The Retribution (3 page)

There was a reason for his composure. Right from the start, he’d been determined he was going to get out. He knew it would take years and he had forced himself to accept that. He had legal avenues to explore, but he wasn’t convinced they would work. So he needed to get Plan B in place as quickly as possible to give him something to focus on. Something to aim for.

The composure was the first step on the journey. He had to prove that he deserved respect without making it look like he was trying to step on someone else’s territory, particularly since they all knew he’d killed teenage girls, which made him a borderline nonce. None of it had been easy, and there had been occasional false steps along the way. But Vance still had contacts on the outside who clung on to their belief in his innocence. And he was perfectly willing to exploit those contacts to the full. Keeping sweet the alpha males inside was often a matter of oiling the wheels outside. Vance still had plenty of grease where it counted.

Keeping his nose clean inside the system was another key element in the plan. Whatever he was up to, he had to make it look like he was sticking to the rules. Good behaviour, that’s what he wanted the prison staff to see. Put up with the shit and be a good boy, Jacko. But that was as much of an act as anything else.

Of course, in prison your options were limited when it came to finding a way round anything. You were thrown back on your own resources. That gave Vance a head start over most of his fellow inmates, who didn’t have much to draw on. But the attributes that had made him the most popular male presenter on British TV were perfectly suited to prison. He was charismatic, handsome, charming. And because he’d been a world-class sportsman before the accident that had ultimately led him to his TV career, he could lay claim to being a man’s man. And then there was the George Cross, awarded for risking his life to save small children after a fogbound multiple-vehicle accident on the motorway. Or maybe it was supposed to be a consolation for losing his arm in the failed attempt to get a trapped trucker out of his crushed cab. Either way, he didn’t think there was another jailbird in the country who had been awarded the highest honour for civilian heroism. It all stacked up in the plus column.

At the heart of his plan had been one simple element – befriend the people who had the power to change his world. The top guns who run the inmates; the officers who choose who gets the perks; the psychologist who decides how you serve your time. And all the while, he’d be alert for the key player he’d need to make it all come together.

There had been a moment when he’d thought all his work had been wasted. But wasted in a good way. To the surprise of most people, the appeal court had eventually overturned the verdict against him. For a glorious moment, he’d thought he’d be walking out into the world a free man. But those bastard cops had slammed him with another murder charge before he could even get out of the dock. And that one had stuck like glue, as he’d always feared it might. And so it was back to the cell and back to the drawing board.

Being patient, sticking with the plan had been hard. Years had trickled by with little to show. But he’d toughed things out before. Recovering from the terrible accident that had robbed him of his Olympic medal dreams and the woman he loved had given him reserves of willpower that few people had access to. Years of training to reach the pinnacle of his sport had taught him the value of perseverance. Tonight, all that would pay off. Within a few hours, it would all have been worth it. Now he just had to make the final preparations.

And then he would teach some people a lesson they would never forget.

It was bad enough that he’d already had to listen to his DI run through it on the phone. Reekie had been having a perfectly pleasant evening in front of his giant plasma screen, a can of Stella in one hand, cigar in the other, watching Manchester United cling on to a single goal lead against more stylish opposition in the European Championship, when his mobile had rung.

‘It’s DI Spencer,’ his caller announced. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but we’ve got a bad one out here and I thought you might want to be informed.’

‘I think you’ll want to be out here,’ Spencer said. ‘It’s another prostitute murder, same tattoo on the wrist, according to the doc.’

‘Are you saying we’re looking at a serial killer?’ Reekie made no attempt to hide his incredulity. Ever since Hannibal Lecter, every bloody detective wanted to jump on the serial-killer bandwagon.

‘Hard to say, sir. I never saw the first two, but the doc says it looks the same. Only … ’

‘Spit it out, Spencer.’ Already, Reekie had regretfully dumped his can on the table by his chair and stubbed out his cigar.

‘The MO … well, it’s pretty radical, compared to the other two.’

Reekie sighed, backing out of the room, half his mind on the languid centre-forward ambling towards a perfectly calibrated pass. ‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean, Spencer? “Pretty radical”?’

‘She’s been crucified. Then stood upside down. Then had her throat cut. In that order, according to the doc.’ Spencer’s tone was clipped. Reekie wasn’t sure whether it was because Spencer was shocked himself or trying to shake his boss. Either way, it had certainly done the business for Reekie. He felt acid in the back of his throat, alcohol and smoke transformed into bile.

‘As far as we know. I mean, there could be more.’

‘Exactly. A bloody nightmare. Not to mention what it’ll do to the budget.’ Reekie straightened his shoulders. ‘No disrespect, DI Spencer, but I think this is one for the specialists.’

He saw the dawning light of comprehension in Spencer’s eyes. There was a way the DI could dodge endless hours of unpaid overtime, the perpetual weight of the media monkey on his back and the emotional drain on his officers. Spencer wasn’t a shirker, but everybody knew how souls were shrivelled by cases like this. And there was no need for it, not when there were people with an appetite for this sort of shit. And protocols that demanded certain kinds of case should be shunted sideways. Spencer nodded. ‘As you say, sir. I know my limitations.’

Reekie nodded, stepping away from the bright lights and the soft rustle of movement that marked the crime scene. He knew just who to call.

‘For sipping,’ Carol said out loud. She did not have a drink problem. Whatever Tony Hill might think, she was in control of the alcohol. Not the other way round. There were points in her past when it had been a close thing, but they were behind her. Enjoying the fact that a couple of drinks took the edge off did not constitute a problem. It didn’t interfere with the standard of her work. It didn’t interfere with her personal relationships. ‘Whatever those are,’ she muttered, dragging a bundle of files from the drawer.

She’d worked her way through enough of the stack for a ringing phone to feel like rescue. The screen of her phone showed a police-issue mobile but she didn’t recognise the specific number. ‘DCI Jordan,’ she said, reaching for the mug, surprised to find it empty.

‘Detective Superintendent Reekie from Northern Division,’ a gruff voice said.

Carol didn’t know Reekie, but it had to be important if someone that far up the pecking order was working so late into the evening. ‘How can I help you, sir?’

‘We’ve got something here that I think is right up your team’s street,’ Reekie said. ‘I thought it best to bring you into it soon as. While the crime scene’s still fresh.’

‘I’d heard you were working out your notice,’ Reekie said. ‘But you’re still in harness, right? Thought you might want to get your teeth into one last special one.’

They weren’t the words she’d have chosen, but she understood what he meant. They all knew the difference between the run-of-the-mill domestics and criminal infighting that made up most homicides, and murders that signalled a warped mind at work. Cases where there was any element of mystery at all were relatively rare. So she supposed that ‘special’ wasn’t such a strange word to assign to a murder. ‘Text me the location and I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ she said, replacing the unexamined files and kicking the drawer shut.

Her eye caught the empty mug. Technically she was over the limit. She felt perfectly competent to drive, a line she’d heard from dozens of protesting drunks in custody suites throughout her career. On the other hand, she preferred not to turn up single-handed at a crime scene. If they were going to take a case, there were actions that needed to be initiated then and there, and that wasn’t the best use of her time or skills. She mentally flicked through her squad. Of her two sergeants, Chris Devine had had too many late nights recently preparing a case for a major trial; and Kevin Matthews was out celebrating his wedding anniversary. Reekie hadn’t sounded too worried, so this probably wasn’t worth messing up a rare night out. That left her constables. Stacey Chen was always happier with machines than people; Carol still thought Sam Evans cared more for his own career than the victims they were there for; which left Paula McIntyre. As she dialled Paula’s number, Carol acknowledged to herself that it was always going to be Paula.