Authors: Simon Hall
‘I’d …’ His voice faltered. ‘I’d just like to know. I’m guessing you set up that domestic violence web site?’
A pause, then, ‘Correct.’
‘With its chat room?’
‘Correct.’
‘So you could see how desperate some of the women had become?’
‘Correct.’
‘And you monitored their chat?’
‘Yes.’
‘And contacted them from there. With an offer of help?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you went round to their houses to see where it could be done? And you found a place where the shooting could be carried out without PC Gardener seeing? So you arranged a time when you knew you would be on shift and so called to the house as the nearest armed-response officers?’
‘Correct.’
‘And you wiped their computers to leave no trace of the domestic violence site, or the chat you’d had with the women? There’d be no evidence left at all.’
‘Correct.’
‘And you told the woman exactly how to behave. How to engineer a row?’
‘Yes.’
‘How to make the 999 call so when you were dispatched to the house, you were told there was a risk to life? So it sounded like the man was armed? So you would be sent straight to them as a priority?’
‘Correct.’
‘You told them where to collapse, or curl up in a ball and refuse to move? Exactly where you needed them to be so you could shoot the man without PC Gardener seeing it? And that you would be there within ten minutes of their call?’
‘Yes.’
‘And finally her having a knife there, somewhere on the side, something she’d saved with his fingerprints on? She’d have that somewhere close by where she’d collapsed so you could just nudge it into place on the floor and make it look like he was about to stab her before he was shot? So even if it was still moving, it would look to PC Gardener simply as though the man had dropped it when you shot him? And the knife would have the dead man’s fingerprints on, but not yours, because you nudged it onto the floor with your gun, or your arm?’
‘Correct. I used my elbow, in fact, but very good Whiting. Very good.’
‘And then the stories, yours and the woman’s, tie up? And all the ballistics and forensics evidence tally too, along with the man’s fingerprints on the knife. And PC Gardener’s account as well, even though he’s entirely innocent. So all we’ve got is suspicion about the similarities, but no evidence at all. So we have no choice but to let you go back to your duties?’
‘Correct. Well done. You got it all Whiting. Clever you.’
‘How many more did you intend to kill?’
‘As many as I could, until …’
‘Until?’ prompted Whiting, unable to stop himself. ‘Until what?’
The gun was still pointing straight between his eyes. Whiting kept his hands raised, sat motionless.
‘Until …’ said Crouch slowly. ‘Until I started to feel Marie had been avenged.’
Whiting remembered not to use her name. He didn’t like the blank look that had slipped into Crouch’s eyes. ‘And then?’
‘Who knows? I did some research on countries with no extradition treaties with Britain. There are plenty. Or perhaps I wouldn’t have fancied that. Maybe I’d just have died trying to get some justice for Marie and women like her. Or maybe now, I’ll shoot you – in the name of all the brave police officers you’ve hounded – then drop the gun, let them arrest me and go to trial. So I can make a real statement about what happens to women who suffer with violent … bastard … men.’
Crouch’s finger had begun to tremble on the trigger. Whiting kept his hands up, didn’t say anything, but wondered how long he’d got before Crouch tired of talking. He knew almost all he needed now. Almost.
He risked a glance along the hallway. How to get to that doorway?
‘Anyway, while we’re talking, there is one thing I’d like you to know,’ said Crouch, his voice changing again, sounding almost friendly. Whiting wondered if that was even more frightening.
‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but it’s important to me. No one else knows about what I’ve achieved, of course, so you might as well.’
‘Go on,’ said Whiting, curious despite the danger.
‘When I set up that web site, I had no intention of doing what I did. I genuinely meant to offer the women a place for support and advice. It was a way of making Marie’s death less meaningless. It was only when I started to hear the terrible stories of abuse and suffering that I began to make my plans.’
Crouch’s face tightened and the gun wavered slightly. The barrel looked so big, so deadly.
‘I never heard it from Marie, you see,’ he continued. ‘She always hid it. The first time I knew what she’d been through was in court, when it all came out at his trial. Imagine that. The jury, the barristers, solicitors, judge, public, journalists, all getting to hear about what my little girl had suffered. And I knew nothing about it. Me, her father and a police officer.’
