The Torment of Others. Val McDermid

of the steep slope leading down to the tracks. That had been around twenty to eight. Nobody else had come forward to say they’d seen the boy.

      His face was already etched on Merrick’s mind. The school photograph resembled a million others, but Merrick could have picked out Tim’s sandy hair, his open grin and the blue eyes crinkled behind Harry Potter glasses from any line-up. Just as he could have done with Guy Lefevre. Wavy dark brown hair, brown eyes, a scatter of freckles across his nose and cheeks. Seven years old, tall for his age, he’d last been seen heading for an overgrown stand of trees on the edge of Downton Park, about three miles from where Merrick was standing now. It had been around seven on a damp spring evening. Guy had asked his mother if he could go out for another half-hour’s play. He’d been looking for birds’ nests, mapping them obsessively on a grid of the scrubby little copse. They’d found the grid two days later, on the far edge of the trees, crumpled into a ball twenty yards from the bank of the disused canal that had once run from the railhead to the long-silent wool mills. That had been the last anyone had seen of anything connected to Guy Lefevre.

      And now another boy seemed also to have vanished into thin air. Merrick sighed and lowered the binoculars. They’d had to wait for daylight to complete their search of the area. They’d all clung to a faint hope that Tim had had an accident, that he was lying somewhere injured and unable to make himself heard. That hope was dead now. The frustration of having no leads bit deep. Time to round up the usual suspects. Merrick knew from past experience how unlikely it was to produce results, but he wasn’t prepared to leave any avenue unexplored.

      He pulled out his mobile and called his sergeant, Kevin Matthews. ‘Kev? Don here. Start bringing the nonces in.’

      ‘No sign, then?’

      ‘Not a trace. I’ve even had a team through the tunnel half a mile up the tracks. No joy. It’s time to start rattling some cages.’

      ‘How big a radius?’

      Merrick sighed again. Bradfield Metropolitan Police area stretched over an area of forty-four square miles, protecting and serving somewhere in the region of 900,000 people. According to the latest official estimates he’d read, that meant there were probably somewhere in the region of 3,000 active paedophiles in the force area. Fewer than ten per cent of that number was on the register of sex offenders. Rather less than the tip of the iceberg. But that was all they had to go on. ‘Let’s start with a two-mile radius,’ he said. ‘They like to operate in the comfort zone, don’t they?’ As he spoke, Merrick was painfully aware that these days, with people commuting longer distances to work, with so many employed in jobs that kept them on the road, with local shopping increasingly a thing of the past, the comfort zone was, for most citizens, exponentially bigger than it had ever been even for their parents’ generation. ‘We’ve got to start somewhere,’ he added, his pessimism darkening his voice.

      He ended the call and stared down the bank, shielding his eyes against the sunshine that lent the grass and trees below a blameless glow. The brightness made the search easier, it was true. But it felt inappropriate, as if the weather was insulting the anguish of the Goldings. This was Merrick’s first major case since his promotion, and already he suspected he wasn’t going to deliver a result that would make anybody happy. Least of all him.

      Dr Tony Hill balanced a bundle of files on the arm carrying his battered briefcase and pushed open the door of the faculty office. He had enough time before his seminar group to collect his mail and deal with whatever couldn’t be ignored. The psychology department secretary emerged from the inner office at the sound of the door closing. ‘Dr Hill,’ she said, sounding unreasonably pleased with herself.

      ‘Morning, Mrs Stirrat,’ Tony mumbled, dropping files and briefcase to the floor while he reached for the contents of his pigeonhole. Never, he thought, was a woman more aptly named. He wondered if that was why she’d chosen the husband she had.

      ‘The Dean’s not very pleased with you,’ Janine Stirrat said, folding her arms across her ample chest.

      ‘Oh? And why might that be?’ Tony asked.

      ‘The cocktail party with SJP yesterday evening–you were supposed to be there.’

      With his back to her, Tony rolled his eyes. ‘I was engrossed in some work. The time just ran away from me.’

      ‘They’re a major donor to the behavioural psychology research programme,’ Mrs Stirrat scolded. ‘They wanted to meet you.’

      Tony grabbed his mail in an unruly pile and stuffed it into the front pocket of his briefcase. ‘I’m sure they had a wonderful time without me,’ he said, scooping up his files and backing towards the door.

      ‘The Dean expects all academic staff to support fundraising, Dr Hill. It’s not much to ask, that you give up a couple of hours of your time–’

      To satisfy the prurient curiosity of the executives of a pharmaceutical company?’ Tony snapped. ‘To be honest, Mrs Stirrat, I’d rather set my hair on fire and beat the flames out with a hammer.’ Using his elbow to manipulate the handle, he escaped into the corridor without waiting to check the affronted look he knew would be plastered across her face.

      Temporarily safe in the haven of his own office, Tony slumped in the chair behind his computer. What the hell was he doing here? He’d managed to bury his unease about the academic life for long enough to accept the Reader’s job at St Andrews, but ever since his brief and traumatic excursion back into the field in Germany, he’d been unable to settle. The growing realization that the university had hired him principally because his was a sexy name on the prospectus hadn’t helped. Students enrolled to be close to the man whose profiles had nailed some of the country’s most notorious serial killers. And donors wanted the vicarious, voyeuristic thrill of the war stories they tried to cajole from him. If he’d learned nothing else from his sojourn in the university, he’d come to understand that he wasn’t cut out to be a performing seal. Whatever talents he possessed, pointless diplomacy had never been among them.

      This morning’s encounter with Janine Stirrat felt like the last straw. Tony pulled his keyboard closer and began to compose a letter.

      Three hours later, he was struggling to recover his breath. He’d set off far too fast and now he was paying the price. He crouched down and felt the rough grass at his feet. Dry enough to sit on, he decided. He sank to the ground and lay spreadeagled till the thumping in his chest eased off. Then he wriggled into a sitting position and savoured the view. From the top of Largo Law, the Firth of Forth lay before him, glittering in the late spring sunshine. He could see right across to Berwick Law, its volcanic cone the prehistoric twin to his own vantage point, separated now by miles of petrol-blue sea. He checked off the landmarks: the blunt thumb of the Bass Rock, the May Island like a basking humpback whale, the distant blur of Edinburgh. They had a saying in this corner of Fife: ‘If you can see the May Island, it’s going to rain. If you can’t see the May Island, it’s already raining.’ It didn’t look like rain today. Only the odd smudge of cloud broke the blue, like soft streamers of aerated dough pulled from the middle of a morning roll. He was going to miss this when he moved on.

      But spectacular views were no justification for turning his back on the true north of his talent. He wasn’t an academic. He was a clinician first and foremost, then a profiler. His resignation would take effect at the end of term, which gave him a couple of months to figure out what he was going to do next.

      He wasn’t short of offers. Although his past exploits hadn’t always endeared him to the Home Office establishment, the recent case he’d worked on in Germany and Holland had helped him leapfrog the British bureaucracy. Now the Germans, the Dutch and the Austrians wanted him to work for them as a consultant. Not just on serial murder, but on other criminal activity that treated international frontiers as if they didn’t exist. It was a tempting offer, with a guaranteed minimum that would be just about enough to live on. And it would give him the chance to return to clinical practice, even if it was only part-time.

      Then, there was Carol Jordan to consider. As always when she came into his thoughts, his mind veered away from direct confrontation. Somehow, he had to find a way to atone for