Wendy followed her into the room. Certificates were hung in a jovial and haphazard manner on the wall closest to the counsellor's desk, shelves presenting teddy bears and stuffed bunny rabbits, a corner displaying all manner of children's toys. The three armchairs and the wall of books reminded Wendy that this was a serious, adult place. At that moment, she might have been more contented in the toy corner.
She sat down in one of the armchairs, as motioned by the counsellor.
“I'm Linda Street, and I'm a psychological counsellor. Now, I've read a few of your notes but I'd just like you to tell me in your own words why you're here and what you hope to get out of these sessions.”
What did she hope to get out of these sessions? What did she hope to get out of anything? What use was hope?
“Well, I'm back at work after having four weeks off on compassionate leave. My last investigation was on the team investigating the Bowline Knot murders recently.”
“And the murderer turned out to be your brother, am I correct?”
“Yes. He also killed my partner and tried to kill me, too.” Wendy spoke matter-of-factly as she relayed the bare essentials to Dr Street. She had cried so much over the past six weeks that she had no more tears to shed. Just cold, hard facts.
“And how did that make you feel?”
“How do you think it bloody made me feel?”
“I'd like you to tell me, Wendy.”
“Hurt. Used. Panicked. Dirty. Stupid. Foolish. Angry. Resentful. Devastated. Confused.”
“That's a lot of feelings.”
“It was a lot of drama.”
“And how does drama make you feel?”
What a bloody stupid question, Wendy thought. She hated drama. All she wanted was a quiet life. Granted, her career choice somewhat belied that fact, but she had never felt comfortable with confrontation. Unlike many of her colleagues, she was quite happy for her position to be slowly overtaken by a deluge of paperwork.
“I don't like it, on the whole.”
“And do you think that's conducive to your job?”
“I'm a good detective,” she said drily.
“I'm not disputing that, Wendy. I'm trying to find out whether your job might exacerbate your psychological state and cause you some problems which we'll need to iron out.”
“Iron out? My own brother framed my partner for a series of murders, killed him and then tried to kill me. Now I'm carrying a baby that has no father and a mother who doesn't know what to do.”
“You're pregnant?”
“Yes. Only a few weeks. I must have been pregnant at the time of Robert's death.”
“Do you think it's wise to be back at work so soon, considering? A pregnancy can make your psychological state very delicate indeed, and I'm not sure the physical stress of your job is the best thing to subject an unborn baby to.”
“That's out of the question, Doctor. I'm working on two very important cases right now. I promise you, if I sit at home and mope then I'll be a hundred times worse. I don't want this baby turning out to be a crackpot as well.”
“I'm not suggesting that you stay at home and mope, Wendy. Just that you take the rest and recuperation time that you and your baby both need.”
“What my baby and I need is to forget what happened and move on. All I have is my work and I need to work to forget. Even with the reminders that come with the job, I can't just sit around and do nothing. The last four weeks have been hell for me, Doctor. I have to keep busy.”
“I just think there are better ways for you to keep busy than to subject yourself to a high-stress job. The police force offers a fantastic range of support for—“
“I don't want support! I don't want help and I didn't even want to come to these fucking stupid counselling sessions, either. I don't want to talk about what happened; I just want to get on with my life.”
Janet Grey grinned masochistically as she tied her long blonde hair back into a bun, the hygienic cap sitting snugly over it. Culverhouse suspected that she got a kick out of seeing coppers baulk and retch at the sight and smell of a dissected cadaver. Pathologists got used to it eventually, but even the hardest and most experienced of coppers still had trouble.
“So, as I was telling you at the scene of the crime, this is a male body – not a female. The fact that the skull contained three pounds of sawdust where the brain should be was the major give-away.” She shot a wry smile at Culverhouse.
“Very good, Miss Grey. And there was me thinking this was a skilled profession.”
“Oh, it is. In fact, you'll be pleased to know that the real give-away was that his brain was actually larger than a woman's would be. Most men's brains are. We just use ours more effectively,” she added, before Culverhouse could speak.
“Is there anything we could use to try and identify the body? Dental records?”
“Not much left of the teeth, I'm afraid. They've been bashed around a fair bit.”
“Skin swabs?”
“Nothing that matches the police database.”
“Hair follicles?”
“Again, no match.”
“Great. So how the bloody hell are we meant to identify who he was?”
“I can tell you, Inspector. A Mr Robert Arthurs, of 9 Vicarage Road. Born 16
th
July 1953.”
“That's very precise, Dr Grey.”
“Yes, well it does help when the deceased remembers to keep his driving licence in his wallet.” Janet Grey grinned as she held up the pristine pink card. “Although, I would have thought you'd have checked that already.”
“Well, I must admit that when you've got a body with half its face and flesh missing, you don't tend to expect to need to go hunting for his library card.”
“First rule of policing, Inspector. Remember the basics!”
“Thank you, Doctor. I'll bear that in mind next time I'm telling you how to spend your day prodding at dead bodies.”
Janet Grey ignored the comment. “Your problem now, Inspector, is to find out who Mr Arthurs was and why he was in the warehouse.”
