Fragile Cord (10 page)

‘Calm before the storm.’
Turnbull observed grimly.

‘In a way, yes.’ Coupland
replied, then turning back to Alex: ‘There are no unaccounted for
fingerprints, but most damming of all is the fact the bruises on
the boy’s shoulders match his mother’s hand-span, and she was found
with a noose around her neck that she had to lean into for it to
work.’

For the benefit of those who
hadn’t been at the scene Coupland began to describe the way Tracey
had hanged herself, pointing to the photographs on the wall behind
him:

‘Tracey was discovered in a
kneeling position on the floor, she’d tied a rope around the top of
the bed’s head board – and the other end round her throat, then
simply lowered herself to the floor, asphyxiating without breaking
her neck.’

‘Jesus, that’s a pretty hard
thing to do to yourself.’ Someone at the back of the room
muttered.

‘As opposed to the stepping off
a stool and dangling by the throat variety?’ Coupland shot back.
‘Both bloody drastic if you ask me.’

‘At least she had a choice in
the matter,’ Alex interjected, still reeling from the sight of Kyle
lying at the bottom of the bath; of the foetus with its skull
rolled back. ‘or are you all forgetting that?’

Alex sighed,
cases like this……. She shook her head vigorously, angry with her
train of thought. What the hell did she mean,
cases like this
? There was no
normative behaviour here, she reminded herself, this was something
way off the charts. She remembered a novel she’d read in her teens,
Anna Karenina by Tolstoy. The opening line:

Happy families are all alike,
but an unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

The words had
always struck her as poignant, but now……now they struck her as
prophetic. Tracey’s crime - for that’s what it was - was
unthinkable. Yet, the reaction to it bordered on bizarre. If an
intruder had broken into the Kavanagh’s home, wiped out the mother
and child in a frenzied attack there’d be outrage. Newspaper
headlines would bray for the killer’s
blood. Children would be kept indoors, their parents
suspicious of every stranger, waiting for news that the monster had
been caught before letting them play out once more.

But what, in
reality was happening? Oh, there were headlines alright,
newsreaders quick to separate the perpetrator from the crime as
though uncomfortable with the
situation
, in the same way that
people avoid eye contact with the disabled. Everyone – her
colleagues included - seemed content to skirt over the fact that a
terrible crime had been committed.

It was a bit
like incest. People know it goes on but choose to ignore it. By the
volume of cases their division referred to social services there
were significant numbers of children at risk in their own homes,
yet precious little was visibly being done. Why was it that the
braying public, who could normally be relied upon to demonstrate
their anger at the most heinous crimes, chose not
to recognise this killing for what it
was?

Alex surveyed her colleagues
around the room, feeling a detachment that hadn’t been there
before. If a woman killed her neighbour’s child there’d be uproar,
but her own? She didn’t mean the battering mothers, the women who
lashed out in cruelty or anger; theirs was a publicly reprehensible
crime, the bruises and broken bones logged on the front pages of
the national papers like a scorecard. No, it was the suburban
murders, carried out with the minimum of fuss or pain that baffled
her, and the quiet acceptance that came with it. Was this apathy
because parents viewed their children as their personal property,
to do with as they wished? Free to harm their own but woe betide a
stranger try to? She shook her head, unable to accept that thought.
It occurred to her that for a nation of animal lovers the
collective treatment of our children came in a poor second.

Exasperated,
Alex tugged at her short hair.
Feeling
like this wasn’t going to help anyone
, she
reasoned. Certainly not Angus, who’d need all the help he could get
to put his life - or what was left of it – back on
track.

She closed her eyes and exhaled
slowly, counting down as she did so.

‘Maybe Tracey was mentally
ill?’ Robinson suggested.

‘No,’ Coupland informed him,
‘According to the family GP there were no medical problems. She’d
never consulted him about depression, never suffered from the baby
blues, and all was going well with the pregnancy.’

