Fragile Cord (22 page)

Tony watched intently as the
video replayed Coupland loosening the knot and the moves he made to
untie the loops. When the video ended he reached into his pocket
and pulled out a coiled length of thin rope – similar to the one
Tracey had used – and replicated the knot.

‘Can you show me?’ Coupland
asked eagerly.

Tony unfastened the knot and
tied it a second time, showing Coupland each hand movement before
undoing it again and handing it to him to try.

‘We can see from the chivality
– that’s the direction of movement of the knot - that you’re right
handed, Sergeant Coupland, in the same way it is clear the deceased
was left handed. We can also compare your hesitant knots, which are
small and pulled far too tight, with the skilfully proportioned
knots made by a confident hand. At either end of the loops you can
see she used slip knots that held perfectly when she applied her
weight, but tugged gently in the opposite direction would have
released the entire tangle.’ Tony paused, ‘We see these knots
fairly often in ships rigging, but how many people use – correctly
– sailing knots?’

His question hung in the air as
Coupland mulled it over. Tony continued: ‘To be certain this was
done by the deceased’s hand you could look around for evidence of
other knots in the house. Most people have at least one pair of
shoes that they leave already laced up which they can lazily slip
their feet into.’

Coupland felt the familiar
tingle down the back of his neck when a case began to come
together. A simple search of Tracey’s wardrobe would hopefully
provide the evidence needed to close the investigation and submit
his report to the coroner. He conjured up a smile as he shook
Tony’s hand warmly, patting Johnson on the back as he guided them
both towards the door of his office. ‘I appreciate your help Mr
Jeffreys – and yours.’ He said to Johnson who suppressed a smile
and puffed up his chest before turning proudly to Tony, offering to
give him a tour of the station.

Ten minutes later Coupland
paced the corridors looking for Alex. Unable to see her, he asked a
passing DC for her whereabouts and was informed she’d gone out for
the afternoon, had an appointment over at the university. Deflated,
Coupland returned to the CID room. Turnbull was at his desk,
putting the world to rights with a couple of DCs.

‘Have you got a minute?’ he
asked, ‘This isn’t something I thought I’d ever say to you, but I’d
like to tie you up.’

The room burst into a sea of
cat-calls and wolf whistles as Turnbull sashayed across the office,
comic grin firmly in place, ‘Why Sergeant, shouldn’t you buy me
dinner first?’

Coupland rolled his eyes,
indicating they use Curtis’s office. ‘He’s out at some equality
workshop,’ he added, stoking the humour, ‘so we’ll not be
disturbed.’

After half an hour of
replicating the noose-style loop that Tracey had made and tying it
to the handle on Curtis’s desk drawer for leverage, Coupland was
able to demonstrate to Turnbull how easy it was for Tracey to tie
the knot behind her head, and the chilling confirmation that a
simple tug on the knot would have released her at any time. Once
he’d been convinced it was safe, Turnbull allowed Coupland to put
him into a noose identical to the one Tracey concocted, then pulled
the slipknot to release himself.

‘I feel like a Norfolk turkey
at Christmas.’ Turnbull grumbled as he straightened himself. ‘What
I don’t understand though,’ he asked, not unreasonably, ‘is why she
would build in a safety device she had no intention of using?’

Coupland shrugged his shoulders
in reply.

‘Tracey might
have
sought
death, but still have a fear of it.’ He suggested, ‘Maybe
she’d built in the release knot as a get out safety mechanism in
case she changed her mind, decided she wanted to live after all.’
Maybe it had been a way of demonstrating strength in her resolve –
she could’ve backed out –
literally
– at any moment but didn’t want to. Any thought
of her son lying cold and still at the bottom of the bath would
have been enough to focus her mind, remind her that life as she
knew it had already ceased to exist.

