Snakes and Ladders Read online

  19

  Jack got home that evening with the biggest pounding headache he’d had in a long time. He didn’t often feel the stresses and anxieties of grieving families, and had historically been pretty good at distancing himself and focusing on the facts of the investigation, but something about the murder of Matthew Hulford had connected with him.

  He’d seen through his own experience how easily kids could become tangled up in bad crowds. His own daughter, Emily, had almost gone down that route, and in many ways her life had been changed by it. Even now, she was soon to become a teen mother, pregnant by a local lad Jack’d had run-ins with in the past, and who was himself tied up in a life of petty crime. Jack was thankful Emily was at least safe. Even though Ethan Turner had initially shown an interest and told Emily he wanted to be there for her and their baby, he’d since declared himself to be not in the slightest bit interested in the birth or life of his child. For Jack, it was bittersweet. No parent wanted their child to unwillingly become a single parent, but when the second parent was Ethan Turner, he knew he had to be thankful for small mercies.

  He knew Emily would be fine. She was more than used to adapting to unusual family situations. If anything, unusual was her usual. And, in any case, she had both Jack and Chrissie to lean on, and there was no way Jack was going to let her down again.

  As of now, things were stable and settled. Jack had accepted Emily’s situation and resolved to make the best of it. Chrissie was spending most of her time at the house and had already pledged her support to them both. But Jack knew this was likely to be the calm before the storm. Things never got easier after the birth of a baby, and it was the sort of upheaval that tested any relationship to its limits.

  ‘Evening,’ he said to Chrissie as he walked into the kitchen, the table plastered with paperwork, above which Chrissie’s head peered.

  ‘Hey you. Good day?’

  ‘Nope. You?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Yet another thing we’ve got in common, eh?’ Jack said.

  Chrissie smiled. ‘Sharon at work was saying there are videos of you all over social media. I presume they’re dodgy and incriminating, but I haven’t watched them.’

  ‘Ah yes. They’ll be the ones of me wrestling a bear to death with my bare hands before taking on six black belts in karate. You might have noticed I’ve got a slight cut on my lip.’

  ‘Yes, that’ll be it. How did it go? The media appeal.’

  ‘Too early to say. Lots of calls, some patterns, but it’ll take us a while to sift through the crap and the cranks.’

  One of the downsides of a media appeal was the inevitable influx of weirdos who decided it was a good idea to call in and announce their suspicions that next door’s dog had carried out the murder, or that they saw Elvis Presley abseiling from a UFO before stealthily committing the crime under cover of darkness. Usually, these people were easy enough to spot and caused no harm other than wasting the time of the officers who were taking those calls, but occasionally things were more sinister.

  Crank calls and false information had been taken more seriously since the late 1970s, when a man began calling the police who were investigating the notorious Yorkshire Ripper. His strong north-eastern accent, which earned him the moniker Wearside Jack, had led the police to narrow down their search enormously, to a relatively small area around Sunderland — around ninety miles away from the home of the real Yorkshire Ripper, Peter Sutcliffe. Because of this, Sutcliffe had the safety to kill three more women and attack a further two. George Oldfield, the West Yorkshire Police detective who led the investigation, was subsequently plagued with ill health, suffering two heart attacks in relatively quick succession. He never got over the humiliation, and died in 1985, just four years after Sutcliffe was sentenced. It was a story which lived long in the memory of most police officers, and determining the veracity of evidence had been paramount ever since.

  ‘Are you feeling confident, though?’ Chrissie asked. It had occurred to Jack on more than one occasion that she’d never sought salacious gossip or juicy tidbits from his investigations, but instead was focused solely on how he was feeling and how it affected him.

  ‘About as confident as we can be without a name, I suppose. Someone’ll crack sooner or later, and there are a few avenues we haven’t explored yet.’

  ‘Keeping the stress levels low?’

  Jack gave a wry smile. ‘About as low as they ever are.’

  ‘Way to fill me with confidence.’

  ‘How’s your stuff going?’ Jack asked, nodding his head towards the mounds of paperwork.

  Chrissie shrugged. ‘The usual. It’s never-ending. Assessments, performance indicators, reports for governors.’

  ‘Sounds familiar. Where’s Em?’

  ‘She’s upstairs. She seemed a bit tired and drained, so I said she should go to bed. She’s doing well, but it’s not easy for her.’

  Jack murmured his agreement. He was immensely proud of how Emily was doing, but naturally worried and concerned for her.

  ‘Actually, that leads me on to something I wanted to talk to you about,’ Chrissie said. ‘Nothing bad. I mean, at least I hope it won’t be taken badly.’

  ‘Well you’ve set it up nicely, so you might as well deliver the hammer blow now,’ Jack replied.

  ‘No, no. It’s nothing like that. I was just thinking, what with Emily struggling a little bit and needing our help, and me spending more and more of my time here… I mean, I’ve pretty much moved in already, haven’t I? Unofficially. So I just thought maybe we should make it official.’

  ‘You mean you want to worm your way in, stake your claim to half of everything I have and leave me destitute on the streets?’