‘We have to consider her choice of
suicide,’ he added, ‘in overdose suicides it’s not unusual to find
that the person actually took smaller doses of pills at earlier
points in time. In suicides where the victims cut their wrists, you
frequently see ‘hesitation cuts’ – shallow cuts done prior to a cut
that’s fatally deep. It’s like they’re working their way up to the
actual event. In this case Tracey chose to hang herself – a method
which normally leaves little margin for error. There’s no report of
any previous suicide attempts in her medical records. What that
says about her state of mind I’m not sure.’

Turnbull spoke
next: ‘Couldn’t the fact her feet were still on the floor, allowing
her body to absorb the hanging, mean that maybe this
had
been a form of
suicidal lead-up, but one that had gone badly wrong? It would
explain the lack of suicide note, if she hadn’t intended to kill
herself.’

‘…..and why stop off on the way
home to buy ingredients for a pie you have no intention of eating?’
Alex joined in hopefully.

‘If she was that efficient,’
Robinson cut in, ‘maybe she was thinking ahead and filling the
freezer for her hubby?’ The officers around him groaned into their
chests, sometimes his logic functioned on another level.

‘Robinson may not be too wide
of the mark,’ Coupland’s voice rose to counteract the babble that
was erupting around the room. ‘Most suicides like to leave their
house in order, try to forward plan as much as possible. Every room
in the house was spotless. She was, in many ways preparing her
exit.’

A long ago
memory floated to the fore of Alex’s mind. ‘Years ago when I was a
student I’d taken a summer job at an insurance brokers. I remember
serving a customer who’d called into the office to renew his motor
insurance. Pretty unremarkable in many ways. He had two daughters a
couple of years above me at school, I couldn’t recall their names,
knew them only to nod to. The man had been friendly enough when I’d
asked after them, thanking me for my help before he left. Later
that evening he parked in a secluded spot in woodland close to the
town, secured a hosepipe to his exhaust before feeding it through
the driver’s window and starting the engine.’ The room remained
quiet. ‘I’d never quite understood his motive for paying his
insurance renewal until now; perhaps he’d settled
all
his debts before he
killed himself. Preparing
his
exit. Trying not to leave his daughters with
anything to worry about.’

‘Apart from his suicide, of
course.’ Quipped Robinson.

Coupland blinked slowly, trying
to fathom how much a person could take before they reduced
themselves to nothing. When he looked up he saw that Alex was
watching him. She raised her eyebrows.

‘Did you notice anything
strange about the house?’ he asked her. She frowned in
concentration as she pictured herself walking through every
room.

‘In what way?’

‘Well, the Kavanagh’s are a
good-looking couple, beautiful house, yeah? Big cars, a
picture-book lifestyle…’

‘So?’

There was something about Angus
and Tracey’s set up that didn’t fit Coupland’s mind-set of what a
normal family home with young children should look like…..he didn’t
have a clear picture of what seemed wrong, just an impression. His
own home was hardly the Waltons, but still….he thought of the
miniature tornado that had been Amy when she was small, the chaos
she left in her slipstream. How they’d thrived on it. He frowned at
the memory. Had she been the glue that had held them together? What
was going to happen to them if Lynn couldn’t bring herself to
forgive him? He blinked the thought away.

‘What was missing from the
walls?’ He moved closer to Alex, sure she would have noticed it
too.

‘I can’t remember, I’m sorry.
Seeing the boy and his mother like that…… threw me off balance for
a while…..’

‘I know.’ He mulled his question
over for a moment then answered it for her:

‘Pictures.’

‘Pictures?’ Alex frowned,
unable to make the connection.

‘Pictures.’

‘You mean photographs? There
were loads of them, on virtually every wall…’

‘Precisely, which shows that
Angus and Tracey loved showcasing their family.’

‘Right…..’ She still wasn’t
getting it.

‘There was an easel in the
mudroom, kiddy-sized paint pots and a jar of water. Upstairs, there
were reams of plain paper in the boy’s bedroom, expensive charcoal
pencils on his desk – so I figured he must have liked to draw a lot
– yet I couldn’t see one single painting on any wall, not one
drawing, not even a scribble. Nothing. Now why was that?’

They batted it round for a
couple of minutes, but other than adding it to the list of things
to ask Angus there was precious little time to speculate any
further.

