One Bad Turn (3 page)

Mallender’s office was tidy but not obnoxiously so. His working life was bogged down with preparing reports for the Chief Super and the ever growing burden of making sure crimes had been recorded accurately, though it was a constant battle. Victims of robbery were often assaulted, but the Information Commission had found that several forces were recording data differently, resulting in bun fights further up the food chain and as the saying goes shit only ever runs downhill. Mallender’s role was a sticky one, Coupland didn’t envy it, but at least the DCI didn’t have to interview a grieving partner on little to no shut eye and not nearly enough caffeine to see him through.

They sat down either side of Mallender’s desk. Coupland, resisting the urge to drum his fingers, waited him out. Mallender shuffled a few papers and cleared his throat, ‘Superintendent Curtis…’ he began, letting Coupland know as subtly as he could that he didn’t endorse the statement he was about to make, ‘…feels the murder should be treated as a Hate crime.’ Coupland blew out his cheeks, ‘I suspected he might,’ he said glibly, ‘though it’s too early to call in my view, I mean it’s not like there’s ever any love lost between a killer and his victim.’ Coupland disagreed with the way top brass wanted every case classified the moment it came in. It was no wonder there were so many errors. Officers were expected to make snap decisions before all the facts had been gathered. ‘We’ve only just found her, Guv,’ he added, ‘no disrespect, but the body’s hardly had a chance to get cold, I’ve not seen anything yet that makes me think this killing is the result of the woman’s race or religion or anything else for that matter.’

‘Me neither,’ Mallender’s voice lowered a notch as he said this, ‘but the Super’s paranoid about being caught with his trousers down if something comes up later. Better to treat it as such at the outset.’ There had been a flurry of outcry a couple of years before that the five categories used to record hate crimes: race, religion, disability, sexual orientation or transgender identity - were not enough, and in 2013 Greater Manchester Police expanded the classifications to record offences against members of alternative subcultures - Goths, Emos, Punks, and Metallers. You really couldn’t please all the people all the time. Coupland gave in and drummed his fingers on the desk impatiently. He wanted to be sure they weren’t being hasty, closing down lines of enquiry before they’d even begun. Worse still, going down blind alleys. ‘But that means trawling through local neo Nazi cells, BNP splinter groups, anyone with an axe to grind.’ Mallender nodded. It took all of Coupland’s strength not to sigh. If he wanted to run the investigation the way he felt was appropriate as well as take this route he’d need double the resources and there was no point asking. The staffing situation was dire, thousands of jobs gone nationwide after the last spending review. They had to make do with what they’d got. ‘But we still interview and eliminate the boyfriend?’ he clarified, already allocating caseloads in his head. Mallender nodded once more. ‘Better to get him out of the way as soon as possible,’ he agreed, ‘at least that way he can get on with the process of grieving.’

By the time Coupland returned to his desk his drink was already tepid. He pulled a face as he swallowed the bitter coffee, deciding not to bother with his sweeteners; the liquid wasn’t hot enough to dissolve them. ‘Cheers’ he called over half-heartedly to Ashcroft but the DC didn’t reply. Coupland fished his phone from his jacket pocket and sent a text to Lynn telling her he wouldn’t be back until the end of his proper shift. She replied straight away: Any excuse to get out of the washing, Kev… Typical Lynn, no matter what time they returned from holiday she never went to bed until the final pile of dirty washing had been loaded into the machine. It was her thing. Just like his was crashing on top of the duvet in his clothes, snoring and passing wind until she brought him a coffee when she finally came to bed. Coupland looked at his watch, remembered he needed to reset the time now he was back in the UK, so slipped it off his wrist, admiring the white strip of skin. ‘You ever been to the Caribbean?’ he called out to Ashcroft. The DC’s shoulders set and he clenched his jaw a couple of times before answering. ‘Can’t say I have, Sarge, no.’

‘Just back from Antigua, beautiful place,’ Coupland beamed, ‘never gone further than Spain before, but the Missus had her heart set on it. Mind you, we started in Vegas first, always fancied going since that George Clooney film.’ He slipped his watch back on his wrist. ‘Dayshift starts in about an hour. Fancy getting us a couple o’ bacon rolls before we go through what you’ve been reading?’

