by Adam Croft
It was fair to say that a large percentage of the local population weren’t particularly keen on speaking to the police. Mildenheath had a bit of a reputation locally as being a town that had a high crime rate — something which was artificially skewed by its popularity as a drinking town on Friday and Saturday nights. The fact that a large amount of the anti-social behaviour was caused by people from outside of the town, or by people who otherwise wouldn’t say boo to a goose, didn’t change a thing. The police presence in Mildenheath was higher than in most towns, and that had the unfortunate effect of causing resentment amongst certain sections of the community.
Culverhouse was pleased to see Alan Carnegie — or the man he assumed to be Alan Carnegie — sitting at a seat near the window, nursing a latte. If he had to play Spot The Local Historian, this would be the first person he’d pick.
‘Alan?’ he asked, extending his hand. ‘Jack Culverhouse. You alright for a drink?’
Alan Carnegie indicated that he was fine, and Culverhouse went and got himself a straight black coffee. Fortunately, the barista didn’t ask him what type of coffee he wanted. As far as Jack Culverhouse was concerned, there was black coffee and white coffee, and even that was pushing it.
‘I understand Tanya Henderson got in touch with you about something to do with local history,’ he said, sitting back down. In his experience, it was always best to leave it to the witness to volunteer as much information as they wanted to — regardless of what you already knew.
‘Yes,’ replied Carnegie, smiling. ‘She wanted to know about Pevensey Park, that’s the area of land the hospital now sits on. It used to be a large public area. This is before the war, I’m talking about.’
‘Surely it’s a bit of an odd thing to ask about, isn’t it? A park that hasn’t existed for seventy-odd years. What sort of things was she asking?’
He stared into the distance for a moment. ‘I find it difficult to remember exactly. I didn’t think much of it, to be honest. But I do recall her asking about the terms of acquisition, when the land was acquired for the hospital. She wanted to know about leases, who now owned the land, what the terms were at the time with regards to reversion of rights. All that sort of stuff.’
Try as he might, Culverhouse couldn’t see why she’d want to know any of this information. It was decades in the past, and anyone involved in the sale of Pevensey Park would likely be long dead. ‘And what did you tell her?’ he asked.
‘There wasn’t a whole lot I could tell her. I did a bit of research for her and we found out that the land was on a long-term lease for the hospital, and that the hospital trust bought a stake in it a few years back. There’s nothing wrong with that, though. It happens quite a lot. Hospital trusts exist to ensure the future of the hospital, and to make sure they’ll be in a secure financial position to offer the best possible care to patients. As I understand it.’
‘But none of this makes any sense. Did she tell you what she was investigating?’ Culverhouse asked.
‘Nope. To be honest, I didn’t ask. She just seemed interested.’
Culverhouse realised that the vast majority of people probably weren’t interested in the history of the local area, and that Alan Carnegie had probably been only too happy to talk to her about it once she’d asked — much like how he seemed happy to talk to Culverhouse now. ‘She is an investigative journalist, Mr Carnegie. She looks into allegations of corruption or wrongdoing, and writes articles exposing crooks. It’s all very current stuff, though. She’s hardly likely to be writing about the sale of some council land more than seven decades ago.’
‘Ah, no, but the story doesn’t end there,’ Alan Carnegie said, leaning forward conspiratorially. He was definitely enjoying this. ‘You see, being involved with the Mildenheath History Society does have its advantages. We have a member who works for the council, in their planning and development department. What if I were to tell you that there were plans afoot to merge Mildenheath Hospital’s services into other county hospitals and clinics, sell the land and turn it into a huge housing development?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t be particularly surprised, but surely these things need public planning, consultation, all of that, don’t they?’
‘Yes, you’d think so, wouldn’t you? And I’ve no doubt there will be a public consultation. All that means, though, is that they’ll tell the public what they’ve already decided to do. These things are all done behind closed doors, Inspector. The decisions are made long before the possibility is even mentioned to the public. It’s all about money and kickbacks.’ He took a sip of his latte, shaking his head. ‘You mark my words: if they’re talking about the possibility of doing this, you can bet your bottom dollar the deal’s already done.’
42
Culverhouse wasted no time in heading over to the council’s offices. He’d tried to phone ahead to Alan Carnegie’s contact, but he’d had no luck getting through. As he parked his car and went to get out, however, his phone rang.
‘DCI Culverhouse? It’s George Stretton here. I just got your message. Sorry, I couldn’t answer my phone when you called as I’m at work.’
‘Good. Because I’m sitting outside in the car park. Can you come out?’
‘Oh. Well, I don’t know. I mean, I’m technically on a break, but... What’s this all about?’
‘I’m investigating a very serious crime, and I think you might be able to help me with some information. Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. But I can promise you it’ll be made a whole lot easier if you come out and speak to me here.’
George Stretton suddenly sounded very nervous. ‘How do you mean? Why can’t you come in?’
‘I can do, but then I’d have to ask for you by name at the front desk. There’d be a record of me visiting and speaking to you. So, you can either come out here and give me the information I need informally, off the record, or I can come in and get it from you in there, on the record and with your employer’s knowledge. I’m happy either way, to be honest.’
