The Torment of Others (9 page)

Sam Evans edged the office door open cautiously. No lights inside. He slipped through the narrow gap and closed the door behind him, turning the lock. Then he flicked the light switches on. The fluorescent strips flickered then settled their hard glare over the Major Incident Team’s squadroom. Sam surveyed the array of desks and made straight for Paula McIntyre’s.

He sat in her chair and noted the position of the piled paper on the desktop. The case she was working on would come to him next. Carefully, he riffled through each stack, trying to figure out the reason for the alignment she’d chosen. He flicked open the notepad and read down the list of points Paula had made. Some of them were pretty perspicacious, he thought, storing them away in his mind for when he came to review that case.

He inched open Paula’s desk drawers one by one, stirring the contents with a pencil, leaving no prints to indicate he’d been there. It was always useful to see what people kept out of sight but close at hand. Tucked right at the bottom of the drawer, he found a photograph of Don Merrick with his arm round a woman in what looked like a pub or a club. On closer inspection, he realized with a jolt of surprise that the woman was Carol Jordan. Her hair was longer, her face fuller, but it was undoubtedly her. They were both toasting the photographer with what looked like glasses of champagne. Very interesting, he thought. And almost certainly useful.

He closed Paula’s drawer and moved on to Kevin Matthews’ desk, where he repeated the same process. People said you should know your enemies. But Sam Evans also believed in making damn sure he knew the people who were supposed to be on the same side. He was, as John Brandon had spotted, ambitious. But he didn’t just want to excel; he wanted to make sure nobody outshone him. Ever.

Knowledge was power. And Evans knew that nobody ever handed out power as a gift. You had to grab it whenever and wherever you could. If that meant stealing it from someone else, so be it. If they were too weak to hold on to it, they didn’t deserve it.

He did.

He checks the image in front of him against the one planted there by the Voice and the videos. Sandie’s spreadeagled on the bed, her wrists handcuffed to the cheap pine frame. Her feet are tied to the legs. He had to use rope for them because the ankle cuffs wouldn’t stretch that far. It’s not right, but it’s the best he can do. He’s grateful to the Voice again for reminding him to take rope as well as the cuffs in case the bed wasn’t right
.

He wishes the room was nicer, but there’s nothing he can do about that. At least the lights are dim. It’s easy to ignore the needle tracks on her arms and the fact that she’s too skinny. She could almost be the dream girl from one of the videos, the trimmed triangle of hair hiding the secrets he’s about to possess
.

He turns away from her and snaps the latex gloves over his hands. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘What are you waiting for? I haven’t got all night.’

Only he knows how true that is. He reaches into his backpack and takes out the padded leather gag. He turns back to face her and now she’s starting to look worried. He moves towards her and she starts to shout. ‘Wait a fucking minute! You never said nothing about that…’ But her words are lost as he rams the gag home, jerking her head forward to fasten it behind. Her eyes are bulging now as she struggles to scream. But all that can be heard is the faintest of grunts
.

He remembers to wipe the handcuffs clear of any fingerprints, then he grabs the video camera and sets it up on its little tripod, checking that he can see the whole bed. Next
,
the laptop and the webcam. Sandie pushes against her restraints, but there’s no point
.

He takes out a bundle wrapped in a thick wad of kitchen towel. He steps into shot and slowly unwraps it. When Sandie sees what he’s holding, the veins in her neck stand out. The air fills with the smell of piss. He smiles sweetly. He’s hard now, harder than the videos ever got him. But he mustn’t lose control. He needs to make the Voice proud of him, and that means no evidence
.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his pounding heart. He’s sweating, he can feel it running down his neck and soaking his T-shirt. He grips his weapon tightly. The razor blades glint sharp and savage in the lamplight. ‘I hope you’re ready for me, Sandie,’ he says softly, just like the Voice told him to
.

Then he begins
.

Carol stared through the two-way mirror at the man in the interview room. Ronald Edmund Alexander looked nothing like the popular image of a paedophile. He wasn’t shifty or sweaty. He wasn’t dirty or sleazy. He looked exactly like a middle manager who lived in the suburbs with a wife and two children. There was no dirty raincoat, just an off-the-peg suit, an unassuming charcoal grey. Pale blue shirt, burgundy tie with a thin grey stripe. Neat haircut, no vain attempt to hide the way he was thinning on top. He’d been complaining bitterly when the two uniformed officers had brought him in. They had no right, he insisted, no right at all to come marching into his office at Bradfield Cross as if he was some common criminal. He’d co-operated, hadn’t he? All they had to do was pick up a phone and he’d have been straight over. There was no need, no need at all to embarrass him at his place of work.

Carol had watched from across the custody suite, trying to work out if she disliked him more because of what she knew he held on his computer or because he exemplified every petty bureaucrat who had ever driven her to thoughts of violence. She’d wanted to get straight into him, but had been frustrated by the tardiness of his solicitor.

So they’d stuck him in a cell while they waited for his brief to arrive. He’d been remarkably calm, she thought, wondering what Tony would have made of Alexander’s demeanour. He’d taken a look round then calmly sat on the bunk, legs apart, arms folded across his chest, gazing into the middle distance. Zen and the art of façade maintenance, she thought wryly.

Finally, the door to the observation room opened. Paula stuck her head round the door. ‘Showtime, chief. His brief’s here.’

‘Who is it?’ Carol asked, dragging her eyes away from Alexander.

‘Bronwen Scott.’

