Cross and Burn (27 page)

Paula gobbled some more chilli, suddenly starving. ‘I don’t seem to have much say in this.’ It was, they both recognised, an objection for form’s sake only. More a gentle demurral than a righteous protest.

‘Like you’re going to start walking away from doing the right thing. Now finish up that chilli and get on the trail of Carol Jordan.’

Paula smiled. ‘I had an idea about that.’

T
he cuisine that Marco Mather had learned from his mother was one of the healthiest in the world. At its heart, the Southern Italian food was the diet of peasants, too poor for obscure or luxurious items. It was based on a handful of easily grown vegetables and herbs, olives and their oil, cheeses made from the milk of hardy goats and sheep, and small amounts of game and poultry. But like so many other aspects of modern life, it had become corrupted by money.

That frugal but delicious diet had spread like a spare tyre to embrace all manner of richness. Estate-bottled olive oil used as a dip for enriched breads; cream and butter liberally added to sauces and ragus which contained more meat than their original creators would have eaten in a month; full-fat cheeses from grass-fed dairy cows; and an endless supply of tasty processed pig products. Italian food at its worst had become an invitation to obesity and furred-up arteries.

It was an invitation that Marco had embraced. The food he created for their daily dinners was loaded with calories and cholesterol. Marie loved it, but she fought its effects by skipping breakfast and sticking strictly to so-called healthy options at lunchtime. Marco, working from home at his desk, had only his willpower to keep him from food during the day, and it generally let him down at least once between breakfast and bedtime. For a long time, his natural metabolism had kept his weight more or less under control. But as middle age crept closer, so the pounds were creeping on. His trousers were tighter and his thighs had begun to rub together as he walked.

And so he’d decided to lose some weight. He’d read several articles online and watched a documentary on TV about a new regime of exercise that involved short bursts of intensive aerobic exercise. The results were little short of miraculous. For less than two hours a week, his heart would be healthier, his weight would reduce and he’d live longer. He’d always resisted exercise in the past because it bored him. But surely he could manage a few minutes a day without losing his mind? It would be worth it, if it allowed him to continue cooking and eating the food he loved.

Marco had told Marie his plan, and she’d been delighted. She loved her husband and she hadn’t wanted to make him feel bad about himself, she said. But she wouldn’t mind if he lost a few pounds. So he’d ordered a state-of-the-art exercise bike and had it installed in the garage that morning. Now he was going to go for the burn. He hadn’t done any exercise since he’d given up squash a dozen years before but he was confident he’d nail this.

He stripped to his boxer shorts, pulled on a pair of trainers and climbed aboard. He understood the importance of going flat out. He had to push himself to the very limit and go as fast as his legs could pump. He set the timer and started out, driving his legs up and down like pistons, pedalling as fast as he was able. In no time at all, his heart was hammering, sweat was bursting out in beads on his forehead and his breathing was ragged and painful. But he kept going. Surely to god he could exercise for five minutes?

Marco drove himself on, pushing forward, convinced he would break through the pain barrier to some zen-like state. But his distress just kept increasing till a spasm of pure agony seized his chest and rippled through his upper body. His arms were on fire, his chest gripped by an iron band.

He toppled from the bike, in the grip of a massive heart attack. Even if Marie had been there to summon the paramedics, it’s doubtful whether they could have saved him.

And so, when a killer stole Marie Mather on the very street where she lived, there was nobody to notice she hadn’t come home. Nobody to report her missing. Nobody to add her name to the list of victims.

Nobody to exonerate the man in custody.

P
aula was glad it was dark as she drove out across the Yorkshire moors. It hid the interminable bleakness that always filled her heart with gloom. Other people saw splendour in the scenery, she knew that. But thanks to years of exposure to the worst of human behaviour, she saw it as a place where terrible things could go unwitnessed. A potential body dump. The landfill of loss.

Franklin had been reluctant to confirm what she’d guessed. ‘Why would I know where your old DCI is hiding?’ he’d said on the phone, sounding more amused than truculent. ‘It’s not like we were pals.’

