Fever of the Bone (23 page)

Paula knew she was the best interviewer on the team. But still she felt ill at ease when she was confronted with teenage girls. Her own adolescence had been so atypical, she always felt she had no common ground to build on. It was ironic, she thought. She could find a starting point to reach out to violent sex offenders, to paedophiles, to stone-hearted people traffickers. But when it came to teenage lasses, she always found herself at a loss.

Unfortunately, she didn’t have a choice. Carol Jordan had turned up at Bradfield Cross just in time to catch a harassed Casualty officer breaking the news to Mike Morrison that his wife hadn’t made it. Not surprisingly, the poor bastard looked like a lost soul. Wife and son ripped out of his life without warning, everything solid turned to mist. Thank God the chief had stepped up to the plate and taken over, sending Paula off on the thankless task of trying to elicit information from Seth Viner’s girlfriend.

Still, she couldn’t be too glum. She’d had a cup of coffee with Elinor Blessing and a promise that they’d get together soon for a bite to eat. It seemed Paula’s interest wasn’t all one way. It was such a cliché, though. Cops and doctors or nurses. They were always hooking up. It was partly because the only person who could understand the madness of your work demands was someone who had the same insanity in their own professional life. And it was partly because they were the only people you ever met who weren’t villains, victims or patients. And maybe it was also partly to do with the fact that a lot of people became cops or health professionals because they genuinely wanted to help people, so there was some semblance of common ground.

Whatever the reason, Paula hoped the affinity would work for her and Elinor. It had been a long time since she’d been in a relationship, but it had only been relatively recently that she’d even considered she’d moved far enough past her own issues for it to be a possibility.

‘Cart before the horse,’ she muttered to herself as she walked up the short path from the pavement to Lucie Jacobson’s house. A brick terrace, one grade up from the basic no-garden variety. These had a single-storey arched ginnel that ran between every other house from front garden to back yard, making them look almost like semis. The Jacobson’s house had a little porch tacked on to the front, not much bigger than a cupboard. One side of it was jammed tight with what looked in the gloom like a press of bodies. When Paula rang the bell, the light snapped on and they were revealed as nothing more sinister than coats and waterproofs, baseball caps and bike helmets. Paula held up her ID and the woman who’d appeared in the doorway nodded and opened up.

‘I’ve been expecting one of your lot,’ she said with a resigned cheerfulness Paula didn’t encounter that often. ‘You’ll have come about Seth. Come in.’ She ushered Paula into a cramped living room where everything of necessity had its place. It was as organised as the cabin of a ship, with shelves and cabinets crammed with books, videos, CDs, vinyl and box files, neatly labelled with titles like, ‘Utilities’, ‘Bank’, and ‘VATman’. An unmatched pair of sofas and a couple of chairs occupied the remaining space, facing a bulky TV attached by umbilical cables to the usual assortment of peripherals. ‘Have a seat,’ she said. ‘I’ll just get Lucie. Her brothers are out with their dad, playing basketball, so we’ll have a bit of peace and quiet. They’re twins. Sixteen. They take up a disproportionate amount of room.’ She shook her head and made for the door. ‘Lucie,’ she called. ‘There’s someone here to talk to you about Seth.’

She turned back into the room, leaning on the doorpost. ‘I’m Sarah Jacobson, by the way. I’ve already spoken to Kathy and Julia. They’re in a right state.’ She sighed and ran a hand through her short dark curls. ‘Who wouldn’t be? God, it’s hard enough getting through their teens anyway, without a nightmare like this.’ Feet thundered on stairs behind her and she stood back to let her daughter through. Lucie Jacobson had the same mop of curls, though in her case they formed a mass around her head, corkscrewing over her shoulders in an amazing cascade. Her face peeped out from her hair, narrow and sharp-featured, deep blue eyes given extra definition by wide lines of kohl along the lids. She was striking, not pretty, but Paula suspected she might grow into a beauty. Black jeans and black T-shirt completed the nice middle-class version of the junior Goth look.

‘Is there any news?’ she demanded, glaring at Paula as if she were personally responsible for Seth’s disappearance.

‘I’m sorry. There’s been no sign of Seth.’ Paula stood up. ‘I’m Paula McIntyre, Detective Constable. I’m one of the team assigned to find him.’

‘Just a constable? Are you important enough to be doing this? Because it’s really important that somebody finds Seth,’ Lucie said, coming in and throwing herself into a sofa opposite Paula.

