by Croft, Adam
“Mmmhmm. Any luck?”
“That's what the briefing's for.”
“Yeah...” Wendy trailed off.
“Listen, Wendy, are you sure you're all right? I mean, I can always have a word with Culverhouse if you'd rather take more time off or have a break or something.”
“Nah, I'm fine. Honestly. Half past, yeah?”
As Wendy got up and left the room, Steve Wing gave it a minute or so before knocking on Culverhouse's door.
*
The morning briefing passed in a haze for Wendy as Culverhouse updated the team with the latest developments.
“Steve, what's the latest on the mobile phone records?”
“I got on to her network operator this morning, guv. Fortunately, she has an iPhone – quite a recent model, and as she was in a built-up area the phone was sending broadcast signals every five or ten minutes. It was last picked up by three base station towers at 1.15pm, so they've narrowed it down to an area of around two hundred and fifty metres. That area pretty much centres on her house.”
“So she was at home when her mobile was last active?”
“Or near enough to it, yes. They could have been even more specific but it looks as though she had her phone's GPS function turned off. It's quite possible that she switched her phone off when she got home, or that it ran out of battery, or she left it at home. The thing is, the signal stops there. It doesn't mean she did, though. Just that her phone was switched off or never left the house.”
“That could be about right, as her parents said her shoes weren't anywhere to be found in the house, so I think its looking likely that she left the house of her own accord. Or before she had a chance to take her shoes off.”
“Do you think there was an abduction, guv?”
“It's possible. The step-father said the back door was left on the catch, whereas it's usually deadlocked. He says he locked it the night before and that it was unlocked when he came in from walking the dog on Friday afternoon.”
“So Danielle went out through the back door?”
“Or someone came in through it.”
6
Wendy hadn't been drinking heavily recently, she told herself – she'd been drinking just enough. What else is one to do when you find out your own brother is a crazed killer, having murdered your lover and tried to murder you?
She had cried all the tears she could cry in the last six weeks. Now, she felt almost no pain at all; it had been replaced with a feeling of complete numbness. Red wine helped numb the remaining pain. She knew that Michael's court date later in the year would open up the wounds once again, but for now she was happy to feel nothing. Anger and disbelief kept her grief for Robert under a watertight lid. For now, at least.
In those six weeks she had left her flat and moved into a small house in a quiet residential area of Mildenheath, not far from the home of Danielle Levy. Her new one-bedroom mews house in Archer's Close was certainly cosy, as the estate agent had described it. Wendy hastened to use the word 'cramped' as it was certainly spacious when compared to the flat she had moved out of. Most importantly of all, the new house didn't hold the bad memories the flat did. She had her creature comforts here: a cul-de-sac location, a front lawn and enough space for her to spend her days away from the office.
Wendy stared at the box and ran her fingers over the raised lettering as she took another mouthful of Neethlingshof Malbec 2009. She was sure it wouldn't be necessary – it couldn't be necessary – but she was better safe than sorry. Putting the glass of wine down on her coffee table, she took the box into the bathroom and closed the door.
Emerging minutes later, Wendy picked the wine glass up from the coffee table and emptied its contents into the sink.
7
Wendy was glad that the brief greetings and conversations hadn't got past 'hello' and on to 'how are you?' that Tuesday morning as she wasn't entirely sure as to what her answer would be. She felt very little, caught somewhere between happiness, despair, joy and desperation.
Her state of mind was helped little by a particularly energetic and brash DCI Culverhouse who was now sauntering over towards her desk .
“Knight – your arse, my office, now.”
Not one to turn down a polite request, Wendy rose from her chair and followed Culverhouse into his office. The door closed with a click and Culverhouse turned and perched himself on the edge of his desk.
“Oh, you brought the rest of you too. Never mind.”
“You wanted to see me, guv.”
“I did. Steve said you were a bit down in the dumps.”
“He what? I'm fine, guv, really.”
“No, I mean what I'm saying is you're probably likely to be a bit mardy, aren't you?”
“Why?”
“Well, the Michael stuff.”
“Are you trying to tell me that, as a kind and caring man, you completely understand that I might be psychologically affected by the fact that my brother tried to kill me?”
“I wouldn't have put it in quite such a poofy way, no.”
“Well I'm not. I'm fine.”
“You might think so, but no-one else does, Knight. Listen, I've booked you in to speak to that shrink in Counselling. Maybe she can help you sort your head out a bit.”
“My head doesn't need sorting out, guv. I just want to get on with my work.”
“Well you're not doing much work sat there staring into space and taking evenings off, are you?”
“I've had other stuff on my mind.”
“Other than a homicidal brother and a brutally murdered ex-partner? Your mind works wonders sometimes, Knight.”
Wendy sighed. “I'm pregnant.”
8
It never got dark in Mildenheath. Not really. Even the darkest, dankest alleyways glowed with the light pollution caused by this sprawling urban town, darkened only by smog and traffic fumes. He wished it could be darker right now, but this would have to do. It was almost time.
