Last Gasp (27 page)

Heaton Chapel is one of Stockport’s
smarter suburbs. Oakfield Avenue comprises solidly-built, mainly detached
houses with decent sized gardens to front and rear. They got there just as dusk
was falling, Carver, Jess and Alec Duncan. Carver had reasoned that Tracy
Redmond wouldn’t recognise Alec the way she would Jess and, possibly, himself.
As they cruised down the avenue, checking house numbers, Carver noted that most
of the cars had German Marques, with the odd Jag for good measure.

Jess pointed ahead and to the right. ‘That’s it.’

Fronted by a low wall, number eighteen’s garden had been
block-paved to provide an open parking space. To the right was a garage with a
metal up-and-over door, next to it a wooden gate set in a high wall. There was
no car, four-by-four or otherwise. Carver drove past, parked up then twisted
round in his seat. ‘Suss it out, Alec.’

Alec was gone five minutes. When he returned he said, ‘No
sign of anyone. No lights. I knocked next door. They’re an Asian family. Only
Mum in at present. The way she describes her neighbour, it sounds like our Tracy,
and her Toyota, but they don’t see much of her. She keeps herself to herself
and is out most of the time. She thinks the car was here around nine this
morning, when she went out. It definitely wasn’t here when she came back about
two this afternoon.’

Carver checked around. It was now early evening. The
occasional car drove past, a few pedestrians as well. Commuters returning home.

Jess said, ‘What about a warrant?’

Carver looked at her. Most times with a case like this, he
would be careful to follow the book. But right now lost time could mean the
difference between life and death. He shook his head. ‘A warrant would take
hours. Besides-,’ He turned to Alec. ‘We don’t need one if we’re in pursuit of
a suspect.’

It took Alec only a moment to pick up. ‘Now that you mention
it, I think I did see a blond woman through the window, though it might turn
out to have been just a reflection.’

‘Carver nodded. ‘In that case…’

 They all got out. Before Carver locked the car he delved in
the boot.

Jess rang the bell while Alec checked the gate. It was
locked. When no one came, Jess rang again. Still no answer, Carver slipped the
crowbar from under his jacket and passed it to Alec. Seconds later, the back
gate was open. They slipped through and around the back. Along the back wall,
the windows and doors were in good order. Metal-framed and hard to force
without noise and effort, like Megan’s back door. Around the other side they
found another door in a recessed porch. It was older, with separate top and
bottom glass panels. The recess meant sound wouldn’t carry. Carver wasn’t
overly fussed, but there was no point drawing attention if it could be avoided.
Alec made use of the crowbar again and they were in in less than a minute, with
only the bottom panel smashed.

They found themselves in a utility room off the kitchen.
There was a strong smell of take-away. They soon saw why. The kitchen sink was
piled with discarded oriental-style food containers and half-eaten remains. The
ripe smell told Carver some of it had to be days old. From what he could see,
the mess was at odds with the rest of the house. Whoever had been there
recently had other things on their mind than clearing away supper. Carver went
through into the hall, stopped and listened. The house was silent. If anyone
was in they’d have heard them entering.

He called out. ‘Hello? It’s the police. Anyone home?’ No
answer.

Several doors led off the kitchen and hallway. He nodded to
Jess and Alec. ‘Check down here. I’ll look upstairs.’

On the first floor landing he counted seven doors. Towards
the back of the house there was another flight of stairs going up. The two
front rooms were bedrooms. One had a double bed that had been slept in but not
re-made. A woman’s room, items of clothing hung off wardrobe doors and handles.
The dressing table was crammed with make-up items and traces of a perfume he
didn’t recognise lingered. The other front room had twin beds, both made up and
unslept in. A third door opened onto an airing cupboard containing bedding and
towels. Next to it was a bathroom, and next to that a separate toilet. He
noticed that the water in the toilet bowl carried a reddish tinge. He checked
out the bathroom. It was dusty and looked like it hadn’t been properly cleaned
in a long while. In the combination bath/shower were some blue towels, some of
which were marked with dark, reddy-brown stains. A foul smell emanated and he
stepped back. ‘Phwoar.’ About to leave, he glanced in the hand-basin. Lying across
the plug-hole was a vicious-looking hunting knife, the sort with a serrated
edge towards the end of the blade, which was clean. The sixth room was piled
with junk against one wall. Bags of clothes, cardboard boxes, bits of
furniture. The seventh, overlooking the back, was kitted out as a gym. There
was a runner, a cross trainer, weights, benches and assorted fitness equipment.
Whatever else Tracy was, she liked to keep fit.

