In the Name of the Father

by Adam Croft

  ‘You think I’m not grateful,’ Michael said, quietly. It was difficult for Wendy to pick any sort of emotion out of what Michael was saying. It was all so flat, and gave her nothing to work with. Whether it was the result of painkillers, some other form of medication or just the effect of his incarceration, he was just lifeless.

  ‘Well, forgive me if I’m wrong but you don’t sound particularly grateful to me,’ she replied. ‘You don’t sound like anything. You certainly don’t sound like the brother I once knew. You’re a completely different person.’

  She could see she was getting nothing from him. She was on the verge of standing up and leaving, considering it a wasted journey, when she caught the light glinting off a solitary tear running down his cheek. His head was tilted to the side on his pillow, eyes glassy, staring at the wall. It was the first time in a long time she’d seen any sort of emotion from him. He looked vulnerable.

  ‘Michael? Michael, what is it?’ she asked, expecting to be ignored or for Michael to change the subject.

  He rolled his head back towards her, before looking her in the eye.

  ‘I need help.’

  27

  Amy Kemp listened to the pattern of her heartbeat, noticing that it roughly matched the throbbing of her head. If she didn’t know better, she’d think her head was the only thing she had left, as it was all she could feel. Laid on her side, her legs tied together and her arms bound behind her back, everything was numb from the cold. The chill concrete floor was hard, and she wondered if the circulation to her limbs had been completely cut off.

  She sent signals to her fingers and toes, trying to get them moving. She had no idea if it was working or not. Everything was numb. She knew her body would be starting to shut down soon, trying to conserve energy. She wondered how long a person could go without food or water before the inevitable happened.

  She didn’t remember much. One minute she was running hell for leather towards the policewoman. The next thing she knew, she was waking up here on the cold concrete floor. She knew she should be panicking. She knew she should be fearing for her life. But, deep down, she knew she had nothing to fear. After all, they could have killed her already by now. Why hadn’t they? Why was she not already dead? To her, it was clear that they wanted her alive for some reason, whatever that reason might be. That gave her hope, but it also worried her. If they didn’t want her dead, what did they want her for?

  She thought back to those times when she was younger, with Father Joseph forcing himself on her. Surely that wasn’t what they had planned, was it? No. It was impossible. He’d stopped all that with her long ago. She’d always presumed she was too old now.

  Amy had always wondered whether other young girls had experienced the same things with Father Joseph. Whether they’d had to go through the same rituals, the same pain. Or had she been special, somehow? Sometimes she convinced herself that was the case. It was easier to assume that things were being done because she was the variable. The alternative — that Father Joseph was somehow a sexual deviant who’d been misleading the entire community and pretending to be something he wasn’t — was far too huge a concept for a young girl to comprehend. But as she’d got older, she’d started to wonder.

  She wriggled, trying to get the blood to flow into her limbs. She needed to make sure she still had them. She took in a deep breath, feeling the icy cold air fill her lungs. She coughed, pain searing through her chest as she did so. The cold wouldn’t help either. That would only be adding to the numbness. Within a few seconds of wriggling she felt the blood starting to push through her veins, the pain increasing with every pulse, the warm blood thawing the ice that had formed inside her limbs. It felt like electricity was flowing through her. It hurt like hell, and she far preferred it when she was numb, but she knew it was good for her. She knew she had to do it.

  She tried to keep as quiet as possible, although all she really wanted to do was scream. It’d be a deep, guttural scream; a universal roar the would convey deep animalistic anguish to any creature within a mile or two. But she knew she had to keep quiet. She had to let them believe they’d won.

  Deep down, she wondered if they already had.

  28

  Although Jack Culverhouse was far more suited to CID work these days, there was still nothing quite like a good old-fashioned nick. A bit of a chase, a rugby tackle and a face pressed against the concrete. It took him right back to his days on the beat.

