by Adam Croft
21
10th September
Having a one-on-one meeting with Charles Hawes was like going to the dentist. You knew it was going to be painful, and you knew he could do whatever he wanted because no-one would be able to hear you scream. For that reason, amongst many others, Culverhouse tried to keep his visits to the Chief Constable down to a minimum.
Hawes had got particularly heavy handed and had begun to try asserting his authority even more since the government had introduced Police and Crime Commissioners in 2012. The PCCs not only regrettably brought politics into policing by being elected members of political parties but they were given powers over the Chief Constables of local forces, who had up until then been able to direct local policing without too much external interference.
The Police and Crime Commissioner who oversaw policing in Mildenheath and the county as a whole was Martin Cummings, a man with no experience of policing who’d simply had the fortune to be selected by the local Labour Party as their candidate in the first election.
Relations between Hawes and Cummings had been strained to say the least, resulting in Hawes applying much of the pressure Cummings had put on him, further down the food chain onto officers who were, in turn, junior to him. Officers like Culverhouse.
‘I want to call a press conference to seek information on the murders of Keira Quinn and Lindsay Stott,’ Culverhouse said, getting straight to the point.
‘Right. Interesting. Are you saying there’s a connection with the two deaths?’ Hawes replied.
‘Not necessarily, sir. In fact, I want to steer away from that possibility, publicly at least.’
‘But privately?’ Hawes said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his hands.
Culverhouse took a moment to think. ‘Privately, I don’t know.’
‘I see. The problem I have, Jack, is that if there’s a chance the murders are unconnected, it wouldn’t be feasible to have you as the Senior Investigating Officer on both cases. It wouldn’t be practical.’
‘With respect, sir, I didn’t say they were unconnected. I’m conscious of public reaction to announcing a multiple homicide before we’re absolutely certain.’ Culverhouse was trying to pick his words very carefully, knowing that his position as Senior Investigating Officer on both cases could be at risk if he said the wrong thing. It was a situation that had to be handled very delicately indeed.
‘So you’re hoping that someone will ring in with a golden nugget of information which’ll help you find whoever killed both Keira Quinn and Lindsay Stott? That is, of course, if the same person did kill them both. Which you’re not sure is the case anyway. Are you starting to see my dilemma, Jack?’
‘Of course, sir. It’s a tricky one. All I can do is assure you that I’m more than capable of managing both cases for now. Until we’ve found out for sure if there is a link. If there is, we’ll go public,’ Culverhouse said, instantly regretting having committed himself to that. ‘If not — well — then it’s a huge coincidence.’
‘If not, Jack, I’ll be parachuting someone in from a neighbouring force to take on one of the cases. I’m sure Malcolm Pope would be chomping at the bit to get stuck in.’
‘I’m sure he would, sir,’ Culverhouse replied through gritted teeth. ‘And I’m sure the whole department would be delighted to see him.’
Hawes chuckled. ‘Jack, I don’t want that prick in my station any more than you do. But I’ve got the PCC breathing down my neck already. I’m not going to insult your intelligence with the whole “country’s most underfunded police force” stuff, but as I see it we’re at a crossroads here. I’ve got to choose a direction.’
‘Give me a week,’ Culverhouse said, putting his hands on the desk.
‘A week? You do realise I’m being leant on after two days, don’t you?’
‘I know, sir. But sometimes these things can’t be rushed.’ Culverhouse noted the Chief Constable’s raised eyebrow and continued talking before he could jump in. ‘Within a week I’ll know for sure whether we’ve got a link. Then we can move from there.’
‘And what do I tell our dearly beloved, elected PCC in the meantime?’ Hawes asked.
Culverhouse stood up and started to move towards the door. ‘Tell him to fuck off and keep his nose out of policing.’
22
10th September
Culverhouse had taken the decision not to call Helen out straight away on what Antonio García had told him. His rational side — the experienced police officer within him — had told him that he needed to keep hold of the information and use it to his advantage at a later date. Striking at the optimal moment was the key weapon in the CID detective’s arsenal. He was, however, being overpowered by Jack Culverhouse the wronged father.
