by Adam Croft
‘Well there’s a first for everything,’ Helen replied.
Culverhouse closed his eyes. ‘That’s unfair, Helen.’
‘You’re right. I’m sorry,’ came the reply. ‘Listen, we should meet up and talk. Properly. Discuss it like adults.’
Although he’d have to tread on eggshells, Culverhouse finally felt as though he might be getting somewhere. He’d have to swallow his pride — he knew that. If it meant that he’d get to see Emily, it would be worth every second.
14
5th September
Culverhouse had agreed to meet Helen at a coffee shop in the outdoor shopping precinct in the middle of Mildenheath. The shop was from a large national chain — the sort Culverhouse despised, seeing as all he wanted was a straight black coffee; not a cappuccino, cafe latte or macchiato — whatever the hell they were.
Although the weather had turned chillier than it had been recently, hordes of people were still sat on the outside tables, clutching at their warm mugs of coffee, such was the novelty of a coffee terrace in Mildenheath.
Fortunately for him, Helen wasn’t one of those. She’d positioned herself in the corner of the coffee shop, near the disabled toilet and far enough away from the counter to avoid the temptation of the cakes and biscuits on offer.
He made his way over to the counter and ordered a ‘normal coffee’ before sitting down at the table with Helen.
‘I thought you were ill,’ Helen said, before having even said hello.
‘Sorry?’
‘When you rang to apologise. I presumed you must’ve been ill or something. I don’t think in all our years of marriage I’ve ever heard you apologise.’
‘I didn’t apologise,’ Culverhouse replied, shifting in his seat. ‘I wanted to smooth things over.’
‘Well I guess that’s a start.’
He could feel the blood pressure rising in his temples but decided not to give in to it and instead tried to remain as calm as he could.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asked, hoping he sounded caring and sympathetic. ‘About your problems, I mean.’
Helen said nothing for a few moments and instead sat stirring a wooden stick around in her cappuccino. ‘I’m not sure what you want me to say.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he asked.
She shook her head and Culverhouse could’ve sworn he heard a slight chuckle. ‘I doubt it very much. There’s the medication, but that only takes the edge off things. It’s not a long-term solution.’
‘What is?’
‘I dunno. Behavioural therapies. CBT. Counselling.’
‘Counselling?’ Culverhouse asked. ‘For what?’
‘Oh, I don’t mean counselling like for trauma or anything, but just general talking about stuff. Not keeping it all bottled up. Learning to deal with thought processes, that kind of thing.’
Culverhouse thought it all sounded like a load of wishy-washy mumbo jumbo but he didn’t want to say anything.
‘And will that help?’ he asked. ‘Long term, I mean.’
‘Who knows? Your guess is as good as anybody’s. Got to be better than doing nothing, though.’
He desperately wanted to know more but wasn’t sure what questions to ask. ‘What about from day to day? What effect does it have on things?’
Helen raised one corner of her mouth. ‘Hopefully very little. Not as much as it did at one point, anyway. If there’s a stressful situation it’ll be worse but it’s pretty manageable at the moment.’
‘So you don’t need help?’
‘Of course I need help. I’ll always need help. It’s not easy, but it’s not as bad as it was.’ Helen was silent for a few moments before speaking again. ‘I mean, I’m not saying things could necessarily go back to normal, but I’m doing my best, Jack.’
Culverhouse looked up from his coffee in surprise. ‘I wasn’t... I wasn’t trying to suggest anything. I didn’t mean that.’
‘No, I know you didn’t,’ Helen replied. Culverhouse tried to detect the subtext but couldn’t.
‘I just want to get things sorted,’ he replied. ‘For Emily’s sake.’
Helen nodded.
Culverhouse continued. ‘I just want to see her, Hel. I’ve missed nearly three quarters of her life. That's... That’s hard.’
‘Well it wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs for us either,’ Helen replied, acid-tongued.
‘I know,’ he replied, not knowing at all. ‘I can only imagine. But things are moving on, aren’t they? I mean, you’re back here and we’re talking and being adults, so why can’t I see her?’
‘Because I’m not ready for you to.’
He could feel his blood pressure rising again. He tried not to react, to show that he could rise above his primal reactions, but he was struggling more and more.
‘Is she ready?’ he asked, trying as hard as he could not to allow any of the anger and frustration come out in his voice.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well I am. I’m more than ready. I’ll do whatever it takes.’
‘I already said I don’t know, Jack,’ Helen replied, her voice raised. ‘I need time, alright? Now are we going to talk or are you just going to keep going over the same old ground?’
Culverhouse picked up the small biscotti that had been given to him on the saucer with his coffee. He bit down hard, unsure as to whether the resultant crack was from the rock-hard biscuit or one of his teeth. It was the closest he could come to whacking a punchbag.
He wasn’t stupid — he knew Helen didn’t want him to keep going on about Emily, but at the same time he’d had enough of being walked all over by her. She’d been firmly in control of his life for the past eight and a half years without even being there, and he’d long since stopped caring for her feelings. He was only placating her to get access to Emily.
‘I just want to see her, that’s all.’