  He knew he couldn’t get involved in interviewing or charging Ethan. It would look far too bizarre for a CID officer to be processing a small-time drugs arrest, and he didn’t particularly want to have his name on Ethan’s charge sheet. He’d let one of the uniformed officers have the arrest as far as the paperwork went, which would keep his own name off the system.

  He’d told the custody sergeant the truth, but had decided to leave out large parts of the story. He mentioned being on the Sholebroke estate and seeing something suspicious in the park. He told the custody sergeant his instincts took over and he’d gone in for the kill. Fortunately for him, neither the custody sergeant nor the uniformed constables felt comfortable asking him why he’d been on the Sholebroke estate in the first place.

  The process for arresting and charging most people was the same. An officer would arrest them, bring them to the local police station and have them booked in by the custody sergeant. At that point, the clock would start ticking. The police would then have twenty-four hours to either charge or release the suspect. In that time they’d conduct interviews, gather evidence and consult the Crown Prosecution Service. The ultimate decision to charge or release came from the CPS. Their remit was to ensure that flimsy cases didn’t reach the expense of having to go to trial. For that reason, they had to discover, gather and process the evidence inside twenty-four hours, and it had to be rock solid.

  Fortunately for Jack, the evidence against Ethan Turner was pretty strong. They’d found him with a small amount of cannabis on him and he’d admitted to buying the drug for personal use. As it was the first drugs offence that Jack knew of, he was likely to be cautioned and released without a formal charge. It’d go on his criminal record, but he wouldn’t have a sentence or even a day in court. Had they caught him a few weeks earlier, while he was still a minor, they wouldn’t have been able to arrest him for the offence at all.

  The main thing was that he’d be back on the system again. He’d be a known name, would find it harder to get a job and would, hopefully, decide that breaking the law just wasn’t worth it. He also hoped that Emily would somehow find out on the grapevine what he’d been up to and stop hanging around with him. He knew teenage minds didn’t always work that way, but right now it was his only hope. And, on the plus side, he’d taken the cannabis out of Ethan Turner’s possession, keeping it away from Emily. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

  His private life put to one side for a moment, he tried to wrap his head around the stack of papers on his desk. He needed to get his brain back into work mode, but it wasn’t easy. Other things kept getting in the way.

  He tried to focus his mind on the investigation into Hilltop Farm. As far as he was concerned, it was all a complete waste of time. The investigation had stalled before it had even started, but he had no real option. If the powers that be wanted it investigated, he didn’t have a choice. As long as he could make it look like something was being done, then come back to them in a few days and tell them they’d found no evidence of any wrongdoing, his arse would be covered. And then he could get back to investigating real crime.

  His desk phone started to ring. Looking down, he saw the call was coming in from the main call handling team.

  ‘Culverhouse.’

  ‘Hi. I just received a call from a Dr Magnus Pedersen,’ the woman on the other end of the phone said. ‘He said he was calling for you because your wife has been admitted to hospital. You were listed as her next of kin.’

  Jack’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Hospital? What for?’ He was sur
prised he’d been listed as her next of kin. Yes, technically they were still married but he never thought of himself as Helen’s next of kin.

  ‘He couldn’t say too much, but he said it was being treated as a suspected suicide attempt.’

  Jack swallowed. His breath caught in his throat. ‘Suicide? Christ. Which hospital is she in?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s called Amager Hospital,’ the woman said, clearly reading from her notes.

  Jack racked his brains. ‘Amager? Where the fuck’s that?’

  ‘Copenhagen.’

  29

  It had been a long time since she had seen Michael looking so vulnerable. Her heart had dropped when he’d told her he needed help. And she wasn’t ashamed to admit that her first thought was that he’d played this card before.

  She’d tried to help him when he’d ended up in Mildenheath General Hospital after a drugs overdose. She’d brought him home, given him shelter, food and warmth. And how had he repaid her?

