One Bad Turn (12 page)

‘Get your coat,’ Coupland said to Ashcroft as he pushed back his chair, ‘I think we’ve pulled.’

The flat was above a Jewish clothing store on Swinton’s Pendlebury Road. A busy shopping street, several fast food restaurants and a taxi office made sure the tenants didn’t get much shut eye at night. Coupland parked on double yellow lines outside, placed his ‘on police business’ card on the dashboard. He found himself smiling for the first time in days. ‘There’s nothing to connect him to Maria Wellbeck yet,’ cautioned Ashcroft. ‘Nothing a little visit from us won’t clarify,’ Coupland shrugged. In his view desk top research could only do so much, you had to look into the whites of a suspect’s eyes to see if they were spinning you a yarn, and this was the bit he enjoyed.

The name beside the buzzer on the door entry system gave little away, there was no graffiti on the wall saying paedo or pervert, just a set of initials, JM. Coupland pressed the buzzer and stepped back. ‘How often does the probation service check in on him?’ he craned his neck to get a look at the upstairs window. ‘He has to attend their office once a week,’ Ashcroft replied, ‘but he missed his last two appointments.’

‘And what do they do when that happens?’

‘Three misses and his file goes before a specially arranged MAPPA meeting, the likely consequence is they up his appointments to daily.’

Coupland pulled a face, ‘So in essence he can miss another one before anything happens, and if he turns up for the next meeting he gets his wrist slapped and they revert to carrying on as normal.’

‘Seems like it.’

Coupland tutted into his chest. ‘Couldn’t do that job,’ he moaned, ‘if these jokers weren’t where they were supposed to be at the allotted time I’d be hunting them down, a missed appointment wouldn’t be a bloody option.’ He knew it wasn’t as simple as that, that the staff who attended MAPPA meetings complained of growing caseloads and cutbacks, of unrealistic target setting by faceless suits, but that pretty much described policing too, the number of murders and thefts didn’t reduce in line with his budget, it was the way it was reported that did that. Lies and statistics, and all that went on in between.

Ashcroft waited for Coupland’s nod before he had a go at pressing the buzzer. ‘Maybe he’s asleep,’ he ran his hand over his close shaven hair, ‘or on the toilet, or…’

‘I get the picture,’ Coupland cut in, ‘or maybe he’s just waiting for us to go away.’ Coupland stepped further back on the pavement so that he was visible from the window above the shop, ‘Maybe you should have kept your holiday gear on, you look a lot less threatening in linen.’ Ashcroft chuckled. Coupland ignored him, held his warrant card in the air.

‘Could be a library card from that distance.’

‘Do I look like a librarian?’ Coupland smiled in triumph when the main door clicked giving them access. The stairway was clutter free but that was about all that could be said for it. A dingy interior lit with a single light bulb, uncarpeted wooden stairs that creaked with their approach. The door at the top of the stairs opened and a stooped grey haired man stood to one side, giving them right of entry. ‘Well, well, well, never actually had the pleasure, Mr Malone,’ Coupland began, introducing himself and Ashcroft. ‘It’s my colleagues along the corridor from me in Child Exploitation who have the dubious pleasure of dealing with…men like you.’

Malone sighed as though he were about to partake in a tedious in-service meeting. His hair was long for a teacher, wispy on top like an aging Bay City Roller. The man looked older than his years, though prison often did that, a lined face with hooded brows, a Roman nose that was surprisingly intact given what he’d been sent down for. ‘How is D wing these days?’ Coupland smiled, ‘Still get a chocolate on your pillow every night?’ His eyes widened like saucers, ‘What, you mean it isn’t chocolate?’ he turned to Ashcroft in mock surprise, ‘Who knew, eh?’

‘I take it this isn’t a social call?’ Malone began, standing his ground. Tea and biscuits obviously weren’t on the cards today then. ‘Sorry, are we keeping you from Fake Britain or Cash in the Attic? You must be so busy these days, must be hard to fit it all in.’

