Splinter the Silence (7 page)

‘That doesn’t mean there won’t be plenty of others looking to dig the dirt,’ Blake said obstinately.

‘Let them try.’ Brandon’s expression was as grim as his voice.

‘She has a drink problem.’ Blake, apparently, could be as dogged as the woman he was determined to discredit.

‘It’s not a problem,’ Brandon insisted. ‘Nobody has ever suggested she’s been drunk on duty. Or that drink has impaired her professional judgement.’

Blake snorted. ‘She could be as hammered as a Geordie hen party and that team of hers would cover her back. Listen, John. If I know she’s got a drink problem, how many others know it? And how many of them has she pissed off over the years? It only takes one with a grudge to hold her below the waterline.’

Brandon shook his head in disgust ‘It’s not public knowledge. It’s not even canteen gossip. I know exactly where you got your information from. And he’s one of that loyal team you’ve been going on about. Except he’s only loyal to himself. You forget, Bradfield was my patch before it was yours and I know who can and can’t be trusted. And so does she. Your boy will keep his mouth shut because he’s too ambitious not to. Carol Jordan’s secrets are safe, believe you me.’

‘The point is,’ Carver said, ‘the media will be looking for a hero, not a villain. We’ll be pitching this as a remarkable new initiative that could change the style of British policing. Unless and until they screw up, they’ll have a following wind of approval. I think we can manage the media, James. I think we can make them love her.’

And that had been the end of it. Blake finally understood that he’d been a crucial part of Brandon’s long game to win the new post for Carol. Brandon knew perfectly well that Blake would try to trash her. And he also knew that if there were any buried bodies, Blake didn’t know where they were. In the end, Blake had been a straw man, there because Brandon knew he could push him over with a flick of his wrist. It was humiliating. He lengthened his stride, determined to get away from Brandon as soon as possible.

Long-legged Brandon easily matched the increase in pace. ‘So, how are you enjoying Bradfield?’ he asked genially.

‘It’s never dull.’ Blake’s words were clipped and tight.

‘That’s what I liked about it. It kept me on my toes.’

‘Retirement must be pretty tedious by comparison.’

Brandon didn’t rise to the spite. ‘I’m never short of things to keep me occupied. The Home Secretary is full of interesting notions that need to be analysed and evaluated.’ He smiled. ‘It’s good to feel useful.’

Before he could reply, Blake’s mobile produced the ring tone of an old-fashioned landline. He pulled it from his pocket and frowned at the screen. ‘Bloody number withheld. Though at this time of night, I’d better…’ Another time, he’d have given an apologetic look, but he chose instead to go for the triumphant smile of a man who is too important to ignore his phone. ‘Blake here,’ he announced briskly. Then, ‘Yes, I do remember…’ He stopped dead. A spasm of some unidentifiable emotion flashed across his face, then nothing. He listened, then said, ‘And where is this?’ More silence, but this time, his shoulders relaxed. ‘Of course. No, you’re quite right. Nothing. But thanks for letting me know.’

Blake ended the call and carefully replaced the mobile in his pocket. He took a couple of steps to bring himself level with Brandon. ‘Well,’ he sighed, his voice and his expression indicating deep satisfaction. ‘That was a very interesting conversation. Tell me, John, did you ever come across a DCI Franklin in West Yorkshire?’

Brandon gave him a wary look. ‘John Franklin? Oh yes. Not personally, but he did cross swords with one or two of my detectives over the years. Is he working for you now?’

Blake shook his head. ‘He’s still with West Yorkshire. But he had some information he thought I’d be interested in. Given what we’ve been talking about this evening, I’d have thought you’d be interested too.’

Now Brandon was on full alert. When a man like Blake allowed his smugness to creep past his better instincts, there was trouble in store for someone. He thrust his hands deep into his overcoat pockets, letting them form fists. ‘Come on then. Spill it. I can see you’re dying to.’ He swivelled on the balls of his feet to face Blake’s profile. He couldn’t help noticing the younger man’s jawline was starting to blur, his cheekbones to disappear under a slather of flesh. He’d lost the habit of fitness, if he’d ever possessed it. A mark of a man who was, at heart, lazy, Brandon thought, wishing Blake would get past this gloating silence and get on with it.

