into place.
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Penny Burgess, Dr Hill. From the
Penny Burgess. He recalled a woman in a trench coat, collar turned up against the rain, face arranged in a tough expression, long dark hair escaping from its confines. He also recalled how he’d been variously transformed in the stories under her byline, from omniscient sage to idiot scapegoat. ‘Rather less than you’d have your readers believe,’ he said.
‘Just doing my job, Dr Hill.’ Her voice was a lot warmer than their history merited. ‘There’s been another woman murdered in Bradfield,’ she continued. She was about as good at small talk as he was, Tony thought, trying to avoid the wider implications of her words. When he failed to respond, she said, ‘A sex worker. Like the two last month.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Tony said, choosing his words like steps in a minefield.
‘Why I’m ringing you … My source tells me this one has the same signature as the previous two. I’m wondering what you make of that?’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve currently got no operational involvement with Bradfield CID.’
Penny Burgess made a low sound in her throat, almost a chuckle but not quite. ‘I’m sure your sources are at least as good as mine,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe DCI Jordan is out of the loop on this one, and if she knows, you know.’
‘You’ve got a very strange notion of my world,’ Tony said firmly. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about a serial killer, Dr Hill. And when it comes to serial killers, you’re the man.’
Abruptly, Tony ended the call, shoving his phone back in his pocket. He raised his eyes to meet Ambrose’s assessing gaze. ‘Hack,’ he said. He swallowed a mouthful of beer. ‘Actually, no. She’s better than that. Carol’s crew have left her with egg all over her face more than once, but she just acts like that’s an occupational hazard.’
‘All the same … ’ Ambrose said.
Tony nodded. ‘Right. You can respect them without being willing to give them anything.’
‘What was she after?’
‘She was fishing. We’ve had two street prostitutes killed in Bradfield over the last few weeks. Now there’s a third. As far as I was aware, there was no reason to connect the first two – completely different MO.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, I say that, but I know nothing officially. Not Carol’s cases, and even if they were, she doesn’t share.’
‘But your hack’s saying something different?’
‘She says there’s a signature connection. But it’s still nothing to do with me. Even if they decide they need a profile, it won’t be me they come to.’
‘Stupid bastards. You’re the best there is.’
Tony finished his drink. ‘That may well be true. But as far as James Blake is concerned, staying in-house is cheaper and it means he keeps control.’ A wry smile. ‘I can see his point. If I was him, I probably wouldn’t employ me either. More trouble than it’s worth.’ He pushed back from the table and stood up. ‘And on that cheerful note, I’m off up the motorway.’
‘Is there not a part of you that wishes you were out there at that crime scene?’ Ambrose drained his second pint and got to his feet, deliberately standing back so he didn’t loom over his friend.
Tony considered. ‘I won’t deny that the people who do this kind of thing fascinate me. The more disturbed they are, the more I want to figure out what makes them tick. And how I can help them to make the mechanism function a bit better.’ He sighed. ‘But I am weary of looking at the end results. Tonight, Alvin, I’m going home to bed, and believe me, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.’
3
The safest place to hide anything was in plain sight. People only ever see what they expect to see. Those were some of the truths he’d learned a long time before his life had been shrunk by prison walls. But he was smart and he was determined, so he hadn’t stopped learning just because his physical environment had become constrained.
Some people closed down as soon as they found themselves behind bars. They were seduced by a life less chaotic, consoled by predictability. One of the lesser-known aspects of prison life was the high incidence of obsessive-compulsive disorder. Jails were full of men and women who found a comfort in repetitive behaviour that had never occurred to them on the outside. Right from the start, Jacko Vance had steeled himself against the seduction of routine.
Not that he’d had much routine to start with. There’s nothing prisoners love more than fucking up a celebrity inmate. When George Michael was banged up, the entire wing kept him awake all night roaring tuneless renderings of his greatest hits, altering the words to suit their mood as the night wore on. With Vance, as soon as they were locked in for the night, they’d whistled the theme tune from his TV show, on and on like a track on repeat. Once
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
