by Adam Croft
He glanced furtively over his shoulder, sure someone was watching or following him, but he could see no-one. You’re just being paranoid, he told himself. If you carry on like this, people are going to realise something’s up.
Before he even realised what he was doing, he ducked down the alleyway to his left, marching as quickly as he could, before stepping into a gap by a garage block and standing with his back against it.
He needed to compose himself. This wasn’t the way things got done.
They’d told him they’d look after him, but the truth was he hadn’t heard from them in a day or two. He’d gone into the Spitfire hoping he might be able to update someone — or that someone might update him — but it had been full of old boys talking about their medication and how the old butcher’s shop on the corner used to be miles better than the supermarket that sprung up in town and finished it off.
He felt he was getting in further over his head than he’d ever intended to. Events hadn’t quite gone to plan, but that meant there was no backing out now. Not now a woman was dead. His only option now was to see this out and and wait for it all to blow over. As much as he might have wanted it, there was no going back.
He knew how much money the bookies took, and that would definitely provide a pretty lucrative payday. Then again, he’d thought that about the petrol stations, but they still hadn’t been happy — even with forty-five grand. They wanted more. But there wasn’t more. At least not amongst the newsagents, coffee shops and tanning studios that lined the high street. But the bookies might just be his way out.
There was no way he could tell them he’d had enough. He knew that. All they needed to do was make a phone call and he’d be thrown under the bus. They had more than enough on him, and it was no longer a case of robbery. He’d be an accessory to murder.
Content enough that the coast was clear, he stepped back out into the alleyway and returned to Heathcote Road. He headed straight home, but a little quicker this time.
When he got back to his flat, he darted up the stairs, unlocked his front door and closed it behind him, making sure he locked the latch, deadbolt and security chain. He could already feel his heart rate returning to normal.
Without turning on the lights, he stepped into his living room and peered round the edge of the curtains, down onto the street below. He couldn’t see anything, but then he didn’t know what he was looking for.
He went into his bedroom, knelt down on the floor beside his bed and pulled the shoebox out from under it.
He paused for a moment, unsure whether or not this was the right thing to do. Cosy chats in the corner of the pub were far more secure and far less risky, but what choice did he have? He hadn’t heard anything from them, and that worried him. In any case, he had something to pass on to them. Something which might give him some leverage or bargaining power in convincing them to leave him be.
He took the lid off the shoebox and rummaged around inside the shredded paper before pulling out a cheap, basic mobile phone.
They’d given him the burner when he’d agreed to help out and pass information on to them, and he’d only switched it on once since then. Everything else had been done through the pub. He should only use it in emergencies, they told him. Well, fuck, this was an emergency. A woman was dead, they’d gone quiet and he was starting to get the jitters. All police officers knew what came next when someone got the jitters. That was when things started to fall apart. That was when friends and family noticed a change in behaviour and made a casual remark to a police officer. It was when deviations from normal patterns were spotted. It was the beginning of the end.
Theo couldn’t risk that happening. So yes, this was an emergency.
He held down the button on the top of the phone and watched as the screen lit up, flooding the small room with white light.
He stood and walked into his living room as he called one of the pre-programmed numbers and waited for it to connect.
‘Hello? Yeah, it’s me. Listen, I’ve not seen you around for a couple of days so I wanted to give you an update. I think I’ve got another one for you. Bookies in town. You around tomorrow?’
The person at the other end said nothing, then terminated the call.
Theo stood for a moment, wondering if perhaps there’d been some sort of fault on the line, but deep down he knew that wasn’t the case. This was all part of it. They were keeping him at arm’s length, hedging their bets. He’d go to the Spitfire tomorrow in any case, and see if anyone was around. If they weren’t there then, they could go fuck themselves. He was done.
He’d wanted out for a long time. Out of this, out of the job, out of his shitty meaningless existence. He’d always regretted not taking some time between school and work to go travelling, see some of the world. He’d always fancied Asia and the Far East. Maybe he’d use this as an opportunity to grasp it with both hands.
He bent over to pick up his laptop, the compression forcing out a belch which allowed him to taste the remnants of those four pints. He put the laptop on the coffee table in front of him, sat down on the sofa and loaded up his web browser.
He typed ‘flights to Japan’ in the search bar and browsed the results, hoping for something leaving Heathrow within the next couple of days. Fuck the job — he’d go AWOL. What was the worst they could do?
Maybe he’d call in sick, tell them he was suffering from depression or something. He’d had a couple of colleagues who’d had time off with depression, and the force did absolutely nothing. No support, no follow-up phone calls, no checks on his welfare. That sounded absolutely ideal right now.
He needed another drink. He cleared his throat and stood up before going to cross the hallway into his kitchen. As he did so, he stopped and looked towards the front door.
The entry mat had moved. He was sure of it.
He was always so careful to make sure it sat square against the doorframe, every time he went in or out. There was no way he’d have left it skew-whiff like that. He’d only had four pints.
Before he could process what was happening, he saw a brief blur, then felt the crushing pain of a large forearm tightening around his neck.
