In the Name of the Father

by Adam Croft

  He went into the kitchen after her, and watched as she spooned a heap of hot chocolate powder into a mug, the electric kettle bubbling away beside her.

  ‘Look, Em, I think we need to talk,’ Jack said, trying to sound as calm and positive as possible. He knew that getting all serious from the off wouldn’t be the best way to approach the situation.

  ‘Yeah. I think we do,’ Emily replied, throwing him off balance for a moment.

  ‘Right. Well the thing is, I know I’ve done stupid things and made plenty of mistakes. I know that. But I always want the best for you. Any father would.’ Emily wasn’t saying anything; just stirring her mug of hot chocolate. ‘You know I just want to look out for you, right?’

  ‘I know,’ she whispered.

  ‘I just want to look after you.’

  ‘Dad, I know what you’re saying. And I know what you’re asking,’ Emily said.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yeah. Look, I’ve been giving it some thought. I know I’ve only heard one side of things, and I know you’re trying. I just... I really don’t want to go back to Nan and Grandad’s. I’d rather stay here with you. I’d like to give it a go.’

  Jack glanced down at his daughter and saw the look in her eyes. All he’d wanted for so long was to hear her say she wanted to spend some time with him. And now here she was, telling him she wanted to stay with him and try to build a father-daughter relationship. He smiled, his lips pursed, desperate to handle his emotions. Of course, he was delighted, overwhelmed that she wanted to stay with him. But how could he broach the subject of Ethan Turner now?

  He pulled Emily towards him and embraced her in a hug.

  20

  The Premier Inn was less than a mile and a half from HMP Frankland. Wendy’d had no choice but to book herself into the hotel as the prison were adamant that they wouldn’t let her see Michael until the morning. She consoled herself that maybe this meant he hadn’t been attacked too badly after all. But if that was the case, why had they called her? People were attacked in prison all the time; the places were full of violent criminals. This had to be something different.

  It felt strange being in the hotel. Although it looked exactly like any other identikit Premier Inn anywhere across the country, this particular one had the distinction of being close to the prison where her brother had been housed for the past few years. She hadn’t brought a change of clothes or an overnight bag. It hadn’t even occurred to her that she might need them. She’d just grabbed her car keys and gone. As luck would have it, the hotel had been able to sell her a toothbrush and toothpaste — at an extortionate markup — so she had at least been able to brush her teeth.

  She kicked off her shoes and laid back on the bed, propping a mound of pillows behind her, and switched on the TV on the other side of the room. She knew she needed to wind down somehow and get a couple of hours’ sleep, but she also knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

  She didn’t know how she felt. Not deep down. There was a mixture of worry, anger and sheer trepidation. She didn’t even know if she actually wanted to see Michael again, but she knew she had to. If she was honest with herself, she thought it might be easier now that she was the one in control. If she could retain that control, that was.

  21

  Jack Culverhouse wasn’t in the best of moods that morning as he slapped a pile of papers down on his desk and took a slurp from his coffee mug. He was never in a great mood in the mornings, but the prospect of having to sort out disciplinary proceedings against Wendy Knight was going to put an even bigger downer on things.

  He didn’t want to have to do it, but he didn’t have much choice. Going AWOL from police duty wasn’t looked upon too lightly by the powers that be, no matter who you were. But, of course, Jack could see her point of view. Even if he’d never tell her that. He’d not exactly been an angel himself at times, when it came to deciding which call of duty to answer. Sometimes one’s real duty lay elsewhere.

  His day was only about to get worse, though, when his phone started to ring. He looked down at the display and recognised the number immediately. It was one he’d seen flash up on his phone quite a bit over the years — the number of the local newspaper, the Mildenheath Gazette.

  ‘Sorry, I’m not entering the crossword competition this week,’ he barked as he picked up the phone.

  ‘DCI Culverhouse, Suzanne Corrigan,’ the reporter said, ignoring his attempt at a joke.

  Culverhouse and Suzanne Corrigan had had dealings together in the past, most notably when Suzanne had been the fifth intended victim of a local serial killer. The showdown at her house had resulted in the untimely death of PC Luke Baxter, whom Culverhouse had considered his protégé.

  ‘Morning,’ Culverhouse replied, not even wanting to go so far as to ask what she wanted. Truth be told, he didn’t care. The press could verge on being vaguely useful on occasions, but more often than not he tended to see them as a hindrance.

  ‘I’m just ringing about a report we had from a local resident, actually. I wondered if I might be able to discuss it with you.’

  ‘You’ll have to be quick. I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes,’ Culverhouse lied.

  ‘It won’t take long. Just want to clear up a few facts. It’s to do with Hilltop Farm. Do you know it?’

  Culverhouse’s heart sank. He knew it, alright. ‘I have a vague recollection, yes,’ he said, taking a deep breath and speaking as calmly as he could.

  ‘Well I got a weird call late last night, just as I was about to leave. From someone who wanted to give us some information on a religious cult that’s based on the farm. He said he was a former resident there and wanted to “lift the lid” — his words — on what goes on there.’

