Mercy Killing

by Lisa Cutts

  The lagers and Scotch had taken the edge off his mood and he was now at the point where he wanted to talk to Millie but wasn’t quite prepared to return any of her three missed calls. He hadn’t even summoned the energy to listen to her voicemail.

  Now he felt ready.

  Ian, please call me back. I’m worried about you. You looked upset when you were here earlier. Dave’s gone now but he’s also concerned. I know that the whole mess with … with Albie is horrible. You seem to have taken it harder than me and I took it badly …

  There was a hesitation in her voice and he sat with the phone pressed to his ear, eyes focused on the bubbles rushing to the surface of his dwindling pint, as he waited to hear what she had to say next.

  Ian, I need you to tell me that you had nothing to do with Albie’s death. I’ll believe you if I hear it from you. Please, don’t have done anything stupid, especially on my behalf. I love you …

  The last three words brought the tears that he had been trying for so long to hold back.

  Memory was his worst enemy so that made alcohol his friend. It helped to block out what he’d had to endure for so many years. Millie couldn’t know, she could never know. She knew that he watched out for her, especially since Clive’s death, but the one thing he wanted to keep from her was his own childhood sexual abuse.

  It was beneath the surface of everything he did, and although he fought so hard to stop it defining who he was, it most certainly had shaped him, angered him and urged him to watch out for his sister.

  It had started when he was ten and his sister was six. He still remembered the uneasy feeling he had the first time the family friend had babysat for him and Millie. He couldn’t understand why he felt so odd in the man’s presence. Ian had nothing to base it on and no idea he could be in danger in his own cosy home, so he put it down to one of those things and went off to bed when he was told to, after brushing his teeth and getting changed into his pyjamas.

  Late that night, Ian had heard his bedroom door open.

  He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes, hoping that his mum and dad had come home early and it was his mummy coming to kiss him goodnight and tuck him in.

  The silhouette of a man, clearly not his father, appeared in the doorway. Ian didn’t suspect anything was wrong at first, then the uneasy feeling returned. But here was an adult and they took care of children. At least they always had in Ian’s world up until that point. It was the day his life changed.

  ‘This will be our secret,’ he said to Ian, who was petrified at what was happening. ‘It’s part of growing up. Everyone does it.’

  He wanted to stop it, he tried so hard to resist but what could a ten-year-old boy do to stop a fully grown man?

  ‘You have to keep this our secret,’ was the threat. ‘If you tell, your parents won’t believe you. They’ll send you away and it’ll leave your sister all alone. She’s only six. You wouldn’t want that, would you?’

  The thought of leaving Millie to this man’s mercy was even more horrifying than what he was going through. Surely if he could do only one good thing with his life, it was to look after his little sister.

  She was always a ray of sunshine, and at the tender age of ten, he already felt that he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  Twenty-five years later and that feeling had never gone away.

  Chapter 56

  ‘At least this address is on our way back,’ said Hazel as she concentrated on the satnav on the windscreen. ‘Do we know any more about Charles Culverton than the checks Sandra Beckinsale ran through with us a moment ago?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ said Pierre as he ran an eye over his own paperwork. ‘I wasn’t really expecting to do this today. Before we got here, I thought that we’d spend a lot longer with Monica and her parents once she got home from school at four o’clock or so.’

  ‘I know what you mean. I thought that Harry was wasting our time a bit, making us leave so early. I realize that he didn’t want the rest of the department, other than the enquiry team, knowing what we were off to do, but I expected to sit around most of the day, and then finish very late.’

  ‘Can’t believe that someone used some common sense though,’ said Pierre, still thumbing through his own notes. ‘They actually applied some thought to having us see two people in the same county. Bet it was Harry himself.’

  ‘Remind me again,’ said Hazel. ‘Charles Culverton was at the home when?’

  ‘He was at Cuxington Children’s Home from 1975 until 1985. He was five when he went there and left when he was fifteen. The notes were incomplete so we’re not sure where he went after that. He’s got no previous convictions and his address shows nothing of note, except he was burgled about seven years ago. Quite a lot stolen.’

