Last Gasp

by Robert F Barker

  Then he met Angela Kendrick.

  By then, Carver was already experienced at cultivating and running informants, his attachment to NCIS - later subsumed within the National Crime Agency - had seen to that. He was well versed in Informant Handling, and knew well the practical and moral dilemmas it brings. It had never been a problem. As he liked to instruct his team, ‘Stay on the right side of the track, keep it business-like, don’t get personally involved, and you’ll be fine. Ignore those rules, and you’ll find yourself on the slippery slope.’

  Which is exactly what happened with Angie.

  Before Hart, Carver had never had a case before the court where he wasn’t one-hundred-percent confident that whatever crap the defence might throw at him, none of it would stick. His moral compass had always seen to that. In that respect, Regina –v- Hart was a whole new experience. And six weeks waiting to see if today was the day the defence would drop a bombshell that would blow a good part of the prosecution case apart, and maybe lead to the worst serial killer the country had seen since the Yorkshire Ripper walk free, was a long time to be under the cosh. Day by day, week by week, it took its toll. It began with sleepless nights. Then came the sweats. Soon it was the racing heart-beat, the shakes, an inability to concentrate on anything apart from what might happen. By the last week of the trial, Carver arrived in court every day convinced that the case was on the point of collapse – and that his relationship with a key prosecution witness would be the cause of it.

  The reality was that the weight of evidence against Hart - the sightings, the forensic, the DNA, the stuff found in his house – meant that Carver’s evidence was almost immaterial. The only way Hart wasn’t going to get convicted was if evidence emerged that the jury had been got at, and there was never any need for that. But Carver didn’t see it that way.

  Even after Hart’s conviction, Carver remained convinced his relationship with Angie would come out and the case would be called for re-trial. By this time, it was obvious to many that something was wrong. Things got worse when the documentary aired, followed soon after by the Sunday Times Magazine feature. They both focused, though to differing degrees, on the, ‘young/intuitive/inspirational’ Detective Inspector reported to have led the investigation. Which was wrong to start with. Carver was actually one of three ASIOs to what was the largest man-hunt seen for years. But the way the Times journalist, Jackson, presented it, The Escort Killer investigation was going nowhere until Carver joined it and brought his particular skills and experience to bear. According to Jackson, it was Carver and Carver alone people should thank for seeing Edmund Hart put where he could do no more harm. It was bollocks, of course. Carver knew it. The media people knew it. Everyone close to the investigation knew it. It didn’t matter. That was the way it was told and it was the way it stayed. Unsurprisingly, some weren’t happy. The fact that Carver tried at every opportunity to make clear that he had only ever answered, truthfully, the questions asked of him during several, on-the-spot talking-head shots made no difference. The seeds were planted and the rumours grew. And while those closest to him knew the truth, there were plenty prepared to believe that Carver really was the grandstanding, self-promoting, stand-on-anyone’s-shoulders-to-get-himself-noticed egotist the rumours painted. A man whose sole aim was to fulfil the ambitions set for him by his soon-to-retire Chief Constable father. And nothing Carver did or said, made a blind bit of difference.

  Through it all, there was Angie.

  And the fact she was pregnant.

  And that the date of conception worked out to when she and Carver dined alone in her apartment while ‘going over a few last things’ before her meeting with a suspect known as ‘Eddie’ – or the day following, when Edmund Hart carried on raping her, even while the police outside were doing their best to find a way of breaking down the steel-reinforced door that, ironically, was meant to ensure her safety. Angie came from a Catholic background. Despite her chosen profession, she remained close to, and respected, her mother. Abortion was not an option. She refused a DNA test. She remained steadfast in her belief that Carver was the father.

  Carver didn’t handle it well. It was only in the weeks and months following, after finally realising that if he was ever going to return to work he needed to listen to what people were telling him, that he sought help. Which was when he began to understand what had happened to him, and why. It was dressed up in all sorts of flowery psycho-babble of course, most of which sounded, to him, like bullshit. But the basics were clear enough. He’d let his guard down and erred in a way that threatened to undermine not just the most important case in years, but also everything he thought he stood for - the strong, always-do-the-right-thing individual he wanted, and his father wanted, him to be. He also learned that when it comes to the human mind, everyone is different, but also the same. The threshold where people are so conflicted their cognitive abilities cease to function is different for everyone. Some people never reach it. But when it happens, what you need to be able to do is switch off, and walk away.

  Carver was thinking of doing that right now. After the initial, terrible, shock of discovering that the woman he once loved had been murdered in the most brutal, horrific way, he managed, just, to hold things together. Two things helped.

  The first was Jess and Alec who between them dragged him out and back downstairs and badgered him so he stayed focused on what he needed to do. ‘You need to call The Duke.’ ‘Shall we report it to Manchester, or our Control Room?’ ‘Do you know the local DI?’

