An Eye for an Eye (Detective Kate Young)

by Carol Wyer

  ‘We’ve found out what was used to torture the victims,’ Kate told her. ‘It’s a medieval instrument of torture – a choke-pear. I’ve left information about it out on my desk, so take a look. I’m off to talk to a collector and see if I can learn more. I shouldn’t be long. How did you get on?’

  ‘Forensics are short-staffed, but they’ll send somebody across to Ian’s cottage tomorrow morning to check for prints.’

  ‘Will you go back and meet up with them?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll do that. I need to talk to a few more locals. Those I’ve spoken to didn’t see Ian or any strangers on Friday night. I’ve also found out he ate alone at the Duck Inn – a smart bistro about twenty minutes away from the cottage. Apparently, he booked a table for two, but his guest didn’t show. The waiter overheard him speaking to somebody on the phone. Something about a missed flight. He remarked that Ian fell into a foul mood after the call and complained about the food.’

  ‘Anyone else in the restaurant at the time?’

  ‘Only two other couples. I tracked them down. They vaguely remembered seeing Ian.’

  ‘Okay, try asking around the village again tomorrow. Oh yes, will you also ask whoever turns up from Forensics to check for fingerprints belonging to Rory Winters while they’re at it?’

  ‘But Rory claimed he rebuffed Ian’s advances. He’s unlikely to have gone to the cottage.’

  ‘Best to double-check. People have a habit of lying to get themselves out of trouble.’

  Emma nodded, then hesitated and asked, ‘Has Morgan come back?’

  ‘No. He rang earlier to update me on his lack of progress. Cooper is being elusive. What is it with you and Morgan?’

  ‘He’s being a jerk at the moment.’

  ‘Sort it out, Emma. I don’t want any office politics or fallouts. We’ve bigger issues to deal with.’

  ‘I know.’

  Kate let it drop. They’d resolve whatever it was.

  It took Kate twenty minutes to find her way to Stefan’s house. The evening traffic was building up and she’d caught every red traffic light between the station and Hadley Street. She stared out at the tail lights in front of her and wondered what her next move would be.

  ‘You need to interview Dickson,’ said Chris.

  ‘I know I do, but he’s already wary of me and I have to be careful what I say.’

  ‘Trip him up.’

  ‘How the fuck do I trip up my senior officer?’

  ‘Calm down, Kate. Think about it logically. Xavier was in Courcheval at the same time as Ian, Alex and Dickson. They were all mates. Consequently, Dickson must surely know about Ian and Alex’s involvement in the Maddox Club and he must know Xavier. If he claims otherwise, then you know he’s lying. Use that information.’

  ‘But how? What am I supposed to be trying to pin on Dickson?’

  Chris fell silent and all she could hear was the thudding of her own heart. She thumped the steering wheel with balled fists. A car blasted her from behind. The lights had changed from red to green and she hadn’t advanced. She lifted a hand in apology and edged forward.

  Hadley Street was lined with red-brick houses fronted by matching brick walls in various states of dilapidation and front gardens mostly tarmacked over or covered in gravel. Passing a line of run-down garages, she noticed a group of teenagers vaping by the paint-peeled frontages. They ignored her as she drove by. There were no children where she lived. Her house was on an estate populated only by upwardly mobile couples, a term that had made her laugh when she’d first encountered it. This place reminded her of her roots and the terraced house she and her father had lived in. She slowed down. She was almost at the address, number 167, an end-of-terrace property with white window frames and a blue door. She found a parking space on the street right outside the house and got out of the car.

  Stefan Gaul opened the door before she knocked. An infant was crying in the background. ‘Teething troubles,’ he said, as the cries increased in volume.

  Stefan was in his late thirties and Viking-like with his full blond beard, large frame and rubicund cheeks. He was an emergency medical technician for the West Midlands Ambulance Service and, although large in stature, quietly spoken. His handshake was hearty. ‘Come in. I keep everything out of the kiddies’ way. Don’t want them to get their sticky little paws on it.’

