by Adam Croft
No, he’d leave the police and do something entirely different instead. He’d always fancied helping out on the canals, moving boats and doing tours and excursions. He’d thought about setting up his own business doing it, but he didn’t really know where to start. He’d find something. Anything was better than moving to Milton House. He wouldn’t need much, anyway — statutory retirement wasn’t all that many years off.
He pulled out of the secured car park at the station and headed off in the direction of Ambassador Court. It wasn’t a great idea to go one-up to a place like Ambassador Court, and it certainly wasn’t ideal to leave a police car unattended there, but he was buggered if he was going to walk it.
Barely five minutes later, he was parked up and puffing his way up the stairs to number 52a. When he got there, he pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. It was a battered old iPhone, one of the early 3GS models. His nephews and nieces had been taking the piss and telling him he needed to upgrade. Apparently the model he had was nearly six years old. That was practically new, as far as he was concerned. It made calls, sent texts and allowed him to get some decent porn sites up, so what more did he want?
He went into his Settings screen, tapped Wi-Fi and waited to see what came up. There were hundreds of the buggers. He scrolled down, and one caught his eye. It was called finney and was showing as only one of two unsecured networks. He thought that seemed like a pretty good bet. Still unsure as to what this was all about, he phoned Wendy back.
‘Yeah, I’m here,’ he said. ‘There’s one that’s named after his surname. Bit bloody stupid if you ask me, but get this — that’s not the only stupid thing. He’s left it totally open. No security. Just click and connect. Now, if you ask me, he should—’
Before Frank could finish speaking, Wendy had hung up the phone. Charming. Absolutely charming.
Fucking job, he thought as he puffed his way back down the steps.
40
‘It was unsecured,’ Wendy said. ‘No security, according to Frank. And it’s definitely his network. It’s called Finney.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ Culverhouse replied. ‘Kyle Finney is one sandwich short of a picnic, or whatever you’re meant to call it these days. I quite like “mental retardation” but apparently the PC brigade don’t.’
Wendy stood aghast at his comments. Even after all these years, she still found herself surprised every time he came out with a clanger like that. She thought people were supposed to mellow in their old age.
‘But don’t you see what this means?’ Wendy asked.
‘Well yeah,’ Culverhouse replied. ‘It means he’s not got the brain cells to remember anything other than his own name. What a surprise.’
Wendy raised her voice, excited. ‘No, it means anyone could have access his wireless network. And they would have known it was his, too. They could have been doing it deliberately to try and set him up.’
‘Wait,’ Culverhouse said, raising his hand. ‘So is Kyle Finney meant to be a killer now or a potential victim? Because there’s no way he’s a killer, and if he’s the victim then why would the killer want to draw attention to him? Surely he’d want the police staying well away so he could do what he had to do.’
‘Perhaps it’s just one big mistake,’ Wendy said, after thinking for a few more seconds.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, say the killer’s had his sights set on Kyle Finney as one of his targets for a little while. What if he’s been sat outside the flat watching him? It’s perfectly possible that he could’ve connected to the network, knowing it was unsecured, and used that access to monitor Kyle Finney’s web traffic. He would’ve seen all of the websites he went on, potentially read his emails — who knows? If we’re talking about someone who’s pretty hot with computers, the sky would be his limit, surely?’
‘You’re asking the wrong bloke,’ Culverhouse replied. ‘So what, this computer genius just happened to accidentally browse the van hire company’s website using Kyle Finney’s wifi connection?’
‘It’s possible,’ Wendy said. ‘I’ve got a Mac laptop at home and an iPhone. Both made by Apple. If I connect to a wifi network on one, it saves the settings and the other device automatically connects when it’s in range too. No need to re-enter the passcode or anything. What if our killer was connected to Kyle Finney’s wifi network, thought he was being smart by searching the van hire company’s website on his mobile but hadn’t realised it had automatically connected to the same network?’
Culverhouse rubbed the untidy beard growth on his chin. ‘It’d be a hell of a bollock to drop, but I suppose it’s possible. You’d have to check that with the tech boys.’
‘I think the first thing we need to do is find Kyle Finney,’ she said. ‘If he’s not the brightest spark, as you say, then why would he be the only victim to have realised he was being targeted and manage to disappear?’
‘Paranoia, probably,’ Culverhouse said. ‘He’s probably not being targeted at all. I imagine he’ll come back in a few days with his tail between his legs.’
Wendy grimaced and shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. This just doesn’t quite seem right. We have to find him. Do you have any idea where he could’ve gone?’
‘Me?’ Culverhouse asked.
‘Yeah, you’ve had dealings with him in the past.’
Culverhouse chuckled. ‘Oh yeah, I’ve had dealings with him. And I know exactly where he will have gone.’
‘Where?’ Wendy asked, before realising how desperate she’d probably sounded.
‘No. No way,’ Culverhouse replied, leaning back and crossing his arms. ‘Kyle Finney is a fucking menace to society. I’ve been waiting for someone to finish that bastard off for years. There’s no way he should be out on the streets, living in civilised society.’
