by Simon Hall
‘Yes.’
‘PC Gardener’s statement said you always went first when there was a potentially dangerous situation. Why was that?’
Martin Crouch looked down at the floor and stroked his cross again. ‘Because I believe I have less to live for.’
‘Explain, please?’
‘Andy is a family man, with a wife and young son and daughter. I have no one. My wife and I divorced several years ago.’
Whiting sat up straighter, but said nothing, just held Crouch’s look. Claire couldn’t help but admire his interrogation technique. He’d switched approach, from a staccato burst of short and sharp questions to pressuring Crouch with silence. Clever.
The marksman paused, took a breath and his voice grew quieter. ‘And … well … I suppose I have to tell you this?’
More silence from Whiting. Only a look. It was enough.
Crouch breathed out hard again, continued. ‘Well … Marie, my only daughter … my only child … she’s dead. So if there is something waiting on the other side of a door, or around a corner when we go in, I believe I should find it first.’
Another scribbled note from Whiting. More silence. Then he looked up, pointed at Crouch’s cross.
‘I see you’re a religious man. Is that what makes you feel you should be subjected to danger before PC Gardener?’
Crouch looked surprised. ‘I don’t see anything religious in it at all. I think it’s purely a practical matter. If I should be killed, there’s no one who’ll suffer apart from me. If you mean – do I think I’ll get into heaven by doing so, making some sort of sacrifice, I think you misunderstand faith. You can’t bargain with God.’
Claire scratched an ear and looked out of the small, grimy window to hide a smile. One point to Crouch. She knew she shouldn’t feel it, that it was unprofessional, but it was nonetheless oddly enjoyable seeing Whiting being lectured. He gave out enough himself.
‘Putting aside matters of faith PC Crouch,’ hissed Whiting, ‘effectively you’re saying if anyone was going to be shot, or stabbed, or attacked, it would be better if it was you, as you have no dependents.’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you. That was all I wanted to establish. Please continue with your account of the night. We were at your entry into the hallway.’
Crouch nodded. ‘We walked slowly up the hall, Andy covering behind me in the standard way. It was dark, but there was a light ahead. The screaming had stopped, but I thought I could still hear a noise. It sounded like whimpering. So I moved slowly forwards. I came to a corner in the wall and moved around it, trying to be as quiet as possible. In front of me was a kitchen area. There was a woman, lying on the floor, her hair straggling over her face. She looked injured. A man was standing over her, holding a knife.’
‘Could you see the knife clearly?’
‘Yes.’
‘What kind was it?’
‘It was long-bladed and looked like a chopping knife.’
‘How long?’
Crouch held out his hands, stretched them apart. ‘About eight inches.’
‘And what did you think?’
‘I thought he was going to stab her.’
‘How could you know that?’
‘He was clearly dangerous. His face was angry and covered in sweat and his knuckles were white from gripping the knife. I think his hand was trembling and he had the knife up in a stabbing position. The woman was bleeding and I thought she may already have been stabbed.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I challenged him. I can’t swear to the exact words, but they were much as we’re trained. They were something like “armed police, put down the knife”.
‘Just the once?’
‘Twice. The second time was probably “armed police, put your hands where I can see them”.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Quite sure. It’s standard procedure – drilled into us – and I followed it.’
‘And then what happened?’
‘He didn’t drop the knife. He raised it, as if he was going to stab the woman.’
‘And then?’
‘I fired.’
‘Once?’
‘Twice.’
‘Twice?’
‘Yes. It’s standard practice to fire twice. In case a shot misses, or the suspect isn’t incapacitated.’
‘I’m aware of the procedure, PC Crouch,’ hissed Whiting. ‘I was testing your recollection. And then what happened?’
‘The man fell, next to the woman. I moved over to him to check he was no longer a threat. I saw I’d hit him with both shots and so Andy and I tried to administer first aid.’
‘With no success?’
‘No. I believe he’d been killed almost instantaneously.’
‘Been killed? You mean you killed him.’
