In Too Deep (Knight & Culverhouse Book 5) (14 page)

T
he doorbell rang
shortly before eight o’clock, and Wendy enjoyed the sound of her heels clip-clopping across the wooden flooring in her hall as she made her way to the door.

She’d left work a little earlier than usual so she could come home and spend quite some time getting ready. With Xav having invited himself over again, she knew things were now at the stage where she’d have to make sure she didn’t cock it up. From her own experience, and from what she’d seen, police officers — and CID ones in particular — had a wonderful ability of not being able to separate their work from their social lives.

Work inevitably got in the way of relationships and caused more harm than good. She’d seen it a hundred times over, and she certainly didn’t want it happening to her. She’d already had her fair share of bad luck. This time, she was going to remain in control.

She smiled as she opened the door to reveal Xav, a little more casually dressed than he had been two nights previous, but still managing to look more than good.

‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Glass of wine?’

‘I’m driving,’ he replied, stepping inside the door.

‘Ah. Well you can just have one, can’t you? A small one, I mean.’

‘Nah, better not,’ Xav said, raising his hand slightly. ‘Don’t want to risk it. Anyway, I can’t stay long.’

‘Oh.’

There was an awkward pause while the two of them stood in the hallway, staring at each other.

‘You look nice,’ he said, eventually.

‘Thanks.’

‘Off out somewhere?’

Wendy swallowed. ‘Uh, yeah. Just out to meet some friends.’

‘Cool.’

‘Do you want to come in? Sit down for a minute?’

Xav smiled out of the corner of his mouth, then made his way through to the living room. When he got there, he sat down in the armchair, leaving Wendy hovering. Finally, she sat down on the arm of the sofa, cradling her wine glass.

‘So. What’s new? You said you might be able to do something with Tanya Henderson’s laptop.’

Xav looked down at the floor. ‘Listen, Wendy,’ he said, fidgeting in his seat, ‘that’s kind of what I came to talk to you about, yes. But it’s more than that.’

Wendy didn’t like the sound of where this was going.

‘How do you mean?’

‘I just feel... Look, you didn’t call me after the other night. No texts, nothing. Not until this afternoon, when you called up wanting more information from me. That doesn’t make a guy feel good.’

No matter how much she knew he was right, Wendy still couldn’t help feeling defensive. ‘Xav, what do you want me to do? I’m in the middle of a big investigation. And you’re the best damn IT guy we’ve got. Far better than any of the forensic IT people. They’re only interested in ticking boxes and covering their arses. You’re the best. Of course I’m going to come to you.’

‘So, all that stuff the other night. Y’know, when we...’

‘Are you trying to ask me if it meant anything?’ Wendy said. ‘Because yes, of course it did. You don’t think I did it just to... Well...’

‘Use me? Yeah, the thought had crossed my mind.’

Wendy didn’t know what to say. In retrospect she could see exactly where he was coming from. Yes, she should’ve called, but then so should he. Neither of them had called each other, neither of them had texted each other. So why was the onus on her?

‘Hang on a sec,’ she said. ‘You can’t have it both ways, Xav. You asked me to put in a good word at Milton House for you. You wanted me to help you get into forensic IT. But I’m not sitting here accusing you of using me, am I?

Xav made a derisive noise as he shook his head. ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Wendy. I’m just saying that I don’t want all this to be based on a quick fuck whenever you need help with a case. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed the other night, of course I did, but it just makes me feel cheap.’

Standing up, Wendy went over to him, sitting on the arm of his chair. ‘Xav, I’d be coming to you for help regardless, because you’re the best there is. But yes, I find you attractive. And yes, I want to spend more social time with you. And, yes, I’ve been a complete dick and got myself so tied up in this case that I didn’t call or text. I should’ve done. But you know as well as any what we’re like when we get onto a case. It takes over. There’s not a whole lot we can do.’

‘What, and you don’t even have time to send a text? Or make a quick phone call on your way home?’

‘You didn’t text me either, Xav. Anyway, it’s not as easy as that. Sometimes I’m in meetings all day, or out interviewing witnesses. Sometimes I get home at stupid o’clock and just head straight to bed. It’ll be better once this case is over, I promise.’

‘And then what?’ Xav replied, getting heated. ‘Then you move on to the next case. Then the next case. Then the next case. This isn’t something that ends. Not until you retire or leave the job, anyway.’