It was a nice coincidence that he was stood here, at the end of Corpse Walk. Legend had it that the alleyway got its name due to its previous use as the main walkway for coffins to be carried through to the town church for funeral services. Just yards from the bustling main road, the juxtaposition between urbanity and legend, between life and death, sat perfectly with him.
He could hear a car stopped at the traffic lights at the other end of the alleyway, its owner hell-bent on letting everyone else listen to his shitty dub-step music. He could barely hear himself think, let alone hear the footsteps as they came towards him. He flicked his head around the edge of the wall and glanced down the tunnel, his man only feet away.
Readjusting his grip on the now-sweaty hard wood of the baseball bat, he lifted it up onto his right shoulder as if ready to receive a perfect pitch.
The target was incoming. He swung.
Home run.
9
“Pregnant? Well how did that happen?”
“Do you want a diagram, guv?”
“Don't be cocky. I mean... what, Ludford?”
“Yes, Ludford.” Her face fell now as she contemplated bringing a baby into the world. A baby without a father; a baby whose father had been murdered and mutilated by its own uncle. A tear rolled down her cheek.
“Well, are you happy or not?”
“What does it look like, guv?”
“I don't know, do I? You birds are always crying whether you're happy or sad.”
“I really have no idea. I mean, of course I'm happy, but I'm scared as well. I never planned for this to happen. In a way, I don't want it to happen.”
“What, you mean you're going to, like...” Culverhouse made a jabbing and twisting motion with his hand.
“No! Besides, I think they tend to give you a pill these days. How could I abort it? It's the last living part of Robert. I couldn't do that. I'm going to have the baby.”
“I suppose you'll be leaving me to bugger off on maternity leave now, then.”
“Not seven w
eeks in, I'm not, no. In fact, I doubt I'll have much time off at all, if any.”
“I admire your spirit, Knight, but even I know that's not sensible. You're probably entitled to a few months, but I'd have to check with the Pushchairs & Placentas department. Now, about that counselling malarkey. I've spoken to the shrink and she reckons she can see you tomorrow morning. I want you to go along, if only to stop you crying all over my bloody paperwork for a couple of hours.”
Wendy let out a relieved laugh through her tears. “OK, but only to save your paperwork. I don't want to use the police counsellors, though. It would be like having to tell my deepest, darkest secrets to you.”
“Perish the thought. I know far too much already. Go on, get out. Both of you.”
She smiled.
10
It was another dark, dank Wednesday morning for Donald Radley. Sure, the sun was shining and the birds were singing but it was dark and dank all the same. Business had not been good, not in a long time. The recession had bitten hard, and it hurt. If only his stupid fucking wife hadn't spent so much money on shoes and spa treatments, maybe they might be able to reign in the spending and keep their heads above water. No chance of that happening now. He was in way over his head.
He felt the bile rise from the pit of his stomach as he drove down St David's Way and pulled up outside Unit 5. It was like waking up in the morning to see the one thing that had taken everything good out of your life. A building, a shell. A destroyer.
He sat in the car for a few minutes longer, summoning up the courage to face another day of red-letter bills and bulging overdrafts. The fact was, nobody wanted stationery nowadays. People could print their own letterheads and get business cards printed for next to nothing on the internet. Ah, the internet. Radley Stationery had been a little slow on the uptake when it came to the internet. Not on Donald's part, though; that slimy, good-for-nothing business partner of his had decreed that the world wide web was nothing more than a passing fad and an expensive one at that. Yeah, it had proved to be expensive, all right.
Bad things always happened to good people, he knew that. He felt stupid and foolish at the time, effort and money he had pumped into this place, only to be taken for a ride. Bob Arthurs epitomised the silent partner. Silent except when he disagreed with something Donald wanted to do. Which was everything. He didn't know who he hated the most: Bob Arthurs for constantly getting in his way and driving the business into the ground, his wife for spending the money they didn't have, or himself for trusting either of these two witless idiots.
He thumped the dashboard and unlocked his car. He breathed in deeply and quickly, and out slowly. He felt like he was about to walk out on stage in front of ten thousand people. Of all the horrors he had expected to await him inside, he was not expecting this one.
11
She hated him. She truly, truly hated him. On paper, it came without rhyme nor reason but she was sure that she was right. After all, these things just built up, didn't they? The anger, the frustration, the all-consuming contempt. She knew that she had done the right thing.
She recalled the excitement building up inside her. The nerves. The trepidation. As she sat and stared at the photograph, the thoughts and feelings came flooding back. Humiliation, shame, and unrelenting anger. She had used those feelings to her advantage, though. Not only was she on top of him, but she was on top of the world. She was free. Free from what, she did not know, but she was free.
It had been a long time coming, but she still didn't regret a moment of it. Knowing the pain he had gone through had brought nothing but joy to her. But she knew it could not last. She knew one day she would have to face the music. She knew that day would be soon.
