Guilty as Sin (7 page)

“What information are you looking for at this time?”

“We're looking for anyone who may have known Bob Arthurs and can provide us with some more insight into his life. He seems to have been a very secretive man, but someone clearly had a grudge against him. We would also like people locally to be vigilant and let us know if they spot and odd behaviour in close friends or relatives which may be linked to the events of Tuesday night and Wednesday morning. Please do call the incident room if you think you may have some information, no matter how insignificant. Even the smallest details can help enormously.” Culverhouse died a little inside as he said this, knowing damn well that it would lead to all manner of crank callers.

The incident room was abuzz with ringing phones and the chatter of numerous officers frantically taking notes from all manner of callers. Culverhouse sauntered about the room, glancing at notepads over the shoulders of officers. The investigation was barely hours old, but it seemed to Wendy that Culverhouse had visibly aged; his once-crisp white shirt now hanging loosely over the top of his trousers, stray locks of hair teasing his glistening forehead.

“Anything of note yet, Baxter?”

“Nothing, sir. Although I did speak to one little old lady who was convinced she saw Danielle Levy disappear on Friday lunchtime.”

“She did?”

“Yep. Sucked up by a beam of light into a waiting spacecraft, by all accounts. She even reckons the aliens left her a message not to tell anyone, but she decided to defy them anyway.”

“I wish she bloody hadn't. Have we had anything
useful
?”

“Not from what I'm seeing, sir.”

“Right. Steve – anything on the Bob Arthurs case?”

“Nothing, guv. We seem to be at a dead end.”

“Not a dead end – just the one open avenue, and Gary McCann is sat right in the middle of the lane.”

“Do we have enough information for a search warrant?”

Culverhouse removed a sheet of folded paper from his back pocket. “Apparently so. In fact,” Culverhouse said, glancing at his watch, “the forensics boys should be on their way down there now. I think I'll pop in and see how Mr McCann's getting on.”

“He'll be only too pleased to see you, guv.”

The gates to Gary McCann's house were already open as Culverhouse negotiated the gravel driveway and parked his car in front of the house. McCann was stood in the driveway, watching closely as white-suited forensics officers entered and exited the house with all manner of technical equipment and personal belongings.

“I hope your men know what they're doing, Inspector. I'd like to see what grounds you've got for searching my bloody house.”

“No need to get agitated, Mr McCann. If you're innocent then I'm sure all will be fine.”

“It'll be even less fine, Inspector Culverhouse, because I'll be having a little conversation with your Assistant Chief Constable.”

Culverhouse knew that Charles Hawes would be more than happy to speak to Gary McCann about a few choice cases he'd looked at in the past. He was quite sure, though, that the conversation would be somewhat one-directional. “I'm sure he'd be delighted to speak with you, Mr McCann. Now, do you have any questions regarding the investigation?”

“Other than what the bloody hell do you think you're playing at?”

“We're investigating the murder of Bob Arthurs, Mr McCann.”

“And you think I killed the silly old bugger?”

“I think you might have information that could help advance our investigation.”

“Very tactful, DI Culverhouse. Not like you at all. Starting to go a bit soft in your old age, are you? Or are you just starting to get over the fact that your missus did a runner?”

Culverhouse visibly stiffened at the mention of his wife – a sign which didn't go unnoticed by Gary McCann, who responded with a knowing smirk.

“People die all the time, Inspector. You know that. And people go missing quite a lot, too.”

“I presume we're still talking about Bob Arthurs.”

“You tell me, Inspector. You tell me.”

As Culverhouse entered the dining room, he watched with awe as the forensics team bagged invisible samples and dusted inconsequential items with painstaking accuracy.

“Don't make too much of a mess, will you, boys? I've only just had this bloody carpet put in.”

“I'm sure my men will do whatever it takes, Mr McCann. Anyway, I'm quite sure you've got nothing to worry about.”

“If you were that sure, Inspector, you wouldn't be here ripping my bloody house apart.”

“Oh, I only said I was
quite
sure, Mr McCann.”

Gary McCann swaggered slightly as he took a step towards Culverhouse, their noses barely inches apart. “So you reckon I bumped off Bob Arthurs, do you?”

Jack Culverhouse, man of logic, was sometimes entirely illogical. He had long wondered why he bothered to walk to the local shop and buy that day's copy of
The Times
at nine o'clock in the evening, almost a full twenty-four hours after the news was barely fresh in the first place. The
BBC News
website and a copy of
Crossword Monthly
would be an adequate replacement, but nothing could beat the creature comfort of a fresh newspaper in the evening.

