by Adam Croft
Ryan cocked her head slightly. ‘What, you mean a WHOIS lookup?’
‘Yeah, one of them. Find out who owns this site, will you?’
Ryan stopped in her tracks. ‘I think that’s probably best done by the IT guys,’ she said. ‘I don’t really want to risk—’
‘Just do it, alright? I can’t be waiting four days for those fuckers to get back to me when you can do it in thirty seconds.’
Ryan could see by the look on Culverhouse’s face that she didn’t have much of a choice. ‘I’ll do it on my iPhone,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s not a work one, so it shouldn’t flag up on the network.’
Culverhouse watched as she navigated to the right website on her phone, pleased that he’d at least managed to put one chink in her goody-two-shoes armour.
‘Right. According to the registration details it’s in the name of Mildenheath History Society, number 20 Hennessy Street.’
Culverhouse looked down at his notepad, on which he’d written the address from the PNC.
‘Perfect.’
Hennessy Street was probably only a five or ten minute walk from the office, but he decided to drive anyway.
He parked up on the pavement outside number 20 and killed the engine. Like many of the houses at this end of Mildenheath, it was a tall Victorian terraced building, with a small courtyard front garden.
He opened the gate and walked up to the door, pressing his finger down on the doorbell for a good few seconds.
He could see a dark figure approaching the door, and he waited as the occupant undid all manor of chains and locks. When the door finally opened, he was met by a man he could only presume to be the secretary of the Mildenheath History Society.
‘Colin Walsh?’
‘Yeah,’ the man said, looking slightly confused.
Culverhouse flashed his warrant badge. ‘DCI Jack Culverhouse, Mildenheath CID. Alright if I pop in for a second?’ he said, having already barged his way past Colin Walsh.
‘Uh, yeah, okay. What’s it... Uh, do you want a cup of tea or something?’
‘No thanks,’ Culverhouse said, from the living room. ‘I won’t be staying long. I did try to call you, but your number went straight through to answerphone.’
‘Oh right. Yes. It’s upstairs charging,’ Colin replied, finally catching up with him in the living room. ‘Probably on silent. Battery doesn’t last five minutes on them these days.’
‘No problem. Thought I’d better pop over instead. Does the name Tanya Henderson ring any bells?’ he said, catching the homeowner off-guard, watching his face for any flicker of recognition.
‘No... I can’t say it does. Should it?’
‘That’s what I’m here to find out. Do you keep records of the members of your history society?’
Colin Walsh looked momentarily confused. ‘Well, yes. They’re all stored on the computer.’
‘Are they accessible now?’
‘Yes... Yes, they are. I’d have to take a look, though. We’ve recently moved over onto a new system, you see. It allows people to sign up using a web link, then it automatically puts them into the database and sends out a welcome email to them with all of the information. Means I don’t have to do anything at this end. So if she’s a member, I probably wouldn’t know about it without actually looking at the list.’
Culverhouse forced a fake smile. ‘So, can we look at it then?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Colin said, sitting down at the computer, which was situated just inside the dining room section of his open-plan lounge-diner. ‘Here we are. Members’ Database. You’ll have to give it a minute. It takes a little while to load.’
Culverhouse could feel his patience wearing thin. He gritted his teeth.
‘Ah yes. Right. What did you say her name was? Tracey what?’
‘Henderson,’ Culverhouse said. ‘Tanya Henderson.’
‘Righto,’ Colin replied, typing more slowly than Culverhouse had ever seen anyone type in his life. ‘Is that with an I or with a Y?’
‘With a Y,’ Culverhouse replied, desperate to lean over and type it in himself.
‘Righto. Hen...der...son. Got it. Ah yes. She is a member. Manor Way, does that sound about right?’
‘It sounds very right,’ Culverhouse said. ‘How long’s she been a member for?’
