If you have never said "Excuse me" to a parking meter or bashed your shins on a fireplug, you are probably wasting too much valuable reading time.

Sherri Chasin Calvo

 
 
 
 
 
Tác giả: Val McDermid
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Chapter 18
ut not at work. What he needed now was complete peace. He'd already instructed his secretary to hold all his calls, and he turned off the ringer on his direct line. Nothing and nobody was going to interrupt the flow of his thoughts. His feeling of satisfaction continued as he read through the work he'd done the day before. He was ready now to put himself on the line and commit his conclusions about Handy Andy to paper. Tony poured himself a cup of coffee from his Thermos and took a deep breath.
We are dealing with a serial killer who will certainly kill again unless he is caught. The next killing will take place on the eighth Monday following the death of Damien Connolly unless some trigger accelerates this. What might push him over the edge into extreme escalation could be some catastrophic event that causes him to lose whatever it is he is using to keep the fantasy alive. Since, for example, he is using videos, loss of or damage to his tapes could lead to loss of control. Another possible scenario is that an innocent person is charged with the killings. That would be such an affront to his sense of himself that he might commit his next murder ahead of schedule.
I believe it is likely that he has already selected his next victim and is familiarizing himself with that victim's movements and lifestyle. The chances are that the chosen victim is a man not known to the gay community. He will be, to all intents and purposes, a straight man living a heterosexual lifestyle.
The fact that his last victim was a police officer is disturbing. It is highly probable that this was choice, not accident or coincidence.
The killer is sending a message to the investigation. He is demanding that we take notice of him, that we take him seriously. He is also telling us that he is the best; he can catch us but we can't catch him. There is a theory that such behaviour is a way of inviting capture, but I do not believe that is what is going on in this case.
It is possible that his next target may also be a police officer, perhaps even one who is working on the investigation. This alone will not be sufficient motive for the killer to choose them; they must also fit the victim criteria that he has drawn up in his own mind in order for the killing to assume its full meaning for him. I would strongly recommend that any officers who fit the victim profile employ extra vigilance at all times, noting any suspicious vehicles parked near their homes, and checking to see whether they are being followed to and from work and social events.
The stalking and preparation serves two main purposes for the killer: it cuts down on the potential surprise elements when he comes to carry out the killing, and it also fuels the fantasy that is the all-important area of the killer's life.
Our killer is probably a white male, aged between 15 and 35. He is likely to be at least 5it loins tall, well muscled, with considerable upper-body strength. In spite of this, he probably has a poor body image. He may work out in a gym, but if he can afford it, he would prefer to use his own equipment in the privacy of his home. He is right-handed.
He won't look like a con. He'll look deeply, deeply average. He will have a demeanour that doesn't provoke suspicion. He's the sort of bloke you wouldn't look at twice, and certainly wouldn't suspect of being a multiple murderer. He may have tattoos and or self- inflicted scars, but these are likely to be fairly discreet.
He is familiar with Bradfield, and his knowledge of Temple Fields is clearly current. This implies someone who lives and probably works in the city. I don't think he's a casual visitor, nor a former resident who simply comes back here to kill. There is no obvious geographical pattern to the homes or work places of his victims, except that they all lived in reasonably close proximity to a tram line. The first victim's home is most likely to be geographically closest to where the killer lives or works. Looking at the general background and style of the victims, and working on the principle that he's sticking to the kind of environment he knows and understands, I would suspect that the killer lives in privately owned property rather than rented, a house rather than a flat, in a suburban area of similar properties to those of the victims. The victims' houses are probably worth more than the killer's; these are men that in some way he aspires towards.
He is probably of above average intelligence, though I would not expect him to have a university degree. His school record is probably quite patchy, with poor attendance and highly variable marks. He will never have lived up to his potential or to other people'sexpectations of him. Most serial killers have a bad employment record, flitting from job to job, being sacked more often than resigning. But this man exhibits an extraordinary level of control in the commission of his murders, so I Would expect him to be capable of holding down a steady job, possibly even one with some degree of responsibility and forward planning. However, I don't think his job will involve much contact with his fellow human beings, since his relationships with others will be characterized by their dysfunction al nature. His victims are all white-collar workers, with the marginal exception of Damien Con nolly, which indicates to me that he probably operates in a similar working environment. I wouldn't be surprised to find him working in a technology-related area, possibly computers. This is an employment area Miere people can hold down good jobs without having Ngnificant people skills. People who don't fit in are accepted and acceptable in the weird world of software engineers; indeed, they are often highly prized since they are hard to replace.