30
Jack had waited to feed the extra information about Theo Curwood back to Professional Standards. When he and Wendy got back the previous afternoon, he’d gone into his office on the pretext of making the call, but decided against it. This was something he needed to sleep on. In any case, he couldn’t risk having to tell Professional Standards he’d been conducting his own investigation into Curwood. That was well beyond his remit, and would likely result in Jack being the next subject of their investigation.
The first knock on his office door that morning was from Wendy.
‘Want a coffee?’ she asked.
She never asked him if he wanted coffee. Everyone got their own. That was the way it was.
‘No thanks,’ he replied, not looking up from the stack of papers in front of him.
‘How are you feeling?’ she eventually asked.
‘Fucked off.’
Wendy stepped forward and sat down in the chair in front of his desk. ‘Look, it happens. It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault but his.’
Jack shook his head. ‘We rooted all this shit out years ago. Nowadays there’s no such thing as a corrupt officer. Only officers who’ve been corrupted.’
‘You still think McCann’s behind this?’ she asked.
‘I know McCann is behind this.’
Wendy raised her eyebrows briefly.
‘What? You don’t think he is?’ Jack said.
‘I don’t know. All signs seem to point that way, but how many times have we been in that situation? He’s the master of covering his own arse. Proving anything and nailing him to something is going to be impossible.’
‘He’s a bloody director of the company that fitted the door to Elsie Fogg’s shop. And the security company Gumbert’s hired to look after his petrol stations.’
This w
as news to Wendy. ‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
‘But that makes no sense. Why would McCann want to be involved with the security at the petrol stations after he’s rinsed them for forty-five grand? Doesn’t seem sensible to return to the scene of the crime. And in any case, Gumbert’s likely to be ruined by losing all that money. The petrol stations probably won’t be there in a few months.’
Jack scrunched his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Trust me, I’ve been lying awake all night thinking about that. The best I can come up with is that this is another way of him getting his foot in the door ready to “rescue” another failing business. I’d bet my house on him being listed as a director within weeks.’
‘Wouldn’t that be massively risky, though? Especially for him. He’s not the sort of person to take those risks. He always makes sure he’s got himself covered.’
‘That’s the problem. That’s why it doesn’t make any sense. But I had another thought. What if one of the side benefits of these robberies is that McCann’s company can frighten local business owners into feeling they need extra security, which he then steps in and provides? It’s something that happens all the time in the big cities. It’s like a silent, unspoken, covert protection racket.’
‘It’s possible,’ Wendy said. ‘But again, risky.’
‘All crime involves some sort of risk. And you and I both know he’s as criminal as it gets.’
‘And Theo’s his information man?’
‘Makes sense. He lives up the end of Heathcote Road. Would make sense that his local is the Spitfire. And we both know who owns that.’
‘McCann.’
‘The one and only. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he found out Theo was a copper and somehow managed to threaten or scare him into passing on information about the security setups in local businesses.’
‘Again, possible. Or maybe Theo’s just a bad egg. It does happen.’
Jack shook his head. ‘No. Not like that, it doesn’t. Not when McCann’s around. If anything, Theo needs our help. We need to get him back onside. We need to give him support and protection and find out what really happened. That way we can nail that cunt McCann once and for all. Come on,’ he said, standing up. ‘Grab your coat.’
‘Why? Where are we going?’
‘Theo’s got the day off. I checked. We’re going to pay him a little visit.’
31
‘Look, let’s not be too hasty, shall we?’ Wendy said. ‘We can’t go treading on the toes of Professional Standards.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Theo is their investigation. Our job is to find out who’s responsible for the robberies and the death of Elsie Fogg.’
‘And what if it’s the same person? We know it is. There’s nothing saying we can’t speak to someone we suspect of being involved in a major crime we’re investigating.’
‘I’m not sure that’s true now Professional Standards are involved,’ Wendy replied.
Jack pushed his tongue into the inside of his cheek and rolled his jaw. ‘Fuck it. I’m doing it anyway,’ he said.
‘Wait. Think about it for a second. It’s not even Professional Standards we want to worry about. Yeah, alright, you’d probably be able to argue your case with them and we’d be in the clear, but having you referred to Professional Standards isn’t going to go down well with Penny Andrews, is it? She’ll have your guts for garters.’
Jack seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘To be honest with you, I couldn’t give a shit what that woman thinks.’
‘Nor me,’ Wendy said. ‘But she’s the decision maker. Do you really want to give her more ammunition to shut us down and move everything to Milton House?’
‘We can’t just let this go, Knight. We’re onto something here. Something big. I can taste it.’
‘I know. I’m not suggesting we let it go. I’m just saying there might be better ways of doing things.’
‘Like what?’
Wendy hadn’t thought that far ahead. ‘Why don’t we try phoning him first?’ she said.
‘What, and spooking the fucker so he does a runner?’
‘No, we tread a bit more carefully than that.’
‘How? We can’t just ring him up and ask him if he’s being leant on by Gary McCann. He’ll peg it.’
