Guilty as Sin

by Croft, Adam

  On opening the door to see him stood there with a large bouquet of lilies and a sorrowful look on his face, she crumbled and sobbed heavily into the crook of his shoulder. For Culverhouse, this was an uncomfortable situation in so many ways.

  “I … I don't know what to say.”

  “That doesn't usually stop you,” Wendy remarked, in an attempt to maintain some normality, as though playing up to the character she knew she was. In real life. On any other day. In a world where her baby wasn't dead.

  “How do you feel?”

  “I don't know. I really don't know.”

  “Did they … did they say anything about it?”

  “There's nothing they can say,” Wendy almost whispered as she stared through red, tear-tinted eyes at the glass-panelled back door. “But I know it was a girl.”

  “Oh. Did you …”

  “Have a name for her? I didn't. But I do now.”

  Culverhouse cocked his head to the side in anticipation of the answer.

  “Roberta. My little Bobbi.”

  34

  The latch clicked shut gracefully, Jack allowing his body weight to sink into the door as he exhaled deeply. He wasn't particularly good in these sorts of situations. He knew that. He found it difficult to be the loving, caring shoulder to cry on. Ironically, that made it even harder and more emotionally draining for Jack Culverhouse, a man without emotion.

  Pain and emotion are like drugs. The body becomes immune after a while. When one has felt deep pain and anguish, the threshold rises. Jack's had risen to the point where he wasn't sure he could feel pain any more. His heart told him otherwise. Inside, deep down, it still hurt incredibly. The worst part was not knowing where they were and whether they were alive. He'd dealt with thousands of missing people and runaway wives in the course of his career and he knew they'd be living the high life on a beach resort on the Costa Del Sol, in all probability, but that made it no easier. There was always that deep, dark, lingering thought.

  Tonight was one of those nights where he didn't want to go to sleep. Sleep meant trying to sleep. Trying to sleep meant thinking. Thinking meant hurting. Once inside the kitchen, he pulled the coffee pot from the back of the cupboard and rummaged in the larder for filter papers and coffee. It was rare that his eyes even caught the gaze of most of these shelves. Eggs and bread could go a long way for a single man.

  The kettle boiled and the coffee filtered, Jack sat down in his living room armchair with a copy of Ian Rankin's Knots and Crosses. He liked Rebus. Although the books were nothing like a far cry from what he faced every day at work, it was still escapism. An escape to a world where the bad guys always got caught and the good guys always won. An escape to a world that didn't exist. An escape to pure fantasy.

  35

  The ringing of the office phone went unanswered for four and a half rings before Culverhouse picked up the receiver.

  “What?” he barked.

  “It's Jackie on the front desk, Inspector. Uniform have just picked up someone who you've got a request out for. A Shane Howard. He's been taken in for shoplifting and we were about to let him go until we saw the note on the system.”

  “Right. I'll be straight down.”

  Culverhouse couldn't stop the smile from spreading on his face as he palmed open both of the double-doors to the custody suite and left them akimbo, as if to welcome an old friend.

  “Ah! Shane Howard, we meet again!”

  “Fuck off, Culverhouse.”

  “Now now, Mr Howard. We're in my building now so we'll play by my rules. My friend here says you've been a bit of a naughty boy, so we're going to have to take you down to one of the interview rooms and find out what you know about a few other things we've got bugging us.”

  “I ain't tellin' you nuffin'.”

  “And if you'd bothered to turn up to school today, you'd know that you've just agreed to tell me everything.” Culverhouse kept talking over the top of Shane Howard's noisy protestations. “Jackie, can you call DS Knight down here for me, please? I think she'd like to have a word with Mr Howard as well.”

  The atmosphere was a mix of nervousness and excitement as a still-smiling Culverhouse sat opposite a defiant Shane Howard, both of whom were waiting for the appearance of DS Wendy Knight.

  Moments later, she entered the room and sat down, not making eye contact with Shane Howard or DCI Culverhouse.

  “This interview begins at 11.26. Present are Mr Shane Howard; myself, DCI Jack Culverhouse; and DS Wendy Knight. Now, Mr Howard. You told us the other day that you knew Danielle Levy.”

  Silence.

  “You told us that you admitted having sexual intercourse with her and that you weren't surprised or shocked to find out that she had died.”

  Silence.

  “Do you have anything to say, Howard?”

  Silence.

  “Right. Well I don't see any point in carrying on this interview if you're not going to tell us anything. We'll put you in one of our honeymoon suites until we've decided what to do with you. Interview terminated at 11.27. Thank you, DS Knight. You may return to your duties.” Jack Culverhouse spoke calmly and with a slightly over-egged air of propriety.

  As the door clicked shut behind Wendy, Culverhouse rose to his feet and lifted Shane Howard off his chair by the collar of his polo shirt and pinned him against the wall, his snarling face reddening and projecting spittle at Shane Howard as he blustered just centimetres away from his face.

