Guilty as Sin

by Croft, Adam

  “That's why you're tying to fast-track him?”

  “As best I can, yeah. The further up you get, the harder it is for them to get rid of you. I should know.” He let out a small laugh followed by a large sniff. Opening his mouth with a noise as if he'd just woken up, Culverhouse rubbed his red eyes and smiled at Wendy before finishing his beer.

  18

  Gary McCann's house sat proud at the end of a sweeping driveway, nestled behind black wrought iron gates on Meadow Hill Lane. The road was often considered to be the comparative Millionaires' Row of Mildenheath, if there ever could be such a thing. The town hardly had its fair share of millionaires, but Meadow Hill Lane was the closest it was going to get.

  DCI Culverhouse pulled off the road and came to a stop before the gates, noticing that Gary McCann's driveway was perfectly sizeable before you even got as far as the gate. He got out of the car and approached the barrier, pressing the brushed silver button on the intercom system.

  “Yes?”

  “Mobile stripper for Mr McCann.”

  “DCI Culverhouse. It's been too long.”

  With that, the intercom crackled with the replacement of the handset and the gates clicked and whirred before slowly swinging open to welcome them in like old friends.

  “Why does he have these gates and walls?” Knight asked, “He's not got a much bigger place than any of his neighbours and they've all got open driveways.”

  “His neighbours probably aren't gangsters and crack dealers.”

  “You'd be surprised. Some of the things that go on behind the most innocent of doors would amaze you.”

  “Nothing amazes me any more, Knight.”

  Culverhouse brought the car to a stop just outside the red brick porch, its twin arches framing the impressive red door. Before they had even reached the door, it opened to reveal the man who Wendy assumed must be Gary McCann. She reckoned he must be just over six feet tall, his greying-white quiff adding at least an extra two inches to his height. He had the eyes jowls of a hardened criminal, she had to admit, but he certainly cut a respectable figure in his open-necked suit and highly-polished patent leather Oxfords.

  “Nice little place you've got here, Gary. What line of work are you in at the moment?”

  “Investments, mostly.”

  “So I hear.”

  “You not made Superintendent yet?”

  “I think that's about as bloody likely as you being hailed as the next Mother Teresa, don't you?”

  “Oh, I don't know, Inspector. I do an awful lot for the local community.”

  “Yes, but Mother Teresa mostly did good.”

  “I've done no bad, you know that. You must have seen my criminal record – what there is of it.”

  “Oh, I have. An awful lot of arrests on suspicion.”

  “But nothing ever proven, isn't that right?”

  “That doesn't make you the Good Samaritan, Gary. It just means we've not managed to catch you yet.”

  “Yet?”

  “Oh, yes. You know I'm going nowhere until I've got your bollocks stapled to my last arrest sheet.”

  “I like you, Jack. You've got balls.”

  “So have you. For now.”

  Gary McCann shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and smiled. “Anyone fancy some coffee?”

  “Yes please. Extra strychnine for me.”

  “I was going to give you a double dose anyway, Inspector. And what about your colleague here? Sorry, I don't know your name.”

  “Wendy … Uh, DS Wendy Knight.”

  “Wendy. That's a lovely name.”

  “That's DS Knight to you, McCann,” Culverhouse interjected.

  “Oh, I thought we were all on first name terms?”

  “We are, but she hasn't had her gloved finger up your arsehole as many times as I have.”

  McCann smiled again and let out a small chuckle as he headed into the kitchen.

  “Nice place,” Wendy said.

  “Amazing what the proceeds of crime can buy.”

  “He can't have done anything too bad, guv. If he's the gangland mobster you make him out to be we'd have been able to nail something on him by now.”

  “You ever tried nailing jelly to a wall?”

  “Can't say I have.”

  “Try it. The day you get that to stick is the day we get this to stick.”

  “Sorry, only got instant, I'm afraid,” Gary McCann said as he handed over the mugs to Knight and Culverhouse.

  “Make a habit out of sneaking up on people, do you Gary?”

