Fragile Cord (27 page)

Coupland could feel it, the
general shift in consciousness that despised the old virtues of
solidarity, of people coming together to make things better.
Instead, a new breed of people were emerging, a breed that screwed
everyone to get the best deal they could. Greed was good,
apparently.

‘What can you expect these
days?’ was all Coupland said. He had neither Alex Moreton’s passion
nor his DCI’s vocabulary to get into a political debate, especially
at this time of day without the whiff of the barmaid’s apron to
bolster him.

By the time Coupland had the
chance to brief DCI Curtis it was mid-afternoon. The meeting had
lasted all of five minutes: Suspects for Ricky Wilson’s murder had
been brought in for questioning; the news about Kyle Kavanagh’s
paternity and his suspicions regarding Tracey Kavanagh’s past.
Curtis had held up his hand, like the Pope performing benediction.
‘Anything to corroborate this?’ Curtis asked irritably, as though
he was being kept from something more important. ‘A mate who
started the same time as me but kept his nose clean,’ Coupland
countered, ‘transferred to police intelligence…..Let’s put it this
way: he confirmed my suspicions, wasn’t willing to add anything
else, and absolutely refused to let me quote him.’

‘Shit.’ Curtis had simply
responded, using his hand to shoo Coupland out of the door before
making the first in a series of calls.

Coupland’s head was spinning
with the news about Kyle’s paternity, though he still wasn’t sure
of its relevance. A clerk from the coroner’s office had been on the
phone checking whether there were any extraneous considerations
that he needed to declare that would extend his investigation into
Tracey Kavanagh’s filicide – a polite but firm way of telling him
to pull his finger out.

Surely, the information he’d
just gleaned wasn’t material to the case? All that was required of
him was to confirm there’d been no foul play – and in the grandest
scheme of things – there hadn’t been.

Before he had an opportunity to
decide what to do next the phone rang impatiently, its shrill ring
breaking into his thoughts. He barked his rank and surname into the
mouthpiece.

The male voice was nasal and
ever so slightly condescending. Coupland raised his eyebrows, gave
a couple of grunts into the receiver before replacing it.

‘And why have I suddenly become
so bloody popular?’ he muttered, before hauling himself to his
feet.

John Doyle, Acting Deputy Chief
Constable of Greater Manchester Police was waiting for Coupland and
DCI Curtis in his office, on the third floor of Chester House HQ, a
twenty-minute drive away from Salford. The journey there seemed to
take forever, both men taking it in turns to second-guess the
intention of the summons.

‘We’re being warned off.’
Coupland spoke quietly, as if already resigned to the fact. There
was a time when the prospect would have pissed him off but he was
learning to accept there were things he had no power over.

‘Does it matter?’ Curtis asked
aloud, ‘I mean, to the investigation. Whatever’s gone on has no
bearing on what Tracey did to her son. We know it’s a murder-
suicide, whatever they tell us won’t change the outcome.’

‘Mebbe.’ Coupland agreed. Privately he
thought differently. Alex had accused him of trying to find a
rationale for Tracey’s crime but what was wrong with that? People
justified their actions all the time - whether they were entitled
to or not. The only difference was that Tracey had chosen to keep
her reasons to herself.

They managed to find a parking
space that wasn’t designated to the senior ranks, and upon
presenting their ID to the civilian on the desk they were ushered
through to the corridor outside the DCC’s office.

John Doyle was considered one
of the good guys; he’d served as a PC in Manchester City Centre
before climbing the ranks to uniform Chief Inspector at Bootle
Street and was the senior officer on the ground when the IRA bomb
decimated the Arndale Centre in 1996. He moved on to head up the
Murder Review Department before taking over responsibility for the
Serious Crimes Division, Force Intelligence and Liaison.

Coupland had met Doyle a couple
of times before, once when he’d addressed a hastily arranged press
conference following a spate of drive-by shootings in Moss Side and
a delegation of officers had been swiftly drafted in to provide an
impenetrable united front during Doyle’s whistle stop attendance.
He’d caught Doyle’s eye for a couple of seconds, received nothing
more than a curt nod. Coupland wondered what it was that suddenly
made Doyle want to acquaint himself better.