  “Right, you snivelling little shit. You're going to talk, and you're going to fucking talk good. Your actions the other day not only injured one of my best police officers, but killed an unborn baby. By rights, and in any other civilised country, I'd be shovelling six feet of pig shit on top of your rotting corpse. Unfortunately for me, the only corpses I have are those of a seventeen-year-old girl, a family man and an unborn baby. Now, you are going to tell me every little fucking thing you know about Danielle Levy.”

  “I … I already told you everythin' I know!”

  “Bullshit,” Culverhouse grumbled calmly, before delivering a blow to Shane Howard's stomach. Instinctively, his body began to curl before Culverhouse once again pinned him back against the wall.

  “Let's try again. Tell me everything about Danielle Levy.”

  Culverhouse had the grace to allow Shane Howard a few moments to regain his breath.

  “All right. All right. Like I told you, I just shagged her a few times. It were nothing special, like. Just the usual, you know.”

  “So who killed her?”

  “How the fuck should I know?”

  Culverhouse's face grew redder, his teeth beginning to bare.

  “All right! I swear, I don't know! She weren't the kind of girl to have enemies, so I really don't know. I mean, there was girls at school what didn't like her as much as others, but nothing special, y'know? No-one who'd want to kill her, like.”

  “Does the name Gary McCann mean anything to you?”

  “McCann? Yeah, course it does. Why?”

  “Tell me what you know about McCann.”

  “Not much.”

  Another blow to the stomach.

  “Jesus fucking Christ! I told you, I don't fucking know him! Everyone knows who he is and that, but I don't know him personal, like. He's got a place on Meadow Hill Lane. Runs a few businesses. Nasty piece of work, apparently.”

  “Did he know Danielle Levy?”

  “I dunno, I doubt it. She might have worked in one of his pubs or something. I swear, I really didn't know her all that well.”

  “You're not the only one. The more I find out about Danielle Levy, the less I know.”

  36

  It had been a matter of hours, really, since Wendy had lost her baby, yet she found herself sat in the waiting room at the counsellor's office once again. The counsellor she told herself she didn't need. The counsellor who spoke nothing but the truth. The counsellor who could now give her hope in her hour of need.

  The room felt colder than bef
ore in so many ways. The whole world seemed cold now. Cold and empty, like her womb. She wasn't sure what she wanted and she wasn't sure what she was going to say, but she knew she needed to be here, needed to speak to someone who might understand. No-one would really understand, but Linda Street could try. Maybe condescension was what she needed.

  Linda Street's office no longer looked warm and welcoming. The soft fluffy toys were as cold as ice, and the cosy plump chairs were as hard as steel. For a fleeting moment, she wondered whether anything would ever feel the same again.

  Linda's voice was soothing and understanding. More so than normal.

  “Wendy, what you've been through is extremely traumatic. The brain is a wonderful tool and it can cope admirably with many situations. The problem is, it's almost impossible to tell when it isn't coping until it's too late.”

  “So you're trying to tell me I'm about to go mental?”

  “I'm trying to tell you the brain is as fragile as it is wonderful. I don't know anyone who has had to go through the trauma you have in such a short space of time. Talking through these incidents will help your brain to deal with them and heal itself more quickly.”

  “My brain isn't broken.”

  “There's no telling what hidden damage has been done, Wendy. What do you have to lose?”

  What do I have to lose? Fuck all. I've already lost it all.

  Linda Street nodded and smiled at Wendy's silent acceptance.

  “What do you feel, Wendy?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You must feel something. Do you remember the last time you came to see me? All those words you gave me to describe your mixed emotions?”

  “Yes. And now I feel nothing.”

  “Hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Dirty?”

  “No.”

  “Angry?”

  “No.”

  Her experience taving off exasperation, Linda Street paused for a moment.

  “Empty?”

  Wendy matched her pause.

  “No.”

  She knew this was a double-edged sword. Physically, of course, she was empty. Barely hours before she had been carrying her unborn child, her hopes, her future. Now she was carrying nothing but grief.

  “Wendy, I really do think it would be beneficial for you to take some time off work.”

  “I told you before, I don't do time off work. I don't do moping, I don't do daytime TV and I don't do rest. Work takes my mind off things just fine, thank you.”

  “Do you not think work is a little too close to what has happened?”

  “I'm sorry, but my job is a little different to yours. You might be happy sat in your little office with your stuffed toys, being all perceptive by telling people that they're upset because bad things have happened to them, but my job isn't quite like that. I catch killers, Dr Street. Do you not understand that?”

  “I understand perfectly, Wendy, but I just think that...”

  “Oh, you think fuck all! You don't need to think! I wish I had that luxury, but unfortunately I don't.”

  “Wendy, I just...”

  “Save it, doctor. The session's over.”

  37

  DCI Culverhouse was incredulous at the slow progress of the investigation. Two bodies, one possible link to a cold case and two potential suspects. The only problem was, Gary McCann had, at best, a very weak motive for wanting Danielle Levy dead and Shane Howard had no reason to want to kill Bob Arthurs. He was sure, absolutely convinced that the two must be connected. The same MO, the same hallmarks. In Culverhouse's experience, it was extremely unlikely that the two murders could have been committed by two different people. Even if they had worked in tandem, or with some sort of connection, the likelihood of that happening was fast approaching zero.