‘That’s not true,’ she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. ‘Look, let me prove it to you. Tonight’s clearly a bit of a washout now, but how are you fixed for tomorrow night? I’ll book us a nice table somewhere, alright?’

Xav nodded.

Wendy smiled. ‘Alessandro’s, eight o’clock. You have my word.’

T
he rest
of the team had finally shuffled off home one-by-one, and Culverhouse eventually found himself doing the same.

When he got back to his place he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Ten to midnight. Then he looked over at the drinks cabinet and the decanter of whisky, glowing golden in the half light. No. Not tonight, he told himself.

Instead he went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, drinking half of it before his mobile phone started ringing on the coffee table, where he’d left it a moment earlier. He walked through and answered it, not recognising the number on the screen.

‘Culverhouse.’

‘Ah, Detective Chief Inspector. Sorry to call so late. It’s Colin Walsh here, from the Mildenheath History Society. You came over to my house earlier, about the Henderson woman.’

‘Yes. Hi. What can I do for you?’ Culverhouse replied, walking back into the kitchen.

‘I’ve been thinking about a couple of things you said. It didn’t quite make sense at the time, but now I think it does. You see, after you left I called Alan Carnegie, who’s our chief historian. He does a lot of local talks and things. Anyway, he mentioned that this Henderson woman had been in touch with him as well. Something to do with a local history group on Facebook. I don’t know, I don’t use it. But he recognised her name immediately when I told him about it. Said she’d been asking him questions about Pevensey Park.’

Culverhouse’s heart skipped. ‘What did he say?’

‘Oh, she just wanted to find out about the history, and about the terms of sale when the council sold the land to build the hospital. But that’s the funny thing, isn’t it? It’s the hospital she’s in at the moment. She never really showed an interest in any other areas of local history other than Pevensey Park, apparently. Which is odd considering the fact that it was just a park, really. There wasn’t a whole lot Alan could tell her.’

Culverhouse scrunched his eyes closed and scratched his head. ‘Mr Walsh, is it alright if I call you in the morning? I think there’s more we need to discuss, but it’s late. I need a clear head.’

‘Oh. Right. Yes, of course,’ Colin said.

‘Actually, can you give me a contact number for Alan Carnegie too? I’ll need to give him a ring. Best if I speak with him directly.’

Colin Walsh reeled off a phone number, which Culverhouse wrote down on his kitchen notepad before thanking him and hanging up.

At the end of a long, stressful day, he was struggling to connect the dots and work out the significance of what this all meant, but he had the distinct feeling that they were starting to get somewhere — that this might just provide the loose thread that could unravel the whole mystery.

Thinking briefly of the whisky decanter again, he headed off to bed.

T
he next morning
, Culverhouse phoned ahead to Alan Carnegie, agreeing to meet him at a coffee shop in the centre of Mildenheath. He was fine with that, as in his experience people tended to talk more openly and freely on neutral ground. In their own home they were far more guarded and tended to feel as though they were in control of the situation, whereas in a police station they tended to go into lockdown mode and say nothing of very much interest until the law got heavy and they had to either arrest or caution them — something they obviously couldn’t do with witnesses.

It was fair to say that a large percentage of the local population weren’t particularly keen on speaking to the police. Mildenheath had a bit of a reputation locally as being a town that had a high crime rate — something which was artificially skewed by its popularity as a drinking town on Friday and Saturday nights. The fact that a large amount of the anti-social behaviour was caused by people from outside of the town, or by people who otherwise wouldn’t say boo to a goose, didn’t change a thing. The police presence in Mildenheath was higher than in most towns, and that had the unfortunate effect of causing resentment amongst certain sections of the community.

Culverhouse was pleased to see Alan Carnegie — or the man he assumed to be Alan Carnegie — sitting at a seat near the window, nursing a latte. If he had to play Spot The Local Historian, this would be the first person he’d pick.

‘Alan?’ he asked, extending his hand. ‘Jack Culverhouse. You alright for a drink?’

Alan Carnegie indicated that he was fine, and Culverhouse went and got himself a straight black coffee. Fortunately, the barista didn’t ask him what type of coffee he wanted. As far as Jack Culverhouse was concerned, there was black coffee and white coffee, and even that was pushing it.

‘I understand Tanya Henderson got in touch with you about something to do with local history,’ he said, sitting back down. In his experience, it was always best to leave it to the witness to volunteer as much information as they wanted to — regardless of what you already knew.

