Guilty as Sin (5 page)

“Luke, do you have any idea who this 'chap McCann' is?”

“Yeah, a bit of a dodgy bloke, if you ask me.”

“Dodgy doesn't come near to it, Luke. How dare you go off on a hunch behind everyone else's back?”

Baxter stayed silent, shuffling his feet uncomfortably. Frank Vine was the first to pipe up. “Uh, I knew.”

“You knew? So why did you say you'd go and speak to them again?”

“I didn't.”

“Who else knew?” The rest of the incident room was now shuffling as uncomfortably as Luke Baxter. “Right. So when I said you went behind everyone's back, you actually just went behind my back. Why didn't you tell me too, Luke?”

“You seemed busy.”

“I seemed busy? Of course I seemed fucking busy – I'm in the middle of a murder investigation!”

“All right, sorry.”

“Sorry? Is that it?”

“What else do you expect?”

“I expect you to keep
well
out of my way.”

The Prince Albert was a popular jaunt for the local police force, situated, as it was, directly next door to Mildenheath Police Station on Westgate. It was fair to say that there was rarely any trouble at the Prince Albert. Culverhouse picked up his pint of bitter and led Wendy over to the corner table at the front window. It was impossible to see anything through the frosted glass and net curtains, but it made Culverhouse feel safe and important. He was on watch.

Wendy sipped her orange juice delicately, as she always tried to do at first. After an evening sat talking to an increasingly inebriated Culverhouse, she knew she would progress on to larger and larger gulps. She admired the genteel decoration of the pub, the horse brass decorating the out-of-use fireplace.

It was Culverhouse who spoke first. “Baxter's had some good ideas and leads on the Danielle Levy case.”

“I bet he has.”

“Sorry, Knight. Can you sound a bit more jealous for me? I don't think I quite picked up on that.”

“I'm not jealous. I'm pissed off, if the truth be told.”

“With what? Baxter?”

“Yeah. I appreciate his input, but I can't help feeling a bit ... undermined at times.” A downright lie, and she knew it. She didn't appreciate his input. Not one iota. She thought he was an interfering little fuckwit and she would be glad to see him kicked off the case.

“He's not so bad. He needs to be eased in. He's a good copper.”

“Eased in? We've got a missing persons enquiry and a murder enquiry to deal with at the moment. How is that easing him in? He could be a liability, guv.”

“Nonsense. I think he'll add a lot of value to the team.”

“He lowers the value, guv! He's done nothing but interfere with my leads and undermine me since he started on these cases. I don't want to give any ultimatums, but I'm finding it bloody impossible to work with him.”

“Listen, Knight. Baxter's a promising young copper. All right, he might be a bit wet behind the ears but he's going to make a bloody good detective one day.”

“I doubt it.”

“I know it. I was once like that, Knight. The boy needs nurturing.”

“So he can turn out like you?”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Wendy stayed quiet. Very quiet. Her raised eyebrow old Culverhouse all he needed to know to answer his question. “Listen. The reason the powers-that-be don't like me is because I'm old school. All right, it might not be politically correct or any of that bullshit, but it works. I get results. That's why I'm still here. I was once like Baxter, a new copper full of ideas and aspirations to change the world. But the world can't be changed, Knight. It's a fucking shit world and it'll always be a fucking shit world. The best thing we can do is stamp on the shit. There aren't many coppers like me left,” And rightly so, Wendy thought, “and when I'm gone, this police force will go to pot with red tape and political correctness. Don't get me wrong, but every police force needs a bit of the old school.”

“And you think that turning Baxter into a carbon copy of you is going to help the police force?”

“He'll get results, like I get results. When I joined the force, the DI was a man called Jack Taylor. Now, he was old school. The whole police force was compared to how it is now, but DI Taylor was a visionary, Knight. He could see the way things were going, the way we weren't able to nick the bastards because of red tape and warrants coming out of our ears. DI Taylor was a good man. One night, we'd gone round to speak to a bloke who'd been battering his wife. She was sat on the stairs sobbing, unwilling to make a statement to us because she knew he'd get away with a ticking off and she'd be in for a right kicking when he got back. We couldn't touch him, despite the blood literally being on his hands. He let me get the first kick in, Taylor did. He stood there and watched as I beat that bastard to within an inch of his life. To this day, I still don't know why I did it, but I knew it was the right thing to do. You could see the pride on Taylor's face, knowing his legacy was in safe hands. And do you know what? The bloke never touched his wife again. Tell me that's what would happen if he went to court and got a fifty quid fine.”

“It doesn't mean that's the right way to go about things, guv.”

“Nonsense. Of course it's the right way to go about things. The woman called us because she wanted her husband to stop beating her up. We took action and he stopped beating her up. Job done. None of this namby-pamby political correctness bollocks. That wasn't the first or the last time, but I can tell you now that we got a result every single fucking time.”

“What happened to DI Taylor?”

Culverhouse fell silent, his eyes drawn to the dregs in his pint glass. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.

“He's not around any more.”

“Retired?”

