Dead & Buried

by Adam Croft

  Cummings swallowed hard. ‘No. No, I’ll co-operate.’

  48

  Culverhouse pushed open the door of the Major Incident Room and barked, ‘DS Wing and DS Vine, you’re needed.’

  Frank and Steve stood and left the room, following Culverhouse. They continued to follow him as he walked along the corridor and down the stairs towards the ground floor. He turned right at the bottom of the stairs towards the staff exit to the car park.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Frank said.

  ‘For a little walk.’

  Culverhouse walked past his car, used his key fob to open the gate, ushered Steve and Frank out onto the footpath and crossed the road. They followed him down a side street, into the small Alexandra Square shopping area, and into a café.

  ‘Morning. Three black coffees and three bacon rolls, please,’ he said, still walking, as he went and sat down at a table at the back of the café. ‘Come on. Sit down,’ he said to his colleagues.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ Steve said. ‘What have we done?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s not about what you’ve done. It’s about what you’re going to do. Or, more specifically, what you’re not going to do.’

  Frank and Steve looked at each other.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Frank asked.

  ‘You’re not going to breathe a word about what you saw last night to anyone. Anyone. Understood?’

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ Frank replied, always happy for an easy life.

  ‘What, so you’re not going to do anything about it?’ Steve asked, clearly more concerned than his easy-going colleague. ‘You’re just going to let him get away with it?’

  Culverhouse shook his head. ‘Trust me, he’s getting away with nothing. He’s helping us with our investigation, then he’s going to step down as PCC and not contest the upcoming election. He’s finished. He’s toast. But you’re not to say anything about any of this to anyone, alright? This is a highly sensitive investigation.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is, Martin Cummings won’t be implicated in this in any way?’ Steve asked.

  ‘Not directly. And it’s in everyone’s best interests that it stays that way. Immunity from prosecution in return for his information and assistance. It’s nothing revolutionary.’

  ‘No, but… he’s the bloody PCC.’

  ‘Not for long, he isn’t.’

  ‘What’s he going to do?’ Frank asked. ‘In terms of cooperation, I mean.’

  Culverhouse looked around himself before speaking quietly.

  ‘He’s going to sound out the lads in the brothel about whether they want to talk.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit risky?’ Steve said. ‘I mean, what if they say no? What if they’re quite happy and tell their bosses what he said?’

  ‘That’s his risk to take,’ Culverhouse replied. ‘He’ll just have to be bloody sure whoever he asks is going to cooperate. That’s the fallout of what he’s done.’

  ‘Duty to protect life,’ Frank said, almost in a whisper.

  ‘We are protecting lives,’ Culverhouse said. ‘We’re protecting the lives of every single one of those lads in there who’s been plucked from the shores of Calais and dumped into a bedsit in Mildenheath. We’re trying to prevent them being the next poor bastard who ends up as fertiliser for a fucking hawthorn.’

  ‘Guv, I’ve got to ask,’ Steve said.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘What are we doing in here? Why couldn’t you tell us all this at the nick?’

  ‘Can’t be too careful, Steve. The walls have ears, and all that. Besides which,’ he said, picking up a napkin and tucking it into his open shirt collar, ‘I was bloody starving.’

  49

  The conversation with the local constituency party chairman had been the most difficult phone call Martin Cummings had ever had to make. She’d been completely unable to come to terms with what he was saying. All she could repeat was that they’d already had the leaflets and marketing materials printed and there wouldn’t be enough time to field a replacement candidate.

  He’d apologised profusely, telling her his decision was final. He hadn’t wanted to have to lie, but she’d pressed him on his reasons, and he’d eventually told her it was due to ill health but that he didn’t want to tell her anything more, nor did he want that reason being made public. Anything else would have seemed ridiculous at this late stage, and it was the only way he was going to be able to save face with the local party.

  He could have said he wanted to spend more time with his family, or on reflection he thought the job should go to a new candidate — but neither would have been credible reasons with the election only weeks away. The party would lose their deposit, and the position would almost certainly go to the opposition and their candidate, Penny Andrews. Even if they did manage to field a replacement candidate at such short notice, the last-minute furore was likely to cause them some serious damage at the ballot box in an already very marginal county. She’d check with the Electoral Commission, she said, but she couldn’t make any promises.

  She’d asked him if there was any way he could reconsider, or stand for election and then take time away to recover whilst the Deputy Police & Crime Commissioner took over his duties for a while. He so desperately wanted to say yes, but he knew he couldn’t.

  He knew the media would be all over it. They’d want to find out what was going on. He’d just have to ride that storm. He’d go on holiday for a few weeks and wait for it all to blow over. In the window before the news broke, he’d have to get Hawes and Culverhouse the information they needed. He hoped no-one would join the dots. The politician friend-of-a-friend who’d got him involved in the first place would probably work it out, but he had a plan for that.

