by Adam Croft
‘At the hospital. She’s been working as a receptionist in A&E for the past couple of months or so. It’s shift work, mostly. Some days she finishes at six-thirty, others she’s not back until late. If she does a night shift it’s even later.’
‘Must be tough work,’ Wendy said, attempting to build some empathy.
‘It is, but she finds it rewarding.’
‘And how’s she coping now, after what happened with Jeff Brelsford?’
‘The fact that he’s dead, you mean? We’ve not seen her since we found out. If you mean how’s she been since he got the police caution, she’s a very resilient person. She doesn’t let things like that affect her too much. Not on the surface, anyway.’
‘She’s less trusting,’ Teresa said, speaking for the first time since Wendy had arrived.
‘I suppose she is, yes,’ John said, looking at Teresa. ‘It clearly knocked her a bit. She left the job as soon as she could. Certainly wasn’t a nice atmosphere at that place. She took some time to work out what she wanted to do, did some shifts at the pub round the corner, the Spitfire, then decided she fancied the look of this job at the hospital.’
‘She’s talked about training as a nurse,’ Teresa said. ‘She wants to help people.’
‘And what are your feelings towards Jeff Brelsford?’ Wendy said, trying to steer the conversation back towards something useful.
‘If you’re asking whether we’re glad he’s dead, then I’ve got to tell you I don’t know. I hated the bloke for what he did to my daughter, but I’m not the sort of person who wishes death on people.’
‘And you, Mrs McCourt?’ Wendy said to Katie’s mother.
Teresa looked at John. ‘I agree with John. I don’t know what to think, to be honest. I must admit that my first reaction was “Oh good”, though. I wasn’t his biggest fan, put it that way.’
John took Teresa’s hand in his and squeezed it.
Wendy could see that the impact an event like that had on a family was far deeper and further reaching than what was on the surface level. Knowing that your daughter had been violated in that way must cut deep, and even the most forgiving people would find it difficult not to rejoice in the knowledge that the person who did it wouldn’t be able to offend again.
‘I mean, it could have been much worse,’ John said. ‘He obviously wasn’t the sort of person to stop, even after a couple of warnings. You never know how far he would’ve gone if he’d managed to get her on her own or something. What if he’d put something in her drink at a Christmas party or something? I know it sounds mad, but you never know how far people like that will go.’
Wendy started to detect that perhaps John McCourt held a little more animosity towards Jeff Brelsford than he had admitted.
11
Jack could feel the blood pulsing in his temples as he made his way down the stairs from the Chief Constable’s office. His rough, jagged fingernails cut into the palms of his hands as he clenched his fists, his thoughts making a whirring, buzzing noise as they bounced around inside his skull.
He jammed his hand down on the handle of the incident room’s door and flung it open, listening to it crash against the wall, the handle embedding in the plasterboard, wedging it in place.
The room fell silent.
‘Go on, then,’ he said quietly, almost whispered. ‘Who was it?’
Some pairs of eyes looked at him with concern, others were averted towards the floor.
‘Who was it?’ he yelled, the volume making at least two other officers jump before his voice returned back to its whisper. ‘The only reason you lot are here, the sole reason you’re working in the only CID department in this half of the country that hasn’t become a faceless office block at county hall, is because I have had the bollocks to stand up and be counted. Because I have single-fucking-handedly put more serious criminals behind bars than the lot of you put together. Because I get results. And now — now — I hear that one of you has gone behind my back and told the Chief Constable that you have concerns about my methods and opinions.’
He took a moment to survey the incident room. All eyes were now averted away from him.
‘You have your jobs because people like me are willing to do things a bit differently. Because we put justice and safety before pen-pushing and fucking bureaucracy. While you’re busy filling in forms, reaching targets and having appraisals, at least one of you would do very well to remember that it was my way of doing things which means you’re stood here living and breathing today.’ He didn’t look at Debbie Weston as he spoke, but he could tell she knew who he was talking about. ‘And because of another officer’s bravery and selflessness, and his willingness to throw himself quite literally into the firing line, you’re still breathing lungfuls of God’s own.’