‘Jack, his life could be in danger, he—’
‘Good. Do you realise what he’s like? He touches young girls up in the park, for Christ’s sake, Knight. God knows how many times he’s got away with it, but even the ones we’ve caught him for he’s only ever got short sentences, then he gets out and does it all again. Nearly ten years ago I first nicked him for getting his knob out on the bus. Every time he gets back on the streets, he does something worse.’
Wendy stood open-mouthed. ‘Do you realise what you’re saying? If you know where Kyle Finney is, that’s really fucking serious. You’re perverting the course of justice. You’re withholding information. You’ll never work in the police force again.’
Culverhouse let out a deep belly laugh and shook his head. ‘Do you really think I care? What have I got to lose? Look at me. I’m sat in week-old clothes, pouring scotch on my cornflakes. I’ve become what every good copper becomes. A husk. I’m never going back to work anyway. Not now Malcolm Pope’s got his foot in the door. You know that and I know that. I’m not stupid.’
Wendy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She was watching him throw it all away before her very eyes. ’Jack, think about this. You’ll lose everything.’
‘Nothing to lose,’ he said, staring at the ceiling. ‘I don’t need the pension. My reputation’s shot as it is, and the new fucking bureaucrats will make sure that all my good work’s forgotten as soon as I’m gone anyway, whatever happens.’
Wendy swallowed, trying not to let this affect her. It wasn’t even the fact that he was obstructing her investigation that enraged her; it was watching this proud man, this officer who’d kept Mildenheath CID running for so many years, throw his entire career away in front of her.
‘Jack, please think about this. Think long and hard. You’ve given your life to this, to seeking justice. You can’t waste all that good work because of a couple of bastards.’
Culverhouse’s jaw clenched and he turned to face Wendy.
‘My mind’s made up. You won’t change it. The only person I’d ever reveal Kyle Finney’s location to is the killer.’
41
Wendy had left Jack Culverhouse’s place in
credulous. He’d always been a stubborn bastard, but this time he’d crossed the line.
She knew she needed to get into Kyle Finney’s flat and see if there was anything in there which could lead them to his location. The usual protocol would’ve been to go to the senior investigating officer for clearance, but she was in absolutely no mood to speak to Malcolm Pope. Anyway, he’d probably have wanted a written report, a meeting and God knows what other red tape before he’d give authorisation, at which point it could well be too late for Kyle Finney.
No, she only had one option: she had to go over Malcolm Pope’s head. Fortunately for her, Chief Constable Charles Hawes was in good spirits as she volleyed off an explanation as quickly as she could, hoping that he’d sense her desperation and authorise a forced entry to Kyle Finney’s flat. In her haste, though, she’d accidentally mentioned Culverhouse’s lack of cooperation in the matter.
‘What the fuck’s Jack playing at?’ Charles Hawes asked once she’d finished speaking. ‘He could be strung up for this.’
‘I know,’ Wendy replied. ‘He’s hell bent on destroying himself. Quite frankly, though, he’s not my priority right now. My priority is getting to Kyle Finney before the killer does.’
Hawes didn’t need much persuading. Not long after, she was back at Kyle Finney’s flat with a search team, including two burly-looking officers who had custody of a tool known as the Enforcer — a manual battering ram which could hit a door with more than three tones of pressure behind it. Wendy thought that would be more than enough for the rather flimsy-looking door on the front of Kyle Finney’s flat, and she was right: it gave way after just one swing of the Enforcer.
With Frank Vine having decided against visiting the flat for the third time that day, Wendy entered the flat with Steve Wing and Debbie Weston, each of them splitting off to a different area of the flat to search for anything which might reveal Kyle Finney’s location.
The flat was a mess, which to the untrained eye might seem more difficult to search than a tidy home, but the fact was that tidy people tidied away clues. Untidy people were more careless and prone to leaving clues lying about. All Wendy could see lying about, though, were pairs of dirty underpants and snotty tissues.
It amazed her how people could live like this. It was one thing not being a neat freak — she wasn’t terribly house proud herself — but actively living amongst filth, germs and dirty pants was just another level altogether. Who wanted to sit in a pile of snotty tissues?
Having said that, the flat felt somewhat homely. Needless to say, she wouldn’t have wanted it to be her home, but it certainly felt like it was someone’s home. There was the usual assortment of bills on the side table — mobile phone, broadband internet, council tax. Behind them, propped up against a wall, was a photo of two young boys, clearly taken a fair few years earlier, sitting on a beach.
‘Kyle and his brother,’ Steve said. ‘I remember the guv saying something about him when he nicked him last time. The brother died when he was about eleven. Cystic fibrosis. Really buggered Kyle up, apparently. Psychologists reckon that explains the way he is, but the guv tried to get it overturned. Said it was a load of bollocks.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Wendy said, studying the photograph.
‘I know. I think he went a bit far on that one, personally. They were clearly close as kids,’ Steve said.
Wendy was surprised. She’d never heard Steve Wing think Culverhouse had been anything other than a god.
’That’d mess with anyone’s head,’ he continued. ‘I remember being well upset when my gerbil died. I was only six.’
Wendy looked at Steve, her fleeting admiration for him suddenly vanquished. ‘I’m not quite sure that’s on the same level as losing your brother to a horrible disease,’ she said.