‘I had you down as somebody who knows when a mouse farts on his patch,’ Paula said. ‘So if you don’t know where she is, I’d have to conclude she’s not in West Yorkshire. And focus my attentions elsewhere.’

As she’d expected, the challenge to his capability did the trick. ‘I never said I didn’t know,’ he replied.

‘Any reason why you wouldn’t tell me?’

‘Is this a police inquiry, Sergeant? Or a personal one?’

‘Does it make a difference, sir?’

‘We’re all entitled to our privacy and our family life, according to the human rights lawyers. If Jordan doesn’t want to play nice with you lot any more, that’s her choice. And it wouldn’t be my place to deprive her of those rights.’

‘And if it was an official inquiry?’

‘I’d expect it to come through official channels.’

‘I’m a detective sergeant, sir. How official do you need it to be?’ There was a long pause. She could hear the rasp of him scratching stubble.

‘Ah, fuck it,’ he said. ‘Why are we playing stupid games with each other? She’s living at the barn. Her brother’s barn. She’s stripping it to the bare bones. There’s nothing left to show what happened.’

‘Thank you. I owe you a pint, sir.’

‘You do. But I’ll pass. I don’t like you Bradfield bastards. That goes for Jordan just as much as the rest of you. So there’s enough pleasure for me in grassing her up. Drive safe, Sergeant, we’re not keen on dangerous drivers over here.’

He was gone before she could say more. And now it was after nine o’clock and the only thing between her and despair was the satnav. Every road looked the same, bordered by the wild grasses of the moorland or drystone walls that looked drunk but always seemed to stay upright. Occasional lights glimmered in the dark and now and again she’d pass a huddle of buildings claiming to be a village. Finally, a large building loomed on her right and her bossy navigator said, ‘You have reached your destination.’ Paula pulled into the parking area and turned off the engine. She felt sick.

Still, she forced herself out of the car and set off across the flags towards the barn. Security lights flooded the area, making her blink against her blindness. The stillness of the night was split open by a volley of barking that was barely diminished by the thick stone walls of the barn. A dog? Carol Jordan, the ultimate cat woman, had a dog? Had Franklin told her the truth? For a moment, Paula considered turning tail. But she’d come all this way. She might as well knock on the door.

As she raised her hand to the black iron knocker, the door opened far enough to reveal a familiar face. Carol Jordan did not look pleased to see her, and the dog whose muzzle was pushing against her knee didn’t seem any more welcoming. A low grumble in the back of its throat would keep most sensible people at bay.

Paula tried a smile. ‘Any chance of a cup of coffee? There isn’t a Costa for miles.’

‘Is that your best door-opener? Don’t, for Christ’s sake, abandon the job for a career in sales.’ The door didn’t budge. ‘Give me one good reason why I should open the door?’

Paula reminded herself that Carol wasn’t her boss any more. ‘Because it’s a bloody long drive and it’s bloody cold out here. That’s the smart-arsed answer. If you want the sincere one – you should open the bloody door out of friendship.’

Carol’s eyebrows rose. ‘You think we’re friends?’

‘You think we’re not? We had each other’s backs for years. I always thought we liked each other. Respected each other. I never even considered a future you weren’t part of.’ Paula flushed, wondering whether she’d gone too far. Carol’s reserve in personal matters was as much part of her as her devotion to taking criminals off the streets.

Carol lowered her eyes. ‘I’m not sure friendship is one of my strengths.’

‘You’ll never find out if you carry on running away from everybody who cares about you. Now, are you going to let me in before I freeze my tits off?’

Almost a smile. Carol opened the door and stepped back. She clicked her fingers and the dog lay down at her feet. ‘Come in.’

The space Paula entered was a building site, a work in progress. A couple of industrial lamps in their metal cages lay on the floor, casting light and shadow in a complicated chiaroscuro, making it difficult to get a clear picture of what was going on. She clocked the sawhorses, a workbench, bare stonework and bundles of cable and wire sticking out at odd angles. ‘Funny,’ she said. ‘I never had you down as a DIY queen. Or are you just getting in touch with your inner butch?’

