Made To Be Broken

by Rebecca Bradley

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ He walked over to his desk and spoke into his intercom asking the person at the other end to bring it in to us. Then he came and sat back down.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Anything I can do. This is horrific. As well as the deaths being utterly appalling, you can imagine what this will do to us if it gets out that we are linked to it, so on a purely business level, we have to clear this up as fast as we can.’

  Aaron grunted. I looked at him and willed him to stop. Craig Treadway smiled at him. ‘I know, it sounds callous, but we have that reputation anyway, so we may as well admit to it, embrace it and get on with it. That way we deal with it and resolve the issue.’

  ‘We appreciate it.’ I glared at Aaron and hoped he could contain his thoughts today. ‘What about other potential disgruntled employees, have you had to fire anyone within the timeframe we are working with?’

  ‘I can check, but hiring and firing isn’t something I have anything to do with, unless of course the firing is to do with a major breach that needs to be brought to my attention, and we haven’t had one of those. The same goes for accidents at work. I’m not saying we haven’t had any. We haven’t had any of the level I would get to know about, but whether there are any in the book that I wouldn’t need to be informed of, is another matter.’

  Treadway made eye contact with me.

  ‘It’s only the serious stuff that makes it to my office I’m afraid. Which is the stuff you’d want to know anyway, I suppose?’

  ‘Exactly. And talking about stuff you would know about, are there any instances of drugs mistakenly being labelled incorrectly and going out as something else? Could that be something we could be looking at?’

  The door opened and a young woman walked in with a large black book in her hands. Aaron reached out to take it from her. She froze and looked to Treadway.

  ‘It’s okay, Amy.’

  She handed the book to Aaron, who started flicking through the pages. Treadway studied me a moment, considering his answer to my last question. Aaron flicking, eyes moving, but his head side on, alert to where the conversation was going.

  After a moment that had yawned in front of us, the silence thundering in my ears, Treadway had compiled his answer and spoke. ‘The word mistakenly would indicate that we wouldn’t know about it if it had happened, because there would have been a mistake and not a work in progress, so, no, at this point, I’d say not.’ His gaze was steady. ‘What I will say though, because I want to help, is that we will do an inventory of all our stock and make sure all our numbers are as they should be.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Does that sound satisfactory to you, DI Robbins?’

  ‘Thank you, that would be really helpful.’ Aaron carried on flicking pages. ‘So, you don’t think anyone has been fired but we can check up on it.’ I confirmed what he’d told me earlier. ‘How happy do you think your employees are, Mr Treadway? Are they likely to be disgruntled and still be at work?’

  ‘Ha, that’s the big question. How many places of employment can we ask that question of?’

  That was a scary thought, many people hated their jobs, and passionately, which meant, inside this building, right here, right now, could be our killer.

  42

  Treadway was correct in that there had been no job losses in the time frame we were interested in. He had a very efficient HR department. There had been a retirement within the last month but the man in question had worked at the company for his entire working life. Forty-five years. It wasn’t often you found that any more. Gareth Rice had been a model employee and had retired to a cottage in Devon with his husband, Bernard. He’d worked in the offices, not on the factory floor. They’d had a good send off, from Curvet and from his family and friends as they made the move, we were told. They were a well-liked couple that spent their spare time walking. They loved the outdoors, hence their move to the coast.

  We’d make a request to Devon and Cornwall to check on the couple to cover our bases, but I couldn’t see Gareth Rice as a lead we needed to spend time looking into. If Curvet had any place in this investigation, it was either with a disgruntled employee still in their employ or someone else with a grievance against them.

  ‘Do you get any hate mail?’ I asked of Chris, the HR woman we were now talking to, again sitting in an immaculately clean office. They must use an army of cleaners to keep this place glistening to this level.

  ‘Oh yes. Animal rights groups have a particular soft spot tucked away for us in the hatred box of their heart.’

  ‘How often do you receive mail?’

