In Too Deep (Knight & Culverhouse Book 5) (9 page)

‘
N
ow
, this is interesting...’ Ryan said, when only Wendy was in earshot.

Wendy had only just returned from the hospital after speaking with Julian Mills, and had been hoping for a few minutes alone with a mug of coffee. ‘What’s that?’ she replied, trying to sound as friendly and accommodating as possible.

‘I’ve been reading up more on the past articles Tanya Henderson wrote, all these scandals and things she’d been investigating. The footballer, Callum Woods, the one she exposed for his addiction to prostitutes? Get this. There’s a quote from him in a news article here: “When asked for his response, Woods had no comment to make on the allegations, only saying, ‘This has ruined my family and affected my career. People never think of these things. How would this so-called journalist appreciate her whole life being ruined?’ The footballer, who scored two goals in the...” And it goes on. You get the picture. But what about that, eh?’

‘Interesting,’ Wendy said. ‘What, you reckon it was a direct threat?’

‘I dunno. Sounds to me like the paper called him up for a comment and he was too livid to even realise what he was saying. It’s an old CIA technique from the States. Get them cornered and flustered, and they’ll say all sorts. They’re too busy worrying about what could go wrong to even think about what they’re saying at the time. And that’s when the real person comes out.’

Wendy pursed her lips. ‘Could be something in it. But what are we saying? That this Callum Woods attacked Tanya?’

Ryan winked at Wendy. ‘I’m not saying anything. Only that it might be worth speaking to him and finding out a bit more. I mean, think about it. This guy’s earning tens of thousands a week. He’s married with kids, and he’s going around having his wicked way with sex workers. His wife’s not going to be keen on that. His teammates probably aren’t going to respond all that well, either.’

‘Oh come on,’ Wendy said. ‘You think they’re not all at it?’

‘Possibly. But then there’s the crowds, too. The supporters. Footballers are role models these days. Callum Woods was being touted for an England call up just a few days before that story broke. That was a year ago, and he’s still not played for them. His whole career seems to have been put on pause. It’s only recently that he’s started picking up form on the pitch again, apparently.’

‘But why wait a year? Why do something stupid like this now, when things are just starting to pick up again for him? If he was going to attack her, wouldn’t he have done it months ago? When the pain was still fresh?’

Ryan shrugged. ‘Who knows? Footballers are hardly known for their brains, are they? Got to be worth speaking to him at least.’

‘We’ll need to get Culverhouse’s approval. Where is he?’

‘No idea,’ Ryan replied.

‘Anyone seen the guv?’ Wendy called to the rest of the room.

‘I think he went to see the Chief Constable,’ Steve Wing said. ‘I wouldn’t want to disturb them if I were you. I’d probably give it an hour after he gets out, too. Make sure all the steam’s gone out of his ears first.’

Wendy turned back to Ryan. ‘Where’s this Callum Woods live?’

‘Not sure. I’d imagine somewhere in the East Midlands, looking at who he plays for. I can give the club a ring and see if they’ll give us his home address. Either that or get the local force to find it for us. But that might be a bit official.’

Wendy agreed. ‘True. Last thing we want is to give the guy any more bad publicity, especially if he’s innocent. I tell you what. Find out who his agent is and get in touch with him. That’s got to be the best way. It’ll be in the agent’s best interest that he cooperates with us for the sake of his client, and he’ll want to keep it on the hush-hush too, for obvious reasons.’

‘Good idea. I’ll get onto it.’

‘Here we are,’ Frank Vine said, as he put down the phone. ‘Confirmation from the science bods. The weapon used was a crowbar, they reckon. One of the new stainless steel ones. They reckon if it was one of the old powder-coated ones there’d be traces of paint or something.’

‘Good. Nice one, Frank. Now we need to get onto local retail outlets and see if we can find out who bought a crowbar there recently. In the last month, perhaps.’

‘Seriously?’ Frank asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘I mean, I’m not being funny but what does a crowbar cost? A fiver? Tenner? Whoever it was will’ve paid in cash.’

‘Then with any luck they’ll be on CCTV somewhere. Most shops will have itemised tills, so they’ll be able to drill down to when any crowbars were sold. Maybe get onto the online retailers and the big chains, too, see if any were ordered for home delivery within a twenty-mile radius over the past month.’

‘Might want to check Callum Woods’s garage, too,’ Ryan quipped.

Frank made a quiet snort of derision. ‘That useless twat couldn’t hit a barn door with a banjo, never mind a woman’s head with a crowbar.’

Turning to Ryan, Wendy lowered her voice. ‘Depending on how Callum Woods appears when we speak to him, we might want to take a closer look at his records, too. Bank and credit card statements, phone bills, all that sort of thing. Even if he’s involved, it’s highly unlikely he’ll have done it himself. Actually,’ she said, turning back to the others, ‘do we have any news on Tanya Henderson’s call logs?’

