by Adam Croft
‘And has he ever been in any trouble?’
‘No, never. Not in the slightest. We’re not that sort of family. That’s why it’s all so bizarre.’
‘I can understand how worrying it must be,’ Wendy said. ‘And I can see how out-of-character it is for him. Do you have any photos of Matt which we could have, please? Just so we can circulate them internally and make sure officers are aware.’
‘I’ve got a couple on my phone,’ Dale said, taking it out of his shirt pocket and opening the leather flip cover. ‘One moment… yes, here we go. This one was taken at my brother’s fiftieth birthday party a couple of weeks ago. That’s Matt there, on the far left.’
Dale passed the phone to Wendy, who zoomed in on the picture of Matt Hulford, before turning the phone to show it to Jack. Even though the body in the woods had been beaten and its throat had been cut, the face had been left relatively unscathed, and as far as Jack and Wendy were concerned, there was very little doubt now as to his identity.
Wendy looked up at Dale and Cleo Hulford and did her best to form the right words.
8
Frank sat on the hard bed of his prison cell and looked at the wall opposite. It was something he’d got used to doing, and which he found much more pleasant than many of the alternatives.
This wasn’t where he belonged. He’d spent his whole life putting people in places like this, and he knew he wouldn’t last five minutes if his fellow inmates knew who he was and why he was here.
So far, he’d managed to evade the truth by packaging up a series of lies. It was something he’d got quite good at, and was precisely why he’d ended up here in the first place. Mostly, though, he kept himself to himself.
It had been suggested that protection would be needed. Ex-cops tended not to fare well inside. But Frank had insisted against it, knowing this would ‘out’ him immediately, and that he couldn’t be protected forever. Instead, he’d made up a cock and bull story about fraud and extortion in the wake of a business deal gone wrong. It was clear he wasn’t a killer or drug dealer, and it would at least explain why he seemed scared and withdrawn.
He didn’t know if he was just being paranoid, but he could swear other inmates had started to give him the side-eye recently. He’d been careful to make sure he didn’t know any of the other prisoners from his time in the police, having already been moved once after spotting a previous client in the first prison he was sent to.
He’d been tempted — sorely tempted — to end it all on more than one occasion. Not long after his arrest and charge, a fellow officer had even offered to help him out. But as much as that seemed like a welcome relief, there was no way Frank would ever do such a thing. It would mean that everything was a waste, whichever way he looked at it. His life would end on this extraordinary, shameful low. His career would’ve been wasted. Even those he’d wronged would’ve gone without justice. After everything that’d happened, Frank knew he absolutely needed to stay the course, and he had no intention of doing anything else.
A prison officer knocked on the open door and cocked his head. ‘Yard time,’ he said.
‘I’m alright. Not feeling great.’
‘You’ll feel better for the fresh air.’
‘I won’t.’
The officer shuffled his weight onto his other foot. ‘Mike?’ he called over his shoulder, waiting for his colleague to appear. ‘I’ll let you handle this one,’ he said to his colleague, before walking back along the landing.
‘What’s the matter, Frank?’
‘Nothing. I just don’t want to go outside. Why does that have to be a problem?’
‘Feeling ill?’ Mike asked. Over the course of the last few weeks, Frank had developed a good relationship with Mike. It had, of course, remained strictly professional, but he at least felt that Mike had his best interests at heart.
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ve been telling me you’ve been feeling ill every day for the past week. It’s clearly not making you feel any better staying in here, is it? Now listen. I’ve got a responsibility to look after your health. That means getting outside, getting some sun on you and getting some fresh air.’
‘Honestly. I’m fine,’ Frank said.
Mike looked behind him, then stepped into the cell. ‘Frank, I know you’re not doing all that well in here. White-collar-crimers rarely do. But my job’s to make sure there’s no trouble and that everyone’s welfare is taken into account. I know some of the guys in here can be intimidating, but I promise you, it’s all bluff. They feel they’ve got to do it to feel safe. They don’t trust us. They think they run the place. If their constant one-upping each other makes them feel safe, then so be it. But you and I know they’re not the law, don’t we?’
Frank’s heart skipped a beat. He looked at Mike, wondering if there was more to his words than he let on, but Mike’s eyes conveyed nothing but sincerity and kindness. He was amazed the guy hadn’t been eaten alive in here, but he seemed to have a manner which yielded respect from even the most hardened of criminals.
‘Yeah, I know. It’s fine.’
‘And the more you hide in here and close in on yourself, the more you’ll make yourself a target for people like them. I’m not saying you need to stroll out of here like Charles Bronson, but hold your head up. Keep quiet by all means, but don’t look like you’re inviting a pasting. Come on. Let’s get you up and outside.’
Frank looked at him.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Mike said. ‘I promise. We’ll keep an eye on you.’
* * *
It had been a while since Frank had felt the sunshine on him. It felt good — he couldn’t deny that. But he knew he’d never be able to truly relax in this place. The old saying went that there was only one thing worse than a copper, and that was a bent copper.
He looked around him, spotting Mike on the other side of the yard. Frank held his head up, trying to take his advice, not wanting to stand out like a sore thumb and invite hassle.