‘In you come.’ Doyle barked,
having opened his door just wide enough to stick his head around.
By the time Coupland and Curtis had rose from the corridor’s
moulded plastic chairs and pushed the door all the way open, Doyle
was back behind his impossibly tidy desk. There was a man seated
across from him. He was wiry with a narrow face, every feature
elongated from his droopy eyes to his frown. He stood just long
enough to shake both men’s hands, introducing himself as Detective
Superintendent Paul Randall, responsible for the Serious Crimes
Operational Team.

‘Thanks for coming in at such
short notice Kevin, John.’ The DCC began. Coupland clocked the use
of their first names, an attempt at intimacy he didn’t feel. He
decided to go along with it, see where it led. He knew Doyle’s
remit, understood enough about Randall’s team at SCOT to know this
wasn’t a social call…

Randall spoke next, his smile
not quite making it to his eyes: ‘Can you tell me exactly what your
interest is in Tracey Kavanagh?’

Alex answered her phone on the
second ring. It was an internal call, the duty sergeant informing
her that somebody by the name of Charlie…. ‘I know the name,’ she
interrupted, ‘tell her I’ll be right down.’

The size of
the woman waiting in reception came as a shock. She was larger than
the person Alex remembered passing in reception the previous day,
not that she’d paid much attention. As wide as she was tall, the
thought
larger than life
came into mind.

‘Charlotte?’ Alex asked her,
just to be sure.

‘You’re the detective who’s
been leaving messages on my answer phone then?’ The woman replied
in a friendly manner, extending her hand. ‘Please, call me
Charlie.’

Her face was
broad and flat with rosy cheeks and eyes that came alive when she
spoke. She had a strong Irish accent, Northern Ireland, Alex
thought. She found herself wondering if she’d grown up there at the
height of the troubles. Wondered if that was why she’d moved over
here.

‘
Look,’ said
Alex, suddenly feeling hungry, ‘There’s a café round the corner,
can I buy you a coffee? Might even be a teacake in it, if we get a
wriggle on.’

The woman
smiled, nodding, and as she moved beside her almost rhythmically
Alex was enveloped in a heady perfume.
Poison
, if she wasn’t mistaken.
Charlie obviously liked her jewellery; both wrists displayed a
collection of silver bangles that jingled as she walked, making her
sound like a human wind chime.

They passed
Charlie’s white Citroen Saxo in the public car park, an old car
that had seen much better days. The woman glanced to see Alex
taking in the dented bodywork and pulled a face.

‘
Had my car
stolen a couple of weeks ago in Boothstown. Turned up the following
day in Little Hulton. Buggers couldn’t even do a proper job of
stealing it.’

She nodded
towards the dented rear door. ‘If I claim for the damage I’ll lose
my no claims bonus.

Alex smiled sympathetically.

The café was
a short walk away from the car park and Alex was relieved to see
that the interior lights were still on and the chairs hadn’t been
stacked upside down on the tables yet. A businessman sat at a table
in the window, tapping keys on a laptop.

Alex asked if Charlie had heard
the news report concerning Tracey’s death and the woman nodded
solemnly, her ample face falling into a frown.

‘A terrible tragedy, so it is.’
She said, moving her head from side to side, oblivious to a falling
tendril of hair that had worked its way loose.

‘What was your connection to the
family?’ Alex asked her as she opened the cafe door and stood back
to let Charlie pass.

‘
I work for
the prison service,’ Charlie replied, not really answering the
question. Alex waited for her to continue as they hovered by the
counter waiting to attract the attention of the café
assistant.

Charlie
continued: ‘I’m a counsellor. It’s my job to help high security
offenders come to terms with their actions. Throwing them behind
bars isn’t enough-’

‘
Well,’ Alex
interrupted good naturedly, ‘I’ve a few victim’s families who’d
testify to that.’

Charlie tried
to return her smile but it was clear she was irked that Alex had
deliberately misinterpreted something she felt so strongly about.
She tried a different tack. ‘Sometimes,’ she continued, ‘part of
the process is for them to talk to their victims, to face up to
what they’ve done. Show their remorse.’

Alex thought
of Siobhan Lewisham’s hard-faced killer, wondered how he was
supposed to talk to
his
victims. ‘You’re a clairvoyant then?’ she joked,
kicking herself immediately when she saw the set of Charlie’s
jaw.