  Culverhouse’s interest was suddenly piqued. ‘Did you get his name?’ he asked, presuming this was the same caller who’d reported the non-existent body on the farm.

  ‘No, he wouldn’t tell me. He said he wanted to speak to me a bit first. I think he’s worried about repercussions.’

  Culverhouse made a non-committal noise. If the man was worried about repercussions, that meant there was something to be afraid of. Or, he could want to avoid identifying himself because it was all one huge lie or hoax. Either way, it wasn’t looking great. ‘Right. What did he say?’

  ‘Well, that’s just it. He didn’t say much. Between you and me, I think he was sounding me out, seeing how seriously I’d take him before he got to the really juicy stuff. But there was one thing he mentioned,’ Suzanne said, trailing off, trying to whet Culverhouse’s appetite. He didn’t take the bait. A couple of seconds later, she continued. ‘He said he’d reported an incident to the police recently, in which he gave information about a death on the farm. A murder, he called it. He said his call wasn’t taken seriously.’

  Culverhouse sighed. ‘Look, you know I can’t discuss ongoing cases with you. Not unless I have specific clearance to do so.’

  ‘So there is an ongoing case, then?’ Suzanne asked.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘So you can discuss it with me?’

  Culverhouse clenched his jaw. Journalists had a habit of being able to tease a front-page story out of nothing, but this was pushing it. ‘Off the record,’ he said, knowing damn well that nothing was off the record with journalists, ‘we received an anonymous phone call from someone telling us there was a body on the farm. We attended, searched the scene and found no evidence of said body. The phone call couldn’t be traced and we saw no sign that any crime had been committed. As such, no further investigation has taken place.’

  ‘A very concise and media-friendly response, considering it’s off the record,’ Suzanne said. Culverhouse noted that she’d grown in confidence following the recent Ripper case, which had nearly ended her career and her life.

  ‘You know me, Suzanne. I’m always friendly to the media.’ He could swear he heard her stifle a laugh.

  ‘So I can use that quote in the paper, can I?’

  ‘No you fu
cking cannot,’ he said, his voice harsh but low as he cradled the mouthpiece to avoid being overheard. ‘And what’s more, if you run a story about Hilltop fucking Farm, you’ll have one very angry Detective Chief Inspector and one very litigious church leader on your back. Father Joseph Kümmel is not the sort of person who’s likely to forgive something like that.’

  ‘That’s his name, is it? Kümmel? How do you spell it?’ Suzanne asked.

  Culverhouse clenched his jaw again. ‘Fuck off,’ he replied, before slamming the phone down. If he thought he was in a bad mood when he got to the office, it was nothing compared to how he felt after the phone call. He had to let off some serious steam.

  He sat down in his chair and tried to calm himself. He knew rising stress levels were no good for him, but that was all words and theory. What was he meant to do? Just sit back and take it? Let it wash over him? No. That wasn’t possible. First there was the Hilltop Farm fiasco, then Wendy Knight buggering off without leave, then the local papers getting on his back. And that was without worrying about all the shit he had to deal with in his personal life, with his ex-wife running off again and his hormonal young daughter coming to live with him out of the blue.

  To him, Emily was the one good thing in his life right now. Even the job was starting to lose its appeal. But he knew he was in danger of losing her again. He could still see the old Emily inside her — the young daughter he once knew. That was a side of her he could see diminishing, though — particularly if she carried on hanging around with people like Ethan Turner. He’d already lost Emily once, and he wasn’t going to risk losing her again. Before he could even think about what he was doing, he took his suit jacket off the back off his chair, put it on and grabbed his car keys.

  22

  The frontage to HM Prison Frankland was imposing to say the least, particularly in the half-light of the early hours. Wendy had been able to obtain special dispensation to visit her brother, partially because of the ferocity of the attack he’d been on the receiving end of, and partially because she was a serving police officer connected with the case that had convicted him.

  The prison was notorious for housing some of the country’s most dangerous criminals. It had been home to Charles Bronson, often referred to as the most violent prisoner in Britain. Harold Shipman, the most prolific serial killer in history in terms of proven victims, which tallied 218, had been incarcerated here too. Current inmates included Peter Chapman, the so-called ‘Facebook killer’; Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper; and Ian Huntley, the convicted sex offender and murderer of two young schoolgirls, Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman.

  As a category A prison, Frankland was home to Britain’s most dangerous and violent inmates. Wendy had known from the moment of Michael’s arrest that he’d likely end up in a category A prison such as this. But realising that he was living in the same space as people such as the Yorkshire Ripper was something she found difficult to come to terms with. That was why, she supposed, she’d been blocking it from her memory for so long. It was a case of having to. A coping mechanism, of sorts. Because if you let it get to you, that was the sort of thing that could break you.

  On entering the prison, Wendy went through the usual routine of being searched, identified and permitted entry. It was something she’d done many times before in various prisons as part of her job, but this was different. This time she wasn’t here on work. She was here to see the brother she hadn’t laid eyes on since that day in court.

  Once the formalities had been dealt with, a female prison guard led Wendy through towards the Healthcare Centre.