‘DCI Franklin wanted to pass on some information about an arrest on his patch.’ Blake paused, but Brandon wasn’t about to beg. At last, he said, ‘The Home Office might have to rethink their plans for the new MIT. Carol Jordan’s been arrested for drink driving.’ He turned to face Brandon. ‘So that’s that, then. I hope you’ve got a first reserve.’

10

C
arol had never felt more chastened. The humiliation of having to consent to police bail was bad enough, but sitting in the custody area waiting for someone to turn up and take responsibility for getting her home was mortifying. She’d only ever seen snapshots of the Saturday-night parade of misery and hell when she’d been dropping off her own prisoners. She’d never actually endured the constant procession of people off their heads on drink and drugs, people bruised and bleeding from injuries too minor to warrant a trip to hospital, people with no inhibitions and no desire to discover them any time soon. The cocktail of smells was vile – sweat, drink, smoke, vomit, urine, and the occasional hit of something unspeakable and thankfully unidentifiable.

And she was right in the thick of it. There was no hiding place. A bare wooden bench bolted to the floor ran along the wall opposite the counter that protected the custody sergeant from the onslaught. Whoever was waiting for the next stage of their custodial experience was dumped on the bench and there they slumped. One or two looked her over, as if she was an unexpected possibility in the wreckage of their evening, but mostly they were too drunk, stoned, ill or terrified to pay her any attention. Her flesh crawled at the occasional contact.

As if all of this wasn’t bad enough, she had to contend with the shame of needing to be rescued. It all might have been bearable if she’d still been mistress of her own destiny. But no. That had been stripped away along with her dignity. She’d had to call Tony to come out in the night and save her from herself. What did it say about her that he was the only person she could turn to with absolute certainty that he’d drop whatever he was doing to help her? A man married to a job ministering to people so fucked up they couldn’t be allowed out to play with the rest of humanity. A man who had all the social skills of a dormouse. A man who persisted in sticking around even after she’d blamed him for every disaster in her own life.

Carol sighed so deeply the junkie next to her jerked upright, as if he’d lost sight of the fact there were other people in the room. ‘Wha’?’ he shouted, looking around wildly.

She inched away and told herself to skip the self-pity.
It could be worse, you could be one of these lost souls
. Instead, she reminded herself of all the reasons she should see Tony Hill as a blessing. She knew no one who was a better reader of human beings and their behaviour. He was clever and surprising; once he admitted you into his world, it was impossible to be bored. He was loyal and kind in his own distinctive way and he made her laugh. Though not generally when he intended to. He refused to abandon her in spite of everything, and if she would only let him, he was more likely to help her climb out of the hole of her misery than anyone else.

Her brother Michael had once accused her of being in love with him. She didn’t think love was the right word. She didn’t think there actually was a word for the complicated matrix of feelings that bound her to Tony and him to her. With anyone else, so much intimacy would inevitably have led them to bed. But in spite of the chemistry between them, in spite of the sparks and the intensity, it was as if there was an electric fence between them. And that was on the good days.

Lately, there had been no good days.

Tonight was simply another spit to add to the trench that separated them now. Another unreasonable demand that he would meet with an equanimity that would be worse than anger. Maybe it was time for her to acknowledge that she missed him more than she blamed him.

The custody sergeant put the phone down and glanced across at her. ‘Carol Jordan? There’s someone in reception to pick you up.’ He looked around. ‘PC Sharman, take her through to reception, there’s a good lad. You’ll get confirmation of your court date in a day or two. Don’t forget to turn up. Come round sober tomorrow and you can have your car keys back.’

She followed the young officer through a door, down a corridor and through another door into an identikit reception area. It could have been any police station in any town. There he was, sitting on a plastic chair under a poster about home security, intent on some stupid game on his phone. He didn’t even look up when she walked into the room.

The PC left her to it and she crossed to where he sat, thumbs busy on the screen. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said.

Startled, he jumped up, almost dropping his phone. ‘Carol,’ he said, a smile lighting up his tired face. ‘How are you?’

‘I feel stone-cold sober, though the breathalyser doesn’t agree with me. Can we get out of here?’

He gestured towards the street doors and followed her in silence out into the bitter cold of the night. ‘I’m parked round the corner,’ he said, taking the lead when she stopped and gave him a questioning look.

Carol sat hunched in the passenger seat while Tony scraped ice from the windscreen with the edge of a credit card. She wasn’t looking forward to the conversation that lay ahead but there was no way out of it. It was the price of rescue and it couldn’t be worse than spending the night in a cell.

