The Torment of Others (3 page)

He’d discussed it with his wife Maggie, laying out his plans before her. ‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘You know Carol. Do you think she’ll go for it?’

Maggie had frowned, stirring her coffee thoughtfully. ‘It’s not me you should be asking, it’s Tony Hill. He’s the psychologist.’

Brandon shook his head. Tony is the last person I’d ask about Carol. Besides, he’s a man, he can’t understand the implications of rape the way a woman can.’

Maggie’s mouth twisted in acknowledgement. ‘The old Carol Jordan would have bitten your hand off. But it’s hard to imagine what being raped will have done to her. Some women fall to pieces. For some, it becomes the defining moment of their lives. Others lock it away and pretend it never happened. It sits there like a time bomb waiting to blow a hole in their lives. And some find a way to deal with it and move forward. If I had to guess, I’d say Carol would either bury it or else work through it. If she’s burying it, she’ll probably be gung ho to get back to serious work, to prove to herself and the rest of the world that she’s sorted. But she’ll be a loose cannon if that’s what she’s trying to do, and that’s not what you need in this job. However…’ she paused, ‘if she’s looking for a way through, you might be able to persuade her.’

‘Do you think she’d be up to the job?’ Brandon’s bloodhound eyes looked troubled.

‘It’s like what they say about politicians, isn’t it? The very people who volunteer for the job are the last ones who should be doing it. I don’t know, John. You’re going to have to make your mind up when you see her.’

It wasn’t a comforting thought. But he’d since had support from a surprising quarter. The previous afternoon, DI Merrick had sat in his office asking Brandon’s sanction to bring Tony Hill in to profile the disappearance of Tim Golding. As they’d discussed the case, Merrick had said almost wistfully, ‘I can’t help feeling we’d be doing better if we still had DCI Jordan on the team.’

Brandon’s eyebrows had shot up. ‘I hope you’re not having a crisis of confidence, Inspector,’ he said.

Merrick shook his head. ‘No, sir. I know we’re doing everything we can. It’s just that DCI Jordan looks at things differently from anybody else I’ve ever worked with. And with cases like this…well, sometimes it feels like it’s not enough to cover all the bases.’

Brandon knew Merrick had been right. All the more reason why he should do everything in his power to bring Carol Jordan back into the world again. He squared his shoulders and headed for the concrete labyrinth where Carol Jordan waited at the epicentre.

John Brandon was shaken to see the change in Carol Jordan. The woman who waited in the doorway for him to emerge from the lift bore almost no resemblance to his memory of her. He might well have passed her in the street. Her hair was radically different, cut short at the sides, the heavy fringe swept to one side, changing the shape of her face. But she had altered in more fundamental ways. The flesh seemed to have melted from her face, giving it a new arrangement of planes and hollows. Where there had been an expression of intelligent interest in her eyes, now there was a blank wariness. She radiated tension rather than the familiar confidence. In spite of the warmth of the early summer day, she was dressed in a shapeless polo-neck sweater and baggy trousers instead of the sharply tailored suits Brandon was used to seeing her in.

He paused a couple of feet from her. ‘Carol,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you.’

There was no smile of welcome, just a faint twitch of muscle at the corners of her mouth. ‘Come in, sir,’ she said, stepping back to allow him to enter.

‘No need for formality,’ Brandon said, taking care to keep as much physical distance as possible between them as he walked into the flat. ‘I’ve not been your boss for quite a while now.’

Carol said nothing, leading the way to the pair of sofas that sat at right angles to each other with a view through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the old church at the heart of the Barbican complex. She waited till he sat down, then offered him a drink. ‘Coffee, tea?’

‘Something cold. It’s warm out there today,’ Brandon said, unfastening the jacket of his charcoal suit. Catching her sudden stillness, he stopped awkwardly at the third button and cleared his throat.

‘Mineral water or orange juice?’

‘Water’s fine.’