He flinched, a tic twitching at his cheek. Whiting could see he was back there in the courtroom. With his free hand Crouch reached up and stroked the silver cross around his neck. But the gun didn’t move, was still pointing straight between Whiting’s eyes.
‘So when I started to hear it from these other women too, I decided to do something about it.’ Crouch’s voice grew sharper. ‘I’d lost Marie. The trial was a joke. He was let off with a suspended … sentence.’ He spat the words out. ‘His barrister argued he was a loving husband who’d been provoked, that he was wracked with remorse and the judge swallowed it. He got a suspended sentence. You call that justice?’
The gun barrel was wavering hard now, swaying back and forth. Whiting went to wipe the sweat from his forehead then stopped himself, intensely aware of how his movement could be misinterpreted. He kept his hands raised.
‘Anyway, that’s enough talking,’ said Crouch with sudden decision in his voice. ‘It’s time to say goodbye.’
The finger was steady on the trigger. Whiting felt a shuddering shock of fear. One more thing needed to be said, just the one. It was dangerous, so dangerous, and if he got it wrong …
He could feel that bullet bursting through his mind, taking his life in a millisecond of its deadly, obliterating passage.
‘Just before you do that, I’ve got something important to tell you,’ hissed Whiting. ‘As we’re talking about justice.’
‘Oh yes?’ Crouch said warily. ‘Really? Or are you playing for time by any chance?’
Whiting took a shallow breath, all that he could manage. He was shaking and his throat felt painfully dry. He could almost feel that bullet exploding through his brain.
‘No. It’s important. For me to tell you, if I’m about to …’ He let the words fade. ‘And even more important for you to know.’
‘What?’
Keep him talking …
‘Look … do you mind if I get a breath of air? Just, as it might be … well, you know. My last, and all that.’
Crouch said nothing. ‘Just in the doorway there,’ Whiting continued, trying to keep his voice calm. ‘I’ll just stand there while I tell you. You can shoot me any time. I can hardly get away. But I’d like to just breathe some air and see the stars. Before …’
Crouch chuckled, a low, mocking sound. ‘How touching. I’d never have thought if of you. Go on then, since you ask so nicely.’
Whiting felt his legs shaking. He swallowed hard, got to his feet, stepped over to the doorway, his eyes set on Crouch the whole time. He had to make the man follow him. And there was only one way.
‘You’ve …’ His voice faltered. ‘You’ve been conned.’
Crouch stared at him. ‘What?’
‘You’ve been conned. That second woman – Chanter – wasn’t being abused at all. She was having an affair. She’d met a man she wanted to be with, but she didn’t want to lose the house to her husband. His crying family, the ones that appeared on the TV, they were right. He was no wife-beater. His only crime was spending much of his time drunk, to cope with his disintegrating relationship. I’ve followed her and got enough evidence to have her calls tapped. She’s even admitted it. She was visiting those domestic violence sites to get information to pretend she was a victim. That way she could file for divorce, blame him and get most of the house and money.’
The throbbing pulse was back in Crouch’s neck, his voice brittle. ‘What? You’re lying.’
‘I’m afraid not. She was trying to find out what women suffer so she could invent a cover for herself. That’s why she was pretending to be so desperate, so other women would tell her their stories. Those injuries we found on her, the ones that looked like they were from beatings – she inflicted them herself. Over several months too, to make them look nice and convincing. A history of abuse. She knew we’d have to examine her and she made sure the evidence was all consistent. Hanson was lying in a drunken stupor half the time, so he didn’t notice her wounds, or those screaming fits she put on to make the neighbours think he was beating her’
Still Crouch stood in the hallway, that gun steady. Whiting had to get him to move. And there was just the one way. Dangerous, so very risky. But no choice.
He changed the tone of his voice, made it goading, sneering. ‘When you came along and made your kind offer to kill her husband, how could she refuse? You killed an innocent man, Crouch, to help a cheating, scheming woman, not a helpless and desperate victim. Now … how does that fit with your great vision of justice?’
Crouch’s face had turned red. He took a step forwards. Whiting inched to his left in the doorway, kept his hands up, very steady, knew he only had seconds left. The gun was still fixed between his eyes and that finger was tight on the trigger.
‘So how does that feel then, Crouch? You’re just a common murderer. You thought you were so, so clever … but she was cleverer, wasn’t she?’
