by Croft, Adam
“Anything of note yet, Baxter?”
“Nothing, sir. Although I did speak to one little old lady who was convinced she saw Danielle Levy disappear on Friday lunchtime.”
“She did?”
“Yep. Sucked up by a beam of light into a waiting spacecraft, by all accounts. She even reckons the aliens left her a message not to tell anyone, but she decided to defy them anyway.”
“I wish she bloody hadn't. Have we had anything useful?”
“Not from what I'm seeing, sir.”
“Right. Steve – anything on the Bob Arthurs case?”
“Nothing, guv. We seem to be at a dead end.”
“Not a dead end – just the one open avenue, and Gary McCann is sat right in the middle of the lane.”
“Do we have enough information for a search warrant?”
Culverhouse removed a sheet of folded paper from his back pocket. “Apparently so. In fact,” Culverhouse said, glancing at his watch, “the forensics boys should be on their way down there now. I think I'll pop in and see how Mr McCann's getting on.”
“He'll be only too pleased to see you, guv.”
23
The gates to Gary McCann's house were already open as Culverhouse negotiated the gravel driveway and parked his car in front of the house. McCann was stood in the driveway, watching closely as white-suited forensics officers entered and exited the house with all manner of technical equipment and personal belongings.
“I hope your men know what they're doing, Inspector. I'd like to see what grounds you've got for searching my bloody house.”
“No need to get agitated, Mr McCann. If you're innocent then I'm sure all will be fine.”
“It'll be even less fine, Inspector Culverhouse, because I'll be having a little conversation with your Assistant Chief Constable.”
Culverhouse knew that Charles Hawes would be more than happy to speak to Gary McCann about a few choice cases he'd looked at in the past. He was quite sure, though, that the conversation would be somewhat one-directional. “I'm sure he'd be delighted to speak with you, Mr McCann. Now, do you have any questions regarding the investigation?”
“Other than what the bloody hell do you think you're playing at?”
“We're investigating the murder of Bob Arthurs, Mr McCann.”
“And you think I killed the silly old bugger?”
“I think you might have information that could help advance our investigation.”
“Very tactful, DI Culverhouse. Not like you at all. Starting to go a bit soft in your old age, are you? Or are you just starting to get over the fact that your missus did a runner?”
Culverhouse visibly stiffened at the mention of his wife – a sign which didn't go unnoticed by Gary McCann, who responded with a knowing smirk.
“People die all the time, Inspector. You know that. And people go missing quite a lot, too.”
“I presume we're still talking about Bob Arthurs.”
“You tell me, Inspector. You tell me.”
As Culverhouse entered the dining room, he watched with awe as the forensics team bagged invisible samples and dusted inconsequential items with painstaking accuracy.
“Don't make too much of a mess, will you, boys? I've only just had this bloody carpet put in.”
“I'm sure my men will do whatever it takes, Mr McCann. Anyway, I'm quite sure you've got nothing to worry about.”
“If you were that sure, Inspector, you wouldn't be here ripping my bloody house apart.”
“Oh, I only said I was quite sure, Mr McCann.”
Gary McCann swaggered slightly as he took a step towards Culverhouse, their noses barely inches apart. “So you reckon I bumped off Bob Arthurs, do you?”
24
Jack Culverhouse, man of logic, was sometimes entirely illogical. He had long wondered why he bothered to walk to the local shop and buy that day's copy of The Times at nine o'clock in the evening, almost a full twenty-four hours after the news was barely fresh in the first place. The BBC News website and a copy of Crossword Monthly would be an adequate replacement, but nothing could beat the creature comfort of a fresh newspaper in the evening.
He could feel the sweat and oils from his hands ruining the print on the front page as he defaced the image of a smiling Michelle Obama. As he walked up the hill from the parade of shops and back onto the main road, Jack's heart skipped a beat. The figure stood at the bus stop looked all-too familiar. A familiar stranger. On any other day, he would have walked past without even taking a second glance. He told himself that she had been occupying his mind far too much recently.; he was even starting to see her in the street.
Perhaps this was how he wanted to imagine her: gaunt, drawn and a relic of her former self. Maybe he wished all these things on her; a punishment for walking out on him and taking their only child with her. She had no reason to be in Mildenheath. The last thing he heard was that she had briefly visited her parents in Cornwall before heading for the Southampton ferry barely days after having left him.
His mind was playing tricks on him, he decided, and picked up his pace as he walked on.
*
Shit. Had he seen her? She fucking hoped not. Stupid, stupid idea. She wanted desperately to speak to him, to have it out with him, but how was she ever going to do that if she couldn't even make eye contact with him without diving behind a bloody bus shelter?
She drew forcefully on her cigarette, the calming nicotine filling her lungs, her hands shaking and flicking the ash over her jacket as she tried to hug herself warm.
The police car slowed before pulling into the bus stop. Great. Fucking great.
“You all right, love?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Fine, thanks.”
“Only buses don't run from here at this time of night.”