‘Hmmmm... Let me see... Ah. Yes. She joined three weeks ago, apparently. Why, has she done something wrong?’ Colin said, turning round in his chair to face Culverhouse.
Culverhouse sighed. ‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out.’
38
The incident room seemed to be buzzing when Culverhouse got back. There was a frisson in the air, which was noticeable from the moment he walked in through the door.
‘Guv, you’re never going to guess what,’ Debbie Weston said, holding up a sheet of A4 paper. ‘We’ve been looking into Callum Woods a bit further. Phone records, property details, things like that. We went back a fair way, and we—’
‘Sorry, what?’ Culverhouse said, interrupting her, his face like thunder. ‘Where did you get clearance for that?’
‘From the Chief Constable,’ Debbie replied.
‘You went straight to him?’
‘Well, no, I didn’t,’ she replied, not saying any more.
‘So who did?’ Culverhouse’s voice was calm and quiet, which made it even more unnerving than if he’d been shouting at the top of his lungs.
Wendy took a deep breath. ‘I did.’
The DCI’s head snapped round in her direction. ‘And why didn’t you go through me?’
‘I tried, but I couldn’t find you. Time was of the essence, especially seeing as Woods knew we were looking at him after our visit. We couldn’t risk him trying to cover anything up or hide anything.’
‘You’re supposed to go through me,’ was all Culverhouse said.
‘And I would have done, but you weren’t here.’ Wendy’s tone was firm, insinuating that she wasn’t going to take any shit from him over this.
Fortunately, he backed down.
‘And what did you find?’ he asked Debbie.
‘Well, get this. His credit card statement showed a payment to a company called Dunlop, Briggs and Paver. They’re a firm of solicitors based just outside town. That got me thinking, why was he using a firm of solicitors from Mildenheath when he lives nowhere near here? They wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone without a specific warrant, but their website tells me they’re property planning and conveyancing specialists. A bit of digging showed that Callum Woods recently applied for an extension on his house, and logic says that Dunlop, Briggs and Paver were the solicitors he used for the application. The dates seem to match up. But there’s more. I pulled up the deeds on his property. The company he used to build the house in the first place was a company called Avalon Construction. They’re local, too, and work closely with Dunlop, Briggs and Paver, apparently — they recommend their legal services for new builds.’
‘Right, so he used a company based around here to have his house built and extended. So what?’
‘So you’re going to love the next bit. I looked up Avalon Construction’s details at Companies House. One of its directors is a Mr Gary McCann.’
Culverhouse was silent for a couple of seconds. ‘You’re having a fucking laugh,’ he said, eventually.
‘Nope. He owns seven percent of the shares, apparently.’
Culverhouse tried to get his head around what this meant. Callum Woods, a professional footballer who claimed to have no links with the Mildenheath area, and who said he’d never even heard of the place, used both a building company and a firm of solicitors from there, miles away from his home. Not only that, but one of the shareholders of the building company was one of the area’s biggest crooks — something Culverhouse had never been able to prove, though not for want of trying. There was now a link, not only between Callum Woods and Mildenheath — the town in which Tanya Henderson, the woman who’d nearly ruined his career, lived �
�� but an admittedly more tenuous one between Callum Woods and Gary McCann too.
‘That’s nothing we can question him about, though, is it?’ Culverhouse said. ‘I mean, we’re not even out of the realms of coincidence yet. McCann has shares in hundreds of companies, and Avalon Construction are a big name. It’s hardly inconceivable that they’d build Callum Woods’s house. They do projects all over the country, from what I’ve heard.’
‘Yeah, but add that onto Callum Woods’s bad boy image and the fact that Gary McCann’s one of the dodgiest buggers in the country, and what are we looking at?’ Debbie said.
‘That’s the wording you’re going to give to the CPS, is it?’ Culverhouse replied. ‘Yeah, I can see them running with that. Listen, it’s good. It’s a great start. But we need to dig deeper. We need to find out more. But I think we’d be better off doing that tomorrow.’
