by Adam Croft
‘You’ve not met some of the officers I’ve worked with over the years, then,’ Culverhouse muttered, starting his engine and pulling out into the road. ‘Either way. There’s something not quite right about him.’
‘To be fair, you say that about everybody.’
‘And I’m usually right. You get to spot the signs. Something’s definitely going on. He’s as shady as anything. And he makes shit tea.’
9
After having arrived back at Mildenheath Police Station, Jack was disappointed to see Chief Constable Charles Hawes walking towards him in the corridor.
It wasn’t that he was disappointed to see the Chief Constable himself; more that he could read Hawes’s face like a child’s picture book and knew when it was going to be bad news.
It wasn’t unusual to see Hawes at Mildenheath, either. Even though his official office was at county headquarters at Milton House, Hawes much preferred the more relaxed and — dare he say it — old-school environment of Mildenheath. As such, he’d retained an office there too, and tended to spend more time there than he did at Milton House.
Jack knew Hawes was one of the only reasons why Mildenheath CID still existed — and why he still had a job — and he also knew the two of them were the sole remaining members of the old guard. Once they were gone — once the others had found a way to get rid of them — Mildenheath CID would close and everything would move into the shiny office headquarters. The death of real policing, Jack used to call it.
‘Afternoon, Jack,’ Hawes said, his mixed northern accent not having been tempered by years living in and around Mildenheath. ‘You’re not going to like this, I’m afraid.’
‘I had a feeling that might be the case. When was the last time you brought me good news?’
‘The new PCC wants to see you. I told her you were out, but she’s waiting in my office. I think we both know the sort of thing that’s going to crop up, so I just wanted to let you know I’m on your side. You know that.’
He did know that, but he also knew that one of the few responsibilities and powers the Police and Crime Commissioner had was to hire and fire the Chief Constable.
Jack, like many police officers, wasn’t a fan of Police and Crime Commissioners. Rather than being experienced police officers or people with any sort of knowledge of policing, they were elected politicians, usually standing under the banner of a major political party and almost always with no policing experience whatsoever.
He’d been particularly unkeen on the previous PCC, Martin Cummings, who’d originally been planning to stand for reelection once his term was up, but who’d had to stand aside following the discovery of some information which could have ruined his career overnight.
It was feared that Cummings would lose to Penny Andrews anyway, and her subsequent election had caused no great surprise — but plenty of consternation — throughout the county’s police force.
Penny Andrews was, again, a career politician standing under the banner of a major political party. What upset most police officers was that her party was the current party of government, and one which had based much of its offering on providing a secure and stable police force and greater national security — all whilst slashing police and security budgets at every conceivable point.
The county was already the most underfunded police force in Britain, and that was only going to get worse with Andrews and her cronies in charge.
‘Do I have much choice?’ Culverhouse asked Hawes.
‘Apparently not. She came marching in like she owned the place, going on about how Mildenheath’s been run, asking questions about why we felt we were so high and mighty that we didn’t need to follow the same rules as everyone else.’
‘So why does she want to see me?’
Hawes shuffled uncomfortably. ‘I told her one of the reasons was that we had an incredibly successful major incident team here, and that Mildenheath posed a number of unique challenges which meant that it was prudent to ensure a dedicated local CID was based in the town.’
Culverhouse raised his eyebrows. ‘Maybe you should go into politics yourself. You’ve got the patter down to a T.’
Hawes let out a small laugh. ‘No fear of that, let me tell you. My retirement’s going to be filled with nothing but Horlicks and golf.’
‘Speaking of which, don’t suppose you’ve got your clubs on you, have you?’
‘Now now, Jack. There’ll be no assaulting politicians on my watch. At least wait until I’ve gone home first.’
The two made their way to Hawes’s office to find Penny Andrews — the dictionary definition of a power dresser — sitting, waiting for them.
‘You must be Detective Chief Inspector Culverhouse. Pleasure to meet you.’
‘Hello,’ Jack said, not returning the compliment.
‘The Chief Constable’s been telling me all about you.’
‘Really? I hope he mentioned my hot stone massages.’
Andrews looked at them both, displaying perfectly in that moment that she had absolutely no sense of humour whatsoever.
‘It was a joke,’ Culverhouse said. ‘An ice breaker.’ He could see he’d have a lot of ice to break.
‘Sorry, I don’t do ice breakers,’ Andrews said. ‘I do action. But first I want to find out a little more about you and your team. You’re the only satellite criminal investigation department in the county, I believe?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And the Chief Constable was telling me that there are some pretty compelling reasons for things to stay that way. Can you tell me what those are?’
Culverhouse ground his teeth, took a deep breath and let it out. ‘Let’s just say it’s a town with a unique set of challenges. We get a lot of violent crime, a higher than average murder rate and we’re right on the edge of the county, a long way from Milton House.’
‘Policing’s going regional, though. Most stuff’s not even being done at county level any more, but with multiple forces combining and sharing resources. It’s a bit odd for a town to have its own police force, isn’t it?’