‘I hate this part.’ Said
Alex.

‘Me too.’

They were in the in between
stage of cutting a path through clues and fact, nurturing ideas and
weeding out lies until the truth took root. It was anyone’s guess
whether it was possible to ever really put a case like this to bed,
to be satisfied that there were no suspicious circumstances at
play.

Alex was
reminded of a novel by Priestly she’d read as a child.
An Inspector Calls.
During a society celebration toasting the engagement between
the offspring of two wealthy families, the festivities are
interrupted by a surprise visit from a Police Inspector.
The questions he asks relating to the case reveal
that they all had secrets linking them to the suicide of a young
woman.

Apportioning blame.

Isn’t that what it came down to
at the end of the day?

The officers dispersed as
Coupland delegated tasks, until only he and Turnbull remained in
the room. He’d asked the DC to stay behind, wanted to pass on
Lewisham’s concerns.

‘Saw Lewisham yesterday.’ He
began casually enough.

‘Yeah?’

Coupland’s shoulders sagged a
little as he blinked away the image of Lewisham’s murdered
daughter, of the crushing realisation that they hadn’t got to her
in time. It was impossible whenever he thought of Siobhan not to
make comparisons with his own daughter, Amy, and something inside
him contracted.

‘You know,’ Turnbull began,
shaking his head, ‘I don’t know how he-’

Coupland
swallowed his impatience and wafted his hand as though swatting a
fly. ‘-He doesn’t have much choice, does he?’ he reasoned, ‘anyway,
I didn’t want to talk
about
Lewisham, just wanted to pass on his concern
regarding your suspects for the theft of Melanie Wilson’s bag
-’

‘Save your breath.’ Turnbull
butted in, ‘Had to let ‘em go.’

‘Not enough to charge them
then?’

‘Oh I’ll charge ‘em alright.’
Turnbull sneered.

‘For theft?’ Coupland
persisted, ‘Or do you have something more..?’

Turnbull sighed, he was
frustrated with his progress as it was, didn’t need it rubbing
in.

‘Jesus, if I’m being backed
into a corner then I’ll just do ‘em for theft, but there’s more to
their guilt than nicking someone’s purse and mobile phone.
According to one of the night shift boys they’ve been brought in
before,’ he explained, ‘Seem to make a habit out of nicking women’s
handbags, only their victims have so far refused to press charges.’
He pursed his lips so tightly it looked as though his mouth had
been sewn up.

‘Someone’s providing them with
muscle,’ Coupland suggested, ‘but why?’

Turnbull paused, ‘There’s
something just not quite right with all this…...they’re willing to
admit their guilt for taking Melanie’s bag but I’m convinced
they’re doing it to avoid me delving any deeper and discovering
what else they’re covering up.’ He sighed, summing it all up:
‘They’re telling more bleedin’ lies than a politician at election
time.’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘Those two know more than
they’re letting on.’

‘That’s the
nature of our client group,’ Coupland replied dryly. They
all
knew more than they
ever let on. The knack was extracting the bits that mattered, the
bits that made a case stick. ‘How’s the rest of the
investigation?’

Turnbull pulled a face. ‘I
couldn’t understand why everyone I spoke to kept clamming up.’ He
said. ‘Granted, no one wants to be the one to point the finger in
an assault case, especially where knives are concerned, but I
wasn’t even getting the time of day. None of the record checks I
carried out threw anything up – just your low level criminal
activity – nothing to arouse suspicion.’ He paused, slipped his
index finger inside the gap where his shirt had pulled out of his
waistband to scratch just below his navel.

‘Turns out it isn’t the punters
I need to focus on – but the bloody bouncers. There’s two in
particular - James Brook and Daniel Horrocks, friends since their
truanting days, both employed at the wine bar, both have a string
of offences behind them including serving eighteen months at
Strangeways for violent disorder. On the evening of Ricky Wilson’s
assault they’d intervened in the fracas over his wife’s bag, and
when it started up again later – when Wilson realised Melanie’s
purse and phone were still missing – it was Horrocks who asked
Wilson to leave. It always struck me as odd that they didn’t eject
the girls.’