‘It’s alright. I applied for overtime,’ Debbie said.
Culverhouse opened his mouth to ask her who’d authorised that, but thought better of it. Without a twenty-four hour CID operation at Mildenheath, the occasional granting of overtime during a busy case was all they could hope for.
The only alternative was to hand overnight duties to a team at Milton House, and that wasn’t a possibility he was willing to entertain.
39
The doorbell rang shortly before eight o’clock, and Wendy enjoyed the sound of her heels clip-clopping across the wooden flooring in her hall as she made her way to the door.
She’d left work a little earlier than usual so she could come home and spend quite some time getting ready. With Xav having invited himself over again, she knew things were now at the stage where she’d have to make sure she didn’t cock it up. From her own experience, and from what she’d seen, police officers — and CID ones in particular — had a wonderful ability of not being able to separate their work from their social lives.
Work inevitably got in the way of relationships and caused more harm than good. She’d seen it a hundred times over, and she certainly didn’t want it happening to her. She’d already had her fair share of bad luck. This time, she was going to remain in control.
She smiled as she opened the door to reveal Xav, a little more casually dressed than he had been two nights previous, but still managing to look more than good.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Glass of wine?’
‘I’m driving,’ he replied, stepping inside the door.
‘Ah. Well you can just have one, can’t you? A small one, I mean.’
‘Nah, better not,’ Xav said, raising his hand slightly. ‘Don’t want to risk it. Anyway, I can’t stay long.’
‘Oh.’
There was an awkward pause while the two of them stood in the hallway, staring at each other.
‘You look nice,’ he said, eventually.
‘Thanks.’
‘Off out somewhere?’
Wendy swallowed. ‘Uh, yeah. Just out to meet some friends.’
‘Cool.’
‘Do you want to come in? Sit down for a minute?’
Xav smiled out of the corner of his mouth, then made his way through to the living room. When he got there, he sat down in the armchair, leaving Wendy hovering. Finally, she sat down on the arm of the sofa, cradling her wine glass.
‘So. What’s new? You said you might be able to do something with Tanya Henderson’s laptop.’
Xav looked down at the floor. ‘Listen, Wendy,’ he said, fidgeting in his seat, ‘that’s kind of what I came to talk to you about, yes. But it’s more than that.’
Wendy didn’t like the sound of where this was going.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I just feel... Look, you didn’t call me after the other night. No texts, nothing. Not until this afternoon, when you called up wanting more information from me. That doesn’t make a guy feel good.’
No matter how much she knew he was right, Wendy still couldn’t help feeling defensive. ‘Xav, what do you want me to do? I’m in the middle of a big investigation. And you’re the best damn IT guy we’ve got. Far better than any of the forensic IT people. They’re only interested in ticking boxes and covering their arses. You’re the best. Of course I’m going to come to you.’
‘So, all that stuff the other night. Y’know, when we...’
‘Are you trying to ask me if it meant anything?’ Wendy said. ‘Because yes, of course it did. You don’t think I did it just to... Well...’
‘Use me? Yeah, the thought had crossed my mind.’
Wendy didn’t know what to say. In retrospect she could see exactly where he was coming from. Yes, she should’ve called, but then so should he. Neither of them had called each other, neither of them had texted each other. So why was the onus on her?
‘Hang on a sec,’ she said. ‘You can’t have it both ways, Xav. You asked me to put in a good word at Milton House for you. You wanted me to help you get into forensic IT. But I’m not sitting here accusing you of using me, am I?
Xav made a derisive noise as he shook his head. ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Wendy. I’m just saying that I don’t want all this to be based on a quick fuck whenever you need help with a case. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed the other night, of course I did, but it just makes me feel cheap.’
