Fragile Cord (4 page)

He looked around the assembled
team. As well as Alex, DCI Curtis had joined them for the briefing,
along with DCs Turnbull and Robinson, two detectives who’d worked
together so frequently they appeared to Coupland as a single unit.
A harmless enough duo, they could be relied upon to carry out tasks
assigned to them, not sharp enough to get anyone’s backs up. They’d
assisted Coupland in collecting statements from the wine bar the
previous evening and following up overnight leads.

The assault
had attracted media attention, hence the DCI’s appearance that
morning. Happy to keep a low profile during the briefing – his
forte leaned more towards handling PR – he raised his hands towards
Coupland in mock surrender, conveying the message
Pretend I’m not here.

Those who had been assigned to
the assault case outside the wine bar, Turnbull and Robinson
included, sat to one side of the briefing room, those who’d been
left to pick up the slack: burglaries, muggings, an allegation of
rape at the local comprehensive and drug dealing at the Science
Faculty at the University, sat on the other, Alex had taken her
seat among them. It wasn’t unusual for cliques to form during an
investigation, and though he’d never seen any negative impact on
the team morale long term, he had thought about getting the
officers to participate in some team-building exercises, although
copious amounts of alcohol at the end of a shift seemed to do the
trick. However while HR insisted on sending him on coaching
courses, he felt duty bound to put some of it into practice. He
mulled the idea around his head for a while, deciding if he had a
To Do List, he’d certainly place it at the top.

Curtis nodded at Coupland to
begin the briefing. He’d been the first senior officer on the scene
and the room quietened as he stood to update the assembled
team.

‘Two of the girls brought in for
questioning in relation to the theft of Melanie Wilson’s bag have
been arrested,’ he began, ‘the others released without charge.’

‘Who’s the duty solicitor?’ Alex
asked him.

‘Lewisham.’

An uncomfortable silence settled
on the room, each man struggling with his own thoughts and for a
moment nothing could be heard but the clearing of throats and the
shifting of buttocks as officers stared uneasily at the floor.

‘I didn’t know he was back.’
Alex muttered, ashamed she hadn’t been in touch, trying to think
when she’d last spoken to him.

‘I’ll call in on him,’ Curtis
replied, equally shame-faced, ‘check how he’s doing…..’ His words
hung in the air like a terminal diagnosis. Sensing that everyone
was desperate to return to comfortable ground, he motioned for
Coupland to continue.

‘The events following the theft
of Melanie Wilson’s bag are still hazy, according to the girls
accused of stealing it, Wilson became aggressive towards them even
when the bag had been returned.’

‘Hardly surprising since they’d kept
hold of his wife’s purse - and mobile phone.’ Turnbull observed.
Coupland concurred: ‘That’s the kind of logic we’re dealing with.
Wilson – in their view - continued to badger the girls, until he
and his family were asked to leave by the management – which they
did - quietly enough according to witness statements, and surprise,
surprise, no one saw or heard anything more until Wilson’s son
raced into the bar shouting that his old man had been attacked and
that someone should phone for an ambulance.’

‘None of the family have a mobile?’
Robinson asked, a sour-faced Geordie with nicotine-stained
hands.

‘Melanie’s was stolen, they couldn’t get
a signal on Ricky’s, and the kids had been told to leave theirs at
home so they wouldn’t spend the evening texting their friends – the
night out was meant to be quality time.’

‘Not the most salubrious of
places for a family night out,’ Curtis chimed, ‘is Wilson a
regular?’

‘Not so much, Sir, according to
the staff,’ Coupland replied, ‘There’s a restaurant next door,
Italian, the Wilson’s had started off in there, had called into the
bar for a nightcap. It was on their way to the taxi rank.’

Curtis nodded. ‘CCTV?’

‘I’m on it,’ Turnbull chipped
in.

‘There’s a known, criminal
element that frequent the bar,’ Coupland added, ‘which might hinder
the investigation if the regulars become afraid of talking to
us.’

‘Aye that’ll be right,’
interrupted Robinson, ‘I mean, normally they’re queuing up to talk
to us, eh?’

Coupland shrugged in response.
‘Fair enough, but I reckon it’s more than that. I was stone-walled
everywhere I turned last night, like there’s some kind of bloody
conspiracy.’