Culverhouse could hear George Stretton swallowing at the other end of the phone. ‘What’s this all about?’ he asked again. ‘What makes you think I know anything that could help you? Or that I’d want to tell you?’
‘One, I’ll tell you what it’s all about when you come out here. Two, we have a mutual friend who already told me what you know, but I need to hear it from you directly. Three, it’s either that or a woman could die. You’re going to have something on your conscience by the end of the day, whether it be blowing the whistle or letting an innocent woman be killed. Your choice, George.’
Culverhouse hung up the phone and waited.
Just over a minute later, the automatic doors at the entrance to the council building slid open and an ineffectual-looking man in his late fifties stepped out, glancing around. Culverhouse flashed his headlights, watching as the man paused for a moment before walking over. When he got to the car, George Stretton opened the passenger-side door and got in.
‘Right,’ said Culverhouse, not wasting any time on pleasantries, ‘I’m going to cut straight to the chase. I need you to do something for me, George. I need you to tell me all about the plans for knocking down Mildenheath General Hospital and turning it into a housing estate, and I need you to tell me now.’
George Stretton seemed nervous, but relaxed. ‘Inspector, you know as well as I do that all information is confidential...’
‘Because otherwise,’ Culverhouse continued, as if Stretton hadn’t said anything at all, ‘I’m going to go in that building right now and I’m going to speak to your boss. And I’m going to tell him everything that I already know, and I’m going to tell him it came from you. Either that, or you can tell me yourself. You can fill in the blanks for me, and no-one ever needs to know we spoke.’
George seemed to mull this over for a moment, but the logic was clear: it wasn’t speaking to the police he was afraid of, rather that his bosses would find out he’d spoken to them. He swallowed before speaking.
&
nbsp; ‘Look, there’s nothing underhand about it,’ he explained. ‘These things happen all the time. The government is trying to make cuts in public expenditure, and the NHS is one of those areas. Hospitals cost a lot of money to maintain, and many of those services can easily be amalgamated into—’
‘Cut the political shit, George. You’re sitting in the front seat of a fucking Volvo, not the panel of Question Time.’
‘No, I know. And I need to tell you that nothing’s definite yet, but there are some plans being put forward, yes.’
‘Who’s behind them?’
‘Behind them?’ George asked, seeming genuinely confused.
‘Yes, behind the plans. Who first made the suggestion? Who put in the application? Who’s lobbying for the hospital to be closed down and for the housing estate to be built?’
‘Well, quite a few people. There’s a consortium, of course, which—’
‘Who’s on it?’
‘It’s a combination of people,’ replied a rather bewildered-looking George. ‘Some are in favour, some against. At this stage it’s just councillors and the hospital trust.’
Culverhouse tried not to show any reaction. He knew what this meant: if it was only a few councillors and the board of the hospital trust, there’d be a very good chance that a lot of decisions would already have been made before it was opened up to wider consultation. He knew from experience that this was the way local politics often worked: backroom deals done and dusted behind closed doors in the interest of profit, then the false illusion of democracy by putting it out to a public ‘consultation’, which they’d then ignore and steamroller their plans through anyway.
‘Does the name Tanya Henderson mean anything to you?’ he asked George, keen to keep chopping and changing the subject slightly, trying to catch him off guard.
‘What? No. Other than hearing that she was attacked. She’s the reporter woman, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, she is. We think she might have been investigating something to do with the development of the hospital land. That’s why we need to find out as much as we can. What are the plans?’
George shuffled in his seat slightly. ‘The plan they’re discussing at the moment is for forty-five houses. All fairly decent sized ones, nice gardens. They’d probably sell for half a million each, if you ask me. If not more. They’re currently in the process of having private bids tabled by some local construction companies. But there’s only one that’ll get the job.’
‘Who’s that?’ Culverhouse asked.
‘The same one that always gets them. Avalon.’
‘Avalon Construction?’ Culverhouse asked, just to check he’d heard right. That was the company Gary McCann had a stake in. The same company that had built Callum Woods’s house in the East Midlands.
‘Yeah. They always get the jobs that the council’s involved in. All the major ones, anyway. It’s all a big fucking melting pot of backhanders and secret winks,’ George said, starting to open up about the feelings he’d clearly been holding onto for quite some time. ‘It’s due to be announced to the public in the next couple of weeks, and then there’ll be meetings and consultations, but they won’t mean anything. The deal will be done by then. Everything else is just a charade. Once they’ve decided they’re going to do it, they’ll do it. And nothing will stop them. Not with twenty-odd million quid at stake.’
Culverhouse suddenly realised exactly what Tanya Henderson had been trying to uncover, and why she had needed to uncover it so quickly. With Tanya lying in a coma in hospital, however, he knew the responsibility fell to one person: him.
43
Standing outside the large iron gates to Gary McCann’s house, Culverhouse pressed the button on the intercom and waited for a response. As the speaker clicked and crackled, he spoke before the person on the other end could even get a word out.
‘McCann, open up. We need to talk.’
‘Sorry, who’s this?’ McCann replied, in a falsely jovial voice.
