by Adam Creed
‘We leave it for somebody else to do, then we punish the wrong person.’
‘We collect evidence and build the best case for the Crown. This is a civilised country. We don’t always get the guilty man, but when we don’t it’s so we don’t fill our jails with the innocent.’
‘If he wasn’t messing with her kids, why’d she do it?’
‘Who says she did?’
‘If she didn’t, who did?’
‘That’s what we’re going to find out.’
The door from reception clatters open and Staffe recognises who it is straight away – slightly fatter than last time they met and a little looser in the jowl.
Stanley Buchanan and Staffe started their careers on opposite sides of the same coin and at the same time. Buchanan looks jaded and gives a tut-tut shake of the head. Maybe it’s dealing more with the guilty than the innocent all your life and trying to treat the two the same that drives poor Stanley to drink. Time was, Staffe and Stanley had that in common, too.
‘The complaints are on file already, DI Wagstaffe, but I may as well tell you what I’ve told DCI Pennington.’ He sits down next to Leanne Colquhoun and taps her twice on the shoulder. ‘We’ll have you out of here in two shakes of a lambkin’s tail. Don’t you worry, Leanne.’ Staffe thinks this must be a good day for Stanley, maybe just the couple of large ones down the Old Doctor Butler’s Head. ‘This is a bereaved woman, a woman of impeccable standing without so much as a caution to her name. What possessed you to allow a young sergeant to press-gang this poor woman without a female officer or a counsellor in sight?’
‘Very good, Stanley,’ says Staffe.
‘You can call me Mr Buchanan.’
‘I didn’t force my way in,’ says Pulford.
‘That’s enough, Sergeant,’ says Staffe.
‘She fled the murder scene. She could have been trying to …’
‘I said enough!’
Staffe turns to Leanne. ‘Why didn’t you call the police?’
She stares straight past him, says, ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’
‘You could tell us why you lied about being in the bookies all afternoon,’ says Pulford.
She looks up at Pulford, gives him a patronising smile. ‘I want to see my kids.’
Buchanan says, ‘There are three witnesses who say my client was only out of her place of work for ten minutes.’
‘You can see the children soon, Leanne,’ says Staffe. ‘They’re in the Phoenix Suite with the caseworker.’
Staffe pulls up a chair so he’s sitting within a couple of feet of her. He waits for her to look at him and shoots Pulford a look to keep quiet.
Eventually, Leanne does look up at Staffe and he smiles with his eyes. He thinks he can see a softening in the hard creases of her face and he tunes into his softest voice, puts his forearm on the desk and leans ever so slightly forward. She looks away, then straight back at him when he says, ‘I’d like you to tell me about when they took your children away. Is it the way it looks on the file? I just want to see it the way you see it. That’s all. Then you can go.’
‘Home?’
‘We’ll see.’ He shoots the look at Pulford again. This is his case and he’s not settling for the obvious.
‘You don’t have to answer that, Leanne. It’s irrelevant,’ says Buchanan.
She looks back at Staffe, makes the slightest of smiles, like faint parentheses at the corners of her mouth. ‘He’s got a history, Karl. Least that’s what they say.’ Leanne talks about Karl Colquhoun as if he’s still around, not lying blue-grey on a slab nearby with his belly and chest butterflied for autopsy.
Staffe listens as much to how she’s talking as to what she says. ‘And they said he was …?’
Leanne Colquhoun nods. Staffe can see she’s fighting back the tears. Is it pride? Is it because if she cries, it’s an acceptance he is dead?
‘Do you believe them? Do you think he did that to his other children?’
‘I’ll swear on my life he never touched a hair on my kids’ heads.’
‘And would you swear on his life too?’
She looks at Staffe, says, ‘I love him. I love him so much.’ And the face goes soft. ‘Where does a woman like me find love in this world?’ The creases in her forehead go smooth and she smiles. Her eyes are glassy and the tears come. And come.
The Phoenix Suite, a newly built specialist unit for holding victims of sexual offences, is just five minutes down the road from Leadengate Station and as Staffe approaches it, the Barbican shimmers in the summer heat.