  He’d tell him he’d got wind of the investigation into the brothel and had immediately stopped visiting. In order to play things safe, he’d say, he thought it would be best if he stepped down from his position and took a break — just in case the identities of the men involved got out. He didn’t know how they’d react to that, but it was all he could do. He’d make it sound as though he was protecting all of their interests, and hope that they believed him. After all, what was the alternative?

  His wife would be furious that he wasn’t standing for re-election. Sure, he’d get a pension from the term he’d served, but with three young children and only one income for the whole family, things were going to be tight. He was sure it would put pressure on their relationship, but it would be nothing compared to what would have happened to it if news had got out about what he’d been up to.

  He would be pleased to be able to put it all behind him — if he ever could truly put it behind him. There was always the chance that something would get out. There’d been numerous stories broken in the past couple of years: celebrity sex rings, paedophile scandals. This was nothing quite like that — he’d genuinely had no idea that the brothel was anything to do with people trafficking — but there would be no use in trying to explain that to anyone. If it got out, he’d be ruined. And he would spend the rest of his life worrying about the next newspaper headline he saw, panicking every time the phone rang, breaking into a cold sweat every time someone knocked at the front door.

  And he knew that was destined to be his punishment for the rest of his life.

  50

  Knowing more than others — and having to keep it secret — was always one of the most awkward and irritating parts of the job.

  Wendy and Ryan had made a few remarks about the slow progress on Operation Counterflow, which Culverhouse had palmed off with a vague remark about the cooperation of the police in Serbia. Steve and Frank, of course, had kept rather quiet. For them, the investigation was moving faster than ever.

  The team was still reeling from the deaths of Zoran Petrovic and Milan Nikolic — something they all felt a sense of responsibility for, even though the blame ultimately had to be laid at the Chief Constable’s door.

  Hawes had been gracious enough not to point out that t
echnically Culverhouse had refused his offer of surveillance, but realistically it didn't matter. Protocol had been followed and there would be no pointing of fingers. As far as the team were concerned, they were all in this together.

  That evening, Jack had got home late to find out that Emily wasn't yet home. He'd waited a little while, and was on the verge of picking up his phone to call her when he heard the front door being unlocked and opened. Although Emily always walked straight through the lounge and into the kitchen, this time Jack heard her go straight upstairs and close her bedroom door.

  He went upstairs after her and knocked on her door. There was no answer.

  ‘Em?’ he called through the closed door.

  ‘What,’ came the response, more a statement than a question.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Jack took that as a yes and opened the door. Emily was sitting at her dressing table, applying makeup.

  ‘You off out again?’

  ‘Dunno yet.’

  ‘Surely you must know. You wouldn't be putting on makeup if you weren't going out.’

  Emily turned and scowled at him. ‘You don't know anything, do you?’

  He chose to ignore the comment. ‘Snappy Chats?’ he asked.

  ‘For god’s sake it's called Snapchat.’

  Jack had heard her explain to him a couple of times what Snapchat was, but he still couldn't figure it out. As far as he could fathom, it was some sort of app which let her broadcast videos to her friends. And of course, it just wouldn't do to be on video without any makeup.

  ‘Look, can we talk?’ he asked, watching as his daughter delicately applied black eyeliner.

  ‘We are talking,’ she said, speaking without moving her mouth, which hung slightly open in concentration. That was something Helen used to do.

  ‘Alright. Can we talk about what happened the other night, then?’

  ‘If you must.’

  ‘Yes. I must. You do know I didn't realise she was your headteacher, don't you?’

  ‘Would it have made any difference if you did?’

  Jack had to think about this for a moment. He knew he had to be honest with her.

  ‘It would have made it more awkward, yes.’

  ‘But you'd still be banging her, right?’

  ‘Emily, we are not… It isn’t like that. We’ve had dinner and drinks a couple of times. That’s it.’

  ‘But you want to bang her.’

  Jack contorted his face and scratched at his stubble. ‘Could you not use that sort of language, please? We’re friends. We’ve met a few times and had a couple of drinks. That’s it. And before you ask, no, I don’t have any plans to take things further but I’m perfectly open to the possibility that it might happen. Look, we’re a long way up the line from anything like that at the moment. As things stand I’m just enjoying being able to spend time with someone who’s on a similar level to me and who I can relate to. I’ve not had that for… Well, I’ve not had that since your mum left.’

  ‘You can’t blame mum for that.’

  ‘I’m not blaming anyone for anything. I’m just saying that when she left, I lost more than just you and her. I lost a companion, a conversation partner. I had to learn how to iron my own shirts. Silly little things. But they all add up on top of each other and make you feel bloody lonely.’

  ‘So you’re only socialising with her because you feel lonely?’

  Jack let out a sigh. ‘No, I’m socialising with her because she makes me feel less lonely.’

  ‘That’s the same thing.’

  ‘No it isn’t. Em, I feel like a complete dinosaur for saying it and I know it’s not going to mean anything to you, but the fact is you’ll understand when you’re older. I’m not saying that to be patronising — it’s just true.’