“In a manner of speaking. He went too far one day. Funny thing is, he wasn't even on duty. He was in a post office queue and some little shit tried to hold it up with a gun. Taylor had seen more than enough of that in his time, so he stepped in. Wrestled the gun out of his hand and elbowed the kid in the face, knocked him clean out.” Culverhouse looked choked. “The kid went down and hit his head on the counter. Died two days later from a brain haemorrhage.”

“What happened to Taylor?”

“He was given the option of resigning or being pushed. Stupid old sod left them to sack him. Lost his wife and his house. All he ever had was the police force and when that was gone he lost everything. He always told me he'd die in his uniform, doing what he loved best for his country. Fact is, he died face down in a gutter with a bottle of Jack Daniel's in his hand.” A single, solitary tear built up on Culverhouse's lower eyelid and began its journey down his cheek. “And I will never forgive myself for not helping him. I will
never
let those bastards ruin our chances of getting real results. And if DS Baxter can take even 10% of that pride and belief with him in his career, I'll die a happy man.”

“That's why you're tying to fast-track him?”

“As best I can, yeah. The further up you get, the harder it is for them to get rid of you. I should know.” He let out a small laugh followed by a large sniff. Opening his mouth with a noise as if he'd just woken up, Culverhouse rubbed his red eyes and smiled at Wendy before finishing his beer.

Gary McCann's house sat proud at the end of a sweeping driveway, nestled behind black wrought iron gates on Meadow Hill Lane. The road was often considered to be the comparative
Millionaires' Row
of Mildenheath, if there ever could be such a thing. The town hardly had its fair share of millionaires, but Meadow Hill Lane was the closest it was going to get.

DCI Culverhouse pulled off the road and came to a stop before the gates, noticing that Gary McCann's driveway was perfectly sizeable before you even got as far as the gate. He got out of the car and approached the barrier, pressing the brushed silver button on the intercom system.

“Yes?”

“Mobile stripper for Mr McCann.”

“DCI Culverhouse. It's been too long.”

With that, the intercom crackled with the replacement of the handset and the gates clicked and whirred before slowly swinging open to welcome them in like old friends.

“Why does he have these gates and walls?” Knight asked, “He's not got a much bigger place than any of his neighbours and they've all got open driveways.”

“His neighbours probably aren't gangsters and crack dealers.”

“You'd be surprised. Some of the things that go on behind the most innocent of doors would amaze you.”

“Nothing amazes me any more, Knight.”

Culverhouse brought the car to a stop just outside the red brick porch, its twin arches framing the impressive red door. Before they had even reached the door, it opened to reveal the man who Wendy assumed must be Gary McCann. She reckoned he must be just over six feet tall, his greying-white quiff adding at least an extra two inches to his height. He had the eyes jowls of a hardened criminal, she had to admit, but he certainly cut a respectable figure in his open-necked suit and highly-polished patent leather Oxfords.

“Nice little place you've got here, Gary. What line of work are you in at the moment?”

“Investments, mostly.”

“So I hear.”

“You not made Superintendent yet?”

“I think that's about as bloody likely as you being hailed as the next Mother Teresa, don't you?”

“Oh, I don't know, Inspector. I do an awful lot for the local community.”

“Yes, but Mother Teresa mostly did good.”

“I've done no bad, you know that. You must have seen my criminal record – what there is of it.”

“Oh, I have. An awful lot of arrests on suspicion.”

“But nothing ever proven, isn't that right?”

“That doesn't make you the Good Samaritan, Gary. It just means we've not managed to catch you yet.”

“Yet?”

“Oh, yes. You know I'm going nowhere until I've got your bollocks stapled to my last arrest sheet.”

“I like you, Jack. You've got balls.”

“So have you. For now.”

Gary McCann shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and smiled. “Anyone fancy some coffee?”

“Yes please. Extra strychnine for me.”

“I was going to give you a double dose anyway, Inspector. And what about your colleague here? Sorry, I don't know your name.”

“Wendy … Uh, DS Wendy Knight.”

“Wendy. That's a lovely name.”

“That's DS Knight to you, McCann,” Culverhouse interjected.

“Oh, I thought we were all on first name terms?”

“We are, but she hasn't had her gloved finger up your arsehole as many times as I have.”

McCann smiled again and let out a small chuckle as he headed into the kitchen.

“Nice place,” Wendy said.

“Amazing what the proceeds of crime can buy.”

“He can't have done anything too bad, guv. If he's the gangland mobster you make him out to be we'd have been able to nail something on him by now.”

“You ever tried nailing jelly to a wall?”

“Can't say I have.”

“Try it. The day you get that to stick is the day we get this to stick.”

“Sorry, only got instant, I'm afraid,” Gary McCann said as he handed over the mugs to Knight and Culverhouse.

“Make a habit out of sneaking up on people, do you Gary?”

“I don't know what you mean, Inspector. Would you like sugar?”

“I'm sweet enough.”

“Indeed. And perhaps that coffee isn't the most bitter thing in this room, eh?”

“I'm not bitter, McCann. Every time you slip through my fingers only makes me more fucking determined to nail you the next time.”