‘Probably is.’ Alex spoke up.
‘It’s a close-knit town. The problem is everyone knows everyone
else. No-one wants to be the first to start talking.’

Curtis nodded, made a couple of
notes onto a pad of paper, began assigning tasks to the officers
congregated before him. He turned to Coupland: ‘Go back over the
information you’ve already uncovered,’ he instructed, ‘run it
through the usual checks, see if any familiar names come up.’ Once
more Coupland bit back a smart arse answer. He’d spent the best
part of his career putting senior officers in their place only to
be assigned the shittiest tasks or take the fall when things went
pear shaped. He couldn’t help it - blurting out what he thought
rather than filtering his comments was an affliction as
uncontrollable as Tourette’s - but it had held him back, put lead
weights round his ankles when he’d tried to climb the greasy pole
of Inspectordom. He watched the detectives file out behind Curtis,
keen to return to the sanctity of his spreadsheets. A Salford
Grammar boy done well, Curtis was more amenable to the obligatory
brown nosing that was expected of the overly ambitious. Unlike
Coupland, he attended all the right meetings, played the right
sports, laughed louder at the Assistant Chief Constable’s
jokes.

As far as Coupland was
concerned, Curtis was welcome to the paper shuffling and attendance
at endless committee meetings required of the upwardly mobile
officer. He’d found over the last couple of years that since his
career halo had slipped, he enjoyed the job much more. Christ,
occasionally he even felt as though he made a difference. Moving up
the food chain took you away from all that. Removed you so far from
the streets that victims became statistics, tiny points on an axis
rather than significant people in their loved one’s lives. But
Curtis was no fool. Middle-thirties and battle scarred, he knew the
only way to earn the respect of his men was not to get involved too
closely, so he kept himself in the loop, close enough to know what
was going on, but a safe enough distance not to get shit on his
shoes if it went belly up.

The overhead light panels
flickered above Coupland causing him to squint. During a recent
refurbishment the designers had replaced much of the strip lighting
with eco-friendly, mood enhancing natural light panels, designed to
reduce stress. The result was the feeling of working under a giant
solarium, without the benefit of improving your tan. Much worse was
the fact that they worked on sensors, automatically dimming when no
activity could be picked up in a room, causing officers slumped
over keyboards catching up with emails to wave their arms
frantically like they were having some form of seizure if they
wanted the lights to come back on.

There had been uproar when
someone from HQ, an accountant, Coupland thought suspiciously, had
suggested fitting these lights into the interview rooms. When
Coupland had read the memo he’d nearly choked on his bacon roll,
advising anyone who’d listen that the day they made interview rooms
stress free was the day he’d hang up his size elevens.

‘What next, eh?’ he’d spat
accusingly. A piece of masticated bread mingled with ketchup had
stuck to his front teeth, making him look as though he was
suffering from advanced gum disease. ‘Rubbing lavender on their
bleedin’ temples before an arrest in case reading them their rights
upsets ‘em?’ As usual he’d gone off half-cocked but there wasn’t a
single officer who disagreed with him. Thankfully common sense had
prevailed in the form of Curtis, who’d quashed the suggestion once
and for all, proving he wasn’t so far removed from reality that
he’d forgotten what it was like trying to extract the truth from a
lying bastard.

Coupland sat back in his chair,
allowing himself a moment’s contemplation. He’d begun reading
through Melanie Wilson’s interview notes; he tried now to return to
his original train of thought. It was pitiful really, how as a
supposedly intelligent species we took in so little about our
surroundings, tended to ignore all our senses. Melanie had barely
been able to recall the time of the attack until her son reminded
her they’d been heading out for a taxi when the midnight bus that
stopped by the junction appeared at the traffic lights. Ricky had
marched after it, shouting to the others that if they shaped
themselves it’d save him the cost of a cab.

Coupland supposed it was the shock, the
sheer incomprehension that followed when something happened that
wasn’t supposed to happen, that skewed people’s perspective. In the
end all he’d been able to establish was the assault had been
carried out by two men who appeared out of nowhere, literally
coming out of the shadows to carry out their attack in silence and
by the time Melanie had realised what had happened the attackers
had simply merged back into the darkness. It was a calculated,
deliberate assault, whoever carried it out intending to use minimum
effort to inflict maximum harm.