Helen shot up onto her feet, the table clattering as she did so. ‘You don’t fucking get it, do you? You can’t help yourself.’
Culverhouse could feel the eyes of the other coffee shop customers boring into him. ‘Helen, I—’
‘No, Jack. You won’t change. You’re not capable of changing. If you want to see Emily, you can damn well whistle.’
He didn’t bother to look up and watch her walk out of the shop. He just sat and stared into the remains of his coffee, sensing the eyes of the other customers leaving him and the hubbub of conversation returning to normal.
15
5th September
Culverhouse had always hoped that Helen would return one day, but he’d always imagined Emily would have been with her. He’d tried to imagine how she might look, but his vision had always reverted to the bubbly, giggling three-year-old she was when he last saw her.
For eight and a half years he’d always had the option to pull rank and use his position to have Helen and Emily traced down, but he’d resisted. He’d always hoped there’d be a better way; a more honest way. Now, though, he realised his options were far more limited and had decided to do just that.
He’d worked with Inspector Antonio García on a cross-border case a few years back and had struck up an immediate rapport with him. García operated in a similar way to Culverhouse, always ensuring that justice was achieved — even if a few rules had to be broken along the way.
García was based in Alicante, on the eastern coast of Spain. It wasn’t where Helen had said she had been living, but Alicante was certainly closer than Mildenheath and García was someone Culverhouse knew he could trust.
He picked up his personal mobile and dialled García’s number. The Inspector’s superb grasp of English and love of British idioms was immediately familiar to Culverhouse.
‘Jack, good to hear from you! How’s it going?’ came the cheery voice on the other end of the phone.
‘Not bad, but not great. Hence why I’m calling you,’ Culverhouse said.
‘Ah-ha, I see. You want me to do you another favour, yes?�
�� García replied.
‘Yeah, I do. Only this time it’s got to stay off the record.’
García didn’t reply for a few moments. ‘What’s it all about, Jack?’ he finally replied.
‘I’m sending a photo to your personal email address. It’s of a woman who’s supposedly living in southern Spain. I need to find out where. She’s with a young girl who’s almost eleven. Possibly also with a guy called David, who I don’t have a description of.’
‘What does the girl look like?’ García asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Culverhouse replied, feeling the impact of his own words. ‘I mean, I know what she used to look like. Eight and a half years ago.’
‘Kids grow up quick,’ García said. ‘I doubt she’ll look like that any more. What’s the woman’s name?’
Culverhouse sighed. ‘Helen. Helen Culverhouse.’
García made a noise which told him that he’d cottoned on. Culverhouse had told him a few years back over a drunken night in Alicante that he had a wife and daughter who’d left him, but hadn’t gone into any details. Not that he could remember, anyway.
‘Are you sure this is wise, Jack?’
‘Yeah. Don’t worry, I’m not doing anything stupid.’
‘How do I know that’s true?’ García asked.
‘Because I just told you. I wouldn’t do anything to risk any harm coming to Emily.’
‘That’s the daughter?’
‘Yes. That’s my daughter.’
‘Right,’ García said. ‘And whereabouts in Spain are they meant to be?’
‘Southern,’ Culverhouse replied. ‘I don’t know where exactly.’
García let out his distinctive chuckle. ‘Jack, do you know how big Spain is? The south coast is over five hundred kilometres long. You’ll need to narrow it down a bit, my friend. She could be in Sevilla, Almería, Málaga, anywhere. She could even be in Gibraltar.’
‘No, not Gibraltar,’ Culverhouse said. ‘She said she was in Spain.’
‘Hey hey, don’t go starting that shit,’ García replied. Culverhouse had to laugh at his distinctly English turn of phrase.
‘What I mean is I got the impression she was on the mainland.’
‘You spoke to her?’
‘Yeah,’ Culverhouse replied, realising he was probably going to have to explain the whole situation if García was going to be able to help him effectively. ‘She came back. To England. She’s here now.’
‘So what’s the problem? You’ve found her.’
‘I don’t want her. I want Emily. My daughter.’
‘And she won’t let you see her?’
‘No. I think that ship’s sailed.’
‘So why did she come back?’ García asked.
‘I don’t know. I really don’t fucking know. To rub my nose in it, probably. Just in case I’d started to get over it or something. I don’t know what she’s playing at. And right now I don’t care. I always thought Emily was safer with Helen, somehow better off. But she’s not. I’ve got to be honest, Antonio. I think she’s in danger.’
‘Danger? How so?’
Culverhouse sighed loudly. ‘Helen’s mentally unstable. She’s on medication and has violent mood swings.’ He realised he was now exaggerating wildly, but sometimes strings had to be pulled. ‘If I’m completely honest, I don’t even know that Emily’s safe as it is. Helen said she was with some guy called David — I don’t know if he’s English or Spanish — and I certainly don’t have a bloody clue who he is. For all I know he could be dangerous too.’