As far as he was concerned, Helen had form. If he left it much longer to call her and tell her what he knew, she could be off starting another new life somewhere with her mobile phone — the only line of contact he had for her — thrown in the nearest bin or river.
What would she do when he told her that he knew she hadn’t been in Spain for the last eight and a half years, though? Would that compel her to flee? Would she react violently? Or would she crack, open up and tell him everything — the real truth — about where she’d been since she walked out of their family home that day? That was what Jack wanted to find out.
As he pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket, he knew he was taking a huge risk. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he decided to withhold his number by adding the digits 141 before Helen’s number before calling it. That way, she wouldn’t see who was calling. Would that make her more or less likely to answer? He didn’t know, but it seemed like the right thing to do.
The familiar hum of the calling tone repeated itself four times before it stopped. Culverhouse was about to speak when he realised he’d got through to her voicemail, the recorded voice provided by the network provider telling him the person he’d called was unavailable. Four rings. Did that mean she’d hung up or was that about right for an unheard call to automatically go through to voicemail? Before he’d had a chance to work it out, the long, shrill beep told him it was time for him to leave a message.
‘Uh, it’s me. Listen, I know you haven’t been in Spain. I have a contact there who’d looked into it and told me everything. I don’t know why you lied, but I just wanted you to know that I know.’ He paused while he thought of what to say next. ‘I’ve been completely honest with you about everything and I hoped you would be with me as well. I know we aren’t ever going to be best friends or anything again, but we can at least be open and honest like mature adults. I don’t need the gory details and I don’t want them either. I just want to see Emily,’ he said, his anger rising. ‘Just... Just fucking tell her I want to see her.’
He ended the call and slammed his mobile down on his desk, not bothering to check whether or not he’d cracked the screen. Right now, he didn’t care.
As he buried his head in his hands, there was a knock at his office door.
‘Fuck off,’ he barked without lifting his head.
There was another knock. ‘Guv, it’s me,’ said the familiar voice of DS Steve Wing.
‘I said fucking fuck off.’
‘I’ve got some news on Lindsay Stott’s movements on the night she died, guv.’
Culverhouse lifted his head. ‘Well what are you waiting for? Fucking come in.’
Steve did as he was told. ‘Having a little “private moment”, were you?’ he said, winking at Culverhouse. ‘Want to be careful, guv. The lads in IT are monitoring web usage. Hope you were using a private laptop.’
The icy, wordless stare from Culverhouse told Steve that he’d shot pretty wide of the mark and he changed the subject very quickly.
‘I visited the local pubs to see if anyone could tell me anything about her. A couple of people seemed to recognise her. The landlord of the Spitfire said he’d barred her about six months back, which is pretty impressive. Must take a lot to get barred from that
place. Woman in the Prince Albert said she recognised her but couldn’t say from where. She assumed she’d probably been in at some point before, but certainly wasn’t a regular.’
‘Sorry, Steve,’ Culverhouse said, interrupting. ‘I thought you said you had some news?’
‘I do,’ Steve replied, grinning.
‘Well would you mind hurrying the fuck up and telling me?’
‘Right. Well, I went to the George and Dragon eventually. Probably should have gone there first, to be honest, seeing as it’s right across the road from where she lived, but, y’know, I wanted to be sure and check everywhere else first.’
I wonder why, Culverhouse thought.
‘When I went in there, the locals seemed to have known who she was straight away. Got a bit of a reputation, apparently, but they didn’t seem to know anything about her life. Old Flo, the landlady, said Lindsay had spent the night chatting to a bloke down in the corner by the piano. Flo didn’t recognise him, said she hadn’t seen him before, but that doesn’t mean much.’
‘Did she get a name?’ Culverhouse asked.
