In Too Deep (Knight & Culverhouse Book 5) (12 page)

B
efore the morning
briefing had even got going, Jack Culverhouse’s pounding headache was made momentarily worse by the ringing of his desk phone. He was already two bodies short, with Wendy Knight and Ryan Mackenzie up in the East Midlands speaking to Callum Woods, and he didn’t feel in any fit state to be getting further depressed by the team’s lack of progress.

‘Culverhouse,’ he barked into the phone, his throat raw.

It was the desk sergeant. ‘There’s a woman here to see you about the Tanya Henderson case. A Chloe Robinson. She says you met her at the hospital yesterday.’

He vaguely remembered the name. A nurse, he thought.

‘I’ll be right down.’

He groaned something at Frank Vine about suspending the morning briefing, then made his way down the corridor before taking the three flights of stairs down to the front desk. He usually would’ve taken the lift, but this morning he knew he could do with having the blood flow to his brain. Not to mention the fact that the movement of the lift might make him liable to vomit.

He recognised the nurse immediately as soon as he got to the front desk and, after greeting her, he took her into a side room.

‘How’s Tanya doing?’ he asked, assuming that she hadn’t come down here to give him an update on her medical condition, but interested all the same.

‘No news,’ the nurse replied. ‘She’s stable, but there’s not really anything new.’

‘Good. Well, no news is good news.’

‘Indeed.’

Culverhouse could sense there was something she wanted to tell him — after all, she’d come here for a reason — but at the same time she didn’t seem to be saying all that much.

‘So how can I help you?’ he said, trying to be as diplomatic as possible. His head was pounding and he’d much rather have been at home asleep. ‘I mean, I presume this isn’t a social visit.’

‘Oh. No. Well, you see, it’s a bit weird. It’s about yesterday, when Tanya was brought out of her coma.’

‘What about it?’ Culverhouse said, his patience running thin.

‘Well, actually it’s more about what happened just before she was sedated again. She seemed confused and she was saying all sorts of odd things. I didn’t think much of it at the time, because it’s fairly common for patients with brain injuries to come out with strange things, but it was only when I was reading the newspaper later in the evening that it started to make sense. She was mumbling, and it was difficult to hear what she was saying, but I definitely heard “crowbar” a few times.’

‘She was attacked with a crowbar,’ Culverhouse said.

‘I know. That’s what I mean. Yet earlier she said she couldn’t recall anything about what happened. Then, when she got all agitated, she remembered the crowbar.’

Culverhouse knew this could be significant, but he wasn’t sure how. ‘Could there be a medical reason for that? For why she remembered it when she was agitated, but not when she was calm? Earlier, I mean.’

The nurse shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Not that I know of.’

‘And did she say anything else?’ he asked.

‘Nothing relevant, I don’t think,’ she replied, clearly thinking back. ‘She kept talking about the bright lights in the room, and I think she said “Pevensey Park” a few times.’

‘Pevensey Park?’ Culverhouse said. ‘Where’s that?’

‘I don’t know. And she said something about having to go to a meeting. “I have to go”, she kept saying. Look, I wouldn’t normally even bother reporting this because we get things like this all the time. Elderly women who suddenly become convinced they’re twenty-one again. Just general delirium. It’s pretty common. But the crowbar thing threw me. She’s obviously got the memories there. We just need to find a way of getting them out of her.’

Culverhouse couldn’t agree more. ‘The only problem with that is that she’s already reacted really badly to being brought out of her coma. I don’t think the doctors will be in any great rush to try again, will they?’

‘Well, no. I imagine they’ll leave it a good few days. They’ll want to see tangible improvements rather than just having her remain stable.’

Culverhouse nodded slowly. He had the distinct impression that Chloe Robinson was holding something back.

‘And is there anything else?’

‘How do you mean?’ she replied, forcing a smile.

‘Anything else on your mind? Something you might have seen, heard, thought of? I mean, you’re with Tanya Henderson most of the time on the ward. Is there anything you’ve... observed?’

Chloe pushed her bottom lip out and slowly shook her head. ‘Not that I can think of. To be honest, she’s been unconscious most of the time and there was a police presence there when she was awake.’

‘Except for those crucial two or three minutes,’ he said, more frustrated at himself than anything. ‘Here’s a thought. The security cameras on the ward. Was there one near Tanya’s bed?’

The nurse narrowed her eyes. ‘Well yes, but I don’t think there’s any suggestion of anything untoward...’

‘No, I know,’ Culverhouse said. ‘But do you think it might have picked up Tanya’s words? We might be able to go back and listen, see what she was saying.’

‘Ah. No can do, I’m afraid. The cameras don’t do sound.’

Culverhouse smiled and nodded, but inside he was fuming. What exactly had been the point in Chloe Robinson’s visit, other than to point out another missed chance to gather some crucial evidence?

‘Right. Well, give me a call if you think of anything else. Anything useful,’ he added, not very subtly, as he escorted the nurse from the room.