‘You know exactly who it is. You’re looking right at me,’ Culverhouse said, raising his middle finger to the pinhole camera in the intercom unit.
A couple of seconds later, there was a loud click and the gates started whirring open. By the time Culverhouse had got to the end of the drive, the front door had also opened and the imposing figure of Gary McCann stood waiting for him on the doorstep.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Culverhouse. It’s been a while. Coming to check that my tea and coffee making standards are still up to scratch?’
‘Not for me, McCann. I wouldn’t trust you to pour me a glass of water.’
‘Let me know if you change your mind. I can promise you the milk’s nowhere near as sour as you seem to be getting in your old age.’
‘We all age at the same rate,’ replied Culverhouse. ‘Well, most of us do anyway. And how is the present Mrs McCann? She home from school yet?’
McCann smiled with one corner of his mouth. ‘She’s twelve years younger than me, Detective Chief Inspector. I’m quite sure you’ve got better jokes than that in your arsenal.’
‘Oh, I’ve got plenty. Let me in and I’ll tell you a few.’
McCann stared at him for a few moments before smiling and stepping aside, closing the door behind Culverhouse as he made his way through to the large living room.
‘Come on then. Let’s hear your best joke.’
Culverhouse sat down on a leather chesterfield, making his best display of flicking some dust from the armrest. ‘I’ve got a belter for you, actually. A proper side-splitter. A councillor, a hospital trust board member and the dodgiest fucker in Mildenheath walk into a bar. You heard that one?’
McCann remained quiet and calm. ‘I can’t say I have. Tell me more.’
‘I was rather hoping you could finish that one off for me, actually. Because, try as I might, I can’t find the fucking punchline for the life of me. In fact, some might say it’s not very funny at all. Some might even call it a bit of a con.’
‘I couldn’t possibly say, Detective Chief Inspector. I don’t know anything about cons,’ he replied, as calm as ever.
‘Of course not, McCann. Of course not. After all, you’ve never been convicted of one yet, have you?’
McCann smiled again. ‘Feel free to keep trying, though. The apology letters look fantastic on the wall of my office.’
‘Believe me, there’s only one thing I intend to nail to the wall of your office. Two, in fact.’
‘Careful, Detective Chief Inspector. That sounds almost like a threat.’
‘There’s a difference between a threat and a promise, McCann. Now. Tell me about Pevensey Park.’
McCann stretched, resting his arm on the back of the sofa and leaning back comfortably as he spoke. ‘Somehow, I’ve a feeling you know more than I do. Or at least you think you do. But I’ll give you the facts as they stand.’
‘Changing the habit of a lifetime just for me,’ Culverhouse said. ‘I am honoured.’
McCann chose to ignore the remark. ‘The hospital’s going to close. There’s not a whole lot we can do about that. Bigger decisions at higher levels. That’d already been decided before I got word of it. The only question is what’s going to happen to the land. The local council are keen to see more housing in the area, what with the shortage and all, and they asked Avalon Construction to tender for the building work.’
‘This is the same Avalon Construction that you own shares in, is that correct?’
‘I have a small, non-controlling and non-voting stake in the company, yes. As I do in many companies.’
Culverhouse nodded. ‘And what can you tell me about Callum Woods?’
‘Who?’
‘The footballer.’
McCann laughed. ‘Not a whole lot. I don’t follow football. What’s that got to do with the hospital development?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out,’ Culverhouse replied. ‘Because Avalon Construction built his home in the East Midlands, a fair distance from here. They
’re also contracted to build his extension, and they recommended the firm of solicitors he’s using to organise it.’
McCann shrugged. ‘Avalon has a lot of customers all over the country, Detective Chief Inspector. We’ve probably built houses for hundreds of footballers.’
‘Yes, but this one was the unfortunate target of an article by Tanya Henderson a year or so back, in which she almost singlehandedly ruined his career. The same Tanya Henderson who we believe was investigating the hospital development plans, and who was brutally attacked on her doorstep in front of her four-year-old daughter a few nights back.’
‘Well, that all sounds very tenuous to me, I must say.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it does. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? A big wide circle of coincidences and events, but no direct cause and effect. That’s the way all good corruption happens.’
Gary McCann leaned forward on the sofa, his elbows now resting on his knees. ‘Let me tell you now, I know nothing of any footballer. I know nothing about Tanya Henderson. All I know is Avalon were asked to bid for the construction of houses on the hospital site. That’s it.’
‘Which is something you’d be very keen to see go through, isn’t it?’ Culverhouse said. ‘I mean, that deal’s worth more than twenty million quid. With your seven percent stake in the company, you’re potentially looking at, what, well over a million. Possibly more. People have killed for a lot less.’
‘I’m sure they have. And you and I both know I’m not exactly whiter than white, but I can promise you I know nothing more than the fact that the job was tendered for. There are people with far bigger stakes in Avalon who stand to make a lot more than I do, which, I must add, is a hell of a lot less than you think. If you think all of that money’s going to go through the books, you need to think again.’
‘How do you mean?’ Culverhouse asked, his interest piqued.
