The Retribution (41 page)
Outside, she sat in her car for a moment, gathering her thoughts. She was going to bring Vance down. His capture had her name on it. Nobody had more right to that moment than her. If Ambrose was putting a team together, he wouldn’t have left Worcester yet. She could beat him to it. She bet he wouldn’t drive all the way from Worcester to Vinton Woods with flashing lights and sirens. Neither Ambrose nor Patterson was gung-ho enough. She pulled the blue light out of her glove box and slapped it on the roof of her car and set it going, spitting gravel from her wheels as she took off.
She’d take Vance down tonight or die trying.
Tony wondered how Paula was getting on with the Vice team. They’d always been a law unto themselves, straddling the twilight zone between the respectable and the disreputable. Unless they developed a rapport with at least one segment of the group they policed, they couldn’t do their jobs. That rapport had always gone hand in hand with the easy, sleazy promises of corruption. And historically, a lot of Vice cops had gone to the bad, though not always in the predictable ways. Because they dealt with a perverted reality, their crimes had an unhealthy knack of being less than straightforward.
And Paula had history with them. He wondered whether guilt made them more inclined to help her, or if she reminded them of a period in their history they’d rather forget.
There was only one way to find out. Tony pressed a button and waited. ‘Dr Hill? Is that you?’ It was a woman’s voice, familiar but too tinny for him to identify.
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Stacey Chen, Dr Hill.’
Well, that made sense. She was probably using some electronic scrambler to disguise her voice. That would fit with her general suspicion about the world around her. ‘How can I help you, Stacey? Well done on that Oklahoma website, by the way.’
‘It was just number crunching,’ she said dismissively. ‘Anyone could have done it with the right software.’
‘How are you getting on with tracing Kerry Fletcher? Has he shown up yet?’
‘I’ll be honest, it’s frustrating and I don’t like to be frustrated by computer systems. He’s not on the electoral roll or the council tax register. He’s not claiming benefit and I can’t find a fit in the right age group in medical records. Whoever he is, he’s been living under the radar.’
‘I can see how that would frustrate you.’
‘I’ll get there. Doctor, I’m not sure I should be ringing you. But I’m a bit worried and you’re the only person who can help, I think.’
Tony gave a little laugh. ‘You sure about that? These days when I’m the answer it’s usually because somebody is asking the wrong question.’
‘I think I’ve found where Vance is hiding when he’s not committing his crimes.’
‘That’s great. Where is it?’
‘Does that mean it’s on Franklin’s patch?’
‘It’s in the West Yorkshire force area.’
‘Have you called Franklin?’
‘That’s the problem. DS Ambrose was there when I found it, so I told him. He’s determined that West Mercia should make the arrest and he ordered me not to tell Franklin or any of the other West Yorkshire detectives.’
‘I can see that would be awkward for you,’ Tony said, still not clear why Stacey was involving him.
‘Just a bit. So I thought I’d speak to DCI Jordan and let her make the call.’
‘Only, she won’t call Franklin either, am I right?’
‘Exactly. She’s heading there now. I don’t know where she’s heading there from, but the chances are she’s going to get there ahead of West Mercia. And I’m afraid she’ll bite off more than she can chew. He’s a very dangerous man, Dr Hill.’
‘You’re not wrong, Stacey.’ Even as he spoke, he was reaching for his coat and groping in the pockets for his car keys. He got one arm in a sleeve then juggled the phone to his other ear. ‘You did the right thing, calling me. Leave it with me.’
‘Thanks.’ Stacey made an odd sound, as if she was about to speak but thought better of it. Then said in a rush, ‘Take care of her.’ And the line went dead.
As he stuffed the other arm in its sleeve and hustled up the steps and padlocked the boat, Tony thought that those four words from Stacey were the equivalent of anyone else in MIT grabbing him by the throat and shouting, ‘If you let anything happen to her, I will kill you.’
