by Adam Croft
‘And to get to Mildenheath Woods, he’d have to have turned right at the end of your road, then right again onto Naismith Road, is that correct?’
‘Well, yeah. I mean, I can’t guarantee he didn’t ‘cos I didn’t see which way he went at the end of my road, but there’s no reason why he would’ve gone right. Not that he told me, anyway.’
‘Did you always tell each other everything?’ Wendy asked.
Connor seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘Well, I thought we did. Now I’m not so sure.’
Wendy looked at him and nodded slowly. She knew Connor French was lying. She knew he’d walked in the direction of Mildenheath Woods with Matthew. All she needed to find out was why.
22
Jenny sat propped up on her bed, her back against the headboard, hugging her pillow tightly. She’d never felt so alone. If she was true to herself, she’d always feared things wouldn’t end well when it came to Matt, but she’d never imagined this.
At best, he’d have had a choice to make: continue with what he was doing, or pack it all in and settle down with her. He’d told her often enough that was what he’d wanted, and she felt certain he’d been about to take that leap.
She didn’t want to make him choose between her and the lifestyle he was living. She hadn’t needed to, either. She’d always been pretty laid back about drugs. She’d never been interested in trying them herself, but if other people wanted to then what was the problem? Her main worry was that she wanted to settle down and live a normal life, as he’d claimed he’d wanted too, and that meant Matt was going to have to change at some point.
She’d seen signs that he’d recognised that, and that he was trying to change. He’d made noises about getting a job, recognising that the longer he stayed out of the employment market, the more suspicious it was going to look and the harder he was going to find it to get a job in the future. In essence, he’d be locking himself into a life of crime. But in the next breath he’d spoken about how dealing was providing them with a good income and would set them up for life.
Matt had never been particularly into drugs. He didn’t take them himself, and as far as he’d been concerned it had been a means to a financial end. Although the money had been an obvious lure for him, Jenny felt sure he would’ve found a way out of that lifestyle sooner or later. But it hadn’t come soon enough, and now she’d lost everything.
It amazed her how much one event could shake up everything. Her parents hadn’t even been massively keen on Matt, yet even they’d been hit by what’d happened. She could hear her mum and dad in the kitchen below, shouting at each other in the condescending, patronising way they did when they were stressed out. If she listened carefully, she could even hear what they were saying.
We’re meant to be putting spare cash away for a rainy day, Clive!
Money. It was always about money. Money had ruined Matt, and she would be damned if it was going to ruin her parents as well. Who gave a fuck, anyway? If that was anyone’s primary motivation in life, then more fool them.
Don’t fucking tell me what to do. Who earns the money round here anyway?
And there it was — the Clive Blake power play. When all else failed, when the argument was already well and truly lost, his last resort was reminding everyone else who was in charge.
That was what she’d loved about Matt. He’d never played at being a big time dealer or swaggering round with a ton of attitude. Maybe that was how he’d managed to fly under the radar. And it was what had told her he’d give it all up one day. For her. For them.
It had never been anything major, anyway. Just a bit of puff here and there. And that was what didn’t quite add up. Sure, people were killed over drugs all the time, but that was usually the serious stuff — Class As — in enormous quantities, and when people hadn’t been paying up. Matt had only ever really dealt weed, in fairly small quantities and there’d never been any issues with the money side of things. As far as she was concerned, it didn’t make any sense. Sure, he was no angel, but he always tried to do bad things the right way, and there’d never been any indication that he’d fallen out with anyone or that anyone wanted to hurt him. He wasn’t a big enough player for that. Nowhere near. There had to be more to it — she knew there did.
But as much as she tried to rationalise it and make sense of it all, the overriding feeling was one of immense grief. The needless, senseless way of it all was what made it worse. Before she knew what was happening, she was crying again, her chest heaving as she pushed her face into the pillow, allowing it to absorb her sobs.
A few moments later, she heard the familiar creak of her bedroom door opening.
‘You okay?’ her dad said, his voice gentle and soft, a complete contrast to the argument she knew had been going on downstairs only moments earlier.
‘Yeah. Great,’ she replied, the pillow muffling her voice.
‘Look, tensions are high for everyone at the moment. Your mum and I… We’re on edge, too, after what’s happened. We’re worried about you. We’ve never had anything like this in the family before. We don’t know how to deal with it any better than you do. That’s why I think we need to all try to work together on this, yeah?’
Jenny nodded. She certainly couldn’t disagree with that sentiment.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. ‘If that’s not a stupid question.’
‘It’s not,’ Jenny said, shrugging. ‘I don’t know how I feel. Sometimes I feel nothing, and then all of a sudden I feel everything at once. I don’t really know how to explain it.’