‘With respect, we haven’t got our own police force. We’ve got our own police station, like many towns have.’
‘Yes, for enquiries and local issues. Not for CID and major incidents. That’s almost always dealt with at county or regional level.’
‘Yes. Almost always. But our local issues are murder and violent crime. And we’ve got an excellent result rate when it comes to solving those and getting successful prosecutions.’
‘Yes, I noticed,’ Andrews said, peering over her glasses at some papers in her leather folder. ‘Serial killings, child sex gangs, corrupt ex-officers. It’s a lot to deal with on your own with such a small team, isn’t it?’
Culverhouse shuffled awkwardly in his chair. ‘We cope perfectly well. More than perfectly well. Like I say, our success rate speaks for itself.’
‘Perhaps so, but I can’t say I’ve yet seen any evidence that those cases couldn’t be dealt with at county or regional level. What on earth makes you think that the same officers couldn’t solve the same crimes from Milton House rather than Mildenheath?’
Culverhouse let out a sigh. ‘You’re not from round here, are you?’
‘No, I’m from Sussex.’
‘So I hear. I really don’t mean to be rude, but there is no way you can understand the nuances and issues we have to deal with at a local level if you’re not from the area. Even half the people at the other end of the county don’t get it.’
‘Oh, I get it. I get it alright,’ Andrews said, raising her voice. ‘I get that you’ve got a cushy little number here, running your own team with its own rules, with no organisational structure to speak of. No constant pressure from Superintendents. A Chief Constable who shouldn’t even be here but who hangs around Mildenheath like your guardian angel. Don’t you worry, I get it.’
‘It’s called policing. It’s that thing we’ve all been doing for the past couple of decades while you’ve been tr
ying — and failing — to become an MP. And let’s face it, that’s the only reason you’re here, isn’t it? Because even your own party don’t think highly enough of you to put you up in a safe seat, so you’ve had to resign yourself to picking up a fat wad of cash pissing off the police in a different way. Don’t you worry, I get it.’
Andrews pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes and stood up without once taking her eyes off of Jack.
‘I think that’ll be all,’ she said quietly. ‘Thank you for your time, gentlemen.’
With that, she spun on her stiletto heel and walked out of the office.
Jack smiled and looked at the Chief Constable. ‘I think that went well.’
10
Wendy unlocked her front door, dumped her bag by the shoe cupboard and walked through into her kitchen.
‘Curry or Chinese?’ Xav said, holding two takeaway menus up in the air. ‘And before you ask, no, I’m not cooking.’
‘I wouldn’t want you to,’ she said, putting her arms around her waist and kissing him.
‘Oh, charming.’
Wendy laughed. ‘What I meant was I’d rather we got to spend the evening together, relaxing. It’s no fun if one of us is stuck in the kitchen. We might as well make the most of it.’
Xav raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh yeah?’
She punched him playfully on the arm. ‘You’ll be lucky. Especially if you conk out in front of the telly at half eight again.’
‘I’ll have you know I was merely closing my eyes.’
‘And snoring.’
‘Breathing heavily.’
‘Call it whatever you want. I liked it. Just watching you sitting there with your eyes closed. You looked…’
‘Chinese.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Dinner tonight,’ Xav said, holding the Chinese takeaway menu aloft and plopping the Indian menu back down on the work surface. ‘What do you want?’
‘How about a bit of everything?’ Wendy said, putting her arms back around his waist and kissing him.
‘Well that does sound like a plan… Good day at work, was it?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because you’ve got that confident swagger you only get when you’ve had a good result.’
Wendy smiled at him. ‘Then you don’t know me as well as you thought you did, do you? Maybe I’m capable of a confident swagger all the time.’
‘I certainly won’t complain about that,’ Xav said. ‘So why don’t you go and swagger on upstairs and slip into something more comfortable while I get dinner ordered?’
She didn’t need asking twice. It was difficult enough to separate her work and home lives as it was, without having to spend the evening sitting around in her work clothes.
She’d made much more of an effort since meeting and becoming serious with Xav, having previously had no issues at all lounging around in her work clothes after a shift — or, if fancy took her, relaxing in her pyjamas in front of the TV. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel comfortable doing the same thing in front of Xav; she just wanted to make an extra effort for him. Thankfully, she was starting to realise that he was actually a pretty good guy and that her reluctance to get more serious with him had been because of her own hangups.
The past was all a distant memory, though, as she stepped under the shower head and let the hot jets of water wash over her. It was therapeutic, like rinsing off the day’s physical and emotional dirt, washing the horrendous crimes and even more horrendous people down the plughole.
It was all part of her transition — the transition from Work Wendy into Home Wendy. From Old Wendy to New Wendy.
11
Jack Culverhouse returned home around an hour later, unsure if Emily would be home or not.
His daughter tended to come and go as she pleased. This wasn’t something Jack was happy about, but he knew he had to give her her own space. She’d had a difficult upbringing, having been effectively kidnapped by her own mother and dumped on her grandparents, who’d brought her up — unknown to Jack — barely a few miles up the road.
