by Adam Croft
He followed McCann into the house, closing the door behind him.
‘We’re a shoes-off household, Inspector. I don’t know where you’ve been.’
‘We? You’re going to have to get used to sticking with the singular, Gary.’
‘Now, as much as I’m enjoying all these social niceties,’ McCann said, flopping down onto a sofa, ‘I’m in the middle of a pretty good Netflix series and you’re rather cluttering up the place. I presume you’re here for a reason and not just popping in for the great company?’
Jack ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. ‘Alright. I’ll level with you, Gary. But let’s drop the bollocks, alright? I’ll talk to you, you talk to me.’
‘We are talking, aren’t we?’ McCann replied, his arms raised in a mock shrug.
‘I mean properly. I need you to do me a favour. A big one.’
McCann’s smile spread and gradually turned into a laugh. ‘You want me to do you a favour?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Jack said quietly. ‘It works both ways.’
‘Does it indeed? And how’d you work that out? What favours do you think I need from you, exactly? Because I’ll be quite honest with you, Jack, there’s nothing that springs to mind.’
Jack thought for a moment. He needed to be extremely careful in approaching this. ‘We being straight with each other?’ he asked. ‘Properly, I mean.’
‘You tell me what you’ve got and what you want, and I’ll let you know.’
Jack sighed. ‘Alright. You’ve given us the runaround for a long time, Gary. You know what you’re doing. Unfortunately, so do we.’ It wasn’t often that Jack deliberately lied to get what he wanted, but right now he had no choice. Besides which, he was quite sure there were at least a couple of disgruntled goons amongst McCann’s mob.
‘Pop the cuffs on then, Inspector,’ McCann replied, holding out his hands. ‘Or is this another load of bluff and bluster?’
‘I’m always straight with you, Gary. Credit where credit’s due. Don’t forget, a lot of this is out of our hands now. The investigation into Frank’s gone external. But the investigation into you hasn’t. Now, that information all needs to match up. If it doesn’t… Well, it weakens the investigation, doesn’t it?’
McCann shook his head slowly. ‘I’m not buying this. One of your longest-serving colleagues goes down for corruption, nearly bringing your whole team with him, and your response is to do exactly the same thing? Don’t give me that, Jack. What are you playing at here, eh?’
Jack shrugged. ‘It’s all I’ve got. And, let’s face it, it’s all you’ve got too. We’re coming to the end of the road here, Gary. And your tarmac’s running out a lot faster than mine is.’
‘Then why is it you, sitting here in my living room, offering to lose this mystical, magical evidence you think could push me over the edge? ‘Cos I’ll be honest with you, Jack, I’m listening, but nothing I’m hearing’s making much sense.’
Jack looked at the floor, sighed, then looked back up at McCann. ‘Helen’s back,’ he said. ‘In Mildenheath.’
McCann nodded slowly. ‘And you don’t want her cocking up your relationship with the new bird… What’s her name again?’
‘Chrissie.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘There’s more to it than that. She… Look, you and I aren’t ever going to be best mates. I mean, if it weren’t for our jobs then who knows, but there’s a level of mutual respect there. With Helen, it’s just… She’s poisonous. Dangerous. Listen, Gary. Can I trust you?’
‘Nope.’
‘My daughter. She’s pregnant. The baby’s due in the next few weeks. She’s been really struggling with it all. Her childhood was an absolute clusterfuck because of me. And Helen. All I want to do is put that right. Stability. A proper start for her baby. A decent family unit. Beneath all the bullshit, I’m pretty sure we agree on those principles, right?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I can’t let her ruin all our lives again, Gary. I can’t let that happen. I’d far rather have ten of you running around Mildenheath than one of her.’
‘You want her gone.’
‘I’m not asking you to do anything. I’m letting you know the situation. The rest’s up to you.’
‘Only if I believe what you’re telling me about your side of the bargain.’