  She froze on the spot, looking at him lying in his hospital bed. She remembered that night in Robert Ludford’s kitchen, strapped to the chair, Michael leaning over her. She felt the fear and dread all over again, the same as she had when he was casually revealing the ways in which he’d killed those five women. But that was due to his mental condition, surely? He was her brother. A boy who’d lost his way. She had to believe that.

  You're nothing but a cheap whore! The ultimate cheap whore!

  No. He was in a bad place. He was a drug addict. He had mental problems. He needed help. It was a cry for help.

  That's all you are, isn't it? Just another little slut. Just the same as you always have been.

  A cry for help. That’s what it was. He didn’t mean any of it. She saw it all the time. Criminals getting caught and flipping out, saying things they didn’t mean. They always apologised in the morning once the alcohol had worn off.

  You're the next and final one. It's you and then it's me. The world will be rid of all its filth and all its sluts and I will die a hero, a martyr to the cause.

  He needed the attention. He’d never had any. He felt hard done by.

  I've never felt powerful before, Wend. It’s addictive.

  It’s sorted. Water under the bridge. He’s serving his time. He’s getting his help. He’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. He’ll be Michael again.

  Do you have any last words? Better make them good…

  Wendy jumped to her feet, the chair skidding along the hard floor behind her.

  She swallowed hard. ‘I have to go.’

  30

  It was starting to feel worryingly familiar to Jack, being at the airport with nothing but his passport and a hastily thrown-together overnight bag. Fortunately for him, Copenhagen was the busiest route from the local airport, with three flights a day leaving for the Danish capital. He was booked on the last, mid-evening flight. As one of the closest capital cities and a centre of European culture, Copenhagen was a popular destination for weekend tourists wanting a quick getaway. For Jack Culverhouse, though, it was going to hold far less pleasant memories, he was sure.

  He wondered whether he would have reacted in quite the same way to that phone call had Emily not been back in his life. He’d been quick enough to try to jump on a plane when Antonio García, his contact in the Spanish police, had informed him that he’d found a woman who matched Helen’s description over in Spain. But that was because it had been his opportunity to get some answers, some closure. He’d heard neither hide nor hair of her for years, and he needed to know what was going on.

  This time, he knew what was going on. He knew Helen was living with borderline personality disorder, that she’d had a number of personal problems involving responsibility and being tied down. She was also a compulsive liar. And now he knew that she’d attempted to take her own life. He remembered the words he was told on the phone: suspected suicide attempt. He didn’t know if he was just going soft in his old age, but he’d grown to hate the word suicide recently. It harked back to a bygone age when it was considered illegal to try to end your own life. In effect, it had been illegal to be ill. It wasn’t considered that anyone getting to that stage had been failed by the state, failed by the health service, failed by the system. No, they should be punished for having been so unwell.

  He had no doubt about it that he thought differently about Helen now Emily was back in his life. There was a large part of him that despised her for having not only abandoned him, but Emily too. He could forgive her for walking out on him. He was a big boy and could handled that. But walking out on their daughter? That was inexcusable.

  He could see a lot of Helen in Emily. The insecurity, the worry, the sense of not quite fitting in with the rest of society. And that worried him. It was up to him now to make sure she had the best possible opportunities in life, but he needed to balance that with not scaring her away at the same time.

  Shit. Emily. He hadn’t even let her know where he was going. He’d been so wrapped up in his own bloody... He took his phone out of his pocket, unlocked it and called Emily. He didn’t know where she’d be. That worried him, but he knew he had to tread carefully when it came to demanding to know every facet of her daily life. That would have scared Helen off, and it’d do the same to Emily too.

  He knew he was running a risk by leaving her on her own at her age, but he reckoned he could just about justify that. After all, what other choice did he have? He was going to see Emily’s hospitalised mother. He couldn’t take her with him, and in any case he’d only be a few hours. He decided to risk it.

  ‘Em? It’s me,’ he said, when the call connected and Emily answered.