‘
Sorry?’ but
it was obvious to both of them she’d heard. She was either
challenging Alex to step up to the plate and say it again, or
offering them both a way out. Alex hoped it was the
latter.

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Was all she
could muster.

‘
Many serious
offenders carry a great deal of guilt,’ Charlie continued, ‘and one
of the first steps of the healing process is to learn to forgive
themselves. It’s only when they’re able to do that, that they can
truly express remorse to their victims or their
families.

Alex wasn’t
entirely sure of that, had her own strongly held opinions on
exposing victims to their aggressors a
second
time, but now wasn’t the time
to get into semantics. The waitress came over and pointed to a
table close to the counter, flicked a cloth over the top of it
before going back to the counter for her notepad. Alex sat down
opposite Charlie, grateful for the pause in conversation. The
waitress took their order, told them she’d run out of teacakes but
had a couple of left over Eccles Cakes she could throw in at no
charge.

Alex waited
until they were alone again, mulling over what Charlie had told
her. Her brain stepped up a notch as she tried to make sense of
what she’d just heard, of its relevance to Tracey Kavanagh, but it
had been a long day and there were still too many dots to join
up.

‘
I’m sorry,’
she said as she watched the waitress prepare their order. The
businessman had long since packed up his laptop and gone, leaving
two shiny pound coins at the side of his coffee cup. They were
alone. The waitress, although within earshot, was busy singing the
words to a top ten hit. ‘I don’t under-’

‘Tracey’s father was
so sorry for what he’d put her through…’ Charlie interrupted,
leaning forward slightly as she looked Alex directly in the eye,
‘...all he wanted was to make amends.’

Room temperature spiralled
throughout the station. Air conditioning hadn’t featured in the
building design, it was Salford not San Diego, no one expected heat
like this. Within hours the interview rooms stank of stale body
odour.

Coupland peeled off his jacket
and tie and undid as many buttons on his shirt he thought he could
get away with before someone in HR screamed harassment. As it was
his shirt exposed more chest hair than both male and female staff
were comfortable with and the sweat rings under his arms had turned
several shades of yellow.

He didn’t give a shit.

It wasn’t a beauty parade, and
with streetwise smart arses like the one sat in front of him now he
needed all the weapons he could lay his hands on. He looked through
the file in front of him; saw that Turnbull was bringing out his
notebook.

‘Now then Danny…’ Coupland
began, ‘want to tell us what was really going on the night Ricky
Wilson was stabbed?’

‘What?’ Horrocks’s mouth stayed
open long after the word had left it.

‘The night Ricky Wilson was
stabbed.’ Coupland repeated slowly, ‘Your little Fagin’s den of
thieves had been doing you proud eh?’ He made a point of consulting
his file, ‘Only the victim’s husband wouldn’t give up, would he?
Started to make a show of himself.’

‘Why, what have people been
saying?’ The voice taking on a harder edge.

‘That the girls are well known
in the area for shoplifting and petty theft. Something of a regular
pastime for them. Seems that you and your mate take a share of
their haul, using your old contacts to distribute house keys and
credit cards so they go to the right people – brings a whole new
meaning to recycling, eh?’ Coupland taunted.

‘That’s bollocks.’ Eyes reduced
to mean little slits.

The female duty solicitor
sitting beside Horrocks wrinkled her nose. ‘You’ve been questioning
my client for twenty minutes, Sergeant. I suggest you charge him or
call it a day.’

Coupland
forced his mouth into a smile, wondering for the thousandth time
what made a nice young woman want to defend balloon heads for a
living. He’d spotted her straight off when she’d entered the
station. Slim. Fresh-faced, not over made-up. A decent enough girl.
He thought of his Amy, how he’d feel if she said she wanted to
follow in his footsteps, or worse still,
defend
the little fuckers. He shook
his head as though denying the thought the chance to take root. Amy
was too clean for this game. Too pure. Oh, she led him a Dance from
time to time and he knew it, he wasn’t stupid, but even her small
acts of rebellion never amounted to the thoughtless actions that
brought even decent members of society under his radar. Add to the
mix the thieves and junkies, the insane and the downright evil that
crossed his path and it was no surprise he was a cynical bastard.
Every day he thanked God for Amy and Lynn, for balancing out his
world. A lump formed in his throat that he couldn’t seem to
shift.