The Torment of Others Read Online Free PDF

her home, a high eyrie that allowed her to feel both part of and apart from the city she policed. When she’d moved to London, she’d sold it to her brother and his girlfriend. Now she was back living inside the same four walls, but this time as the reluctant cuckoo in a nest created by Michael and Lucy. They’d changed almost every aspect of the flat, making Carol feel even more out of place. Once, she’d have shrugged off that feeling, secure in the knowledge that she had a workplace where she was at home. What she feared today was that she’d feel as much of an outsider inside the police station as outside.
Even Bradfield itself felt like a too-familiar stranger. When she’d lived and worked here before, she’d made a point of learning the city. She’d visited the local museum in a bid to understand the forces that had shaped Bradfield over the centuries, turning it from a hamlet of shepherds and weavers into a vigorous commercial centre that had vied with Manchester to be the northern capital of the Victorian empire. She’d learned of its decline in the post-war era, then the reinvigoration that had been kick-started by successive waves of immigration at the tail end of the last century. She’d studied the architecture, learning to appreciate the Italianate influences on the older buildings, trying to see how the city had grown organically, attempting to imagine what the hideous 1960s concrete office blocks and shopping centre had vanquished. She’d mapped the city in her mind, using her days off to walk the streets, drive the neighbourhoods until she could grasp immediately the kind of environment she was about to enter just from the address of the crime scene.
But this morning, Carol’s old knowledge seemed to have fled. New road markings and one-way systems had mushroomed in her absence, forcing her to concentrate on her bearings in a way she hadn’t expected. Driving to the central police station should have been automatic. But it took her twice as long as she’d estimated and relief washed through her as she eventually turned into the car park. Carol nosed forward towards the dedicated parking spaces, pleased to see that at least one of John Brandon’s promises had already been kept. One of the few empty slots bore the freshly painted designation, ‘ DCI JORDAN ’.
Walking into the station itself provided a brief moment of déjà vu. Here at least nothing seemed to have altered. The back entrance hall still smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and stale fat from the canteen on the floor below. Whatever cosmetic changes might have been imposed on the public areas, no decorators had been charged with making this entrance more appealing. The walls were still the same industrial grey, the noticeboard covered with what were possibly the same yellowing memos she’d last seen years ago. Carol walked up to the counter and nodded a greeting at the PC behind the desk. ‘DCI Jordan reporting to the Major Incident Team.’
The middle-aged man rubbed a hand across his grizzled crew cut and smiled. ‘Welcome aboard,’ he said. ‘End of the corridor, take the lift up to the third floor. You’re in Room 316.’
‘Thanks.’ Carol managed a thin smile and turned to push open the door as the lock buzzed. Unconsciously squaring her shoulders and tilting her chin up, she walked briskly down the corridor, ignoring the occasional curious glance from uniformed officers she passed on the way.
The third floor had undergone a facelift since she’d left. The walls were painted lavender to waist height, then off-white. The old wooden doors had been replaced with plate glass and steel, the central sections frosted so the casual passer-by could see little of what was going on inside the offices. It looked more like an advertising agency than a police station, she thought as she reached the door of 316.
Carol took a deep breath and pushed the door open. A handful of curious faces glanced up at her then broke into smiles of