‘Lucie, for God’s sake,’ her mother said. ‘Nobody’s impressed.’ She glanced at Paula. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

‘Not for me, thanks.’

Sarah Jacobson nodded. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.’ She gave her daughter a hard stare. ‘I’m leaving you alone with Ms McIntyre so you can say what you need to say without being worried about what I think. OK?’ And she left them to it.

‘Like I’m worried about what she thinks about anything.’

‘Course you’re not. You’re a teenager,’ Paula said drily. She made an instant decision not to treat this one with kid gloves. ‘And here’s the thing. I really couldn’t give a shit about anything right now except finding Seth. So whatever little secrets you’ve got up your sleeve that you think might get either of you into trouble? It’s time to tell. If you help us find Seth, your grubby sins and transgressions are going to be forgotten. I don’t care about drugs, or drinking or shagging, OK? I just want to know what you know that might help us find Seth.’ She met Lucie’s defiant gaze and stared her down. ‘Whatever the two of you have got up to, you can bet I have heard it, seen it or done it before.’

Lucie sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Like that’s got anything to do with anything. There’s nothing we do that’s remotely got to do with Seth not being here, OK? Me and him, we’re cool. What you need to know is that yes, Seth does have a secret.’

Paula tried not to show how much of her attention Lucie had grabbed. ‘And you know what it is?’

‘Course I do. He’s mine and I’m his.’

‘So, what is this secret?’

Lucie looked her up and down, as if making a decision. ‘You a lesbian, then? Like Seth’s mums?’

‘To quote you, “Like that’s got anything to do with anything, ”’ Paula parried.

‘So you are, then.’ Lucie smiled as if she’d scored a point. ‘That’s cool. We don’t trust people that totally buy into the system,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t trust you if you weren’t a lesbian. You need something to offset the whole cop thing.’

Paula so wanted to say, ‘Whatever,’ in that totally teenage way but she restrained herself. ‘You need to be telling me Seth’s secret.’

Lucie squirmed into the soft cushions. ‘It’s no big. Really.’

‘So tell me.’

‘He’s been writing songs. Mostly lyrics, but some of them, the whole thing. Music and everything.’

It seemed a strange thing to be ashamed of. ‘And that was a secret?’

‘Well, yeah. I mean, it’s just one step away from writing poetry, for God’s sake. And how lame would that be?’

‘OK. So, had he played his songs to anybody? Or shown them the lyrics?’

‘Well, duh. Obviously, he showed me. But see, that’s what all this might be about. Because, like on Rig—You know about Rig, right?’

‘RigMarole? I know about Rig, yeah.’

‘Well, on Rig, there was this dude and he was like, with Seth, “I know your dirty little secret,” and Seth was really freaked. So they got into a sidebar and Seth is like, “How did you know about my songs?” and the dude goes, “You need to be more careful what you leave lying around.” So obviously Seth had dropped one or something and this dude had picked it up and he only works in the music business.’

Paula’s spirits were sinking by the minute. She could see how it had played out. Seth had been lured into giving away his own secret and the killer had turned that back on the boy to create a dream Seth would buy into. ‘And he said he could get Seth a deal?’

Lucie tutted. ‘Nobody would be that thick, to believe a scam like that,’ she said. ‘He said he could introduce Seth to a couple of bands that are on the way up, bands who’ve got stuff online but don’t have a record deal yet. Bands that might like to work with him on their way to making it big. He said he was going to fix something up for Seth.’

‘And that’s who Seth was meeting last night?’

She looked away. ‘Maybe. He was supposed to tell me, but he didn’t. He just said he was going to Will’s but not to call me because they might have stuff going down.’

Paula let that settle for a minute, then said, ‘What can you tell me about this guy?’

‘He uses JJ as his Rig username. He totally knows his stuff. He’s a real expert on the whole grunge scene, which is Seth’s big thing too. He said JJ knew stuff only a real insider would know.’

Except, how would you know what that is? He could have made it all up and you sweet babes would have fallen for it
. ‘Is there anything else you know about him? Where he lives? Where he works?’

For the first time, Lucie looked distressed. ‘No, all I know is his screen name. He never talked about himself. He came on to talk about music, not to do the personal stuff.’

‘Did you ever check out his page on Rig?’

Lucie frowned. ‘I never did, no, but Seth checked it out. He said it was full of great music stuff.’ Her face cleared. ‘Of course. That’s the way to find him. JJ, like letters, not spelled out.’

