Tony Hill u Carol Jordan 08 - Cross and Burn

the house search —’ Her phone rang and she reached for it. As she listened, her face grew grave. ‘I understand. You need to notify DCI Fielding directly, I’m pursuing another line of inquiry right now. And make sure CSI are on standby.’ Paula ended the call and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.
    ‘Trouble?’
    ‘This case gets uglier all the time. We thought we might have a third missing woman so I sent a patrol car to her home address. They’ve just radioed in to say they’ve spotted what appears to be the dead body of a white male through the garage window. Sounds like Marie Mather’s husband got in the way of what that bastard wanted.’ She jerked a thumb over her shoulder towards the patrol car. ‘Nailing him is going to be a pleasure.’

    In one sense, Banham village was the last place people would expect to find a serial killer. It straddled the Yorkshire–Lancashire border, changing its allegiance with every local government reorganisation since the War of the Roses. Grey stone cottages formed a tight triangle round the village green, a Norman church at the apex. Beyond the village centre were clusters of houses that had accreted like cankers over the past three hundred years, a mishmash of styles that had evolved its own distinctive character over the centuries. It had avoided being swallowed up by the urban sprawl of Bradfield thanks to the deep cleft of a valley that separated it from the main thrust of urbanisation. Banham wasn’t the easiest commute in the area, but it was definitely one of the most desirable.
    On the other hand, if you wanted to keep a woman prisoner undisturbed, it was a much better option than anywhere in the city. For Banham was only a fake village. It had none of the sense of community that knit together real villages. Here, nobody looked out for each other. Nobody knew each other’s business. Nobody knew when their neighbours went on holiday or where they were going. There was no epicentre – no pub to run quizzes, no village hall, no WI or Autumn Club or Brownie pack. The detached cottages and houses were separate and inviolate. It was the sort of place people lived when they wanted to impress. It was also the sort of place where nobody lived for more than a few years.
    Driving into the village, Paula reckoned that once upon a time living somewhere so anonymous might have appealed to her. Nobody knowing she was a cop, nobody questioning the women who occasionally drove up to her house at weekends and stayed over. But that was when she allowed anxiety to circumscribe her life. She hadn’t felt like that for a very long time. And part of that was because of Carol Jordan and her MIT.
    Taylor’s house wasn’t hard to spot. It was stone-built, like most of the houses in Banham. Even though it was probably only about thirty years old it was solid and well-proportioned. Unless he had another source of income, it must have stretched Gareth Taylor to afford it. The white CSI van sat in the driveway and a liveried BMW was parked on the roadway outside. A huddle of people in white Tyvek suits milled around in the drive, waiting for her as she’d instructed them to do. She wanted to be here every step of the way. All they had on Taylor so far was circumstantial. A car repeatedly showing up on the ANPR records was suggestive. But it wasn’t proof. Going armed with a taser and using it on Carol Jordan was suggestive but it wasn’t proof, particularly since, by her own admission, she’d been following him. Working in the same office as Marie Mather was suggestive but it wasn’t proof. Having a limp was suggestive but it wasn’t proof. If she was honest and impartial, there was still more solid evidence against Tony than there was against Taylor right now. If she was Fielding, she probably wouldn’t be releasing Tony just yet.
    Paula suited up, put on shoe covers, then nodded to the officer carrying the door ram. In one smooth sweep, he delivered a massive blow to the heavy front door. The wood splintered and gave up its lock, which clattered down hard enough to leave a dent in the parquet. Softwood tarted up to look like hardwood, Paula thought. How very Banham .
    There was nothing untoward about the hallway. An attractive Afghan-style runner sat precisely in the middle of the floor. A console table held a bowl with keys and a vase of authentic-looking silk sweet peas. Photographs of glittering waves and frolicking dolphins lined one wall. Paula advanced