Standing up, Wendy went over to him, sitting on the arm of his chair. ‘Xav, I’d be coming to you for help regardless, because you’re the best there is. But yes, I find you attractive. And yes, I want to spend more social time with you. And, yes, I’ve been a complete dick and got myself so tied up in this case that I didn’t call or text. I should’ve done. But you know as well as any what we’re like when we get onto a case. It takes over. There’s not a whole lot we can do.’
‘What, and you don’t even have time to send a text? Or make a quick phone call on your way home?’
‘You didn’t text me either, Xav. Anyway, it’s not as easy as that. Sometimes I’m in meetings all day, or out interviewing witnesses. Sometimes I get home at stupid o’clock and just head straight to bed. It’ll be better once this case is over, I promise.’
‘And then what?’ Xav replied, getting heated. ‘Then you move on to the next case. Then the next case. Then the next case. This isn’t something that ends. Not until you retire or leave the job, anyway.’
‘That’s not true,’ she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. ‘Look, let me prove it to you. Tonight’s clearly a bit of a washout now, but how are you fixed for tomorrow night? I’ll book us a nice table somewhere, alright?’
Xav nodded.
Wendy smiled. ‘Alessandro’s, eight o’clock. You have my word.’
40
The rest of the team had finally shuffled off home one-by-one, and Culverhouse eventually found himself doing the same.
When he got back to his place he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Ten to midnight. Then he looked over at the drinks cabinet and the decanter of whisky, glowing golden in the half light. No. Not tonight, he told himself.
Instead he went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, drinking half of it before his mobile phone started ringing on the coffee table, where he’d left it a moment earlier. He walked through and answered it, not recognising the number on the screen.
‘Culverhouse.’
‘Ah, Detective Chief Inspector. Sorry to call so late. It’s Colin Walsh here, from the Mildenheath History Society. You came over to my house earlier, about the Henderson woman.’
‘Yes. Hi. What can I do for you?’ Culverhouse replied, walking back into the kitchen.
‘I’ve been thinking about a couple of things you said. It didn’t quite make sense at the time, but now I think it does. You see, after you left I called Alan Carnegie, who’s our chief historian. He does a lot of local talks and things. Anyway, he mentioned that this Henderson woman had been in touch with him as well. Something to do with a local history group on Facebook. I don’t know, I don’t use it. But he recognised her name immediately when I told h
im about it. Said she’d been asking him questions about Pevensey Park.’
Culverhouse’s heart skipped. ‘What did he say?’
‘Oh, she just wanted to find out about the history, and about the terms of sale when the council sold the land to build the hospital. But that’s the funny thing, isn’t it? It’s the hospital she’s in at the moment. She never really showed an interest in any other areas of local history other than Pevensey Park, apparently. Which is odd considering the fact that it was just a park, really. There wasn’t a whole lot Alan could tell her.’
Culverhouse scrunched his eyes closed and scratched his head. ‘Mr Walsh, is it alright if I call you in the morning? I think there’s more we need to discuss, but it’s late. I need a clear head.’
‘Oh. Right. Yes, of course,’ Colin said.
‘Actually, can you give me a contact number for Alan Carnegie too? I’ll need to give him a ring. Best if I speak with him directly.’
Colin Walsh reeled off a phone number, which Culverhouse wrote down on his kitchen notepad before thanking him and hanging up.
At the end of a long, stressful day, he was struggling to connect the dots and work out the significance of what this all meant, but he had the distinct feeling that they were starting to get somewhere — that this might just provide the loose thread that could unravel the whole mystery.
Thinking briefly of the whisky decanter again, he headed off to bed.
41
The next morning, Culverhouse phoned ahead to Alan Carnegie, agreeing to meet him at a coffee shop in the centre of Mildenheath. He was fine with that, as in his experience people tended to talk more openly and freely on neutral ground. In their own home they were far more guarded and tended to feel as though they were in control of the situation, whereas in a police station they tended to go into lockdown mode and say nothing of very much interest until the law got heavy and they had to either arrest or caution them — something they obviously couldn’t do with witnesses.