‘It’s therapeutic. I’m undoing the past and making a future.’

She sounded like a cut-price version of Tony. ‘Is there anywhere to sit?’

Carol gestured with her head for Paula to follow her. They went through a door and into another world. For a start, it was warm. The room resembled a small loft apartment. Bed, workspace, cooking area. No living area. Just a couple of office chairs in front of three computer monitors and a flat-screen TV.

The light was brighter here too. Paula could see Carol clearly, and as she’d never seen her before. Her hair was thicker and cut more bluntly than previously. There was silver among the blonde, glinting as it caught the light. Either she’d given up dyeing her hair or the years had finally caught up with her. She wore no make-up and her hands were scarred and scabbed from the snags and scratches of physical labour. Even under the thick sweater and jeans that she wore, it was obvious her upper body was more solid, her thighs stronger. In spite of it all, Carol looked healthier than she had for years. And Paula couldn’t help remembering that she’d carried a torch for her former boss. Until Elinor had come along and reality had consigned fantasy to the dustbin.

‘What’s with the dog?’ Paula held out a hand to Flash, who sniffed it disdainfully then turned away and followed his mistress as she filled the kettle and set it to boil. Carol readied a cafètiere with ground coffee. ‘And where’s Nelson?’

‘I left him with my parents. He’s too old for all this. The dog is a misfit who’s here for the time being. We’re both on trial, I think.’ She turned to face Paula and leaned against the worktop. She pushed up her sleeves, revealing muscular forearms which she folded across her chest. ‘So have you come to warn me too?’

‘Warn you?’

Carol shook her head, disappointment on her face. ‘Don’t try to kid a kidder, Paula. John Franklin told me you were Fielding’s bagman. Come to that, I saw you myself this morning at the crime scene. So let’s start again. Have you come to warn me too?’

‘Carol, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Has Franklin been here? Today?’ This wasn’t making any sense to Paula.

‘He stopped by this morning after Fielding handbagged him and took the case away.’

‘Pissed off, was he?’

‘Oddly enough, no.’ The kettle boiled and she poured hot water on the grounds. The smell was tantalising. One thing Carol and Tony still had in common; you always got a better than decent cup of coffee. ‘He said he was here to warn me.’

‘What? To keep your nose out?’

‘Warn me, not warn me off,’ Carol said impatiently. ‘He told me there’s a killer on the loose who seems to have a thing for women who look like me.’

Paula was taken aback. ‘Well, women who look like you used to look. I’ll be honest, you don’t look like anybody’s potential victim these days. Not that you ever did,’ she added hastily, seeing the danger signs in Carol’s expression. ‘So, was that a surprise, Franklin showing up?’

‘Completely out of the blue.’ Carol smiled. ‘I was gobsmacked. I’d always thought if there was any chance of me being murdered, Franklin would be out there selling tickets.’

‘Only if it was happening well away from his patch.’

‘True. So if you’re not here to warn me to lock my doors and avoid the lonely graveyard at midnight, why are you here? I’m not naïve enough to think it’s because you missed me.’

‘But I do miss you. And not just because DCI Fielding is most emphatically not you.’ Paula accepted a cup of coffee and blew gently to cool it. ‘You made it clear you were done with Bradfield, done with the lot of us. And we all respected that. I respected that. Even though what I wanted was to be your friend. To take you out and get drunk with you. To listen to your pain. To bring you home and let Elinor cook you chicken pie and mash.’ To her annoyance, Paula could feel her throat constrict with all the tears she hadn’t shed with Carol.

‘I understand that. What I did was the only thing I knew how to do. The last time I thought I’d lost everything, I ran away. And it worked. I was able to heal myself enough to come back into the world. That’s what I’m trying to do this time.’ She opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of brandy and poured a slug into her coffee.

‘You drank too much last time too,’ Paula said, feeling the crack of thin ice under her.

Carol’s lip curled. ‘Tony always did over-share with you.’

Paula shook her head. ‘Tony never said a word out of place about you. I know you drank too much because you were still drinking too much when you set up the MIT. You think we didn’t know about the miniatures of vodka in your handbag and the quarter bottles in the desk drawer?’