  ‘I know,’ Emily replied, her voice a sarcastic sing-song. ‘It says on the screen.’

  ‘Yeah. Right. Sorry. Look, something’s come up at work and I’ve got to dash off somewhere overnight. Will you be alright?’

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ came Emily’s reply.

  ‘You sure? You’re not angry?’

  ‘Dad, I think I can deal with turning the lights off myself for one night.’

  Culverhouse pursed his lips and nodded to himself. ‘Yeah, sorry. Look, I would’ve let you know earlier if I could, but that’s the way these things are sometimes. I’ll be back tomorrow, though. Promise,’ he said, trying to speak over the sound of the flight departure announcements.

  ‘Are you in an airport?’ Emily asked.

  ‘Uh, yeah.’

  ‘Jesus. Where are you going?’

  He took half a second to think. Why was Helen in Copenhagen? Did she have some links there? Links Emily would know about?

  ‘Scotland,’ he said, holding his voice back. ‘Quicker than driving. Got to speak to a witness, but will be back tomorrow.’

  ‘Can’t you just phone them?’

  ‘Doesn’t work like that unfortunately. When it comes to murder we need to get the statements in person, if we can. Otherwise the defence counsel jump all over it when it comes to court. Can’t take that risk.’

  ‘Must be handy being able to see the person, too. You’d know if they were lying,’ Emily said.

  Culverhouse felt his breath catch. ‘Yeah. Yeah, you would.’

  ‘Cool. Well, enjoy. If you can enjoy it, I mean.’

  He let out a small chuckle. ‘Thanks. I might even treat myself to a small whisky tonight. When in Rome, and all that.’

  ‘See you tomorrow?’ Emily said, more as a question than a statement.

  ‘Definitely,’ he replied. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  He’d already resolved not to lie to Emily. If he said he was going to be back tomorrow, he was going to be back tomorrow. He knew he’d lied to her about where he was going, but that was different; that was to protect her.

  He owed it to Emily to visit Helen, to find out what had happened. After all, she was her mother. It was at that point that he realised exactly why he was going to Copenhagen. It certainly wasn’t for himself, and it wasn’t for Helen either.

  31

 
; Wendy couldn’t a remember a time when she’d felt so tired. Other than the couple of hours’ sleep she’d had last night in the Premier Inn in County Durham, she’d been running on empty. The long drive up and the even longer drive back had taken it out of her. It had taken just over five hours to drive back, and she was starting to realise she should have gone straight home.

  ‘There we are. You were wrong,’ Steve Wing said to the major incident room as Wendy walked in.

  ‘Sorry?’ she replied.

  ‘Frank had twenty quid on this being a mass exodus. We were going to take bets on who’d be next to go AWOL, but you just came back and spoilt it.’

  Wendy was, by now, utterly confused. The tiredness wasn’t helping matters. ‘Sorry, you’ve lost me, Steve.’

  ‘Well, first of all you disappear off up north and leave the guv to deal with all that, and the next thing we know he’s done a runner himself. We thought maybe there was something in the air.’

  Steve and Frank chuckled to each other, leaving Wendy none the wiser as to what was going on. ‘Done a runner? What do you mean?’ she asked. ‘Where’s he gone?’

  DC Ryan Mackenzie answered, looking askance at Steve and Frank as she did so. ‘Copenhagen. He had a call to say his wife had tried to end her own life. He’s listed as her next of kin, so he’s gone over to see her. He’s due back on the afternoon flight tomorrow.’

  ‘Christ almighty. And that’s what the big fucking joke’s all about, is it, Steve?’ Wendy shouted, her eyes wide.

  Steve seemed to be getting flustered, and looked around himself for support. ‘No, I was just—’

  ‘My brother gets beaten to within an inch of his life in prison, and the DCI’s wife is so ill that her only way out is to try and top herself, but you fucking idiots see it as the perfect opportunity for a joke and a quick wager. Does that just about cover it?’