When she returned with two glasses of water still hissing their effervescence into the air, Carol set Brandon’s in front of him then retreated with her own to the furthest point from him. ‘How are you?’ Brandon asked.

Carol shrugged. ‘Better than I was.’

‘I was shocked when I heard what had happened. And upset too. Maggie and I…well, I know how I’d feel if her, or my daughters…Carol, I can’t imagine how you begin to deal with something like that.’

There isn’t anything like that,’ Carol said sharply, her eyes on his. ‘I was raped, John. No other violation comes close except death, and nobody’s reported back on that yet.’

Brandon took the rebuke on the chin. ‘It should never have happened.’

Carol let out a deep breath. ‘I made mistakes, it’s true. But the real damage was caused by people who set up the operation and never levelled with me about what was really going on. Sadly, not everyone is as scrupulous as you.’ She turned away and crossed her legs tightly. ‘You said there was something you wanted to discuss with me?’ she continued, changing the subject irrevocably.

That’s right. I don’t know how current you are with recent changes in the service in the north?’

Carol shook her head. ‘It’s not what I’ve been paying attention to.’

‘No reason why you should,’ he said gently. ‘But the Home Office in their wisdom have decided East Yorkshire is too small a force and it should be amalgamated. And since my force is the smaller of the two involved in the merger, I’m the one who’s had to give up the top job.’

Carol showed the first sign of animation. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, John. You were a good Chief Constable.’

Thank you. And I hope I will be again. I’m back on my old stamping grounds.’

‘Bradfield?’

Brandon noticed Carol’s body relaxing slightly. He had, he thought, penetrated the hard outer shell. ‘That’s right. They’ve offered me Bradfield Metropolitan Police.’ His lugubrious face creased in a smile. ‘And I’ve said yes.’

‘I’m very pleased for you, John.’ Carol sipped her drink. ‘You’ll do a good job there.’

Brandon shook his head. ‘I didn’t come here for flattery, Carol. I came here because I need you.’

Carol looked away, her eyes fixed on the marled grey stone of the church. ‘I don’t think so, John.’

‘Hear me out. I’m not asking you to come and fly a desk in CID. I want to do something different in Bradfield. I want to set up an operation like the Met has for dealing with serious crime. A couple of elite major incident squads on permanent standby to catch the tough ones. All they do is the big cases, the really bad lads. And if there’s a lull in the action, the squad can pick up cold cases and work them.’

She turned her head towards him and gave him a shrewd, considering look. ‘And you think I’m what you need?’

‘I want you to be in charge of the unit and to have hands-on leadership of one squad. This is the sort of stuff you do best, Carol. The combination of intelligence and instinct and solid police work.’

She rubbed the back of her neck with a hand chill from her water glass. ‘Maybe once,’ she said. ‘I don’t think that’s who I am any more.’

Brandon shook his head. ‘These things don’t go away. You’re the best detective I ever had working for me, even if there were times when you came close to overstepping the mark. But you were always right when you pushed it that far. And I need that level of skill and guts on my team.’

Carol stared down at the brightly coloured gabbeh on the floor as if it held the answer. ‘I don’t think so, John. I come with rather too much baggage these days.’

‘You’d be reporting directly to me. No petty bureaucrats between us. You’d be working with some of your old colleagues, Carol. People who know who you are and what you’ve achieved. Not people who are going to make snap judgements about you based on rumour and half-truth. The likes of Don Merrick and Kevin Matthews. Men who respect you.’ The unspoken hung in the air. There was nowhere else she could expect that sort of reception and they both knew it.

‘It’s a very generous offer, John.’ Carol met his gaze, a world of weariness in her eyes. ‘But I think you deserve an easier ride than hiring me will get you.’

‘Let me be the judge of that,’ Brandon said, his natural air of authority suddenly emerging from the mildness he’d shown so far. ‘Carol, your work was always a large part of who you were. I understand why you don’t want to go back into intelligence and, in your shoes, I wouldn’t touch those bastards with a ten-foot pole. But policing is in your blood. Forgive me if this sounds presumptuous, but I don’t think you’re going to get over this until you get back on the horse.’

