by Adam Croft
The trouble was, his record counted for nothing. Orders from on high were orders from on high, and he knew plenty of excellent police officers who’d been shuffled off to the retirement home over his years. He was old school, and he knew that wasn’t popular. He knew that people equated that with roughing up villains, planting evidence and taking bungs.
To him, though, it meant being able to do the job in a way which actually put his skills to some use. It meant following his detective’s nose. It meant ensuring that you got the right person, no matter what, and without allowing them to wriggle free on a technicality or to slip out the back door while you waited for some piece of paperwork to be signed off by a manager.
No, he had to fight it. But without the backing of a Chief Constable who came from the same background and was sympathetic to his opinions, how far could he get? Not very far, he guessed. With Charles Hawes gone, he’d be a lone wolf with no backing from anyone above him in the food chain. He’d be increasingly ostracised, left to fend for himself under the pressure of having to conform or else. And they had the right to refer to the old-school officers as corrupt bullies. It was always the same — the new order comes in under a banner of reform and just replaces it with the same old shit under a different colour or name.
Jack’s problem was that he was a proud man. He knew that could often be his downfall. Retirement just wasn’t an option for him. He knew he had to fight and stand up for what he believed in and he knew that probably wouldn’t do him any favours, but he was a man of principle. He’d rather die fighting than wave the white flag and take the money.
What worried him most was the nagging doubts that crawled into his mind. He never used to have those. He always used to plough on regardless, not even thinking of an alternative to his way of doing things. There was no such word as futile. It was always worth fighting for what he believed in. Now, though, he realised he was getting old, starting to wonder whether or not it was worth the effort. The thought of an early retirement, a cash payout and retiring somewhere sunny certainly appealed.
He didn’t need the money. Not really. When Helen had disappeared, she’d effectively relinquished her right to half of the house, as far as he was concerned. He’d considered having her declared dead and taking on sole ownership himself, but had decided against it. Now she’d reappeared, that whole seven-year process would have to begin again. He’d also have to show that he’d gone to extraordinary lengths to find her, which he just wasn’t prepared to do. Besides, he knew Helen wasn’t dead. Still, half of the house would see him more than alright in retirement.
He’d been earning a decent sum of money for a good few years now, and had very limited outgoings. Fifty-five grand a year went a long way when you lived by yourself and did nothing other than work. He never really knew how much money he had in the bank at any given time. He knew it was enough to not bother himself worrying about as it’d been increasing month-on-month ever since he could remember.
He supposed that with a nice payoff and pension he could easily retire somewhere else. He certainly wouldn’t be hanging around Mildenheath any longer than he needed to. Mildenheath held too many bad memories for him. Southern Spain had always appealed, but the chance of bumping into Helen was too much to want to risk. It would, however, increase his chances of finding Emily. He’d always been conflicted about tracing his daughter, not wanting to upset her life as it was now. She was at an age where everything was volatile. Besides which, every passing day made it harder and harder to justify not finding her sooner. He knew he had the resources at his disposal to find her, and she’d know that too. He’d had no excuse other than his own pathetic sense of self-pity. Deep down, though, he’d always suspected he’d be a terrible father and that Emily would be better off without him.
Wherever he was going to go, it needed a beach. He hated beaches — never liked getting covered in sand and paying for sun beds — but having one nearby was vital. It was a psychological thing. Good weather all year round would be a winner, too. He’d always fancied Florida or the Caribbean. He and Helen had talked about going on holiday there, once upon a time. Well, Helen had, anyway. He’d been keen, but work had got in the way just as it always had. Right now, though, the thought of sitting under a palm tree with a glass of rum was extremely tempting.
All of a sudden, the thought of giving up and admitting defeat had a certain appeal.
37
Wendy had been at Ambassador Court not so long ago. It was where Keira Quinn, one of the victims of the Mildenheath Ripper had lived. The flats were the cheapest possible private rentals in Mildenheath, starting at around £350 a month for a one-bedroom flat and, unfortunately, the relative deprivation and high number of re-homed ex-offenders meant that Ambassador Court was somewhere the police tended to visit quite a lot as it was home to quite a high level of crime.
Kyle Finney was one such resident, living at flat number 52a, which Wendy and Frank were stood outside, having knocked on the door twice. As they knocked on the door a third time, the door to the next flat opened and a woman in her forties came out.
‘If you’re looking for Kyle, he ain’t here,’ she said. ‘He did a runner a few days back.’
‘What do you mean he did a runner?’ Wendy asked, concerned, as she showed the woman her identity badge.
‘I mean he did a runner,’ the woman replied. ‘I come up the stairs one afternoon, probably last Wednesday it was ‘cos I’d got my shopping with me, and Kyle was there coming out with two massive holdalls. I asked him where he was off to and he said he had to go.’
Wednesday, Wendy thought. Barely days before the deaths of Jeff Brelsford and Terry Kendall.
‘Did he say where he was going?’ Frank asked.
‘Nope, didn’t ask. But he seemed agitated. Said something about needing to get away.’
Wendy and Frank exchanged glances.