  Emily turned towards him, and he could see she had tears starting to form in her eyes.

  ‘What, and you think I don’t get lonely too?’ she said.

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘Because I do. I didn’t have parents. Not that I could remember. I was dragged away from you, abandoned by my mum and dumped with my grandparents, whose idea of bringing me up was to leave me in my bedroom to amuse myself until dinner was ready. I hated every minute of it. School was no better. I barely had any friends. Sometimes I didn’t even turn up for whole weeks on end.’

  ‘I can’t imagine your grandparents would’ve let you get away with that,’ Jack said.

  ‘You’d be surprised. They let me get away with a lot. I think they felt guilty because of everything that had happened. They didn’t know what to do. They had other problems to worry about.’

  ‘They can get fined or prosecuted for that. I can’t imagine your grandad wanting to shell out a penny more than he had to.’

  Emily shrugged. ‘Never happened. The school tried to speak to them and me to sort something out, but I don’t think they wanted to rock the boat.’

  Jack slowly shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe that you were only a few miles up the road for all those years, and I never knew. Did you realise how close you were to home?’

  ‘I dunno. Not really, no. I remembered bits about the house. I remembered my room. But I was too young to know where the house was. I didn’t even know which town I’d lived in. Going to Nan and Grandad’s always felt like a road trip. For all I knew it was the other side of the country. And… I dunno. It just became normal, I guess. Things faded and that became home.’

  Jack was struck once again by the maturity of Emily’s words. Although she’d practically brought herself up and had her fair share of issues, he couldn’t deny that she was wiser than her age might indicate.

  ‘Is that how you fell in with… Well, with your friends?’ he asked. ‘Not being at school much.’

  ‘I guess.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Do you see much of Ethan anymore?’ he asked, having wanted to ask that question for months. He knew the answer was likely to be no — he’d made it perfectly clear to Emily’s former boyfriend that he should keep well away from her if he wanted his testicles to remain attached to his body.

  Emily shook her head. ‘Haven’t heard from him in months. He’s a bastard anyway.’

  Jack couldn’t argue with that.

  ‘Look, I’ll leave you be. I just wanted to make sure everything was alright with us. I didn’t want you to be upset about Chrissie being here the other night.’

  ‘Alright,’ she said, noncommittally.

  Jack thought it wiser not to probe any further. He stood up, walked out of her room and closed the door behind him.

  51

  Martin pulled up his trousers and zipped the fly. In for a penny, in for a pound. That was his motto. Besides which, he had to carry on the charade. If he’d come in, shoved a piece of paper at the lad and walked back out, they’d be straight onto him.

  ‘You’re allowed to take tips, right?’ he said to the young man in front of him, already knowing the answer to the question.

  Although the man spoke good English, he simply nodded.

  His heart pounding, Martin reached his hand into the pocket of his light-coloured chinos and fished out the five twenty-pound notes he’d left in there. He held them for a moment, locking eyes with the man, then handed over the folded notes.

  He watched as the man carefully unfolded them and read the small piece of paper that had been carefully concealed inside. He looked back at Martin, nodded his head and put the notes in his pocket.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  52

  Team briefings were an important part of the job, but they tended be a little more sporadic at Mildenheath CID than they were in most other police forces. As with many things, the small and insular nature of Mildenheath CID meant that sometimes things were done differently.

  Procedure was always followed — that was a no-brainer, as they couldn’t risk something not standing up i
n court — but for the most part the team could only play the hand they were dealt.

  Knowing the case was about to turn a huge corner, Culverhouse had assembled the team together that morning in order to refresh what they already knew and to keep everyone to up speed. The details of Martin Cummings’s involvement were to be kept completely under wraps. He wouldn’t even tell the rest of the team if he could help it. Steve Wing and Frank Vine had been told that under no circumstances were they to mention what had happened, or what was going to happen. The information was just too sensitive.

  ‘Right. DC Mackenzie. You’ve been looking into the property details of the suspected brothel. What have you got?’

  ‘The ultimate owner of the property is a Mr Ranjit Singh. He owns a few properties locally. This particular one, he leases out to a company called Millennium Holdings. As far as he’s concerned, they handle everything. He ultimately owns the land but they lease the property and take care of everything. He was under the impression it was being used as office space, but he doesn’t get involved.’

  ‘What, so he doesn’t have a key? Never visits or pops in?’ Frank asked.

  ‘He’s very hands-off, apparently. He’s in his late seventies. This Millennium Holdings company is based in the Cayman Islands. That’s probably a bit suspicious in itself, and it does mean it’s going to be almost impossible to trace who’s actually behind it.’

  ‘Isn’t there a register of who owns the company?’ Frank continued.

  ‘Yes, but they’re often set up in false names or under other umbrella companies. It’s a tactic that’s used quite a lot for tax dodges and trying to filter or launder money. They don’t need any formal identification to set up a company in the Cayman Islands. It’s not like here.’