Evil Valley (The TV Detective Series)

by Simon Hall

  ‘And the marksman always shoots to kill?’ asked Suzanne. ‘He doesn’t aim for the legs for example, to disable a suspect?’

  ‘It’s not called shoot to kill,’ said Whiting, ‘but that is largely for reasons of public relations. It’s officially known as a “shoot to stop” policy. Marksmen are trained and ordered to fire at the body. So even if it’s not the intention to kill, that is the likely outcome. The logic is that when a situation has become so grave that a marksman has to fire, he must do so in a way most likely to ensure he removes the threat he faces. That is why he targets the body.’

  ‘And no baton gun in this case?’ asked Claire. ‘No thoughts about using that to incapacitate rather than kill?’

  ‘You’ll see from the statement they did consider using a baton gun but decided not to do so. It’s very much bigger and bulkier than a pistol. They believed it could have impeded them in the close confines of the house they were entering. The evidence we have seen so far leads me to conclude – initially of course – that was a fair judgement.’

  His eyes flicked over them and Claire and Suzanne both nodded. ‘Shall we go on to Ms Chanter’s statement? It contains some evidence you may well find distressing.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ they both replied and began reading.

  * * *

  Sergeant Dicks had a nagging feeling he recognised the man but wasn’t sure from where. Maybe someone he’d met in his days on the beat? Some party? A friend of a friend? Whatever, it didn’t matter and he wasn’t going to embarrass himself by asking. The guy seemed friendly, knowledgeable and decent. And they didn’t get many applicants for the position. Just the one in fact. He was suitable and he’d do. It was only for a few weeks until Mick came back, after all.

  ‘So you’re happy with changing the barrels, cleaning the pipes, all that sort of thing?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And you don’t mind working with police officers? They can get a bit bawdy sometimes.’

  ‘No problem. I’m sure I’ve seen far worse in the places I’ve worked in.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You’d be surprised.’

  ‘Well, if there’s trouble, I won’t have to worry about how long it’ll take the police to get here, will I?’

  Sergeant Dicks chuckled. This was the man for them, sense of humour a golden indispensable. ‘No, don’t worry, we look after our little club. You won’t have any trouble. OK, if you’re happy I’ll leave you to it. As I said, I don’t know how long we’ll need you for, but it’s likely to be about a month until the regular barman’s leg heals.’

  ‘Sure. That’s fine by me.’

  ‘OK then, goodnight and good luck.’

  Sergeant Dicks climbed the stairs from the basement, pushed open the fire door, got into his car, the barrier lifted and he drove out of Charles Cross police station. Where did he recognise that chap from? He was sure he’d seen him before somewhere. Well, whatever, he seemed honest enough, a good smart hair cut, even if he hardly looked like a natural blond.

  The Sergeant set plenty of store by a good haircut. When he’d joined the force, a short back and sides was obligatory, but now they came in with all manner of odd styles. Anyway, the club bar was covered and that was the main thing, the lads would have somewhere for a cheap drink when they wanted it. His mind turned to thoughts of the brunch of sausage, bacon, egg, chips and beans awaiting him at home.

  It always felt unfair when your birthday fell in midweek, she thought. For an adult, it was just about tolerable. You did your day’s work, opened a present or two, and you could look forward to the weekend and the celebratory meal, the drinks out with your friends, perhaps even a little private party. But for an eight, soon to be nine year old, stuck in the disciplined confines of school on your special day, it was near insufferable. So it hadn’t taken much pleading before she agreed they could take the bus into Plymouth this fine Saturday morning with the promise of a little advance of birthday money to buy some new jewellery.

  The young girl bobbed her head back and forth and counted the passing shops, her pony tail flying. Sitting by her side on the worn seats, Mum calmed her daughter with a kind hand and turned to apologise to the old lady sitting behind them, receiving an understanding smile in return.