Culverhouse spoke now through a growing fog of tears. ‘Have a think for just one second where you’d be if officers like Luke had been sat here filling in fucking paperwork instead of doing what he had to do that day. And then tell me that you’re right to criticise the way I do things. Because the way I do things fucking works,’ he yelled, smashing his fist down on the nearest desk. ‘Whether you like it or not, it’s the reason you’re here and the sole reason why at least one of you is still alive. Now. I’m going to ask again. Who was it?’
Before anyone could answer, the voice of the Chief Constable spoke from the open doorway. ‘Jack. A word.’
Without even acknowledging Charles Hawes, Culverhouse looked at each one of the officers in the incident room before turning and following him out.
They’d barely got three steps out of the office when Hawes rounded on him.
‘I’m going to cut to the chase, Jack, and you’re going to listen. Collect your stuff and go home. I’m putting you on indefinite leave. No ifs, no buts. You’re not in the right frame of mind right now and I can’t risk having you around here.’
Hawes looked at Culverhouse, expecting him to come back aggressively, but instead he just stood there devoid of any expression. ‘Right now, Jack, you’re toxic. You’re going to do more harm than good to this investigation, by a long way. You’re a good officer. I know that and you know that, but you need time. It’s understandable. We all do sometimes. Do you understand?’
Culverhouse said nothing, turned around and headed for the exit.
12
The hospital canteen was almost as bad as the one at the station, so Wendy felt very much at home. Katie McCourt, though, looked less than pleased at having had the past dragged up again. She twisted a piece of tissue around her finger as she stared at the steaming styrofoam mug of tea.
‘I realise it’s difficult to have to go through things again,’ Wendy said. ‘Especially after having consigned them to the past. But I hope you’ll understand that we need to look at things with a fresh pair of eyes in light of... Well, recent developments.’
Katie kept staring at the tea and was silent for a few moments before she started talking.
‘I know it sounds ridiculous to say it, but I feel nothing towards him. I don’t hate him. I never wished him dead. I think more than anything I feel sorry for him.’
Wendy smiled with one side of her mouth. ‘You’d be surprised how many people say that.’
‘I think it’s the feeling of violation that hurts the most. It’s like when people have their houses burgled, they say it’s not the material stuff that matters. They don’t really care that someone’s nicked their telly or their laptop or whatever. It’s knowing that someone’s been in their house uninvited when they weren’t there, rummaging through their stuff.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Wendy said. ‘And I’m really sorry to have to ask you this, but it’s something I have to do as part of the job...’
‘Before you ask, I was home around seven-ish and stayed in all night,’ Katie said, making eye contact with Wendy for the first time since Wendy had told her what had happened. She could see not only the determination in Katie’s eyes, but also that what she wa
s telling her was the truth.
‘What about other people?’ Wendy asked. ‘Friends, family? Did any of them express a wish to see Jeff Brelsford dead?’
Katie laughed and shook her head before wiping her eyes. ‘Is that a serious question? For a start it wasn’t exactly something I went and broadcast everywhere. I only told my family and close friends. Anyone who was that close to me was obviously going to hate him for what he did. But no, none of them would’ve actually done anything to him.’
Wendy pursed her lips. ‘I hate to ask this, but can you be sure?’
‘Yes, I can. It’s not as if it happened just recently and someone snapped and acted in anger, is it? There’s been plenty of time for people to deal with it and if I can move on I’m sure my friends and family can. In fact, I know they can. They have.’
One thing that Wendy always tried to do was to put herself in the victim’s shoes. It tended to help her to empathise with what they’d been through and to know the best way to approach a situation. Then she could combine that with her duties as a police officer. It was an approach which had been very successful, she thought.
