by Adam Croft
Steve Wing looked down at the floor, seemingly well aware that nothing he could say right now would make the situation any better. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.
‘Right. And I presume taking the afternoon briefing’s going to be down to me as well, then, is it?’ Wendy looked around the room and could see there weren’t going to be any takers. ‘Brilliant. Well, if you don’t mind I’m going to delay it until the morning. I’m shattered. In the meantime, Steve, might I suggest you fuck off for five minutes and get a personality transplant.’
Wendy left the room, a small part of her worried that she was already turning into Jack Culverhouse in his absence. No, she told herself as she jabbed the buttons on the front of the coffee machine. She couldn’t blame her foul mood on herself. Not this time. She took the scalding hot cup from the machine and was about to head back towards the incident room when her mobile rang in her pocket. She put the cup down and answered the phone.
‘DS Knight? It’s Suzanne Corrigan, from the Mildenheath Gazette.’
‘Hi Suzanne. Look, can I call you back later? I’m just about to head home.’
‘Uh, yeah, you can, but to be honest it’d be much better to chat quickly now if you can.’
Wendy detected some unease in Suzanne’s voice. She knew her to be an honest yet forthright journalist. Most people working at the local rag managed the latter fairly well, but tended to struggle when it came to honesty. ‘Why, what’s up?’
‘It’s to do with the Hilltop Farm thing,’ Suzanne replied. ‘We’ve had the nationals on the phone again. They want to run a piece about it tomorrow.’
Wendy knew damn well that the national newspaper journalists didn’t read the Mildenheath Gazette. Most local residents didn’t even read it. ‘There’s nothing to run a piece about,’ she said.
‘They say they’ve had more people come forward about the farm. Stories about stuff having gone on there in the past.’
Wendy’s ears pricked up. ‘We’ve had nothing else reported to us,’ she said.
‘Maybe that’s a sign that they don’t think the police will believe them. Maybe they don’t trust the police.’
Wendy tightened her jaw. ‘Well, that’s completely irrelevant. If a newspaper runs a story about suspected criminal activity without the police being involved, it could jeopardise the whole thing. We can’t have a trial by press, Suzanne.’
‘What does it matter? There’s not going to be any other sort of trial, is there? Mildenheath Police aren’t willing to investigate.’
Wendy tried to keep hold of her temper. ‘It’s not a case of not being willing, Suzanne. It’s a case of not having been presented with any evidence of any crimes having been committed. Anonymous tip-offs and rumour-mill stories aren’t enough to charge.’
‘They’re going to print in the morning,’ Suzanne said, changing her tone of voice completely.
‘Right. Well we’ve got nothing more to add,’ Wendy replied.
‘What about a quote from DCI Culverhouse? Even if it says there’s nothing more to add. We just need something for balance.’
‘Suzanne, leave it. I’ll get him to call you when he gets back.’
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. ‘When’s that going to be?’ Suzanne asked.
‘His flight’s due in tomorrow afternoon,’ Wendy said, without thinking. ‘Now, I really have to go.’
She ended the call, thrust her mobile phone back into her pocket and downed the cup of coffee. She could see exactly where Suzanne Corrigan was coming from. She felt the same way. Why wasn’t more being done about the reports at Hilltop Farm? Accusations of heavy-handedness were one thing, but they were nothing compared to the shitstorm that would occur if it transpired that the reports were true, and had been more or less ignored by the police.
Either way, Wendy was convinced there was more to Hilltop Farm than met the eye. And while she had some say, she was determined to get to the bottom of it.
32
The drive from Copenhagen Airport to Amager Hospital took just under ten minutes — far longer than it had taken for him to get off the plane, go through Customs and find a taxi. The route was scenic, and one he’d like to take by day sometime, in happier circumstances.
Just outside the airport, they passed under the famous Øresund Bridge. The bridge linked Denmark to Sweden at Mälmo, just before it dipped its nose under the water, the lights disappearing beneath the Øresund Strait before reappearing five miles later on the artificial island of Peberholm. Although Jack didn’t watch much TV himself, he’d heard his colleagues talking about the Scandinavian crime series The Bridge, which was set in the area. It was just another name on the long list of TV programmes and films he’d resolved to watch one day but knew he probably never would.
They continued up the road towards the hospital, the shoreline hugging their right-hand side. Within a minute or two they were out in what looked like a rural area, with nothing but the lights of oncoming cars. Another minute and they were back in civilisation, in an area that looked as though it could be any small European town. They were in the suburbs, he knew that much.
Turning left off the main road, they passed some small houses in what could have been mistaken for a British housing estate. Jack noted the streetlights that dangled over the road, suspended by wires and cables running between the buildings.
The taxi pulled up at a jaunty angle near the impressive-looking hospital building. There was nothing that screamed the fact that it was a hospital. On any other day he was quite sure he would’ve walked straight past it without even realising. It looked more like a stately home. He paid the driver and made his way through the car park to the imposing-looking front door. The name AMAGER HOSPITAL was emblazoned across the top of it in brass lettering. The studded wooden door looked more like the entrance to a psychiatric institution than a general hospital. And, just for a moment, Jack wondered whether he’d been fed the right information. Had something been lost in translation?