I doubt if our killer is a leading-edge creative person in the software world, but I wouldn't be surprised to find him as a systems manager or a program tester. He probably doesn't get on well with his bosses, being inclined to be insubordinate and argumentative.
He will be middle class in terms of his job, his aspirations, his clothes and his home, although he may be working class in background.
He is good with his hands, but I am inclined to think he is not in a manual occupation, if only because of the high degree of planning involved in these murders.
Socially, he feels isolated. He may not necessarily be a loner, but he does not connect with people. He feels like an outsider. He probably has developed superficial social skills, but somehow his behaviour always strikes the wrong note. He's the one who laughs too loudly, the one who thinks he's making jokes when he's actually being deeply offensive, the one who sometimes seems to have drifted off in a daydream all of his own. He's the one who doesn't really have any friends, who will join in with the group but never pair off with one buddy in particular. He has little insight into his social failings.
He prefers to be alone with his fantasies, because when others are involved socially, he can't fully control what's happening around him.
It's entirely possible that he does not live alone. If he lives with someone, it will be a woman rather than a man. Because he is sexually attracted to men and cannot accept that, he will not under any circumstances be living with a man, not even in a platonic relationship. His relationships with women may well be sexual, but he will not be an enthusiastic or successful lover. His performance will be barely adequate, and he may regularly experience problems in achieving and or sustaining an erection. However, he will not be impotent during the commission of his crime, and will almost certainly be able to complete a full sexual act of some sort with his victims.
Tony paused and stared out of the window. Sometimes it felt like the chicken and the egg. Did he empathize with his patients because he too knew the frustrations and anger of impotence, or had his sexual problems increased precisely so that he could do his job better?
"Does it matter?" he said impatiently. He ran a hand through his hair and concentrated once again on the screen.
If he is living with someone, she will almost certainly have no suspicion whatsoever that her partner is the killer. It's therefore quite likely that her first instinct will be to alibi him, since in her heart, she knows it couldn't possibly be him. Any suspects solely alibied by girlfriends or wives should therefore not be eliminated on those grounds alone.
He is mobile, with his own car, which is in good condition (see above). And on Monday nights, he's free to roam without hindrance or obligation to be somewhere.
He is a highly structured personality, a control freak. The sort who has a tantrum because his girlfriend has forgotten to buy his favourite cereal. He believes he's absolutely justified; he thinks that in his crimes, all he is doing is actually committing the actions that everybody else wants to but lacks the bottle for. He has a big chip on his shoulder and feels that the world has conspired against him; how come, since he's-so bright and talented, he's not running the company instead of doing this poxy job? How come, since he's so charming, he's not going out with some super model? The answer is, the world is out to do him down. He has the egocentric world view of the spoiled child, and has no insight into the impact of his behaviour on others. All he sees is the way events affect him.
He is a persistent fantasist and daydreamer. His fantasies are elaborately constructed and seem more significant to him than reality. His fantasy world is where he retreats both from choice and also whenever he faces any kind of setback or obstacle in his day-today life. The fantasies are likely to involve violence as well as sex and may also be fetishistic. These fantasies don't remain static; they lose their power and have to be developed further.
He is certain that he can act out his violent fantasies without anyone being able to stop him. He has supreme confidence that he is smarter than the police. He is not planning for the day he will be caught. He thinks he's too clever for that. He has been very careful to erase forensic traces, which is why, as I have already outlined to Inspector Jordan, I am convinced that the fragment of Russian deerskin left at the scene of the fourth killing is a red herring of the grossest kind. He is almost certainly keeping a close eye on the investigation, and will doubtless be laughing his socks off as we run round trying to source the leather. Even if the police do trace it, I suspect that when we find the killer there will be nothing among his possessions that will remotely connect to it.
If he has any criminal record at all, it is likely to be a juvenile one. Possible of fences include: vandalism, minor arson, stealing, cruelty to younger children or animals, assault on teachers. However, somewhere along the line, our killer has learned enormous self control and he's unlikely to have an adult record.
