Last Gasp (29 page)

As the blackness closed in, the
last thing Carver saw was the figure dragging itself off Megan Crane’s still
form and turning towards him. Somewhere far away, a voice called, ‘HANG ON,
JAMIE.’

There was a roaring in Carver’s ears
and he began to panic as he realised his lungs were empty. He gasped for air,
swallowed, gasped again, then it was there, rushing into the empty spaces,
bringing him back. He spluttered, gasped one last time, and opened his eyes
just as the lips that had been clamped over his disengaged and drew back. There
was a film over his eyes so he couldn’t yet make out the features that hovered
over him but he could hear the creak of the motorcycle leathers next to his ear
and was aware of two things. One, he was on his back, on the floor. Two, he was
alive. As his breathing steadied and some but not all the panic began to
subside, his eyes focused enough for him to make out the face staring down at
him.

To begin with, it was etched only with worry. But then, as
he blinked himself back to consciousness the thin lips formed into a smile and
Kayleigh Lee said, ‘You alright, Jamie?’

Carver stared across at the two
women and the man facing him across the desk. Their expressions were variously,
expectant, hopeful, challenging. They were waiting for him to tell them how, if
he were an Area Commander, he would set about drafting his Annual Policing
Plan. He knew what they wanted to hear. He’d seen the latest Home Office
Memorandum on the subject, full of phrases such as, ‘Community Involvement’,
‘Police-Public Partnerships’, ‘Stakeholders’. But they weren’t going to hear
them. Not from him. Not today. Instead, he was going to do what the voice
inside his head had been telling him he should be doing during the thirty
minutes he’d been answering their questions. What he wasn’t sure of, was how to
tell them. But then he realised. It didn’t matter. However he put it, the
result would be the same.

Fuck it.

He stood up.

The trio of senior officers and staff who comprised the
Superintendent’s Promotion Interview Panel – more commonly known as, ‘The
Board’ - rocked back in their chairs. It was not at all what they’d been
expecting from the man they’d been waiting to hear impress them with his grasp
of the subject. The reactions almost made Carver smile. The looks on their
faces suggested they feared he might be about to attack them, or something. He
didn’t. What he did do was make a point of grabbing eye-contact with each of
them, before saying, ‘I’m sorry Ladies, Sir. I shouldn’t be here.’

As his words registered, their horror gave way to puzzled
surprise. The middle of the three and the Board Chairman, Deputy Chief
Constable, Derek Riley, was first to recover. Leaning forward, he pinned Carver
with a look he read as,
I hope you’re not serious.

‘I’m sorry? What do you mean, you shouldn’t be here?’

Carver took a deep breath. He was already resigned to
whatever fallout his decision would trigger. ‘I mean that right now, I should
be somewhere else. I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time.’

Riley checked the woman on his right. Alison Roebuck, ACC
Operations, appeared to be still grappling with the unexpected turn the
interview had taken. Her mouth was opening and closing, but no words came. To
his left, Rachel Spencer, the force’s Human Resource Director was showing the
first signs of concern. She would be thinking about whether they’d unwittingly
done something to prejudice Carver’s chances, prompting him to throw in the
towel. He returned his gaze to Carver.

‘Is it anything to do with what happened? Your voice, throat
or anything?’

Carver shook his head. ‘Nothing to do with any of that.’ In
truth, there were still days when, by the time he finished work, talking felt
like someone was sticking pins through his windpipe. But it was nothing like as
bad as it had been. There’d even been mornings recently when it felt close to
normal.

‘I take it then, you know what you are doing?’

Caver nodded. ‘I do.’ He was tempted to say more, but
resisted. Right now, he wasn’t really interested in trying to explain himself.
‘If you’ll excuse me?’ Turning, he headed for the door.

As he grasped the handle, Riley called, ‘Mr Carver.’

Carver turned. He couldn’t read the look on his DCC’s face.
Riley had a reputation for being fair, but ruthless when he needed to be.

‘You’re sure about this?’

Carver met the scrutinising gaze. ‘Yes.’

Riley gave it a moment, then said, ‘In case you were
wondering, you were doing alright.’

Carver nodded an acknowledgement, but said nothing. What
happened next was up to them. They would either understand, or they wouldn’t.
As he left the room he didn’t look back, nor did he linger outside to hear what
he might pick up. He could imagine. Walking out on a Promotion Board,
particularly when it’s going well, would be seen as evidence of either a loose
screw, a career death-wish, or both. Carver thought that neither applied in his
case, though he could be wrong.