  “I don't know what you mean, Inspector. Would you like sugar?”

  “I'm sweet enough.”

  “Indeed. And perhaps that coffee isn't the most bitter thing in this room, eh?”

  “I'm not bitter, McCann. Every time you slip through my fingers only makes me more fucking determined to nail you the next time.”

  “Well, something has to get you up in the morning, I suppose. Now that your wife isn't there to do it.”

  Culverhouse began to grind his teeth, his eyes widening at McCann's remark.

  “Oh, sorry. Are we getting a bit too personal? Or was I not meant to know that?”

  “It's hardly top secret information,” Culverhouse said – almost whispered – through gritted teeth.

  “Nothing ever is, Inspector. Nothing ever is. So, how can I help you? I presume you're not here for the Daz Doorstep Challenge.”

  “We wanted to speak to you about someone we believe you might have known. A Bob Arthurs.”

  “Bob? Radley Stationery Bob? Yeah, I know him. Why?”

  “Well he's a very stationary Bob at the moment. He's dead.”

  “Dead? Oh dear, that is a shame. What happened?”

  “I was rather hoping you could tell me. How did you know Bob Arthurs?”

  “He was one of my clients, a business partner. I had invested in his company.”

  “In what sense?”

  “He sold me some of his shares, temporarily. They were short on readies so I bought out some of Bob's shares. He was buying them back over the course of a few years, only he'd fallen into a bit of trouble recently.”

  “Trouble?” Wendy asked.

  “Yeah. Couldn't pay back the money a couple of times.”

  “That's remarkably open of you, McCann. You going to tell us what happened?”

  “That is what happened, Inspector. The last I saw of Bob was over a month ago when I popped in to see how business was.”

  “And how was it?”

  “Not great, but everyone's having a tough time of it, aren't they?”

  “I don't think many are having a tougher time than Bob Arthurs at the moment, if you ask me.”

  “Well, no. We've all got our health, I suppose. That's the only thing that old Bob had, really.”

  “And now he's had it taken from him. Who'd do a thing like that, Gary?”

  “I've no idea. You mean he was murdered?”

  “I mean he was brutally fucking slaughtered.”

  Gary McCann began to pace in front of the fireplace, rubbing his chin with his hand, his head slightly aslant as he seemed to be digesting the news. Wendy glanced at Culverhouse, noting his unimpressed look.

  “Save it for the interview room, McCann. We'll be needing copies of your accounts regarding your business with Bob Arthurs and Radley Stationery. I presume you do have accounts?”

  “Of course I do. I'm very good at keeping records, as you know, Inspector. You'll have to get them sent over by my accountant, though. Here's his card. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “I'm sure we'll be in contact in due course.”

  Gary McCann stood, almost theatrically, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other waving to Knight and Culverhouse as they drove back down the gravel drive towards the now-open gates.

  “Fucking smarmy bastard. I can't fucking wait to nail him over this.”

  “You reckon the accounts will have holes in, guv?”

  “Like a s
ieve. Like a fucking sieve.”

  19

  The steel wheels clattered on the rails as the Class 319 roared through the station, bringing with it a warm gust of wind. The air whoomphed as each set of double doors passed the spot on which Helen was stood. She had tried telling herself that she wouldn't make an effort; he would just have to make do with how she came. It had never bothered him before, not that he'd taken much notice. Here she was, though, her glowing blonde hair straightened and flicked out at the ends, delicately glancing off her shoulders. She felt anything but delicate. She knew time had been kind to her in some ways and evil in others. She raised the cigarette to her mouth and took a long, hard drag, her eyes almost squinting, before adding some oxygen to her smoky lungs and stubbing out the cigarette. Leaning back against the blue paint-chipped pillar, she raised her chin and blew the smoke away.

  She cursed Em for not coming with her. She didn't want to meet him, she said. After all that Helen had told her, she quite hoped she would never even get the opportunity to bump into him. She certainly wasn't going to try and see him voluntarily. Helen had chided Em for leaving her to do this on her own. She must have known it wasn't going to be easy for her, but it had to be done. Inside, she hated him too, but it had to be done. Things had to be said and the air had to be cleared. After all, surely it was all water under the bridge now?

