The
Torment of Others
Part 1
Just
because you hear voices, it doesn't mean you're mad. You don't have
to be well smart to know that. And even though you did all that stuff
that made the jury look sick to their stomachs, at least you're clever
enough to know that doesn’t make you a nutter. All sorts of people
have other voices in their heads, everybody knows that. Like on the
telly. Even though you can believe it when you’re watching it,
everybody knows it’s not real. And somebody’s got to have
dreamed it up in the first place without them ending up where you
have. Stands to reason.
So
you’re not worried. Well, not very worried. OK, they said you
were insane. The judge said your name, Derek Tyler, and he tagged
you with the mad label. But even though he’s supposed to be a
smart bastard, that judge didn’t know he was following the plan.
The way to avoid the life sentence that they always hand down when
somebody does what you did. If you make them believe you were off
your head when you did it, then it isn’t you that did the crime,
it’s the madness in you. And if you’re mad, not bad, it
stands to reason you can be cured. Which is why they lock you up in
the nuthouse instead of the nick. That way the doctors can poke around
in your head and have a crack at fixing what’s broke.
Of
course, if nothing’s broke in the first place, the best thing
you can do is keep your mouth zipped. Not let on you’re as sane
as them. Then, when the time is right, you can start talking. Make
it look like they’ve somehow worked their magic and turned you
into somebody they can let out on the street again.
It
sounded really easy when the Voice explained it. You’re pretty
sure you got it right, because the Voice went over it so many times
you can replay the whole spiel just by closing your eyes and mouthing
the words: ‘I am the Voice. I am your Voice. Whatever I tell
you to do is for the best. I am your Voice. This is the plan. Listen
very carefully.’ That’s the trigger. That’s all it
takes. The intro that makes the whole tape play in your head. The
message is still there, implanted deep inside your brain. And it still
makes sense. Or at least, you think it does.
Only,
it’s been a long time now. It’s not easy, staying on the
wrong side of silence day after day, week after week, month after
month. But you’re pretty proud of the way you’ve hung on
to it. Because there’s all the other stuff interfering with the
Voice. Therapy sessions where you have to blank what the real nutters
are going on about. Counselling sessions where the doctors try and
trick you into words. Not to mention the screaming and shouting when
somebody goes off on one. Then there’s all the background noise
of the day room, the TV and the music rumbling round your head like
interference.
All
you have to fight back with is the Voice and the promise that the
word will come when the time is right. And then you’ll be back
out there, doing what you’ve discovered you do best.
Killing
women.
The
car park was a place of shadows, hemmed in by high brick walls topped
with razor wire. When it had been built, nobody could have anticipated
the explosion in car ownership, so it was always over-full, double-parked
and a source of irritation to those who had to use it.
It
was also supposed to be secure. A sturdy metal barrier had to be raised
to permit entry or egress, and the officer in charge of it was supposed
to monitor each entrant carefully. But the man leaning on one of the
cars understood how to circumvent systems. When he’d been here
before, he’d made allies of the security team, aware that there
would probably be a time when he’d want to come back without
the necessary authority.
'That
time was tonight. He’d been waiting for the best part of an hour,
resting against the bonnet of the silver saloon, reading steadily
through the papers he’d stuffed into his briefcase, his peripheral
vision alert to anyone leaving the tall building in front of the car
park. But the light was fading fast and the air held the crisp promise
of winter. Waiting was becoming less attractive. He glanced at his
watch. Just after six. He’d give it half an hour, then he’d
slip away into the night. He didn’t want to lurk in the darkness,
for a variety of reasons.
A
few minutes later, he saw what he’d been waiting for. A gleam
of blonde hair caught in the security lights by the back door, and
he was on the move. He shoved the file back into his briefcase and
stood upright, moving towards the back of the car to cut off his target
before she could reach the driver’s door.
She
looked over her shoulder, calling out a farewell to a colleague. When
she turned back, he was only a few feet from her. Shock and astonishment
shot across her face and she stopped dead. Her mouth formed an exclamation,
but no sound emerged.
‘Hi,
Carol,’ Tony said. ‘Fancy a curry?’
‘Jesus,’
she exhaled, her shoulders dropping. ‘You nearly gave me a heart
attack. What the hell are you doing here?’
He
spread his arms wide, a parody of innocence. ‘Like I said, inviting
you out for a curry.’
‘Freaking
me out, more like. What are you doing in Bradfield? You’re supposed
to be in St Andrews.’
He
raised one finger in admonishment. ‘Later. Now, are you going
to unlock the car? I’m freezing.’
With
an air of bemusement, Carol obediently popped the locks and watched
him walk round to the passenger seat. She couldn’t help smiling.
There was, she thought, nobody quite like Tony Hill.
Twenty
minutes later, they’d found a relatively quiet corner table in
a cheap and cheerful Bangladeshi café on the fringes of Temple
Fields, the area of the city centre where the gay village sat uneasily
alongside the red-light district. Their fellow customers were a mixture
of students and individuals poised to go looking for love in all the
wrong places. Carol and Tony had discovered the café when they’d
first worked together on a case centred on Temple Fields, and it seemed
the obvious place for this reunion.
‘I
can’t believe you’re here,’ Carol said as the waiter
departed to bring them a couple of bottles of Kingfisher.
He
held out his arm. ‘Go on, pinch me. I’m real.’
