Splinter the Silence (16 page)

‘And I completely forgot my manners, George. I meant to drop you a thank you note. I’m sorry,’ Carol said, picking up his cue.

‘Oh no, no need. I was simply a little… concerned, that’s all.’ He gave Tony a wry smile, as if conceding defeat. ‘I’ve grown accustomed to seeing Carol and Flash out on the hill in the morning.’

‘It’s nice to know there’s somebody looking out for you when I’m not around,’ Tony said, well aware that he sounded condescending to both of them.

George tipped his cap and backed out of the door. ‘I’ll be on my way. Good to see you, Carol. And to meet you, Tony.’ He turned and walked away without a backward glance. Carol closed the door and leaned against it, shaking her head, her expression a mixture of amusement and incredulity.

‘What?’ he said, knowing perfectly well what.

‘You. Pretending to be all territorial.’ Then her face grew serious. ‘Thank you for saving me from having to tell him.’

Tony shrugged. ‘He’ll find out soon enough. You’ve got plenty of humiliations to come without seeking them out.’ He turned away and started walking back to the kitchen. After a few steps, he turned on his heel and walked backwards. ‘You don’t fancy him, do you?’

Carol stopped dead. ‘George? No, what made you think that?’

‘I didn’t. But I wanted to be sure.’

‘It’s kind of none of your business.’

‘I know that.’ Tony stopped too. In the stark light and shade cast by the work lamp he couldn’t see her eyes. He didn’t know if there was humour or anger lurking in their shadows. ‘But I think he fancies you.’

‘You think so?’ There was definitely humour in her voice.

‘It’s obvious. Well, it’s obvious to me, but then I am a clinical psychologist. So I wanted to clear things up because I don’t know if you noticed us doing the guy thing just now, where I more or less told him to back off? Only, if you do fancy him, you’ll have to go and apologise for your friend Tony who has no social skills.’

She laughed. ‘Well, that much is true.’ Her voice softened. ‘But there’s no need to apologise. I’ve got no romantic interest in George.’

He wanted to sigh with relief. Instead, one side of his mouth twisted up in a half-smile and he swung round and walked back to the kitchen. Sometimes there was no need to have the last word.

Stacey Chen was beginning to feel as if she was drowning. It hadn’t taken her long to hack her way into the official accounts of Kate Rawlins’ suicide, the ongoing investigation into Jasmine Burton’s presumed suicide and the later addition to the roster – the gas explosion that had killed Daisy Morton. As well as the formal documents, she’d accessed the emails of individual officers, filling in some of the blanks of what they’d pursued and why they’d pursued it. Text messages would take longer and even Stacey had to acknowledge she might not manage to get them. She’d punted everything straight on to Paula so she could pull a report together for Carol Jordan that cut out all the repetition and white noise.

Now came the hard stuff. Which was also the interesting stuff. She’d started with Kate Rawlins, chronologically the first of the three. Gaining access to her social media accounts hadn’t been hard. The password was Madison, her daughter’s name, and the year of her birth. Stacey couldn’t understand why people chose passwords that wouldn’t fool a drunken teenager. When she voiced this opinion, her colleagues always complained that it was too hard to remember random strings of letters and numbers. ‘So use your car registration as the basis for your password,’ she would tell them, not bothering to hide her exasperation. ‘You should be able to remember that. Add something to it like the number of the house where you lived when you were ten, and Robert is your father’s brother.’

What was staggering was the volume of abusive messages that had filled her timelines and home pages. Tracking down everyone who had posted was a huge task, even with the automatic programs Stacey had at her disposal to find individual IP addresses and the associated service providers. Getting through the service providers’ security systems to the names of individuals was generally a lot more difficult, even with the accumulated data she’d acquired over the years. She debated whether to go through the posts and focus only on the worst of them, but dismissed the idea. There was no way she could do that objectively and if it wasn’t objective, it wasn’t worth doing. One person’s traumatic was another person’s trivial, and vice versa.

Once she’d set those searches in motion, she turned to email. Kate’s email address wasn’t one that could readily be guessed so Stacey didn’t expect to find messages from her harasser there, but if Kate had had any unsettling encounters there was a chance she’d have told a friend or a colleague. Once she’d penetrated her email account, she shipped the whole lot on to her own server, setting it to one side to work through later.