She cocked her head to the side and looked at the sodden timetable which adorned the bus shelter. Shit. 19:28. Half-past seven, not half-past nine.
“Oh, right. Sorry. I misread the timetable.”
“You not from round here?”
“Not any more, no.”
“Mind if we take some details from you, love?”
“Why? Misreading a bus timetable isn't an offence.”
“No, but we've had a lot of reports of … well, street-walkers around this area recently. We just need to take a few details.”
Street-walkers? This is what her life had come to: quivering in a bus stop with only a Marlboro Light for company, being mistaken for a prostitute. “I'm not a hooker, all right? I misread the timetable.”
“Where are you staying tonight?”
“With an old friend.”
“They live local?”
“Fairly local, yeah.”
“Right, OK. Well be careful, all right? Lots of nasty sorts around here at this time of night.”
She knew. Oh, she knew.
25
DCI Culverhouse sat in his living room armchair and glanced forlornly at the photographs of Danielle Levy. Barely seventeen years old and, in his heart of hearts, he knew the increasing likelihood was that she would be found dead. He found himself lost in a world of imagination as Danielle almost came to life before his eyes. He had visions of her getting ready for a night out, sitting around with her friends discussing boys and make-up. She would have had no problem getting into nightclubs, that was for sure. Her looks were mature, and she would certainly pass for being in her twenties.
All girls grow up too quickly nowadays. Jack's own daughter would be almost in her teens by now. The pain and sorrow choked up as his visions of Danielle Levy became visions of his own daughter, her features transforming before his very eyes. It was true to say that he had no idea what she would look like nowadays, but he was sure she'd be beautiful. He could see her all grown up. The boys and make-up, the getting into nightclubs. The screams of terror. The dark, congealing blood and empty, staring eyes.
Shaking the vision from his mind's eye
, he reminded himself that Danielle Levy was probably still alive; his daughter even more so. He hoped to God he would see them both soon.
Culverhouse was jolted out of his phantasmal daydream by the ringing of his mobile phone. As he pressed to answer the call, he could utter nothing more committal than an absent-minded “Mmmm?”
“Guv, it's Frank Vine. We've received a call from a dog walker. They've found a body. We think it might be Danielle Levy.”
26
The dense wooded area sat aside the train line between Upper Berrydale and Middlebrook, a peaceful and tranquil location but for the cutting sound of London-bound trains every few minutes. It was clear to Culverhouse that sunlight rarely permeated any part of this wood. It smelt dark and musty, hundreds of years' worth of rotting leaves and vegetation compacting to form the rich compost on which he now stood.
“Right, where is it?”
“Down there, guv,” Frank Vine offered, pointing to the crater-sized dip in the forest floor which was coated with a thick layer of deep-green ivy. Grunting to himself, Culverhouse scuttled down into the crab position and worked his heels down the steep edge of the ravine. Losing his footing just once or twice, he righted himself at the bottom of the dip and almost overcompensated but for the saving grace of a well-place tree trunk.
“Just to your right, guv. Over towards the birch tree. You'll see the newspapers.” Makes a change from black bin liners, Culverhouse supposed.
He made his way, slowly but surely, towards the body, being careful not to tread anywhere he shouldn't.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Is there a problem, guv?”
“Yes, there's a fucking problem. You told me you had a body.”
“It is a body, guv.”
“It's not a fucking body, DS Vine. Bodies have heads, arms, legs and a torso. This is a half-formed cadaver with the majority of the skin and bone melted into mush.”
“Yeah, but 'body' was easier to say on the phone, guv.”
Culverhouse could see that what was left of the body had been wrapped in newspaper as an afterthought, seeing as most of it was in more-or-less pristine condition. More than could be said for the body. He was no expert, but even he could see that the body had been subjected to the acid attack in situ, and had not simply been dumped. The cloying silt which surrounded her body had turned to glue, the process of biodegradation sped up by the chemical interference. The newspapers which covered the cadaver, though, were remarkably unscathed.
“Great. Fucking great. Has Dr Grey been down here yet?”
“Yep, she's been and gone. She says she can't tell much from what's left and it'll be virtually impossible to tell the age and sex of the body, but she said she's 80% sure it's a woman between eighteen and forty years of age.”
“Nice and precise, then,” Culverhouse remarked sarcastically.
“There is some good news, though, guv. Danielle Levy's handbag was found just a few feet away and Dr Grey reckons the general height and build fits the description we have of Danielle. She's pretty certain it's her.”
“Great. Just what we need.”
“Oh, and she said that the body definitely couldn't have been covered up before Saturday.”
“What? How can she be so sure?”
“The newspaper's got Saturday's date on it.”
27
The warm glow of the sun belied the dark cloud of grief which was soon to wash over 101 Heathcote Road. It was a job that every police officer hated. The only thing worse than seeing a dead, decaying, rotting body was having to tell their nearest and dearest what had happened to them. No matter how many times you had to do it throughout your career, it got no easier. To have to start with a lie; the pleasantries, the how-are-yous, the all-impending knowledge of what was to come, what was inevitable, eating away at every part of you.
