Extremity, page 15
For Mum and Dad,
without whom I would never have had the confidence to tell such ridiculous stories
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
Julia Torgrimsen: It didn’t happen the way you think it did. That’s the first thing I want on the record. I know it won’t make a difference—I’ve been in this seat before—but I wanted to say it anyway.
And yes, I’m aware that “this isn’t how it looks” is just about the oldest cliché in the book. I’m aware that you have a trail of bodies and the only thing that connects all of them is me. I’m aware of Occam’s razor.
But when you know the whole world is going to declare you guilty, the only thing you can cling onto is your own innocence. If you let that go, you have nothing left.
I was lying in bed when it started, when they knocked on my door. I wasn’t sleeping. I don’t really do that anymore—not properly anyway. Sometimes I nap in front of the TV, or I sit down in the shower, with the water rushing over my head, and my eyes close for a bit. But a night’s sleep, in a bed? That belongs to a different life.
I was watching letters burn. I still get them, even after all this time. Fan mail. How ridiculous is that? I don’t even read them anymore, there’s no point. Nobody left in my life has any business sending me letters. I put them all in this small metal pot and set them on fire.
It was 10:44 p.m. I remember because apart from the little fire, the digital clock on my bedside table was the brightest thing in the room. The knock came again, louder and more insistent, and I lugged myself to my feet. I didn’t know who was bothering me at this time of night, but they were certainly about to find out how I felt about it.
DC Mark Cochrane: I’m knocking at the door, and I’m thinking to myself—Julia Torgrimsen. I mean, fuck. Julia Torgrimsen, you know? The whole ride over I’ve been thinking about that criminology unit I did at college that basically dedicated a whole module to her. I wrote a paper on her solving the Ealing murders in ’04.
DCI Grossman dragged me along because I was the only member of his team left in the station at that time, and he said something about how he was going to need someone to “level out the fury,” but honestly I was barely listening. The moment he mentioned her name I had my keys in my hand and I was headed for the car. Jesus—I didn’t even know she was still alive, you know?
I was staying late, getting paperwork done so I didn’t drown in it tomorrow. I told Kate I didn’t know when I’d be back, so she’d have to feed Lucifer, which she wasn’t best pleased about. She hates that cat. We were meant to have dinner together, but she’s used to me flaking by now. When we started going out and I was still doing my detective training, I told her, “Sometimes you’re just not going to see me, you know? If this is going to work, you have to know that. Sometimes the job is going to take precedence.”
It took a while for that to come true, before the sometimes became always, like it has been for the last couple of months. I’m not saying I actually sleep at New Scotland Yard, but it feels like I do. But I mean, hell, I’m working in Grossman’s CID. That’s all the big stuff—organised crime, murder, conspiracy. God only knows how I got in. They had an entry-level spot open up and I was coming out of training at the right time. They even made me do the Authorised Firearms training just to join.
Grossman’s an intimidating guy, and not just physically. He’s big, black, and like six foot two, and he’s got that voice, you know? It screams authority at you. When he asks, you do. You don’t argue.
So obviously when I heard him arguing at the station, my ears perked up. I know I’m not meant to eavesdrop, but when it’s just you and your boss on the whole floor and he’s shouting down the phone at someone, what’s a man supposed to do?
“It’s a terrible idea, Sarah,” he was saying. “There’s no way any good can come of this.” And, “Yes, yes, I’m aware of that, but what do you expect me to do about it?”
It went on like that for a while, and without the other end of the call it was pretty meaningless, but I distinctly remember the last thing he said before he put the phone down.
“If it’s an order, then it’s an order, but I’m stating here on the record that I don’t agree with it. That’s it.”
He puts the phone down, puts his hand on his head for a few seconds, then gets up. As he’s leaving and putting on his jacket he calls to me.
“Mark—get your coat on. I’m gonna need some help.”
“Sure thing, boss.” I’m already on my feet. “What’s up?”
“Murder. Maybe two. Get your car.”
“Crime scene?” I ask, feeling my pockets for my keys.
“No.” There’s this resignation to his voice, like he’s already given up. “No, first we need to go get Julia Torgrimsen.”
DCI John Grossman: I want to start by saying I thought it was a bad idea, bringing Julia back in. I said it at the time and I’m saying it again. This wasn’t my call.
I get why Sarah—sorry, Chief Superintendent Barrowcliff—thought it was necessary, but Christ, the moment she mentioned Julia’s name I felt like a whole heap of shit that I’d been trying really hard to keep buried just got dug up and sprayed all over me.
What was it she said?
“No one knows these people like Julia does.”
And that’s true. She spent six years under the deepest cover I’ve ever seen in the force. She knows that whole world like the back of her hand. But that’s not necessarily a good thing. We all know that. We all know how it turned out. Still, an order is an order. You’ve got to follow the rules, have faith in the system—because if you lose that, what do you have left?
But when I put the phone down the first thought that ran through my mind was the last thing Julia said to me. She said, “I never want to see you again.”
How’s that for a goodbye after twelve years working together?