Crouch twitched at the words. For the first time, Claire thought she heard an edge of irritation in his voice.
‘Yes, if you want to put it like that. I killed him. Or rather … I did my job.’
The two men studied each other for a moment, then Whiting asked, ‘Where was PC Gardener throughout this?’
‘Initially just behind me, in the hallway. After the shots were fired, alongside me in the kitchen.’
‘Why was he behind you when you fired?’
‘He was covering my back when we went into the house, then he couldn’t get past me because the hallway was narrow. He wouldn’t try if he saw I had raised my gun as it could affect my aim.’
‘I see.’
Whiting sat back on his chair, rummaged in his briefcase, produced a couple of sheets of paper. He slowly looked through them. Crouch watched him carefully. Claire sensed a new angle of attack coming. The papers Whiting was looking at detailed an expenses claim.
The silence ticked on. Crouch said nothing, just rubbed at a knee with his palm. Suzanne shifted on her chair, crossed her legs. Whiting placed the papers carefully back into his case, looked up.
‘Are you content with your actions?’
Crouch stared at him, stroked his cross again. Finally he said, ‘If you mean am I content I killed a man, then no, of course not. But if you mean – do I think I followed the procedures correctly and fired because it was the last resort left to me and in the protection of the public, then the answer is yes … I am.’
Another silence in the room. Footsteps echoed past in the corridor outside. A cell door clanged.
Whiting nodded slowly. ‘Thank you, PC Crouch. That’s all I want to ask about this incident, so …’
‘It’s not all I want to say.’
Whiting’s eyes narrowed. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said, I have something else to say. Something important. Something you need to hear.’
Martin Crouch was sounding increasingly irritated, as if he was being forced to repeatedly explain something patently obvious.
His voice rose, and he nodded to emphasise the words. ‘I can see you’re sceptical of what we do.’
‘I’m not anything …’
Crouch interrupted. ‘May I give you an insight into how difficult a job we have?’
‘If it’s relevant,’ Whiting hissed.
‘It’s entirely relevant. And you should appreciate it. It’s very easy sitting in an office passing judgement over a cup of tea and some biscuits. But when a firearms officer is faced with a threatening situation, he has to make a decision within a second or two. He has to accurately assess what is happening, whether there’s a danger to the public and himself and how to deal with that. It is by no means simple.’
Crouch paused, but Whiting said nothing.
‘He’s usually working in a situation which is unfolding and unclear,’ the marksman continued. ‘He probably won’t know exactly who he’s facing. Is it a terrorist? A violent criminal? Someone high on drugs? Or someone perhaps who’s lost their child in an accident, has got drunk to try to cope and is only ma
king a cry for help? He’s got to work that out in an instant. On top of that, most incidents he deals with are in the dark. There’s lots of confusion. Probably some shouting and screaming too. And amid all of that, he has to protect the public and has only a couple of seconds to decide how best to do so. Weighing on his mind in those brief seconds is the knowledge that if he does shoot, he’ll probably be suspended and put under investigation, something that usually lasts for weeks if not months. And through all that he’ll know there’s the danger of being charged with manslaughter, and having to face a criminal trial when he was only doing what he thought was his duty.’
Crouch paused again and took a sip of coffee, staring intently at Whiting all the while.
‘And that’s just one possibility,’ he went on. ‘Now take it the other way. Suppose he doesn’t fire and some innocent member of the public dies. He knows he’ll be subject to disciplinary action by his force and no doubt get a flaying in the media too. Why didn’t he use the gun he’s given to protect the public? That’ll be the cry that goes up. Surely it was obvious it was justified to open fire? Can we trust those who are empowered to protect us? It’ll be all that sort of thing, all from people who have not the slightest idea of what a marksman has to go through, and all said in the comfort of a safe office with the wonderful benefit of pure hindsight.’
Crouch’s face had turned a dull red. ‘So yes, I think that is relevant and should be borne in mind by people who have never been in such a situation.’