He is immediately shown into a brightly decorated room with windows overlooking a jungle-style garden. Children’s paintings adorn the walls and classical music is in the ether. From a Wendy house in the corner, a young woman in her early twenties appears on all fours.
‘Hi, Will,’ she says, standing up, dusting down her skirt.
‘Hi, Carly.’
In the windows of the Wendy house, the faces of two children become suddenly miserable.
Carly Kellerman nods behind her and says, ‘This is Calvin and Lee-Angelique.’ Carly smiles brightly. Her hair is a bounty of rolling, golden curls.
‘Hello,’ says Staffe, crouching and overly cheery.
One look at Staffe is enough to tell them that their fun is dead.
Carly sits down at a low table and invites Staffe to take a child’s seat. She beckons the children and turns off the smile, nods earnestly as Staffe begins to ask his questions, encouraging the children to answer.
Calvin is the younger, at six, but he does all the talking. Lee-Angelique is eight and simply stares at Staffe, her mouth turned down towards the floor.
‘When was the last time you saw your mum?’
‘Sunday. We see her every Sunday and she took us to Margate. It’s the best place.’
‘And what about Karl? Do you ever see him?’
At this, Lee-Angelique gets up from the table and goes back into the Wendy house.
‘We never see him. Mum talks about him.’
Staffe looks at Calvin’s hands, scrunched up into pudgy little fists.
‘He can’t come near us,’ says Lee-Angelique from inside the Wendy house. ‘That’s what she said.’
‘Shush, Lee-Ange,’ says Calvin.
‘But he came to the seaside.’
Calvin gets up and Carly tries to comfort him, saying, ‘He didn’t. You’ve got it wrong, Lee love.’
‘And he touched me. He did.’
Calvin shrugs Carly off, goes to join his sister in the Wendy house. He pulls the door closed behind him.
‘He can’t have,’ whispers Carly. ‘They check. They can tell, you know,’ and she looks down into her own lap, shakes her head slowly.
Calvin calls out from inside the Wendy house. ‘Is Karl gone?’
‘He’s gone away,’ says Staffe. ‘He won’t be coming back.’
Calvin lets a smile appear, showing the gaps between his teeth. Lee-Angelique is standing behind him, looking as though it will take much, much more to bring a smile to her face.
‘Take these down to secretarial and tell them it’s important,’ says Staffe, handing Pulford a tape of the interview with Leanne Colquhoun and his notes from the meeting with Carly Kellerman and the Colquhoun children. ‘I’m going to have another word with Leanne Colquhoun.’ He picks up his jacket from the back of the chair. It’s suede and too young for him, he thinks. It was Sylvie’s choice and, if truth be known, it probably wasn’t just the jacket that was too young for him.
In the corridor, Staffe catches sight of Josie, walking away. He walks double-quick to catch up with her but there’s no need. She stands by the coffee machine. As he approaches, she presses a button but nothing happens.
‘It’s out of order.’
‘What exactly is out of order, sir?’
‘I was wondering if maybe …’ He reaches his hand out, presses the flat of his palm on the wall that she is leaning against.
‘What?’ Sh
e smiles. ‘You know, I’ve heard you used to be a bit of a ladies’ man, sir.’
‘And I heard you should believe half of what you see …’
‘… and nothing of what you hear,’ she says, laughing. ‘My dad used to say that. Maybe he’s right.’
Staffe pushes himself up and away from the wall, runs a hand through his hair and takes a step back, tugs at his jacket. He’s seen Pennington coming down the corridor and takes another step back.
‘Wagstaffe, Chancellor,’ says Pennington, the merest break in his stride.
‘Sir,’ says Josie.
‘Your office, Wagstaffe. This Colquhoun debacle, a quick word, if you will.’
‘Debacle, sir?’ says Staffe, following the DCI into his office.
‘Chancellor!’ booms Pennington from the doorway to Wagstaffe’s office, ‘get Pulford and tell the clever dick to bring his university educated backside down here tout suite.’
