One Bad Turn (30 page)

Ashcroft looked at Turnbull but he was already reaching for his phone, ‘I’ll let the boss know,’ he said, turning his back on them as he hit the call button. Ashcroft sifted through the other cards in the box, lifting them out one by one. Inside the first one, the brief message said,
My first birthday
, accompanied by a photograph of a chubby baby sitting in his high chair, laughing for the camera.

‘Robbed of his dad and then of his sister, hardly the best start in life, was it?’ Pat went on. Ashcroft said nothing as he lifted another card, this time the photograph was of a small boy with a rucksack on his back that was far too big for him, the handwritten message said:
First day at school.
Pat’s voice became anxious, ‘Maybe you can’t change the course of events, no matter how hard you try.’

Ashcroft selected another card as he glanced up at her, ‘How did he react when you told him about his sister?’

‘How do you think? Though it was nothing compared to his reaction when I told him about his father. Can you imagine, finding out your old man had been released from jail only to discover he’d died while you were serving your own prison sentence? How messed up is that?’ Ashcroft opened the card he was holding and slid out the photo. His breath caught in his throat, ‘You don’t know the half of it.’ he said quietly.

Chapter 18

Krispy rolled his eyes at Coupland as he relayed his phone call to the council’s social services team whilst waiting on hold for the person dealing with this request to come back to him, ‘Says her computer system’s down at the moment which means she’ll need to requisition paper copies,’ Coupland could feel his blood surging through his veins, ‘Tell her to-’ he stopped mid-sentence, one look at Ashcroft as he hurried into the incident room told him they had a serious problem. ‘You took your time,’ he barked, ‘I saw Turnbull’s missed call, tried ringing you back but…’ already something inside him was pulsing. Ashcroft moved towards him, pulling a photograph out of his pocket. He thrust it under Coupland’s nose as he drew level, Turnbull behind him grim faced. ‘It’s a picture of Pat Doyle’s son.’

Coupland’s brow creased as he regarded both men but took the photograph anyway, conscious of Quinlan’s team looking over in his direction. Many had started to pull on jackets, catching each other’s eye before leaving the room. Ashcroft was speaking, but his words were drowned out by a noise inside Coupland’s head that resembled radio static. ‘You need to look at the photo, Sarge,’ he held the photo steady for Coupland to see. There was something familiar about the teenage boy grinning for the camera. He was dressed for a wedding yet he seemed too young to be the groom, or the best man for that matter, Coupland studied the boy’s face, turning the photo over to see if anything had been written on the reverse:
Vinny’s school dance, 2009
.

His hands began to shake.

He was staring at Amy’s boyfriend.

‘Vinny’s his adopted name,’ Turnbull added as Coupland tried to steady himself. He could no longer feel the floor beneath his feet. He opened his mouth to object but Turnbull was ahead of him, ‘he’s Pat’s son alright, there’s no mistake. The couple who adopted him didn’t want any reminders of his past so they changed his name.’ Coupland continued to stare at the picture, his hand moving instinctively to his neck to loosen a tie that wasn’t there.

‘I arrested him following a brawl he had in a bar. He got sent down because of me,’ his voice came out like a croak. Something occurred to him, ‘When was he released?’ yet already he knew the answer.

‘Not until after his dad had died.’ Ashcroft responded.

The room seemed smaller now. Like it had run out of air.

Ashcroft’s voice was urgent, ‘We phoned ahead to DCI Mallender, he’s despatched units to Amy’s college and Vinny’s flat in case he’s still there.’ Coupland tried to nod but it didn’t feel right. He felt detached from his body, as though he was looking down on himself from above. He could see his stunned face, could hear his heart thudding beneath his shirt. So that’s where Quinlan’s men were going, to pick up Vincent Underwood because they knew Coupland would be in no fit state to. Or rather he couldn’t be trusted when he did catch up with him. He doubted he’d be much use to anyone right now; his legs felt leaden, his breath came in gasps, he could barely string two thoughts together in his head, but he uttered one word:

‘Amy…’ reaching for his mobile he dialled her number, all too aware of the bad terms on which they’d parted.

 ‘Come on, love, pick up pick up pick up…’

No answer.

He spoke into the phone: ‘Amy love, it’s Dad, call me. Please.’

‘She can’t be a target,’ Turnbull attempted, oblivious to the warning look Ashcroft sent in his direction, ‘if she’d been a target she’d have been dead by now…’ It was like standing in a vacuum, Coupland’s life force was being sucked right out of him.