“Well, presuming he's the same Bob Arthurs who was a partner in Radley Stationery, I don't think that will be too difficult.”
Darren Parker had to get out of the house, if only for an hour or two. The constant, nervous waiting and anguish was too much. Would it look insensitive to go out for a drink or two? He told himself not. It would help him to cope.
He couldn't drink at his local, The Spitfire Inn. One thing he didn't want was to get dragged into conversation with people who would only ask about Danielle and whether there had been any news. He could do without that for one night.
The evening was warm, so he decided he'd head for the other side of Mildenheath. The George and Dragon – he'd not been there in a while. A few pints of bitter would slip down nicely; numb the pain. In his heart of hearts, he knew that phone call or visit from the police would come sooner or later. The thought of what he had to lose was unbearable. In his heart, Danielle was his.
He felt a drop of sweat running down his spinal recess, collecting in the waistband at the top of his shorts. Summer nights in Mildeneath were sometimes unbearably humid. The joys of living in a built-up area. An area where everyone knew everyone. An area where no secret was ever safe.
The welcoming noise of friendly chatter, barstools groaning on wooden floorboards and the smell of freshly-poured beer transformed the George and Dragon into a heavenly escape from the outside world. Pulling a barstool towards him, Darren ordered a pint of Sunshine Bitter and allowed himself to soak up the atmosphere and surroundings. He could allow himself to forget the outside world for an hour or two. God would grant him that.
A man adjacent to Darren was excitedly telling his friend about his news of the day. “I'm tellin' you, Pete. Absolutely mutilated. Ol' Mr Radley came in this mornin' and found 'im sat there in the middle of the ware'ouse. 'Alf 'is face missin', 'e reckons.”
“Shit. Sounds like a contract killing to me.”
“Nah, you've been watchin' too many of them gangster films, aintcha? Not too far from the troof, though. See, a few boys down the ware'ouse reckon ol' Gary McCann might 'ave 'ad summink to do wiv it.” The man's eyes widened and his voice lowered as he spoke his name.
“Gary McCann? You're having a laugh. I thought he'd packed that game in long ago.”
“Nah, not a chance. Only a couple of years ago 'e bumped off 'is wife, innit? Similar story, 'n all – baseball bat and an acid shower. Startin' to look a bit familiar, ain't it?”
“Too right there, Tel. Nasty piece of work, that McCann. Coppers nicked him yet?”
“No chance! 'E's got more lives than a bleedin' cat!”
The man known as Pete nodded and drained his glass.
The manilla folder left DCI Culverhouse's hand and landed with a
thwack
on the wooden desk. Wendy watched with interested as he rubbed his chin and grimaced.
“I knew it. I bloody well knew it.”
“Knew what, guv?”
“This Radley warehouse murder. I thought it sounded a bit familiar – baseball bat and hydrochloric acid. It matches the MO of another murder a couple of years back – one Tanya McCann.”
“How can you be sure? Sounds a bit vague.”
“I'm sure, all right. Firstly, we don't exactly get many people subjected to having their faces caved in with baseball bats and hydrochloric acid dumped on them on a regular basis in Mildenheath. Secondly, there are just too many links. One big link, in particular. Gary McCann.”
“A relation to Tanya?”
“Her husband. It was him who killed her. I mean, we were never able to get the evidence to convict him, but everyone knew it was him. He's a clever sod, that McCann, and we're not going to find it any easier this time, either.”
“But why would Gary McCann want to kill Bob Arthurs? What's the link?”
“Bob Arthurs was a partner in Radley Stationery. Let's just say that where there's a struggling business in the town, Gary McCann usually creeps up sooner or later. And so do the profits of the companies.”
“You mean he's a loan shark?”
“A loan shark, a fraudster, a money launderer and a downright gangster, if you ask me. As I say, we've never been able to pin any of it on him – he's too clever. He has this horrible tendency of propping up failing businesses with private loans and using the companies to launder money through. Rumour has it that he's got links with Moroccan drug cartels, but that's going to be even harder to prove. Wouldn't surprise me, though.”
“If he's got that much behind him, I'm amazed we haven't been able to pin something on him yet, guv.”
“Like I said. He's a clever bugger. A very clever bugger.”
“And you think he might have killed Bob Arthurs over some sort of business deal?”
“Officially? It's too early to say. Between you and me? He's guilty as sin.”
Luke Baxter was whistling an irritating tune as he casually filed papers away in the filing cabinet. Wendy had never been particularly hot on music, but she was pretty sure that he wasn't whistling a real song. You just know when someone is whistling for the sake of it.
“Do you fancy doing something constructive, Luke?”
“I'm a little busy right now, Wendy. Sorry. I might have some time free this afternoon, though.”
“Oh, might you?” She turned to Frank Vine. “Frank? Could you pop over to see Bob Arthurs' family and try to find out what they know about a Gary McCann? We believe there may have been some business links. The family might not have been aware, but it's worth a shot.”
Baxter piped up again. “No need, Frank. I've already done that this morning.”
Wendy could feel the blood raging through her temples. “You what?”
“I've already spoken to them. I had a tip-off that this chap McCann might have been involved so I went round and asked them on my way back here.”