Tony Hill & Carol Jordan - 04 - The Torment of Others by Val McDermid

Author:Val McDermid
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780312339197
Published: 2003-12-31T13:00:00+00:00

Peccadilloes was tucked away on a side street in Manchester’s Northern Quarter, a revamped part of the city centre where the rag trade had slowly been squeezed out by the economics of labour and replaced by craft workshops, inner city housing and boutique shopping for the hip. An uneasy mixture of redbrick streets, remodelled Victorian monoliths and modern vernacular architecture struggling to look as if it fitted in hugged the narrow pavements. Jan Shields navigated the one-way system like a native, pointing out their destination as they drove past.

‘You know your way around,’ Paula commented as she negotiated a tricky junction in line with Jan’s instructions.

‘I’ve been doing my Christmas shopping in the Craft Village for years,’ Jan said. ‘It’s nice to get people something a bit individual, something they won’t have seen in Bradfield. And there are a couple of decent restaurants where you can relax afterwards.’ She directed Paula into a small pay-and-display car park where they found a slot.

It had been a quiet drive over the Pennines. Jan had spent most of the journey engaged in a text message conversation that seemed to afford her considerable amusement. She hadn’t shared the joke with Paula. Almost the only conversation they’d had centred round whether or not Carol Jordan was up to the job. Paula had defended her boss, in spite of her own doubts. It was one thing to question Carol’s judgement with Don, but Jan Shields wasn’t really one of their team, so loyalty demanded that Paula support Carol to the hilt. Seeing she was getting nowhere, Jan had given up and turned to her mobile.

As they approached Peccadilloes, Jan became more animated. This is going to be fun,’ she announced. ‘Nothing like a bit of game-playing to put a spring in the step.’

That’s easy for you to say,’ Paula muttered. ‘You’re not the one who’s going to have to stand on a street corner freezing her arse off and dealing with grubby little fucked-up punters.’

Jan chuckled. ‘No, I get to appreciate the view.’ She pushed open the door. The interior of Peccadilloes was less glossy than its counterpart in Bradfield. The lighting was dimmer, the wares less exuberantly displayed. Behind the counter, a woman glanced up at them. She looked to be in her late thirties, multi-coloured hair gelled and twisted into curlicues and spikes. Bizarrely, she was wearing a fawn cardigan that would have looked more at home on the proprietress of a wool shop. Paula suspected the outré hairdo was an attempt to draw attention from the strawberry birthmark that slid down one side of her face, looking as if someone had drawn a paintbrush loaded with blackberry sorbet down her cheek.

Jan glanced around, then led Paula to a rack of clothes at the rear of the shop. Jan flicked through the garments hanging on a rail and pulled out a skimpy black latex dress. ‘Hey, girl, you’d knock them dead at Rainbow Flesh in this.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Paula lied, trying to cling to her privacy in the teeth of Jan Shields’ certainty.

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