‘It’s grief,’ her dad said, sitting down on the bed and putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘To be honest, there’s no right or wrong way to deal with it. You were only a toddler when my mum and dad died, but that was really the first time I’d had to deal with anything like that, too. I remember it being really weird, because even though I’d just had this really sudden shock, especially losing both of them at the same time, this odd bureaucratic process just sort of kicked into action. Before I’d even really had time to process what’d happened, I was being asked to sign forms for undertakers, file death certificates, organise funerals, arrange burials… It was just bizarre. And then after all that was done, the initial shock had passed and we were a couple of weeks further down the line and I don’t think I ever really dealt with it properly. Everything just swings into gear and the processes take over. Every process except the grieving one, apparently. I know things are a bit different here, because you won’t have to deal with all that stuff, but what I’m saying is that there’s no right or wrong way to grieve. There aren’t any rules. And I guess I’m also saying that even though I don’t know how to deal with it either, because the only experience I have I didn’t get the time or the space to deal with it, I’m probably not going to be much help in that regard. But I’m going to do my best anyway, okay? I’m here. If you want to cry, scream, laugh, whatever. Your mum and I are both here. And even if we seem to be dealing with it badly ourselves, it’s not because we don’t care or because we don’t have the time to help you. Far from it. It’s because we need help too. And we all need to help each other. Does that make any sense at all or have I just been blurting randomly?’
Jenny let out a small laugh. ‘No, it does help. I just… I dunno. It doesn’t feel real, you know?’
‘I know. But life has it’s strange ways of throwing things like this at us. It tests us. It throws us curveballs, especially when we least expect it. Everything seems to be rolling along nicely, we don’t have a care in the world, then life shits on us. But that’s why it’s so important we all stick together.’
Jenny leaned forward and hugged her father — something she hadn’t done for a long time. Not properly, anyway. And in that moment she felt — even if only slightly — that things might just turn out to be okay.
23
Jack and Wendy sat down in the interview room for the second time that day, this time feeling rather more confident than they had before, but tryi
ng not to let too much show.
They’d wondered if Connor French might’ve been clever enough to have anticipated their questioning and know what they knew — especially considering the questions they were asking. But he’d stuck resolutely to his guns, denying he’d ever left the house and kept to his holier than thou story. This gave them a distinct advantage, as they could prove categorically that what he’d told them in the first interview had been a pack of lies. Smarter suspects tended to stick to the truth as much as possible, changing only one or two small details to keep themselves on the side of innocence, whilst not being completely disprovable.
‘Okay, Connor,’ Wendy said, leading the interview, ‘we spoke to you a little earlier on and asked you a few questions. I just want to run through a few of those again and make sure we’re clear on the answers. You said that Matthew arrived at your house around ten past six in the evening, having walked, and that you didn’t think he’d seen anyone on the way. Is that right?’
Connor considered this for a moment. ‘Yeah.’
‘Okay. You said he seemed fine, wasn’t nervous or on edge, and that he left yours just after ten. Are we still on the right track?’
‘Yeah.’
‘At that point, you say he walked home and you stayed at yours.’
Connor stayed silent.
‘Connor? Is that correct?’
‘Yeah,’ Connor replied quietly.
‘Okay. DCI Culverhouse has a tablet here, with a video on it. It’s a recording of some CCTV footage we’ve obtained from a house on Naismith Road. We’d like you to have a look at it, please.’
Jack pressed the play button and the video started. Wendy, however, was watching the faces of Connor French and his solicitor, looking for any flicker of recognition that they were well and truly fucked.
‘What do you see on the video there, Connor?’ Wendy asked, as Connor’s solicitor leaned in to whisper into his ear.
‘I dunno. You tell me.’
‘Okay. I see two lads walking down Naismith Road in the direction of Mildenheath Woods. Then, later on, only one of them walks back. Do you recognise either of the lads, Connor?’
His solicitor leaned in to whisper in his ear again.
‘No comment,’ Connor replied.
‘I think the one in the dark clothes looks a lot like Matthew.’
‘No comment.’
‘Isn’t it a bit odd that someone who looks a lot like Matthew walked in the direction of Mildenheath Woods on the night Matthew died, but didn’t come out again?’
‘No comment.’
‘Do you recognise the other lad, Connor?’
‘No comment.’
‘Because I think that one looks a lot like you.’
‘No comment.’
‘Do you own a white tracksuit like that?’
‘No comment.’
‘Okay. Because I can tell you that officers have seized a white tracksuit that looks a lot like that one from your home address. Do you want to say anything about that?’
‘No comment.’
Connor’s solicitor leaned back into him. After a few moments of whispering, Connor nodded and the solicitor spoke.
‘Excuse me, but could I have a few minutes alone with my client please?’
24
Just under an hour later, Connor’s solicitor indicated that they’d prepared a statement from Connor, which he wanted to have read out and placed on record.
‘My client has made it clear to me that this is his full and final statement on the matter,’ the solicitor said, sitting down next to Connor.
Jack and Wendy knew damn well that wasn’t the sort of language Connor would use, and that the solicitor was trying to play hardball. They sat themselves down and listened to what he had to say, reading the prepared statement in Connor’s words.
The first half of the statement covered what they already knew — the time Matthew had arrived, what they’d done and when he’d left.