‘Duly noted,’ replied Whiting icily. ‘Now, as this is my interrogation, we will move on to the first shooting, five months ago.’
He rummaged through his stack of papers, pulled out several which had been stapled together. ‘I don’t propose to take you back through this case at length PC Crouch. It was investigated at the time and you were exonerated. I have the report of the shooting.’
Crouch nodded. The colour had drained from his face. He stroked his cross.
‘I first want to ask how come you were back on duty so quickly?’ said Whiting. ‘Is it not the case that most investigations into fatal shootings take several months?’
‘Because I was exonerated, as you said. It was a straightforward case and I was found to have done my job, however unpleasant. The police have a policy of trying to investigate such cases much more quickly now. It’s becoming widely accepted it’s unfair on a marksman to have an inquiry hanging over him for months and even years. That’s something I entirely agree with and was grateful for the force’s support.’
Whiting scribbled another spidery note on his pad. Claire thought it said, “Was initial investigation sufficiently robust?”
‘What concerns me, PC Crouch, is how very similar the two incidents are,’ Whiting continued. ‘Extraordinarily similar. Particularly that when you fired the fatal shots, PC Gardener was again unable to see exactly what happened. So … in both cases the only witness to your opening fire is a traumatised woman. One who might well be grateful for what you’ve done and happy to say anything to make sure there are no repercussions for you.’
Crouch leaned forwards on his plastic chair, his face creased in a frown. ‘Women often stay with violent partners for years. Life’s not all so black and white as you seem to think. So I’m sorry, I don’t understand the point you’re making.’
‘The point I’m making is this,’ hissed Whiting, emphasising each word. ‘You’ve told us how important it is for a marksman to make decisions in a second or two. So in this first case, in Bodmin, this is what I’m suggesting. You’d taken up firearms for a simple reason – you wanted to shoot someone. You knew PC Gardener couldn’t see what was happening. In front of you was a situation, which wasn’t, as you claim, endangering the life of the woman, but just an ordinary row where the man had happened to pick up the knife and – in anger – point it as his wife. You saw the chance to shoot and get away with it. And so you did.’
Crouch was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘That is a disgraceful thing to say. That is utterly disgraceful. I want …’
‘And then,’ Whiting interrupted, speaking fast. ‘And then you had another chance in similar circumstances on Thursday, didn’t you? So you did it again. You killed another man because you knew you could get away with it. You’d done it before and you’d got a taste for it.’
Crouch’s eyes were wide. ‘That’s an appalling thing to say,’ he spat. ‘It’s disgraceful. It’s despicable to suggest something like that. I came here freely to be interviewed, but if you’re going to say such things, I am going to call in the Police Federation to come and represent me here, and …’
‘Because you’ve got a motive, haven’t you?’ cut in Whiting, his voice hard but quiet.
Crouch seemed to recoil. ‘What?’
‘You’ve got a motive.’
‘What motive? What the hell are you talking about?’
Whiting waited, stared into the marksman’s eyes. Claire didn’t like the man, but she did admire him. His tactics and timing were precise.
‘Your daughter,’ he hissed. ‘Marie was killed by her violent husband. So when you see a man beating up a woman in their own home, you can’t handle it, can you? That’s what made you shoot, wasn’t it? Maybe once I can believe you needed to shoot a man, PC Crouch … maybe in Bodmin. But not twice. You shot to avenge Marie, didn’t you? And because you were sure you could get away with it. You did it in Bodmin, so you decided to have another go in Saltash. That’s the truth of this, isn’t it, PC Crouch? You didn’t open fire out of any duty or necessity. It was simply revenge. And if you’re caught, then so what? What does it matter? By your own admission you don’t have much to live for.’
Claire studied Crouch. His face was set, a dull red, staring at Whiting. She expected some rage, some outburst of flaring anger, but it didn’t come. He closed his eyes and stroked his cross.