  ‘A couple of times a month, and it’s pretty graphic. You wouldn’t believe how graphic it is and how sordid their minds are.’ She shuddered. ‘It’s not as though we test on animals here. All we are is a production and distribution centre, but that’s still enough for some to hold us in contempt. I can’t sleep at night after reading some of the stuff they send, so I don’t know how they manage to create it.’

  ‘Do you still have it?’

  ‘Yes. We keep it all. The groups are also why this place is the fortress it is. Otherwise you wouldn’t get staff working here. They wouldn’t feel safe. Cars get attacked. It gets really scary when the groups go on a spree.’

  ‘And these sprees, do they happen often?’

  ‘Not so much now, they used to a lot more often, but it has tailed off in recent years. They like to target the places where they know the animals are, we’re more for those who can’t be bothered to travel.’

  ‘Anything recently?’

  ‘Not in the last couple of months, no.’

  ‘But,’ Aaron joined in, ‘as Mr Treadway already mentioned, this wouldn’t be good publicity for the company if it got out that Curvet was linked in any way to the spate of poisonings, would it?’

  Chris shook her head, ponytail swishing behind her. ‘No, it wouldn’t look good for the company at all. The stocks would take a real dive.’

  43

  Ross stood in the wood-panelled dock to the left-hand side of the judge who sat under the Royal Coat of Arms. Dieu et mon droit (God and my right) Honi soit qui mal y pense (shame upon Him who thinks Evil of it) emblazoned underneath it, a representation of the Garter behind the shield. The judge’s face was pale and jowly. He was leaning forward on his elbows, listening intently, wig firmly in place. Ross couldn’t remember when he had last seen a female judge but he knew they did the circuit here.

  Ross glanced over at the twelve jurors in the heavily wood panelled court room, who all peered back at him, a look of undisguised interest on their faces. The room smelled clean and polished as always.

  His shirt collar felt somehow tighter today. It wasn’t a new shirt; he’d worn it plenty of times before. Maybe he’d shrunk it in the wash last time he’d washed it. It felt close, stifling. The collar was choking.

  His hands clasped in front of him. Palms sweating. Sliding. Unable to grip the other hand. He intertwined his fingers as the defence barrister reminded him that he was still under oath and asked him if he was aware of that fact. Ross nodded.

  ‘For the stenographer, DC Leavy.’ The barrister’s black gown looking a comfortable two sizes too big as they all did, sliding over one shoulder in a relaxed fashion that Ross certainly wasn’t feeling.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m aware.’ He raised himself up. Pulled back his shoulders. Tightened his fingers together. It hadn’t felt like this when the prosecution barrister had taken him through his statement yesterday. Yesterday was a breeze. A walk in the park. His collar fit perfectly and his palms were cool and relaxed. Fuck, this guy they had on trial was guilty as hell. Why was he the one sweating and why was he being treated like the criminal here?

  ‘So, I’ll ask you again then. Were you aware of the fact that my client who is currently here on a charge of murder, had previously been assaulted by his wife on no less than twelve occasions – and that on one of those occasions, a knife had been used?’

  44

&n
bsp; She looked as though she was about to explode. I hadn’t ever seen her lose her usual controlled poise. Her hair had the look of fingers having ravaged their way through it and her face was colouring up at a rate I was getting concerned about. If she was going to lose control any further I wasn’t only concerned about her, I was concerned about myself. Who knew what rash decisions were going to come out of this? Grey sat beside me, fingers twiddling rapidly in his lap. The faster Superintendent Catherine Walker paced, the faster Grey’s fingers moved. Again, I didn’t think that was possible. I’d seen him stressed before. I took a deep breath in, ready to interject in the tirade. Like preparing to hold your breath underwater for an undisclosed period of time.

  ‘Ma’am, if I can?’ The pacing behind her desk stopped. I exhaled. Grey’s fingers stopped, just for a moment, as though he was now holding his breath.

