by Adam Croft
Culverhouse had already opened his mouth to ask Alma Connors another question when the living room door opened. A man in his late thirties entered the room gingerly and rather nervously. Wendy supposed the man would not look out of place at a comic book convention.
Alma Connors looked rather shocked at the man’s sudden entrance.
“Inspector Culverhouse, this is Thomas.”
“Inspector?” Tom Connors asked nervously.
“Detective Chief Inspector, actually. This is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Wendy Knight. Pleased to meet you, Tom.”
“Likewise. What’s this all about?”
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about a girl you might know – known to you as Lauren, I believe.”
“What about her?”
Culverhouse, not wanting to alarm Tom Connors, chose his words very carefully.
“We believe she may have been involved in accident.”
“I don’t have anything to say about her.”
“It’s not quite as simple as that, Tom. This is a criminal investigation and if we believe you may have some information which could help us, then we do need to talk to you.”
“I told you – I don’t have anything to say about her.”
“Tom – if it turns out that you did know this woman then you don’t have much choice. We’d like to you accompany us to the police station so we can have a little chat.”
As they left Alma Connors’ house, Wendy gasped at the fresh, cat-free air that flowed outside. She couldn’t have been more pleased that Culverhouse had decided to conduct the questioning at the station. Tom, clearly uneasy and well out of his comfort zone, put up quite a resistance to Culverhouse's insistence that the conversation be continued elsewhere. A quick, sharp jab to the ribs (thankfully unnoticed by Wendy or Alma Connors) soon sorted that out.
As the unmarked Vauxhall pulled away from the house, Wendy’s mobile phone rang. The conversation was brief.
“That was Mildenheath Hospital. Drop me at the station and I’ll drive over there. My brother’s been taken ill.”
“Ill?”
“Drugs overdose, they reckon. They’ve asked me to come in right away.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
As Wendy drove through the congested town centre of Mildenheath between the police station and the hospital, a torrent of mixed feelings flowed through her.
Although one part of her felt no sympathy for Michael – she despised drug abusers – she could not help but remember that he was her brother after all.
Wendy sat waiting in the right-hand lane at the traffic lights in the town centre and could sense the driver of the next car staring at her. Unable to ignore the feeling, she glanced to her left. The man looked dishevelled, yet mysteriously wise. Even at this distance she could see the piercing blue eyes of his expressionless, yet all-knowing, face.
She tried to imagine the state Michael must be in. She envisaged wires and tubes coming out of his mouth – a machine beeping at his bedside. The pang of guilt was unbearable as she recalled their argument the previous night. Had it made Michael take an overdose? Had she caused this?
Wendy glanced back towards the car next to her. He was looking at her again. As a child, Wendy often wondered if people in the street could read her thoughts or somehow know what she was thinking. As she sat in her car, those thoughts came flooding back. Did he know something?
The whys and hows of Michael’s condition seemed somewhat irrelevant. Since her mother had died, she was the only person Michael had. The realisation didn’t make her feel any better about the fact that she had barely seen him since.
Despite the green light, the traffic was not moving. An accident further up the road, Wendy presumed.
As she rolled her head back onto the headrest, Wendy closed her eyes. She recalled better days with Michael – both were young children, playing happily in the back garden of their family home. As she sat at the top of the wooden slide, she could feel her father’s large, strong hands on her sides. He let go, and she slid down the slide onto the lawn. The slide had once been varnished but was now beginning to splinter.
Wendy supposed she must have been five years old, at best. She smiled as she recalled her father picking her off the lawn and holding her in his arms. Even now, she missed him terribly.
She recalled that day at eleven years old when she returned home from school to be told that her father had died. Mildenheath’s finest police officer and finest father – shot in a bungled bank robbery. The terror and desperation flooded through her now as she experienced the emotions again – as though brand new.
As the first tear rolled down her cheek, Wendy, startled, opened her eyes. Thank goodness – the lights were red once again and the traffic was still stationary. She looked to her left to see if the man with the piercing blue eyes was still there. As she turned her head to him, he reciprocated. Alarmed, Wendy shot her head back to dead centre and concentrated hard on the red light ahead.
Why is he looking at me? What does he know? He knows, doesn’t he? He can see the guilt. He knows what I’ve done to Michael. Oh shit, oh shit. Come on, fucking lights. Turn green, you bastard!
As though Wendy’s power of concentration had worked, the lights turned green. But the traffic stayed still.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As Wendy meandered round the hospital car park looking for a space, her head was filled with thoughts of what she might find inside.
Would Michael be conscious? Would he have tubes and lines sticking out of every orifice, just like last time? Surely not – he couldn’t be as bad as he was last time. He wouldn’t do that again. Three weeks in intensive care; his stomach pumped, his kidneys flushed; his face as grey as stone. Despite this, Michael showed no remorse and had made no attempt to turn his life around. This is what irritated Wendy the most; this was why she had seen her brother only a handful of times over the past few years. Wendy knew deep down that each time could well be the last.
As she traipsed up the unnecessarily long and winding disabled access ramp, last night’s words rang in Wendy’s ears.