She’d repeated the process for the other two women, then finally settled down to fillet the emails for anything that might be relevant. She’d barely started the tedious trawl when Sam’s face swam into view on the security camera screen. ‘Hi, babe,’ his voice squawked from the speaker. ‘I come bearing salted caramel truffles.’ His face was replaced by a cellophane bag of chocolates.

‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ Stacey said as she buzzed him in. She was torn; she still felt her heart contract when he walked into a room, but she was gripped by the challenge of the hunt and she didn’t want to stop now.

She met him at the door and her misgivings swam away on the tide of rising hormones that swept through her when he pulled her close and kissed her, one hand running across the back of her neck, making her tingle. ‘I missed you,’ he said. His voice was thickened with alcohol; she tasted stale wine on his breath. She knew him well enough now to see he’d had a drink, but was a long way from drunk.

‘It’s Tuesday. You usually go to the pub quiz and stay at your place,’ Stacey said, snuggling close as she pulled him inside the flat.

‘Pete and Rick are both out of town,’ he said, pulling the door closed behind him and freeing himself so he could shrug out of the navy cashmere overcoat she’d bought him after she’d heard him admiring it in the window of Harvey Nick’s. ‘There didn’t seem much point with just me and Mitch. So I thought I’d give you the pleasure of my company.’

‘And it’s lovely to see you. But you’re going to have to amuse yourself for a while because I have something I need to work on.’

Sam pouted, giving her his best kicked-puppy look. ‘And here was me thinking you’d be pleased to see me.’

‘I am. Very pleased.’ She ran a hand up the inside of his thigh and he shivered. ‘But you have to let me work for a while.’

He gave a theatrical sigh and crossed to the giant plasma screen TV that dominated the end wall of the living space, tossing his jacket over a chair as he went. ‘I’ll watch the football, then.’

Perfect
, Stacey thought. She poured him a glass of wine and retreated to her workspace, putting on her noise-cancelling headphones to cut out the frantic wittering of the football commentary. She began winnowing Kate Rawlins’ email, efficiently getting rid of everything that wasn’t a personal exchange. Once she’d done that, she sidelined everything written or received before Kate had made her pronouncement about rapists then started the tedious business of reading them. She was so engrossed that she didn’t realise Sam was looking over her shoulder till he touched her arm. She pulled off the headphones and frowned up at him. ‘Do you need something?’

‘I need you,’ he said, leaning down to kiss her ear. ‘The football’s finished and I am more interesting than some stranger’s email. What are you doing, anyway? Don’t you have grunts in the office for this kind of thing? And why are you doing it at home?’

Stacey sighed. With anyone else, she’d tell them to piss off and mind their own business. With Sam, she wouldn’t have risked that, even if she’d wanted to. ‘Because it’s a foreigner. I’m doing a favour for Paula,’ she said. She understood enough not to risk Sam’s irritation by invoking Carol. ‘If it was official, of course I’d be able to hand it off to a junior officer to free me up for the things that needed my skillset. But there’s nobody to dump on here so I have to do it.’

‘Why can’t Paula do her own grunt work?’ he grumbled.

‘Because she’s got other fish to fry.’ Stacey tried to focus on her screen but it was hard when Sam was playing with her hair.

‘So have you.’

Stacey sighed. She knew when she was beaten. And besides, what Sam was offering was a lot more appealing than a dead woman’s gossip. It wasn’t as if there was anything urgent there.

And there was definitely something urgent here.

22

H
alifax Magistrates’ Court looked like an unfortunate collision between a Victorian town hall and an Italian military academy, complete with a tall, square campanile towering above the entrance. The pale sandstone seemed to glow from within in the morning sun as Carol and Tony arrived far too early that Wednesday morning. In spite of Tony’s insistence that she should have a solicitor to plead in mitigation, she had refused. ‘There’s no point. It’d be a complete waste of money. I’m screwed, Tony, and no matter how aggrieved I feel, there is no defence.’ That had been her last word on the subject.