‘I’ve always been straight with you, Gary. I’m putting my fucking bollocks on the line even coming here tonight. I’ve got far more to lose than you have. And I can tell you now, the net’s closing in on you big time. Believe me, there’s nothing I want more than to see you rotting in a prison cell somewhere. Apart from one thing. The only thing I’d happily trade that for. My family.’
McCann seemed to chew this over for a few moments. ‘I’ve known you a long time, Jack.’
‘I know. I’m feeling every second, trust me.’
‘Where’s she staying?’
‘I can get details.’
McCann looked at him and slowly nodded. ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Get them to me. I’ll see what I can do.’
37
Almost as soon as McCann had given his answer, Jack regretted ever going to him. It had been a frantic decision made on the spur of the moment in a desperate attempt to save his family.
McCann, though, had seemed to take it seriously. There’d always been a mutual respect between the two of them, despite the deep, visceral need to get one over on each other. If Jack was honest with himself, as much as he wanted to nail McCann and watch him rot in prison, he knew that would signal the beginning of his own personal rot. The thought of finally catching McCann and sending him down had kept him going for so many years, a part of him was afraid of what’d happen when he won. What would be the point, then?
These were only afterthoughts for Jack — attempts at justifying what had already been done. His reasons for doing so had been solely to keep Helen away and protect his family.
What would McCann do? They hadn’t covered that. All Jack knew was that Helen needed to be kept away, and he had no power to do so. She was his wife. She owned half their house. She’d committed no crimes. She had every legal right to return and wreak as much havoc as she wanted. But what if he… He wouldn’t, would he?
In Jack’s mind, McCann would simply pay her off, slip her a bit of cash and suggest she stayed away. Would Helen fall for that? How much would she need to not be near her parents in their final days? And, more to the point, how much did Gary McCann value his freedom? What price would he put on staying out of prison? And what if Helen refused?
It didn’t bear thinking about. Jack knew — but had never been able to prove — that McCann had personally overseen the disappearance of people before. It wasn’t a step he took lightly, but it was certainly a weapon in the arsenal for when it was needed. Would McCann go that far? And if he did, would it be traced back to Jack? No-one had ever found a single one of McCann’s victims yet — and god knows they’d tried — but Jack’d put money on this one being the first. It’d be almost poetic. Inevitable.
But he knew he couldn’t think like that. It wasn’t helping anyone, least of all him. There was nothing to say that was the route McCann would go down. And, even if he did, what was worse: the vague, small possibility of being charged with conspiracy to murder or the absolutely certain risk of Helen ruining his entire life and happiness? There wasn’t even a decision to be made.
Jack hadn’t slept any better that night, and he felt the full weight of last night’s events as he headed into work. When he arrived, a gleaming, grinning Debbie Weston knocked on his door.
‘Perfect timing, sir,’ she said, clearly struggling to hold in whatever good news she had for him. ‘They’re like buses, aren’t they? Sit around waiting ages for one, then they all turn up at once.’
Jack sighed and scratched his head. ‘Sorry, Debbie, you’re going to need to explain that one to me.’
‘At a bus stop, I mean. It’s an old saying. You sit around waiting for a bus and none
come, then three all come along at the same time.’
‘For Christ’s sake, enough with the buses. You haven’t come in here to talk to me about buses, have you?’
‘Well, no, but you asked.’
‘I asked what you were referring to. What’s all come in at once?’
‘The DNA results,’ Debbie replied, sitting down. ‘The clothing’s all clear. We can’t say for definite those were the clothes Connor French was wearing that night. It’s possible he had more than one version of the same outfit. I’ve got this green dress at home. Well, actually, I’ve got three of them. It does happen.’
‘Right.’
‘But there’s no blood spatters on them anywhere. Connor’s clothes, I mean. Not my green dresses. But, get this. There are traces of mud on the trainers which match the makeup of the mud at Mildenheath Woods, so we can safely say he wore those trainers there. Just not necessarily that night. People from all over town go walking in there all the time, so we can’t say for definite the mud was picked up on the night Matthew Hulford died.’
‘So we’ve got nothing?’