Trying to get into Katie McCourt’s mind was somewhat more difficult, though. Katie’s experiences with Jeff Brelsford hadn’t been as serious as many others she encountered in her job as a police officer — far from it — but for Katie it had clearly had a big impact on her life.
Wendy never failed to be surprised by the ways in which people reacted to different situations. There were some for whom a serious assault or violent robbery could be — relatively speaking — brushed under the carpet and put down to experience, but then there were others for whom having their mobile phone nicked from a table in a pub or finding their car broken into could have a devastating impact. It was all personal and subjective, and any crime could feel deeply personal to any given person. And, right now, that was what worried Wendy the most.
13
Jack poured another measure of scotch into his glass, carefully put the bottle back on the table and took a gulp. He’d usually expect to feel the clatter of ice cubes against his teeth as he savoured the flavour, but this time the whisky served a very different purpose altogether.
This was all about dulling the pain. Not only the pain and shame of being put on leave from work, but of everything that had led up to that. Every man had a breaking point, he knew that, but it was also true that the deeper your breaking point was, the more damage it’d cause when it finally went.
The stress of work was barely the surface level. Below that was the way in which Luke’s death had affected him — something he’d never even considered acknowledging, particularly not at work. He’d always admired Luke’s dedication to the job and saw a large amount of his younger self in Luke. He’d believed in him, encouraged him, mentored him and then watched him take a bullet for him. A bullet that had ended his life. In many ways, Jack felt as if his life had ended then too. Had Luke not been there, only his own life would have been lost — something he felt was now lost anyway — and Luke’s would’ve been spared.
He wondered, too, if he had made the right decision in going to that house with Luke in the first place, having done so to rescue Debbie Weston, who was being held hostage. Logically he knew they’d done the right thing in coming to Debbie’s rescue, but that decision had condemned Luke to his fate. Of course, there was no way he could’ve known that at the time. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, he thought.
He worried at how much his decision making at that time had been hindered by what he was going through in his personal life, his mentally unstable ex-wife having appeared back on the scene eight and a half years after disappearing one day with their daughter, who he’d still not seen since. That kind of pressure took its toll, no matter how strong a person you were.
The ringing of the doorbell jolted him from his introspection but he had no intention of answering it. After three rings, he heard the letterbox open.
‘Guv, it’s me,’ called the familiar voice of Wendy Knight. ‘I know you’re in there. And I know you’re hurting. We all are. Let me in and we can talk about it. As friends.’
That word resonated. Jack had never had friends. Not really. He’d always told himself he wasn’t the friend type. He didn’t need them. Right now, though, he was starting to wonder if that was true.
‘Look, the others told me what happened. I don’t like seeing you like this. I’m worried.’
Jack swallowed as a tear rolled down his cheek. He slowly stood up and made his way to the front door, unlatching it but not opening it, before sitting back down where he’d been.
Wendy opened the door, closed it behind her and went into the living room.
‘How are you?’ she asked, not knowing what else to say.
‘How do I look?’
‘Shit.’
‘Got it in one.’
Wendy allowed herself a wry smile. ‘That’s not going to help,’ she said, pointing at the bottle of scotch.
‘It’s certainly not doing me any harm right now,’ he replied, taking another gulp.
‘Not that you know of. It’s not going to let you think clearly, though, is it?’
Jack sighed. ’I don’t want to think clearly. I don’t want to think at all.’
Wendy sat down on the sofa next to him. ‘I get that. I do. It’s natural. But you need people who can help you get through it.’
Jack shook his head. ‘I’m too old for all this. There’s only so much one man can take. Even me. Even Jack fucking Culverhouse.’
‘What do you mean?’ Wendy asked, cocking her head.
‘I mean I’m going to offer my resignation to the Chief Constable. Officially. I’m retiring.’
