Evil Valley (10 page)

Again the two women nodded. Claire wondered if Suzanne was also starting to feel irritated by Whiting’s lecturing manner.

‘And then there’s the last matter we must investigate,’ he said, sweeping the papers from the desk into his briefcase and standing up. ‘The fact that personnel and background checks on PC Crouch have revealed nothing unusual or possibly relevant, apart from one thing. Just the one.’

He paused, stared at them before speaking, his eyes narrowing. ‘His daughter Marie – his only child – was also a victim of domestic violence … and was killed by her husband in their own home after a row.’

No one spoke, but Claire could see the word in all their thoughts. It was so obvious it could have been painted on the walls of the office. One of the Holy Grails of detective work.

Motive. For murder.

Chapter Seven

PC M
ARTIN
C
ROUCH HARDLY
looked like a killer, but then they seldom did. He was more like an uncle who’d popped in for a cup of tea, Claire mused. There was no hint of tension about him, none of the twitches, fiddling hands or cold sweats the thriller writers would have you believe. If only there were. She’d often thought how much easier it would make the detective’s job.

He sat in the interview room, leaned back on the plastic chair, his legs crossed. A cup of coffee stood in front of him and he studied it as he sipped, looking up only when Claire, Suzanne and Whiting walked into the brick-walled, low-ceilinged, whitewashed room.

He appeared younger than his 51 years, no doubt the product of looking after himself well. The firearms officers were regularly tested for fitness, had to be with the amount of gear they carried. He was thin but with a wiry strength, had mousy hair, cut fairly short, grey eyes and a mottled skin, the most noticeable feature his oddly small ears. He was wearing a black polo-neck jumper and jeans. A silver crucifix hung outside the jumper, and his hands occasionally strayed there, stroking a careful finger over it.

He stood up when they walked in, not as tall as she’d expected him to be, about five feet nine or so. He caught her by surprise by reaching out a hand to shake hers, then Suzanne’s and lastly Whiting’s.

‘I don’t hold it against you,’ he said, and his voice was quiet and calm. ‘I knew I’d be placed under investigation after what happened. I know you’ve got a job to do. All I’d ask is that you appreciate I had a job to do too, and as far as I’m concerned I did it.’

Whiting produced his cold smile. ‘Of course. Please sit down PC Crouch and we’ll get started.’

‘Do call me Martin.’

Suzanne pressed a button on the tape recorder set into the wall and a low metallic buzz filled the room. She identified them all and gave the time, 10.04. Claire pulled her jacket tighter around her chest. It was always cold in the interview rooms, and with the autumn coming on, it smelt damp too. Last year, there had been a move to renovate them, but it had been vetoed by CID. They liked this atmosphere. It encouraged suspects to talk.

Whiting took a couple of pennies, some fives and a ten-pence piece from his pocket and placed them on the table beside him in a pyramid.

‘PC Crouch, can I start by asking you to take us through what happened on Thursday night please,’ began Whiting, his unblinking eyes fixed on the man. ‘We have a copy of the 999 call and the emergency controller’s message sending you to Haven Close, so you can start with your arrival at the house. Take your time. It’s important you tell us every detail.’

Martin Crouch stroked a finger over his cross, closed his eyes and spoke. His voice was soft and level. He recounted the same story they’d heard a couple of times now, how he and his fellow marksman, PC Andy Gardener, had arrived at Haven Close, agreed there was a threat to life in the house and decided to force their way in.

Whiting listened intently, his fingers on his temples, taking the odd note. Claire recognised the technique. Let the subject talk, relax a little, then interject with a question, then another, increase the pace and pressure of the interview, test his story.

‘I stood back and kicked at the door,’ Crouch was saying. ‘After a couple of blows it gave and we walked into the hallway. Then I …’

‘Your guns were drawn?’ Whiting interrupted fast.

‘Yes. We didn’t know what to expect inside the house so we agreed we should draw them.’

‘You went first into the house?’

‘Yes.’

‘PC Gardener’s statement said you always went first when there was a potentially dangerous situation. Why was that?’

Martin Crouch looked down at the floor and stroked his cross again. ‘Because I believe I have less to live for.’

‘Explain, please?’

‘Andy is a family man, with a wife and young son and daughter. I have no one. My wife and I divorced several years ago.’

Whiting sat up straighter, but said nothing, just held Crouch’s look. Claire couldn’t help but admire his interrogation technique. He’d switched approach, from a staccato burst of short and sharp questions to pressuring Crouch with silence. Clever.

