Im very pleased for you, John. Carol sipped her drink. Youll do a good job there.
Brandon shook his head. I didnt 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 dont think so, John.
Hear me out. Im 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 theres 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 Im 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 dont think thats who I am any more.
Brandon shook his head. These things dont go away. Youre 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 dont think so, John. I come with rather too much baggage these days.
Youd be reporting directly to me. No petty bureaucrats between us. Youd be working with some of your old colleagues, Carol. People who know who you are and what youve 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.
Its 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 hed shown so far. Carol, your work was always a large part of who you were. I understand why you dont want to go back into intelligence and, in your shoes, I wouldnt touch those bastards with a ten-foot pole. But policing is in your blood. Forgive me if this sounds presumptuous, but I dont think youre going to get over this until you get back on the horse.
Carols eyes widened. Brandon wondered if hed gone too far and waited for the whip of irony that hed once have earned, regardless of rank.
Have you been talking to Tony Hill? she demanded.
Brandon couldnt hide his surprise. Tony? No, I havent spoken to him inoh, 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, Tonys not a bad judge.
Maybe so. But neither of you can know much about what its like to be me these days. Im not sure the old rules apply any more. John, I cant 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 dont build your plans around me, John.
Its never silent inside Bradfield Moor Secure Hospital. Well, not anywhere theyve ever let you go. All the films and TV shows youve seen make you think there are probably padded cells somewhere no sound can reach, but youd probably have to go completely tonto to end up there. Scream, foam at the mouth, deck one of the staffthat sort of thing. And while the idea of being somewhere quiet is appealing, you reckon it wont 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 locks click signalled you were shut in for the night. But all you could hear were muffled conversations, occasional screams and sobs, feet slapping downcorridors. You pulled the thin pillow over your head and tried to blank it. It didnt 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, youd get edgy and wired. Morning would come and youd be exhausted, your eyes gritty and sore, your hands shaking like some fucked-up alkie. Worst of all, in that state, you couldnt 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 dont 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 youre gone somewhere else. Somewhere good.
Its a beautiful thing. You can replay the slow build-up to your greatest achievements. Its all there, spread before you. The choosing of a sacrifice. The negotiation. Following her to the place that youre going to transform with blood. The stupid trust they had that Dozy Derek wasnt 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. Its 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.
Its the best moment in your cramped little world. Otherpeople 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 cant remember the first time he heard the Voice. It makes him ashamed these days that he didnt 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 didnt take the piss. It didnt get impatient with him for being slow. It didnt treat him like a stupid kid. The Voice gave him respect. Hed never had that before, which was probably why he didnt get the message for so long. It took a while before it dawned on him what was on offer.
Now, he cant imagine being without it. Its like chocolate or alcohol or spliff. The world would go on without them, but why would anybody want it to? There are times and places where he knows hell hear it: the message service on his mobile, the minidisks that turn up without warning in the pocket of his parka, alone in bed late at night. But, sometimes, it comes out of the blue. A soft breath on his neck and there it is, the Voice. The first time that happened, he nearly crapped himself. Talk about blowing it! But hes learned since then. Now, in public places, he knows how to react so nobody thinks twice about whats going on.
Now, he cant imagine being without it. Its like chocolate or alcohol or spliff. The world would go on without them, but why would anybody want it to? There are times and places where he knows hell hear it: the message service on his mobile, the minidisks that turn up without warning in the pocket of his parka, alone in bed late at night. But, sometimes, it comes out of the blue. A soft breath on his neck and there it is, the Voice. The first time that happened, he nearly crapped himself. Talk about blowing it! But hes learned since then. Now, in public places, he knows how to react so nobody thinks twice about whats going on.
The Voice gives him presents, too. OK, other people have given him things in the past, but mostly worthless crap they didnt want or second-hand stuff they were finished with. The Voice is different. The Voice gives him things that are just for him. Things that are still in their boxes and bags, bought and paid for, not nicked. The minidisk player. The Diesel jeans. The Zippo lighter with the brass skull and cross-bones that feels good when he rubs his thumb over it. The videos that fire him up with thoughts of what hed like to do to the street girls he sees every day.
When he asked why, the Voice said it was because he was worthy. He didnt understand that. Still doesnt, not really. The Voice said he would earn the gifts, but it didnt say how, not for ages. That was probably his fault. Hes not quick on the uptake. It takes him a while to get the hang of things.
But he likes to please. Thats one of the first things he can remember learning. Make people smile, give them what they want and theres a better chance of avoiding a beating. So he paid attention when the Voice started to teach him his lessons because he knew that if he kept the Voice happy there was more chance itd stay around. And he wants it to stay around, because it makes him feel good. Not many things have ever made him feel good.
