In Too Deep (Knight & Culverhouse Book 5) (11 page)

‘
W
ell no
, I wouldn’t necessarily describe it as normal, but it is certainly something I’ve seen happen before,’ Julian Mills said to Jack and Wendy outside the ward. Frank had been sent back to the office once Culverhouse had arrived, much to his chagrin. ‘This is what I warned you about. It might seem as though someone is recovering well, but the brain is extraordinarily delicate in these situations. Any sort of stress or agitation can result in massively increased brainwave activity, which in turn can cause an increase of pressure on the brain. After what Tanya’s already been through, it could be fatal.’

‘How much did the pressure increase?’ Wendy asked. ‘Was it dangerously high?’

‘It doesn’t increase immediately,’ the consultant replied. ‘It doesn’t take long for it to start, though, and with her levels of agitation and her increased heart rate and breathing, we weren’t going to take any risks. We increased the dose of barbiturates to keep her sedated and mitigate the chances of a recurrence of the brain swelling. I’m not in the business of putting my patients in danger, I’m afraid.’ Wendy could almost hear the doctor’s silent end to that sentence: “no matter how much you need her to talk.” He was probably annoyed at police officers getting in his way.

Wendy could feel her frustration starting to boil over. They had barely been off the ward for two or three minutes before returning to the news of Tanya’s regression. ‘Annoyed’ didn’t even cover it, but she was trying to bottle it up. By the time Wendy got even mildly frustrated, Culverhouse had usually blown his lid, but as she looked over at him, she saw him nodding slowly in acceptance of what the doctor was saying, calm as ever. She couldn’t even be completely certain he was listening. He just seemed dazed, not with it at all.

‘So we’re back at square one?’ Culverhouse asked, proving her wrong.

‘Well, I wouldn’t necessarily go that far,’ the consultant replied. ‘But it’s definitely a step backwards. Hopefully it’ll be a case of one step back, two steps forward, but what it does show is that Tanya’s nowhere near being at a point where we can consider her to be better. I’m afraid it all seems to be a bit much for her at the moment. She’s clearly in a very fragile state and was woken too soon. She needs time and space to recover, and the added pressure of a police presence is very unlikely to help,’ he added, almost reluctantly, making Wendy think her hunch was correct.

‘With all due respect, we need to find out who did this to her. This is looking like a case of attempted murder,’ she said.

Julian Mills sighed. ‘All I can say is that if you rush these things and put her under unnecessary strain, you certainly won’t have a case of attempted murder. You’ll have a case of murder. In which case, she won’t be able to tell you a thing. I’m sorry, but we could have come close to losing her in there. I don’t want that on my conscience and I’m fairly sure you don’t, either.’

‘But we need some form of police presence,’ Wendy said. ‘She’s a target for someone. Someone tried to kill her and there’s a good chance they’ll try again.’

‘Not in here, they won’t. We already have very good security. Listen, I’m happy for you to continue to station an officer outside the ward, but not somewhere she can see them. If she remains stabilised and we wake her up again, we don’t want her getting distressed. I’m happy for someone to be here for security purposes, but not for putting her under stress with questioning.’

Wendy nodded. ‘That’s fair enough. Is there anything else you can tell us?’

‘Such as?’

‘I don’t know. How long it might be before you can bring her round again? How long after that it’ll be before we can speak to her? Whether what happened in there earlier could cause any long-term damage?’

The consultant shrugged. ‘Who knows? Right now we’re back to playing the waiting game.’

Wendy sighed. She hated that game.

T
he evening light
began to fade at about the same time as the large glass of whisky started to take the edge off Jack Culverhouse’s mood.
It never rains, but it pours.
That was never truer than it was in the case of CID officers. There were times when he’d go weeks, months perhaps, without anything juicier than a fraud case or a gang-related assault to get his teeth into. His personal life would be just as quiet, too, with little more than the regular nine to five followed by a few episodes of
Breaking Bad
in the evening.

But Jack had never been a nine to five sort of person, and as much as he liked
Breaking Bad
, he was far happier doing the job he loved. The overtime wasn’t as ubiquitous as it used to be, however, and he often found himself having to spend far too many evenings in his own company.

There were times when he didn’t mind that so much, but those times were few and far between. His problem had always been that he was a thinker — indeed, he’d been guilty on many occasions of overthinking things. One of the downsides of the job was that his brain had been trained to consider every possibility and to always expect the worst. Overanalysis of one’s personal life, though, was never ideal.

Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the regrets. He knew he had a reputation as a hard-nosed bastard, and it was a reputation he was happy to have, but even Jack Culverhouse had regrets. Plenty of them.

He took another large gulp of whisky, feeling the ice cube chill his upper lip before holding the glass in his hand and swirling the amber liquid around, watching the melting ice infuse with it, marbling the liquor.

He could easily get a cab to the airport and book himself on the next flight to Alicante. The local airport had three flights a day going out at this time of year, and another hour’s drive would open him up to a further three airports. But that wasn’t what was stopping him.

True enough, when he’d been in that queue at the airport he’d had every intention of getting on that plane. Emily came first, and that’s all there was to it. Then he’d received the phone call.

It was his reaction that had shocked him. His first instinct should’ve been to delegate, to tell them he’d be back in a couple of days and someone else would have to deal with it in the meantime. His daughter needed him. But that wasn’t his first instinct. Not at all. The first thought that had crossed his mind was to head back out through security and get a cab back to the office. It was second nature to him now; a nature he wasn’t sure how to break.

It wasn’t that he wanted to go back to the office. It wasn’t that he wanted to let Emily down again. It was the fact that it had been the first thing to cross his mind. His instinctive reaction. In that moment he’d realised that deep down he was still the same old Jack Culverhouse. That even if he went over to Spain, even if he got there and found out it was Emily, and even if she accepted him and became a part of his life again, he’d still find a way to let her down. He had just about learned to control his conscious reactions and thoughts, but he now realised that he couldn’t control his subconscious impulses. And for as long as that was true, he couldn’t trust himself.

He’d already blown it once, and he didn’t deserve a second chance. But, if he ever somehow managed to get one, he sure as hell wasn’t going to blow that too.

He’d never felt so disappointed in himself.

He thought about Tanya Henderson’s children, Archie and Lola. There was a decent chance they’d lose their mother. A woman who doted on her kids, who tried to give them the very best in life. A woman who dedicated her life not only to her children but to exposing some of the worst forms of corruption in our society.

And then he compared her to himself. A bloke who couldn’t even get home from work early enough to spend some time with his daughter. Who allowed his job to ride roughshod over his marriage and his family life. Who wouldn’t know what being a good parent meant if it was drawn out on a piece of paper in front of him. Who was, shamefully, still alive.

It shouldn’t be Tanya Henderson in that hospital bed, he thought. It should be him. Tanya Henderson should be at home with her kids, tucking them in and reading them a bedtime story. She deserved that. Her kids deserved that. And while she was lying there in that hospital bed, he had been getting ready to fly halfway across Europe on a whim to try and track down the daughter he didn’t deserve.

Not for the first time in his life, Jack Culverhouse realised there was no justice in the world.

T
he dawn
of a new day often brought new hope, but that morning was different. The investigation seemed to be stalling again. The inquiries into the purchase of crowbars in the local area hadn’t thrown up anything particularly useful, and there were certainly no names coming up that were either known to the police or connected with Tanya Henderson. Without going out and speaking to each one of the purchasers individually — which might well have to be their next move — there wasn’t a whole lot they could do.

Their main lead right now was Callum Woods. Wendy thought back to what seemed to be a thinly-veiled threat in his quote for the newspaper. It wouldn’t be enough to stand up in court, but it was certainly well worth looking into, especially as they didn’t currently have any other options.

Wendy wasn’t particularly a football fan, but she’d been reading up about Woods and had familiarised herself with his various misdemeanours — or what the newspapers had seen fit to report on, anyway. Apart from the story about him regularly seeking the company of prostitutes — something Wendy vaguely recalled seeing in the newspapers just over a year ago — Callum Woods had been no stranger to media attention. From what she could garner, he’d never quite managed to live up to his off-field reputation on the football pitch itself. He’d come close a few times, and, as Ryan had told her, he was seemingly on the verge of an England call-up when the prostitute story broke. It seemed as though he’d been working hard to clean up his image, but had fallen at the last hurdle.

He’d first hit the headlines when he got involved in a drunken brawl outside a nightclub when he was just eighteen and had recently broken into his club’s first team. He’d managed to avoid a prison sentence as the judge decided he had acted in self-defence, but the man he’d punched had ended up needing a metal plate in his jaw.
Liable to turn violent when threatened
, Wendy noted at the back of her mind.

It wasn’t just his actions that had let Callum Woods down over the years, either. He’d been involved in a number of very public Twitter disputes with just about anyone who dared to criticise his form on the pitch, and had referred to a well-respected female daytime TV presenter as a ‘sour old fishwife who probably hasn’t had any for years’ when she called him out on his behaviour.

