Splinter the Silence (3 page)

Finally, the waiters delivered a lavish cheeseboard, fruit bowl and biscuit basket then retired, leaving the five men alone with no further interruption scheduled. It was, apparently, time to get down to business.

Christopher Carver, the junior minister, leaned forward and helped himself to an oozing wedge of Époisses. Judging by the beginnings of a paunch straining his shirt buttons, it wasn’t the first time he’d indulged his appetite at the taxpayers’ expense. He glanced up at Blake and gave a mischievous smile. ‘You’re probably wondering what all this is in aid of, James.’

As the evening had worn on, Blake had become convinced he was about to be catapulted into the professional stratosphere. A dinner on this scale, guests at this level; it wasn’t simply a pat on the back because he’d worked wonders within his budget at BMP. ‘It had crossed my mind, Minister.’

‘You’ll recall that we talked earlier about the principle of sharing the back office load among several forces,’ Carver said. His face was flushed from over-indulgence, but his eyes were clear and focused on Blake.

Blake nodded. ‘It makes sense. It’s harder to manage with units as big as BMP, but we’ve had some success with merging crime scene management.’

‘Some of us think there are more radical steps that we can take. Not only in terms of cost effectiveness, but also in terms of improving police response to major crime. John, would you like to explain our thinking to James here?’

Unlike Blake, John Brandon’s career had all been at the sharp end. Nobody ever questioned his pronouncements when it came to operational strategies, which Blake thought was taking respect a little too far. Nobody was perfect, after all. But he smiled and gave Brandon a deferential nod as he sipped from his water glass then cleared his throat. The older he got, the more Brandon resembled a bloodhound, Blake thought. Long face, pendulous jowls, folds of flesh under his eyes.

‘Murder,’ Brandon said, his Northern accent dragging out the syllables. ‘In spite of all those cop shows on the telly, we don’t get that much of it outside the big cities. And what we do get is mostly domestic. Figuring them out wouldn’t tax your average manicurist, never mind detectives. But every now and again, something comes along that isn’t your run-of-the-mill homicide. You get a dismembered torso in the woods. Or an abducted child turns up strangled on a bit of waste ground. Or some lass doesn’t make it home from a night’s clubbing and a dog walker finds her mutilated corpse by the canal. Difficult, complex cases. Because they exist and because it’s our job to solve them, every force identifies its best investigators and designates them a major incident team. Agreed?’

‘Of course. You have to have specialist officers who are trained to deal with those difficult, complex cases. We have a duty to the public. But we also have to make maximum use of our personnel. We can’t simply have them sitting around waiting for the next murder,’ Blake said, trying not to sound defensive. ‘Plus a reorganisation like Bradfield’s means that, when we need it, we can pull together a very specific team to meet the needs of particular incidents.’

Brandon gave a weary smile. ‘Nobody’s criticising you for disbanding your MIT, James. We might not agree with the decision, but we understand the motivation.’

The minister pushed his floppy silver fringe back from his forehead and said, ‘In fact, James, it was the boldness of your decision to scatter your specialists throughout the CID as a whole that made us reconsider our general policy in this area. If a force like BMP felt it was possible to manage without a standing MIT, what might make sense for other forces?’ He waved a pudgy hand towards Brandon. ‘So I asked John to think outside the box. Tell James what you came up with.’

Brandon began breaking an oatcake into crumbs with one hand. ‘The drawback with pulling together an ad hoc team for major incidents is that it can damage the ongoing investigations those detectives were already knee-deep in. Not to mention the fact that you’ve got no idea what the personal dynamics of that rag, tag and bobtail bunch are going to be. Because that’s what it is. Rag, tag and bobtail. It’s not a team. Not like the cohesive unit you get when people work together over a period of time. When they’ve shed the dead weight or the awkward bastard or the sexist pig who pisses off the women on the squad. That’s a team and that’s policing at its most effective.’

‘And its most expensive,’ said the younger of the civil servants, his face screwed up in distaste.

‘So I had to figure out how to square the circle,’ Brandon continued, unperturbed. ‘And I thought, if forces can share back room ops, why not share front of house as well? Why not create an MIT that operates like a flying squad? The ghostbusters of complex homicide, if you like. One team that stands outside any particular force and goes where it’s needed, when it’s needed.’