As he took in lungful after lungful of crisp morning air and felt the sun on his face, he noticed a group of three inmates walking towards him, almost a singular mass of grey sweatshirts and sweatpants. He could see from the looks in their eyes that they weren’t here to discuss classical music.
‘What you afraid of, fella?’ one of the men said.
‘Nothing. Why?’ Frank replied.
‘’Cos you’ve been acting fucking weird ever since you got here. What you in for?’
‘Fraud and extortion. I got done over on a business deal and should’ve backed down earlier. I didn’t.’
The man nodded slowly. ‘I guessed you’re not exactly used to being inside.’
Frank didn’t reply.
‘What line of business was you in?’ the man asked.
‘Financial investments.’ This was the stock answer Frank’d had up his sleeve ever since he knew he’d be spending time in prison. He was pretty sure he wasn’t going to come across many city traders in here, and if he did they wouldn’t be the ones asking him questions.
‘What sort of investments?’
‘Financial ones,’ Frank replied, almost immediately regretting his sass, but at the same time hoping it might make him seem like less of a weak sap.
‘You don’t look like a financial guy to me.’
‘Yeah, well they wouldn’t let me wear my suit in here.’
‘You ain’t in for fraud and extortion.’
‘Alright. If you say so.’
‘So what is it? You a nonce?’
‘No.’
‘Child killer? Woman beater? Copper?’
Frank glanced across the yard to Mike, who was now standing with his back to them, looking the other way. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I told you. I’m sorry if I don’t look like a financial guy to you, but there’s not a whole lot I can do about that, is there?’
The man looked at him for a moment, then slowly nodded. ‘Alright. Alright. We just got to be careful round here, you know? You never know who�
�s who. We’ve had all sorts in here. Paedos, child rapists, kiddy killers, filth. Not one of them comes in here and admits who they are. But we always find out, yeah? You can’t trust no-one in here. Just remember that.’
Frank watched as the men walked back over to the other side of the yard and re-joined their friends. The sun still shone brightly, but Frank’d had enough of being outside.
* * *
He never thought a prison cell would provide a sense of welcome relief, but as he walked over the threshold and into his room — a moniker which made it feel more homely and less depressing — he immediately felt safer. While the yard could be an open free-for-all, his solo cell provided him at least a little protection.
He closed the door behind him, confident in the knowledge it could only be opened by him from the inside during allotted times, or by a prison officer from the outside. Letting out a sigh, he threw himself onto his bed, in the hope of getting some sleep.
The second his back hit the bed, he was in instant agony. He roared with pain as he rolled off the bed, feeling the searing sensation with every movement.
He stumbled to his feet and looked back at the bed, which was now soaked with blood. From here, he could now see the razor blades that’d been pushed into his mattress, having pierced the sheet — and his back — the moment he’d laid down.
He turned slightly to look at his reflection in the safety mirror, trying to reach his arm up behind him to pull out one of the blades embedded in his back, but the pain was agonising.
He fumbled at the door, finally managing to open it before staggering out onto the landing.
‘Help!’ he groaned, the searing pain in his back making it difficult to even breathe.
He looked down the landing, noticing Mike at the other end, looking at him. He made no attempt to respond, didn’t come to his aid. Instead, Mike smiled and walked off.
9
Wendy never ceased to be amazed at the work which could be done on a dead body to make it appear at least a little less dreadful than it had before. In the case of the body they presumed to be Matthew Hulford, it had been prepared for identification by his parents by heavily cushioning the back of his head and leaving only his face and the front of his hair visible. The drape had been brought right up to his chin, hiding the slash wound across his neck. The back of his head, and other areas of his body which had received heavy blows had been covered, so as to protect his dignity and the memories of his parents.
In some more extreme cases, visual identification by the family wouldn’t be possible under any circumstances, and DNA matches had to be relied on. But Matthew’s parents had specifically asked to see the body, and the mortuary team had been confident they could prepare the body in an adequate way.
Dale and Cleo Hulford were briefed on what to expect before they went into the room, and had been given a good level of preparation, particularly as Jack and Wendy both felt there was no doubt the body was Matthew. In their minds, the focus had moved on from identification of the body to identifying why someone would want to murder a seemingly happy, shy but friendly lad who appeared to have no enemies or reason for someone to want him dead.
Wendy watched as Dale Hulford clutched on to his wife, and in that moment she sensed the man knew what was coming. In any case, most people who came through here hadn’t seen a dead body before, and that was often enough of a shock in itself. To at least half expect that the body might be that of your own child would be enough to send anyone into an extreme fit of stress and anxiety.
As Dale and Cleo were led into the room, Wendy watched on, both needing to record the identification for professional purposes, but at the same time not in the slightest relishing the prospect of watching a happy family fall apart in front of her eyes. It was a job which meant she saw the best and worst of society, and all of the ups and downs of human emotion. Without a shadow of a doubt, though, this was by far the worst aspect of the job.