  ‘Mum, I think I want some new hair slides.’ She waved the plaited golden rope with a hand. ‘Some of the other girls say it’s out of date like this. They bunch theirs up with slides. I’d like blue … to go with my eyes. Bright blue … and with glitter on too, maybe. Janey’s got one of those. It looks lovely. Hers is shaped like a butterfly. I think I know where to get them.’

  Mum thought, but didn’t say, how she loved the golden pony tail. ‘Don’t forget you’ve only got five pounds to spend today.’

  She beamed out a grin, exposing the gap between her front teeth. ‘I’m rich! Rich, rich, rich!’

  Other people on the bus were joining in the smile. Her own face was warming too. It was impossible to resist. Children did that. In even the most sullen of company, their delight in life was infectious.

  ‘And then next week I’ve got my real birthday to look forward too,’ the girl bubbled. ‘I’ll wear my new hair slide when I open my presents. Can I open them before school? Can I? And can I have my friends round at the weekend, like you said? Can I?’

  Mum tugged gently at the flying pony tail to calm her. ‘We’ll have to see. It depends if you’re a good girl or not.’

  ‘And are we there yet? At the shops? Mum, I’m worried they might sell out of hair slides before we get there.’

  More smiles from the surrounding passengers.

  ‘We’re almost there. And I doubt they’ll sell out, don’t worry. Look, a hair slide won’t cost all of your five pounds. Why don’t you work out what else you’d like to buy and let Mum have a bit of peace?’

  She nodded hard, the smile fading into a frown of concentration as she began counting off the money on her fingers. ‘Hair slide … necklace … bracelet … all matching, of course. Or maybe not …’

  Jo Chanter’s statement started with the background to the shooting.

  “I was married to Richard, known as Richie Hanson for six years but retained my maiden name. We have lived together for all that time. At the start of our relationship, there was no sign of him being violent. But, about a year ago, he seemed to change and would sometimes hit me. At first, this was largely in the body area. I believe that was so the bruises would not show. He would often hit me on the back with a belt, leaving extensive marks and bruising. About three months ago, his abuse became worse and he would sometimes punch me, not just in the body but in the face too. He would also threaten me with a knife although he never actually attacked me with it.

  “On the night of Thursday, 22nd October, I told him I wanted a divorce and we had a row. It escalated and he again hit me, threatened me with a knife and said he was going to kill me. I called 999, but was unable to speak as he attacked me and cut the call. About ten minutes after that, there was a knock on the door. By then, I feared for my life and was screaming. He had cornered me in the kitchen and was still threatening me with a knife. I was lying on the floor to protect myself. He was standing over me, shouting and occasionally kicking me. I was extremely frightened. The next thing I knew, I heard a crash from the front of the house, shouting and then what sounded like two pops. Richard was lying on the floor and there was a police officer, standing over him with a gun, while another officer tried to talk to me to see if I was all right. I was taken away by an ambulance crew and cared for.”

  For Claire, it always happened when she heard a story of domestic violence. Her mind ranged back to the downstairs neighbour in the flat where she used to live, that night the woman had knocked hesitantly, so softly on her door, as if fearing the reaction, flinched back when Claire had opened it. She had blood trickling through her matted hair, drying on her trembling lips. She’d pleaded for help, her body shaking, endlessly apologising, telling Claire it was all her fault for not getting
the tea ready on time.

  Of the many corpses she’d seen now, the living dead too; their bodies cut, torn, ripped and battered, hanging on the sheer line between life and death in a hospital bed, that memory was still one of the most vivid and haunting she knew. It was the one that always returned.

  Why she wondered? Why so powerful? Because of the words the woman had stumbled out, the desperate pleas, the way she blamed herself for the viciousness unleashed upon her. And because Claire, despite the eternal lesson of not getting involved, had tried to help, had called in a couple of police officers she knew, had rung the crisis lines, the shelters, found the woman a place to stay and hide, a sympathetic detective to investigate. And despite all that, she’d gone back to the flat when he called her and she had refused to press charges.

  And that night, more crashes and screams from downstairs. Claire had gone to the estate agents the next day to find a new flat to rent, couldn’t bear the images her imagination brought.