He was about to mount the back stairs when Jess called up.
‘Jamie?’

He retraced his steps and looked down into the hall. Jess
was at the foot of the stairs.

‘Anything?’ she said.

‘Not yet.’

‘There’s something down here you need to see.’ There was a
strange tone to her voice.

She waited while he came down, then led him back through the
kitchen, into a living room then another room off. It looked like it was used
as some sort of den. A long table was pushed up against the wall. It was
covered in papers, some loose, some bound, and piles of folders. There were
also photographs, bound together in booklets in a way that looked familiar.
Jess indicated a pile of papers she’d pulled out. He could see why. They were
also bound, but with pink ribbon, as court documents often are. Trial
depositions.

‘Take a look.’

He moved closer. Tracy Redmond was, or had been, a
barrister. Court papers weren’t particularly significant. But two items drew
his eye. One was a list of criminal indictments. Before he’d read a word
something in his sub-conscious marked them as familiar. But it was the second
item, a sheet of paper with the name of the case emblazoned across the top in
stark, neat, court script that took his breath away and sent his senses
reeling. REGINA - V - HART. The reference to the court circuit – ‘In the County
of Lancaster’ - sealed it. These were Edmund Hart’s defence documents.

‘What the-?’

She touched his arm. ‘And there’s this.’ She handed him a
photograph.

It looked like it had been taken at some formal social
event. The washed-out colour and hair styles suggested it was several years
old. It showed an attractive, blond woman in a revealing red dress and with a
black leather collar about her throat.

‘That’s Tracy,’ Jess said.

It took Carver less than a second’s study to realise that
the man whose face he recognised at once, and in whose arm Tracy was entwined
was not her client, as the presence of the court papers could have suggested,
but rather, her boyfriend, lover and, no doubt, Master.

Carver felt a chill run through him. He turned to Jess. She
was wearing a grim expression. ‘We were right.’ He said.

She nodded.

Carver’s mind raced. Tracy being connected to Edmund Hart
raised all sorts of questions, and implications. The most obvious was, she
could be the much-argued-about missing accomplice. But even as the several
trains of thought occurring threatened to carry him away he remembered. He
hadn’t finished upstairs yet. Instinctively, he looked up, as if seeing through
to what lay two floors above them. A feeling of dread crept into him. Turning
away sharply, he headed back the way he had come, leaving a surprised Jess
staring after him.

‘Jamie?’

‘There’s another floor yet,’ he called back.

She hurried after him.

He went straight to the back stairs and started up. Near to
the top, a stout door barred his way. He tried the handle. It was locked. There
was no sign of a key. He called back over his shoulder and past Jess who was
right behind him.

‘ALEC, I NEED THAT BAR.’

Moments later, Alec appeared and handed it up.

Carver jammed the flat end between the door and the frame
and heaved back. Some of the frame splintered but the door sprang open. He went
up and in, Jess and Alec following.

Outside, darkness was falling. But twin skylights in the
roof let in enough of the fading light for Carver to see it was another
dungeon-type playroom of the Megan Crane variety. It covered the entire roof
space and contained the sorts of ‘furniture’ with which they were all now
familiar. Behind him someone threw a light switch.

He didn’t need to turn to see her. As the room lit up, she
was there right in front of him. Hanging by the neck from a rope anchored to a
roof-beam, she was naked, her hands tied behind her back. Scattered around,
were items of clothing that looked like they had been cut, or torn from her
body. She was hanging at an angle facing away from them, towards the front of
the house. Her head had fallen forward so that her dark hair hid the face he
didn’t need to see to know would be blotched and bloated.

‘Ahh, Christ.’

 Behind him, Jess whispered, ‘Oh my God.’

‘Fuck-ing Jesus,’ Alec said.

Directly under her, the killer had piled some sheets. Once
white, they were now stained a dark crimson-brown. Her legs and torso were
streaked with blood. Carver remembered the knife in the sink in the bathroom.

For several moments none of them moved. There was no
immediate need. Urgent action of the life-saving variety was not going to be
called for.