That was four years ago, and now Sarah’s telling me to show up at her door like nothing’s changed, like nothing’s happened. She’s going to eat me alive, I thought.
That’s when I saw that kid Mark—that’s DC Cochrane—at the desks. He’d just joined the squad, a month ago maybe, and he was wet behind the ears and a little gormless. There’d been a coffee stain on his shirt the whole day and I don’t think he’d even noticed. Don’t get me wrong—I think it’s great getting young coppers in early. Train up the next generation and all that. But all I could think when I looked at him was: human shield. No way Julia tears him apart in the same way. Not a kid like that.
DC Mark Cochrane: When we’re in the car, I can’t help myself. I know I must be really annoying, but I have so many questions and I can’t keep them all in.
“There’s been a death?”
He nods. “You’re not on this case though, Mark. Not yet. If you’re needed, you’ll get briefed later in the week. This is just a pickup.”
Now I’m a little disappointed. But it sounded like some pretty important people were involved and I’m still quite junior. These things happen. At this point, I’m just happy to be along for the ride.
“You know Torgrimsen?” I ask him, keeping my eyes on the road. He doesn’t reply at first, and I’m sure I hear a little sigh before he does.
“She was my partner,” he says. “Long time back.”
“Seriously? Wow. I mean, all due respect, sir, but that’s really cool.”
He laughs, and I’m not sure what I said, but he doesn’t follow it up with anything. I try to shut up for a bit, following the directions he’s giving me, but I can’t. The questions keep coming.
“Did you work with her on the Bankside serial killer?”
“Yes,” he says, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world. Yes. And I’m thinking, Fuck, I knew my boss was important, but not like, a legend.
“And the Peckham murders? That too?”
He coughs. “No, that was before my time with her.”
“What about the—”
“Look,” he interrupts. “Can you just drive?”
I mutter a little, “Of course, sorry,” and nod my head in contrition, trying to focus on the road. But you know what happens like three minutes later? I start asking questions again, like an idiot. Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t fire me right then and there.
“Did you know her during the Yegorov case?”
At first he doesn’t respond, and I’m worried that I’ve really pissed him off. We sit in what has to be the most awkward silence I’ve ever experienced for what feels like about five hours. Eventually, he says, “Yes. I was her contact while she was undercover.”
“Holy shit.” I don’t mean to say it, but it comes out. I mean—Dmitri Yegorov—probably the biggest news story of the past couple of decades, from murder to paedophilia, to police corruption and conspiracy, right on through. The case that almost blew the Met apart. The case that sent police super-detective Julia Torgrimsen into retirement and obscurity. And the guy sitting next to me had been right in the middle of it.
The next question sits between us like a third passenger, bunched up against the gearstick. He knows it and I know it. It’s the only possible follow-up question. Because if he was her contact, then he must know what really happened at the end. What caused her to leave the force. What ended h
I know the rumours. I mean, God, everyone in the force knows the rumours, even if no one ever talks about it. But to actually know—
Before I can say another word, he says, “It’s another left and we’re there.”
There’s that authoritative tone in his voice again. It’s saying, shut up if you know what’s good for you. So I do. I shut my mouth right closed. Practically stapled the damn thing shut.
DCI John Grossman: If I’m honest, I was really starting to regret bringing Mark along. So much so, that when we actually pulled over to Julia’s flat I felt a sense of relief.
We stepped out of the car, and I said to him, “Look, she’s not going to be happy we’re here. I can tell you that now. But we need her, and if she sees it’s me she’ll just slam the door in my face, or worse. So I need you to lead, okay? Just tell her you’ve been sent to bring her in to answer some questions about a case. It’s not an arrest, though, okay? And she’s definitely not a suspect.”
He was dutifully nodding, trying to take it all in, but I could tell he felt out of his depth. The metal gate to the apartment block was wedged open, so thankfully we didn’t have to buzz up, and we headed inside.
We took the stairs because I didn’t trust the lift. Rickety old thing looked like it could barely carry a fruit basket, let alone two police officers. I regretted that quickly. The stairwell was grim—cigarette butts scattered across the floor, walls stained with dirt and graffiti and God knows what else. A stale stench of smoke emanated through the whole building, which just about masked the sweet musk of spilt booze.
“So why is she being brought in if she’s not a suspect?” he asked.
“To consult.”
“Consult?” he replied. “But she’s not police anymore. Why would she—”
Thankfully, we reached the second floor. I flung the door open and walked into the corridor, cutting his question off behind me. The long bars of fluorescent lighting in the hallway flickered and buzzed at us as we found our way to her door—8C. I remember hoping she still lived there, then I remember hoping she didn’t.
“I’m going to stay just out of sight,” I told Mark. “You knock and ask her to come with us.”
He knocked and waited.
And I know what you’re thinking. I do: I’m a chief inspector. I’ve been a cop for thirty years. What am I doing hiding round a corner like a criminal? But honestly, you don’t know what she’s like.
The door opened.
“Mrs. Torgrimsen?” Mark said, with that boyish smile.
“I’m not married.” The flick of a lighter told me she’d lit a cigarette.
