Dead & Buried

by Adam Croft

  So far, they’d found guns, knives and huge amounts of cash. Coupled with the fact that two of the young men being held against their will were now starting to speak, the chances of a successful prosecution were looking good.

  Wendy had other things on her mind, though, and she needed to clear the air and get them out there before the real work kicked in.

  ‘Can I have a quick word?’ she asked Culverhouse as he walked past her desk.

  ‘Yep,’ he said, not stopping or turning to acknowledge her. Instead, he walked straight into his office and left the door open.

  Wendy walked in and closed the door behind her.

  ‘I’ve been thinking a lot recently,’ she said.

  ‘Blimey. In that case we really must give you some more work to be getting on with.’

  ‘No, I mean I’ve been thinking about work. Having time off after what happened last year has meant that I’ve been able to put things into perspective and think about what I want to get out of life.’

  Culverhouse’s face appeared to have dropped. ‘Detective Sergeant Knight, if you’ve come in here to tell me you’re thinking of hanging up your skirt and getting another job, you can bloody well get out of my office and go and think some more. You’re a good officer and I’m not having it.’

  Wendy smiled. It wasn’t often Jack Culverhouse dished out compliments, so she was happy to take it.

  ‘No. That’s not what I was going to say. Quite the opposite, actually.’

  ‘We don’t do paid overtime. You know that. You’ll just have to go on the game or something.’

  ‘I was talking about the inspector’s exams. I think I want to try again. I want to enter myself.’

  ‘Well don’t let me stop you. Although you might want to nip to the toilets, out of the way of prying eyes. You know what Steve and Frank are like.’

  Wendy tried not to laugh. She knew her boss used humour as a defence mechanism, either when he was stressed or wanted to avoid a particular line of conversation.

  ‘I mean I want to enter myself for the exams again. I didn’t get the chance to give it my best shot last time, but I’ve been speaking to a few people and they’re right. I should try and go as high as I can. I want to be the best I can be.’

  Culverhouse looked at her for a moment. ‘They’ll have you up at Milton House the second you hit DCI, you know that?’

  ‘One step at a time, eh? That’s two ranks away, and by then you’ll be six feet under from your early heart attack, so there’ll be a space open.’

  ‘Cheeky bitch. On a serious note, this unit won’t even be here by the time I’m gone. They’re basically just waiting for Hawes to retire so they can usher in a new Chief Constable who’ll merge the lot. You’ll end up under the auspices of Malcolm Pope whatever happens. Chief Constable Pope by then, probably.’

  The thought sent a shiver down Wendy’s spine. DCI Malcolm Pope was the shining light in CID at Milton House. Or, at least, that’s what he thought he was. He had his own little team of yes men around him, but everyone else thought he was a snake. He’d made no secret of the fact he was looking forward to the day Mildenheath CID was closed and every major investigation in the county would pass to him.

  ‘As long as you can leapfrog that bastard, you’ll be alright,’ Culverhouse said.

  It wasn’t Malcolm Pope she was worried about leapfrogging, but Wendy held her nerves and just smiled.

  60

  By that evening, the investigation had gathered enough evidence to feel reasonably confident that the CPS would support a charge.

  Following the arrest and interview of a suspect, the police had twenty-four hours in which to either charge or release them. Once a charging decision was made, it would be up to the Crown Prosecution Service to take the case to court, so it was the CPS who needed to give clearance for a charge. With criminal court cases being extremely expensive — and the courts being underfunded and overpopulated with cases — the CPS needed to be sure the case was airtight. Taking a case to court and subsequently losing would be a huge waste of everyone’s time and money.

  Culverhouse had been on hold for over twenty-five minutes, sitting in a queue, waiting to get through to the next available person on the CPS phone number, when his call was answered. He was lucky: it wasn’t unheard of to spend an hour or two on hold at busy times.

  He took his time going through the details of the investigation: how they’d been alerted to the crime, the deaths of the four young lads believed to have been working at the brothel and everything they’d found during the raid. He explained that there was no doubt Dmitry Buryakov had been working in the brothel and that he had claimed numerous times to be running the operation. He admitted his skepticism of this claim and said he believed there were larger criminal elements at play, but that this did not make Dmitry innocent. Far from it: he was bang to rights.

  The woman at the CPS listened to everything he said, told him she’d have a look into it and would call him back as soon as possible.

  The wait between phone calls always seemed interminable. Jack knew the CPS had to be certain before they made a decision, as otherwise they risked either letting a guilty criminal out onto the streets or wasting hundreds of thousands of pounds and countless hours pursuing a pointless charge. Either would seriously undermine the public’s trust in the criminal justice system, so the decision had to be correct. With the custody clock counting down, it had to be made quickly, too.

  There was, as of yet, no prospect of Dmitry Buryakov doing a deal with the police. They’d keep pursuing it, though, confident that there were a number of high-level criminals who could be brought to justice if Buryakov would agree to provide them with information in return for a far more lenient sentence. Jack also knew, though, that organised criminals wouldn’t take kindly to one of their own telling all to the police, and that Buryakov’s life would be at stake if he did so. It would be well worth them protecting his life if it meant a gang of people traffickers were nailed and sent down, though.