Coupland rubbed at a tendon at the base
of his neck, rolling his shoulders forward and back. It had been
several hours since he’d had anything to eat, wondered if he should
chance the vending machine soup. His stomach rumbled like distant
thunder and he remembered Lynn had a Zumba class tonight so it was
make do on toast.

His desk phone buzzed
once, sharply, reminding him of the sound made in the board
game,
Operation
.
Caller display informed him it was the DCI.

‘Sir?’

‘A moment of your time, Coupland. Press
office want me to prepare a statement.’

‘He’s not dead yet, Sir.’

Shit
. When, oh, when would he
learn?

‘I’m on my way.’

‘Come.’ Curtis beckoned,
remaining in his seat as Coupland approached his desk,

‘Sit down.’ These were
instructions Coupland found easy to comply with, he wondered if the
rest of the conversation would go as well.

Curtis flicked through the
report Coupland had given him before the morning’s briefing.

‘Nasty.’

Coupland winced at the
understatement, hoped Curtis referred to his Thesaurus before he
went in front of the press.

Curtis’s office was small but
tidy. Framed photographs of his family lined the walls, each one a
picture of domestic harmony.

‘Press’ll be all over this,’
Curtis continued, absentmindedly straightening his tie as he spoke.
‘Gang related?’

Coupland shrugged his
shoulders. ‘Too early to say, Sir.’

This seemed to irritate Curtis,
as though he’d already prepared his statement and would now be
forced to re-write it.

‘Early indications suggest this
wasn’t gang-related.’ Coupland attempted to clarify the situation,
‘just a case of a family being in the right place at the wrong
time, I suppose.’

Curtis considered this. ‘Even
so, press’ll have a field day.’ He observed.

‘Any news on the victim?’ Curtis
enquired.

‘Still in a coma.’

‘And witnesses?’

‘E-Fits being taken as we
speak.’

Curtis nodded his approval.

‘Keep me appraised of every
development.’ Curtis instructed before dismissing him, pen poised,
ready to write the sound bites he’d be spouting in front of the
camera should Wilson take a turn for the worse.

‘Very well, Sir.’ Coupland
muttered into the void.

‘How did you get on with the
CCTV?’ Coupland called out to Turnbull when the officer returned to
the station.

Turnbull pulled a face.
‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Coupl’a dealers doling out their
wares, local kids, attend the local high school when they have to.
And no,’ Turnbull butted in before Coupland had the chance. ‘They
didn’t see nothing, didn’t hear nothing – wouldn’t say nothing even
if they did.’

‘That it?’

‘Cameras are pointed down the
side street and back alley, nothing front of house – the security
guys are there for that.’

Coupland scribbled something
down on his desk pad and picked up his car keys.

‘Where you off to?’

‘Food first. Not eaten since
last night, stomach thinks my throat’s been cut. After that the
hospital.’

Topkapi was situated on the
main road running through Pendlebury, about 400 yards from last
night’s assault. It had a dining area that consisted of one chipped
Formica table and four nailed down chairs. No one used the table to
eat on; instead it had tolerated several hundred backsides leant
against it over the years while food orders were given and punters
waited for Styrofoam trays filled with meat covered in sauces never
seen outside a kebab shop. ‘Usual Osman,’ Coupland called out to
the shop owner, ‘all the trimmings mate.’ The Turk nodded and set
about the rotisseried lamb like a serial killing tribesman in some
war torn country.

The polystyrene tray contained
slices of donner, some shish, cubes of chicken marinated in chilli
oil. Coupland stabbed at the pieces with his plastic fork, as
though identifying each mouthful before attempting to eat it.

‘You see anything unusual last
night?’ Osman shrugged, ‘Punters coming in sober, minding their
manners would be unusual. Last night was fairly normal – two kids
arguing about something on a mobile phone, one couple having a full
blown domestic while they waited for their pizza, a young girl had
her hands full propping up her mate who’d been dumped by her
boyfriend.’ Osman sighed, ‘what is it about the English that a
night out isn’t complete without someone bursting into tears?’
Coupland thought of his own family get-togethers, the state his
sisters got into when they were on the wrong side of a bottle of
wine. ‘I know what you mean.’ He concurred.