“I'm sorry, Wendy.”
Dr Fraser's eyes lowered with sorrow as Culverhouse squeezed Wendy's hand. A choking sob was all she could manage.
The only thing to overwhelm her feeling of grief was that of shame. Wendy had lived through the pain of losing both her mother and her father as well as her lover in the space of a few years, and here she was mourning an unborn baby. A foetus. An embryo. A biological organism. It had no name and it had no life, but she found herself grieving harder than she could ever have expected. It had no form and it had no gender, but Wendy felt overwhelmed at the loss of what she saw as her little girl. It had always been a girl. Deep down, she knew that.
She could not shake the invasive, destructive feeling that it was her body that had killed the baby. If not her body, then her brain. Her stupidity. Just one foolish moment could end it all. A life which had no chance to flourish. A girl who had no chance to get married. A child who had no chance to have a mother. In more ways than one, she felt empty.
Wendy thought back to her childhood. The times when she was happy. The times she had desperately wanted her child to have. A loving parent who epitomised the perfect role model. That was what she had had, and that was all she had ever wanted to be for her child. Those long, never-ending summers spent building tree-houses and dens, all concept of time lost in the innocence and pure unbounded joy of divine youth. All of these things that she had had and wanted her child to have. The child that would never have them. The child that would never even know it had existed.
For the first time since the day before, Wendy responded to the doorbell. She knew it would be Jack.
On opening the door to see him stood there with a large bouquet of lilies and a sorrowful look on his face, she crumbled and sobbed heavily into the crook of his shoulder. For Culverhouse, this was an uncomfortable situation in so many ways.
“I … I don't know what to say.”
“That doesn't usually stop you,” Wendy remarked, in an attempt to maintain some normality, as though playing up to the character she knew she was. In real life. On any other day. In a world where her baby wasn't dead.
“How do you feel?”
“I don't know. I really don't know.”
“Did they … did they say anything about it?”
“There's nothing they can say,” Wendy almost whispered as she stared through red, tear-tinted eyes at the glass-panelled back door. “But I know it was a girl.”
“Oh. Did you …”
“Have a name for her? I didn't. But I do now.”
Culverhouse cocked his head to the side in anticipation of the answer.
“Roberta. My little Bobbi.”
The latch clicked shut gracefully, Jack allowing his body weight to sink into the door as he exhaled deeply. He wasn't particularly good in these sorts of situations. He knew that. He found it difficult to be the loving, caring shoulder to cry on. Ironically, that made it even harder and more emotionally draining for Jack Culverhouse, a man without emotion.
Pain and emotion are like drugs. The body becomes immune after a while. When one has felt deep pain and anguish, the threshold rises. Jack's had risen to the point where he wasn't sure he could feel pain any more. His heart told him otherwise. Inside, deep down, it still hurt incredibly. The worst part was not knowing where they were and whether they were alive. He'd dealt with thousands of missing people and runaway wives in the course of his career and he knew they'd be living the high life on a beach resort on the Costa Del Sol, in all probability, but that made it no easier. There was always that deep, dark, lingering thought.
Tonight was one of those nights where he didn't want to go to sleep. Sleep meant trying to sleep. Trying to sleep meant thinking. Thinking meant hurting. Once inside the kitchen, he pulled the coffee pot from the back of the cupboard and rummaged in the larder for filter papers and coffee. It was rare that his eyes even caught the gaze of most of these shelves. Eggs and bread could go a long way for a single man.
The kettle boiled and the coffee filtered, Jack sat down in his living room armchair with a copy of Ian Rankin's
Knots and Crosses
. He liked Rebus. Although the books were nothing like a far cry from what he faced every day at work, it was still escapism. An escape to a world where the bad guys always got caught and the good guys always won. An escape to a world that didn't exist. An escape to pure fantasy.
The ringing of the office phone went unanswered for four and a half rings before Culverhouse picked up the receiver.
“What?” he barked.
“It's Jackie on the front desk, Inspector. Uniform have just picked up someone who you've got a request out for. A Shane Howard. He's been taken in for shoplifting and we were about to let him go until we saw the note on the system.”
“Right. I'll be straight down.”
Culverhouse couldn't stop the smile from spreading on his face as he palmed open both of the double-doors to the custody suite and left them akimbo, as if to welcome an old friend.
“Ah! Shane Howard, we meet again!”
“Fuck off, Culverhouse.”
“Now now, Mr Howard. We're in my building now so we'll play by my rules. My friend here says you've been a bit of a naughty boy, so we're going to have to take you down to one of the interview rooms and find out what you know about a few other things we've got bugging us.”
“I ain't tellin' you nuffin'.”
“And if you'd bothered to turn up to school today, you'd know that you've just agreed to tell me everything.” Culverhouse kept talking over the top of Shane Howard's noisy protestations. “Jackie, can you call DS Knight down here for me, please? I think she'd like to have a word with Mr Howard as well.”
