Splinter the Silence (18 page)

She bought herself a pint and settled down to wait at a corner table, her back to the wall. Five minutes drifted by, then a man shouldered his way into the room, looking more like the stereotype of a villain than a cop. Bull-necked, his nose badly repaired after an old break, his ears misshapen and unmatching, he walked on the balls of his feet as if expecting fight or flight to hit the agenda at any moment. His dark eyes glittered as they swept the room, then, seeing Paula, crinkled and twinkled in a smile that turned his piratical face benevolent. ‘Mine’s a Guinness,’ he said, parking himself opposite her.

‘Good to see you too, Franny,’ she said, getting to her feet and heading for the bar. By the time she returned, he was surreptitiously sucking on a discreet e-cigarette of his own. ‘Is that strictly legal?’ she asked, setting his drink down.

‘Landlord doesn’t give a shit. Draws the line at full-on fagging it, but vaping’s OK with him. Half his customers and most of his profits come from us anyway, he’s not going to make a fuss.’ He took a long pull of his pint then wiped the foam from his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. ‘Good pint. So. You’ll be wanting me to do your job for you, as usual?’

Franny Riley was defiantly old school. But she knew that he knew she was a good cop in spite of her gender, as he would have put it. She’d proven herself when their paths had crossed before, and in spite of his abrasive approach, Paula trusted his acumen and his information. ‘More like satisfying my curiosity, Franny,’ she said, raising her glass in a silent toast.

‘Daisy Morton, you said on the phone?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What’s your interest? You’re Skenfrith Street now, right? No more mighty MIT? What’s Skenfrith Street got to do with Daisy Morton? Are you doing some kind of a foreigner?’

He was, she remembered, a lot shrewder than you might expect. ‘You remember Tony Hill?’

Franny’s lip curled in a sardonic grimace. ‘Funny little bugger with a blue plastic bag and a conversational style that goes all round the houses? That Tony Hill?’

‘That Tony Hill. Not just a funny bugger, Franny, a clever bugger too. Anyway, he’s got a bee in his bonnet about a couple of cases of suicide. I said I’d have a look around as a favour to a friend.’

Franny took another deep swallow. Half the pint had gone in two gulps. ‘He got nicked a while back, didn’t he? Ended up making DCI Fielding look like a right arse?’

Paula gave a wry smile. ‘And that didn’t exactly help my career. The DCI is not my friend these days.’

‘Not like DCI Jordan, eh?’

‘Oh, Franny, if you only knew the ways… Anyway, I’m interested because Tony’s interested in Daisy Morton’s death.’

‘Suicide. Whatever the coroner said, we were satisfied there was nothing going on beyond that. I can see why he gave an open verdict to spare the family, because it was an odd one. But I don’t think there’s any room for doubt. She was getting seven shades of shit from every corner of the internet, and it all got too much for her.’

‘Fair enough. But you have to admit it wasn’t a bog-standard, straight-down-the-middle-of-the-fairway suicide.’

He gave her a speculative look. ‘Is there any such thing?’

‘You know there is. Overdose, chucking yourself in in front of a train, hanging yourself from the bannisters. Sticking your head in the gas oven used to be all the rage, but not since we changed to natural gas forty years ago. It’s really hard to do yourself in with natural gas because it’s not toxic. It only works when you manage to displace the oxygen with carbon monoxide. Or am I teaching you to suck eggs?’

The word ‘suck’ reminded Franny of his e-cig and he took a deep drag. ‘It worked, though. She was obviously determined to go for it. The post-mortem says carbon monoxide poisoning. No smoke in the lungs. So she was dead before the explosion and the fire.’ He raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. ‘You’re right, though, it’s not the obvious route. But who knows what goes through a woman’s head when she’s had enough? Come to that, who knows what goes through a woman’s head at any time?’

‘Did you check out the harassment she got online?’

Franny nodded. ‘Bloody awful. Those twats need a good kicking. Relentless, it was. But there was dozens of them. It wasn’t like it was only one person giving her the needle. So if your Tony’s looking for a single arsehole driving her to it, he’s barking up the wrong tree.’

Smarter than the average bear, as she’d always known. ‘I don’t know what he’s thinking, to be honest. Was there anything else about it that was out of the ordinary?’

Franny drained his pint. ‘Hard to say.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘There was one thing. But we both know fire and explosion do funny things.’

‘Like blowing people’s clothes off?’

‘That kind of thing. So this might be something Daisy did herself or it might have been caused by the explosion.’