Another step. ‘You bastard,’ Crouch growled. His finger was trembling over the trigger, his teeth gritted. ‘I don’t believe you. You’re lying to try to save your miserable life.’
Crouch was breathing hard, panting, the tic in his cheek dancing angrily. He was about to shoot, Whiting knew it. Somehow, he knew. He was about to pull the trigger, unleash that clinical, murderous bullet.
Whiting again edged to his left. Another step from Crouch. But it wasn’t enough. Nearly, but not quite. Just a couple more.
The life of Marcus Whiting was running out, he thought. He was about to die. He was surprised to feel the fear subside, as though his mind had resigned itself to his fate. He was calm, almost detached from the reality of that gun barrel, just inches from his forehead. It was the last sight he would see. He wondered how he would be remembered.
The thought angered him and stirred a resistance. Could he buy himself just a little more time, to see if justice could be done? Wasn’t it his duty to try? An idea flashed into his mind. He inched further to his left. Just a few more seconds …
‘And there’s more,’ he managed, trying desperately to keep his voice steady. ‘Do you want to know something about the first woman, Crouch? That first woman you think you saved.’
‘What? What, you bastard?’
Another step forwards. He was almost in the doorway. The gun was shaking in Crouch’s hand now, so close to Whiting’s brow, that finger so very tight on the trigger.
‘That’s not quite what you believed either,’ Whiting continued, thinking desperately. Another step from Crouch. Was it enough? It had to be. Time had run out.
‘But don’t take my word for it. I’ve got something to show you. It’s in my pocket … if I can get it? I wouldn’t want you to think I’m going for a weapon.’
A slight nod from Crouch. The gun was still pointing straight into Whiting’s brain. Slowly, gently, he reached his right hand down, as though moving carefully to his pocket and scratched his side.
A violent, echoing crack split the stillness. Crouch’s eyes opened wide for a brief second, then he pitched sideways, fell. Whiting sprang forward, kicked the pistol away, savoured the beautiful sight of it skidding across the hallway carpet, clanging into a radiator pipe, spinning, then settling, out of reach.
Crouch lay on his back, crumpled, staring up at him, blinking fast, his eyes wild with shock. He was panting, gasping, trying desperately to catch his breath. One hand scrabbled at his stomach, searching for the wound, the pumping blood emptying the life from his body. The other was on the silver cross, holding it, rubbing it hard in his shaking grip. He shuddered and writhed, pulling desperately at his shirt, fingers searching the taut, sweating skin for the bullet hole.
Whiting stood over him, shook his head.
‘No easy way out for you, PC Crouch,’ he hissed. A black-clothed marksman appeared at his side, looked down at the gasping figure.
‘That was a baton round,’ Whiting continued. ‘You’re just winded. You’ll be OK in a few minutes. There’ll be a nasty bruise, but that’s it. You’ll be just fine to stand trial.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
T
HERE WAS A KNOCK
at the door of his office and Adam looked up from the interminable drugs surveillance report. The sight was a surprise. He hesitated, then beckoned the man in. It was Whiting, wearing a dark grey suit and navy tie. Adam rose from behind his desk and Whiting held out a hand. Adam hesitated again, then shook it tentatively, without warmth or feeling, just professional.
‘I won’t keep you long, Chief Inspector,’ said Whiting, and Adam noticed he was trying to keep the hiss from his voice. He didn’t move to sit down, stayed standing by the open door. ‘I just wanted to say goodbye.’
Adam gave him a questioning look.
‘Well, all right, it was a little more than that,’ the IPCA man added.
Adam nodded. ‘I hear congratulations are in order,’ he said. ‘On the promotion.’
Whiting rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. ‘Thank you. It means of course I’ll be spending most of my time behind a desk in Cardiff. So it’s unlikely I’ll see you again. I don’t suppose either of us will worry too much about that.’
A silence. The two men looked at each other.
‘It’s fair enough,’ said Adam eventually. ‘Your promotion I mean. I have to say it was a well-run case. I take it you deliberately let the word get out that the investigation was all but over and Crouch would be reinstated, cleared of any crime?’