Tony found a car park a couple of streets away and they sat in silence for a moment, both staring out of the windscreen. ‘We’ve got time to find somewhere for a coffee,’ he said. It was the first thing out of either of their mouths other than directions since they’d left the barn.

‘I think I’d throw up.’ She clamped her mouth shut, the muscles along her jaw bunching tight beneath her skin. She’d worked wonders with make-up. It made him wonder how much she’d been covering up during all the years of drinking when he’d seldom seen her look as haggard as she deserved. She’d dressed carefully too. A loose-fitting navy gabardine jacket over a high-collared shirt, smartly pressed grey tweed trousers, low heels. She looked like someone who should be taken seriously but not high enough up the wealth ladder to be punished for it.

‘Do you want to go for a walk?’ Tony asked.

Carol looked around. Drab and dirty Victorian buildings housed pound shops, charity shops and cheap takeaways. Occasional grim concrete frontages broke up the vista like old amalgam fillings in a mouth of discoloured and decaying teeth. ‘Maybe not,’ she said. ‘It’s not exactly going to lift my spirits, is it? Even on a sunny day it looks like it’s been shot in black and white.’

And so they waited. There was nothing he could say that would make things better.
Some therapist
, he thought. The man who was paid to fix the broken people, exposed for the fraud he probably was. All his working life, he’d been held up as the expert in empathy, the one who knew how to stand inside other people’s skin and report back on what they felt and why they felt it. And every time, Carol Jordan proved how wrong the world was.

The minutes crawled like parasitic worms under his skin until eventually it was a respectable time to show up at court. Carol pressed her fingertips against her forehead and screwed her eyes shut. Then she straightened up. ‘Let’s go,’ she said.

They walked the short distance side by side, steps rhyming like a Leonard Cohen song. Tony tried not to think about what lay ahead, focusing instead on the other lives on the street: youths in hoodies and trainers with the crotches of their jeans halfway down their thighs; elderly women with shampoo-and-sets and tartan shopping trolleys; men with big bellies and cheap jeans smoking outside the betting shop; women pushing prams, their youth buckling under the weight of their make-up; and everywhere, people yammering or stabbing at their mobiles, more interested in someone else, somewhere else. Nobody like him. He’d never fitted in and the passage of time was making no difference to that. For years, Carol had been the only person who had made him feel he belonged. And then she had walked away from him. Now, Paula had made him part of her family and that mattered. But not as much as the prospect of fixing things with Carol.

Inside the court building, neither of them knew where to go, what to do. The time they’d both spent in courtrooms had been on the other side of the fence. There had always been someone available to shepherd them through unfamiliar places. Tony spotted a woman shielded by a high curved desk and a computer screen. He approached, Carol at his shoulder. ‘Excuse me. My friend is appearing before the magistrates this morning. Where should she go?’

The woman barely glanced at them. She looked like a victim of gravity; everything about her tended downwards, from the angled fold of skin above her eyes, through the sagging cheeks to the defeated shoulders. ‘Name?’

‘Carol Jordan.’

She tapped at a keyboard. At once, her attitude changed. Her eyebrows jerked upwards and her eyes opened wide. She looked at Carol, then back at the screen. ‘It says here you have to go up to the first floor. To conference room two. I don’t understand that. That’s not a court. But that’s what it says here. “Carol Jordan. Please direct to conference room two.” Well. I’ve never seen that before.’

Tony exchanged a worried look with Carol. She simply shrugged and set off towards the stairs. He followed in her wake, even more uneasy than he had been earlier.

Conference room two was near the head of the staircase. They paused outside. Carol shrugged again and muttered, ‘Nothing ventured.’ She knocked briskly, and a muffled voice told them to come in. She gave him one last anxious look then turned the handle.

The only person in the wood-panelled room rose to his feet as they entered. He inclined his head to Carol, then to Tony. ‘Nice to see you both,’ John Brandon said. As he settled back down, all Tony could think was that the modern plastic chairs and pale Scandinavian wood table were both at odds with their setting. Shock would do that, he thought, recovering himself. He should have worked it out on the way upstairs. If he’d thought about it, John Brandon would have been in the top three guesses as to who might be in the room. He glanced at Carol. Her face had closed down, unreadable.