  They moved directly through the kitchen to the garage via a locked door. It wasn’t filled with the usual paraphernalia no longer required inside the house. Instead, it had been converted into a gym with a well-used punch bag suspended from a metal beam, a pile of weights stacked in order of size beside a workout bench, and a mat on the floor. In the far corner stood a metal storage cupboard. ‘This is my “man shed”,’ he explained. ‘The car’s too big to fit in it, so I use it for my hobbies – keep-fit, boxing and collecting.’

  ‘How did you get into collecting instruments of medieval torture?’

  ‘My father was an escape artist who travelled all over Europe. I didn’t acquire his flexibility or skill, but when he passed away a couple of years ago, I inherited his collection. Escapology was his passion and he became intrigued by contraptions throughout the ages used to restrain prisoners. He began collecting all manner of devices. My wife wasn’t happy about me keeping them, even though some are quite valuable, and not just historically speaking, so I’ve already sold quite a number of the larger items.’ He unlocked and opened the door to the cupboard.

  A range of strange articles stood on each shelf of the locker. Kate recognised thumbscrews and a cat o’ nine tails, but nothing else.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing at what appeared to be a pair of rusting scissors with a length of screw fitted to one end.

  ‘It’s called a tongue-tearer. The torturer would grab the tongue with it and then tighten the screw, and it literally tore the tongue from the mouth. It was mostly used on heretics.’

  ‘Nice,’ she replied with a grimace.

  ‘This is what you’re asking about,’ he said, lifting an ornate device from the top shelf. ‘The pear of anguish, or choke-pear. It also would have been inserted into a prisoner’s mouth and then this screw wound up so it opened the mouth wide. It couldn’t be removed unless it was unlocked.’

  Kate held out her hand and studied the metal object. It most definitely looked like a metal pear. The top resembled an ornate key, bearing a design of two goat-like humans facing each other and playing trumpets or pipes. The key was attached to a length of thick screw that ran through the pear and was joined to one of three engraved petals by a spring. It would be, Kate mused, an attractive piece of work, if its purpose weren’t so sinister.

  ‘Want to see how it works?’

  Kate watched as Stefan screwed the key and the petals lifted wide. She could well imagine how uncomfortable it would feel inside her mouth.

  ‘What’s the significance of the engravings on the key?’ she asked.

  ‘I believe they were to differentiate the pear from others – there were different pears for different orifices,’ he said.

  ‘Any idea where somebody might get one of these?’

  ‘I saw one for sale on an antiques website a year ago for about £400. If you wanted one, you’d have to know a collector like me, or ask an antiques house if they had any coming up for sale. This one is destined for a museum in Germany – the Medieval Torture Museum – the Mittelälterliches Foltermuseum in Rüdesheim am Rhein. My father would be happy to know it was going to his homeland.’

  ‘It’s not something you can easily get your hands on, then?’

  ‘Not easy, but not impossible. They pop up from time to time on medieval-torture websites.’

  ‘Has anyone tried to approach you for yours in recent months?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nobody, which is why I contacted the museum and asked if they’d like to purchase it from me.’

  ‘And nobody could have gained access to yours?’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Do you
know anyone else who owns a choke-pear?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nobody. Is there anything else I can help you with?’ He replaced the pear on the shelf and locked the cupboard back up as he spoke.

  ‘No, thank you. You’ve been most helpful. I’ll leave my card in case you hear of anyone who might have one. I’d like to speak to them.’ She passed him the card, which he pocketed carefully.

  ‘I’ll ask about.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that. Thank you.’

  It had been a long day and Kate stopped off at the supermarket for much-needed provisions. As she pondered the possibility that ex-SAS soldiers Bradley and Cooper, who were trained in the art of interrogation, might have a choke-pear in their possession, she filled the wire basket absent-mindedly. It need not be the genuine article. The one used on Alex and Ian could be a replica.