  She had no clue as to how she was going to explain to him why she'd done it. Of course, she knew why she'd done it but it made it no easier to explain it to him. She knew he'd feel betrayed and hurt, even now. He always had been one to hold a grudge and she doubted very much whether he would have changed. He would never change.

  20

  The living room at 9 Vicarage Road was eerily silent despite the presence of Sylvia Arthurs, Jack Culverhouse and Wendy Knight. Sylvia sat in an armchair, holding a framed picture of her husband which she caressed with her thumb as she smiled through salty tears.

  Wendy was the first to break the uncomfortable silence. “I know this must be hard for you, Mrs Arthurs, but we need to ask some questions about your husband's disappearance. Any information we have will help us find out exactly what happened to Bob.”

  “I don't know what I can tell you, officer. I really don't.”

  “We need to know if your husband knew a man called Gary McCann. We believe they may have been in business together in some form.” Wendy could see from Sylvia's reaction that she did, indeed, know of Gary McCann. The flickering of the eyes and the short, sharp, hardly-noticeable intake of breath told her all she needed to know. “We've received some information stating that Gary McCann may have invested in some of your husband's shares in Radley Stationery. Did you know anything about this?”

  Sylvia Arthurs thought for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  “And what was your opinion on it?” Culverhouse asked.

  “Well, I was perfectly happy with it. Bob didn't have the money to keep his side of the business going and Gary stepped up and helped him out.”

  “Financially?”

  “Yes, that too. He helped Bob get the business back on track.”

  “With all due respect, from what we've seen, Mrs Arthurs, it doesn't look as though Radley Stationery was anywhere near back on track. The business was haemorrhaging money and your husband must have been, too.”

  “Are you saying … you think Bob might have committed suicide?”

  “Not unless he managed to cave his own face in with a baseball bat and then jump in an acid bath before tying himself to a chair in his own warehouse, no.” Wendy's eyes shot sharp left to Culverhouse. The man's tact astounded her. “We think he may have been murdered as part of a grudge.”

  Sylvia Arthurs spoke, though visibly shocked. “No, not Gary McCann. He wouldn't do that. He has been good to us and good to me since Bob died.”

  “What do you mean he's been good to you since Bob died, Mrs Arthurs?”

  “He's been really supportive since I heard the news. He gave me … a gift.” With this, Sylvia Arthurs stood up from her armchair and crossed the room to the sideboard. There, she opened the middle cupboard door and drew out two large jiffy bags. “These were on my doorstep when I got home yesterday.”

  Culverhouse opened the bag, looking at Sylvia for any clue as to what might be inside. Drawing his hand out, he brought with it a large bundle of used twenty pound notes. Both jiffy bags were stuffed full.

  “Ten thousand pounds, Inspector. Look at the note.” Inside the second jiffy bag, Culverhouse spotted the folded sheet of white A4 paper, which he duly unfolded and read. There, in the neatly typed and printed font were the words:

  Your husband was a good man. Take this as a gift. G McC.

  “Why would Gary McCann give you ten thousand pounds in cash, Mrs Arthurs?”

  “I have no idea. I told you he was a kind man.”

  “We'll have to take this in as evidence, I'm sure you'll understand.”

  “Oh, yes. I've no idea what I'll do with all that money, anyway. Not now that I'm ...” Sylvia's voice trailed off as her mouth refused to form the word.

  Outside, Knight and Culverhouse got into the unmarked Volvo and sat silent for a few moments, both knowing what the other wanted to say.

  “I told you. I fucking told you Gary McCann was a lying bastard.” It was bound to be Culverhouse who had the first word. “All that bloody bollocks about being so surprised that Bob Arthurs had snuffed it, and all the time he's been sending fucking presents to his wife. But why?”

