Chapter 27
1272 Words
27
‘Here’s a question,’ Wendy said, as she watched the traffic lights turn from amber to red. ‘Why not apply for an extension on John Lucas? We could’ve kept him in for longer that way.’
‘And what’s the point?’ Culverhouse said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘It’s all circumstantial. We can’t prove he put any of that stuff there — the house didn’t have anyone living in it after his mum died. Anyone could’ve gained access and put those things in his garage. Something doesn’t feel right. I can’t quite put my finger on it.’
‘I can. It’s all too convenient. Like his brief said, why would he do something like that hours after getting out of prison, then leave a load of clues pointing to him? He’s had years to think about this and plan it.’
Culverhouse stayed silent for a few moments. ‘What I don’t get is his attitude in that interview room. He wasn’t exactly playing the innocent, was he? He was almost acting as if it was some sort of game, as if he was playing us.’
‘To be fair, he’s spent the last decade inside. I don’t imagine he’s got the highest opinion of police officers, nor did he expect to be in an interview room again the day after coming out of prison.’
‘Well, if he didn’t expect it, that tells me he didn’t do it,’ Culverhouse replied.
Wendy had to agree her hunch was similar, although that didn’t help them come any closer to identifying who did set fire to Freddie Galloway’s house.
Interviewing victims of historic crimes was never pleasant at the best of times. It invariably either resulted in not very much information being uncovered at all due to the passage of time, or it opened up old wounds for the victim, leaving the questioning officers feeling guilty for having to drag up old dirt again.
This time, though, they knew it was going to be even more difficult. Owen McCready had been one of them, a police officer who’d made the honest mistake of responding to an emergency call all those years ago. He’d been the closest officer to the scene at the time, so had been the first man there. His real downfall, though, had been his photographic memory and eye for detail. Remembering and identifying John Lucas at the scene of the robbery had resulted in him being repaid with a bullet in the skull.
Neither of them said a word as they pulled up outside Owen McCready’s house. It was a sorry state of affairs — a decent house which had no doubt been covered by the financial payout he and his family would’ve received on discovering he couldn’t work again, adorned with a bright white plastic handrail on the outside wall and a ramp up to the front door. It was the unfortunate sign of an honourable man who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Owen’s wife, Cassandra, took Wendy and Jack through to the living room, where Owen was already seated in an armchair.
‘I can walk with help most of the time,’ he said, as if feeling he had to excuse being immobile. ‘Sometimes even on my own, but it’s not as smooth as it used to be. On bad days, I get excruciating headaches and need a chair to get around. Something to do with swelling on the brain. It comes and goes.’
The two officers looked at each other, the unspoken words being that this could easily have been either of them, or any other officer they knew. Someone who’d been gunned down doing his job, and had his life ruined as a result.
‘I hope you don’t mind us asking you to go over old ground,’ Wendy said, knowing damn well that Owen McCready must think about those events every single day of his life.
‘No, it’s fine. I had a call to say John Lucas was being released the other day. I presume it didn’t take him long to go back to his old ways.’
‘We don’t know,’ Wendy said, with a large exhalation of breath. ‘There’s been a crime committed which involves somebody linked with the Trenton-Lowe incident. There’s a possibility it could involve one or more of the people involved.’
‘And is Lucas your suspect or victim?’
Wendy looked at Jack, unsure how much information she should divulge. ‘Suspect,’ she said, eventually.
‘Never mind.’
She guessed she couldn’t blame him for feeling like that. ‘Now, I know from your statements at the time that you said the only person you recognised was John Lucas. Has anything else come to mind since you made those statements?’
Owen shook his head slowly. ‘No, nothing. I mean, I know one of the other guys was called Benjamin Newell. But that’s only because the silly t**t got himself arrested shortly after. I’d never heard the name before then, and I didn’t recognise him. They reckon there was four, don’t they?’
‘According to the security guard inside the building, yes,’ Wendy said. ‘But I’m afraid we can’t go to him. He took his own life a few weeks after the court case.’
‘Ah. I didn’t know that. No-one told me. Sounds a bit suspicious, doesn’t it?’
‘Possibly so. But the coroner ruled it was suicide.’
‘Convenient,’ Owen said, looking at the wall.
Wendy had the impression that Owen was a man who had become quite bitter about what had happened to him. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. It couldn’t be easy having your whole life turned upside down by one i***t with a gun. Owen was a victim of circumstance. A man who’d always tried his best, but one time tried too hard.
‘And you’ve not had any strange goings on? No messages, weird noises outside, nothing like that?’ Wendy asked.
‘No. Nothing. But then again I don’t see why I would. The only one I identified was Lucas, and he never had any venom towards me. He held his hatred for Freddie Galloway. He was furious that even though he’d initially blabbed Galloway’s name, they’d never been able to prove he was involved. He felt the police had done him over. Galloway knew he’d been identified by Lucas, and Lucas got nothing out of it other than a lengthy jail sentence. He put his faith in the police that they’d find enough to charge Galloway too and reduce Lucas’s sentence for cooperation. Don’t get me wrong, I hope they reserve a special place in hell for the guy, but I can see why he’d be pissed off.’
Wendy and Jack exchanged another look. Whichever way they turned, it seemed, the web of intrigue and vortex of vengeance seemed to get only fiercer and more confusing.
Once they realised they’d got all there was to get out of Owen McCready, they said their goodbyes and left. Just as Culverhouse was about to start the car up, his mobile phone started ringing. Frank Vine’s number was on the screen.
‘Frank,’ Culverhouse barked.
‘Guv, we just had an interesting call come through on the main switchboard. A guy asking to speak to the senior investigating officer looking into the Freddie Galloway case. His words, not mine. He says he’s got some information that could help.’
‘Right. What’s his name?’
‘He wouldn’t say.’
Culverhouse blinked a few times. Time wasters were common on major investigations, but they usually got weeded out at the first line of defence. ‘What do you mean he wouldn’t say?’
‘He said he wants to meet you anonymously in a café in town. Just my own personal hunch here, but I reckon someone’s leaning on him. He sounded more afraid of giving too much away than anything, but seemed keen to talk.’
Culverhouse mulled this over for a minute. If the guy wanted to meet in a café, it was unlikely to be an ambush. At the worst, it could just be a timewaster.
‘When does he want to meet?’
‘Now. He’s on his way to Café Fresco. Said he’ll wait there an hour or so. He sounded like he was pretty desperate to speak to someone.’
Culverhouse looked at his watch. He could be there in ten or fifteen minutes.
‘Right. Okay then. How am I meant to know who I’m meeting, though?’
‘Uh, good point,’ Frank said. ‘He sounded black, if that helps.’
Culverhouse closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Yeah. Thanks Frank. Thanks a bunch.’
- Writer