‘Nope, nothing. All she could say is he was odd-looking. Wore a straw-coloured fedora, linen suit jacket and blue jeans. Probably about the same age as her, but she couldn’t be sure.’
‘A fedora? Who wears a fucking fedora to the pub? Come to think of it, who wears a fucking fedora at all?’
‘Indiana Jones?’ Steve replied, jokingly.
‘Yeah, great. Put out a call to arrest Harrison Ford on sight. He’ll probably be in the Spitfire nursing a pint of Foster’s and a spliff.’
Steve ignored Culverhouse’s sarcastic response. ‘Or that German bloke. The one who cuts up dead bodies on the telly. The weird bloke. That Gunther von whatshisface.’
Culverhouse was silent for a few moments. ‘You might actually not be so wide of the mark there, Steve.’
‘How do you mean?’ Steve asked, tilting his head slightly.
‘Well, what if our man’s a bit of a fan of the Gunther bloke? Think about it. We’re potentially looking for someone with anatomical knowledge. We’re not talking about a butcher here. Going around cutting up dead bodies, wearing a fedora? Doesn’t take much imagination to presume we might have a crazed fan of the telly bloke.’
‘Von Hagens. Gunther von Hagens. That’s his name,’ Steve said, suddenly remembering.
‘Is he the sort of bloke who’d attract psychopathic fans?’ Culverhouse asked, more of himself than anything.
‘Anybody is, potentially. Nothing to say this bloke in the George and Dragon couldn’t have latched onto it after seeing the programmes. Have you seen them? Got to say, guv, they’re pretty good viewing. Really fascinating stuff.’
‘Busman’s holiday, Steve. In a word, no. What else did you find out?’
‘Not a lot. Although Lindsay Stott drank in the George pretty frequently, no-one seemed to know much about her.’
23
11th September
Culverhouse had, by now, decided to go ahead with the press conference in order to try and gather more information on the murders of Keira Quinn and Lindsay Stott. He’d agreed to do it only on the proviso that it was to be framed as a general appeal for information on two unconnected crimes. He’d also stated that he wouldn’t be taking any questions from journalists and that all speculation should be kept to a minimum, with them using only official information provided to them by the police and approved by Culverhouse himself. Cameras and audio recording equipment had been banned.
The press conference was to be held in the station’s main meeting room, which went largely unused other than for press conferences or large meetings involving external bodies, such as the — thankfully rare — visits from the Independent Police Complaints Commission. As with much of policing, most ‘meetings’ tended to take place informally or within the private offices dotted around the building.
Culverhouse entered the room and sat down behind the long desk in front of the large free-standing banner displaying the Mildenheath Police and county insignia as well as the telephone numbers for the 101 non-emergency service and the force’s own direct switchboard.
He nodded sagely at Chief Constable Charles Hawes to his left and Wendy, who was seated to his right.
Thankfully for Wendy, it was the Chief Constable who had selected who would be on the panel, not Culverhouse. Had it been the other way round, she knew Luke Baxter would be sat here in her place. Fortunately for her, the Chief Constable was even less keen on Baxter than she was.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ Hawes said as the assembled throng of journalists started to quieten down. ‘I’m Chief Constable Charles Hawes, and seated to my right are Detective Chief Inspector Jack Culverhouse and Detective Sergeant Wendy Knight, who are in charge of both investigations we need some information on today.’
Wendy smiled at the recognition Hawes had provided her as he handed over to Culverhouse.
‘Good morning,’ Culverhouse said, before starting to read from his carefully pre-prepared notes. ‘Firstly, I should point out that we will not be taking any questions at the end of this briefing and that all information for public release is contained within the press release document that you’ll each be issued with on your way out later. Today we want to appeal for information on two suspicious deaths which have occurred in Mildenheath over the past couple of weeks. I must stress that these two incidents are completely independent and do not form part of the same investigation. I would stress further that any sort of speculation on the contrary will result in your particular publication being barred from all future press conferences while I’m in charge.’
