Fever of the Bone (31 page)

Now he was more than ready for the real thing. It was just a pity it had to kick off on a Saturday. He and his girlfriend had tickets for Chelsea at home to Villa. A bunch of them were supposed to be meeting up for lunch before the game, then going on afterwards for a night out. But instead he was on his way to Bradfield. Susanne had been disappointed, but she’d got over it. By the time he’d left, she’d already fixed up for her pal Melissa to take his place.

The train was travelling through some pretty drab suburbs now. Grey council flats, red-brick terraces straggling up and down hills like you always saw on TV dramas set in the North. He’d once been to Leeds for somebody’s stag night and vaguely remembered something similar. They crossed a canal basin then suddenly the great cast-iron and glass arch of Bradfield Central came into sight round a curve in the line. It was, he had to admit, impressive. He hoped the team he’d be working with matched up to it.

Tim had heard of the DCI. Carol Jordan had a reputation for cracking cases that, if she’d been a Met detective, would have given her legendary status. But Bradfield and gender combined to relegate her to the level of an operator who was owed respect. But the case notes that had been emailed to him overnight had not impressed him much. When you stripped out all the meaningless background noise from friends and family, there really wasn’t much substance. No wonder they needed his help.

He descended from the first-class carriage he’d insisted on so he could have some privacy with the files and looked for his driver. A bored-looking uniform was deep in conversation with a railway staff member, paying no heed to Tim or the other passengers. Shouldering his rucksack, Tim marched down the platform and tapped the constable on his shoulder. ‘I’m Tim Parker,’ he said.

The officer’s face was blank but his voice held a faint note of sarcasm. ‘That’s very nice, sir. I’m PC Mitchell. Is there something I can help you with?’

‘Are you not my driver?’

The cop and the railway worker exchanged an amused smile. ‘I’m a British Transport Police officer,’ he said. Tim finally registered the man’s insignia and felt deeply foolish. ‘I don’t drive anybody except my wife,’ the officer continued. ‘If you’re expecting someone to meet you, I suggest you go over there.’ He pointed to a large hanging sign that read,
Meeting Point
. A uniformed constable was standing beneath it with a sign. Even from this distance, it was possible to make out Tim’s name. Though not his rank.

Cross and embarrassed, he muttered something and walked away. At least he managed to make it to police HQ without making even more of an arse of himself. The driver knew nothing about the case or about the MIT. She didn’t even know where their office was. Her job was done when he was delivered to reception. He had to sit and kick his heels for another ten minutes before anyone arrived to fetch him. He’d expected Jordan herself to come down and greet him, but she’d sent some DC with a sharp suit and a definite touch of attitude. He hoped DC Evans wasn’t Jordan’s idea of impressive.

The MIT squad room was a pleasant surprise. Cleaner, neater and better decorated than any CID office he’d ever been in. Probably something to do with having a woman boss. He knew that wasn’t an appropriate thought, and he wouldn’t have spoken it, but he reckoned it was likely to be the truth. One corner was inhabited by an ICT station. He could hear the sound of keys being rapidly struck but all he could see was the back of six monitors arranged like a barricade. He’d never seen anything so specialised in a mainstream operation. Another half-dozen desks dotted the room, apparently at random. None of them was occupied. Whiteboards covered with crime-scene photos and scrawled notes lined one wall. One for Daniel Morrison and one for Seth Viner.

‘The guv’nor’s in her office,’ Sam said abruptly, leading him down to the far end of the room where a glass-walled room had its blinds drawn. ‘Everybody else is out working.’ He opened the door and followed Tim in.

His first impression of Carol Jordan was that she looked like most SIOs in the midst of a double murder - sleep-deprived, depressed and desperate. Her blonde hair had a dishevelled look, there were shadows visible under her eyes through the light cast of make-up, and there were two half-empty coffee cups on the desk. But when he looked closer, he realised that the hair was deliberately shaggy and her eyes had a sparkle of energy. Her tailored shirt was crisp and clean, and the make-up was free from smudges. Tim congratulated himself on seeing past the first impression to the woman beneath. He held out a hand. ‘DS Tim Parker,’ he said. ‘Call me Tim.’

Carol looked faintly amused but shook his hand. ‘DCI Jordan. Call me ma’am. Or chief. Or even guv.’

