by Croft, Adam
“Worried about something, McCann?”
“Why would I have anything to worry about, Inspector?”
“In my experience, the cool, calm characters become just a little bit too cool and calm when they're guilty as sin.”
“And in my experience, police officers start to make up all sorts of ludicrous psychological theories when they get desperate at having nothing else in their arsenal.”
“Oh, my arsenal is positively overflowing, Mr McCann. Tell me – do you know a girl called Danielle Levy?”
“Sorry, what has this got to do with Bob Arthurs?”
“I'm not sure myself, just now. What I do know, though, is that Danielle Levy went missing from her house on Friday lunchtime and hasn't been seen since. I also know that in the process of scouring your house for material in connection with the murder of Bob Arthurs, we found a number of hairs belonging to Danielle. Can you explain how they got there?”
Gary McCann slowly lowered the front of his chair, allowing the legs to come to a rest on the floor with a clop as he brought his hands down in front of him, crossing them on the table. “Absolutely not. I've never heard of her.”
“I would like to remind you that this interview is being recorded, Mr McCann, and that we have evidence which shows that Danielle Levy has been in both your house and car recently.”
“That's impossible. No-one else uses my car and we don't have other people around at the house. Not until we started holding your police parties for you in the past few days, anyway.”
“You'll have to come up with something better than that, McCann. The forensic evidence doesn't lie. Danielle Levy has been in your house and she has been in your car. And I want to know why.”
“I'm telling you. I ain't never heard of her, all right?”
“Have you had any parties at your house recently, Mr McCann?” Wendy tried to nudge the conversation in some sort of forward direction.
“No, I don't tend to go in for that. We're a very private household, know what I mean?”
“Hardly surprising,” Culverhouse added, drily.
“Yeah, we have friends around occasionally but only the odd dinner party and that. And never with no Danielle Levy, that's for sure.”
“And do you ever take anyone else in your car?”
“Only my current wife, and she's tucked up safe and sound at home and definitely not lying dead anywhere.”
“Your first one is, though, isn't she?”
“Listen, I can't speak for your forensics blokes, but I know damn well who's been in my house and I know damn well who hasn't. Now, unless I'm being fitted up, I'm afraid I can't help you, Inspector.”
30
“Fitted up? Who'd want to fit him up?”
“A lot of people, Knight. McCann's a viscous bastard and he doesn't care who he hurts. I'm damn sure he killed his first wife and everyone else knows it too. The worst thing is, he knows we know it and we can't do a fucking thing about it.”
Justice was cruel, sometimes, and a lack of evidence meant a lack of trial and a lack of conviction. In essence, the killer walked free. This, amongst other things, was what riled Jack Culverhouse the most.
“But surely if he's come that close to being caught before he's not likely to kill again on a whim. Besides, killing your wife is completely different to just popping off a business associate. It's not the sign of a serial killer. It just doesn't add up.”
“A killer's a killer, Knight. And Gary McCann is a killer.”
“But what reason would he have to kill Danielle Levy? He said himself he doesn't even know the girl.”
“That doesn't mean anything. McCann's good at lying through his teeth. For all we know, they could have been carrying on together and he did her in before she started gobbing off to her mates.”
“Pardon me, guv, but I can't see any reason why a seventeen-year-old girl would want to 'carry on' with a greying, beer-bellied man with a criminal history.”
“You'd be surprised what attracts some women, Knight.”
Wendy surreptitiously eyed Culverhouse before trying to work out whether she agreed or disagreed with his summary.
“Yeah, I think I probably would be surprised.”
“The fact of the matter is, Danielle Levy's hair was found in McCann's house and car. She was there – that's a fact. We just need to find out why.”
“And how do you suggest we do that when McCann swears blind he's never heard of her?”
“We go round and talk to the wife.”
“We can't do that, guv. We don't have a warrant to enter again.”
“I don't need a warrant to ring the fucking doorbell,” Culverhouse replied angrily.
Back at Gary McCann's house, Knight and Culverhouse were pleased to see McCann's second wife, Imogen, tending to the front garden.
“See? Didn't even need to ring the doorbell after all.”
Bringing the car to a halt on the sweeping gravel driveway, the pair got out and introduced themselves to Imogen McCann.
“Ah, Mrs McCann. I don't think we've met. Detective Chief Inspector Jack Culverhouse, Mildenheath Police. This is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Wendy Knight.”
“Yes, I've heard a lot about you.”
“I'm glad my reputation precedes me. Can we speak inside?”
Imogen McCann guided DCI Culverhouse and DS Knight into the spacious living room adorned with photographs and watercolour paintings. Culverhouse stood, one hand in his pocket, the other picking up photographs to examine.
“Lots of photos you have here.”
“Yes.”
“None of your husband's ex-wife, I notice.”
“No. He doesn't like the reminders.”
“Oh. I thought they got on quite well?”
“Well, yes, they did. He doesn't like the reminders of what happened to her, I mean. It's not exactly the sort of thing you want staring you in the face every day. Gary's been through hell with what happened to Tanya. Especially when you lot wouldn't leave him alone and tried to convict him of murdering her.”