  As Hazel drove on she asked Pierre a few more questions about the running of the department and he made her laugh on more than one occasion. By the time Hazel pulled up outside the address, and they both got out of the car, she felt as though her working day so far had been one of the more interesting and varied.

  ‘Nice drum,’ said Pierre as he gazed up at the cream facade of a beautiful home nestled in the woods. The gently sloping road they had followed meandered through the trees in such a leisurely fashion that neither of them realized they were climbing so high or that they’d be met with such magnificent views.

  Hazel breathed in the fresh air and ran an appreciative eye over the green, lush landscape. Gentle hills were visible the other side of the canopy of trees and several of the fields were dotted with grazing sheep.

  ‘Charles Culverton certainly did OK for himself,’ she muttered. They had parked some metres away from the house on the wide sweeping driveway so she didn’t think anyone would hear her, though she thought to herself that if she lived in such an isolated spot one of the first things she would do would be to install CCTV cameras. This was no doubt the police prudence in her.

  Paperwork in their hands, the two detective constables crunched their way over the driveway to the door, knocked and waited.

  Just as Pierre raised his hand to knock again, they both heard the sound of the door being unlocked.

  A man of about forty-five, tall and slim with greying hair, dressed in trousers and a golfing jumper, opened the door, glanced from one to the other and said with a smile, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Mr Charles Culverton?’ asked Pierre. ‘I’m Detective Constable Pierre Rainer and this is Detective Constable Hazel Hamilton. Sorry to bother you. We’re here on an enquiry about Cuxington Children’s Home.’

  The transformation of his face was instant. Their words had lifted a veil.

  He went white and lost his composure for just a fleeting moment.

  ‘You had better come in then, officers,’ he said after taking their identification from their hands and studying it for some time.

  ‘I wanted to make sure that you actually are police,’ he said, ‘and not reporters. That happened once. It upset the wife. Not the reporters, but my reaction to them.’

  He led them along a vast, open hallway that reached back several metres with a number of doors and a staircase leading to other parts of the house.

  ‘Nice place,’ said Pierre as they walked along the carpeted area, more corridor than hallway. ‘What do you do for a living?’

  ‘I worked in finance in the City for more than twenty years,’ Charles Culverton said over his shoulder as he pushed open a large wooden door at the end of the hall. ‘I was very lucky and made enough money to semi-retire and work from home when I need to.’

  All three of them stood inside the entrance to a beautiful room, almost the entire far side of it made of glass with stunning views of the countryside. The sun streamed in, throwing light on the furniture and décor.

  ‘That’s some scenery,’ said Hazel as she took in the view.

  ‘I’ve done well for myself,’ said their host. ‘Please take a seat and tell me why you’re here. I must admit that I’m curious to know why, after all this time
, two officers who have travelled some distance from the look of your warrant cards have knocked on my door with regard to Cuxington Children’s Home.’

  He sat back in an armchair, which probably cost more than every item of Hazel’s furniture collectively, and listened.

  ‘Well,’ she began. ‘We know that you were at the home as a child and that you gave evidence in the trial against Albert Woodville.’

  She saw Charles shift forward and cross his legs. Probably an involuntary movement, perhaps a nervous reaction, she couldn’t tell.

  ‘When did you last see Albert Woodville?’ she asked.

  He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, placed his fingertips together and said, ‘It would have been the trial. I went along and did my bit. I had no idea how I came across, and no idea how the others had done. The police didn’t tell me and I didn’t want to be there for the entire thing. I was told that I could go along for the verdicts, but I have to admit that I …’

  He looked out of the window, an expression of concentration playing on his face.

  ‘I don’t know really,’ he continued. ‘I did my bit and I wanted no more to do with it. There were many children at the home, boys and girls, who came from terrible backgrounds. My own story was simply that my mum couldn’t cope with so many of us after my dad died. It’s ridiculous to think that I ended up in a home because of that, but I did.’