  There were few customers in the over-bright shop and she trundled down the aisles, reaching for fruit and tins and packets. The ambient music playing throughout the store changed and she recognised Eric Clapton’s ‘Wonderful Tonight’, the first song she and Chris had danced to at their wedding reception. She slowed down, then reminded herself that retailers used music to influence shopping habits and the slow tempo would make her walk at a more leisurely pace around the store. She sped up, ignored the smell of freshly baked bread being piped from the bakery counter, and headed directly to the checkout, where a bored-looking girl took her basket and began scanning items. As each purchase passed through with a blip, Kate shoved them into the plastic bag she’d brought along with her.

  ‘Twelve pounds fifty-two,’ said the girl, passing Kate the last item.

  Kate reached for the extra-large box of cereal containing chocolate pieces, eyes fixed on a note with a smiley face stuck to the box. ‘These are yummy. Please buy some more of them.’ She blinked hard to dispel the image and was overcome with a pain in her chest so intense it doubled her over and took her breath away.

  The checkout girl leapt to her feet. ‘You okay?’

  Kate fought for recovery. ‘Fine. Just not eaten today.’ She thrust her contactless card against the machine then scooped up the box.

  ‘Don’t forget your receipt,’ shouted the girl, but too late, as Kate hastened outside, where she sucked at the air, face lifted to the sky, and battled the anger and fear coiling around her heart.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  MONDAY, 7 JUNE – EVENING

  Morgan had spent all day attempting to track down Cooper Monroe. It had been a fruitless effort and by evening he only had one more stop to make, at Corby International warehouse, where Cooper worked. He shoved his mobile back in his pocket. There was another missed call from Emma. No doubt she was worried he’d speak to William about Kate. He didn’t feel like talking to her and, if he was honest, he was annoyed that she refused to accept Kate was clearly having problems or even some sort of breakdown.

  The problem was hero worship. Emma wanted to be like Kate and wouldn’t have a bad word said against the woman. Up until recently, Morgan would have agreed wholeheartedly. Kate Young was one heck of a detective and, because of that, he’d say nothing for the moment, but if he saw Kate taking any more medication, or acting bizarrely, he was going to bring the matter to William’s attention, regardless of what Emma thought.

  He arrived at the warehouses belonging to Corby International and pulled up in front of a barrier, where a camera read his car’s number plate before lifting to allow him access. He drew up beside a hut only a few metres inside the yard. There, a figure in a peaked cap was expecting him.

  Jack Pollock, in his early fifties, with heavy eyebrows and a pockmarked face, invited the officer inside. Morgan glanced around the space, big enough for two men, with two chairs in front of a lengthy table over which hung fifteen monitors, each displaying black-and-white images of the yard and warehouses. A mug of tea steamed on the table in front of them.

  ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘Fair enough. Take a seat.’ Jack dropped down on to his chair and lifted his mug to his lips. Morgan sat beside him.

  ‘I’m looking for Cooper. I don’t suppose you have any idea where he might be, do you?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him since last Monday.’

  ‘We need to talk to him. He might be able to throw light on our investigation.’

  ‘Into Alex Corby’s death?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jack sipped his tea. ‘You know, the boss has never once come here in all the years I’ve worked here. I doubt Cooper will be able to help you any more than I can.’

  ‘What can you tell me about Cooper?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, what do you talk to each other about when you’re on shift together? There are two chairs in this room, so I guess you normally work in pairs?’

  ‘Yes, we usually work in twos. I’m supposed to be with him tonight, but the warehouse manager couldn’t find last-minute cover for him, so I’m on my own until he gets back. Pity I don’t get double pay for doing the job of two men.’

  ‘What do you both talk about when you’re stuck in here all night?’ Morgan repeated.

  Jack thought for a minute. ‘Mostly about the past. He was in the Special Forces. Was in for twenty years. Lifetime, isn’t it? Me, I was in the Paras – fourteen years in total, which was more than enough for me, I can tell you.’