  ‘Yep, got it in one.’

  ‘Sounds like a great idea to me.’

  Chrissie laughed. ‘Seriously, though. I think some sort of structure would be really helpful for her. Everything seems so chaotic when there’s a baby around, so I think at least forming a solid backbone for her will be crucial. And I won’t even make you sign the house over to me.’

  Jack smiled. He couldn’t deny it was not only a great idea, but something he dearly wanted himself. For him, there was only one sticking point. ‘I’m just worried what she’ll say about it. Things are stable now. I don’t want to rock the boat.’

  ‘You’ve changed, Jack Culverhouse.’

  ‘I know. I just think… I dunno. You’re right, she clearly does well with the routine and knowing where things stand, but that’s just it. She knows where things stand now. She’s got an out. You’re here, but not living here. She’s got the best of both worlds. If she decides she wants you gone, it’s doable.’

  Chrissie shrugged. ‘That’s always doable. I’m not one to hang around where I’m not wanted.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘I know you didn’t. But we can make it more permanent. Move my stuff in. Rent my place out. See how it goes. If it works, great. If it looks like it’s causing issues, I can be back in my place pretty quickly.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t cause issues. I just… Em and I haven’t exactly had the smoothest of relationships over the years. She had a difficult upbringing and that’s made stuff a bit more volatile for her. I get that. The stability helps her a lot. I just want to make sure we approach it in the right way, y’know?’

  Chrissie smiled. ‘I know. Trust me, I know.’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ Jack said, feeling less than certain about it himself. ‘I’ll speak to her.’

  20

  The sun rose on a frosty morning as Jack pulled his car into the car park at Mildenheath Police Station. For him, it was the perfect metaphor. As the cold and ice began to set into the ground, the investigation into the death of Matthew Hulford had started to slow down and freeze, too.

  It was two weeks since the media briefing, and each of the calls they’d received had led them down a dark alley — sometimes literally. A number of the calls had referred to Mat
thew being involved with drugs, but it was impossible to know how many of those people had only heard that information second-hand from social media. Jack never ceased to be amazed at how often people touted hearsay and gossip as absolute fact on these platforms — as did those who read it.

  As a rule, the public thought nothing of tarring someone’s reputation based on a random social media post. To them, the salacious gossip and rumour was a far more tantalising and enticing prospect than any level of worry or concern as to what damage their actions would cause.

  As a result, they’d fielded a number of calls from people who claimed they absolutely knew Matthew Hulford was involved with drugs, purely because they’d read it on Facebook. Each time something like this happened, Jack began to see how easily dictators and demagogues were able to control the political narrative and drive public opinion. As far as he was concerned, social media had a huge amount to answer for, and would not be looked upon kindly by the history books.

  He’d noticed the mood and atmosphere in the incident room becoming gradually more subdued, too. In the first days of an investigation, everyone was fervently rushing around, determined to catch that early break and be the one who uncovered that crucial piece of information which would lead them to their killer. Of course, the more time went on, the more that hope and expectation was sucked out of them. It was often the way during a drawn-out investigation, and in many ways it was what sounded the death knell for many of them. As a result, cases tended to be closed once they’d exhausted their energy and resources, even though they were often opened again at a later date when new evidence came to light and that much-needed spark was provided, igniting new energy into the investigation.

  Jack’d had no indication there were plans afoot to close Operation Artisan any time soon, but after many years in the job he was adept at detecting the ebbs and flows of an investigation, and at the moment it seemed as though they were in a deep lull. At times like this, breakthroughs were crucial to maintaining the team’s energy — both mental and physical — and ensuring the investigation didn’t burn out into a slow death. And he was well aware it was his job as the senior investigating officer to keep morale up and ensure every plate stayed spinning.

  He walked through into his office and sat down, looking out through the door, able to see only Wendy Knight and Ryan Mackenzie. Both were on the phone, nodding and writing down notes as they did so. He felt proud to have such a dedicated team, and silently hoped for the breakthrough they needed, which would energise them and breathe new life into Operation Artisan.

  He unlocked his computer and checked his emails, finding nothing of interest. There were the usual internal emails on staff wellbeing, a couple of officers trying desperately to arrange a social gathering outside of work, energetic ‘morale booster’ emails from the higher-ups and a number of dark-humoured jokes and forwards. As he highlighted a few of the emails ready to drag and drop into the bin, he noticed Ryan MacKenzie putting down the phone and making her way towards his office.

  He looked up as she knocked and entered, and immediately recognised the look on her face. It was the look of new energy, of excitement and nervous anticipation. He’d seen it many times before, and it always gave him a buzz because he knew what was coming. They’d found something — something which could provide the breakthrough they needed.

  ‘Sir, I just had a call from a man called Gerald Northcott, who lives on Naismith Road in Mildenheath. It’s one of the roads that leads up towards the woods. He said he’d been away on holiday for three weeks, and saw the news about the murder when he got back home. He’s got CCTV cameras on the front of his house, which cover the footpath and a bit of the road, too. So he checked it for the night of Matthew’s murder. He says it shows two lads walking down Naismith Road in the direction of Mildenheath Woods, then a little while later we see one of them walking back in the other direction alone. We’re sending officers round to retrieve the footage, but from the description he gave me over the phone, it sounds a hell of a lot like that other person might be Connor French.’