But that was all history. It was water under the bridge. Now all Jack was focused on was building a relationship with his daughter and putting a stop to the loneliness he hadn’t even realised had been affecting him for so many years.
After Helen had left, he’d thrown himself heavily into his work. He thought the word ‘workaholic’ was a rather odd one. It seemed to imply he was overly keen on his work, but the fact was he found it a necessary evil. Policing was all he’d ever known. It wasn’t the same job as it was when he first started, but he knew that the moment he retired that would be the final nail in the coffin for the old guard of Mildenheath Police. In many ways, it was sheer bloody mindedness that kept him going and stopped him from cashing in his pension.
Before long, though, he wouldn’t have much choice. Retirement would be imposed upon him and that would be that. He was never quite sure why largely office-based detectives needed to have an expiry date put on them. More often than not, the experience counted for a huge amount when it came to running a murder investigation. The fact that the police were actively fast tracking university graduates into high-level CID roles was something that worried him deeply. Policing wasn’t the sort of thing that could be learned with a university degree, and running a major incident team was definitely something best learned through experience rather than in the classroom.
‘That you?’ a voice called, pulling him from his reverie. It was Emily, his daughter.
‘Yeah, sorry.’
‘What for?’ she said, appearing in the doorway from the living room.
Jack thought for a moment, then smiled. ‘Dunno. Force of habit.’
‘Well stop it. You’re worrying me. I don’t want you turning all soppy. I’ll think you’re ill or something.’
The growth he’d witnessed in his daughter in a relatively short period of time was incredible. She’d really grown as a young woman in the past year or so, and it was hard to believe she was not even sixteen. It was almost as if being back home with Jack had meant she could finally grow up, finally move on and leave her childhood in the past and become the woman she was always meant to be.
Jack didn’t take much credit for that transformation. He couldn’t. He hadn’t been there. But he’d taken her back in and given her the time and space to grow of her own accord. All due credit had to go straight to Emily.
That’s not to say there weren’t worries and concerns on Jack’s part. He’d seen the scars — historic and fresh — on her forearms and had so far chosen not to say anything. Their relationship hadn’t been stable enough, and he certainly didn’t want to scare her off just yet. But as their relationship grew, so did his confidence, and he’d told himself he’d keep a close eye and bring the subject up if it seemed that more fresh scars were appearing. It had been a while since they had, though, and Jack comforted himself in the knowledge that Emily was clearly in a much happier place now than she had been. There was no way in hell he wanted to rock that boat.
‘Chrissie’s coming over for a bit,’ he said. ‘If that’s alright.’
Emily just shrugged. ‘Yeah. I’ll keep out of the way.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I know. But it’ll give you some space. I’ve got homework to do anyway.’
Jack didn’t know of many fifteen-year-olds who’d voluntarily choose to do their homework on a Saturday night, and he wondered whether it was a story designed to get back to Chrissie, who also happened to be the headteacher of the school Emily attended.
Jack had wished he’d known that when he’d met Chrissie, as the unfortunate coincidence had initially caused some friction with Emily. She claimed it wasn’t an issue any more, though, and had actively conspired to ensure the two got together. Sometimes, Jack just couldn’t predict what his daughter was going to do. Like her mother, she was spontaneous and unpredictable — something Jack had trouble dealing with at times, being the routine-led homebird he
was.
‘Em,’ he said softly, waiting for her to look at him. ‘Are you sure you’re alright with this? The Chrissie thing, I mean. I know it’s a bit weird for you.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s not. It was just a surprise at first. Anyway, it’s not like you’re getting married or anything.’
Emily had a point. He and Chrissie had only spent a handful of evenings together. They’d been for a few meals, met for drinks in a local pub and she’d occasionally popped over to spend the evening watching something on the telly with a bottle of wine. It was nothing serious. For Jack, it was companionship. Chrissie hadn’t made any attempt to push him any further, so she was either a really good person who knew not to put pressure on him to move any faster than he was willing to, or she just wasn’t that into him.
Either way, he was happy as things were. He had no intention to dive into anything serious and he definitely wasn’t going to get married again. That hadn’t worked out brilliantly the first time, and he had a slight issue in that he was still technically — and legally — married to Helen. He hadn’t wanted to bring up the subject of a divorce, largely as he suspected Helen wouldn’t respond brilliantly to the idea. And anyway, what was the point? He had no real need or reason to push divorce proceedings. Their money had always been kept separate, and in a divorce she’d be entitled to claim half of his. The situation wasn’t ideal, but sometimes it was better just to let sleeping dogs lie.
‘Would it be a problem if we did?’ he asked Emily.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘What, get married?’
‘Yeah.’ He didn’t know why he’d said this, but it seemed like a good way to gauge Emily’s instinctive reaction and see how much of her not caring was just an act.
She looked away and shrugged. ‘Dunno. I’ve not really thought about it. Why? Are you?’
‘No. We’re not. You don’t have to worry about that.’
‘Right. Is anything wrong Dad?’