‘How well do you know Kyle Finney?’ Wendy asked.
The woman put her hands on her hips. ‘Not all that well. I mean, we lived next door to each other but that don’t mean nothing nowadays does it? All sorts of people coming and going in these places. I’d wager most people probably don’t have a clue who their neighbours are.’
Wendy simply smiled. She didn’t want to be the one to have to break it to this woman that she’d been living next door to a convicted sex offender. ‘How long had you both been living here?’ she asked.
The woman curled her bottom lip as if she was thinking hard. ‘I’ve been here about three years now. Three years next month. He was probably only there a few months, though. Don’t know the date. You’d have to speak to the housing association. Think they were putting him up.’
‘Has anybody been to the flat since he left?’ Wendy asked. ‘No noises, anything like that?’
‘Nope, nothing,’ the woman replied. ‘Takes the bloody housing association ages to do anything. There’s people out there crying out for a home and they’ve got places like that sat empty for months on end sometimes. You’d think they’d pull their bloody fingers out wouldn’t you?’
Wendy couldn’t help but agree. She’d seen time and time again the trouble that was caused in people’s lives by simply being unable to get a roof over their heads. With a little more action in turning round abandoned properties, they could solve a large proportion of the problem fairly quickly and easily.
She gave the woman her card. ‘If you hear anything or think you might know where he is, can you give me a call?’
The woman studied the card intently. ‘DS? That’s a detective, ain’t it? Blimey. What’s this all about?’
‘I’m afraid we can’t really say,’ Wendy replied. ‘It’s part of an ongoing investigation. But if you hear anything, please give me a call.’
Back down at ground level, Wendy phoned into the control room to have an alert put out on Kyle Finney. She’d requested that all officers be on the lookout for him and that if spotted he should be detained and brought into Mildenheath for questioning.
>
‘You go back,’ she said to Frank. ‘I’ve got something I need to do. I’ll see you back there.’
38
Wendy was trying to concentrate on the job in hand, but one infuriating thought kept flooding back into her mind. She knew Jack had been unreasonable. There was nothing new there. But even being as stubborn as he was, he’d never gone as far as he had this time. Before, there’d always been a sense that despite his stubbornness and complete unwillingness to see things from other people’s points of view, he might just have been right. This time, though, it was different.
The amount he was drinking and the pit of despair he’d fallen into had meant that she couldn’t predict how he was going to react. Of course, she knew Culverhouse probably wouldn’t react brilliantly if she told him she suspected he might have something to do with the deaths of two sex offenders in the town, but she suspected the old Jack Culverhouse would have either laughed it off or told her she was being stupid. Instead, he’d got angry.
She might well be jumping to conclusions. She knew that much. She wasn’t even sure whether logic was telling her Jack could be involved or he couldn’t possibly be. She couldn’t tell heart from head any more.
The basic facts, as she could tell, were that Jack Culverhouse had inexplicably looked up a list of sex offenders in the local area without any operational reason to do so. Not long after, two of the people on the list were murdered by the same person. The killings used a taser to stun the victims before they were killed — a weapon which, she presumed, Jack Culverhouse would have the contacts to source.
There’d been no flag that Jack Culverhouse’s DNA had been found at the scene of either of the killings, but then why would it? The DNA of serving police officers was kept on file in the UK and, in the case of Jeff Brelsford, Jack had been at the scene as the senior investigating officer. As for Terry Kendall’s killing, well, he could just have been careful, couldn’t he? No. She told herself she was being stupid. If Jack had killed Terry Kendall, he’d have been even more careless considering the mental state he was in.
It just didn’t add up. But then again, his complete conviction that whoever was killing these people was some sort of hero had been extremely disturbing. Not surprising, but disturbing.
She really didn’t know what to think, but she knew she couldn’t rule out any possibilities. One of the first rules of good policing, though, was to never presume anything. As far as the operation was concerned, she knew the most professional thing to do was to investigate her concerns but not let them rule her. After all, right now she needed Jack Culverhouse.
He looked genuinely surprised to see her as he opened his front door and stood aside to let her in.
‘Come to arrest me, have you?’ he said, in a sarcastic, flippant tone.
‘No. I’ve come because I need your help.’
Culverhouse made noise of derision and closed the door behind him as Wendy made her way into his kitchen. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes. At least they weren’t still sat around the living room, she thought.
‘Fucking cheek you’ve got coming here asking for help. What am I, a cold-blooded killer or some sort of guardian angel? Give me a clue, will you?’
Wendy swallowed and looked at the floor.
‘I’m sorry, alright? Look, this case is really getting to me. It’s not an easy one to have to get my head round, all things considered.’
Culverhouse said nothing.
‘Jack, I said I’m sorry. We need to investigate all possibilities and all leads, you know that.’
‘And what bloody leads have you got that suggest I had something to do with this exactly?’ he asked, folding his arms.
‘We’ve been through this. And I’ve said sorry. I didn’t think you did have anything to do with it. Not really. I just... Look, we all do stupid things. Can we just put it behind us?’
Wendy could see the sides of his jaw moving as he clenched his teeth.
