for Maureen’s.

Because getting caught would defeat the whole purpose. He’d never get the debts paid off then. Maureen would never forgive him getting caught.

‘Shouldn’t you be in Seaford?’ he’d asked.

‘I’ve got my phone with me. It’ll only take me half an hour longer on the motorway than it does from the cottage. And we need to sort out what we’ve got and what comes next.’

‘You’d better come in, then.’

It took Carol longer to read Tony’s report than he needed to scan the photographs and watch the videos she’d brought, but he didn’t mind that. He kept replaying the tape and shuffling the date-stamped photographs, a tight smile on his lips, fire in his eyes. Eventually, Carol reached the end. The look of complicity they shared told them both that they had been right, and now they could demonstrate a case that could no longer be ignored. ‘Good work, Doctor,’ Carol said.

‘Good work, Detective Chief Inspector,’ he echoed.

‘Vengeance is mine, saith the profiler.’

He bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘I wish I’d paid more attention when Shaz first raised it. Maybe we could have achieved this without such a high price then.’

Carol reached out impulsively and covered his hand with hers. ‘That’s ridiculous, Tony. No one would have mounted an investigation on the basis of what she came up with at that classroom session.’

‘I didn’t mean that, exactly.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I meant that I’m supposed to be a psychologist. I should have seen that she wasn’t going to let it go. I should have discussed it with her, made her feel that she wasn’t being discounted, explored ways we could have taken the matter further without putting her at risk.’

‘You might as well say it’s Chris Devine’s fault,’ Carol said briskly. ‘She knew Shaz was going to interview him and she let her go alone.’

‘And why do you think Chris is spending her valuable time off tearing round Northumberland with Leon and Simon? It’s not out of a sense of duty. It’s out of a sense of guilt.’

‘You can’t take responsibility for them all. Shaz was a copper. She should have considered the risk. There was no need for her to go in like she did, so even if you had tried to stop her, she probably wouldn’t have paid any attention. Let it go, Tony.’

He lifted his head and read the compassion in her eyes. He gave a rueful nod. ‘We need to go official on this now, if we’re going to avoid accusations that we’re as out of control as Shaz was.’

Carol slipped her hand away from his. ‘I’m glad you said that, because I’m starting to feel really edgy about uncovering hard evidence like this without any formal relationship to the investigation and no chain of custody on any of the physical evidence apart from “It was in my handbag, Guv.” I keep thinking about the defence counsel making mincement out of me on the witness stand. “And so, DCI Jordan, you expect the jury to believe that on this maverick quest for justice—that only you, as opposed to the entire West Yorkshire force, could conduct—you just happened upon the one piece of evidence that links my client to the murder of DC Bowman, a woman he met once for less than an hour? And what is it your brother does again, Ms Jordan? Computer wizard, would that be a fair description? The sort of whizz kid who can make a digital image say anything he wants it to say?” We need to get this under West Yorkshire’s umbrella so they can construct the case properly.’

‘I know. There comes a point where you have to stop playing at being the Lone Ranger and we’re there now. We need to cover your back as well. In the morning, I’ll go straight over to the murder room. How does that sound?’

‘It’s not that I want to wash my hands of this, Tony,’ she said plaintively. ‘It’s just that we’re going to lose it if we don’t bring it in.’

He felt a rush of warmth towards her. ‘I couldn’t have achieved any of this alone. When Jacko Vance faces a jury, it’ll be thanks to you coming on board.’

Before she could reply, her phone rang, splitting the closeness between them like an axe in wood. ‘Oh, shit,’ she said, grabbing the handset and hitting the button. ‘DCI Jordan.’

The familiar voice of Jim Pendlebury came down the line. ‘We’ve got what looks like another one, Carol. Paint factory. It’s gone up like a torch.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can, Jim. Can you give me a locus?’ Without being asked, Tony shoved pencil and paper across to her and she scribbled down directions. ‘Thanks,’ she said. She ended the call and closed her eyes momentarily. Then she hit the memory buttons and was connected to her communications room. ‘This is DCI Jordan. Has there been anything from DS Taylor or DC Earnshaw?’

‘Negative, ma’am,’ came the anonymous voice. ‘They were supposed to be maintaining radio silence unless they had something specific to their stakeouts.’

‘Will you see if you can raise them and get them to meet me at the site of the paint factory fire on the Holt Industrial Estate. Thanks. Good night.’ She looked at Tony, perplexed. ‘It seems we were wrong,’ she said.

‘The arsonist?’

‘He’s struck again. But neither Tommy Taylor nor Di Earnshaw radioed in, so it looks as if it was neither of our suspects.’ She shook her head. ‘Back to square one, I guess. I’d better get over there and see what’s going on.’

‘Good luck,’ Tony said as she pulled on her mac.

‘It’s you that’ll need the luck, talking round Wharton and McCormick,’ she said as he followed her down the hall. On the doorstep, she turned and impulsively put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t beat yourself up about Shaz.’ She leaned into him and kissed his cheek. ‘Concentrate on beating up Jack the Lad.’

Then she was gone, leaving nothing behind but a shiver of her scent in the night air.

Above the blur of sodium and neon, it was a clear, starry night. From his eyrie on top of the Holland Park house, Jacko Vance stared out across the London night and imagined the Northumberland stars. There was a loose end, the only possible strand that could unravel and leave him stripped of his protective colouring. It was time for Donna Doyle to die.

He hadn’t actually had to kill one for a long time now. It wasn’t the killing he enjoyed. It was the process. The disintegration of a human being through the degradation of pain and infection. One had been defiant. She had refused to eat or drink or to use the chemical toilet. She’d been a challenge, but she hadn’t lasted long. She had failed to consider the infective possibilities of piss and shit all over the floor. All she’d been thinking about was making herself too disgusting for him to touch, and she’d failed in that, too.