Whiting’s face formed that cold smile, the oddly small teeth exposed. ‘I don’t see the point in false modesty Chief Inspector. Yes, I did. And it worked. It flushed him out. I thought if he was driven in what he was doing he’d have a taste for it. After two murders, I doubted he’d give up his killing easily. I had evidence the Chanter woman was seeing someone else and wanted rid of Richie Hanson, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t proof. I told Crouch about it in order to get him talking. I had to have something concrete and fortunately it worked. That talk in his house provided the proof of how he’d gone about his murderous plot.’
Adam nodded. ‘Clever. But you took quite a risk. With your life. I have to say, it was … very brave. Stopping him being shot by putting yourself in the marksmen’s way. Then getting him talking and goading him out into the open so they could stun him.’
‘Indeed. But …’
‘But what?’
‘But I saw no other way to resolve the case. To do my …’
Adam noticed Whiting stopped himself from finishing the sentence. He didn’t comment, instead asked, ‘You were wired up?’
‘Yes. I was carrying a tiny microphone and recorder. It’s given me all I need. I wanted Crouch’s laptop, but it’s still missing. I’m guessing he suspected someone was trying to trace him and he got rid of it somewhere between the allotment and his home. The two women are still denying it, so there’ll have to be a trial. The first one, the Bodmin woman, may well get away with manslaughter. She genuinely was being abused by her partner, so could plead provocation. But Chanter’s will definitely be a murder charge. I think we’ve got enough evidence to convict them both, and Crouch too, now. If I hadn’t let Crouch believe he was going to get away with it, he wouldn’t have broken cover and gone back into his chatroom.’
Adam tightened his tie. ‘I have to hand it to you, it was clever and …’ he hesitated, ‘…brave too. You got your man. I know Claire was involved, but she won’t say anything about what happened. She says it’s a matter for you if you want to tell us.’
He stared at Whiting, nodded to emphasise his words. ‘She’s very loyal like that, even when her loyalty can be misplaced. Did she know what you were doing? Or did you use her?’
Whiting flinched. ‘I don’t care for the word “use”, Chief Inspector. From the start she struck me as a very talented and dedicated officer who knew her duty. I believed that even if she weren’t on the case officially, she would be unlikely to let it go, especially if she had a strong motivation to prove herself. I gave her that. Let us say simply that … I banked on reading her personality correctly and stood back to see where it would lead. I raised the computer link between Crouch and the two women to put it into her mind, but I think she would have seen it anyway. I didn’t intend to remove her from the investigation in the way I did, but knowing about her relationship with that journalist, when the photo of Crouch came out it was too good a chance to miss. I was originally planning to find another pretext.’
‘That hurt her very much you know, Whiting.’
‘I appreciate that, Chief Inspector. I only hope she can see it was for the greater good. It’s sometimes the way in our business of deception.’
‘You could just have taken her into your confidence.’
Whiting shook his head sadly. ‘I’ve made that error before. My job makes winning the confidence of police officers rather problematic. Sometimes it’s necessary for the people who are working for you to be unaware of that.’
The IPCA investigator reached into his jacket pocket, produced a white envelope. ‘Would you be so kind as to pass this on to her please?’
Adam reached over the desk and took it. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s a letter. It explains what I did and why. I’ve also taken the liberty of making my thoughts on her talents clear. I’ve sent a copy to the Chief Constable too, requesting Claire be commended.’
‘She’ll appreciate that. Thank you.’
Another silence.
‘Well, if that’s all you wanted to say …’ began Adam.
‘There is just one further matter, Chief Inspector. I heard you were considering resignation.’
Adam sat wearily back in his chair, let out a long breath. ‘How did you hear that?’
‘Just police station gossip. Even I get to hear it now. Some of your colleagues have actually started speaking to me. They said I wasn’t as bad as had been made out. I took that as a compliment.’
Adam managed a tight smile, despite himself. ‘Yes, it’s quite true. I still haven’t decided what to do.’ He gestured to the reports, folders and memos filling the red plastic in-tray on his desk. ‘I don’t seem to have much heart for this any more. I keep asking myself – what’s the point? The letter’s written. It’s in my drawer. I’m just deciding whether to submit it.’
Whiting sat down opposite Adam, reached into his pocket for a few pence in change and placed them on the chair next to him. ‘You blame yourself for Nicola’s death?’
Adam looked down at the floor. ‘I do. If I’d been alert and doing my job properly I would have arrested Gibson when he did his security guard act. Anyway, regardless of that, I should have found her sooner.’
Whiting studied his thin fingers, flexed them back and forth.