‘Yes,’ replied Carnegie, smiling. ‘She wanted to know about Pevensey Park, that’s the area of land the hospital now sits on. It used to be a large public area. This is before the war, I’m talking about.’

‘Surely it’s a bit of an odd thing to ask about, isn’t it? A park that hasn’t existed for seventy-odd years. What sort of things was she asking?’

He stared into the distance for a moment. ‘I find it difficult to remember exactly. I didn’t think much of it, to be honest. But I do recall her asking about the terms of acquisition, when the land was acquired for the hospital. She wanted to know about leases, who now owned the land, what the terms were at the time with regards to reversion of rights. All that sort of stuff.’

Try as he might, Culverhouse couldn’t see why she’d want to know any of this information. It was decades in the past, and anyone involved in the sale of Pevensey Park would likely be long dead. ‘And what did you tell her?’ he asked.

‘There wasn’t a whole lot I could tell her. I did a bit of research for her and we found out that the land was on a long-term lease for the hospital, and that the hospital trust bought a stake in it a few years back. There’s nothing wrong with that, though. It happens quite a lot. Hospital trusts exist to ensure the future of the hospital, and to make sure they’ll be in a secure financial position to offer the best possible care to patients. As I understand it.’

‘But none of this makes any sense. Did she tell you what she was investigating?’ Culverhouse asked.

‘Nope. To be honest, I didn’t ask. She just seemed interested.’

Culverhouse realised that the vast majority of people probably weren’t interested in the history of the local area, and that Alan Carnegie had probably been only too happy to talk to her about it once she’d asked — much like how he seemed happy to talk to Culverhouse now. ‘She is an investigative journalist, Mr Carnegie. She looks into allegations of corruption or wrongdoing, and writes articles exposing crooks. It’s all very current stuff, though. She’s hardly likely to be writing about the sale of some council land more than seven decades ago.’

‘Ah, no, but the story doesn’t end there,’ Alan Carnegie said, leaning forward conspiratorially. He was definitely enjoying this. ‘You see, being involved with the Mildenheath History Society does have its advantages. We have a member who works for the council, in their planning and development department. What if I were to tell you that there were plans afoot to merge Mildenheath Hospital’s services into other county hospitals and clinics, sell the land and turn it into a huge housing development?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t be particularly surprised, but surely these things need public planning, consultation, all of that, don’t they?’

‘Yes, you’d think so, wouldn’t you? And I’ve no doubt there will be a public consultation. All that means, though, is that they’ll tell the public what they’ve already decided to do. These things are all done behind closed doors, Inspector. The decisions are made long before the possibility is even mentioned to the public. It’s all about money and kickbacks.’ He took a sip of his latte, shaking his head. ‘You mark my words: if they’re talking about the possibility of doing this, you can bet your bottom dollar the deal’s already done.’

C
ulverhouse wasted
no time in heading over to the council’s offices. He’d tried to phone ahead to Alan Carnegie’s contact, but he’d had no luck getting through. As he parked his car and went to get out, however, his phone rang.

‘DCI Culverhouse? It’s George Stretton here. I just got your message. Sorry, I couldn’t answer my phone when you called as I’m at work.’

‘Good. Because I’m sitting outside in the car park. Can you come out?’

‘Oh. Well, I don’t know. I mean, I’m technically on a break, but... What’s this all about?’

‘I’m investigating a very serious crime, and I think you might be able to help me with some information. Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. But I can promise you it’ll be made a whole lot easier if you come out and speak to me here.’

George Stretton suddenly sounded very nervous. ‘How do you mean? Why can’t you come in?’

‘I can do, but then I’d have to ask for you by name at the front desk. There’d be a record of me visiting and speaking to you. So, you can either come out here and give me the information I need informally, off the record, or I can come in and get it from you in there, on the record and with your employer’s knowledge. I’m happy either way, to be honest.’

Culverhouse could hear George Stretton swallowing at the other end of the phone. ‘What’s this all about?’ he asked again. ‘What makes you think I know anything that could help you? Or that I’d want to tell you?’

‘One, I’ll tell you what it’s all about when you come out here. Two, we have a mutual friend who already told me what you know, but I need to hear it from you directly. Three, it’s either that or a woman could die. You’re going to have something on your conscience by the end of the day, whether it be blowing the whistle or letting an innocent woman be killed. Your choice, George.’