Overall, it seemed that he’d become the epitome of the spoilt young rich kid, becoming far too famous far too young, before he’d even come to realise what the world was all about. It was something that was seen far too often, particularly amongst footballers and the world of the overnight celebrities who find themselves famous for absolutely no reason at all.

Wendy and Ryan headed over to his place, soon finding out that Callum Woods’s house spoke for itself. A twenty-four-year-old with two children, he was living in what could only be described as a mansion.

‘Bloody hell. We’re in the wrong job,’ Ryan said as Wendy parked the car up outside the front of the building, the tyres crunching along the gravel drive as she did so.

‘Possibly, although I don’t think the two of us would pass for Premier League footballers,’ Wendy replied, a small smile playing on her lips.

They’d called ahead to Woods’s agent, in order to make sure he’d be at home, and they’d managed to be relatively evasive about what the visit was about, which was always a good thing. It would give any potentially guilty parties far less time to prepare their excuses or alibis.

The front door opened before Wendy and Ryan had even got to it, and Wendy recognised Callum Woods immediately from the photos she’d seen online.

‘Hi. Come in, come in,’ he said, standing aside and waving them in. ‘Sorry,’ he said once he’d closed the door behind them. ‘Can’t be too careful. Not when it comes to the press. Thanks for not turning up in a marked car, by the way.’

‘We’re CID. We don’t use marked cars,’ Wendy replied. ‘You must get a lot of press intrusion, then?’

Callum replied as he led them through to the kitchen. ‘You don’t know the half of it. I’ve had them going through my bins before now. Any tiny little thing they can use and latch on to, they will. One women’s magazine a few months ago even ran a feature about breastfeeding, and they absolutely bloody slaughtered us for feeding our kids formula milk rather than breast milk. All because they found the empty packaging from some formula in my bins. Funny thing is, it was my sister’s. She’d been over with her two baby twins. Get this — my youngest kid was two-and-a-half at the time. Didn’t even cross their minds that he might be on solids by now. Bloody parasites, the lot of them.’

Wendy couldn’t disagree that there were elements of the gutter press that infuriated her, and in this instance she definitely agreed with him, but it was also fair to say that Callum Woods had probably deserved a fair bit of the negative publicity he’d had. After all, he’d put himself up on a pedestal and he’d blown it — he’d hardly been the best behaved person in the world.

‘Goes with the job, I guess,’ Ryan said to him.

He turned away slightly, though Wendy could still see the look on his face. It was obviously a line he’d heard a thousand times before, and it was one he patently didn’t agree with. She could also see that Ryan knew this all too well, and had probably said it deliberately to get that exact reaction from him. Ryan was clearly the sort of officer who could go far. If certain people would let her, that was.

‘Well, it’s not quite that simple,’ Woods replied after a moment. Wendy noted that he hadn’t offered either of them a drink. ‘So, what can I help you with?’

‘It’s with regards to an incident that happened in Mildenheath recently,’ Ryan replied. Wendy had decided to let Ryan take the lead on this one. She seemed more than capable, and Wendy would be there to step in should anything happen. It also meant she could keep an eye on Woods, could look out for any sign that he might become violent.

‘Mildenheath? Never heard of it.’

Ryan chose not to rise to the bait. ‘It’s to do with a woman called Tanya Henderson. Does the name ring a bell at all?’

Wendy could swear she saw the faintest glimmer of recognition in Woods’s eyes. It was barely perceptible, but to the trained intuition of an experienced detective, it was definitely there.

‘Sounds familiar, but I don’t know why,’ Woods replied, sitting down at the large, ornate kitchen dining table. Wendy and Ryan stayed standing. It’s not like he’d invited them to sit, anyway.

‘She’s the journalist who broke the news story about your visits to prostitutes.’

‘Is she? Yes, if you say so.’ His face remained blank.

‘Bit strange that you’d not remember her name, isn’t it?’ Ryan asked. ‘Especially as she’s the woman who nearly ruined your career.’

Woods laughed. ‘I wouldn’t go that far. I mean, it wasn’t ideal, but I can tell you now it’d take a lot more than a newspaper article to ruin my career.’

Taking a piece of paper from her pocket, Ryan read directly from the article. ‘“This has ruined my family and affected my career. People never think of these things.”’ She looked down at him.

‘Yeah, and? People say things in the heat of the moment. And newspapers don’t always report quotes accurately, I can tell you that for nothing.’