‘I came here willingly to cooperate,’ he said with a strained calm. ‘But if that is the kind of suggestion that’s going to be put to me, I will no longer do so without the benefit of a Police Federation representative. I am not under arrest so I’m free to go, and I am leaving now.’
He got up, reached for the door, paused. His eyes were set on Whiting, his breathing echoed in the quiet room, fast and shallow.
‘It’s not me who’s a disgrace to the force, Whiting,’ Crouch snarled. ‘It’s bastards like you. Passing judgement in your safe little offices without the guts to do a real job, and get out there and protect the public. You’re typical of all that’s wrong with policing nowadays.’
‘Well?’ snapped Whiting, taking the change from his pocket and carefully stacking it into a small pile on his office desk.
Claire looked at him, thought: the Smiling Assassin isn’t smiling now. She wondered if he knew his nickname. If so, would he see the irony in him accusing someone else of being an assassin? Someone who she’d say won that bout in the interview room by a fair margin.
‘I don’t think we’ve got a thing on him, sir,’ said Suzanne, with her usual methodical fairness. ‘I agree it was right to put the point about two shootings in such similar circumstances in five months to him, but that’s all we’ve got, isn’t it? Coincidence and suspicion. Nothing more.’
Whiting turned to Claire. ‘I agree,’ she said. ‘And the trouble is, all the evidence tallies with his account of what happened. In fact, it goes further. With both cases there’s evidence of considerable domestic violence before the actual shootings. So it’s entirely possible such an assault was going on when Crouch went into the house and that’s what he came up against. Then we’re left with the central question; was his opening fire justified? From the evidence, we have no reason to believe it wasn’t. I agree his daughter’s death looks like a good motive and it’s a hell of a coincidence to have two such similar fatal shootings in five months. But we just don’t have any evidence to back up our suspicions, do we?’
‘But we’re still suspicious?’ asked Whiting.
‘Yes, sir,’ they
chorused.
‘So let’s do some more research on him,’ hissed Whiting. ‘Let’s have a look at PC Gardener to see if there’s any kind of reason he might enter into a conspiracy with Crouch. And the two women whose husbands were shot too. Let’s see if there’s any evidence he might have known them or had the chance to conspire with them.’
‘And there’s that password we found at his house too,’ added Claire. ‘We didn’t get to ask him about that. He, err … decided to leave first.’
‘Yes,’ said Whiting, ignoring the reminder about how the interview had ended. ‘See what you can find out about that Claire. We know it’s not his home computer, so perhaps one somewhere else? Were there computers in the houses where the men were shot?’
Suzanne checked a note. ‘Yes sir. In both.’
‘Then that’s a possible lead. Get the technical division to go over them. There might be some connection with Crouch. Claire, please make that a priority. Then we’ll get him back in here and talk to him again.’
Whiting’s eyes flicked over them. ‘There is something very strange about this case, and we will get to the bottom of it,’ he hissed. ‘It is our duty to do so.’
That Saturday night he dreamt of Sam again and the way he’d died. It was mercifully quick, but so undignified and unwarranted. And he hadn’t been there, alongside his friend. He should have been, needed to have been. Soon after, yes, but not at the time, and he would never forgive himself for that. Sam hadn’t died with him there and it still hurt. It would never stop hurting. They would pay for that, for Sam’s death, all alone, and the eternally haunting memories he had been left with. They would never stop paying.
His raging brain registered a thirst. He got up, walked mechanically to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of chilled water from the plastic jug in the fridge, topped it back up from the tap, returned to the lounge and sat in the armchair for an hour, trying to calm his thoughts. Then he went back to bed, but slept only fitfully.
The living dreams never allowed him to truly rest. The machine-gun fire and mortars blasting around him, more screaming faces begging for the help he couldn’t give. He could still smell the mutilated bodies, even in his sleep. He felt the air around him slashed open by the whistling shrapnel, the pops and puffs of the friendly, blossoming explosions, the rank scent of raw death in the freezing air. And the corpses, so many of them, jumbles and tangles of stiffened limbs, testimony to the agonies of their deaths.