  Jack spent the next twenty or so minutes making coffee, idly flicking through newspapers and staring at the same words on the front page of the police intranet, but nothing could take his mind off the wait.

  Eventually, the phone rang, and all eyes turned towards him. He answered the phone and listened carefully as the woman spoke.

  Calmly, he turned towards his team, smiled and raised his thumb.

  The custody sergeant informed Jack that he was granting bail to Dmitry Buryakov.

  ‘With respect, I'm not sure that's a great idea,’ Jack said. ‘This guy’s in cahoots with organised Russian gangsters. If he's bailed he’ll either do a runner or end up dead in a canal somewhere. We need him alive in the hope that he’ll spill the beans on the real ringleaders.’

  ‘With respect,’ the custody sergeant said, emphasising the words, ‘you haven't got to deal with thirty football hooligans they've been thrown out of the derby this afternoon, have you? They're all three sheets to the wind and I don't really fancy having them walking the streets either. They've already smashed up three shops in town.’

  Jack knew he wasn't going to win this argument. He just hoped for the custody sergeant’s sake that he was right.

  61

  The following morning brought both fresh hope and renewed frustration for Jack. He and the team were confident of a successful prosecution against Buryakov and were still hopeful that he’d eventually tell them the names of the people who were really in charge.

  This was where a brief tended to come in handy — someone who knew the best way to limit the damage done to their client. In this case, though, Jack wasn’t about to recommend that Buryakov bring his solicitor on board. If he was part of an organised crime syndicate, the brief would likely be on the payroll too, and would be tasked with ensuring the anonymity and protection of those in charge. That certainly wouldn’t extend to suggesting that Buryakov give their names and locations to the police. In this instance, he’d reminded Buryakov of
his right to have a solicitor present in interviews, but wasn’t going to push the topic any further. The dog would bark eventually, he was sure of it.

  He had both hope and frustration when it came to Emily, too. Just as he was starting to believe their problems were buried and left in the past, another problem seemed to have reared its ugly head. He had to keep hoping, though. Hoping and trying.

  Emily came into the kitchen as those thoughts were running through his mind, causing him to glance down at his watch.

  ‘You’re up early,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got to be in school early this morning. I wanted to speak to one of my teachers about some coursework, and I haven’t got him for anything until next Thursday.’

  ‘Oh right,’ Jack replied, desperate to raise the issue of her attendance at school, as Chrissie had requested, but at the same time keen not to upset the apple cart. Besides which, if she was going to school early that had to be a good thing, didn’t it? ‘Well, I can drop you off if you like. I’ve got to pass that way for a meeting this morning anyway.’

  Jack dreaded the thought of having to go to Milton House, but a seemingly successful outcome on Operation Counterflow would boost his stock somewhat.

  ‘Oh. Nah, it’s alright. There’s an earlier bus, so it’s cool.’

  ‘There’ll be no-one there at that time anyway, so you don’t have to worry about being spotted with your old dad. Come on. I don’t think I’ve ever dropped you at school.’

  ‘And who’s fault’s that?’

  Jack closed his eyes. ‘That was uncalled for, Em.’

  ‘Like I said. I’ll get the bus.’

  ‘I’m literally passing the door. It’ll save you time and money.’

  Emily stood up, the feet of her chair squawking on the tiled floor. ‘Dad, just back off, alright?’ She turned and left the room.

  Jack was left looking at the space she’d left.

  ‘Alright,’ he said, almost a whisper.

  62

  Dmitry Buryakov had many places he could’ve gone. There was the house he rented a few streets away from his workplace, and there were numerous safehouses operated by his bosses, where certain employees and acquaintances were able to lie low for a while. He knew he couldn’t afford to be too careful, though, and had chosen to shun all of those options.

  Instead, he’d called on a friend — someone unconnected with the business, who was away on business for nine months of the year and who’d said he could stay in her house any time he liked. It would be extra security, she said. He’d never thought seriously about taking her up on the offer, but he’d needed somewhere to stay for a while, and it was as good as anywhere.

  He’d gone straight there from the police station, and was pretty sure he hadn’t been tailed. He’d walked straight to the taxi rank nearby and got a cab to his friend’s house. The taxi driver had been friendly and talkative, but Dmitry had just wanted to get there as quickly as possible.

  Once the had taxi arrived, Dmitry had got out, paid the driver with a fifty-pound note and walked up towards the front door. He’d located the key safe on the wall and entered the six-digit number he’d kept in his head ever since his friend had told him it. He’d always had a good memory for numbers.

  And there he’d slept overnight, propped up on the sofa, it feeling just that little bit weird to climb into his friend’s bed, even when she wasn’t there. After all, Dmitry considered himself — if nothing else — a gentleman.

  He’d woken up with a stiff neck and a sore shoulder, but that was fine. His first task this morning would be to work out how to switch the boiler on — after finding the boiler, of course. It was more than warm enough to worry about central heating, but he wouldn’t mind a shower. As he was opening cupboards in the utility room, he heard the doorbell ring. He ignored it. A few seconds later, it rang again.