‘Not hungry, Sarge.’ Coupland looked up, ‘My treat?’ he coaxed. The DC shook his head. Turnbull, slumping on a nearby desk sat up Meerkat-like, ‘I’ll have one if you’re feeling flush, Sarge,’ he called out getting to his feet, hand outstretched for Coupland’s money. ‘Go on then,’ Coupland grumbled, ‘and get me a latte with an extra shot.’ A murder and a temperamental new DC on his first day back. It was going to be a long day.

Ashcroft began filling Coupland in on Sharon Mathers and her boyfriend. She was twenty five; the boyfriend - James Grimshaw - was a year older. They’d been living together for three years, had been going out together since they met at work five years ago. ‘Why wasn’t he on the night out then?’ Coupland asked, ‘He’d moved jobs, got a more senior position at a rival firm. Didn’t think the bosses would have been too happy if he’d tried tagging along.’

‘Her colleagues make a habit of going out midweek?’ Ashcroft shook his head, ‘They went out every payday, a few drinks rather than a bender.’

‘Any previous?’

‘Both clean as a whistle.’

‘History of domestic violence?’

Ashcroft shook his head once more. Just then Turnbull returned with Coupland’s bacon roll and latte. ‘No change?’ Coupland asked, eyeing Turnbull as he bit into his own roll appreciatively. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before replying, ‘Bumped into Robinson,’ he smiled, ‘and I knew you wouldn’t want him to think you had a favourite.’ Coupland looked back at Ashcroft, ‘You hear that? Insubordination everywhere I turn.’ He took the lid off his latte and with lightning speed clicked three sweeteners into it. Tucking the serviette that came with the bacon roll into his shirt collar he bit into his roll. He always returned to work after a holiday slightly more domesticated than when he left, he’d spent the last 14 days in the company of his two favourite women; their clean ways of living were bound to rub off. He studied Ashcroft, narrowing his eyes, ‘The last lad that was here was a vegetarian, you’re not one of those are you?’

‘No,’ Ashcroft leaned back in his chair, his nose twitching at the smell of crispy bacon. ‘Just not hungry, that’s all,’ though his stomach gave a rumble that said otherwise. He folded his hands across his body.

‘I want you to come with me when I speak to the boyfriend,’ Coupland said between mouthfuls. Ashcroft, instead of being pleased Coupland was willing to involve him so quickly, seemed to bristle. ‘Wouldn’t you rather take one of the others?’ he demanded, pushing himself up in his chair. ‘I’d have asked them, if I did,’ Coupland eyed him carefully, ‘but my partner’s on maternity leave and you are her cover. Am I missing something here?’

‘No,’ but the set of Ashcroft’s face as he turned back to his desk said otherwise.

The room set up for Sharon Mathers’ murder was packed as day and night shift overlapped to attend the briefing. DCI Mallender updated both teams with the details as he knew them, including the extent of her injuries. ‘This was an angry, vicious attack, borne out by the degree of damage to the victim’s face.’ One of the nightshift DCs raised his hand, ‘Could it be a domestic gone too far?’ he offered, ‘Boyfriend might have found her in the woods with another fella?’ Mallender shook his head, ‘We’ll know more later but initial forensic reports state there was no sexual activity - either wanted or unwanted - prior to her death. DS Coupland will be interviewing James Grimshaw, the victim’s boyfriend, first thing.’ Mallender paused, ‘The incident is to be treated as a Hate crime for the time being. I want no stone unturned for us to either prove or disprove this theory.’ He waited while Coupland allocated actions relating to checking out local right wing organisations and their members, also any known offenders who may have previously been working their way up to murder. ‘I want this carried out swiftly and robustly, and paper trails to reflect that.’ Mallender added. Coupland bit back a response, Curtis really had put the fear of God into him, he mused. Though to be fair, if this did turn out to be a racially motivated crime the press would be all over them if it looked like they’d missed something.