I’m through with you, Michael. I don’t want anything to do with you.
It was the only way I knew how to cope.
I’m through with you, Michael.
I’m trying! I swear to God I’m trying!
I’m through with you, Michael. I don’t want anything to do with you.
I don’t want anything to do with you.
The stench hit Wendy as soon as the automatic doors opened. It smelt of death and antiseptic. Wendy hated hospitals. The woman at the reception desk reminded her of a schoolteacher from a budget porn film – her dark-rimmed glasses perched on the edge of her nose; her suit blouse exposing far too much breast tissue for medically unstable patients to cope with. Tart. That might even be a health and safety issue.
The tart looked down her oh-so-perfect spectacle stand and informed Wendy that Michael was in bed number seven on the Egret ward. The tart’s blunt manner led Wendy to believe that she knew exactly why Michael was in the ward. Look at her, coming in here to visit her worthless drug addict brother.
As Wendy entered the Egret ward, she scanned the walls for a laminated placard displaying the number seven. Two elderly gentlemen in beds one and two were comparing their abdominal scars whilst a Jamaican lady snored loudly from bed five. Two beds closer to Wendy, in bed number seven, lay Michael.
Michael was awake and looking at Wendy like a small child who knew he had done something terribly wrong. The helpless look on his face shook her to the core. She cantered over to bed seven and hugged Michael.
“Careful, sis. I’ve had all sorts of bloody lines and pumps hanging out of me. I’m a bit sore.”
“Oh, Michael. Why did you do this? Why?”
“Because I’m a fucking idiot, Wend. Because I couldn’t cope with you leaving me again and I hated myself. I fucking hated myself.”
“How could you be so selfish, Michael?”
&
nbsp; “Selfish? You want to talk to me about selfish? How many times have you come to visit me over the past few years, Wend? You’re just as bad as dad was – devoting your entire life to the sodding police force and making everyone else take a back seat.”
Wendy bit her tongue. “Michael, I have to work to live. My job is very important to me and it involves a lot of hard work. You've not exactly made much effort with me, either,”
“Is that the best you can do? You’ve seen me twice in eighteen months because your job involves a lot of work? Even dad used to be home to see us one or two nights a week.”
“Stop comparing me to dad, Michael!”
“Why the hell not? You’re both the bloody same. All that matters is the police force and the rest of the world can go to hell.”
“Michael, you really need to understand that we’re on the same side here. You’re not to blame for being here in this hospital bed. The people to blame are the scum who push drugs onto vulnerable people and get them hooked; the people who use their filthy drug money to feed organised crime; the people who think nothing of being a rapist or a murderer. They are the people I have a responsibility to bring down, Michael. We’re fighting the same battle.”
“I dunno, Wend. At the end of the day you’re able to go home to your warm cosy little flat while I’m still out fighting on the streets. It’s twenty-four seven for me, you know.”
“So join me. Come and stay with me in my ‘warm, cosy little flat’ and I’ll look after you. No more drugs, no more dealers knocking on the door, no more temptation.”
“What? Are you sure?”
Wendy almost regretted the offer as soon as she had made it. Was this really the right decision to be making? Getting involved in something like this could impact badly on her career. There it goes again – that word. Career. What does a career matter when your brother is dying slowly and painfully through a drug addiction? Wendy knew what she had to do.
“I’m sure, Michael. At the end of the day, you’re still my brother.”
***
As she left the Egret ward with the Jamaican woman still blissfully snoring away, Wendy was on an emotional high. She knew she was the right person to look after Michael and to aid his recovery. What’s more, she felt increasingly confident about the serial killer case. She hadn’t felt this good in ages.
Fumbling through her pockets for her car keys, Wendy pulled out a crumpled business card.
Robert Ludford ~ Chartered Accountant.
She took her mobile phone from her jacket pocket and dialled the number.
“Hello, Robert?”
“Yes. Is that you, Wendy?”
“Yeah. Listen, I wanted to apologise for what I said on the phone earlier. I was out of order. I’ve been under a lot of stress recently and...”
“It’s fine, honestly. Apology accepted.”
“Thank you, Robert. Does the offer still stand?”
“Dinner? Of course it does.”
“Excellent. Shall we say tomorrow night?”
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”
CHAPTER NINE
Tom Connors sat in silence as Culverhouse began to conduct the interview.
“For the benefit of the tape, Tom, my name is DCI Jack Culverhouse and this is my colleague, DS Wendy Knight. Tom, I’ll cut straight to the chase. We’d like to speak with you about a young lady called Ella Barrington. We believe you may have known her. For the benefit of the tape, I am now showing the suspect a photograph of Ella Barrington.”
“Suspect? You didn’t say nothing about me being no suspect!”
Wendy interjected, “It’s just police terminology, Tom. For the benefit of the tape, you know. Don’t worry – you’re not under arrest.”
Culverhouse shot a thankful smile at Wendy.
“Terminology, exactly. Tom, do you recognise this woman?”
Tom shuffled uncomfortably.
“No, I’ve never seen her before.”
“Are you sure?”
