by Adam Croft
‘Yeah. So can a pub-full of people and the taxi driver who picked us up the next morning.’
Wendy knew the next step would be to check the mobile phone triangulation from Benjamin Newell’s phone, which would tell them exactly where he — or, at least, his phone — had been during those hours. It wouldn’t categorically prove his innocence, but if he was lying and took his phone with him to Freddie Galloway’s house, it’d be pretty damning evidence in court.
Wendy smiled and nodded. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Newell. We’ll be in touch.’
* * *
As they got back in the car outside, Culverhouse let out a huge sigh. ‘We’ll need to get a trace put on his phone. See who he calls now.’
‘Already done,’ Wendy replied, fastening her seatbelt. ‘If he panics and calls someone, we’ll know about it straight away. That should’ve been enough to put him into panic mode if he was involved.’
‘And if he wasn’t?’
Wendy took her turn to sigh. ‘Then we’ve got a lot of work on our plate.'
34
Jack sat in his dark office, having sent the rest of the team home for the night. There wasn’t anything they could realistically do at this stage, and if any news were to come about overnight the call handlers would ring him. Amongst Mildenheath CID’s many interesting quirks was that shift work just didn’t happen. The unit was too small to accommodate it, so it was more often than not a case of working whatever hours were required, whenever possible.
He liked to sit in the dark solitude of his office once everyone had gone home. It gave him time to think, relax and reflect. If he went straight home he’d have his daughter, Emily, around the place. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her being there — on the contrary, he loved it — but sometimes he needed time and space to himself.
He flicked absentmindedly through his phone, the bright colours of the dating app’s icon catching his eye. He hovered his finger over the icon, remembering how Mackenzie and the others had talked him into setting up a profile, and how stupid an idea he’d thought it. He could just hold his finger down, click the X and delete it there and then.
But something was telling him otherwise. Surely a quick look wouldn’t hurt, right? He opened the app, and noticed a red dot over the Messages icon, indicating that he had new, unread messages waiting for him. He tapped his finger on it and found the message. It was from a woman called Christine K. The app demanded its users go under their real names, but hid their surnames behind an initial.
Christine K: Hey you! Why the secrecy? I’m intrigued... X
It took him a moment to realise what she was going on about. Although the app stipulated that users should only upload real photos of themselves, Jack had used an obscure close-up picture of one of his eyes. He didn’t know why he’d chosen that particular shot, but he didn’t really want to be recognised on there, so had immediately changed it from the photo Ryan had taken of him.
Slowly, he tapped out a reply.
Because I’m an international man of mystery. Can’t have the Russians spotting me on here. My cover would be blown.
He hit Send. Within seconds, three dots were dancing across the screen, indicating that Christine was typing a reply. He took the time to tap on her profile picture to get a closer look. He vaguely remembered seeing her on the app when Ryan set it up, and presumably must have indicated his approval by tapping the green tick rather than the red cross. He scrolled through her photos, and liked what he saw. Sure, perhaps she was a dress size above the sort of women he usually went for, but at his age he couldn’t afford to be too picky. In any case, Claudia Schiffer was hardly likely to be hanging around on dating apps.
A new message popped up at the top of his screen, so he navigated back to the Messages section to read it.
Christine K: Sounds like fun! Do you get to carry a gun? X
The problem with sending messages online was that tone of voice was lost. He assumed she couldn’t be stupid enough to have actually believed his message, so typed out his reply in the same vein of humour.
I don’t need to. I can kill a horse with my bare hands.
He waited to see her response. She was either going to like his sense of humour or be put off by it. He’d got used to that over the years.
Christine K: Now why would you want to do that? X
No choice. Restaurants round here are terrible.
He looked out of his window across the rooftops in Mildenheath town centre. It wasn’t the prettiest sight in the world, but it was all he had. The town needed cleaning up in more ways than one. Despite the multitude of regeneration plans the council had put forward over the years, nothing seemed to ever be happening on that front. In the meantime, the buildings got older and more dilapidated, and the once-pretty market town had begun to look more tired than ever.
He’d lost count of the number of memories he had of this place. They weren’t even divided into good or bad. They were just memories. Cases, incidents, drama. Mildenheath was a town that seemed to thrive on drama. If truth be told, many of the residents didn’t have anything better to do. He always felt sorry for the first response teams in uniform, being constantly called out to domestic disputes, arguments over Facebook and people who just didn’t know how to get along with others. And then, of course, there was the occasional but increasingly frequent dead body. Underneath the pathetic and laughable exterior of many parts of the town, there was a dark underbelly which — fortunately — few residents ever had to encounter. There were times when he felt jealous of his colleagues in uniform dealing with innocent Facebook brawls.
His phone vibrated again, and he looked at the screen.
Christine K: Why don’t you show me? X
His mind was elsewhere and he had no idea what she was talking about.
What do you mean?