Coupland
wondered if he’d ever be closer to understanding Tracey’s actions.
The morbid thoughts that had seeped into her mind the day she’d
drawn her last breath seemed to have infected him, too. He pictured
Lynn as she’d waited for him anxiously at the hospital’s main
entrance, her life,
their
lives, taking an unexpected twist.
What will become of us?
He wondered.

There were so
many uncertainties in this investigation, in his life right now,
uncertainties that he knew would rob him of sleep for a long time
to come. The truth was that the only way anyone could ever gain a
real insight into the way Tracey’s mind had twisted and imploded in
extremis would be to plumb those depths themselves. Coupland
shuddered. He had enough on his plate right now to even think about
contemplating that. All he could be sure about
was when evening came and the sky grew thick and dark around
him, both Tracey and son would haunt his dreams, and in the
solitude of the night he would hear sobbing, the sound of water
splashing, and the underwater echo of heels as they pushed against
the side of the bath.

Over and over again.

Swinton precinct was a place
best avoided after midnight. Coupland was reminded of this when he
returned to the scene of Ricky Wilson’s stabbing with DC Turnbull
and a local news team to film a reconstruction that would be
broadcast the following evening, in an attempt to jog memories and
loosen nervous tongues.

Ricky’s widow
Melanie was sitting in a patrol car with her kids, a WPC sat
solemnly in the driver’s seat, talking them through what they’d be
expected to do over the next couple of hours. Several actors had
been drafted in to play Ricky and his family, and Melanie was
expected to advise where everyone had been standing – and their
subsequent actions - when the attack, or rather the
murder,
had taken
place.

‘They’ve got to re-live the
whole bloody thing again.’ Coupland muttered to Turnbull, whose
role was to scan the crowd that was beginning to form, suss out the
bystanders from those with a more sinister reason for watching the
proceedings.

To come and fucking gloat.

A wooden sign nailed to the
wall of nearby flats warned pet owners they would be fined for
letting their dogs foul the square. Coupland baulked, wondered
where the notice was that warned parents not to let their
drink-soaked offspring puke in the stairwells and along the
concrete walkway. He stared at the puddles of pastel coloured
vomit, the range of shades it came in thanks to the fruit flavoured
alchopops that had become so popular. Extortionate prices for
designer drinks kids threw up within minutes of gulping? He shook
his head, wondered what the hell the world was coming to.

A couple of
youngsters had gathered on the balcony of the flats above the shops
that bordered the precinct shouting the odds, calling Coupland
a
Fat Wanker.
Older ones had plucked up courage to throw missiles at the
police car, empty bottles of Vodka and Bacardi Breezers shattered
as they hit the pavement along Chorley Road. A quick call to
uniformed back-up had the older ones rounded up and given a bed for
the night, a message that sent the younger chancers fleeing to the
safety of their homes, not daring to venture out for the remainder
of the evening.

After what
seemed like an age the patrol car door swung open and Melanie
teetered across to where a slightly better dressed look-a-like
Melanie stood with a man who looked uncannily like Ricky.
This was the second time she’d seen him, the
first time had been earlier in the evening and the shock of his
likeness had sent her reeling, staggering back to the car and the
sympathetic female officer.

The
reconstruction had been arranged for a couple of days earlier when
the crime was one of assault but when Ricky passed away there’d
been talk of postponing it. Coupland had cornered Melanie, told her
there was more chance of finding Ricky’s killers if the
reconstruction went on air now, rather than in a month’s time when
the horror of the attack had died down and the public’s attention
had moved on to someone else’s misfortune. Melanie had agreed and,
with the aid of a couple of tranquillisers and a nip of gin she had
overcome her fears by returning to the scene of the attack. Two of
her nieces and a nephew had volunteered to play the part of her
children. Her own daughters, Nicola and Sharon, were huddled in the
back of the patrol car watching the proceedings in silence. Unable
to hear what their mother was saying they stared at her mouth as
they tried to lip-read her instructions.