‘Shortly before Matt left my house,’ the solicitor said, speaking Connor’s words, ‘he mentioned to me that he was due to meet someone about a potential deal. I don’t know the person’s name, but it was someone he hadn’t met before, so he wanted me to come with him. I could see he was uneasy, so I agreed to walk to Mildenheath Woods with him to meet this person.
‘We walked together, via Naismith Road, which is when we were captured on CCTV according to the evidence the police have in their possession. We left our mobile phones at my house, as is normal for us when we want to cover our tracks and protect our movements. When we reached Mildenheath Woods, I waited with Matt for a few minutes until his contact appeared. When I realised it was safe and Matt was comfortable, I left and walked back home the same way I’d come. As it was dark in the area and we only had moonlight and a small torch to go by, I didn’t get a good look at the person Matt was meeting and cannot confirm their identity, age or any distinguishing features.’
The solicitor put the sheet of paper down on the table and looked at Jack and Wendy.
‘What, is that it?’ Jack said.
‘That is Mr French’s full and final statement.’
‘Well, it’s not good enough, is it? Your client,’ Jack said, following the solicitor’s lead in referring to Connor as if he wasn’t sitting right there, ‘was the last person to see Matthew Hulford alive. In fact, he’s on CCTV walking him to the place of his execution, then walking back home alone. If you think some cock and bull story about a mystery man in the darkness is going to explain that away, I’d advise you to get yourself down the job centre sharpish.’
‘With the greatest of respect, Detective Chief Inspector, I don’t believe you have any evidence of my client’s involvement. He’s already explained why he walked to Mildenheath Woods with Mr Hulford, and has given a full and frank account of what happened. He can’t be held liable for something done by a complete stranger when he wasn’t even there.’
‘And we’ve only got his word for it that he wasn’t. What evidence is there this mystery stranger even exists?’
‘I’m afraid it’s not my job to uncover evidence for you, Detective Chief Inspector. My job is to represent my client. But whilst we’re on the subject of evidence, I believe you recovered the clothing my client was wearing on that night, expecting it to be blood-spattered. May I enquire as to the outcome of those tests?’
The solicitor’s smug grin could’ve curdled milk. Jack dearly wanted to slap seven shades of shit out of it, but decided against doing so.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll let you know as soon as we’ve got conclusive results,’ he said, by now already knowing there were no signs of any blood spatter on the tracksuit.
More in-dept tests would be done, but with no visual indication that the pure white tracksuit had ever been stained with blood — and there would’ve been a lot of it — he knew it was virtually impossible for Connor French to have murdered Matthew Hulford in that tracksuit. But that didn’t preclude the possibility that Connor had either deliberately led Matthew Hulford to his murder at the hands of someone else, worn a previously-stashed protective covering or even had two copies of the same tracksuit. The footage of Connor walking home only really showed him from behind, and not his front, which would’ve been the area likely to have received the blood spatter.
Regardless, Jack knew the custody clock was ticking, and Connor French would either need to be charged or released by the time his twenty-four hours were up. He was unlikely to even be granted an extension, never mind authorisation to charge from the Crown Prosecution Service.
Jack stood and left the room, gesturing for Wendy to follow him.
‘Send the bugger back to his cell,’ he said. ‘There’s more to it than this. A lot more. Something doesn’t sit right. How long have we got?’
‘Plenty, to be honest. Seventeen hours. Most of them overnight ones. Reckon you’d be able to get an extension?’
Jack scrunched up his face and shook his head. ‘Unlikely. Let’s face it,
if it was him, he’s not likely to be a threat to anyone else, is he? It’s a deal gone wrong, a motive he’s kept hidden from us or something else entirely. But he’s no serial killer. It’d be the usual story. Keep obs on him, get his passport, report in to bail desk every few days.’
‘It’d give us more time to get to the bottom of things properly.’
Jack sighed. Even though he knew Wendy was right, he hated having to open the exit door to people he strongly suspected were involved in major crimes, whether they were a threat to anyone else or not. His overriding desire for complete justice at almost all costs was something that had never left him, and in many ways he hoped it never would.
‘Thoughts?’ Wendy asked.
Jack sighed again. ‘I think I’m going for a quick pint at the Albert, then I’m going home.’
25
Even though the Prince Albert was a pub favoured by police officers — being situated, as it was, right next to Mildenheath Police Station — business was hardly ever discussed there. There’d been occasions where Jack and his team had gone for a few drinks after work with the express intention of chewing their way through a case, but the unspoken rule was that they didn’t talk shop. And that was one of the reasons Jack liked going to the Albert on his own: it meant no-one talked to him about anything.
Jack Culverhouse had very few pleasures in life, but one of them was sitting in the corner of a pub with a pint in his hand, watching the world go by as his mind gently processed his thoughts. He found it calming, almost meditative. It also allowed him to keep his finger on the pulse locally, as well as giving him a strong idea of the direction of social travel. Overhearing conversations in pubs, he found, was a great community and political indicator. Never mind polls and surveys; the boffins could simply pop down to their local and earwig on a few conversations. To Jack, there was no greater institution and social bellwether than the British pub.