  Charles looked back towards Hazel and smiled. ‘I don’t have much to complain about though. I got a good education, qualifications, left school and went to work in a bank. I know that I was one of the lucky ones and I have Cuxington Children’s Home to thank for that, in a way.’

  He paused again and turned his attention to Pierre. ‘I was sexually abused in the home by Albert Woodville. It was the worst time of my life, obviously. All the time it was going on, I kept thinking to myself that I was going to get out of there as soon as possible and make something of my life.’

  Once again, he gave a smile, but one without happiness. ‘I loved school and learning. The teachers at school were fantastic and a couple showed me how to study for exams, helped me with job applications, one even came with me when I had my interview at the bank. I felt so sorry for a lot of the kids at the home, and I knew that some would be fortunate like me and some wouldn’t. That’s a sad part of life. I don’t feel smug about it, although I’m glad I wasn’t one of the unfortunate. Makes me a bad person, doesn’t it?’

  Both Hazel and Pierre shook their heads. ‘No,’ said Hazel, ‘I think it makes you lucky, as you’ve said. However, above all, I think that it makes you remarkable.’

  He tried to bat the comment away but Hazel felt compelled to say something else. ‘There are some who would have given up. You chose not to. That takes determination. Everyone’s different and I don’t want to imagine how I would have fared in your position. I like to think that I would have gone on to make something of my life. I can’t say.’

  ‘Life’s not fair,’ said Charles. ‘I know that I might have come across better to the jury at Woodville’s trial because I’d been working at the bank for a couple of years, I had a good suit on, I hadn’t been in trouble with the police. I can’t talk for the rest of them who gave evidence, but I know that some of them were younger than me, some by a few years. How well they came across, I don’t know. It’s who the jury believe at the end of the day. They chose to believe what I said happened to me, and they chose not to believe a couple of the others.’

  ‘Did you know the others?’ said Pierre.

  ‘I knew Rochelle Harbour,’ he said. ‘She died of cancer some years ago. I also knew Andrea Wellington, although I haven’t seen her since I left the home. She attempted suicide at some point. I’m not sure what happened to her. The other two, I didn’t know.’

  The sun went behind a cloud and the room suddenly took on a gloomy feel.

  ‘I’m not sure there’s much more I can help you with,’ he said. ‘It’s not that I want to be rude, but my wife and son will be home soon. She doesn’t know about any of this, you see. We’ve been married for twenty-two years, together for twenty-four years, and I’ve never told her that I was sexually abused in a children’s home and gave evidence at a child molester’s trial. It’s not something I ever talk about. It’s why I slung the reporters off my property.

  ‘If she should come back and you’re still here, would you humour me and tell her that you’re here to give some crime-prevention advice? She’s always on at me to get some more security installed.’

  ‘Of course we will,’ said Hazel. ‘All we need to know now is your whereabouts on Friday night.’

  ‘I left the house with my wife at six o’clock. We drove to Arundel, met some friends for dinner at seven o’clock in the Winchester Arms and left there at about nine-thirty. We’re in there fairly often, so they know me and should be able to confirm it. Can I ask why?’

  ‘Albert Woodville was murdered on Friday the fifth of November,’ said Hazel.

  ‘Oh,’ said Charles Culverton. ‘I’m not a particularly religious man, but I hope that he’s burning in hell.’

  Chapter 57

  Sophia and Tom sat side by side in the farthest corner of the incident room, she at the computer typing furiously, he leafing through sheet after sheet of paper and occasionally reading something out. Now and again she put her hand up to stop him so she could check she had recorded everything accurately.

  ‘Are we almost done?’ she asked. ‘I think we’ve got most of what we need.’

  ‘I think so,’ Tom replied. ‘I’d rather get down and interview him as soon as—’

  Sophia looked away from the screen to find out what had distracted him. Her eyes were drawn to Gabrielle who had walked across the room and was unpacking two plastic carrier bags of cakes and doughnuts. She was placing the unopened packets on the communal table reserved mostly for the office diary and the collection of unwashed, germ-riddled mugs that lived there until someone was desperate enough for a drink and carted them off to the kitchen.