‘What do you want?’ Malone replied, sniffing when Ashcroft put out his hand. ‘We’d really appreciate you co-operating with us, Mr M, do you mind if we sit down?’ Ignoring Ashcroft’s hand Malone stomped into the living room like a sulky toddler, ‘Well come through if you’re coming then,’ he sniped, plonking himself down on a floral cotton armchair, leaving the miss-matching two seater for his guests. ‘I take it your wife got all the decent stuff?’ Coupland observed, looking over the chipped coffee table and oversized rug full of coffee stains. ‘Something like that,’ Malone muttered. ‘I heard she changed her name.’ Coupland added. A shrug. ‘Must’ve felt like your world crashed in when you lost your job,’ Coupland prompted. Malone pulled at a thread on the arm of his chair, spindly fingers making a pinching motion on the cotton. ‘Then you come out of jail, no wife, no house, daresay your kids aren’t falling over themselves to pay you a visit.’ Malone kept working at the thread. Coupland moved forward in his chair, ‘Been keeping an eye on the news?’ Malone looked up at the detective as though he was mad, ‘Sorry,’ Coupland said, ‘does it get in the way of Homes under the Hammer?’ He slid his buttocks to the edge of his seat, any further and he’d be on his backside, ‘Only, a local woman has been murdered.’ Malone stared at him. ‘Two as a matter of fact, but one in particular I think you’d be interested in. Used to go to your school, as it happens. Fancy that.’

Something stirred in Malone’s eyes. Coupland could see the curiosity get the better of him. ‘What’s her name?’ he asked sharply.

Ashcroft obliged, ‘Sharon Mathers.’

Double blink.

‘You remember her then?’ Coupland asked.

Malone turned away. ‘I remember them all,’ he smirked.

‘She was murdered on Tuesday night,’ Coupland added, then, ‘we need to know what you were doing on Tuesday between-’

‘You can’t be serious?’ Malone spluttered, coming to life. ‘I mean, I know what I did was wrong, but I’m not a killer.’

‘We’re checking your original case notes,’ Ashcroft told him, ‘seeing if we can find the names of the pupils who came forward from school to corroborate your victims’ claims.’

‘Will we find Sharon’s name there?’ Coupland pressed.

Malone shook his head, ‘No!’

‘I can almost understand in a way,’ Coupland sympathised, ‘you come out of jail with nothing, your wife and family long gone and what, did you bump into Sharon in the street and she laughed at you, or worst still did she snub you? And all the while you’re thinking if she hadn’t come forward along with her friends or egged her friends on to report you your world would have been completely different.’

‘This is unbelievable, I didn’t kill her!’

‘Maybe you’re working your way through the list of witnesses, saving the woman who made the initial complaint until last.’

‘This is preposterous!’ Malone spluttered.

‘Another woman was murdered on Thursday evening,’ Ashcroft added, ‘she went to Mossbank High though; you didn’t happen to work there at any time did you?’

Malone stared ahead, his mouth a straight line.

‘It won’t take us too long to find out if you did, so you might want to think about saving us the trouble.’

Malone sighed. ‘I was seconded there for a year when I was deputy at a high school in Eccles. Mossbank needed an acting head while their head teacher underwent radiotherapy. It was a good training opportunity.’

‘I’m sure it was,’ Coupland said darkly.

‘Look, I don’t know what makes you think I’m capable of-’

Coupland leaned back in his chair, enjoying himself. ‘-It’s a bit of a coincidence both victims attended high schools where you were the head teacher.’

Malone’s face lit up, ‘I hardly think so,’ he laughed, ‘look at the size of the school catchment areas.’ He had a point there, Coupland conceded. ‘OK,’ he said reluctantly, raising his hands in mitigation, ‘You need to tell me what you were doing on Tuesday and Thursday evening.’ His request was met with a Cheshire Cat grin.

‘Why, I’d be glad to,’ came the reply.

Chapter 8

Coupland let himself in to his red brick semi, cocking his head to listen to the familiar sounds that greeted him. The washing machine was coming to the end of its cycle, knocking against the unit beside it as it clicked onto a high speed spin. Lynn had left him a note on the kitchen table telling him how long to reheat his dinner for, she was on lates this week and wasn’t due to get up for another couple of hours. A pile of mail addressed to him lay unopened by her note: A plea from an emergency disaster charity asking for a donation towards the Syrian crisis, his car insurance renewal, which had gone up, and a credit card bill with all the purchases he’d made on holiday and a few more he’d long since forgotten. Coupland picked up the charity letter, decided he’d give it a read while he warmed up his meal. He didn’t bother putting the TV on, wanting to keep the noise down for Lynn. Tonight’s dinner was lasagne, his favourite, and Lynn had stuck a post it note with a kiss on it on top of the cling film covering the dish she’d left in the fridge. Coupland smiled as he lifted the dish out, his smile widening when he spotted two cans of beer left beside it. Fate, he called it as he placed the lasagne in the microwave and pressed the symbol Lynn had drawn on her note. He could have one while his dinner warmed and one while he ate. When he and Lynn had dinner together she’d pour them both a glass of wine but Coupland found it made him sleepy. ‘Beer makes you gassy,’ she’d chide, ‘so wine clinches it, buggerlugs.’ Leaning back against the kitchen counter he lifted the can to his lips.