The marksman paused, took a breath and his voice grew quieter. ‘And … well … I suppose I have to tell you this?’

More silence from Whiting. Only a look. It was enough.

Crouch breathed out hard again, continued. ‘Well … Marie, my only daughter … my only child … she’s dead. So if there is something waiting on the other side of a door, or around a corner when we go in, I believe I should find it first.’

Another scribbled note from Whiting. More silence. Then he looked up, pointed at Crouch’s cross.

‘I see you’re a religious man. Is that what makes you feel you should be subjected to danger before PC Gardener?’

Crouch looked surprised. ‘I don’t see anything religious in it at all. I think it’s purely a practical matter. If I should be killed, there’s no one who’ll suffer apart from me. If you mean – do I think I’ll get into heaven by doing so, making some sort of sacrifice, I think you misunderstand faith. You can’t bargain with God.’

Claire scratched an ear and looked out of the small, grimy window to hide a smile. One point to Crouch. She knew she shouldn’t feel it, that it was unprofessional, but it was nonetheless oddly enjoyable seeing Whiting being lectured. He gave out enough himself.

‘Putting aside matters of faith PC Crouch,’ hissed Whiting, ‘effectively you’re saying if anyone was going to be shot, or stabbed, or attacked, it would be better if it was you, as you have no dependents.’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you. That was all I wanted to establish. Please continue with your account of the night. We were at your entry into the hallway.’

Crouch nodded. ‘We walked slowly up the hall, Andy covering behind me in the standard way. It was dark, but there was a light ahead. The screaming had stopped, but I thought I could still hear a noise. It sounded like whimpering. So I moved slowly forwards. I came to a corner in the wall and moved around it, trying to be as quiet as possible. In front of me was a kitchen area. There was a woman, lying on the floor, her hair straggling over her face. She looked injured. A man was standing over her, holding a knife.’

‘Could you see the knife clearly?’

‘Yes.’

‘What kind was it?’

‘It was long-bladed and looked like a chopping knife.’

‘How long?’

Crouch held out his hands, stretched them apart. ‘About eight inches.’

‘And what did you think?’

‘I thought he was going to stab her.’

‘How could you know that?’

‘He was clearly dangerous. His face was angry and covered in sweat and his knuckles were white from gripping the knife. I think his hand was trembling and he had the knife up in a stabbing position. The woman was bleeding and I thought she may already have been stabbed.’

‘Did he see you?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I challenged him. I can’t swear to the exact words, but they were much as we’re trained. They were something like “armed police, put down the knife”.

‘Just the once?’

‘Twice. The second time was probably “armed police, put your hands where I can see them”.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Quite sure. It’s standard procedure – drilled into us – and I followed it.’

‘And then what happened?’

‘He didn’t drop the knife. He raised it, as if he was going to stab the woman.’

‘And then?’

‘I fired.’

‘Once?’

‘Twice.’

‘Twice?’

‘Yes. It’s standard practice to fire twice. In case a shot misses, or the suspect isn’t incapacitated.’

‘I’m aware of the procedure, PC Crouch,’ hissed Whiting. ‘I was testing your recollection. And then what happened?’

‘The man fell, next to the woman. I moved over to him to check he was no longer a threat. I saw I’d hit him with both shots and so Andy and I tried to administer first aid.’

‘With no success?’

‘No. I believe he’d been killed almost instantaneously.’

‘Been killed? You mean you killed him.’

Crouch twitched at the words. For the first time, Claire thought she heard an edge of irritation in his voice.

‘Yes, if you want to put it like that. I killed him. Or rather … I did my job.’

The two men studied each other for a moment, then Whiting asked, ‘Where was PC Gardener throughout this?’

‘Initially just behind me, in the hallway. After the shots were fired, alongside me in the kitchen.’

‘Why was he behind you when you fired?’

‘He was covering my back when we went into the house, then he couldn’t get past me because the hallway was narrow. He wouldn’t try if he saw I had raised my gun as it could affect my aim.’

‘I see.’

Whiting sat back on his chair, rummaged in his briefcase, produced a couple of sheets of paper. He slowly looked through them. Crouch watched him carefully. Claire sensed a new angle of attack coming. The papers Whiting was looking at detailed an expenses claim.