Paula waited while Franny exhaled a cloud of vapour and considered.

‘All over the front garden there were pages from a book of poetry. Scattered everywhere.’

‘A book of poetry?’

He nodded. ‘Something called
Ariel
. By that lass Sylvia Plath who’s buried up by Heptonstall. Married to Ted Hughes. Him that was Poet Laureate.’

Paula hoped she was hiding her astonishment at the extent of Franny’s literary knowledge. ‘She gassed herself,’ she said. ‘Sylvia Plath.’

Franny nodded. ‘That she did. So maybe that was Daisy’s last message to the rest of us. Like Sylvia Plath, she couldn’t take any more.’

‘She didn’t leave a note, then?’

Pointedly, he sucked the last drops of stout from his glass. ‘Not a word. Now, are you for another pint or are you off like a scalded cat now you’ve sucked me dry?’

Paula laughed. ‘Just a half. Because I’m not really supposed to be here at all.’

Franny guffawed. ‘You and me both, pet. You and me both.’

When they’d been kids, Carol and her brother Michael had had their own cure for hiccups – thumbs in the ears, index fingers jamming the nostrils closed, eyes shut to avoid distraction, the deepest breath you could squeeze into your lungs, then hold it for as long as possible. Till you could feel the hot tide of blood in your cheeks and you thought your eyeballs might explode. Then, an eruption of breath like an explosion. The hiccups would be gone, but the sufferer would stagger around for a few moments, light-headed and disorientated. That was how she felt all the way back to the barn. She’d screwed herself up so tight to face the consequences of her stupidity and then suddenly, all that tension had been released.

She said next to nothing on the journey home. Tony kept starting sentences without finishing them, fading to a halt a few words in. She was accustomed to him talking to himself when he was working out a problem. What she wasn’t used to was being the problem.

It wasn’t even lunchtime when they walked into the barn. Carol closed the door behind them and crouched down to accept the adoring welcome from Flash. As the dog licked her hands, she buried her face in the black-and-white fur of her ruff and tried to calm herself. Tony stood a few feet away, watching them with an expression of curiosity. She looked up. ‘What? You’ve never seen a dog welcome its owner before?’

‘It’s an aspect of you I’m not entirely familiar with yet. Obviously it’s some sort of displacement, but I’m not sure for what.’

Carol glared at him but her heart wasn’t in it. Just because he managed to come out with so many unsettling lines didn’t mean he wasn’t trying to help. She stood up and leaned against the wall. Christ, she needed a drink. She was determined not to have one, but the desire burned through her like electricity in the vein. A vodka and tonic, so cold the glass would sweat condensation over her fingers. Or the smooth glide of a Pinot Grigio slipping down her throat, taking all the tension with it. A few of those and she would feel no fear.

Because fear was exactly what she was feeling right now. Coursing through her, making her heart race and her hands damp. She could feel a drop of cold sweat trickling into the small of her back. What in the name of God had she agreed to? Her eyelids fluttered and she drew in a ragged breath. ‘You can go home now,’ she said, pushing off from the wall and heading for what had been her private domain until Tony had decided to move in. ‘I don’t need a chauffeur any more.’

She could hear his footsteps on the concrete floor as he slowly followed her. ‘I want to help,’ he said.

‘And you have.’ Carol kept her back to him, walking through to the kitchen and filling the kettle, shielding it with her body to hide the tremor in her hands. ‘And now it’s time for me to stand on my own two feet. I’m not drinking and I’m not going to.’

‘I thought it might be useful for you to use me as a sounding board. This is a huge challenge you’re taking on. And Brandon clearly expects you to hit the ground running even though you’ve spent the last six months being a builder, not a copper.’ He sat down at the table, reaching for a satsuma and starting to peel it. The bitter-sweet tang of the orange peel filled the air between them.

‘You can’t follow me round holding my hand.’ She blocked any response by activating the coffee grinder. When it stopped, she spooned grounds into the cafetiere and poured on the water.

‘I know you don’t need me to hold your hand,’ he said, the gentleness in his voice almost as infuriating as if he’d offered to do the opposite of what he’d said. ‘And I have my own work to get back to. But you told Brandon back there that you wanted me on your team. If I’m going to risk my reputation on this mad enterprise, the least you owe me is the chance to help you shape it. Don’t you think?’

He was, she had to admit, a clever bastard. By making it about him and not her, he’d left her nowhere to go. She poured two cups of coffee and sat down facing him. ‘OK. What’s your T and Cs?’