So that was how it was going to be. Put the new boy in his place, never mind that he’s here to pull you out of the shit and make you look good. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down. ‘I’ve had a preliminary pass through the material you emailed me,’ he said. ‘The first thing I want is to see the crime scenes.’

‘That’s going to be a bit difficult,’ Carol said. ‘Because we don’t know where the crimes took place. We can take you to the body dumps, if you like,’ she added, apparently helpfully.

‘That’s what I meant,’ Tim said, starting to feel seriously annoyed now. ‘I’d also like to talk to the families.’

‘That’s not going to be quite as straightforward as we would like. Daniel Morrison’s mother collapsed and died yesterday at the identification. His father’s in meltdown and medicated from here to Christmas,’ Carol said. ‘But I expect we can arrange for you to talk to Seth’s mums. I’ll organise a uniform to drive you round.’

‘It would be easier if I went with one of your team,’ he said. ‘Then I can ask questions as they come up.’

‘I’m sure it would be easier for you, but we’re at full stretch here. My team is very small and very specialised. I can’t spare a detective to ferry you around. DC Evans here will be your liaison, you can call him with any questions.’

‘Do me a favour and save them up so you can ask them in a bunch,’ Sam said. ‘I’m already juggling two cases.’

By now, Tim was thoroughly pissed off with both of them. ‘I understood I’d be working directly with you, ma’am.’

‘I can’t help that,’ Carol said sweetly. ‘You’ll have access to me when it’s necessary, but Sam knows what’s going on. Except when he doesn’t and then he knows who does.’

‘We hope,’ Sam added.

‘I’m not used to—’

‘As I understand it, you’re not used to anything,’ Carol said. ‘I’m sure you checked us out before you came up here, Tim. Because I did the same thing. And I know this is your first time in the field.’

‘That doesn’t mean—’

‘No, it doesn’t mean you don’t have valuable insights to offer us. But you’re here on our terms, not yours. I run the game here, not you. Are we clear on that?’

He felt like an impotent ten-year-old being ticked off by his mother. Which was really unfair because this woman definitely wasn’t old enough to be his mother. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said. Even to his own ears it sounded insincere.

‘So when will you have something for me?’

‘Since I’ve already had a chance to digest so much of the investigative material, I should have a prelim for you later today.’ Now he was on familiar territory, he could feel his confidence overpowering his anger.

‘Let’s say five o’clock back here, unless you hear otherwise. Sam, fix Tim up with a driver. Where do you want to work? We’ve booked you a hotel room. You can work there, or we can find you a desk somewhere in the building. It’s up to you.’

He hadn’t even thought about it. He’d presumed he would be here, at the nerve centre of the operation. ‘What about here?’

Carol looked surprised. ‘Sure. I don’t see why not. I just thought you’d prefer . . . There’s a couple of spare desks. I’ll see you later.’

She’d turned back to her computer monitor before he and Sam had left the room. ‘She seemed surprised I want to work here,’ Tim said, following Sam to a desk in the furthest corner of the room.

‘The profiler we usually work with always writes his profiles in his own office,’ Sam said, off hand. ‘He can’t think in here, he says. Too chaotic.’

‘Who do you usually work with?’ Tim asked.

‘Dr Hill. Tony Hill.’

The freaky little fuck who thought Tim needed more empathy. Great. ‘I know him,’ he said.

‘Great guy,’ Sam said. ‘He’s been a real asset to the team.’

If he was that great, how come they’d chosen a newbie over him, then? Obviously Dr Hill had screwed up somehow and ended up being dumped. ‘I’ll do my best to fill his shoes,’ he said.

Sam’s face broke into a grin that carved deep lines round his mouth. ‘Apart from anything else, you’re about a foot taller than Tony. You’d look bloody silly in his shoes. Just make yourself at home here, I’ll sort out a minder for you.’ He walked over to one of the other desks and picked up the phone.

Tim took out the pad where he’d started to make notes for his profile. So far, nothing had really turned out the way he’d expected. Now he needed to stamp his authority on the area of this investigation where he could make an impact. Carol Jordan had made it clear he wasn’t high on her respect totem pole. If anyone could help them crack this case, it was Tim Parker. It was time to show DCI Ma’am he wasn’t someone to be taken lightly.