‘I think it might take a bit more than that,’ he replied, finally.
‘Fine. Can we start with a cup of tea?’
‘No teabags.’
‘Probably just as well,’ she said, looking at the state of the kitchen.
He let out an involuntary laugh. ‘You caught me just before my cleaning day, mum.’
Wendy smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I know the feeling.’
‘So go on,’ he said, after a few seconds of silence. ‘What is it you want to ask me?’
Wendy took a deep breath. ‘Kyle Finney.’
‘What about him?’ Culverhouse asked, his face neutral.
‘You had some dealings with him, didn’t you?’
‘If by “dealings” you mean nabbed him for touching up kids in the park, yeah. He got a three year sentence, served a year and a half and is out now. Why? Has he been done in too?’
Wendy, not for the first time, marvelled at Culverhouse’s turns of phrase. ‘No, he hasn’t. In fact, he’s currently our prime suspect.’
Culverhouse’s face stayed impassive for a couple of seconds before he broke out into laughter.
‘Prime suspect? Are you having a fucking laugh? What on earth led you down that road?’
Wendy shook her head. ‘You know I can’t tell you that, Jack. Operational sensitivities.’
‘Yeah, and it was my fucking operation before Malcolm bloody Pope stuck his oar in. Was it him who came up with the idea that Kyle Finney did it?’
‘No,’ Wendy said, before thinking. ‘It was Frank.’
‘Frank?’
Wendy silently castigated herself for saying anything. She knew she had to tell him everything now, else the first thing he’d do would be to get in touch with Frank. Then it’d be out in the open that she’d discussed an ongoing murder case with a suspended officer.
‘Jack, you have to promise not to say a word to anyone. This is serious.’
‘Christ almighty, Knight. You don’t need to give me the third degree on confidentiality. It might have escaped your memory, but I have been a police officer for quite a while.’
‘I know,’ Wendy said. ‘Sorry. To cut a long story short, we found a van on CCTV that’d been seen near the scene of both murders at around the same time. The registration number took us to a van hire company in Birmingham who hadn’t hired out that particular van but did have photos of it on their website, so it looks like our man might’ve used the photos to get an authentic registration and have false plates made up. We got onto the web host to find out who’d been on the site. There was one IP address from Mildenheath, not long before the killings started. We got onto the internet service provider and they confirmed the connection was made through Kyle Finney’s router.’
‘Just one question,’ Culverhouse said, scratching his chin. ‘What the fuck was a convicted child sex offender doing with an internet connection?’
‘Christ knows. I should imagine it was extremely heavily monitored or restricted. I doubt looking at a van hire company’s website would flag anything up.’
Wendy could almost see the cogs turning in Culverhouse’s brain. ‘It doesn’t add up. I know Kyle Finney. He’s a pervert, a dodgy fucker and a menace to society but he’s not a killer. What would be the point? It’s not like he’d see Jeff Brelsford and Terry Kendall as competition, is it? It doesn’t work like that.’
Wendy tried to explain. ’No, I know, but—’
‘Was the connection secured?’ he interrupted.
‘Sorry?’
‘The router. Did he have a password or access code set up on it or was it wide open?’
‘I don’t know,’ Wendy said, grabbing her mobile phone from her pocket. She called Frank Vine’s number. ‘Frank?’ she said once he’d answered. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m back at the station. Just got back a minute or two ago.’
‘Right. Do us a favour and go back to Kyle Finney’s flat, will you?’
‘What? Are you having a laugh?’ Frank said.
‘No. Go up to his flat, g
et your phone out and see what wifi networks are showing up as available. Then give me a call back.’
‘But I was just about to grab a quick—’
‘Now, Frank!’ Wendy said, her voice raised.
Frank mumbled something about his stomach digesting itself and hung up the phone.
‘You’ve already been to his place?’ Culverhouse asked her as she put her phone back in her pocket. ‘So what are you doing here?’
‘He wasn’t there,’ Wendy said. ‘He’s done a runner, according to the neighbour.’
‘Really?’ Culverhouse asked, raising his eyebrows. ‘Interesting. Very interesting.’
39
Frank was starting to become seriously cheesed off with this job. He’d joined all those years ago to nab big-time criminals, not to trundle off backwards and forwards to paedophiles’ flats to see how strong their wifi connection was.
The force had changed over the past few years, and that change had accelerated more recently with the guv being put on leave and pretty boy Malcolm Pope being put in charge of the team. Not that they’d seen hide nor hair of him, other than the odd time he felt he needed to come down and throw his weight around. Frank suspected Pope had bigger things up his sleeve. Probably too busy organising Mildenheath’s closure and shipping everyone up to Milton House.
Frank wouldn’t be going to Milton House if they moved. He’d told himself that much a long time ago. It wasn’t his scene. The canteen was crap, the pubs were crap and the journey was crap. Steve Wing had suggested he put in for a transfer, but he wasn’t keen. Any other force would be just the same now, centred around an office block and having more in common with an insurance company than a police force. They weren’t even allowed to call it a police force any more; it was the police service. Load of bollocks that was, he thought.