  ‘What do we need to follow up there?’ asked Whiting, when Claire and Suzanne finished reading.

  ‘It seems consistent with Gardener’s statement, sir,’ Claire replied, trying to keep her voice neutral. ‘I never understand why women don’t just get out.’

  ‘That is not the issue we’re examining here,’ hissed Whiting. ‘Retain your focus, Claire.’

  The embarrassment brought a blush to her face and she stared down at her boots to hide it.

  ‘Does the medical evidence tally, sir?’ asked Suzanne quickly, to distract Whiting.

  ‘Yes it does, Suzanne. The doctors found old bruises on Ms Chanter’s body, consistent with her statement. There were also new injuries on her body and face, which had been inflicted in the last few hours. They were not cuts, but were consistent with her being punched.’

  ‘And what about the ballistics and other evidence, sir?’ asked Claire.

  ‘That tallies too. You’ve seen the computer simulation. The front door is kicked in – we have Crouch’s boot prints on it – and the two marksmen move up the hall. We have their prints on the carpet, Crouch taking the lead as the statements say. His footwear is the larger by two sizes. Crouch moves around the corner and then stops, Gardener behind him. Two shots are fired by Crouch, both hitting Mr Hanson in the chest. He dies instantaneously. Ballistics indicate they were fired from exactly the position Crouch says, angling downwards to hit Mr Hanson as he bent over Ms Chanter in the kitchen. He then collapses by her side. Any questions on that?’

  They both shook their heads. ‘The final evidence we must recap on before we interview PC Crouch is that from the shooting of five months ago,’ continued Whiting. ‘As you know, the circumstances there were very similar, which is why I was called in to investigate. Again PC Crouch and PC Gardener were on duty together in an armed-response vehicle. They were called to a house in Bodmin at about nine o’clock in the evening, a similar time to the Saltash shooting. Again the call came from the woman who lived there. She said her husband was attacking her with a knife, then the call was cut. Again PC Crouch kicked the door down, again he went into the house first.’

  ‘His statement says he got to the rear of the house, a dining room where he came upon a man threatening a woman with a knife. He shouted a warning but the man ignored it. He feared for the safety of the woman, so again, in that case, he fired twice. The man was hit in the chest, again dying instantaneously. Again PC Gardener did not see the actual shooting as he was behind PC Crouch who was standing in the doorway of the dining room. Again the woman said the man had abused her over a period of years and that they were having a row that night, him threatening her with a knife. Again the medical examinations back that up. Again, PC Gardener’s, the woman’s and PC Crouch’s statements are entirely consistent. Again the forensic and ballistics evidence back them up.’

  Whiting paused, stared at both of them. ‘So … what do we make of all that?’ he asked, his sibilant voice drawing out the start of the sentence.

  ‘It’s frighteningly similar, sir,’ whispered Claire. ‘Just frighteningly.’

  ‘Yes,’ hissed Whiting. ‘Frighteningly similar. Too similar to be a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’

  Claire and Suzanne both nodded. ‘Yet how else can we explain it?’ Whiting asked. ‘Some grand criminal conspiracy between these two women, two police officers with unblemished records and the medical, ballistics and forensics staff whose evidence backs up the accounts of what happened? Because it all tallies, right down to finding each man’s fingerprints on each knife he was supposed to be threatening each of the women with. It all adds up perfectly to produce the picture we’ve been presented with. So a conspiracy does not exactly seem likely, does it?’

  ‘No sir,’ they said together.

  ‘So, you see the problem with our interview. That is the point I wanted to draw to your attention. We may have suspicions, but we don’t have any evidence for them, apart from not liking the coincidence. In other words – we don’t know what we’re looking for, do we?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Suzanne.

  ‘And then we’ve got those two other factors to inquire about. That strange note we found in PC Crouch’s house. It looked like a computer password, didn’t it? Greater Wessex Police’s technical division have been all through his computer and have found nothing strange or suspicious whatsoever. No files, emails or web sites that he’s visited. But we must still ask him about it. What could it mean? What might it suggest?’