‘Oh no, I wouldn’t say that. The results from the blood on the knife came back, too. It’s Matthew Hulford’s blood.’
38
Jack knew the constant drip-drip of information and evidence would cause Connor to break at some point. They had enough to charge, he was sure of it. There was CCTV evidence of Connor walking Matthew to the woods and then returning alone. He’d admitted as much, too. Then there was the murder weapon — the knife — with Connor’s fingerprints on the handle and Matthew’s dried blood on the blade.
The lack of DNA evidence on the tracksuit was easily explained away by Connor owning two identical sets of clothing and, in any case, absence of evidence was not the same as evidence of absence. It was time to increase the pressure.
With the interview formalities out of the way, Jack let Wendy lead the proceedings.
‘I don’t think we need to spend too much time going over old ground, Connor,’ she said. ‘So let’s assume we believe your story up until the point Matthew meets his contact, you leave him to it and head home alone. Let’s say the two of you arrive in the woods. Do you want to have a little think and run me through what happened after that?’
Connor sat with his arms crossed over his chest. ‘I’ve told you. I don’t need to think about it. I’ve told you what happened. We waited a few minutes, the bloke turned up, I went home.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘I dunno. Medium height. Medium build.’
‘Hair?’
‘He had a cap on.’
‘Colour?’
‘Black. Black top, black trousers, black shoes. Barely saw the bloke. Don’t think he wanted to be seen. If he did, he wouldn’t be arranging meetings in the middle of the bloody woods at night, would he?’
‘Do you know his name?’ Wendy watched as a flicker of something crossed Connor’s face. It was clear to her that he knew more about the man’s identity than he was willing to let on. ‘Connor?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll give you the opportunity to think about that again. And bear in mind we only conduct additional interviews as and when new evidence comes to light.’
Connor looked at her for a few moments. ‘Sam. Matt said his name was Sam.’
‘Sam what?’
‘I dunno. Just Sam. That’s all he told me.’
‘Did he tell anyone else?’
Connor shook his head. ‘I doubt it. When he got there, Sam said he didn’t feel comfortable with me being there too, so I left them to it.’
‘Did he have an accent?’
‘No, just normal.’
‘And you felt happy leaving your friend with someone you’d never met, in the middle of woods, in the middle of the night?’
Connor shrugged. ‘Yeah. He seemed alright. I didn’t get any bad vibes. Anyway, Matt was fine with it and told me to head home. Some people don’t like talking business if you turn up mob handed. It’s all based on mutual respect.’
It seemed to Wendy as though Connor might be telling the truth. There was only one way to find out for certain.
‘Connor, last time we spoke to you, we told you a knife had been discovered with your fingerprints on it. You didn’t have an explanation for that at the time. Do you have one now?’
‘I dunno. Maybe it’s one my mum threw out or something. Or maybe I found it somewhere and picked it up and put it in the bin.’
‘Did you?’
Connor shrugged. ‘Don’t remember.’
The solicitor leaned forward. ‘Might I remind you, Detective Sergeant, that the burden of proof is on you to ascertain that the knife did indeed belong to my client.’
‘Handling of a murder weapon doesn’t require ownership,’ Wendy replied. ‘And the fingerprint is proof of handling.’
‘Partial fingerprint. And there’s no evidence it is the murder weapon. It’s simply a knife with some dried blood on it. My client’s already told you it’s quite possible he found the knife whilst out walking, saw it could be dangerous in the wrong hands, so picked it up and disposed of it like a responsible citizen.’
‘True, that is possible,’ Wendy said, playing along for just a moment. ‘But then there’s the little problem of the blood itself. See, the DNA results have come back, Connor. We know whose blood’s on the knife. Do you want to tell us anything?’
‘What’s the point? If you reckon you know, what does it matter what I say?’
‘Okay. Connor, do you want to tell us how Matthew’s blood got on a knife you’d been handling?’
39
The atmosphere in the incident room was tense, but expectant.