The assembled journalists began to look at one another, some of them having had no previous experience of Jack Culverhouse.
‘Firstly, the death of Keira Quinn, who is believed to have died in the early hours of the thirty-first of August. Keira was thirty-six years old, divorced from her husband and lived alone in a flat in Ambassador Court. Her body was found in an alleyway off of Albert Street, some distance away from her flat. It’s not known how she got there or where she was going to or from at the time. A photograph of her accompanies your press release. We particularly want to hear from anyone who knew Keira.’
Culverhouse took a swig of his water and continued. ‘We also want to hear from anyone who knew Lindsay Stott, who lived in James Street and was a widow. She was forty-seven years old and died in the early hours of the seventh of September in a residential garden in Meadow Hill Lane. The owners of the property did not know Lindsay. She drank regularly in the George and Dragon pub and was seen in the company of a man wearing a straw-coloured fedora, linen suit jacket and blue denim jeans. We would very much like to speak with this man so as to eliminate him from our enquiries. Any further enquiries should be forwarded to our press office, who may or may not answer them.’
Culverhouse took another gulp of water, stood and exited the room. Behind him, he could hear Chief Constable Hawes closing the session and reminding the journalists that they should take a copy of the official press release on their way out. As far as Culverhouse was concerned, he’d done what he’d needed to do and he had no desire to be in a room full of journalists for a moment longer than he needed to.
24
15th September
Wendy had been in the office since six in the morning, poring over pages of potential leads with Culverhouse. They’d managed to collate some sort of rough outline of the lives of Keira Quinn and Lindsay Stott as much as they could, using only information which had been corroborated by at least two independent people. Information which had only been provided by one person was kept in a separate file until it could be verified or rejected.
It seemed that both had led remarkably uninteresting lives. Neither woman worked, although Keira Quinn’s ex-husband had asserted that she’d worked as an escort or prostitute. Lindsay Stott seemed not to even have a bank account in her name, having conducted her entire life in cash. Her landlord — a private owner �
� didn’t know what she did for a living and hadn’t asked. She’d always paid him in cash and on time and he hadn’t questioned it.
Wendy doubted that Lindsay had worked as a prostitute, especially as her evenings seemed to be spent in and around the vicinity of the George and Dragon pub. Had she been a prostitute she’d’ve almost certainly been working in the evenings and would surely not have provided her services free of charge as frequently as some of the pub’s regulars had heard rumoured.
It was DC Debbie Weston who came bowling through the main door to the incident room first that morning, at a little after seven-thirty — a full hour before she usually arrived.
‘Guv, I needed to see you,’ she said, rummaging around in her bag, a little out of breath. ‘It’s probably nothing, but I’ve been up all night thinking about it.’ She pulled a large hardback book out of her bag and thrust it at Culverhouse.
‘Jack the Ripper?’ he replied, looking at the cover. ‘Is this news to you or something? Has it somehow managed to pass you by for the last hundred and twenty-five years?’
Debbie ignored his sarcasm. ‘I’ve only started reading it in the last few days. I was looking through the cases of the first two murders of the canonical Ripper five — the ones which most experts agree he committed.’
‘Yes, I know what canonical means, DC Weston,’ Culverhouse replied.
Wendy raised her eyebrow and said nothing.
Debbie Weston continued. ‘The first one, Mary Ann Nichols — or Polly, as she was known — was a heavy drinker who’d separated from her husband and started working as a prostitute. She was found in an alleyway with a bruised jaw, a deep incision to her neck and with slashes to the abdomen. The police said she wasn’t killed at the scene where she was found. The second was Annie Chapman. She was also a heavy drinker, divorced from her husband who’d since died. She was found dead with her left arm across her chest, her legs raised and her throat and abdomen cut. She had a scarf or handkerchief wrapped around her neck which had probably been used as a gag. And get this, guv. She was found in the back garden of 29 Hanbury Street. Lindsay Stott was found at 29 Meadow Hill Lane.’