That familiar frown of bewilderment that she had learned was not always to be taken at face value. ‘T and Cs?’

‘Terms and conditions.’

Enlightenment spread across his face. ‘Well, I do already have a job and I’m supposed to be writing a book.’

‘Your job at Bradfield Moor is only part-time, though. You’ve always managed to squeeze in police work before.’

He pulled a face. ‘I am the man with no life.’

Carol rolled her eyes. ‘Poor, poor pitiful me.’

‘I didn’t know you were a Warren Zevon fan.’

She groaned. ‘Linda Ronstadt. All I’m saying is that I know we can’t have you full-time, and that’s fine. We’ve always made it work before and we’ll make it work again. It’s better for the budget, anyway.’

Tony recoiled in mock-horror. ‘Oh my God! You’re channelling James Blake.’

‘Ha. As if.’

‘So who else do you have in mind for this crack team?’

He’d been right, as usual. The very act of talking about it, figuring out the practicalities, was releasing some of the tension that had been creeping up her neck and into her scalp. ‘Paula, obviously. And Stacey, because she’s wasted anywhere outside an MIT. Then there’s Kevin.’

‘He’s just retired, hasn’t he? Didn’t I get invited to his retirement do?’

‘He’s got his thirty in and yes, he’s off. But I think I might persuade him back. I’ve got a little something up my sleeve to run past Brandon in the morning.’

‘Very intriguing.’

‘You’ll find out soon enough. Do you think Alvin Ambrose would be interested in moving up here?’

Ambrose, a tenacious and talented detective sergeant from West Mercia, had worked with Carol’s team a couple of times before when their paths had crossed. He’d impressed her with his reliability and his resourcefulness. And Tony, she thought, had almost made a friend.

‘He was pretty pleased when he thought you might be heading for West Mercia,’ Tony admitted. ‘He’d be a good man to have on the team. And he gets on well with Paula.’

‘I’m going to ask for him anyway. I think he might be up for something a bit more demanding than a couple of murders a year. And that’s pretty much as far as I’ve got right now. I’ll need one or two DCs, but they can wait. Paula mentioned a lad she’s got under her at Skenfrith Street, Hussain?’

Tony shook his head. ‘No idea. Don’t know whether I’ve met him. What about Sam Evans? He’s still a DC, isn’t he?’

Carol shook her head, her mouth a thin line. ‘I’m not having Sam.’

‘He’s a good digger.’

‘Yeah, but he’s too fond of digging in places where he’s got no business. I don’t trust him, Tony. A small, tight team like this? There’ll be enough people on the outside ready to stab us in the back without having someone on the inside with a stiletto up his sleeve.’

‘I’m not sure you’re right.’ He held up a hand to make her pause. ‘I know he’s not trustworthy. But the thing about Sam is that he’s all about Sam. And a place on a team like this, the first standalone MIT, that’s his ticket to the stars. He wouldn’t put that at risk.’

‘He’d do it in a heartbeat if it meant he came out of it smelling of roses. He’d be the man who shot Liberty Valance. Except of course, I’d be John Wayne, shooting myself in the foot for taking him on in the first place.’

Tony frowned, working his way through her tortured metaphor. ‘If you say so. But it’s going to be hard on Stacey.’

Carol glowered defiance at him. ‘Stacey’s a big girl. She loves what she does. She won’t pass up a chance like this just because her boyfriend’s sulking.’ Tony looked sceptical. ‘I’m telling you, Tony. Stacey loves data more than she could ever love a human being.’

He shrugged, his face keeping his thoughts to himself. ‘It’s your team. And it sounds to me like you’ve got the makings of a good one.’

‘So can I take it you’re in?’

‘Did I not make that clear? Of course I’m in. I love my clinical work, don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing more satisfying than helping somebody mend the bits that are broken inside. But profiling is something else. It stretches me. It makes demands of me. It forces me to look at everything I know from a different angle. It meets a need in me I didn’t even know was there until I started doing it.’ He cleared his throat, as if overtaken by embarrassment. She had never heard him speak so eloquently about the work he did for law enforcement. Generally he spoke only of the mechanics of what he did, not what it meant to him. Hearing him talk like this made sense of the way he worked. She’d met other profilers, men whose egos swamped the investigation they were supposed to be helping. And others whose profiles were so hedged about with qualification that they were worse than useless. But Tony brought a humility to the process that meant he was always open to possibilities that others might never consider. It wasn’t that he lacked certainty or conviction. More that he was flexible.