The silence ticked on. Crouch said nothing, just rubbed at a knee with his palm. Suzanne shifted on her chair, crossed her legs. Whiting placed the papers carefully back into his case, looked up.

‘Are you content with your actions?’

Crouch stared at him, stroked his cross again. Finally he said, ‘If you mean am I content I killed a man, then no, of course not. But if you mean – do I think I followed the procedures correctly and fired because it was the last resort left to me and in the protection of the public, then the answer is yes … I am.’

Another silence in the room. Footsteps echoed past in the corridor outside. A cell door clanged.

Whiting nodded slowly. ‘Thank you, PC Crouch. That’s all I want to ask about this incident, so …’

‘It’s not all I want to say.’

Whiting’s eyes narrowed. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said, I have something else to say. Something important. Something you need to hear.’

Martin Crouch was sounding increasingly irritated, as if he was being forced to repeatedly explain something patently obvious.

His voice rose, and he nodded to emphasise the words. ‘I can see you’re sceptical of what we do.’

‘I’m not anything …’

Crouch interrupted. ‘May I give you an insight into how difficult a job we have?’

‘If it’s relevant,’ Whiting hissed.

‘It’s entirely relevant. And you should appreciate it. It’s very easy sitting in an office passing judgement over a cup of tea and some biscuits. But when a firearms officer is faced with a threatening situation, he has to make a decision within a second or two. He has to accurately assess what is happening, whether there’s a danger to the public and himself and how to deal with that. It is by no means simple.’

Crouch paused, but Whiting said nothing.

‘He’s usually working in a situation which is unfolding and unclear,’ the marksman continued. ‘He probably won’t know exactly who he’s facing. Is it a terrorist? A violent criminal? Someone high on drugs? Or someone perhaps who’s lost their child in an accident, has got drunk to try to cope and is only making a cry for help? He’s got to work that out in an instant. On top of that, most incidents he deals with are in the dark. There’s lots of confusion. Probably some shouting and screaming too. And amid all of that, he has to protect the public and has only a couple of seconds to decide how best to do so. Weighing on his mind in those brief seconds is the knowledge that if he does shoot, he’ll probably be suspended and put under investigation, something that usually lasts for weeks if not months. And through all that he’ll know there’s the danger of being charged with manslaughter, and having to face a criminal trial when he was only doing what he thought was his duty.’

Crouch paused again and took a sip of coffee, staring intently at Whiting all the while.

‘And that’s just one possibility,’ he went on. ‘Now take it the other way. Suppose he doesn’t fire and some innocent member of the public dies. He knows he’ll be subject to disciplinary action by his force and no doubt get a flaying in the media too. Why didn’t he use the gun he’s given to protect the public? That’ll be the cry that goes up. Surely it was obvious it was justified to open fire? Can we trust those who are empowered to protect us? It’ll be all that sort of thing, all from people who have not the slightest idea of what a marksman has to go through, and all said in the comfort of a safe office with the wonderful benefit of pure hindsight.’

Crouch’s face had turned a dull red. ‘So yes, I think that is relevant and should be borne in mind by people who have never been in such a situation.’

‘Duly noted,’ replied Whiting icily. ‘Now, as this is my interrogation, we will move on to the first shooting, five months ago.’

He rummaged through his stack of papers, pulled out several which had been stapled together. ‘I don’t propose to take you back through this case at length PC Crouch. It was investigated at the time and you were exonerated. I have the report of the shooting.’

Crouch nodded. The colour had drained from his face. He stroked his cross.

‘I first want to ask how come you were back on duty so quickly?’ said Whiting. ‘Is it not the case that most investigations into fatal shootings take several months?’

‘Because I was exonerated, as you said. It was a straightforward case and I was found to have done my job, however unpleasant. The police have a policy of trying to investigate such cases much more quickly now. It’s becoming widely accepted it’s unfair on a marksman to have an inquiry hanging over him for months and even years. That’s something I entirely agree with and was grateful for the force’s support.’

Whiting scribbled another spidery note on his pad. Claire thought it said, “Was initial investigation sufficiently robust?”

‘What concerns me, PC Crouch, is how very similar the two incidents are,’ Whiting continued. ‘Extraordinarily similar. Particularly that when you fired the fatal shots, PC Gardener was again unable to see exactly what happened. So … in both cases the only witness to your opening fire is a traumatised woman. One who might well be grateful for what you’ve done and happy to say anything to make sure there are no repercussions for you.’