Pennington takes the seat behind Staffe’s desk. Turning the tables is his style. Before he got the move upstairs, Pennington was one of the canniest coppers Staffe had come across. He must have been, to always be one step ahead of Jessop. Pennington picks up a pen and taps a 10 x 8 photograph that he has placed on the desk in front of him, spins it around so Staffe can see it.
In black and white, the carnage of Karl Colqhoun’s butchered body looks even more grotesque. Staffe leans forward, then stands back. He squints, to get the detail without getting too close – as if it might be contagious. When it was taken, only one of the testicles has been placed into an eye socket. By the side of the bed, someone is leaning over his body, twisting to look into camera. They are wearing a peaked hood with eyes and a mouth cut out – a hurried imitation of the KKK or a religious penitent. Their eyes are heavily made up with kohl and the mouth, smiling manically, is daubed with dark lipstick. Long blonde hair flows from the bottom of the hood. The figure is wearing white gloves, spattered with blood.
‘Is that Leanne Colquhoun?’ says Staffe.
‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this,’ says Pennington. ‘The last thing we want is publicity. You know what the commissioner is like. Sort this out fast, Staffe.’ He leans forward, hands Staffe a piece of paper. It’s a photocopy of a note that has been pasted together from a newspaper – the News – judging by the typeface.
SEE JUSTICE DONE.
‘What I don’t get’, says Pennington, ‘is Karl Colquhoun has never even done time. There was that allegation three years ago, but nothing came of it. It’s not a matter of public record, just a dead file down at the CPS. So if she didn’t want him dead, who would? And want him dead the way he went. These are sadistic bastards. The question is, Staffe …?’
This was a Pennington ploy.
‘The question is, sir …’ Staffe is trying to not only deduce the profile of the likely murderer, but do it within the template of Pennington’s own processes. ‘The question is … Who would have suffered so much at the hands of Karl Colquhoun to feel the need … Feel compelled to replicate that suffering. Like a mirror, to hold it up to him.’
‘I’m getting wind that you don’t fancy the wife for this one, Staffe. And she’s the only one that answers your question so far.’
‘There’s Debra Bowker, Karl Colquhoun’s ex-wife. She’s in Tenerife and according to Social Services she took her kids with her, away from Colquhoun.’
‘How old are they?’
‘They’ll be ten and twelve now. And I’m trying to get hold of Leanne Colquhoun’s ex, to see if he might have a motive.’
‘Tick tock, Staffe. Tick tock.’
There’s a knock at the door and before either Staffe or his boss can respond, Pulford strides in. He stands proud, legs apart, arms crossed. Anybody would guess he had come for a commendation. His expression changes the moment Pennington begins to speak, his voice scarily quiet.
‘What makes you so special, DS Pulford, as to be able to swan roughshod over the simple rules that the rest of us mortals have to follow …’
‘I fully support what DS Pulford did, sir,’ says Staffe. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Pulford’s head hang, like a scorned schoolboy. ‘Given the urgency of this case, sir …’
‘Don’t be clever with me, Staffe. I want good evidence that we can present to a court of law. Good evidence and admissible statements, Staffe.’ Pennington gets up, puts Staffe’s pen into his inside pocket and adjusts his tie.
He closes the door behind him, softly, and Pulford says, ‘Thanks, sir.’
‘Shut up, Pulford. Just bloody shut up.’
Stanley Buchanan smells of mint which is unable to mask all the drink. Leanne Colquhoun’s eyes are red and it is clear that the truth is beginning to set in.
‘I understand you took Calvin and Lee-Angelique to Margate last weekend,’ says Staffe.
‘It was nice weather. So what?’
‘You took them there with your ex, did you? Calvin and Lee-Angelique’s dad?’
‘You got to be jokin’. He’s a waste of space.’
‘He never went? Must have been hard work for you on your own.’
‘Not as much as if he’d gone fightin’ or on the piss or trying to screw some slag.’
‘He’s got a temper, has he? Holds a grudge?’
‘I’m better off without him, is all.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Rob. Rob Boxall.’
‘But Karl was more of a help was he?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘No one would know, would they? Easy enough to slip away to the seaside.’