  ‘Hannah?’ It was like an icy blast from the Arctic had directed its force at me.

  ‘How has the judge left it today? What do we need to do?’ Grey’s fingers moved like whippets out the gate.

  ‘How do you think he left it, DI Robbins? The prosecution barrister had to approach the bench and admit he was not aware of the facts of the case that had been admitted in open court. The judge went on to tear strips off him and Nottinghamshire police for their incompetence which, I’m reliably informed, was in front of the public viewing gallery. Amongst the gallery was a member of the press. After immediately dismissing the jury for the day, the judge told the prosecution that they had until tomorrow to decide if they wanted to continue with the prosecution of Pine for the murder of his wife. I then, as you can imagine, received a very irate phone call from the head of the East Midlands CPS, asking what the hell was going on. Does that clarify it enough for you?’ She was still standing behind her desk; her hands had run through her hair at least once as she related this to us.

  I ran my own hands through my hair. Something Grey was unable to do, which I suppose explained the finger twiddling. ‘Where is Ross now? Has anyone spoken with him?’

  She sighed and finally sat down. ‘No, I think he’s still on his way back or hiding somewhere. I got you and Anthony in as soon as I heard. What is going on, Hannah? How has it got this bad? I thought it was a straight up and down domestic murder and your team could handle it. It’s why you were getting the Cat C murders – because they were the ones where there were supposed to be no issues and I know you needed a break after ...’

  I nodded. I understood.

  ‘He’s royally screwed up, Hannah. We can’t take this. Not right now. Not on top of the inquest. We don’t know how the cards are going to fall there. Another mistake, well, it’s just … You can’t afford it.

  ‘He has to go, Hannah.’

  45

  The stuff in the hate mail to Curvet was shocking. The venom people spewed and actually put down onto paper amazed me.

  There were threats to burn down the building. To trash people’s cars and homes. To do to the people what was being done to the animals. To lock the people in cages and stick needles in them. Whatever they could think of, they had written it down. I fully understood why Chris had said she couldn’t sleep after reading some of it. I thought I was going to have some problems. A glass or two of wine might be needed to help things along.

  Of course there were never any return addresses. I’d have to get the letters ninhydrin tested for fingerprints, but there were going to be multiple prints on the letters now. Postmen, sorting office staff, postmen again and Curvet staff. We could get lucky though. It was a line of enquiry we needed to take.

  Martin finished talking me through his visit to Finlay’s school and how there had been no issues noticed by them. Finlay had been a quietly popular boy. Not one of the cool kids, but neither was he ostracised because he looked different. He’d been confident in himself, and in school that held a lot of weight and stood him in good stead. I was getting frustrated with everything, the lack of movement on the investigation, when Ross walked into the major incident room. His shoulders were slumped, head down, hands in pockets, looking for the entire world as if it had indeed ended. He didn’t know the half of it yet. I needed to talk to him, to know what was going on with him and to know how something as big as this had been missed. I’d trusted that he could run with a CAT C murder. I had to shoulder some of the blame myself. I was his supervisor. I had also missed it. Or I had missed the fact that he had missed it.

  I watched every person look up from what they were doing as he walked in. News travelled pretty damn fast. Tight smiles were offered. None were passed back. I stood. ‘Ross,’ I nodded him towards my office. He threw his jacket over his chair. Took a deep breath and walked back out.

  ‘How are you?’ I asked once we were both behind my closed door. He still hadn’t lifted his head since entering the office. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake this time. Sally had needed me to push her, to make her talk so I could listen and make supervisory decisions and I had failed. I would not do that again. Though bolting the stable door sprung to mind.

  ‘I’m sorry, boss,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Sit down.’ I took a chair on the same side of my desk as Ross was standing. I didn’t want the desk between us as a barrier. I wanted him to talk.