She
leaned forward and gave his shoulder a gentle punch. ‘Okay, you’re
real. But why are you here?’
‘I
jacked the job in. I was a fish out of water there, Carol. I needed
to get back to the work I know I’m good at. I’d already
got an offer of consultancy work over in Europe. And when John Brandon
told me you were coming back to Bradfield, I got on to Bradfield Moor
and asked for part-time clinical work.’ He grinned. ‘So
here I am.’
‘You
came back to Bradfield because of me?’ Carol’s expression
was guarded. ‘I don’t want your pity, Tony.’
‘It’s
nothing to do with pity. You’re the best friend I’ve got.
I have some idea of how hard this is for you, Carol. And I want to
be around if you need me.’
Carol
waited for the waiter to deposit their beers, then said, ‘I can
manage, you know. I’ve been a cop for a long time. I’m capable
of catching villains without your help.’
Tony
took a long drink from the bottle of Indian lager while he considered
how to deal with her wilful misunderstanding. ‘I’m not here
to help you do your job. I’m here because that’s what friends
do.’ He gave a crooked smile. ‘And besides, it suits me
to be here. You should see the nutters they’ve got locked up
in Bradfield Moor. It’s a dream come true for a weirdo like me.’
Carol
snorted, spraying the paper tablecloth with beer. ‘Bastard! You
waited till I had a mouthful of beer to make me laugh.’
‘What
do you expect? I’m trained to provoke reactions. So, where are
you living?’
‘I’m
camping in Michael’s spare room while I look for somewhere to
rent.’ Carol studied the menu.
Tony
pretended to do the same, though he already knew he’d choose
the fish pakora followed by the chicken biryani. The lack of commitment
implied by Carol’s decision to rent rather than to sell up in
London and buy in Bradfield was understandable. She wanted to leave
herself an escape route. But it troubled him nevertheless. ‘That
must feel strange,’ he said. ‘It having been your flat in
the first place.’
‘It’s
not ideal. I don’t think Lucy’s crazy about having me there.
She’s a barrister, remember? She does a lot of criminal defence
work, so she has a tendency to regard me in the same light as a chicken
farmer regards a fox.’ The waiter returned and they ordered their
meals. As he departed, Carol met Tony’s eyes. ‘What about
you? Where are you living?’
‘I
was lucky. I sold my cottage in Cellardyke practically overnight.
I’ve just bought a place here. Near where I used to live. A Victorian
semi. Three bedrooms, two receptions. Nice big rooms, very light.’
‘Sounds
good.’
The
waiter plonked a plate of poppadums and a tray of relishes in front
of them. Tony took the opportunity to busy himself with something
other than Carol. ‘Thing is, it’s got a cellar. Pretty much
self-contained. Two big rooms, natural light. Toilet and shower. And
a little boxroom you could easily turn into a kitchen.’ He looked
up, the question in his eyes.
Carol
stared at him, clearly unsure if he was saying what she thought. She
gave an uncertain laugh. ‘What would I do with a kitchen?’
‘Good
point. But it does give you somewhere to put the washing machine.’
‘Are you seriously offering me your cellar?’
‘Why
not? It’d solve your accommodation problem. And having a copper
on the premises would give me a sense of security.’ He grinned.
‘More importantly, Nelson would keep the mice away.’
Carol
fiddled with the lime pickle. ‘I don’t know. Does it have
a separate entrance?’<
‘Well,
of course. I wouldn’t want to compromise your reputation. There’s
a door that leads to a flight of steps up to the back garden. And
an internal door down from the house, obviously. But it would be a
simple enough thing to fit a lock to that.’ He smiled. ‘You
could have bolts too, if you wanted.’
‘You’ve
been thinking about this, haven’t you?’
Tony
shrugged. ‘When I viewed the house, it seemed like a good way
of making it work for a living. I didn’t know what your plans
were. But the builders started work on it yesterday. And I’d
rather have you living there than a stranger. Look, don’t make
a decision now. Think about it. Sleep on it. There’s no hurry.’
There was an uncomfortable silence while they both tried to figure
out where to take the conversation next. ‘So how was your first
day back in harness? What are you working on?’ Tony asked, moving
the conversation away from treacherous shoals.
‘Until
we get a new major case, we’re taking a look at a bunch of unsolveds.’
Carol looked up as the waiter brought their starters.
‘That
must be pretty soul-destroying.’
‘Normally
it would be.’ She reached for her aloo chat. ‘But amazingly
enough, we actually scored a break this afternoon. Purely by chance,
a detective from another squad stumbled across a new lead. I can’t
help seeing it as a positive omen.’
‘That’s
a great start.’
Carol’s
expression was rueful. ‘Yes and no. You remember Don Merrick?
He’s the DI on my team. And the trouble is that the break came
on one of his cold cases. Which makes him feel pretty sick.’
‘Not
Tim Golding?’
Carol
tipped her head in acknowledgement. ‘The one he called you in
on. Thanks for telling me, Tony,’ she added ironically.
He
looked embarrassed. ‘To tell you the truth, I was afraid of muddying
the waters while you were considering coming back to Bradfield. I
didn’t want to influence your decision one way or the other.’
Carol
smiled. ‘Oh, you think your presence in Bradfield would have
been such a draw?’
He
put down the pakora that was halfway to his lips. ‘The truth,
Carol? I was afraid if you knew I was here, it would be the last place
on earth you’d want to be.’