As he headed down the corridor that would take him to the
back stairs and a hopefully low-key exit from Headquarters, he wondered how
long it would be before his phone started ringing. He needed to get his calls
in first.

Five minutes later, he drove left out of the main gates,
towards Chester. He travelled less than two miles before turning off onto the
car park of the Shrewsbury Arms and parking at the back. He dug out his mobile.

Rosanna was first. ‘How did it go?’ she said. Even through
the hoarse croak, he could hear the eagerness in her voice. It made him feel
guilty. She deserved better.

‘Let’s put it this way, I don’t think they’ll be fitting me
for a uniform any time soon.’
Actually, that could be exactly what will
happen.

‘Why? What happened?’

‘Mmm, I’ll tell you later. It was… interesting.’

There was a pause. And she sounded suspicious when she said,
‘What have you done?’

He sighed. ‘Like I said. Later.’

‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes. There’s just some things I need to do, then I’ll be
coming home. I’ll tell you about it then.’

‘So we won’t be opening the champagne?’

‘We might, if you’re allowed. What did the consultant say?’

‘He said the x-ray shows definite signs of improvement. He
said he thinks the damage may not be permanent, but I have to rest my voice for
another month then they will do another X-Ray.’

‘That’s good.’

‘That they’ll do another X-ray?’

‘That you can’t talk for a month.’

As she reverted to her native language and he heard the
beginnings of the expletives she reserved just for him, he said, ‘Speak later,’
and hung up.

He rang another number. A woman answered. They spoke
briefly, agreed a time. He rang off, got on the road again. He called Jess on
hands-free.

She tried to sound upbeat. ‘How did it go?’

The word’s not out yet then.

For a second, he thought about dodging it, but then
remembered. Whatever their differences rank-wise, she was the nearest thing
he’d had to a real partner for a long time. He took a deep breath. ‘You’ll hear
soon. They’ll say I bottled it.’

She sucked air. ‘Did you?’

‘No. I walked.’

‘You
what
?’

‘I’ll explain when I see you.’

‘Hmm. Maybe you don’t need to. I can probably guess.’

‘Good. That helps. How was the case meeting?’

‘Okay, I think. Everyone seems happy enough. The Duke
reckons its coming together.'

‘And Craig?’

‘He’s got his head round most of it. I help him out now and
then.’

‘I can imagine.’

Even now, three weeks after, Carver still wasn’t sure how he
felt being replaced as Case Officer in the case of The Crown versus Megan
Crane. He understood the reasoning. The fact that everything revolved, in some
way, around him, raised obvious conflict of interest issues. The defence would
have a field day if it came to trial with him still at the helm. But he was
surprised just how far he’d been cut out of things, and by The Duke of all
people. He had nothing against his replacement. He and Craig McDonagh had come
up through CID together. Not friends, exactly, but solid colleagues, McDonagh
was an able investigator. But he didn’t know the territory like Carver, and in
his idle moments he worried what his replacement might be missing. But that was
where Jess came in. And when it came to the trial, he would have plenty of
opportunities to make sure everything got laid out the way it should.
Especially the stuff about Angie. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had nothing to
do.

‘What about Merfyn David? What’s his take on it?’ Merfyn
David, QC, was lead Counsel for the prosecution. He’d worked Carver’s cases
before. Their respect was mutual.

‘He wants to talk to you. He said he’d welcome-’ Jess
affected a passable Welsh accent. ‘“Some, clarrr-if-ic-ation over a couple of
matters.”’

Carver allowed himself a half smile. ‘Right.’

‘One thing. He’s not going to pursue the little fingers
angle.’

‘He’s not?’

‘Too remote, he reckons.’

Carver wasn’t altogether surprised. He’d wondered himself
if, come the trial, the trial judge might rule it spurious.

It was during the one follow-up interview with Megan Crane
he’d managed to get to sit in on before they barred him, when he’d spotted the
significance of Corinne Anderson’s bent-over little fingers. As she’d sat
alongside her solicitor, saying nothing to every question McDonagh put to her,
while all the time giving Carver the Mona Lisa smile he already knew would
haunt him the rest of his life, he noticed her hands, resting flat on the
table. Both of her little fingers were deformed. Kinked, so they wouldn’t lie
flat, the left one quite markedly. He cursed himself for not noticing before,
but then reasoned, it only showed when her hand rested on a flat surface. And
the only real chance he’d had was the night her hand found its way onto his
thigh - and he’d had other things on his mind at the time. Perhaps, if he’d
spent more time with her, he might have seen it sooner and things would have
been different. Then again, things might have been different in ways he didn’t
want to think about. He still saw it as a potential link in the evidence chain.
But Merfyn David was no fool, and if he thought otherwise... We’ll see, Carver
thought.