  As he lay back on his settee and closed his eyes, he tried to clear his mind of all extraneous noise and find some sort of purchase on his thoughts.

  No fingerprints, no DNA evidence, and nothing to tell the families of the two victims. As much as Culverhouse cared little for the human race in general, he hated – absolutely loathed – not being able to give families closure and explain who had killed their loved ones and why. He knew how it felt to need answers.

  *

  She turned and looked back at the child in the back seat of the car. Her hands splayed on the window, her white breath swelling and shrinking on the cold glass as she mouthed, Mummy.

  This was it. This was the place she'd been told. She meandered up the short driveway, skirting the edge of the lawn and careful to avoid crunching the gravel underfoot with her heels. When she had reached the front door, she stepped lightly onto the terracotta tiles and listened carefully, her ear pressed against the door. The only sound, and one which made her heart momentarily jump, was the sound of a solitary bang on the car window. She raised her index finger to her lips in order to silence the child.

  There was no other sound. She tip-toed around to the front of the bay window and glanced furtively around the edge of the curtain. She had to position herself more perpendicularly than she would have liked, but she had to see for herself. The concrete felt cold through her shoes, hardening with every moment.

  As she peered in through the bay window, she could see him there, hands lain across his chest, which heaved with every breath. Good, his eyes were closed. She could take a few moments longer. She crouched down and watched. Just watched. It was definitely Jack. And he had aged.

  38

  It was becoming all too common an occurrence for DS Knight and DCI Culverhouse to be visiting 101 Heathcote Road. The home of Danielle Levy had never quite had the same warm, welcoming feel since her disappearance and subsequent death. The pair were grateful for the opportunity, however, to speak to Miriam Levy alone in the absence of her partner.

  “Mrs Levy, we appreciate how hard this must be for you. We believe we may have some clues which may lead us to Danielle's killer. We just need to ask you a few questions, is that all right?” Wendy was respected throughout the force for her ability to speak calmly and with respect to bereaved families. It was never easy, but she had always been a natural at it. “Do you know of a man called Gary McCann?”

  “Umm … no, I don't think so.”

  “Do you know if your daughter might have known him?”

  “I don't know. Danielle was very open with us, but she didn't tell us about everyone she knew.”

  It struck Wendy that Miriam Levy was a woman of few words, a woman whose natural beauty and youthful looks had given her more than words ever could.

  “Do you know if she had an address book or anywhere she might have kept a list of people she knew? Contacts, I mean.”

  “Maybe her mobile phone. That's all I can think of.”

  “Ah. Well we've not been able to retrieve that yet. Is there anywhere else? Did she back up her phone anywhere?”

  “I don't think so.”

  The closing of the front door startled the three of them at once as Darren Parker entered the living room.

  “Hello again. Can I help?”

  “Ah, Mr Parker. We were just speaking to your wife about a possible lead we have in finding Danielle's killer. Do you know a Gary McCann at all?”

  “Gary McCann? Well, yes, of course.”

  Wendy and Culverhouse glanced at each other, then back at Darren Parker.

  “How?”

  “He owns the Spitfire pub. He's got a few in the town as well.”

  “And what relevance does this have to Danielle?”

  Darren Parker looked at Miriam before continuing.

  “Well, she had a part-time job there. Glass collecting, mainly, and a bit of bar work as well. I mean, she wasn't far off eighteen and it doesn't really matter too much out of the town centre, does it?”

  “When was this, Mr Parker?”

  “Few weeks ago now. There was a disagreement and Danielle stopped working there.”

  “What kind of disagreement?”

  “Well, it
's all a bit complicated, really.” Darren Parker sat down in the armchair by the large bay window. “There'd been some money going missing from the till. Danielle and a couple of the other girls were on cash-in-hand, you know, and used to get a few tips and things from some of the old men but Gary McCann was sure someone was nicking from him. Reckons stuff was going missing from the safe at one point, too. For some reason he thought it was Danielle and that was that.”

  “He sacked her?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. Said he didn't want her in there again.”

  “And how did Danielle react to that?”

  “Well, she was livid. She knew she wouldn't do anything like that in a million years.”

  “Did she say that she was going to take any action?”

  “Well, no. Not in so many words.”

  “Not in so many words? Why? What did she say, Mr Parker?”

  “Nothing. Not really. Just one of those heat of the moment things, you know.”

  “What did she say?” Culverhouse repeated, this time more forcefully than Wendy had.

  “She said she was going to make sure he lived to regret it.”

  39

  Outside the interview room, the tension was rising.

  “We've only got a couple of hours, then we've got to charge him or let him go.”

  “I'm perfectly aware of how the policing process works, thank you, Detective Sergeant Knight. Now, if you'll stop wasting my fucking time we can use some of those precious moments to interview the cocky, shit-headed—” Wendy opened the door to the interview suite. “—lovely, adorable Gary McCann.”

  McCann looked up at him, unsure of quite how to react.

  “Just one of my ways of calming down before an interview, Mr McCann. A bit like the old trick of imagining the other person naked, but I use this one for the fatties.”