He will keep abreast of the investigation as much as possible, and will thrive on publicity as long as it appears to accord him the glamour and respect he craves. It is interesting that Adam Scott's grave was desecrated shortly after the second murder. This may have been an attempt to raise the profile of his crimes. He is possibly someone who has contacts with police officers, and if he does, he will endeavour to use this to gain information about the progress of the investigation. Any officer who feels they are being pumped in this way should be encouraged to report it to senior officers in the murder squad.
Tony saved his file and read the whole thing through again. Some of the psychologists he'd worked with incorporated great slabs of background about the likely childhood background of the killer, as well as a checklist of behaviours that the killer would possibly have exhibited when he was growing up. Not Tony. There was time enough for that sort of information once there was a suspect ripe for interrogation. Tony never forgot that he was dealing with coppers who were out there at the sharp end. Men like Torn Cross, who didn't give a toss what kind of hideous childhood their suspect had endured.
Thinking of Torn Cross sharpened Tony's critical eye. Convincing him of the value of the profile was going to be a nightmare.
The first edition of the Bradfield Evening Sentinel Times hit the street just before noon. The eager searchers after flats, jobs and bargains snatched the first copies from the street vendors without even looking at the front page. They turned straight to the section of small ads that they hoped would meet their needs, holding the front and back pages up to the advantage of passers-by. Anyone curious enough to glance at the banner headlines on the front page would have discovered 'murder hunt boss dumped. Exclusive, by our Crime Correspondent, Penny Burgess. " Further down the page, the bottom right-hand quarter was taken up with a photograph of Tony, saying, 'murder cops follow best lead. Exclusive by Penny Burgess." If they'd been intrigued enough to buy their own copy, they could have read a sub-headline saying, "Top shrink we chose joins Queer Killer hunt, see story p. 3."
In an office high above the bustling streets of Bradfield, a murderer stared at the paper, excitement churning inside. Things were working out beautifully. It was as if the police were acting out the killer's own fantasies, proving that wishes do come true.
The world was out in the city streets, buying Christmas presents they'd still be paying for at Easter, the fools. I was in my dungeon, making sure I would have a Christmas I'd never forget. Even though it was to be Gareth's last on this earth, I was sure every detail of it would be as clearly etched on his memory as it was going to be on my video tape.
I'd arranged our meeting with all the care and precision I could. The advent of the bitch meant I couldn't take the chance of capturing him at home as I'd done with Adam and Paul. I'd had to make alternative plans.
I sent him an invitation. I reasoned that Christmas Eve would be spoken for, either by family or by the bitch, so I chose December z^rd. I couched it in terms I knew he wouldn't be able to resist and that he'd never dare show the bitch. The final sentence read, "Admission by invitation only." A clever touch, that. It meant he'd have to bring with him the only evidence of contact between us.
The directions on the back led, if he cared to check it out in advance, to an isolated holiday cottage high up on the moors between Bradfield and the Yorkshire Dales; the opposite side of the city to Start Hill Farm and my dungeon. I anticipated that the cottage would be let over Christmas. But I had no intention of allowing Gareth to get that far.
It was a Christmas-cliche sort of night; bone-white crescent moon, stars twinkling like diamond chips on a cocktail watch, grass and hedgerows heavy with time. I pulled over on to the verge of the single-track moorland road that led up to the holiday cottage and a couple of farms. In the distance, I could see the dual carriage way leading into Bradfield like a ribbon of fairy lights strung across the Pennines.
I turned on my hazard lights, got out of the jeep and opened the bonnet. I placed what I needed near at hand, then I leaned against the front wing and waited. It was freezing, but I didn't care. I'd calculated well. I'd only been waiting for about five minutes when I heard the sound of an engine straining up the steep incline. The lights swung round the bend below me and I stepped out, waving furiously, looking frozen and worried.
Gareth's elderly Escort stopped abruptly in front of the jeep. I took a couple of hesitant steps towards him as he opened the door and got out.
"Some kind of a problem?" he asked.
"I'm afraid I know next to nothing about cars, but if I can maybe give you a lift... " I smiled.
"Thanks for stopping," I said. There was no flicker of recognition in his face as he drew nearer. I hated him for that.
I stepped back towards the jeep, gesturing under the bonnet.
"It's not a big problem," I said.
"Only, I need three hands. If you can just hold this part in place so I can get a spanner on this nut..." I pointed into the engine. Gareth leaned over the bonnet. I picked up the spanner and let him have it.