  ‘Did he discuss his time in the SAS?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘Guys like us don’t need to reminisce over some of the shit we’ve seen and done. He said something, though, that resonated with me – he said sometimes he feels like he can’t hack his life now. He actually prefers war to civvy life. I understand what he meant. Some ex-servicemen change so much, when we leave the army with its close-knit community and friendships we can’t adapt to civilian life. Cooper’s one of those men.’

  ‘So he’s still a military man at heart?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Through and through. He’d never have left the army if it hadn’t been for his wife. His daughter, Sierra, was about thirteen at the time, and she was going through a tough patch, if you get my drift – hanging out with the wrong sort, drugs – you can guess the rest. Cooper’s wife told him she couldn’t cope with the girl any more and walked out on them both. Pissed off to Canada. Cooper had no choice but to quit and look after Sierra himself. Credit to him, she tidied up her act, got back on track and not only is she holding down a job but doing a part-time course at college, and he’s dead proud of her. In fact, he’s bloody daft about her. I think sometimes she’s the only reason he keeps going.’

  ‘Did he tell you he was going to take time off?’

  ‘Nah, but I’m not surprised. He’s been feeling low the last few weeks. I kept asking him what was wrong, but he wouldn’t tell me. When he didn’t show up for work, I figured it was because of depression again.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s up and down like a yo-yo.’

  ‘Has he disappeared before?’

  ‘Yeah. A couple of times when it all gets too much for him. He usually buggers off to the Peak District or somewhere in the open and walks it off.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone he might stay with?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘No. He doesn’t talk about his friends, but I expect he knows lots of ex-soldiers. Brothers in arms for life, you know?’

  ‘Might he be staying with one of them?’

  ‘Could be.’ He gave a light shrug.

  Morgan scribbled his personal number on a page of his notebook, ripped it out and passed it to Jack. ‘If he gets in contact, would you ask him to ring me immediately?’

  Jack finished his tea in one gulp and slapped the mug down on the table. ‘Sure. However, if he’s disappeared, it’ll be for a reason, and I’m pretty sure if Cooper doesn’t want to be found, then he won’t be.’

  Back home, Kate flicked through the television channels, settling on a cookery programme. She wasn’t a great cook but
watching others baking cakes was cathartic. She thought back to the café where she’d met Fiona. She ought to talk to the woman again. She’d deal with it first thing in the morning.

  She watched as a contestant attempted to squirt icing on to their offering, her mind elsewhere. Some days she felt she was floating out of reach of the real world. Her mind was working but her body was lying dormant and sluggish, her eyes seeing but not registering what was happening.

  The jolt of reality actually made her jump. The pills. It was the bloody pills. How many had she taken? She forced herself up from the settee, holding on to the coffee table for support, and stumbled into the kitchen, where she’d left her handbag and shopping. She hadn’t put the milk in the fridge. It stood next to the cereal. What had happened when she’d got home?

  She lurched towards her bag and rummaged for the box of pills she’d taken to work. Clumsy fingers located it and she hunted for the foil interior. She let out a groan. She’d taken the lot – an entire strip gone in a day. It was a miracle she could walk and talk. She clambered up the stairs, clinging to the handrail, and made it to the bathroom, where she washed her face under a running tap, letting the cold water rouse her from her stupor.

  Several minutes later, she dried off and studied her reflection. She had let herself go. She looked haunted and drawn. Why hadn’t she noticed how ill and old she looked? And little wonder people kept asking how she was. She had to take charge. The pills weren’t assisting; if anything, they were making matters worse. She opened the medicine cabinet. One box remained. She dropped on her knees in front of the toilet and popped the pills, one by one, into the toilet bowl and flushed them away. She had to break free from their grip – go cold turkey. It was the only way.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  MONDAY, 7 JUNE – NIGHT

  Xavier Durand listened to the solid ticking of the grandfather clock in reception – a timepiece restored to its former glory at a substantial cost to owner Raymond Maddox – and considered his options. He’d withheld information from the police, but to tell the truth would implicate him. He had a wife and three children to support. He couldn’t tell the cops anything or he’d not only lose this position, he’d face charges.