“Believe me, Mrs McCann, if I had the time I'd try again. Unfortunately, we have other dead people to try and bring justice to. This time, I won't allow justice to let them down.”
“And what, you think Gary had something to do with Bob Arthurs' death too?”
“Oh no, Mrs McCann. I've not even got onto the Bob Arthurs case yet. We're currently interviewing your husband in connection with the murder of Miss Danielle Levy,” Culverhouse read from his notepad, as if seeing the name for the first time.
“Who?”
“A seventeen-year-old girl from Heathcote Road. She went missing on Friday lunchtime and was found dead in the woods between Upper Berrydale and Middlebrook. We're not quite sure how she died, because her body had been so badly dissolved by industrial-strength hydrochloric acid. Do you need me to go on, Mrs McCann?”
Imogen McCann's face told Culverhouse all he needed to know in response to that question. “But how could it have been Gary? Did he even know her?”
“That's what we're trying to find out. Do you know if your husband had been having any extra-marital affairs? One night stands? Playgirls?”
“Come off it, Inspector! Gary's a caring family man.”
Culverhouse almost exploded in a fit of laughter, leaving Wendy unsure as to whether it was real or purely for display purposes. “Yeah, and I'm Diana fucking Ross. I just white-up for the day job.”
“Mrs McCann, did you ever suspect that your husband may have been unfaithful to you?” Wendy tried to inject some professionalism into the proceedings.
“No, never. I trust him and I know he wouldn't do that.”
“The thing is, we've found traces of Danielle Levy's hair in your house and in your husband's car.”
“Traces? What kind of traces?”
“Clumps,” Culverhouse said bluntly.
“I don't see how that's possible. I mean … he … “
“I know this might be hard f
or you to digest,” Wendy said, “but I really need to you think hard as to whether your husband may have known Danielle Levy and how her hairs might have come to be in your house and car. Because, at the moment, it really isn't looking very good.”
Imogen McCann sat in silence for a few moments before speaking.
“Well. There is something.”
31
Wendy replaced the receiver, put the lid back on her pen and jogged towards Culverhouse's office with the notepad in her hand.
“Guv? I've just had a call from a girl called Lyndsey Samuels. Says she was a school friend of Danielle Levy. She saw the appeal on TV and wanted to tell us about a boy she reckons Danielle had been seeing recently. Says it was nothing serious, but she thinks he was a bit of a troublemaker and might have something for us.”
“What's his name?”
“Shane Howard. Lives up Forkston Road.”
“Says it all, really. Perhaps we should go and have a chat.”
Forkston Road was known locally for harbouring a number of young hoodlums, consisting, as it did, mostly of ex-council housing. Shane Howard's family house was a simple two-up-two-down affair, nestled in the middle of four or five similar terraced properties. A light blue rusting Vauxhall Cavalier was parked jauntily on the road outside.
Culverhouse rang the doorbell and waited a few moments before the woman opened the door. Mutton dressed as lamb was the first thought that came into Culverhouse's mind. Not brilliant lamb, either. The enormous golden hooped earrings deflected the eye from the drooping cigarette and pockmarked skin of Shane Howard's mother.
“Yeah? Wot is it?”
“Mrs Howard? We've come to speak to your son, Shane.”
“Wot about? He ain't done nuffin' wrong. Why do you lot keep comin' round and givin' us 'assle?”
“We're not trying to give anyone any hassle, Mrs Howard. We just want to speak to him as a possible witness in connection with a recent incident.”
“Well you won't find nuffin' 'ere. 'E's down the park, ain't he?”
“Which one?”
“On Meadow Hill Lane. Probably wiv 'is mates. Don't go bovverin' 'im though, will ya?”
“We'll do what we need to do, thank you, Mrs Howard.”
They didn't stay a minute longer than they needed to.
Pulling the car in beside the tennis courts, Wendy was relieved to be in plain clothes and an unmarked car. Despite the tranquil surroundings, the park on Meadow Hill Lane was a notorious stomping ground for young thugs and layabouts. The old cricket pavilion made for the centre of much of the trouble, standing as it did aside the large open green area donned with football pitches, cricket fields and tennis courts.
“Plenty of them about, guv. How will you know which one's him?”
“Oh, I'll know, don't you worry. Let's just say we've met once or twice before.”
Making their way down the poorly-laid concrete path which ran down the side of the park, past the pavilion, Knight and Culverhouse approached the gang of youths.
“Oi oi! Anyone smell that?”
“Yeah, smells like bacon!”
The group fell into a roar of rapturous laughter and mock applause.
“My old mate Inspector Culverhouse! Come to have a bit of a drink and a smoke with us, 'ave ya?”
“Shane Howard, we meet again.”
“I'll take that as a no, then. Only need to say, like!”
Shane Howard's gang of lemmings continued to laugh at his every comment, as if entranced by cult.
“We need to speak to you about Danielle Levy, Shane.”
“Who?”
“Danielle Levy. We believe she may have been your girlfriend.”
“Hah, is that what you call it! Nah, we had a bit of a thing, like, but I wouldn't call her my girlfriend.”
“Fuck buddy, more like!” One of the group piped up, followed by more rapturous laughter.