‘Bear with me a second,’ Paula said, holding up one finger. She took out her phone and called Stacey. ‘Paula here,’ she said.

‘I know,’ Stacey said. ‘It’s what caller ID is for.’

God save me from geek humour
. ‘Seth Viner was in communication with somebody on RigMarole about music. The guy used the name JJ, letters only. It’s possible JJ lured him into a meeting. Can you take a look?’

‘I’m looking right now . . .’ A pause. ‘Nothing here. Leave it with me. I’m going to have to back-door it.’

‘Do I want to know what that means?’ Paula asked.

‘No.’

The line went dead. ‘Thanks, Lucie,’ Paula said. ‘I think this might be a big help to us.’
And I wish you’d told someone as soon as you knew he was missing
. ‘Is there anything else you think I should know about?’

Lucie shook her head. ‘He’s one of the good guys, Seth. You need to find him and bring him home. This is not a good place to be right now. I’m scared something bad is happening to him.’

‘I understand that. And it’s OK to show you’re scared. Your mum, she seems like she’d be there for you, you know?’

Lucie snorted. ‘She works for the BBC. For radio. I mean, stuff like
You and Yours
. How embarrassing is that? It’s like, the definition of straight.’

‘Give her a chance,’ Paula said, getting to her feet. ‘I know you won’t believe me, but she was once like you are now.’

Lucie nodded. Her eyes were wet. She had the look of someone who would wail if she tried speaking. Paula knew exactly how that felt. It wasn’t so long ago that she’d had to deal with losing one of her closest friends. There had been plenty of times when grief and fear had threatened to overwhelm her too. She fished out a card. ‘Call me if you think of anything. Or if you just want to talk about Seth. OK?’

Minutes later, she was in her car, heading back to the office to pass the watches of the night with Stacey. She had a horrible feeling that whatever lay ahead of Lucie Jacobson, a joyful reunion with her boyfriend wasn’t going to be on the agenda.

Birds were singing. Singing their heads off. One sounded like a squeaky wheel, another like it had something grievous stuck in its throat. Tony slowly surfaced from a thick blanket of sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept straight through the night, undisturbed by dreams, unaffected by anxieties. He’d struggled with sleep for years. Since he started investigating the contents of truly messy heads, if he was honest.

At first, he luxuriated in the unfamiliar feeling of being rested. Then he had a moment of bewilderment as he opened his eyes and couldn’t think where he was. Not home, not a hotel, not the on-call room at Bradfield Moor . . . Then memory kicked in. He was lying in the bed of Edmund Arthur Blythe, the man who had contributed half of his DNA, in the master suite of a substantial Edwardian villa by a park in Worcester. A bit like Goldilocks, he thought.

Tony glanced at his watch, then shook his wrist in disbelief. Almost nine o’clock? He couldn’t believe it. He’d been asleep for ten hours. He hadn’t slept that long since he’d been an undergraduate and stayed up all night to finish an essay. Other people partied, Tony studied. He propped himself up on one elbow and shook his head. This was insane. Alvin Armstrong was due to pick him up at his hotel in just over half an hour. He’d never make it. He’d better call him and rearrange the pick-up. Thirty-three minutes to come up with the sort of story that wouldn’t make him sound like one of the lunatics who’ve taken over the asylum.

He was about to reach for his phone when it startled him by springing into life. Tony juggled it off the bedside table and to his ear. ‘Yes? Hello? Hello?’ he gabbled.

‘Did I wake you?’

It took him a moment, then he was orientated. ‘Fiona,’ he said. ‘No, I’m wide awake. I was just picking my phone up to call someone else. You startled me, that’s all.’

‘Sorry. I just thought I’d let you know, I ran those locations you gave me through my programs.’

‘Fantastic. That’s really quick work.’

Fiona chuckled. ‘We have moved on since the age of the abacus, Tony. They make the calculations pretty quickly these days. Even on a laptop in a hotel room.’

‘I know, I know. But humour me. It still feels like magic to me.’

‘Well, I don’t feel entirely magical about this. I don’t think these results are definitive, because we’re looking at a different choice mechanism from the criminal committing an offence. The locations of actual crimes are conditioned by the availability of victims. As we both know, some criminals have very restricted criteria for their crimes. A rapist likes a certain type of women. A burglar only does first-floor entries . . .’