The Chosen Ones

by Howard Linskey

  ‘The police wouldn’t believe me and kept going on about my political ideology, as if that somehow made me a potential killer,’ he said. ‘The whole thing has been a scandal and a complete waste of my time and theirs. Why aren’t they out there looking for the real culprit? Unlike the police, I am concerned he might strike again. That’s why I am making this claim. It’s not about the money.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  ‘Why aren’t they out there looking for the real culprit?’ DCI Kane read the accusing words from their former suspect to his slightly hungover DS. ‘Well, Bradshaw, why aren’t you out there looking for the real culprit?’

  ‘To be honest, sir, it hadn’t crossed my mind,’ he said dryly.

  ‘We’ll be sure to thank Mr Hamilton for his expert advice when this case is over,’ and he rolled up the newspaper and dropped it into the bin.

  ‘It won’t actually go anywhere, will it?’

  ‘Years ago, we’d have told him to piss off, but I had a meeting with the top brass and a lawyer, and they’re talking about offering him thirty grand to drop the case, as long as he signs a gagging order.’

  ‘They can’t be serious?’ Bradshaw could tell by Kane’s face that they were.

  ‘I’d gag him all right,’ mumbled Kane, ‘then beat him with a bit of lead piping. Let’s hope they eventually come to their senses but, frankly, your approach didn’t help.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Smashing down his door and bursting in like that with guns.’

  ‘Hang on. You told Malone we had to be careful and not take any risks. What if it had been the right man? Nobody would have minded then.’

  ‘They wouldn’t,’ admitted Kane. ‘But he wasn’t, so they do.’

  ‘I can’t bloody win.’

  ‘Of course you can’t, Bradshaw,’ said Kane. ‘You’re a police officer. We never win, you should know that by now. We have shit dropped on us from above and in the newspapers no matter what we do, but there’s no point sulking about it. You’ve got to get on with it. Just don’t kick any more doors in or haul suspects out at gunpoint, you hear? Not unless we have a bloody good reason to suspect there is someone armed standing behind that door. Softly, softly from now on, lad.’ Then he noticed the slight look of apprehension on Bradshaw’s face. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  Bradshaw had slept on it, but the problem hadn’t gone away, which is why he had come to see Kane. The one man who could recall the questioning of the stoned girl was now not just top brass, he was the deputy chief constable, a man with a savage reputation for utter ruthlessness towards anyone foolish enough to cross him, by accident or by design. Worse than that, the man was a hair’s breadth from the top job, which meant he would soon be all-powerful and very unlikely to permit anyone to dredge up a potentially embarrassing episode from his past. But Bradshaw had no choice if he wanted to find the truth. Edward Tyler was the witness he needed to question. However, to even speak to the deputy chief constable about this case would be putting his own career on the line, a fact that was swiftly confirmed by Kane when he broke the news to his DCI.

  ‘You are kidding me,’ said Kane. ‘Of all the people.’ He shook his head for emphasis. ‘Of all the bloody people. It couldn’t just be a long-retired DS or someone even halfway up the food chain, it had to be the right hand of God Almighty Himself, didn’t it? Bloody hell, what are you going to do?’

  Bradshaw was taken aback by the question. ‘Well, that’s why I came to see you, sir.’

  ‘It’s your decision, Bradshaw. It’s your case, and you must choose the direction you take it.’

  This was news to Ian Bradshaw. In the past he had been given the distinct impression that, when it came to awkward moments in difficult cases, he didn’t have the authority to sneeze unless he asked permission from an adult first. Now it appeared he was suddenly on his own, and all because he had mentioned the chief constable-elect. In the second or two before he answered his senior officer, Bradshaw had worked out the politics involved. Both men knew that it was an obvious move to question or at least informally speak with Edward Tyler. In some instances, this might have been a relatively easy thing to arrange and would probably be well worth it. Even if it ruled out a link between the cases it would free them up to concentrate on other leads. That would have been fine if Tyler had been a different kind of man, instead of the rapaciously political figure he actually was. Kane did not want to tell Bradshaw to drop it, in case it later turned out that the deputy chief constable’s information proved vital and the DCI could be accused of hampering his detective sergeant’s investigation. However, neither did he want to be seen as the driving force behind a decision to question such a senior figure in case the man took offence and then a personal interest in sabotaging both their careers further down the line. He wanted Bradshaw’s intervention to look as if it was entirely his own idea.