Inside, it looked every inch a hospital. He wandered through the corridors, the building looking about as busy as he could expect it to be for that time of night. He tried to make sense of the signs, which were, of course, written in Danish. After a few minutes of wandering, he found a manned reception desk. He asked the woman sitting behind it where he needed to go for the Accident & Emergency department. The woman explained he was in the wrong area of the building and needed to follow signs for Akutmodtagelse — a word he forgot as soon as he’d seen it, but noted the distinctive red cross symbol.
When he finally got there, he was impressed by the speed at which he was taken to Helen. He’d half expected to be told that he’d have to wait until visiting hours. The doctor who met him was a slim man, with short grey hair and rimmed glasses. He spoke in a soft accent that told Jack that although he was Danish, he’d spent a lot of time in either England or — judging by the pronunciation of certain words — America.
‘You made good time,’ the doctor said, looking at his watch. ‘The joys of air travel, eh? Now, how much were you told on the phone?’
‘Not much, to be honest,’ Jack replied. ‘Just that she’d tried to kill herself. The message was passed on to me by somebody else. I was at work.’
The doctor’s voice was calm and easy. ‘Yes, she was found by some Canadian tourists on a park bench on Øresundsvej, just north of here. We call it Lergravsparken — the clay pit park. She had a note in her pocket which gave you as the next of kin.’
Jack’s head was spinning. What was she even doing here in Denmark? Why had she wanted to end her life? Why had she been so keen for Jack to be the one to have to deal with the fallout? ‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘The signs look like an overdose of prescription painkillers. Perhaps a tranquilliser of some sort, but we’ll know when the test results are back. She was extremely pale, her breathing was remarkably shallow and she seemed to be unable to speak. To anyone else she would have looked drunk, but the couple who fo
und her were both medical students. They recognised the nystagmus, the uncontrolled rapid movement of the eyes. Most drunk people would have slow, lazy eye movements. Your wife’s eyes were quite the opposite. It’s a stroke of luck that this couple found her, as anyone else might have left her and ignored her as a drunk.’
‘But what was she doing there?’ Jack asked, struggling to take in all this information at once. ‘I mean, does she live here?’
The doctor shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t know her.’
Neither do I, Jack wanted to say. ‘And is she alright? I mean, will she be alright?’
‘She’s stable,’ the doctor said, nodding slowly. ‘But we won’t know what damage has been done until we can run some further tests. For now, it’s important that she rests. She’s had a gastric irrigation and I imagine she’ll be in some pain from that.’
‘A gastric irrigation?’ Jack asked. ‘You mean a stomach pump?’
‘Yes, a stomach pump. It’s not a particularly pleasant procedure, but it gets the drugs out of her stomach quickly.’
Jack nodded. He knew Helen was troubled, but to go to this extent was truly shocking.
‘Do you have any other questions?’ the doctor asked.
Culverhouse took a deep breath before answering. ‘Yes. Can I see her?'
33
Wendy had a feeling that the morning briefing was going to be far more eventful than it otherwise might have been. Debbie Weston alerted her to the newspaper reports on Hilltop Farm at five-thirty that morning. Debbie had aways been an early bird, but Wendy was agog at how she could get up at that time of the morning just to go out and get a newspaper. Especially with the stress and long, tiring hours of this job.
Wendy had taken a few minutes to read through the article and note the gist of it before the briefing. Her overriding feeling was that she was keen for the team to spring into action as fast as possible — whatever that action might end up being.
‘Right. I presume everyone’s read the article in the paper today?’ Wendy said, opening the morning briefing. She was met by a succession of nods and murmurs. ‘Good. Now, we’re in a position where we can’t win. We’re damned if we do, and we’re damned if we don’t. If we ignore this completely we’ll look incompetent. Particularly if it turns out something untoward is going on at Hilltop Farm. And if we go in all guns blazing right now we’re on a hiding to nothing. We’ll either look reactionary after the media coverage or daft if we go in and find nothing.’
There was a moment of silence as Wendy let that settle in.
‘So what do you want us to do?’ Frank Vine asked, from the back of the room.
If Wendy was completely honest, she didn’t have a clue. She was completely out of her depth. Most investigations began with some hard evidence of some sort. There would at least be evidence that someone had committed a crime, even if the rest of the details were scarce. This time, though, she was going purely on a hunch. She was sure that some crimes had been committed at Hilltop Farm, but she was unable to get much further than that.
A police officer’s hunch could be a double-edged sword. It could lead you to probe in areas that other people wouldn’t even think of. But at the same time it had the disadvantage of allowing you to remain blind to everything else if you got too bogged down with a preconceived idea of what had happened. Wendy, though, tended to trust her hunches. They hadn’t failed her too often in the past — at least not in her professional life.
‘That’s the problem, Frank,’ she said. ‘I’m not entirely sure at this stage. But let’s look at the facts. The newspaper reports are that people are being held there against their will. Some are perhaps being assaulted or abused on occasion, and there was the anonymous phone call reporting that someone had died there. The paper claims they’ve got a “number” of people who used to be members of the cult and who have come forward to blow the whistle. We need to get those names. Debbie, can you put in a call?’