  He peered out through the living room window and could see a woman on the doorstep. She was perhaps forty-five, but clearly looked after herself. Probably just a neighbour concerned that someone was in the house, he thought. He’d explain he was a friend of Julia’s and ask the neighbour to give her a call if she wanted to check.

  As he was walking to the door, he checked himself. Knowing this sort of neighbourhood, the woman had probably already checked with Julia and was coming over to introduce herself and offer him a cup of sugar.

  He opened the door and smiled at the woman, who said nothing but looked at him for a second or two before smiling herself.

  Dmitry only caught sight of the gun at the last second as the woman raised it and fired twice between his eyes.

  63

  Mohammed Abidi’s engine was still running. Had he been alive he would’ve been able to hear the droplets of blood as they splished and sploshed into the puddle next to his open driver’s-side door. His head hung at an awkward and unnatural angle, but that wasn’t the sort of thing that would worry him any more.

  The sound of the droplets of blood landing in the puddle were interspersed only by the sound of his on-board radio squawking into life every few seconds as his controller tried desperately to get hold of him.

  Mrs Hoxton was, apparently, furious and wanted to know why her cab had now turned up late for a third day in a row.

  Unfortunately for Mrs Hoxton, her cab wasn’t going to turn up at all today.

  64

  As far as Jack Culverhouse was concerned, he was having some time off. A dead taxi driver was none of his concern. Malcolm bloody Pope could deal with that.

  Meanwhile, the body of Dmitry Buryakov would not be discovered for another few weeks, when Julia’s neighbours had finally had enough of the smell emanating from her property.

  Jack sat at his kitchen table and jabbed a fork into the plastic container of Chinese takeaway, before taking a swig from his bottle of beer. Just as he was starting to relax and enjoy his night on his own, Emily walked in.

  ‘Alright?’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you were home.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Right. I would’ve ordered you some food if I’d known.’

  ‘That’s alright,’ she said, grabbing a fork from the cutlery drawer. ‘I’ll just have some of yours.’

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ he said, watching as she shovelled almost half of his chicken chow mein into her mouth.

  ‘Listen, I’ve been having a think,’ she said, swallowing her food and taking a mouthful of his beer.

  Jack chose to say nothing.

  ‘About you and Chrissie, I mean.’

  ‘Em, I really don’t think we need to go into this now. You made your feelings perfectly clear, don’t worry.’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ she said. ‘I was just… I dunno. Surprised. Frustrated. I dunno. But I didn’t need to act like that. I’m sorry.’

  Jack looked at her for a few moments. ‘Are you sure you’re a teenager?’

  ‘Shut up, Dad. I’m being serious. Honestly, I’m fine with it. If you want to carry on seeing her, you can.’

  ‘Oh, well I’m glad I’ve got your permission, Miss Atkinson.’

  Emily stopped eating and put her fork down. ‘Yeah, about that. I’ve been having a think about that, too. I want to change my name back. It seems daft having mum’s maiden name when she’s not even about. I didn’t mind so much when I’d had my head filled with all that bullshit from Nan and Grandad, but let’s face it. You never actually went anywhere, did you? You’re the only one who actually stayed put. So I want to be Emily Culverhouse again.’

  Jack put his hand on top of his daughter’s as he tried to hold back the tears.

  ‘Hot, isn’t it?’ Emily said, pointing to the chow mein. ‘I presume that’s why you’ve got tears in your eyes, anyway. Can’t think of any other reason why a big hard copper would be switching on the waterworks.’

  Jack pulled his daughter towards him and kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘No, neither can I,’ he said. ‘Neither can I.’

  65

  Martin Cummin
gs hovered his mouse cursor over the Send button and re-read the email for the umpteenth time. He knew every word of it off by heart, but that didn’t matter.

  Within seconds, the local newspapers, radio stations and other media outlets would have news of his resignation. He’d asked them not to contact him or the local constituency party for comment, and had included quotes from both in the text of his email. Those were the only quotes he’d be giving, and he was now going to go on holiday to spend some time with his family.

  When it came to policing, the press were usually quite good at doing what they were told. There was too much at risk for them to mess about. If Martin Cummings wanted to be left alone for a week or two, that would be fine by them.

  He knew there’d be one or two journalists who’d try it on and call him or the party office within the next few minutes, but they wouldn’t get anywhere with that. He was ready to start his new life.

  That new life would consist of always looking over his shoulder, always worrying about what was to come next. Every time a journalist called he’d panic that the story had got out, that he was about to have his sexual peccadilloes exposed on the front pages of a sleazy tabloid.

  But that was far better than the alternative: being guaranteed as tomorrow’s front page news. He’d take his chances and hope that it never reached the press.

  The Andrews woman wouldn’t know how to deal with this sort of shit. She certainly wouldn’t be far from a scandal, he knew that. Her and her rich pals were as corrupt as they came, but that wouldn’t be his problem any more. The local people would be begging him to come back within a few months. The grass is always greener on the other side, except when it isn’t.

  He took a deep breath and clicked the button.