He watched as she left through the automatic doors at the front of the building, cursing silently to himself. He knew it was going to be one of those days.

C
ulverhouse hated texting
, but right now he didn’t particularly want to speak to anyone. He selected Wendy’s contact details from his phonebook and typed out the message.

S
he’d know
what he meant. He really couldn’t be bothered to type any more.

He took the flights of stairs a little more slowly on the way up, feeling his legs ache with every step as the sun dazzled at him through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows on each level of the staircase. The grass outside looked so green and inviting, and he wished he could be out there, sitting on it.

Rounding the corner of the landing on the next floor, he continued his steps up just as his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Taking it out, he looked at the screen.

T
here you go
, he thought. Much easier than making a phone call.

Of course, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to have them do when they got back; this whole investigation seemed to be on the go-slow. For as long as Tanya was unconscious, there was very little they could do. There was no evidence as to what she had been working on at the time she was attacked, there were no witnesses, no murder weapon had been found, and there were either no suspects or hundreds of the fuckers depending on your outlook. Whichever way you looked at it, it wasn’t great.

Jack knew the Chief Constable wouldn’t be happy. Charles Hawes was generally a very forgiving man as far as Jack Culverhouse was concerned, but even he had his limits. He was slowly but surely running out of lives, and with Hawes approaching retirement age, he knew he wouldn’t have an ally sitting in the main seat for much longer.

Regardless, he knew he had to keep him up to speed and now was as good a time as any. At least it
looked
like things were happening. Wendy and Ryan were up in the East Midlands speaking to Callum Woods, Debbie Weston was still going through Tanya’s financial and phone records with a fine-tooth comb — even though they already knew there was absolutely nothing there — and after the case had been covered in the local papers, they’d received a handful of calls from the public.

If it were any other investigation, progress wouldn’t be looking too bad at all, but Jack knew this was all a front. It was a case of looking busy, knowing damn well that Tanya Henderson’s security consciousness could have been her own downfall. And until she came round again —
if
she came round again — there was very little they could do to help her.

He knocked on the door of Charles Hawes’s office and waited for a couple of seconds. There was no answer, so he knocked again.

‘Come in,’ came the familiar voice from the other side. So he did.

There were many faces Jack wouldn’t have been particularly keen to see that morning, but Martin Cummings’s was right up there. The county’s Police and Crime Commissioner was the worst conceivable career politician, elected as the first PCC for the county in the initial set of elections. Jack thought it had been a stupid idea from the start, having an elected politician effectively in charge of the local police forces of Britain, but it had been the flagship policy of the government of the day and there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it.

It would be fair to say, too, that Martin Cummings wasn’t Jack Culverhouse’s biggest fan. Cummings was very much a reformer, keen on merging police resources and centralising everything up at Milton House, the county’s police headquarters. It was only the high success rate of Mildenheath CID’s recent investigations and Charles Hawes’s continued insistence that ensured their unit still existed. Without the continued success or the dogged determination of the Chief Constable, the whole team would’ve been subsumed into Milton House by now, doubtless run by DCI Malcolm Pope — or
Malcolm Fucking Pope
as he was known to Jack.

It felt like they were hanging on by a thread, and the weight attached to it was increasing all the time.

‘Ah, Jack. Perfect timing. I was just trying to update the Commissioner about the progress on the Tanya Henderson case.’

Culverhouse didn’t say anything; he just stared at Cummings.

‘Are we any closer to finding out what happened?’ Cummings asked.

‘Getting closer all the time,’ Culverhouse replied. ‘All the time.’

Cummings nodded. ‘Good,’ he said, elongating the word. ‘So what can we tell the press? I’ve been fending off their calls all day. They’re pretty keen on this. They’re all over it, seeing as she’s one of their own. They won’t let it go. They want an update.’

‘I’m sure they do. And when we’ve got something we can help them with, or something they can help us with, I’ll let them know.’

‘By which you mean you’re no closer to having a suspect or any sort of usable evidence, I suppose?’

Culverhouse forced a smile. ‘Getting closer all the time.’

‘Right. Only
time
is the operative word here, isn’t it? From what I’ve been told, I understand there’s a decent chance Tanya Henderson might not pull through this. In which case we’re looking at a murder case.’

‘Yes, I’m well aware of that. But I’m not quite sure what you’ve been told, because the facts are that she’s currently in a stable condition.’ Culverhouse didn’t want to mention the fact that there was also a strong chance Tanya Henderson’s attacker might be trying to get to her again. Some things were best left unsaid, especially around the Police and Crime Commissioner.

Martin Cummings was quiet for a few moments. ‘Do you need some help, Jack?’ he said, almost sounding sincere.

‘Help?’

‘With the investigation, I mean. If it’s a case of manpower, I can have some people sent down. DCI Pope’s very keen to get involved.’

Jack clenched his teeth. He could smell the thinly-veiled threat a mile off. ‘Yeah, I bet he is.’