Eventually they set off, locked in silence. As they reached the outskirts of the town, Tony said, ‘You’ll have to direct me. I don’t know the way to yours from this side.’

‘Stay on this road through Hebden Bridge, then I’ll tell you where to turn.’ It was a novelty, being driven by Tony. By unspoken agreement, she’d always driven them, whether they’d been on police business or not. He was, in her eyes, the very definition of a bad driver. Easily distracted by other road users, not to mention whatever was going on in his own head, then twitchy on the brakes, vague on priorities at junctions and always four miles an hour under the speed limit except when he forgot about it altogether. Fortunately, Tony’s clapped-out Volvo was almost the only vehicle on the road, so she’d be spared any indecisive attempts at overtaking on the minor roads they’d be driving down.

‘Did they say when you’ll be up in court?’

‘Wednesday. They don’t hang about.’

He was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘That’s fine. There’s nothing I can’t rearrange.’

‘You don’t have to be there. I just needed a lift home, that’s all.’ She knew she seemed ungrateful but she was struggling so hard not to give way to tears that she didn’t dare invite sympathy or kindness.

‘Of course I have to be there. Somebody’s got to get you there and home again. Plus, you shouldn’t drive between now and the hearing.’ The streetlights ran out and he leaned forward, peering into the darkness.

‘It’s perfectly legal for me to drive between now and then,’ she said, not caring that she sounded peevish.

‘The magistrates would like you better if you stayed off the road.’

Carol snorted in derision. ‘It makes no odds whether they like me or not. It’s a twelve-month driving ban and a fine and my insurance fucked up and a criminal record, and no amount of grovelling will make any difference.’

‘It might make the difference between twelve months and fifteen months,’ he said.

‘What? Suddenly you’re the expert on drink-driving sentencing?’

He said nothing.

Carol threw her hands in the air, exasperated with herself. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be a bitch. I appreciate you doing this.’

His lips tightened but he said nothing.

‘I can’t quite believe it, you know,’ she said, needing to fill the silence. ‘It’s less than three miles from the end of George Nicholas’s drive to my front door. Three miles of road that goes from nowhere to nowhere. Talk about bad luck. What are the chances of that?’

‘You ran out of chances tonight, Carol,’ Tony said. ‘That’s because you’ve been taking chances for a while now. Going by the law of averages, you’re long overdue tonight.’

‘Bullshit, Tony. Really, bullshit. I know my limits, I know when I’m not safe behind the wheel. I never drive when I’ve had too much.’

‘You might think you’re safe, but you’d have been over the limit. Be honest. We both know you’ve spent most of the last few years over the limit. And I’m not talking about a one-off Saturday night out. Carol, this is your wake-up call.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ she exploded. ‘Just because I’m a captive audience doesn’t mean you get to preach a sermon.’

‘It’s not a sermon, it’s an intervention. Tonight’s made me realise I’ve been biting my tongue for too long. I can’t stand by any more and watch you destroying yourself, Carol.’

‘What? I’ve hardly seen you in months. You’ve not exactly been watching me do anything. And I’m not destroying myself, I’m trying to put myself back together. Which you’d know if you’d actually been acting like a friend.’ Streetlights again. Shop windows and traffic lights. Carol squirmed round in the seat so she could stare out of the side window. She didn’t want him to see her face. She didn’t want him reading what he wanted to believe.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve not been acting like a friend. I’ve been running scared. For too long I’ve been telling myself that if I told you the truth I might lose you for good. And I didn’t want to risk that.’

She could feel a lump in her throat, tears threatening to break through her armour. ‘Next right, past the chippie,’ she said.

Tony swung the car off the main road and drove between tall ranks of terraced stone houses, looming dark apart from the occasional dim glow from a stair light or an opaque bathroom window. And then they were back in open country. ‘You’ve got to stop drinking, Carol. It’s a wall between you and the rest of us. The people who care about you. The people who might care about you if you gave them half a chance. Look at you. You’re a brilliant woman. You’re tough, you’re tenacious, you’re beautiful and you’re bright as hell. And what are you doing with your life? You’ve cut yourself off. You’re using Michael and Lucy’s death as an excuse to focus on your love affair with Pinot Grigio and vodka. And where has it brought you? A Saturday-night police cell, along with the other drunks and the junkies and the terminally fucked-up.’