  “Maybe he wanted to show Sylvia that he wasn't such a bad man after all. That Bob Arthurs needed to go, but he felt no malice towards Sylvia. He must have known that Sylvia would be saddled with Bob's debts after he'd gone. Even criminals have a nice side.”

  “Not this one, he doesn't. Gary McCann has never cared for a little old lady before. There's something fishy going on with McCann and I'm going to find out what.”

  21

  Secretly, Jack Culverhouse had always liked doing press conferences. Although they were a pain in the arse, they usually threw up some good leads. Of course, there were the usual cranks and time-wasters, but overall it was a good exercise and it showed the public that the police were doing something.

  The Mildenheath Police insignia was emblazoned on the wall behind Culverhouse as he gingerly stepped towards his seat and sat down. Taking a cursory sip of water from the glass in front of him, he shuffled his papers and tapped the microphone in front of him before beginning to speak.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I am Detective Chief Inspector Jack Culverhouse of Mildenheath CID. To my left is Assistant Chief Constable Charles Hawes, and to my right is Detective Sergeant Luke Baxter. I am here today to launch an appeal for information on the death of one Bob Arthurs of Vicarage Road, Mildenheath. Mr Arthurs was a businessman, a partner in a local stationery firm. Mr Arthurs' body was found early on Wednesday morning by his business partner at the warehouse unit where they worked. We have reason to believe that Mr Arthurs' death was suspicious and are appealing for any information that may help catch his killer. Any questions?”

  As Wendy sat in the incident room watching the action unfold on the news channel, she grinned at Culverhouse's short and succinct address. That smirking git Baxter was doing him no favours, though.

  “DCI Culverhouse, Adam Reynolds, Mildenheath Gazette. You mentioned that Bob Arthurs' business partner, Donald Radley, found his body on Wednesday morning. Is Mr Radley a suspect in the investigation?”

  “No. We are satisfied that Donald Radley had no motive for killing Bob Arthurs and that his alibi is watertight. That is not an avenue we are pursuing.”

  “Sam Rigby, Blaze Radio. You mentioned that you have reason to believe that Bob Arthurs' death was suspicious. What are the circumstances that lead you to believe this?”

  Culverhouse sighed. This was a dilemma which had been discussed in full in the incident room prior to the press conference. It was usual practice to withhold some details of serious crime cases in or
der to be able to weed out crank callers later in the investigation. Due to the distinct lack of evidence in the Bob Arthurs murder case, it had been decided that the grisly details would be withheld only unless specifically asked for. It hadn't taken Sam Rigby long to blow that plan out of the water.

  “Bob Arthurs' body had been badly beaten. We believe he had been initially attacked with a baseball bat. His body was then subjected to a hydrochloric acid attack.”

  “At what point did Mr Arthurs die, Inspector?” Adam Reynolds from the Mildenheath Gazette had poked his head above the parapet once again. Culverhouse knew from past experience that Reynolds was like a dog with a bone once he got going.

  “We're unsure at the moment. The pathologist also saw evidence of strangulation but there were no signs of a struggle. This may have been due to Mr Arthurs being unconscious at the time due to the earlier head trauma.”

  “What information are you looking for at this time?”

  “We're looking for anyone who may have known Bob Arthurs and can provide us with some more insight into his life. He seems to have been a very secretive man, but someone clearly had a grudge against him. We would also like people locally to be vigilant and let us know if they spot and odd behaviour in close friends or relatives which may be linked to the events of Tuesday night and Wednesday morning. Please do call the incident room if you think you may have some information, no matter how insignificant. Even the smallest details can help enormously.” Culverhouse died a little inside as he said this, knowing damn well that it would lead to all manner of crank callers.

  22

  The incident room was abuzz with ringing phones and the chatter of numerous officers frantically taking notes from all manner of callers. Culverhouse sauntered about the room, glancing at notepads over the shoulders of officers. The investigation was barely hours old, but it seemed to Wendy that Culverhouse had visibly aged; his once-crisp white shirt now hanging loosely over the top of his trousers, stray locks of hair teasing his glistening forehead.