So he listens and he tries to understand. He knows now about the poison the girls spread on the street. He knows that even the ones who have been kind to him are only after what they can get. This makes sense to him; he remembers how often theyve tried to sweet-talk him into doing them a better deal, and how vicious they get when he sticks to what hes supposed to give them in exchange for their crumpled notes. He knows now those bitches have to be cleansed, and that hes going to be part of that cleansing.
It wont be long. Every night when he turns out the light, the Voice whispers through the silence, telling him how it will be. At first, it scared him. He wasnt sure he could handle the way the walls seemed to be talking to him. And he didnt think he could do what was being asked of him. But now when he listens in that half-world between wake-fulness and sleep, he thinks maybe he can do this. One step at a time, thats how you get where you want to be. Thats what the Voice says. And if he looks at it step by step, theres nothing so hard about it. Not till the very end.
Hes never done anything like that before. But hes seen the videos, again and again. He knows how good it feels to watch. And the Voice tells him itll be a million times better to do it for real. And that makes sense too, because everything the Voice has told him so far has been the truth. And now the time has come. Tonights the night.
He can hardly wait.
Chapter 2
Carol Jordan tossed her briefcase on to the passenger seat and got into the silver mid-range saloon shed chosen specifically for its anonymity. She put the key in the ignition, but couldnt quite bring herself to start the engine. Christ, what was she doing? Her hands were clammy with sweat, her chest tight with anxiety. How the hell was she going to walk into a squad-room and energize her troops when her mouth was so dry her tongue stuck to her teeth?
She stared up at the small windows high on the walls of the underground car park. Feet hurried past, making their way to work. Polished loafers, scuffed shoes, kitten heels and pumps. Legs clad in suit trousers, jeans, opaque black tights and sheer nylon. City-centre hikers, taking the morning in their stride. Why couldnt she do the same thing?
Get a grip, Jordan, she muttered under her breath, turning the key and firing the engine. It wasnt as if she was going to have to confront a room full of strangers. Her squad was small, hand-picked by her and Brandon. Most of them shed worked with before and she knew they respected her. Or at least they once had. She hoped their respect was still strong enough to withstand the temptation to pity.
Carol eased the car out of the garage into the street. It was all so familiar and yet so different. When shed lived and worked in Bradfield before, the loft apartment in the converted warehouse that occupied a whole block had been her home, a high eyrie that allowed her to feel both part of and apart from the city she policed. When shed moved to London, shed sold it to her brother and his girlfriend. Now she was back living inside the same four walls, but this time as the reluctant cuckoo in a nest created by Michael and Lucy. Theyd changed almost every aspect of the flat, making Carol feel even more out of place. Once, shed have shrugged off that feeling, secure in the knowledge that she had a workplace where she was at home. What she feared today was that shed feel as much of an outsider inside the police station as outside.
Even Bradfield itself felt like a too-familiar stranger. When shed lived and worked here before, shed made a point of learning the city. Shed visited the local museum in a bid to understand the forces that had shaped Bradfield over the centuries, turning it from a hamlet of shepherds and weavers into a vigorous commercial centre that had vied with Manchester to be the northern capital of the Victorian empire. Shed learned of its decline in the post-war era, then the reinvigoration that had been kick-started by successive waves of immigration at the tail end of the last century. Shed studied the architecture, learning to appreciate the Italianate influences on the older buildings, trying to see how the city had grown organically, attempting to imagine what the hideous 1960s concrete office blocks and shopping centre had vanquished. Shed mapped the city in her mind, using her days off to walk the streets, drive the neighbourhoods until she could grasp immediately the kind of environment she was about to enter just from the address of the crime scene.
But this morning, Carols old knowledge seemed to have fled. New road markings and one-way systems had mushroomed in her absence, forcing her to concentrate on her bearings in a way she hadnt expected. Driving to the central police station should have been automatic. But it took her twice as long as shed estimated and relief washed through her as she eventually turned into the car park. Carol nosed forward towards the dedicated parking spaces, pleased to see that at least one of John Brandons promises had already been kept. One of the few empty slots bore the freshly painted designation, DCI JORDAN.
Walking into the station itself provided a brief moment of déjà vu. Here at least nothing seemed to have altered. The back entrance hall still smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and stale fat from the canteen on the floor below. Whatever cosmetic changes might have been imposed on the public areas, no decorators had been charged with making this entrance more appealing. The walls were still the same industrial grey, the noticeboard covered with what were possibly the same yellowing memos shed last seen years ago. Carol walked up to the counter and nodded a greeting at the PC behind the desk. DCI Jordan reporting to the Major Incident Team.