‘He was avenging his father’s imprisonment,’ Ashcroft told him, ‘if it hadn’t been for the cop who stitched Dawson up, Vinny would have got to know his Dad. You played no part in that.’ His words seem to galvanise Coupland, ‘You’re wrong! He got sent down because of me, remember? And while he was in jail his father died. Of course he blames me. I’m just another cop who kept him apart from his old man,’ All the sly glances and the goading he’d sent Coupland’s way when he’d been round to the house, he’d been planning his revenge from the moment of his release. Seeking Amy out and what? Saving her until last?

‘I need to find my daughter…’

‘A patrol car will be at college any minute,’ Ashcroft reassured him, ‘best thing you can do is wait for them to radio in that she’s safe.’

Just then Mallender appeared in the doorway, his face grey like a corpse. As Coupland watched the DCI move purposefully in his direction he was aware that Ashcroft and Turnbull had positioned themselves either side of him. Fear washed over him like an incoming tide. He’d felt the same way that very first time waiting outside the consultant’s room with Lynn. Like his world was about to fork in two.

‘There’s no sign of anyone at Vincent Underwood’s flat,’ Mallender told them, ‘nor at the college,’ a pause, ‘he hasn’t been in work today-’

‘-and Amy?’

Another pause, ‘Amy phoned in sick.’ Mallender looked uneasy.

‘WHAT?’ Coupland yelled, lunging towards him, ‘For Christ’s sake spit it out!’

‘There were signs of a struggle at the flat.’

Coupland felt his colon contract. He looked across the incident room into CID, ‘What are you not telling me?’ He grabbed Mallender by the jacket, his fist curling around his lapel, ‘Easy now, Sarge,’ Ashcroft cautioned, reaching for Coupland’s arm and signalling for Turnbull to do the same. Coupland’s head was level with the DCI.

‘Why did you despatch so many officers to do a location check, what’s going on?’

Mallender wouldn’t look at him. ‘The body of a young woman has been found by the canal…there’s no ID…’ Coupland became aware of two things at that point: the static in his head went up several notches, and the only thing keeping him off the floor were the two pairs of hands gripping onto him.

Chapter 19

Police vehicles threaded their way along Worsley Road, following the flashing blue and whites of the lead car. Ashcroft was at the wheel. Turnbull was in the passenger seat beside him, casting worried looks in Coupland’s direction. Coupland, sat in the back with Mallender, stared out of the car window as traffic parted like the Red Sea for the convoy of police cars racing through the town. The patrol cars were doing that for his benefit, he knew that, blues and twos were intended for rescue, not recovery.

Several police cars were already parked along Bridgewater Way. As he approached them Ashcroft took a sharp left, drove along the path as far as he could. A police van had been deliberately parked across it, blocking further access. Something visceral rose up in Coupland, an urgency borne of fear as he unbuckled his seat belt and threw the car door open. ‘Kevin, wait!’ Mallender called after him, ‘Do you have a recent photo of Amy we can use?’ his voice had a tremor in it, didn’t carry as far as it normally would but Coupland wasn’t listening, was already out of the patrol car, pushing through the uniformed officers positioned at the foot of the canal path. There was a rushing noise in his head, like his radio frequency button had been turned to crazy. He was aware that Ashcroft was behind him, calling out his name but they both knew even if he caught up with him he wouldn’t be able to hold him back.

Amy. Dead.

The two words he feared most in the world. Coupland’s heart hammered in his chest as he propelled himself forward. At the far end of the canal bank a tent had been erected to shield the body from prying eyes. He moved towards it. Above him a helicopter circled overhead. Coupland stopped short. ‘Please don’t let it be her,’ he whispered, before stepping inside.

The forensic team milling about inside the tent did a double take upon his arrival. The low hum of forensic procedure, the scraping, clipping and bagging turned to awkward silence. Those who didn’t know Coupland knew something was afoot, took one look at the fat angry detective standing in their midst and followed the lead from their colleagues, keeping heads low, focussing on the task in front of them. Quinlan had been speaking to one of his team but when he clapped eyes on Coupland he moved away sharply, stepping towards him intending to bar his entry. His CSI suit rustled as he approached, his hand already out to block Coupland’s path. ‘You can’t be here,’ he hissed, his eyes darting behind him as though seeking reinforcements. ‘For the love of God, man, let someone else do this.’