‘Well, no, but you know what I mean. I kind of know where he’s coming from.’
‘Right,’ Wendy said, not trusting herself to say any more.
She looked around Kyle’s flat and was surprised to discover that there was no TV in sight. She guessed that he probably didn’t need one in this day and age, especially seeing as he was able to watch TV over the internet without having to pay for a TV licence.
It always amazed her how different people lived, and how no two people were the same. Before becoming a police officer she’d always assumed that ‘homely’ had a single definition, but she’d since come to realise that it actually meant very different things to different people.
‘Sarge, come and look at this!’ Debbie Weston’s voice called from the bedroom. Wendy followed it.
When she reached the bedroom, she found Debbie sat on what she presumed was Kyle Finney’s bed, holding a photo album which contained a few photographs, the rest of which were spread out over the bed.
‘They all seem to be from the same place,’ Debbie said. ‘But taken at different times. Look, there are dates in the corner. Looks like some woods of some sort.’
‘It is,’ Wendy said, picking up one of the photos. ‘It’s Farnelsham. My dad used to take me when he wasn’t working.’
Momentarily, Wendy was transported back to her own childhood, walking through the woods and down to the lake, a green, shimmering expanse of water surrounded by tall oak trees. It was a peaceful, tranquil place where she’d always felt safe. It was only about fifteen minutes outside Mildenheath by car — close enough to be perfectly accessible whenever they wanted to go but far enough that it felt like a temporary escape. Judging by the photographs in front of her now, it also held memories for Kyle Finney.
‘They’re all at the same place,’ she said. ‘These photos. They were all taken near the old boathouse.’
‘You know it?’ Debbie asked.
‘Yeah. Yeah, you could say that,’ Wendy replied, trying to hold back her own emotions.
42
The cold, damp brickwork felt reassuringly comforting against his back as he pulled the sleeping bag up over his legs. The sun was starting to disappear over the tops of the oak trees and it would be starting to get cold.
The ducks quacked merrily on the lake and he imagined they were quite happy with him being there. They always had been.
He’d told himself that he’d only be here for a couple more days. That was probably all he needed, and then he’d have to head out to buy more supplies. The food he’d crammed into his rucksack would only be enough to last him a little while, but he’d been sparing with it so it would last longer. After all, he wasn’t exerting any energy out here. Just sitting, watching, thinking.
He knew the way he felt about things wasn’t normal, but most of the time that didn’t affect him. He had very few concerns in this world. Right now, those concerns were the two that had remained constant for so many years: this place and Petey. His bottom lip quivered as he thought back to the happy times they’d had. For a fleeting moment he swore he could hear Petey’s cheeky laugh as they ran across the sodden leaves, chasing each other through the woods as their mother called after them to be careful.
Good times.
He felt a tear run down his cheek and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, sniffing as he did so. Bloody cold weather. It always did this to him. He didn’t care. He was happy here. These were happy tears, he told himself. Nice memories. Memories were all he had now.
It was peaceful enough here during the day. There were a few dog walkers, but they didn’t disturb him. Inside the old boat house, he was safe. He couldn’t be seen by anyone and no-one would be doing what he and Petey used to do all those years ago: creating a raft from old driftwood they’d got from the seaside and tying it up at the edge of the lake. It was the only way across the water to the old boat house, which sat proud of the water on its own little island barely forty feet from the edges of the lake. Just far enough to be out of the way.
He looked over at the bright pink lilo, deflated and folded up in the corner of the boat house. It had been his only way to get to the boathouse in recent years, ever since that day
he came back after Petey had died and found the driftwood raft gone. He didn’t know whether someone had taken it, destroyed it or whether something far more special had happened. His Petey had been taken, and so had their raft. It seemed right somehow.
He pulled the sleeping bag up a bit further, nestled further into the cold brickwork and wiped another tear from his cheek.
43
It had been worth biding his time. Rushing in all gung-ho was never a great idea. He knew Kyle would come here and he knew at some point he’d have to leave. After a few days his defences would be down; he’d be cold, demoralised, fed-up. He’d start to think about leaving. That was when he’d strike, under cover of darkness. That was how an operation became a success.
The police had been doing their PR bit as far as Kyle was concerned, but that just wasn’t good enough. Chuck him in jail for a few months and hope he’d be a changed man when he came out? Not bloody likely. As far as he was concerned, Kyle Finney was a mental case. And he’d only get worse.
The longer he left it, though, the more likely it was that someone was going to either spot him or come looking for Kyle. That’s why he knew he had to strike tonight. It was the sweet spot between waiting and over-waiting.
He looked out across the lake, his night-vision binoculars cold and heavy in his hands, the chilled metal eye rings bitter against his eyes. The heat source — or waste of oxygen, as he called it — was still there. He turned and looked at the camera strapped to the tree. It’d detect any movement from heat sources and send an alert to his mobile phone. So far, it had mostly picked up a couple of foxes and badgers, but Kyle would have to leave the boat house soon. He’d better hurry up, though, he thought; the batteries would only last another forty-eight hours or so. As quietly as he could, he made his way back to the van and waited.