Eventually, on shaking legs, Carver started forward. As he
stepped, carefully, around her, he was surprised to realise he was actually
crying. Real tears. When he stopped in front, his heart was beating faster than
he could ever remember. Already, feelings of guilt - and failure - that would
outweigh anything he had experienced in the past were threatening to overwhelm
him.

I’m sorry Megan. I’m so sorry.

He looked up at the horror before him.

I’m sorry.
The only words that would come.

He made to reach up to her, but it was as if his arm was
stuck to his side and he had to make a conscious effort to get it to move. His
hand shook as his fingers neared the cascade of hair obscuring the face that
had once been so beautiful.

I’m sorry…

He felt its silkiness against his skin as he brushed it
aside. He didn’t particularly want to gaze on the features that would bear no
resemblance to how they had been, but he knew he must. He owed her that much.
He focused through his tears, parted the dark curtain, and gazed upon her – and
leaped back several feet.

‘FUUUCK.’

Wide-eyed, he stared at her for several seconds, before
sinking to his knees. Then he tipped his head back, and let out a howl of
anguish that echoed round the room and made Jess clamp her hands to her ears.

It wasn’t Megan.

It was Angie.

During Edmund Hart’s trial for the
murders of six, High Class Female Escorts, Carver learned much about himself.
In the weeks and months following, he learned a great deal more.

Up to that time, Carver’s understanding of what it feels
like to suffer what is often referred to as a ‘breakdown’, or to experience
real, debilitating ‘stress’, was sketchy, at best. He knew, vaguely, that
‘stress’ is something people suffer when work or personal pressures become more
than they can cope with. But he had little personal experience of it. He didn’t
know what it felt like to be properly ‘stressed’. He wouldn’t. He loved his
job. He was lucky in that his personal life had never derailed in any of the
ways people’s lives sometimes do, the single exception being his divorce from
Gill. His health was good, and his finances were, more or less, under control.
In work he’d always coped with whatever the job threw at him, including the
responsibilities that come with running a Major Crime Investigation. What he’d
never realised however, was the extent to which that coping ability was linked
to his own self-image. Carver had always viewed himself, and took pride in doing
so, as someone who always, ‘did the right thing’. As someone once pointed out,
it would have been during his formative years that he developed a strong sense
of ‘right’, ‘wrong’, and ‘justice’. As he grew into adulthood this
understanding became his moral compass, though it didn’t necessarily follow
that meant being a slave to, ‘the rules’. If serving ‘justice’ meant bending
them, or even subverting them all together, then so be it. Given his job, it
was as well that this tendency was balanced by a strong sense of
professionalism. And though a band of grey often separated white from black, he
was clear about when and where to draw the line. As his career progressed,
these attributes served him well. By the age of thirty, he’d made Detective
Inspector, occasionally filling the SIO role in respect of, if not yet first
tier, then certainly second tier, major crime. At no time did he give any
thought to what influence his father may, or may not, have had on his career
progression.

Then he met Angela Kendrick.

By then, Carver was already experienced at cultivating and
running informants, his attachment to NCIS - later subsumed within the National
Crime Agency - had seen to that. He was well versed in Informant Handling, and
knew well the practical and moral dilemmas it brings. It had never been a
problem. As he liked to instruct his team, ‘Stay on the right side of the
track, keep it business-like, don’t get personally involved, and you’ll be
fine. Ignore those rules, and you’ll find yourself on the slippery slope.’

Which is exactly what happened with Angie.

Before Hart, Carver had never had a case before the court
where he wasn’t one-hundred-percent confident that whatever crap the defence
might throw at him, none of it would stick. His moral compass had always seen
to that. In that respect, Regina –v- Hart was a whole new experience. And six
weeks waiting to see if today was the day the defence would drop a bombshell
that would blow a good part of the prosecution case apart, and maybe lead to the
worst serial killer the country had seen since the Yorkshire Ripper walk free,
was a long time to be under the cosh. Day by day, week by week, it took its
toll. It began with sleepless nights. Then came the sweats. Soon it was the
racing heart-beat, the shakes, an inability to concentrate on anything apart
from what might happen. By the last week of the trial, Carver arrived in court
every day convinced that the case was on the point of collapse – and that his
relationship with a key prosecution witness would be the cause of it.

The reality was that the weight of evidence against Hart -
the sightings, the forensic, the DNA, the stuff found in his house – meant that
Carver’s evidence was almost immaterial. The only way Hart wasn’t going to get
convicted was if evidence emerged that the jury had been got at, and there was
never any need for that. But Carver didn’t see it that way.