‘Well, the offer’s there if you need it,’ Cummings said, smiling as he rose from his chair and extended his hand for him to shake. Jack stared at it for a couple of moments before acquiescing. ‘Just give me a call, alright? That’s what we’ve got resources for.’

Resources
, Culverhouse thought. Great way to refer to dedicated serving police officers. He said nothing, just watched Cummings leave.

‘He’s got a point, Jack,’ the Chief Constable said from behind him. ‘Seriously. Do you need anything?’

Culverhouse let out a deep breath.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I do. Couple of paracetamol would be great.’

C
ulverhouse quietly turned
the brass key, locking the door to the stationery store from the inside. He used his hands to feel behind him, running his fingers along the wooden shelving and down, trying to find a place to sit.

He finally settled between two large boxes containing reams of A4 paper, leaning back against a packet of display-board-sized coloured card. It was dark, quiet, and smelled of fresh paper. It was a comforting scent, and one that he filled his nostrils with as he took deep, calming breaths. In through his nose, out through his mouth. In through his nose, out through his mouth.

He leaned his head back against the vertical shelf divider, feeling it rest in the indentation in the rear-middle of his skull. It wasn’t especially comfortable, but it was more than fine.

The cold of the floor tiles started to seep through his trousers, cooling his buttocks. He raised his knees, brought his feet towards him and rested his arms on his knees.

There was a chink of light coming through under the door, and after looking at it for a few seconds, willing it to go away, he slid one of the boxes of printer paper over with his foot, covering the gap.

Now it was completely black. It was also completely silent.

Closing his eyes, he allowed his mind to rest and inevitably start wandering. He could feel his eyelids flickering, his overactive brain desperately firing pulses to every part of his body as if he’d just downed five double espressos. His head felt as though someone had placed a wet battery on either temple, sending a small charge of electricity straight through his skull.

He’d felt like this once or twice before. It wasn’t often that things got too much for him, but when they did, he knew he had to deal with it in the right way.

The last time this happened had been in the aftermath of the Ripper killings, during which a local psychopath had decided to emulate the murders of the infamous Jack the Ripper right here in Mildenheath. It was a case that had almost ended his career, with national and even international media attention. Far too many lives were lost, including that of PC Luke Baxter, for whom he’d had high hopes. That was, until he’d watched him take a bullet for him before practically dying in his arms.

It was around the time of the Ripper killings that Helen had first returned, swanning back into his life as if nothing had happened. Except things
had
happened. Too many things had happened. Seeing her again had had a marked impact on Jack. It had brought it all back, all that pain and misery that he was just about starting to leave behind.

The pressure of the Ripper case had certainly taken its toll on him, and he’d barely had time to catch his breath before he was thrown straight back into it. Not only had Helen disappeared off again, still on bad terms with him, but there had been another huge case to deal with as well.

In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been a huge case. A sex offender had been brutally tortured and killed in his own home. It should have been a straightforward murder case, but nothing was straightforward in Jack Culverhouse’s mind at that time. His off-kilter mental state had meant that a second murder — of another sex offender — had been committed before they’d got close to fully investigating the first. And when Jack had foolishly suggested that the investigation wasn’t a priority because the killer was cleaning up the filth for them, it was fair to say that those in authority didn’t agree with him. His ensuing suspension from the investigation had almost destroyed him.

But Jack Culverhouse was a fighter. And, yet again, he’d been there to save the day. He couldn’t not be. He knew that as soon as there came a time when he wasn’t, it would all be over, and that wasn’t a possibility he was willing to entertain.

He wasn’t sure if he’d nodded off, but he was jolted into full consciousness by his mobile phone vibrating in his pocket. He took it out and looked at it, the bright screen making him squint as he struggled to read the name of Antonio García on the screen.

‘Yeah?’ he said, in a hoarse whisper as he answered the call.

‘Jack? Have I caught you asleep?’ Antonio said, sounding more concerned than joking.

‘Oh. No. I’m just in a meeting, so I have to talk quietly.’

‘Ah, I see. Well I won’t keep you long, but I needed to call you to give you an update.’

Culverhouse swallowed hard. ‘Go on.’

‘Leandro called me. He and his colleague have been watching quite closely, trying to get some more information for you, like you asked. Earlier today, while they were watching, they were approached by two men from the
Guardia Civil
who had also been keeping an eye on the property. It turns out they had been tipped off that this woman and the girl were unregistered immigrants. Since 2007, every person living in Spain for more than three months has to register with the
Oficina de Extranjeros
. These two people had not registered. The property was listed as uninhabited, you see.’

Culverhouse could feel his heart racing. ‘Get to the point, Antonio.’

‘Alright, alright. Listen, Jack. They took them in for questioning, the woman and the girl. And they got to the bottom of who they are. It turns out they’re Swedish.’

He paused for a moment. ‘Swedish?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry, Jack, but the girl isn’t Emily.’