The Wire in the Blood

‘You can take some home with you,’ Maggie told her. ‘I know the kind of daft hours you’ll be working. Cooking’s the last thing you’ll have time for. When John was made up to DCI, I considered asking his Chief Constable if the family could move into the cells at Scargill Street since that seemed to be the only way his kids would ever get to see him.’

John Brandon, Chief Constable of East Yorkshire Police, shook his head and said affectionately, ‘She’s a terrible liar, my wife. She only says these things to guilt-trip you into working so hard there’ll be nothing left for me to worry about in your whole division.’

Maggie snorted. ‘As if! How do you think he ended up looking like that, eh?’

Carol gave Brandon a shrewd look. It was a good question. If ever a man had been born with a graveyard face, it was Brandon. His countenance was all verticals, long and narrow; lines in his hollow cheeks, lines between his brows, aquiline nose, iron-grey hair straight as the grid line on a map. Tall and thin, with the beginnings of a stoop, all he needed was a scythe to audition for Death. She considered her options. It might be ‘John’ tonight, but on Monday morning it would be back to, ‘Mr Brandon, sir.’ Better not push her informal relationship with the boss too far. ‘And there was me thinking it was marriage,’ she said innocently.

Maggie roared with laughter. ‘Diplomatic as well as quick, eh?’ she got out at last, reaching across to pat her husband’s shoulder. ‘You did well to get Carol to abandon the fleshpots of Bradfield for the back of beyond, my love.’

‘Speaking of which, how are you settling in?’ Carol asked.

‘Well, this is a police house,’ Maggie told her, waving a hand at the brilliant white walls and paintwork, a depressing contrast to the hand-marbled paintwork Carol remembered from their Bradfield dining room. ‘But it’ll have to do us. We’ve rented out the house in Bradfield, you know? John’s only got another five years till he has his thirty in, and we want to go back there. It’s where our roots are, where our friends are. And the kids will all be out of school by then, so it’s not like they’ll be uprooted again.’

‘What Maggie isn’t saying is that she feels a bit like a Victorian missionary among the Hottentots,’ Brandon said.

‘Well, you’ve got to admit, East Yorkshire’s a bit different from Bradfield. Plenty of scenery, but there’s not a decent theatre within half an hour’s drive of here. There seems to be only one bookshop on the whole patch that sells more than the bestsellers. And as for opera – you can forget it!’ Maggie protested, getting to her feet and gathering the empty plates.

‘Don’t you feel happier about the kids growing up away from the influence of the inner city? Out of the reaches of the drug lords?’ Carol asked.

Maggie shook her head. ‘They’re so insular round here, Carol. Back in Bradfield, the kids had friends from all kinds of backgrounds – Asian, Chinese, Afro-Caribbean. Even one Vietnamese lad. Out here, you stick to your own. There’s nothing to do except hang around on street corners. Frankly, I’d take a chance on them having the sense to stay out of trouble in the inner city as a trade-off for all the opportunities they had in Bradfield. This country living is well over-rated.’ She marched through to the kitchen.

‘Sorry,’ Carol said. ‘Didn’t realize it was such a sore point.’

Brandon shrugged. ‘You know Maggie. She likes to get it off her chest. Give it a few more months, she’ll be running the village, happy as a pig. The kids like it well enough. How about you? What’s the cottage like?’

‘I love it. The couple I bought it from did an immaculate restoration job.’

‘I’m surprised they were selling it, then.’

‘Divorce,’ Carol said succinctly.

‘Ah.’

‘I think they were both more upset about losing the cottage than the marriage. You and Maggie will have to come over for a meal.’

‘If you ever find the time to shop,’ Maggie said darkly, walking back in with a large cafetière.

‘Well, worst comes to worst, I’ll send Nelson out to bring us a rabbit back.’

‘He’s enjoying the opportunities for murder that living in the country offers?’ Maggie asked drily.

‘He thinks he’s died and gone to feline heaven. You might crave the inner city, but he’s turned into a country boy overnight.’

Maggie poured coffee for John and Carol, then said, ‘I’m going to leave you pair to it, if you don’t mind. I know you’re dying to talk shop and I promised Karen I’d pick her up after the pictures in Seaford. There’s enough coffee there to keep you both awake till dawn, and if you feel peckish in a bit, there’s home-made cheesecake in the fridge. But Andy’s due back around ten, so you’d better help yourself before then. I swear that lad’s got worms. That or hollow legs.’ She swooped down on Brandon and gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek. ‘Enjoy yourselves.’

Unable to resist the feeling that she’d been set up by professionals, Carol took a sip of her coffee and waited. When it came, Brandon’s question was hardly a surprise. ‘So how are you settling in on the ground?’ His voice was casual, but his eyes were watchful.

‘Obviously, they’re wary of me. Not only am I a woman, which on the evolutionary scale in East Yorkshire comes somewhere between a ferret and a whippet, but I’m also the Chief Constable’s nark. Brought in from the big city to crack the whip,’ she said ironically.