Debbie Weston nodded.
Wendy could feel herself getting fired up. She was on a roll. ‘Even if it does turn out to all be horse shit, the fact remains that these people have now made serious allegations and we need to investigate them. With any luck, there’ll be enough grounds to them to enable us to go in and do a full-on search of the farm. Finances, records, taking people in for questioning, the lot. But we need more than just anonymous reports of a dead body somewhere on the farm. We need dates, exact locations, names of people involved. Something we can use. Get those names and addresses of the people who came forward to the newspaper and we’ll go and speak to them.’
Now she was starting to realise that Suzanne Corrigan’s interference could have actually thrown them a lifeline. ‘In fact, I’ll do that. I’ll get the call in. In the meantime, I want the rest of you to clear your schedules and prepare. With any luck, we’re going to have a busy few days ahead of us.’
Steve Wing shuffled uncomfortably in his seat before speaking. ‘Uh, in that case, shouldn’t someone call the DCI?’
34
Jack had sat next to Helen for most of the night, watching her sleep and recover not only from her overdose but the resulting stomach pump. She looked as though she could sleep for days.
A succession of nurses had come in throughout the night to check on her and jot down her blood pressure, heart rate and various other vital signs. The doctors had told him it would take a good few days — if not longer — for Helen to recover. Those were a good few days Jack didn’t have. He had his return flight booked for this afternoon. He’d booked it at the same time as his outbound flight, knowing that he needed to commit to it to keep his promise to Emily. He had to be back today, come what may.
Around ten-thirty that morning, Danish time, Helen started to stir. He noticed her face starting to move slightly — micromovements — followed by a strange groaning sound. Once the doctors had checked her over and were satisfied that she was still stable, they left the two of them together.
‘Jack. What are you doing here?’ Helen said, her voice dry and rasping.
‘I was hoping you could tell me that. They found my contact details on you, listed as your next of kin. They reckon you carried them on purpose, wanted me to be called.’
Helen blinked a couple of times and swallowed. ‘What— what happened?’
‘They don’t know. A couple of Canadian medical students found you in a park. They reckon you overdosed on tranquillisers.’
Helen didn’t respond to this. In Jack’s eyes, she knew damn well what had happened. More likely, she wanted to know either what the hospital had presumed about the circumstances or what Jack was willing to tell her. He had half a mind, too, that she was trying to judge his reactions and emotions. Ever the consummate professional, Jack kept emotion out of his voice as best he could. ‘Do you want to tell me what this is all about?’ he asked.
She seemed to think about this for a few moments before speaking. ‘Tell me it wouldn’t be better for everyone if I wasn’t around.’
‘It’d certainly make life a lot easier at times,’ he replied, exhaling. ‘But I don’t think that’s the best option overall, no.’
‘I don’t think there is any other option,’ she whispered.
Jack looked her in the eye, feeling somewhat sorry for her, but mostly just frustrated. ‘So you don’t think you’re able to get better at all? With medication, therapy, stability, the support of your family?’
Helen turned her head away and looked towards the window. ‘What family,’ she said, more as a statement than a question.
‘Emily. Your parents. Me. As much as you might not like it, we’re still married. I still have a responsibility to care for you. And I’m not being funny, but none of us have ever gone anywhere. We’ve always stayed exactly where we are, willing to help you. No-one asked you to leave all those years ago. No-one asked you to dump Emily at your parents’. No-one sent you off to sodding Copenhagen. We’re all here, trying to do our bit, but you keep running awa
y from us.’
‘I’m not running away from any of you,’ she whispered. ‘I’m running away from myself, from my stupid actions.’
‘And you think I don’t know that? I get it, Helen. Trust me, I really do. But this isn’t the way to deal with things. This isn’t helping anyone, least of all you.’ He sensed he wasn’t going to get a response and realised there was no use in trying to flog a dead horse. ‘Emily got in touch with me,’ he said, trying to steer the conversation towards more hopeful topics. He saw some movement on Helen’s face, and she turned her head towards him as he spoke. ‘I don’t think she’s having a great time with your parents. She’s been staying at mine for a bit. Just until school starts back, I mean. We’ll have to sort something out by then. She’s looking well. She’s turning out to be a great kid.’ Jack hated lying to his wife while she was in this state, but she at least needed something to cling onto.
‘How?’ Helen asked. It was a word that didn’t say much, but Jack understood it to mean a thousand words.
‘Honestly? I tracked her down. Well, I had some help. She wasn’t exactly over the moon to see me at first, but I left my number with her and she called me. She didn’t really remember the house or where it was, as you’d expect. She was young when she left. But she seems to be settling in alright. She’s spoken to your parents about it. I think they understand.’ He omitted to mention the fact that he’d not spoken to his in-laws since the day Helen left, and that he only had Emily’s word for it that she’d told them where she was staying. If she hadn’t, she would have been reported missing long before now.
There was one question Jack was desperate to ask his wife. One he’d tried asking her before, but to which she hadn’t given a proper answer. It was an answer he needed to hear. ‘When did you last see her?’ he finally asked.