  He slumped into the chair next to me. Heavy, leaden. Though he was doing his best to hide his face from me, I could see how pale he was. Washed out. I worried about how this was going to run. It didn’t matter what Catherine had said, I was his supervisor and I would deal with him, but I needed him to open up and at the minute his body language was telling me he was doing the exact opposite.

  Maybe he was going to tell me he wanted out of the job. Had I allowed it to get this far? How had I missed the signs? We were all so screwed up, but now I needed to step up and pull us back up to the mark and that included Ross.

  ‘What happened, Ross? You have to tell me. I can’t do anything about it if you don’t talk to me.’

  46

  Ross finally looked up. He saw his DI, Hannah Robbins, sitting beside him, elbows on knees, leaning forward. The typical positioning of anyone wanting to show they were actively listening. He knew her. He knew she tried hard and that she meant well. He had to try and talk to her. To tell her what had happened. How he had screwed up. How he had failed her. The team.

  Her dark fringe had grown slightly over recent months and it hung down now, just about covering her eyes. If she dipped her head they’d be gone and he wouldn’t feel the weight of her soul as it searched him, because he knew that’s what she was doing. She was looking and she was analysing. What did she see in him? A failure already? Or did he have a chance?

  Daria Pine. It had all started there. Or rather, as Ross well knew, it had started long before that. It had started with Sally – but he wasn’t going to use her as an excuse for his poor behaviour, his poor investigative skills.

  Daria Pine. The woman stabbed to death in her kitchen. A woman who had lived and breathed in that house, torn down to a corpse with procedures to be carried out around it as she lay splayed on her own kitchen floor, still bloodied and shredded.

  Daria Pine. For all intents and purposes, a straightforward job. Her husband there with the knife in his hand and a confession in the interview room. With the physical evidence seized by CSIs and the post-mortem evidence and the admission, it was straightforward getting a charging decision from the CPS.

  Now he was here, but it looked as though the whole case was going to be lost.

  47

  6 weeks ago

  The sun shone like an evil blast of hell, bright in the sky, reminding those around Isaac and Connie that things would still go on as normal. They’d attend this funeral, give their condolences, look saddened for one taken so young, while inside feel relieved their own nearest and dearest were still with them. And then they would, as the sun shone above them, and it probably would again tomorrow, live their lives uninterrupted by loss or grief. Real grief, pain, and that barren, barren loss.


  Connie stared at her wardrobe. Half her clothes already on the bed or scattered at her feet. Trousers and blouses. Dresses. Greys, blacks, navies and greens. All selected, held up for scrutiny and discarded like trash.

  She stood erect in her pants and bra, staring into the space that held the remainder of her clothes. Her arms hanging lifeless by her sides as though being pulled by an unknown force through the very floorboards she stood on. Her shoulders slumped under the invisible tension.

  All colour had been drained from her this past two weeks, and her skin now looked loose on her tiny frame. Soft and malleable. Isaac couldn’t bear to watch her torture herself over what she should wear today. Who cared what she looked like for her only child’s funeral? What was the significance of the dress code? Em wasn’t here to appreciate it and even if she was, her life signified doing what you loved best, not doing what pleased others. Isaac didn’t see that it was really down to their style of dress on how much they were judged to be grieving. He stalked from the room. Already dressed in a pair of black trousers with a white shirt, paired with his polished black-laced shoes, but only because he hadn’t put any thought into it. He’d picked them out because it was the norm. It was his funeral outfit. The clothes he wore for other people’s funerals. He never ever expected to have to wear these clothes to his daughter’s burial.

  Connie sighed, she sighed from the bottom of her very soul. Her pale drawn face awash with silent tears.

  48

  Ross walked out of the office with a bigger slump to his shoulders than he had come in with, though I wasn’t surprised considering the full set of circumstances on the Pine case I had provided him. He was overburdened with guilt. I could see that. I didn’t feel good. I had to do something to protect him, to help him through this. I was determined this wouldn’t be the thing that beat him and ground him out. Catherine might want him out of the unit, but there was no way I was going to let that happen.