Perhaps it was fortunate that Darren Parker had picked up on a facial expression, an atmosphere, when he opened the door that afternoon. The initial smile was eradicated by his sinking features. Wendy could swear that she had seen him age by ten years right in front of her.
“Mr Parker, we've come to speak to you and your wife about Danielle.”
“She's … she's dead, isn't she?”
“Can we come in, Mr Parker? I'd much rather we spoke inside.”
Miriam Levy was sat, perched on the edge of an armchair, a scrunch of tissues clenched to her chin as she rocked her elbows on her knees. Her eyes told of pain and sorrow, but her voice said nothing.
“I'll get straight to the point,” DCI Culverhouse started, surprising no-one. “We've found a … body, of sorts … in the woods between Upper Berrydale and Middlebrook. We have reason to believe it might be Danielle.”
The last glowing embers of hope died visibly on the faces of Darren Parker and Miriam Levy, the fire already all but extinguished.
“Will we … will we need to identify her?”
“That probably isn't a good idea, Mr Parker. We'd like to carry out a DNA match instead. We don't have Danielle's DNA on file, so we'll need to take an item of unwashed clothing. Either that or a hairbrush used exclusively by her. Might you have anything?”
“Well, yes, both. Now?”
“In your own time, Mr Parker. I understand how distressing this must be.”
“I'm no fool, Inspector. I know how these things work. The reason we can't identify her is because she's unidentifiable, isn't it?” Culverhouse said nothing, but diverted his eyes towards the cream carpet. “So what makes you think it might be her in the first place?”
Wendy spoke on behalf of them both. “Some of her belongings were found close by, Mr Parker. That doesn't immediately mean the body is Danielle's, but the location is eight-and-a-half miles away from where she was last seen, so it does make it a lot more likely.”
“Right. I see. Well, I'd better go and get some bits for you, then.”
It occurred to Wendy that Darren Parker was one of many different types of grievers. He was the rock. The one who tried to appear as the calm organiser, the steady force, but in private would break down worse than anyone else. Miriam Levy, on the other hand, was quite the opposite, being visibly torn from the inside out in front of their very eyes.
A few minutes later, Darren Parker re-entered the living room with two large sandwich bags, one dwarfing the hairbrush within it, the other almost at bursting point with the woollen jumper which it held. He handed them to Wendy.
“I picked them both up with the bags. So there weren't any more fingerprints on them than necessary, you know.”
“Thanks. That's very helpful.”
“When will we know?”
“It shouldn't be long, Mr Parker. I know every minute can feel like an hour, but we'll do our best to ensure your mind can be at rest as soon as possible.”
“Thank you. I just … I just don't know what I would do if it was Danielle...”
The rock slowly crumbled.
28
Mildenheath General Hospital was a place that Wendy would be glad if she never saw again. The cold white walls, the beeping of machinery, the deathly rattle of old people coughing. The reminders of Michael. She was only pleased that now she was here for happier reasons. In a way, the juxtaposition was beautiful. What had come out of absolute tragedy was wonderful, serene.
She had told herself that she had come to terms with her new state of being. Wendy the mother. Inside, she knew that she was no mother. She was a police officer and that was that. The everlasting memory of Robert, though, would change all of that. To be carrying his baby made her feel as though a part of him was still with her. A part of him which hadn't suffered, hadn't died in writhing agony at the hands of her brother, Michael. The truth be told, she had rarely been happier.
As she sat in the waiting room of the maternity ward, the fabric of the chair grew softer, enveloping her with warmth and comfort. This was the maternal glow, she thought. The miracle. Her over-rational head tried to tell her that it was purely hormo
nal – that this wasn't her – but she knew better than to listen to her head. Her heart was telling her otherwise. Her heart was beating for two.
*
“DCI Culverhouse? Liz Prior here from forensics. I've got some rather interesting news for you.”
“Go on.”
“Well, first of all, the DNA found on the body in the woods matches that provided by the family of Danielle Levy.”
“So it's her?”
“Yes, I'm afraid so. The thing is, there's a big crossover match between another investigation I believe you're currently working on.”
Culverhouse's eyes lit up. “Go on...”
“It's regarding the samples taken from Gary McCann's house. We found a number of hairs which we've identified as belonging to someone you may be interested in. Danielle Levy. This puts her as having been in his house and car on at least one occasion fairly recently.”
“Fucking brilliant! Well done, Liz. I owe you one.” Culverhouse didn't replace the handset, but simply pressed the hook button before releasing it and dialling Wendy's mobile number. “Knight. Culverhouse. I need you at the station as soon as you can. There's been a very interesting development.”
“I'm waiting to see the midwife, guv. Is it urgent?”
“Put it this way – your baby's going nowhere. As for Gary McCann, that's another story.”
29
Gary McCann smiled smugly as he leaned back on the two rear legs of the chair in the interview room, his hands behind his head.