  ‘Well, sir, I do think that, despite the political implications, it would be useful to interview the deputy chief constable about the events of that day.’

  There was a short pause while his DCI surveyed him with an emotionless stare, giving nothing away.

  ‘Right then, lad,’ he said eventually. ‘You’d better set that up.’

  ‘Er … how would I go about doing that, sir?’ He had assumed his DCI might have been the best person to approach the senior man.

  ‘Put a request in to his office ‒ politely, of course ‒ and make sure it’s in writing,’ said Kane. ‘That way, it can’t just be ignored.’ Bradshaw guessed that what he really wanted was a paper trail that had someone else’s name on it. ‘Then, if you’re lucky, they’ll get back to you with a slot in his diary.’

  ‘How do you want me to handle this?’

  ‘With kid gloves, obviously. There has to be a very careful balancing act between finding out the truth and not scuppering your own future in the process. You’ll be out on a limb.’

  Bradshaw was beginning to feel entirely isolated already, and he didn’t like it. ‘I would appreciate it, sir, if you would back me.’

  ‘It doesn’t make any difference whether I back you or not.’

  ‘Of course it does,’ said Bradshaw, then he added the word: ‘sir.’

  ‘You clearly don’t understand, so let me spell it out for you. The deputy chief constable is a fucking great killer whale who could rip me apart as a snack.’ Kane let Bradshaw digest that. ‘If you upset him for no good reason, if you, God forbid, derail his career in any way, we won’t have to imagine the worst thing he can do to us because it will happen; that, I promise you.’

  ‘But how is that allowed to occur?’ protested Bradshaw. ‘If I ask him a few legitimate questions and he gets upset about them, how is he allowed to demote me or ship me out somewhere terrible as a punishment for trying to find out the truth? There are rules, aren’t there, that even he has to follow?’

  Kane sighed at his naivety. ‘Of course there are rules, Bradshaw, which is why, when it happens, no one will be able to point a finger and prove he was behind it or why. It’ll be something else that gets you busted to DC or put back in uniform ‒ an expenses form you filled out carelessly; a complaint from a member of the public that wouldn’t normally be upheld; medical grounds, from those counselling session you’ve had.’ He shrugged. ‘It could be anything, and I’m telling you, you’ll end up in Siberia if he wants you to.’ He took a deep breath and checked to see if Bradshaw was taking him seriously. ‘So I suppose the question is, what are you prepared to do in order to get this information you need and just how far do you really want to push it?’

  Bradshaw contemplated this for a time then said, ‘Is he really as bad as they say?’

  ‘Oh no’ ‒ Kane was dismissive ‒ ‘he’s way worse. His nickname used to be the Rottweiler, and not just because it rhymed with Tyler.’

  ‘Used to be?’

  ‘Then someone pointed out that a pit bull would be a more accurate comparison. You see, they’re every bit as vicious,’ Kane reminde
d him, ‘and they never let go.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  1977

  They were married days after her eighteenth birthday and it was a matter of weeks before Ingrid became pregnant. God’s will, he had to assume. Maybe it was for the best. It would settle her down, he thought at the time. When she announced she was going to have a baby he went out and bought her a silver chain with a cross. He placed it around her neck and told her, ‘This is to remind you that God will always be with you. He sees everything and knows all.’ He said he hoped the necklace would enable her to remember that, whenever she grew restless. He himself hoped that the responsibility of a child would help to banish the old Ingrid, but it didn’t, at least not entirely. She loved the child, or so it seemed to him, but she quickly grew bored being at home all day and kept wanting to go out, which she couldn’t do on her own. He wouldn’t permit it. He needed to keep her and the child safe; away from other people who might try and influence her. He made sure she had no money. Every few weeks he would take her somewhere, but it was never enough and he grew angry with her. Why did she want other things when she had a home, a husband, a child? What possible reason could she have to miss the old days, the unsuitable friends?