Within five minutes, he was trussed tighter than a turkey in the boot of his own car. I had his car keys, his wallet and the invitation I'd sent him. I drove back down through the city to the farm, where I dumped the unconscious body unceremoniously down the cellar steps. I didn 't have time to do any more then, not if I was going to get back to the jeep.
I drove Gareth's car into the centre of Bradfield, leaving it in Temple Fields in a back alley off Crompton Gardens. Nobody noticed me; they were all too busy partying. It was a mere ten minutes' walk across town to the railway station.
A twenty-minute train ride and a brisk fifteen-minute walk brought me back to the jeep. Cautiously, I approached. There was no sign of life, no suggestion that anyone had been poking around. I drove back to Start Hill Farm whistling
"Hark The Herald Angels Sing'.
When I switched the cellar light on, Gareth's dark-grey eyes flashed angry fire at me. I liked that. After the pathetic terror of Adam and Paul, it was refreshing to see a man who had some guts. The muffled sound that came from behind the tape on his mouth was more like an angry grunt than a plea.
I stooped over him and stroked his hair back from his forehead. At first, he jerked away from me, then he became calm and still, calculation in his eyes.
"That's more like it," I said.
"No need to fight, no need to resist."
He nodded, then grunted, signalling down towards his gag with his eyes. I kneeled beside him and picked at one corner of the surgical tape. Once I had a good grip, I ripped it free in one swift movement.
It's kinder than doing it gradually.
Gareth worked his jaw, licking his dry lips. He glared at me.
"Some fucking party," he snarled, his voice a little shaky.
"It'sexactly what you deserve," I said.
"How the fuck do you work that out?" he demanded.
"You were meant for me. But you took up with that slag. And you tried to keep it a secret."
Light dawned in his eyes.
"You're..." he started.
"That's right," I interrupted.
"So now you know why you're here." My voice was as cold as the stone floor. I stood up abruptly and walked over to the bench where I'd laid out my equipment.
Gareth was talking again, but I shut out the sound of his voice. I know how persuasive lawyers can be, and I wasn 't about to be deflected from my course by any amount of sweet talking. I opened the zip lock bag and took out the chloroform pad. I turned back to Gareth and kneeled beside him. With one hand, I gripped his hair and with the other I applied the pad to his mouth and nose. He struggled so convulsively that I ended up with a clump of hair in my hand before he subsided into unconsciousness. Just as well I was wearing my latex gloves, otherwise his hair would have cut me. The last thing I needed was my blood mingling with his.
When he was out cold, I cut his clothes off. I took the strap from the Judas chair and fastened it round his chest, under the armpits.
I'd fixed a rudimentary pulley and hoist to one of the ceiling beams, and I attached the hook to the strap. I raised Gareth's body with the hoist till he swung like mistletoe in a draught. Once he was up in the air, it was the work of moments to undo the handcuffs and fasten him to my Christmas tree.
I'd bolted two planks to the wall in the shape of a St Andrew's Cross, and covered them thickly with prickly boughs of blue Norwegian spruce. To each arm of the cross, I'd attached leather straps, which I fastened around his wrists and ankles. I opened up Gareth's curled fists and taped his hands open to the cross, finally, I removed the hook and let the wrist straps take the strain. His body slumped alarmingly, and for a moment I was concerned that I hadn't fitted strong enough straps. There was a brief creaking of leather on wood, then silence. He hung like a martyred apostle on the dungeon wall.
I laid out my club hammer and the sharpened cold chisels I'd chosen for the job. We'd be together now till Christmas night. I intended to savour every minute of our forty-eight hours.
Very few men commit murder upon philanthropic or patriotic principles. As to the majority of murderers, they are very incorrect characters.
The four detective inspectors sat stony-faced in what had been Torn Cross's office as John Brandon gave them the official version of the superintendent's suspension. Sometimes, Brandon wished he was one of the lads again, able to explain his reasons without appearing to undermine his own position by doing so.
"What we've got to do is put this behind us and move this enquiry forward," he said briskly.
"Now, what's the score with McConnell?"
Kevin leaned forward in his seat.
"I did as you instructed, sir. He left our custody just before midnight, and I've had a team on him ever since. He hasn't put so much as a toe out of line so far. He went straight home, seemed to go to bed, judging by the lights. He was up at eight this morning, and he's gone off to work. I've got one lad in the gym, posing as a new member, and another one out on the street."