“Whatever she was to you, we want to know what you might know about her murder.”
“Murder, eh? Can't say I can 'elp you, Inspector. If I 'ad to give you information on every girl I shagged, we'd be 'ere a long time, know what I mean? Don't even know 'alf their names, like.”
“Well, aren't you the big man? Make you feel big, does it? Using a girl for sex and not giving two shits when she ends up dead?”
“I never killed her, Inspector.”
“And how do I know that? You've had more criminal records than Cliff Richard.”
“Well, you'll 'ave to catch me to find out, won't ya?”
Roaring with laughter, Shane Howard made off on his toes towards the gate on Meadow Hill Lane, his gang of yobs egging him on with every step.
“Go on, Shane! Leg it!”
Culverhouse was quick to react, beginning only a couple of feet behind Shane Howard, yet unable to make any purchase on grabbing him. Wendy, slower to react, but quicker to gain, soon overtook the bumbling Culverhouse and began sprinting and gaining on Shane as her feet hammered into the concrete path, stumbling and stacking on the uneven surface as she went.
As Culverhouse gave up and slumped on the grass bank panting and wheezing, Wendy came within touching distance of Shane Howard as they approached the front gate of the park. In a photo finish, Wendy managed to wrap her right arm around Shane's shoulder and yank him back towards her as they grappled for supremacy. Not caring much for guidelines and methods of restraint noted in Blackstone's, Wendy began kicking at the legs of Shane Howard in an attempt to knock him off balance and restrain him until DCI Culverhouse, now back on his feet and moving towards them like a slow mound of jelly, came back on the scene.
With a grunting roar of effort, Shane Howard's body tensed and Wendy found herself feeling momentarily weightless as her feet left the ground and she felt herself moving uncontrollably towards the road. Trying to regain her footing and stop the forward momentum with her hands on the sharp, gritty surface of the road, she twisted over on her ankle – a pain which was dominant only momentarily before the sharp, searing crunch of her lower back put an end to all forward momentum with a screeching of tyres.
She found herself looking at the front of the Volvo from an unnaturally low position, her back howling with pain as she lost all concept of space and time.
32
Wendy groaned as she came round to find herself in Mildenheath General Hospital once again. The pain had dulled, she noticed, as she tried to sit up straight and relieve the uncomfortably stiff feeling she had in her back.
“Good, you're awake. Now get some soup down your neck and tell them you're feeling fine and we can get back out and nick that bastard.”
“Guv. Just the person I like to see when I wake up.”
“You're one of few women to have the pleasure, Knight. How you feeling?”
“I must say I've been better.”
“You've been worse, too.”
The whistling of no particular song increased in volume as the white door swung open and the smiling doctor introduced himself.
“Ah, Wendy. Doctor Fraser. You've had a bit of a nasty accident. Do you remember much about it?”
“I remember bouncing off a Volvo.”
“Aye, you tried attacking it with your spine. Not the best weapon the human body has,” Dr Fraser chuckled, his lilting Scottish tones acting as a natural painkiller.
“When can I get out of here?”
“When you're better, Wendy. You've had a nasty accident and we're still waiting on some test results to make sure nothing is broken or seriously damaged.”
The thought had lingered anonymously at the back of Wendy's mind. Now it raced to the front, shouting and screaming.
“And what about … what … did you do scans?”
Dr Fraser glanced sideways at DCI Culverhouse, then back towards Wendy.
“It's OK. He knows,” she said.
“Well, yes. We did. You knew you were pregnant?”
“Yeah, I did. Hang on, what do you mean by were?”
“Wendy,
you suffered quite a nasty fall.”
“I know that. What's happened to my baby?”
A thousand thoughts raced through her mind, a ten-thousand volt surge of adrenaline made her heart heavy with pain.
“I'm sorry, Wendy.”
Dr Fraser's eyes lowered with sorrow as Culverhouse squeezed Wendy's hand. A choking sob was all she could manage.
33
The only thing to overwhelm her feeling of grief was that of shame. Wendy had lived through the pain of losing both her mother and her father as well as her lover in the space of a few years, and here she was mourning an unborn baby. A foetus. An embryo. A biological organism. It had no name and it had no life, but she found herself grieving harder than she could ever have expected. It had no form and it had no gender, but Wendy felt overwhelmed at the loss of what she saw as her little girl. It had always been a girl. Deep down, she knew that.
She could not shake the invasive, destructive feeling that it was her body that had killed the baby. If not her body, then her brain. Her stupidity. Just one foolish moment could end it all. A life which had no chance to flourish. A girl who had no chance to get married. A child who had no chance to have a mother. In more ways than one, she felt empty.
Wendy thought back to her childhood. The times when she was happy. The times she had desperately wanted her child to have. A loving parent who epitomised the perfect role model. That was what she had had, and that was all she had ever wanted to be for her child. Those long, never-ending summers spent building tree-houses and dens, all concept of time lost in the innocence and pure unbounded joy of divine youth. All of these things that she had had and wanted her child to have. The child that would never have them. The child that would never even know it had existed.
For the first time since the day before, Wendy responded to the doorbell. She knew it would be Jack.