  21

  Jack watched with clenched teeth as the video played. The quality of the footage wasn’t brilliant, but he still immediately recognised the pair. Connor French was a distinctive-looking guy at the best of times, and there was no doubt in his mind that this was who he was watching, walking alongside Matthew Hulford towards Mildenheath Woods. Walking him to his death.

  ‘Their phones never left Connor’s house,’ he said, to no-one in particular.

  ‘No,’ Wendy replied. ‘Which means they left them there, for some reason. Might’ve been to go out and do a deal? I’d imagine they’re pretty clued up on phone tracking and things, so maybe they tried to play it safe.’

  ‘Yeah, but look at this. The bit where Connor’s walking back. Does he look like he knows what happens next?’

  ‘I dunno. Difficult to say. He’s walking a bit faster than he was, but I don’t know if that means anything. Probably not.’

  ‘Looks to me like he’s agitated.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Wendy said. ‘But look. He’s wearing a white tracksuit. Do we really think he had the awareness and forethought to make sure they both left their phones at home, but still went out in a white tracksuit to slit his friend’s throat? Seems a bit risky to me, to say the least.’

  ‘I know. But stranger things have happened. Let’s get French picked up, and make sure we find that fucking tracksuit. If there’s even the slightest speck of blood on it, we’ve got him.’

  * * *

  Within the hour, Connor French was being booked into the custody suite at Mildenheath Police Station. Jack watched from a back room as French gave the custody sergeant his details and answered the questions he was asked. The first thing that struck Jack was that French didn’t seem to be overly concerned. Jack knew the lad had never been arrested before, but he seemed quiet — almost resigned — to what had happened and would happen. Jack knew, though, that just because someone expected to be arrested didn’t necessarily mean they’d committed a crime.

  He headed back to the incident room and sat with Wendy as they developed their interview strategy. The initial interview would be fairly straightforward: this was where the suspect’s story would be laid out and set. Even if they knew the story to be untrue at this point, they’d still allow him to speak and let him take enough rope to hang himself. If they contradicted him and laid their cards on the table too early, he could clam up and stop talking altogether.

  A short while later, they were confident they had enough to conduct their first formal interview. Up until today, Connor French had been the last confirmed person to see Matthew alive. But now he was their prime suspect.

  Connor French cut a sorry figure as he sat behind the table in the interview suite, the greying duty solicitor sitting next to him. Jack and Wendy sat down, having decided in advance that Wendy would lead the interview.

  ‘Okay, Connor. I know we’ve met before, but I’m Detective Sergeant Wendy Knight, and this is my colleague, Detective Chief Inspector Jack Culverhouse. I understand you’ve been told the reasons for your arrest?’

  ‘Well no. I understand what the guy said, but it doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Okay. We can go through it in detail. The main purpose of this interview is to ascertain the sequence of events on the night Matthew Hulford died. It shouldn’t be anything too taxing or difficult. Are you happy to continue?’

  Connor nodded his head.

  ‘Alright,’ Wendy said. ‘So let’s start at the beginning. What time did Matthew arrive at your house that day?’

  ‘I dunno exactly. A bit after six, maybe?’

  ‘Does ten minutes past sound about right?’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe. I dunno.’

  ‘And how did he get to yours?’

  ‘He walked.’

  ‘Had he been to see anyone on the way?’

  ‘Not that he told me.’

  ‘And what had you planned to spend the evening doi
ng?’

  ‘Playing games on the PS4. Same as we always do.’

  ‘No plans to go out anywhere?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And did you end up going out anywhere?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did he seem that evening?’

  ‘Fine. He didn’t mention anything about anyone trying to kill him, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘He wasn’t nervous? On edge?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he mention going to see anyone at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. And what time did he leave yours?’

  ‘We’ve been through all this. Just after ten. Couple of minutes, if that.’

  ‘Was he walking home again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he mention going anywhere else on the way home? To meet someone, perhaps?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see which way he went home?’

  ‘No, I closed the door and that was that. I didn’t think I needed to watch after him to make sure he got home safe.’

  ‘Was anyone else in the house?’

  ‘No. Mum and Dad had gone down to London to see a show.’

  ‘Might any neighbours have seen him leave?’ Wendy asked, even though they’d already conducted door-to-door enquiries in the small cul-de-sac and no-one appeared to have seen a thing.

  ‘I dunno. I haven’t spoken to any of them if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘Okay. Did Matthew often go walking in Mildenheath Woods at all?’

  Connor shrugged. ‘Not that I know of. Definitely not late at night when it’s dark, anyway.’

  ‘Which way would he normally walk home, do you know?’

  ‘There’s only really one way. Left at the end of my street, down Laurel Road then turn right up Hutchison Way and his road’s off on the left.’