"Stick with it, Kevin. Anything else? Dave, anything interesting coming out of the computer yet?"
"We're following up a lot of car numbers and blokes with previous for any gay-related of fences both on the gay-bashing and the gross indecency side. We're also about to cross-check those lists with the ones Don Merrick's been getting from travel agents of people who have booked holidays in Russia. Once we get the profile, we might be able to develop some suspects, but it's uphill at the moment, sir."
Carol chipped in.
"Some of the weightlifting associations said they'd supply us with lists of their members who'd either been to Russia or competed against Russian teams."
Dave pulled a face.
"Oh goody, more bloody lists," he said.
"I've got a contact in the leather business," Stansfield said.
"Biggest importer in the UK. I asked him about the leather scrap and he said that with it being deerskin, it's probably not your common-or-garden labourer's jacket. He said it was likely to be someone with a bit of clout but not real power. You know. Somebody like a DI," he grinned.
"Or a town-hall official halfway up the greasy pole. A deputy starionmaster. The second mate on a ship. That sort of thing."
Dave grinned.
"I'll tell HOLMES to keep an eye out for ex-KGB men."
Brandon started to say something, but he was cut off by the peal of the telephone. He grabbed it and said,
"Brandon here..." His face lost all expression, turning as wooden as the coffins he looked as if he should be carrying.
"Yes, sir. I'll be there right away." He put the phone down gently and stood up.
"The Chief Constable is interested in hearing how this evening's paper came to look the way it does." He crossed the room and paused by the door, one hand on the handle.
"I'm sure the person who washed our dirty linen in Ms Burgess's sink will be hoping I can persuade him not to make an example of him." He gave Carol a frosty smile.
"Or her, come to that."
Tony locked his office door behind him and gave the project secretary a happy wave and smile.
"I'm going out for a bite of lunch, Claire.
I'll probably go to Cafe Genet in Temple Fields. Inspector Jordan's due at three, but I'll be back by then. OK? "
"You're sure you don't want to return one of these calls from the journalists?" Claire called after him.
Tony swung round, continuing to walk backwards across the office.
"What journalists?" he asked.
"First off, that Penny Burgess from the Sentinel Times. She's been trying every half-hour since I came in. Then, in the last hour, they've been on from all the national newspapers, and Radio Bradfield."
Tony frowned, baffled.
"Why?" he asked.
"Did they say what they wanted?"
Claire held up the copy of the Sentinel Times she'd nipped out to buy from the campus news agent
"I'm no psychologist. Tony, but I think it might have something to do with this."
Tony stopped in his tracks. Even across the office he could read the headlines and make out his own photograph splashed across the front page of the paper. Like an iron filing pulled by a magnet. Tony moved closer to the paper till he could read Penny Burgess's name on both stories. "May I?" he said hoarsely, reaching out for the paper.
Claire relinquished it and watched his reaction. She liked her boss, but she was human enough to relish his discomfort at being exposed in the evening paper. Tony hastily flicked the front page over, hunting for the full story about himself. With a mounting sense of horror, he read: Dr Hill is well equipped to enter the twisted mind of the Queer Killer. As well as his two university degrees and a wealth of experience in dealing directly with the criminal perverts who have terrorized society, he has a reputation for dogged determination.
A colleague said,
"He's married to the job. It's all he lives for. If anyone can catch the Queer Killer, it's Tony Hill.
"It's only a matter of time now, I'm convinced. Tony is relentless. He won't give up till this bastard is nailed down tight.
"Let's face it, Tony's got a top-class brain. These serial killers might have high IQs, but they're never very smart when it comes to staying out of custody."
"Dear Christ," Tony groaned. Apart from the fact that no self-respecting colleague would ever have given quotes like that, the article was tantamount to throwing down the gauntlet to Handy Andy.
It read like a challenge. He felt sure Handy Andy would find a way to respond to that. Tony threw the paper down on the desk and scowled at it.
"It is a bit over the top," his secretary said sympathetically.
"It's bloody irresponsible, never mind over the top," Tony raged.
"Oh, bollocks to it. I'm going for lunch. If the Chief Constable rings; tell him I've left for the day." He walked off again towards the door.
"What about Inspector Jordan? What if she rings?"
"You can tell her I've left the country." With the door open, he paused.
"No, only joking. Tell her I'll be here for our meeting."