‘This is none of my business,’ he said softly, ‘as you will no doubt tell me. But you shouldn’t blame yourself. Your senior officers agree. There have been no complaints or criticism whatsoever about how you conducted the investigation. That business of Gibson at the leisure centre could have taken anyone in. It would me. It did your … friend, that journalist. You did everything you possibly could to find Nicola. More than everything in my view. And I think …’
‘Thanks,’ Adam interrupted. ‘I appreciate the sentiment. But I’d rather not go back over it, if you don’t mind.’
Whiting stood up, gathered the coins from the chair. ‘Of course. I understand. But, for what it’s worth, I think you’re a fine detective and the police service would be much poorer without you.’
Adam just stared. ‘And don’t take my word for that,’ continued Whiting. ‘It’s the talk in the canteen too. You’re held in high regard, Chief Inspector, by all who know you and work with you.’ He paused for a second. ‘And I mean … all.’
Whiting held out his hand and Adam got up and shook it, this time with a hint of honest feeling.
‘I still think what you did to Chris was wrong,’ Adam added.
‘And I still disagree,’ said Whiting smoothly, sliding out of the office and shutting the door.
Dan lay on his bed, Claire next to him, Rutherford on the floor, the dog’s tail thumping softly against the carpet. It was such a reassuring noise, for him the sound of home. It was all he’d longed for during those cold and despairing hours on Dartmoor. Even his ankle had stopped aching. Just a bad sprain, the doctor had said, with the usual implication that her patient was a hypochondriac. A couple of days rest would see him fine.
Claire had been wonderful, fussing over him, bandaging his ankle, cooking him supper. It wasn’t the best curry he’d ever had, spinach and potato madras, not enough meat and not hot enough for him, but that scarcely mattered. He was being looked after by the woman he …
And there he’d stopped the run of thought. By this woman he … was very fond of. He would leave it at that. For now, at least.
Dan was still wondering what she was going to say earlier, when she’d first got to the flat and seen him. He must have looked a dreadful state. He could see the shock in her eyes. He’d opened the door and she’d flung her arms around him, swept him into the bedroom and cuddled into him. He thought she was crying, could only half hear her through the muffling fleece he wore.
‘Don’t go scaring me like that again,’ she’d said. ‘When I heard someone had been shot on the moor I thought it was you. I don’t ever want to go through that again. I still need you. I … I …’
Her words had tailed off. I what? he kept thinking. I what? He knew what he wanted it to be. But if she said it, what would he do then?
Lizzie phoned and the moment had been broken. She always had such magnificent timing.
He’d answered the call with heavy resignation, expecting a savaging for missing that outside broadcast, when they’d left Princetown to go down to Evil Coombe to search for Nicola. He had his justifications ready but she’d been surprisingly understanding. We got Loud to haul some other police inspector in front of the camera for a live update she’d said, and used your lunchtime news report again. It was fine.
The ratings had soared because of their insight into the Nicola case. His insight he thought, but didn’t say. Lizzie was only sorry it had ended the way it did. Dan had been about to agree, that Nicola’s death was a dreadful tragedy, but she’d gone on to lament that the shooting of Gibson had denied them the chance of covering the story all over again at his trial. Dan didn’t say anything. It was pointless.
He was expected in the office later, too, she made that clear. He could rest for a few hours, but that was it. She wanted him live in the studio tonight to talk about what had happened in the final hours of the hunt for Nicola and what it had been like in the old tin mine.
Dan shuddered at the thought. It was the last thing he wanted to relive.
The memories wouldn’t leave him, kept playing in his head. He was dreading his dreams, didn’t want to sleep alone in the coming nights. Adam in despair, bending helplessly over Nicola’s lifeless body in that black hole of a cave. Gibson swaying and dropping after the volley of hissing bullets, the blood oozing from his chest. Gibson’s gun pointing at him, that feeling of expecting the shock of a fatal shot.
He wondered if he’d ever get over all that had happened. And would he ever stop feeling that if he’d been cleverer, made more of an effort, Nicola Reece would still be alive?
Dan reached down and stroked Rutherford, cuddled Claire closer. He screwed his eyes shut to try to leave it all behind, the gunshots, the cold, the darkness and the death.
He’d have to see Nicola’s mum soon too. He had something to ask her.