‘You’re out of order, DI Wagstaffe,’ says Buchanan.
‘Why would Lee-Angelique lie? She said Karl went with you.’
‘You said I could see them.’
‘I just need a few more questions answering.’
‘DI Wagstaffe,’ says Buchanan. ‘That sounds like an inducement.’
But Staffe’s watching Leanne. Her spirit is breaking and she murmurs into her lap, ‘He’s not like what they said. He’s not.’
‘Where can I find your ex – Rob?’
‘Dalston, if he’s not banged up. Try the Rag.’
‘The Ragamuffin pub?’
She nods, sniffing the tears away. Staffe goes across to the desk, puts his finger on the ‘stop’ button of the tape machine. ‘Last question, Leanne. Where did you stay in Margate?’
‘The Old Dickens.’
‘Sounds nice.’
‘It’s a shithole.’ She looks up at Staffe, pleading. ‘He didn’t do nothing, my Karl. He never done nothing to my babies. It’s all lies.’ Leanne wrings her hands in her lap.
Staffe presses ‘stop’ and feels like a complete bastard. Even Stanley Buchanan gives him a look as if to say ‘How low can you get?’
Leadengate incident room is practically empty, just a couple of uniformed officers sharing a joke by the water cooler and DI Rick Johnson at a desk, surrounded by paper, head in his hands. All the other uniformed officers are either on another knock and note around the Limekiln estate, or searching the bins and crannies in a four-hundred-yard radius.
Leadengate was built a hundred and twenty years ago and is unsuited to the technological rigours of twenty-first-century policing. The incident room is a cross between a local history society exhibition and a computer auction room. But Staffe knows the importance of having one hub, one place where all the information comes together.
If a case is going to be closed quickly, the key connection usually has to be established within four or five days of the crime. The skill is to be able to see that key connection – amidst the mountains of statements and data – for what it is.
But so far, evidence is in short supply. No one was seen trying to gain access to Karl and Leanne Colquhoun’s flat. No one saw Leanne Colquhoun until she ran screaming on to the Limekiln access deck. There is no sign of the murder weapon, which is possibly a narrow-bladed Stanley. No sign of the gauze and other materials that were used to tether and gag K
arl Colquhoun. And no eyes.
Staffe has read and reread the forensic report on the scene. It makes no sense to him. The scene was clean as a whistle, save the substances that leaked from Karl Colquhoun. Residues of cleaning solutions were found on all handles, chair backs, doorplates and the bedstead. And on top of that the killer had found the time to pose for, and possibly take, a photograph in the middle of the execution.
If he is asked to believe that Leanne Colquhoun did all this, Staffe cannot for the life of him determine why she would flee the scene, screaming, leaving behind a handbag which contained a receipt from a supermarket that placed her out of her workplace close to the time of death.
Staffe sits down next to Johnson and waits for him to look up.
‘Any joy with Tenerife?’
‘Debra Bowker claims not to have been back here for over a year. I’m running checks with all the airlines but my guess is she’s telling the truth.’
‘And what did she say when you told her Karl Colquhoun was dead?’
‘All she said was the bastard never sent Christmas presents anyway.’
‘Was she shocked?’
‘I couldn’t say. Maybe. I don’t know.’
‘If she wasn’t shocked …’
‘I know, sir. I’m sorry, it just didn’t register.’
Staffe can see that Johnson is out on his feet. ‘How’s the new baby, Rick?’
‘He’s great, sir, but there’s three of them now in that bloody flat and Becky has lost interest in even going out. But I can’t afford anything bigger, no way.’
Staffe thinks about what kind of a mess Johnson is in. Becky Johnson used to be a lawyer, pulling in twice what her husband brought home. She went back to work after the first two were born, Sian and Ricky. But after the third, young Charlie, she gave up. Once, Johnson joked they’d be better off if he was the one at home. But he hadn’t laughed. Staffe had asked why Becky hadn’t gone back after Charlie but Johnson had looked daggers at him, said, ‘Is that your business? You don’t own me.’