Culverhouse hung up the phone and waited.

J
ust over a minute later
, the automatic doors at the entrance to the council building slid open and an ineffectual-looking man in his late fifties stepped out, glancing around. Culverhouse flashed his headlights, watching as the man paused for a moment before walking over. When he got to the car, George Stretton opened the passenger-side door and got in.

‘Right,’ said Culverhouse, not wasting any time on pleasantries, ‘I’m going to cut straight to the chase. I need you to do something for me, George. I need you to tell me all about the plans for knocking down Mildenheath General Hospital and turning it into a housing estate, and I need you to tell me now.’

George Stretton seemed nervous, but relaxed. ‘Inspector, you know as well as I do that all information is confidential...’

‘Because otherwise,’ Culverhouse continued, as if Stretton hadn’t said anything at all, ‘I’m going to go in that building right now and I’m going to speak to your boss. And I’m going to tell him everything that I already know, and I’m going to tell him it came from you. Either that, or you can tell me yourself. You can fill in the blanks for me, and no-one ever needs to know we spoke.’

George seemed to mull this over for a moment, but the logic was clear: it wasn’t speaking to the police he was afraid of, rather that his bosses would find out he’d spoken to them. He swallowed before speaking.

‘Look, there’s nothing underhand about it,’ he explained. ‘These things happen all the time. The government is trying to make cuts in public expenditure, and the NHS is one of those areas. Hospitals cost a lot of money to maintain, and many of those services can easily be amalgamated into—’

‘Cut the political shit, George. You’re sitting in the front seat of a fucking Volvo, not the panel of Question Time.’

‘No, I know. And I need to tell you that nothing’s definite yet, but there are some plans being put forward, yes.’

‘Who’s behind them?’

‘Behind them?’ George asked, seeming genuinely confused.

‘Yes, behind the plans. Who first made the suggestion? Who put in the application? Who’s lobbying for the hospital to be closed down and for the housing estate to be built?’

‘Well, quite a few people. There’s a consortium, of course, which—’

‘Who’s on it?’

‘It’s a combination of people,’ replied a rather bewildered-looking George. ‘Some are in favour, some against. At this stage it’s just councillors and the hospital trust.’

Culverhouse tried not to show any reaction. He knew what this meant: if it was only a few councillors and the board of the hospital trust, there’d be a very good chance that a lot of decisions would already have been made before it was opened up to wider consultation. He knew from experience that this was the way local politics often worked: backroom deals done and dusted behind closed doors in the interest of profit, then the false illusion of democracy by putting it out to a public ‘consultation’, which they’d then ignore and steamroller their plans through anyway.

‘Does the name Tanya Henderson mean anything to you?’ he asked George, keen to keep chopping and changing the subject slightly, trying to catch him off guard.

‘What? No. Other than hearing that she was attacked. She’s the reporter woman, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, she is. We think she might have been investigating something to do with the development of the hospital land. That’s why we need to find out as much as we can. What are the plans?’

George shuffled in his seat slightly. ‘The plan they’re discussing at the moment is for forty-five houses. All fairly decent sized ones, nice gardens. They’d probably sell for half a million each, if you ask me. If not more. They’re currently in the process of having private bids tabled by some local construction companies. But there’s only one that’ll get the job.’

‘Who’s that?’ Culverhouse asked.

‘The same one that always gets them. Avalon.’

‘Avalon Construction?’ Culverhouse asked, just to check he’d heard right. That was the company Gary McCann had a stake in. The same company that had built Callum Woods’s house in the East Midlands.

‘Yeah. They always get the jobs that the council’s involved in. All the major ones, anyway. It’s all a big fucking melting pot of backhanders and secret winks,’ George said, starting to open up about the feelings he’d clearly been holding onto for quite some time. ‘It’s due to be announced to the public in the next couple of weeks, and then there’ll be meetings and consultations, but they won’t mean anything. The deal will be done by then. Everything else is just a charade. Once they’ve decided they’re going to do it, they’ll do it. And nothing will stop them. Not with twenty-odd million quid at stake.’

Culverhouse suddenly realised exactly what Tanya Henderson had been trying to uncover, and why she had needed to uncover it so quickly. With Tanya lying in a coma in hospital, however, he knew the responsibility fell to one person: him.