‘Yes, heat of the moment. That might be it. Would that be why you also said, “How would this so-called journalist appreciate her whole life being ruined”?’ She stared at him, letting the question linger in the air between them.

Callum Woods swallowed and folded his arms. ‘I don’t remember saying that.’

‘You don’t need to. It’s here in black and white,’ Ryan replied, waving the photocopied article in the air.

Woods stayed silent for a few moments. ‘Listen, what’s this all about? You’ve sent CID up here from some bloody Home Counties backwater to question me over a quote in a newspaper article from over a year ago?’

‘Funny that you remember the date, but nothing else,’ Ryan said. ‘Is anything else springing to mind by any chance?’

It seemed to Wendy that Woods was trying to stare Ryan out. ‘Why don’t you just tell me what this is all about?’ he said, eventually.

Wendy decided that now was the best time to chip in. ‘Tanya Henderson was attacked on her front doorstep in front of her four-year-old daughter on Sunday evening. The attack was so severe that Tanya has been put on a specialist brain injury unit. She’s been in an induced coma since she got there.’

Callum Woods’s blinking increased in speed. ‘Right. And?’

‘And we’re looking to speak to anyone who might have had a reason to want Tanya Henderson harmed. As I’m sure you can understand,’ Wendy said.

‘Are you serious? You must have a list as long as your arm, then. Have you seen the sort of stuff that woman writes? She ruins lives for a living. She’s done it to hundreds of people, not just me.’

‘Oh, so you’ve remembered who she is now?’ Ryan interjected.

Wendy raised her hand slightly to placate Ryan. ‘It’s a matter of routine, Mr Woods. But where were you on Sunday evening?’

‘Easy. At home, like I always am,’ he said, sitting back and clearly relaxing a little. ‘I’m usually pretty bloody knackered the day after a game. Besides which, we’re not allowed late nights during the season, especially not before Monday morning training. And I’m a good little boy.’ Woods threw a knowing glance at Ryan — one she intercepted and interpreted without any problem at all.

‘Do you have an alibi?’ Wendy asked.

‘My missus and the kids. Although the kids were in bed by seven and the missus was asleep by eleven.’

Wendy nodded. If that could be corroborated, it would rule Woods out of any direct involvement. It wouldn’t go too far towards proving his innocence entirely, though. There was still every possibility that someone else had done the dirty work for him. If Wendy had to be honest, this was the line of enquiry she was expecting to follow most closely. After all, famous people didn’t tend to make the best criminals.

‘Do you have a garage or shed at all?’ Wendy asked.

‘Yeah, both. There’s a shed in the garden full of kids’ toys and patio furniture and stuff, and a triple garage at the side.’

‘Mind if we take a look?’ Wendy asked.

Woods shook his head and sighed. ‘Fine with me. The shed’s probably a bit pointless, though, unless you’re looking for a particular model of trike or sun lounger.’

Callum Woods led them through to his impressive garage and flicked on the light. It appeared to be heated, too.

‘No cars in here?’ Wendy asked.

‘No, they’re in the other building over there,’ Woods replied, gesturing with his hands. ‘It’s got better security.’

Wendy nodded. ‘Makes sense. Not got many tools in here, have you?’

Woods laughed. ‘Well no. Unsurprisingly. I’m not exactly a DIY kind of guy. I have people come in to do all that stuff. I’m not exactly doing too badly, you know.’

Wendy could detect just a hint of arrogance in his voice as she tugged on various drawers and cupboard handles. One cupboard door seemed to have far less give in it than the others. In fact, it wouldn’t budge at all.

‘This one locked?’ she asked, knowing full well that it wasn’t as it didn’t have a lock on it.

‘Oh, nah it’s just jammed. I think some of the wood’s warped. We like to keep the heat on in here but the previous owners didn’t, so some of the wood was a bit damp when we moved in.’

‘Ah. The joy of garages,’ Wendy said. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a crowbar handy, have you?’ She watched carefully for his reaction.

‘I dunno. Doubt it. I’ll have a look,’ he said, walking over to the other side of the large garage to look inside a drawer.

Ryan leaned in towards Wendy and whispered, ‘Nice. What about the shed?’

‘We can’t do much about that. We can’t force him to let us in there without a warrant.’

‘We could get one.’

Wendy raised her eyebrows momentarily. ‘Possible. Although we’d need something more to get it signed off. Public figure and all that.’

‘Nope, nothing here,’ Woods said, closing the drawer. ‘Then again, I wouldn’t know the difference between a crowbar and a power drill.’

Wendy smiled. Somehow she doubted that.