‘And how is going round to his house and asking the same thing going to be any different?’
‘He can’t do a runner if we’re there.’
Wendy chuckled to herself. ‘With all due respect, I think he’d stand a pretty good chance. Neither of us is in shape.’
‘Oi. Round is a shape.’
‘Look, just let me phone him first,’ Wendy said. ‘I’ll think of something. The most important thing right now is not spooking Theo or getting ourselves on the wrong side of Professional Standards. Can I use your computer?’ she said, gesturing towards his desk.
‘Might as well. I can’t make head nor tail of the bloody thing.’
Wendy took a few moments to navigate her way through the awkward and clunky Mildenheath Police intranet system, eventually finding Theo Curwood’s mobile phone number in the staff directory.
She typed the number into her own mobile, then pressed Call.
The phone took a couple of seconds to dial, then began to ring. After a while, it became clear Theo wasn’t going to answer.
‘I don’t think he’s going to pick up,’ Wendy said, turning round to look at Jack.
But he was gone.
* * *
Wendy eventually caught up with Jack in the car park.
‘Guv! Wait!’
‘Get your arse in the car within the next five seconds and you can come,’ he yelled back across the tarmac.
Wendy jogged over to the car and got in. ‘I thought we agreed we were ringing him first?’ she said, out of breath.
‘We did ring him first. He didn’t answer. Ten quid says he’s seen the call come in, panicked and legged it. Just like I said he would. That’s why,’ he said, his wheels screeching on the ground as he accelerated out of the car park and onto the main road, ‘we’re not hanging around.’
* * *
It took them just over four minutes to reach Theo Curwood’s flat. It would usually have taken longer, but Jack wasn’t hanging around. Wendy wondered if his car’s suspension felt as sore as her spine after having hit each speed bump on the way at over forty miles an hour.
They pulled up in a space right outside the block of flats and went inside. When they reached the front door of Theo’s flat, Jack held his finger down on the buzzer for a good five seconds, before taking it off and knocking — just to make it perfectly clear there was someone at the door.
After a short while, it became clear there was no answer.
‘He’s either out somewhere, driving or has done a bunk,’ Wendy said.
‘In which case, we need to go after him,’ Jack replied.
‘Go where? He could have gone anywhere, any time. And in any case, it’s not our problem. PS are investigating him. If they’re doing their job properly, they’ll be tracking him.’
‘Yeah. If.’
Wendy watched as Jack stepped back away from the door, defeated in his chase. ‘Let’s just head back, yeah? We can update PS and let them know we wanted to speak to Theo about something else, but that we couldn’t get hold of hi—’
Wendy’s sentence was interrupted by the sound of the bottom of Jack’s boot smashing into the locking mechanism of Theo’s front door, sending it swinging back against the wall with a crash.
‘Honey, we’re home!’ he called into the flat as he marched inside.
Wendy let out a groan of frustration as she followed him, watching as he made his way down the corridor, pushing open the bedroom and bathroom doors to his left and right, peering inside.
Jack got to the end of the corridor and pushed open the door to his right — the kitchen — before turning and looking in the opposite direction, into the living room.
Wendy could tell immediately that something was very wrong. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
She stepped forward so she could see into the room too. See what Jack was looking at. Theo Curwood was hanging from the light fitting, a crude noose tied around his neck.
It was clear why Jack had stayed on the spot and not made any attempt to get him down: Theo was grey, his face swollen. He was a long time dead.
32
The atmosphere in the incident room the next day was different from anything they’d felt in a long time. It was always shocking when a police officer died, whether in the line of duty or through other means, but for Jack and Wendy the shock was even more acute.
Whereas the rest of their colleagues believed this to be a tragic moment, they knew otherwise. They were aware of Theo Curwood’s involvement with the robberies and the death of Elsie Fogg. He hadn’t just been a police officer who’d died — this was the result of a level of dark corruption which would have far-reaching and dramatic repercussions.
Jack and Wendy, having been unable to listen to any more of the talk about how Theo was a much-loved colleague and his death was so tragic, had decamped to Jack’s office, where they could at least speak to each other in a frank and honest manner.
‘Bit fucking convenient, if you ask me,’ Jack said, leaning back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest.
‘Taking the easy way out, you mean?’
Jack shook his head. ‘Quite the opposite. There’s no way it was suicide.’
‘We don’t know yet. Not until the coroner’s report. But there wasn’t anyone at the scene who thought it was anything else. From what I hear, no concerns have been raised.’
‘I’m not having it. There’s more to it than this.’
‘Think about it, though,’ Wendy said. ‘It fits the pattern you mentioned yesterday. If Theo was just a young, naive officer who managed to have his arm twisted by McCann — or somebody — into providing information in return for some quick cash, there’s every chance he would’ve panicked when Elsie Fogg died. Maybe the gang put pressure on him to keep quiet, get more information, who knows? Things will have stepped up a gear, massively. You reckoned he was going to leg it. Maybe you weren’t so far from the truth.’