Without slowing his pace Coupland shoved him out of the way. Time seemed to stop around him. The only thing blocking his view of the victim was Benson, who had moved from his crouching position beside the body when he sensed the tension behind him. He turned to face Coupland. His overshoes were slick with blood. His bodysuit had smears where he’d knelt by the victim’s head. He shifted his position to shield Coupland from the worst of it. Coupland held up a finger which he pointed in Benson’s direction, ‘Not a word,’ he threatened, waiting until the pathologist stepped aside. Several pairs of eyes turned in his direction as he moved towards the body.

Slowly.

One heavy step at a time.

And then when he saw what the victim was wearing something inside him shattered. That’s when it dawned on him. The reason everyone was staring was the sound he was making.

Amy had pestered him to buy her a designer top on holiday. ‘Think of the money you’re saving if you buy it me here,’ she’d wheedled, ‘it can be my birthday present.’

‘You’ve just had your birthday,’ he reminded her. ‘Next year’s then,’ she’d grinned. He’d given in. The top was black and silver with some daft logo that showed it was expensive. She wore it with leggings that Coupland said looked like tights and ballet style pumps from Primark.

The same as the victim was wearing.

Coupland hauled in a breath. Mallender and Ashcroft appeared by his side, regarding him warily. His breathing was shallow and he clutched at his chest.

‘Is it Amy, Kevin?’

Coupland dragged his gaze up to the victim’s face, then lurched outside the tent to be sick.

Chapter 20

Relief washed over him in waves. His arms and chest pulsated. Ashcroft had followed him outside, waiting for a reaction he could relay back to the others; Coupland shook his head at him to let him know it wasn’t Amy. Ashcroft closed his eyes, letting out a long breath before returning to the tent, his voice carrying though the thin material, ‘It isn’t her…’ Coupland’s breathing was irregular; he gulped for air like a drowning man. Reaching for his cigarettes he moved to beyond the crime scene tape and lit up, hitting the speed dial number for Amy as he did so. Still no answer. Where the hell was she? Ashcroft stepped out of the tent once more, glancing up and down the canal as though looking for someone. He spotted Coupland by the cordon, made a beeline straight to him, ‘You OK?’

‘I’ve been better,’ Coupland grunted, ‘I need to find her.’ Ashcroft nodded. ‘Forensics are fast tracking the DNA samples taken but it has to be our guy - only what’s his motive this time?’ Unable to process anything beyond the location of his daughter Coupland turned away. ‘She’s wearing Amy’s clothes, I’m certain of it. Why would he make her do that?’ Ashcroft didn’t hesitate: ‘To scare the shit out of you.’ It worked then. ‘I’m needed back inside.’ Ashcroft turned to make his way back to the tent when his phone rang making them both jump. The control room. He glanced at Coupland before putting the call onto loud speaker after hitting the answer button. ‘
We checked out Vince Underwood’s place like you asked, although we couldn’t find the Sarge’s girl we did find a woman’s bag with photo ID belonging to a Vanessa Millar…I’ve scanned it and sent it over in a text
.’ Ashcroft ended the call. A moment later his phone pinged. He tapped the screen to open the photo.

‘It’s her,’ he inclined his head in the direction of the tent while holding up his screen towards Coupland but he declined to look, her features already seared onto his brain. ‘But what I don’t get is how the hell she fits into this?’ Coupland reared back his head, ‘I think I know,’ he said, his pulse quickening as he recalled the conversation they’d had with Harry Sandford. ‘Get back onto control,’ he instructed Ashcroft, backing away, ‘tell them Vince’s flat needs preserving as a crime scene, there’ll be a laptop there, get it over to DC Bateman, Amy said Vince was studying online, I reckon instead of course notes we’ll find an email account on there with a thread of conversations with Kathleen Williams.’ Coupland remembered the night he’d put Vinny under surveillance, the night of the college burglary - and Kathleen Williams’ murder. Vinny said he’d met the men who’d accompanied him on the robbery in prison, he never did say what he was getting in return for getting them into the college - the loan of their van perhaps, to follow Maria Wellbeck and ‘accidentally’ bump into Kathleen Williams’ car? Maybe he’d used it to follow them all, what’s more anonymous than a grimy white van? And to think they had him on camera speaking to Sharon Mathers outside the Dog and Duck. Amy hadn’t helped matters, claiming to have been with him, but then if she’d been asleep, or thought he was in another room working...