‘Nope, just the silent call a minute or so before she was attacked. Came from an unregistered pay-as-you-go mobile, in the vicinity of the IP’s house. Never been switched on or used before then.’

‘Nothing in the texts or other phone calls?’

‘Nothing of interest, no. Just calls to and from the office.’

Wendy sighed. The likelihood was that Tanya Henderson had all her conversations in person, one-to-one. Everything was kept off the record.

Being security-conscious was one thing, but in Tanya Henderson’s case it had proven to be more of a hindrance than a help.

C
ulverhouse hated
airports at the best of times. They were always either full of people happy to be going on holiday, or miserable at having to go away for work or return home for a family funeral. He certainly wasn’t going on holiday, but he didn’t want to be surrounded by a bunch of miserable bastards either.

The departures information board showed him that the flight to Alicante was due to leave in two hours. He’d packed light — hand luggage only, as he didn’t know how long he was going to be staying for. If García’s contact had been wrong, he’d be in and out within a few hours. If he needed to stay longer, well, he’d taken plenty of cash and credit cards. He’d be able to buy anything he needed while he was over there.

He’d tried to speak to Charles Hawes after the call with García, but he hadn’t been in his office, and having looked up the next flights to Alicante, he certainly wasn’t going to hang around to ask for permission. Sometimes, things were more important than work. Hawes would understand. He’d have to. And if he didn’t, tough. Culverhouse could feel himself being squeezed out of the job from either side as it was. If he managed to find Emily, they could shove the job. Let the bastards win. He wouldn’t care. As long as he found Emily.

The newsagents and duty-free shops were mobbed with people wheeling suitcases around, picking up copies of newspapers they never usually read and bottles of perfume they’d never usually buy. An announcement on the loudspeaker called for a passenger on the Krakow flight to return to the check-in desk as quickly as possible. All these people, going to all these places, all over the world. It was as if the whole of the planet’s population had been distilled down into this small representative sample. Even with that, however, the place was still overrun with bald-headed beer-bellied blokes in England shirts, getting tanked up ready for their week in Benidorm. Culverhouse made a note to apologise on behalf of his country while he was over there.

He went into the newsagent and bought himself a copy of a newspaper he’d never usually read. It was a way to pass the time, he supposed. He flicked through the pages absentmindedly, his eyes scanning over stories of wars in the middle east, corruption in American politics, scandals in sport. It was all doom and gloom. It was one of the reasons why he never usually read newspapers. Surely some good things must be happening in the world? Apparently not.

Instead, he decided to buy a book — the travel diaries of some bloke he’d never heard of — and managed to lose himself in it for the best part of an hour, before realising that the coffee he’d ordered had gone cold. He looked at the drink and grunted, before getting up and heading for the security area.

It was a good half an hour before he finally got through security, having put his belt back on, re-tied his shoes and filled his pockets back up with all of the things they were filled with that he probably didn’t need. The departures information board told him the flight to Alicante was now boarding, so he headed for gate twenty-one as indicated.

The number of people queuing at the gate seemed enormous. How could that many people possibly fit onto a plane? The truth of the matter was that most of them were probably heading off for a week’s holiday, or perhaps even going out to their second home. Jack definitely needed a piece of that; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone on holiday. Certainly not since Helen had left, anyway.

He wondered momentarily if it was worth it. What was he doing this for? Was it for Emily or for himself? He wasn’t entirely sure, but in his heart of hearts he really thought it was for Emily. Before now, he hadn’t done half as much as he could’ve done to try and find them. But that’s because he knew he wouldn’t be a good father. He knew Emily would be better off with Helen, better off away from the poison that was having a father in the police force. A father who left in the early hours and came back in the even earlier hours. A father who could only ever see bad in people. Emily deserved more than that.

Since Helen had returned, though, his thoughts had changed slightly. Emily still deserved the best, but Jack was becoming less and less sure that the best option was for her to be with Helen. It wasn’t just the fact that she’d developed a mental illness — although that did play a part — but he could also see how much Helen had fallen apart over the years. She wasn’t the strong, confident woman he remembered.

Before she’d returned, Jack was certain that Emily was safe with Helen. If anyone could cope with leaving the country and raising a child on their own, Helen could. That’s what he’d thought back then. Now, though, he doubted it gravely.

Emily was at that age now where she was becoming extremely impressionable. The early teens were hell for any parent, but a single mother living in a foreign land with a mental illness surely had to raise a few eyebrows. In Jack’s case, it was more that he was worried for the future of his daughter. He knew how easily influenced young adults were. He saw it all the time. He could predict with remarkable accuracy which twelve- and thirteen-year-olds in Mildenheath would be in prison before their twenty-first birthdays. Forward planning, he called it. He didn’t want Emily to be one of those.