‘I’ll take care of her, Stacey,’ he said to the night as he ran up the pontoon and sprinted down the marina to the car park. He didn’t stop to think until he was joining the motorway and realised that he didn’t actually know where he was going. Nor
did he have Stacey’s number. ‘You numbskull,’ he shouted at himself. ‘You fuckwit numbskull.’
The only thing he could think of was to call Paula. Her phone went straight to voicemail and he swore all the way through the outgoing message. After the beep, he said, ‘This is really important, Paula. I don’t have Stacey’s number and I need her to text me the directions to the place she’s just told me about. And please don’t ask either of us what this is all about or I will have to cry.’
It wasn’t an idle threat either. In spite of his determination to keep his emotions at arm’s length, Tony was starting to feel fraught, as if the threads that held him together were fraying. It was easy to take for granted how important Carol was to him when she was there in the background of his life. He’d grown accustomed to their companionship, he was used to the lift in his spirits when their encounters were unexpected, he had come to rely on her presence as a constant steadying force.
Growing up, he’d never learned the building blocks of love and friendship. His mother Vanessa was cold, her every gesture and comment calculated and calibrated to get precisely what she wanted from any situation. This was the woman who had taken a knife to Eddie Blythe, her fiancé, when it had seemed the most profitable thing to do. Luckily for Tony, she hadn’t managed to kill him. Just scare him off for ever.
When Tony had been a kid, Vanessa had been too busy constructing her business career to be bothered with the shackles of motherhood and she’d mostly abandoned him to his grandmother, who was equally lacking in warmth. His grandmother had resented him occupying the space she thought ought to be occupied by an unfettered old age and she let him know it. Neither Vanessa nor his grandmother brought their social lives home with them, so Tony never had much chance to watch people interact in normal, routine ways.
When he looked at his childhood, he saw the perfect
template for one of the damaged lives he ended up treating as a clinician or hunting as a profiler. Unloved, unwanted, harshly punished for normal childhood mischief or obliviousness, estranged from the normal interactions that allowed for growth and development. The absent father and the aggressive mother. When he interviewed the psychopaths that became his patients, he heard so many echoes of his own empty childhood. It was, he thought, the reason he was so good at what he did. He understood them because he had come within a hair’s breadth of being them.
What had saved him, what had given him the priceless gift of empathy, had been the only thing that ever saved anyone like him – love. And it had come from the most unexpected of places.
He hadn’t been an attractive child. He remembered knowing it was true because that’s what he was always told. He didn’t have much objective evidence. There were almost no photographs. A couple of class photos when the teacher had actually managed to shame Vanessa into ordering a copy, and that was that. He only knew which one was him because his grandmother had pointed it out to him. Usually accompanied by, ‘Anybody looking at this photograph would know which one was the most worthless bastard of the lot.’ Then she’d stab the photograph with her knobbly arthritic finger.
Little bastard Tony Hill. Short trousers that were just a bit too short, a bit too tight, revealing skinny thighs and bumpy knees. Shoulders hunched, holding himself together with arms ramrod straight by his side. Narrow face under a tousle of wavy hair that looked like it hadn’t ever seen anything as poncey as a stylist. The wary expression of a kid who’s not sure where the next slap is coming from, but knows it’s coming. Even then, even there, his eyes had commanded attention. Their blue sparkle was undimmed by everything else. They were the clue to a spirit that hadn’t entirely given in. Yet.
He was always last in the dinner line. He’d learned that was the only way to get any dinner at all. If he let all the big kids get well ahead of him, he could hang on to his tray without having his crumble and custard ‘accidentally’ dumped in his stew and dumplings. None of the little kids was interested in tripping him up or spitting on his chips.
He’d never paid much attention to the dinner ladies. Tony was used to keeping his head down and hoping the adults wouldn’t notice him. So he was taken aback one day when one of the dinner ladies spoke as he approached the hot table. ‘What’s matter wi’ thee?’ the woman said, her strong local accent making the question a challenge.