  The second was that professionalism again. The realisation that right now he was the man in charge. And that if he wanted to ensure that whoever had murdered Angie – whether Tracy Redmond or someone else - was brought to book, then instead of giving in to the grief and horror that made him want to find some warm, dark place and curl up into a ball, he needed to make sure that things were done properly. Like contacting the right people, in the right order. Like making sure that the scene was properly preserved. Like making sure that Tracy Redmond’s details and those of her car were circulated to those who needed them.

  When the local police began to arrive – it was Greater Manchester’s patch – he continued to hold it together enough to tell them what they needed to know, before passing them to Jess and Alec while he did the same with the DCI from the force’s Serious Crime Squad. The DCI was a man called Peter Rigby. Carver had heard of him, though the two had never met When, instead of getting on and managing it as the murder scene it so clearly was, Rigby began demanding to be told the ins and outs of the whole Kerry Investigation, the inner demons Carver was battling against started to show. ‘Just deal with the fucking scene,’ he urged the other, ‘We’ll do the rest.’

  Rigby was a thirty-year serving Manchester Jack, ten of them spent with the force’s Serious Crime Squad. He probably had more experience investigating murders than Carver, The Duke and the whole of the Cheshire CID hierarchy put together. The suggestion, from an outside-force detective, on his patch, that he should just, ‘deal with the fucking scene’ and not ask questions, did not go down well. Things were about to blow when Jess stepped in.

  Taking light hold of the DCI’s elbow, she smiled at him. ‘Can I just have a quick word Sir?’ She didn’t wait for a reply but guided him to the other side of the room where she spoke with him, quietly, but firmly. While they were ‘consulting’, Carver made more phone calls. Across the room he was conscious of the looks, glances and nods being aimed in his direction. More than once he heard Rigby declare, ‘Fuck me.’

  When Rigby returned, he was calmer, and more disposed to cooperate than he had been. ‘I’ll see to things here, mate. Don’t worry.’

  Carver nodded his thanks, to Jess also.

  But once all the immediate stuff had been seen to, Carver began to recognise what was happening in his head. Random thoughts kept popping into his brain. Some needed thinking about, like the fact they still needed to find Megan. Others didn’t. What the hell did it matter whether or not Ros
anna had anything in for supper that evening – assuming he ever got home in any time to eat? He thought about ringing her and letting her know what had happened, but decided against. It was such a horrendous thing to have to share, he should do it face-to-face. Besides, if he told her over the telephone, she would only worry about him - maybe with good reason. Then something occurred to him that was important. In fact, it was the most important thing of all. ‘Fuck,’ he said. And immediately felt bad for not thinking of it sooner.

  He dug out his phone, went into voicemail, brought up the message from the DCI in Professional Standards he had ignored earlier and hit ring back. It rang several times before a voice said, ‘DCI Braithwaite.’

  Carver told him who he was, where he was - and what had happened.

  Braithwaite’s gasp sounded clear in his ear. ‘Angela Kendrick? Dead? Christ.’

  It took a few minutes, but once he got his head round the facts, he told Carver how Angie’s boyfriend, Rob, had reported her missing two days earlier. Knowing her history, as well as what had happened with Shepherd, he thought Carver might know something and had been trying to get hold of him.

  Realising that had he taken Braithwaite’s call he may have been alerted to the danger Angie was in earlier, Carver froze, and closed his eyes. If I’d only known… But then he wouldn’t have known where to look for her. She’d have died anyway… he thought.

  The DCI was thanking him for letting him know.

  ‘She’s got a son,’ Carver said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘With his Gran, I believe. The boyfriend’s a lorry driver.’

  Carver nodded. He’d met Angie’s mother, Sue, twice. Once at the hospital where her daughter was fighting to hold onto her life and, unknowingly at that point, the one just starting inside her, and again during the trial. They were frosty meetings. But she was devoted to her grandson. He remembered she lived somewhere near Oldham. He asked the DCI if he had her address. He didn’t but his partner did.

  ‘He’s at the City game right now. I can ring him and get him to phone you?’

  Carver thanked him, and rang off.

  He stared out at the back garden they’d broken into two hours before. It seemed ages go now. Jason… He squeezed his eyes shut. As tight as possible. Wetness still seeped through. He felt himself beginning to shake, muscles going into spasm. It had happened before. He tried not to hold himself rigid – the instinctive response – and worked at slowing his breathing down. Long and deep…. It helped, a little.

  ‘Jamie?’

  He turned. Jess was staring at him, wearing a worried look.

  ‘You okay?’

  He steeled himself. Nodded. ‘I think we ought to-’

  ‘Jamie.’ Her hand came up in a ‘stop’ signal.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s nothing more we can do here. We should go. Rigby’s got things in hand.’

  ‘Okay. In that case, we’ll head back to-’

  ‘No.’ The hand again. ‘The only place you’re heading is home. You need a time out. We’ll pick it all up with The Duke in the morning. You need some sleep.’