‘One other thing,’ Jess said.

‘Go on.’

‘After the meeting, Merfyn pulled me aside. He wanted to
know how I think you’ll hold up in the box.’

‘And you said?’

‘You won’t have a problem.’

‘Right.’

She waited, giving him the opportunity to say more. He
didn’t.

‘So what will you do? About the Board thing, I mean?’

‘Nothing. There’s more important stuff to worry about.’

‘Like…?’

‘Like… I’ll tell you when I see you.’

‘When will that be?’

He thought about it.

‘Soon.’

‘You’re a mine of information.’

‘I know. Watch my back Jess.’

‘I will. And Jamie?’

‘Yes?’

‘When it all starts… I mean… If you need someone to talk
to...?’

‘Thanks. I’ll remember that.’ He hung up. He knew what she’d
meant. They’d spoken about it.

The past week or so, the media frenzy that had been running
flat out since that night had calmed, a little. His last, direct approach from
the press had been over a week ago, and the tabloids had finally stopped
speculating about what had actually happened. But once the trial started, it
would begin again. One thing was already clear. Some media elements were lining
up to use his past profile as a launch-pad for what they would no-doubt seek to
portray as another instalment in the ‘exciting career’ of - as one had,
horrifically, put it – ‘Britain’s foremost, serial-sex-crime detective’. It
made him sick, and he’d told the Force’s Marketing Manager he wanted no part in
it, even if the Chief did see it as an opportunity to present the force more
positively than in most of the stories showing up in the press these days. He
still couldn’t believe how they’d talked about it at the ‘Media Strategy’
meeting he’d attended with The Duke. At one point he’d wondered if they were
discussing some Hollywood film script. He even called a time-out to remind them
that people had actually died and others – Rosanna, Tracy, himself? - had been
damaged by the events surrounding what he only ever heard referred to now as,
‘The Worshipper Murders’. It made little difference.

The trouble was, only he knew the truth. That mistakes had
been made. That some on the team had acted unprofessionally, putting themselves
and others, at risk. That far from a professional investigation leading to the
unmasking of the killer, the investigators had become ‘involved’. With disastrous
consequences. And what will that do to their precious, ‘Media Strategy’ if it
comes out? No,
when
it comes out.

It wasn’t all.

Only now, after detailed analysis of her banking and phone
records – those they knew about – and especially the explosive contents of the
filing cabinet from her cellar-office, was it becoming clear just how extensive
Megan Crane’s network of ‘friends’ really was. It included people in positions
of power, and authority. People with money. People whose interests lay in not
having their unconventional leanings aired in public. Which was why someone,
maybe more than one, had arranged for Butler’s, the most renowned Chambers in
Criminal Practice, to provide silk for Megan Crane. So that matters other than
the salacious details of the murders and her lifestyle, may be on offer to
slake the media’s unquenchable thirst. Even now, Solicitor’s Enquiring Agents,
- retired detectives mostly– where digging into every aspect of the case.
Sniffing out things that might divert a Jury’s – and the press’s – attention,
away from those who might otherwise find themselves in the spotlight. And Jamie
Carver was their number one target.

Lawyers can sometimes be fickle, but they’re not stupid. No
DCI worth his salt could be as clean as the way the media had, up to now,
presented Carver. He had to have made mistakes. He’d already had a telephone
call from a friend on the Manchester Evening News telling him that someone was
enquiring about a key witness in the Edmund Hart case. Someone who might have
gotten involved with one of the investigators. And if they knew that then… He
stopped, recognising the signs. Sleep was hard enough to come by as it was. He
shook his head, trying to clear it of the diverting shadows.

He rang Rita.

‘How are you, Jamie?’

Why does everyone ask the same question?
His first
thought was she sounded strange, then he realised. She was trying to sound
sympathetic, recognising what he’d been through. It wasn’t her strong point.
‘I’m getting there. How’s Kayleigh?’

She gave one of her customary snorts. ‘Kayleigh’s Kayleigh.
She’ll be okay.’

‘Is she… er… how is she…?’