  Sometimes he would return home to find her crying, and he couldn’t understand why she wasn’t happier or more grateful that he had saved her from her former life, from herself in fact, because he knew she had it in her to be wicked.

  That was why he chose the new life for them both. When he left the air force he brought her back to England with him to start again. He knew just the place.

  But Ingrid got worse. Her English was good enough for her to make friends and fit in, but he didn’t want her to. He needed them to live away from other people. How could you form attachments to anyone when you knew they were all going to die soon? He tried to explain it to Ingrid but she became more argumentative and troublesome. He knew she was going to leave him then, one day. It was inevitable. It was only a question of what he would say to the child when she was gone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  There were pieces of paper and bits of white card all over Tom’s kitchen table, along with pens and pencils. He looked like a particularly disorganized kid trying to complete his school homework, an image that was heightened by the half-drunk mug of cold tea he was using as a paperweight. Helen had let Bradshaw in but Tom continued with the task that was occupying him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked the detective.

  ‘The woman who jumped from the car in the underpass,’ Tom recalled, ‘had the presence of mind, despite being quite badly hurt, to remember the reg number as it drove away at speed.’

  ‘That’s what she said, but she did forget it, evidently,’ said Bradshaw, ‘because we traced the car and the owner and we know from the CCTV footage that he wasn’t in the underpass when she fell from that vehicle, and neither was his car. It wasn’t even the right colour.’

  ‘And there’s no way to have two cars with the exact same registration plate.’ It was not a question, more a statement of fact.

  ‘It’s not impossible,’ conceded Bradshaw in a tone which said he didn’t buy it, ‘but it’s highly unlikely. Criminals usually steal plates rather than try and fake them, and his plates definitely weren’t stolen, since they were still on his car.’

  ‘So, she forgot the number she saw, which could easily happen if you’ve had a bit to drink or suffer a bang to the head after falling from a speeding car?’

  ‘That’s looking like the official line on this one.’

  ‘Or she was mistaken,’ said Tom, and he let that thought hang without explaining himself further.

  ‘What’s going through that devious mind of yours?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, ‘but do you think we could have a look down there?’

  ‘In the underpass? I’ve already been,’ explained Bradshaw. ‘With the Uniform who found her.’

  ‘Can you meet me there tonight at the exact same time the incident took place, do you think?’

  ‘Well, I was going to stay in and wash my hair,’ said Bradshaw, ‘but okay.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  1977

  Wives, submit to your husbands as to the Lord.

  ‒ Ephesians 5:22

  ‘Why do you make me do it?’ he asked her, not for the first time. ‘Why do you always make me do it?’

  Ingrid was lying on the floor like a dog, one hand pressed hard against the bruise that was already forming on the side of her face, a red welt that marked her punishment. She wasn’t sobbing this time, though. Perhaps she knew it would make no difference. Samuel was resolute and would never let weeping prevent him from chastising her or correcting her behaviour.

  ‘Why don’t you ever learn?’ he asked her. ‘Why are you so incredibly stupid? Don’t you realize where you would be without me? Don’t you understand that you are’ ‒ he searched for the right word then found it ‒ ‘nothing?’

  She moved her hand. There was blood on her cheek now, and a large red mark. It looked bad. He didn’t recall hitting her hard enough to cause that, though. It must have happened when she fell to the floor, so it couldn’t have been his fault.