‘So he just no-commented his way through everything?’ Ryan asked.
Wendy nodded. ‘Yep. Soon as we confirmed it was Matthew’s blood, that was it. Complete shutdown. No admission, nothing. He just stopped cooperating. Not that he was ever particularly cooperating in the first place.’
‘We’ve got enough to charge, though, surely?’
‘Oh yeah. Without a doubt.’
‘But?’
‘Nothing.’
‘She’s got a “hunch”,’ Culverhouse said, complete with air quotes.
‘No, I just think there’s more to it than that. Think about it. He’s smart enough to leave his and Matthew’s phones at home so they don’t get tracked, but has no worries about being seen on CCTV. We’re claiming he’s doubled up on outfits and disposed of the one he wore to murder Matthew, despite that meaning he must’ve had his change of clothes waiting for him somewhere in the woods. But after all that forethought and planning ahead, he handles the murder weapon without gloves. And where’s the clothing? So he can dispose of an entire outfit and shoes without trace, yet the knife turns up in a bin round the corner, complete with fingerprints? I’m not buying it. It doesn’t add up.’
‘Maybe he got desperate,’ Steve offered. ‘He didn’t mean to kill him. Argument got out of hand. That explains why he wasn’t wearing gloves and got desperate trying to dispose of the knife.’
‘That doesn’t explain the clothes, though. Whichever way we try to spin this, there’s nothing that means everything makes sense. There’s always a huge but. We’re missing something. If you ask me, I think there was a third person. Maybe Connor supplied the weapon. Unknowingly, perhaps. Maybe this third person’s trying to frame him. I don’t know. I’m not even sure Connor does know who the person is, but I don’t doubt that aspect of his story. It means a lot of the disjointed stuff suddenly starts to makes sense.’
‘It’d certainly explain the lack of blood on his clothing. Particularly if he wasn’t actually there when Matthew was killed,’ Ryan offered.
‘Exactly. The mud on the shoes, too. We know he was there. He’s not denying that. The only thing that leads us to think he actually did it is the knife. Yes, Matthew’s blood’s on it. Yes, Connor’s fingerprint is on it. But Connor could easily have handled i
t before or after it was used to kill Matthew. I’m just not falling for him being so forensically aware and careful about everything else, then dumping the murder weapon on top of a wheeliebin, complete with fingerprints and blood. It doesn’t fit with what we know of him.’
‘Then we have to work the angle that he does know who did it,’ Jack said. ‘A plea bargain, perhaps. A smart brief will be able to argue that Connor could’ve had no reasonable foresight that this person wanted to murder Matthew. That gets him off being an accomplice. Granted, it doesn’t explain the knife situation, but that’s for them to hammer out in court. If it gets us a name, I think that’s an angle that should be played.’
‘And if he doesn’t know the name of the person?’ Wendy asked.
‘Then it gets a whole lot more difficult. But it all comes back to the first theory, doesn’t it? It’s got to be drugs-related somehow. There’s no sign of the girlfriend being involved with anyone else, so we can probably rule that one out. Matthew and Connor didn’t do anything much other than play video games and flog a bit of weed, so there’s no real opportunity to develop enemies who want to kill you. Maybe it was a deal gone wrong. Perhaps Connor’s telling the truth about Matthew going to meet a potential business associate. Maybe there was a disagreement. The person could be seriously unhinged for all we know. Off his nut on whatever substance. Either way, if Connor wants to ever see the outside world again, he’s gonna have to start playing ball.’
A knock at the door interrupted them.
‘Come in,’ Jack barked, watching as a young PC entered the room.
‘Sir, there are two people downstairs who’d like to speak with you.’
‘Well I’m busy. Tell them to make an appointment.’
‘Uh. Sir?’
‘What?’
‘It’s Connor French’s parents. They said they think they might have something that’ll help you.’
40
As they sat in a side room explaining what had happened, the thing that struck Jack most about Connor French’s parents is that they seemed far more conscience-stricken and remorseful than their son had at any point.