A couple of
well-built men dressed in black hovered by the pub’s entrance. One
lit a cigarette and inhaled on it greedily, the other shooed the
smoke away as he waited for the cameras to roll. The Melanie
look-a-like nodded at something Mel said, then laid her hand
reassuringly on the woman’s arm.

‘
I wonder if
she does a lot of this kind o’ work.’ Sharon asked her sister. They
were huddled together on the back seat of the patrol car, trying
not to lean on their brother Paul, still smarting over not being at
his father’s bedside when Ricky had passed away.

‘Maybe that’s the only kind of
work she can get.’ Nicola replied.

‘
She’s a
copper, luv,’ the WPC sitting in the driver’s seat informed them.
‘So are the men playing the bouncers…….. and…….your dad.’ She
paused, wondering whether she should part with the next piece of
information.

‘Keeps the costs down.’ She said
gently.

Paul tutted
in disgust and slammed out of the car, crossing the pavement to
stand close to the cash machines on the corner, hands thrust deep
into his pockets as he balled them into fists. Someone out of sight
shouted
Action
and suddenly he was transported to four nights ago, watching
his family leave the pub and walk quickly past the empty taxi rank
before making the fatal decision to cross the square and head
towards the stop for the all night bus.

‘Come on.’ Ricky called out to
Melanie who was struggling in her heels, ‘The bus is at the bloody
lights already.’

Sensing
someone approaching them Melanie turned to see two men pass her
quickly; their faces obscured by hooded sweatshirts pulled low over
dark baseball caps. She called a warning to Ricky, yelled at him to
watch out, but no sooner had he turned than he was set upon, one of
the men drawing back his arm as though readying himself to jar
Ricky hard below the ribs. There was a glint of steel in the
lamplight and then the men went silently on their way, running this
time.

Ricky was
standing with a look of surprise on his face; his eyebrows arched
high on his forehead. Melanie ran towards him, asked what was wrong
but he didn’t speak. He’d been cradling his stomach, and when she
pulled his hand away black liquid pumped out of him and he
collapsed onto the ground. Cradling her husband she rounded on
their children who were standing nearby.

‘
He’s bleeding
,’ she roared, ‘
get some
help
.’

The girls
froze at the sight of their old man’s injury, began to sob in
unison. Back in the patrol car Nicola and Sharon avoided each
other’s eye.

The nephew
who was playing Melanie’s son jolted into action shouting
‘Bastards!’ He bolted after the retreating figures before running
back around the corner in response to his mother’s screams. He
pushed passed the bouncers as he ran into the pub, yelling that his
old man had been stabbed.

‘
Stop!’
the
real Paul yelled. He ran in front of the camera crew waving his
hands, angry tears streaming down his ashen face. Coupland hurried
over to where the boy stood pointing at the
policemen-dressed-as-doormen in front of the pub’s
entrance.

‘What is it?’ Coupland demanded,
gripping the youngster’s shoulders firmly in an attempt to calm him
down.

‘
That’s not fucking
right
,’ Paul shouted over and over, until
one by one everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to
stare. Spit flew from his mouth as he shouted, gesturing at the two
bouncers.

Something was wrong.

Needled,
Coupland looked from the boy to the small crowd that had gathered
around the edge of the square. Bystanders, rubber-neckers, gawpers.
He felt a sensation; not fear but something like it. Apprehension?
If so it was the sort of apprehension that could be felt in a
crowded place.

‘
When I ran into the pub I had to ask the barman
to call an ambulance.’ Paul spat.

He was rabid
with fury, his eyes staring wildly at Coupland as though it were
his duty to second-guess his anguish. When Paul spoke next his
voice was low, deadly. His words dripped like acid from his tongue.
He pointed to the pretend bouncers standing at the pub’s door, gave
them a look as though he’d found them under his shoe.

‘Them two,’ He spat, ‘weren’t
even fucking there.’

Half turning,
Coupland scanned the blackened doorway of the building behind him.
Two men were lurking in the shadows. When they saw him look in
their direction they withdrew so quickly he wondered if he’d seen
anyone at all.