Carol started as if she’d been slapped. ‘And you never said anything? You knew I was drinking on the job and you never said anything?’

‘Of course we didn’t. Even Sam the Snitch had more sense. Besides, why would we? It’s not like you were falling over drunk. It never interfered with the way you ran the team.’

‘Christ, I never realised you all knew. Call myself a detective?’ She turned away, embarrassed. ‘So, why are you here? Really? Because if you’d come here with the olive branch of friendship, Elinor would have sent a Tupperware box of home baking with you.’

The time for bridge-building banter was over. Now it was time to cut to the chase. ‘I’m here because DCI Fielding has arrested Tony for the murder of two women.’

Carol stared, open-mouthed, the cup halfway to her lips, disbelief growing on her face as the words sank in. She craned her head forwards as if she was straining to hear. ‘Come again?’ she said, full of obvious scepticism.

‘We interviewed him under caution this evening and then she decided to charge him. And it’s mad. I know it’s mad, you know it’s mad. But there’s evidence. And Fielding can’t see past that to the man. He needs your help.’

Carol put her coffee down and held her hands up. ‘Whoa. Back up there. I’m not a cop any more, Paula.’

‘You think I don’t understand that? That’s exactly why he needs you and not me. I’m on a knife edge here. I shouldn’t be telling you this stuff. If Fielding finds out, it’ll be all over for me. I’ll have a dazzling career in Traffic.’

Carol frowned. ‘So why are you here?’

‘I told you. Tony needs your help. He’s hopeless. Carol, you know better than anybody else what he’s like. He thinks just because he’s innocent that nothing bad will happen to him. And we both know how naïve that is.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Carol said, her voice the epitome of chilly reasonableness. ‘But why would you think I’d leap to his defence?’

Now it was Paula’s turn to be shocked. ‘Because…’ She couldn’t bring herself to use the l-word. ‘Because he’s your friend?’

Carol’s face had grown bitter. Now her tone matched it. ‘Look around you, Paula. I know you didn’t see what happened here, but imagine the scene. Now imagine two people you love at the heart of that scene. That’s what I went through because Tony failed them. He failed me. He didn’t do his job and we paid the price. Me and my parents and my brother and the woman he loved.’

Paula shook her head in dismay. ‘You can’t blame Tony. He’s a psychologist, not a psychic. How can you expect him to know the details of what Vance had planned? What Vance did was off the scale of vengeance. None of us, not one of us imagined for a moment that the people we loved were at risk. Carol, I know you’re hurting. And I know how grief messes with our heads. Believe me, I know. But it was Vance who did this to you. Not Tony.’

Carol’s mouth had a stubborn set to it. ‘It’s his job to think of the things that don’t occur to the rest of us. And everybody else paid the price, not him. Michael and Lucy, Chris, that stable lad, my parents, me. Even Vanessa suffered more than he did.’

‘And you think that doesn’t torture him every day? You think he’s not torn apart with guilt? I’ve watched him suffer his own sense of failure. Believe me, Carol, you can’t load more blame on him than he does on himself. How long is this going to go on? His shame and your blame? Are you going to let this define the rest of your lives? Because from where I’m standing, frankly, it’s a colossal waste of two people’s lives.’ It was out before Paula knew she was going to say it. Challenging Carol wasn’t something she’d been able to do in the past; the obligations of rank had always been the final stumbling block.

‘It’s none of your business, Paula.’ Carol walked out of the room, through to the barn. The dog gave Paula a baleful look then went after Carol into the chill.

Paula hung her head and sighed. ‘Blew that one,’ she said under her breath. She waited to see whether Carol was coming back, but she was out of luck. So she returned the way she’d come. Carol was standing by a window, staring out at the dark. Paula could see her face in the glass. Her expression was as hard as the reflective surface.

‘This is so unfair,’ Paula said. ‘Fielding’s got everything on her side. Me included. And he’s got nothing and nobody. He hasn’t even got a lawyer.’

‘I don’t do pity, remember?’