His face faltered a little, and I can almost hear him withering under her gaze. “Sorry, ma’am. I just . . . I mean to say, I’ve been sent to see if you’ll come in to the station.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Am I a suspect?”
“No,” he said. “But you’ve been asked to—”
“If I’m not a suspect, then I’m not going anywhere. If I am a suspect, then I’m calling a lawyer and I’m not going anywhere. Either way, you need to leave.”
“I . . .” he stuttered, and I felt for him then. I really did. But he was doing his job as well as he could.
“Julia,” I said, stepping out from round the corner. I tried not to let the surprise enter my eyes. I mean, she looked like shit. Dark wrinkles, deep rings under her eyes, bony hands. I know she’s only about five years older than me, but dear God she looked like she was about seventy.
Her expression didn’t change in the slightest. She didn’t move when she saw me, didn’t react. Her cigarette hung out of her mouth, quietly smoking, and she stood as perfectly still as if she’d been transformed into stone.
“It’s Bruno Donaldson,” I said. “He’s dead.”
She didn’t say anything at first. She just plucked the cigarette from her lips and dropped it on the floor, stamping it into the ground.
“Good,” she said.
And she slammed the door in my face.
Julia Torgrimsen: I turned around and placed my back against the door, and a huge weariness came over me. It was like I’d been storing up all this heaviness—like a hundred thousand pounds of weight—in a box somewhere and someone had emptied it all on my shoulders.
Bruno Donaldson.
I walked over to the kitchen and took out a bottle of whisky—a Japanese one, a Nikka. I think I looked around for a glass for about two seconds before taking a swig straight from the bottle. I wasn’t going to let myself get upset over someone who should have died years ago, but I sure as shit wasn’t going to get any more sleep tonight either, so I might as well drink.
“Julia!” John was calling from the other side of the door. The cheek of him showing up here, using that fresh-faced boy to try and soften me up like I’m some kind of prom date to be wooed. “I’m not going anywhere until you come with me.”
I sat on the side of my bed and shook my head, staring into that pile of burnt letters in the corner of my room. I wasn’t going with him. I wasn’t going anywhere near that murder. He could wade back into the muck himself. I’m still not clean from it.
“It’s more than that, Julia,” John said. His head must have been right up against the door. “There’s another body. You’ll recognise this one too.”
I took another swig of the Nikka and I tried to concentrate on the burn as it ran down my throat. Of course he didn’t tell me who the second body was. He was trying to get me to ask, to open up a conversation.
But I couldn’t not ask. After all this time, I couldn’t just not ask.
And then I saw the next hour play itself out like a film. We would argue, we would shout, we would fight like old times, and with every single word I’d be drawn in further and further. As soon as I asked him the question, the rest would be set in stone.
“Fuck!” I muttered, knocking back the end of the bottle and slamming it down on the table. It wavered, wobbling for a second before toppling onto the floor with a smash, glass scattering all the way across my flat.
Great.
I got up, my slippers crunching over the glass, and went to the mirror, giving myself a long hard look. I looked at my hands, balled into fists, and tried to ease them back to normality.
Remember who you are, I told myself. Don’t let yourself forget.
DC Mark Cochrane: When I hear the smash come from inside the flat, I start forward, thinking that she might have hurt herself or something, but Grossman puts his hand on my shoulder and holds me back.
“Wait,” he says, and I take a step back. But I’m thinking: Oh my God. Bruno fucking Donaldson. Surely, it can’t be the same Bruno Donaldson as the one I’m thinking of—the billionaire tech giant, the founder of Altitude Computing and everything else that comes with it. Surely not. But then I remember Grossman’s call and the urgency and secrecy, and I think about Dmitri Yegorov, and my brain goes: holy shit, Bruno Donaldson is dead?
The door opens. Julia is standing there, her face impassive. “Who’s the second body?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Grossman replies.
She rolls her eyes. “Of course it is.”
Julia walks right past me—she’s changed into jeans and a navy blouse, her grey hair tied back in a ponytail—and starts down the hall. “Well,” she says, turning back. “Are we going to the crime scene or what?”
I see a flicker of a smile hit Grossman’s lips. “We’ll get a cab,” he says. “Mark, you take the car back to the station and—”
“Oh no,” Julia says, shaking her head. “You brought him along, he comes too. That’s the deal. I don’t look at this case without . . .” She blinks at me. “What’s your name?”
“DC Mark Cochrane, ma’am.”
And Grossman says, “He’s not ready,” which I think is pretty unfair, but I’m not going to say anything at this point.
Julia turns around and starts walking towards the stairs. “You should have thought of that when you brought him, John. Maybe you’ll think twice about using people as pawns next time.”
I did my best to hide my smile. Didn’t work.
DCI John Grossman: Nobody said a word on the car journey over and I could tell Mark was just dying. He looked like he was about to explode, but fortunately he managed to hold it in.
I also knew Sarah was going to kill me when she found out I’d dragged along a DC, but unfortunately there wasn’t much I could do. It was such a Julia thing to do—she didn’t even want him there herself, she just wanted to punish me.