‘Alright Jack, alright,’ García said, trying to placate him. ‘Listen, I’ll see what I can do, okay? I’ll speak to a few people. There are a few ex-pat communities on the south coast. I’ll try those first and see if I can find anything, but looking for a British family on the south coast of Spain is like trying to find a grain of sand on a beach. We have to hope she’s using her real name over here, otherwise it’s going to be difficult to say the least.’
‘You’ll circulate her photo, too?’ Culverhouse asked.
‘I can do, but that all depends on how off-the-record this is meant to be. If you want it kept under the radar I can’t go sending photos around all the police departments.’
Culverhouse thought for a few moments. ‘I understand. Thanks, Antonio. Just let me know if you find anything. I’ll see what I can do at this end too, but at the moment you’re my best hope.’
‘Hey, I’ll remember that. Once this is sorted out, you get yourself over here and you can buy me a few beers, entiendes?’
Culverhouse smiled for the first time in a long time.
16
7th September
The man opened the wooden gate and ushered the woman through. She teetered unsteadily as her heels tapped softly along the paving stones before opting for the near silence of soft grass.
‘I’ve never done it in someone’s garden before,’ she giggled as she turned and watched him close the gate behind him. ‘Kind of exciting, don’t you think?’
‘Certainly is,’ the man replied, the grin covering every inch of his face. ‘More than you’ll ever know.’
She hadn’t been the most difficult conquest of his life. The way she’d stood at the bar had said a thousand words alone, and he’d already heard a good few stories about this woman to know that he was pretty much assured of a good time. Unfortunately for her, his idea of a good time was far removed from most other people’s.
He’d chosen his time and place carefully. This was all a game of odds. His chances of success could rest on the opening of a door or the recognition of a face, which was why he’d taken great time and care over timings, places and, most importantly, ensuring he remained the master of disguise.
It had worked out beautifully. He hadn’t let her get too close just yet; that could’ve alerted her to his wig or prosthetics. It also had the added bonus of making her wild with intrigue. Keeping his distance had worked wonders in terms of persuading her to come with him in the first place.
Under cover of darkness, though, he was safe. His disguise wouldn’t be blown, and if it was he could end this in seconds. It wouldn’t be the same careful and meticulously planned method that he was intending, but it would be better than the alternative.
He could smell the alcohol seeping out of her pores like black smog from a power station. She started to move closer to him, the pungent fug making his eyes water. He closed his eyes and remembered that this was a means to an end. There was no shame in what no-one knew. Besides that, there was no other way.
She moaned and groaned as she rubbed herself up against him. It was now or never. He could swear he heard another gasp of perverted pleasure as he clamped his hand over her mouth, the other holding the back of her head still so as not to allow her to move away. He looked deep into her eyes as he steadily moved her backwards towards the fence.
As he heard the thud of her back hitting the wooden panel, he allowed her a half-step forward before taking the hand from the back of her head and dropping it inside his coat pocket. The coat was brand new, as were all his clothes. A shame, but also a necessity.
‘Now, are you going to be quiet for me?’ he said, trying to spot the point at which her sexual excitement turned to desperate fear.
She nodded. He could tell she was still deluded; still excited. He felt the cold, hard steel in his coat pocket before removing it, lifting it up to her throat and drawing it across, deep and firm. The warm liquid ran over his hand, making him shiver in the night. She’d had her moment. Now it was time for his pleasure.
She tried to gasp despairingly, the hole in her trachea wheezing and gurgling as he continued to clamp his hand over her mouth. By now her lungs would be pooling with blood. It was only a matter of time before he could let go, her eyes glazing over like marbles as the last vestiges of life slipped away.
Finally, he recognised those familiar signs and felt her body weaken as her legs started to give way. Using the last of her natural strength and support
, he moved her back towards the fence again and let go, her body sliding down the wooden panel just as he’d intended.
He stood back and waited for her to die before tugging at her feet, making her lie almost horizontally. He pulled her feet back towards her pelvis, splaying her legs like a woman in the midst of giving birth. He took the handkerchief from his trouser pocket, shoved it in her mouth, then took it out and tied it around her neck. A slight deviation from the perfect version, but he couldn’t afford to be too fussy.
Surveying his handiwork, he again drew the sharp tool from his coat pocket and this time went to work on her abdomen, having memorised each line and incision he needed to make. The firm resistance of the muscle wall was strangely satisfying, as was feeling it give way when the sharp blade finally managed to pierce through the barrier.
A few moments later, he was happy. The distant sound of a car rumbled in the distance, but other than that all was quiet.
17
8th September
Meadow Hill Lane wasn’t a road the police were called to often. The tree-lined road was home to large detached houses which generally managed to keep free of the local grip of crime, other than the odd burglary or domestic incident.
Knight and Culverhouse only ever tended to come to the road when visiting Gary McCann, a local businessman who was usually less than honest in his business dealings. Rumour had it that McCann had seen his ex-wife disposed of a few years back, but this had never been proven. Much to Culverhouse’s chagrin, he’d never been able to nail anything on McCann.
For the first time in a long time, though, they were on Meadow Hill Lane for a reason other than Gary McCann. They were at number twenty-nine, one of the few houses not to be given a pretentious name such as ‘The Sycamores’ or ‘Dovedale’.