Carol’s eyes widened. Brandon wondered if he’d gone too far and waited for the whip of irony that he’d once have earned, regardless of rank.

‘Have you been talking to Tony Hill?’ she demanded.

Brandon couldn’t hide his surprise. Tony? No, I haven’t spoken to him in…oh, it must be more than a year. Why do you say that?’

‘He says the same thing,’ she said flatly. ‘I wondered if I was being ganged up on.’

‘No, this was all my own idea. But you know, Tony’s not a bad judge.’

‘Maybe so. But neither of you can know much about what it’s like to be me these days. I’m not sure the old rules apply any more. John, I can’t make a decision about this now. I need time to think.’

Brandon drained his glass. ‘Take all the time you need.’ He got to his feet. ‘Call me if you want to talk in more detail.’ He took a business card from his pocket and placed it on the table. She looked at it as if it might suddenly burst into flames. ‘Let me know what you decide.’

Carol nodded wearily. ‘I will. But don’t build your plans around me, John.’

It’s never silent inside Bradfield Moor Secure Hospital. Well, not anywhere they’ve ever let you go. All the films and TV shows you’ve seen make you think there are probably padded cells somewhere no sound can reach, but you’d probably have to go completely tonto to end up there. Scream, foam at the mouth, deck one of the staff–that sort of thing. And while the idea of being somewhere quiet is appealing, you reckon it won’t do your chances of release much good if you fake a full-on madhead attack just to get enough peace to hear the Voice properly
.

When you first arrived at Bradfield Moor, you tried to get to sleep as soon as the lock’s click signalled you were shut in for the night. But all you could hear were muffled conversations, occasional screams and sobs, feet slapping down
corridors. You pulled the thin pillow over your head and tried to blank it. It didn’t often work. The anonymous noises scared you, left you wondering if your door would suddenly burst open and front you up with who the fuck knew what. Instead of sleep, you’d get edgy and wired. Morning would come and you’d be exhausted, your eyes gritty and sore, your hands shaking like some fucked-up alkie. Worst of all, in that state, you couldn’t tune in to the Voice. You were too wound up to find the technique to beat the background
.

It took a few weeks, a few hellish, terrifying weeks, but eventually your slow brain worked out that it might be worth trying to go with the flow. Now, when the lights go out, you lie on your back, breathing deeply, telling yourself the noises outside are meaningless background chatter that you don’t have to pay attention to. And sooner or later they fade like radio static, leaving you alone with the Voice. Your lips move silently as you relive the message, and you’re gone somewhere else. Somewhere good
.

It’s a beautiful thing. You can replay the slow build-up to your greatest achievements. It’s all there, spread before you. The choosing of a sacrifice. The negotiation. Following her to the place that you’re going to transform with blood. The stupid trust they had that Dozy Derek wasn’t going to hurt them. And the look in their eyes when you turned to face them with their worst nightmare in your hand
.

The rerun never quite makes it to the finale. It’s the eyes that do it, every time. You relive the moment when it dawns on them, the terror that turns them the colour of milk and your hand tightens on your cock. Your back arches, your hips thrust upwards, your lips stretch back over your teeth as you come. And then you hear the Voice, triumphant and rich, praising you for your role in the cleansing
.

It’s the best moment in your cramped little world. Other
people might think differently, but you know how lucky you are. All you want now is to get out of here, to get back to the Voice. Nothing else will do.

PART TWO

Ten weeks later

He can’t remember the first time he heard the Voice. It makes him ashamed these days that he didn’t recognize it instantly. Thinking about it now, he finds it hard to believe it took him so long to get it. Because it was different from all the other voices he heard every day. It didn’t take the piss. It didn’t get impatient with him for being slow. It didn’t treat him like a stupid kid. The Voice gave him respect. He’d never had that before, which was probably why he didn’t get the message for so long. It took a while before it dawned on him what was on offer
.