He could feel the sweat and oils from his hands ruining the print on the front page as he defaced the image of a smiling Michelle Obama. As he walked up the hill from the parade of shops and back onto the main road, Jack's heart skipped a beat. The figure stood at the bus stop looked all-too familiar. A familiar stranger. On any other day, he would have walked past without even taking a second glance. He told himself that she had been occupying his mind far too much recently.; he was even starting to see her in the street.

Perhaps this was how he wanted to imagine her: gaunt, drawn and a relic of her former self. Maybe he wished all these things on her; a punishment for walking out on him and taking their only child with her. She had no reason to be in Mildenheath. The last thing he heard was that she had briefly visited her parents in Cornwall before heading for the Southampton ferry barely days after having left him.

His mind was playing tricks on him, he decided, and picked up his pace as he walked on.

*

Shit.
Had he seen her? She fucking hoped not. Stupid,
stupid
idea. She wanted desperately to speak to him, to have it out with him, but how was she ever going to do that if she couldn't even make eye contact with him without diving behind a bloody bus shelter?

She drew forcefully on her cigarette, the calming nicotine filling her lungs, her hands shaking and flicking the ash over her jacket as she tried to hug herself warm.

The police car slowed before pulling into the bus stop.
Great. Fucking great.

“You all right, love?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Fine, thanks.”

“Only buses don't run from here at this time of night.”

She cocked her head to the side and looked at the sodden timetable which adorned the bus shelter.
Shit.
19:28. Half-past seven, not half-past nine.

“Oh, right. Sorry. I misread the timetable.”

“You not from round here?”

“Not any more, no.”

“Mind if we take some details from you, love?”

“Why? Misreading a bus timetable isn't an offence.”

“No, but we've had a lot of reports of … well, street-walkers around this area recently. We just need to take a few details.”

Street-walkers?
This is what her life had come to: quivering in a bus stop with only a Marlboro Light for company, being mistaken for a prostitute. “I'm not a hooker, all right? I misread the timetable.”

“Where are you staying tonight?”

“With an old friend.”

“They live local?”

“Fairly local, yeah.”

“Right, OK. Well be careful, all right? Lots of nasty sorts around here at this time of night.”

She knew. Oh, she knew.

DCI Culverhouse sat in his living room armchair and glanced forlornly at the photographs of Danielle Levy. Barely seventeen years old and, in his heart of hearts, he knew the increasing likelihood was that she would be found dead. He found himself lost in a world of imagination as Danielle almost came to life before his eyes. He had visions of her getting ready for a night out, sitting around with her friends discussing boys and make-up. She would have had no problem getting into nightclubs, that was for sure. Her looks were mature, and she would certainly pass for being in her twenties.

All girls grow up too quickly nowadays. Jack's own daughter would be almost in her teens by now. The pain and sorrow choked up as his visions of Danielle Levy became visions of his own daughter, her features transforming before his very eyes. It was true to say that he had no idea what she would look like nowadays, but he was sure she'd be beautiful. He could see her all grown up. The boys and make-up, the getting into nightclubs. The screams of terror. The dark, congealing blood and empty, staring eyes.

Shaking the vision from his mind's eye, he reminded himself that Danielle Levy was probably still alive; his daughter even more so. He hoped to God he would see them both soon.

Culverhouse was jolted out of his phantasmal daydream by the ringing of his mobile phone. As he pressed to answer the call, he could utter nothing more committal than an absent-minded “Mmmm?”

“Guv, it's Frank Vine. We've received a call from a dog walker. They've found a body. We think it might be Danielle Levy.”

The dense wooded area sat aside the train line between Upper Berrydale and Middlebrook, a peaceful and tranquil location but for the cutting sound of London-bound trains every few minutes. It was clear to Culverhouse that sunlight rarely permeated any part of this wood. It smelt dark and musty, hundreds of years' worth of rotting leaves and vegetation compacting to form the rich compost on which he now stood.

“Right, where is it?”

“Down there, guv,” Frank Vine offered, pointing to the crater-sized dip in the forest floor which was coated with a thick layer of deep-green ivy. Grunting to himself, Culverhouse scuttled down into the crab position and worked his heels down the steep edge of the ravine. Losing his footing just once or twice, he righted himself at the bottom of the dip and almost overcompensated but for the saving grace of a well-place tree trunk.

“Just to your right, guv. Over towards the birch tree. You'll see the newspapers.” Makes a change from black bin liners, Culverhouse supposed.

He made his way, slowly but surely, towards the body, being careful not to tread anywhere he shouldn't.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Is there a problem, guv?”

“Yes, there's a fucking problem. You told me you had a
body
.”

“It
is
a body, guv.”

“It's not a fucking body, DS Vine. Bodies have heads, arms, legs and a torso. This is a half-formed cadaver with the majority of the skin and bone melted into mush.”