Carol remembered the defence lawyer from her previous spell in Bradfield. Unlike most legal aid lawyers, Scott seemed to have the wherewithal to dress in Dolce & Gabbana, with matching shoes and handbags from Prada. Her perfectly groomed shoulder-length black hair and flawlessly painted nails always made Carol feel like she’d been dragged straight out of bed into their interviews. It would have been almost bearable if the lawyer hadn’t been as sharp and combative as she was expensively immaculate. The general view was that if you could afford Bronwen Scott, you’d probably done it. ‘Oh good,’ Carol said, heading for the door.

She came face to face with Scott as she emerged into the corridor. ‘Inspector Jordan. What a surprise. I thought you’d left us for pastures more glamorous,’ Scott said, her voice cool and amused.

‘It’s Chief Inspector, actually. And you should know better than anyone that there’s nothing glamorous about what we deal in. Shall we go?’

Scott shook her head. ‘I don’t know where you’ve been hiding, Chief Inspector, but up here in Bradfield we still allow lawyers to talk to their clients in private. And before I do that, I’d like some disclosure.’

Nothing unexpected there, Carol thought. ‘When your client was arrested, his computer equipment was confiscated. It has subsequently been analysed. He will be interviewed fully about that at a later date, but there is one image on his machine that links directly to a major inquiry which I am leading. It is that single image I want to talk to him about.’

‘That image being…?’

‘I’ll be happy to discuss that in the interview. And to show you and your client a copy.’

Scott shook her head. ‘You really have forgotten your manners, haven’t you, Chief Inspector? Before I can have a meaningful conversation with my client, I need to know what we’re talking about here.’

There was a long silence. Carol could feel Paula’s eyes on her back, measuring her. There really wasn’t anything to be gained by holding back at this point. It wasn’t as if Ron Alexander was a serious suspect in the disappearance of Tim Golding. If she refused to give Scott anything, then she’d end up with a ‘no comment’ interview, nothing surer. If she tried waiting until the interview to spring the photo on him, Scott would simply demand time out to talk to her client. Carol considered. She wanted co-operation. She didn’t care what that might or might not do to any wider case against Ron Alexander. ‘We might as well speed things up,’ she said. ‘Your client’s computer held an image of Tim Golding. The eight-year-old–’

‘Yes, I know who Tim Golding is,’ Scott said impatiently. ‘But since you people disseminated images of the child all over the country, it’s hardly a big deal that my client has a photo of the boy on his computer.’

‘It’s a big deal when the picture in question shows a terrified, naked child.’ Carol turned on her heel and walked off. ‘Let me know when you’re ready to talk,’ she said over her shoulder as she rounded a corner, Paula hard on her heels. ‘I see Bronwen Scott hasn’t mellowed with age,’ she commented.

‘It’s a pain you had to give away so much,’ Paula said, falling into step beside her boss.

‘You know the rules, Paula. They ask for disclosure, we have to give it.’

‘Couldn’t you have held back on the ID, chief? Then hit him with it in the interview?’

Carol stopped and gave Paula a speculative look. ‘You think I was weak back there, don’t you?’

Paula looked horrified. ‘I never…’

‘Giving in isn’t always a sign of weakness, Paula. There was no point in holding out. I know how Scott works. Alexander would just have gone “no comment” from the off. This way, she might just see it as a bargaining chip.’ Carol walked off, feeling the tension in her shoulders. Maybe they didn’t trust her quite as much as she’d thought.

He sleeps late. It’s nearly noon when he wakes, and even then he has to force his eyes open. He feels like somebody spiked his brain with Valium. His head’s muzzy, it takes him a moment to realize where he is. At home, in his own bed, curled into himself like a baby. But it’s a different person inside his body this morning
.

He’s not the fuck-up that everybody laughs at any more. He did it. He did exactly what he was supposed to. Just like the Voice told him to. And he’s got his reward. He’s got the money, even though he explained that wasn’t why he’d done it. He’d done it because he understood. It’s not the money that makes him feel like he finally made it. It’s hearing the Voice say good things about him. It’s knowing that he’s done something hardly anybody else could do. Something special
.

Thank God he managed to hide the way he really felt when he reached the moment itself. He’d been excited, aroused, on the point of coming inside his pants like a teenager. But when it came to it, when he had to stick that thing inside her again and again, he wilted. It wasn’t sexy. It was bloody and terrible and frightening. He knows it was the right thing to do, but at the very end, it wasn’t exciting at all. Just messy and sad
.

But the Voice didn’t see that. The Voice just saw that he’d done what he was supposed to do, and he’d got it right
.

As he wakes up properly, he feels a buzz in his veins. It’s pride, but it’s fear too. They’re going to be looking for him. The Voice promised he’d be all right. But maybe the Voice has got it wrong
.

Maybe he wasn’t as clever as he thought
.

Tom Storey stared out of the window, watching the leaves detaching from the trees and swirling in the brisk breeze that had sprung up towards noon. He sat motionless, his bandaged stump gripped in his other hand. Tony watched him for a good ten minutes, but Storey never budged.

Eventually, he walked across the day room and pulled up a chair next to Storey. He noted the purple bruise along his cheekbone. According to the orderly who had shown Tony in, one of the other patients had punched Storey during a group therapy session. ‘Even these mad bastards draw the line at child killers,’ the man had said casually.

‘We’ve all got two personalities, you know,’ Tony said conversationally. ‘One in each hemisphere of the brain. One’s the boss, it shouts down the weaker one. But you sever the diplomatic links, and there’s no telling what the subservient one will do once it gets the taste for power.’