Blake realised his mouth had fallen open during the silence that followed Brandon’s words. They were all staring at him, waiting for his response. His brain was racing to process the implications. They were going to ask him to mastermind this radical proposal. It sounded like madness. It sounded like the kind of thing you wouldn’t want to touch with a bargepole. But on the other hand, if it worked… The sky would be the limit for the man who changed the face of British policing and made it happen. He clutched at something sensible to say. ‘What if more than one complex homicide happens within a few days of each other?’ It wasn’t a stupid question, he told himself.

‘They don’t.’ The younger civil servant pulled out his smartphone and fiddled with it, then turned the screen so Blake could see it in all its meaninglessness. ‘We analysed the figures for the past five years. On only one occasion has there been sufficient proximity to give us grounds for concern.’

‘And John has looked closely at that conjunction of events,’ the minister chipped in.

‘That’s right. And it seemed to me there were no insurmountable issues,’ Brandon said. ‘There are ways to extend resources in a digital world that didn’t exist even a couple of years ago.’

‘And so,’ said Carver, ‘we’re going ahead with a pilot.’ He attacked the cheeseboard again, this time slicing off a chunk of Ossau-Iraty and spearing two dates with the point of the cheese knife.

Blake felt the warmth of satisfaction rising through his body. One in the eye for everyone who’d ever said he lacked vision. ‘That sounds like a tremendous challenge,’ he said heartily.

Carver’s smile was as sharp as the knife. ‘Indeed. And that’s why it’s so important that we have the right person at the helm. That’s why we asked you here tonight, to help us come to the right decision.’

Blake was so taken up with delight at the way he saw the evening going that he didn’t quite absorb the nuances of what the minister had said. ‘Absolutely,’ he gushed. ‘I’m ready to take on whatever you demand of me.’

Carver’s eyebrows rose, to Blake’s confusion. Why was he looking surprised? ‘I’m glad to hear it. We’re very clear about the person we have in mind for this role. But John was most insistent we shouldn’t rely on his word alone when it came to appointing the new regional MIT chief. And so we turned to you as the last person to have worked directly with our first-choice officer.’

Blake heard a faint ringing in his ears, like a brass bell struck a long way off. What the hell was Carver talking about? Who could he be thinking of? There was nobody in his Bradfield command who was up to a job like this, he’d have put money on it. ‘I’m sorry? I’m not sure what you mean,’ he stammered, his composure wobbling.

Brandon put his forearms on the table and leaned towards Blake, a smile bracketing his mouth with wrinkles. ‘He means Carol Jordan. The minister wants to know what you think of Carol Jordan.’

4

T
ony Hill opened his mouth in consternation. But the weird popping and crackling continued. The other three people round the table grinned, enjoying his discomfiture. The youngest, fourteen-year-old Torin McAndrew, started guffawing so hard tears formed in his eyes. Detective Sergeant Paula McIntyre poked him in the ribs with her fingers. ‘Show our guest some respect,’ she mock-scolded.

Her partner, Dr Elinor Blessing, took pity on Tony. ‘It’s popping candy,’ she said. ‘I sprinkled it on the chocolate topping before it set.’

Tony closed his mouth and frowned. ‘And people
like
that… that weirdness in their mouths?’

‘Most people do,’ Elinor said.

‘But Tony’s not most people,’ Torin said, still cackling.

‘He’s only known you a matter of months but he’s already got you sussed, Tony,’ Paula said.

Tony smiled. ‘Apparently.’ He shook his head. ‘That is a deeply strange sensation.’ Cautiously he took another spoonful of the chocolate tart Elinor had served for dessert. This time, he was expecting the popping candy, but he remained unconvinced that the sensation was pleasurable. However, he had to admit it was more interesting than anything he would have prepared for his own dinner. And interesting was always a plus point in his world.

‘Elinor’s been dying to try it out ever since she saw it on
Masterchef
,’ Torin said.

‘I can’t deny it,’ Elinor said. ‘I don’t often get the chance to cook a three-course dinner, so when I do I like to make the most of it.’

‘I suppose A&E shifts get in the way of culinary experimentation,’ Tony said. ‘Which is a pity, given what a great meal we’ve just had. Weirdness and all.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Elinor sighed. ‘Why do you think it’s taken so long for us to have you round for a meal?’