The queue seemed to be taking an age to move forward, but Jack now had only three people in front of him. Within a few minutes they’d be in the air and he’d be on his way to potentially see his daughter for the first time in nine years. No more putting work first. This was it: time for him and her. Together.

His phone started to vibrate in his pocket, so he fished his hand in and pulled it out. It was DC Debbie Weston’s direct dial number.

‘Debbie, what is it? I can’t really talk right now.’

‘It’s Tanya Henderson, guv. She’s woken up.’

T
he sounds are clearer
, richer. The words are beginning to make sense. I can feel my heart rate increasing, sense the first surge of adrenaline.

Then I slip behind again, the fog and the fuzz overtaking me. I try to hold on, try to clear the mist, and this time I’m successful.

The noises are loud, almost painful. Every sound vibrates and rings in my ears.

I think I’ve been awake for some time, but I’m not really sure what awake means. I think I’m conscious, but I still struggle to will myself to do the things I want to do.

It sounds strange, but I don’t even know if my eyes are open. It’s difficult to tell. I don’t even know what vision is. I’ve seen things — crisp, clear images — but I know I wasn’t actually seeing them. It’s like those first few seconds after waking up from a vivid dream, not quite knowing which reality is real. It’s a state of perpetual confusion, your brain telling you one thing and showing you another.

The light begins to burn. It’s not a light that suddenly appears; it seems as though it’s been there all along, but it’s only just started to seep through, only just started to burn. It’s another level of increasing awareness, as if different areas of my brain are slowly unlocking. It’s like walking around the house first thing in the morning and drawing all of the curtains. Each drawn curtain lets in more light, allows you to see more of the outside world.

I feel a gasp rising from my lungs, can hear it as it escapes my lips.

I become aware of my own breathing, aware of it increasing in speed.

I hear voices. No meaning. Just words.

I start to pick out a sense of what those words mean. The confusion tries to take over, but I fight it back.

I hear a word and I know immediately what it means.

‘Tanya?’

It’s a word full of meaning. A word which anchors me in the here and now. Something for me to grasp onto. Something for me to use.

‘Tanya?’

I feel a hand on my wrist. It’s calm, reassuring. I don’t know whose it is, but I like it. It comforts me.

The words begin to echo and fade, before conglomerating into a roaring noise. It crescendoes, with a crystal clear silence lingering afterwards. Then I hear the words again, this time soft, distinct.

‘Everything is okay, Tanya. Try to breathe slowly. You’re doing just fine.’ The voice is soothing. I recognise the accent. It’s a soft Scottish lilt. ‘Tanya, do you know where you are?’

I hear another voice. One I recognise. ‘Can we give her a few minutes? Do the questioning after?’

The Scottish voice speaks again, this time quietly, addressing the voice I now recognise as John’s. ‘It’s a fairly lengthy process, Mr Henderson. We need to test a range of stimuli both immediately after she wakes up and then throughout the following hours and days.’

All of these words make sense to me, but not in this situation. Why are they talking in this way? Are they talking about me?

‘Do you know where you are, Tanya?’ the Scottish voice asks again.

I try to speak, but I can’t. My chest burns with the effort. I try to shake my head, slowly. I don’t know if I’m succeeding, but my neck creaks and groans, the shockwaves vibrating up through my skull. I manage to force a half-groan, half-whisper.

‘No...’

‘You’re in Mildenheath General Hospital, Tanya. Don’t worry, though. You’re going to be alright. There was an incident and you were hurt, but you’re doing fine. Do you remember what happened?’

I try to take another breath, before repeating the same word.

‘No...’

There’s a pause. ‘Okay. Try not to worry too much. Tanya, can you tell me how old you are?’

I know this answer instinctively.

‘Thirty-five.’

The words seem to take an age to leave my lips. My voice sounds raspy.

‘And where do you live, Tanya? Which house number?’

‘Manor Way. Twenty-three.’

‘That’s great. Well done. Do you remember anything about what happened the other night? About the incident?’

I try to force myself to remember. I know I need to. But there’s nothing. I can’t even identify the last thing I do remember.

I try to shake my head again, but it hurts.

‘No.’

‘Okay,’ the voice says. ‘We can come back to that.’

‘What about work? Do you remember what you were working on?’ The voice is John’s.

I don’t. I don’t remember anything. I know it was important. Big. Huge. But it feels like the more importance I attach to it, the less my brain is letting me remember.

‘No.’

‘You need to try to remember, Tanya. Can you remember anything? Names? Locations? Anything.’

I can’t. I can’t. I’m trying, but I can’t.

‘No...’ I say.

I hear a female voice. ‘Her heart rate and breathing are increasing.’

‘It’s okay, Tanya. Not to worry. You stay relaxed. Breathe slowly,’ says the Scottish voice. ‘I think we should leave it there for the moment.’

The reassuring hand on my wrist squeezes me tighter, before letting go.