Then froze.

He had to blink a couple of times to make sure he wasn’t seeing things, but no, his vision wasn’t playing tricks on him. Vincent Underwood was making his way downstairs, happy as you please, naked apart from a pair of off-white underpants. A grin spread across his face when he eyeballed Coupland. ‘Alright, Kev,’ he beamed, ‘tough day?’ he swaggered into the kitchen, his bare chest glistening with a thin film of sweat.

‘What the hell-’ Coupland snarled.

‘Just getting a glass of water for Amy,’ Vinny answered, adjusting the waistband of his jockeys with a smirk. He sauntered to the cupboard to lift down a glass but before he had a chance to fill it Coupland slammed him against the work top. A red mist descended as he slipped his hands around Vinny’s throat and all at once he understood the urge to kill, for right this minute if he could get away with it, make the little bastard disappear from the face of the earth…

‘DAD!’

Amy’s voice pierced its way into his consciousness making him drop Vinny like a hot potato. He stood back letting his arms fall to his sides, returning Amy’s stare but instead of chastising him her eyes looked on with disappointment, like the time he’d promised to win her a teddy at the funfair and they’d come away with a goldfish. He’d refused to give up despite spending more than the toy was worth and in the end the stall holder had taken pity on him, either that or he was fed up with the angry fat man scowling for the best part of an hour, his little girl beside him casting daggers at a fish in a plastic bag.

‘Why do you have to spoil EVERYTHING, Dad? He was only getting me a drink; he wasn’t doing anything wrong.’

Coupland winced; he couldn’t bear to think what the little runt had been doing upstairs with his daughter. ‘For Chrissake, Amy…’ he began, ‘put some clothes on,’ there was nothing wrong with what she was wearing, a pair of short pyjamas, but that wasn’t the point and they both knew it. ‘Mum said it was OK,’ she cut in, delivering the universal slap in the face for any parent bumping their gums over something the other one had sanctioned. Coupland said nothing; he didn’t want to start a row, at least not one that would bring Lynn downstairs shouting the odds at him for causing the disturbance in the first place.

‘Thank you,’ Amy took his silence as submission. ‘Come on,’ she slipped her arm around Vinny’s waist. He kissed her on the mouth, then opened the fridge door and retrieved the one remaining beer can. Coupland glared at the kitchen door as it closed on them, his hands gripping onto the counter top. His meal forgotten he tossed the charity letter into the bin. ‘Got my own bloody emergency,’ he muttered before marching upstairs.

Remembering too late he was trying not to disturb Lynn he crashed round the bedroom like a bull in a china shop. ‘You bumped into the house guest then,’ she observed, squinting at him with one eye as she pushed herself up onto her elbow so she could see the time on the alarm clock. Coupland’s shoulders sank, Lynn wouldn’t get back to sleep now he’d woken her, and her good humour about it made him feel ten times worse than if she’d given him a tongue lashing. ‘Did you know he was staying?’ He growled, pulling off his jacket and throwing it onto the bedroom chair that doubled as a clothes horse for things he couldn’t be arsed putting away.

‘If you hang your jacket the creases will drop out,’ Lynn soothed, but he wouldn’t be so easily distracted. He unfastened his belt and yanked off his trousers, lobbing them onto the chair as though making a point. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘Didn’t know I was under interrogation,’ she answered, pushing herself into a sitting position, ‘at least your suspects are entitled to a lawyer being present when you question them.’ Her voice had an edge to it, one that warned him he was skating on thin ice, that the way the rest of the evening panned out depended on what he said or did next. Coupland sank into the chair, the pile of clothes beneath him making an uncomfortable cushion. He was backed into a corner and he knew the chances of him coming out of it unscathed were getting slimmer by the minute. The last thing he needed was for them to fall out.

‘I was shocked, that’s all,’ he said evenly, ‘I mean, we haven’t even discussed it.’ Lynn sighed, ‘We have Kevin, several times,’ she said gently, ‘only you stuck your fingers in your ears and went “La La La…” every time I broached the subject. You need to accept she isn’t your little girl anymore.’