  ‘Oh yeah, like I’m going to sleep.’

  ‘Whatever, you need to be home.’ She closed on him, stared up at him. ‘You know what I’m talking about.’

  He thought to come back at her, but then realised. She was right. If he stayed here any longer he would start to lose it. Fuck, he was already starting to lose it. ‘Megan’s still out there somewhere. She-’

  ‘We don’t know where she is and until Tracy turns up, there’s nothing else we can do. It’s no good running round in circles.’

  He gave in. Nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Give me your keys. I’ll drive.’

  ‘Like hell.’

  ‘Give me your keys.’

  In the end they compromised. Jess sat up front while he drove them back to the Poplars where Alec had left a car. She wanted to make sure he was fit to drive. He was, just. When they got there, Claire and her team were just finishing up their examination of Megan’s Playroom. The search team had gone long ago. He told Claire about what they’d found at Oakfield Avenue, and gave her the name of the Forensic she would need to liaise with in the morning. Now going on eight o’clock, Tony Turner and Dan Hewitt had finally been allowed to go off shift to be relieved by another crew. Carver made sure they knew to ring him at once if Megan, or anyone else, showed.

  ‘You sure you’re okay?’ Jess said as he made ready to leave. She and Alec were going to wait while Claire finished and left.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

  ‘No, you’re not. Take it easy going home. Do you want me to ring Rosanna and let her know you’re on your way?’

  He thought about it. ‘Okay, but just that. I’ll fill her in when I get home.’

  ‘Okay. Drive safe.’

  As he headed down the drive, Carver’s thoughts were around how, one day, Jess would make someone a good wife and mother. And though he took her advice and drove, ‘safely’, he would never remember anything about the journey.

  Chapter 65

  Jess watched as Carver drove out through the gates and waited until the Golf’s lights passed out of view down the track. Then she took out her phone and called Rosanna. It rang several times before dropping into voicemail. She left a brief message telling her he was on his way and giving enough detail so she would have some idea what to expect. She finished with, ‘Some TLC I think, Rosanna, if you know what I mean?’ She said she would ring again in thirty minutes, just to make sure she’d got the message. She left Alec talking with the gate team while she went to see how long Claire would be.

  Claire was in the kitchen with her two assistants. They were labelling samples, organising and packing away kits and steel cases. Before he left, Brian Bennett had called someone to do a temporary repair on the back door. Most of the mess had been cleared away.

  ‘Finished?’ Jess said.

  ‘Just about. The room was actually pretty clean but we’ve got hairs and we’ve taken swabs off everything. I suspect we’ll have traces from several sources. Hopefully, what you need will be amongst them.’

  As Claire’s team started ferrying kit out to their van, Jess mooched about, going from room to room, remembering the times they’d spent there with Megan, preparing for ‘meetings’, pumping her for information that might lead them to the killer. Like Carver, she was worried. Where are you Megan?

  Claire called from the back. ‘We’re going Jess.’

  Returning to the kitchen, Jess thanked her for her efforts, and waved her out. About to leave, Claire remembered she hadn’t closed up the Playroom.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jess said. ‘I’ll see to it. You get off.’

  The Playroom door was standing open, lights still on. As she peered in, she realised it no longer spooked her the way it once had. She cast her eyes over the fittings and equipment, remembering the night Megan had led her there, the night she first met Tracy. If I’d known then what I do now…

  She reached round the door and flicked the light switch. There were no windows so the room went totally black. Turning, she was about to close the door when she saw something, and stopped.

  Across the room, a vertical sliver of light seemed to be showing on the far wall. Her first thought was that light from the kitchen must be filtering through and catching on a piece of equipment. But she couldn’t think what it might be. She flicked the lights back on. A padded bench-affair fitted with straps and restraints rested at waist height against the wall, but nothing else. She stepped into the room, closed the door and switched off the lights again. The sliver of light still showed, only this time it seemed to be joined at the top by another, this one horizontal so it formed an upside down ‘L’. She flicked the switch. The lines disappeared. Off again. They returned. ‘What the-?’

  Leaving the lights on, she crossed for a closer look. That part of the room was kitted out as a mock-dungeon, the wall cov
ered in a stone-effect paper. Leaning over the bench, she ran her hand over it. It seemed smooth. But something caught her eye and she leaned in, closer. It took her a while, but then she saw it. A thin gap in the wall followed the line of the light she’d seen. She put her eye close to it. The light was coming from behind. She stood back, looked up. A slight mismatch in the stone-pattern above spoke of a similar gap running horizontal to the first.

  ‘It’s a bloody door.’

  Chapter 66

  Carver spent the first twenty minutes of his drive home re-ordering the to-do list he’d started on the moment they left Oakfield Avenue. He did it to distract himself from the grief and pain that was threatening to overwhelm him.