Christine K: The local restaurants. Pick a really dreadful one and take me along to show me how bad it is. At least the local horses will sleep soundly x
Jack looked at this message for a few moments. It was a long time since a woman had asked him out. It had been almost as long since he’d looked at a woman with anything other than superficial appreciation. Was this even an offer of a date or was he reading too much into it? He was out of practise, that was for sure.
A date?
Jack wasn’t sure which response he wanted to see appear next. He went back to her profile and looked at her pictures again. Yes, she was definitely attractive. She seemed friendly, bubbly and confident, too, from what little interaction they’d had over a mobile private messaging system.
His phone vibrated with another reply.
Yes, a date. You game? X
He read the words again, twice, then swallowed hard, locked his phone and put it back in his pocket. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
35
The first cup of coffee in the morning was always the most valuable. It was like liquid gold to Jack. He didn’t care how hot it was, either. Once it was in the cup and the bitter aroma was assaulting his nostrils, there was no stopping him.
Having taken a good healthy slug, he unlocked his mobile phone and fired off a text to his daughter.
Sorry. Will explain later x
He thought she probably wouldn’t be awake yet, but the response was almost instantaneous.
Honestly, don’t worry. I’m used to it x
That response almost broke his heart. He knew what she meant, though. She wasn’t just used to having her father come home at a different time every day — if at all — but was used to fending for herself. Even her mother had abandoned her after taking her away from Jack, and he doubted whether his ex-wife’s parents had been much better guardians to her. It was extraordinary that she’d turned out to be as level-headed as she was. That was one of the many complicated reasons why he gave her so much slack.
He thought about replying to her, telling her he’d make it up to her, but he knew that was a promise he couldn’t be certain to keep. In
this job, there were no certainties at all.
‘Morning,’ came the familiar voice of Wendy Knight as she strolled into the incident room. ‘Christ. You look like you’ve been here all night.’
‘Piss off,’ Culverhouse grunted.
‘Ah. First coffee,’ she said, pointing at the mug. ‘I’ll give you a few minutes to catch up with the rest of mankind. Let me know when the brain’s switched on.’
Sometimes, Culverhouse wondered who was the superior officer. The small, tight-knit team had a dynamic like no other. It was almost as if the traditional roles of Detective Chief Inspector, Detective Sergeant and Detective Constable didn’t exist. When the shit hit the fan and someone had to take the rap, though, he knew he would very definitely be the head of the unit and the person ultimately responsible.
Wendy would make a good inspector, there was no doubt about that. She seemed to have a way of knowing how to manage people, how to get the best out of them. When he’d become DCI there was none of this performance management bullshit around. He was just the Detective Sergeant who’d been on the team longest and wanted the job. He’d had a chat with his superiors, done an exam and got his stripes. True enough, he’d been earmarked as the next DCI for a little while before then, while the unit was under the tutelage of Robin Grundy. In those days, a nod from the incumbent DCI was enough to more or less guarantee you the job, pending paperwork.
People often said that Jack Culverhouse was resistant to the changing world of policing, but he knew that was bullshit. The world of policing had already changed, long ago. The line had long been crossed. He wasn’t resisting anything; he was just carrying on the same way he always had done. The way that got results. And in a town like Mildenheath, that was all that mattered.
He wondered whether Wendy Knight would get the same sort of results if and when she became a Senior Investigating Officer. A few years ago, he would’ve said no. But he was starting to see a different side to her, a side that told him that perhaps she wasn’t completely closed off to a few of the old-school ideas. She was still one hell of a long way from being Jack Culverhouse’s protégé, but she certainly wasn’t the goody-two-shoes Detective Sergeant who’d first tiptoed into his office on that first investigation into the suspicious death of Ella Barrington, which ended up becoming a manhunt for a serial killer — a manhunt that was to have devastating and long-lasting personal consequences for Wendy.
He admired her resilience during and after that case. The effects had been clear, but she rarely let it impact on her work. He couldn’t say the same about his own personal life, and for that he had to give her credit where credit was due.
‘What’s your secret, then?’ he called over to her. ‘You don’t look like someone who’s been up all night swotting up from Blackstone’s.’
‘That’s because I haven’t,’ Wendy said, her voice subdued. ‘Not much point if I’m going to have to wait until next year to take the exams. Might as well get this case out of the way first, then look at my options.’
Culverhouse walked over to her. ‘What do you mean, options? You thinking about not bothering at all?’
Wendy sighed. ‘I don’t know. I’ll think about it more next year. I’ve got other things on my mind at the moment.’
He looked at Wendy as she absentmindedly shuffled through a pile of papers on her desk, noticing that she looked utterly dejected when the subject of her inspector’s exams had been brought up. He couldn’t help but feel responsible for that.
Everywhere around him recently, he’d seen people trying but failing. Local people living on council estates, trying to get by in life without a chance in the world. His own colleagues, trying to combine a personal life with their careers and failing miserably. Even last night, the invitation from Christine asking him out on a date. He hadn’t even bothered to reply to the poor woman. And what had she done to deserve that? He told himself he’d reply to her later today, and apologise for not getting back to her sooner. If truth be told, though, he was worried. Could he start dating again at his age? He had to be honest and say he had no real interest in it, but the thought did intrigue him. Could he really be happy after all?