Even after Hart’s conviction, Carver remained convinced his
relationship with Angie would come out and the case would be called for
re-trial. By this time, it was obvious to many that something was wrong. Things
got worse when the documentary aired, followed soon after by the Sunday Times
Magazine feature. They both focused, though to differing degrees, on the,
‘young/intuitive/inspirational’ Detective Inspector reported to have led the
investigation. Which was wrong to start with. Carver was actually one of three
ASIOs to what was the largest man-hunt seen for years. But the way the Times
journalist, Jackson, presented it, The Escort Killer investigation was going
nowhere until Carver joined it and brought his particular skills and experience
to bear. According to Jackson, it was Carver and Carver alone people should
thank for seeing Edmund Hart put where he could do no more harm. It was
bollocks, of course. Carver knew it. The media people knew it. Everyone close
to the investigation knew it. It didn’t matter. That was the way it was told
and it was the way it stayed. Unsurprisingly, some weren’t happy. The fact that
Carver tried at every opportunity to make clear that he had only ever answered,
truthfully, the questions asked of him during several, on-the-spot talking-head
shots made no difference. The seeds were planted and the rumours grew. And
while those closest to him knew the truth, there were plenty prepared to
believe that Carver really was the grandstanding, self-promoting,
stand-on-anyone’s-shoulders-to-get-himself-noticed egotist the rumours painted.
A man whose sole aim was to fulfil the ambitions set for him by his soon-to-retire
Chief Constable father. And nothing Carver did or said, made a blind bit of
difference.

Through it all, there was Angie.

And the fact she was pregnant.

And that the date of conception worked out to when she and
Carver dined alone in her apartment while ‘going over a few last things’ before
her meeting with a suspect known as ‘Eddie’ – or the day following, when Edmund
Hart carried on raping her, even while the police outside were doing their best
to find a way of breaking down the steel-reinforced door that, ironically, was
meant to ensure her safety. Angie came from a Catholic background. Despite her
chosen profession, she remained close to, and respected, her mother. Abortion
was not an option. She refused a DNA test. She remained steadfast in her belief
that Carver was the father.

Carver didn’t handle it well. It was only in the weeks and
months following, after finally realising that if he was ever going to return
to work he needed to listen to what people were telling him, that he sought
help. Which was when he began to understand what had happened to him, and why.
It was dressed up in all sorts of flowery psycho-babble of course, most of
which sounded, to him, like bullshit. But the basics were clear enough. He’d
let his guard down and erred in a way that threatened to undermine not just the
most important case in years, but also everything he thought he stood for - the
strong, always-do-the-right-thing individual he wanted, and his father wanted,
him to be. He also learned that when it comes to the human mind, everyone is
different, but also the same. The threshold where people are so conflicted
their cognitive abilities cease to function is different for everyone. Some
people never reach it. But when it happens, what you need to be able to do is switch
off, and walk away.

Carver was thinking of doing that right now. After the
initial, terrible, shock of discovering that the woman he once loved had been
murdered in the most brutal, horrific way, he managed, just, to hold things together.
Two things helped.

The first was Jess and Alec who between them dragged him out
and back downstairs and badgered him so he stayed focused on what he needed to
do. ‘You need to call The Duke.’ ‘Shall we report it to Manchester, or our
Control Room?’ ‘Do you know the local DI?’

The second was that professionalism again. The realisation
that right now he was the man in charge. And that if he wanted to ensure that
whoever had murdered Angie – whether Tracy Redmond or someone else - was
brought to book, then instead of giving in to the grief and horror that made
him want to find some warm, dark place and curl up into a ball, he needed to
make sure that things were done properly. Like contacting the right people, in
the right order. Like making sure that the scene was properly preserved. Like
making sure that Tracy Redmond’s details and those of her car were circulated
to those who needed them.

When the local police began to arrive – it was Greater
Manchester’s patch – he continued to hold it together enough to tell them what
they needed to know, before passing them to Jess and Alec while he did the same
with the DCI from the force’s Serious Crime Squad. The DCI was a man called
Peter Rigby. Carver had heard of him, though the two had never met When,
instead of getting on and managing it as the murder scene it so clearly was,
Rigby began demanding to be told the ins and outs of the whole Kerry
Investigation, the inner demons Carver was battling against started to show.
‘Just deal with the fucking scene,’ he urged the other, ‘We’ll do the rest.’