Tony could think of plenty of reasons why most people would give the body swerve to the idea of inviting him to dinner. He‘d always lacked the gift of building friendships. It was as if he’d missed out on the gene for social skills. In his professional life he was known and respected for his empathy with patients. Inside the walls of a secure mental hospital or a consulting room, he always knew the direction of travel. What to say, how to be. But on the outside, he was awkward, blunt, clumsy. Working with the police over the years, he’d been surrounded by the easy camaraderie that bound men together as mates. But somehow it never extended to him.

Paula, though. She was different. She’d become a friend, he thought. They’d started out as allies committed to the defence and protection of Carol Jordan. Paula, he suspected, was a little bit in love with her boss. Which probably made two of them. But their alliance had broadened and deepened, each answering some need in each other. And then she’d met Elinor, which had released her from her pointless hankering for Carol. What had been left was a mutual affection between Tony and Paula that had only been enriched by the unexpected arrival of Torin in their midst.

The boy had been stranded by the murder of his mother, his only relatives miles away, strangers among strangers. He’d clung to Elinor, his mother’s friend, like a drowning man to a spar. In spite of the scant time left from their demanding jobs, Elinor and Paula had made room in their lives for Torin. The boy’s emotional damage had drawn Tony like a magnet; to his surprise, he’d found himself pulled into something approaching family life.

Paula interrupted his thoughts: ‘You sure I can’t tempt you to some pudding wine? It hardly counts as alcohol.’

Tony waved his hand at her, the thumb bandaged to twice its normal size. He tipped his head to Elinor. ‘Your lot in A&E put the fear of death in me. Literally.’ He assumed a grave expression and dropped his voice. ‘“Septicaemia’s a very dangerous infection, Dr Hill. Take the full course of antibiotics and avoid alcohol.”’ He grinned and reverted to normal. ‘So for once I’m doing what I’m told.’

‘Quite right too,’ Elinor said.

Paula shook her head. ‘I’ve never known anyone like you for unlikely injuries. Ripping the base of your thumb unscrewing a bottle of wine. Who knew a glass of Pinot Grigio could be so high risk?’

Tony looked down at the table. ‘It wasn’t Pinot Grigio.’

A moment’s silence. They all knew who drank Pinot Grigio. Paula looked momentarily furious with herself. ‘No. Sorry.’

‘It was a cheeky little primitivo,’ Tony said, surprised at himself for finding a way to lighten the moment.

‘Very bloody cheeky,’ Elinor said. ‘How’s it doing?’

‘It throbs a bit when I’ve been using my hand.’

‘It will do. Nasty business, infected cuts. So, who wants more tart?’

The diversion of dessert over, Torin reverted to teenage boy mode, pulling his mobile out of his pocket and succumbing to the seduction of its screen. While the adults rehashed the week’s news, his thumbs danced over the phone, an occasional beep punctuating his silence. Then he stopped short, staring at the screen. ‘Whoa,’ he said. ‘Never saw that coming.’

‘What’s that?’ Elinor glanced across at him.

‘Don’t tell me some teen icon has cut his quiff off,’ Paula said, flicking her fingers at Torin’s carefully confected hairstyle.

‘Ha! No, it’s way worse than that,’ he said. ‘You remember that woman we were watching on
The Big Ask
a few weeks ago? Jasmine Burton?’

‘The name doesn’t ring a bell,’ Elinor said.

Paula frowned. ‘Yes, you remember. The one who was arguing that convicted rapists had no right to work in jobs where they came into contact with women or children after they’d served their sentences.’

‘It’s a point of view,’ Tony said. ‘I’d have to say, given my experience of dealing with serial rapists, it has its attractions. Though it’d be pretty much impossible to accommodate without driving a coach and horses through the human rights legislation.’

‘I remember now. She argued her case with real conviction. What about her?’ Elinor asked.

‘She’s killed herself,’ Torin said. ‘She got totally trolled after
The Big Ask
. You know the kind of thing: “You’re too ugly to be raped”, “I hope you get cancer and die slowly and painfully”, “Lesbo feminist castrating bitch, what you need is a real man”. That sort of thing.’ He gave an embarrassed apology of a smile. ‘And worse.’

‘But that’s terrible,’ Elinor said.

‘Happens all the time,’ Tony said. ‘These days it’s the first resort of men who don’t perceive their privilege. They feel frustrated, they have a mostly unrealistic sense of powerlessness because they’ve not been taught how to value what they have and what they can aspire to. So they expend their energy creating victims wherever they get the chance. Online anonymity is their natural home.’