He’d looked over his shoulder, panicked that one of the bullies had crept up behind him. Then startled, he’d realised she was looking at him. ‘Aye, thee, tha big daft lad.’
He shook his head, his upper lip rising in fear, showing his teeth like a nervous terrier. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘You’re a liar,’ she said, ladling an extra-large portion of macaroni cheese on to his plate. ‘Come round the back here.’ She gestured with her head to the side passage that led to the serving kitchen.
Truly terrified by now, Tony made sure nobody was looking and slid sideways into the passage. Clutching his tray to his chest like a horizontal shield he stood in the kitchen entrance. The woman came towards him, then led him round the corner to the back kitchen where the real work happened. Four
women were washing huge pots in deep sinks amid clouds of steam. A fifth was leaning against the back-door jamb, smoking. ‘Sit thysel’ down and eat,’ the woman said, pointing to a high stool by a counter.
‘Another bloody rescue pup, Joan?’ the smoking woman said.
Tony’s hunger overcame his anxiety and he shovelled his food into his mouth. The woman, Joan, watched him with satisfaction, her arms folded across her chest. ‘You’re always last in the queue,’ she said, her voice kindly. ‘They pick on you, don’t they?’
He’d felt tears well up in his eyes and nearly choked on the slippery macaroni. He looked down at his plate and said nothing.
‘I keep dogs,’ she said. ‘I could do with a hand walking them after school. Would that be something you might fancy?’
He didn’t fancy the dogs. He just wanted to be with somebody who spoke to him the way Joan did. He nodded, still not looking up.
‘That’s settled, then. I’ll see you at the back gate when the bell goes. Do you need to let them know at home?’
Tony shook his head. ‘My nan won’t mind,’ he said. ‘And my mum never gets back before seven.’
And that had been the start of it. Joan never asked him about his home life. She listened once he understood he could trust her, but she never probed, never judged. She had five dogs, each with a distinct personality, and while he never came to care for the dogs the way Joan did, he learned how to fake it. Not in a disrespectful way, but because he didn’t want to let Joan down. She didn’t try to be a mother to him or to bribe him into investing her with more significance in his life. She was a kind, childless woman who had been drawn by his pain in the same way that she’d been drawn to her dogs down at the animal rescue. ‘I always know the ones with the good
temperaments,’ she would boast to him and to the other dog walkers she’d stop and chat to.
And she encouraged him. Joan wasn’t a clever woman herself, but she recognised intelligence when she saw it. She told him the way to escape whatever ailed him was to educate himself so that he had choices. She hugged him when he passed his exams and told him he could do it when he grew discouraged. He was sixteen when she told him he had to stop coming round.
They’d been sitting in her kitchen at the formica-topped table, drinking tea. ‘I can’t have you coming round any more,’ she said. ‘I’ve got cancer, Tony lad. Apparently I’m bloody riddled with it. They say I’ve only a matter of weeks to live. I’m taking the dogs to the vet tomorrow to have them put down. They’re all too old to adapt to some other bugger, and I doubt your nan would give them houseroom.’ She’d patted his hand. ‘I want you to remember me as I am. As I have been. So we’ll say our goodbyes now.’
He’d been horrified. He’d protested at her decision, declaring his willingness to be by her side till the end. But she’d been adamant. ‘It’s all arranged, lad. I’m putting everything in order then I’m taking myself off to the hospice. I hear they couldn’t be nicer in there.’
Then they’d both cried. It had been hard, but he’d respected her wishes. Five weeks later, one of the dinner ladies had called him over and told him Joan had died. ‘Very peaceful, it were,’ she said. ‘But she’s left a bloody big hole round here.’
He’d nodded, not trusting himself to speak. But he’d already discovered that Joan had taught him how to negotiate that bloody big hole for himself. He wasn’t the same boy she’d befriended.
