And after the Holmwood Three business, he knew he was already on thin ice with the politicians, so he backed down. Doesn’t stop him slagging them off every chance he gets, though.’
‘Yeah, well, I hope this time our friendly neighbourhood killer has left us a bit more to go on, or our beloved leader might just pick another target for his next slagging off.’ Carol straightened her shoulders. ‘Right, Don. I want a door-to-door of the businesses, now. And tonight, we’re all going to be out on the streets, talking to the trade.’
Before Carol could complete her instructions, a voice from beyond the tapes interrupted. ‘Inspector Jordan? Penny Burgess, Sentinel Times. Inspector? What have you got?’
Carol closed her eyes for a brief moment. Dealing with the recalcitrant bigots in the chain of command was one thing. Dealing with the press was infinitely worse. Wishing she’d stayed in the yard with the grisly corpse, Carol took a deep breath and walked towards the cordon.
‘Let me get this straight. You want me to come on board for the duration of this murder enquiry, but you don’t want me to tell anyone?’ The look of amusement in Tony’s eyes masked his anger at the reluctance of influential policemen to accept the value of what he could do.
Brandon sighed. Tony wasn’t making it easy for him, but then, why should he? ‘I want to avoid any suggestions in the press that you are helping us. The only chance I have of getting you formally involved with the investigation is to persuade the Chief Constable that you’re not going to be stealing the limelight from him and his coppers.’
‘And that it won’t become public knowledge that Derek Armthwaite, the Hand Of God, is turning to the mumbo-jumbo men for help,’ Tony said, an edge in his voice betraying more than he wanted to.
Brandon’s face twisted in a cynical smile. It was good to see that it was possible to ruffle that smooth surface. ‘If you say so, Tony. Technically, it’s an operational matter, and he’s not really supposed to interfere unless I’m doing something that’s counter to force and Home Office policy. And it is the policy of BMP to use expert assistance whenever it is appropriate.’
Tony snorted with laughter. ‘And you think he’ll accept me as “appropriate”?’
‘I think he doesn’t want another confrontation with the Home Office or the police committee. He’s due to retire in eighteen months, and he’s desperate for the knighthood.’ Brandon couldn’t believe what he was saying. He didn’t even voice this kind of disloyalty to his wife, never mind to a virtual stranger. What was it about Tony Hill that had made him open up so swiftly? There must be something in this psychology lark after all. Brandon comforted himself that at least he had harnessed that something in the service of justice. ‘So what do you say?’
‘When do I start?’
FROM 3½″ DISK LABELLED: BACKUP.007; FILE LOVE.002
Even that first time, I planned the event more carefully than a theatre director plans the first production of a new play. In my mind, I crafted the experience, till it was like a bright and shining dream, there every time I closed my eyes. I checked and rechecked every choreographed move, making sure I hadn’t missed some vital detail that would endanger my freedom. Looking back on it now, the mental movie I created was almost as pleasurable as the act itself.
The first step was to find a place where I could safely take him, a place we could be private together. I immediately dismissed my home. I can hear my neighbours’ squalid arguments, the barking of their hysterical German shepherd and the irritating thud of their stereo’s bass; I had no desire to share my apotheosis with them. Besides, in my terraced street, there are too many curtain twitchers. I wanted no witnesses to Adam’s arrival or his departure.
I considered renting a lock up garage, but rejected that for the same reasons. Besides, it seemed too seedy, too much of a cliché from the world of television and film. I wanted something in keeping with what was going to happen. Then I remembered my mother’s Auntie Doris. Doris and her husband Henry used to farm sheep on the moors high above Bradfield. Then, about four years ago, Henry died. Doris tried to keep things going for a while, but when her son Ken invited her out last year for an extended holiday with his family in New Zealand, she sold the sheep and packed her bags. Ken had written to me at Christmas, saying his mother had suffered a mild heart attack and wouldn’t be coming back for the foreseeable future.
That night, I took advantage of a lull in work to call Ken. At first, he sounded surprised to hear from me, then muttered, ‘I suppose you’re using the phones at work.’
‘I’ve been meaning to ring for ages,’ I said. ‘I wanted to know how Auntie Doris was doing.’ It’s much easier to appear solicitous via satellite. I made the appropriate noises while Ken bored on about his mother’s health, his wife, their three kids and their sheep.
After ten minutes, I decided I’d had enough. ‘The other thing is, Ken, I was worried about the house,’ I lied. ‘It’s so isolated up there, someone should keep an eye on the place.’
‘You’re not wrong,’ he said. ‘Her solicitor’s supposed to be doing that, but I don’t reckon he’s been near it.’
‘Do you want me to pop out and check it over? Now I’m back living in Bradfield, it would be no bother.’
‘Would you? That’d be a hell of a load off, I don’t mind telling you. Between ourselves, I’m not sure Mum’s ever going to be well enough to go back home again, but I’d hate to think of anything happening to the family home,’ Ken said eagerly.
Hate to think of anything happening to his inheritance, more like. I knew Ken. Ten days later, I had the keys. On my next day off, I drove out there to check the accuracy of my recollection. The rutted track leading to Start Hill Farm was much more overgrown than the last time I’d been there, and my four-wheel-drive jeep struggled to climb the three miles from the nearest single-track lane. I cut the engine a dozen yards from the grim little cottage and sat listening for five minutes. The biting wind from the high moors rustled the overgrown hedges, occasional birds sang. But there were no human sounds. Not even the distant thrum of traffic.
I got out of the jeep and had a look round. One end of the sheep shed had collapsed into a random pile of millstone grit, but what pleased me was that there was no sign of casual human visitations; no picnic remains, no corroding beer cans, no crumpled newspapers, no cigarette butts, no used condoms. I walked back to the house and let myself in.
It was little more than a two-up, two-down. Inside, it was very different from the cosy farmhouse I remembered. All the personal touches – photographs, ornaments, horse brasses, antiques – were gone, packed up in crates in storage, a very Yorkshire precaution. In a way, I was relieved; there was nothing here that could trigger off memories that would interfere with what I had to do. It was a blank tablet, with all humiliations, embarrassments and pain erased. Nothing of my past lurked to surprise me. The person I had been was absent.
I walked through the kitchen towards the pantry. The shelves were empty. God knows what Doris had done with her serried ranks of jams, pickles and home-made wines. Maybe she’d shipped them to New Zealand as a hedge against being fed alien food. I stood in the doorway, and stared at the floor. I could feel a foolish grin of relief spread across my face. My memory hadn’t let me down. There was a trapdoor in the floor. I squatted down and pulled the rusty iron ring. After a few seconds, the door swung back on creaking