  None of this would have happened if she just listened to him and did as she was told. Had he not already told her the words of the apostle Paul, who said about wives, ‘And if they will learn anything, let them ask their husbands at home.’ He taught her this passage because she told him he had no right to keep her prisoner.

  Prisoner? What a ridiculous notion. He would perhaps let her go out one day, if she could be trusted, but Ingrid was very far from that point. It seemed as if she had learned nothing since they had come here. He was trying to leave a crazy and doomed world behind them.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded again. ‘Why don’t you ever learn?’

  She moved then, but slowly, and winced in pain, holding her arm tight in to her ribs, where he had first struck her when she questioned him. The memory of it came back to him and his anger increased. I do not permit a woman to have authority over man, she must be silent. That was St Paul, too, but Ingrid wanted to defy the words of a saint. Who did she think she was?

  ‘Answer me,’ he told her. ‘Why are you so stupid?’

  She climbed unsteadily to her feet then and glared back at him, but she no longer looked like the cowed woman he had seen following previous corrections. When she spoke, she almost spat the words and there was defiance in her. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m crazy … or maybe it’s you!’

  Their eyes locked and she looked as if she wanted to kill him. He could see the hatred there. He was about to hit her again but thought better of it when he noticed the look in her eyes. Samuel would have to sleep at some point and he no longer trusted her. He focused his attention on the cross that hung around her neck and wondered why she could not be inspired by it to obey him, as God intended.

  The silence between them was broken by a piercing wail.

  He challenged her with his eyes but she didn’t move.

  ‘The child is crying,’ he said in disbelief. She wasn’t even fit to be a mother.

  She bared her teeth at him, exposing bleeding gums, and it made him recoil from her.

  Finally, she went to the child.

  When she was gone he considered the problem of Ingrid. Their Bible study wasn’t making her better. If anything, she was getting worse. What was he supposed to do with her? She hadn’t learned: Ingrid was not modifying her behaviour, nor was she an obedient wife. He wondered now what he had seen in her. Was there really something special hidden inside the skinny girl he had met outside the NAAFI, something which spoke to him of redemption, hers and his? Had he been blinded by the desire to save her and deliver her from evil or was there a darker reason? Had Ingrid tempted him, using the promise of the sins of the flesh to lead him away from the path to true righteousness? Had she seduced him with those same eyes that were now so full of hatred for him? Had he in fact been bewitched?
/>
  Another Bible verse popped into his head: Do not allow a sorceress to live.

  Immediately he banished the thought from his mind, the sound of their crying child racking him with guilt. Perhaps if she just left and went away somewhere? Surely that would be for the best.

  As long as she left him the child. The future depended on the child.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  When DS Bradshaw drove into the underpass, Tom was already waiting for him on the pavement by the side of the road. There were no other vehicles there. The unlicensed cabdrivers had heard about the recent police operation and been frightened off.

  Bradshaw parked and got out of his car and Tom asked to see the exact spot where the woman had fallen. Bradshaw showed him, and the journalist glanced down at the pavement then looked towards the exit, which was some way off.

  ‘She must have good eyes,’ said Tom, ‘to see a reg plate from this distance.’

  ‘She does, apparently.’

  ‘But this place is gloomier than a Goth’s wardrobe.’

  Bradshaw saw that he had a point. There was some lighting in the underpass, but it had been neglected. One or two of the lamps had no bulbs and the ones that still worked shone without giving much illumination. Their plastic covers were filthy and the dirt masked the light. ‘You don’t believe she could have seen it?’

  ‘I believe she could have,’ said Tom, ‘just that it might have been difficult with a moving car and the impact from her fall.’

  ‘She was adamant.’ Bradshaw reminded him. ‘But it seems she was wrong.’

  ‘What are your eyes like?’

  ‘Do you see me wearing bifocals? I’ve got perfect eyesight.’ Bradshaw realized he sounded a little defensive, possibly because the last resort of a desperate lawyer in a courtroom was often to question what the arresting officer had actually seen and whether he might have been mistaken.