  Again the two women nodded. Claire wondered if Suzanne was also starting to feel irritated by Whiting’s lecturing manner.

  ‘And then there’s the last matter we must investigate,’ he said, sweeping the papers from the desk into his briefcase and standing up. ‘The fact that personnel and background checks on PC Crouch have revealed nothing unusual or possibly relevant, apart from one thing. Just the one.’

  He paused, stared at them before speaking, his eyes narrowing. ‘His daughter Marie – his only child – was also a victim of domestic violence … and was killed by her husband in their own home after a row.’

  No one spoke, but Claire could see the word in all their thoughts. It was so obvious it could have been painted on the walls of the office. One of the Holy Grails of detective work.

  Motive. For murder.

  Chapter Seven

  PC MARTIN CROUCH HARDLY looked like a killer, but then they seldom did. He was more like an uncle who’d popped in for a cup of tea, Claire mused. There was no hint of tension about him, none of the twitches, fiddling hands or cold sweats the thriller writers would have you believe. If only there were. She’d often thought how much easier it would make the detective’s job.

  He sat in the interview room, leaned back on the plastic chair, his legs crossed. A cup of coffee stood in front of him and he studied it as he sipped, looking up only when Claire, Suzanne and Whiting walked into the brick-walled, low-ceilinged, whitewashed room.

  He appeared younger than his 51 years, no doubt the product of looking after himself well. The firearms officers were regularly tested for fitness, had to be with the amount of gear they carried. He was thin but with a wiry strength, had mousy hair, cut fairly short, grey eyes and a mottled skin, the most noticeable feature his oddly small ears. He was wearing a black polo-neck jumper and jeans. A silver crucifix hung outside the jumper, and his hands occasionally strayed there, stroking a careful finger over it.

  He stood up when they walked in, not as tall as she’d expected him to be, about five feet nine or so. He caught her by surprise by reaching out a hand to shake hers, then Suzanne’s and lastly Whiting’s.

  ‘I don’t hold it against you,’ he said, and his voice was quiet and calm. ‘I knew I’d be placed under investigation after what happened. I know you’ve got a job to do. All I’d ask is that you appreciate I had a job to do too, and as far as I’m concerned I did it.’

  Whiting produced his cold smile. ‘Of course. Please sit down PC Crouch and we’ll get started.’

 
; ‘Do call me Martin.’

  Suzanne pressed a button on the tape recorder set into the wall and a low metallic buzz filled the room. She identified them all and gave the time, 10.04. Claire pulled her jacket tighter around her chest. It was always cold in the interview rooms, and with the autumn coming on, it smelt damp too. Last year, there had been a move to renovate them, but it had been vetoed by CID. They liked this atmosphere. It encouraged suspects to talk.

  Whiting took a couple of pennies, some fives and a ten-pence piece from his pocket and placed them on the table beside him in a pyramid.

  ‘PC Crouch, can I start by asking you to take us through what happened on Thursday night please,’ began Whiting, his unblinking eyes fixed on the man. ‘We have a copy of the 999 call and the emergency controller’s message sending you to Haven Close, so you can start with your arrival at the house. Take your time. It’s important you tell us every detail.’

  Martin Crouch stroked a finger over his cross, closed his eyes and spoke. His voice was soft and level. He recounted the same story they’d heard a couple of times now, how he and his fellow marksman, PC Andy Gardener, had arrived at Haven Close, agreed there was a threat to life in the house and decided to force their way in.

  Whiting listened intently, his fingers on his temples, taking the odd note. Claire recognised the technique. Let the subject talk, relax a little, then interject with a question, then another, increase the pace and pressure of the interview, test his story.

  ‘I stood back and kicked at the door,’ Crouch was saying. ‘After a couple of blows it gave and we walked into the hallway. Then I …’

  ‘Your guns were drawn?’ Whiting interrupted fast.

  ‘Yes. We didn’t know what to expect inside the house so we agreed we should draw them.’

  ‘You went first into the house?’