The atmosphere was a mix of nervousness and excitement as a still-smiling Culverhouse sat opposite a defiant Shane Howard, both of whom were waiting for the appearance of DS Wendy Knight.
Moments later, she entered the room and sat down, not making eye contact with Shane Howard or DCI Culverhouse.
“This interview begins at 11.26. Present are Mr Shane Howard; myself, DCI Jack Culverhouse; and DS Wendy Knight. Now, Mr Howard. You told us the other day that you knew Danielle Levy.”
Silence.
“You told us that you admitted having sexual intercourse with her and that you weren't surprised or shocked to find out that she had died.”
Silence.
“Do you have anything to say, Howard?”
Silence.
“Right. Well I don't see any point in carrying on this interview if you're not going to tell us anything. We'll put you in one of our honeymoon suites until we've decided what to do with you. Interview terminated at 11.27. Thank you, DS Knight. You may return to your duties.” Jack Culverhouse spoke calmly and with a slightly over-egged air of propriety.
As the door clicked shut behind Wendy, Culverhouse rose to his feet and lifted Shane Howard off his chair by the collar of his polo shirt and pinned him against the wall, his snarling face reddening and projecting spittle at Shane Howard as he blustered just centimetres away from his face.
“Right, you snivelling little shit. You're going to talk, and you're going to fucking talk good. Your actions the other day not only injured one of my best police officers, but killed an unborn baby. By rights, and in any other civilised country, I'd be shovelling six feet of pig shit on top of your rotting corpse. Unfortunately for me, the only corpses I have are those of a seventeen-year-old girl, a family man and an unborn baby. Now, you are going to tell me every little fucking thing you know about Danielle Levy.”
“I … I already told you everythin' I know!”
“Bullshit,” Culverhouse grumbled calmly, before delivering a blow to Shane Howard's stomach. Instinctively, his body began to curl before Culverhouse once again pinned him back against the wall.
“Let's try again. Tell me everything about Danielle Levy.”
Culverhouse had the grace to allow Shane Howard a few moments to regain his breath.
“All right. All right. Like I told you, I just shagged her a few times. It were nothing special, like. Just the usual, you know.”
“So who killed her?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
Culverhouse's face grew redder, his teeth beginning to bare.
“All right! I swear, I don't know! She weren't the kind of girl to have enemies, so I really don't know. I mean, there was girls at school what didn't like her as much as others, but nothing special, y'know? No-one who'd want to kill her, like.”
“Does the name Gary McCann mean anything to you?”
“McCann? Yeah, course it does. Why?”
“Tell me what you know about McCann.”
“Not much.”
Another blow to the stomach.
“Jesus fucking Christ! I told you, I don't fucking know him! Everyone knows who he is and that, but I don't know him personal, like. He's got a place on Meadow Hill Lane. Runs a few businesses. Nasty piece of work, apparently.”
“Did he know Danielle Levy?”
“I dunno, I doubt it. She might have worked in one of his pubs or something. I swear, I really didn't know her all that well.”
“You're not the only one. The more I find out about Danielle Levy, the less I know.”
It had been a matter of hours, really, since Wendy had lost her baby, yet she found herself sat in the waiting room at the counsellor's office once again. The counsellor she told herself she didn't need. The counsellor who spoke nothing but the truth. The counsellor who could now give her hope in her hour of need.
The room felt colder than before in so many ways. The whole world seemed cold now. Cold and empty, like her womb. She wasn't sure what she wanted and she wasn't sure what she was going to say, but she knew she needed to be here, needed to speak to someone who might understand. No-one would
really
understand, but Linda Street could try. Maybe condescension was what she needed.
Linda Street's office no longer looked warm and welcoming. The soft fluffy toys were as cold as ice, and the cosy plump chairs were as hard as steel. For a fleeting moment, she wondered whether anything would ever feel the same again.
Linda's voice was soothing and understanding. More so than normal.
“Wendy, what you've been through is extremely traumatic. The brain is a wonderful tool and it can cope admirably with many situations. The problem is, it's almost impossible to tell when it isn't coping until it's too late.”
“So you're trying to tell me I'm about to go mental?”
“I'm trying to tell you the brain is as fragile as it is wonderful. I don't know anyone who has had to go through the trauma you have in such a short space of time. Talking through these incidents will help your brain to deal with them and heal itself more quickly.”
“My brain isn't broken.”
“There's no telling what hidden damage has been done, Wendy. What do you have to lose?”
What do I have to lose? Fuck all. I've already lost it all.
Linda Street nodded and smiled at Wendy's silent acceptance.
“What do you feel, Wendy?”
“Nothing.”
“You must feel something. Do you remember the last time you came to see me? All those words you gave me to describe your mixed emotions?”
“Yes. And now I feel nothing.”
“Hurt?”
“No.”
“Dirty?”
“No.”
“Angry?”
“No.”
Her experience taving off exasperation, Linda Street paused for a moment.
“Empty?”
Wendy matched her pause.