“I told you. I’ve never seen her before.”
Culverhouse sat in silence for a moment, wistfully planning his next move.
“Tom, do you recognise this woman? For the benefit of the tape, I am now showing the sus—Mr Connors a photograph of Maria Preston.” He handed the photograph to Tom Connors. It looked as though it had been taken at a recent party. Fellow drunken revellers partied on behind her whilst she posed daintily for the camera, a single lock of blonde hair draped across her forehead; a symbol of the care-free attitude she must have had that night. It had been one of her last.
“No. I don’t recognise her either.”
Culverhouse let out a slight involuntary grunt and glanced almost apologetically at Wendy.
“Tom, we’ve got two independent witnesses who’ve seen you with this woman on a number of occasions.”
Wendy interjected, “Guv… I don’t think that's…”
“They’re lying! You’re lying! I’ve never seen her in my life – I swear!”
“Listen to me, Connors. I’ve got a routine for dealing with shits like you. I ask three polite questions and then it gets nasty. You’ve had two. What do you know about Ella Barrington and Maria Preston?”
Tom paused for a moment.
“They were prostitutes, weren’t they? I mean, I saw it on the news. Look, I’d been seeing a girl for a little while. Her name was Gabriella Poulson. She was… one of them.”
“A prostitute?” Wendy asked.
Tom Connors looked uneasy at the mention of the word.
“Yeah. One of them. I went to her a few months back and started to get involved. Far too involved.
“You mean you fell in love with her?”
“Sort of. I guess. I couldn’t see enough of her. I started to see her every night and I’d buy her presents – jewellery and stuff.”
“Did that not get a bit expensive? I was under the impression you worked in a video rental shop.”
“I do. I had some money saved up and I worked extra hours. It’s strange, the things you do for… y’know…”
Wendy nodded sympathetically.
“I understand.”
“Look, I wanna get something off my chest. When I started to fall for Gabriella it began to dawn on me just what she was.”
“What do you mean, Tom?”
“The fact that she was… one of them. It seemed to matter more and more all the time. One night she came over to mine. She had clearly been to another bloke’s house just before. Her lipstick was smudged and her underwear was skew-whiff. It felt like she had no respect for me and I just lost it.”
“You hit her?”
“Yeah. I hit her.”
Culverhouse leaned forward onto the interview desk, poised like an eagle stalking his prey.
“And what happened?”
“Well I didn’t kill her if that’s what you mean. She didn’t say a word. Just calmly packed up and left. It didn’t strike me as being the first time it’d happened, if you get where I'm coming from. But listen, I’ve never seen any of those other two women before in my life. I swear.”
“OK Tom. We’re going to need to check a few things with this Gabriella Poulson. Do you have any contact details for her?”
“Not on me. She lives in digs on the Marshwood estate. Opposite the petrol station. Number 4a.”
“Right. I think we'd better go and corroborate your story. We'll keep you in a cell until we've backed the story up.”
“No! You can't keep me in here! Anyway, how can she back my story up if she's dead? What happens then?”
“Then you've got some explaining to do, Mr Connors.”
The Marshwood estate was notorious in Mildenheath. Gang culture had gripped the estate and cab drivers would no longer enter the estate for fear of being attacked by feral youths. The estate used to be served by two bus routes – the 34 and 62, but the local bus company had amended the routes to circumvent the estate entirely. To most, it seemed as though the Marshwood estate was cu
t off from the rest of Mildenheath entirely, like a cancerous growth.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon when Wendy and Culverhouse pulled into the estate in their unmarked car. Entering the estate in a marked vehicle was completely out of the question. Two back-up officers sat on the edge of the estate in another unmarked car.
“A date?”
“Yeah, with a guy I bumped into in the pub the other night. He’s an accountant.”
“An accountant? Right.”
“Is there a problem?”
“No, no problem. Just make sure you keep your attention focused solely on the case, Knight. I don’t want any lovey-dovey bullshit out of you until we’ve found our man. There's only one person I want getting nailed at the moment, and it ain't you.”
They made their way towards the block of flats opposite the petrol station. It was fortunate that Tom Connors had referred to it in this way as the building lacked any sort of identification. No name plaque, no road signs, nothing. Just another grey, soulless building opposite a petrol station. Stepping over discarded chip paper and lager cans, Wendy and Culverhouse entered the building.
The entrance hall was cold and dark, a staircase scaling the right-hand wall before turning to climb the wall opposite the door. A teen-aged couple, no older than fourteen, sat on the concrete apex with faces interlocked and their hands where God only knew.
Hidden behind the staircase, with the concrete apex and canoodling couple only inches above them, was number 4a. Wendy inadvertently scanned the door for the most germ-free spot before knocking firmly.
The door was answered by a woman with a drawn complexion, her drug-riddled skin hanging desperately from her bony cheeks.
“Gabriella Poulson?”
“Who’s asking?”
“DCI Culverhouse and DS Wendy Knight, Mildenheath Police.”
Gabriella moved to slam the door but Culverhouse’s size eleven boots were already firmly placed against the doorframe.