  ‘So what can you tell me?’ Wendy asked her, keen to find out exactly what had happened, what she should expect.

  ‘Not a whole lot, I’m afraid. I’m just your escort to the ward. I don’t know any details. You’ll have to ask the medical staff.’

  Wendy clenched her teeth. She had no idea what to expect.

  The Healthcare Centre contained, amongst other things, a ward consisting of four beds. Wendy estimated there were a dozen or so private rooms. It was one of these rooms that Wendy was led to, a male prison guard keeping watch at the doorway. She presumed this must be because of the nature of Michael’s injuries. If he’d been attacked by fellow inmates, it was right that he be kept isolated in a private room with some sort of protection.

  She paused for a moment, looking back at the female prison officer who’d led her to this point.

  ‘Uh, can I go and get a glass of water or something first, please?’

  The prison officer looked at her for a couple of seconds, then gave a benevolent smile. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’

  They walked a little further up the corridor and into a small kitchenette area. The prison officer took a glass from the over-sink cupboard and filled it from the cold tap.

  ‘Listen, I haven’t seen him. Michael. I don’t know what’s happened exactly, but all I can say is it might be best to prepare yourself for the worst. I spent a bit of time on the floor a couple of years back and saw one or two attacks. They’re never pretty. We’re not exactly talking petty criminals in here.’

  Wendy gulped down the glass of water. ‘Thanks. I’m just... I don’t know what to expect. I haven’t seen him since he got sent down.’

  The prison officer nodded. ‘He’ll be different,’ she said, trying to sound reassuring.

  ‘Different?’

  ‘Everyone’s different in here. If they’re big-time serial re-offenders like your Sutcliffes and your Bronsons, their bravado goes through the roof. Frankland’s just another badge. For your one-offs and “we never would have suspected him” types, like your Huntleys and your Chapmans, they tend to get more isolated, more withdrawn. Prison’ll change and accentuate anyone’s personality pretty sharpish. It’s what confinement does to a person.’

  Wendy still wasn’t sure what the woman meant, but by now she was too afraid to ask. Just hearing Michael mentioned in the same sentence as notorious monsters like that was enough to make her desperate to change the subject.

  Back on the ward, Wendy tried to ignore the guard outside Michael’s room and felt her heart skip as the prison officer opened the door. She walked in, keeping her eyes on the floor until she got towards the bed. She swallowed hard and realised she was holding her breath as her eyes drew upwards, up the bed and onto the figure that was in it.

  Michael looked different, to say the least. He’d put some weight on in prison. It was weight he could afford to add compared to his former skinny frame, but Wendy could tell from the colour of his flesh that much of it was bruising and swelling. If she’d seen him in any other bed or hospital, she doubted she would have recognised him as her brother. He’d cut his hair much shorter than she’d ever seen before. There were marks and scars which were new to her, but clearly not from this most recent attack. She winced as she imagined how many scrapes he must’ve got into in here. He’d never been the violent type. Wendy knew that was a bizarre thing to say, bearing in mind his criminal history. But starting fights with inmates really didn’t seem like Michael.

  She realised she was starting to feel sorry for him, the way anyone would do if they saw their little brother lying beaten in a hospital bed. She had to steel herself and remember that, regardless of blood, this was the man who’d killed her boyfriend. The man who’d murdered innocent women. But that all fell by the wayside as Michael rolled his head towards her, opened his eyes and smiled at her.

  ‘Hello Wend.’

  23

  Father Joseph Kümmel addressed the congregation with a calm, bass-laden voice that exuded a composed authority. He watched as the assembled parishioners took in his every word, each one of them looking at him as he spoke. He’d always loved hearing his voice reverberating around these walls, listening to the echoes of his deep timbre as it ricocheted off the cold stone, knowing it would also be reverberating through the skulls of the assembled parishioners.

  It was all part of it. It was all psychology and body lan
guage. When it came to it, for all humanity’s Nobel prizes and achievements, we were still just animals. And simple animals, at that. The truth was that we never actually evolved into the beings we are now. Not in the strict sense of the word. We just added more layers. We learned to make fire, we learned to develop language, we learned to engineer. But none of that replaced our basest animal instincts. Why were we attracted to different people? Because we want to breed with them. Because we saw physical characteristics in them that we want our children to have. Why are we driven by revenge and greed? Because we are territorial mammals, chemically designed to want to look after our closest flock. Fight or flight, survival of the fittest. They’re all our basest animal instincts, ones we had as cavemen, ones that never really evolved. We just papered over the cracks.

  Human emotional contagion was one of those animal instincts which remained. It was how hysteria was spread, how wars were started. And it was a damn fine way to control people.

  ‘There are eighty-six of us here in this church,’ he said. ‘Eighty-six. We are the only eighty-six people who have heard the true word of God. The only eighty-six people who can save this world from going down the path it is currently following. It is a world filled with greed, with jealousy, with hatred. Together, we have grown, both in size and in wisdom. Through our mutual love we have learned to spurn the outside world and develop our own world of tolerance, equality and knowledge of our Lord God. We are all honoured to have been shown that path of light, to be able to experience the love of God.