‘Listen, I’ve... uh... been having a few thoughts on that, actually,’ he said. ‘And I think you should go for it.’
‘But what about the case?’ Wendy asked.
Jack shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sod the case. We’re not getting anywhere as it is, and this time it’s not down to a lack of resources for once. No-one connected with Freddie Galloway is willing to talk, and having an extra person sitting behind a desk isn’t going to change that.’
‘I won’t need to take time off. I’ll just need a bit of leeway in not working past my allotted hours.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m sure we can sort something out.’
‘Are you sure?’ Wendy asked. ‘You seemed to be totally against the idea last time we spoke, what with Debbie having to take time off and—’
‘Look, just shut up and get on with it before I change my mind, alright?’
Wendy smiled, and before she knew what she was doing she’d embraced her DCI in a hug.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Seriously. Thank you.’
36
Tyrone couldn’t remember a time he’d been in so much pain. At least in the boxing ring the referee would call a halt to proceedings if you were getting your arse handed to you on a plate. When you got beaten up in the street — or a park — though, things were very different.
The boxing ring allowed you to see your opponent, too. You knew what was happening and could prepare. When someone jumps you from behind, a boxer has about as much chance of fighting back as anyone else. That was something Tyrone was acutely aware of as he lay in his hospital bed, his head throbbing, his ribs in agony every time he took a breath.
‘How are you feeling, Tyrone?’ the nurse asked him, as she adjusted the drip that was hanging up next to his bed.
‘Great,’ he mumbled, the effort hurting his ribs.
‘The police are here. They want to talk to you about what happened. Are you up to that?’
He sorely wanted to say no, wanted the nurse to tell them to piss off. But he knew they’d only be back later. At least this way he could use his present condition to end the conversation early if he wanted to.
He made a face and gesture that told the nurse he wasn’t particularly bothered either way. She smiled and left the room.
A minute or two later, he saw a man he recognised as DCI Culverhouse come onto the ward, accompanied by a younger woman he hadn’t seen before.
‘We meet again, Tyrone,’ Culverhouse said.
‘What they sent you for?’ Tyrone croaked.
‘Ah. You were expecting a wet-behind-the-ears uniformed constable, weren’t you? Didn’t expect CID to come in to take a witness statement. Thing is, we’re not daft. It’s our job to find links and make connections. So when you mentioned Trenton-Lowe, we did a bit of digging. And what do you know? A couple of hours later you’re duffed up in the park and brought in here. Just another massive coincidence, of course. Anyone connected with the Trenton-Lowe job seems to be plagued by them. Only thing is, I don’t believe in coincidences,’ Culverhouse said, sitting down on the chair next to Tyrone’s bed. ‘I believe in joining the dots. And you’re going to help me. This is Detective Sergeant Knight, by the way. She can write really quickly, so feel free to start whenever you’re ready.’
Tyrone glanced at Wendy, then looked up at the polystyrene-tiled ceiling and closed his eyes.
‘I got jumped. I dunno who it was or why they did it. It’s a rough area. It happens.’
Culverhouse shook his head. ‘Nah. Remember what I said about coincidences? Besides, people like you don’t get jumped. Look at you. You’re built like a brick shithouse.’
‘Kids,’ Tyrone said. ‘It’s a badge of honour if they manage it. That’s why pro boxers get started on in clubs and stuff.’
‘Kids? Thought there was only one of them?’
‘Kid then.’
Culverhouse snorted. ‘So you expect me to believe that a lifelong boxer with a physique like yours can end up like this because he got decked by a scrawny little kid off a local estate?’
‘He took me by surprise. It happens.’
‘Nah. It doesn’t. You know that as well as I do. If it was a kid, you’d have been able to defend yourself. Your whole job, your whole way of life is about defending yourself.’
‘He was too quick. He got me on the back of the head before I saw him.’
‘Alright,’ Culverhouse said, leaning back and crossing his arms. ‘So why was nothing taken? You’ve got the latest iPhone, a decent pair of headphones which I happen to know cost upwards of a hundred quid — joys of having a teenage daughter — and your wallet was still in your pocket. Why’d they not take any of that?’
It was the first time this had crossed Tyrone’s mind. He’d been in so much pain and had only recently properly regained consciousness, he hadn’t even thought about his phone or his wallet. ‘I dunno,’ he said.
‘I do. Because this wasn’t about robbing you, and it wasn’t about pride or badges of honour. It was about doing you over because someone very specifically and very deliberately wanted to do you over. So who was it?’
Tyrone grunted. ‘I don’t know. I told you. I didn’t see him.’
Culverhouse stayed silent for a few moments. ‘Why were you so afraid when you came to see me yesterday afternoon, Tyrone?’
‘I wasn’t.’