‘I was afraid you’d get lumbered with that,’ Brandon said. ‘But you must have known how it would be when you took the job on.’

Carol shrugged. ‘It’s not come as a surprise. But there’s been rather less of it than I anticipated. Maybe they’re all still on their best behaviour, but I think the Seaford Central Division CID are not a bad crew. Because they were stuck out in the boondocks before the reorganization and nobody was paying much attention, they’ve got a bit lazy, a bit sloppy. I suspect one or two might be spending a bit more than they’re earning, but I don’t think there’s any deep-rooted, systemic corruption.’

Brandon nodded, satisfied. Trusting Carol Jordan’s judgement had been a steep learning curve for him, and he’d known instinctively she was the one senior officer he wanted to tempt away from Bradfield. With her setting the tone in Seaford, word would spread through other divisions and the CID culture would adapt accordingly, given time. Time and a certain amount of stick which Brandon wasn’t afraid to apply. ‘Anything on the books that’s causing you a problem?’

Carol finished her coffee and poured herself another cup, offering the pot to Brandon, who refused with a shake of the head. She frowned in thought, gathering her arsenal of information. ‘There is something,’ she said. ‘Since we’re talking informally?’

Brandon nodded.

‘Well, I noticed going through the overnights that there seemed to be a positive spate of unexplained fires and query arsons. All at night, all in unoccupied premises like schools, factories, cafés, warehouses. None of them very big in itself, but taken together, you’re looking at a lot of damage. I put a team together to re-interview the previous victims, see if we could find any connection – financially or insurance-wise. Zilch. But I went myself to talk to the local fire chief, and he produced a series of incidents going back about four months. None of the fires could be absolutely, positively put down as arson, but circumstantially, he reckons there have been something between six and a dozen possible deliberate fires per month on his patch,’ Carol said.

‘A serial arsonist?’ Brandon said softly.

‘It’s hard to imagine another interpretation,’ Carol agreed.

‘And you want to do what, exactly?’

‘I want to catch him,’ she said with a grin.

‘Well, what else?’ Brandon smiled. ‘Did you have something specific in mind?’ he continued mildly.

‘I want to carry on working with the team I’ve already got on it, and I want to do a profile.’

Brandon frowned. ‘Bring someone in?’

‘No,’ Carol said sharply. ‘There’s not really enough evidence to justify the expense. I think I can take a pretty good stab at it myself.’

Brandon looked impassively at Carol. ‘You’re not a psychologist.’

‘No, but I learned a lot last year, working with Tony Hill. And since then, I’ve read everything about profiling I could find.’

‘You should have applied for the National Task Force,’ Brandon said, keeping his eyes fixed on her.

Carol felt her skin burn. She hoped the wine and the coffee would account for her heightened colour. ‘I don’t think they were looking for officers of my rank,’ she said. ‘Apart from Commander Bishop, there’s no one above the rank of sergeant. Besides, I prefer to work a patch, get to know the people and the ground.’

‘They’re due to be up and running a full case-load in a few weeks,’ Brandon continued implacably. ‘Maybe they’d welcome something like this to cut their teeth on before then.’

‘Maybe they would,’ Carol said. ‘But it’s my case. And I’m not ready to let it go.’

‘Fine,’ Brandon said, interested that Carol had already developed such fierce possessiveness about the work of the East Yorkshire force. ‘But keep me posted, yes?’

‘Of course,’ Carol said. Her sense of relief, she told herself, was entirely because she would now have the chance to cover herself and her team in glory when they cracked the case. Deep down, though, she knew she was lying.

Sleeping in what the estate agent had referred to as the guest bedroom of Shaz’s flat would have been beyond most people, particularly if they were the sort who needed to read a few pages before they could nod off. While the bookcase in the living room contained an innocuous mix of middlebrow middle-of-the-road modern fiction, the shelves in the room Shaz thought of as her study held only hard-core horror, most of it masquerading as textbooks. There were a few novels by pathologists of psychopathy and anatomists of agony like Barbara Vine and Thomas Harris, but most of Shaz’s working library was both stranger and more brutal than fiction ever dared to be. If there had been a vocational course for serial killers, her library would have comprised the set books.

The lowest shelves held those items which mildly embarrassed her – pulp true-crime biographies of notorious serial killers with lurid nicknames, sensational accounts of careers that had robbed hundreds of people of their trust and their lives. Arranged above these were the more respectable versions of those same lives, portentous renderings that provided thoughtful revelations and insights sociological, psychological and sometimes illogical.

Next, at eye-level for anyone sitting at the table that held Shaz’s notepads and laptop, were the battle stories of the veterans of the war against serial offenders. Since it was the best part of twenty years since the infancy of offender profiling, the pioneers had been trickling into retirement for a few years now, each determined to augment his pension with graphic accounts of his contribution to the latest soft science with the case histories of his notable successes and a passing gloss over his failures. They were, thus far, all men.