Rigby
was a thirty-year
serving Manchester Jack, ten of them spent with the force’s Serious Crime
Squad. He probably had more experience investigating murders than Carver, The
Duke and the whole of the Cheshire CID hierarchy put together. The suggestion,
from an outside-force detective, on
his
patch, that he should just,
‘deal with the fucking scene’ and not ask questions, did not go down well.
Things were about to blow when Jess stepped in.

Taking light hold of the DCI’s elbow, she smiled at him.
‘Can I just have a quick word Sir?’ She didn’t wait for a reply but guided him to
the other side of the room where she spoke with him, quietly, but firmly. While
they were ‘consulting’, Carver made more phone calls. Across the room he was
conscious of the looks, glances and nods being aimed in his direction. More
than once he heard Rigby declare, ‘Fuck me.’

When Rigby returned, he was calmer, and more disposed to
cooperate than he had been. ‘I’ll see to things here, mate. Don’t worry.’

Carver nodded his thanks, to Jess also.

But once all the immediate stuff had been seen to, Carver
began to recognise what was happening in his head. Random thoughts kept popping
into his brain. Some needed thinking about, like the fact they still needed to
find Megan. Others didn’t. What the hell did it matter whether or not Rosanna
had anything in for supper that evening – assuming he ever got home in any time
to eat? He thought about ringing her and letting her know what had happened,
but decided against. It was such a horrendous thing to have to share, he should
do it face-to-face. Besides, if he told her over the telephone, she would only
worry about him - maybe with good reason. Then something occurred to him that
was
important. In fact, it was the most important thing of all. ‘Fuck,’ he said.
And immediately felt bad for not thinking of it sooner.

He dug out his phone, went into voicemail, brought up the
message from the DCI in Professional Standards he had ignored earlier and hit
ring back. It rang several times before a voice said, ‘DCI Braithwaite.’

Carver told him who he was, where he was - and what had
happened.

Braithwaite’s gasp sounded clear in his ear. ‘Angela
Kendrick? Dead? Christ.’

It took a few minutes, but once he got his head round the
facts, he told Carver how Angie’s boyfriend, Rob, had reported her missing two
days earlier. Knowing her history, as well as what had happened with Shepherd,
he thought Carver might know something and had been trying to get hold of him.

Realising that had he taken Braithwaite’s call he may have
been alerted to the danger Angie was in earlier, Carver froze, and closed his
eyes.
If I’d only known…
But then he wouldn’t have known where to look for
her. She’d have died anyway… he thought.

The DCI was thanking him for letting him know.

‘She’s got a son,’ Carver said.

‘That’s right.’

‘Where is he?’

‘With his Gran, I believe. The boyfriend’s a lorry driver.’

Carver nodded. He’d met Angie’s mother, Sue, twice. Once at
the hospital where her daughter was fighting to hold onto her life and,
unknowingly at that point, the one just starting inside her, and again during
the trial. They were frosty meetings. But she was devoted to her grandson. He
remembered she lived somewhere near Oldham. He asked the DCI if he had her
address. He didn’t but his partner did.

‘He’s at the City game right now. I can ring him and get him
to phone you?’

Carver thanked him, and rang off.

He stared out at the back garden they’d broken into two
hours before. It seemed ages go now.
Jason…
He squeezed his eyes shut.
As tight as possible. Wetness still seeped through. He felt himself beginning
to shake, muscles going into spasm. It had happened before. He tried not to
hold himself rigid – the instinctive response – and worked at slowing his
breathing down.
Long and deep….
It helped, a little.

‘Jamie?’

He turned. Jess was staring at him, wearing a worried look.

‘You okay?’

He steeled himself. Nodded. ‘I think we ought to-’

‘Jamie.’ Her hand came up in a ‘stop’ signal.

‘What?’

‘There’s nothing more we can do here. We should go. Rigby’s
got things in hand.’

‘Okay. In that case, we’ll head back to-’

‘No.’ The hand again. ‘The only place you’re heading is
home. You need a time out. We’ll pick it all up with The Duke in the morning.
You need some sleep.’

‘Oh yeah, like I’m going to sleep.’

‘Whatever, you need to be home.’ She closed on him, stared
up at him. ‘You know what I’m talking about.’