  The only other things Sophia had ever known to find their way to the table were items of food purchased for the incident-room staff’s general consumption.

  This had the hallmark of Gabrielle making an effort.

  ‘Is it your birthday, Gabs?’ called out Tom.

  She looked across, a packet of greasy, sugar-coated goodies in her hand. She held them in his direction and said, ‘No, but I thought it’s Monday, so why not? Jam or custard?’

  ‘Who buys custard doughnuts?’ muttered Sophia, earning herself a warning look from Tom.

  ‘I’ll have a custard one, ta,’ he said as he stood up.

  ‘Stay there,’ said Gabrielle, ‘you’ve got enough to do.’

  She strode across, a selection of wrapped cakes in her arms. She put them down on the desk in front of the two DCs and, concentrating on arranging the packets in a perfect line, said, ‘I bought them before you arrested Leon Edwards. They won’t keep you going all day but I can go out and get you both something else if you haven’t had lunch if you like.’

  ‘Well, we, er, thanks,’ said Sophia. ‘I’m not sure, that, er—’

  ‘That’s really kind of you,’ said Tom. ‘We’ll see how we get on and perhaps give you a shout later, if that’s OK?’

  He ripped apart the wrapping and made a grab for a custard doughnut.

  Gabrielle watched him as he took a bite and gave her a satisfied smile, or as much as he could manage with his mouth full of one of the unhealthiest but most loved snacks to be found in East Rise Police Station’s incident room.

  She hesitated before she took herself away from Tom and Sophia, compelling Sophia to call out, ‘Thanks, Gabs. Really kind of you.’

  Sophia watched her give a little wave over her shoulder and disappear down the corridor.

  ‘Go on then,’ said Tom, turning to Sophia. ‘I know that you can’t wait to say something unpleasant about her. I’m sure you’ll find something.’

  ‘I like h
er skirt,’ said Sophia, but couldn’t resist adding, ‘even though there’s not much of it.’

  Tom mumbled, ‘Give me strength,’ and returned to his paperwork.

  Chapter 58

  Evening of Monday 8 November

  ‘Take a look at us couple of hell-raisers,’ said Josh Walker when Harry came back from the bar with a pint of lager shandy and an orange juice.

  ‘I’ve already had a pint and I’ve got a feeling that I’m going to have to go back to work this evening,’ said Harry. ‘Even so, I fully expect a flurry of phone calls. I’ve told the interview team to give me a ring too.’

  ‘Can I ask how it’s going?’ said Josh. ‘I saw that you’d nicked someone.’

  Harry took a sip of his orange juice, pulled a face and said, ‘Really? What’s the point of orange juice in a pub unless it’s got vodka in it?’

  ‘Want me to get you one?’

  There was a slight hesitation before Harry answered, ‘No ta. Best stick to this. The murder? It’s an odd one all right. Young lad on the team, Tom Delayhoyde, made an arrest of a bloke this morning who came into the police station and said that he’d threatened to kill Woodville just before he died. Got to be fair to Tom, when I first met him, I wasn’t sure that he could detect his own arse with two hands, but he’s done well on this one.’

  ‘Technically, if you threatened to kill someone and then killed them, you’ve committed a threat to kill but the bigger picture is clearly that they’re now dead.’

  ‘That, Josh, is why you reached the lofty heights of inspector years before I did.’ Harry rested the base of his glass in his palm and turned the glass around. ‘It’s times like these I wished I smoked. At least I could get some enjoyment from this vitamin C. I could have done with a straightforward murder. Those lucky bastards at Riverstone have just picked one up where the whole thing’s on CCTV. Not me. I have to get the nonce with a cable-tie around his throat, possibly linked to a bloke who apparently committed suicide who obviously didn’t. Throw in an arson for good measure and then this bloke today coming in and telling us that he threatened to kill Woodville.’