12
Culverhouse breathed heavily as he approached the door of Unit 5, St David's Way. If what he had been told was correct, he knew he wouldn't be taking too many deep breaths once he was inside. The thick D-shaped Formica handle was cold to the touch, the draft excluder whooshing and squeaking slightly against the floor tiles as the door opened.
It was the smell. Always the smell. You got a nose for a dead body after a while, and this one smelt very dead indeed.
“Knight – wait outside for the pathologist. He shouldn't be far behind.”
Wendy was only too pleased to acquiesce.
He decided against getting too close; he could see plenty from here. He could see the tops of the feet, the skin bubbled and blistered around the edges of the cavernous openings which revealed every individual metatarsal and a distinct lack of flesh. The smell of acid still hung in the air, barely masking the odour of the decomposing body itself. The eye sockets had peeled back, revealing the deep salmon flesh and remnants of what was once an eyeball. The hair was non-existent; most of the scalp had burnt through to sheer white bone.
“Looks like an acid job, guv.”
“Hydrochloric.”
“You can tell?”
“Yeah, it's a hobby of mine, you great berk. Of course you can tell. I've seen plenty of bodies in my time, Constable.”
“Do you reckon it might be our missing girl?”
“How the fuck do I know? I didn't think of commissioning an e-fit of what she might look like with half her face melted off with hydrochloric acid. Hopefully the pathologist won't be long and he'll be able to tell us for sure. Who found it?”
“The owner of the business, a Mr Donald Radley.”
“Any sign of forced entry?”
“He says not.”
“And who else could have had a key?”
“Any of the senior staff, conceivably. There's a front door and an alarm system, and only one door at the back. That's got a commercial recycling bin jammed up against it and that hasn't been moved in a while.”
“Nice little fire hazard.”
Janet Grey, the pathologist entered the room, her high heels clip-clopping on the stone floor of the warehouse. “DCI Culverhouse. Always a pleasure.”
“Janet,” Culverhouse replied, non-committally.
“How long's it been here?”
“No idea. The owner says it definitely wasn't here last night.”
“He's sure about that?”
“I think it's safe to say he'd probably notice, Janet.”
“Only asking. You'd be surprised what the eye misses.”
“Quite possibly so, but I don't imagine his bleedin' nose would've missed it.”
Janet Grey was, by now, far more interested in the body than in conversation with Culverhouse. “Mmm, interesting. Blunt trauma to the front of the face and ligature marks around the neck – probably from a pair of hands, I'd say.”
“Beaten up, strangled and acid bathed? Bit extreme, isn't it?”
“Depends how badly the killer wanted to get rid of him.”
“Him? You mean this isn't our missing girl?”
“Definitely not. Look at the hips – far narrower than any woman I've ever known. The shape of the skull gives it away, too. I can't say for sure until I get it into the lab and on the table, but I'm willing to bet there's not a uterus in there, either.”
“So who's this then?”
“That's not for me to say, but it's not your missing girl.”
13
The waiting room at the counselling clinic was brightly-lit but bitterly cold. A smell of antiseptic hung in the air; a smell only usually associated with hospitals and places meant to be kept clean. Brain antiseptic, Wendy thought. That's what I need. The lady at the reception desk looked quite content to carry on with her task of writing letters to whomever she may be writing them, occasionally answering the phone in a manner far too jovial for her general demeanour.
Posters adorned the wall.
One in four people will experience a mental health problem.
Mental Health Awareness Week: Bipolar disorder causes severe mood swings that can leave a person feeling manic and depressed.
In every secondary school classroom there will be two young people who have self-harmed.
Depressing reading; not entirely conducive to cheering up their clients, Wendy thought.
The door in front of her clicked open and a dark-haired woman in a white blouse and black trousers, black-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, smiled pleasingly, her eyes barely visible in the folds of her smile as she ushered out an Indian-looking woman and her child. The child looked no older than five or six, with medium-brown curly locks dancing over her head. Wendy watched them pass.
“Wendy Knight?” The woman was smiling again, and cocked her head to the side as if to welcome Wendy in. Next, please.
Wendy followed her into the room. Certificates were hung in a jovial and haphazard manner on the wall closest to the counsellor's desk, shelves presenting teddy bears and stuffed bunny rabbits, a corner displaying all manner of children's toys. The three armchairs and the wall of books reminded Wendy that this was a serious, adult place. At that moment, she might have been more contented in the toy corner.
She sat down in one of the armchairs, as motioned by the counsellor.
“I'm Linda Street, and I'm a psychological counsellor. Now, I've read a few of your notes but I'd just like you to tell me in your own words why you're here and what you hope to get out of these sessions.”
What did she hope to get out of these sessions? What did she hope to get out of anything? What use was hope?
“Well, I'm back at work after having four weeks off on compassionate leave. My last investigation was on the team investigating the Bowline Knot murders recently.”