In the case of the body lying on the table in the room in front of them, Wendy didn’t need the official written or verbal confirmation as to whether Cleo and Dale Hulford recognised his identity. Dale’s hand shooting to his mouth as Cleo clung on desperately to him in fits of sobbing told her everything she needed to know.
10
It had taken some time for Cleo Hulford to be calmed to a state where Jack and Wendy could speak to her about the next steps. Wendy couldn’t even begin to imagine what it must feel like for them to be in this situation, and she thought back to her own miscarriage — the closest she’d come to what Cleo and Dale were going through, and the closest she ever hoped to come.
Once things had settled a little, Jack, Wendy and the assigned Family Liaison Officer sat together in one of Mildenheath Police’s ‘casual’ rooms — essentially an interview suite, but far less intimidating and much more suited to speaking with witnesses, family members and those who weren’t being formally cautioned.
By now, Cleo Hulford had moved on to the quiet stage of grieving, staring blankly at the wall in front of her, her eyes red and her face pale as she occasionally re-computed what had happened and descended into another flood of tears. Dale, on the other hand, had tried to remain stoic and support his wife, but Jack and Wendy knew from experience that this had to end at some point, in much the same way as shaking up a bottle of fizzy drink with the cap still on would eventually result in an explosion.
Each bereaved family was assigned a Family Liaison Officer who’d be their point of contact throughout an investigation, and who was trained in empathy and had particular people skills which meant they could gain the trust of the family and work with them at a particularly difficult time. It was a role Wendy felt she’d never be able to do, and she felt especially relieved that Jack Culverhouse hadn’t considered it to be one of his strengths either.
‘So, what we need to do is to find out a bit more about Matthew,’ Jack said, addressing the Hulfords.
‘Before we do,’ Cleo said, ‘I need to know what happened.’
‘In what sense?’ Wendy asked, a look passing between her and Jack. They both knew exactly what Cleo Hulford was asking, and hoped stalling her might give them a precious few seconds to formulate their answer. Every parent had a right to know how their child had died, but there was often no delicate way of describing a murder.
‘I mean how did he die?’
Jack took a deep breath before speaking. ‘Until the post-mortem’s done we won’t know for definite, but early indications are that we’re probably looking at multiple heavy trauma, but the likely cause of death was a laceration to the neck.’
‘Someone beat him to death and slit his throat,’ Dale Hulford said, his voice almost a whisper.
‘I suppose there are a number of ways of phrasing it,’ Jack replied.
‘Are we talking some random psycho?’ Cleo asked. ‘If there’s someone out there attacking random people for no reason, you should be out there looking for them, not wasting your time with us.’
Wendy swallowed. ‘We’re not entirely sure this was a random attack.’
The ensuing silence was deafening. Matthew’s parents looked like the air had been kicked out of their lungs.
‘What do you mean?’ Cleo asked.
Jack took another deep breath. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, but at the moment we’re working on the assumption that Matthew was deliberately targeted.’
‘Why?’ Cleo whispered, after a few seconds.
‘That’s what we need to find out. And with any luck, that’ll lead us to who. Now, you mentioned that Matthew had been over at his friend’s house. Connor French, wasn’t it?’
Dale Hulford’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yeah, but Connor’s a good lad. They were inseparable. He wouldn’t—’
Culverhouse raised his hand slightly. ‘Oh no, I’m not suggesting anything of the sort. We’re just trying to find out more about Matthew, who his friends were, where he liked to go, all those things. Trying to build a picture of who he was.’
&n
bsp; Dale shrugged. ‘He only really had Connor, as far as friends go. He was over there with him all the time. Computer games. They’ve both loved them for years.’
‘Did Connor ever come over to yours?’
‘Sometimes, but nowhere near as often as Matt went there,’ Dale replied. ‘Connor had the latest console, see. We were a bit more realistic on that front. We wanted him to wait for a bit, at least until the prices came down. Maybe if we…’
‘You can’t think like that,’ Wendy said. ‘Trust me, a games console won’t have made a difference. What was Matthew like as a person?’
They watched as a chain of emotions crossed his parents’ faces: pride, admiration, love, followed by the realisation they’d never see him again, never speak to him again.
‘He was a lovely boy,’ Dale said, his voice touched by emotion. ‘Always hugged and kissed his mum. What boy of his age still does that? He was a clever lad. Did well at school. Didn’t even need to try. Just came naturally to him. He was never in any trouble.’
‘Did he have a girlfriend at all?’ Wendy asked.
Dale and Cleo looked at each other. ‘Jenny,’ Cleo said, after a few seconds of deafening silence.
‘Jenny? Is that Matthew’s girlfriend?’
Cleo nodded. ‘They’d been seeing each other on and off for a little while. She’s… she seemed to be a lot keener on Matthew than he was on her.’
‘How do you mean?’
Cleo took a deep breath, then let out a huge sigh. ‘I don’t know what it was. Maybe she’s just one of these people who gets really attached and plans her wedding with the first boy she meets, but she seemed really… clingy. She used to come over here looking for Matthew, and we’d have to say he’d gone out. He was at Connor’s, but we’d just say we didn’t know where he was. If he didn’t want to spend every waking minute with her, that was his decision.’