As he stood waiting for the lift. Tony realized nothing in his experience had prepared him for a direct confrontational challenge with a killer. This was one he'd have to fly by the seat of his pants.
Kevin Matthews drained his pint glass and waved it at the barmaid.
"Even if it is a red herring, he's still got to have had access to this bloody obscure bit of leather in the first place, hasn't he?" he demanded stubbornly of Carol and Merrick.
"Same again?"
Merrick nodded.
"I'll have a coffee this time, Kevin," Carol said.
"And chuck us a menu, would you? I've got a feeling I'm in for a long session with the doc, and he's got a nasty habit of forgetting about food."
Kevin ordered the drinks then turned back to Carol. With the persistence that had won him promotion, he said, "I'm right though, aren't I? To plant the leather like that, not only has he had access to it, he also knows how unusual it is."
"Agreed," Carol said.
"So it's not a waste of time trying to source it, is it?"
"I never said it was," Carol said patiently.
"Now, are you going to fill me in on what happened with Torn Cross, or do I have to copy our murderer and bring out the torture gear?"
While Kevin explained what had happened, Merrick's attention drifted.
He'd already heard the tale more times than enough. He leaned against the bar and surveyed the clientele. The Sackville Arms wasn't the nearest pub to the Scargill Street station, but it sold draught Tetleys from Yorkshire and Boddingtons from Manchester, which inevitably made it the police local. The pub was on the outer fringes of Temple Fields, which had given it an added attraction for the local officers when Scargill Street had still been open. The location had meant that hookers or petty villains who wanted to drop a word in the ear of their personal contact on the force could manage it unobtrusively. However, in the few months that Scargill Street had been moth balled the pub had subtly changed. The regulars had got used to having the place to themselves, and there was a clearly discernible distance between the coppers and the rest of the customers. The officers who'd been using the pub in an attempt to recruit new sources from the community's underbelly had met with a chilly reception. Even with a serial killer on the loose, no one wanted to get back into the habit of informing now they'd kicked it.
With his policeman's eyes, Merrick slowly scanned the room, classifying the drinkers. Hooker, dealer, rent boy, pimp, rich man, poor man, beggar man, wimp. He was jolted out of his scrutiny by Carol's voice.
"What do you think, Don?" he caught.
"Sorry, ma'am, miles away. What do I think about what?"
"That it's about time we developed some of our own snouts among the toms, instead of having to rely on the Vice Squad's girls. They've been round the houses so many times, I'd go outside to check if they told me it was raining."
"Never mind the hookers," Merrick said.
"We need to know a damn sight more about how the gay community works. I don't mean the lads that are out of the closet and down the Hell Hole. I mean the secretive ones. The ones that don't flaunt it. They're the ones who might have come across this guy before. I mean, from all I've ever read about serial killers, sometimes they don't actually kill the first time, they just have a go. Like the Yorkshire Ripper did. So maybe there's some frightened little guy in the closet who's been on the receiving end of a bit of violence that got out of hand. That might be the road to a break."
"And God knows we need a break," Kevin said.
"But if we don't know how the connections are made, how do we connect?"
Carol said thoughtfully,
"When in doubt, ask a policeman."
"Do what?" Kevin asked.
"There are gay officers in the Job. More than most, they must know about keeping a low profile. They'd be able to tell us."
"That doesn't answer the question," Kevin protested doggedly.
"If they're so busy keeping it quiet, how do we know who they are?"
The Met has an association of gay and lesbian police officers. Why don't we get in touch with them, in confidence, and ask for their help? Somebody must have some contacts in Bradfield. "
Merrick stared at Carol with admiration, Kevin with frustration, both wondering silently how it was that Inspector Jordan always had an answer.
Torn Cross glanced down at the front page of the Sentinel Times, a smirk of satisfaction twitching his cigarette up and down. Ms Burgess might have thought she was in control of their little encounter the night before, but Torn Cross knew different. He'd played the spider to her fly, and she'd done exactly what he expected of her. No, credit where it's due. She'd done better than he'd expected. That line about the police staggering lamely in the wake of the Sentinel Times when it came to seeking out Dr bloody Hill was a corker.
There were going to be a lot of angry men in Bradfield police today.
That was the revenge element of Torn Cross's game with Penny Burgess.
The Mermaid's Singing The Mermaid's Singing - Val McDermid The Mermaid