Tony yawned his way downstairs and into the kitchen. The effect of the Worcester house clearly only worked when he was actually there. It had gone one o’clock when he’d reached Bradfield but not even the drive or the late hour had been enough to provoke the sort of deep and even sleep he’d experienced the night before. He put the coffee on and parked himself in a kitchen chair. Sitting on top of the usual clutter on the table was the slim chrome recorder he’d brought back from the narrowboat. He’d picked it up and put it down half a hundred times. He’d checked the contents - one audio file - but he hadn’t attempted to listen to it.

The other new addition to the pile was a large manila envelope. Its contents were the result of a search of Arthur Blythe’s desk. Tony rested his fingertips on the envelope and considered it. ‘Coffee first,’ he said aloud. As he fussed with the milk steamer, he wondered where Carol was. Not surprisingly, her flat had been dark when he’d come home. He’d hoped they could get together for coffee this morning, but then he’d heard her car engine in the drive about half an hour before. Either something had landed on her plate at work or she was heading up to the Yorkshire dales to spend the day with her brother Michael and his partner. She’d mentioned the other day that she owed them a visit. It was a shame she wasn’t around. She’d have been fascinated by the contents of the envelope, he was certain.

Coffee to hand he sat down again and emptied the envelope on the table. The urge to compare Arthur’s features to his had sent him back to the house after he’d finished the profile and dealt with Patterson’s questions. In spite of his own dissatisfaction with the work he’d done, the West Mercia detective seemed happy enough. Maybe he’d heard about the events of yesterday morning and he was just eager to get Tony off his patch.

A quick walk through the house had confirmed what Tony had thought. There were no photographs on display anywhere. Arthur wasn’t a man who needed to show off his encounters with celebrity or prove he’d stood in front of the seven wonders of the world. But surely there must be something somewhere, even if it was only a passport or a driving licence?

The obvious place to begin the search was the study. And the starting point had to be the desk. Which of course was locked. Tony studied the bunch of keys he’d been given by the lawyer, but none of them looked as if they would fit the little brass locks in the drawers of the battered and scarred desk. He threw himself into the old wooden swivel chair, spinning himself round in irritation. ‘Where would you keep the desk keys?’ he shouted. ‘Where would you put them, Arthur?’

On the third circuit, he saw them. On a shelf, sitting on top of the books. Obscured by the shelf above if you were standing up, but perfectly visible if you were sitting on the chair. Hidden in plain sight, as in all the best detective novels. Which, Tony noticed, were well represented on the study shelves. Reginald Hill, Ken Follett and Thomas Harris, predictably enough. But also, surprisingly, Charles Willeford, Ken Bruen and James Sallis. No women except for Patricia Highsmith, though. He reached for the keys and started with the top left-hand drawer.

The second drawer on the right was the first to yield anything that wasn’t stationery or bank statements. An old chocolate box sat on top of a pile of paper wallets from photo-processing companies layered with the sort of formal folders you got at weddings and awards ceremonies. Tony opened the chocolate box and found a treasure trove of personal information. Here was Arthur’s birth certificate; cancelled passports; graduation certificate from the college in Huddersfield; a certificate saying he had passed his silver medal in rescue and personal survival at Sowerby Bridge Public Baths; and other gems from which he could construct elements of a life. It was surprisingly moving.

Tony closed the box and placed it on top of the desk. Nobody but him would find meaning in this. He lifted out the bundle of photographs and turned them over, thinking that would bring the oldest to the surface. The first wallet contained twelve deckle-edged prints, a mere two and a half inches by four. Various adults held a baby in their arms, all looking immensely proud. Tony turned them over:
Mum with Edmund aged twelve weeks; Dad with Edmund; Gran with Edmund; Uncle Arthur with Edmund
. He replaced the photos and carried on. He wasn’t that interested in the baby pictures. They didn’t show what he wanted to see.

He sifted through school photos and the occasional family holiday roll of film, charting Arthur’s progress through childhood. There weren’t many photos of Tony as a child, but he thought he detected similarities. Something about the shape of the head, the cast of the eyes, the line of the jaw.

It seemed to him the resemblance grew through adolescence and hit its strongest point in Arthur’s graduation photo. Sitting there holding his scroll, he looked like Tony’s more relaxed brother. The likeness was striking. But after that, their faces diverged rather than coming closer with age. It was like watching a demonstration of quantum physics or the road less travelled by. The map of his father’s face unfurled over sixty years and told a story of what Tony himself might have been had his experiences been different.