Tony Hill u Carol Jordan 08 - Cross and Burn

discussion. It wouldn’t be enough for him to provide an explanation for the physical evidence against him. He’d have to find a reason to direct her hunter-killer instincts towards the real murderer.
    Tony shifted awkwardly from one buttock to the other. If he hadn’t let Carol down so badly, he’d never have found himself in this position. She simply wouldn’t have allowed it to happen. No matter what cards might have been stacked against him, she would have taken his part, because she understood the limits of his capabilities.
    He permitted himself a wry smile. Nobody knew his limits better than Carol. He’d always thought she could do better than him, that there must be other men out there who could give her more of what she needed than he had. But either she wasn’t looking or she wasn’t meeting the right men. Until her brother’s death, she’d been happy to settle for their incomplete and inconclusive relationship. And then they’d found something that divided them so deeply nothing could bridge the gap. Not a shared history, not a mutual understanding. Not even love.
    Impatient with himself, Tony jumped to his feet. If sitting or lying was torture, then he would pace. Six strides one way, ninety-degree turn then eight strides the other way. Six, eight. Six, eight. Stop brooding about Carol. She was gone. She wouldn’t be there to pull him out of this particular pile of shit. It was over. He was on his own. Perhaps with a little help from his friend. Six, eight.
    So. He had to explain the bloodstain. Others could find the verification of his story once he’d reached deep inside and accessed the truth. The thumbprint, too. That wasn’t ringing any bells. ‘I know I live in my head half the time, but you’d think I’d remember picking up somebody else’s phone,’ he shouted in exasperation.
    Tony stopped pacing and leaned his forehead on the cool cement wall. He closed his eyes and dropped his shoulders. He deliberately relaxed his muscles from his scalp through his neck and arms. ‘Think about blood. Your blood. About bleeding. Bleeding enough to stain somebody else,’ he said out loud. There was the knee. The time when a crazed patient had gone on the rampage with a fire axe and had taken a swipe at Tony when he tried to talk him down. But that had been years ago, long before Nadia Wilkowa had ever come to Bradfield. A couple of times, he’d cut himself in the galley, unaccustomed to the occasional sudden movement of the boat. But there had never been anybody else there and besides, there hadn’t been much blood. It had to be something that happened at work. In Bradfield Moor. He summoned up the hospital, as if he was offering someone a guided tour. The reception area. The locked doors, the faceless corridors. His office, the therapy rooms.
    And then he remembered. Suddenly, it was all there, in crystal clear Technicolor detail. He threw his arms in the air. ‘Halle-fucking-lujah!’ The explanation of the thumbprint could wait. The DNA was the killer piece of evidence and now he knew how it had got there.
    Tony grinned. Paula would be pleased. Now he just had to think of something that would lead them to the person who was actually killing women who looked like Carol Jordan.

46

    W hile Tony was dredging his memory, another conversation went like this: ‘Bronwen Scott here.’
    ‘This is Carol Jordan.’
    A pause. ‘As in, DCI Carol Jordan?’ Cautious, very cautious.
    ‘As in ex-DCI Carol Jordan. I’m not a cop any more. But you, I presume, are still the best criminal defence lawyer in Bradfield?’
    ‘That’s quite an accolade, Ms Jordan. And I always thought you hated me.’
    ‘I don’t have to like you to appreciate your professional qualities.’
    ‘So, to what do I owe this call? I’m assuming you didn’t phone me at this time of night just to bolster my self-confidence. Don’t tell me someone’s had the temerity to arrest you?’
    ‘I have a job for you. A client for you to represent. And a proposition in relation to that.’
    ‘Sounds fascinating.’ A long-drawn breath. ‘But it’s late. Won’t it wait till morning?’
    ‘I don’t think so, no. Can you meet me in the car park opposite Skenfrith Street police station in half an hour?’
    ‘Very Deep Throat. Why should I do this, Ms Jordan? What’s in it for me?’
    ‘A high-profile case. And the chance to fuck up BMP. I imagine no day is wasted for you if you get to fuck up an SIO.’
    A throaty