Ashcroft was quiet as they climbed into the pool car. Coupland offered to drive them since the DC didn’t know his way around yet and the satnav had a mind of its own. He turned to his passenger, ‘Should only take us fifteen minutes.’ At least it would give them time to get to know each other better, it was always a bit awkward the first few times you worked with someone new, the sooner they worked out a common wavelength the better. Ashcroft said nothing, looked out of the passenger window like a like a tourist on a road trip. We’re not in Kansas anymore, Coupland thought sourly, wishing Alex would hurry up and come back. He never thought he’d hear himself admit it but he missed her fussing and the way she nit-picked over everything he did; both at work and home he’d long since resigned himself to women pecking his head. He took a sidelong glance at Ashcroft and formed his mouth into a smile, ‘So, you a Chelsea fan then? Or Spurs?’ he ventured. ‘West Ham actually,’ Ashcroft responded, ‘You?’ Coupland shrugged, ‘More of a telly addict now,’ he confessed, ‘can’t think when I last went to a game,’ Coupland scratched his head, ‘used to take Amy to Old Trafford when she was a nipper, me and Lynn used to have season tickets but they got way too pricey.’ Ashcroft was only half listening. ‘How you getting on with the team?’ Coupland prodded. ‘Fine,’ he shrugged, ‘they seem OK, it’s not easy walking into a dead man’s shoes.’ Coupland clenched his jaw, blinked away an image of the young DC who had been murdered by a local gang several months before. ‘I’m sorry!’ Ashcroft said suddenly, turning to look at him, ‘I didn’t mean to sound so crass.’ Coupland swatted his words away, ‘He hadn’t been with us long. None of us really got to know him all that well but he was a good kid. He didn’t deserve…’ The lights had changed to red and Coupland found himself gripping the steering wheel. ‘…we let him down.’ he said quietly. Ashcroft let out a long slow breath. ‘It’s never easy when something like that happens, and then I turn up and you’ve got to start from the beginning all over again.’ As the lights changed to green Coupland broached something that had been playing on his mind. ‘You seemed put out earlier, when I asked you to come with me to question Sharon’s boyfriend. Is there a problem?’ Ashcroft moved his head so he was looking out of the window once more.

‘You have to see how it looks from my point of view,’ he said, ‘for the last week I’ve been dealing with burglaries and assault, doing the grunt work no one else wants then a black woman is murdered and I’m riding shotgun with you.’

Coupland cocked his head as he considered the man’s words. ‘Sorry,’ he moved his head from side to side, ‘I’m not with you,’ he glanced at Ashcroft who was starting to look uncomfortable. ‘Firstly, as I said earlier, you are replacing DS Moreton who partnered me regularly, so I would expect you to come along. Secondly, when you joined the team you were given the opportunity to find your feet by not being thrown in the deep end and as I understand it the good people of Salford managed not to kill each other last week so you had a reprieve, and finally, DC Ashcroft, as your senior officer I don’t have to see anything from your point of view. Are we clear?’ Coupland had never had to say that last part to anyone before, most of the officers who knew him thought twice about getting on his wrong side because he was well known for flying off the handle. He felt quite pleased with himself that he’d been able to articulate things so well. Certainly without having to resort to swearing. Maybe it wasn’t just his waistline going soft around the middle. Ashcroft sighed, but it was petulant, the sound of a teenager made to do something against their will. Coupland tried not to let his irritation show in his voice. ‘It might help if you tell me what’s got you so bent out of shape, starting with why you actually left the Met. I always thought you had to grow an extra set of bollocks to work there,’ he added to lighten the mood, ‘what with you all being from the Alpha gene pool.’

The DC shook his head. ‘Don’t,’ he squirmed, looking down at his hands.

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re not wrong,’ Ashcroft admitted, ‘I guess I did think I was the big I Am, but I also did a good job. Unblemished ten year record.’

‘Quite the mover and shaker,’ Coupland countered. In his experience everyone ended up with a reprimand at some point in time, some sort of bollocking recorded on file to keep you in the career sticky stuff. Your whole time in the job was one long assessment process; he’d be suspicious of anyone with a clean slate. Never mind blemishes, Coupland’s own personnel file was full blown acne ridden. He didn’t have a diplomatic bone in his body, didn’t like to see the way the force was going. There were too many coming into the service didn’t want to put in the graft, were all too happy to let someone else put their neck on the line. All wanting a fast track out of the front line and into somewhere much less accountable. ‘Look,’ Ashcroft spoke slowly, as though trying to make sense of his words before he said them, ‘The Met’s desperate about its reputation, especially in the wake of Mark Duggan.’ He was referring to the black man shot twice in Tottenham, north London, in 2011 after specialist firearms officers stopped the minicab he was in on suspicion that he had an illegal firearm. No gun was found on him. His death had sparked riots in cities and towns across England. Coupland said nothing. He hadn’t been there, he didn’t know the full story, but he’d needed DCI Mallender to explain the Inquiry’s verdict to him, and even he’d admitted to being confused and he’d gone to university. ‘Bottom line is top brass said I was ready for promotion,’ Ashcroft’s face took on a sour look, ‘only the boroughs they offered to me were, what’s the politically correct phrase…all ethnically diverse.’