Wendy’s eyes widened. ’What? No, you can’t. You—’
‘I can, and I am. That way I’ll still keep my pension intact. If I carry on and cross the wrong line, I’ll lose everything. It’s all I’ve got left as it is.’
Wendy closed her eyes and sighed. She knew his decision would be eminently sensible for most people, but it wasn’t a way forward for Jack. He wasn’t a man who did cutting his losses. He was a fighter, someone who rallied against perceived injustices and came out on top even stronger than before.
‘I think you should speak to someone,’ she said. ‘A professional. Someone who can help you make sense of everything. I know it might seem like you’re thinking clearly and rationally right now, but you can’t be. You’ve been through a lot. If you speak to a professional, you can get through this.’
‘I am not seeing a fucking shrink,’ he replied, with a little too much venom in his voice for Wendy’s liking.
‘It’d help. Trust me. I’ve been there,’ she said, neglecting to mention the fact that the only two times she’d been in a counsellor’s office she’d stormed out in a fit of denial in much the same way Jack was doing now.
‘It’s not going to happen, Knight. I’m finished. I’m done. And you should leave.’
‘Seriously? Do you think that’s going to help?’ Wendy asked, now at her wits’ end.
Jack sighed. ‘I don’t know, and right now I don’t care.’
‘What about Luke’s memorial service?’ Wendy asked quietly.
He bowed his head and turned away. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. I don’t know if I can handle it right now.’
‘With all due respect, you don’t get a say as to when it is. You need to be there. The whole reason it’s happening is because he saved your life. We need to honour that. Honour him.’
He turned back to face Wendy, all emotion drained from his face. ‘No. There’s nothing to honour. It should’ve been me who died that day.’
14
The arrival of Malcolm Pope at Mildenheath Police Station was always guaranteed to turn the atmosphere somewhat frostier, even though it was thankfully a relatively rare occurrence. This time, everyone in CID knew that his stay was going to be prolonged.
Within twenty minutes of his arrival, he was stood at the
front of the incident room, addressing the team.
‘Now, I’ve been briefed on what’s happened so far and, unsurprisingly, it doesn’t seem to be much. I understand everything you’ve all been through and the pressures you’ve been under, but the facts aren’t altered: we have a murder victim who deserves the truth.’
Wendy nodded ever so slightly. She was far from Malcolm Pope’s biggest fan, but she couldn’t argue with what he’d said so far.
‘As you no doubt already know, DCI Culverhouse is on extended leave. How long that leave will be extended I don’t know, but in his absence — which may very well be permanent — we’re going to have to work together as a professional unit. That’s going to mean doing things a little differently.’
Wendy noticed Steve Wing and Frank Vine exchange a glance with each other.
‘Firstly, the practice of going off and doing your own thing and just updating everyone at the morning briefing if you feel like it is going to stop. All operational decisions, changes and manoeuvres must be ratified by your senior investigating officer — me. There will be no more role confusion. We will be organised in the same manner as any other CID department. The senior investigating officer — me — will remain here and oversee the investigation and not go gallivanting off and doing the legwork. I will be the eyes and ears of this operation. The hierarchy of ranks will be adhered to. That means that Detective Sergeants Knight, Wing and Vine will be given specific areas of the investigation to be getting on with. Detective Constables will work under the Sergeants.’
‘Sir, we only have one Detective Constable at the moment,’ Steve Wing said, gesturing to Debbie Weston.
‘I’m aware of that, DS Wing,’ Pope replied. ‘And I’m currently liaising with my interim replacement at HQ to see if they can release a couple of constables to come and assist us. But of course I can’t go putting any pressure on my interim replacement to do anything, because he’s in charge there now.’ He stopped talking for a moment and looked at each of the officers in the incident room, making sure the subtext of his message was hammered home. ‘Each of you will be expected to write a written report of your day’s activities at the end of each day and have it on my desk before you go home. Any external visits must be logged, and all interviews, whether internal or external, should have their audio recorded as well as notes taken.’
